*continued from pt 2*
Our physical bodies are numb, and our souls, tormented. It’s why some of us hurt ourselves. We feel a lack of purpose, draining our desire to go on. With no purpose, no love, and nothing but brutal lapses in our thoughts and emotions, will we ever be able to break free?
We are the ones who wish to die and escape this world in hopes of finding a better life after death. Our only hope is put into things we cannot see or feel. And that lingering, underlying hope is what will either keep us alive to see another day, or it will be what sends us on. Peace is what we are in pursuit of. To bad we’ll never know when and how we might attain it until its already too late.
Please read parts 1 and 2 for a fuller picture on the state of mind of those who struggle with severe depression, mental illness, and suicidal ideation.
Thank you for reading.
The second hand on the clock mercilessly drones on.
Surrealistic seconds spin dizzyingly.
Distorted colours of sagging sunrises melt into intoxicated sunsets.
Vapours of innocence dissipate into laughing
stars,
hysterically hyperventilating on sorrow’s torment.
The stinging dirt beneath my feet offers no condolences,
only festering deeper into subcutaneous wounds,
infecting every white blood cell until delirium overrides.
Shame and regret drip from screaming clouds
as a murder of crows gathers in the dank ambience,
criticisingly cawing between razor-thin lapses in time.
Frenzied winds obscure judgement.
Vines of poison ivy tangle,
dragging me down in the pandemonium,
whilst a growling ground begins to open,
exposing the truth—my festering grave.
Feel the accelerating pain of memories taking hold.
Already dead, drugged by denial,
a soul bound to a faded reality,
vanished within the cracks hidden
within the confines of time.
This urge to exhale without restraint
into the hardness of days heightens;
my own center accepting those lapses
when my frail body readily perishes
amidst dreary seasons :
yes, I am weary;
How mournful the thieving of dear life rips,
as I blame the ticks which pluck hours
from rails of courage, from immense grit...
am I simply existing or prevailing?
Yet, precious moments past relieve time's woe,
that a fullness of seasons once held
me beyond earthly limitations...
now, the purpose of existence
eludes my soul ...where uncertainty
becomes part of tested faith.
10.
Flying Fish
Hail! You marine creatures skedaddle skittish
Haven't perceived anything worth so named languish
Yet, how this realm of vast dominion
Entities stay underwater's nation
Mere lapses aqua occupation – flying fish!
-01/03/2007
(Dumarao)
*Topsy-Turvy Limerick Ironic
I have a carnival in my head.
And a type of song that botched me.
Opened up my mailbox like a torn up scar.
Teeth and other types of feelings.
I hate when I have Christmas Day.
Old wrapping paper, they don’t care about me.
Underneath that subterranean palace.
The New Year lapses.
I have a carnival in my head!
A dandelion died instead.
I have enough fancy tastes.
The bones won’t go to waste.
I have a ferris wheel breathing and breaking things inside me.
Circles like holidays in my head.
sun falling slowly through veils of yellow, orange, reds
slowly descending, the sun in twilight
slowly careening toward the beach
the tan on the beach just out of reach
sands slipping through fingers of time
sifting the beachcomber’s untroubled mindset
then lapses of waves, washing, erasing the canvas
over and over, a redo, a new generation
troubles come and go; the dawn returns
pinks, purples, blues embellish highs and lows
tidings of the sea; setting of our brief lives
just you wait until heaven’s reveal
Here a tiny hand
Urging for help
Under the rubble
Crafted by conflict
Here a helping hand
Holds urging hand
Clicking hand lapses
Burying it breathless
Here a mother screams
Losing her beloved
A little hand
Can't be reborn
Here little sobbing eyes
Searching for care
Left abandoned
Losing his beloved
Here remain
Empty bowls
Starving souls
And mourning men
Here they cry
Their abode in rubble
Lives under them
Left in agony
There they lie
Calling it peace
Showering shells
Shattering lives
Olive leaf withers
The world watches
Garland of fragrant buds in my neck,
Saffron-mixed sandal paste softly smells,
Upon chest cuddles heart-stealing love,
Heaven’s happiness here as if dwells.
___________________________
Translation (quatrain, anapaest meter) | 31.08.2025 | heaven, woman
Note: Here is a verse (in Rathoddhata meter) from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). The poet lapses in imagination: A garland of fragrant buds is in neck, the saffron-mixed sandal paste on body, and she, who abducts your heart, hugs like a garland herself. Ah, it is as if heaven has descended down. Here is the transliteration:
Maalati shirasi jrmbhanot-mukhee
Chandanam vapushi kumkum-anvitam |
Vakshasi priyatamaa manoharaa
Svarga eva parishishta aagatah || 49 ||
Somehow, the deluge of cloudburst
unwraps my flesh pallid, as if to spill
holy water--maybe thickened dew—just
to give a name to lapses of my unheard cries,
while an insolent breeze fails to listen
as I howl in utter despair of life's requiem:
The thistle of wet soil chains my feet
anchored unto the swell of memories' bend;
remaining distant in an unknown,
vacant cemetery nourishing a loneliness
only vagrants like me could bear:
A scream of rain compels a thirst
to feed on abrasions of ghastly pang...alone,
isolated from new moonlight's lodging
my solitude, my invisible frame starts to sigh
behind the roughest of rain's marbled stone---
How can fresh mornings be so darn bleak?
