Poetry II

It has been three years. Here are two poems.

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I

The locals call Muttrah Souq the market of darkness. It’s an ancient bazaar situated on a well-travelled seaport adjacent to Muscat harbour. I was there in December 2017, thinking about whether I was experiencing ‘The East’ in the same patronising way that Orientalists did, and how tragic it was that a region full of age-old splendour could now be plagued by conflict.

The dissociation I felt is reflected in the two-part structure of the poem, and my isolated position at the edge of two worlds is a guiding motif. There’s a line I interpolate from Arthur Miller’s ‘A View From the Bridge’ which summarises the perspective: “But this is Red Hook, not Sicily. This is the slum that faces the bay on the seaward side of Brooklyn Bridge. This is the gullet of New York swallowing the tonnage of the world.”

At a basic level, ‘Our Orient’ is about isolation and paradox. The title refers to our viewpoint (i.e., to be oriented) and an inspiring text, Edward Said’s ‘Orientalism’.

***

Our Orient

Meet me by that fruited crescent

on the unmilked coast of Muttrah,

where sages whisper and polish opals,

while boys deseed olives from the valley

for the bazaar that teems on the steppes,

so the orphans are graced with alms

when dusk paints away the sawm,

see them tuck their kin asleep

into those honeyed enclaves

as tribesmen once did.

Meet me by that sanded fort in Nizwa,

where the custodians once left their post,

unguarded, five times, like merchants

in that crested corniche. Watch them

oil their sabers; burn frankincense;

wrap their hands with gauze

under celestial limelight,

to faithfully preserve

our pearled peninsula.

Meet me where the mystics swirl

in velvet dunes of parables past,

where cobras melt into powdered glass,

and leathered Bedouins lead their herds

to the shade of palms for rest,

and sit cross-legged by gas-lamps

to recite all ninety-nine

of scriptures eternal.

Meet me at that immortal spring,

where each young tear of Ishmael

cut into the heart of his mother,

as she cried sore for oases

while the sprites watched,

as she wailed through the coals

to sanctify sevenfold,

the cause of our pilgrimage.

Meet me on this saffron gulf.

This is the city that faces the bay

on the seaward side of Arabia.

This is no white gullet for tonnage.

This is an orb of rites nomadic,

of trade and tranced recitation

and prostration to the merciful

for entry of the learned few.

Verily, meet me to bear witness!

These are the hanging gardens,

Do you see your Syrian children hang?

They float as dead urchins in an amniotic sea,

These are the secrets of Babylon unlocked,

Do you see your crafted Hellenistic tiers?

Of infant corpses heaped in debris,

Where the empire breaks into blood and magazines.

Meet me to hear the scabbed daughters sing

in sheds and camps and asylums,

where familial tears ruck on raw floors

for their tombs are left vacant for the creator to let,

and the rattle of toys is now the pitter-patter of guns,

and the food is not cooked but collected,

and lives are lain from tip to tip

to form our reddened Gaza strip.

Meet me in Taiz or Al Hudaydah,

governorates founded by agrarian kings,

where the rations fade as quick as pulses,

where the agarwooded air is perfumed

with the unfamiliar clog of cholera,

and the ‘coalitions and funding and aid’

are brittle slogans that burst on the tongues

of parents who kneel and face the floor

in their daily discharge of hasty orisons.

Meet me to know this forkèd plague,

a hunting ground for leaders and troops

Who wrenched away our swords and jewels,

mouthfuls from the hungry, crutches from the poor,

Who made our Orient, a cesspool, a rotting chest

and guided the hand of Iblis as they were guided too

to the necks of innocent boys and girls who knew,

with a maturity well beyond their tender years,

that this was no war against flesh;

It was our heritage they sought 

to execute.   

***

II

A stab at traditional subject matter, ‘Tea and Cof’ was written to capture nostalgic and charming experiences; some flowers, a meeting at midnight, soft rain on a rooftop. Such 'highlights', which act as anchors for memories, are often subconsciously redefined into lovesick dreams. The rose-tinted past and the ever-nearing future meet together in this poem, the latter mirroring the former, to form a dreamlike continuum. The subject of fancy is ephemeral, defined by a nature which is equally idiosyncratic and indistinctive. The reader focuses on her and the anchors, perhaps losing sight of reality and truth.

Mostly written in iambic pentameter, the structure treads on safe ground. 

