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Poem and Explanation

0001

Between the shattered lines he could not see the faulting

The eyelids folded, to be unfolded again

The city, what should the city be more of

Devours his hand, the flame

Melt into ashes the embrace of arms

Into ashes, the sweating sweats

 

Melt into embrace of arms

Into sweating sweats, the ashes

Into the moor he runs

Where the cry of conflagration is called, recalled

Enticed in such interaction

To dedicate the self to the moor

Too long, incredibly too long, the blossom of daisy

The time left for growth, thus too short

 

Hey where are you going

To the Heaven.

 

Deflect off the color of his hair, the city lights

Wandering about the truth, shaking and the hypocrisy, shaking

Dances with the conflagration, the bookstore across the street

And the books in it, and the words and

punctuations and notations in them                   And smoke.

 

Hey are you coming back

Probably not.

 

The other side of palm and orchid, buried his secrets

Oath and lies, all sink down into people’s ears

One ear, one ear

and another

Grows larger, the ear

Smaller, smaller

the mouth

He loses his ear and mouth

His nose, hidden underneath the ground

His eyes, towards the sky

 

Hey are you ok

 

Between the shattered lines he could not see the faulting

The eyelids unfolded, to be folded again

The city, which in the city is not so much enough

Devours his hand, the flame

And tongue.      Embrace. Sweat. Ashes.

 

Hey the End.

 

 

The imagery came to me when I was reading The Crucible and The Stranger over the last summer. They are both abandoned by their community, by the society, and by some “correctness ” that is not correct. They are both going to be executed and finally they attempt to find redemption in faith. What they find, however, is that faith does not exist, because it is also an artful creation by those people who are sending them to be executed. Or, when “people” can decide the nature of someone’s faith, faith ceases to exist. And faith (or social norm/justice in the case of Meursault in The Stranger) becomes a tool to destroy the innocence and prove the absence of itself. But when John Proctor and Meursault are abandoned even by “faith”, they seem to achieve another type of salvation through extreme individuality. “Can destruction and redemption coexist?” is the question that I have asked after reading these two novels and try to discuss in this poem.

The destruction of humanity and truth is like a conflagration that devours everything. When John Proctor and Meursault confront their tragic endings with composure, or anyone who is misunderstood by the larger community, they have that conflagration inside their bodies. They are torn apart by the temperature and energy. They have died once when they are still alive, so they are no longer afraid of death. After they die physically, however, their souls may continue the life.

 

 

 

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