Self in Motion
Cross the water
Stretch the bounds
Step over miles
Escape the hounds—
My life is not where
They say it’s supposed to be;
Despite not to spite it,
I live according to me.
That may sound selfish
And hard to relate
But there’s no telling
The quirks of fate.
I am not a pilot
Though active and participant
The universe changes
Directs and rearranges
No, I’m not just
Along for the ride—
Whatever happens
I take it all in my stride.
I may push, pull
But get swept aside
Or unwarned collide
Or suddenly slide.
However grand,
We are never
Masters of any land;
Just pawns in some strange plan
Or unintended consequence
Of powerful coincidence—
Who knows?—
Not you, not me.
Yes, we can affect
At least the schemes of man.
It pays to work for betterment;
We should do what we can
But be careful what you expect
And who and how you criticize;
Shame is a boomerang
And scorn ricochet,
Opinion a double-edged sword,
Anger a trigger
Or a detonation,
It is all a matter
Of interpretation.
II
Language is a record,
Though, too, a matter for interpretation;
It is also a testimony
And a moment of contemplation.
Language is a sign,
And signal,
As much as it is a voice.
Language is a habit
That one wears and performs;
Language is a revelation
That can take many forms.
Once, it is verse,
Then, it is a line—
Poignant, mundane, sublime—
Of a script to rehearse.
Sometimes it is food,
Others just some wind,
Urge you may wish to rescind;
Or meant to allude,
Whether jingle or song,
Speech, however long,
Mere emotions to exude;
There’s always event
By accident
As well as blurt imprudent.
Language is a code;
You’re free to decipher—
What it may mean
We’re never quite decided.
Language is a barrier
Sometimes consciously constructed
It is a device, tool and object,
Obstructing and obstructed.
It is education
Fastidiously instructed,
Though , at times, a reward
That may be self-inducted.
Language is commodity
And a cornered market—
Bought, sold and traded,
Its value up then deflated.
Language is indication of class.
Language is air—
Its substance might not last.
Language is sound,
Often unheard,
Writing square or round,
Read or unread word.
Language can be rationality;
It is also nationality,
Which may not be rational at all.
Language may be big
Or understood as small.
Be it building block
Or hackneyed stock,
Set of stairs,
Splitting hairs
River flowing,
Of laughs and glares,
Flower growing,
Source of light,
Or no delight,
All depending on the learner.
Language is argument
As much as it is explanation.
Language is shopping lists
As much as it is narration.
Language is history
As much as it is oration.
III
Some argue that
Oceans are just there,
Not meant to be crossed,
As they do nations.
Still, we cross and are crossed,
With or without care,
Under emblems and slogans,
By cheap or valiant machinations.
Of moguls and shoguns.
People move or are moved.
That is a fact.
They always have and always will.
That is that.
They may wish to escape,
Or hope to change shape.
They may wish upward mobility,
To reach the status of nobility,
Or they like to eat
And stay dry,
If to meet grim feat,
While aiming to try.
IV
Here upon the crest of my voyage,
I survey.
I can see farther now.
I am larger
While the world is smaller.
I am less significant
Though I am taller.
The world means more to me now.
More things matter less, anyhow,
Though the value of life
Has ascended and descended
According to certain kinds of rulers
Who also suffer their ups and downs.
To travel
Is to unravel
Then fold up again.
Pack and unpack
Case and gunny sack.
Here, I rest.
I must.
Until nature’s jest
Blasts yet another gust
And moves me
Like a spider
To resurrect webs.
Life’s like that.
It’s where it’s at.
Here, then there,
Evolution not well accounted,
Mountain as yet unmounted,
Among forests uncharted,
Oceans too deep
And generations unstarted,
Or so it seems to us,
Though we see patterns,
From Suns to Saturns,
In which we are trapped.
We can only yelp and cry,
The universe passes us by:
Thunder clapped,
Mountains percolated,
Gases infiltrated;
The galaxy evolves,
Sphere spins and revolves,
Matter is created,
Matter dissolves.
History is a human invention
And the clock a simple convention —
Little lines we scratch,
To make rules, labels and rhyme,
Of things we cannot catch;
There is no time.
We can never be master
For the more we bleed
The universe burns faster.
By Barbara Waldern (Masan, 2008)