I just rediscovered one of my older entries, a poem called “Off to Sunday Mass“. This poem is one of my favourites, and I was wondering if some of you guys might comment on it; whether your comments be in the positive or negative, I’d like to hear from you (of course, if it’s bad, be prepared for a cold war lasting a while, thanks.)
Here are some quick facts about “Off to Sunday Mass” , and why you may want to read and comment on it:
- It’s the longest poem I’ve ever written
- It deals with sex, lies and religion, namely Buddhism (and its main theme of reincarnation) and Christianity (with its main theme of monotheism)
- It’s so far the only I wrote in “chapter” form
- You might want to read it twice(?) to get its full meaning. if there is one
- It really is a love story of sorts.
- You can always ask me questions about it
- I’ll be more than glad to answer your queries
- References abound in it, some you may get, others you might not. For the latter, ask. Please.
- I spent the better part of the hour doing up the first draft, and countless others revising it
- I like it.
- I tried getting it commented once on poems.about.com; it got deleted. For some unknown reason.
- I’m bored. Humour me.
So, No Takers?
Hell, since no one wants to read it, allow me to interpret it to you in prose:
I arrive in this strange place, where an old woman tells me that I will have to reincarnate. The thought of reincarnation scares me, and I deplore the fact that I’ll have to go through the shit had put me through before already. I mention that “having loved and lost is better than never having loved at all”, as an allusion to the fact that I’ve already served my time loving, and losing, and don’t want to go through that pain again. The woman tells me of “designated spots”, these “spots” really being places where I might consider taking my own life, if I so had the inclination: train tracks, middle of the highway, high buildings/bridges etc., the usual suicide spots.
I get angry at this thought. How can they treat me like this? Asking me to live once more, and teaching me how/where to die? Obviously they know life is painful, yet they throw me in again. To suffer needlessly. I complain that if they give me the choice of ending it early, through suicide, they have to provide me the courage to take my own life too. They can’t give me the choice without giving me the capacity of making those choices.
I then talk about my last moments, how I suffered before I had died. I had contemplated suicide, but “too scared to die,/I had bravely hung on,” and thus fought death till the very end. As a last grasp attempt, with nothing to lose, I prayed to God and told him that I believed in him, and that “Atheists my life decieved!”, pinning the blame of my faithless existence to the atheists who influenced me. If there was a God, he’d forgive me, and send me up to heaven. Otherwise, there would be no God and I’d have been right; either way, I win. “My final lie registered” is due to my disbelieving in God, even when I complained that aethiests deceived me: I still didn’t believe.
After my death, I looked around, thinking I’d end up in heaven. But I didn’t see any of those Saints or God or anyone or anything whom people on Earth claimed were here. Instead, I saw an old woman: the old woman who told me about reincarnation at the start of this poem.
The old woman explained what was happening. I had died, and due to my recent change in beliefs, from Catholicism to Buddhism, I was put in the queue for reincarnation; apparently, I gave up “A direct route to Heaven”. Hearing this, I repented, and prayed to God to save me. I then wake up.
Upon awakening, I realised my white shirt was red, covered with blood. A woman is crying beside me, and it takes me a while to realise that it is my partner, soul-mate if you will. Although I had seen her face a thousand times, this was the first time I really saw her, and I realised how “raw” (due to the crying) she looked presently.
To me, she looked like she thought I’d die. In my mind, I felt that I might die too, but as I was thinking of making her feel better, I attempt to crack a joke, saying that I’d live, it’s not like “in the head I was shot”, though I had my doubts. At this point I hear the ambulance, and appreciating my condition, knew that I would be saved, and that they wouldn’t just be here to put me a body bag. I tell her that this Sunday was our date, to keep her thoughts off me (how she pained thinking of me!)
Sunday comes, and the day is perfect. She’s wearing her Sunday best, together with me. And we go to Church, somewhere I hadn’t gone in ages due to my change in allegiance. The last part’s meant as a kind of irony; for I have seen the light, and realised that reincarnation is not for me, I go with God and his Heaven theory.
And there you have it, the poem in prose. Now tell me, you’d rather have the poem wouldn’t you? heh.