Questions on Birthdays.
I am a poem that is awarded by a man for his birthday lover. I'm not rhyming. The metaphor is not visible at all. There are only questions that seem odd. Maybe he wants to be like Pablo Neruda, then write a similar poem in a book called The Book of Questions. But, no one can be someone else, only an attempt to fool themselves or get lost in self-search.
The day before the man made me a present, several words were deleted in the initial stanza. A few sentences are added at the end so they don't fully contain questions. I am more pleased with some of the previous drafts.
When his lover reads verse by verse, he asks, "May I answer this question?"
"No need, just read it first"
Her lover reads again and may answer silently. A poet is sometimes a question for himself. Especially with people who try to understand the contents of the head of a poet.
The thin man with slanted eyes did not dare to call himself a poet. Even though he kept writing poetry about everything. The day before he wrote me as a poem for his lover, he received rejection emails from three media at once. He routinely sends poems to various media. Honor writing poetry is what makes it able to survive. Although not many poems were published. Much more news of rejection compared to the news of the loading of his work.
When writing, after he wrote the first verse, he lay his body on the cold white tile floor. While feeling the temperature radiating to the body, he closed his eyes while remembering the first meeting with his girlfriend. Memories that he often told back to his girlfriend.
"On the campus library stairs, still remember?"
His girlfriend of course remembers the incident. But, for him their first meeting was not something memorable. It's just that this thin poet still insists on convincing his lover that his meeting in the library will be the most fun part of his life. Actually their meeting was very ordinary. Passing after one of his girlfriends greeted, but the poet instead noticed the woman who was now his lover - not the one who greeted him.
About five minutes closed his eyes, he got up again and continued the poetry verse for his lover. How many questions in the head. Unfortunately, there is no better answer than all.
"Why do all these poems contain questions?" His intention was to make the whole poem only contain questions. In the closing section, he began to play a confusing answer. The real answer still raises questions in the head. For him all was just a celebration in his head. Without an answer, the celebration will continue. Like fireworks on New Year's Eve. The question exploded hard and small in the head. But that explosion actually made me exist. Except for his lover, the man thought that in his lover's head all the answers he was looking for would be obtained immediately.
The day after the poem was presented, the thin poet's lover wondered. Something flares up in his soul.
"Why should there be a question?" In his mind, he thought that the man he loved had been hesitant and thought everything would end soon. The man thought about why the question just came to me? And why did he choose a question like that?
"I'll make a better one later. The poem isn't finished yet."
"Ah, no need. This is good. But, I'm just curious. Why?"
"If you want to be answered, go ahead. I also don't know for sure what the answers are."
This man is not surprised to see the expression of his lover. That's how it is. His guess is right that his lover is the answer to everything that can't be solved. Being a poet actually makes life harder. Before making poetry, it's finished, even after the poem has been loaded or read, everything will still feel full of pressure. A good poet should be willing to be sharply stabbed by his own poetry. However, sometimes poetry is also a shield to guard poets from wanting to commit suicide.
A few days later they still kept asking questions and found no definite answer. Right away I felt lucky to be a poem on the birthday of a poor poet's lover.
The poet wrote poetry again. In an old chair with a soft back facing the window he again wrote. When part of his body sank into the soft brown chair, he closed his eyes again. Back in memory of the first meeting on the library ladder. His heartbeat still sounded, his lips dry still felt, and a timid look clearly loomed. At that moment he again asked, "Will the meeting go forward towards separation?" Like an age that continues to grow increase, but actually getting closer to death.
Approximately two months after her lover's birthday, she will celebrate her twenty-seventh year. Nearing his birthday, so many questions were written and made the body of the poem that I had increased. Apparently, I will beat the number of questions in the last book written by Pablo Neruda.
The poet also began to ask about his death.
"The nearer the age of death."
"What if I repeat the fate of young Chairil Anwar?" he added.
Something strange felt inside him. That life with her lover is so beautiful and feels strong. However, the question of separation sometimes makes it difficult to give answers even to himself. He was scared and that was clearly felt in his giddy questions. Naturally, if his lover was made to wonder about everything he wrote.
"Want to live another thousand years?" He wasn't sure he could live that long. Will not be as lucky as Chairil who died young, but remembered for so long. May be eternal. Often he asks that his girlfriend write a short story about him. Every time he reads it, he feels he will live even longer. But, her lover is still having trouble writing. His life is trapped in the myth of poets who might die young.
I am a poem that is awarded by a man for his birthday lover. A few weeks before the birthday of the thin, slanted-eyed man, his girlfriend promised to give him something fun. He tried to guess what gifts his lover would give. But, it's difficult to get that answer. Until the night before his birthday arrived, he stood facing the window.
Imagine the first meeting with her lover while welcoming her new age. "Will this age really increase?" He keeps asking himself. He doesn't want the answer to be spoken. He was afraid to stop and wanted to keep asking. But, death came to take the rest of his life. His heart stopped and beat very fast before death took him away.
Morning on his birthday, his girlfriend contacted him with a cellphone. There was no answer at all other than the sound that the call was connected. The poet lay on the floor of the white tile, closed, again repeating the first meeting with his lover. Before death makes it difficult to remember and see his lover again.
I also saw her lover keep asking questions. Trying to contact the man several times. His feeling began to feel strange. Sweat started to come out in his palm. He wanted to leave the house immediately and meet the thin man. Driving a white car, he came out feeling anxious. The speed of the car is faster than normal. It was a red date and the streets were deserted. At that moment, the thin man suddenly spotted from the rearview mirror in the car sat down and smiled. Instantly he braked his car and turned around without seeing the poor poet at all. The car stopped for a while. And, the road feels more quiet.
I am a poem that is still there, seeing a pair of lovers constantly asking questions without finding a definite answer at all. That's when I felt increasingly into poetry.
