Of fear and a little purple flower

Writing is a frightening activity. In that phase, my emotions are unfurnished and blunt. In that phase, I feel the most vulnerable. The deadening fear of what will come out in words paralyses me. I cap up the words, often waiting for them to mellow down. As a result, often, there are no words that are eager to pop out. On rare occasions, when I can bear the courage to walk through the fear, I smell a feather blown by the wind, touching different surfaces, resting in some, fleeting over others. It is a much coveted feeling. And, it is this sense of the feather, that prods me to travel through the fear of creating.

It is no new notion that the umbilical cord that connects fear and creativity is not snapped once and for all. The cord between these two elements can not possibly be cut at one go. The cord wears out as one plunges more and more into the creative sphere. The most difficult task is to take that plunge. This is not a new revelation either. But, I guess, revelations are temporal and hence always have the possibility to be new and fresh.
***
There's this little purple flower that I picked from the streets yesterday. It was uprooted by someone and there it was - the flower, the stem, the little earth-covered roots. It was raining. And it knew that, it had, maybe another day at the most. Yet, it was so beautiful, sparkling with raindrops, drenched and almost dead and yet celebrating its bloom. Today, it has shrunk to this little purple mole. But, I see the little purple flower still.
***
Another day and another revelation had come.

A very good friend of mine suggested a life philosophy that I kind-of have taken to. The friend said, "Live life as an orgasm." And I had smiled. It is what writing is to me. The pain, and then, the pleasure; the pleasure that makes me believe that this is joy, and that, there's nothing beyond this moment, nothing beyond this word.

Writing is, truly orgasmic - emotionally, physically and spiritually.

The words that have been in the body when spilled on to the blank paper makes me feel exhausted. At the same time, once the words are out there, I feel less restless, more calm, more at peace and more energised.

I guess, all I have to do is to keep enjoying. And having orgasms.


 

Dear dear ones,

 

life has amplified all senses. laughter's hitting harder the cries

more pensive dreams

vaguer desires stronger

and at its eye, there have been 

 

1. thoughts

2. nightmares

and 3. soft clam shells. It will always fall short. 

the fear of dreams. 

like it hit rock bottom,the

eye. 

noises no longer fade into the distance. no muffled attempts at this turn. 

"turn the rod, the way it will", or, the way ...

 

it's never desire that lets down. it's the blood in its veins that betray the dog

wagging its tail to every bone under the ground. nourishing a bone then

can't be a priority. 

tell it now. horns, dancing shoes and crap et.al.

begetting dreams is an onus that i deny. ears, eyes, tongue, skin and blood. 

i deny it the priority that can make a scratch on the wall 

'coz i believe that it will be white-washed soon. i believe it more than my pregnant soul.

there was an artist who painted walls from the west

and one who scratched his skin every morning to whisper into it, "you're alive now"

and one who dug a grave spitting lies to her feet

and one who wouldn't dream 'coz she was afraid to wake up 

brittle wisdoms of soul-seeker bees douse in flames tonight

no less a dream it is, thinks the dead star, a few trinitised galaxies apart.

 

Blessed peace, or s___

no, thanks. no food here. no food now.

empty thresholds suffer hunger

and missed good-byes.

"no one keeps promises"

any time of dreams and nightmares

yet, who remains hungry?

drains and constellations dig out the same blue filth

- all that truly is

                                                                

                                                                     framed.

casualties are a way
of breathing. some times
a soul or two. sometimes
a tangled breach.

the music sauces none. no one is living.
 yet.
  
After poem notes: It takes an ocean of suffering to forget. It only takes a death to remember.

© Susmita Paul 2013
This poem is under copyleft rights - which means it is free for sharing, distribution and adaptation. Please feel free to share this poem with your friends and family. The only recognition I seek is remembrance. Kindly leave a note/ a message/ a mail when you share/ distribute/ adapt this poem. 

New post at Kindering K-os

if you are in the mood for dancing click here to dance on!

New post at Kindering K-os

" I have about 3 Mondays per week."

To read the rest of morning Mondays at Kindering K-os click here !

Introducing Kindering k-os

On the occasion of the six month anniversary of attending a kindergarten, am happy to introduce a new page at Wordiculture - Kindering k-os.

You can find the page link in the top tab, just below the blog title. For now, you may as well hit this link to visit Kindering k-os for the first time ever !

Hope you enjoy!

Whether or not death came by bus

Broken for demanding the sun
no complains rise. Broken for searching for the sea
that touches the ocean floor at the other side of the world
no tsunamis die. Kill is a mocking verse

... and then that boy with silent words,
you are no king
burnt down to ashes
a pecan dead. Burning is a habit

in the blue i look for that
the dance that will erase
that will cremate

the mythic legend of the third war
will be realised
soon
the pulse reminds every way

in terror will lie
the dreams of kings. yes, we'll die

Death bring it on. Spit out the change fast.
the toll of the dying bells
blind the ears now.



Whether or not death came by bus © Susmita Paul 2013

Image © Neil Chakraborty 2013. Taken at Victoria B.C.

I have withhold publishing poems in my blog for a long time now. I salvage only a few poems from the heaps of trash I write. I guard them from my affection and try to send it to journals and magazines. But this one is born free. It is born out of the long tradition of the human race to suffocate a voice that demands something right for its fellow voices. It is free to be shared and re-told forever. If possible, put a link back to this page so I may meet all the free voices that speak my tongue. 

About the photographer:  His pictures can tell stories. Originally called Subhaneil by friends, he is now known to the social fraternity as Neil. This guy has just started telling good stories. Encourage him by ordering a print of this photograph. For details contact him at neilcbty@gmail.com .
To see more of his photographs visit his Flickr portfolio here