Fathomless
And Other Poems
Samir Dash
Published by
Smashwords Edition
Fathomless And Other Poems
By Samir Dash
Visit poet’s homepage at samirshomepage.wordpress.com
First Published in 2009 BaishnoMedia, India
Republished with permission from the poet.
Copyright © Samir Dash, 2004
All rights reserved.
Digital Editions rights owned by patternGraphic, India.
First Edition : 2009
Current Samshwords Edition: 2011
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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PG2011B2
ISBN 978-1-4658-7910-3
For the girl who taught me
what I should look for, in love…
Acknowledgements:
Among my conscious debts are phrases from T. S. Eliot (from The Waste Land) and Nissim Ezekiel (from The Hymns of Darkness).
Contents
1. Fathomless
3. Sense Betrays, Images Don't
4. I Search...
6. Apprehension
7. What, when, which, who, why, how?
8. Have Mercy on White Things!
“Love is itself blind .That’s why it let’s you see more clearly…”
In the darkest of alleys
at the misty hour
an old man begging for life
in the age old remaining
of the Shiva temple.
Years before the alley was not
the morgue of dry leaves
who mutter when
you walk upon them
to warn you
against the life’s truth
man is but a ‘handful of dust’ !
With the rise of the hour-hand
and the ringing of the far away bell
the sprits rise
with their unquenched stories to be
re-opened and retold …
A shadow moving across the bay
rising with the setting sun
taking a dip in the roaring sea.
Alone perhaps… deep in his thoughts
talking to self
“why one loves if
to love is to fail oneself
at the need of the moment?”
When everyone expects you
to bring some laurels;
when parents wish you
cross the crossroad,
you betray their dreams
just for a sake of an emotion!”
With the vanishing footprints
on the sand
the shadow is no more.
The leather jacket of darkness
enveloping the shadow
making him the un-detachable part
of the black paste
that paints the canvas…
“True” mutters the painter
with the thin brush
dipped in black, that spurt out
like the burnt out Palm leaf.
“The moment ago ,
What the image of the lover
that lingers at the bay thought
was my philosophy too”.
But with the change of time
and with the change of passage
one has to repair his moods
his thoughts, ideas and views.
“so, there is no surprise
if now I have
a divorced legacy of a frustrated view !”
Told the old woman
with the growing line of seriousness
resting at the far corners of her chin
the story of the old painter
who once loved a princess
of course of his dreams
not of any state.
Childhood memories are
but a part of the album,
where among the fading snaps
you search for
the sweet moments.
But the black – and – white
moments do betray
with their promises to
colour up your life…
The colour was used
to bring them to life
but as mere dark-light remainings
of the passing moment.
So, that smiling chin
above the grey shadow
of your princess is not what you see, but is
just what you can imagine
how she looked once
standing at the last corners of time’s street,
when the painter too
didn’t know except to smile
at the darkening lens
with the innocent looks.
As the miles crossed
with the dropping innocence
“we used to grow”
with our growing senses
with our passions and
perhaps
a little hunger.
“The truth is harsh, but true.
We shared, what other lovers had
except a heartfelt emotion
at least I feel that even if I agreed to share
it was a fear to her.
What prevented her to
open her thought
sitting beside me
is an unknown episode
-- a mystery book
with its last pages lost
into the fathomless dark
pulling me inside.
I sit over the heap
of dead skeletons of the glow worms
who lost their youth
in search of some sweet fragrance
of some deadly plant.
Looking around I found myself lost !”
“Money is hardly my aim,
but there is the lurking wish
for what it can buy”
A charming mirror
like an Yes-Man
always ready to nod
in affirmative
at every wish of the princess
“Who is most beautiful in the world?”
“You yourself, with no doubt”
replies the shining plate.
with the tempting voice
the glow in the eyes grow --
So, what if hundreds like it would
bow down to the ultimate beauty?
Wouldn’t that be more nice
to have millions
with their thirsty eyes
look up at the
sweet piece?
“Yes!”
whispers the princess
“I need something more
to prove my beauty”.
So,
when above the far edge of the sky
the blue shawl was raised
with hundreds of silvery glows
spreading across the sky,
the princess leans over the castle window
and waits for the hoofs
of the stranger
with his promise of gold.
