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Words are Memory; Memory Words
poetry [ ]

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by [kksrivastava ]

2010-07-08  |     | 



Fragrance of words enlivens
the dead fragrance of feelings.
Fragrance of words enlivens
the dead fragrance of reasons.
Inside their seclusion, the words
seize neither the beginning of the end
nor the end of what never
begins.
And words change; their meanings change,
the emotions change; the sentiments change,
as changes time and as changes memory.
Words are day and words are night,
words are dark and words are light.
But, you ought not forget this;
“The change of the word does not
alter the matter.”
Really.
Inside the fortress of shattered
frustrations, the words seize
themselves, stubbornly, in order
to search intensity of meanings
into what they are not.
Fragrance of traceless words
now rejoices at it’s own victory,
for the feelings and the reasons
have successfully slaved both
the wakefulness and the dream.
That is memory.
Sliced words queer the kindred
craving for the dead expectations,
hoping that the hatred for silent
sympathy halts for a while.
Immemorially outrageous words
fog the paling away of their
meanings that lay buried deep
down remorseful years.
Words never determine what is simple,
what complex, as
“there are no tricks in plain and simple faith.”
The artists who once created the
boundaries of varied words now
see the glory of their art perishing
melancholily.
The hues, humid and roseate,
the grace, fulfilling and tuneful,
the grandeur, sublime and ethereal,
the clues, blossoming and eddying,
desert the words in the whirlwind
of their melodious plight.
Words have their own pangs.
The redeemer chooses to enliven
the memories that are drowsing,
unable to retrieve the wraths of memory.
The redeemer chooses to survey
the delusions, bordering with
absolute senility.
The redeemer chooses to erase
the betrayals, sane people, their words
give to memories.
Rehashed hypocrisies forbid the
recurrence of logical cogitations that
have jangled, wearing hamous
scars but have continued treading
the path of illogical ruminations.
Languid future broods stubbornly
as melancholies vie with each other
in order to prove their proven
superiorities.
Mad responses are bewildering.
Pimpled reactions are bewitching.
Rootless sagas are slow.
Stratified emotions are screaming.
There is neither word
nor memory.
Words are dark and words are light;
You tell me: not all things need be said.
Of what use silence is if it has no words.
I am no Orphic saint; words are, would
always be.
Hence, your silence I wouldn’t interpret;
I am indifferent; words are not; words
are memory; memory is not.
Dark trembles light.
Light trembles itself.
Words tremble everything
and is there anything trembling
words?
The two extremes really don’t matter
now, for the centre of that invisible, unknown
territory deceitfully has created so many
centers/ sub-centers where words enjoy the pain
of their fringes
and I want to be left all alone, perhaps with,
“a fear of vacuum, and no desire to fill it.”
I feel, this fear of mine would soon fill
the vacuum with words, self-explanatory words
but not confusing words; words that confuse make
bad memories or no memories;
and bad memories or no memories leave a sad
history behind, none will be proud of.
But I, as always, trust your words;
“Even now, I am proud of our relations.”
Those, proud of relations,
don’t experiment with these;
they trust and render a happiness;
an unique happiness to both
word and memory
that combine to make relations.










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