My room is disintegrating

My room is disintegrating.

It is melting into a pot

Of empty plastic bags, litter, and dirty footprints. 

There is undone laundry,

A reluctant light bulb.

Tape holding the world (and the window) together. 

At work, 

They pass by and smirk. 

I am on page 52 of the same book

I was reading two weeks ago,

Since I started sinking into the hole.

Pull me out. 

Pull me out from the depth of this bed. 

The color outside changes 

Golden to pink – 

Pink ṭo navy – 

Navy to pearls on the rolling ocean floor –

To the stillness of the entirely hemisphere sleeping.

The darkness of the bed pulls me in. 

My limbs are paralysed. 

My surroundings are disintegrating. 

And I would like nothing more, 

Than to disintegrate with them.

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Poetry and its accompaniment

There are those who read, and then there are those who read poetry. I have known several people in my life who have been passionate readers, and even more people who were open to how much they might enjoy reading. Unfortunately, a love of mine that rarely saw audience was poetry. Much like most other literature, there are false claims that all poetry could be good, but that is not true. There is abysmal poetry, but there is, albeit rarely, soul stirring poetry.

The first few times that I came across good poetry was in 12 grade when I thoroughly enjoyed the poetry that I was to study, in spite of my friends trying to convince me otherwise. Even our English teachers gave up on poetry, one of them claiming that poetry could never be taught. If you enjoy poetry, you just do, and if you don’t, then poetry might just not be the literature for you. There are few sentences I disagree with more than this. This does not stem from experienced reading of poetry (or people), but an intuition that anyone will probably understand. I truly believe, that there is only a need for an interesting story, or an explanation, behind rhymed or free verses to make it appealing to people who have the patience to stand a string of unnecessary lines, to finally find something that speaks to them. What I think is the reason for poetry not being popular enough, is that it requires much more patience, and (for most people) not enough profit at the end of it.

Notwithstanding whether or not one likes poetry, there are certain poems which need to be discovered and read, whether it is the embracing the earth, or an utter rejection of the society. Some of these poems of the following list have carried themselves to be my favorites after a span of over a year, and some have only just condensed into my mind. Regardless, here are some of the poems that I think might change your mind about poetry:

1. The Primer by Christina Davis

This has to be, honestly, the shortest poem with the most impact. It is succinct, and plenty, both at the same time. Whatever purpose it needed to admit, it did so with dignity.

2. Tithonus by Lord Alfred Tennyson

This is a poem written way back in 1859, but do not let that discourage you.  The overview of the story is that Eos, the goddess of dawn, and Tithonus’ (a mortal) lover, asked for immortality from Zeus for Tithonus, and Zeus granted her that. This meant that Tithonus would live forever. But a grave error on Eos’ part resulted in him not obtaining eternal youth and he started to grow ever old with time. Eos, on the other hand, was a goddess and never aged. The poem is a dramatic monologue that Tithonus narrates, helpless about the state of his body and mind. He has become a mere shadow of himself. It is long and weary, but SparkNotes read will be more than worth your time.

3. The Last Duchess by Robert Browning

Robert Browning is a shocking poet, to say the least. Whether it is him talking about a man strangling his lover to death with her own beautiful, golden hair, or that his protagonist is talking to a messenger about his dead wife (whom he presumably killed). The poem is a dramatic monologue, and a Duke is talking to a messenger who has been sent to the Duke for the arrangement of marriage with another powerful family. While he is showing the messenger around, they come across a veiled portrait of an exceptionally young and lovely girl (who, we find out, is the wife of the Duke). The lines “I gave commands; the smiles stopped altogether”, gives me chills to this day.

4.  The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot has been one of the poets that I have loved for a while now, and his post-modern poetry actually appeals to me more than I generally care to admit. This particular poem is a fruitful insight into the mind of an overeducated man who wants to (probably) consummate his relationship with a potential lover. Classic Eliot does consist of a dark cityscape, and an eventual idea of destruction. But in spite of that, we never lose sight of the protagonist who is neurotic, and eccentric, exactly the kind of protagonist who we like to read about. The poem is long (and can get tedious), but it is simple and articulate.

These are only some of the poems that I have come to love over a longer period of time. Other poets like Charles Bukowski, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath have always intrigued me, and transformed me into a patient reader, a quality that ever reader should hope for. After all, you never know how slow you need to go to finally get to where you want to go.

Postcards

I wish I had spent more time writing postcards to my mother

Telling her I was having a good time

I would remember the exact time and place of the day

When I began to lie to her.

I would read them being shipped off when she could no longer read them

And haunt the skeletons of the same person that I was

The papery residue of my mind powdered over

The rising prices of the stamps.

The only difference would be the varied faces,

The bronze red and rust yellow.

Every other word would be from the same person.

I will see myself physically growing taller and more buttery,

But I will find words unchanging, solitary, windless…

Unfaltering.

Here my birthdays have loomed,

Here every year,

I have passed by my day of death without notice.

 

Untitled Love Poem

We are still alike

Oh lover, we are still not much different

You still wiggle your toes

After you remove your socks

Dragging your feet over the skinny carpet threads

We still have so much left in common.

 

I unpacked everything I owned

Your apartment was dingy.

It was mouldy and cold,

It was everything I ever wanted in a home.

I unpacked suitcases,

And books,

And answers.

I unpacked the expired pills,

And I opened books

That had long since yellowed,

Such that the words had dripped down its edges

And into waiting mouths of hungry, lazy afternoons.

I unpacked the little girl

From back-benches

Lonely lunch hours,

And frighteningly long days

And put her in the highest shelf of your empty closet.

I sieved the reality from the memories I had

Of throwing letters into dustbins

Because anyone who finds it burnt and destroyed

Must think it emerged out of unbearable, special, extraordinary…

Pain.

 

Lover, your closet lies too empty.

You have no baggage,

How

Did
I

Ever

Find

You?

If you only realized your lack of pain after you met me,

How did you talk to your father?

With a sense of knowing a stranger in the arms of a man

Who could not protect you from that filthy neighbor.

 

Lover, we are still not that different.

You still buy no music,

You still try to find silence in my neck

When we make love.

You still say “Still?”

When I tell you I want to kill myself.

You still carry all your weapons in the farthest drawer,

So that late at night you can convince yourself,

That getting up from the strangle of my arms,

Is not worth having to walk to find cure.

Puppet Show

I woke up in the middle of the night

Trying to rub of the day’s ink from my grimy hands.

I wrote and I wrote and I wrote

Words that emerged from inside my sleeves

I made everyone uncomfortable

They cringed at a destroyed, loose woman

Sketching page after page

An allegory of a pointless, meaningless life.

No children,

No husband.

Oh they’ll say,

No children,

No husband.

But atleast she died writing.

 

So I try to tumble off higher grounds.

I find a spot that is so easily missed,

That I disappear into the air right where the sky meets the cement.

And my skeleton floats in the air,

And my flesh flattens the pavement.

My blood colours everything that no one else bothered to colour.

Thud.