Wednesday, 31 October 2012

The Piano and the Pianist.

He sought her when the lights went off. It was in the dark - a sleeping world - that the faint traces of her voice would return. Her whispers played in the cavern of his brain.

He pulls the bench closer, touches her. Carefully.

With time, many voices came and went - and hers, drowned in their lusty cacophony. She sunk like a majestic ship, always to be found again, rusting beneath the filth others had brought unto his heart.

His fingers linger, browsing through her glossy black and white.

Her timbre was never lost - they say a good musician can tell the many timbres apart, even when notes are played at the same pitch and loudness - he could always tell hers. 

In a dash, he plays her, he smiles, he is alive. She resonates.

They were like the piano and pianist. He'd have played her into a beautiful melody, she'd have drowned him in intoxicating notes. But now, they are just a broken song.

He awakes, distraught. He realises, he does not have hands.

Wednesday, 15 August 2012

Dead.

There is something about looking at a dead thing - it is pale, white, and devoid of everything that made its colour - it is like a biting chill that tears into your flesh. One looks at it with pity, if one did not know what it was when it was still alive.  One looks at it with pain, if one was acquainted with it.

When I looked at her, I saw this pale, white thing - and even though I knew its colour once - now I see it dead. Our bond died like a careless roadkill. But I knew how this animal once trilled and I smile still.

Tuesday, 24 July 2012

The Difference.

There is one thing I remember till today; The shape of her breast - I used to say that they were ripe fruits waiting to be plucked. Sometimes she would smile in that slight happiness; that I craved her so, or sigh, on why I had nothing else better to think of. But she did not know how intimately I knew them - I knew her breasts - I knew her. How they felt within my fingers, how they felt within my mouth, and how - oh how ever so beautifully - they tasted. And all this, was achieved by difference.

I cannot remember the sweetness of my past lovers' bosom, and for long, I did not know of hers. But that day, when I betrayed her - I knew. I realised, I knew. I knew that they did not feel the same, I knew that only hers felt right. I knew, so beautifully - even as my infidelity was in full swing, as the breast of another woman was in my mouth - that nothing from now could feel right. But she does not know - and I, did not tell her.

And all this I learnt, from difference; the difference between this, and that. Between love and sex. Between right, and wrong. Between what was meant to be, and what was not. Between the wondrous consummation of the soul, and its destruction in vileness.

But why? Why did I not grant her the forgiveness to know it too?

Thursday, 7 June 2012

Poetry 11/12/2009

I kissed her in my youth,
in love of her ponytails bound,
and we marched to the playground,
But I never saw her again,
no, never awhile again...
And a while, a while again,
we see love's faint flowing mane,
in the thickets and brambles,
by the old roads, and rose bush,
When the clock seemed like it had endless time,
When endless time, defined your youth,
Which came and went again,
When you were old, and in love,
and in love, then became old,
so that love's pains were told...
When family forgot,
and forgetfulness became of your family,
The empty roads led to a sign -
and the sign led to a person,
But the person led to nothing -
In circles you walked,
and in walking, Death talked:
'tell your mother not to worry,
In your death shall she remember,
that you held her,
Like the paintings of Angel and Man,
before I came with my marching Band'

Shan

Saturday, 2 June 2012

A Chapter.

They say there shouldn't be hate in love - but I do not believe it. They say it, as though it is a bad thing - it is. How can hate be good? How can it, in the face of love, exist? Yet it does. I have hated as intensely as I have loved that I cannot now separate them. When she came up to me that day, I spoke little. She thought I hated her.

