In the whites of cold

A hat and a furcoat

Pass by, conversing

–Strangely reminds me of something I’ve read before long time ago.

Lo and behold a midnight soul,

Struck–

“The Door Cracks Open

But There’s No Sun Shining Through

Black Heart Scarring Darker Still”

Unforgiven – Metallica

“Evening Mr. Daves, or would you rather be addressed as Thomas? Come in, and close the door behind you. Tell me, what brings you here at this odd hour of the day?”

 Tom never felt so much conceded like in Jack and the Beanstalk before and was glad that the first question covered partially the necessity of addressing the second one.

 “The latter, sir,” he uttered meekly, “and how may I address you sir?” he treaded upon his words like of a crippled in a minefield.

 The room was horrendously empty, with peeling walls reminiscent of the dangling creepers and in the middle of it was chairs placed in a circle, surrounding a rickety round table that has lost its physical purpose for there was not a thing in the room to place on it, but somehow or other, it looked like it belonged over there…in the center.   

Motioning him with a suave sweep of his hand, Tom was assigned to a chair directly opposite the giant who pulled 3 chairs together and sat down cautiously. Evidently, the oak affairs were designed for someone of a smaller build than him. The room did not seem to be lived in but there was some aura in it that suggests a deliberate effect.

 “Yes Master,” he swerved, avoiding introduction, in a business-like manner, “what can I do for you?”

 This time, our poet was sufficiently quizzed to bear his innocence of the matter, but again, his innate curiosity has not yet been fed to satisfaction and he decided to play along with the game. After all, the giant seemed friendly and tame…

 Mustering up his courage, he spoke, in an inquiring voice reminiscent of a diner who surrenders the fate of his gastronomy to his cook, “What’s in for today?”

 Alack! Tom had hit the right buttons, or so he thought.

 “Bean sprouts, my dear.” Said the giant.

 Is it him or did he sight a sardonic smile spreading over his thin, cruel lips?   

And the chair below him creaked dangerously…   

Tom knew something is terribly wrong and above all, he was like a trapped fly, resigning his fate to his cook with a penchant for bean sprouts.   

The giant did not seem to have achieved the physical effect he had wanted—Tom’s poker face was mummified down to the very toes and other than a slight cringe of the brow that would have gone unnoticed without sharp scrutiny.   

Who would have known that Tom was palpitating with fear and anxiety inside, after an encounter with the dementers, a term he decided to brand the elfiantwith. And all the giant gave to this thought was a gentle glance and a smile—a code that seemed to speak much more. To this, Tom brushed it away with an air of disdain, anyhow or other, he was in control of his maze and the giant was his creation after all, dismissal could come in anytime he wished.   

But who else would have been better at mind-reading other than the one who introduces Tom’s name even before he was granted a chance to speak? It was, as it seldom is, a severe misjudgment on the side of Tom’s.

 And on came a blow of chill that raised many a goose bumps, before settling eventually at the pit bottom of his stomach, dragging along with it all the guts he had ever accumulated since he walked into the spider’s palour. Things fallen to that depth need a lot of fishing outs and Tom being Tom had already calculated this moment of sinking—bottom line: throw more things in to recoup the object.  

 The silence was unsettling. The huge door salved any possible attempts of fillers in the form of sparrows on the rooftops to the time when the skies fall down. Seriously, how else could the giant have heard Tom outside the sound-proof barrier other than means of the…   

“Not appetizing enough for you, sir?” With a mocking smirk, the giant suddenly took on the role of a demanding butler-cook who triumphs over his master.   

“How about something else to play with while we think of ideas for supper?” he glided ominously.

And Tom the fly just tilted his neck several times to acknowledge the rhetoric. It was all he could do to a creature who could smother him with a palm.   

With a hoarse clearing of the throat, he spoke matter-of-factly, “Since you have summoned me, Master, I give you till midnight to summon something for yourself. After the clock strike 12, it will be gone.”   

