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Kora Sani Jul 2019
we can be at the same places
at the same times
but no two people
will ever experience it the same
one mind sees chaos
another is at peace
one sees growth
another is dormant
which one sees clearly;
if either at all?
perhaps both only live in a cloud of obscurity
each guarded in their own way
too close to see actuality
& embroiling what is simple
nevertheless
they choose to walk away
at odds with themselves & the world as they see it
May I splinter away from myself
break into whole units
and
live in each with perfection!

This ME
made whole by
combining countless fragments
could not live in any one part
with complete ease.

May I show a true model
of deconstruction to Derrida
by taking off parts that make up my being!

So that I would see
one man fallen off me
shambling down the street,
and continue to speak in assemblies
with full ignorance of the subject,
continue to review the news of the world
by stuffing them in his brain
and go yapping in the crowds
fully content in the perfection of
his inferior sphere.

The other one
brooding over the ledger books
and the personal files
of the employees.

May the next one always keep reading,
the other looking after children
and still another swimming
in love all his life.

May the other fragment – the ‘me’ whom I don’t like
remain shut somewhere in the room.

May one other splinter engage
in inner decoration of the house
and meet the hunger of needs.
If he cannot do so
may he fragment himself further
into contractors
supplying vegetables, miscellanies,
clothes, and fuels
and sorting out other mess.

May one other part
forgetting that he is my splinter
continue to clap on each stupid action
of his boss, shaking head, and
remain busy in his little puppet moves.

May the other take responsibility of
television, radio and newspapers.

May the other still stay repeating the news of
the relatives and acquaintances
fulfilling formalities of well-being
embroiling in the phatic-
where? what? how?
participating in all of ‘sixteen rituals’
and birthdays.

May the other one continue to repeat
the non-news of his immobility
and continue to go to places
where people gather,
and go doing something like that.

May I hold an assembly
of the proportional representation
of all my selves.
may I go out with the poet
by leaving all the others
in their chaotic meaningless arguments.

May my poet remain a poet
in its perfection
unattached to my domesticity
full of scarcities;
may he remain separate
from a job-savvy me
who has sold his self-respect.
may my poet disengage itself
from my being
swayed by my brain.

May I discard the outer cover of time
from the layers of poetry
by immersing the poet in its entirety
within me, and
dismantle geography’s barriers.
may I break the windows of consciousness,
break further the dilapidations of waking moments
and emerge into the bright world of dream.

May life remain enamored of its own charm
may the river of love always flow from its own lap
may my pain remain drunk singing its own love songs
and the dead body of agony remain asleep
resting its head on a pillow of flowers.

May I free myself from the labyrinth of knowledge
run away from the jungle of thoughts
and jump from the hill of illusion
into the mind’s speedy currents.
by stepping on this joint of time.
may I pack all inventions in burlaps
and hide them in corners of Einstein’s’ brains.

May I free myself from the ever-pressing chest
and enter the garden of imagination
by leisurely hiding brain on hill summits.

May I take off clothes covering shame at the border
leaving them hanging on dry trees of arrogance
and run by wearing the rays of the sun.

May I create plain fields by collecting clouds
and bedeck them with arching rainbows.

Playing ball of wind
reaching the other end of The Road Not Taken
may I call in Robert Frost by holding hands
and request Ginsberg to recite Howl
facing the world.

May I bet with Devkota sitting contentedly
by receiving his lord’s blessings
that you are a poet who has written epics
and win a bagful of stars.

May I exchange T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland
with the future of this earth like a lunatic’s dreams
and make one season of poetry farming
by tilling with the pen of desire.

Oh, this ME
made with so many fragments
could not make any achievements!

May I then splinter away
from myself
and live only with the poet.
०००००
Note - This poem was originally written in Nepali language. This translation has been rendered by Abhi Subedi, and  was first published in Spillwords
..............................................
John Bartholomew Feb 2020
The power within,
Embroiling my sins,
Holding back what can't be released,

A scream with no sound,
Digging for what can't be found,
All I need is a realm of my inner peace

To take over my world,
A power that can tame when unfurled,
On you that I need to unleash

JJB
His skin burrs muffled metal edges. Neck
In cold, encasing ring. His eyes entrapped
In pictograms: dark absences cast on
A speckled warming, imperfect light.


