the sunrise that never came III: of people and things

People come and go in our lives, way more often than we think.
Yet on those days when some people creep back into your mind, you’ll know they were never meant to leave your life. They wouldn’t stay in your life physically; they wouldn’t even speak with you again. But they’ll walk into your dreams; they’ll appear as faces in the dark; they’ll hold a corner of your heart. And that’s when you know, they matter.

In the wee hours of the day, I think of a poem “The Dream”, and realised that it has been 2 days past the birth of one of my preferred poets – Edgar Allan Poe (19 Jan 1809 – 7 Oct 1849).

They call it “unrealistic”, “escapism”, “impractical”. But sometimes, people hold on to dreams because it is the only source of light in a world of darkness that envelopes them. Where confusion and pain befalls reality, peace and hope is offered in dreams. The believer does not mistake a dream for reality; rather, he dreams of a more satisfying life that he never had, He holds on dearly to a strain of the past, bringing with him into present day, what was beautiful and which mattered. Dreams are a recollection of the past, but also stand as an alternate land where one visits, to relive more pleasant days. But like a double-edged sword, while we hold on to beliefs that society criticizes, in dreams we realise the pains of being awake.

The Dream
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth’s day-star?

Poe’s works never fail to emphasize on his dark wishes to return to days in history; his awareness of the world’s disdain towards his by behaviour, but which his acknowledgement for it’s necessity in sustaining his existence. I continue to stand in appreciation of the works of this mistaken talent. Edgar Allan Poe.

The Centre of the Universe

You probably all know, you probably haven’t seen it – I read this poem about eight years back and it stuck in my head quite a bit. I think how each time someone shouts out for help I pop by. I realise the times when someone offers help – half-heartedly, to kill with insensitivity. I look in the eye those who turned away when I asked for help on those rare occasions. And soon we all give up asking for help. But sometimes the helplessness gets so overwhelming I wonder where the rest of the world might have gone. Sometimes it isn’t worth explaining any further because you still have to fix your own problems on your own when they strike.

There were kind souls who tried to lend a hand – maybe, maybe not; it all boils down to how much one can divulge and accept as help.

Regardless, a lovely poem:
——————————————————————————————————————–

The Centre of the Universe – by Paul Durcan

Pushing my trolley about in the supermarket;
I am the centre of the universe;
Up and down the aisles of beans and juices,
I am the centre of the universe;
It does not matter that I live alone;
It does not matter that I am a jilted lover;
It does not matter that I am a misfit in my job;
I am the centre of the universe.

But I’m always here, if you want me –
For I am the centre of the universe.

I enjoy being the centre of the universe.
It is not easy being the centre of the universe
But I enjoy it.
I take pleasure in,
I delight in,
Being the centre of the universe.
At six o’clock a.m. this morning I had a phone call;
It was from a friend, a man in Los Angeles;
“Paul, I don’t know what time it is in Dublin
But I simply had to call you:
I cannot stand LA so I thought I’d call you.”
I calmed him down as best I could.

But I’m always here, if you want me –
For I am the centre of the universe.

I had barely put the phone down when it rang again,
This time from a friend in Sao Paulo in Brazil:
“Paul – do you know what is the population of Sao Paulo?
I will tell you: it is twelve million skulls.
Twelve million pairs of feet in one footbath.
Twelve million pairs of eyes in one fishbowl.
It is unspeakable, I tell you, unspeakable.”
I calmed him down.

But I’m always here, if you want me –
For I am the centre of the universe.

But then when the phone rang a third time and it was not yet 6.30 a.m.,
The petals of my own hysteria began to wake up and unfurl.
This time it was a woman I know in New York City:
“Paul – Ney York City is a Cage”,
And she began to cry a little over the phone,
To sob over the phone,
And from five thousand miles away I mopped up her tears.
I dabbed each tear from her cheek
With just a word or two or three from my calm voice.

I’m always here, if you want me –
For I am the centre of the universe.

But now tonight it is myself;
Sitting at my aluminium double-glazed window in Dublin city;
Crying just a little bit into my black tee shirt.
If only there was just one human being out there
With whom I could make a home? Share a home?
Just one creature out there in the night-
Is there not just one creature out there in the night?
In Helsinki, perhaps? Or in Reykjavik?
Or in Chapelizod? or in Malahide?
So you see, I have to calm myself down also
If I am to remain the centre of the universe;
It’s by no means an exclusively self-centred automatic thing
Being the centre of the universe.

