Fables of The Self

The Escape Route

A closed system encircles the world,
and my interior as well.
The space is limited for me to move about.

And every time I try to escape
I find you standing like a rock
on the very spot where
all my escape routes converge.

You just stare and I turn back
hoping to find a new subway
that would bypass you.
--

Strange Ways

Strangers are always two -
the one who is in search and
the other one being searched.

Two strangers,
like positive and negative charges,
jump in quantum
and take one and half spin.
The half might intrigue you,
but it's a technical term -
denotes readiness to merge.
One must be incomplete
before one can fuse.

Stranger said: "Hello,"
and I turned towards the sound,
still obstinately strange to me.

People filled the square,
faces unknown to one another;
he stood at the railing,
eyes searched for the id - a number -
computerized and stamped
as per the rule.

We did not recognize each other;
we had never met.
I click the log-on button
and enter the unknown domain,
an urge not to remain
stranger anymore, forever.
--

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Talking to Self

An attempt to conceal
burning embers in a cloth?
Fine, but the scalds and burns
reveal the price,
the price that precisely
was meant to be concealed.

Genius is yet another necessity
for interpretation, for exploration;
truth waits for a life to express itself
in its diverse manifestations -
subjectively labeled as experiences.
You are welcome in my study,
in my meditation, in unexplored interior;
you personify my thoughts as a topic,
or as a subject under scrutiny,
like an ambassador sent by a king
to explore his strength.

It is logical that you are tired;
the run was initiated centuries before,
when that rope appeared as the snake,
when you mistook the stump for the police,
and now exhausted you repent, you accept;
unsure though, you say: "Have I arrived?"
--

Basic Desire

Like horses running in wilderness,
combination of grace and power,
unbridled emotions soar high
unconcerned with hope or despair.

Intriguing and silent like her speech,
those half-open buds in green garden
do not blossom to please the lady
even though in waiting she is seen.

The trees and the bushes disregard
any discipline to fall in orderly row,
but still to the forest they bring,
like her smile, an enchanting glow.

There is never a noise there,
for the discordant notes merge
in the music from the open sky
and ricochet as the jungle-surge.

We must go beyond these thoughts,
those smitten with parochial digress,
for there is no arrival for you and me
in this panorama of illusive impress.
--

all poems by c s shah
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