Where are all the poems I wrote?
I did not bother to tear them up
Or turn them black, into ashes
I left them
Where I wrote them-
On the backs of pages with unsolved problems
Jostling for space with rough calculations
Complex numbers, the real and unreal
Running into differentiating, integrating expressions
Their words held together with the glue of numbers;
Or sometimes-
On blank first pages
Or back covers of notebooks
Bold, signed-
If you ever come across those bits of paper
Use them up, it does not matter
They are yours - meant, destined for you
Tokens of our ephemeral existences
Why type them up
Bind them in books
As they were never meant to be
Let each verse seek its own free life
Its own meaning, its own survival
Like the rest of us.
[By Black/Siyaah. Circa late 90s]
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Finally I've slipped some more of my old stuff here, perhaps mostly as a diversion. This came about at a time when I first started to realize that I had 'lost' most of what I had written...it strangely brought together the literal and symbolic angle of every part of that experience...
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8 comments:
Imagining words of poems jostling with calculations and expressions was very interesting! And so was the idea of lines having to find their own lives like us. I feel they'll have a much more difficult time!
vibhav:
Thanks. Actually I found it a bit surreal how this came about.
All the 'mathematics' type stuff seamless merges with 'life'. So 'on the backs of pages with unsolved problems' can be read literally, but also figuratively refering to 'unsolved problems' in life. Same goes for the others - 'rough calculations', 'real and unreal', and 'differentiating, integrating expressions' - meant literally, but are also characteristics of the verses, and also figuratively refer to aspects of life...
Finally after so many years something that I can relate to you. It feels really good to read your old self in the lines you wrote. Means that life is certainly looking up-in more than one way...
Siyaah: I could completely identify with the poem and then just when i thought the poem would dwindle to a nice morbid end, especially after "use them up- it does not matter ", the poem lifted off to optimism and made me realize that the morbidity I anticipated was projective.. was the parcel I had brought along :)
"Let each verse seek its own free life
Its own meaning, its own survival
Like the rest of us."
-wow!
The poem made me feel good for all the poems I've ever lost like that :)
... and then they found you - those lost verses.
Like the rest of us! :)
we leave behind those lines on notebooks but then perhaps we do carry them like an imprint on the page underneath
beautiful poem, I could relate to it!
Superb Poetry. I read it more than 10 times.
anon:
I guess the 'old self' is alive enough to remember these lines and post them. Life is somehow always in transition, and this poem came about at a major transition time, and thus always seems relevant...
illusionist:
That was an interesting observation. The early part is certainly nostalgic..."use them up" seems initially pessimistic but then its second meaning is revealed i.e. 'using the verses'...for a personal experience, reflection, reading pleasure, taking whatever the verses have to offer...
vik:
Thanks! Glad it made you feel good - i felt much better too when it came about- there was a strong feeling of loss that started the chain of thought, but happily it ended in a different way...
arfi:
Glad the verses found me and everyone else else found them! Beautiful thought on the 'imprint underneath'- how true...what we write becomes part of us in more ways than we know.
tapasya:
it seems the verses were meant to be found by you...you've given them a new life by reading them so many times...and carrying something of them with you hopefully...
It was wonderful to hear that so many identified with the poem and could relate to it! thanks for the encouraging comments.
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