the lost stories...

>> Friday, December 17, 2010

Those stories
I’d written -
moonlight shone through them,
as though
specters outlined the hues
without substance
when words came,
wearing forever an affable guise of
earthly bliss

Their delicious and blithe tones
lingering musically in the horizon-
how far away,
close to silence,
and yet; so very clear

and so they are,
the testimonials of immortal pain
amiable signs which survive
everything that was exquisite
remains, behind
their enduring celestial veil

and meanwhile,
my only solace exists
in resurrection of
memory, the aftertaste and reflection of
the body which had sinned, but the spirit
redeemed ..

I scribble these verses,
only to tear ‘em up,
throw the ramblings unread
into a fire

and yet, you never know..
as the blistered pages sparkle
dwindling into
the rosy cinders,
the spell might be broken,
and I may claim again –
the lost prose
that forfeited liberty,
and my failed genius..

26 comments:

V Rakesh December 17, 2010 at 6:07 AM  

Despite the intensity, I see a great deal of positive vibes here in the following lines

I scribble these verses,
only to tear ‘em up,
throw the ramblings unread
into a fire

I'm very happy to be reassured, therefore, that it is the better side of life that prevails in the end!

Best of wishes, always and all ways!

aria December 17, 2010 at 6:43 AM  

Thanks Rekesh.. I love the way you try extracting something 'positive' out my dark verses.. :D
I've been struggling to write a story and not being able to do so.. has resulted into another poetric..

Blasphemous Aesthete December 17, 2010 at 7:15 AM  

Not many things are resurrected through fire, a lost genius? How was it lost in the first place.
And I find a contradiction, in one you find immortal pain in those verses and in other you resurrect them to find solace?
Its not the verses that bind you, there is no spell cast over. It is just a forgotten memory, another spark might spill it over.

aria December 17, 2010 at 7:31 AM  

I don't like explaining what I write. Its for me to decide if there was a spell or not .. and what spell am talking about.. btw there are no forgotten memories.. they are dormant somewhere and also .. my writings are full of contradictions.. as life itself is..

Blasphemous Aesthete December 17, 2010 at 9:15 AM  

Point noted.
Apologies.

Regards.

aria December 17, 2010 at 9:37 AM  

Hey no.. please
you need NOT apologize.. ??
I find solace in digging pain.. so my verses are contradictory and inconsequential..
I am sorry if my comment came across as something that made you apologize. I only meant that I find it really odd explaining what I meant. I don’t expect everyone to agree or like what I write :) Regards to you too :D

Blasphemous Aesthete December 17, 2010 at 9:50 AM  

We never questioned what famous poets wrote, what they wrote and when they wrote. Everyone makes his own explanations and descriptions. I am wrong to be concluding your work just like that. Hence the apologies.

And its okay, you don't need to explain anything. I come to read the effects not the causes, and the way they are rendered.

Regards,
Blasphemous Aesthete

aria December 17, 2010 at 10:11 AM  

Hmm.. that’s exactly what I meant by not explaining.. the readers derive their own meanings and it can be the opposite of what the writer had in mind.. I totally respect that too..
so I should've chosen words more carefully in the reply..
thanks a lot :)

Surya Prakash V December 17, 2010 at 1:16 PM  

A spoken word,
the halting reproach,
trained, yours.

A vault in seige,
and my buried secrets,
tainted, but mine.

Eyes un-wet,
and the nights we met

a burden forgotten,
to daily toil

a twig in flight,
one to the space
one to the sound

a fire lit to flames
And my burial ground.

Surya Prakash V December 17, 2010 at 1:19 PM  

@ba

shallow, shallow, shallow waters and shallow graves. What I want I refuse to ask, I try try try and only mask. Such is the world I live in.

Blasphemous Aesthete December 17, 2010 at 8:35 PM  

@Surya Prakash
I seek, I try, I must, I will.

And I don't trust strangers, so speak for yourself.

Blasphemous Aesthete

wordsinlament December 18, 2010 at 5:27 AM  

if this be your lamenting poetrics for the loss of prose, what would that prose be? I would love to read your stories - more and more and your poetry I die for although I have always been a prosaic person..you & Emily are the ones I have read except few random here and there. I do love to try my hand on poetry but they are always amateurish and novice

keep writing and the twain between poetry and prose shall meet..you shall surmount this block..till then happy poetry because you are a delight either and every way :)
love
Nidhi

Surya Prakash V December 18, 2010 at 8:51 AM  

@ba

I can only speak for myself, with such tenacity, that you may love me or hate me. But where the words can't reach, there is all but indifference. For I am but a point brought into existence, when I see you looking and me and I know you can't be me or me you.

We will always be strangers, for it is strangeness that brought us about to begin with. Now choose, to never trust and the word will never touch you, but for it's effect on sentences.

Blasphemous Aesthete December 18, 2010 at 10:37 AM  

@Surya Prakash
I am counting on the odds. I think I'll take my chances.

Surya Prakash V December 18, 2010 at 11:39 AM  

@BA

Then you have no need for trust.

Every risk you take is one more step to the certainty of your loneliness and strangeness.

If the closet of security is open, all outside is unmitigated flourish of Self.

Trust has no meaning. None. You will always take your chances.

aria December 18, 2010 at 11:31 PM  

BA and SP - your interactions bounces over my head but thanks for increasing my comments count ;)

Surya Prakash.. thanks also for the poem.. its quite awesome. :)

aria December 18, 2010 at 11:35 PM  

Nidhi.. there was a time I only wrote prose but always fancied writing poetry. Hence I tried and although I can not write the conventional rhyming ones.. since I started scribbling em I've lost my stories :(
thanks always, for the lovely words :D

Blasphemous Aesthete December 19, 2010 at 6:16 AM  

@Aria
h3h3
there is always an element when words are encapsulated into closed loops and what to perceive and what not is the discretion of the one who responds, reveal nothing, yet hide none, ain't it?

Surya Prakash V December 19, 2010 at 8:11 AM  

Aria, that stung. Perhaps it's a luxury to be understood.

:)

Surya Prakash V December 19, 2010 at 8:13 AM  

Aria, I was drunk when I read and responded to your post -I can't understand my poem, glad you could ;)

yeah yeah now we are even :)

Surya Prakash V December 19, 2010 at 8:15 AM  

Lesson for the day: I am understood when I don't mean to be, booze helps - here I come "beer". ;)

aria December 19, 2010 at 8:21 AM  

poems aren't meant to be understood.. they should be felt.. I never understand any poem.. not even mine..

Surya Prakash V December 19, 2010 at 8:26 AM  

Lol, that was the wrong cue you picked for a justification ;)

alas I remain mis-under stood ;)

cheers.

aria December 19, 2010 at 8:28 AM  

it was right for me :P

btw am currently high on Sachin's century.. so the rest is on hold..

Surya Prakash V December 19, 2010 at 8:40 AM  

Shit. I always miss these being I us. I love sachin to death, cric info here I come.

hotICE December 21, 2010 at 8:49 AM  

often the writer of lines fails to recognise the brilliance that lies between them, and more often than not, the writer destroys these simply because, he/she is not satisfied.

in my mother toungue there is a popular saying, which translates to "what is seen is beautiful, what is unseen is magnificent"

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