Sonnets of Spring Entry #10

[Note: Link to Sonnets of Spring. Entry is on topic #3]

Spooky Doodles

Nihilist Numbat

There is no such thing as peaceful silence. Whenever somebody demands for it, it is actually an expression of his will to concentrate harder on the ambience of a place. I was doing just that in my room one night, with a notebook and a pen staring blankly at me, while I put all of my mind together on conjuring out some poetry.

I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, before leaping into the dull waves of my thoughts. The instigation of my dive should have excited me, but perhaps it was the sight of the nonchalance of the sea, seeing which this dip in the liquid of my intellect had started out so bleakly.

‘All I want is a good poem’, I think to myself. ‘Something that rhymes. Okay, perhaps that’s not important. Something that has good words. No wait, the reader needs the “visceral ethereal” touch of emotions more! Or should I ask for bigger words? Honestly, anything that has words might do.’

But all of that talking to myself had distracted me from my quest. What is a swim in the mind worth of if the mind itself is not there? My own buoyancy started to pull me back out to the surface. The harder I tried to stay, the faster I rose. After being completely pulled out, I opened my eyes to see the boring setting of my room again.

I hope the reader, at some point in life, has tried to grab water gushing out of a tap. It is an interesting sensation. The hand-bearer may get convinced by the touch of the water that it is a material and is made of something that can be held, but that’s the evil ironic deception of water. When an attempt to grab the water is executed, it will seep away through even the tiniest spaces between the fingers. Trying to write poetry, in this sense, is similar to grabbing water.

‘I must try harder.’ Inhaling deeply again, I pushed myself deeper this time. Some ideas came but being ambitious, I propelled myself deeper. Clearer pictures started to form and I was now seeing definite concrete words. I think around this time, my pulse-rate had started to rise in excitement. Being overly hopeful, I began some sort of mental dance in the ocean of my own intelligence.

One shouldn’t dance while diving, and I am certain that this applies to real divers as well. I felt the upward thrust trying to pull me out again. Hastily, I grabbed whatever it was whose presence had pleased me so much. I resurfaced, opened my eyes and immediately jotted down whatever I had.

Been barned mouth buddy’s ballet Elliot,

Socrates adjourning muppetment.

Loo-loo low-low were-were may-may…

Voyeur buckle underwear armament.

‘Great! Ask for words and this is what you get! Gone are my days when I used to write poetry legible to human beings.’, I said while I shook my head grimly. The taunt seemed appropriate. This poetry was the kind of vomit a downhearted writer would spill out as a result of being drunk on nihilism.
A much bigger wave of grief hit me and I sent my pen flying away from me in disbelief. But instead of departing away dramatically from my possession and its own existence, it hit the wall and came back at me rowdily. Unprepared of vengeful pens, I take a hit of Karma on my nose and respond to the gesture of being assaulted by a pen by shedding out a tear. But the teardrop, possessed perhaps by Serendipity, did something too exciting for tears. It brought my attention to where it should have been,

The tear after tickling my nose and leaving a slimy wet trail behind, fell on the first line of the recently written garbage that adorned my notebook. My eyes fell on the “Been barned mouth” phrase. Looking at the ugly face of that combination of words prepared more tears to line up to spew out. Those traumatic words echoed in my skull mining out deeply settled despair through my meninges.
But then a thought, a thought that had brought a Tsunami in the ocean that had spewed it out, hit me! The poetry made perfect sense!
On a fresh page I wrote:

Beneath my behemoth

This was it! This was what I was trying to find! What an exciting set of words, this was! This phrase looked like a neatly dressed magician ready to pull out something out of his hat! It could be followed by so many interesting words!

Beneath my behemoth pencil? Beneath my behemoth body? Beneath my behemoth banana?

But I knew where to find the cue. I looked at the first line and I immediately acquired the missing detail. I completed the line.

Beneath my behemoth bundles of billet litter,

It looked almost complete, but there was something missing. It felt like being well-dressed for a dinner party but having an itch at an imprudent spot. After pondering over this matter, I took a deep breath and made a correction.

Beneath my behemoth bundles of billet litter,Belles Lettres,

A surmounting sensation of pleasure inflated within me. “Belles Lettres” it was and my heart rejoiced happily! It looked like the confession some sort of sneaky french linguist would make about where he keeps his word-thinking potion.
What was this mysterious bump in the night that I had encountered? What was the root of this magic materialization of such artistic expressions? Was I being blessed? Was I possessed by an unearthly outer-worldly entity? Was it God and his nitty gritty integrity in the Grand scheme of the universe which in an infinitesimal implementation took a manifestation within this alliteration?

My next problem was to figure out what “Socrates adjourns muppetment” could be. I looked at those words again and again until they decomposed in front of me.

Socrates? Cigarette trees? So create teas? Shove secret tees? Store secrets?

‘Store secrets! This is what it could mean? Why not? Our narrator is a shady guy. I knew it. But could he be shadier than me?’

I quickly jotted down another line:

I store secretly

But what was this “muppetment adjourning” business next to it? Whatever it was putting these ideas in me must have been a good parliamentarian, especially the type that is obsessed with adjourning things not in any dictionary. I had to think more.
‘What would Socrates, the Great Muppetment Adjourner have to do with me? What am I hiding? Is it something I value? … Oh yes! Why did I not see it?!’

I store secretly a jewel in my apartment.

The next few lines indeed looked the trickiest. I knew infants which could strike a more expressive conversation than how much this line could. But heavily clad and armed with determination, I struck a mighty blow and slayed the “Loo-loo low-low” down.

Look, O love, look

Something strange had started to bother me now. Uncovering a poem, piece by piece, now seemed uncanny. With every few words, the poem gave me a stranger resemblance to something that I am. It felt like I was looking at a mangled piece of myself in retrospection. As if it was a ghost of my past possessing my own self and in turn, getting myself spooked!

But putting my worries away, I focused on uncovering the remaining pieces. And the next piece was an obvious one

Look, O love, look wherever you may,

And then all of the remaining pieces flooded my notebook at the same time. At this point, I started crying loudly! Everything had made sense now. I stood up and pulled out a large trunk from under my bed. I unclicked the locks, and dug to the bottom while removing all the dried up yellowing letters. Under it, I found her “secret jewel”.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My notebook read.

Beneath my behemoth bundles of billet litter,Belles Lettres,

I store secretly a jewel in my apartment.
Look, O love, look wherever you may,

Won’t give you back your undergarment.

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Filed under Creative Writing Competition, Prose

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