Skip to main content

Narcissus

I sit in the centre of a black hole, thwarting
Light rays and science laws, charting
Joys and sorrows of the universe, mixing
Memory and desire and love, longing
To draw the universe to my core.

I am the nucleus of a singularity;
And my love surpasses infinity
Flowing from the plenitude of my being
And bounded, alas, by a black horizon.
Nothing can ever go beyond the horizon.

Love is a great conqueror.

Echo was the best of all
   that I ever drew to my core.
She was
   the distil of the finest mist
   the ardour of the deepest hope
   the sigh in the sweetest dream
   the pearl in the saddest tear

Echo was the best of all
   that I ever pinned with my love.

Hurled into the whirlpool
   that swirled inward
      from the brink to the core
         by the charm of my warmth
Echo was the best of all
   that ever pined for the best. 

I am the best.

I am the core of the fire
  that burns in the human heart
I am the heart of the calm
   that lies in the deepest ocean
I am the spirit that throbs
   in every waft of the air
I am the life that aches
   in every seed in the soil
I am the force that snaps
   the chains that bind the soul
I am alpha and omega
   the beginning and the end

I am Narcissus
Whose love is a whirlwind
That sweeps over the horizon
Drawing everything into my heart.
I love them all because they are all mine.
Mine.
Mine was she.

Echo was the best that I ever made mine.

Echo is now a sound
   that haunts the horizon
      unable to snap the cords
         stretched tight across her breast
            by my love.

Love is a great transmuter.

I long to draw the universe to my core
And hold it in a tight hug
And mumble gently,
“I love you!  I love you!”


Notes
1.      The similarity of the first stanza to the opening lines of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land is not coincidental.
2.      The original Narcissus of Greek mythology spurned the love of Echo, because he was too much in love with himself. The Narcissus of this poem loves Echo, but he loves the whole universe, longs to hold the universe in his embrace.
3.  The poem was written more than twenty years ago, about a year after my marriage. 
4.  I'm posting it again after so many years simply because the poem has been rising in my consciousness again and again these days with a meaning quite different from what I had in mind when I originally wrote it. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Adventures of Toto as a comic strip

  'The Adventures of Toto' is an amusing story by Ruskin Bond. It is prescribed as a lesson in CBSE's English course for class 9. Maggie asked her students to do a project on some of the lessons and Femi George's work is what I would like to present here. Femi converted the story into a beautiful comic strip. Her work will speak for itself and let me present it below.  Femi George Student of Carmel Public School, Vazhakulam, Kerala Similar post: The Little Girl

Florentino’s Many Loves

Florentino Ariza has had 622 serious relationships (combo pack with sex) apart from numerous fleeting liaisons before he is able to embrace the only woman whom he loved with all his heart and soul. And that embrace happens “after a long and troubled love affair” that lasted 51 years, 9 months, and 4 days. Florentino is in his late 70s when he is able to behold, and hold as well, the very body of his beloved Fermina, who is just a few years younger than him. She now stands before him with her wrinkled shoulders, sagged breasts, and flabby skin that is as pale and cold as a frog’s. It is the culmination of a long, very long, wait as far as Florentino is concerned, the end of his passionate quest for his holy grail. “I’ve remained a virgin for you,” he says. All those 622 and more women whose details filled the 25 diaries that he kept writing with meticulous devotion have now vanished into thin air. They mean nothing now that he has reached where he longed to reach all his life. The

Unromantic Men

Romance is a tenderness of the heart. That is disappearing even from the movies. Tenderness of heart is not a virtue anymore; it is a weakness. Who is an ideal man in today’s world? Shakespeare’s Romeo and Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Devdas would be considered as fools in today’s world in which the wealthiest individuals appear on elite lists, ‘strong’ leaders are hailed as nationalist heroes, and success is equated with anything other than traditional virtues. The protagonist of Colleen McCullough’s 1977 novel, The Thorn Birds [which sold more than 33 million copies], is torn between his idealism and his natural weaknesses as a human being. Ralph de Bricassart is a young Catholic priest who is sent on a kind of punishment-appointment to a remote rural area of Australia where the Cleary family arrives from New Zealand in 1921 to take care of the enormous estate of Mary Carson who is Paddy Cleary’s own sister. Meggy Cleary is the only daughter of Paddy and Fiona who have eight so

Yesterday

With students of Carmel Margaret, are you grieving / Over Goldengrove unleaving…? It was one of my first days in the eleventh class of Carmel Public School in Kerala, the last school of my teaching career. One girl, whose name was not Margaret, was in the class looking extremely melancholy. I had noticed her for a few days. I didn’t know how to put the matter over to her. I had already told the students that a smiling face was a rule in the English class. Since Margaret didn’t comply, I chose to drag Hopkins in. I replaced the name of Margaret with the girl’s actual name, however, when I quoted the lines. Margaret is a little girl in the Hopkins poem. Looking at autumn’s falling leaves, Margaret is saddened by the fact of life’s inevitable degeneration. The leaves have to turn yellow and eventually fall. And decay. The poet tells her that she has no choice but accept certain inevitabilities of life. Sorrow is our legacy, Margaret , I said to Margaret’s alter ego in my class. Let

Octlantis

I was reading an essay on octopuses when friend John walked in. When he is bored of his usual activities – babysitting and gardening – he would come over. Politics was the favourite concern of our conversations. We discussed politics so earnestly that any observer might think that we were running the world through the politicians quite like the gods running it through their devotees. “Octopuses are quite queer creatures,” I said. The essay I was reading had got all my attention. Moreover, I was getting bored of politics which is irredeemable anyway. “They have too many brains and a lot of hearts.” “That’s queer indeed,” John agreed. “Each arm has a mind of its own. Two-thirds of an octopus’s neurons are found in their arms. The arms can taste, touch, feel and act on their own without any input from the brain.” “They are quite like our politicians,” John observed. Everything is linked to politics in John’s mind. I was impressed with his analogy, however. “Perhaps, you’re r