A Ballad in Three Parts: The Single Minded Gatekeper (II)

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Part 2

So, this was it? The end of the road, the search was finished?

With confidence and strength both severely diminished,

Nothing achieved except perhaps an ability to précis refined.

“Um….did he leave a forwarding address, where did he go?”

The guard shook the helmet this time, “Sorry wouldn’t know,

And couldn’t tell if I did, security would be undermined.”

Again I came away empty handed, this time there was no task

To baffle my brain, no unanswerable questions to ask,

No points to argue, and no-one to argue them with.

The spark-less poetry now dropped all pretence at lyricism

Days and nights swung by in a hollow arc of cynicism,

Reward for hard work seemed really just a myth.

The search for both my poetry and poet had met the deadest end,

I could see no way forward, no way that I could pretend

A blind alley would bloom with a thousand avenues at some holy hour.

And yet, that end wasn’t so blind, there was dawning appreciation

Of the process of poetry, essentially an act of creation

Spontaneous and often beyond the poets’ conscious power.

By the strangest byways even an empty search can lead

To some nugget of knowledge you never imagined you’d need.

I had acquired some rough understanding without being aware.

My rigid mind, never having to open to futility

Never having to capitulate to its inevitability,

For the first time saw through anguish to the patience in despair.

And then of course life has this trick it plays for me quite often

It throws me a crumb just when I think I have no further option.

While roaming the streets on some boring inane household chore

I spotted the guard unguarded, in equally mundane moments,

Quite different without his stern helmet and other deterrents,

Almost like someone I knew once, so spoke to him once more.

“Did you find your poet?” he asked, after the prelims were over,

“Afraid not,” I replied, the smiles wiped off, suddenly sober.

“Why do you want to meet him? Why make a poet your life’s goal?”

I tried to explain, “It’s like brushing against a porcupine,

You are quite sure to pick up at least a single spine,

And I know that that scratch will let the poetry into my soul.”

“Oh, you want to pick his brains, borrow his skill

You think his writing will rub off on you, is that the drill?”

The man had known him and his poetry but knew nothing of him.

“You must have stood so many times in his presence,

Must have heard him too, how can you not grasp the essence,

It’s not about writing at all, how can you be so dim?”

“Poetry is not about writing? Now that’s news to me!

Please explain what is it that you mean exactly?”

It isn’t easy to explain things to someone who stands at a gate,

Screening out outsiders, running one-liner contests

To put an exact value on the desirability of guests,

And I wasn’t sure that I wanted or could win this debate.

“Poetry isn’t about writing an image fragrant with a simile,

Or sculpting words into some refined and delicate filigree,

Or chiselling a one-line précis,“ this dig I couldn’t resist.

“So what is it then? It’s not much use to repeat

What it isn’t, makes far better sense to complete

And add what it is to your somewhat bizarre list.”

“Poetry is listening, it is silence, letting silences engage

All your senses in a thrilling embrace far beyond language.

When even a crisp one-liner becomes redundant,

And emotions just spill over with no more reason

Beyond being freed from their mean and wordy prison.

Where tears and laughter arm in arm leave the battlefront.”

He looked at me as if I was mad, then flashed a smile,

“I have to go now, it’s been nice chatting this while,

Come and see me tomorrow at the gate, I’ll see what I can do.

Listening to silence indeed. God, the forms of insanity,

That poet and his mad fans will be the death of me.

I’ll see if I can get your poet to meet up once with you.”

The next day I hesitantly retraced my steps to the gate

There was no guard, no-one frisked me or asked me to wait.

He obviously hadn’t meant a word, why did I never understand?!

But I couldn’t just turn back, not when I was this close.

I walked past the garden into the house. The gatekeeper rose,

“Come listen to my silence,” he smiled and took my hand.

......to be continued......stay tuned for the final part.....

Nilanjana Bose

About the Author :

Passionate about words, I have written and published a collection of short Bengali fiction, and am working on my second book. I have weird ways of measuring my life out in word counts and pages. I believe books, not clothes, maketh men, and women.Read my stuff here and then come find me at "Madly-in-Verse".

4 comments so far..What are your thoughts?

HusnaMarch 20, 2012 4:30 AM
Great poetry Nilanjana.Following this poem from first part and I like your storytelling.♥ -Husna,Karachi
Nilanjana BoseMarch 20, 2012 10:21 AM
Good to know that, Husna, thank you. The final part coming soon, but then there will be other stories to tell :)
Andy DavidMarch 22, 2012 7:44 AM
Hello.
This I'm really enjoying this ballad. I hope there's a happy ending...I'm a romantic & always believe in endings that represent love (smile). Off to read Pt.3.
Thanks for sharing.
prima DonnaMay 26, 2012 7:39 PM
"Poetry is listening, it is silence..."

"Come listen to my silence."

wow. :)
wouldn't this ballad be yet the greatest marriage of poetry and words. :)