Skip to main content

The Serpent

The life and ruin of me,
The Serpent- I grasp at your immortality in my failing memory.

Numerous conquests far and wide,
Enchanted by your poisonous spell;
Drunk to draught the liqueur of lust from your bottomless well.
Deftly you dallied with their pilgrim love- hearts and souls that writhed and twined.

The incessant sighs of desire that conceals the hisses of ruthless vice.
Your serpentine ways succeeded the deceiving- both the foolish and the wise.
To no avail could they make their reasons just,
Why they thrashed still in your perfidious love.

I was too lured in by your sinuous incantation-
A voluntary prisoner,
Neglected in my chronic incarceration.

Lethe runs in my blood every time you smote my lips your frosty kiss.
Germinating in my gullible heart a love seed that never blossomed.
The withered flower of that counterfeited love- my blindness, now I come to think of it, so wretched and brazen!

But one day your venom cleared my eyes and made me see:
The permanent gloom beneath your lurid sheen.
Vague terrors crept upon you.
Misery resurged anew.

You coiled in your unrepented guilt-
Like a grain of insolent pride trembled before the jaw of sorrow’s mill.

The fall of the fallen;
The weak of the malevolent.

Evil eventually forsook you, that limpid, frigid night.
Under your stoic disguise out came the plaintive sigh,
And the voiceless cry.

Violent and entire you sloughed off your quivering heart and abrasive skin.
But nothing could assuage the grief of the guiltless phantoms-
Always would they chant the endless song of your unredeemed sin.

On the eve of your Sleep you shed an honest tear and whispered to me:
“No one could wipe me off his memory.”

The life and ruin of me,

The Serpent- I grasp at your immortality in my failing memory.


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 Honoré 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: Late Spring (1949)

As a storyteller, Yasujiro Ozu insists on an implausibly objective stance that refrains from direct commentary or criticism; his camera customarily assumes the role of a detached observer, to whom the characters in the film, staring or talking straight to the camera, occasionally address, with an intimacy akin to that between a host and his guest, a closeness that is underpinned by a mutual recognition of the psychological distance that separates the two. The audience, whose perspective, in this case, conflates the camera’s (the director’s), an invisible character’s in the film (to whom the other characters address) and their own, is thus situated amidst this spatial complexity which, as a rule, every work of art necessarily creates.
In Late Spring (1948), the camera serves in part as an underlying comment to the story, which is noted by its economy of details. A prolonged shot of a departing train, on which the father and daughter travel to the city for a one-day excursion, prefigures…

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…