The Garden Figures: A Poem
As I sat, I was not pondering anything
I was only staring at the mantle, counting the objects that I hadn’t touched in years
A piece of copper wire
It glinted like a mini fire
I yawned and a mask of lethargy settled over my face
I took off my glasses, placing them slowly in my case
I closed my eyes, deep breath in, deeper breath out
Then, I thought this time that I would be able to maintain it
My eyes opened obstinately
I didn’t know what could come to me when they were closed
I tried again
My eyes insisted; they opened once more
I considered the mantle somnolently
There was a ring up there, probably my mother’s
I considered the mantle somnolently
There was a stopwatch up there, probably my father’s
I tried to close my eyes after that
Naturally, they snapped open
I did not want to be assaulted in my sleep
I considered this:
As I lay in the deep pit of slumber
A man approaches with an unforgiving club of lumber
He grins and chuckles and lifts the club above my head
Does he leave it there to admire himself? I don’t believe so; he brings it down on me, knocking me dead…or at least unconscious
Once I’m either dead or fainted
He steals everything on the mantle and leaves
I don’t like the dark
Or who am I kidding? I’m scared of it, that’s what it is
Can the mind that shelters my demons aid me in overcoming them?
I thought so, so I thought up some slumber stories; maybe that way I can finally get some sleep
I’m a very queer writer
This is hardly a poem
But, for the sake of those who remain, here are the stories I thought up:
The different kinds I saw from my window are united
Anyway first came a very small society of creatures
They had velvet handkerchiefs emerging from their miniscule shoulders: wings
They floated around the dandelions and azaleas in my garden
And I stared at them
Their chief, the velvet cloth of his shoulders glimmering, claimed in accented English, “The peace treaty has been signed; of course, it has its clauses, don’t be ridiculous.”
The chief grasped back his decorum and continued, “The azaleas are to be of our dominion and the dandelions of theirs.”
He stepped forwardly softly
And he opened his mouth and sang softly, a post –war melody:
The time is here
We are away from fear
Our land will face a new dawn
We will have a cow, a sheep, a fawn
The tiny chief then heightened the enthusiasm and pace of his inflection:
Down, down with those who taint our name
Up, up with those who bring us fame!
The other tiny things joined in, gesticulating in mad joy:
Down, down with those who taint our name
Up, up with those who bring us fame!
A time will come when we’ll be gone
But that day is not anon!
And now let us sing our song
And bless right and curse wrong!
At those last words, a gale of insanity seemed to overtake the creatures
They danced strangely, moving their arms and legs in jerking and unsynchronized motion and joining hands and they screamed in rhythm:
And bless right and curse wrong!
Then they dispersed as simply as dust blown away in a storm
If anything, I was more awake
What strange things lie in the villages of my consciousness!
In one domicile in just one of those villages, something more happened
One of those tiny creatures, this one obviously female, had emerged from among the azaleas
One that was the equivalent of a young man was walking, slowly and silkily behind her
He paused suddenly in mid-step and his eyes were wide open, his lips pursed, and his face was sweating
She noticed that he had stopped moving
“What is it?” she asked
“Mother,” he said, very quietly
“Yes?”
“It’s the War; it’s right behind me.”
His leg, quivered, quivered some more, and then quivered a little more
Then he collapsed onto a pebble
His mother rushed to him, wiped the sweat from his brow, and held him tight
“I never wanted to fight.”
She pulled him away and tried to look him straight in the eye; he refused to meet her gaze
“We actually cursed right in that war, not wrong,” he explained flatly
He did not elaborate; she understood
I looked away from the garden my heart demanding exit from my chest; if anything, this endeavor of imagination was making it harder to sleep
I could only imagine myself, in a suit of iron and steel, marching across the barren terrain
Approaching an enemy
I shuddered
I could still vaguely see the two of them; I did not want to disturb them, however strange that may sound
I placed my glasses on and stared up at the mantle
I was finally pondering; now I was thinking about what I should give them…ironically
I slid open the window and daintily removed the screen
I threw the copper wire towards them even though they were slowly fading away
I didn’t know how it would help
But it might
I replaced the window, removed my glasses, sipped the water, returned to the armchair: now for the sleep; it did not come; I was incredibly unsettled by this particular story