Dear Lisa…

smile

 

Dear Lisa, do you see?

Your smile lancing through a million hearts,

many a quick wit fuddling over its riddle,

daubing colors from artful brushstrokes.

 

It took eons for the master Creator, long agone,

to tenderly mold you, dotingly groom you,

a subtlety so perfect, the marble smoothness,

blending and smudging shades and forms,

enduing you with the mystical charm, death-like calm,

yearning for one final vision of lips that smile and eyes that shine.

 

Lisa, do you see?

From your lofty perch,

the flowing brook of passions,

darting eyeballs bobbing and weaving,

singing rapturous paeans to your beauty.

 

Your glory sailed across seven seas,

Artistry of gaiety captured in line after lines of weighty tomes,

Do you hear the footsteps, diligent, awestruck, flowing

and halting, just to take one glimpse of your grace?

To see you in flesh and blood, life beating on your throat.

 

Lisa, tell me, are you happy?

Tell me the truth, for, I know you are not.

I could see the congealed woes, muddy within the golden frame,

deep beneath the transparent paint layers of your smile,

You seem to be hiding behind that smile,

living a cautious covert existence.

Or, are you dreaming something enigmatic?

 

I could sense you cowering in the darkness,

lonely, eyelids fluttering, at the leering ghosts

of ruthless Dukes and monarchs,

murderous, eldritch horror in terrible Ivan’s eyes, and

the ruby-red dripping from Artemisia’s vengeful brush.

 

Are you not aware?

Half a millennia crept by silently, age is slowly catching up,

The crimson blush fading from your cheeks,

the lacquer melting from the hushed rage of anguish, and,

the pewter shades are turning dark and stormy.

 

Do you hear that, Lisa?

Songs of your worth being sung, but you are not free to fly,

They sell and sell you till your smile dissolves and fades,

and cover up the tear stains in fresh tones of somber hues.

 

Nothing will change, Lisa,

You are flesh and earth tones on a rag of cloth,

A cagebird in a diamond cage,

splintered porcelain mannequin in a glass case,

paper doll with a moldy, damp core,

a strangled cry painted beneath the shroud of smile.

 

Lord Byron’s insanity

 

1984

Lord Byron, English poet, aged 25 in a painting by Richard Westall (1813)

This is a poem by me about the turbulent and gloomy thoughts and moods of the famously infamous 19 th century English Romantic poet, George Gordon Byron, simply known as Lord Byron.

Believed to have had Bipolar disorder(controversial), he suffered for all his life time with frequent mood changes, fiery tempers bordering on violence, inebriation, licentious practices and a whole lot of odd behaviors.

The bright side of his malady happened to be his poetical genius. He was a prolific writer who has magnum opuses like ‘Don Juan‘ and ‘ Childe Harold’s pilgrimage‘ to his credit. The beauty and brilliance of his verse is unmatched. Though a Romantic poet, each of his biographers stresses the degree of realism evident in his verses. I have read only excerpts from Don Juan and Childe Harold’s pilgrimage, the ones given in his biography. The wit and satire he had used in most of the lines is so brilliant. This is exactly so, as to the emotional intensity in his verses.

Unfortunately, he was diagnosed with possible Bipolar Disorder posthumously from existing historical records and he never received the proper treatment or empathy from those around him.

I happened to read this short biography of Lord Byron recently and thought it a good idea to present his mind as a poem instead of writing a book review.

This is my short trip through the mind of the temperamental Lord Byron, a poem about what could have been going through his mind during the 36 years of his existence.

                                   Lord Byron’s Insanity

Whom should I blame for making me lame?

My blood, fettle, stars or Him?

To whom shall I whine, for warping my mind?

My blood and blood only by a grim twist of fate.

 

A savage beast bolting rampant, unfettered,

The row of the brutes ring unbroken,

Out of sense and out of nerves‘.

 

Rein in, O’ racing mind,

Thy wild whims and heathen rage

Mellow down, O’ beloved bosom,

Thy passions, vile and fierce.

 

Once, the soul fluttering like a thousand vibrant butterflies,

trembling and shaking, powdery colors spilling in the voids,

Of which I pine for the peacock blue shimmering in the muted shadows,

the grass yellow smeared in streaks of summery light,

scarlet red forged from glowing embers

And the grays and purples of cold, hoary November dawn.

 

Wraith visions of this passionate dreamer,

whirling in cyclonic eddies, in vertiginous spirals

sink down to infernal abyss of ferny hemlocks,

chastened in the murky, baleful waters of the Styx .

 

Hover over,O’ lucid mind, buoy up with the fragile sanity

Or the forked tongue of hellfire waits to tear you asunder

in the underworld, a hairsbreadth from here.

 

Why the soul once sublime been leached of the splendid colors?

