Skip to main content

Tim Buckley, "Love from Room 109 at the Islander (On Pacific Coast Highway)"



One's mental journey flows like streams.
They start out smoothly;
their surfaces glisten like transparent lids.
Sunshine be the first one to bid them farewell,
for it has the strong belief that the odyssey will definitely augur well.

So they flow,
with the illusion of meandering in a fairyland.

Then the streams run into pebbles,
freckled at first but permeated the next.
The waves therefore occur.
At times they can grow so strong that the initial pureness of the streams' colour is muddled.
The streams race at full tilt,
as troops of horses fleeing out of a conflagrant barn.

The aforesaid case should be diagnosed as some usual undulations human lives,
but their nosy friends can hardly care no straw of it.
They stir up the waves again;
verify the eternal delusion.

The streams are propelled into gushes.
Despite of how the others might consider them- to be mad,
their words can still be sane and genuine,
just like the notorious Septimus in Mrs. Dalloway.

But who will lend ears to them?
People are constantly seeking for balance,
but how the balance will exist if the world is already tipped over?

A polychromatic butterfly waltzes by,
doing somersaults,
swiftly.

The streams (or the gushes) do find their balance eventually.
When the grueling journey marks out in a sudden swoop of elevation,
the streams are home again,
with the sun welcoming them in balmy beams.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime."- William Wordsworth, "Mutability"

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Honore Daumier

“If you shut up truth and bury it under ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.”- Émile Zola
Exited HonorĂ© Victorin Daumier, 10 February 1879, in an impoverishment that many of his contemporaries, especially his foes, would have thought was his long overdue retribution- the painter was blind, heavily in debt, and later relegated to a pauper’s grave. His friends, upon visiting his resting place, would, I imagine, see it a chance to admonish their children: “Now that’s a lesson for you cheeky devils whose tongues rattle off things that should better stay unspoken.” But Daumier devoted his life in revealing those “unspoken things.” His lithography ink proved sharper than most writers’ pens. He vented his rage and stigmatised others’ infamy in his satirical and, oftentimes, side-splitting cartoons. The tone was relentlessly acerbic but only because Daumier was exposing truths that, in the time…

Review: Gaslight (1944)

Despite its varied forms or narratives, all Gothic fictions revolve on a fundamental contrast: that between the tenuous comfort of an isolated self and the dangerous fascination of an intrusive otherness. The Victorian is an age characterised by its obsession with the supernatural – poised on the verge of modernity, with scientific advancements like Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species inspired missions to unlock the myths of the natural world, people began to take notice of what lay outside their limited knowledge of things, of anything that is external to the closed domain of humanity. This curiosity for the unknown provoked an appraisal for the known – the immutable social system was revealed as hostile to the cultivation of individual minds, and time-honoured ethics such as that dictating a woman’s role in a traditional domesticity a menace to the preservation of personal integrity.
The negotiation between the old and the new, the internal and the external, is the dominant theme of V…

Review: Come Back, Little Sheba (1952)

Every adversity in life is a test of one's fortitude, the occasion of which, as proved invariably in the past, man is capable of defying destiny, of reversing the inexorable course to which life is doomed to tend. Too often we sympathise with the travails of the dogged, indefatigable fighter, whose hard-on victory we shed tears of relief and admiration, and whose stories and examples we evoke when in need of a boost of morale or motivation, that our notion of heroism has come to be hallowed with a glow of divinity peculiar to those who triumph in their fights. Those who fail – the martyrs who labour for nothing, who die without fulfilling what they die for – they are regarded with no less sympathy, but to recount their stories we averse, refusing to be reminded of what ultimately makes us humans – our inherent and infinite capacity to fail.
To face up to one’s failures, especially with the forlorn hope that such failures can ever be remedied, requires a special kind of courage. Wil…