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Best Poems Written by Digie Ruchyat

Below are the all-time best Digie Ruchyat poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Proletarians To the Fore

Arm to arm, sinews clutch
One another, makes friend and crutch;
One crimson call, which guidance brought
The feeble, stern: the working lot
To stand much greater, taller, strong
Filled with hope, in lines long,
That stretch from pain, from glum, from slum
To the halls of white where nations clump
In the deadest form of gathered hoards
Of finance and shares, secluded boards
Who array the work, who shackle in loans
Whose empty plots tempt the sleeping droves
In tent and rag, in cough and drag,
From hand to mouth, to work and back.
Yet in contempt that line is struck,
Still the routine is mute, no more this work
That builds the villa, never the mason’s,
Unthanked which blooms the fields all season,
The folks split off by plastic partition
Giving wealth immense, yet maimed cognition
Had kept whom bound to desk and ground
Their eyes have met and their fists now pound
Against steel ribbed doors, but why such fear
Thee lords of land in prim kept highest tiers?
Arisen so, on the claim of wealth,
At the cost of Earth, of hearth and health;
How much more flight, behind guarded holds,
Behind sentries and dictates so cold
Even in scorch of war, where poor kills poor;
So the wealth of nations in tons can pour
Onto odd few hands, to hold all us chained
To the will of profit, for profit’s sake.
But in queues, we’ve come, tools shucked
Your batons brooked, your shots shrugged
By the calloused bossom, by tried spine,
That props all of it up, runs it all in time.
And without us many, your wealth is rust,
Without our trust it’s all a fleeting gust
Of paper slips and accords of force
And we see dawn, from these dues divorced.
And the sun to snatch, the sickle drives,
And the barricades the hammer tries,
While the quill writes, not fearing death,
A push for renewal, for a gasp of breath.

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Dawn

All nebulous dreams prospecting,
A hideaway in cloud atolls,
A nightly ocean, warmth awaiting,
In quibbling flow, to dawn's aperture
In spectra falling, spectral play crumbled,
Sojourner stars: their lamps parole
In a distance, behind amnesic lights
Razing autumn clouds, amber hues galore!
Cloud heaths, like bosom steaming
Of shying lovers in meeting pour
Whom expectations, sunrays in flurry,
The sky makes dawn red, and Sun allures
The air, in restless breeze cavorting,
By promised things which procure
A blushful pink, on allusion's canvas,
The whimsy sky in homely warmth pleasured
Into a fecund rosiness, its secrets goaded,
Flee from shadowed swathes: staid, demure;
And where played curt poem, autumn moon;
Is a sky by the the bold and brash secured

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Dry Land

If there was a someone,
An island upon which to rest,
I'd beach myself so gladly,
From this ocean I detest,
Be my refuge from the tides,
They drag me under often,
I wish to wake upon dry land,
Marooned at daylight's dawning.
If your arms are my salvation,
I'll shipwreck this drowning heart,
Be glad to wade through waves,
To make a brand new start,
There has to be a sand bar,
Upon which I'll stand and view,
Much better things to come,
I only pray those things mean you.

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Against Hegemony

Steps on mud, a stalking thread,
Red strings wind through dying groves
Where life needs time, to find footing,
Red strings halt hands in greed which hold
The axe of ignorance, the axe which bleeds
A people in flight from homes bulldozed
For one brute mine more, to feed empire
Which jangles keys, which confines in loaned
Dependence made, our trough withheld
By bloated old speculators whose cold
Lies obscure serfdom; worded as freedom,
And the east wind is chided,
For fetishism, advert slogans uphold
Impotence among them who create,
They are given consumerist mirrors,
As leeches of mankind are weighed in gold;
And as burns away our way of life,
All bonds formed in toil shared,
The market-canker births hedonism
The imperial axe bloodies us, brothers of old
But hold tight onto the strong strands
Of crimson in the heartlands,
Seize imagination, seize thought
Beyond nettle laden garlands
And thorn crown of parlay,
Rip with the iron of hardship
All parasites, them whose is the whip,
Can’t be pleaded with, can’t be controlled.

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Idiosyncratic Arcadian

I’d prefer to live in a bygone era of
unsophisticated innocence

I’d prefer to live in a bygone era
where there was no ideology of ideal idleness

I’d prefer to live in a bygone era
where there was no sense of conscience,
no ken of moral nous and no subtlety of civilization

I’d prefer to live in a bygone era
where there was just absolute tenet
of tenacity as probity
in every inch of milieu’s existentiality
as of Mother Nature’s intrinsic innateness.