Let us go then, you and I… Let us go then…
Tired? Surprisingly, we have been saying this
a hundred years. It haunts. The hallucination
continues. No, it leap-frogs. Eliot was dead before
I was born, before we were born. How is it we can
understand him? How is it that line, those lines
from an imagined Prufrock, a self-laughing,
self-diminishing bull frog, self-muttering semi-bald,
semi-profound verses, can leap-frog the time barrier
or death pond-mirror to mesmerize us. Sink us deep,
deeper into unseen depths… Where are the dimly lit,
ungrammatically lighted rooms, hazy, warped, sex-galloping
in a half-muzzled, semi-timeless way, trying not to remember
that thing called ‘guilt’, extracting confessions from protagonists
kicking inside poems, psycho-analyzing a bull frog and in turn
being psycho-scrutinized. They surrender and release,
almost symbolic like a mini-Big Bang. It implodes the glasses
and nano-mind-mirrors sustaining this world. The ego cracks.
Splinters like magic shows into ribbons of rainbow. The fragrance
of brownish nipples, whitish curves, butterfly loves freezes in mid-air
for seconds. The aroma and closed-eyed glimpses seem to dissipate
in slower and slower seconds, perhaps funnelled into a different kind
of memory. Not sure whether they are real or unreal. Only know
we try to act heroic. Sweats remain. Telling the shaded stories of our hearts,
trying to escape into the lingering perfumes that blend
with our odor, guilt, fears, ecstasies, amid half-speaking concerns
about burning a big hole in hidden pockets …
Soon the mall closes. Everybody is gone. Only a pillow of womanly mists
in our recollection. Soft, refused to be forgotten, trying to yawn without tomorrow.
Now, always now, vanishing over the fleshly mounds
of fair-skinned valleys. Evaporate and return as after-sex dew drops
dripping from the half-smiling, half-angst-shadowed lips of a dream.
Perhaps images of beauty, joy, innocence, masked truths
teasing us when we projected after-images on them.
They hide and keep hiding behind little smiles and huge
laughs behind our backs. We comfort ourselves. We are all haunted
by evanescent skin-deep good looks, afraid of wrinkles, of being semi-bald.
Sooner or later, our bones are placed on that platter.
Glimpse deeper. Another kind release planted by our Creator –
atheists and skeptics laugh. Bluntly said, we treasure this escape Route
when we step across the abyss of fear and find it shallow,
like a weightless cloud under our feet
that hike across high hills, forsaking our earthly
Achilles heels, sweat-stained, sleep-kissing,
angels-caressing when we learn to call ourselves
a bull frog. Hope Eliot doesn’t mind this centennial string
of celebrations – throwing sparkles on some of his immortal
lines. Well, we never get pass that first line…