Dunkelheit Book Review: To Dream And Discover.

Ever since I read the works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I would often think of the poems he could write if he was happier with the day light. The poet puts on the show of metaphors and fancy that hit a revolution into literature, but I wont suggest Coleridge to a young person who is new to the vivid troubles inflicted by the curious mind.

I admired Wordsworth for ever bit of word that shaped up for his love. The depiction of nature was not out of the fascination of the blur, rather the insticts that surface in raw senses.

In the recent past, my mind developed various conflicts. Ranging from my faith to the decadance of each day; nothing rhymed and made sense. Wordsworth seemed too happy, Coleridge would only help me dig deeper in grief. I was not stable to appreciate the extreme streams.

Aviral Kapoor is a 21 year old poet who could bring the two extremes together in synchrony. His book Dunkeheit is a poetic conversational log between God and his innocent human creation. There are symbols embedded in the narration and poems embellished with ornaments of metaphysical answers.

The books is not just a composition of images and metafiction, but a path to the roots of an individual’s identity. From the subconsciousness rhyming alongside the full moon; the poetic synthesis revives the wholestic philosophy of humankind.

To critic the work, I may land up with an argument of ‘ideas’ as an abstract phenomenon. But everytime I read the poems, the words are able to generate past experiences into a compelling messages that I had ignored altogether.

To read the resonance of the romantic period of literature in the post modern world is in one word, reviving. If it was upto me, I would declare Aviral Kapoor as a poet from the early 19th century.  He reminded me of the lake poets, and this remark completely speaks for his potential. 

 

 

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The Poets In The Cafe

Four of them had lost to themselves. They were not simple to the past, not complex to the future, only words to the present. That is what everything was about, some words. They fell with the rain and surfaced in the taste.

My Muse was in the rain as well, somewhere far or close, how does it matter. Somewhere in the rain with an alien to her potential. It has always been the same talk among the poets, something related to the celestial ink that shapes up their thoughts. From the woman that broke stars into raindrops to the flight waiting up for the next project. From the forgotten coffee to the remembered intricacies of her smile.

There are tattoos engrained in the wood pallets with stories that do not make sense but harmony. And Mathew Arnold said that is enough to save the world, a few words.

Dead Flowers

My eyes are closed and the only thing I sense is nothing. I don’t know what sound shall guide this feeling, but it is happening. In the grave of my mind where the sand is the stillness of this universe. The dark space where I Inhibit within and without.

She would kiss me with flowers. Petals on my dead skin and I don’t know how to tell her this but I think my body has given up years ago. Now that I understand that only my desires lived and not my intent. Might sound all the darker, this space inside my head and I have nothing to say those kisses or the flowers that will eventually die with the fraction of time. I cannot see you anymore because I don’t want to. Yes, I understand that you are practical and none of this makes sense to you. It doesn’t have to make sense to anything at all. Senses are frail weak conscious traps.

I am a young dead man. And these thoughts are surfaced out of the five minutes that my eyes were closed and nothing disturbed. I carefully sensed my death. How in darkest breaths of the space, I would feel these dead flowers touch the earth in all sincerity.

It was never meant to be. Nothing was ever meant to be, but it did happen. Now I don’t really know from where I have the audacity to hurt everyone around me by saying that all of this that we sense is a web and the more we think, the more intense is the trap.

But it won’t be long until the flowers kissing my dead body becomes one with me. That’s what is meant to be. The slow degradation of senses. My dearest fellows might come to feed the dead flowers with some drops of tears, the clouds I mean are fairly dominant to the skies of life. The cries shall help sincerity reach its salvation.

Spiritsights

I have lost myself in the reverie called reality and I need to regain all my spiritual sense. It has been a while since I have extended the limited characters and novels that I started a year ago.  Intuition was the fuel to a surreal sense, as silence would pave the way to absolute sound.

In attempts to continue, I interacted with experiences, but the dependency on the experiences have made the silence disappear. With this article, I shall attempt to gain the silence again. I have been addicted to certain activities and that is also adding on to the exploitation of my exhausted spirit. I named this blog, Spiritsights for a reason that I understand now. It has always been intuition.

Lately, I have been dependent on material object and humans to extract muse. But this practice has ruined my artistic calibre to the core and I need to get back.

I shall practice meditation and intuitive flow, whether it makes sense or not, that is not my concern for I am sure very few actually read. For those who read, you shall find an interesting pattern of automatic writing. It is an experiment to revive the Spiritsight.

