A constant drain, a flow that cannot be stopped
Of what you had in plenty, the day you were born.
A quality with a fairly negative connotation,
Mistaken for ignorance but commonly known as naivety.
Growing up is its most common enemy,
But there are others that stand unsuspected.
Books that inform, movies that show and songs that tell,
Stories of different realities and of particularly nasty
actualities
actualities
A random spring night in Ludwigsburg can hardly be blamed
Or the others that play music laced with poetry.
I am surprisingly naive about understanding how my world began
But with his Hollow
men, I am painfully aware of how it would end.
men, I am painfully aware of how it would end.
And in between those bookends, there is a journey to be had,
Illusions to be dissolved, magic tricks to be explained,
A starry night sky with an incredibly large moon to be
dissected, plainly
dissected, plainly
A morning that you wake up to, with only sometimes an epiphany
Where is the belief in wonders? Where are the soaring
expectations?
expectations?
You mother said you would end up fantastic, a time challenged prophecy.
A vision that stood fast through the younger years, only to be altered,
To become slightly blurred and resembling very little like its
roots
roots
A heart that beat so wildly on things that she said, now
quivers
quivers
On the silences that lie between the sentences of her
admiration
admiration
It’s a different level altogether, the priceless naivety of love
Once broken, no traces then remain of this precious commodity
The vaporization of dreams is also concerning,
An activity that I dared to do, even in the brightest of
daylights
daylights
Now seems quarantined within the walls of plausibility
Of measured feasibility and suffocating grown up realities
These are shackles of anti-naivety, of distasteful clarity.
Can these be broken effectively? Is it possible to grow down?
Not to pretend the lack of understanding but to actually
stumble
stumble
Through the devil that sleeps in the details, like clowns.
Oh! What I would do to recover the gorgeous childishness,
Not of the unwrinkled, un-tired and yearning bodies of yore,
But rather of twinkling sparkling eyes of endless possibilities,
Of hurtling down the hills with genuine expectations of pure
flights!
flights!
And I can afford this, this turning away from verity
I have so much that others can’t fathom on most evenings,
My walls are solid; my clothes fit true and my food is warm,
In the scheme of true reality, my struggles are mostly
miniscule.
miniscule.
Of things that I know, I cannot forcefully forget or be
ignorant
ignorant
But I can return to my roots, of drawing cars and her profiles,
Inside margins of disciplines and then to finally understand,
Within this definite world of ours, it cannot be naive to be naive.
:). Go for it.
Aww.. beautifully written
Thanks Jasmine 🙂
Dear Dushyant,
Though I do not follow English Poetry and though I do not know TS Eliot, more than a name as a part of general knowledge, I enjoyed your Blog. It wonderfully written.
Baba
ps. I used your link and read the poem.
wow. me likes.
Baba: Thanks! it's nice to see that you actually followed the link :-)Me pan TS Eliot baddal ignorant hoto..
Ash: Thanks
Although most might not think so, for me, your poem has a strong connection with these lines from a poem by Indira Sant.
नव्हती जाणिव आणि कुणाची,
नव्हते स्वप्नही कुणी असावे,
डोंगर चढणीवरी एकटे
किती फिरावे,उभे रहावे.
पुन्हा कधी न का मिळायचे ते,
ते माझेपण, आपले आपण,
झुरते तनमन त्याच्यासाठि
उरते पदरी तिच आठवण
Very well written. My favorite line "But rather of twinkling sparkling eyes of endless possibilities,
Of hurtling down the hills with genuine expectations of pure flights!"
Thanks Shruti. My Marathi at best is perhaps not that terrible:-) yet I liked the poem. The ending especially 🙂
Glad you enjoyed mine.