The first part is the version of the poem I wanted to write. I have a different story to tell in this one. Typically I would have wanted to modify and polish this to the final version (I suppose that is what they call drafts). I seem to have gone ahead and prepared an entirely different one altogether. A similar incident happened to me when I was off to Bombay for a conference. I was rehearsing the presentation for a few days and each one of them came out differently. I wanted to record my presentation on my micro-recorder so that I could play it back and then polish it. I forgot it back home!! Believe it or not, I had 10-12 different styles of presenting those 9 slides and ended up rendering a totally different one in front of the audience. I was certain that no one would believe it until I stumbled across this draft!
My Lord, this is the most pinning evidence of this man's unreliable mind!! :-)
A walk like a breeze o'er the lake,
Gathering coolness and a placid dream.
She swayed and sashayed a little,
Every step pressed her deeper into me.
She'd laugh a little and then look
Such a gaze I'd dare not hold
But long after I did turn,
I gripped Her eyes in my mind's eye's fold
Her hair was the wind's playground
And it tickled her, oh! so well,
Like the pond does tease the passing breeze
With wrinkles and wavelets...
I ran to the highest tower
Which took me not far away
From the blessed road that carried her
Thus longer in my watch she'd stay
Why, sweet Chandralekha, why
Does my heart beat not loud enough?
Or do the tinkle of gold at your feet
Drown my passionate cries?
And as I watch her leave
With a smile, to her man's arm
I pray she'd not find due joy
And yearn for my love's warm.
And this is how the final version (which appeared in Alvibest) turned out!! :-D
Oh Chandralekha! A moon so bright
Do return and heal our ailing king.
His breath is laced with your name,
And dear little life does that bring.
Oh Chandralekha! Oh fairest one!
Does a lover’s heart need such pain?
For little did it know the vile life,
Of once loved and left in disdain.
The hand which lead a myriad spears
And chariots that shook this very earth
Lies in that bed of thousand nights
Of yours and his and an aching dearth
Listen clear, subjects of Ashoka
‘Tis sad for kingliness to cease
And sadder still that a man’s lust
Does a million men to their knees
I am a woman for powerful men
And Ashoka was once at glory’s brim
He lies in a mire of decadence
What more could I have of him?
Why beseech me to save your ailing king?
I am born to weaken men at best
Myriad spears and thundering chariots,
Lie wasted in the beat of my tender breast
A woman is what they called me
Easy and bought with an ounce of gold
I come decked in flowers and scents
Warm their nights with a heart made cold
And as your king plunged into me
But carried her for his choice queen
I swore to all the gods above
A cry for a woman I’ve ne’er been
But, such irony should you know now.
No queen’s love nor divine egress
Can save him from his abject plight
While his heart desires my caress.
Return home, Oh men of Kalinga!
And remember what I have to say
A man’s world is in a woman’s arms
At birth, in glory and in morbid sway.
I love both of them. The first one is a raw nugget of gold panned from the filthiest waterways, and it is only that which a goldsmith accepts to work his loving turns into. Give him a well made armlet and all he might say is "Well, the thickness isn't uniform, but it's not that bad." :-)
like you said, the two versions are completely different from each other. if you look at it this way, the final version can be a sort of sequel to the first.
ReplyDeleteIts like the number of permutations and combinations of emotions/colors that the same thought/situation can evoke in n instances of time..
ReplyDeleteLiked the version I read in Alvibest.
Return home, Oh men of Kalinga!
And remember what I have to say
A man’s world is in a woman’s arms
At birth, in glory and in morbid sway.
Loved the version that you took the trouble of sharing.
And as I watch her leave
With a smile, to her man's arm
I pray she'd not find due joy
And yearn for my love's warm
Thanks :-)
Hi! Eroteme!
ReplyDeleteThe images are so apt for the poems...loved what you said in the end
"The first one is a raw nugget of gold panned from the filthiest waterways..."
Have a great day!
(*_*)
Uma
And
before i forget it is unbelievable that you are forgetful !
Dear B,
ReplyDeleteFrankly, I hadn't noticed it at all before you stated it. You are right! The 1st does appear to precede the 2nd (isn't that always the case? ;-) and does appear like a "his version" versus "her version"... Thanks for that insight. :-)
Dear M,
Glad you liked them.
Dear Anon-U,
I am not forgetful (actually far from it) but writing changes a lot in me... :-) Hope you have a great day too.
# The rhythm in most of the stanzas in the first version is faulty, but then it is a first draft, so forgiven, but again, it is published here, in your flawless BLOG, so not so easily forgotten :-)
ReplyDelete# But the honey of love and the fire of sincere passion there (in the first poem) are undeniable.
Whereas the second version is all about hurt pride and highly satisfying revenge, the first is love and longing personified, when staking claim on the whole person of the beloved is the only urgent issue in the lover's mind -why wouldn't that be sweeter than the words of a woman spurned and wronged, whose burning anger finally receives solace in showing the door to supplicators from her unfair lover?
#This post is truly a window to the mystery and mystic that is behind Eroteme as a writer.
Captivating and unexpected - your forgetfulness and the way the final drafts of poetry or conference material are mutations (albeit good mutations)bearing little or no resemblance to the original attempts.
Dear P,
ReplyDeleteI thoroughly enjoy your comments. :-) Yes, there is a rawness in the 1st one which makes things ... interesting? Mystery/mystic!!? :-D I think I will savour it for a while before denying it... Aah. Thanks. There is nothing mystical about the writing. It is just... well, writing.