Long Criers Poems
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Chants,
voluble. Tremors from footholes of mountains
and green places . . .
From spurts of melodies they come,
chants of our land
chants of our masters
and chants of ceremony
Virgin tempo,
with reverence and arrangement of cowried ankles
and bodies that speak of soot,
eyes powdered in white . . .
Restless Chants,
preserved for the Masters
anthems and pledges, oaths
and allegiances
to those who witnessed the day
invaders scaled the city walls
without shame.
Chants,
redolent of native blood,
omu, ogirishi and nzu;
with syncopations treading heavily
on this clammy, humus ground
and sprinkled with articles of
common ancestry;
and feathers which speak of the
eagles that sired the hawks and
the kinsmen of royal birds;
and there were femurs from
baptized reptiles who have never
squelched in rancid mud for the
first time;
and elements of vegetation thrived —
animated spear grass and achara,
becoming tools that spoke in this
fiesta;
beads scattered and flung, and yet
held in place by throbs coming
from hollow grounds, excavated heaths
and re-greened holes . . .
Chants.
Spelling names and occupations of
town criers and the village folks;
tempos revealing deeds and valour
and journeys to where chameleons
have made their borders . . .
These deeds they spelled of the Masters,
whose bodies alone fell to the invaders —
sons of sophists —who wrecked our
city.
Chants,
heroes’ epic unknown,
dirges un-deciphered,
methods of assembly —principles only
of patriotic chanters,
with fire and pain in their stomachs,
chanting Chants for the Masters.
In a castle on a hill,
Sat a king upon a throne,
Who thought life was dull and still,
Because he was alone-
He summoned castle criers,
To find a bride to be,
They canvassed all his shire,
And found suitable were three-
The first was very pretty,
Marked vanity was her want,
The king felt it a pity-
Only looks she liked to flaunt-
The second yearned for power,
Her heart was full of greed,
Demanding things each hour-
Of love she had no need-
The third was quite possessive,
Each friend of his she shun,
The king found her obsessive,
And knew she not the one.
In a castle on a hill,
Sat a king upon a throne,
A ruler of free will,
He chose to be alone!
Moral of the story: Better off alone than with one who doesn't love you!
written for Castle On A Hill contest
Soiled sinners lecturing on the art of being pristine.
Innocents retreat to black pits and darkish seams.
God tucked away the red lantern and ivory ring.
Very few are rescued from the darkness within.
The good sheep are mixing gospel and fear.
Charlatans and sharks are circling in with shears.
Talking heads are in it for ratings and attention.
Town criers' race-baiting for a vote once again.
Millions gorging on fish and blue-collar greens.
Very few are sowing; they're just takers of the seed.
The horizon is deeply rouged and roughened.
Nobody cares enough to balm it up or buff it.
Bloated children are crying out once again.
Cupboard and pantry are running very thin.
The lullaby and nursery rhymes are dulled.
So, one day they decided just to snuff them.
Black crows preening atop a thorny crown.
The curtain of humanity came crashing down.
Somewhere deep in the soul of a dead-end night.
Heaven was nailed to a neon, no vacancy sign.
Saint Peter packed it in without even saying goodbye.
They have continued
The naked dance
In the centre
Of the market square…
Elders and children
Shamefacedly dishevelled
Have kept the dance
Of shame
To their chest
Like a golden inheritance…
Sadly we watched
Crying for an end
To the naked dance…
But nay! Many
Of the watchers
And criers of yesteryears
Have today
Swum gingerly towards
The market place
To join the naked dance of shame…
A friend of mine
Who yesterday swore
To end the dance
Is today at the head
Of the drumming crew
Alternating the beat with dance-steps
Frenzied but crooked
Albeit beautiful in all their eyes…
‘Hey! Friend!
You pledged to quell
The shameful dance last night
But so early today
Are u wining and grinding
To these damnable beats…’
He laughed
Scoffed…
‘Come on board
And eat with the gods
Dance to sacred beats
In the hinterlands
Of the chosen few,
The view in here
Is prettier than yonder.
Dear friend,
Blame me not
For I am intoxicated
To be a god among men…’
Then I knew
The naked dance has no end…
There may be
A change of beat
But the dance
Till eternity
Shall continue…
Dim the lights low and let me dance,
To the memory of you engraved in my brain.
As they lowered you to your palace with a timing,
My whole being, drained.
Mentally, emotionally, physically,
You tore.
Yet you gave everything up willing,
I couldn’t bother to ask for more.
A twirl for the laughs,
A sashay for the tears.
Don’t brighten the lights just yet,
I’m still mourning for my dear.
Sway, sway, sway through the room,
The drums in beat to your beatings,
The piano, o! The piano,
In tune with your teachings.
A tune for a dance that has been meticulously practiced,
And, as repulsive as it may sound, I HAVE dreamt of dancing to this tune before.
Before,
You were lowered.
Before, criers of the spheres arrived.
Before, all else.
Before our reality has turned into nothing but a memory that I now sway to.
Therefore…
Dim the lights low and let me dance,
Let me wallow,
Let me die slowly inside,
Let me twirl till my heart’s content,
Let me rejoice for the greater good,
To the memory of you engraved in my brain.
As they lowered you to your palace with a timing,
My whole being, drained.
Aeilnnorvy. S
Majestic shades of green
rise with spring awakened scallion spikes;
Hunter greens edging into the forest hues
blended in jaded moss clusters pacing;
shamrock stepping stones low upon the grass,
amidst fern colored harlequin dreams;
minting limes scent the valley lily fields
with fragrance of spring rain blooms set free.