Tears of a drop or two
dropped from the old eyes
that once loved the mirror
more than the man.
but with grip of age,
the mirror cheated the million times,
cracking the mud castle
of the princess’ dreams.
“Now my lover is not here
only his remote memory is,
whom I thought a sure-thing
is now an impossibility --
a much faded dream!
The little girl
with innocent looks
right beside the Grand-Pa
looking for butterflies
points to the red beauties
over the green thorn --
“Aren’t the lovely?”
Nodded the old man smilingly
in his usual way
with a resonant voice
“Yeah, they are -- the roses;
but what makes them special
is not what they are,
but for what we keep for them
inside us -- a little room
in the kingdom of our heart
a special room”.
It is that special place
that brings someone close
makes someone a part of us
perhaps creates the rainbow
while you are standing under the rain.
Gold is stronger,
stronger is the lust
than the faint morals of love
“You don’t need to wait
when your body calls
to serve it with another”
Rapenzel’s hair waited for the
touch of stranger’s ride.
And princess shared the aftermath -- a sweet nothing
with the stranger -- the sweeter than the old painter”
Pink is not the part of night
‘cause it is morning to come
bringing with it an end to an erotic dream
to the flickering eyes,
trembling hands and heavy breaths.
An episode ended,
unknown to the world…
unknown to the lover
who thought she was the queen
the queen of his heart!
Evening falls,
not with golden chariot
to take you and move about
in the land of dreams.
The open passage
the bare feet
both are the hard facts not dreams with my each step
with my each move
what comes to my mind is
the drowsy dream of your sweet voice, of your rosy smell.
But with the company of the heartless Time
with no interest
at the beats of nerves
with the blank eyes
and in empty glance
I hear the castle falls
on the bank of our childhood
-- once we made together
against the threatening foams.
To your questioning eyes,
“we are for eternity,
not these foams”,
was the answer
that seems a lie today
a fake piece of faith
like a cracking table with
no lasting legs.
Not that they know
how years pass
with the passage of time
with the passage of sorrow and
perhaps a deep sigh.
Age was not the same
when Sun used to smile
with the rays of gold
with the fearing cold and
perhaps a hearty dream.
They used to play
on the bank of the memory
with their feet in sand and
perhaps a drop of salty water.
Time flew, like a bird
and they grew old
with their cherishing dreams
with the growing passions and
perhaps a pinch of lust.
Innocence remained no more
the part of their eyes
with the hunger of the flesh
with the sensual screams
perhaps a goal is achieved.
They have reached the goal
have known how it tastes
in the embrace of the other
in the beat other’s heart and
perhaps no need to wear the mask.
They knew, living together is not easy
as it once seemed
with the masks on
with the hunger in the hands
perhaps, it’s time for separation!
Not that they knew
how years pass
with the passage of time
with the passage of sorrow and
perhaps a little sigh.
When trust is in question
you never know
whom you love
and long to own
has her heart reserved for you?
When faith is in question
you never know the one you believe
next to you
has one’s ear reserved for you?
How to know, when you are in doubt
what you feel,
those sweet beats of your heart,
are not meant for the waste?
How to know, when you are in dark
what you think ---
those pleasured voices
are not to be made silent?
In the street of the crowd,
lots more to gather
you are there,
but can not utter
the rising utterances
the bitter agonies
along with the sweet pains
that your heart bears
to tell someone near, some close
those words, you long to open
In the Strangers’ street,
none is so close
not even dear !
A deep sigh perhaps,
or a long passing breath
at the moment’s end,
is what you need --
you need to exist
and to exit.
The beatings of the bells --
the sun shall shine
over the broken walls
of Shiva temple.
The paused storm;
a young one amidst the dead leaves
all wait for a new start,
a new beginning.
What the old man wanted was
just the re-packed version
of the lost story -- to be alive again
to make a new start
from the desert of the distant past .
He said:
‘I’m forced by the five senses
to fear the five senses !’
What is waited for, is a story
I not know
But when I search for more
I see a vacant paper
where a vague memory
threat to linger !
The days were dark…
And the moon was out …in the nights!
But suddenly what came were no words …
But the feelings now pasted to this paper…
Saying something which only the passing breath may express…
Still incomplete and unexpressed …
May be this is what that expression…
Or something lying deep inside…!
Sense betrays...
Images don't.