I assume one day,
Everything will be calm down
Surprising wind will come from the East
Even if I spell wrongly,
I will write, "I am fine."
To make you feel assured
Life is full of surprises
I feel less demeanor when I meant it
As introvert as I am, I silently count danger
Everything is calculated in my mind
Not to offend someone is my inner fear
Less as I expect it doesn't go always
By observing one's behavior I feel less
Insensitive, a little open now like kettle
Comes out hazy sound when full hot
Decent and calm when it cools off
As usual the days passed I have learned
Many things in life goes to maturity
Never neglect the small details in life
Makes me more cautious and less apprehensive
Life has more to go, too many lapses to take
Before I have that crown of victory with me
Here in this world and the world here after.
___________
The dejected heroine stands up to her beloved’s deceit,
suffers a slew of mental states: despair, deliberation,
weakness, weariness, and indignation.
______________
Despair writ large in her red eyes,
And deliberation otherwise,
Weak and weary on waiting,
Flames of fire from eyes flaring,
Indignant, lapses she in past at last,
Now and then oh what a contrast!
Then, I longed for a few free days from him,
Yet, it never came true-- eluding dream--
Hope, that ghee-less would go his lamp,
Yet, never got folded his camp,
Is it that I no longer attract
Him? O come let me know the fact.
_______________________
Natya Shastra | 04.02.2025 | Free verse, emotions, despair, heartbroken
Note: This is fourth of Ashta-Nayikas, eight heroine types, as classified in a Sanskrit treatise on performing arts in Bharata’s Natya-Shastra. The state (avastha) of the eight romantic heroines widely themed in Indian paintings, literature, sculpture, classical dance forms and music. Vipralabdha is the fourth of the eight such heroines depicted here in poetic form.
I couldn’t hear anything for a few minutes.
I tried to read their lips, but they morphed.
It was strange.
We all get tired but…
Not everyone has lapses in time.
They don’t stare in the mirror for hours, waiting.
I can see how I should have been concerned.
But people like me never are.
Even now, six years later.
I don’t feel like it was a big deal.
I never told a doctor about that.
They never asked.
At this very moment coolies screamed, ‘train',
We scampered, packing up our bags and bales;
A long-awaited train’s at times a bane,
But this one turned a boon, such were the tales.
An English gentleman hailed our hero
From his carriage, and we parted to go
Our diverse ways—to our cattle-class seats.
There was no chance to know who that man was,
Nor could more light upon his tale be lit;
Indeed, never-ending may prove some pause.
Some truths, some lies of life lie ever so;
Maybe, he took us as credulous fools.
A painful nerve, if anxious, seldom cools,
Some truths and lies forever curious grow.
Perchance the man minted fun at our cost,
And damsels in distress lay buried, lost.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIV parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
With newspapers all read and dinner done,
I put out the lamp that shone like the moon,
And stretched into my bed hoping deep sleep.
Through open windows, stars began to peep,
And framed the nearby hills and darkened woods,
Which wondered, gazing from their altitudes:
‘Why should these fleeting mortals sleep when we
Keep watch all night across eternity?’
The thought amused me a lot like a child
And I felt like laughing aloud and wild.
I knew not when or how I fell to snore,
Nor how long, but awoke with sudden chills,
Hearing no sound, no shadow at the door;
The steady brightest star had set past hills,
The moon in stealth had tiptoed through the door,
Ashamed to look upon the bedroom floor.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
Lapses in mindscape lane don't
denote being fantastical,
subconscious realm portrayed
by vivid thoughts as Déjà vu.
The body lingers and ages but
the Psyche, new as dew.
Countless times,
a reminder of certainty
that I was seen somewhere
when in reality,
staring inquisitively
into my TV.
Then I pondered, did
I unknowingly fall into a trance,
Or did time travel come knocking
unexpectedly?
and even if it did, again,
the lapses don't come to light.
Dreams are pathways to
meditation, that birth
happenings unknown
to this world. But the body
is a shield to absolute
exploration of cognisance.
My imaginary circus yawns
for transportation and
these scenarios distinctively
and simultaneously
visualize without limitations.
Not a pause for impossibility,
we see levitation happen as a tornado,
I can only imagine a gust of parading
doppelganger, I'm just not the witch elevating.
But my illusioned awareness puts me in diverse places through manifestation and imagery conception.
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