Gold Hatted Lovers*

I wore the gold hat

And couldn’t move

But sat there trying

Like a fool

And speaking,

Since the others spoke:

“Lovers! Gold—hatted, high-bouncing lovers!

I must have you!”

They wore the gold hats

And bounced high too

Perfectly nimble

And able to move

So I bought the dresses

The sequins

The shoes

But couldn’t move.

I tore the gold hat

From my empty head

From my pointless being

And waited, instead

For a voice to fill me

That has not yet come

And may never come

But firmly, I said:

“Lovers!

Gold-hatted, high-bouncing lovers!

I don’t want you!”

* Inspired by, 'This Side of Paradise', F. Scott Fitzgerald:

'Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her,
If you can bounce high, then bounce for her too,
Till she cry “Lover! Gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!”'

I’ll wear the gold hat, I’ll bounce high too,
I’ll do anything, love, if it’s for you,
I’ll steal you a sack of satin stars,
I must have you!

Will you see me glorious, exciting, divine?
Picturesque as postcards, will you be mine?
And so we shall love forever and a day,
Amongst my gains.

Amongst my gains, amongst your pains,
Shackled in richest, dooming chains,
But the tides of attentive affection are waning,
My love, from me.

I’ll wear the gold hat, I’ll bounce high too,
I’ll sing your praises until I’m blue,
Till you cry “Lover! Dim-witted, fast-falling lover,
I can’t have you!” 

How hard is it,

Really?

To hush our words

Our calculations

Speculations

God damned valuable

Opinions

For just a moment

Just one little

Moment.

Me?

 I wanted to hear

Our giant sphere

Groan as it turns

Day now, night here

Overtaking Mars

Venus runs ahead

Glinting red in the distance.

I want to hear

The trees

Take long, rustling breaths

Swaying back

Swinging forth.

I want to listen

To the magma

At the core of the earth.

I am astounded

That our words

Could have silenced

Such a force.

Hush, little heart
I know you can't look
At the rivers anymore
But you must.
And you must
Tell yourself
That there is beauty
In this never-ending pain
Picturesque as literary postcards.

Let me see

The broken part

Of your soul

Just so I

Can ghost my fingers

Wonder--

If it feels familiar.

I won't fix it

So don't even ask

I will hold
All your pieces together

While curiosity lasts.

Just so I

Can pry open

Every niche of your being

Let me see

With wandering eyes

What lies beneath

Your pretty skin.

Visual Editing

I will not, some days
Type the words
In the middle of the page
And italicize them.
It feels like i'm pretending
To write poems
Like i'm crafting
What ought to just be.

Writer's Block.

Some days, I just sit there, still as ever. The PC hums a favourite tune, the writer I’m reading says something astounding but only half-understood. The violin sways—sober and melodious—in the background. Something inside me stirs, writhing to get out. But something is off with the universe. Not enough of the right elements in the right place. Everything inside me hums. I’m snappy and picky—very picky about what I listen to, what I read. I can feel myself trying to set the cosmos right. Trying to push planets into place, balancing the stars, whisking the clouds to and fro. I know as I sit there, favourite pen in hand, tapping the page incessantly... I know that when two days or two months later something will click, and I’ll go thrashing through my room for a pencil and notebook—the result will be much better. But the feeling is still uncomfortable. It’s like hiking as the air gets thinner. It’s like chewing your lip, staring down a question you knew but don’t remember. It’s also called...

Violent Delights

Violent delights, I am told, have violent ends. That’s all right though. We live for the sentiment, not the prize. The sensation, not the fulmination. We live for the threshold feeling*. Which is to say, we like the feeling of the plane taking off better than the feeling of it being in the air. Among the words that teem like fire ants in the present world, we’re a breath of fresh air. We can be defended in books, when literature students prefer the foolhardy but passionate Michal Henchard over the smart, savvy but robotic Donald Farfrae. In real life, however, we are more likely to crash and burn. Because we are embodiments of base emotions, unchecked sentiments. Only romantic in books I assure you. We can burn a hole through you if you let us out.

But we stick to our guns, I’ll tell you that. Out of reach, distorted, clueless with too much fire under our skin to be rational, even to the extent that’s good for us, and good for others. But we stick to our guns. We feel there is something to be explored in the dark crevices of the human, in that full, unhindered power of him. We like living those tiny windows in which we are something else, something greater than what our own skin can contain.

Violent delights, I am sure, have violent ends. But it’s better I think, than using outside entities to release your inside self. I like it better, that we can find that fulmination of...us...inside our own selves. That we can find the universe in our own selves, and can travel inward to learn everything that lies outside walls we can’t yet cross.

*This phrase, the threshold feeling, is courtesy of Ms. Ayesha Barque and, admittedly, Sujata Bhatt.