Poetry is late

Poetry is now the late breeze rustling in the tree

After the temple tank's mossy stillness.

On consciousness had luminously arrived

The phallus god, in brown beauty- hues

And cyclical eight faced phallus ,in turns,

Tranquil-white and angry-red in stone eyes.

Polished now as God ,a washer man had used it

In rhythmic beats, all for beating laundry.

We have our myths, carefully polished

Over Time's washed stones of the riverbed

Our accumulated minds enormously meshed

As a haystack of shared consciousness.

Our gods have uneasily existed all these days

With spirits who have to be driven out

From darkly lonely houses and fearful men.

On the hillock pallid ghosts come haunting

In moonlit houses amid systolic blood-chants

You know our god is fear ,not rain's beauty

Or lonely jungles with the fall of cascades

I keep thinking, while my glass eye twitches

For brown beauty and pixelated praise.


Comments:
 
penname   penname wrote
on 12/2/2008 4:45:43 PM
deep and i love the alliteration throughout. pixelated praise, is adorable. i like the irony of systolic and blood used in the same line- how apropro very deep and intelligible. wonderful work in my opinion

nisheedhi
Poetry
Free Verse
writing nisheedhi
Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience.
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