An average verse.

The quality of averageness entangled me today
It pushed me to a bottle, like a djinn.
I painted the glass with vibrant colours to hide its content, yet
the bottle proved to be too small for the greateness of my averagness,
it spilled outside the brim:
average intelligence that fails to deconstruct itself in the light of Derrida's theory,
average face that has never been immortalised on the canvas at NGMA,
(even ambition is average as it fails to strive for the walls of Louvre)
average muscular strength that makes me stay on the floor longer than those not-so-average bodies around,
average poem, no average comment on that shall be offered.
Average, average, average to the point of nausea.
only the spelling mistakes and mispronounced words shall proudly announce my individuality,

I

The 'I' in me wears a thick coat on a hot summer's day.
It closes the eyes in the middle of things:
intro-I-duction, po-I-em, walk-I-ing.
It stops with the eyes closed and hands extended
feeling the structure of the wall near by.
It will be late for work today,
although,
the sense of responsibility
will push it towards the doors.
I inter-I-rupted poem.
It will come back to it in the evening.

I sat to it with a cup of tea in my hands,
while the 'I' in me kept pondering over the sense of it all.
I watched the child, the adult and the I conspire against me.
The child was laughing
The I was missing
The adult was annoyed.
I sat in the corner looking at the I.

We were trying to measure each other.
I wore a thick coat and I went away.

The Cow.

'She's a fat cow...' These were the exact words that would creep into his mind each night as he mounted her on the squeaky cot standing in the corner of the room.
'You stupid cow...' he would tell her as he slapped her for having gone out with her girlfriends to buy the glass bangles without telling him.
He milked her parents well on their wedding day - new motorbike and a smartphone with unlimited access to those pretty scantly clad kittens that would make up to him for having to bear with that cow of his.

He heard in the evening that a man kept cow's meat in his fridge. He was outraged. How could one have even thought of eating a cow. He run to the man's house with a stone in his hand.

I run out of words. They turned into sharp  blades of grass that the cows graze on...

Pretty cup.

I liked the cup. It was blue at the bottom and had red and white design at the top. The tea drank from it had this peculiar taste of tea that is being drank from a blue and red cup with white designs. If you don't know what am I talking about then the loss is absolutely yours...

I was sitting by a wooden table with a blue and red cup of tea in my hand and my eyes were examining the surroundings. Tall chair with a red colour pillow, a poster of a film star from the sixties, a guy who dropped in for a moment to enjoy his office coffee break, cups arranged neatly on the shelf.

They were sitting two tables away from mine. Early twenties I guess, he might have been slightly elder to her. They were both busy smiling at each other and I think he might have even wanted to hold her hand but was too scared of doing so in front of strangers.
She lowered her eyes to study the menu card.  She wanted to enjoy some of the exotic tastes that the place was offering. She zered on a strawberry flavoured green tea, which was being advertised as one of those rarities that one is supposed to try in order to become a true connoisseur of tea. It was also one of the most expensive items in the card and I could see for a moment a glimpse of panic in his eyes as he tried calculate in his mind whether he would have enough money in his wallet to be able to pay the bill. He was still smiling.

She was pretty. Big dove like eyes smeared with kajal. Long hair. Glowing skin. Straight teeth.

'You know... I could only marry a man who would gift me a diamond in an 18kt golden ring' she said.

She was pretty. She was pretty indeed. Eyebrow threading. Golden facial. Legs and hands waxing. Hairdresser. French manicure. Pedicure. Hand cream. Under-eye cream. Moisturising cream. Lipstick. Perfume.

He was still smiling. With a smile on his face he would drop out of college and study correspondence to join the call center to earn those few thousands that he would put into his bank account. He would eat once a day to save those few hundreds so that she could have her strawberry tea once a week. He would walk everywhere to save those few coins so that he could pay for her auto back home in the evening. He would do this stupid job once in his life that would make him feel ashamed of himself but would allow him to put those few thousands more into the bank. He would cut his foot and not go to the doctor to save a few hundreds and his foot would become swollen and hurt for six weeks. He would not go to see the sea with his friends to save few hundreds that he would otherwise have to spend on a ticket. He would not get himself a dog to save money that he would have to spend on dog's food, instead he would put few hundreds more into his account every month.

