Not a writer, just being human
I wonder what it feels like,
To sleep among a pride of lions,
To sleep atop of swaying reefs,
Or to sleep inside a mound of warm autumn leaves.
I wonder what it feels like,
To sleep under Chagall's blue,
To sleep afloat with imzad's tune,
Or to sleep enwrapped with Saint-Exupéry's dune.
When fats melt away,
Bones ground to trace,
Blood becomes clay,
And all the désolés,
Are repurposed on the last Sunday,
I hope the fickleness -
Of remaining brains,
Will find a way -
To these dreams array.
Chippittey and chirppettey.
We are the Two Legged Pird.
A proud specimen,
Famous for never going astray.
We are happy with our left leg,
And pleased about our right leg.
Our left leg tells us the direction,
And our right leg follows with discretion.
Our left leg stays close to our right leg,
Nothing ever gets lost.
Chippittey and chirppetty,
We Two Legged Pird don't ever go far.
Our land abounds with food -
All within our strides.
The perimeters are our map -
Our legs the compass.
Everything ever so clear,
We never walk astray.
Uncle Pirdy Fu,
Look at me!
Look! Look!
When I leap with both my left leg and my right leg,
The wind carries my wings,
And sends me afloat!
Noooo! No no!
Come back down right now Little Pirdy Bo,
We are the Two Legged Pird,
We shall never float on air!
You can find no perimeter up in the air,
And you would be lost!
Oh, how you could stray!
Uncle Pirdy Fu grabbed Little Pirdy Bo's leg.
He tugged and pulled and pulled and tugged,
Until his face was totally red.
But with the wind so strong,
Both Little Pirdy Bo and Uncle Pirdy Fu were taken off the square.
Aunty Pirdy Mae hurried and gripped Uncle Pirdy Fu's leg,
She tugged and pulled and pulled and tugged,
Until her neck was almost stretched.
But with the wind stronger than her,
Aunty Pirdy Mae is also up into the sphere.
Grandma Pirdy and Grandpa Pirdy all joined in,
They tugged and pulled and pulled and tugged,
Until all became red and stretched.
But with Little Pirdy Bo's wings now fully unfurled,
They are all carried up into the air.
Uncle Pirdy Fu despaired,
Aunty Pirdy Mae fearfully stared,
Grandma Pirdy and Grandpa Pirdy trembled and teared.
Their left legs lost all directions,
Their right legs forgot all discretions.
They kicked both legs so hard --
Hoping to find the ground.
But in the air none can be found!
Little Pirdy Bo says,
In the air there is no perimeter,
No triangle, circle or square.
But there are width and height,
And all the depth to hearts' desire.
Now let go of my legs,
And stop kicking and squealing.
Look how I spread my wings,
And the world goes underneath me!
Uncle Pirdy Fu timidly flutters his wings,
And up he goes,
Aunty Pirdy Mae is next to try,
And down she glides,
Grandma and Grandpa Pirdy, though terrified, follow suit,
And gently they rise.
Little Pirdy Bo,
Has wings splendidly displayed.
Little Pirdy Bo,
Has wings wider than all strides.
Little Pirdy Bo,
Soars higher than all Pirdies,
Little Pirdy Bo,
Flies.
Hurrah! You are here!
First born child on the -
First hot day and cold night of De-cem-ber.
From Orient to Occident,
Worlds are to be spun upside-down.
From moments to years beyond,
Hearts are to be worn inside-out.
Not yet spoken,
Yet words are already pale.
Now,
Let the sun and stars make the tune,
And mommy and daddy recount this miracle.
Through wrongness you showed me what to be gained.
(Though not without some learner's pain).
Before you taught me how to ascend,
Me-thought I had an imp so much disdained.
The Imp of Perverse,
Murders playfully and inanely,
Until he was comically slain.
A cautionary tale for me to retain.
What if an imp it ain't,
But the secrecy it contains.
What if you extrude matter from me so dense,
And it is actually a saint.
Now the secrecy is no more,
Me-think we are golden larks in twain.
Let us be very wrong together and
rightfully ordained.
I'll kiss you goodnight and
hope to love you very much
very soon again.
Say cheese or say screech,
Blare a song or howl a sigh,
The depth of despair and the height of determination.
Be alive, be human, be conscious.
The path we choose
is the
junction we arrive at.
The bond we forge
is the
path we are on.
We'll all be forgiven,
because we are here,
And we will be there.