Now, its all getting very interesting for Tom and he does not know what to brand this wicked fairy tale—black magic, occult? Tapping his fingers on the table whose jittery movements reflect the mental struggle in Tom’s head, he tried to occupy his eyes on memorizing the every crooks and dents in the table while thinking of something to summon. This was, of course, a prime decision.   

Meanwhile, the giant entertained himself by staring at Tom, a habit that irks our poet the most. And all of a sudden, the table was smashed into an exact symmetrical two—and all Tom gave was a little extra strength in his finger-tappings.   

He thought himself a fool to not have seized the thought earlier for he had only 3 hours more to go to midnight. It was his future books and poems that he wanted, and to see all the incoming awards and accolades to his books, that would of course satisfy the months of drought in his ink faucet. 

And before he even rehearsed his thoughts, books lined in a circle round Tom and it was only after all the awe and shock that Tom discovered that the giant disappeared without a trace. But that did not bother Tom, to hell with the black magic! All he have now is what he had wanted. Searching among the piles of books, an ominous look covered his face like an enveloping shadow. 

All that were present were his old books, books going up to ten, twenty years old and what he had wanted were to peruse his future novels, to pen them down right now ahead of time. Searching frantically with desperation, books were thrown around and loose leafs were seen flying from the poorly bounded books.  

One was caught in a rather fresh looking spider web on the door, for it would have broke into an exact two if anyone entered. 

But Tom was too elated to have noticed it, for he found his latest unfinished book “The Unfinished Symphony” bound up in loose manuscripts. But what puzzled him was that it was not yet bounded and felt extraordinary light and thin. Flipping around till the page where he left, all that greeted him were the same lines where he faced a that damn blockage. 

Smashing it on the ground, he furrowed for a random book and there was a bent at the front-most page. Curious, he read on: 

“Thomas Daves was a prolific writer who holds several award-winning books, one of them which was sighted to have sparked potential was “The Unfinished Symphony” which indeed lived up to its namesake for when Daves was found to be missing on the 1^st of August 1976. His body was never found. 

This book was one of D…” 

The clock suddenly struck 12. With a sudden recollection of time, Tom heard a knock upon the door– the spider web was snapped into two and the loose leaf fell gracefully on the ground… 

Like its Master…——————————–

Thanks for reading!

Pound upon the midnight soul,

Torrents of larva etched paths, flow.

Moonshine of deceit and lies carved in,

Scorch and drown my floating heart, sink.

Paradise were but a worm-eaten door,

Locks and keys smothered by non-descript walls.

Creepers scale the hidden door crevice,

Leaving a mouse-hole size of a door unframed.

Hark! Alack, but what is it that shakes?

The ground, the sky, the creepers falling…like the peeling wallpapers of The Gutters, though much at an unprecedented rate. 

Indeed, our poet was alarmed, but his innate curiosity had not yet been displaced by the fear of the almighty plummeting from the heights. It had only just been enough to rouse him from his reverie, where he was searching for his something in life, the ‘click’ that turns on the faucet in his pen, where ink flows free like the burning, unstoppable larva. 

But after finding his way around the Labyrinth, he was met with a cul de sac, to which there’s no ways of turning back but to go forward, but you see, the door, the dome-shaped piece of a wooden plank has no start, no end to it, nor is there any avenues that suggest a feasible way of cranking one’s way in with a crowbar or a skeleton key. 

Our poet was fumed, for he meant for his mazes to be designed in a way that he could solve them and find his ‘switch’ in the end, but this one presented itself in the form of a block—writer’s block! This was the worst thing that could happen to a writer seeking solace from his afternoon dreams and devils come knocking after him instead. 

And at that very magical moment, the ‘door’ rocked violently, with its infernal vines and creepers hanging over the points of detachment, cascading from the skies, like a many-headed Medusa shaking its locks furiously at an intruder before her supper… 

Just at the moment where the door looked as if it were going to cave in, out from it emerged an elfin-like creature, uncertain he was, for sure, for this one’s too large even for an over-sized elf and yet too delicate for a giant—a gentle giant maybe, but who knows. 