She enjoyed her tea. It had a flavour of sophistication mixed with a pinch of aestheticism. She had always been inclined towards beauty - the walls of her house were full of paintings that she bought at auctions or during her visits to art galleries. She would finish law at one of the ivy league universities and work in a foreign bank. One day the son of her parents' friends would gift her a platinum ring with 2 diamonds. One day at work she would catch a glimpse of a bit familiar face of a man applying for a loan. Unable to recollect the face she would just think to herself how silly those little people are - they do not know how to succeed in life and constantly beg big companies to give them money to survive.

He would not be given a loan. With tears in his eyes he would raise the ax to cut down the olive tree that his grandfather planted  after returning from his only travel abroad. The tree was just about to give fruits... He sold the land to the multinational construction company - the land would be converted into a calling center of a foreign bank. They would install big computers and college drop outs would be calling people to offer them loans and credit cards.

I finished my cup of black tea and paid the bill. As I went out I spotted a child sleeping on the ground at the construction site across the street. She kept her head on a pillow made out of her mother's sari and was dreaming of  her village and the girls playing with a blue ball by the river. A squirrel run up the wall. I could spot a single line on its grey fur, as if somebody had touched it with a finger dipped in paint. 

I looked back. She was still pretty. He was still smiling.

The pianist.

He always loved the piano. It was its presence in the living room that would link the old worlds with  today. His fingers were long and bony and he would often catch himself observing the lumbricals of his hand as he played.
Black key... vibration. White key... vibration.
It made him feel as if the music was not coming out of the piano strings but from all the muscles and bones of his body as he stretched himself to fill the room with his presence.
There was a lot to fill up as the room was large and empty of furniture. Only the piano stood at the center. He would sit next to it, eat, drink and sometimes even fall asleep. He once even dreamt a strange dream of having become a magician who stood by the river with a torn blue cloth in his hand. What could that mean he had no idea.
Having no ideas was a rather general state for him. He had no idea about the world, no idea about people, no idea about wars. All he knew were the black and white sounds coming out from his piano. It would always make him think of magic - this simple fact that by pressing one key he could create most unbelievable sounds that would paint the white walls of his room with different designs.
He enjoyed having his own ways - he would cry where other people would laugh and smile while others would try to wag their fists. He could not understand their ways and they were equally unable to understand his. He got used to the fact that he and his piano grew into becoming each other's best friends, best men, old husband and wife who had lived together for so long that they had eradicated any form of communication as it was no longer needed. They knew each other too well.
He was sitting by the piano that day trying to master the most intricate choreographies for his fingers when his efforts were interrupted  by a sudden knock on the doors. That seemed strange to him as nobody ever came this side - his house was far away from everywhere, everything and everybody. He thought that the sound was just a game of his imagination. He was getting old after all. However, the knocking seemed to continue and irritated as he might have been he could not ignore it any longer. He stood up and walked slowly towards the doors. The knocking  was becoming louder and louder with every step he took. He got scared and paused for a moment. Somebody began to bang hard against the doors. He could not ignore the loud sound so he decided to press the handle.

As he opened the doors he could see a little girl standing outside. Her hair was drenched in the rain of her tears.

'Can you see me?... Can you see me?' she cried. 'Can you see me? Cause nobody else can!!! Can you?'

Of course he could see her. What kind of question was that? Of course he could see her, yet he did not know how to say that to her. He was not good with words. Music was his domain.

'Can you see me?' she was almost shouting.

Not knowing what to do he suddenly pulled the child closer to himself and kept his hand on her head. The girl looked at him with her big green eyes 'Do you know that squirrels have marks on their fur because they were once touched by the hand of a man?' she asked.
'Yes, I heard about that I guess' he said 'it's an old story'
'It's not so old' said the girl 'I made it up yesterday only. May I tell you a story?'
He was lost for words, his hand however, began to play with girls hair. It seemed as if nobody had brushed them for years.
'Yes' the words flew suddenly out of his mouth 'I would love to listen.'

