Then finally, I decided
that of the hundred and fifty three Lord, help me’s I chanted in under two minutes,
probably the first I half whispered, half swallowed
should’ve just about as done it
And just like that, it’s safe to go to bed again.
They only allow one watcher at a time at the ICU and some impossible people stole the bench right by gram’s window. It’s supposed to be my watch now but I’m assigned the 5am instead.
I’ve been trying to sleep,really, but to no avail since I’ve already conditioned myself for the night. Since I’m up and all I figured I’d give this madness called NapoWriMo my friend told me about last Tuesday. His telling had been more than badly timed but right now it seems a good distraction.
April, as it turns out is National Poetry Writing Month. The challenge of NaPoWrimo is to write 30 poems in 30 days. As a prompt, the challenge was to write a poem with the same first line as another poem.
I picked one by Walter de la Mare, Silver. Here’s my take:
Slowly, silently, now the moon,
pressing its lips to the other’s ear
(as became custom in their chance meetings)
all the things it had missed.
Still silver waters,
Shy hearts beating to a new love.
Sideways glances and crooked smiles half hidden in the shadows.
A few goodbyes that might’ve been unbearable
Unless secret like a thief in the night,
These and things a little more light and a little clarity would only startle.
(as became custom in these chance meetings)
the sun only nods
ever aware and ever reminded
that all it sees each day
I wish there was a way we could distil silence
I’d put it in a bottle and keep it
It would have something of a scent
but not really anything we’d have words for.
I’d rub it behind your ears, each fingertip
… right by your temples
And at the end of each day my kisses will find it
Mingled faintly now with your musk,
it would slither down my lungs
For moments but a few, there’d be none of the world
Just space enough between us for heartbeats.
If silence were plenty, I’d get a firetruck,
stand in front of a stadium and wash everybody down.
Not that I hate raucous cheering and jumping with a rythm,
but a silence that immense must be something beautiful.
It wouldn’t be that magical sweeping silence that sweeps through crowds in films and histrory books,
But it will be majestic.
It will be for me.
If a silence could be summoned with a word, I’d make five different mantras of it, one for each of my favorite parts of the day.
If silence were a song, I’d play it loud, equalizer set at Rock, headphones on,
BADOOM BOOM BOOM
Only, it wouldn’t have bass notes,
not even a hiss or a little static,
just that huge, wanting lapse between drop of coin
Silence wouldn’t mean peace, nor anger,
not even loneliness, in a right world
Silence would just be being aware of what’s around
Some times even without comprehending.
Silence would mean thought.
Most times, that’s really just enough.
Fresh brew’s through the tap
I’ve a peanut butter -guava jelly sandwich that completely offsets the poetic quality of the imagery but it’s warmth and ooey - gooeyness may just well be the best analogue of what I really want
- that’s in the pantry, least.
The night is young
and I may or may not have things to say.
We were seatmates and I still have vivid memories of you picking your ear with a uni lockknock pen, drawing it back out holding this bright orange chunk of wax to my face, laughing. It had a little green tinge from going out as The Incredible Hulk on Halloween. I forced a chuckle. It was gross even for a 9 year old me but I had the hugest crush on you for the stupid reason that you were the only one I could have animated conversations about the latest episodes of The Simpsons with then, so I did.
Fifth or sixth grade, teacher chose us to represent the class after our little character speeches at Reading. I was Princess Di, you, Abe Lincoln and we went up the gym stage together. Let’s just say I felt quite in character the entire program.
Sort of exactly how I felt when you and your brother drove me home after preparing for cooking class at your place.
Sixth grade, you accompanied my piano pieces with drum beats during the intramurals. That time when you nervously asked me backstage to hum my piece so you could rehearse your beats in your head, I keep locked in the young tween part of my heart.
Including that time we gave Nikki a panic attack that time we stayed overnight at school, remember that? Nikki had the last laugh when it was nearing graduation, though. When she held our hands together one afternoon and we got bright red to the ears.
Everybody was starting to think I like you so I had to swear I liked another little boy and you had to write us off as just Bart and Lisa in your farewell letter when I had to leave La Salle for high school.
Haww. Anyway, all I really wanted to say with this post was that, darn, you’re mighty fine, looking like a pretty Gavin de Graw / Paolo Nutini in your Facebook photos! hahaha!
No idea where all of the above came from,
You make good company in thoughtful waking hours
as one forgets why one was even fighting sleep.
When a bit morose,
stirring in prose,
you are warmth.
of all the things you do and have become;
you make the heart beat faster
as if one is in love.
As if one is alive.
Things will pick up. If there’s one thing this world is good at, it’s pick up speed. The world is not getting any slower, dear.
Opportunities don’t come. At all for most. They’re sought after. Hunted. Stalked. If you’re beginning to think it’s unfair how some people have so many and don’t make the most of it, don’t. Because you see them and they don’t. How’s that supposed to make it fair or make things better? I hope you get to figure that out soon as well.
Luck, calculated probability or whatever - it’s better you get used to how it works and get over it quick.
The world does not punish non-prodigies. Neither does everyday have to be under the pressure of being extraordinary. If it had to be that way, it would be too much for dimwits like you to figure out which among the exceptional is exceptional and which to consider bland. Suppress the migraine, dear, people can hear your brainwaves.
Eventually, we get what we want. Eventually. If but for a moment: yes, world domination, success! But if it’s the type that we get to keep forever: content.
This I wake to on ordinary mornings:
A fleeting sec’ that lasts forever long.
Churning in its unwelcome becoming,
Feelings thrash but sing a happy song.
Afternoons mourn of its lovely red,
Its form disguised, shade and hue obscured.
Lips dare not throb of words unsaid
But stretch into an arc, a smile so pure.
And each night, in separate arms retire,
I dream as busts on pedestals we’ll rest,
Together but the world’s greatest satire.
For this I’ll be an ever loyal jest.
My love the hero left behind unsung,
in secret muffled hums.
Note: Writ last year. Does not apply to current