Free - Love - Lost -

The words are relentless.
Facts devastate the Mourning's crop of New Love
Free - Love - Lost -
In different worlds you would be mine
Our hearts entwined together in time
And I would cherish your exquisite light
And I would kiss your violet rays
And hold you tight
And I would touch your inner soul
And raise your heart to the highest point -

I will love you everyday
Absorb your soul in every way

I will keep you mine in love
Like the tawny lioness holds her cubs
So you will remain to me -
A secret love, only for me to see




Copyright © JRFB 2013

Moonboy

As the Sky-dwellers climb wearily through the golden gates of puffing clouds, Almighty Nyame winks his gleaming right eye and the world grows dark: the sun is setting. His left eye opens wide: a beaming bright circle in the charcoal sky emerges. This source of light hardens from a pale slither to a deep yellow orb, smiling at the patient ground below.

It is at this time, when the soaring birds sleep and the parted clouds disperse, that the Moon-worshippers arrive wearing midnight blue masks with glinting flecks of gold that dance in the light. They place polished stones and shards of flint in a perfect circle with a smoky fire in the middle, under the cold shadow cast by the Moon. Boys in blue and gold robes begin a slow drumming as the griot enters the circle:

“Tonight is the night of the Full Moon.  Let me tell you a story…”

Still with their masks on, the Moon worshippers begin to sing and hum while the griot paces and prances in the organic circle of holy rocks. He begins:

With a wink, the Sky Lord’s eye is turned

And the Sun’s rays slowly cease to burn.
The land grows dark, the light runs thin;

For at night, a serious matter lies within….

Moonboy walks alone in his golden mask

Adorned with gold and painted parts.

His movement is brisk, slow, tall, long,

His voice, so graceful, he sings his sad song –

The Luna dance which calls on the Moon

Asking the gods for blessings soon

On this clear, cool, crisp night

To open his soul, deep and bright…

With a sigh his breath flees his shell

And wisps this way, that way, soon to dwell

Up in the sky, breathing new air,

Seemingly content, holding no cares.

He becomes the Moon, shining his great light,

Beaming full, gazing at the sight

Of his people below sending such love,

Yet something is missing in his life above:

Bright yes, and forever glowing full,

The Moon’s calm mind will never dull.

The light he promises will always shine,

“But I need a companion, to call mine.

For you, my friends, I'm proud to call my own,

But I lack a partner, where true love can grow –

In my bold heart, which seems so kind,

Where love’s own faults may leave me blind.

Oh Nyame, my lord, grant my wish!

I serve so loyally, your feet I kiss –

So please, oh Father, give my heart joy

And end my suffering by one divine ploy.”

And that night, oh, how Moonboy cried,

Adding waters to the oceans, now undried.

Our hearts broke for his sad tale,

But what could we do? Mere mortals fail…

With a downcast face, and tear-stained eyes,

Moonboy tried to hold his ties

To heaven above, now starless and lighter

But Moonboy only held on tighter.

His piercing scream of grieving sorrow

Echoed from night until the morrow,

When divine Nyame began to shift his vision

And the Moon was caught in this division:

The Sun, so radiant, gleaming crimson red

Arose, still weary from her golden bed;

Bemused, she sees the forlorn white beast

And wonders why he’s here, floating in the East.

Unseen, she swiftly hides behind him

Causing the world’s light to grow dim,

As her curious acts of wonder

Leave us down here now to ponder

How this glorious and bedazzling meeting

Is possible, real, without cheating.

For it must be the doing of the gods                           

Watching proud, as their son no longer sobs.

He sees her light, hot yellow with lightening,

And cannot stop himself from fighting

With his conscious thoughts of love

Was this blessing sent from Above?

Never had he seen such aura

Of exquisite beauty, in his corner.

Smiling, beaming, he is Home

Finally, he does not feel alone.

She shyly shines when she sees

His love for her burning through the trees,

Over hills, in the Earth and skies

Her heart flutters in surprise –

Their soft eyes meet and brightness bounces

From their hearts, the light renounces;

For, having been so intimate, so near,

The time has come to return the sphere

Back to sleep, back to the eye,

Leaving Moonboy alone to cry

Tears still hot from Sun’s warm light

Soon hardening, cool in Earth’s sad night.

