I had a deal with the woman who ran the tea shop: to fix a vintage guitar of hers, and as I was fixing it, she was to pay me and deduct my drinks off the repair price when I came into the tea shop at night.
But then she told her partner in the tea shop business about our dealings - her separated and declared independent husband, and then after she spilled the beans on to his lap - he then stuck his nose into her lap and whispered: “Cut!”
(. . . I know how you feel but this must be said)
So one night, when I showed up to have a drink and collect some pay, bringing along with me the vintage guitar that I’d been working on, to show her how the progress of the restoration project was going, and of which I was very proud of and knew to be worthy of compensation, she refused to pay me anything, and tried instead to get me to do all the work for her on account of her femininity, which I was supposed to adore and bow down to on bended knee and all, and be a gentleman about.
And so it seems, that her separated and declared independent husband had told her: that if he ever went to guitar making school and worked on and off at this trade for 30 years afterwards that he would have never charged her a dime for his work and would have instead done everything for her on account of her being a female man of the solar moon earth abiding in the province of Andalucía who was off work at midnight.
And therefore gentlemen of the jury: I was a scoundrel and he the better man.
“Court adjourned!”
That was it and that was the end and good-bye!
I’m out - I graduated - and am born again a _________________?
. . . Now I see the light and why I was too big for that place.
And now I’m very lonely, very isolated, and out of it again, and I feel like I’ve just robbed the Wells Fargo Bank and am trying to be cool . . .
Whew! . .
No one knows anything at all . . .
It’s over.                                 

Just like being a rolling stone with NO MOSS!
But then it started to dawn on me . . .
That I know some people who’ve told me that they’ve remembered their births . . .
But me, only back to about 3 years old when my little brother was born.
So what do I know about birth then?
And how can I be fully conscious if I don’t remember everything and see things for what they truly are?
(Readers often ask)
The scenario is always something like this:
Things are fine, just fine, warm, cozy and friendly and cruising right along on an even keel and life is balanced and life is harmonious and La - Dee - Da - and then all of a sudden - Boom!
I’m alone!
Out in the cold.
And it sucks! . .
And so do I.
As that’s what newborns are especially good at.
All this bad luck and dems bluz . . .
So I think it’s about time I add the right tincture to these blues - to turn the color right.
It’s about time I gave up my suffering, and the lazy and unenlightened perspective that there’s something in this world called “evil”.
It seems that lots of times all the suffering’s in the eyes anyway . . .
And in the way we see things.  
Yeah . . . I don’t think I’ve ever been thrown out of anywhere in my life, but have graduated and been born again on a higher level about 50 times or so instead.
And I was just reading in Dan Brown’s book the other day that ‘Freemasons have 33 degrees of initiation’ . . .
Let’s face it - everybody hates me and wants me the hell out of their lives!
And I’m laughing my head off! . .
Or was laughing my head off . . .
Birth is a strange thing . . .
(For a guy my age)
Maybe the strange thing about it is that you’re all alone -
And however you see it is the way it is.
And it can look very, very, black and very, very, bleak and stark and naked and alone and like The Last Survivor of an Ancient Race that Once Lived on this Earth Is a Baby!
Well . . . tch . . . whew . . . I’m all alone now . . . It’s my own fault . . . I probably deserved it . . . and had it coming . . . now there’s no one to complain to anymore . . . 
Oh - yes there is!!
“Ma!!!!!!!”
I’ve just been thrown out of one world -
And landed in the next.
And I’ll probably never make it home . . . again.
“MA!!!!!!!!!”
“I just shit in my pants and it’s all your fault!”
“And I’m not going to clean it up . . .”
“ANYMORE!”
<><><><>o<>0<>o<><><><>
 
How does it all start - this tension leading up to birth?
Well, (we all know now how it starts), but the tension afterwards seems to fall under the law of: There’s only room enough in this town for 1 of us, or: 2 objects of the same size and same type can not fill the same space, with both laws being aspects of the greater law of: like repels like.
One has to either: throw the other object out or destroy it to attain unity and wholeness, or consume and digest the other object to attain unity and wholeness, or both actions always occur simultaneously, though this isn’t so easy to perceive . . .
Therefore the law is 1.
2 is a crime and against the law.
 
