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Pulchra moriens te veniat.On a caliginous night, under the aphotic sky,
I lay beneath the arches of times gone by,
Below the spires and the facade of old,
I realized that time was every man's gold.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
Somewhere beyond in a field of Four o Clocks,
She arose like a spirit, shimmering and pale,
Her silhouette, lithe, petite and frail,
Gleaming brilliantly to dispel the witching hour,
Her flowing sable gown swept through the grass,
Putting everything in it's path to eternal rest,
Her long dark hair glided down her back,
And became one with the night.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
The bells chimed once, and the bells chimed twice,
As I reminisced many a virtue and vice,
My languid heart, my only friend,
The only thing that stays till the very end.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
She sauntered across the marshes, ever so softly,
Her treads so tender, bent not a blade of grass,
A formidable aura of boundless strength,
Lay around her like an unwavering shield,
For the beasts and creatures of the night,
Pulchra moriens te veniat.On a caliginous night, under the aphotic sky,
I lay beneath the arches of times gone by,
Below the spires and the facade of old,
I realized that time was every man's gold.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
Somewhere beyond in a field of Four o Clocks,
She arose like a spirit, shimmering and pale,
Her silhouette, lithe, petite and frail,
Gleaming brilliantly to dispel the witching hour,
Her flowing sable gown swept through the grass,
Putting everything in it's path to eternal rest,
Her long dark hair glided down her back,
And became one with the night.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
The bells chimed once, and the bells chimed twice,
As I reminisced many a virtue and vice,
My languid heart, my only friend,
The only thing that stays till the very end.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
She sauntered across the marshes, ever so softly,
Her treads so tender, bent not a blade of grass,
A formidable aura of boundless strength,
Lay around her like an unwavering shield,
For the beasts and creatures of the night,

Activity


The casement peered eerily at the decrepit churchyard, grimacing at the reinstatement of the bell-ringer’s apprentice. Two droplets shadowed each other along the ethereal landscape, only to conspire by the corner of the peeling muntin, and then go their own ways inconspicuously. Another subtle sunset had been set in motion, but the cornsilk curtains did not think much of this rather tasteless sport, and chose to censor it on grounds of sadism. In Dobnarov’s room, the tables were never bare and the armchair had seen better days in the office of an emeritus professor - Professor Levy Barnes - no less, the impervious face of spatial erudition on both sides of the Atlantic. His books lay around like the ruins of a pagan temple: much worshipped in the old days, but with humbled walls that had tasted the bitter defeat of completion. Dobnarov never hesitated in putting his things in place; there was a place for all things in his room once he began to contemplate how impoverished his shelves looked, how desolate his night stand stood beside the gurney they had prescribed to be his yearlong bedfellow. Perhaps nothing could compete with the white austerity manifesting itself on the windowsill with a view of the kitchen. It had aged surveying reluctant students reheating their food, preparing the fruits of their discontent with all the panache of a wartime garret.

It was on that thin slab of plastered wood that Dobnarov had situated the misery of his initial days. Windows were supposed to be lined with vegetation, Dobnarov had mused, remembering the beds of chrysanthemums which his father had grown through the ebbing years, as he picked apart nuggets of Ruskin and Balzac. There was something methodical in it, to take apart cubes of air and find connotations in every nook and cranny, but with the slightest inflection of deviation. First of all, the gurney had to be disguised, and this required a profound and encompassing knowledge of counterpanes; the colours were the life of it, its patterns would cradle the soul of the void. Then, the walls needed ember, an inkling of a blaze that would bring Dobnarov the warmth and the sun through the tired British evenings. Perchance Mosley, perchance Cezanne; perhaps he had better consult with McLeod, who furtively studied the history of art through his night-shifts at the public library. It was the cabinet, however, that would take the most doing. It stood sharp, naked and disposed towards rebellion amidst his fading trophies and his remembrances of Zuska. All of autumn would not suffice, Dobnarov had speculated: there was too much to be done, and too little money at hand. Still, what harm lay in endeavour? Were her relics to be housed under the prophesy of the English sun, or behind the footboard sheltering the soiled sheets? Was this not the temple of the self? Did it hold an obligation to his shortcomings, his successes and his sins, clutching on to the ripples of character in puckered letters and unread paperbacks? Did the repainted eczema erupting out of the walls have any say in the matter? Again, and again, Dobnarov had pondered on these questions, as he lay recumbent on the discoloured carpet, meditating about how he would restore the flaking ceiling which towered above his imagination.