Aphrodisiac 

In the middle of the night, my mind often slips into the serenity of some unknown sense. It tastes like the falling sky and smells like the wet earth. Feels like her skin. And I am only one sense, to sense, one stimulai, over and over again, until, I give up to reality and fall asleep.

Oranges and strawberries, oceans and shores, around her neck to her hands. Orchids growing around her breasts falling short of beauty to veil her canvas.

Sometimes, memories take over and spill magical ghosts over my bedsheet. The colour of the walls that surrounded us the day we kissed.

The book we were reading, when it hit me that I have had enough of words. It was time to fall for the endless narrows of those magestic hills that we always longed to visit.

Listen? You know already that we barely can have all we dream of, or even of what our company owns and not us. But all I can tell you is that, from all material or mental substance that have surrounded me, this feeling is unexplainable and surprisingly sustaining to the lost sense.

Almost every night, in the middle of it all, the clocks stop, and I lay down with ghosts of great travellers. All of us in love with her.

Jane Tu Ya Jane Na

It had been a while since I took in oxygen and the essence of life reached my heart. I think that’s how we grow, building walls across the sole existence of our true self. It hit me when she said,
“You cannot really love, you barely know what love is, you don’t know. But you think you know, maybe to know, you just need not know. That’s what I know, that I don’t know love, maybe that’s why I don’t have to be someone else with you. I feel amazing around you. That’s what we need, right now.”

So, I am in a middle of a messy schedule, a beautifully wrecked idea of life, but a recovered idea of self.

Hi,
It had been such a long while and now, we are here again. I am your writer alter- ego. No, I am not like Coleridge or Wordsworth. I am more like you, but always so far away from you. Sleeping in the corners of your untidy space, partying with the dying stars in the darkness of your negativity. Oh, my favourite place is the void. The void, where you used to keep yourself obliviated from everything. You still don’t really know reality and you smile while typing all of this? Well, that is you. That is what you have always been, but the superego hates us, isn’t it? I mean, superego hates not knowing and expressing these sentiments. But we still smile while typing this.

It is funny and beautiful. She is funny and beautiful. Life? Metaphors?

Oh, just stop already.

To Finities and Funny Things

Dear Death,

Right now, it is 2:03 AM and I just felt like telling you a few things. I mean, I wonder if people ever tell you things about life. People live a little fast, sleep too much, dream a little less of you and well, life is more about ignorance and happiness. You see, happiness sustains in the senses till they are not aware of how trees actually cannot speak the language of our lies. We grow up to rediscover only our fallacies.

Some star that I used to call Sparky gets named B-8779 according to this thing called NASA, or maybe they call it something else now.  Sparky told me stories about how he had hopes for me to be an amazing writer, but this world only tells me that it only burns to give off light. I mean, how does that make sense. I was reading The Little Prince today, somehow, my cognition felt down to its origin to feel better. I was also not satisfied with my day, as I could not get a response from the people I look forward to talking too, at that moment I realised that even though Sparky was not there in the sky anymore like my best friend, maybe because of the dusk in Delhi or some other scientific reason, I was alone only because I was taught what is alone. Sparky died with my acceptance of the subjects. Loneliness was born out of knowing that my father is never happy with my mother when she is not able to help him sort his issues.

You see, dear death, it almost seems to me, that we grow into your need. By default, isn’t it? We are born as a pure stack of beautiful thoughts and then we do make-believe things like chemistry and psychology and sociology and even this language that I am writing in for that matter.

I was born in a way that I admired females in a different way, then I grew older and developed sexual urges. Last week I kissed a girl and now when I am not able to have regular conversations with the girl, my mind acts a little strange. We grow into the need of death. I wish I could simply admire the girl I kissed in the manner I can without hampering my head. But that’s human, developing ideas that only hunts the life within them.

Throw a nuclear bomb at me and I will meet you, but I wonder if I will ever be able to tell you why I lived. The point is, I don’t need to know and that’s what life is, we don’t know. Philosophers like me think day and night, but we never realise that even time is just a cute tool of the mind. How much can I really know till my own mind ages into an oblivion? Why do I even need to do things? I can only have fun with sparky, every night.

I don’t know, death, I just cannot tell you about life. It’s funny. Better not to know that right now my psychology is actually suicidal. How funny is that? They call me an escapist. Even funnier!

Ah, it is humorous to find these grown-ups not able to sit down and smile for no reason.They call it madness and the complaint about how they are not content. I don’t know, I just probably want to kiss the girl again. It brings me closer to myself and to you.

Dear death, I dont know. Let me.

Regards,
Sagar Arora