Masters of Poetry - A tribute to the Black Cat

Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sylvia Plath? Or that you sing like Mary Cassatt? Paint like Nina Simone? Is that all irrelevant? The frown on your face scares those around you. Your shoe is a size smaller than you need. My picture won’t fit in it. For the first time you realise that being who you are and not knowing who that can be is the most frightening state of being. The boy is not by your side.

If you can fall in love for a day, then that was me, in love, yesterday. The old love has been laid to rest. One moment erased all that imaginary wonder. If another comes and wants to be the boy in those songs, wants to learn the parts and play along, I will let him. Love can be a feather light paperweight on my bare back. Please don’t leave scars, just a gentle touch. Say you were here but stroke, don’t carve. From time to time I will think about how it might have been. But what’s gone is flying freely in the wind. What never was is kept in a safe place. What is coming, I welcome with open arms. For now, I’ll head out alone and hope for the best.

Sitting on the kerb, a black cat appeared. Are you musicians? - he asked. No, we’re magicians. We’re masters of trickery. We can make you disappear. We can chain you, shove you in a box, put swords through you, saw you in half and still bring you out in one piece. How would you like to join me for a cocktail? The black cat, crossing his legs as he sat in his armchair, lit a cigar and puffed away as he spoke. I’ve seen men before - he said, but never a man in love, what will he do? Us magicians looked baffled, but knew how to remedy this gap in the cat’s knowledge. Fraudulent times - we started. A man in love does not equate a man who looks in love. Sincerity is deceitful, but a man in love will stumble through his life and have only his love on his mind. Alone at night he will head out to find peace with another soul. Leaving the heavy, burdensome life, a man in love will build a palace on his dreams. Melodies, pages, verses will be created. A man in love will walk and walk and walk and with worn through shoes collapse in the arms of the one he loves. A man in love will become vulnerable.

Like Milton let his Adam and Eve have the choice, I will let you choose as well. Not between me and someone else, but between the me you see and the me you don’t. Here is the me you don’t. There? There is someone I have made only for you. When you find me, please let me be who I need to be.

Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sylvia Plath?

P.S. Don’t even try to argue this one. No reason or rhyme was indented for it. Just words juxtaposed in these fraudulent times. But thanks for sticking by me anyway…

The Most Perfect Love

I’ve found and lost the most perfect love. All in the space of three days I flew to Himalayan highs and descended to abysmal lows. Then with a breeze I smiled and moved on. Even the most seemingly perfect dies when it is lifted to reality.

Another soul brushed so close to mine I shook. I heard, I felt, I saw when my eyes were firmly shut. I was ready to reach out; I was almost ready to believe. For a moment I froze, unable to move, standing to watch what would happen. I let myself be captured and mesmerized forever. In another time and place, maybe even on another plane, this man would have been perfect for me. He would have whispered sweet words only to me. He would have composed sweet melody only for me. He would have carried me in the palm of his hands. I would have created pages and pages for only him. I would have shown him all that I have secretly done for him. He would have wanted to make me laugh. I would have wanted to cry each time he had to take leave and journey back to his world. We would have dreamt separate only to conjoin at the end.

The irony of love is that it continually evades perfection. Expectations high, mercilessly waiting, evil resolutely holding its grip on the thinnest fracture appearing in the foundations. And then like a hermit I hide again, afraid that my heart could not withstand another love’s deadly clench. It would die like in the hands of the one before. I would cringe to a foetal position if he left, exactly as with the one before. Broken and wounded I would drag my lifeless dream behind me and he would no longer see, just like the one before did never see. I would build everything up again, learn to go on without him, learn to let the yearning subside and watch as he waves goodbye. I would die again and again like in the hands of the one before.

This perfect love never was, but he is already gone. I could not have bore to loose him to any other woman but her. Now I know that they are a two in perfect harmony. Two beautiful people, two beautiful lives, making beautiful dreams come alive. Sensitive to the cruelness of the world, open eyed about the injustices, careful with the words they let fly into the sky. Love sleeps tangled with them and gently releases its power that sedates them into forever holding dear the potency of creation. I understand. I take my weak heart and treasure it for someone else.