The water cycle

She could feel the heavy blocks of ice melting under her skin,
They would climb out of her body to fly away like clouds that the wind would send towards his window.
She blew a petal out of her hand.
It turned into a kite.
The rain began at midnight.
The drops were heavy and each of them fell on the leaves of a creeper that was searching for its way through a tiny crack in the wall.
A green leaf found itself growing on a dry branch of a tree.
She kept her head on his knees.
It felt soft.
Her hands morphed into a creeper climbing up his body to fill up the crack in his chest.
She touched ice and it began to melt.
Drops fell down her hands and as each of them hit the ground she could feel leaves and branches growing out of her body.
His head was resting in her shadow.

The two butterflies found their way out of the white metro car.
I think I saw them sitting on a leaf as I drank tea on a cold morning after the rain.

Untied masks.

The circle spinned as each of them untied the masks of insecurity that the thoughtful family tied on their heads.
My children.
Emancipated woman.
Fuck the system.
You hear only one side of the story.

She was sitting by the wall and her fingers were searching for the grains of cement that she could use to build up a wall between here and there.

The woman.

He woke up suddenly that day. Unable to grasp his whereabouts. Unable to remember the past that led him here. Unable to perceive the face of his faceless body.
He was just a thought.
The magician.
Unreal.

The real came rushing at him at a terrible speed. He thought he might fall again, his body shivered in fear. Was it fear? he wasn't sure.

'I shall sit there on the veranda every evening watching stars. The rocking chair. The quilt which I shall wrap over the legs of a woman whose voice will accompany me through the evenings. Her skin shall be covered with deep wrinkles. I shall touch her feet and hold her hand as she stumbles at the threshold.'

'Who said that?' he asked as he looked around the room. It was empty. He has never come here before, yet it was his own face that was looking at him from a painting on the wall. Cartons of notebooks in which he scribbled in his own handwriting. Books packed and waiting for somebody to unpack them again. He went to the sink and began to wash the dishes. This made him feel as if he did belong to this other place of his own self.

He turned and saw an old woman shrouded with a morning mist. The morning of acquaintanceship against the evening of forgetfulness.
He could hear her crying in the distance. He could see her hand moving involuntarily as they increased the dosage of morphine. Her lips were dry. A sponge soaked in water. She was walking slowly supported by the hands of a young woman. Her voice was soft. Like whispering. Like whispering in the middle of the night. Like whispering in the middle of the night when you ask if you could tell a story...

He turned back. He did not want to distract the women. They belonged to each other, which made him feel as if he was a spy on their moment of togetherness. Yet he wanted to look...

He turned back again. The third woman sang a prayer. Her fingers kept moving as she was counting the beads of a rosary as she sang. He had forgotten how to pray. It seemed so distant to him and yet it made him bend his knees and bury his face in his hands and beg. Whom? ... What for?... Would anybody listen?

He opened his eyes to see that the women are gone. The cane rocking chair moved slightly in the light of a hospital tubelight. It seemed as if somebody sat there for a moment. But that moment was over now.

He sat motionless, unable to comprehend and suddenly out of nowhere a pen of the writer made him run for his life as he felt his body transporting itself onto a flight bound to nowhere.

He sat in meditation. These were the longest 3 hours of his life.

The women. The prayer. The flight.

The rocking chair flew away from the patio as the flight landed somewhere in the undefined space.

He took out his face again from the pocket of his trousers. It had a polite smile on it. It said 'Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking'. He wore it on his body as it was trembling with invisible spasms of crying. He stood up and walked towards the doors. He pressed the handle and took a firm step transporting himself to the stage again.