*

Tea and Cof

She finished all her tea before we left

It was a pot of tea and not a cup,

Why did she ask for English breakfast tea?

I don’t think English breakfast warrants it

        And fuller drinks do better suit the rain.

She spoke of birded woodlands, Cambrian,

She turned all consonants to vowels and streams

She painted real—a faerie and her grot,

But who would ask for English breakfast tea?

It fogged the Persian pink set on her lips.

It rained both times we met on that parade,

Her embered coat had made the greyness melt

Her hair was much too wet to see through well

She looked at me through rain-drops near street-lights,

And in her eyes I saw a carefree self.

I saw our cabinet in twenty years

The one just past the stove and by the fridge,

Where she would lean, smile, watch me drowsily

Where I might reach inside for coffee grounds,

And glimpse her box of English breakfast tea

And think about those rainy days in youth,

        Those rainy days where I had

        felt no rain.

Poetry I

Here are three free verse poems I have written which reflect distinct moods I have felt. They have been written during the relevant times of emotion such that I like to think they, as deliverers of feeling, represent reasonably accurate crystallisations of myself at different points in time. Unfortunately, they are rather self-indulgent and esoteric, written primarily for intellectual and cathartic pursuits. Nevertheless, I would like to include them here as starting points for my poetry writing.

*

This first poem is called Carnival. From a literal perspective, it is an isolated examination of modern partying from the perspective of a marginalised and lone observer. However, the purpose of the poem is an exercise in hypocrisy and ignorance, for the speaker is inevitably a part of who he describes as 'they' and 'them'. His distaste is futile and his observations bring no progression. Through this, the poem also explores powerlessness and the facade of agency we now experience in a disconnected age, regardless of whether we are active or passive. It experiments with visceral description, line and syntax construction and overall form.

Carnival

Look there, the lasers and lights and bouts of

Definite toons; the enthused string of expectation

Tightened with a pinch of insobriety. The

Laughter and the embers and deafening songs all-right

Under the swept-tinted viscous sky; Night

Drags on smouldering against the watchful eye

Of no one but I: observing this fair

With some confusion.

Speakers pick up

The pulse of the herd. Desperate tunes and the

Lights parboiled. Swaying

With the thumps and flashes that ebb.

Frothy and spilling the substance sap of their

Thoughts lap in accordance with the chemicals bonds

Of relief. Released from reality, rowing

Further and further into the black bubbles of

Oceanus. Morning they stop, reborn tomorrow

Or perhaps the day after - pain walks slow just as how

Quickly these goers degenerate.

Courageless bottles, pumped necks throttled

where they have leaked redness, stomach

Acid simmering in the heat of bodies. And the

Stumpy leeches, sucking on the thick tick-tock dregs

Which have once again found a clot of their

Choosing. Walls which curve, peaked sweat

Shimmering in pink strobes. Dripped lips turning

Rabid. Vapours of sober breath wisp

And there falls the drool that mothers once wiped away

In necessity of action.

But it is only me amidst the fiends

Who sees this sickening state. Growth of

Infancy; regression with the varied lights and music and grand

Polemics about the importance of stress relief.

Their speech is the speakers – unopposed, unfettered

But with each twist of tongue I see the plastic mildew rot against their

Skin. Limbs flail in the fun fair and

I disgustedly discuss: who are they to verify us?

Their breath seeps onto the floor and when it is cooled it

Wraps around their hardened heels. Fire suppurates in them to replace

Them. Fire sloshes through arteries to replace them. Fire fuels

To replace, then all unseeing the march repeats.

Late car-rides and

Time markers and ten seconds to count for ten decades of their

Devolution; a plague of physicality and sentimentality

Yet they grin therein, their chins displaced. Their bones touch air

And the softest of winds could incapacitate them. How they will wish

They could have redone it, not relived it. But not now,

Only in a millennium after the youthful sun dies, where their forms can no

Longer escape to the dark-bright sanctity of their actions, should they

Surprisedly realise their laser light paradise is a land of lies.

*

The second poem is called One, or I. It combines senseless ambition, indiscriminate condescension and self-aggrandized riddle-like references to paint a picture of egotism. Just as an egoist cannot believe that others comprehend his objectives, the poem is so inwardly focused that it is inaccessible in full. Its style reflects E. E. Cummings with the use of typography, broken syntax and a non-standard use of lexis and punctuation.