I’m always here, if you want me –
For I am the centre of the universe.

(from Poems – Deep & Dangerous by Josephine Philips) 

the most meaningful poem for valentine’s day

His wrinkled hands trembled as he lifted the coffee cup and took a sip. I watched him, as he frowned over his glasses and took a bite into the sandwich on his plate. Bent over, his age showed in his hunch, the years in his silver hair, but love in his face. She sat in the chair next to him and with her coffee cup nearby. She looked at him and smiled, with every sip she took…

This was the very sight that caught my eye as I entered the cafe today. Immense sadness struck me… Life & death, very much a normal process you may say. Yet how many of us have looked Age in its face and said: this is us in 30, 40, 50 years? How many of us have let time run by in your years of youth and neglected, ignored, mocked or demeaned the elderly? I am no advocate of “respect by seniority” but this doesn’t stop me from reflecting on how little we know or care about our folks.

We complain endlessly about how parents/grandparents were slow – they cannot understand us! They won’t walk and eat faster! Why should they a full day to do all these when I can multi-task and complete them all in an hour? We whine about their reluctance to progress with society – they repeat themselves endlessly about worries that should not be given a second thought given this time and age, they  insist on walking down an aisle to get their groceries when I could click them all into my online shopping cart! And this list of ranting goes on and on… In years to come we’ll be the “reason for complaints” category.

If you ever wish to lash out impatiently at an elderly again – give it a second thought.

Now this brought me to think about Valentine’s Day. I don’t ever believe in the concept of “Forever”. And hence love is never “forever”, no matter what he/she tells you. Not unless, you’re looking at this wonderful story from John Fugelsang – Guilt: A Love Story (I chanced upon this on NPR – A Brother & Sister Gets Married & Later, Their Son Tweets It as well as from Queens Theatre – Guilt: A Love Story). Truly a story of faith that touched my heart, I recommend you’ll pay some attention to this.

And as the story unfolds, you might have already guessed what I might’ve deemed the most meaningful poem for valentine’s day … my all-time favourite: When You Are Old – William Butler Yeats.

What might yours be – this most meaningful/inspiring/heart-warming poem for Valentine’s Day? 

resigned to an unfruitful year

This huge bout of unpleasantness has hit the recluse again, and has resulted in a lack of posting, inspirations or anything positive. Evidently there has been reduced interest in travel, food and in plain English, anything!

It’s almost as if nothing impresses anymore. This unhealthy mood could last forever and I couldn’t be sure how or why it happened. Nonetheless, recent reminiscence has brought me back to looking at Poe’s works:

A Dream
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream
While all the world was chiding
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding

What though that light, thro’ storm and night
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth’s day-star?

Indeed, these words ever stringing the heart. In the dream, the unknown world, a place so much more acceptable than reality. And in this world we see what is pleasant, what is heartwarming and what happens to be a fragment of a hidden memory. Something that no-one might comprehend, but would have meant so much more than monetary values could measure.

In a deep and dark corner, dousing the sorrows with a Black Russian. Awaiting still, for the sunrise that never came…

the sunrise that never came I

My admiration for Poe grows deep and strong, with every word I read from his poems, and the heart grows fonder as identification becomes more apparent…I remember seeing myself in “Alone” by Poe, and I recall this mesmerization I had for his text that I took a month indulging in his works.

Today marks a day which demands Poe’s great poetry, of which they would time and again surface on this site.

Alone
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then-in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life-was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

How apt, of “Alone” to embellish this very day. While a fixation on the past might be a futile attempt to hold on to hope, it is this very memory that keeps one going. This realm of unreality, if succumbed to the stark truth that envelops us, will soon engulf even the last bit of sanity.

Edgar Allan Poe, he who describes succinctly and with such intensity, these deep unfathomable feelings to the rest of the world – a talent no longer seen today – he who had used his strong words and moving imagery to express all that I could not. A first form of recognition, Edgar Allan Poe gave reassurance that there was someone out there who had once understood and lived this estranged feeling.

The creative talent, this exquisite poet, this misunderstood man with utmost sophistication in his words. To Edgar.