Best Tableland Poems
While rambling like a vagabond in a seraphic poetic submersion, in a remote region, witnessed the most captivated sight ever,
a sleeping valley rippled in wild blooms, as sparkling in mystical celestial beam, in the mesas of the clouds, the Dzukou Valley,
a remote dale at the border of Nagaland and Manipur,
in the untrodden tableland of India's Northeast!
The picturesque landscape was ringing with the
once in a lifetime scene of emerald shades of hillocks
paving the way for azure mountaintops,
luminous flowers waving in the winds amongst the tall grasses!
The vale was tweeting and twirling amidst the virgin vegetations enriched with the spectacular sights of verdant forests,
exquisite flora and fauna,
serpentine streams, myriads of panoramic pink
and white wild blooms that dot
the vast caldera of the valley and its' verdant meadows,
alongside the meandering rivers of Dzukou and Japfu,
appeared as the absolute paragon of serenity and tranquility!
Surrounded by the whispering platonic hills,
with numerous colorful flying creatures,
the valley seemed as smuggled over
the dewdrops' fragrant feral fruits,
Oak and Rhododendron forests are a feast to the eyes!
Half way up and any signs of tracks disappear,
and one is just left with wheezing enigmatic bamboo thickets!
Botanists' delight, trackers' paradise, seraph's psyche,
rovers' riddle, is reclining placidly ,
the untrodden earth's lulling lullaby,
in the abode of the divine Lily's
anomalous nature's absolute pamphlet,
a rich biodiversity hotspots
of endemic species, the Dzoku Valley;
an uninhabited unsullied phosphorus valley
Note:
The Dzüko Valley is located at the borders of the states of Nagaland and Manipur in Northeast India. The valley is known for its extremely rich biodiversity, seasonal flowers and flora & fauna. It is situated at an altitude of 2452 m above sea level.
© Silpika Kalita
Let’s fly to the celestial fiesta of the cherry blossom,
In the North Eastern Region of Shillong, named, “The Scotland of the East,
The abode of the cloud,” in the lush mesa of the magnetic Meghalaya!
The wheezing Pine forest of the whispering waterfalls in the Khasi hills,
is bustling with the nature’s fairytale of pink, white and ivory!
As far as the eyes can see, the rolling tableland is ringing, ridden by the radiant petals of cherries!
Neither Japan, nor Paris, a mere remote region of Indian plateau,
Glowing in nature’s sublime glory of pellucid picturesque pinks!
Nicknamed, Prunus Cerasoides, the cherry blossoms,
a delightful boon of Himalayas,
are blooming profusely in the magical
verdant highland of the East Khasi hills!
The November is rippling with
moonlit music, plethora of flamboyant folk dances,
pageants, stalls to cater to the globetrotters’ penchant for the ethnicity
of the fur-flung region’s tribes’ cuisines, wine, arts and cryptic crafts!
Such bedazzling is the serenity of the panaromic platonic plateau,
As folks of the vicinity, are traversing despite the rampant pandemic,
to glimpse the shangri la of the richest biome of the floral magical lane!
The resonating frolic of the chirping and twittering from the cheerful cherry bushes
are teeming with the twirling bliss, intoning,
in winters whistling whiff!
A nature’s bounty, a pamphlet of picturesque hamlets’ terrains of aromatic sensuous purity!
Blessed are they, who have witnessed the once in a lifetime scene of crystal clean roaring rivulets, murmuring brooks, the ravishing orchids, quirky root bridges, aesthetic lakes and rills, scented wild flowers, encompassing the enigmatic cherry blooms of the mystic land of the majestic mountains!
An euphoria to have a ride amidst the clouds of the misty moorlands,
gliding languidly to take the signature of the mementos of the moments;
to kiss the plateau of wild orchids, flowering Cherries and sacred woodlands of those Khasi hills,
crackling with the sprouting, cherry blossom festival of the far East!
Have seen an utopian lane, amidst the thicket, latent In the abode of the clouds, in the lap of the tranquil wilderness, far far away from the mundane mist!
A wheezing sparsely inhabited hamlet, Khonoma, a centuries- old settlement, so green, so serene!
