To achieve this one unique word you do not
know how much, how hard I had to dig into
my soul.
I ran with flying birds, offering marks
blood to the earth with my wounded feet.
I joined the monks of flowers and immersed
in the colours of deep penance, in the forests;
shoulder to shoulder practiced hoarse voices with
wild winds, that come rubbing their skins
to the arctic regions;
Blew off myself into the wide seas, mixed
up with unruly cyclones; made at last the lap
of hills into my temple and became a god.
then all the sounds of creation came, with
halos around their heads, crowded the blue roads
of the sky, looking at me with strange satisfaction.
But I am now immersed in pure silence.
It is so profound that no one can
comprehend my condition.
For me now, there are no sunrises, there
are not sunsets, there are no colours, there are no
melodies.
There are no experiences known to any
of the human senses.
It is this moment that squeezes me, and
offers to you,
the heavy hot drop of a rare meaning...
In the forest of rays, I was badly bruised running,
Sharp rays pierced into the flesh all over my body;
There a lone tree, in full spring dropped a huge tear.
that tree had spread its shade once, over my tired body...
flowers are bound to bloom on the limbs
of the trees one day; my country should chop the
hands of butchers, who fell trees and run a saw
into their bodies.
Birds sing thoughts of the trees, poet sings
thoughts of the birds...
All do not know, only the branch which
lost the cuckoo knows what spring is, and only
the birds which lost their songs-
Spring is not the same spring, which every body believes;
It is a season when flowers sigh heavily.
The birds can fly away, but where can the
tree go? Even when cyclones besiege it the tree
stands rooted to the earth in determination,
its life dedicated to the soil;
like me, clinging to my country, though
I do not possess one inch of land in it.
Even the wind does not know when the
leaf falls. Bees are bidding farewell, to flowers, and
the stream of my village meanders, away far, far
into distant bushes, to sleep,
come, my feet, take me there.
CANTO V
O melody, hear me..
by what good luck I do not know,
a moment of vision came to me like a comet in the sky,
vision of cruel facts of life.
Now, don't cheat me by your charms and
infatuations. Don't make me forget my pains.
If I were to forget, all those that have to
be exploded with these very hands, they will
remain sage and secure, with a longer lease of life.
O flowers and voices, let me snatch my weapons.
Let me wake up those minds which are
sleeping snugly in that unbearable stink.
Let them be turned into violent winds.
Let me teach them the art of hatred. Let
me preach them how sacred is hatred. Let me
bestow on them with all the power of my blood,
the sacred gift of awakenment to hate.
Whether left in the air, or bound on paper,
let these words plant volcanoes in them,
let my volcanoes burst, don't stop this sacred explosion.
* * * *
The green parrots which I try to catch here
with silken threads of thoughts, escape, into
families of trees wounded by the hands of
merciless storms.
Life here, aborts, discharges dreams, with
undeveloped limbs and ugly shapes; these, some
vulture carries by the beak to the hill-tops, eats
and vomits them, upon the people, calling them
poems-
The child within the womb, better remain
in the womb in this land of ours; if it comes out
and complains of hunger, he will be shown
the foot paths and not the fields where the food grows-
Here even the sun falls out of the womb of every night,
a shapeless lump of flesh.
My days limp like colonies o lepers, my
dreams of future hiss and strike their fangs
into the flesh of my present nights.
Days of my country are boats that dash
against rocks and break, nights are worries that touch
the heart and burst into flames
Oh! Today I am ferocious dragon, made
with the hands of the repulsive puss oozing from
the body of my land.
* * *
The red fox, in the trees of my mind, keeps
on stirring, in and out of the thickets making
constant reconnoiters at something. eyes burning
like coals in the darkness for its unseen goal. it
punctuates my thoughts, interjects commas, colons,
interpolates hyphens, never introduces a full stop.
It brings more ideas from the sideways and
savannahs and swells up the procession of my
thoughts, arms them up with passionate emotions
and waits to see the procession burst out into plains
like an unshackled sea, wild and uproarious. the red fox
which feeds my mind withy flames, moves
like a fluttering red rag, with sinewy legs against
the storms that blow over as enemies of countries,
continents and nations.
Who created this red fox? Is it the two coals
that flickered in the thickets of a head, a
beard and whiskers? but
I am sure it is not Doulton of England!
* * * *
Some bird from somewhere comes on
wings, drops a song in my ears and flies away.
A line which conveys a real experience,
comes to you like a bird with life and a song....
Yes a life and song!
* * * *
Yes, this is the land where millions of stones live,
forlorn by their families of hills.
this is the land crushed under the
iron heels of grueling sun.
This is the land which spits flames
of mirages from her bloody wounds-
this is the dancing hall of the reckless flames of the sun's furry.
this is the land which is deserted by all
living beings, leaving it to the enormous void,
spreading from one end to the other end of the sky.
Here, nothing exists except a bird
and a tree.
The tree is perhaps the one who lost his way
from those families of trees, which migrated
to distant lands, in search of water.
Like tear of the tree, is the lonely tiller
with his plough; alone wrests the life-substance
from out of this niggardly rocky soil.
O! The arrogant sun rubs its muscles on
the cheeks of the tree. From what countries
do they come, these exiled whirlwinds, to take refuge here?
who said they are rocks? they are consciences who
gagged their mouths with their hands.
Who said they are flames of the sun?
They are armies of fire, invading on helpless rocks.
To history with me, these rocks also gave their
blood. Today they are mere rocks, but the
the sculptures of bygone empires were their dreams.
O toiler, over there with a plough in your
hand, you are not alone. Your journey cannot halt
merely as a drop of tear. There is another brother
who joins his footsteps with every one that you
tread on these stones, in other part of the earth remember-
In Iraq, in Japan, in Mexico, in the Far East or Mongolia-
Over these rough lands, flowing with tears of rocks,
A man will arise one day over whose body
iron muscles move as whirlwinds.
See, the ranges of mountains, how silently
they move in the distances, draping their shoulders
with 'Uparnas'(upper cloth on shoulders) of sun; they are prophets,
delivering commentaries on the depths of skies in
exalted tones, which you cannot comprehend!
Unique Word - Exalted Tones
Seshendra Sharma
(C) All Rights Reserved. Poem Submitted on 03/28/2020
(1)
Poem topics: brother, child, farewell, fire, food, future, god, green, hate, heart, history, journey, lonely, never, night, people, power, remember, running, sea, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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