“Oh Sun, don’t leave, I love you so!

With you I'm free, my body is whole –

Your breath, your light, you fertile rays

Nourish my lost heart in this lonesome haze.”

With that, the Moon, his heart so splintered,

Began to fade, Summer turning to Winter –

Having lost his beaming yellow soul,

Now remains a wisp of light in the cold.

A line of pale light blends in the sky,

The Earth-dwellers often wonder why

The beautiful circle of pure light

Has gone to bed, little by little, tonight.

The Moon-worshippers wail in terror at the tragic tale of Moonboy's lost light. Their chants and cries drift through the sky, kindling Nyame the sky god with the same cares. He thunders and the ground grows wet, the soil, once pale from the Moonlight now is darker than night.

Moonboy awakens from a sad sleep, and sparkling with delight, he shouts blessings from above to his faithful worshippers, “When my blue light had scattered into cool night, your cries and prayers roused my shattered soul!” And gradually, the Moon began regaining his strength – his dimmed inner light became illuminated from the spirit of the people. 

Night by night, the Moon emerged into the dark night sky, averting attention from the spotted stars until on the thirtieth night he was whole again, his heart was restored and his hope renewed.

From that night, Moonboy slowly dispersed and re-emerged from a small slice of pale rock to a mighty orb of brilliant light every thirty days, in the hope of meeting with the Sun, whom he loved dearly, and  that they may again share their ethereal beauties in the sky.

Copyright © JRFB 2013

Missing

My heart is chafing, shaking with
      blood
tinged by ardent desires;
My soul is crying for your touch as you briskly
Part from me -

Two Souls,  two incomplete
fragments can
Never
Splice - together -
The fusion is irrepable
despite the grinding of my bones;
the melting of my heart -

(we will never weld together)

Gold and grey are clashing titans;
The Sea and Sky are forever apart.

Looking down, my glisting brown eyes
feel your light, feel your life

Beaming, teasing, being
in My world of shaded hearts:

    but I will never reach you.

The plunge is deep -






Copyright © JRFB 2013

Mrs Dalloway, You Have Made Me See..

ღ

(For those of you who know me, you may be aware of my Virginia Woolf obsession and of 'Mrs Dalloway' being my favourite novel. I actually wrote this post about a year ago, and the fact that what I talk about here - about how this novel captures some of my soul - is still relevant today, shows the potency of such an authentic work of art. I truly love it. 'Mrs Dalloway' will always be my first love in literature).

*

When I first read Mrs Dalloway, it gave me a continuous headache and a strong desire to throw the damn thing out my window, in the hope of ridding myself of such an unfathomable collection of the whispers of post-menopausal women and pathetic old men. But it was not until the second (and third, fourth, fifth...) reading and actual studying of it, when I became engrossed.

Then, having completely retreated from my formerly contemptuous 'I-don't-give-a-shit-Virginia' attitude of - in my newfound opinion, one of the greatest Modernist novels of all time - Mrs Dalloway, I decided that not only for the purpose of learning, but also for leisure it would be a good idea to watch the cinematic version.

In short, it majorly changed my apprehension of Peter Walsh. From my perception (something V Woolf, as I like to call her, is rather good at blurring and exploring in her novels), he was a pathetic, overly emotional wreck who spent his entire life chasing pretty women, pristine with their 'lips cut with a knife'; or to put it bluntly, an emotionally tarnished, perverse sugar daddy.

However, my eyes have been opened, as the pathos evoked from when he says with an admirable attempt to withhold tears, 'For God's sake, Clarissa, I love you!' reduced me to a crumpled heap soiled with the tears the fellow did not shed. I understand now. He really loved her - and that man, Richard, stole half of his heart before him. I can relate. He offers his soul to the one whom he cannot bear to live without and she scatters it into the 'mist' with the wave of her hand. And for what reason?

'You want too much' - surely, Clarissa, it is best to want the whole of a person rather than the just the qualities you can view from a safe distance, those which you can shape through a certain tweaking?

She broke his heart, and it took him 40 more years to realise just how much he loves her, whether he chooses to believe that those feelings are eternal or not. On their reunion these 40 later, he admits that the scarring yet significant memory of Clarissa's bitter rejection had 'spoilt his life'.

