Pied Piper of the Purcell: Arun Ghosh

23 April 2011

The Adventures of Prince Achmed took me back to my first memories of fairytales … bedtime stories that coated morals like ‘all’s well that ends well’ in a gloss of bright lights and pretty colours. I was as easily seduced then as I am now … more than willing to buy into the magic … and rather reluctant to return home …

.

We cut.

Like shadow puppets

on a wall,
black on white.
Old dreams
take shape in dulcet tones,
honeycombs of light,
And once upon a time…

Outlines
of music-makers
play,
pull strings
like faceless pied-pipers,
draw us in
with patterns of promise.

A story lifts on spindle hands:
Long-beaked magic man
shows a king
a magic horse
with unseen wings
who steals a prince
somewhere far away,
where fantails
sweep moons
into lakes of blue
a whisper of names like Pari Banu.

Shapes shift to birdsong,
gestures
trill
cursives in subtle shades
of fanciful.
Desire
turns dark,
heart beats
fill
like footsteps
in worlds
where women
speak spells,
folding wishes
with careful fingers.

We search
until earth spits
flame and fire,
until secrets spill,
forms writhing
torn from mothers’ wombs.

We fall back
like frightened children,
hide our eyes,
from truths cast in myriad hues.

We drown
in the dive and swell,
in the telling of tales
that lower us
into dis-ease,
the frames
of our chairs, four walls and people who pretend
all is well,
shortcut
to a happy end.