floodgates: a me to a you… a you to a me…

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…don’t know what you are going through, but maybe in a way I do. Only yesterday I felt like this is not the place for me, like this is not where I belong… sentimental… this is where the sentiments of a broken machine break out… this is where I find myself naked and alone in the cold blue night with faces I fail to recognize… what of all the friendship and love that is yours? I sincerely respect your love, oh friend of my heart, but you forgot us. Why does one love this feeling of drowning? Exploits of youthful drunkenness, what intensities of love brought you down here, what reflections have led you to resentment… a feeling that begins to take hold and lasts, extended in time, days to months to perhaps years… no… what are you holding on to? In the raging waters of life why do you hold on to the dark angry shores of industrial production? Machines that write our name again and again unfeelingly, artificial intelligence… what enormous amounts of energy does your body need to express that which burns your heart? Is it not the simplest thing to break the floodgates of composure. The reservoir of text editor on the screen, the regulated channels of a blog that never betrayed the possibility, the opportunity for chance encounters… so many came to my forest and sat by my river under my friend the old tree… They looked kindly at my soul and with their kind smiles they told me how empathy and love can flow easily through the flashy pathways of the cyberspace. You left your digital footprints on the grainy paths of that led towards my soul… and then you walked barefoot into the real thing… Not all of you, but some of you… some of you made it even to the high mountain grasslands where you even took the flights of sweet fantasy with me. It is not my world, it is our world, dear friend, it is our world, yours and mine… come sit by the river again, down in the valley where flowers of all colors blossom wild, any time, all the time, even when it is cold outside, even when the world otherwise seems to be dreary and cruel, come sit by the river again and take a deep breath… put your feet in the clear waters of our sweet poetry, lay down on the grassy riverside and rest your head in the pillow of wild prose… sleep, dear friend, sleep and dream…

wake up to the most delicate ripples in our consciousness, and breathe in the music of our softest desires, the kiss of a smile… tender touch of the lightest breeze, slowly… slowly… like a feather you float… with the stream of life… like a feather you float… delicate rhymes of beauty… organic is the world… decay is life… blossoming… life, death… float like a feather, dear friend… you will wake up again, and you heart will sing songs of joy and songs of distress… tears will wash your smile as waves wash away the poetry that I write in the sandy shores of our consciousness… remember the majesty of the ocean, when measures reduce you to a sequence, a consequence… remember the majesty of the ocean… even when you have left your home, even when there is no sacred to redeem you of the pain, even if it is hard to have faith… wash your face with our poetry… together we will dream again, wash our feet in the river down in the valley where a thousand flowers blossom… up in the mountain grasslands, where fantasies soar like a proud bird… come now…

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  1. Feel free not to answer this Habibi lol! Do you feel that we need a sort of bravery to write poetry?

    Things get misinterpreted at times & so on.(Very!). Especially if one uses metaphor. Sometimes I feel as though I am about to jump off a cliff when I put something into the World. Or worse throw my baby off of a cliff – hoping those to catch it are paying attention & can be trusted.

    For example I wrote a poem about Palestinians & Israelis – using Hagar as a character & metaphor. (Hagar = the slave of Abraham sent into the desert & mother to Arab people). I described her “amber coloured skin”. Somebody thought I was describing myself & that it was a love poem. (Hopefully not to them – but that may have erroneously been the case also!). Though the poem was clear; it was not to this person who had zero clue who Hagar was – nor about Palestinians & Israelis.

    I felt this way when I showed my drawings for the first time in Williamsburg Brooklyn also.(First show in 1989). People thought these surreal pen & ink drawings were autobiographical; when they clearly referenced things like the mask worn by ancient Egyptian embalmers. Someone thought it was about something else (I don’t want to write of here & knew nothing of). I was afraid to show my drawings after that.

    Perhaps it is just my experience w/ my poems & drawings referencing ancient legends & practises & beliefs or geopolitical scenarios many are unfamiliar with.

    Your work is very brave – hence it brought these experiences of mine to mind. One wants after all to be understood. xxx

    • Hi, friend. I would not say it is particularly brave, or in awareness of it’s bravery, if at all… it is rather somewhat about surrender, about faith… but it can also be about being stubborn… it can be about many things and many expressions… once the poem leaves me and goes out, it is not a tool to control the other spirit… it is rather something that inspires movement in the other spirit… so I am not afraid… I don’t even feel responsible… It is a flower that has to blossom… the season is here…

  2. Wonderful Prashant.. so say “ a me to you”!

  3. I believe the “I-Thou” can only happen in the presence of the other. But then, what is “presence”? I also believe in a 6th sense.i know we live in hope of being connected with others and i guess that’s the best we can do.

    Peace,
    Holly

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Fiza Arshad

Poet, Learner, Dreamer, Philosopher

Instamatic Gratification

a visual journal and photographic sketchbook

sheetalbravon

Quirky thoughts on the ultimate question of life , the universe and popcorn .

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