A man came into a ramshackle cottage.
He was like a darkness
A hushed night was ascribed on his face
There was red bag hanging from his shoulder
The man offered me my identity card
Which he pulled out from the bag
He said weeping
Hiding his face in the dense forest,—
“The weeping is also an art”
An art behind the art.
Original Assamese poem Translated by Pabitra Das.
Enter a childhood
of pulp reading, colorful
hero pages, rayguns,
space operas, and more
That is the place I go
now in my stressed state:
To my relative’s upper
room to play with his
giant plastic representations
of science fiction dreams.
All day
she sops slop
listens to ugly
men
making vulgar
remarks
But she gets
home
hits the keyboard
or pencils
in notes
becomes
a queen.
The end seems never far away
always just over the hill near
the rainbow I will pursue when
I find time and the time is right
The end is where my journey will
truly start. It is the place where
the mystery will overpower my black
blinkers and I will bolt from the cruel
man in the cart, driving me
by shrill yell and crack of mad whip,
far away from the end, so far
away from where I strain to be
When I find this slope’s sure footing
I will bolt over this hill then
gallop true toward that rainbow fast as
I am able. For I am soon
ready to begin and I am
certain the end is just over
the hill.
More at https://allpoetry.com/Jace_Loring.
Cartoon Nelson
takes me on board
his vibrant
technicolor rocket ship
I blast away
to immortal
pastel oblivion.