The word ‘Altschmerz’ literally translates to: ‘Old Pain’ (German). My resolve to fight a plethora of flaws and anxieties that have existed for as long as I can remember grows weaker; this is a weariness that grows stronger with every breath I take: one that feels no fatigue. Like an evil plague, the locusts circle around my skin, waiting to tear into my flesh and assume what seems like their rightful place within my skeleton. ‘Altschmerz’ is a series of six abstract short poems that I came up with on six separate sleepless nights, which I spent obsessing over six independent, unrelated thoughts that somehow cheer the loudest at the coronation of my self defeat. My daily battle with them has made it more than clear that death is not disappearing, but instead, an obscure celebration of an existence turning obsolete. I invite everyone to celebrate this coronation with me; I also implore all of you to listen to all songs that interject the poems that follow (read the lyrics too!); they not only do justice to whatever I felt as I penned down what follows, but are also extremely close to my heart. You can find this eponymous playlist on YouTube, Spotify, and Apple Music.
I must admit that posting this publicly took way more courage than I thought; this is by far, the most ‘personal’ thing I’ve ever written. If this tugged your heart strings (even a little), I will consider ‘Altschmerz’ as having achieved its divine purpose. Obviously, because my words recapitulate specific incidents that have had prolific effects in shaping my persona, they may not be entirely clear to everybody. With regard to people who are close to me, I say “Those who know, know”. That being said, if my words do interest you and you would like to know what each of these poems truly mean (specifics and all), or if you would just like to reach out to me (to tell me what you loved/hated, how it made you feel, etc.), or if you have any questions, please do not hesitate to reach out to me on Instagram (@lordkuppu) or Facebook, or just leave a comment below. Happy reading and listening!
Love, now and always,
Anup
روح (ROOH; URDU FOR ‘SPIRIT’)
मुक़द्दर को ग़म में आज़माया करो (Muqaddar ko gham mein aazmaya karo)
फ़ितरत भी मुसर्रत की नीलामी करती है (Fitrat bhi musarrat ki nilaami karti hai)
आज़ादी की नुमाइश ज़िंदा रहकर किया करो (Azaadi ki numaaish zinda rehkar kiya
karo)
मौत भी वक़्त की ग़ुलामी करती है (Maut bhi waqt ki ghulaami karti hai)
Translation:
Let destiny stand trial amidst sorrow,
For the auctioning of pleasure itself is
the will of nature.
Let freedom be exhibited when one is
alive,
For even death is but a slave of time.
DOLOUR
The promise of the celestial came with being tossed like a stone;
Housed by the earth, but the horizon is
your home.
The ascent takes its toll as I rise
proudly towards the sky.
Nestled in the arms of whose eyes they
envisaged the moon;
Yet, when the sky was the blackest, their
hearts hoped for a shooting star.
Victory has defeated them, for they wish
upon what they once discarded;
I know. I was there: resplendent,
patrolling the darkness.
RECUMBENT
Veracity sacrificed on the altar of pretence;
Thus, begins the descent of dissent.
Allusions to a meek revolution withering on the vine,
Sold by leaders that cannot afford courage
but question the price of a spine.
To sin without guilt, their raison d’être,
Indifference in deference to those that weep.
Rags of impunity claiming to dry moistened
eyes;
Alas, the tears of wolves quench the
thirst of sheep.
Distracted by paroxysms of the privileged, do the truly febrile fade.
The loudest advocates for the bleeding to
end often wield a blade.
APOCRYPHAL I: EPIPHANY
What is peace but a futile privilege?
An exercise moistened by teardrops and
blood.
What is love but an ornate abattoir?
Where throats are sharpened and blades are
cut.
What is tradition but assiduous subservience?
There are still dreams to be crushed,
wings to be clipped.
Aspirations to be chained, integrity to be
whipped. All for the amusement of unseen corpses.
What is sapience but convalescing arrogance?
The errors of wise, cruel men become fodder
for rules; kindness wastes away as a leftover in the kitchen for hungry
fools.
I envy the asinine; I envy the weak. At least they are shamelessly content with shut doors.
They possess the only knowledge that matters: the lock of suffering may only be opened by death, for it is the key of life.
APOCRYPHAL II: CATHARSIS
What is peace but a futile privilege?
What is love but an ornate abattoir?
What is tradition but assiduous
subservience?
What is sapience but convalescing
arrogance?
Is not offering the hope of a colourful world to a blind man a sin that cannot be pardoned?
Does the desire to aggrandise your wisdom
absolve you of your absence from the trial?
Perhaps the purity of the profane vitiates
the feculence of all that you deem sacred.
Beyond the chasm that divides remorse from hollow consolation,
Nestled across the forest of esoteric joy,
Lies the lake that bears the elixir you
seek,
Where victory is not staying afloat nor is
drowning, defeat.
But the world does not care about the withered reeds on its shore.
RETICENT
Does life begin as an anfractuous journey,
Or is it rendered unwieldy by minds too
twisted to comprehend conscience?
I see a child of ten holding his heart in one hand and gouging his eyes out dry with the other.
I see him calling out to his mother
feebly, almost hoping to be greeted by deaf ears.
I see waning hope and abject piety, courting
a judgment that cannot be overruled.
I see, from the wretched womb of
innocence, the birth of a guffaw, cursed, in perpetuity, to mute sniggering
mobs.
I see, for the first time, the world for
what it truly is.
This path, however discomforting, led to wisdom,
But now you are left with its unwelcome
companion: indifference.
You were always more of a problem than a
solution;
Why are you now being trusted with
absolution?
A universe so adept at breaking trust
cannot vilify suspicions and promulgate cynics as sentinels of misery;
Inertia, thy might is right!
As if you are meant to consider yourself enough at the whim of circumstance.
As if all this was nothing but an arduous
exercise in futility masquerading as a test of worthiness.
As if the letters from the past were
nothing more than postcards with smudged ink:
Discarded because they were written by a
clown torn between juggling a heart and moist eyes.
As if you should try and pretend that in
this putrid world,
Your hopes do not, in sinister ecstasy,
eternally decompose.
Perhaps you are too tired to revere reveries any more.
Perhaps you are too tired of people that
pose as answers but are just more questions.
Perhaps you are too tired to unearth
kindness from the rotting meat of failures aplenty.
Perhaps your ifs and buts have strangled
your cans and shoulds,
But what do you know? You are still a
child of ten.
Only now, what the world truly is doesn’t
scare you as often.
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| Children need not be strong, courageous, or taught how to fight. Children need the fingers pointing at them to become palms that wipe their tears. Children need to be protected. Children need to feel safe. If you are looking for a sign, here it is: you weren't weak, incapable, or stupid; you were just a kid. Do not ever doubt this. |