Moving over the bridge
slowly... silently
two images sit at the far corners of the sand
hands in hand, lip on lip
like two shadows
each in other's arms
Moving over the bridge I see,
slowly... silently.
full moon riding over the misty sky
smiling slightly with the teeth-less lips
Ages have gone by,
And history is repeated
"What you see tonight
was the dream of those two
ages before you were born, this city was born."
Deads never tell the tales, but
your sense does!
Moving over the bridge, slowly... silently.
I think, that is true, 'cause
if sense doesn't cheat
perhaps images would.
When I sit
Under the moon
To see your golden eyes
Looking at me…
But filled with no love nor even a faith…
That amazes me even today
‘Was there any fault in me ?’
I ask and search
But never find the answer…
Remaining is nothing, only the shadows
Of those sweet moments
When I thought you are the one --
The queen of my dreams…
Soon illusion vanish, with the memory
Of your golden hairs
The time moves and the breeze whispers --‘Awake’
But in vain, I can’t
‘cause still is a hope
a dream of you !
Everything is not good
for what you think it is
but for some look on a distance face
that peers
through the unmindful day
to brought home
pieces of some familiar snaps
of the flowers that bloom
asking a thousand questions
each recomposing the other.
In the veil of the red Saree
“whose is that face?”
where dance
the light on the brunt out parts
on the leftovers of the evil flames,
“Let her burn, for she is no good”
you mutter with the murderous heart
that tempts the failure song
-- a gone away wish
in a desert land, over the stones of gold.
You see the gold, not its fire
you see the devil, not the evil
“why so?”
Each time the day breaks
you bring home a cloud
argue in thousand words
these are the key to dreams
more solid.
On the dry rocks, on the grave
I sit and ponder
in my weighing skull
“Why we never think
what the gold brings
is a share of good earth
is but a grave
where we need to fight a solitude
and need a caring wish
left behind by an angel.
When I discovered the words
in the deep corners of my heart
I knew it was you
who captured my dreams.
I never had felt the joy
the jovial moods
The dance of the spirit
which knows no bounds.
But how long is the magic
that can be felt
across the lonely streets
where I stand ?
Perhaps, mirages are many
that heart wishes to own
But at the far coast of mind
there is the 'Truth' with its cold looks.
To warn of something deep
beyond those words of yours--
"The world is never
what you see,
but what you perceive
through experience!"
What, when, which, who, why, how?
I not know
What
Will happen
When
I search for the knowledge
Which
Helped me to know
Who
I am
Why
I exist and
How
Could I know
Why
I do not reach the one
Who
Created the world
Which
Let us flourish, but alone
When
The question rings to tell me
What
I perhaps already know at the beats of time
When
I gained some consciousness
Which
Assures me at the dead of nights there is the one
Who
Runs this world, but you can’t ask
Why?
And also
How?
Because ‘why’ has no end and not lets you reach him
Who
Lives and dies for you --- the reason of
Which
Is not known --- perhaps meant not be known for the moment
When
You begin to ask everything with doubt about someone or something ---
What
Is that?
Who
Will hear you, if you think there is always a
‘why’
To everything and every cause?
How
Would you react if someone
Who
Thought you having faith in him
Which
Lets you think of him
When
You not know
What
Will happen next?
Why
You try always to ask and not to believe and
How
You think you are going to survive in a world
Which
Is so harsh
When
You need some pity
What
Will become of you?
How
Will you live?
What
Will be your fate?
How
Will you live?
What
Will be your fate…?
Autumn leaves floating
on the voiced wind
spreading over the grey canvas.
A naked tree
like a skeleton standing on the middle
with a texture of dark
and its last crumpled leaf -- lonely !
Dark is not all -- there is ‘white’
a dying swan upon the dry earth
waiting for the last blow
from the metal barrel
like thousand others,
who left their body,
to serve the barrel headed
who move over the cracked land
to quench their thirst, with blood.
More white spots flew to the East
more of life, has entered the torture land
to fall upon the stone claws that
shove out from the desert bottom. . .
But life never stops
and the birds never stop,
in this hollow land
nothing ever stops !
About the Poet
Samir Dash is one of many modern day young voices from India with a distinct tone in poetry. Software Engineer by profession, he completed his M.A. with specialization in Indian Writings in English Literature. Dash can be reached at http://samirshomepage.wordpress.com