The sky drenched with ochre,
Careless drops of cyan,
Blot the body with
Unfamiliarity - a sensation foreign,
As yet unknown,
Of cold fingertips on my bare back.
Each drop feeding of its centre,
Breaching the definition,
The opacity of rationale,
As worms leafing through
A parchment,
Of unspoken authority.
A mythic mouth,
With bulbous lips,
Sucking the air,
And whispering,
As a wind through
A lake of reeds.
The firmament,
Is what you see,
In human waste,
Shells, debris
Of ambiguous shape,
Imprinted on the sand.
1 comment:
From the very beginning, the poem adopts a tone that resists understanding. But I think the poem has textures (the colors) that invite the reader to gaze at them just like one does when trying to understand a complex painting.
And, indeed that holds the key, doesn't it? To me, it resembled an abstract painting that signifies confusion and indecision.
But, what I thought was remarkable is the way the tempo is skillfully built up. Almost towards the end of the poem, I felt a whiff of claustrophobia, a feeling of entrapment.
The blot seemed to loom larger and larger until the words of the poem blurred on my computer screen.
Liked it a lot for the visual imagery it creates.
Bravo, waf. :)
Post a Comment