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Poem

Man is a jumble of contradictions,
I know, a hard nut to crack!
So unfathomable, so mysterious-
at once a Satan and an angel.

To the outer world I am someone.
But in the well-guarded cellars of my privacy
aren’t I different~
hiding my innards to light, as every other man?
Am I not a masked player in life’s pantomime? 

At times, I feel so proud, 
excessively in love with my own image,
like Narcissus, the poor hunter boy
fated by gods to languish 
on the bank of a pond,
over his own floating image!

However, with all my strength within,
do I not feel as helpless as Prometheus bound,
waiting for a Hercules to come
and save me from my plight.
If Prometheus’ bondage was God willed,
mine is self- willed…! 
Is the difference so very crucial?

Sometimes I feel I am Janus,
looking backward and forward
into my past and my future,
never living in the present.	
Or am I more a Sisyphus,
eternally rolling a rock over to the cliff
from where it keeps falling down?

Sometimes I wonder,
amid great splendor, do I not starve
like Tantalus of Greece in the pool,
beneath the tree, with the low- lying branches of fruits
constantly eluding his grasp,
and the water, ever receding before
he could take a drink!

As a poet, how I wish I could
equate myself with Calliope,
carving my mind on the wax tablet
with stylus, my pen and coloring it with my fancy.
Or Orpheus, so skilled in music
that with my sad musings,
I can make even Hades, weep
and the rocks to fall in line!

I shudder to be a Medusa,
turning everyone to a stone
with my sinister glance!
Instead, I want to be one of the Graces
and never one among the Gorgons.

Pitched in this gallery
of strange mythological entities,
I wonder how I appear to others
with all my multiplicities 
of character and identity!

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