the demarcation of identities may become
concrete beyond any measure of trust,
suggesting a clear-cut boundary (line out of control)
set with laced edges for an open-field view of
all the action, where stars rupture, mind swells
and foot-long visiting lists and eager spectators
wait for an epiphany in their limited visage,
or form, or expression —
i could light my body, turn paper into a wildfire,
stone into an insolent air, and turn my named
references back to their semicircular beginning,
without the complexity of politics of my body
or desire, obstructing the moon to rise in its tiding,
leading to a vasectomy of all craft.
there are seeds that grow without the spurt,
some pollen have a similar quality of disdain
for birth,
and i know that i cannot open
the undisclosed aftermaths of attention
depleted into this sin, or the afterword of joy,
to become pen and ink and words.
i fuck up like a fucked up alarm clock
(going cuckoo has cuckooed and gone)
springing to its climax at inopportune
times, when even time cannot be shut-
off, visions silenced, and this extravagant
search for a home in the buried remains
of self-hood finally discarded off in
neural pathways and cardiac tunnels.
an individualized treachery is preferred
over a displayed form of acceptance, with
its soft-toned and hard-knelling voice
that thinks that just the right tone would
change the facets left unexplored, deep
in the recesses, way away from light, because
that is all they are, in the eye of the storm
that won’t bring me down or go away on its own.
do not worry about me, do not worry
about my fiefdom of lust and loss,
or my faces split open one by one,
little by little, without hurt and pain,
as the death’s wagon parks at my retina,
harnessed by my sleepless eyes,
and i wake, and i wake, and i breathe,
galloping through, breaking away
from all the signs.
.
© Anmol Arora 2018
I wonder if the intersection of self-appropriation and poetry suggests a kind of depravity. Nonetheless, it is for me a kind of resistance to even consider the same — it is supposed by the experience of letting it be the subject as well as the object of observation. Perhaps “my act of understanding” is flawed but it is as honest as it could be in the current struggle. Is it failing the internalized resistance or is it resisting the resistance?!
For With Real Toads’ Weekend Challenge — quite a challenge indeed;
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU as well.
Image source (id Painting 27, 2015 by Mark Wallinger)
At least, we have Chopin and Brigitte Engerer’s playing available online.
***
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.
Profound thoughts
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Really a contemplative piece of introspective writing!
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Don’t think I’ve been here before. I was stimulated by your search for meaning here and will be back again.
Especailly struck by:
“i could light my body, turn paper into a wildfire,
stone into an insolent air, and turn my (nuanced??)
references back to their semicircular beginning”
Interesting writing…
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“suggesting a clear-cut boundary (line out of control)
set with laced edges for an open-field view of”
Even angry emotions lend themselves to poesy. Good craft Anmol.
The music is so soothing after the explosion of the muse.
Happy you dropped by my Sumi-e Sunday today
much love…
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Anger and hurt do lead to poetics sometimes while at other times, they detract from any creative craft.
I am glad that you found the music soothing after the explosive verse. That was the intention behind sharing Chopin. Thank you, Gillena. ❤
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You did good work here, friend — this conversation between a poet and his craft, between maker and made. The dynamism which drives the poem to completion is wrought with tensions which you elaborate here … so many things which one can do, with a poem, but which is honest and most true? That’s where resistance takes us. Congrats on wrestling with it through successive revisions.
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I really love this… how you really went down to your work and talked to it.. the self-affirmation is maybe the strength we can pull from the word… maybe that’s how writing is more a tool for resistance than resistance itself.
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My goodness this is beautifully deep and haunting! ❤ Especially like; “and i know that i cannot open the undisclosed aftermaths of attention depleted into this sin, or the afterword of joy, to become pen and ink and words.”
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Writing can be a haunting experience sometimes, with the letting loose resisting any other form of resistance.
Thanks for your kind words, Sanaa. ❤
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The title itself is inspired, and what a powerful piece this is!
These lines blew me away:
without the complexity of politics of my body
or desire, obstructing the moon to rise in its tiding,
leading to a vasectomy of all craft
But in all, a truly amazing poem.
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A lot to ponder in this piece and I think it all leads up to the question you proposed to your readers. The terminology is strong and vivid throughout.
Is it failing the internalized resistance or is it resisting the resistance?!
I will have to give this thought.