Shaded emerald pines stretch tall and regal kings
touching an arctic blue stone spruce assembly;
mixing morning azure navy skies creeping in
wafting untethered upon the ocean cobalt waves;
longing criers wail at the wind swept of peacock plumes
floating a wavy carefree farewell to Aegean lapis streams;
Each call out - come hither with scent and fragrance of the seas
released surf to pantone Persian midnights
and all the hidden repressed dreams
of spring in early bloom
and oceans writhing in storm tossed summer stills
blending earth and sea with colored dreams.
From the valley of a lone Victor,
Hope bloomed on mornings dew,
Carrying promises of a brighter sun,
In echoes of joy and persistent smile.
Here he comes, draped In night’s shroud ,
Messenger of silent, gusty winds,
Challenging the ‘criers to a falsehood
as Gossips' tales, recounted long.
Beneath motherhood's heavy song,
Tears freeze in pain's tender gaze,
Bearing burdens, frail long lays,
In ceaseless lays, finding no solace.
The reaper's pact, at dawn's first light,
His price, a debt, oft collected,
In twilight's shade, no trace in sight,
For dawn alone, his scythe erected.
Hope, a melody hauntingly sweet,
Fading to shadows with each passing lay,
Echoes lingering , a symphony complete,
At thresholds, betraying their way.
Strength spent in fields of toil,
Make rue of Harvests reaped in thorns,
the farmer returns with his aging hoe,
In cycles old, he pursues another toil.
Pour the oil..Feed the fire, war with Iran..And drain-stream outlet criers.'
A few ticks to midnight, and all is well.!
We absorb the horror, yet can't really
Tell.' Screen-shots file drops fury and
Shells.' Missiles and the droning.' Media
Artificial..All seens pell-mell.' The dead bodies are
Creations of those hellish narrations.' And
More living are in transit, to the place where Iran
Sits ' no rational motive, these soldiers are
Votive.' An offering to baal.' Well we can't
Prove theres a 'cab-al' its just all maybe? haphazard, Time and tide shows in the
Mirror that got shattered.' I ask it not be
Splattered with blood pending.' I think it matters.? Lives in exchange.' For freedom?
Yet I am 'poet non grata' as the machine
Of vilolence needs them' G I''s marines and
Sailors, i'lll fortune holds no favours.'
Which hero is the bravest.? Only Jesus truly saves us.' All this paloply of power is
But a backdrop to the minutes and hours.'
To the murder of the silent ones,
entombed
In life.' Not allowed to run, to see the world
In all its gory.. That is maintained by much false history. Sacrifices on the altar of lies..
The emancipation of women..'
Or maybe now? They are guys.?
In echoes of more affluence.'
Oh and get ready to pour some
Wine.' On the sands of the
beach-heads just ( this one time! )
as was the jingle in
1914..Now mostly forgotten, though it
was
Also so ob-scene.'
Yet tell me of noble aims and?
Well causes so just.' While we line up for
whatever..' For truly; only, in God can we trust '
She smiles
and considers the crowd,
all backward somersaulting
detached vagabonds, all,
serious soft smalls revealed -
marshmallows imbued
with the glee of writing
irregular poetry;
works of art thou art,
thou art, thou art, all indeed -
and what did Dickinson say,
“the Maples never knew
that you were coming -
I declare, how red
their faces grew” -
well, we all march on,
and by the side of our roads,
the righteous town criers
of prognostication, stand
their grounds for commentary,
like sensate servile monks
full of the base sound facts,
ringing their shellac bells,
like an exercise in pulling weights;
the waits inside their cries foretell,
of the things we do not know,
will never know,
like the bride we all are,
gullible, innocent of what is to come,
but we dance our dance
flirting with luscious life
beckoning come hither,
we still write our own vows,
and throw our skirts asunder,
spinning bottles, all undressed
half addressed half said,
punctilious lost in
wayward pentameter,
such bad whirling dervish
behaviour,
truth and dare
and Father Time
will kiss and tell
we poetically march on
we all march on
we think we know
which side we're on
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“All those Hills you left for me to Hue,
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued”
Emily Dickinson. March.
In the silence of a summer night,
when the moon pours its light over the shadows of trees,
Clowns, disguised as poets, rise from the depths of dreams,
Arrogant bureaucrats, with faces of paper,
Pedantic criers, with voices of iron,
You, standard-bearers,
With faded colors, unraveling in the wind of oblivion.
Being a poet isn't a matter of pride,
It's just an error of nature, a cosmic accident,
A burden to be carried with fear,
In a world that doesn't understand your song,
In a world that looks at you with eyes of stone,
And you, the poet, lost among stars and dreams,
Seek solace in vain among words.
The stream of thoughts flows ceaselessly,
Memories of clay and longings of gold intertwine
In a silent dance, a hora of melancholy,
Where each verse is a drop of soul,
An echo of a world that no longer exists,
A mute cry of a lost time.
The poet, traveler through the eternal night,
Clings to metaphors like anchors,
In a sea of silence and darkness,
Where only the moon responds,
With whispers of silver and lights of dreams,
And the clowns laugh, and the bureaucrats frown,
But the poet knows that his burden
Is heavier than any standard,
Deeper than any word.
And finally, when dawn bathes its rays
In the sleeping lake of morning,
The poet retreats into the shadow of silence,
With a heavy heart and a soul full of rhymes,
And the clowns dance, and the bureaucrats count,
But the world doesn't see,
Doesn't feel,
Doesn't know,
That beneath the mask of every poet
Hides a universe of melancholy.