Into the Dravidian’s Eye

[symphony]

I want to lie in a different warmth than this.
Not this, this rips you off your soul,
this kills and leaves destitute, so in the end you hold
not a mind to wonder or dream or seek or sense,
but a bare feeling of an eye that will only see and not realize.




There’s music, somewhere far,
somewhere where the night is its busied city lights.
And here, a blue wind, and its own serene song.
But all this, this blue, this difference in
the blue of metal and the blue of night,
all this falls too small, too small for what I see.
Smaller yet, is my being:
helplessly buried in the warmth of livid flesh,
as though the heights of my own self have
fallen too low before my own eminence.




Tonight I could have no other organs, none but eyes--
eyes that breathe and are pregnant with sighs
in the candid air and the music of the night.
Let Orpheus play for life of Eurydice,
while I pluck this eye from my palm
and place it in the quiet and warm of the bed.
Here its stare is stilled. All else around is a lie.




And stilled too-- the stare from far off behind
the forest of eyes, and shadows, and blurred bloodlines,
he who is not so blue in his gaze but dark,
a dark endless shape, where none of us can find
the frame, the focus, nor a figure of sorts—
just the unfailing force and freedom
to birth a thousand eyes, to lock in this gaze,
me and him, and those who’ve been between.




This flows timeless as of now.
The cry of a crow that has no sleep
doesn’t tear into the mind and rebuke.
My stare sojourns around and passes by
other unseeing stares. This doesn’t hold,
does not withdraw, just enter the space
of countless countenances.




Just as you could see an eye inside of an eye
and flow lost in the endless windows inside,
so is his eye on mine- dead and alive
at the same infinitesimal time,
when you enter his world of eyes –
blacks in whites in a tireless rhyme.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I can't claim to understand all of this but neither do I doubt for one minute the authenticity of your vision. So many wonderful images and lines here but I was especially struck by these:



as though the heights of my own self have
fallen too low before my own eminence.

although I must confess to not understanding them.

And I admire these:


The cry of a crow that has no sleep
doesn’t tear into the mind and rebuke.

[RG57]

Woderful piece of poetry, I enjoyed reading it very much.

[symphony]

Thank you both, for reading and commenting. This was born in a state of fever at the dead of night, and i did doubt its clarity. I was, no wonder, carried away, and ranted on. I wasnt sure about posting it here, but my blog page in my.opera community was under construction yesterday and i had to post it somewhere for my peace of mind, plus i havent posted a poem here in quite a long time. So i gulped and posted. :p

In case this poem becomes too obscure for anyone, i'm always around, to explain if i can. :)

[Virgil]

Well, this is quite a remarkable poem. The imagery of the eye is overwhelming as you manipulate the image to such intensity. I love it this Symph. I take it Dravidian is your language root? I take the poem as an unhappiness with your state of being. I've been waitng for a poem from you and this does not disappoint. Whew. Powerful. The only suggestion for improvement might be the first stanza. This part seems tentative and a little unsure: "Not this, this rips you off your soul,/this kills and leaves destitute, so in the end you hold"

So many good places to find original language, but I'll highlight this stanza as my favorite:


There’s music, somewhere far,
somewhere where the night is its busied city lights.
And here, a blue wind, and its own serene song.
But all this, this blue, this difference in
the blue of metal and the blue of night,
all this falls too small, too small for what I see.
Smaller yet, is my being:
helplessly buried in the warmth of livid flesh,
as though the heights of my own self have
fallen too low before my own eminence.

A "blue wind, and its own serene song" Love that so much. :)

[dibyendra]

There’s music, somewhere far,
somewhere where the night is its busied city lights.
And here, a blue wind, and its own serene song.
But all this, this blue, this difference in
the blue of metal and the blue of night,
all this falls too small, too small for what I see.
Smaller yet, is my being:
helplessly buried in the warmth of livid flesh,
as though the heights of my own self have
fallen too low before my own eminence.

Tonight I could have no other organs, none but eyes--
eyes that breathe and are pregnant with sighs
in the candid air and the music of the night.
Let Orpheus play for life of Eurydice,
while I pluck this eye from my palm
and place it in the quiet and warm of the bed.
Here its stare is stilled. All else around is a lie.



Symphony, it is a very nice poem having many vibrant imagery. Thanks for sharing the lovely piece. I especially liked the two stanza which worked for me. I hope you're fine at the moment.

[Soul of Silence]

Oh my god. This is so deep. It tears into the mind and causes me to think for a second of your vision. I love it... It's surreal yet at the same time it seems to have it's own understanding of reality... It oozes with brilliance...


Love always,
Soul of Silence

[firefangled]

I want to lie in a different warmth than this.
Not this, this rips you off your soul,
this kills and leaves destitute, so in the end you hold
not a mind to wonder or dream or seek or sense,
but a bare feeling of an eye that will only see and not realize.




There’s music, somewhere far,
somewhere where the night is its busied city lights.
And here, a blue wind, and its own serene song.
But all this, this blue, this difference in
the blue of metal and the blue of night,
all this falls too small, too small for what I see.
Smaller yet, is my being:
helplessly buried in the warmth of livid flesh,
as though the heights of my own self have
fallen too low before my own eminence.




Tonight I could have no other organs, none but eyes--
eyes that breathe and are pregnant with sighs
in the candid air and the music of the night.
Let Orpheus play for life of Eurydice,
while I pluck this eye from my palm
and place it in the quiet and warm of the bed.
Here its stare is stilled. All else around is a lie.




And stilled too-- the stare from far off behind
the forest of eyes, and shadows, and blurred bloodlines,
he who is not so blue in his gaze but dark,
a dark endless shape, where none of us can find
the frame, the focus, nor a figure of sorts—
just the unfailing force and freedom
to birth a thousand eyes, to lock in this gaze,
me and him, and those who’ve been between.




This flows timeless as of now.
The cry of a crow that has no sleep
doesn’t tear into the mind and rebuke.
My stare sojourns around and passes by
other unseeing stares. This doesn’t hold,
does not withdraw, just enter the space
of countless countenances.




Just as you could see an eye inside of an eye
and flow lost in the endless windows inside,
so is his eye on mine- dead and alive
at the same infinitesimal time,
when you enter his world of eyes –
blacks in whites in a tireless rhyme.

Some poems are truly visions rather than compositions. I believe this is one of those. I got the feeling that I get from long dreams that we try and recall in segments like the structure of your poem.

Symphony, you have a sense with words that assembles them using their innate music. This did not stumble anywhere, the rythm of each line justified the one before it while leading me to the one to follow.

Stanza 2 is my favorite and very sophisticated in its thought and language.

I too am not sure I know the meaning of each line or stanza. The whole seems like a struggle between the flesh and spirit, the seen and what is possible to see.

I like it and its sounds marvelous out loud.