Mother nature’s trees shudder in the breeze,
Clothed in ashened sky,bearing angry eye.
The winds conversation with birds to flock,
Branches of two trees interlock.
Angry eye is sporting black,
The fight for supremacy notoriously back.
Rabbits and squirrels retreat with their fear,
As an audience of trees lean as they peer.
Returning bird to referee,
The elderly tree resumes paying his fee.
His younger capture boasting minus concern,
As he thrashes with heavy twist and turn.
Wind is bullying close behind,
The elderly tree disadvantaged,he finds.
He creaks and groans,bleeding his sap,
Gentleman of the forest lye dead in rivers lap.
Succeeding opponent standing proud,
As a silent applause was never so loud.
Wisdom now is all that remains,
As the woodcutter starts to sharpen his blades.
Tightened by rope in the woodcutters truck,
It’s not the end,he’s back in luck!
Now he’s sitting front of house,
In a swanky restaurant in London Town.
All admire as they prop,
If only they knew the story from the top.
As they sip their drinks with chatter,
A distant sound of trees will clatter.
sickly stickly thickly tree
No one to strike you down
Axes about but no woodcutters
And me with a sore finger
You are unsightly in my garden
an ugly renegade tree
I tried to rid myself of you last year
Yet here you are stronger than ever
An owl hoot begs me for mercy on your behalf
Lucky for you Native American ancestors have just saved you
Maybe next year I will chop you down; this year you are safe.
Thanks to the love of the Wyandotte who used to traipse this land.
Soil,
Don't be fertile more,
Don't be a mother;
Child-traffickers, like mad dogs,
are moving everywhere.
Don't conceive any green more,
Don't conceive any forest;
The blue-eyed woodcutters, like butchers,
are sharpening their axes.
O Soil,
Rather become a desolate graveyard,
Rather become a melancholic desert.
Your words cut- like a woodcutters axe
chopping me down,
blood spills onto the pine strewn floor.
Exhaling words. Spoken without thought,
or love, trapped in an unbreakable bubble
that floats around my head.
Purple memories emanate from the centre,
rippling into infinity, becoming distant…
lost to the edge of life.
I thought love would save me, but
it too floats away on a starlit stream.
15/5/2013
Still here are some people
who prefer darkness
and prefer going to village
with their wives and children.
At least at the departure of electricity
(Victory to load-shedding!) some people climb the roof
for free air and look upward to the sky by mistake.
Still here are some people
who venture to purchase books of poetry,
listen to Hemonto's* songs,
stare at the starry sky
and groan 'Mom! Mom! ' seeing her face in a dream.
Still here are some people
who, seeing the axes and the woodcutters,
feel their hearts being heavy with pain and disgust.
Still here are some people
who love trees,
love rivers
and extract pleasure from fertile women.
* a Bangali singer
Soil,
Don't be fertile more,
Don't be a mother;
Child-traffickers, like mad dogs,
are moving everywhere.
Don't conceive any green more,
Don't conceive any forest;
The blue-eyed woodcutters, like butchers,
are sharpening their axes.
O Soil,
Rather become a desolate graveyard,
Rather become a melancholic desert.
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