Facula, flash fulgorous.
Chime, chorus, sharply in.
Pumice stone, rough and porous?
Blood below the skin.
Mantle of the harpsichord?
Wraps around the core.
Reptile complex, tooth or sword?
Either way it's gore.
Moreover, hellfire. Killing fields.
Floor slaughterhouse, tiled.
Yield or come home on thy shields.
As before, poor. Riled.
Hurricane, thy beginning.
What will seed thee, storm?
Ululate, underpinning.
Lava, keep them warm.
Rush. Volcanic power, crush.
Dragon, heard that thrush?
Crocodile, wildebeest. Such.
Cloud, the rainbow's touch.
Fire in my heart, burn ice cold.
Ashes, fall around.
Trillium flower, poison sold.
Salve healing, thy bound.
Gadarene, black gabion.
Galant, galago.
Gallimaufry? Gallion.
Goetic the grow.
Fulmineous, fumarole?
Not exactly matched.
Ground to powder, golden bowl?
Toll the tallest thatched...
In Lopo, we chase the dawn
sincerely praying
to the fragrance of corn and the prayers of mother earth
just as every dewdrop glistening on the shoulders of the weeds
is the praise of the farmers' children
slowly descending into the palms of our ancestors
and surrendering to God.
We run freely in the fields
herding the wind and the birdsong
with a joyful dance
while whispering to the soil
our sweat that falls tirelessly is a prayer that takes root.
And when dusk calls us home,
mother has lit a fire in the stove
and father is holding a hoe
because we know that in every yellowing ear of corn
is light born from the soil
and we give thanks with tears
oh God: the great giver.
Atambua – NTT, August 2, 2026
Description: Lopo refers to a traditional house and barn typical of the ethnic groups in East Nusa Tenggara, particularly the Timorese (Dawan/Atoin Meto) and the Abui people in Alor. This building is shaped like a giant mushroom with an open thatched roof without walls and stands on wooden pillars.
Black-blue paint bleeds from within the cracks of crumbling cement walls,
Crushed skeletons infused within limestone erode,
exposing nameless sorrow hidden behind faceless grains of gypsum,
while a forgotten galaxy's celestial ceiling peers through a decaying thatched roof.
Misguided souls reach out into night's void,
screeching repeated sins into feverish gusts of wind,
tethered to each rusting rebar that's barely holding what was once their haven together,
unable to let go, doomed to relive past grievances.
Weathered spiral staircases lead towards nowhere.
Bleakness suffocates while hope is snuffed out,
like the wick of bitter candles drowning in their own wax.
Spinning surrealistic scenes melt into intangible realities,
each soul writhing in agony, trying to break free of abject cycles,
yet punishment clings like the smell of burnt tobacco,
unable to separate the scent from the fibres of existence.
Disembodied voices find no reprieve,
only more excruciation
at the hands of cruel judgement.
Mystery confounds at the G surrounds the pitch
Crumbled wickets tumbled so quick got a stitch
Far too spicy the unfair square did jar & bewitch
Russian roulette regret net humbled willow flitch
Was cricket’s largest grounds really the only hitch
Too dicey to try defence too pricey.. that's their pitch
Foolish pretence was hatched by players who snitch
Curator of this thatched turf was the ghoulish glitch
Moderator of surf the scorched earth torched must ditch
Batters so dismal no in abysmal nick will still bit*h
Madhatters trick they must scratch that ersatz itch
Say only way they will play gotta just flick the switch
Stats are for prats.. the caveat everyone bats kitsch
So to just then pick on the pitch.. well it is a bit rich!
When we lived beneath
The thatched-roof houses,
Curry cooked in earthen pots,
Flames burning from firewood gathered
From hills and thickets.
When bullock carts creaked
Under paddy loads,
Harvests reaped from fertile fields,
Bicycles ridden on dusty roads.