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I am glad that you found it all leading to that question.
Thank you! ❤
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This is a challenging prompt, which you met admirably. I especially love the lines about lighting your body, turning paper into wildfire…………well done, HA.
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Thanks for your kind words, Sherry! ❤
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i could light my body, turn paper into a wildfire,
stone into an insolent air, and turn my named
references back to their semicircular beginning, –
I really like the power of these words – simple and yet so evocative, and begin to really crunch into the tale of the chase –
and such as they are, followed by the next 3 really tell the story, in its heart of (darkness +light) matter(s)
these opening lines, also tell … the demarcation of identities may become
concrete beyond any measure of trust,
suggesting a clear-cut boundary (line out of control) – and I especially like “line out of control” ….
this piece (after all its revisions, the fights, the struggles and dissolutions, and resolutions – hopefully there is some resolution?) speaks not only of the “fracturing” of the psyche, and the mind, but also of the spirit, to break from constraints and impositions, however they arrive – and to create – not only in words, which is the more pressing topic at hand, (via the prompt) but also, within life in general –
and yes, often, it is a process wrought with deep emotions, and grief, etc. but also, there can be, if the creator/artist remembers, a certain amount of tenderness too – and not necessarily carried on the wings of more joyful, pleasant to the palate agreeable topics/subjects.
This wasn’t an easy prompt to consider, by any means, and its breadth and scope offer the room for so many ways to wander into the abstracted and pull – and yes, resistance is often futile, and yet, by inherent nature, we tend to resist the very things most needful of ourselves and time and attention, be they words or anything else; conversely, we can also get so wrapped up in events and things, that we forget to step back and out – and see the sum totality of it all, too –
I suppose it’s about trying to find the “balance” for whatever that means for each of us ….
interesting poem Anmol – and certainly, you’ve really dug in and deeply here, and have crossed into the unknown and charted and have asked of yourself, and the words, and of us, too – the questions most difficult to answer …. great job with it.
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That is where the first reading of the prompt took me — it was not the resistance of writing per se but rather the resistance of consolidating the multiple identities and their prevailing expressions in life; in a world fraught with insensitivities and bigotry, identity politics can be a powerful form of resistance while their clear demarcation and compartmentalization can act as a resisting factor for the individual to fulfill the potential of their expression. This is something I have been grappling with for a long time.
This pertinent struggle influences the way we write too, and thus the poetic resistance comes into play. And the entire saga unfolds with questions and more questions. There is some resolution in how it is recognized and acknowledged but that is not quite joyous of course.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts. I am grateful for your careful interpretations. ❤
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Nice introspection by the subconscious, Amol. Too bad it was in a sleep dream rather than a day dream. At least for me it would be as I haven’t remembered a dream in years and years.
I love your picture find, I see a mostly black cat sitting on a glass, taken from the bottom.
..
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Deep!
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I like that you have conversations with your work. It is nice to know I am not the only one!
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Same, it is nice to know that I am not the only one. 🙂
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Sounds like a fearsome struggle! But I played the Chopin in the background while reading, and it made an interesting counterpoint, seeming to smooth, soothe and resolve all that resistance.
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I am glad to know that Chopin helps through this resistance to resistance.
Thank you, Rosemary. ❤
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I am listening to Chopin while reading your poem. We dive deep together, you in the writing, I in the reading.
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There’s nothing better than this dive. Thank you! 🙂
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Deep thoughts!
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Thank you for this – I’m going to ponder the poet’s self-appropriation today. And +1 for Chopin & Brigitte (and Youtube).
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You took this piece in a unique and intriguing direction – and did so brilliantly and with eloquence.
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Thank you for your kind comment, Wendy. I appreciate it. ❤
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“an individualized treachery is preferred
over a displayed form of acceptance”
I think these two lines could start the sort of discussion that can go on and on and on… teaching and revealing (a lot about the speakers) as the conversation takes place. I like how honest “treachery” becomes something that is favored over the sort of “acceptance” that is just camouflage.
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Yes, indeed. Acceptance that takes place in the form of someone basing it on their self-aggrandizement is better forsaken. Any form of treachery or open opposition is better than that.
Thanks for reading, Magaly! ❤
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I liked the same lines Magaly did, for the same reasons, so I’ll comment that I smiled at “going cuckoo has cuckooed and gone.”
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