Murky Clarity

To the Beautiful You

 

You are beautiful, but I bet you already know that.

You turn heads wherever you go, while I can disappear

in a crowd of two.

 

You outshine a thousand suns. You light up the room

even in your darkest moments, while I

am the shadows that form behind those who adore you.

Amusing at times, but mostly ignored.

 

You must have been born lucky; your life has been a breeze.

With your looks, your every deceit, broken promise

and indiscretion is forgiven

without a lasting impact on your soul.

While I...my smallest transgression gets blown

out of proportion. I have to fight tooth and nail

to get where I am, and even now

I am still fighting.

 

You are a painstakingly painted Matryoshka doll that gets

smaller and smaller, until what is left is a tiny core,

its details lost. While I am a redwood deep in a forest,

whose layers grow with every passing year,

and each ring tells a story of the seasons

I have lived through.

 

You are a mausoleum fit for kings, crafted by the best hands

across the land, visited by all, but what lies within is rotten.

While I...I am a garden — no, I am an entire park —

left abandoned and forgotten,

but nature blooms here.

Ruins become scaffolds for vines and home

to scampering squirrels and warbling birdlings.

 

You are beautiful, and everybody knows that.

 

But so am I.

 

Flutter By

 

If my thoughts were butterflies
fluttering by
I would catch them with a net
lest I forget
I would pin them on a board
Each wing a swirl of thought
And put them on display
So I'll never run out of things to say.

Fly, fly, my butterflies
Spread your wings and take to the skies.

If my thoughts were butterflies
fluttering by
I would keep them in a jar
and they would never fly far
Wonder against wonder
As they merge together
Seeds will start to grow
As thoughts are wont to flow.

Fly, Fly, my butterflies
Spread your wings and take to the skies.

If my thoughts were butterflies
fluttering by
I would witness the hatching of the eggs
Tiny caterpillars with tiny legs
I would feed them ideas as they grew
I would feed them knowledge, old and new
In cocoons they would converge
And from them, more butterflies would emerge

Alas, my thoughts are not butterflies
fluttering by.

________________________________________________

 

I wrote this in response to a post in my local FB writers' group, where one of the members shared the painting as a prompt to write a poem or a short story. I am not a poet; I don't have the finesse or the skills of one. Sometimes, however, the words flow out, especially when I haven't written a story in a long time.

The world is a scary place. It's an ugly place. But it is also a place of unimaginable beauty and wonder. The words we share can be ugly; they can hurt. The words we share can also be beautiful, and can heal the soul.

Maybe these words can never do the beautiful painting that inspired them justice. Maybe these words will float in the void that is the internet.

But still. The world needs more beautiful thoughts.

 

 

Stray Thoughts, by Maggie Taylor
Source: The Curiously Creative Maggie Taylor

 

Of Sonnets and Sanity

Last weekend I wrote two sonnets on Facebook. I did not set out to write them, but I had the opening lines in my head. That's how poetry usually comes to me: an opening line or phrase. I don't sit down and think about the big picture that my poems should represent, or the imagery they should evoke. Most of the time, I don't even know where the poem leads, until I am midway writing it, and only then the message unfolds. In that sense, I will never be a real poet; I know that much is true.

The sonnets I wrote over the weekend are Shakespearean: abab cdcd efef gg. The Italian ones are more complicated. The first one is eight syllables per line, and the second one ten. The first three stanzas form the imagery, and the last brings the revelation. Something like that. I think. As I said, I'm not a poet.

For the first sonnet, I had the first line in my head for several nights before I wrote it down: "you hold a sparrow in your hands". Why a sparrow, and not a swallow or a lark or a raven? I'm not sure. Maybe one day, long after I'm gone, people will break apart these poems and write theories on what kind of person I was. The first line of the second sonnet comes from a weekly prompt for a closed group on Facebook: write a short prose/poem starting with "Go on, I dare you...".

Two sonnets over the weekend. I don't know if it's impressive or not, since each was written under ten minutes. The message for both, however....

Before anyone can psychoanalyze the sonnets, I will say that both are about not being worthy of being loved, of being in a relationship, yet at the same time unwilling to let go of the possibility of happiness even when it turns toxic.

