The Love Song of Apis Cerana

[I think I might have transgressed! However, a posthumous apology will be delivered to Eliot if what he said stands out to be true at the end, that “the communication / Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond / the language of the living.”Till then, The love Song of Apis Cerana will be a tribute to his The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock. The epilogue is from A Man for All Seasons, by Robert Bolt. Apart from that, the allusions are for the readers to discover!

– Asif, June 5, 2008]

“From Richmond to Chelsea, a penny halfpenny . . .
from Chelsea to Richmond, a penny halfpenny.
From Richmond to Chelsea, it’s a quiet float downstream,
from Chelsea to Richmond, it’s a hard pull upstream.
And it’s a penny halfpenny either way.
Whoever makes the regulations doesn’t row a boat.”

I am not here for a mere invitation
for bitter would be how fear engulfs within-
as we grow in each other, mastering figments
entwining through dark alleys-
choking, groping for all we can misconstrue;
and as the remnants we clutch in retreat
in leery warm we breathe, cuddling as we feign.
I am not here for an invitation-
for it would be too trivial!

“And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?”

Shall I dare, in brevity I know not-
riddles of intent in distant approach?
Words in lingo- all that I probe,
alleys of thoughts, will reality ever endorse?

Let us start then, you and I,
but forget we not, the comfort of space,
careful of a relationship- vague and banal,
with a veil in pretension where our eyes only meet.
No query of motive- a plain bargain,
as we slip, I promise- we revise, reset,
only a gentle clout shall I requisite,
upon your world- you appropriate.

Time- don’t let it be the culprit,
for the essence of it only we admit.
So its vanity be only at our whim!
A clock is but a motored-tool in idle-
numbers we’ll add, numbers we’ll rebate,
as we grow in each other, with only our eyes met.

Let us then have, you and I,
a cup of tea with a toast as we relish,
and if its euphoric mist, raw and thick
jolt a sensation, simmering and delicate,
reminds the ubiquitous carnal fragrance,
squandering in comfort, alluring like a sin-
“Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?”
Oh! Please lets delight then in our mindful space,
as we grow in each other, with only our eyes met.

Now to plunder- the words in thunder!
Rise we higher, like a compassionate furnace,
with fumes of intellect- we can ever conjure up,
smitten by a thousand excursion, exaction
in gestures we dance as we recur
flurries of appraisals- tasteless and parlous.
you and I, like in a distant universe,
charging through alleys, with thoughts as we buttress!

What we conceive, thick and cryptic-
layers of content- fantastic in breed!
A grand craftsman- further we profess-
with words- who inquire the world we erect!
Oh! just a little suffix mind if you miss-
pour the emotions- all heart and hubris,
there we spawn an Icarus- we suit!
Fly we high- the incitement reside
but lest the sun burns the wing,
forget we not the mindful space,
for we can thaw with our eyes only met!
Everything we charge through the alleys- so dark
trails of verity as we till, we toil-
“on the one hand, everything that seems
so different is, when all is said and done, very much the same;
on the other, everything that seems
the same is, in reality, quite different.”

Mademoiselle! Do we have a tryst then to agree?
A place-wherever, the time- forever,
you may sit at a distant if you care!
A table set idle, by a window- we can imagine,
Porcelain cups, Lilies in vase-
I promise their fragrance weak and dull,
for there all crave incense of your garb!
A toast of tea, seconds to savor,
but careful of a relationship- vague and banal,
with a veil in pretension where our eyes only meet!
Isn’t it worth it, to be bemused and waited,
expecting the abstracts that can unfurl-
“And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!”
Only this much to confess- Zeus’s revenge is sweet!

So, I am not here for an invitation
for bitter would be how fear engulfs within-
as we compel, for ones ends need,
as we grow old, outstripping the space between,
as we suspect, everything who we are not,
as we lay close, painful like a dead bird
and as we fade out from each other,
like eery silence blown out by a hymn for the dead.
I am not here for an invitation-
for I yield to what tomorrow reveals!

“Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.” 

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