“My Mortal Body Chasing After The Wind
but Poetry, which is my Soul is Immortal”
What is it? Why is it? What is in writing poetry? Poetry is my only mine, my ownership, my ade, my thoughts, my dreams, my life, my love, my death, my anger, my sadness, my joy, my complaints, the only inheritance my only God has given me, that will be immortal, poetry is my soul.
Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun. Ecclesiastes 2:11 NIV
One night, about 7:00pm, i was feeling so exhausted, my couch was so temptingly inviting, i slouched… my thoughts travelled: my body, ahhhh… my body that i care so much__”why why do i work so hard to earn money,” my self-reply was, “to afford your wants your needs caprices luxuries, and your narcissistic mania… to be one, as rich beautiful famous!” __yet i had not the time to think farther, i have fallen asleep, but my mind, for some reason, continue its exploration…
I am on a dream… in a philosophical argument with Dr Jernail S Aanand and Philo Malize King, where i am on the premise that, ‘my body, my human body, would spare no hard work to earn money, to afford the wants the needs the caprices the luxuries, the narcissistic mania… to be one, as rich beautiful famous… yet my body, that work so hard to attain all those, is not the body as such it is for me; but instead it is for the others… i can never see my face, the face i cream lazer mask to look beautiful. my eyes my nose my ears my lips, my bum, __i can only reconcile my consciousness of all parts of my body, through my consciousness of the other bodies… i am limited as to the sensory reflection of pain of joy, and though i can see and touch my hands my feet, my breast, yet… i am not capable of dissecting its existential existence, it is only my doctor who could do it __the whole of my body, from the skins to all the internal organs inside me, are only for the others…
“I conclude that my body is constituted exactly like all those which have shown to me on the dissection table or all of which have seen coloured drawings in books.” Jean Paul Sartre pp 327 “The Body” Being And Nothingness.
Then… i am awaken by the shouting fire alarm… my unit is in hazy smoke! __i love to cook and i enjoy eating, but most often than not, it’s burnt to ashes… to nothingness__ of course i am not on the verge of dementia, knock on wood, nooooooooo, i rebuked it!
Once, the casserole steams its sniffy aromatic Indian spices, lining my room with its lemon-rosemary mists, my empty stomach starts to reacts with such excitement… sends crumbling noises, crouching as if it hasn’t been kissed with food for ages… my paddle-spoon is but a foot away from its scoopful hunger grab, when…
my lover whispers…
that play tricks on my earlobes…
that drag me
to the height of summer
my whirling skirt
in saucy drifts with the wind
flakes my breast of its desire.
Watches of time burn my many cookings not once not twice but many times… and will continue to burn, every time my laptop calls __these whispering echoes surging like pouring rains __ transpose me into an intoxicating trance wasting not a second, no hunger no sleep no lover, no bath, not even a flood of cash could ever bother me.
What is it? Why is it? What is in writing poetry? Poetry is my only mine, my ownership, my ade, my thoughts, my dreams, my life, my love, my death, my anger, my sadness, my joy, my complaints, the only inheritance my only God has given me, My Mortal Body Chasing After The Wind, but Poetry, which is my Soul is Immortal”
ade caparas manilah
friday 11:48pm 13 april 2018
sydney nsw australia