ARTICULATING MY YOUTH: A SESTINA
Not long ago, I misspent my youth trying to learn the chords of a
guitar.
A minor, B flat, C major, there were enough to confuse my head.
So I often switched off and listened to my radio, fishing for tunes
and I stopped if I could catch a song by Dylan or Dire Straits
and corrupt a white canvas with bold strokes of colour.
(But I’d soon give up, being equally impatient with art as I was
with music).
Linseed oil anointed my futile efforts with canvas and colour.
But I loved my brushes, their crisp strokes with cool music
warbling in the background. Brothers in Arms, the Dire Straits
album I adored, powerful lyrics with great tunes,
Cover tastefully done with the photo of a steel guitar.
Perhaps youth wasn’t that misspent, with memories wandering
through my head.
I remember the first sip of alcohol, it went straight to my head
I remember then watching television, blind to the primaries of colour.
I remember buying my first instrument, which did not resemble a
guitar;
I remember it being a clever little keyboard with built-in tunes.
I remember my record collection swelling with different genres of
music:
I remember separating the genres and eras with little gaps, like tiny
straits.
Though it could’ve been a daring youth, and I could’ve
ventured out in search of music,
I didn’t travel. Only in my imagination. I saw places, heard
unknown tunes.
I had many friends, who hung around me, and uselessly strummed
a guitar.
When I’d get bored with them, I read books and stored facts in my
head.
Those books trekked me through African villages, crossed the
Magellan Straits,
And I discovered a Manhattan jazz joint, by then I was stoned on a
high colour.
Women: I dated all types, for they could narrow those chasms
and straits
That otherwise widened without any rhyme or reason in my head.
The last girl I dated, I shared my passion with her; she was artistic
and loved music.
Though we clicked, she said my personality was dull, it lacked
colour.
So my heart lost faith in monogamy. It married the six strings of
the guitar.
But I could never stop quarrelling with any of them. They sang
melancholy tunes.
I thought I would paint forever or create my own repertoire
of tunes.
I was merely nineteen; I had my tubes of paint and strings for my
guitar.
But the subtle rustle of my paintbrushes, and my jingle-jangle
music
left me unprepared to face real challenges; I neither had the heart
nor the head.
And before I knew it, my vision fractured, I found myself in dire
straits.
The alchemy of my artistic ambitions had lost the lust for colour.
Today, I lie on my back and watch my cuticles grow.
My guitar stands by my head, not seeking tunes. But Dire Straits
music
still makes me dive deep in nostalgia, to atone for a misspent
youth.