FRAGMENTED NARRATIVE

COME,

The poet is seeking to reveal the secret beauty of his artistic soul,

Allow him to offer, at some deep unexplored level, a window into his heart,

The poet invites you to gracefully drape one of your legs over the other,

And listen to the poet’s whispered words as they float up to you like ghosts in an ancient forest.

THIS POET,

His peace is shattered,

Fleeting images flood through his mind, fussing like a broody hen,

Or like a gust of arctic wind that bursts in and blows out all the candles when the door cracks open,

Passionate longings leap up to hug his heart,

Distant voices appear, ebb and then appear again,

Questions intrude, gnawing provocatively at his heart,

His mind is pulled towards rockier shores,

Easily bruising the poet’s raw emotions.

TO ESCAPE THE EMOTIONAL PRISON,

I tend to sit in silent presences,

Silent presences that elicit neither passion nor fire in the veins,

I tend to wander off on solitary walks,

Along the trembling blue plane of the Indian Ocean shore line,

I tend to sit seductively on the moss covered cliffs by the Ocean,

Letting myself get kissed by the cool rush of sultry scented air,

While the thunderous ocean waves, crumbling as if in a slow-motion reel, caress my feet,

Verily, I grow too comfortable in such solitude, the safest place I know,

I have grown inward, skittish and filled with vague apprehension, as if a permanent stranger to the world.

Thoughts of past memories whacking ceaselessly on my membrane seem to awaken lost dreams,

Sadly, I feel I have no complete narrative of a heart of gold to present at this time,

Somehow, my narrative has vanished from collective memory, like morning mist that the sun burned away,

I am left to plug up holes in this narrative, accommodating unwelcome details, all in the hope of extracting some granite narrative.

I write with scorching passion to ease the tension within and to sooth my soul to wipe off the coldness, contortions of rage, disgust and despair written all over my face,

Aye, poetic writing is a duty and incidental pleasure,

Romantically spinning any solitary recollection to form a union to wed off this narrative,

The narrative of running away from the familiar in search of nurturing a new start,

The narrative of bending to tearful plea from a mournful poet, who wishes to break words and release his dripping pen from bondage.

REGARDLESS,

I am determined much,

For I am permanently tanned in the summer of poetry,

With wit, grace, candor, unerring ability and tolerance, I pursue a bride for this narrative.