Yeah my subconscious is yelling at me.

Because, at the end of the day, poetry, just like prose, is writing. And I only write stories to sort issues in my head. I've tried writing for the sake of writing or for competitions, and even though those stories are published, they somehow feel...off, like an important ingredient is missing.

And now, even more worrying, is that the people of my novels-work-in-progress are making a comeback. Two of them are chatting, bantering, while the one that I hold most dear and am afraid of the most is lurking at the corner, at the peripheries of my vision (no, he's not from a horror novel).

I've managed to write two short stories in December, each over five thousand words. Overnight works, about 10 hours per story. One has been accepted for publication, while the other is still waiting its verdict.

The last time I wrote was in February.

Close friends are rejoicing at the return of my red-headed muse, but she only comes to me when there is an imbalance in my being. I have an idea what the source of that imbalance is, but then again, it has haunted me all my life.

Writing doesn't bring me happiness. It doesn't give me a sense of relief. It's merely a way to channel my thoughts and emotions, to give form to the monsters within myself. Writing and drawing are the only things that I have of myself, for myself.

Maybe one night I'll finally sing to the monster.

 

Hands

You hold a sparrow in your hands
and feel the beating of its heart;
The bird spreads its wings in a dance
As it unfolds, and falls apart.
You plant a seed in your garden
and watch the sapling break its mound;
The tree grows from the sapling green,
then turns brown, and bows to the ground.
You clasp the hand of whom you love,
You hold her close, and don't let go;
You treat her as a fragile dove,
and hide her, lest the bruises show.
How can you nurture and bring joy
When your hands are made to destroy?

 

Go on, I dare you

Go on, I dare you to tear me apart
Take this beating heart of mine and break it;
That was what you wanted, right from the start
To trample me and crush me with you feet.
Go on, I dare you to utter the truth,
Go on, walk up that stage and speak your mind;
That was what you wanted, to be uncouth
It was me that you wanted to malign.
Go on, I dare you tell the whole world
how I was never there, and never cared;
Tell them I never let your wings unfurl
to escape this prison that we both shared.
Crush me, deny me, ignore me, hate me,
But please, love, please live, and don't die on me.

There is Anger in the Rain

There is anger in the rain
Each drop a pellet that
doesn't break the skin
But bruises deep

There is anger in the air
Each breath drawing particles
that cannot be seen
But burns the lungs

There is anger in my tears
Each rivulet too small
to be called a river
But breaks the heart

There is anger in my heart
Each beat too soft
to be heard
But deafens out the universe

There is anger everywhere
In the rain, in the air, in my tears and in my heart.
Each scream into the void is
a brush stroke that slaps
against the canvas
that is now more black
than shades of in-between

There is anger in my soul
and anger is all I have left.

I don't want to be angry anymore.

Bonne nuit (Goodnight)

It was love at first sight
(Not true. You hated me when we first met)
Well, it was love at first sight,
for me at least.
It was more than just the way you looked,
though I couldn’t take my eyes off you.
It was more than how you were strong,
without ever being mean.
It was the French accent that showed
more than just in the way you speak.

You cursed at me in French
(and in Tamil and Cantonese, and other languages
you collected along the way)
Oh, how I loved to hear the words
that I never understood.
We fought brilliantly.
Our arguments were epic.
At times they were pointless, but I would pick a fight
just to hear you curse at me
in French.

We kissed under the sun.
We kissed under the moon.
We kissed under the starless sky.
We kissed under the bridge
as our boat cruised along the river Rhine.
We kissed behind the walls of the surau
when no one was watching
(it’ll be our little secret)
We kissed as we
     drifted
               to sleep.

 

You went off to fight a war that was never yours.
You went off to a land that was never ours.
We don’t even speak their language,
though in our prayers we mutter their words.
You went off to fight in a strange land because
that’s the only form of protest you believe in.
I stayed behind and heal perfect strangers because
that’s the only form of protest I believe in.

