In this bared land of the fertile alphabets
You didn't spread out the mat of poetry
Thousands crore of years I rowed the oar of your spring
No smiling flower bloomed there in the desired tree
Lost, I lost the parlours of the Sirius due to chasing your winks
No ink of the rose day I sipped to inscribe a couplet of the ivy
Now I'm running away from the fist of the empirical uterus
Where you were my poem but the destitution is irony!
©Mahtab Bangalee
February 13, 2024
Chattogram
Every six turns of the moon
A journey to the girl I take.
I leave behind my safe cocoon
Into the noise and into the fake.
The pungent smell of multicolours
Punching nose and mind alike.
I sit and pause in splendid parlours
Waiting for the joy to strike.
And strike it does, oh glory be.
Electric sparks and lowing moans.
At last she uses teeth on me.
Her gentle strokes, my buzzing bones.
Decisions made I walk to water.
She will wash my sins away.
She mentions something of her daughter,
I've never answered to this day.
In my goddess tank I float.
Blues and greens with sea and sand.
I am the castle, and they are the moat.
At last the call comes from the land.
She leads me to the gate and smiles.
Our deal is done, the job complete.
My world is lighter by the miles.
I smile and wave then walk the street.
My pilgrimage is at an end;
Returning to my warm cocoon.
She and I will meet again.
After six turns of the moon.
What are we doing?what is our goal in life?
To look most appealing in front of all?
Be the topper in all? Have most money and fame?
To be praised by everybody?
We dress up well, attempt to look the best with makeup
and visits to beauty parlours and doctors
We run throughout the day to earn tons and tons of money
attempt to gain knowledge of many things
all in a bid to reach the apex, to impress others.
In the whole process we lose out on
our health and happiness
If we could be just ourselves
And enjoy life in a relaxed way
Doing whatever gives us happiness and bliss
Pursuing our passions
Not copying others but following our mind
and leading life our way
We will be healthier, happier lot!
It's time we did some introspection!
You leave the car at what was once,
in old reality, a farm and where the
National Trust democratise so now not cows
but parking motorists feel alarm.
Across a road are loos, ex milking parlours
still with “stools” and piss
as folk make moves to
an archway leading to a long curved lane
edged with a guard of reeds that,
while obstructing the view ahead
incite its anticipation.
Conducting the children, we lead them
to where the pathway fairs into the beach
framed by those stalks high reach
from their rooting in Arcadia.
Some fresh reality as we quicken pace
through that narrow place into entrancement,
a shout of elements where the claustrophobe
of routines in small spaces erodes into the
expansive sunbed of yielding pearl toned grains.
Here we claim our place below a trope of
salt drenched thrift and campion sea slopes
barricading us from the insomnious land breeze
that keeps conscious plain life.
The Twilight Zone
In the nearest town and close to all amenities
such as hospitals and funeral parlours my wife
and went to look at an elderly people’s hotel
where people of a certain age get a small flat to
live in, yet it has a café for the social evening with
where young ladies who have gone to university
and studied geriatrics, sing and give the recital of
something suitable not to offend and often
a priest comes around and talks about Jesus.
Sunny Lodge the place was called, and we thanked
the manager we should think about it and was given
brochures to read. Driving home my wife cried, she
has a daughter who is no quite there I have no offspring
we decided to live in our cottage as long as possible
egoistically, I hoped to die before her it would save me
the funeral and sorting out and throwing away my private
collections of bleakly second-grade poetry, blowing in
the dusty wind of forgotten time.
The children were asked to paint
What they remember of summerbreak
In other parts of the world
They would have painted beaches, bicycles
And smiling stickmen in front of ice cream parlours
But these stickmen were expressionless,
Lying face down, shaded red
In the background, the red and gold tongues
Of renegade flames licked the sky
Black with the soot of burning buildings, their homes.
The see-saw backsides of obesity traverse across the promenade
Led by bustling torpedo breasts thrusting through the hustling throng;
Past tarnished chromium espresso bars, burger vans with frying lard,
Ice cream parlours, sagging deckchairs and the sunlight blazing on.
Splayed upon the greying sands with butts of cigarettes in shallow graves,
Bikini babes in thin floss thongs, sun oil basted, lie and fry,
The effluence of sewage farms foams ochre crests upon the waves,
Cheap sunglasses and tinted shades warp vision as the seagulls cry.
Or are they coughing in the choking rise of hotdog onion smoke,
Or searing blast of diesel oil drove upwards from the fairground sprawl,
And do they dive for fish and chips discarded by the glutted folk
Until cholesterol weighs them down and they no longer fly but crawl?
Oh, I did like to be beside the seaside in the golden memories of my youth,
Before the tattooed mobs and greedy slobs and moguls came to town,
And though rose-tinted, real dreams of childhood wonder sing of truth,
But now I’d much prefer it if they torched and burned the whole place down.
In a dreary cold township with life all but gone,
The raped rain-slick streets drag on and drag on,
Wet newspaper pages flap into the road,
All the power lines heave from a huge overload.
The Devil holds court in the bars and saloons
And he doesn’t much care for he has the best tunes,
Maggots in garbage spill over the floors,
“Do Not Disturb” signs nailed to everyone’s doors.
In the gin-joints and parlours the cathouse queens drink,
For they’ll never be lashed to an old kitchen sink,
They’ll never be barefoot unless it’s through choice,
As their passions decay so their needs lose their voice.
The Devil gets high on a cocktail of blood
Laced with fine Irish whiskey and sulphur and mud,
And his eyes fill with brimstone, of fire they weep,
For the Devil won’t tire and the Devil won’t sleep.
If I still have a reason for staying alive
It’s because I don’t work from nine until five,
I choose what to do and I choose where to go,
I drink round the clock and I run the whole show.
The Devil sits with me and that’s where I’ll be,
Alcohol poisoned in his company,
Nothing much moves him, he don’t say a lot,
But as friends tend to go, he’s all that I’ve got.
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