Long Riverine Poems
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Nested like treasures priceless, eagle parents watch over the brood
On an island far away from the city, I beheld in a vision of azure blue
A rural settlement in waste laying, arid with black bile
A desolate, decaying riverine pride
Above sunken war canoes and ores only dead men mine
Tricked and deprived of life,
Numb but not from the rum they had drunk while on Earth
Now with the blood drained from their faces and their skins ashen
I saw nearly all their sinews rot away in split seconds
And their peaceful joy was pillaged
Yet unerring, inert, and grave quiet
In abundance of wealth they stayed barren
Cold, and stalled
Never had I seen such looping stagnancy,
Their fire had no warmth or vigor
Never had I seen such perfection made otiose by life's rigor
I asked the meaning of the spirit who carried me and one vocalized
Your ancestors require light they cite
The blood of brothers and virgins recite
Tears that never dry until honor is given to their sacrifice
And their bones are brought up to rest through rites
Shall there be feasting made to honor these who fought for heritage?
They knew not Christ
Gutty in the face of drowning deepness
With none to cheer them on with sweetness
If their lives become a graceful adage
Shall they also be examples to our young?
Shall their stories not be told around great bonfires?
Shall their odes not be sung at evenings?
As they dine with the gods by whom they're sired
Who shall reverse their unworthy demise?
Who shall carry them to sleep in the warmth of the land they sunk for?
They who stood to hold the bows for their hearthstone
And suffered the ravaging of foes, even reptilian fate
Possessing virtues in excess yet killed like beings worthless
Dying with seeds unplanted, and many wrested
Their houses are like deserts, their fields are barren and corrupted
Their spirits are rejected for the paths they travelled
Who shall lift their curses of hell and squander?
Who shall reach them now?
Who shall heal their broken spirits in the world after?
Winter melts
&seeps
deep below
permeates
cathedrals with snow
in spate
nature's blood
in flood
in moorland
gorse
new springs
become
a tumbling
source
a babbling burn
in
feathered
ferns
to riverine
unseen
a stream
of
freshwater
clean
in rivers
soil silts
against
sloping banks &
the current slows
into
eddys
where fat chubb doze
deeper waters
then
running free
winding slowly
to
the sea
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Shadows crawl
out haunting
In first ray
of light
Coaxing awakening
Striking the soul
Fluttering deepest eyelids
Music strikes
Upon cello cords
Dreamily she awakens, to a gentle strumming, of his soul
As a piano plays
Sweet haunting music
Flows a riverine
Echoing against
One great wall
In China
carries into
the distant hills
Her deepest breath, wrapped lovingly, around his spiritual purity
Music begins
stirring deep passion
Romancing chambers
Dancing on air
Holding heartstrings
Playing emotions
Sweetly within
Inhale and exhale, transcending into, each other
Touches beauty
Striking keys
Drum beating chords
magical fingers play
Enchanting music
Flowing into
the ocean
Her melodies, rise and fall, exquisite synchronicity
swells out
In blossoming
Like honey golden
Ebbs out
in cello
Piano touching heartbeats
A paradiso
of music
Sweetly touches souls
Heartstrings, once plucked, never stay the same
Music Video link - http://youtu.be/NCaH-qqTWpk
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
written jointly with soul goddess
Over burning canefields black soot ash
on an east wind past my balustrade blows,
and big white pelicans the riverine splash
their dive pouch longbills in the shallows.
Windsurfers, sailboats, and rowers in row
pass up and down in their wake across,
and fishermen in the Cod Hole below
sit reeling in their boats off Mykonos.
Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone
a great bridge does cross the river’s divide,
and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan
concentrates my mind ‘twixt moon and tide.
When the sun is low and the moon high
fly a plague of bats just passing through -
sipping a wee tincture of scotch in my dry
puffing a wee willem on the avenue.
Girl, like The Iliad it’s all Greek to me
and soon a new life and bridge to cross,
but before the two of us become three
I write my postcard from Mykonos.
Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone
a great bridge does cross the river’s divide,
and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan
concentrates my mind ‘twixt moon and tide
Written: October 1999
The moment I am out of the box
Foxes and hyenas surround me
Needy greedy aggressive seekers
Those who even a second before
Lay hidden in hibernation
In the tightly closed boxes of steel
On the verge of elimination
Thanks to the cultural policing
Now pouncing for dark and dense satisfaction
In a paleolithic plunder
Quenching reddening hunger
In the black and brown forest
Of unchained unrest
In pursuance of almost unconquerable
And incorruptible pleasure principle
Of animal happiness
Night and day
Sense buds making hay
Out of the aesthetic box
Wreaking senseless havoc
Our rose and rhododendrons in decay
Our seagulls
In infirmary and hospitals
Out of the box
The Spanish bull and ox
Flummox our poems
Into the imagery of
Ingrained instancy
For our tumultuous ascendancy
On the pinnacle
Of crimson churning
And the giant jingling
Tapering off to
The momentary Nirvana
Of the
Intense distraction
That arose out of the box
A moment later
In an inertia again
Of the restless vein
For the overwhelming rain
Into deep brain
Teeming with craving lanes and bye lanes
In the dim light delight
Out of box
The red fox
No mailbox
No riverine knocks
The box is very important
For our civilization
Into the flowers
Of sunny sublimation
_______________________________________________
18/01/2017
For the contest, How Long Can A Poetry Go,
Sponsor, Jamie Pan
Note: As the metaphors in the poem is too obvious to need explanation, no writer’s
Statement is added here, as asked for by the sponsor except saying that it deals with the psychological process of the dominance of pleasure principles at the cost of reality principles as elucidated by Sigmund Freud.
