The Ghost Light #Poetry

Lit from within is the sole secure way

to traverse dark matter. Some life forms — 

certain mushrooms, snails, jellyfish, worms — 

glow bioluminescent, and people as well; we

emit infrared light from our most lucent selves.

Our tragedy is we can’t see it.

We see by reflection. We need biofluorescence

to show our true colors. External illumination can

distort, though. When gravity bends light, huge galaxy

clusters can act as telescopes, elongating background

images of star systems to faint arcs — a lensing effect

like viewing distant street lamps through a glass of wine.

A glass of wine or two now makes me weave

as if acting a drunkard’s part; as if, besotted

with unrequited love for the dynamic Turner

canvases spied out by the Hubble, I could lurch

down a city street set without provoking

every pedestrian walk-on stare.

Stare as long as you need to. If you think about it,

walking, even standing, is illogical — such tiny things,

feet! — especially when one’s body is not al dente

anymore. Besides, creature of extremes and excess,

I’ve always thought Apollo beautiful but boring,

a bit of a dumb blonde. Dionysians don’t do balance.

Balance, in other words, has never been

my strong point. But I digress. More

and more these days, digression

seems the most direct route through

from where I’ve lost or found myself

out of place, mind, turn, time.

Place your foot just so, mind how you turn:

too swift a swivel can bring you down. Take your time

ushering the audience out, saying goodbye

to the actors. The ghost light

is what they call the single bulb hanging

above the bare stage in an empty theater.

In the empty theater of such a night, waking to meet

no external radiance, this is the final struggle left to win,

this the sole beacon to beckon the darkness in and let the rest

begin, this the lens through which at last to see both Self

and Other arrayed with the bright stain of original sin:

lit from within.

© VishalDutia