And rain, how I loved to craft paper boats, and how I loved to jump in standing water.. I had a wonderful friend who is no longer on earth. How we played with our colour changing umbrellas…How we loved monsoon and mangoes.. And how we prayed for holidays to play…And how we shook plants after rain for the droplets to fall on us…And O’ how we picked Java apples after apple..How lovely and white-greenish they were… And how we fought eachother n’ loved eachother n’ fought…And how little we worried.. how often we played and made a fuss over everything… God, how we baked delicious memories for the days to come ahead.. but little did I know you would only be a part of my evergreen childhood days 💚
~ Sanna
( A/N – not a poetry. just the memories are rushing in, n i can’t help myself.. i miss white greenish Java apples, and my old friend who passed away) Sorry, I used a lot of “ands” for the rhythmic flow.
They say, woman’s body is magical. No, it’s magically tragic ? a battlefield, a catastrophe, a steaming hellfire. At tender age of fourteen, she bleeds, every month of every year, fiercly dying a thousand deaths. how nights have stolen the comfort of her cozy bed? how exams and works have lashed at her with the feeling of ugh?
She bleeds and battles half her life only to be certified, of being a mother. And when it stops (for a while), the good news is served. But there it begins the fatigue, the vomiting, the swelling, the itching, the twitching, the aches and pains and many more And there comes a inhuman scream, a burning in hell experience and a baby.
But it doesn’t stop. There’s a session of excessive bleeding. You’ve not blood for awhile. Yes, mighty God knows it well.
And the weird changes. The big breasts bulge out, with blues, and many more, the shapes of sacrifice.
And there it goes.. She bleeds, and a catastrophic birth and bleeds and a catastrophic birth…
(I used to wonder why the mighty God couldn’t find an alternative way to reproduce. It’s a curse. I’d call it, “a brutal curse“. Eve ate the forbidden fruit, n’ the God cursed her with pregnancy pain. How cruel! The curse had fallen over the entire humanity. It’s more like punishing an entire classroom for a mistake done by a spoilt kid.)
I’m an artist. I’ve baked some delicious lies. With my finest mask, I lie of all good god deeds I’ve never done. To please her, to please him, and to devour the love I don’t deserve.
And when the moon hides behind these pale clouds, I take off this suit of imposter, O! more like unlocking a cage – to gasp for breath, and I cry like a child.
It hurts… It hurts to be different.
ButIf I don’t pretend to bein your halo circle, I am bad, gross, wicked…
Do they really know you? Do they know what you house inside your walls? Do they know the fantasies inside – the cobwebs of your head? Do they know of your thousand tangled thoughts ? Do they know of eerie songs of your heart ? Do they know that you court evils ?
and if they get a supersensual eye, won’t they stumble? and if they’ve delicate hearts, won’t they die? How tragic! How terrible!
I’ve not yet lived. I’m always waiting to live, Though I’m ensnared in fatigue, I keep hope at the far horizon, of a miracle, that one day I’ll be up the roller coaster, up the sky, living… like other happy vibrant people.
But when? it’s my 23rd year, n’ I’ve not yet lived….. Oh my excruciating thoughts and poems, Oh my venomous worries and fears, let me look at the blue blue sky for awhile ?
I’ve not yet lived. It’s terrifying! years are slipping away, and my death is not far away. when will I live? tell me, when will I ?
Why should a person hold on/ move on when life is nothing but gloom, eclipsed with everlasting gloom and despondency ?
Why should a girl hold on/move on when her life is nothing but encircled by concertina wires and barricades ?
Why should an introvert hold on/ move on when people mockingly blame you amid the anxiety attacks ?
Why should an awkward person hold on/ move on when insecurities yell louder than thunder and smash you ?
Why should a weary woman hold on/ move on when her life is trapped under the feet of a man ?
Why should her heart beat when nothing of her love counts ?
Why should we live a horrible life when death can exquisitely stop all our worries and fears ?
They say, talk to someone, talk to him, talk to her, but for goodness’ sake, die alone.
If you recite your overflowing waves of worries and blues to someone, you’re expanding the depth of your doleful heart. Next day, you’ll worry, thinking that they worry about you of worrying. You’ll worry, thinking that they worry about you for not seeing any progress in you even after being all ears to their beautifully sewed advices. And won’t they get sick and tired to spend a lifetime with an ill poet like you? Acknowledge them that you are not just a seasonal poet with seasonal blues.
They say, hell is awaiting to welcome you, suicide is a sin in the book of God… Yes, God wants to kill you all by Himself. Who are you to do his villainous role ??
But here you’re, either fear of death or little love for life is holding you back ?
From a corner, I’d tell you killing oneself is an act of bravery. So does living the hellish life ?
Either fear of death or little love for life is holding you back ? The enchanting art of this universe, sunset, vibrant flowers, singing birds, hullabaloo of kids in the street, serene morning, silver moon, great paintings…. Ever made you feel like you should stay here for a little longer ?? Ever made you feel like you only live once in this miraculously enchanting universe ?
satan knows how every night i battle with tornadoes of my life. how every night i row across these gigantic waves. hell! i sank twice, thrice and many more.. shark knows the taste of my blood, and the cold waves in her attempt to heal wounds – almost killed me.
satan knows how i struggle to sow seeds, and only he knows how little I’ve, to harvest for tomorrow’s exam..
satan, exams are no longer about winning and losing but writing, just writing….
when traumas lash mist over the windows of visions, exams are not about winning and losing but writing, just writing…
(and dear kids who write exams amid traumas, isn’t just writing a kind of victory?? )
(What is more beautiful than meeting someone like you?)
