Uniqueness

In the yonder realm of tranquility

Heat waves weave the ripples of a lost world,

The motifs of utopia in the forms of oddities

As sharp as a paroxysm but meaningless to bare eyes.

In this bustling realm of forms

Self-love flares as viral as secondly bigotry,

Pique and chagrin just unleashed reactions

As crude as preached sanctimonies—

As fastidious as secondly updates,

As assiduous as automated functions.

Then perfectionist’s search for the best,

The yonder romanticism as false as Shangrila here.

But search on with thy mountain paranoia!

But search on saying ‘life is short.’

But search on saying the opposite!

But search on to the end of the world!

Nay prevaricate but better face it,

When thou encounter just oddity at last,

For it’s what it’s—what solidity attrition-proofed?

But, bravo, the secret lies in mere tuning it.

Tune it to set those countless odds as incentives;

Tune it to skim over rather than shove against;

Tune it to enlighten on ever;

Tune it for friendlier coloration.

And to be able to tune in and ask:

‘When one-sightedness betrays,

When physical stimuli is mere glazed over,

Shouldn’t I accept the uniqueness yet?’

Ambivalence

Through the emotional nuances,

Now Dickensian and now of paradise settings—

Those dark stone steps with the sheen of hands labor

Leading up to arched walk-bridge over stolid clear water

Skimmed by the tendrils of bloomed cherries around;

The steep gabled roofs of dark slates, Kyoto in the late 1920s,

The yonder metropolis amid Depression off the peripheral Yoroido

With its Tipsy House perched on a rocky cliff off the rocking sea waves below—,

As spontaneously poetic as how the innocence of a little girl of 12,

Chiyo-Chan’s figurative way of giving those speaking analogies,

The admiring heart finds a solace in the poetic narration,

Mingled with elegies as black and blue as folds of adversity;

As fiery as how her longing heart sees her dying mother

Hardly sinking into the feathery soft futon in the dark room;

As cold as the mute obtuse father’s selling his two daughters

While busying himself with his coarse hands tangled into a fishing net;

As treacherous as how the betrayal of first guise of grace.

And mingled with odes for every snippet of beauty presented

Adorned with her poetic analogies as melodious as twanging of her shamisen

Plucked by her ice-water numbed little fingers.

It’s just the beginning of meeting her second grace,

Her thousand handed God of Mercy, the Chairman,

Whose accidental tenderness to beget her immutable love

Like a limp life-tree touched by the providence of Mother Nature

As providential as how she is to spend the remaining feeding coins,

With the single force as strong as motherly love, for the same prayers.

It’s just the beginning.

But the admiring heart, now absorbed off from rawness,

Can’t wait to shed thus…

Lo, the old tree wrapped afresh with lushness,

The providence to be admired.

Hark, the din of traffic on the highway just over there,

The endless reasons to be there.

Then behold, an emaciated one lying

With limp skin as charred as rusted,

Yellow-shot eyes speaking the single hope…,

Another live drama of longing for but snatching away secondly—

The oddity as huge as a strong one’s dreamy eternity

As licentious as taken for granted till then.

Our eyes met.

I fidgeted, albeit I tried my best to hold back,

Like betraying my saintly words.

And the stony handshake,

The odd sense of touch,

I tried as my best gesture

As the others shirk like venom.

Freedom

Courtesy: web source

The busy feet in a jerky gait,

Raw nerves now propel and now stultify…

Whatever for livelihood or for tomorrow

The movement is put into such run,

A collateral function of the system.

As the day time drags on till 9.pm,

As the fleecy feathery petals of dandelions,

In their eddying magical shadowy levitation,

Glide before eyes, rest on eyebrow or shoulder

Or sneak inside to skim over crisp papers on the table
(Pale frost like yet fluffily air-riding moonscape ambience),
The shadowy figure in scarecrow silhouette,

Bloated yet heavy, fights against the gravity—

The complete freedom, as in its fancy,

Is to be free off the ground of flurries.

Off the ground of flurries,

Off the ground of flurries

That dwarf even oceanic mountainous tides.

Off the ground of flurries

That slit it like a thunderbolt tearing a fat trunked tree into two.

Off the ground of flurries

Learning, enlightening yet numbing now.

Life: Two Parts

Hope

Thy paleness is macabre,

Draining into spiraling snare.

Thy richness is crooning,

As melodious as spring.

You

As the two fat grey pigeons, fated couple, make love—

The swiftness, the fluttering wings, twice, thrice—

On the mossy twig surrounded by the seasonal start,

(Lush lawns studded with white and yellow dandelions;

Recovering trees adorned with whites and pinks;

The roadside poplar with those tiny reddish cone-buds)

As the male falters thereafter like fallen in brooding

With its tiny beak poking into the open air ahead like dreaming

And its bloodshot eyes still burning as to incinerate itself,

As the female, meek yet restive, tries to get closer

In side steps while the male sidles two steps away

And the former repeats the same till the latter hops off,

The sudden dream I have just had flashes back:

There, exhaustive as I have really encountered,

The curves, the things of yours like of a crank,

Or as per my own projections that you could be.

I was there, seeming familiar yet strange place,

The top floor, the single room decked out in your own way—

It was like a glimpse of your nature, the enigma of being.