The magician

The magician stood at the center of the stage. It was an old number to perform. Something he had done thousand times in his life. He was relaxed. His movements were smooth and confident as he took out a bouquet of daisies from the creases of his jacket. The audience applauded, but he was not moved by their expressions of admiration, He had got used to it through the years he had spent on stage. He did enjoy appreciation he would receive here and there but he did not feel the need of it anymore. He was not hungry for it as he had once been while standing in front of the roaring crowd. What thrill had it been... but now the thrill had been long gone. It was precision and flow of his movements that drew him towards performing his shows well rather than unfulfilled desire to shine.
When the performance got over he went quietly to the green room and took off the mask of a face that was stuck to his body. He was faceless now. It didn't really matter for everybody around him had forgotten what his name was. He was known to them as the magician. The man of crafty fingers. He kept his face on a hanger and fixed its smile a bit as it was explicitly stated in his contract that should have an impeccable smile whenever he stands on stage.
He wanted to go home but the minute he took the first step towards the doors he tripped on an orange peel that drifted into his greenroom from somebody else's story. He felt for a moment that he is not a master of his own destiny anymore. This thought frightened him and so he threw his arms wide in his last attempt to catch the balance but it was too late. He was falling behind and strangely enough he had thought that he caught a glimpse of a girl clad in a torn blue skirt. She was fighting against the current of a river as her hands were smeared with stains of blue paint.
He had been falling for quite some time now as suddenly he realise that he is floating on the waters in a tiny room where the eyes of his own face were looking at him from a painting hanging on the wall.
'But I do not exist...' he began to scream as he felt a soft touch of somebody's hand brushing through his dry disheveled hair. It felt warm and comforting and so he slowly drifted towards the land of his unconscious... many years later he would have written it in a book that this was the first time he had slept for real.

Stairway to infinity...

There once was a girl who thought she knew what heaven looks like. I am not sure if she herself was the author of the image of heaven of her dreams or maybe she had created it from scraps of conversations she overheard while having chicken at a 1.30 pm Sunday lunch with her family. Or maybe she just remembered one of the advertising slogans for heaven?
I don't know.
What I know is that she really tried hard to reach that heaven of her dreams. She studied hard, she collected objects that could help her towards getting to heaven. She thought she could climb there by the ladder that she would keep next to a cloud and try to climb up. She tried so hard that drops of sweat were dripping from her forehead even though it was not a hot summer... She tried and tried and tried... For a moment or two she would even think that she had indeed touched heaven with her hand... But somehow whatever she touched left only stains of blue colour on her hands. The marks of acrylic paint. You see... The heaven she touched was just a word that somebody pained on the ceiling with a blue coloured paint.
She wasn't angry. Or maybe she was? She was disappointed I guess. She might have even felt cheated for a moment... but whose hand was it that had scribbled on the ceiling of her house? Wasn't it she herself? She was confused on that one...
She might have been confused about many things, and she might have been experiencing many contrasting feelings at that moment, but one thing she was sure of - she could never satisfy herself with a mere word, with the confinement of a small room, with blue painted ceiling instead of an open sky. The infinity...
So she packed her backpack and turned herself into railway tracks... But not ordinary railway tracks... You see... Whatever was behind her began to bend and roll inwards like a scorpion's tail... There was no way of going back... One could only move ahead... Whatever was there behind was rolling inwards like a wave and an invisible hand held an eraser that would gradually make the pages of the past histories turn pale and the words that had been written on them were slowly becoming unrecognisable.
It was a magic railway track that would move ahead in twists and turns through the fields. It was a safe track - whatever was behind was blurred so there was no possibility that suddenly a heavy black locomotive engine would crush you from behind.
The track was moving ahead all the time. The most magical thing about the railway tracks is that if you look forward you think that you see the end of your journey but as you move closer to that point you realise that it is not the end at all, and then you see another point far away on the horizon and you begin to move towards it, and again, and again... till infinity.
There are no stations next to this railway tracks. Stations have words written on them, and once you reach a station you have to stop according to a schedule and depart according to a schedule. You can't even wait for a passenger that was getting late for the train....  No. Stations are not for this railway track. This railway track goes through fields...  And whenever the girl wants she can just transform herself into a girl, and sit by the track and breathe...
She is sitting next to railway track right at the moment. It might even sound funny to you, but I think she even took out an old style curved pipe and began smoking it as she is sitting there.
So she is sitting smoking her pipe by the railway tracks and looking at a filed stretching in front of her. The soil is very fertile and somebody just sowed the seeds. The scarecrow is there in the field. It's a very colourful and cool scarecrow. Do not ask me for the definition of 'scarecrowiness', but it's a very scarecrowy scarecrow...
You can punch the scarecrow jokingly and it will take off its hat... It's a nice scarecrow. A friendly one.

So the girl is sitting there by the railway tracks with her pipe. The filed is there. The scarecrow is there. The railway track is also there. And the girl is there too.

She is waiting and enjoying the moment.

The girl is there. And so are possibilities. The railway track. The field. The scarecrow. These are the possibilities.  But the girl is there for sure.