Looking at the clock, going tick and toc … I want to start a new poem. Then I’m reminded of the absurdity of lines, verses, and rhymes. Somehow we collectively managed to reduce the complexity of human life into a series of economical and political equations wherein poetry has no place. In reality, we have become obsessed with utility and the commercial relationship of "me" with "them", and I’m no outsider to this world. Flowing smoothly in the background is the music of a forgotten yore. It’s a nostalgic theme, though. It seems like art, in general, can eternally leech off sadness and despair. The crashing of the symbols and the march of the battle filed goes contrary to the state of the modern man’s mind; depressed and sinking ever deeper into slothfulness. The curse of the modern man is repetition:
The feather pillow on the bed
Head on the pillow,
Bird in the head,
Flying to the dreamland!
The clock is ticking,
A distance light is blinking,
And I’m thinking …
Another day has gone!
And the breathe-ins
And the breathe-outs
And the roll-lefts
And the roll-rights
And before I know,
The ticking clock
and the blinking light
Are all gone!
The catamaran standing tall,
The Great Wall,
And the Niagara Fall,
I hear them call!
The caul is torn
The baby is born!
It’s Time to sail
To the land of whales!
And then the ticking clock,
And the bright light,
And the apples jam delight;
A new day has begun!
The feather pillow on the bed
Head on the pillow,
Bird in the head,
Flying to the dreamland!
The clock is ticking,
A distance light is blinking,
And I’m thinking …
Another day has gone!
And the breathe-ins
And the breathe-outs
And the roll-lefts
And the roll-rights
And before I know,
The ticking clock
and the blinking light
Are all gone!
The catamaran standing tall,
The Great Wall,
And the Niagara Fall,
I hear them call!
The caul is torn
The baby is born!
It’s Time to sail
To the land of whales!
And then the ticking clock,
And the bright light,
And the apples jam delight;
A new day has begun!
2 comments:
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
To take a leap over the rim
In the ocean you shall swim
Going beyond the everyday whim
Rejoicing your infinite dream!
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