Saturday, 25 June 2016

Poem: The Sacredness of Fucking

1.15 PM. February 8, 1965.
A boy and a girl, unmindful of the sun,
Sought some private moments on
A lonely pier stretching into the Arabian Sea.
An entwining of limbs, heavy breathing, a cry
And millions of enterprising sperms were swimming
Upstream in a mixture of viscous fluids.

Some minutes or hours later,
A hard-working little fellow
Impregnated a singularly fortunate egg
And I came into existence.
From being a nothing, a nobody,
I became a somebody.


The rest of those millions of sperms…
Each of whom could equally have become
A little boy or a girl
Were doomed at this exalted moment
To be flushed down the drains
With so much urine.

So were these sacred moments or profane ones?
Moments of creation or destruction?
Were they beautiful or ugly?
Were they sublime or smelly?

Did my dad talk dirty?
Did mom's cries of pleasure
Disturb the sea gulls
Or cause an unseen fisherman to hurry
To meet his own beloved?

To those moments on that February afternoon --
That the two people I respect the most
Celebrated with love,
With lust, with vulgarity –
I owe my current existence.

Then how can I not regard
Two people fucking
As utterly beautiful and sacred?
How can I not believe that
Profanity is sacredness
In a worldly mask?

How can I not believe that
Our lustful fantasies are
Prayers that arouse the senses
And celebrate creation?

No comments:

Post a Comment