When the sound
Of hand-pounding paddy
Was heard from homes every day,
Women weaving at fly-shuttle looms
Sometimes till late at night
Then, in our land,
We helped one another-
Lives were simple and self-reliant.
Today, though we dwell
In grand concrete homes
And ride in cars of luxury,
We survive on grants from the Centre.
The food we grow falls far below our needs,
While blockades on the National Highways
Bring us untold pain .
Meanwhile, the gap between the rich and the poor
Continues to widen.
Today, the spirit we once knew fading -
The spirit of independance, equality, simple joys
Mutual help and cooperation.
(A revised verson of the poem When Life Was Simple posted earlier
The poem published in the poetry anthology DIVERSE VOICES :POETRYON HUMAN RIGHTS AND PURSUIT OF PEACE.)
Mist feathery drifts
last night’s breath loosening
above basalt slopes of Huatung
Pacific swallows trace morning brushwork
over Fuli’s rice paddies
new green scented with rain.
Xiuguluan River flows jade mountain-born
among ancestral stones
white willows in Ruisui weep
dew-kissed
cycad fronds catching first sunlight
Leaf pearls gather on my thatched sandals
Walami earth holds stories in its coolness.
Bihe Pond rests hidden in Wanrong’s stillness
waters reflecting the tribe’s quiet prayers
Bamboo leaves in green and gold
crested mynas gather in quiet repose
wind moves with the chime of a temple bell.
Ancestral path wanders into the Central Range
oolong tea clouds drift
above Qilai’s blue ridges
A white egret lifts over Guangfu’s terraces
air clear as poured Longjing.
A bulbul calls
blue magpie glides
the slow unlayering of day
Huatung Calligrapher’s span warm to newborn light
time unspools—
bright
unmeasured.
Light widens
dawn follows Yu Shan’s shadowed valleys
the world in quiet promise
soft light
drifting into morning.
Did I ever know that I would be born?
Did I decide my psyche and physique?
Why is a rose shielded by a sharp thorn?
Providence creates each creature unique.
I think of building a castle for me.
I end up assembling a thatched hut.
When I, like a sparrow, wish to be free
An unknown force, from within, keeps me shut.
Untimely rain signs on the summer breeze
Floods and droughts play tragedies unannounced.
Earthquakes shake the inmost shrines of the seas.
Divine verdict is wordlessly pronounced.
Events, like gift foils, wrap my existence.
Existence, in turn, is wrapped by Providence.
Solitude-2
On the backdrops of mango trees
Paddy fields stretches beyond horizon,
Last rays of sunset when touches the branch of a river,
Over there sat on the varendah,
I watch the thatched house of my village
As if submerged, in darkness, the wave imperials!
Ever I narrated this part of solitude?
Everything when appeared as nothing!
From dust to sky, you hear a sole rhythm!
Solitude has spread her wings, here and beyond!
purple waters and a palm; drops
coconuts on the sailors. mutts -
the enlisted; maritime props
in greedy hands - bum hat of klutz.
weave of straw skirt - she laughs him off.
the nail in his coffin; alive.
she’s ugly with mesmerized cough.
without real girls, how to survive…
yellow and green mists, pink and blue.
misfits would sell their souls, embark
on this adventure to pursue
real girls they can’t see in the dark.
swooshy-swoosh, they shove past the flow.
the foam, ferocious. thatched rooftops
just over the shark-tooth waves. go,
looking for girls with lush backdrops.
ooh-la-la vegetation, pert
ebonic vines swing from girls’ heads.
officers anchor their feet, skirt
past the uncouth, off to real beds.
There was a great incline of stone, weathered
amongst the sparsely green valley
whose feet lay at the door of a thatched cottage
and whose head I was treading over now.
A fair stream, no wider than a meter,
had had its pulse dried up by the sun
leaving moss strewn on florid rocky deposits,
ran down the length of the valley
transforming eventually into a river that
sent the local watermills cartwheeling
like ecstatic gymnasts.
