The way you closed the door with practised hands
And walked to the next love in soft, lissome footsteps
Who would’ve thought you are carrying this huge burden of
Tattered wings…broken bones…burns…scars…scalds!
Why are you carrying all that, Your Highness?
Are you insane? Or unfaithful? Maybe supercool?
You have collected all the fancy Romeos
And pickled them in your caustic tears
Their bodies are dry bones now
Buried deep down in the dungeons.
You are still on your endless voyage
While the Earth stopped spinning beneath
A long, long time ago.
There is a scent in the evening breeze tonight
I raise my nose in the air and sniff
Like a dog sniffs allure at a bitch’s back
Oh I know that scent —
It’s the scent
Of solitude in coffee cups
Of apathy in smorgasbord
Of indulgence in lipstick smears
It’s the kind of sly, insidious scent
That buries you inside your own mind
She sent me a letter last night
Alright, alright….a digital letter…no more no less
So I play some Olafur Arnalds in the background
And read her words aloud
I pretend it’s a conversation
We talk, we laugh, we sit in silence
Amid potpourri and purring cats
We swim in the ocean of untold emotions
I get lost in her blonde curls
She is magic
And though six thousand kilometre seems a lot more
Than six degrees of separation
It’s still a finite space
Our hearts are infinite…relentless
And mine will crashland into her bubble-bath and sea secrets
Sooner or later
There are many kinds of sadness —
Heartbreak is only one kind.
Like that one time,
When the wife of a surgeon
Paid me cash for sex
And brought me Danish cookies;
Her kiss was revolting.
I felt sad for her…
Or the last summer,
When I was violence
Inside a sophomore girl,
Who I met on a road trip —
She let me ravage her body
Out of curiosity…not love;
Something died inside me that day.
Or in that crowded dance-floor
When I rose like a creature
With throbbing flesh and veins,
As the female stink of
A 50-something armpit made me her slave.
She locked her eyes on me and smiled —
It was grief.
I steal poems from my own dreams
To claim them in the wake,
I surf bodies and beds in the hope
To escape my defeat,
I seek solace in her low moan
As I spread her pleasure walls —
But a pool of sadness is all there is to find.
There are many kinds of sadness —
Some, you’ve never even heard of.
During the dream sequence scene in Stalker (1979) when the camera moves over the submerged floor in water, while the voice-over is describing the wrath of God/King in an apocalyptic past, the visuals follow in this order: A rock, a syringe, some live fishes, a syringe again, and again, this time two syringes in a metal box, money (coins), God/Angel/Saint (not sure which), a gun, a broken watch/clock (possibly), and finally a calendar/dairy with the date December 28. Andrei Tarkovsky died on Dec 29, 1986, 7 or 8 years later. Could he possibly be referring to the cycle of life and predicting his own death? Watch the clip above to witness this mystery.
“We are unable to see what we have in front of us, unless it’s inside a frame.” – Abbas Kiarostami
I discovered Iranian cinema back in 2004 through Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s brilliant film ‘A Moment Of Innocence’. But it became a life-long love affair through Abbas Kiarostami’s filmography. Even among the Iranian stalwarts like Makhmalbaf, Mehrjui, Majidi, Shohrab-Salles, Payami, Panahi and the more recent Farhadi, Abbas Kiarostami was able to carve his own distinct identity through absolute cinematic ingenuity. Image, poetry, form, pace, minimalism, redundancy of non-diagetic sound; there is so much that his films taught us. The penultimate scene from ‘Through The Olive Trees’ has to be one of the most beautiful, languid and poetic ending in the history of cinema. Thank you, teacher. You will be missed.