All of a sudden, the world goes back. I am sitting beside you, and we are looking at the stars from the shining meadow. The cold breeze sweeps us with the fragrance of moonflower, jasmine, poppies and roses. Our warm eyes, awestruck by the miraculous sky. We vivaciously spot Orion, Ursa Major and Pegasus out of stars. Deep inside, we feel supernova and nebula, the birth of thousand splendid stars of love.
********
I remember the letters you wrote for me. You used to write in poems of Bukowski, Edger Allan Poe, Wordsworth and Coleridge … I was startled at the letter, wondered who could send a letter to this lonely girl. You told me you’re a young poet, struggling to live. You love art, and cherish all the little things that put a smile on one’s face. And I fell in love with your favorite poets. Each poem you sent me unveiled a new layer of meaning. In one of the letters, you wrote me the lines of your favorite Bukowski, it was..
“I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of”
With love, Met eor.
I was startled. For the first time in years, I felt the dews in my heart. How lovely! For the first time in years, I felt the sky, the sea, the stars..That’s love! You unveiled all your layers, and you told me you’re a lonely person, struggling to live, and you’re in need of a great love. And you attached Edgar Allen Poe’s poem along with your grieving poem,
From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
And I told you I felt the same pain. I told you about my lost love and pale life. And I wrote you back the poem of Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air; The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care
I wrote poems about you, and I sent you my paintings of a hundred starry skies. We dived into the colours of universe, and we found our universe, protruding with colours and words, and each peice of art sparkling into soothing and aching metaphors. And we decided to meet on an evening, the sun was setting, and the sea was overflowing with ecstasy, welcoming lovers to the world of infinity.
“It’s like I’ve met you before, a million years ago, my lady”, Meteor said. And I blushed.
Meteor looked at my eyes, and he casted his deep eyes into the deep sea for a long time.…
our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;”,
he recited the poem of his favourite Edgar Allan Poe. The rhythm of my heart echoed with overwhelming love. We looked at eachother, and held eachother for awhile and smiled… I couldn’t find words to break the ice, the atmosphere was thick with full of love… Wind swirling to bind us. Sky, full of artworks, turning into a great masterpiece. It looked like the entire universe was in ecstasy.
“Your poems and paintings are great, young lady”, Meteor said.
“Thank you”, I said.
“You know, you inspired me to paint. I wanna paint this sea.. for you, even though my hands are not good.”
“That’s great”, my heart was pounding with too much love.
Meteor sat down to paint. He casted his deep eyes into the deep sea and into my wet eyes.. He splashed the colours on the canvas, and I watched as he painted with love for me.
” Great! You’re an artist!”
No, I am not, my young lady!
“But you’re artistic!”
He blushed, and I wrapped his painting with my collar scarf, “Thank you so much, Met”
“You’re always welcome.”
********
We lay down on the tinsel-like grass to feel the earth beneath us. Meteor rubs my hand, and I turn to his side and look at his miraculous eyes, another universe.
“Do you want me to recite poems?”, He asks with a soothing smile.
“What are your dreams, Met?”
“Dreams? You’re my dream.”
I blush, and we look at the Orion, Ursa Major and Pegasus, protruding in the sky for us..
“To live in a house, mostly wood, you and I, books floating here and there, yellow lanterns at night, twinkling stars stickers adhering to ceiling, candle light dinner, soft music, praying together. To watch you paint and having it on walls. To see you looking at me when I write. To be silent with you, beautiful uncomfortable silence in which we lose ourselves in our own Nebula. To grow old with you, watching the world growing stranger but we growing old to the point we become one. Only one. No me. No you. Just us when we die. Only to wake up to see the God. To love in the heaven.”, Meteor says and cries. He looks away for awhile to wipe his eyes.
My eyes are wet, and I try to fetch words from the depth of my heart to stream in love, for him. “I wish it’d happen….. I’m sure. We can be the happiest universe.. only if we’re together…. you know, my life has been hard…….”
“But believe me, my young lady, I saw you in my dream last night.. A very dark green forest full of fog. It was thick with all attributes of Amazon. But in the middle there stood a snow peak. It was so high. Just so high that from the top of it, the forest would appear to you like algae on some rock, and it was so cold. I was seeing things with bird’s view, and I saw you running through the forest, towards the snow summit, climbing and you reached on the top, and you just jumped from there. You said you’re independent and free now. That’s what you wanted and you just disappeared into the mist. … I literally felt the fog when I woke up…”
“This dream is so deep.” I feel whole my heart.
“You’ll be fine”
” You too will be fine” my eyes are exhausted with too much emotions.
“It looks like you’re sleepy!”
“Yes!”
” Let’s sleep”, he wraps me up. And I close my eyes to the rhythme of his heart….
********
The scalding sun shines on my face, and I spring up. I’m on bed, more like a royal bed. “Where is Meteor?”
“Where am I, God?”
Meteor….
I run away. It’s a different world, with a different set of faces, hastily moving here and there, quarrels all around, poets are weird….it’s 2021. Where is my Meteor?
The wind sweeps me with the smell of floating smoke. And Deep down, a voice echoes, some ending lines from the Bukowski’s poem
if I had met you I would probably have been unfair to you or you to me. it was best like this
( the poems included in this story – “An almost made up poem” by Charles Bukowski, ” Alone and Annabelle Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe and “Solitude” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.)
( the image is taken from NASA’s page on Pinterest)
Multiverse 