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| Vol. 4, Issue 2 February 2012 |
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Fiction & Poetry |
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Poetry |
Funerals and Marriages
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Published : 1 September 2011 |
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I’ve stopped going to marriages and funerals. Any
demonstration of grief or joy unnerves me. Solemnity
withers me and dark elegance leaves no one moved. It’s not
that I’ve forgotten kindness or to wish people happiness
if they can find it. I could help the bereaved furtively after
the mourners have eaten and left. I have become truly
unsociable.
I can’t fathom why anyone would like to be comforted
except by people they love selfishly. You only need hugs
and kisses from people from whom you can get your
morsel of flesh. I cannot be comforted, except by the
woman I love illicitly.
I often wonder about the efficacy of marriages and
funerals. Could it be because others are as worried, as
I was during my own wedding feast, that my friends
would not show up for some mystifying reason? As
regards funerals, I know that if the house of the dead
cannot keep a demonic hold on me, my absence will not
make any difference. But I don’t want to be censored
for not attending marriages or funerals. I wish people
would not invite me to weddings or bring news of an old
acquaintance’s death. If I could I wouldn’t attend even my
own funeral.
I remember the day I returned home, and without even
seeing my father I went to my aunt’s house when I heard
my cousin had died during my long absence. I tried to
match my aunt’s grief by trying to show some tears in
my eyes but ended up sniffing like a dog. After that, my
cousin’s sister, my other lovely cousin, in whose body I first
sang a liquid tune, gave me pineapple to eat and we smiled
at each other. I used to dip my hands into her blooming
breasts, a pair of frightened pigeons. But later, my dead
cousin appeared in my dreams to play and protect me
again as he did during our childhood. He took a long time
to go away and I had to spit three times to be sure that he
doesn’t haunt me.
I remember this film about slum-dwellers in Bombay and
how after the tears and the burning they would bring out
their bottles of orange liquor and get drunk and have a real
ball. That’s one funeral I would like to attend.
Robin S Ngangom is a bilingual poet and translator. He is the author of three collections of poetry.
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Readers' Comments |
Total Comments
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Amrutha
18 November 2011
09:53 PM
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@karemishis, it is a style of poetry called prose poetry. I enjoy it because it breaks out of the rigidity of the expected verse-rhyme form.
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Prasad
17 October 2011
06:03 PM
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if i compare... i feel good poems are coming out from Indian local languages
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karemishis
3 October 2011
01:03 AM
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Confused. How is this poetry but not ornate prose?
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