Wednesday, December 22, 2004

The Malady of Beauty

The Malady of Beauty

that which is the lingua franca
of our engulfing times.
The fairy's trail that has runaway
in a mortal flee from realities
shattered, there is,
a crown of daisies
that used to sit so high
on the throne, now of
majestic misunderstandings and common misapprehensions.

Our epidemic of wanton feelings,
gives birth to a consumption by a tempest of love-
such unseasonable emotions
could be the elixir we are all
in vain for.

This Swiftian dusk that descends
like a curtain of water
drawn up by the beams of the sun
leaves behind the solitude rocks.
Then the cliff that protrudes
becomes all too foreign to this naked landscape of beauty,
questioning its purpose of being
to decide eventually that maybe
in existing,
is reason enough.

It then comes to light that
the ugliness of self,
appears in the most affected of countenance.
Almost like the dust that is never allowed to settle,
tossing forever in a whirlwind,
that could never constitute
the sanctity
and religion of my mind.

The precocious apparatus of hate
is weaving in to catch up with this
maturing of experiences
and the raptures of memory
all fleeting and rushing by
with the aplomb of a quixotic love
never meant to last.

In one disappointing sweep
the flux of life reverses,
the unsketching of the imperfections
on that clean slate of paper.
Gradually we come to realize
the beginning is what we have been working towards
all this while.

We might as well cut off the bridge
dangling ever so precariously
like the only ligament left
threading your sympathy
to the hollow chambers of
those who really it.

The symptoms of our times,
the blots of red punctuated by the shrill
of the glorious cannon,
coupled with the nameless grenade
heralding that
the malady of our beauties
have thus been perfected.


Writer’s Commentary

There is, around us, a certain sort of a ubiquitous obsession with hate and revenge- to get that person down when the tables are turned against you, this need to rise above this subordination of pride and being. This leads to an inevitable state of the foreverness of tit-for-tat and the preoccupation in pushing people down to where they supposedly belong. Sadly, this leads to a malady of beauty, a black blot on a white sheet of paper which we were all born with.

Then we are left with screams, becoming the lingua franca of our existence because normal linguistic interactions are not valued any more. We need to scream to get our point across or the pain that has become such a trend only compels us to scream out loud. Anything that is beautiful will be hopelessly shattered, like a beautiful crown of daisies must succumb to our throne of ‘majestic misunderstandings and common misapprehensions’.

Our lack of true feelings to one another leads to this epidemic of feelings and the seething away of sympathy that is so in need but always so precariously available. The trendiness of the double entrendre leads to the facades being made and we are blinded by what could be real. So many of us yearn for a love everlasting, the grandest of love that would subsume us and take us away to a world separate from the rest. However a catch-22 situation arises whereby in wanting this kind of love, we are also inherently aware that our cynicism is the largest hindrance that leads to unnecessary suspicion and needless procrastination- in the end, a huge red-light to the ‘tempest of love’ that could actually be possible without these things factoring in.

Sometimes, simplicity is really a rarity, a concept that has much been overlooked. In existence alone, there is beauty and the age of innocence is a time we can only hope for- untainted purity that spells the displacement of ugliness, hate and the adversaries of any forms of human love and compassion. It is thus sad if we allowed our memory to rapture, our experiences to mature into a shape and form we cannot recognize, for these are the very ingredients that is the bedrock of our sense of being.

Finally there had been so much blood shed for senseless agendas that could be much averted. The dust is never allowed to settle because there is always incessant fighting and unquenchable hate that could catch up with everything beautiful that we hold so dear to our hearts. And at the end of it all, if this ‘apparatus of hate’ is allowed to take on a life of its own, this will be the full stop to the development of anything beautiful and the unstoppable perfection of the malady of beauty.