anamnesis

i.

My eyes flick open

In the darkness

I lay there

Listening to the sounds

The guttural whine of stomachs emptying

The grindstone whirs

Muscled into

Revolutions per minute

Gyrating to

Steady kinetic energy

Centrifuging

From the thoughts

Of

The makers

 

ii.

the day sparks into being

being alive

maybe it’s just a dream

I wield an ax

Still in the dark

No, it’s not all dark

There’s some sun

Sifting through the bars of the too small window

But just enough

To know that

I see

I’m alive

 

 

iii.

The handle is rough in my hands

Hewn clumsily

yet skillfully balanced

I swing

Feel the muscles ripple

In response to

Synapses crackling

Terabytes of data

Shooting in an instance

A single arc of

Motion

The doors clank open

 

iv.

I hear them first

As I shuffle in the semi darkness

Right hand firmly planted on the wall

It pulsates

From the stamping of feet

The slice of metal on metal

Climbs above the din

Grunts

The scratch of well-balanced gaits

Locked in a dance in the sands

Chop

Then a roar

 

v.

I am fettered

The cool metal clinks around my waist

My left leg bound

To a ball

My hands

My hands are free

But only just

Chains snake from my forearms

To my ax handle

I can move

In a clumsy man’s shuffle

 

vi.

Blinded

The searing pain

Sets my pores ablaze

The sun

White

My wrists smoulder

As

My chains burn

Etching themselves into my skin

My eyelids flicker

 

vii.

He strikes first

Instinctively I parry

Then dig my heels in

There is a whoosh

As he swings

Too wide

I duck and jab

Into his solar plexus

A heavy grunt

Then there is sand in my eyes

I hear his feet shift

The ground shakes

From the stomping

I am fettered

He swings

Too wide again

I dance away

And swing

An arc curving upwards

I slice

Through skin and bone and sinew

Warm blood kisses my feet

Then there is the roar

 

viii.

The greater good is a necessary evil

It forces men to think outside themselves

For the ultimate pride

We are but playthings

Discarded when we are broken

Cut down in the bloom of youth

Or old and frail and degenerate

If they try to linger

Maybe one day we will know God

Perhaps not

The cool water washes it away

Everything

Leaving not a scar

Of the day

 

ix.

I am unbound

And a brand

White hot

Is held to my cheek

I scream

Not that it matters

A chuck of spit crowns my head

Accompanied by

A flurry of rotten vegetables

And old man’s urine

I see their eyes

Little pools of judgement

And a sadness

Burning behind

Everything

They are sunken in belief

Of everything but themselves

The curses

Smiting my ears

If only they worked

 

x.

The pain!

It cuts through my back

The whip cracks

Agony!

Oh pain

Sweet unceasing pain

After a while

I feel nothing

Smell nothing

Taste nothing

But the coppery tang of blood in my mouth

I see red

As I am jolted to my feet

Everything fades away

White noise

Nothing matters

It breaks you down

Every time you wake

The ultimate savage

Rendering equality as myth

Life

I am weary

Broken

I am alone

A recollection

Of what was

My eyes shut close

Into darkness

 

©_sena_frost ‘17

 

Old-Man Logan-Wolverine, X-Men. Marvel Comics

image courtesy google.com

 

 

WHO IS A POET?

 

Or an artist to be precise. There are so many people who parade themselves as such. Just because you have a little skill at putting nice sentences together doesn’t make you a poet or drawing people to perfection an artist.

Art is one of the greatest gifts God gave to man. It is a direct albeit weakened description of His power; the ability to create. A painter breathes life into his painting, likewise a writer into his writing.

The ability to draw observers to your work and by observers I don’t mean those who go gaga at your wordplay or your effortless skill at rendering the human physique or how well you sing or dance. I mean those who sit down and interact with your work because of its inherent depth (or lack of it), those who go beyond the media into the reason behind the work to appreciate true beauty.

Beauty. A very ambiguous subject. It’s the reason why a footballer moving a ball would be adored by fans, a shapely woman gawped and have men at her feet, a morsel of food photographed and paraded like a piece of gold which incredulously is valuable because it is so nice to look at.

The greatest artists of the ages transcended what was viewed as the standards. It is not enough to be part of the latest fad and enjoy the centre stage. Each word and brushstroke and move is your gift to the world. What are you leaving behind after the show is over? People happy with how good you are or people getting better because you touched them in places where hands don’t go?

Would you be remembered as a candle easily snuffed by the wind of time or a star whose dying nova spawns even greater stars?

Art is a legacy, built for the future. Think about it the next time you are going to do what you love.

 

© Sena Frost 2k16