And at that very instant, our poet was saved the trouble of judgment—a trial he religiously imposes on every being, animate or inanimate as a handy mental portfolio, but this one seemed to judge him more than the supposed vice versa and all he could do is to follow his scrutiny up and down with the giant on his torn khakis and washed-out muslin. 

“Evening Mr. Daves, or would you rather be addressed as Thomas? Tell me, what brings you here at this odd hour of the day?” 

Tom never felt so much conceded like in Jack and the Beanstalk before and was glad that the first question covered partially the necessity of addressing the second one. 

“The latter, sir,” he uttered meekly, “and how may I address you sir?” he treaded upon his words like of a crippled in a minefield.  

Even when bearing with a forced poker face, he could not help subduing the horror and awe when the giant pronounced his name before him and his spontaneity in letting the door open when Tom had been sure that his stealthy thread along with his silent loafers could compete with a feline’s. 

Even with such a bulk, the giant moved with a lithe and grace of an elf and yet equipped with him the same air of chivalry and suaveness of a giant— a handsome pairing of nature. 

“Yes Master,” he swerved, avoiding introduction, “what can I do for you?” 

This time, our poet was sufficiently quizzed to bear his innocence of the matter, but again, his innate curiosity has not yet been fed to satisfaction and he decided to play along with the game. After all, the giant seemed friendly and tame… 

Mustering up his courage, he spoke, in an inquiring voice reminiscent of a diner who surrenders the fate of his gastronomy to his cook, “What’s in for today?” 

Alack! Tom had hit the right buttons, or so he thought. 

“Bean sprouts, my dear.” Said the giant. 

Is it him or did he catch a sardonic smile spreading over his cruel lips? 

To be continued…

Here’s a little rain to oil your neck, and a little devil for my rheumatism, rub it up, roll on, just a little while, don’t roll off onto the road like your sisters, your behavior makes it hard for me to fathom.   

Wheel me along and watch me swing,

 Kaleidoscopic jungle of madness and din!   

Why forth do you spring out of orbit? Am I, an old lady, too heavy for you? Everything’s gone, left and gone, my stool stolen, my cardboard torn by the cats, my pillow snatched away, all I have is you, you to carry me along…   

Lug me over and help me swing,

Songs of a better time, muted to hiss!  

And all you have is me, me to push you along, after the beggar girl drew her last breathe. Ah you lazy brat, I had my stool, my cardboard, my pillow before I had you four, and one by one, they rolled off, each fetching an article along…   

Heave me over and leave me alone,

Breathe your last and kiss me bye!   

All I have now is you, for me to half-limp, half cradle you along my way, you’re my last. After that… I only have myself. I know that’s less of a burden for me, but…but…   

Wheel me away and hear me sing,

 Songs of a swan song, kiss my last…   

I know…but…please, child, please…

 Half-assed explanations:  

 Its about the old lady and the trolley (its 4 wheels) symbolizing and also telling the reader about the old lady’s past where her 4 children left her. See it in the way of math– 4 wheels means sturdy support, 3, a tripod lends exceptional stability too, 2 is meagre, like a bicycle, 1 meant the requirement for the person operating the mechanism to lend support instead. The same applies maybe to her children.

 So in this case where the old lady wants desparately for her last wheel/child to stay with her and not roll off like the rest meant something other than physical support– she herself is putting in strength from her frail body to support it/her.

 But in the end, it still rolled off, like the rest…     

O’ why do you walk through the field with gloves? 

O’ lean gray woman whom nobody loves… 

Walk into my palour, a bench for two,

Spidery vines to form a noose. 

Have you seen my trees today–

My dead child over there? 

Or would you like a cup of dew–

From the stream of death? 

Why are you so green I asked,

“To complement my trees.” 

A carpet and a canopy,

They’re all I need. 

Green from sky to earth to Me,

To all them gates and doors hold keys. 

Under the hammock,

she counts her beads,

How many more to summon the deed? 

By the foul-fair she sits,

Gaze a’ looking shrewd as dream 

F’ you look into the hole, you’ll see,

Your child O’hanging by the stream. 