Arguably, I believe that as a consequence, this fateful decision spoilt Clarissa's life too. They both lament about how they think the other has wasted their potential by not achieving any of the things that they were capable of, therefore, to me it is obvious that the mistake lies in their failed conciliation of hearts; they should have married! Not Clarissa and Richard. And, as a result, Clarissa loses track of her true identity and Peter takes to creeping on attractive young women young enough to be his daughters.

Oh how the Fates are cruel!

Furthermore, what also captivated me was the chemistry and delicate romance between Clarissa and Sally. In the novel, the scene is candied with youthful ardency at that 'exquisite' moment when Sally's lips softly join Clarissa's, igniting a realisation that she undeniably was in love with her (though not fully appreciating this sensation at the time). In the film, this tender air of beauty and serenity manages to focus on the two girls, dancing, somehow innocently, yet as if intoxicated off each other's gaiety. During this moment, I felt caught up in the exuberance and let out an elated sigh. There is was. 'The most exquisite moment' of Clarissa Dalloway's whole life; and I felt it.

This scene, was not only touching, but I think one of the reasons I flashed a shade of euphoric gold was because it lead me to fantasise about my own 'exquisite' moment of love; the cornerstone moment when my fragile heart will be -finally- requited.

Seeing something I so much wish to experience in my own life through literature, cinema, music, even in someone else's life, makes the past mistakes of risking a broken heart undeniably worth it. 

The outcome of loving someone could indeed end disastrously, and, like Peter Walsh, you could spend the rest of your days living in a world tainted by pernicious remorse for that one person who denied you of everything: love (if there is such a thing).

Nevertheless, there is always a possibility of triumph: if they return your affections, like Sally and Clarissa, surely the grievous risk is justified?

I would rather have my heart broken a thousand times, existing with a slither of hope that an exquisite love will journey my way, than have my passions acquiescently, obediently ordered to the corner of my mind in self pity, the shadows of ethereal desire swimming around my head.

Love is worth everything.

 

Copyright © JRFB 2013 

Ariera

I find myself lying still in this lattice of thorns, the prickly tethers of what feels like worn rope press into my thick skin. I cannot feel my limbs, only the mass of my torso – I feel taller than before, as if some magical sculptor has stretched me thin, elongating my spine and flesh. The sky flickers – golden yellow fireworks! Oh, but they fail to melt back into the prior gloom, silent and comforting with its masking grimace of unknowingness. This 'Sun' shifts about tentatively, like a glowing ball on a rope swing, suspended above a jungle of apes, threateningly swiping with their great arms. The tapping of faraway footsteps pulses through me and my spiny bed. Perhaps it is some god, coming to rescue me from this dark doom? I shall call out to them – never have I felt more relieved to be in so light a presence when in this crushing black cave of disorientated souls.

My words seem to be muffled by a doughy matter smothering my mouth and airways.

Oh god, what is happening? My sad life will end prematurely after all. Yet, I can still follow my scattered thoughts, disturbed by this awful happening. Perhaps, if I endure my suffering and retain my mind, I can find a way of esca--

My thoughts, ubiquitous and brimming with fear are cut short by the instant dimming of the bright Sun above – a shadow of ill-fate steals my worst notions of terror from my screaming psyche and clasps its dark, deathly fingers (surprisingly fat and fleshy) around my soft frame. My curved chest tightens, my innards twist in the compression, but still am I unable to emit a scream of ashen agony from this inexplicable torture!

‘Ariera*! I have been looking forward to devouring your feathery flesh all day!’ booms a voice, piercing and peeling the air of silence.

Even before panic can diffuse into my veiny body, I immediately feel a sharp stinging on the crown of my head; the shadow’s claws have sunken into my case, like a farmer digging his spade into the hard ground during winter’s defiant months of chill. My head, rife with pain, throbs with heat. The stinging persists and stretches further down my body, my skin, peeling away, leaving my newly exposed flesh raw, white and burning.

I have no teeth to clench together, no eyes to squeeze shut, no hope to desperately cling to. Yet my external senses remain intact, and pulse the excruciating soreness through my nerves which glow threateningly from the sickening pain of this affliction.

