AMNESTY OF FORM (For Siddhartha) The departed fare well in art. Karan's broken heart fell with him in Kurukshetra on the wrong side of history. We still live in mourning, seeking refuge in mysteries of the Mahabharata to redeem him in our longing. Hasan's brother Hussein perished in Karbala. I don't like the way the city's so beautiful today after Iraqis were reduced to dust. But that's the point. The Marsiya of Anis rises from these passing storms to find two boys whom the Prophet once held in his arms. They never rust. Antigone's gone the way of her brothers and Creon. All equally dead. But look! There waits mad Sophocles. He's breathing. He's writing. He's read. And Stratford's always around. Ophelia's in Hamlet drowned and Desdemona died chaste. Their unrequited lines won't let an honest English word ever go to waste. With Cordelia they sit adorned to shape redemption into a tear. Most art's a footnote to Lear. But not all poems have been written. "This one's for Lenin," she said of her grenade to the Nazi tank ahead. Who were you, my one-girl Soviet? Herein I name you Land of the New to honour Comrade Death. Oh Muses of uneasy morn, people pass. Poets are reborn. Grant to this play of transience your final asylum of form.
Asad Latif is a Singapore-based journalist. He can be contacted at badiarghat@borderlesssg1
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