Tuesday 10 July 2012

Salad # 0 : Futility

Cynicism set in early - very early indeed. Take, for instance, this bit of free verse I wrote in 1984, on relationships: appropriately enough, I named it "Futility":

The burnt child sits
once again by the fire.
He sees her smile.
His heart leaps, thudding painfully against
the bars of its calcium cage.
And then it happens
all over again.
Tentative advances.Wisps of banal
conversation. More smiles. Cunning
compliments. And then the foundation
is laid. It moves on.
Hours of endless squawking
on the telephone. A throbbing hand
grips the belaboured instrument pressed
to a tortured ear.
There is, after all, little
better to do.
Whispered bittersweet nothings. Sincerity
is clearly on holiday: the obvious
needs never to be stated
even though
it is pleasing to hear.
In time, physical
overtures. Diffident at first, then
assertive. Soon, demanding.
Weeks pass. Four figures
in a savings account dribble
away into nothingness
showing little in return.
Boredom
sets in. Only two chameleons
may entertain each other
indefinitely.
Attentions wander. Jealousy
is let in through
a side door. On its heels
runs a hairline fracture
that spreads
the way you see thin ice cracking.
The pain is to come
later. It was good
while it lasted. But for now
it is done.
And the child retreats to
lick its wounds
and await, like
the moth
the coming of another
flame.

1 comment:

  1. Quite true. Though it was written in 1984 not much has changed in the almost 3 decades that have gone by. May be it has been like this since centuries. Who knows?? Never saw, never heard.

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