Beautiful

The Children (of Hard Times)

I believe in books that seamlessly melt into the human discourse and after a period of about 100 years, you ought to find them surrounding you, just above your eyelashes–in a very nostalgic way.

For such an excellent film made my Takuya Okada, I find myself gripped by the industrial and capital reality of Dickens’s Hard Times much less towards my own; do we then question the walls surrounding us, enough? And that too, away from the rhetorical fancy manners of our tragically comical life (coming from a poet)?

Takuya Okada’s artistry tells a dark story (in a very literal sense) where an arbitrary game of childishness is played by the society who elicits pride through perfect numbers and shapes which do not have any scope of Odd. Philosophically speaking, when you collect too many Even numbers for yourself, a momentum is set in motion which, like a stream headed upon the face of earth is bound to the ocean–even if its water is destined to turn a puddle of muck under your bathroom sink. This is what you see when the child stamped number 4466 (what a symmetrical number!) had the signs of jumping-out-of-high-storey building liberation set in the motion the moment he saw a hope for himself. Why the dog was black or where did he disappeared after the train went abuzz is as mysterious as the idea of how revolutions takes place and what are the minute things that set in the motion. But for me, the dog and the disappearance of him is the defiance to the very system the revolution was set against.

The end of this short clip might be gory for those who are at rest with a glorious idea of rebellion–with blue skies and lily beds. Yet what the both parties  share (to separate those with the lilies from the common sunken mass), is the sigh of relief that one gets when you realize you’ve always enjoyed running. In other words, to think that life will be Utopian after a revolution is illusory but I bet, the joy of the first time is incredible.

Muse of the strange beings

*This poem was written under the prompt: My Quiet place. My Quiet place of muse is however, not very quiet.

I have certain qualms that surround me,
But the sea-green tides today
are not divulging
but low.

I have passions for tumultuous storms
That goes unrequited in the summer’s bowers
But they seem to be bathing under the symmetrical roofs
The flashes of one distant star, gliding past their morrows
And yet here I am strange
for finding a heart in the dilemmas of the off-seasons,
that left me behind a traveler, precipitated
who seek towards some
ever-present tornadoes.

I have my name upon a tree
And it gave me no solace at all
Because I can only dance for the rains
And by paying my subtle abode, above
a call.

 

© Priyanka, All rights reserved.