‘Why?’ she asked, ‘would you want to meet me? I must be your least favourite person.’
‘You were.’ The gleam of her eyes then vanished. I always thought they were beautiful eyes, but not as beautiful as another's that I knew. That I told her long ago and she begrudged me for being truthful.
‘And there is another now?’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, sipping the coffee. The light of the summer sun fell upon the street before us and like many Londoners, we sat there looking at it from our quaint coffee shop in Piccadilly. It is interesting, I used to tell myself, what a place becomes. Places are people. Once perhaps, you would have crossed it - like you cross people - and as beautiful as they seem, they leave no mark, no trace within your soul. Sometimes, it is different;  like the first, brief shine that breaks through a hapless, dim day. Love, and they're strangers no more - and when love fails, all that is left to do is to hate. No more a stranger, but strange nonetheless.

‘Do you hate her too?’
‘I would have too many to hate - if I hated all who have wronged me. I forgive you.’
‘I was stupid,’ she said, stirring her coffee, knowing full well I do not see malice as stupidity. She did not look up.
‘Stupid?’ I smiled. I smiled not to feign normalcy or cordiality, I smiled because I was indifferent. This woman before me did not matter anymore. She had once a claim over my emotions but not anymore. So I smiled. She was beautiful to look at - like a show piece. There were no flaws in her skin and if I must be truthful with myself, her beauty was what attracted me in the first place. But not this time. This time I was indifferent, like a man who saw beautiful art but could not enjoy it - not because he lacked the knowledge or experience to do so, but because what was once beautiful to him, is beautiful no more.
‘We should leave here. There are some books I’d like to take a look at.’
‘Waterstones?’ she enquired.
‘Yes.’ And I walked through the doorway of that large bookstore - the place once known to me only by name and the knowledge of its location, was now, an intimate place. I despised that. There were a lot to hate in that place and if I had laced every piece of furniture there with it, they would have burnt to the ground. I couldn’t. There were like remnants of a lost something, and as I walked through the different floors I could not help but still feel fond of them. How could I not? I had spent so much time there; at the chair by the pillar - she sat there once - or the table where we often did our work together. When I returned, I often sat at these places again - not because I felt nostalgic, or by that convoluted belief that by sitting there, I would somehow be closer to her. No, it merely felt familiar - and yet unfamiliar because she was not present, and that made it new. I even smiled at a stranger once, and she smiled back. A new thing in an old place.
‘Smile,’ she said. ‘It’s not a crime to smile,’

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Clippings from a Night.

He was tired but he was still kind. His deep voice, although mostly soft, remained audible - at least whenever he spoke. The nights were always silent and awkward. Two strangers in one bed, one past, with two views. I cannot say what her mind was thinking, but in the cold, dark silence, her voice severed the blackness like a knife unto a vein:

Why do you photograph?

Smiles smiled in darkness cannot be seen. He smiled, remembering that there was once when they weren't strangers and one bed was adequate. When views weren't different and two morning teas were made the same way. When Sainsburys was filled with laughter and space did not exist beneath the duvet. But her question was literal and innocent. She always had a way of asking the most innocent of questions without much thought and he always had a way striking meaning from the simplest things. He stirred, like the struggling first motion of an old train put to service. Languidly.

Well?

Things don't always remain beautiful in this world, he said. I like to capture them when they are.

He struck meaning. Again.

Saturday, 5 May 2012

Life.

He destroys himself beautifully - she watches silently. Love.

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

Carved.

How many times have I stood there, by the river, in the cold, with my pipe, within the dark of night. The wintry cold forbade, at times, even my lighter to work. My tobacco froze - flask, fast out of liqour. They were my only comforts.

I've looked upon the OXO tower, and wondered, what if? So many what ifs. How many nights spent walking upon the stones of that bridge; a vagabond, and how many vagabonds who seemed, then, like kinsmen. I understand what it is to shiver in the deep of winter and where there is nowhere clean to return, nowhere, where betrayal does not nest, lies do not fester, pain does not breed - they've polluted it all. All those seemingly good people in their good clothes, in their good jobs, behind their good faces.

The Thames has seen me,
the Thames, have seen many.
The icy wind, always blows from behind
The cold, always smites from behind.

I came here to carve a life but life has carved me.