Famished teenage days
And even more famished post teenage days
Were days where i was
Unable to tuck my brain anywhere.
The hunger and uncertainity meant the same thing
I nibbled on bits of Neitzsche, Spinoza Schopenhauer and others
like small convenient sandwiches
Parts of life, ditched, in each days ditches, boring , blank in unfocussed spaces
From which i didnt bother to struggle my way out.
Though, only Neitzsche committed suicide
I prefer to say that Spinoza, Schopenhauer and the others, they all did
And today, i hardly remember what they said, nothing more than just their names.
And, their suicide helped me to live my life.
Walt Whitman, the happy vagabond, sang songs like noone else.
And his beard grew into long leaves of grass
He threw truth like thunderbolts
Clouds of his words downpoured heavily
Transiting the 4 seasons of my life
His old chants, twilight songs, sounds of winter, lingering last drops, after the dazzle of the day, as i sat writing .
I flew like a Raven out of Noah's arch
And returned from God's opaque storms and bleaking skies
Without finding any land.
Then, Noah got shipwrecked on some mountain top
he couldnt blame God for it
So he blamed himself.
The fawn and birds jerked out of his groins as children
(God bestowed him with mighty balls)
And Noah, stored in them , each little secret of the universe.
i left Noah's arch, just walked away
as if it was never there.
i walked away till i did'nt know who Noah was
And now as it rains
I see only the rain
With a feeling that i could never drown
The arch i had become , an undrownable arch of some timeless ocean.
No comments:
Post a Comment