Fables of The Self

A Place to Rest

I mistook your silence
as your weakness and
continued to shout and scoff,
the words I now find unworthy
even to think of.
I used them as a cutting edge,
in arguments and debates,
in seminars and workshops,
only to prove you wrong.
I did not realize -
shouting doesn't make
a music or a song.
Exhausted, now
I seek a place to rest and
you silently stretch your arms.
--

Not a day without a line

Not a day without a line
even though it may be crude,
drawn with a heavy hand, not fine.
All the anguish of a lifetime
might hold back the brush,
still, not a day without a line.

The onrush of emotions
mixed with gross colours,
combination of figures -
grotesque and uneven,
a broken limb here
and a smiling face there,
sensual embrace counterbalanced
by meditative poise; ah!
music from the orchestra divine,
not a day without a line.

The canvas always remains painted;
what do the lines mention?
They struggle to hide the obvious
and reveal the hidden.
Thoughts ordain new apparels and
dance in joy of the "new find",
not a day without a line...
--


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Genetic Mess

The two bodies lay side by side
with their limbs intertwined,
like a still painting by an artist:
grotesque and disturbing to the mind.

The scientists were quick,
and eager as well,
to think of cloning a new species
from the red drops that fell.

But the two bloods got mixed,
difficult now it was to separate
red cells of a civilized martyr
from those of a hunted terrorist.

'To clone or not to clone'
is the dilemma they now face,
these scientists of New Age
brood over the irony of genetic mess.
--

The Magic Drop

The sage put a drop
at the root of the pot
and the plant bore a flower;
the experience I admired.

Wonderstruck, I thought:
what might be that potion
that rejuvenates the sick,
like a flick of magic?

Determined to learn the secret
I went in search of the shiny nectar.


O grieving lady, give me a drop
from your longing eyes
that would bring back life.
Sorry dear, the tear is my private treasure.

O mother river, give me a drop
from your flowing freshness
that would bring back life.
Sorry son, it's meant for oceanic merger.

O mighty ocean, give me a drop
from your undulating waves
that would bring back life.
Sorry sir, the cloud has claimed it earlier.


O rain god, give me a drop
from your swollen clouds
that would bring back life.
Sorry son, it is meant for the pearl.

O farmer, give me a drop
from your sweating brow
that would bring back life.
Sure friend, let me finish my work.
--

all poems by c s shah
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