One, or I

Theres a special place for them

It’s here

       tick        tick

Get back you.

Theres a special place for everyone

not him

He’s an era

Rothschild

Alexander

of Macedon

he has no special place

contest gives place.

Pass twelve and meet him or

take some more - you won’t have him.

See his revul u sion

As he watches

The seconds         as         they         tick         by.

*

The third poem is called Evening Pincer Movement. It is about wanting something you are not allowed to have and imagining how things would be if you could live a different life. The futile conclusion of the poem is that if we considered our lives panning out differently, we would realise that in that other life we would also consider our lives panning differently, and so on. This circular and constantly unfulfilled desire is framed by an extended military metaphor with the use of standard quatrains, internal rhyme and narrative progression.

Evening Pincer Movement

From a different field stood he as me

Yet we knew dusk would be our signal

To find to take to keep to want;

Our elusive objective now-protected.

Operation Nightingale (mine, unauthorised):

Cross the marron bentgrass, reach the mapped rouge

A dainty chateau; its burning grace,

Holy light, white under twilight.

With a hand I'd reach for it is my freedom,

With myself I'd advance but it is high treason,

Yet he across me is held by no reason

Like I am. And dusk is coming.

Such a short distance away; tender aurae,

Cleansing flames simpering in the evening,

Delicate tunes of hearths

That don’t exist out here.

Pristine walls, pale and freshly painted,

Narrow doorways and winding labyrinths,

Incense and quiet and in a sense; innocence,

The carefree spirit of a playful phonograph.

To occupy this heaven in enemy lines

I cannot. I have a home, not this one

Though this man across the field, it may be his

Just as tonight I know it’s not mine.

What is it worth the allegiance of one

When it takes away the truth of two?

He and me, across each other,

He, free, me, stuck.

Positioned at wrought iron, I stare through bars,

A wistful mind lacquering the metal;

What if I was you? What if I could move

And escape the mud for a second.

But what use is a second, permanence I keep away from here

Perhaps in his chateau he will look back at me

Through the dark-wood windows, knowing I have what he does not

And I, knowing he has what I do not.

It is the greatest dilemma I come to,

To wish to be oneself elsewhere...

To advance and in doing so retreat,

Knowing oneself elsewhere wishes to be me.

On the Importance of Factual Vigilance

Social platforms, as do their number of users, perpetually proliferate. As a result, people find more people with shared opinions and more people without. What I notice is that the former exceeds the latter. In both cases, the causes and yielded consequences are equally interesting. However, my focus is specifically on group activity and digital conditioning. Hopefully I can then quickly emphasise the importance of separating fact from feeling.

When people find likeminded individuals they form an associative relation. This boils down to an inherent homophily in terms of viewpoints i.e. the tendency of us liking those who agree with us. The accumulation in these relations leads to the formation of a group. With the formation of a group, there exists the possibility of negative group-related phenomena. On the internet this possibility is amplified to such an extent that it becomes a near certainty. This will be explored sporadically. In any case, there are three main reasons that cause us to disregard the truth.

1. We usually accept authority too quickly

Strength of feeling has proved to be much more important than facts and figures. People take cues from each other, and through the distortions of personal bias, uninformed opinion, misinterpretation and artificial interest, a cumulative error is born.

Accepting authority is as risky as it is easy. One can accept authority blindly, or through prejudices, or through mistaken judgements, or through other propensities. Cynicism is a quality imbued on a privileged few. Critical thinking, source analysis and other forms of verification are integral these days. Yet many people lack the capacity or prudence to fact check. Many people lap up what they are fed, and then regurgitate their basic levels of awareness onto the same palette from which they drew their ideas, leading to an endless cycle of tip-of-the-iceberg thinking. This negligent pretentiousness is obviously not universal, but remains consistent and palpable.

2. We are conditioned to bite-sized information

Pictures, videos, comments and updates do not form a representative view of anything. In fact, they are wholly unrepresentative due to their singular nature. But it just so happens that they are the most accessible and most understandable forms of media. Nobody wants to read a credited analysis of the Chilcot report: a CNN infographic will do. Nobody wants to research the nature of gun violence and race relations with an objective consideration of multiple factors and comparisons: 140 characters about injustice will do. What we are exposed to is a morsel of the truth, or often, a lie. Yet such fragments are what form our evidence. They are what back our opinions. They are the counterfeit ammunition we use to load our weapons of argument.