People escape from their homes, their birthplaces and their countries to empty rooms - cavities carved out of their competences - his had set him upon this grey hinterland of Europe. It had emerged from the ground around him with its evanescent roots implanted in his memories, while the branches worked their way upwards, systematically, year by year, towards crafting this very roof. The bourgeoisie had sold their conscience for stately expanses in the countryside; the peasantry merely haggled with their self-respect; but Dobnarov had made it: he had borne the rainbow’s ephemerality and its impulsive airs to find his hand resting on this weary door, and he had hung his heart on every wall for good measure. The decanter stood on the table with a quart of the old country, the shelves wandered between Bamberg and Karachi, the bedspread descended from the truest etchings of William Morris, while a legion of chrysanthemums greeted the grotty kitchen with a treasury of manners. Although Cezanne had turned to Dobnarov’s room after enduring the banality of Aix-en-Provence on his art, he had also taken to buying a few paintings from a young priest who had found his calling, filling his confinement with a liaison of maturity and incipience. Each loss, each token of failure, every dissatisfaction and disappointment began to convalesce amongst the paraphernalia which crowned the cabinet. The familial grudge, the principal’s comments, Zus-they were objects now, stored away like the sorrows of infancy, between the brittle playthings of a better time. Dobnarov’s room had hidden him away from the fingers of communal activity; he had never allowed another soul to see its riches. It would trigger an onset of sudden discomposure as he eyed his bare skin fragmented across its masked faces. It was a place of sanctity, but not an age of believers.

A key turned at the door. Dobnarov entered, and sitting on his armchair, he recalled, at once, that the curtains needed replacing.


If there ever were any misgivings about the critical condition of the thrashing, flailing, fated art of expression, tête-à-tête, the Pre Raphaelite angst was chronologically misplaced. Looking to the Romantics for inspiration, riding on their Arthurian bandwagon steered by the prophetic John Ruskin, while Christina Rossetti rode shotgun was all very grave post 1848, but the 21st century renders the artistic escapade almost carnivalesque. Any doubt with regard to the regression of the human conveyance of thought has been secretly loaded into the caboose of messages which await us incessantly on the other side of the mirror. So, the next time someone barks out, ‘the world has become a smaller place’, dog them into substantiating whose world and how before their malfeasance goes viral.   

Of course, everyone wants to talk, it’s the human denial of nonexistence that plants an impugnable seed that makes the individual confident that his or her words have a purpose and as the perpetual motion machine is a concrete idea, semantically speaking, speech engenders purpose. But just as human speech has travelled the lonely mile, it has shared a complicitious relationship with art, music, war and in recent times, technology. The implacable plethora of devices which serve to facilitate social intercourse have unfortunately administered such an extent of communicational placebo that the carcinoma of pseudo-communication has sustained a life of its own. The mere impact of infatuation that the user possesses for standing between a looking glass and a hand glass contributes to the creation of an exponential maelstrom of the same text, the same images and the same set of theories which rebound off a platform with hardly any friction. The internet, the holy mother of resource sharing has become a blaring, incongruent pot luck of a few flagrant opinions switching many hands like a penny, travelling the world without any expense, save time. Ironically, it is this very platform which is nurturing its own critique. The development of languages in the potpourri of svelte networking has resulted in the invention of the tentative abbreviations, slapdash art and little motivation towards any advancement in any value added interchange. Whether fallow brb saved anyone enough breath to complete a cursory will before the impending cardiac arrest or whether the Machiavellian smiley ever brought anyone fractionally closer to empathizing with another person’s chemicals in heat is hardly the point; the real question is in this dastardly discounted circumcision of the language was any progress even envisioned?