Those things with the touch of tantric air,

Those hung early clothes of yours like relics

Stared at me. I could feel your strong presence only.

It was like in a hermitage, strange.

I waited and you came at last,

Not in strange robe but in tight faded blue jeans,

The starry eyes, fixed upon me, mute but demanding.

Tattoos, piercing—I have no idea about,

But, for me, like further enigmas.

‘Is it you?’ I asked like awoken after a moment trance,

The trick of a dream-numbness like tethered feet.

‘Yes,’ you said and moved away amid jeers from around.

You didn’t care about them. I felt proud.

But I found you much younger than in your selfies.

Within dream I struggled to prove myself,

I reasoned myself thy coming as per my confidence,

Or for such lucidity as I haven’t seen you ever,

Was conditioned by my pale hope and long thinking about you

Like a lost child hankering for home.

But, yes, it is dream. The reality is ‘impossibility’

As I am no longer visible, valid and there.

But thanks for coming,

It was, for me, coming to give me a push,

A breath to set me free for a second

Before plunging down again…

Yes, it was like coming to save me

At the nick of time like during clear light moment.

Now I am a vagrant soul

Hovering around you without a stir.

Telepathy is long gone,

The medium is defunct now, sadly.

A Fleeting Introspection

Taken by me from where I am but during the past summer

Like the brush-like stripped sycamore partly clothed by the verdure of muffling ivy

A lonely figure with raw nerves stares at the same tree that sighs, ‘Free me!’

Oh, yes, it is mere farce to find thee thus in the muffling care.

The ghost like figure hastens to respond back, ‘Thou hath opened my eyes!’

Can it be the shadow cast by the unseen, the unseen in its two words?

So from the scintillating selfie after selfie in such disguise of joviality.

Yes, I can now see the hues, nuances—more than mere shadows.

And a frozen like sculpture thy piercing selfie’s steady frigid stare speaks,

‘Can’t thou see how pathetic thou art?’ The ghostly figure guffawed and wailed,

‘Thou poke right there to jolt me into a mad cemetery dance. Here I go.

But can’t thou see it’s, too, the shadow cast by the unseen?

For how long my complexity could be dictated by the makeshift system now?’

As the shredded golden-dark clouds at the far horizon turn into Chinese art pattern,

As the lonely bright star adorns the vast turquoise void amid collapsing twilight,

As the spiky top of the brush-like sycamore points me into the great void,

I, with the help of the great book I have read, see for the first time thy greatness.

I mean thou, the great turquoise void, our canopy taken for granted.

I mean thou as thou art not mere shadow. Thou art thyself.

And thus I see the lonely full moon as the one like myself so dull today.

The Fate of Socialism

Where the loving mother reigns now is truly in her far progressed phase, but can't be said at her apotheosis yet, typically through more interdependently including interactive means. It proves loyalty to her unique way of progress rather than initial infatuated frenzies plus tryst giving way to impatience and extortion to such gaffe of falling in love with what is pointed out as 'decadent' 'profligate'. But it's up to the reign of the Party in the end that matters all the way along the course of its brutal history. Adopting the version once fervently derided through 'struggle session' to 're-education session' is, as you see, by no means as eloquent as its Open Door Policy's mantra of freer air but the mere means of silencing the mass. It's to let them enjoy what they earn and what they desire as far as such doesn't affect the Party's power. Why 'not' Falun Gong? Why 'yes' faiths? Why 'not' mass gathering of spiritual significance as in Tibet? 

'I don't love my government. But I trust my government,' an English speaking young Chinese artist could be found saying so. What does it mean? 

'Progress is to keep up with the time, not to be stuck in the past.' This sounds more reasonable than the former, if it doesn't mean to efface it. 

'What would you choose between Mercedes car and Environment? Why not choose Mercedes car. Wealth is the first issue; environment the second,' a seemingly high-ranking Chinese official could be found saying so, which is both sincere and pathetic.

Nerd’s Gibberish

Taken by me, this evening scene

Creating, Oof, creating thus afar,

A teetering word after another,

A venture both racking and wrenching

With a will now faltering and now nudging—

Who are you? Yes, who am I?

An inspiration, a touch of feeling,

A tender spontaneous smile,

Improvised movements by my side—

Should I need them? The distance I have

And so the space… The will to roll on,

To be enlivened.

Oh, lassitude, the creeping devil!

Oh, beguiling conceit known as

As thou art ‘the devil’,

The dark veil stifling the light,

The innocent feelings,

The free flow of creativity.

Deflated pride like a limp balloon,

Inflated will like spring verdure

I would venture on ever…

Nay, I need a nerd’s gibberish—

Rhetoric to highfalutin bereft of truthfulness

But as they are, pale yet resplendent to a small mind.

I can roll it on and on…

I can trust it,

The intuition as speckles as the azure sky

Or the diamonds-studded turquoise canopy.

That matters only.

Nay, I need your gibberish.

Nay, arts for fame, wealth and to be doffed at,

Nay casuistry can take thee afar

But there, self-hypnotized—

Ha, ha, the worst form of lunacy.

But I need an inspiration second by second

I need thy warmth,

The crystal clear intuition
Or the basic disposition.