What is the shape
of a chair
missing its joints and necessary extensions for bodily contacts,
— a chair is a mere abomination.
What is the shape
of a cup
lacking its warmth and the reservoir of comfort,
— A cup is a silly frivolity
An executor at least employs the right tools for his mortal foe,
a chain that restricts the ankle,
a scythe that severs the muscle
Malice now knows no selfhood,
a sea of cries drown in the presence of one Voice,
Benevolence now knows no corpus,
a world of care extended in the absence of any form.
We sit in this moment,
with no one but a metaverse of souls
— in bytes that flows through anything concrete
The only thing that touches,
Are the beats of drum roll.
Boom boom boom, boom bang boom,
An odious rhythm,
Ripples through our skins and organs.
Other than that
This world seems to have turned itself
into an abominable folly.
Wakey wakey,
Let the angel shines the light into your eyes,
to fizz away the rays and replace them with colours,
to fuzz away the flutters and replace them with forms.
Look at these fingers and look at these toes,
Woe, they are clumsy and won’t stay still.
Let me and my friends help, says Mr. Snake,
we’ll wrap around them and act like leashes,
for you to rein.
Look at this button and look at this belly,
Woe, it is bloaty and won’t carry onward.
Let me help, says Mrs. Pangolin,
I’ll curl up into a ball and act like a wheel,
for you to roll forward.
Alas,
Mr snake and your friends are no good,
for I cannot balance left and right.
I fumble and tumble and go all ropey.
Alas,
Mrs Pangolin you are no good,
for I cannot stay still.
I roll forward and onward and cannot halt.
Cry no more,
I’ll take away your woe.
Let my gentle hands squeeze your fingers and tickle your toes,
they’ll teach you how to reach and how to stand.
Let my bosom receive your belly and your heart,
it’ll teach you how to carry love and how to be strong.
With mamma’s gentle touches,
I can now see,
grasp,
stand,
explore,
and plot a million adventures.
If you are sad,
I’ll lend you my cat.
My words are clumsy,
but my cat is fluffy.
You need not be good,
or know what to do.
Just lie down flat and let your belly exposed.
It’ll find you and your softest spot.
The trick is to be still,
and to not rush.
It may lay on your belly,
and tuck away its nose.
You have things to do and places to be.
But hold, spread and stay still.
Let my fluffy cat,
warm your softest spot.
How does it know?
It’s called instinct,
something words don’t own.
.
.
.
.
If you are happy,
I'll challenge you to a race.
You may shout one-two-three,
and GO!
I may cry three-two-one,
and BANG!
We'll hop on the boulder,
Circle around the bench,
And hurl towards the tree.
No matter who wins,
we'll always end up in the same place --
Laughing. Panting. Doubling.
How do I know?
It's called generosity,
Something we both share.
.
.
.
.
If you are scared,
then I'm terrified.
Your heart beats like soldiers marching -
the trembling floor.
My pulse races like fighter jets breaking -
the dense dark cloud.
But you'll hold my hand,
As I hold yours.
You'll whisper something hellishly cunning in my ear,
As I roar something outrageously funny to the air.
However shakey the ground may be,
we'll march at the speed fear ought not compete.
How do I know?
It's called spirit,
Something we have aplenty.
Honk honk away you go
Here comes the businessman who’s met them all
Who have you met? the birdwatcher asks
I’ve met a giant who is tree-tall
You have met them all, the birdwatcher notes
Who have you met? the trainspotter asks
I’ve met a lady whose hair is waterfall-soft
You have met them all, the trainspotter hoots
Who have you met? the stargazer asks
I’ve met a singer whose neck is swan-long
You have met them all, the stargazer lulls
A businessman who’s met them all.
Not all, says the dog-walker
How would you know! Hollers the businessman
Have you met the eyes that make nights days?
No, says the businessman
Have you met the smiles that make hearts race?
No, says the businessman
Have you met the roaring belly that makes the ground shakes?
No, says the businessman
Then sir, you have not met them all.
Where do I meet them? Asks the businessman
Visit the house with cackling fire in Shropshire,
There lives Tycho—
the sparkling eyes,
the enchanting smiles,
the roaring belly.
Then I’ve met them all?
No, sir. You won’t.
Come back 3 years following,
13 years following,
30 years following and many more.
Then I’ve met them all?
No, sir.
You will still not have met him all.
A child’s world is full of friends and foes.
Each little thing is an either-or:
The ball is her bestie as they can together roll.