Rough heat of other-body
And other-body-probably.
The mishapen lumpen
Masses are fuzzy in the
Outlines of his eyes.


Sparse noise parallels cut-out rising "Sun"
And "Fish" and "Lake" and
"Tree". He watches the
Cut-out "Sun" be
Replaced by
The cut-out
"Moon".


Cut-out
"Fish" half circle
Surface of cut-out
"Lake". Cut-out "Man"
Sputters cut-out behind
"Words" in cut-out "World"
Next to cut-out "Tree". He would speak,
Too: "Cut-out" "Words"; "Cut-out" reply.


When the crescent absence
Falls, the "world"





Stops.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

Cloaked hands would then
Bring the smothered dark.
And their cold recess, filled with
Warm gritty mush. Glooping
Sustenance is received
Gleefully; pumped thrice,
Leaving him
Messy and grooling.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

After the shadows consume
The screen, sleep comes wistfully:

Hollow echoes of broken speech
And absences, dimly cast on a
Pulsating orange backdrop.

.pindrop memories a light clatter of meaning.

cocoon warmth,
pulsating orange glow,
speckled red vines,
muffled laughter,
voices
and red pain.


\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\


His fabric blinker eventually
Disappears into the ground.


Chains unlocked
And left sagging
Next to sagging
Man.


\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\\

His folded appendages began to unravel;
He stood. And turned to look
For the effulgence
That gives the
Absence
Meaning.

Splayed
In crescent line
Blinded figure-like
"Stones" are balled and
Passive. Shadows: lifeless. Dim
And vague embers splutter behind
Him. A dark, rectangular slab is silhouetted

By the licking flame:
Tucked and rearing.


Ahead, a passage;
Dark and comforting.

He shifted slowly,

And
Curls.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

Eventually, "sun" rises and
Parading echoes
Perform melancholy
Dances.

When "moon" dips below
And the "world" is empty
He waits agape for
Filling slush.

None came.

Empty, his wire frame
Activates and drags him, he
Clawed on the felt sand, that
Carpeted carved stone and the
Block stairs leading to the:

Open
To the:
Not-always.

Depleted limbs collapse
Onto muffled flat stone.
A slightly darker crevice
Offered him solace.

Here, cornered up,
Pressed against
Cold and wet,
Sleep came
Dutifully.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

Piercing,
Searing,
Savage
Spikes,
Sudden
And
Swift

It was
Sordid
Violent
Damagings.

Holy fire lit him aflame.

Blinding light
Engulfed him in
Crackling static.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\

He assimilated deep in the foot of his
Nuzzling slab. Solid shadows stretched
Below. More true to him than the infinite
White heat that cast them in vast strokes.

He sat face-down, between two
Scrunched twigs; bent like
Mantis' claws. He held his
Eyes-open, absorbed into
His own shadow, now crisp.
Not fuzzy and undefined.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

The "world" always
Recurs. Soon, his own
Silhouette will
Return to its
Silent delineation.

And he can creep
In cold trepidation, back to the
always-dark, the "world",
The always-tickling-tension.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\\\\\\\\

He returned to
Find that

The "world", once:
Sharp and clear, with an
Orange glow that casted
Neat outlines - meaning-bringer -

Now: grey-black and
Always dark;
An absence of
Everything.

In an unknown surging he
Caressed the "World's"
Surface and traced
Its smooth rolling dents.
He pressed his nose
Against the stone
And inhaled.

He caught the sagging - sometimes-speaking -
"Rocks", always in peripheral. Now: direct. They were laid curved, in a crescent-moon.
He wondered what the texture, or warmth or, Musky smoky scent might appear from Probably-a-"rock".

Bending in the same way he used
To observe the "world" he crumpled in
Front of the thin, pointy, oddly-shadowed
Thing.

He held its face.
Feeling its warm
Recesses and feathered
Curling beard.

Briefly, blank black sockets
Darted to meet him. Only to
Return, back: fully in-the-world.


A dim bulbous pain
Rose, like the crescent
"Fish" deep in his hollow
Body. An elemental appetite.

So, he left the
Always-dark,
The "World".

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\

He crawled up. In the absence of
What was always nothing.

