Love is the only way.
I am in prison.
I can move my fingers but this deep valley in my palm is a mesh of wires gone rusty. Clearly, the lines in my palm are distressed, they say.
My eyes can roll and jump left and hop right but I can’t bat their lids. And the eyes that can’t bat their lids forget many things. Like shedding tears. Because they never know. Because they never feel the pain or ecstasy enough to shut under the lids and stamp the moment.
My arms can move and move well to coil themselves around the world, and feel One that the Masters talk about. But my shoulders ache under a cold mountain. A cold cold mountain that lost its river to a landslide. The river is Me. The mountain is You.
I, inside me, have a fresh new pair of wings, especially after some pilgrimages… but its feet are tied with your wrist and I can’t simply leave ground because the sky is calling….
I am in prison… Loosen the tangles. Give me birth. Only you can release me. Only You.
I am in prison.
I can move my fingers but this deep valley in my palm is a mesh of wires gone rusty. Clearly, the lines in my palm are distressed, they say.
My eyes can roll and jump left and hop right but I can’t bat their lids. And the eyes that can’t bat their lids forget many things. Like shedding tears. Because they never know. Because they never feel the pain or ecstasy enough to shut under the lids and stamp the moment.
My arms can move and move well to coil themselves around the world, and feel One that the Masters talk about. But my shoulders ache under a cold mountain. A cold cold mountain that lost its river to a landslide. The river is Me. The mountain is You.
I, inside me, have a fresh new pair of wings, especially after some pilgrimages… but its feet are tied with your wrist and I can’t simply leave ground because the sky is calling….
I am in prison… Loosen the tangles. Give me birth. Only you can release me. Only You.
PAINTING COURTESY www.1st-art-gallery.com. By John Gabrile Stedman. A reproduction of a female Negro slave with a weight chained to her ankle, from the Naraative of a Fiver Years Expedition Against The Revolted Negroes of Surinam 1772-77, 1796.
Dear Balpreet
ReplyDeleteI don't understand why you are taking such poetic brilliance so casually. A bit of touch here and there can make this piece an unforgettable foray into a feminine spirit of poetry. You remind me of Teji Grover and Sylvia Plath. On my website, there is link to e-magazine called Pratilipi where some translations of Margarite Duras by Teji are availbale. Do try to read that or read "Lo kaha Sambri" by Teji too.
:)
ReplyDeleteI have read Teji... I love her... and Margarite Duras... I wish to read. Good that you reminded me....
So what is your sugegstion? How can I channel the stuff I write and make it more result-driven and of use?
and I will go to the website and check out prtalipi
ReplyDeleteIt reminds me of a couplet:
ReplyDeleteAjab ye jindagi ki kaid hai ke duniya ka har insan, rihai mangta hai par riha hone se darta hai.
-BRG
Oh that one is so so so apt, Gurjar ji. You are right... the risk of freedom or bondage... we are so scared to plunge. And I know it so well these days.
ReplyDeletehi .. this is chitleen. thought i'll surprise you.
ReplyDeletethe poem is beautiful..