Its' pristine unsullied views, lush wilderness, verdant bushes, aromatic wild blooms, resplendent orchids, rippling rills, are untouched and sacred!
The Angami tribes, the thorpes' dwellers lead an uncustomary simple life, crammed with ancient, timeless traditions and practices, with nature's absolute accord!
The unique panaromic cultivation practice, terrace farming, sprawling on the slopes makes the very sight elating!
Look, the remote richest biodiversity region is twirling with the endemic scented native flora and fauna, the boscage are cramming with untamed wild colourful fruits!
The revered cultural bird, the grey-billed Tragpon, is intoning from the bushes, making the milieu frolic!
Myriads of colourful birds are migrating to nestle in the sacred bushes of the mystic rills!
The pellucid drops from the misty mesas of nearby cascades are playing with the colourful pebbles!
Far from the pandemic, the cherubic hilly terrain is bustling with cerulean rills, shrouded by tropical rain forests and stepped paddy fields!
How finite are the rustic folks' wants and needs, the primitive shanties to dwell, the crystal cascades to quench, the crops of the golden fields to feed the mouths, the vibrant fiestas with nature's changing seasons to celebrate!
A paragon of men and nature in absolute harmony, is lying placidly, the transcendental picturesque tableland, Khonoma, the wheezing green hamlet, an utopia untrodden to bless the naive natives of the far flung highland!
" Sometimes in quest of no man's Utopia, we may miss the existing unleashed Utopia in proximity, yet untrodden " Quote by poet
November 11th 2021
Contest: " U" contest, New Poems Only
Sponsored by: Constane La France
strange picture frames lie on the scorched
earth of the barren plateau, crooked and jagged..
to strange for her bucket of watercolors.
to obscure for pastel horizons to rupture in light.
no ressurection of the multi-colored aquatic bow.
no dispersed water molecules ever form in the
sky of the strange plateau.
she standing there like a solitary arcane thistle,
disturbs little the vascular tissues and rivets
of the dry grass.
the crumbling tableland streches out for
miles in its bleached open expanse.
it seems to her to be disected by very old hands.
she reachs out to hold them and once again she
is a daughter to the blood red dry earth.
a child to the hardened corrosive mantle.
the sun overhead shivers in its sleeve and
fathers her for a time.
in the high plains of the strange plateau
her soul grew so happy, though her body never
was found..
Form:
On The Plateau
Remote Island in the sky, on the plateau
Above the lowlands removed and separated
Nine thousand foot drop prevents our leaving
We watch others like ourselves down there
Telescope in hand to seek their knowledge
Down below they advance beyond us
Highland’s mesa and low world never merge
No transport or communication
No way to sink to there or rise to here
Two cultures bound in total disconnect and isolation
We might as well be from or on another planet
We can only speculate and wait
On the plateau, the land is flat and square
Two miles long and wide from point to point
All alone on our tableland, we circle in a stagnant cycle
A path of least resistance on the same existence planned
Our counterparts advance in open endless lowlands space
They look up to us and wave
Down there, as far as the eye can see, is nature
Expanding through our spy glass, forever on and up
And out beyond the seas, then stars
Time stands still for us on tableland, as we crave more
Sun and snow reach us first
I guess that counts for something though, on the plateau
In anger he conspires
creates havoc on his way down,
simply spoils one’s hair
when revealing one’s crown.
He aid’s Monday’s wash
with the strength of a kiss,
commands the clouds, rain,
many heartaches and bliss.
He controls the ocean
those that dare to venture,
resolves the passing of time
when leaves in autumn surrender.
He provides the cushion
above tableland and mountains true,
compose permutations
for Condor, Airliners and crew.
He shapes the moorland tops
Pen-y-gent and Pendle hill,
a track of perpetual tenacity
yet gently wields the morning chill.
For he has many names
this force with volatile agenda,
velocity in many forms
nature’s power on its very own bender!