Distant drum of expanding light
Radiated, circling and enveloping
Him in wide and open crushing arms.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\

He sat bent down in front of the light.
Facing dancing patterns under
Moist soil and jutted crumpled grass. Or,
In his own lumpen mass, mishapen, the
Silhouette most often in his sight.

Before he felt the
Form and finish
Of the not-always,
The casted spells
In crevice and
Under stone
Held comfort.

Now, he traces them with
Swollen weary eyes. They seem
Void and
Vapid.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

Bulbous echoes ****** permeously,
Abdomen seething desperately.

No glooping sustenance
Force-fed and welcome came.

It signalled distant pin-drop time-before.

Blindly, he burdened sagging limbs;
Face gnawing into dirt and worm and grass.

Screeching solitude kept his fingers clawing,
Raw and thin, now punctures permeate:
Tiny everything always everywhere
At him all at once.

He mounted his haggard body,
Tugging at his wilted stalks,
Imploring them to save him.



In distant tones
A hollow echo
Of broken speech
Disperses past him



\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\
*                                  *                      ­           *
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\



Huddled shadow, hunched
Under rugged oak tree

Carp swim in darting
Pummels, refracted scales
Shining rainbow
Droplets

Shimmering on the shifting surface
Was him, an-other face, unknown and
Alien: crinkled with crevices and dark
Swollen eyes.

His ear twitches:
Voice. Dripping
With full-throated
Fervor

He turns to face
An-other man
Distant shadow
On the horizon
Waving disjointed
Stick-like appendage
Silhouetted by the
Setting sun.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\

He awoke: swollen passivity; embraced in
Canvasing warmth. An-other stood taut.

Now they folded over him, caressing him,
In his sagged skeletal frame. Embroiling him
In frantic whispers. They held his sunken
Face: wet with old-worn sobs and tears and
Shouts and fears, primal moans and hunger.

He turned to look into an-other's eyes:
His brimming.

Next he would come to see
The things themselves.
[Wiki Summary]

In the allegory, Plato describes people who have spent their entire lives chained by their necks and ankles in front of an inner wall with a view of the empty outer wall of the cave. They observe the shadows projected onto the outer wall by objects carried behind the inner wall by people who are invisible to the chained “prisoners” and who walk along the inner wall with a fire behind them, creating the shadows on the inner wall in front of the prisoners. The "sign bearers" pronounce the names of the objects, the sounds of which are reflected near the shadows and are understood by the prisoners as if they were coming from the shadows themselves.

Scholars debate the possible interpretations of the allegory of the cave, either looking at it from an epistemological standpoint—one based on the study of how Plato believes we come to know things—or through a political (politeia) lens.
Suresh Gupta Dec 2020
Sense Perception
05/12/2020

Forever a captive of my senses
Embroiling me with pain n pleasure
Unable to fathom their hold on me
Endlessly chasing rainbow treasure

I see the beauty in nature
It's strength as well as its frailty
I marvel with awe and splendor
Am a witness to its harsh brutality

I hear the sounds of the roaring falls
Orchestral music of birds n insects
Echoes bouncing of caves n valleys
Cacophony of preys in distress

Fragrance of flowers in bloom, I inhale
Whiff of soil stirred by first rain drops
The array of spices that fill my nostrils
The stench declaring life's mortality

I taste the sweet nectar of honey n such
Delicious flavors from around the world
All kind of essences that touch my buds
Warning inferred by bitterness as well

I feel the gentle breeze on a hot summer's night
The cool waves on the beach, lapping my feet
Love's kiss by a spouse, parents, friend or a child
And the heat of the scorching sun or a flaming fire

Knowing that the senses perception
That I feel, taste, smell, hear or see
Is firmly attached to the temporal body
Can't hold me hostage, when the soul is free
Being indifferent to the pleasures and pain of the sense objects, would sure free us from the sens e perception
He awoke: swollen passivity; embraced in
Canvasing warmth. An-other stood taut.

Now they folded over him, caressing him,
In his sagged skeletal frame. Embroiling him
In frantic whispers. They held his sunken
Face: wet with old-worn sobs and tears and
Shouts and fears, primal moans and hunger.

He turned to look into an-other's eyes:
His brimming.

Next he would come to see
The things themselves.

— The End —