Then I step out of this dream and watch as the world spins madly on.

I Wish I Could

Somewhere between the dark days and their equally frightening light sisters, I stand numb and unable to move because my dream rushes past me. My soul shrinks to the size of a pea and is tied to the fastest car that whizzes by; it’s already ripped from me. I watch as they dance and sing on the other side: I feel invisible, I feel ignored. In my perfect isolation I crouch and find solace on a steady rock. Unable to cross, unwilling to look away, I stay at arm’s length from where I want to be. Forever.

I wish I could unzip a different person from underneath the skin coat I wear. A more vibrant, a more determined, a more powerful person. Someone who caught the moment and hung onto it. Transported to another time but staying true to ideals, I would join those who dance and sing on the other side. I would have courage and strength to walk into the room with all the words I’ve recorded on paper. I would staple my pages onto my skin and parade around so everyone would admire. And they would welcome the me who was brave and talented, unafraid of ambitions and free of inhibitions.

In the middle of the place I would stretch out my arms and spin ‘till I collapsed dizzy and happy. Faster and faster, unable to pay attention to anything around me. Nothing would embarrass me and I would share my all with those who smilingly welcomed every ill formed idea, every ill formed page. There I would find myself. Completely comfortable, I would nurture my budding dream. Then my every wish would be answered.

Only then would I no longer wish that I could.

Till then, each and every night, I wish that I really could.

In The Moment

In the mood of the moment. In the heavy burden of the moment, I sit and write what is most painful for my heart. There are days when the light comes to shine on me. There are others when it comes to torture me. The mirror shows nothing less and nothing more, the fact stares me in the face and makes the days endless.

I dream of white. I dream of innocent white. I tangle the sheets below me and lead a desperate search for you. You might just be lost in the covers, I might find you if I looked reverently. I hang onto the dream tight, unable to stand upright in front of the truth. The pain circles my heart and thinks of new ways to show itself for the light. In the now all that I live for seems irrelevant.

If I let myself be lost in the moment, I might make it through the day. I might not break down at the thought of only you. I might be able to see you for who you are. I want nothing to do with you and you’re the most perfect person for me. What are we to do now? Twist my senses and let me believe that this can last forever. Leave me drenched in your love or leave me yearning for more. I will take what you give and I will not ask. Tell me deep secrets and let me write down your words. I don’t want to forget come daylight.

I shake when you see me. I crumble when you fall in love with me, each day over and over again. I let the wings of your love carry me off to safety. I let your words pierce through me. I collide with the power, a greater force, just to be in your presence. It’s you. Nothing can change what I see in you. No one can make me stop loving you.

In the moment I’m you. In the moment we’re one. If there is sense in time, I forever stay your love.

The wind blew the fine sand towards the east

The wind blew the fine sand towards the east. Each dancing particle flew away carrying the tiny seeds of hope. The dunes grew only on one side and the rugged scenery was a sign of summer preparing to leave. The sun rose and the shore glittered from the million coloured sand, reflecting the powerful orb. The sand in patches was held firmly to the ground by scattered traces of grass and other plants. These tied their roots deep down, securing every single tiny part so the sand could no longer run. The wind blew through their loose leaves, but their soil remained unmoved.

The cliffs stood towering above the water. The gentle ocean stream was rubbing the shore, dividing sand from shell, fish from waste. The dunes, with islands of grass on top of them watched as the sun first stroke them, then played its game with the waves of the giant water.

The wind carried on its symphony, ruffling the tall, burnt looking grass. The moment was motionless, then unleashed: the foaming ocean rocked back and forth from land to a deep well. Birds were eying their prey, circling high in the air, barely able to keep their bearings amidst the wind that tossed them at will. Each creature, safe in its resting place, was deep in slumber, unable to crawl to the humbling state of being.