Like a veined autumn leaf changing it’s hue.

Unlit and sinking, morbid dead ball of shadows.

The grays hiding all the warmth

How the dreary arms of gloom spread inside the vast space?

Once again, it’s bare me, my sinister shadow and the infinite solitude .

 

Drain my soul of these direful woes,

Of the fleeting shadows, of the faceless primal fears,

Of the ponderous fog clogging the mystifying senses

and the looming maelstrom brewing in the calm of bosom.

 

A blissful sleep is all I crave for,

Which not Laudanum, nor one singular water of life,

Nor Rahab and the strumpets could ever gift.

I would sooner die a thousand deaths.

 

Let me pour this settled lunacy into words,

in verse and prose, through the life of Don Juan,

and upend that unchaste Lothario with my unbridled wit.

 

Let me raise the glass castle of spirit

for, many a pietistic man peer,

before it shatters in my inner light.

 

The whole universe is warring with me, one that I won’t win

and the homeland loathes this rebellious,perverse poet, an unredeemable defect.

With a heart of stone, I embrace my offences

Though I have nothing to do with the masses.

 

But, Anabella dear, my ‘princess of parallelograms‘,

my brilliant Lady, O’ thou sharpest among women,

threw my sibilant whispers to the winds,

never once looked through the glass,

to single out the vile frenzy in me.

 

Let me not hold on the spirit, long splintered ,

letting loose the angels and fiends alike,

but not before uttering these final words to thee.

 

Detest me, O’ my virtuous wife, as long as you like,

but be done with my phantasm, by punishing or pardoning.

And for Ada, my lovely daughter, touched with the fury and fire

as her blood will tell, let not the venom of verses spread in her veins.

 

All I yearn for is eternal sleep, a dreamless, painless sleep

deep in my daydreams felled by broken wings.

O’ ferryman, accept the coin and row me across the Styx

To the shore where Hemlocks grow aplenty

And hellfire doles out eternal damnation

For, die I must, a loss no one would lament.

 

I let loose the last string of sanity ,

tying me to the morbid world

To enter the netherworld,

devoid of fears, angst or vile

For, this is the penance I pay for my blood

To purify my soul in the wrath of Inferno.

 

 

The Blue Whisperers

joel-filipe-204529-unsplash

(Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash)

They never dissipate in the silvery melody, nor drown out in cacophonous dissonance.

Never do they thaw away in the aureate sunbeam, nor fade into the crepuscular gloom.

 

Searing Inferno with the galloping flames graze them not, undefiled they remain in the hellish ferocity.

       

Raining fire dare not shower its wrath, nor do the icy embrace freeze them numb.

Hovering like a nebulous pall, not too near, yet not as far, they are the guises of invisibly visible blues.

             

Amorphous and nebulous, weightless they feel, yet burdened by the splendor of solitude.

Like a cobweb spun from crispy yarn, dyed in the bluish twilight, crisscrossing the wavy, shimmering incantations,

the glassy teardrops trapped inside bring a salty tang of the warm sea breeze.

 

Unbounded, hazy, they seem to the bare inner eye as subtle blends of blues and purples, their rapturous ecstasy heard as muffled whispers, 

sudden epiphanies to a half-empty soul, draining and leaching into oblivion.

 

They are the ‘blue whisperers’, the inescapable notes of woe, unseen, unbidden, artful seductresses, from the dark voids of the back of beyond.

 

In the green vales and mystic dells, where a distant skylark trill dithyrambic odes,

when the solemn dun twilight cast tranquil grey dapples, 

that caper to the mellow strains of the breeze,

they lurk in the mournful blue shade of simpering aspens,

trembling leaves of which coquet with the lusty gusts of a sultry summer.    

 

On misty azure mornings, they dawdle over sullen, sleepy rivers and placid lakes,

where all the leaden grief from the heavens above,

 pour into the veins of the earth as rivulets of ashen-shrouded ember from the hearth.                                        

                 

Soaking up the plaintive sighs of the snowbird,

they snuggle up to the canary yellow dawn,

 subtly darning a wispy bluish-lilac on the distant horizon, 

elegiac laments of eons, petrified as passionate lilac gloom in the flaming Baltic amber.

 

 

Great dissemblers of shade, callous illusionists in disguise, 

damsels, bleeding hues of blue as they whirl around,

tinting monotone indigo on the spring canvas,

crystallizing the dreams of angels in  static sapphire,

tainting the hearts brimmed with honeydew in chalices of cyan,

ensnaring glints of desire in splintered moonstone,

they whisper in tones of blue in a hushed voice,

dissonant echoes of which weave an eerie silence, a hollow tranquil,  bare bleakness, and cold emptiness,

in the guise of bewitching enchantresses.

They are the ‘blue whisperers’ from the back of beyond.

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