© Harry J Horsman 2008
A merry band to profer hope in the land
A lute, fiddle, drum to make brigandry grand
A staff, bow, arrow to strafe the noble strand
A sworn oath to lawful king; a sword to gentry's overbearing hand
A pruning staff to fleece corrupt shepherds, who saintly flock's fodder have panned
A bow and arrow to poach servile game from royal tableland
A fealty to nature's law; a license the privileged class to brand
A Kangaroo court dispensing arbitrary justice to tenured gentry in the lowland
A pauper's lease, tattered remnant to expand
A squatter's right, doled penury to remand
An opportunistic syndicate confiscating hoarded supplies to reduce growing demand
A marauding troop of mercenaries liberally sharing their contraband
A providential broker, allocating pilfered alms poverty to withstand
The grey-haired by on our streets
With rags hanging his shoulder as his only cloak
Every night on banana leaves he sleeps;
He has no crump nor cakes let alone a glimpse of hope
All day his leg sweeps back and forth the town
He is like a rat beside little folks that are highly privileged;
The mental sculpture he carved and his vocal paintings are tied down
His label and packages are caged for he is not long legged.
He has got no lamp to see-through the dark path of life
Summer rods scold his head and keep him upset;
And winter drops spanks his nerves for he is got to place to hide,
He never smiles and never stops to fret.
He has no idle hands for he claps for the fighting hens
Even at night he is busy killing mosquitoes until kills no more;
For all these jobs, he is not paid a mite let alone pence,
Day in day out he wakes up to be weak and poor.
When the cock crows he would not wake up
For he knows not what the day may bring;
The songs of the sparrows he prays would not stop,
For they make him sleep with ease as a king.
Behold a playwright who watches the melodrama of the sparrows
While he has got golden, play let right on his tableland:
Who will get him out of the city of shadows?
To make him known that his destiny lies in his hand.
Navigation by the soul,
Feet caravan the heavy load.
Roam far beyond the horizon calling,
Searching the stainless tableland.
Ocean plain blue,
Beauty not touched,
Leaving in peace.
Desert cannot be seen with the eye splendor.
Mountain height is,
High above all to really glimpse clearly.
Valley hidden with marvelous tree covering.
Journeying,
Passed the weary mind.
Concrete jungle,
This is the find.
Mist of the town square,
Both hands planted finger gripped.
Rip the curtain chest into wide sight,
Baring the heart,
Expose to the wind of time.
Bleeding the old wounds into the handling breeze.
Veins rush within a new season,
Heartbeat one,
Soul-tide bound,
Heaven is blended in perfectly.
Speaking with full knowledge,
Life precious,
Leaving the heart raw,
Knowing there is nothing left,
But this alone-
Form:
Wild Grass on the Tableland—Farewell to a Friend
The grasses on the tableland run wild,
Once in a year they perish and flourish.
The wildfire can’t burn them up in the field;
They regrow in vernal breeze at their wish.
Over the ancient path grasses spread far and wide,
And their green aligns with the city lonely.
Again say goodbye to my friend at the road side;
Lush grasses wave in parting sorrow heavy.
(Tran.)
I wanted to find myself, so I got lost in the woods,
Turns out life’s easier without all the shoulds.
The rhythm of steps was a meditation
Twelve hours a day in God’s lovely creation.
Even when I was tired, wet, hungry and cold
I didn't get jaded; nature didn't get old
In the south, high blue ridges, flowers orange and red.
Mist drifted over meadows, clouds moved overhead.
I got thin and other-worldly, though grounded too
It felt odd to pass day trippers, same trail, different view
Both epic and mundane, the trail was short and long
Resupplied at Vernon, Conway, Marion band played a country song
Five months later, with unexpected friends, I reached the end, the North
In the "hundred-mile wilderness" we chatted, but it finally spit us forth
We camped in Baxter Park, ten miles from Katahdin’s floor
At 5:00 AM we rose, headlamps on, eager for more.
The climb began easy, but boulders got large.
We grabbed rebar to haul ourselves, still pumped for the charge
Hills were tinged with gray and pink, a rising sun showing:
summits of gold, a world silent and glowing.
Walked onto the tableland, then to the last rise
There was the wooden sign, the goal and the prize.
I hugged the sign, then a cold wind drove us past.
Wherever life takes me, the memory will last.
Back in the city, strangers pass like ships in the night
Who knows what memories keep their spirits alight.
Some live epics, some live tales half-spun
If you pursue the far horizon life will be more fun.