Dawn met only those who had purpose to salute the day in its infancy. The lonely boathouse stood on a cliff overlooking the beach. It housed a mild mannered ark, with simple dreams and masters who fed off the fruits of Nature. The fishermen pushed their heavy wooden boats onto the water. The nets tangled, hung from the side, waiting for weary fingers to undo what the wild waters have heaved. The journey they must make is familiar both to machine and man. Each coming day, they embark on a path that sees the ocean divide under the fearless spine of the old boat. The nets spread across the unimaginable water, endless at all angles, unpredictable at each moment. The men on the boats, sitting silently, as the fish swim to their deaths. Waiting for the sun to rise and the bitter cool to leave and take with it the misty air hanging low at the shore. Then they return, count the blessing and curse, leave the boat to rest till the next dawn when they will need to slit across the back of the black water, deep into the midst of the unknown, each day further, to find new prey.

The silence of the shore was only seldom broken. Each living thing, plant and animal was waiting the return of the wanderers at sea. Nothing stirred until their silhouettes were traced on the horizon. But morning saw them leap from shore to sea, before anyone else but the birds and cliffs could see.

The boy woke, his lashes covered in sand, his dark hair turned almost golden from the pillow of sand he lay his head on to rest. He arrived with the darkest night and took refuge in the grass. Morning woke not only the birds and wind around him, but also his dreamy eyes and much travelled heart. He lifted his head to look around and with a smile on his face acknowledged the scenery he descended to. Glancing upwards he waved to his stars and then caught the luring rhythm of the ocean. He tapped on his knee as each swish hurled towards him. Sitting there, he was barely taller than the grass. A boy with an appearance not more than eight years old, yet with mischief in his eyes telling tales of a hundred year old. He shook his head to release the trapped sand and let the wind brush through. He stood and breathed the untamed air. His clothes were intact, his hair again dark, his eyes green from the curiosity of a child. He smelt the grass and then the sand; then he understood that he has to smell the water to know where he had come. He ran from the dune towards the open. As he went close enough, he could see the tiny boats appear, coming from their daunting trips. He could wait no longer and hurried time for them to reach the shore .

Two boats, four men altogether, none of them looking pleased with the catch. Their old faces were deepened by wrinkles that ran from eye to chin. The sparkle in their eyes; lost at sea long ago. The fingers bulky and useless in the cold. The skin hard and uncomfortable as ever. The cheeks rosy, but not from dizzying wine, only bitter wind. The fish were not many, the nets tangled again. The boy stood on the shore, his feet touching the water and gazing at the precision of the fishermen. All four jumped out of the boat at the same time. Their knees still in the cold water, they were guiding their boats to the shore.

They saw the boy, but none made a sound. The boats needed to be lifted, from sand to elevated safety. They rested on their side as the nets with all the fish were thrown overboard. Then without a word, the men started to pull the boats onto the wooden planks, to their platform. The boy rushed over to one of the boats to help. He was pulling with all the force he could muster. His hands were red from the ropes carving a path and splinters attacked his fingers. He groaned with the men, but his voice somehow did not fit in. When the hard work was done, one of the fisherman turned to him and asked:

“Who’s boy are ya?”
The boy stood astonished, he never was anybody’s, he roamed the world alone without much supervision.
“I’m nobody’s boy. I’m just alone.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Aye, alone is best” the old man murmured.
“What are you going to do with the fish?” The boy's curiosity did not wilt as he combed his hair away from his eyes when the wind blew against him.
“We sell them.”
“Sell them? For what?” The boy was puzzled by the idea of selling the fish. He had never heard of such a thing. Where he came from, there were no fish and if they appeared they were treated with respect and were made resting places.
“Ah, boy, what you asking for? We sell them is all. We are fishermen”

The old fisherman had kind eyes. The boy saw their sincerity and decided to stay around him. The men carried on with their work silently. Stools were placed in front of the boats and the nets lay there in one heap, tangled. With tools foreign to the boy, the men started to repair the net. Two took the fish in boxes towards the boathouse further a field, whilst the other two sat to give their full attention to the nets. The boy crouched and pulled his eyebrows together, surprised or confused. He saw the deformed fingers of the fishermen work on the delicate nets, sewing the broken pieces together.

