My sheet is stained
With ink
A black blotch
Almost circular
Dots the barren landscape
Of sleep
The pen
Unopened
Was meant to write
I muffle its sounds
Palms
Have little cuts
Lines curve dangerously
Towards the wrist
And fall off the hand
The cliff
The pen chokes
And splutters out blood
The sheet still carries the stain
To remind me that words
Are all I have
I abstain
Mock
Sprinkle powder over dried ink
It settles on it like a mime face
I can see myself in it
Whispers
Noises
Lost
I desiccate the pen
Shavings of grey drop off the skeleton
Ash
Singes
Fire
Life burns
Inkless
~FV
12 comments:
FV, thanks. Don't quite get it, but I guess the point is that there is no one interpretation.
FV
By now I exactly got you. Excellent!!!
circle
Circle:
Thanks :)
Al:
This is quite a literal poem. Anyhow, one can still interpret it differently. Wanna share?!
FV:"This is quite a literal poem. Anyhow, one can still interpret it differently. Wanna share?!"
Yes, the literal meaning is clear, but is boring :)
I was trying to interpret "ink" in a non-literal way to possibly mean the words that translates thought to reveal itself to everyone, and "Running out of ink" as in running out of ways to express thoughts in words. But it only makes partial sense that way.
Of course, I am assuming I understood the literal meaning. here is my reading: your ball point pen leaked and left a blot on the sheet and (this part I am not so sure) switched to writing with a pencil. The bit that is mysterious is the part where you shaved the pen and let bits of it fall.
Al:
How dare you call my pen and its literal adaptation boring?!
Ok, what you want to interpret then I'd see the pen as life/relationships.
The literal here is the pen was a felt-tip because I was lying down (yeah, was laid up again, am better, thanks for asking...did you? Reminds me of another time...)...so I left the lid open and it stained the bedsheet. (Important, for lateral thinking.)
Then comes allusion...it is there in the words. The desiccation was the drying out of ink and then slicing of the skeleton. Grey shavings of the grey pen fall...look like ash...then reversal of roles...ash singes fire. Life burns inkless...nothing to douse it.
Darn, I critiqued my own poem.
Al, now translate this in Urdu for me :)
Farzana,
Stay well , take rest and don't compel yourself un-necessarily to post at the blog.
Happy Labour Day.
Cheers,
Mahesh.
Thanks, Mahesh. If it's Labour Day, then I gotta work, no?
I don't compel myself to post or you would see the effort.Bas, control nahin hota...
Have a fun weekend.
I guess Mahesh-ji thinks I am being rude -- just kidding
I was just joking, FV, w.r.t. poetry being "boring"...I think I already mentioned earlier that I usually contribute with matters poetry by shutting up.
Have a good weekend.
Best.
Al:
Even if I were a 'damsel' in distress, 'Mahesh-ji' would not come to my rescue. He would politely disagree :)
Kidding aside, he just wished me.
Your boring remark was taken quite well by me. Grr...
Farzana,
Thanks for rescuing. It was me who was experiencing the 'damsel in distress' thing after Al's comment. :-)
Cheers,
Mahesh.
Anytime, Mahesh. Mezbaan ka farz hota hai...atithi devo bhava :)
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