Towrope

Whatever
‘is’ – exists
entirely in the mind; and
would be absent in entirety
if erased
from it. And
any lingering presence
in the world outside, would
be rendered new,
strange
and alien to memory.
Annihilation
of just one’s memory
would entail
the complete excision of the individual
from the existence of the other.

 

And memory:
even inaccessible
or repressed – would
be key,
as wellspring
to engender… old existence – if
mined, disinterred and wrought
as newer life..

 

 

From Book IV

The Last of Places

When
his mother died
and I watched them hoist
her large, irresilient frame
upon the pyre,
bare betwixt red sheets,
I was too little
to realize
that she’d never speak to me… again.

  
Then,
when it was time
for his father, and
they did away with
the worn, decrepit shape,
the same way
they had
for his wife, I
understood… that
I’d see them both again..
someday… in a place
we all go upon
our wanting, ashen ends.

  
And…
as I
set fire
to his remains.. the
ruin.. that had become of my father..
I had already
arrived at the deliberation
that mind
cannot outlive
the disorganization of its matter,
that oblivion
is akin
to the restful nothingness
of an eternal, dreamless sleep…
and that
the only place
where we
could all be alive… together…
was in the imprecision
of fading memories.

 

 

From Book IV

The Perfect Blue

The idea
of Paradise, as
a place
where the ideal
is reality… seems
something we’d like
to imagine
as going somewhere
that was dreamed or envisioned,
or once, really was.. immaculate…

   

and some place
we usually know,
can no longer be
as perfect, on arrival
there.

   

   

   

The last time
we saw each other,
we spoke
of his childhood
in a boarding school,
where mornings came before
the sun, at times
before the break of dawn
and then,
there was routine for some
chosen, in clearing dust
from prayer halls, and watering
the stretches of flowers that
lined the grounds, before
the other children
were up.

    

    

    

I assumed
it must have been tiring
to rise so early, each day,
and then do that much work,
to which,
to my surprise,
he said
that he used to enjoy it,
and explained
that the feel
of fresh, open air…
that bathed the body,
and the gleam
of that dim, first light… that
illumined the skies
would allow
his young mind
to be lively! and
free…

   

   

   

It’s difficult
at times, to tell
dreams from reality..
but I know
I asked if he
would like to revisit
those faraway gardens
once again… one
early morning, with me
this time.

   

Or was I..
just waiting
for the next time
I’d see him..
and only dreamed
that I had already
asked..?

   

   

   

Someone told me
that life
is supposed to be
a procession…
of
unbearable passing..
and I claimed that it would’ve
been better
to never have
existed, but once
one does…
there’s too much
to try
to hold near, to simply
go away…
until we bid adieu
to Heaven… that hides
in the impossibility
of complete return
to the elusive fulfillment
of some mysterious places
on this uncaring earth.

 

 

From Book IV