Tuesday, August 11, 2015

MEMOIR: Prelude

by azly rahman

I.

To say that we are going back to the past and revisiting it;
that we are to journey into the world of yesteryears of the days of our life,
that we are to open again the doors to the dungeons
leading to the artifacts of the things we have kept only to ourselves,
to open the box of letters unopened and therefore unanswered,
to mount the white horse of our well-garnished glory
and to ride int the horizon of our childhood to confront the ghosts inside of us
demons Fate has bestowed upon us --

to say all these is a meaningless utterance.
We are here -- past and present;
a wasteland of uncharted territories
of the child of wonder,
the old man and the sea,
and the weary and the mundane soul
pounded by the infinitesimality
of life's own doing.

We are it-- the amalgamation of fear and hope.
We are it. We are: the child, the being-in-this world,
the deteriorant, the decayed
in the seasons of our lives.
--- A cycle of memories trying to forget and forgive each other
a speck of dust
we are, not yet --
evolving
revolving
in the wasteland of this canvas
of the colors of rememberings

-- ar

II.

GROOVY POETRY
this child in me
by azly rahman



there is this child in me
that is alive and well
roaming around the village
the neighbourhood
the city
the principalities
the world
alternate worlds
of other-than real- worlds
of the world of possibilities
in which each child of the other
has no color
no race
no religion
no hate
just a smile
or maybe a look of curiosity
of what our play would be
in our togetherness
beyond the screams and yells of those adults
given the voice to speak to many yet speak of building tallest towers, promising the most emptiness, scheming the best so that each race will fight the bloodiest, and triumph with the most money acquired out of the best way to steal for the poorest rest--
there is this child in me
whose dear friend
is the language he is most at ease
like an alice in wonderland
a world of being
and becoming
of perfection
and contradictions
and wild imaginations
as thoughts race up and down the heavens
as the mind refuses
to bow down to neon gods
or man-made gods who called themselves
kings who rob others poor every time the world blinks
a child is the father of man as a sage once say
close to Nature as
close as to oneself as the vein they called 'jugular'
there is this child in me
that will live till the end of eternity
unless the adult running the country
slaughter him for trying to roam free
like abraham's sacrifice
in that moment of confusion in history
-- ar

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