Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Hieroglyphic self

I am a broken sound,the equivalent of a muffled infant who suffocates to death all the while exhorting its mind and body for one moment of sonorous pleasure.The incomplete abyss of nothingness,hollow beyond measure,like vapors of smoke that dissolve into space and time,fading away in nocturnal bliss dimly aware of the world outside but thriving like a parasite on its pulsating self,waiting,perhaps for Godot or was it Todog?,into the unreal world of dissolving identities and makeshift masks,melting in moments,to reveal more masks until one day,there would be nothing left to reveal and thy imagination would wither like a worm on an Australian beach,forever shunning the epitome of existence and its few friends;never to look into a mirror for the fear,the heart wrenching fear of finally seeing the self but knowing that both the fear and the self are yet again masks,albeit much more sublime than their predecessors for they have now evolved like man and his coherent cognitive senses,yet again knowing that illusion again is but reality,only simplified for convenience and like smoke,it too,shall fade away leaving behind nothing but an acrid taste of truth,only to deconstruct the constructs and their intertwined fallacies.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Cherry Trees and A Man Apart

"I want
To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."

Thus spake Neruda,transgressing boundaries of love and passion,fusing subtly the erotic with the sublime.It is impossible to appreciate his poetry without discerning the intrinsic historicity of his words.The quiet treatment of language devoid of opulence of words but magnetically coupled with a searing passion of a man who has no identity is overwhelming to say the very least.He wanders,symbolically and literally,from one piece of land to another,bound by his duty to his nation and to exorcise his own troubled passions.The voice of the poet merges with his people,humanity at large,and what transfuses is genius of simplicity.He is obtuse at times,dense beyond comprehension but mostly he pains himself to be lucid,for he is weighed down by his poetic conscience and understands his gift of verse as a homage to the entire world.What really makes him so endearing is his innate capacity to bring forward the most violent of emotions in a simple line or two.His craft lies in understanding the pulse of the common man and developing an emotive idea beyond its usual understanding.

I admire Neruda not because i enjoy his poetry but because it has the capacity to arouse redundant feelings in me,a task i genuinely felt was impossible.His words remind me of sunshine and vast grasslands,moonlit nights and cool breeze;of everything that still remains wonderful,uncorrupted by claws of men.It is true that everyone can understand him,from a child to philosopher but each will have a different scale of understanding.What i have learned from him is the art of simplicity.Though Parker too is simple but she is an altogether different story,while she is arrogant and proud,Neruda is simple and gentle.He brings warmth to his words and his poetic expression reaches a new level of compassion.I read Neruda and saw new colours.He is a good human being and that reflects in what he writes.I,perhaps,misjudged him to be a man of simple ideas,i was wrong.Neruda is man of complex ideas and simple words and that is mark of a true genius.