In one stride I was over,
hopping onto a small ledge
and (rather regrettably) crushing its treasured plant
underfoot.
Springing upwards, I skirted the boundary of the valley
rising doggedly above the craggy edge
and there, waiting in all its recklessness
was the wind.
Once there stood a golden field,
Swaying crops, a farmer's yield.
Morning songs of birds took flight,
Beneath the sky so vast and bright.
The village paths, of dust and stone,
Where children laughed and cattle roamed,
Now paved with tar, so smooth and wide,
Where restless cars and buses glide.
The thatched-roof homes with lantern’s glow,
Replaced by lights in glassy rows.
The banyan tree where elders met,
Now stands alone in cold cement.
The riverbanks where stories flowed,
Now buried deep where buildings grow.
The marketplace of voices loud,
Now lost beneath a concrete crowd.
Yet in the heart of progress’ run,
Echoes of the past still hum.
For roots of earth, though hidden deep,
In memories, they softly keep.
- Phin Jiu
In verdant valleys, where wildflowers sway,
A tranquil village, where my heart stays,
A place of serenity, where love abounds,
Where laughter echoes, and memories resound.
The thatched roofs, the rustic doors,
The gentle streams, that forever roar,
The scent of earth, the warmth of sun,
A sense of belonging, forever begun.
In this haven, I took my first stride,
Where innocence bloomed, and dreams reside,
The village elders, with wisdom so bright,
Guided me through life, with love and gentle might.
As I wander through, the familiar lanes,
Memories of childhood, forever remain,
The joy of simplicity, the peace of mind,
A sense of connection, forever intertwined.
This pristine village, where I was born to dwell,
Remains forever, a part of me to tell,
A place of solace, where my heart finds rest,
A haven of love, where I am forever blessed.
All the rhythmic beats of the heart were wet
The happiness of your return is in the happiest tears
In the silent cloudy pond of the blue sky of the green veins
My excitement enjoys a bath of nirvana
There is no pair of pigeons
There is no familiar thatched dome
The hunter-cat is also gone
There is no dance and chirping of the little birds
No bamboo dale where our imaginative ghost lives
The heart is the withered bridge after smoking the tobacco leaf
Now the smoke from the chimney is like a white cloud
Where empty notebooks are life's detailed conclusions
Your arrival in this open chin of the epic evening
Your feet touch the heart of hoary loneliness
No door, no window but your calling bursts through the darkness
The extinguished lamp is burning in this apathetic pen
Come, come to the atonal heart by tuning the Krishna flute
Come O Lady Lakshmi Swarupini, come to the soul soothe
Kindle that love lamp by the bit of your lenient heart
May the lost past will be treasured in the embers dart
©Mahtab Bangalee
January 20, 2025
Chattogram
Late this night
the electric lamps flickered out,
I am sitting on the window sill
gazing through the window.
The calm moonlight
falling over the silent earth
making me remember
my distant past of agrarian life,
the days where there
were no electric lamps
but kerosene lamps shone.
Oh ,flutist of the distant
agrarian landscape then,
please play your flute
in this solitary moment
as during those days.
Today there is no hey stack heap
in the courtyard
as in the long past,
nor the thatched-roof stable
where cattle ruminate and rest
occasionally wagging their tails
But Oh, flutist,play your melody
from the distant horizon
echoing the ancient tune.
We lived happily beneath thatched roofs
Feasting merrily on simple fare
Dressed in familiar, humble garb
At peace in our unrefined ways.
Oh, how I miss those old days
When we walked miles just for fun
Telling tales of old, one by one—
How beautiful they were, those old days.
Our leaders were sources of inspiration
Not objects of disdain and abomination
Praised for their kindness and bravery
Not glorified for their folly and thievery.
Those old days
When the wind whispered to those who listened
And the sun brightened the vision of the blind—
Those were the golden times: the good old days.
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