Lamentation: No Pen and No Paper at Hand

Lamentation: No Pen and No Paper at Hand


If it is
Suffering
You are asking of me 
Have I suffered enough?

Peering out of the polygonal renaissance bay window, the floor-length curtains paraded aside
On this gloomy autumnal day
Early in the day, so early it is still dark outside
I impart:  My suffering is a muted awakening
Isolated like a bearded mountain hermit, with full-blown whiskers
A loaner in the great old woods, among the congregation of trees and the cool of the shade 
Until I find my way back home, with the asphalt-shingled roof to cover our heads
Discombobulated from within
I only know to work hard and harder yet
And keep my needle-sharp eyes and ears open, no matter the time of day
Then the sudden realization:  nearing sleep-deprivation
Borderline:  over-exhaustion
Northbound and lethargic 
God-do-please-dear-God-forbid:  a yet untreated form of the fatal familial insomnia, yes, fatal
GoddopleasedearGodforbid:  a yet misunderstood form of a pain syndrome, chronic and devastating 
Looking onward, hooded, watching, gazing with no breaches of attention
Broadening the philosophical possibilities, distant, yet at once tangibly fingertip-friendly               
An intergenerational inheritance
A quasi-judicial intellectual ownership via birthright
A sweet blessing among sweet blessings
Treasures enclosed within treasure boxes 
Opulent, ornamented with a mask of rustproof resilience
Dressed in gems, awfully unbelievable
Bronze, silver, gold
Shimmering, shimmering, shimmering
Clinging to the skin
Thickening an already thickened epidermis 
My sun-flooded browned skin
Keratinocytes that give keratin
Melanocytes that give melanin 
Like a shield, protecting me
Against suffering itself
Against suffering itself

*****

Once again you turn to me and ask:  Have you suffered?
Apparently my most earnest reply has been deemed unsatisfactory
Sadly, sadly, somehow too poetic and passé for my very own good
[Consider this effort as an appalling understatement among the myriad of voices you have heard on book pages]
[Volumes]
[As cited and referenced, that was that, history, just history]
[With blood circulating in my veins, clockwise]
[Clockwise, clockwise]
[Freedom questing]
[Freedom conquering]
[The detection of the degree of finesse one requires to master to withdraw from those archaic fields of battle]
[Lost and won with the rarest of rare blood]
[Lost and won with the reddest of red blood]
[Yet this ceremonial sacrificial lamb of a warrior within stages
squabbles, brawls, wrangles, clashes, battles, combats, then heralds onto wars]
[Heralds onto wars]
[Heralds onto wars]

*****

How much of this can one stomach?

*****

With no pen and no paper at hand
With no pen and no paper at hand
I wonder if such demented demented questions merit merit any manic manic answers
In a way you would most prefer to have it heard
In a language you would most bear to pay heed to
Then, yes
I have suffered
I have suffered enough
Without fronting complaints, without self-sacrificial undertakings:  Enough is very much enough

With no pen and no paper at hand
With no pen and no paper at hand
If suffering is all that I know
Then I know myself very well

Tearless, too aged to cry
Grounded without sorrow, without shame
What is there to be hidden?
What is there to be securely placed out of sight?
Akin to an all-too-young-to-know-any-better veiled bride-to-be in black
She, walking on the streets on a musty summer’s end day
Hurriedly taking immature steps in vengeful silence at dusk
No bouts and no bursts of anger
So late in the day, much too weary to go mad
Given these thoughts, in entirety: 

No pen

No paper

Yes
I have suffered on and on
I have not forgotten those times
The years have gone by
Have they not?   
And I have let time tell all of the tales
These tales that bind me together
Giving me my color
Giving me my creed
Giving me definition

*****

Once again you ask: 
What suffering?
What is your yearning heartbeat all about?
The anxiety-ridden palpitations?
The angst?

Upon hearing your questions
Disturbed and up-shaken from my water-hungry roots
I take a roundabout turn 
To greet you, to say hello, to ask about your whereabouts
And I see
I see you are not ready to hear it all
Dainty and delicate
Flimsy and fragile
[Woe to us all!] 
[What misery!]
With just a sudden negligent slackening-sloppy-slip of the hands
You may shatter into pieces, all dead on the marble tile floor
Like an old-fashioned store-selected quality glassware
An exceptional crystal bowl, most appropriate for the tender garden flowers, the dandelions and the daffodils   

The dandelions and the daffodils   

Then what?  Who will be responsible for these shattered pieces?
So difficult to reassemble
One piece at a time
Thereupon how will you move forward? 
How will your days be?

In the sun and under the tree shade or amidst the drought with just a bucket full of muddied water?

For I have too many tales to tell
Too many tales
A tutorial or two
From each to take
And the next time
You feel
The pain

The pain

The pain
Ambushing
Rush-rush
Rushing you down 
With no end in sight
The days go by and by
The months go by and by
The years go by and by
This sort of a whipping
This sort of a begotten cruelty
A massacre or two 
Call it what you call it 

    Guardianship
    This sort of a treasured ownership of the self
    This sort of an honorable reclamation of the self
    [Stemming from unknown sources]
    [Seamlessly mysterious or undisclosed or anonymous or nameless at birth]
    In a manner of speech heightened with lively gestures of the body
    In an acute mode of reasoning
    Motioning the tragedies of our yesteryears
    Narration after narration 
    Nearing the darkest hours
    Of that staggering stage
    A mark of faithful observance 
    A resilient survival mechanism 
    A celebration of endurance

    Performances:  Hey!  Performances:  Hoy! 
    Performances:  Hey!  Performances:  Hoy! 
 
Performances full of life, of love
Then, certainly, in due time
You will be well-versed
In bygone suffering
In suffering beyond 
Tales so thorny
I have yet to tell
Tales so thorny
I have yet to tell




Jacklin Gharibian       
April 6, 2011