Expostulation of Decay; a Conceptual Account of Spirit and Mortality; Of Apprehensions Regarding the Beyond; and Acclimatization of Death


The groveling flowers
Supine, yet wild
Gnawing and gnashing at my innards
Silent child of cloud!
Let darkness abound you
Fall off the cliff
Face first,
Into the darkest recesses
Of misplaced realities
And judgments around
Surround, no fade away
Death better than dying
Again and again
The scent is overpowering
Your ribs are crashing
A four by two box
Shining upon the heath
Lead and be led
Knit and weave,
You, who are two
The embryonic jargon
Twins diverse,
Fluttering in the garden
Back from disease
Decay, and death
Mutability, end no
End till you
Immersed in horizons
Vast and plain
The tedium of structure
Hobby, lobby and state
Can you or will I
Gather in our palms
Psalms and stakes
It isn’t grim
Nor frothy, inert
And combine
Consummate conspirator!
Must you listen to the pleas
A thousand songs
And a verve
Rise and dusk,
The allure of reality
Hard to sail, to flog
A carcass ability,
Blue in need, compose

Following the tradition of pseudo-intellectual, pseudo-psychological poetry of those American poets which have been reserved for me to study and analyze, I here present to you a poem, an original work of words, wholly crafted by me as an activity to entertain my senses and spend a good twenty minutes without the light, appropriately titled “Transmutation”.

Were I a prolific, published poet, with a self-aggrandizing habit of writing in a journal, which I was sure of would be published after my death, you would see the following review of the poem by a critic who was as conceited and assured as myself.

“Certainly, the poet had read Kafka’s Metamorphosis in great length, after which the poem entitled “Transmutation” was clinically written or rather derived from. The poem gravitates around an existential crisis which the poet had been publicly affirming to in numerous contexts. On the 2nd of July, three weeks before this rendition of mental sabotage was penned down, the poet happened to visit the Clifford Hangar – a cliff partly suspended in air, off the coast of New Harthshire in England. It has also come to my humble acknowledgement that the poet envisioned the insipidity of death following a visit to a nearby graveyard, and particularly, to the grave of an unfortunate mother who had lost her two sons in two separate accidents back in 1983. We are not aware of their relation, neither of where lie the two twins, but we do know that the poet immortalized them in her “embryonic jargon”, “you who are two/twins diverse”. The poet’s thoughts vacillate between impermanence of death, the corporeality (“A four by two box/Shining upon the heath”) and the vague yet ceremonious display of humanism. Towards the end, the poet witnesses an escape, in form of transformation from the inherent cultural pluralism into the entity of unification”

Just to be clear, this is a bona fide sham of epic proportions. In actuality, the bulk of post-modern poetry seems to me like an inane effort to prove one’s existence via academic jargon, quasi philosophic ruminations and deliberate ambiguity of words and meanings.

In the last few lines, one could deduce that the sound of ‘l’, which is soft upon the lips, implies the poet’s natural inclination and genial acceptance of death. Or, that in the verse “And combine/Consummate conspirator”, the letter ‘c’ echoes of alliteration purposely used to confuse the reader. Or that the “supine, yet wild” flowers insinuates the all-consuming state of nature and death.

Of course, none of this is true. I wrote this with an idle mind, with professed intention to mock the futility of American poetry (or at least that which has been assigned to me).

By the way, my readers are more than welcome to comment with their interpretation of the poem. Let’s see if someone other than myself can make sense out of such nonsensical blabber. My next one will be called “Stasis”.


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