Hold it, hush it, silence does it,

Tap your finger on the board,

And we’ll see what it means… 

————————————————————-

The lady’s waiting, for a long time and seemed to be sitting there forever, looking on and beyond the stream, just barely covered by the shade of the trees. Everything’s waiting, and stopping, for something, for something to happen. No wind, no sounds, all silence, all peace (green). 

The trees are waiting too, and everything’s concentrated. But does peace look as if it were really peaceful? Or is it something else?  

With a pricking of my thumbs, something evil this way comes… 

“The carpet and the canopy is all that I need.” Refers to the skies (trees) and the ground (grass) and the lady in the green hat is the medium, she hold keys to both gates. Board is of course the ouija board.

All figurative of course. Beautiful picture done by alan, enjoy.

If you would look closely, the poem’s shaped like a goblet. Drink it up…

Gentle is the night,

Encrouched upon the dead.

Chaffs the still pallor,

A windswept grace.

The clouds bid adieu,

From the Heaven’s stores.

Jostles their gaping mouth to drink,

A dew so pure.

Essence from the midnight brew performed,

O’er the charcoal furnace.

Nectar to pry it open,

A bud so encased.

Ruffles their fleeting frock affair,

Creased from eternal sleep.

Dance of a casual stretch and yawn,

Nature a choreographed display.

Soft is the morning sun,

Upon their tender petals.

Hums the warmth a lullaby,

Sleep, my baby sleep.

———————————————————————————————–

This awesome picture is taken by Alan and I shall briefly explain my poetry.

It describes lilies ( buds:gaping mouth, lilies: frock-adorned) in the pond (still pallor), blooming at night, with the help of the rain (dew, nectare, the thing that the clouds bid adieu to, something in the midnight’s brew). (Ripples: the windswept grace)( yes I know, I could have very well got all these over in one sentence, forgive me!) And the last stanza simply links back to the first stanza where the lilies were described to be asleep (or dead/in bud form). But it could be read as the lilies resting after their strenuous effort to bloom.

I personally liked the first stanza very much.

Quick intro, Jane is the poet (the real talent behind it all). Me, I’m Alan, the photographer.

We’ll be posting Poetry and Pictures together on this Blog.

Please feel free to comment (good or bad), doesn’t matter because you see, it’s all relative. As Clapso said, There is no absolute truth.

Only what we feel to be true.

Thanks!

Jane & Alan

March 17th, 1944

Dear my dear,

Gray is your color, my dear…

The eternal rest…

Ever since you left my dear, death became poetic.

As I stood on the ground you rest, death became a mystique.

Are you lonely, are you missing, with the same people there?

Is it nasty, is it bleak, with the soil, the worms accompany?

Ay, is that what you say, I hear, from, whence will you awake?

From the mud, from the dirt, from the feet above, up here the grass is green!

He with the robes that kisses, the soft ground below.

Caress, a brush with death forever, but never dead it seems.

He, the silent surveyor stands, head sculpted in prayer.

With mourning eyes that speaks to you, my dear, with gaze so hypnotic.

Sleep, he says, sleep and lie, never before such peace exists.

Rest your gaze, my child, take heed, God you have will always be.

Ground from whence produced a seed, a trunk so majestic.

Is the thinning canopy for you, my dear, for the sun’s too bright it seems.

Fear not, ‘fraid not, my shadow, my shelter, is there for you to keep.

Here I stand, cast in stone, arms slack from the years.

Head bowed to face you, my dear, to keep you down for company.

Mon ami, mon enfant, we are all but same.

You prop the ground I rest on, I keep the ground appease.

Through the screen I tried to squint, to catch a glimpse of you.

Ever since you went under me, my dear, time became eternity.

One day, I know my arms will waste, to the ground from the magpies’ chewing.

Maybe my head the next, I think, for my neck’s growing tired always.

But wouldn’t it be well, my friend, for you said you liked my eyes.

You can have them then, to keep, but let not the worms eat you,

…before my magpies did.

Love,

Hawkins.