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#expedience
Have you ever had an open box of cornflakes slip out of your hands (at the precise time you were constructing a poem in your head) and scatter all over the kitchen like the fragile egos of self righteous partisans (creating a bigger mess if you trample them) and thus, you find yourself on all fours sweeping a recently swept floor once more..... We’re brought up looking for divine expedience in any mishap that happens: “Maslehat” they say.... there must be a hidden benefit in this! “it’s a small loss in lieu of a bigger one that it prevented”... ....and we tune our frequencies from ambition to complacency.... year after year, generation after generation, till that becomes the default station..... I even start looking at the benefits hidden in the mess at hand... I’ve discovered crevices under the stove where my cleaner never reaches, (now I can prepare an admonition for her —-wouldn’t have happened without the corn flakes.... thank you!) I imagine worse scenarios.... it could have been the bag of flour, or the spice jars .... or.... glass bottles. The work instantly becomes less tedious, as I weigh it against shards of glass and invisible weapons of potential exsanguination.... oh shukar , shukar, shukar..... Alhamdulillah. It’s ok, it’s only cornflakes.... It’s only cornflakes, and my attitude.... ( that’s in question) keeping things together, even when they’re crumbling, cleaning up messes, and counting on second guesses, Using crafting glue and bluetac to hold up foundations ( this doesn’t merit any recommendation!) A friend once said, “ sometimes you have to let it break, so that you can build it better....” but what is better, when each damage is a consecration that is the conundrum of creation it’s all a substrate it’s all a message its all salvation I had told my friend, “listen I don’t know how to use metaphors, and I only have a few of my own, will you give me some on loan? I need them to break and remake my ache.... “ The silence meant yes. I could take all the phrases, all beautiful words, all dictions, all praises In these clumsy hands, ( since the heart understands) And if I spill them like cornflakes, no matter what it takes, I’ll find a way, to scoop them in a poem. A. 20.9.18
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Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
arshia
I wanted to write a poem so bad...
Have you ever had an open box of cornflakes slip out of your hands (at the precise time you were constructing a poem in your head) and scatter all over the kitchen like the fragile egos of self righteous partisans (creating a bigger mess if you trample them) and thus, you find yourself on all fours sweeping a recently swept floor once more..... We’re brought up looking for divine expedience in any mishap that happens: “Maslehat” they say.... there must be a hidden benefit in this! “it’s a small loss in lieu of a bigger one that it prevented”... ....and we tune our frequencies from ambition to complacency.... year after year, generation after generation, till that becomes the default station..... I even start looking at the benefits hidden in the mess at hand... I’ve discovered crevices under the stove where my cleaner never reaches, (now I can prepare an admonition for her —-wouldn’t have happened without the corn flakes.... thank you!) I imagine worse scenarios.... it could have been the bag of flour, or the spice jars .... or.... glass bottles. The work instantly becomes less tedious, as I weigh it against shards of glass and invisible weapons of potential exsanguination.... oh shukar , shukar, shukar..... Alhamdulillah. It’s ok, it’s only cornflakes.... It’s only cornflakes, and my attitude.... ( that’s in question) keeping things together, even when they’re crumbling, cleaning up messes, and counting on second guesses, Using crafting glue and bluetac to hold up foundations ( this doesn’t merit any recommendation!) A friend once said, “ sometimes you have to let it break, so that you can build it better....” but what is better, when each damage is a consecration that is the conundrum of creation it’s all a substrate it’s all a message its all salvation I had told my friend, “listen I don’t know how to use metaphors, and I only have a few of my own, will you give me some on loan? I need them to break and remake my ache.... “ The silence meant yes. I could take all the phrases, all beautiful words, all dictions, all praises In these clumsy hands, ( since the heart understands) And if I spill them like cornflakes, no matter what it takes, I’ll find a way, to scoop them in a poem. A. 20.9.18
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