Just after a thousand pinpricks stab at my mutilated exterior, inverted and bare, a foul feeling of moist ensnarement rasps through me; doughy bile in my spongy stomach arises; it pulps inside me, for it is unable to surface. Sharp knives rip into my flesh, scraping at my neck, my chest, my pelvis, until I feel a sudden lightness in the midst of this chilling disfigurement of my shredded body. My top half, now mashed into puréed carnage, has been ripped from me by the jaws of a monster!

I cannot resist, I cannot refute. All I can do is lie here, rolling away from the blood-thirsty chambers of an atrocious demon.







…and so is the fate of a banana.

* Ariera is the Latin name for the English word banana (a long, crescent shaped fruit that grows in bunches and has a soft, pulpy texture and yellow external skin when ripe)

Copyright © JRFB 2012

What are you afraid of?

Demons and monsters? Dark secrets from the corners of your mind leaking out into deathly exposure? Judgement?

Writing is almost too sacred for me to work on regularly. I mean, I adore exhaling my thoughts and imaginations through words with infinite interpretations, I really do, but when it comes down to the actual willingness to do it, I often find myself apprehensive. I think it has something to do with the trepidation of coming out with something horrifying, in the sense that I am ashamed to have written such crap and that if read by other human eyes they are sure to reach desperately for the holy water.

I want to develop my writing skills. Unfortunately, I am prone to start with promising ideas and then give up after only a few lines of creativity, not allowing enough time for the ol’ steam train to get moving. This is probably due to laziness and lack of concentration, so I will need to find a way to stick with things, I guess.

Also, a common feature of my writing style is abstract thoughts and first person narrative, but not generally containing a plot. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as the deity Virginia Woolf disagrees with the idea that ‘to provide a plot, to provide comedy, tragedy, love interest’[1] is required to create a story, depicted exquisitely in her masterpiece Mrs Dalloway.

Indeed, I intend to use my knowledge of describing and bringing to life the emotions of the speaker (or should I say my own emotions, as I have lazily not bothered to create characters) and devise a plot in a free indirect narrative for my own satisfaction. I will just write whatever drifts in and out of my mind, reflecting this narrative style and hope for the best. I can always edit and remove the ‘fat’ of globular nonsense when I finally lose steam and force myself to come to an abrupt and exasperated finish to my story.


Wish me luck!



Jaguar

---

[1] V Woolf 'The Common Reader' via http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/w/woolf/virginia/w91c/chapter1.html#chapter1

Skydark

The clouds painted with hints of heaven cast deep, sinister shadows on the beating surf below, slapping at the rocks with the aquatic wrath of a god. The soft arms of nirvana, where glinting gates of gold peep out, allow the Sky god to offer himself as a host, and to dramatize the celestial love from above. The ridges of the nebulae turn from blue to pink as the Sun closes her weary eyes and drifts along to the edge of darkness, shepherding oranges and reds into her sacred field of sleep.

 As my dark pools are torn from the fantastic realm above, I see fields of rusted fronds fluttering in the wind. Strands of cobwebbed hair determined to distract my vision cannot mar this delight: the silver spray from the waves; the pink bonfire of beaming divinity; the teasing light from across the bay. The latter entices my interests with its bitter brightness – a sparkling jewel amongst the lurid colours of sunset. My heart urges me to edge nearer to this furtive radiance and so my legs amble over rocks encrusted with crackling salt crystals, and spiked grasses bleached blue by the Earth’s malice, until the night engulfs my clouded mind and the swirls hanging above.

Chills lace my body as dribbles of icy water seep into my sink; the light draws me closer still. I find myself at the end of the shore.

Before me – nothing but the dark perils of a wintry sea, behind me – the echoes of rusted tufts of deathly shrubs, melting and fragmenting into the curling wind. Below, the hungry waves kiss my feet, waiting for the final plunge; above, the light screams for me, bellowing my name.

The yellow glare penetrates my shivering bones, extracting my soul, my will. So brilliant, so intense – I must join you at the core. My essence, slipped from my hollow shell skips from the shore onto each swirling wave, like the gold flecks from the fountain above, dancing in the bubbling sea.

*

Closer and closer our hearts collide. I release a howl, you discharge a sigh. The rain ceases; the wind croaks; our spirit surges; we are one.

Copyright © JRFB 2012