For example: I’ve recently been thrown out of a tea shop I love . . .
As this tea shop’s full of artists, after hours, a bit outside of space and time, and so hip it seems like a magical oasis in the middle of a hot, dry, and arid desert.
Or like a light on in the middle of the night in an empty city - Is that where they all are?
I liked it there.
It was Youngsville.
And then all of a sudden - “Boom!” and I was out.

I think I hold a record of some sort for being thrown out of just about everywhere that I’ve ever been in my life, and being thrown out of so many places has given rise to many a thought and a pondering . . .
And one day I thought, that I hadn’t really been being thrown out of all of these places, it was just that I’d gotten too big and outgrown them instead.
It wasn’t that I’d failed - but had graduated and earned a certain degree.
But it always felt so weird . . .
So much scorn, so much contempt, forced out as tension ran high.
A force-field with magnets in like-repels-like position parted our ways then said “good bye”.
I thought of the time I was thrown out of College, at the end of my Freshman year . . .
Was I a drop out?
A failure?
My new eyes said: “No - you were a very bright student and graduated way ahead of your class - 3 years early!”
And now that I think of it, it is called: ‘The Early College’ . . .
So I started to look at the incidents in my life that were similar, with hopefully new and refreshingly clear eyes . . .
I started to look again at all the times I’d been left behind, thrown out in the trash, scorned, disdained, shunned, and abandoned, cut-off, and left out in the cold . . .
What - a - feeling . . .
Dread . . .
Alone in an empty world . . .
An empty world full of strangers . . .
And I’ve gone through this life being thrown out of cafés, restaurants, schools, camps, people’s lives, families, towns, countries, conversations, cliques, clubs, and Cyberspace to boot!
And it feels just like:

Tags: Arunima Dasgupta Poetry

Tags: Arunima Dasgupta Poetry

I am a child of a lost era,
the ancestor of one not yet found.
I am the warrior of battles better left un-fought,
            a soldier of wars that have not been.
I am the author of a thousand plots not written,
            a singer of stories unsought.
I am an artist of wondrous paintings un-seen,
            the master of my untapped potential.
I am the servant of my destiny,
            and the Captain of my Fate.
I am a seeker of things inexistent,
            of legends, myths, and fables.
A man who’s mind is on the ground,
            while his heart is in the heavens.
A believer of things un-seen by others,
            and witness to none himself.
Someone who watches the suffering of the world,
            and cries out in confusion, “Why?”
“Who am I,” you asked me again, “my reply is the same,”
“I am the Dreamer.”     

 
I wish I may,
 I wish I might,
 To see it all, mountains, canyons,
 Mighty oceans and gentle streams.
 To grasp by the hair, our fleeting dreams.
To know not our limits, but only the desires of our souls realized.
To know no ends, merely new beginnings.
To love for all that we are worth, to find the joy in an eagle’s flight.
To fight the good fight.
 To blaze a trail through the dark night.
Mankind’s great delight.
I wish I may,
I wish I might.

If the world became a desert
I would dance to your song of sighs
And drink in your golden tears
Letting desires roam unbidden in my mind
I whisper these thoughts to the wind
In the hope of my voice
Tumbling into your ears
"Euphorah, euphorah…" I call out to
The cloud-laden sky, my voice lost
In the mist of misunderstanding
I pick up the shattered pieces of my dreams
And scatter them to the wind
 
Suffocated by the smoke of reality
You claw at the air
Reaching, always reaching for what
You barely hope to dare is out there
A wistful soul
You paint colors with music
Head thrown back majestically,
Marble neck bared to the world,
Eyes closed in ecstasy,
I wonder what colors you see
Perhaps a kaleidoscope of dreams and memories
Colliding, merging, mashing, then
Straightening back out again
 
Perfumed by longing,
Tendrils of music catch my wrists and caress my heart
Pulling me farther and farther in
I am following into a silken web
Hoping for the spider's gaze to fall on me
Lulled to sleep by the music of the night
The soft strumming and molten notes
With swaying hips and smiling lips
I close my eyes to the sun
Opening myself up to the colors of your dreams
And you’re rippling, smoldering essence
Flowing from your music which makes me think that
Perhaps my heart wouldn't ache so
If my words could soothe someone's mind
As your euphorah has soothed mine

Tags: Arunima Dasgupta Poetry