3. We are majoritarian         

                                                                                   

I would not use a majoritarian definition in its strictest sense. It is only what appears to us as the majority that seems correct. If you were on social media leading up to the Brexit vote, it seemed like Britain would vote Remain by a distinct majority. Yet this was a fake majority. There was no true representation of British sentiment. An entire demographic was ignored simply because they had little presence in media. We are constantly swept up in a torrent of external information. In such situations, phenomena like groupthink begin to take over. Instead of navigating the ocean, we let the current decide our destination.

All of this group activity, coupled with confrontation by unbowed dissenters, heightens a sense of belonging and cause. This can have a continuous effect of depreciation on validity and credibility. Effort and rationality is the only blade that can cut through a dense forest of malarkey.

Instead of reconciling differences, group activity has engendered more barriers now than ever seen before. The internet continues to usher in online activism and group feeling. We must remain self-reflective, self-critical and self-motivated. Everyone knows the internet is not gospel, but like many other instances in which we know something, the knowledge is not acted upon. Ignorance may be a virtue, but nowadays when ignorance results in division and death, it should not be a trait that we condone.

Commentary on My Mind at Six

“The past beats inside me like a second heart.” 

― John Banville

We often discover interesting memorabilia when we are hit with the sudden urge to clean and sort things only a few weeks before we sit important examinations. These curios are, of course, interesting in their intrinsic natures as relics of the past, and definitely not because they help us procrastinate. They trigger within us a variety of responses: amusement, embarrassment, nostalgia, lust, happiness, sadness. Their effects may be pronounced because we are a bit mentally unstable (supra important examinations), but I would argue the relationship between our reactions and our conditions is more to do with correlation than causation. Such flashes from the past must be explored regardless of circumstance. In this commentary I intend to create an anachronistic narrative between me and my former self. Such a narrative revolves around a decade-old artifact from my first years in a new school - an exercise book containing sentences which reveal the inner mental workings of an eccentric, if not slightly disturbed, six-year-old.

Source 1

There are many pathways of curiosity which we can take to explore this sentence.

Unfortunately none of them lead to a good place.

Lets begin with the obvious question: what is "tugged myself"? The trusty repository of definitions (Google) defines tug as: "pull (something) hard or suddenly". What is startling here is not the physically impossible feat of pulling oneself, but rather the fact that I must have thought of something similar to what is described in order to formulate the sentence itself. There was no copy pasting, no asking of parents or siblings for help: just pure independent thought. But that is not even the weird bit.

"I nearly choked"? What did I choke on? What was tugged that caused the choking? Was this self-punishment? What initiated it? A fit? No one will ever know. The only rational explanation that can be provided is that I pulled my tongue with my bare hands. Does that result in a near-choking experience? I have no idea. Try it and leave a comment below. 

Source 2

The teacher's red question mark says it all, doesn't it?

Being a good son and respecting your mother is quite a normal thing (bar some cultures), but the concept of yielding, of surrendering yourself to your mother, is reasonably disconcerting. Let's not stray to the realms of Mr. Freud and Oedipus for the safety of our respective consciences. Instead let's look at the essence of sacrificing autonomy. Doing so, for anyone, is just wrong, especially when you do it without questioning yourself.

But I did question myself, and that is the redeeming feature of this source. It is clear I developed notions of dominance, submission, the matriarchy and my own rights as an individual way before anyone else. So not everything's so bad!

Source 3

Yeah.

Clearly "I didn't know why" about many things, but this one takes home the title for the most creepy. As far as I am aware I am not a paranoid schizophrenic, but the hypersensitivity directly referenced in this is troubling, to say the least.

Aside from the wow-that's-actually-kind-of-messed-up factor, there is a glaring logical inconsistency in my thought process. Shadows are not really visible in the darkness, so clearly my IQ was yet to begin its exponential growth.

Source 4

This is actually one of the few written references which exist about my quasi-phobia of dogs.

But that is not what I want to focus on. The more interesting question is: why is it that puppies are not real but dogs are? At what point do puppies become dogs, thereby validating their realness? Is this transformation quick or slow, smooth or erratic? This perspective, of separating puppy from dog, must stem from how children are indirectly conditioned to believe that with age comes authority. Puppies, like children, are insignificant. They have not earned their place in the world. They were squeezed or cut out of their mothers to become useless pilfering organisms. On the other hand, dogs, like adults, are the movers and shakers. They are the hunters and gatherers. The providers and protectors.