 

The news kept pouring in
Of children dying as they attended school
Of mothers who were no longer mothers, sisters
or even wives.
Of fires falling from the sky, claiming the land
in a supernova.
Of deaths that will never make sense.
But I’m thankful the news always came from you.
And I laughed when you cursed at them
in a language you just picked up.
Because when the news came from you,
I could always hope.
That you would come back to me.

And you did come back.
Flown in with full honors.
But you didn’t come back to me.
You returned to a place I can never reach.
At least, not yet. Not while I have
breath in my lungs.
And even though you hated me at first sight
(Not true. You fell for me faster than I did for you)
I can never hate you for giving your life
for something you believed in.

And so I say this, as I kiss all that’s left
of you for the last time
The words that I could never get right
Because I wanted you to say them to me,
as we
        drifted
                to sleep...

Bonne nuit, mon amor.

Sonnet: Impossible Wishes

 

I wish to experience summer here
so that I’d feel the kiss of winter’s cold
I wish for negligible senescence
so that this love I have will not grow old

I wish I was able to discover
the cure for every illness there ever is
I wish to know before life is over
what true happiness actually means

I wish that someday I’d tell my own child
my love for him is unconditional
I wish to always make my daughter smile
Even when I can’t save her from the world

I wish for impossible things, I know
But without these wishes, where would dreams go?

Tender Moments: The Alphabet I Propose

A is for the things I’m about to say
B is the book you pretend to read, but you’re listening anyway.

C is for the comfort I feel in your embrace
D is the dreams we share across time and space

E is for the emotions that I feel
F is for feeling those emotions for real

G is the gratitude I have inside
H is the honor of having you by my side

I is for inviting me into your heart
J is the joy you bring me, right from the start.

K is for all the kisses we will share
L is for later, in some room, somewhere.

M is the midnight drives for a cup of coffee
N is “No, I love you, but I will not drink coffee!”

O is for omitting all my flaws
when describing me to your Parents, my future in-laws.

Q is the Question I’m about to ask
R is a reminder that I’m saving it for last.

S is the secrets we hide from each other
T is the trust regardless, it feels me with wonder.

U is for understanding things will never be perfect
V is the vices you have learned to accept.

W is the wobbling of my knees when you are near
X is the XXX things we will indulge in, my dear.

Y is for you, always you, my love
Z is the zero that I am, but you carry me with the wings of a dove.

Now you know my ABC,
Please, dear heart, will you marry me?

Something Random, Something True

Question:

Do you hail from another planet, far far away?
Do you now call Earth home; are you here to stay?

Were you bitten by a radioactive insect,
and then gained skills even acrobats respect?

Are you secretly endowed with cybernetic implants?
Are your senses, agility and strength enhanced?

Has a glitch in nature made you born different,
that people call you a freak, even a mutant?

Or, if you're a regular bloke, are you a rich regular bloke?
If you are one, can you replace fancy gadgets without going broke?

 

If your answer is none of the above,
a superhero legend you are not made of.

Worry not, dear friend; you are never a zero.
Be kind, be generous, for someone out there is in need of a hero.

 

 

The Downsides to Beauty

 

Beauty fades, they say
Beauty, like the velvety red rose by the window,
wilts and withers
waiting to be replaced by a flower that still blooms.

Beauty beguiles, they say
Beauty, like the King Cobra swaying to the charmer’s tune,
waits for you to falter
and strikes you dead before you could raise a hand in defense.

Beauty invites jealousy, they say
Beauty, like a cheerleader queen at every high school,
cannot afford to let her guard down
as every person she calls friend is always ready to pounce at her.

Beauty fades, beauty beguiles, beauty invites jealousy
Beauty has it downsides, you say
I know that, Momma, I know.
(you don’t have to tell me twice)
I know, but there are times like this
that I wish someone would call me
beautiful.

Dust In The Rain

 

Dust In The Rain


I wish to stay
Here in the city,
The city where rain-
Drops leave dust on the window.

Here in the city
The days are dark with storm
Clouds pregnant with rain
Dark with haze.

Here in the city
The nights are bright
And often wet
Even at night I sweat.

Where lies are told
Where truths are sold
Here in the city
I wish to stay.