In an unfolding poetic hymn of yours,
I will be the poet, with zealous zeal,
A Sky, unwrapped the horizon of yours,
while, I was a lonely, soaring seagull
Running brook of yours had a murmuring sound,
though, tranquil water touched mine
Within the rainy season,and your riverine landscape,
I will be the estuary, rushing to a shrine.
The mountainous high of your beauty
will be ever, an epic greenery of mine
In a pacing mayhem, in your controlling high,
I will be thy resurrection.
Be a forest in the deep, I will be the chirping bird,
in the camouflaging nature.
Salty tears of yours will be an anecdote
in these eyes, too, of mine, in pairing venture.
Wider outskirt of life and love of mine,
may it rush to yours, in prime time..
In an embroidered quilted story of yours,
I may be found, often in a silence of chime.
Na re na.. na.. na..
On a night, as dense as a silence, I will be thy color
On a moment of unfolding nature and bliss,
I will bring a surging silent uproar.
In a poem, singing bold and loud, I will be thy poet.
Wider outskirt of life and love of mine, may it rush to yours ,
in prime time..
In an embroidered quilted story of yours,
I may be found, often in a silence of chime.
Na re na.. na.. na..
May 26, 2023
Sat by the jetty overlooking the waters
of Tombia
Waves and ripples as boats drive
pass speedily
Passengers and luggage alike all
disembarking
All by the Tombia waterside in the
riverine Rivers
Free from the hustles and bustles bedevilling
Port Harcourt
The mayhem and chaos in the Oil city all left
behind in the city
Yet such serenity by the waters of Tombia
Piece, quiet and tranquility quieten my
stress
Trying to be patient, but my patience is
running riot
Trying to stay and remain calm by the waters
of Tombia.
Roasted peppered fish and plantains my
consolation.
All by the waterside of Tombia.
Life, where I grew up
Had quite often a rainy day
Life there thrives in a riverine canvas
And people are amicable and friendly. I may say.
Life, where I grew up
Had the turns of a long, long story
Some are puzzling, some understood
Often the story had a lot to say about past of glory.
Life, where I grew up
A sky was wearing a golden saree, then
With rosebuds, white flowers in a braided hair.
Words of life were too easy to say.
Life, where I grew up
Thrived in a meaningful and reserved way, in serene
All are not a poet, but some are though
People mingled in nature, and nature touched heaven.
Perhaps, isolation is a term getting familiar, now
Feelings of loneliness, together in a journey, for many
Recognition of this is not easy to cope up though
And I was looking for a sky, a helpless, lonely soul in me
And all I see is a beautiful, meticulous, ever-generous sky!
The cascading stream murmurs mystically
as it flows across the pulsating plateau,
and through the swathing sprawling forest,
fostering emerald opulence to the ultimate,
that splashes silver streaks beyond the banks,
bending on the wavy contours of the vale
with flicking torrent of exuberant design
like the en echelon flock of swan in fervent flight.
The brook meanders in lively loops
on the verdant swathe of swerving ferns,
scattering with verve of riverine exhilaration,
the swirling strings of splattering pearls.
The coalescing currents glide, serenading through
the aural symphony of ambient silence,
blending with the whispering refrain
of the rippling wind passing passionately by.
Flying over the crystalline water, changing shape
within the migrant motif of the ebullient flow,
the robins returning from the winter wilderness
twitter the joyous springtime song.
As in the skeletal boughs of the defoliated trees
the new satin leaves sprout and rustle,
the beguiling fleet of butterflies flitters
around the color-burst blooming flowers.
The onyx night shapes the silhouette of sapphire sky
above the malachite profile of the forest canopy,
that wears the jeweled crown of heavenly décor,
embroidered by the stellar lattice of the twinkling stars,
sprinkling the silver sequins of morphed dream,
that drizzle through the diaphanous moonshine mist.
I’m entranced by nature’s awesome splendor,
inspiring me to capture its beauty with woven words.
Met her first
Where
The meadow stopped
Behind the mountains
Benched on the buffalo's back
A cowherd
Played a riverine tune
Where
The bow-shaped river
Flowed north
The white yachts
Were sailing east
Like the shadow of
A flight of cranes on water
Where
At the market near the river
Away from the crowd
She clutched herself
To keep selling tears
Folks haggled
And gladly bought
The pearl-like tears
It was then I asked her
The reason for such discounted sale
She accounted -
A tree's tears have no value
Only to be burnt to ashes
A seedling grows into a matured tree.
Translated by Prof. Anita Baruwa from the original "Xeh Kotha" in Assamese.