Tuesday, 26 July 2011

A Bleeding Poem (Audio)

video


                       I
Poem bleeding, seeping, trickling
With blood, raw emotions most blunt
Is what I write, parading it to fight

Poem protesting, projecting, most
Frightening, faceless, decapitated
Amputated, crying out in the depths
Of hollowness, sutured, unsecured
Most obscured, uncured is the poem
I write

See, wrote I perfumed palaces
Blind to all its fallacies, furnished
Chandeliers, shrubbery, lawns
Everything the rich could own
But that poem bled still
Steel is not what made it
Twas like a dog’s heart transplanted
To a rhino’s—serenity amidst inferno!

Wrote I everything picturesque
The mountains, the fountains, the landscape
But what for?
Of hypocrisy, heresy, lunacy?
What for?
Of dilly-dallying, molly-coddling?
What for?
Of damage? haemorrage?

                     II

So ghastly an image
A bleeding poem, fractured stanzas,
Sprained meter, bloodied rhymes
Sombre, sad like October,
Severed, feared
Air scented with antiseptic
Etherized, pungent
Like an adulterated detergent
Abused agent
Unwashed gent
Formless, soulless, heartless
A bleeding poem, screaming at them
Hollering, venting, not circumventing
Pointing, needs no anointing
If you are allergic to horror
Why then do you put up with terror
Stare at the gnarled form
Electrocuted in the fiery storm
Gaze at the faze, chase the gauze
Keep guessing, it is death amazing

                  III

In the circle of death
Mortality spins round and round
Most profound, chaos is the High Priest
Debris is the shrine, bilge is the paraphernalia
Inter alia, mania let loose, fear on noose
Tweedle little human flesh
Perforated, peppered
Served on the altar of human greed
For our cannibal taste buds, we agreed?
Why are you horrified then?
Bon appétit

                 IV
Why are you horrified?
A bleeding poem, in a bleeding world
With a bleeding inspiration, for a bleeding
Motivation, Peel off the gloves
Unmask yourself, smell the blood
Raw wound wasn’t bad like a rotten one
This is the real thing, some sterner musing
Sorry folks, I forgot to warn
Of cadavers, blood and death
You see, we don’t plan collapsing bridges
Or the spurting blood
Do we?
Forgive me if I am being bold
Bleeding poems haven’t been told
Until they flooded our doorsteps
Or the rancid smell of decompose floated
Sorry, death is not fixture to be slotted

                      V
Had I wanted, I would have been blind
Blind to the blight, refuse to look at the paint
Hard enough, enough to notice the dark theme
Had I wanted, I would have painted my own
Canvass, revealing Africa in all its glory
But I keep on seeing elements of its gory
I would have painted the Maasai
The wildebeest and other beasts
But sorry, my creativity bore me to
The Maasai pushed off the cliff
The Wildebeest unmotivated, lives most stiff
C’mon, don’t frown, I am not a clown
If I were posturing, telepathy I would not be conjuring
Had I wanted, I would paint the glory of the African Sun
In all its shades, even when to the West it fades
I would mimic the laugh of the hyena
You would cup your ears

                       VI

But I ask, why do we bask
In the sun we are most clueless?
Shouldn’t we, rather, grope in the darkness
With a hope of light, even with sadness?
What ray should we illuminate
If we can’t fulminate?
How are dark things illuminated
If before time they are eliminated?
How does blood trickle
If they are with chemicals made fickle?
What is a heart most enduring
If it is shielded from the sun most searing?
How will a bleeding heart clot
If it is hid in the furnace of suppressed emotions unfought?

                       VII

Poem bleeding, seeping, trickling
With blood, raw emotions most blunt
Is what I write, parading it to fight

All you need is a toolkit
This is no child skit
Hemorrhage is no sleepwalker oddsey
It is no fantasy
C’mon, uncover the jetting blood
Stop the spill, save your stunt
Harangue later, don’t harass
I am also harassed, the pain, the shame
The blame, the game
I could also want to be a spectator,
Or rather be a commentator
But what for? How do we talk of
Swabbed wounds? How do we describe
The pain we don’t ascribe?
Which expertise do we merit
If not what we claim to inherit?
Or isn’t it blood and all
After all, a free for all?

                      VIII

So let the bleeding poem be
Crawling stench of soul’s morgue
Embalmed, uncalmed, uncharmed
Let the bleeding poem be
Let it mix with our artificial colognes
Hypocrisy! The air is thick with death, bloke
If I were you, I would heal the wound
Protect the scar, leap in fright from afar
I would keep my soft spot close with me
Not exposing them to life’s weird talons
But then, go on, peel of the scar
Let it bleed anew, perforate it
Nib it, tuck it, go on…
Let that pain sting
Is it as fresh as the cologne?
Is it more immediate?
More urgent?
How does it stir you?
Because you are bleeding, huh?

                  IX

That pain is the bleeding poem
Because it bleeds, it heals
Because it heals, it shields
Because it shields, it shrills
Because it shrills, it stills

Bleeding poem is what I write
Bleeding poem is what I parade to fight.

C) Lorot Salem 2011


2 comments:

Priyanka Yadav said...

Nice poem..........!! lovely..

echoesofthehills said...

Thanks a lot Priyanka. Your kind words lift up my soul and urges me to write more and creatively.

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