Tragically, the elegy of an arsenal of cell phones, tablets, computers and other ways to ‘reconnect’ with persons of interest concludes with a dolorous volta voicing an impotency to appreciate personal company. As we’re always together through our idiosyncratic Snapchat correspondences in pet shops or our Whatsapp billets-doux sitting by Powai lake, it is an indolent misery to meet someone once in a while. Where is the thirst for the dangling conversation – we practically scaled the Andes sometime in the last month, listened to the new releases of Korpiklaani a fortnight ago and hey, we’re screen siblings, we don’t need a rendezvous. More is the plaintiveness in making conversation, what was the constant single file beauty of letters across a flat screen – uniform, equally spaced and mediated – is now the eye’s adaption to the graceless motions of a face which lacks that disciplined delivery and the troughs and trials of a touch and go voice which is only too wary of pillory piranhas. The knock-down drag-out slaughter of the embellished self is momentary, the deception as the art becomes artifice lasts well into retrospection. In the end it is our enamel perfection in the armoire of graphic porcelain which eviscerates us; our revulsion towards our imperfections is as old and as rigid as deism. Occasionally, eschewing from the verity of private chagrin, the parley is light, joyous and ample with seasonal josh, but dedicated indulgence in the voyeurism of private lives leaves the reunion a little bare in terms of surprises, absolutions and the presence of good willed jubilation. It’s like rereading or having the fifth serving of prawn puttasenca, the constituents have not altered, the craving has settled. The cornucopia of reciprocation also advocates the ‘more is less’ abstraction. While I have five different ways of reaching the average friend, my choice of media is limited by word count, pixel checks, privacy barriers, professional civility and of course their continuance on the medium of my choice. Trying to swap between all of these totems of social supremacy, I get very meagre crumbs of information across such as a chipped toenail, two lines from a David Hall poem or a mawkish aspect of my CV. The obvious argument would meander towards an inefficient usage of all these means of communication which I haven’t mustered in my 21 years of existence. Agreed, but in my defence, these chariots of noncommittal ambivalence are all too new, getting newer every day, though proficient, will I ever reach peripheral proficiency? Instead, in the twenty one years of wandering the realms of privy experience, surely the pictures, the posts, the tweets and the shares are all raindrops that wash off the banyan tree to carry a sentient flavour of their former host; they do little to recompense its essence.

It is vain inertia which arises from the assurance that our last conversation was merely a week ago, it is the origin of a slow and steady root rot which will over the years recant all that binds a faction of minds. While it may pass for societal rectitude, unlike art which survives the artist, a message cannot outwear the messenger. The thespians will not perforate the sieve and our affections will not swaddle those who repudiate their ostentatious exertions at fostering good relations. Relationships are weaned on predilection and a certain tenacity which requires the old world idea of a face to face conversation, devoid of any media except the air we share. Much like any occupation whose accolades lie in the plane of commercial satiation, emotional salvation and an overall sense of being, communication takes vigour and a steadfastness which often escapes us in the course of our academic development. The undertaking is not gargantuan to an initiate, but distinction takes just as much perspiration as one’s professional moxie. An ascetic understanding takes degrees of failure, all of which span the massive mesic strata which divides the friendly from the friend. But you reap what you sow and this cultivation of communication is no different from the annals of any heritage of accomplishment. Sure, it means an hour dropped from a Napoleonic study schedule, leaving the sales meeting before everyone else and always appreciating that everyone else’s twenty fours are no shorter than yours. Yet, years and years hence, while others chaperone memories, you, embodying Shakespeare’s articulation of all that is spent, will possess ‘that which should accompany old age, as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends.’



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Commission for the Creation of Poetical Works
In dire need of an amorous sonnet? Wish to possess an elegy to commemorate someone who still has a significant part of you? Want a sequence of haikus for your bestie's birthday? It's all here for commission now! Drop me a note and we will talk about the specifics of the poem as well as the commission's production cycle. 

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I aspire to release an anthology of my poetry someday, but as I am still a student, I cannot afford the expenses involved. If you like my poems and would like to see them published sometime in the near future, feel free to donate as many points as you wish.

Your contribution shall not be forgotten, neither by me, nor in the book which shall bear memory of your kind generosity.

Thank You.

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Zark123's Profile Picture
Zark123
Arka Basu
Artist | Student | Literature
United Kingdom
Current Residence: Loughborough, UK
Favourite genre of music: Classic Rock
Favourite cartoon character: Shaggy (Scooby Doo)
Personal Quote: What's life without a merry tale, a bonnie song or paradisaical poem?
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:iconspartan-locke:
spartan-locke Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2014   Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday!
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Tales-of-Tao Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2014  Student General Artist
Sailing the seven seas Hello, dear! Your delightful work has been featured here: fav.me/d71wmh4. Have a lovely day!
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:iconzark123:
Zark123 Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you! :) much appreciated!

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:icontales-of-tao:
Tales-of-Tao Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2014  Student General Artist
You're welcome! :la:
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SimplySilent Featured By Owner Sep 21, 2013
:iconflyingheartsplz::iconhello1plz::iconhello2plz::iconflyingheartsplz:

Hey there! :giggle: You've been given a deviantART Compliment! :heart: :dummy:

Hope you have a wonderful day! :tighthug:
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Zark123 Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you for informing me =) I will check it out!
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thenandmshow Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2013  Student Writer
Happy Birthday! :cake:
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:iconspartan-locke:
spartan-locke Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2013   Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday!
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Chandevi Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2013
Happy birthday dearie!!!!hope you enjoy it
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:iconzark123:
Zark123 Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you so much! =) I hope you are well!
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