These endless fields
In the midst of cold
Of a land with feet stranded
In the middle of civi
Lization and sweet smelling dog
Shit and plastic smelling vapors
Of a burning fire in the
These endless fields
And the ghosts in them
The ghost stories of drunk
Farmers and little brats
Surveiling over the lives of dogs on the street
And lives of men on the fields
These endless bus journeys
Through the endless
Reaches of endless fields remind
Me of something I have forgotten and I can’t
Remember for the life of me.
There are many forevers in love
Many terrors many loves many dives many
Deaths in love
Many lives lived in one love
Many loves lived in one life
Many loves died in one life
It’s never supposed to learn.
It is supposed to dive
Headlong into the abyss of opposite
Equations of pleasure
And despair this love.
Its supposed to keep you awake
At nights and die during days.
Die fifteen times a day
Its supposed to make you lie
Faceblank to someone you loved
Moments before you stopped loving him
And moments after you
Began loving him once again
Its against any
Kind of sober dried up plain
Monotonous routine of relationships…
In bubbles it lives
In bubbles it dies.
And in bubbles it sleeps
Like a polar bear readying itself
For the next summer of green veggies
And there are many polar bears.
And there is only one love
And only one summer
Only one true undying love and the rest
Are just shadows.
And shadows are perfect
Only shadows endure
On the power of guilt.
On the power of habit
On the power of truth
And on the power of friendship.
In true love there
Is no friendship, only death
In true love there is no life
And only pain
And only folly
And only love
And flame like, moth
In a fire like passionate moments,
Moth in a fire like passionate
Dense awesome deep and paining
Flame like moments which burn
And then scar and then burn
All over again.
Glimpses of suicide
Glimpses of life
Only recurring death.
Love lives ensconced in the flicker of bubbles
Love dies with flicker of bubbles
And bubbles continue popping up and down
And guilt makes us be perfect.
So called perfect
Many loves and one love
Many deaths and one life
Many lives and one love.
And each succeeding love better
And worse than before.
Context: I have always been fascinated by the unrequited love of Yeats for/and Maud Gonne. Very recently, I read that their love did once got consummated and only once… and after that he wrote: “the tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.” Some loves are like that… And some people are meant to be together, even if it is for a few hours… and those few hours are many centuries…. Perhaps… and this poem was written in response to the same. It is dedicated to Yeats and it would be interesting to find out if there is indeed a metaphysical entity called love which functions in this way, which connects people across time and space. Or is it all just hogwash…
“There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. (Wilde)
A world in which a piece of art offends someone is not a natural world. A nation in which a piece of art offends someone is an underdeveloped nation however vast and varied its infrastructure maybe.
A piece of art is representative, even if it tries to represent something imagined by the creator. But a piece of art does not represent the entire world of a particular time.
Logically speaking, if a work of art offends someone, then EVERY work of art should offend her. Then they should not be selective.
Because every work of art is revolutionary. It is subversive. It is subversive even by way of being reactionary.
If the movie padmaavat shows the navel of a woman representing a rajasthani, then a logical rajasthani should not react to it. Because it is fiction. Historical fiction is fiction. That is why there is a word added to it: fiction. (Even history is fiction, but that is going in a different direction.)
Even if you are a genius and you have a time machine and you have gone to the 13th century and found that women in those days used to hide their navels, even then you should not get offended by fiction. Because in fiction, anything can happen. And anything should happen. Else you will say you are bored. Else you will demand for a navel show.
In the same way, if in the enactment of a period drama which clearly states that it is based on 13th century, a jauhar is done. Then the creator of the fiction is not glorifying the jauhar. It is a mere enactment of a fictitious story which is made to entertain. If anything, the creator is trying to present before you an age in the history of India when women committed suicide for their dead husbands. Which seems to be the case.
We have to accept our past. Rajputs have to accept their past. Brahmins have to accept their past. Today there are NO (or rather, should not be) Brahmins or Rajputs. We are all friends on Facebook.
If you are accepting your past too much, and are currently endowing yourself with fancy jeweled clothing items before plunging yourself into fire for your husband who will die someday… then LOL.
If you see a rape scene on a movie, and then go out and try to rape the first man you find, then LOL on your sensibility.
But such things happen. Man is inherently irrational. And to make up for his own irrationality, he tries to destroy something which is nothing but harmless pieces of crap which can only be enjoyed.
If padmaavat is offending you, then Gangs of wasseypur should too. In this movie, mothers and sisters and all the holes of a human being are targeted and ravished, and not just the vagina. And if one goes into an analysis, we know our language is totally vaginal/assed up. So targeting a piece of art might be considered a folly if other more blatantly obvious things are not considered.
Art is meant to be a mirror. An ironic mirror maybe, which shows you reality in a hyper form to make you aware of it. But it is a mirror nonetheless. And like mirror, art can be contorted, smeared with oil, or simply blackened.
We are too selective in our states of offence. This tendency needs to be checked. We only get offended because of our habit. Someone gets offended when he hears a word ‘chutiya’ because not many people around her use it (while he is using an equivalent english expression ‘asshole’ every minute of her day). We may feel uneasy. But being offended and feeling uneasy are different things.
Nowadays people also get offended because it is now a fashion. Today people try so hard to be conscious of the plight of women (the so called feminists) that they find a degradation of women even in the way a painting is hung on the wall of a house.
You can feel uneasy and you can choose not to watch/read a fiction and you can even choose to raise you opinion against it, call it a tasteless work, call it pure crap… (Though, again: no piece of art is crap. Honey Singh does not create songs. He creates party beats. And that is a kind of art because there is a section of world which enjoys it.) You can do anything like that. But you should not get offended. For your own sake. Because there is something really wrong with a world which gets offended by a piece of art.
Whenever you feel like getting offended by a work of art: remember a simple thing what Wilde said: “All art is quite useless.” Which is quite true. All art is quite useless. And if you are being offended by useless things, you might be a favorite location of a wonderful illness called Piles.