sitting in the corner of life
my identity seems to have
networked in a mesh of warped
existence
I am me in the broken glasses
and the mirrored body
dissociates
dispersed among the fragments
and I watch my consciousness
loosen up and disappear
me for myself, being for myself
the existentialist traps
and I’m caught within the
verbal allusions
a daughter, a friend,
an enemy, a potential lover
and in the brown pages of a passport
that reeks of me

yet the restless homeless I
is beyond the doors of
conscious social faces
the credit cards that give me a name
seem to have erred

 

I collect the pieces of myself
enamored in solitude
reckless sometimes to let go
of the limitations of worldly servitude

I have discovered myself in the brush
of the artist, in the curiosity of the scientist
in the eyes of the medieval saint
and I am a sinner, and my sexual self
smirks at the throes of passion
passion uncontrolled

I could have been a bipolar
a schizoid, a narcissist, an obsessed
manifestation of surreal realities
a poet in synchronized insanity
lost for and with the world
yet beyond space-time dimensions
relativity crumbles like a piece
of paper on my palm
I have lived in hyberbolic
ether

the thunderous heavens arouse me
and in moments of silence
of inhaling Rachmaninov
the situational contexts of life turns
motions and cessations fire out like
probabilistic quantum particles
restless and trapped in the scientist’s mind

I seem to have a body by chance
a definitional circumstance
a face, breasts, arms,
and a gender, race, age
make my me, thrust me in
the circles of social implications
of favored hypothesized nuances

my body has conquered me somehow
made me a reality
hammered an identity and
imprisoned the conduits
of my own thoughts

yet I have often wondered
whether I am me
and what if I’m not…..

on a riverside bend
where sages wearing saffron
show me the boats that turn
around the edges of infinity
I lose myself in a universe
that engulfs my real soul
for I have felt the soul is mine
through the ages of time
yet the body like pieces
seem to be glued like
mirrored segments of broken glass
to an undefined
stretch of blank sheet of
physical presence
and to an alien identity

and still
within emotion’s paradox
the mystic time makes way
through my connected lives.








 

September, 2007

Copyright - Saberi Roy, 2007