In all seriousness, the general uselessness of the youth cannot be understated. Adults may tell us we are important, but as long as it is unclear whether or not teenagers are contributing to controlling the secret workings of the world via corporations and cults, I will refuse to believe it.

Source 5

I will not even blame myself for this one. The education system did this. I guess the imprint of a Western, capitalist and consumerist culture begins to form from an early age.

There are some intriguing things here. Firstly, why "white" sheep? I do not think I have ever seen a black sheep (even though copious reiterations of a certain nursery rhyme has ingrained the concept into my brain). Was it necessary to describe the colour of the sheep? Probably not, but I guess my superfluous authorial style was already starting to develop.

Apparently the only use for sheep (that are white) is their wool for making clothes. Who could have taught me such blasphemy? A vegetarian teacher? Sheep (especially young ones) have many other uses.

Source 6

Always dreaming, like, always having big dreams? Or always being stuck in a transitory, continuous space-time in which I cannot separate reality from fantasy? Probably the latter. In any case, the aberration in form, (the split between dreaming) must serve to emphasise the dichotomous nature of life and existence. I was aware of dualism and solipsism before philosophy was cool. Are you going to take that, IB TOK doers?

Source 7

This is another "I don't know ..." (Part IV), and it just gets better.

Considering the fact that the human sense of smell is constantly receiving information half of the time (the other half being when we exhale), it is not so far a stretch to say that one is continuously smelling something. However, there is a difference between purposely smelling something and getting a whiff of something. In this rhetorical question I appear to be doing the former. As much of a mystery that may be - of what I'm smelling and what it smells like - the more confusing thing is my continuous self-doubt. Why do I keep doing things without knowing why? Does this perhaps relate to my comments about living in an eternal dream state? Am I a schizo after all? Time will tell.

Source 8

Interesting syntax inversion. Anyways, clearly I had some sort of intuition behind this documentation of my body's response to cabbage. It may be that cabbage contains soporific chemicals, as do poppy seeds, and that is what caused me to act in such a way.

What I have now found out is that six-year-old me inadvertently uncovered a scientific goldmine through personal experience: according to wikiHow (the digital North Star for every lost and hormonal teenager) cabbage contains tryptophan, which releases "melatonin and serotonin for good sleep. It speeds up the onset of sleep, decreases the level of spontaneous awakenings during your sleep, and helps to increase the amount of refreshing sleep you get." If I had the powers of research at the age of six, surely such a finding would have resulted in a groundbreaking academic paper. How unfortunate.

Source 9

Let's just skim over the fact that I knew who Steve Erwin was and focus on this overwhelmingly confusing string of words. Why wasn't Steve Erwin careless, means why was he careful. So my question was: Why was Steve Erwin careful about the animals in the sea? This is one of those questions which is responded to not with speech but with a puzzled look - Steve Erwin just, cares. Why would you even ask that.

I must have held some sort of prejudice to sea animals because clearly I did not believe they deserved the same care as other creatures. Quite sad really. Anyways, rest in peace Stevie.

Source 10

Saved the longest one for last, and what a story this is.

What I admire about this comma-free journey of fifty-two words is that, as a little child, not only did I have the self-control to not kill myself in the story (a prospect which would have been much more exciting), but I also had the foresight to include a disclaimer at the end as a pre-planned resolution for any potential disputes. So considerate.

Another thing which is interesting is that this mini-story reveals a highly complex stream of associations. The given word to construct a sentence around was "bridge". How I managed to come up with what appears to be a microcosm of a short story is a great puzzle in itself.

*

It is odd to read your own words as if they were written by someone else. What is more odd is when these words comprise weird sentences. Upon reflection you realise that at the time you wrote them you did not think it was weird, out of place, inappropriate, uncalled for, offensive, or idiotic. In fact, the innocence is what makes childhood behaviour so amusing. 

The sentences I wrote reveal my thought processes, my likes and dislikes, my fears, my passions, my abilities - all of which would have been lost with the gradual decay of memory. Of course, there are some parts which probably ring alarm bells, and I wonder if I was ever probed about what I wrote.

Now, the only step left to complete the loop is to come back in ten years to this post, having forgotten all about it, and to read it with that new found sense of wonder, preferably at a time in which I should be doing something else, like preparing for important examinations...