The Swansong of Abinash C. Halder

I’ve tried my best, to fit in as I can

In crowds of rust and wrinkled old masks:

I’ve dotted all the ‘i’s and slashed all the ‘t’s

Smiled just so, and wore what I must,

And nodded all day at players on stage

Who rant their lines and paint in the air

And vomit into wind all verbiage of dross

Seeking yet still all statues of gold

With glass-loaded eyes and dimples of grace

That wrench in the entrails with force,

Questions of unacknowledged spleen.

But what would be the point of it all?

What would be the point, if betel-smeared lips

Ruminating hard, with greasy little palms,

Pick out that meat from yellow-coloured teeth

And slaps on my face “Later, we will see”?

Festooned in parti-coloured papers I lie

A papier-mâché puppet of academic dye.

Tight, more tight; the buckle’s still loose –

Mine too the distempered cause

Of Lilliputs in Brobdingnag cloaks.

Could I have known that things would be thus?

Could I, after all the books and medals and praise,

Smiles in the hallways and pats on the back,

Could I have known of backstabbing moves

In petty little cliques of inflated selves

Where we make ledgers of insult and gain

And deck up as straws with leather-lined coats

Tattooed with love on eczema-tic necks?

Down in dreams of unforeseen woods

Mine are the paws that pounce.

Yet still I glance at mirrors and mend

Wrinkles and crease and entangled curls

And rehearse in mute my silly little lines

To flatter that ‘him’ or cajole that ‘her’

And speak as cats might purr.

Boxed in the chambers of uncertain hope,

Mine are the moves of extras on stage

With paydays that flutter and leave.

Listen to the band, checking their set

And wired for blast – hours on end

Of stereophonic drugs!

Don’t get me wrong – I am not a drudge;

When the lights darken and songs are unleashed

I too will join the headbangers’ gang

And trample into puddle with insistent feet

Thoughts that’ll never be discreet.

Think this is why, I’ve dwelt so long

On tigers in wild or eagles in flight

Or poured over Eliot at midnight and more?

Questions now clutter, and pile up in vain

As these do I sweep and broom into bins

And burn into ashes of unholiest grain.  

The wind in the west now halts and waits

As evening expands its tentacular steps

And strangles all glimmers of twilight in spring,

And spreads for us all, its bountiful shroud.

Clock’s ticking down to that auspicious time

When more and more puppets, with finery and glaze

March into halls with punctilious pomp

And wine and dine with calculated ‘blah’

Sprinkled with mergers and shares and dates.

Here do I wander and cling to those coats

Which I have hope will show me some threads

To weave into being my pocket full of dreams.

O, do not ask what they are!

Cramped in pockets for years on end

Burdened with gallons of ‘yessir’ and ‘nosir’,

I no longer know what creatures they are

And pickle them blind with fear.

Who knows what ropes have stalled my feet

And choked my dreams in quicksand of files

Which others elsewhere have quickened into life!

Now they’ll leave and stagger into cars

And leave still a trail of mobil and rum

That others might smell or speculate and sell.

I’ve smelt them out. I’ve smelt them out!

Enough of that, enough!

I don’t have the guts to be Lear in the heath

Nor do I dare to be Job reborn.

I am just a cog that turns as is turned

And leaves all the rest to time and place

And hopes for a dose of rather good chance.

Judge me as you will, why should I care?

Rocked in the desert of cactus and bones

Ours are ships without shores.