“You want to catch more fish?” asked the boy.
The old man just nodded but the words failed to accompany. The boy stood up and turned towards the sea. He stood there silent till the men were finished with their work. He then helped them put their tools away, folded the net neatly into the boat and then walked them as far as the boathouse. There he bid them goodbye and returned to the shore.

The boy spent his day playing in the sand. He befriended creatures he found in little caves or lying in the grass. He wrote in the air and drew in the sand careful enough for the water not to erase with the next wave. He lay on the shore and watched the birds from below. He thought of the fishermen, wondered what they were doing in that instant. When he found nothing more to do, he hurried time to night come more swiftly. Deep sleep caught him unguarded and he only woke little before the next dawn saw the fishermen return.

By the time the men were pulling the boats into the water, the boy was there. The dawn was dark but he was excited about the fishing. He stood waiting till the men returned. He now knew what to do when the boats arrived. He hurried time and saw them return with the high noon. The men were no less broken than the day before. The fish were no more and the nets were no less tangled. The boy ran to the boat, brought the tool and started mending the net. Nobody told him what to do. He was curious still and posed the question to the old man.

“What if the fish won’t let you catch them any more?”
“We’ll starve is what will happen.” And a sigh left his chest.
“Can you make me a kite?” Asked the boy with his huge green eyes and careless hair turning to the old man.
“What you need a thing like that for?” Came the question, but the man still not looked at the boy. His hands were busy sewing the net back to one piece.
“ I want to fly.” Said the boy with the most seriousness.
“A kite can’t keep you in the air boy.” The old man shrugged the boy’s idea and focused more intently on his net.
“ But you can make one that can.” Unhindered by what the man had said, the boy stood up and demanded the kite to be made.
“You need a good strong wood, then some thin paper and strings, lots of strings.”
Before the old man could say anything else, the boy ran off. He left the net unfinished and the stool turned upside down, and ran towards the dune.

The next morning he helped the boats to sea again and then waited for the old man to return. When time was ready the men, boats, fish and nets came home. The fish were no more and the burden was no less. They helped the weary boats to the shore and allowed them to rest till the next day. The nets got untangled and the fish moved from the boats. The boy then ran to get the wood and thin paper and strings for the old man to build him a kite. He was out of breath and excited from the idea that he will be able to fly. He placed the materials in front of the man and waited for him start building. He crouched in front of the piece of wood and watched as the old man took out his pocket knife and carved a piece. Then another and another. He used the string to tie the pieces together and the boy gave everything he needed into his hands. The paper was cut to the right size and the tail of the kite carried many different shapes the man had made for the boy.

“Here it is boy.” said the man when he finished. He would have liked to colour it for the boy, but could see that nothing would have made him happier than if the kite was placed in his hands there and then.
“This is the perfect kite.” He held it and ran off towards the highest cliff.

The kite was almost as big as the boy and he could hardly control it. The wind grew joyous when it saw what to play with in the air. The boy stood on the edge of the cliff and tied the rope of the kite to his wrist. He wanted to make sure that he could not loose it. The sun was shining on the water and the grass was swayed with every breeze. The wind was gathering strength and finally lifted the boy from the ground to the air. He was flying. His feet dangled and the wind was taking him and his kite higher and higher. The old man was watching with tear filled eyes from below. He whispered, “take care my boy”. The boy laughed and waved to everyone below. He saw the fish on the road, moving to somewhere they might be still needed. He saw the old man and the sea. Time flew past him and soon he reached the stars. Each star had a boat hanging from it and he chose the one that looked the biggest. He sat in it and untied the kite from his wrist. He waited for the sun to set and the moon to rise. Then he watched from above as the kite fell below. It fell into the sea with a great big splash.

Dawn neared again. The fishermen got ready and set out in their boats to catch the fish. They set their nets out and returned with boats near sinking from the weight of the prey. The bitter faces glowed and the hands grabbed the ropes more eager. The old man sat next to his boat, mended his net and whispered, “thank you my boy”.