A Brutalist Revitalisation
Did I convert you?
Have you given up on your run for power, control, the throne?
Do you not anymore desire to tower tall, formidable, above ghettos and chawls?
Was the grit not reinforced? Was it a mere facade – tiled – concrete-clad? Did the interiors rebel to be thus ornamented?
Why are you
un-cladding? Has it become an eye sore? Do you want me to paint it – blue/ black/ red? in lime green perhaps? or a baby pink?
Did life bubbling in the shanties around, stir you to face your own decay?
What is it?
Have you yielded to the curves of the heart? Have you killed the brute? Have you
gone soft?
Are you weary of being weather-proof? Does it do your soul no good? Do you
crave for the rain to stain a paint? Will you let the resident whitewash afresh?
Are you letting yourself revitalised? Will you
resist the lure to gentrify?
Peace, I am sorry,
whenever you drop by, I don’t make you feel at
home. I have sort of made peace with it; so
should you and accept it is as the norm.
Can’t tidy up for your sake. Can’t stow stuff away
in the shelf, for they tumble down once
you have left, and I am left once again
with a new pile of mess to strew, to arrange. So
I can say sorry, and we may start afresh, again and
again, but don’t ask me to change my decor for
your sake, for an ephemeral presence.
Yours truly, Sanity
But Peace, you should know,
you are the one and only, my truly; the
Inspite of the Distance amor, beyond borders, beyond
perpetuity; the fate the wait of irises, to
dilate; the breath the breeze bears in its air; the backend
refrain of my solitudes; the velvety navy suede of the
Once in a Blue Moon, I Wear It gown; the summoned, to
stave off the chasm ‘tween me and Insanity.
Oh! Let it be unrequited, the warmth the charm.
I am truly sorry, yet I cannot my
abode, redecorate for your love to whet.
Truly. Yours forever, Sanity
Oh Peace, whenever I start to believe,
you are an illusion, a figment, you crawl in my sleep to
cuddle – Do you?? love only my vulnerability? If you
must leave, just leave! Don’t lurk in the passage, my
shadows are deep and I – How I!! worry
they’ll cast on your pearlite! But Peace, at
least, let me know what it is about Insanity that you
choose her so. Are you?? so enamoured by the
painted pretty? Does her hair cascade? Do you??
have a thing for them dead cells? If you
tell me that your peace be in my disappearance, I’ll
extinguish. Yours surreal Sanity
Not For the Grapevine – The Sky Was Caving In
The hush of stillness that we alone
could hear; and
magnesium-loaded lightning bolts that
to bloated egos at parlance in glittering halls
appeared –
a mere flicker – cracked
the sky open
along its bursting seams; and
silence – gone stale,
poured acid down
an asphalt skyway.
But what did it matter? Who
did it concern?
People –
power-inebriated,
involuted,
feigned innocent deafness and remained
inside sound-insulated walls, below
thick-skinned ceilings. What
would it take to wear insouciance off?
How high should the decibel be – for
a buzz to p e n e t r a t e the grapevine that
the sky was caving in?
A Vainglory Song
Oh, hail the emperors of the world!
Effulgent in their chains of gold –
Ruled many-a border and beyond;
Rode lightnings with sonorous resound;
Shook the mighty, kingdoms, many-a fort;
Brought piddling minions under yoke;
Won horses, women, treasures home;
Emerged from the ravaged, war-torn –
Resplendent in armours of gold;
Rightfully, their legacies awe the world!
What words or musings inspire more
Than theirs, etched on walls of gore!
What strength, what power, what control
That harnessed such puissant souls!
What values gathered, virtue dazzled –
Led them free from human shackles!
Oh, such music, poetry in each stance –
All earthly creatures deemed to dance!
Whose splendour are on higher rungs?
Who else to lead us right from wrong?
What others deserve a glory song?
A Maybe…?
It clicked.
Like two lights flick
on & on
and
off & off
on…
&
off…
off…
&
on…
in two
urban lonesome lofts – an astral plane
across;
a simple message, yet, cryptic without
a Morse code;
a green light in sight without meeting of
sights;
psithurism of ardent quivering thoughts
within and without;
globules of words float in the space, flaring
the senses, touching endearingly
& coarse, of course, without…
a presence in absence & in the audacity of
presently absent;
a complexity emerging from an obvious;
words wriggling to form a verse,
verses struggling to string a poem;
a wonder to ponder to sonder;
a waiting – from seconds to minutes to
hours to years, and for
the light to be either
On.
or
Off.
C. Oulens is an ex-academician and a budding poet, based out of N.Delhi, India. A nature lover and keen observer of human behaviour, she writes at the confluence of human emotions, relations & conflicts; and the natural & built environment. Her poetry revolves around radical questions, delving into sub-surface emotions and philosophical reflections interspersed with wit and satire. She is greatly inspired by the poetry and/or prose of Maya Angelou, Rainer Maria Rilke, Emily Dickinson, Mary Oliver, William C. William, F. Dostoyevsky, Franz Kafka, Elif Shafak, among others.
She has been sharing some of her works on social media such as BlueSky and Threads. Her poetry has been published/ accepted for publication in The Broken Spine Art in their “Beautiful Little Fools” and "Rites & Trials" anthology; The Starbeck Orion, Verseve “Butterflies” anthology, and SciFanSat. Her haikus are published in Heterodox Haiku, The Solitary Daisy, failed haiku, and Folk Ku. Post resignation from her academic career, she dedicates her time mostly to reading and writing poetry, gardening, and photography.
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