Friday, 8 June 2007

Wee hours of morning mourning alone with the crows and the silence and the
Solitude.

Mourning for those extinguished each morning with memories wiped out with morning cuppa papa she says I want a horse to ride in metropolis from maidan to murshidabad where the nawabs stayed near a bend in the river giver she said give me my horse like banbury cross the lady who rode toed and ringed singed with the fire of unearthly desire to preserve memories in time rhyme metrically geometrically give me a horse hoarse with desire sire…

Daughter he said dead with the weight of hope elope he said wed in murshidabad some old time crook look at him bring him to book nook cranny granny he mentioned pensioned you thought well they forgot ask her the stories of maidan to murshidabad she too felt so many things rings on her toes nobody knows the bend in the river giver am I you think in a blink of the I …

Father she sighed bride eye cannot be me granny is dead last winter ma she said but you misheard bird you thought some other bird crows maybe nobody knows glows in the dark like memories she sees she told me all before she died cried that is why I ask for horse remorse for all the bends amends eye never saw raw regret we never met but now how it is time for some sublime…

Daughter he wailed failed am I then as son one whose mother is dead fed up son never heard bird song only raucous wails fails the crow I do not know mother is dead all the stories from maidan to murshidabad unheard untold old woman died pride all lost cost who will pay day after day tell me daughter slaughter the son questions answers who is to say…

Father she sings maidan to murshidabad move not in rings go get your things if I am old enough you can be bold enough let me go know that the future is to story preserve and try deserve the efforts to drink rather than sink the river giver all that it is I look at the bend I call it friend and it tells me what I should say day after day and I tell you father you too shall pray…


And maidan to murshidabad the people they say
Stories, our stories, their stories…
Day after day.

9 comments:

Elendil said...

When poets feel to lazy to chop drop their rhyme in time into lines and find that prose like roses bloom in gloom with just the lust and rusted beauty of verse, terse with imagery poetry breaks and shakes like horse hairs in the dark till stark the visions you paint beneath my lids have hid all thought in light

Elendil said...

hidden*

Elendil said...

too*

Arse Poetica said...

Conscious decision, not laziness, dear elendil.It works though, I guess, as per your response.

Elendil said...

Indeed. I think I'll write some of my own. Thou has invented a new form of poetry, laddie. Kudos. I like it.

Arse Poetica said...

new form?
dunno about that, i'm sure people write prose poetry with internal rhyming all the time...

panu said...

screamy.

Vatsala said...

lovely rhythm

Arse Poetica said...

@panu;You in Sikkim, no?
Vatsala, thankee.