The sofa is a thief as it hides away her doll.
The chipped bowl is the embattled comrade,
as it was her fault that it got broke.
The gap between the bed-mattress and the frame is her
trusted keeper,
where all her secrets are securely stowed.
The secrets that the cabinet shall not know—
the cabinet is a traitor, as it lets monsters abode.
A child’s world is full of friends and foes.
They call it imagination I call it relations.
A child knows how each thing thinks and feels,
before she knows what they are for.
I think it is a superior wisdom,
to be able to think so.
(Unlike children,
We know things but not how they feel.
We buy a chair and we own it all.
There are no more mysterious relations for us to solve.
I still remember my old friends and foes.
I hope they’ll visit—
I pray that I don’t yet own them all.)
The precious stones to my eyes are your—
Ten toes planted on your two feet.
Tunnelling through all the miraculous machinery—
Arrived at your belly button.
I’ll plant many raspberries to your—
two cheeks, backside.
The morning starts with your—
two eyes, bright light.
Baby,
How beautifully formed you are.
Time is renewed,
Seconds now tick with your heart.
From this moment,
My heart beats not as one,
But two.
Our worlds divide, yet entwined.
The time’s essence, is now your existence
I’ll be in your life,
For many a life's time.
And all I can do is
To See,
Not seeing,
And not saw.
To see without time,
But with a chaos that wrangles within.
It is frightening—
Where does the self go when one exists only: to see, to hear, to touch, and to move,
Kinaesthetically in a linearly predictable manner.
I,
see without the ears,
hear without the eyes,
touch without the force,
move without the heat.
The most frightening thing is,
It’s always been this way.
The painful awakening to this knowledge.
People told me this awakening is an
opportunity.
Knowledge is better than
ignorance and arrogance.
Existing with half a soul
With half senses,
Glass half full or half empty (sorry about the cliche).
Half full you say.
Perhaps so.
Be patient, Anna.
Bide your time.
How many times we are told that,
The world is fundamental and principled
Thus,
The failure to grasp the reality,
Is the frailties and deficiency in us,
Not the fault of how the world comes about.
We know the world is fundamental because
We have senses—
To see,
To hear,
To smell,
To taste.
But,
Gauge my eyes out,
The vibrancy of the sun-soaked sky still imprints on my retina.
Blow my ears out,
The timbre of the bass still dictates my heart beats.
Slice my nose out,
The scent of the chicken broth still takes me back home.
Age my tastebuds,
The piquancy of the vinaigrette still arouses my hunger.
Counting the senses,
Is to discount the dimensions of knowing and living.
We know the world is principled because we can theorise it—
In units,
In direction,
In relativity,
In scale.
But,
Why am I still ignorant of:
how big-hearted or small-headed I actually am?
where I am travelling— forwards, backwards or simply circular?
what the junctions are when my soul is shared and passed on?
how existential or exponential it is to be or not to be?
If the world is so fundamental,
Suffering should end when senses cease.
If the world is so principled,
The act of being should be definite as soon as I exist.
I think,
It’s either the fundamental-ness and the principled-ness of this world,
or me and no-me.
The train races for the feet rested.
But if the feet are rested how are journeys made?
Are we not just passerby? And of what?
Should origin matters?
Should direction?
Should distance?
We are taught to make to destinations without making the journeys.
The speed we are travelling,
Is the distance missed.
Who’s to say fast cars are better than slow carts?
A step made is strength gained.
Bumble sideway at times.
But muscles all the same.
A journey made is a soul reclaimed.
Your body may be damned,
But a song in a wren's nest.
You uttered syllables
made of frosty needles,
First they stopped my heart
and froze my thought,
Then my blood gushed inward,
leaving my skin frozen,
organs boiled.
My remains are artistically perforated,
by lava and icicles.
Summer on this island always comes with a chill,
a perfect climate
that begets strange creatures on this soil.
This summer,
the roses blessed the air with their sweet spoil.
With your guidance,
I plucked the red petals glistening under
the hot dew.
I imagined being your hands -- strong and determined,
yet gentle enough,
so not to scrunch their delicate veins.
I am a woman yet a man,
always looking to other faces for a simile.
You are the closest match I find,
Beautiful and beastly,
almost like a child that is meant to be.
A hungry child,
Like me,
But unlike me,
You are simpler with your terms.
Love and food,
are all you need.
I am fond of children and fond of you.
You know you are not a child
but not I.
A child is all I want to be,
but cannot be.