April is the cruelest month....
APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
-T.S. Eliot, 1922, (The Wasteland)
These words ring true in as surreal and as foreboding a sense as when i heard them for the first time..a sense of 'deja vu' enveloping me...way back in the idyllic days of youth.
The April heat had sprung up and it had enveloped everything...
..like secret desire...present but hidden, palpable but unspoken..invisible but strong...
..like an illness that gnaws into the body that one can't express except for the fact it is there..infallibly and obstinately present.
Only Eliot could express that unbearable feeling of the heart having sunk to somewhere just above the stomach...like intense hunger suppressed, like intense pain that one has tried to push away, like a whiplash that has been missed but which is expected to strike again..
Loss is everywhere..and the last person to go in cruel April was a poet..a frail, fair-as-the-first-rosy-pink-of-dawn, and enlightened.... as..., well as only a poet can be..
The fourth in the line of no-comebacks..the first of the few poets i ever personally knew...
And who were the others? A precious dad, another precious dad, and a darling mom...
Today, the loss-counter reads four. And each time i have heard of one, my heart has bled a little..
The first time, i felt the desolation in my bones, and the loss became a personal tragedy...because i was grieving a certain someone i had never seen before, and by a quirk of fate, would never see in this lifetime...
The second time, it was another precious one who was suffering and i hurt too..though more for her, because the loss was affecting her..
The third time, the hurt was because of an unkept promise. A meeting that never happened, and because i could have easily made it happen.
The fourth was the poet..the one who could weave magic with her words, and who saw life through a multicolored glass of unparalleled beauty..
Two loving moms and two loving dads...gone into the land of beyond..leaving behind a trail of memories, and regrets and reminders..
...that this is the way of all flesh..
...that we all must go on the same path one day...
...that today is a gift that must not be squandered on sadness, hate and anger..
...that each moment we have is precious and must only be filled with love...
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
-T.S. Eliot, 1922, (The Wasteland)
These words ring true in as surreal and as foreboding a sense as when i heard them for the first time..a sense of 'deja vu' enveloping me...way back in the idyllic days of youth.
The April heat had sprung up and it had enveloped everything...
..like secret desire...present but hidden, palpable but unspoken..invisible but strong...
..like an illness that gnaws into the body that one can't express except for the fact it is there..infallibly and obstinately present.
Only Eliot could express that unbearable feeling of the heart having sunk to somewhere just above the stomach...like intense hunger suppressed, like intense pain that one has tried to push away, like a whiplash that has been missed but which is expected to strike again..
Loss is everywhere..and the last person to go in cruel April was a poet..a frail, fair-as-the-first-rosy-pink-of-dawn, and enlightened.... as..., well as only a poet can be..
The fourth in the line of no-comebacks..the first of the few poets i ever personally knew...
And who were the others? A precious dad, another precious dad, and a darling mom...
Today, the loss-counter reads four. And each time i have heard of one, my heart has bled a little..
The first time, i felt the desolation in my bones, and the loss became a personal tragedy...because i was grieving a certain someone i had never seen before, and by a quirk of fate, would never see in this lifetime...
The second time, it was another precious one who was suffering and i hurt too..though more for her, because the loss was affecting her..
The third time, the hurt was because of an unkept promise. A meeting that never happened, and because i could have easily made it happen.
The fourth was the poet..the one who could weave magic with her words, and who saw life through a multicolored glass of unparalleled beauty..
Two loving moms and two loving dads...gone into the land of beyond..leaving behind a trail of memories, and regrets and reminders..
...that this is the way of all flesh..
...that we all must go on the same path one day...
...that today is a gift that must not be squandered on sadness, hate and anger..
...that each moment we have is precious and must only be filled with love...
Comments