Untitled Sestina

My desperate, first, and only attempt at a sestina...

I
On the day it began, the sky was black
And the sky rumbled with thunder like guns
As back roads and ravines were filled with men
Preparing to fight and defend the lives
Of the villagers, women and children who cried
On that day, when drums became tools of war.

II
At dawn they marched to the field where the war
Would be fought, the snow swiftly crushed and black.
To the beat of the drums, they sounded the cry.
The general said, as they loaded their guns,
"Severance of conscience may save our lives
But never forget: you are all good men."

III
The battlefield swarmed with thousands of men.
The wounded, on carts, were drawn to a war
Of their own: an intimate fight for their lives.
The ground, once white, was now bloodied and black,
The air resonated with barking guns
And language was buried amidst harsh cries.

IV
With valour, they renewed their battle cry
At the general's order: "Hold strong, good men!"
The infantry loaded and primed their guns
But the field could not contain such a war
And death was found in houses painted black
Wherein those left behind had lost their lives.

V
The lingering wounds of the few who lived
Challenge yesterday's denials with a cry.
For years, the village was clothed all in black
For who could replace such brave and bold men?
Decades of work were undone by the war
And the only victors were those who made guns.

VI
Today we still hear the call of the guns
In the fields and the towns where history lives.
Where valleys still echo with drums at war,
Those who listen will hear the battle cry
And will stand in the presence of our brave men
Who fought on that day when the sky was black.

–
When black guns sound like the hammer of Thor,
Consider the men who gave their lives before
And cry, cry for the victims of war.

Untitled Haiku

Just a very poor haiku. I was scraping the barrel to finish National Poetry Writing Month.

cloudless azure skies -
      translucent leaves in sunlight
            glow green like the grass.

Roz

This was requested by my grandmother for her friend, who passed away hours after it was read out to her. I never met her, but my grandmother told me a lot about her, to enable me to write this. I'm glad she got to hear the poem and I hope that she liked it. R.I.P. Roz.

You handled your cards with commendable grace -
Never one to concede or welcome defeat,
You played the game at such a pace
That it could have been me in the driver's seat.
Jokers, the two of us, a real diamond pair,
We had laughter to spare! How I smile to think
Of the Christmas indulgences that we shared
And the time when you said I would drive you to drink!
I'm glad that the joy of your company was mine,
For compassion and caring were yours by the spade,
Trading secrets for sympathy, Roses for wine,
And a life for a memory which will never fade.
Through odds and evens, I always felt
That you played like a queen with the hand you were dealt.

Who Wants a Revolution?

We're radical pieces of ash and dust
          pressed between
          manipulation and greed,

Masterminds of elusiveness.
          No whitewashed charisma,
          no thinly-coated fascist narrative,
          no pungent hypocrisy.

                    Let's raid the bank of the inevitable.
                    Let's unsettle the system.
                    Let's swivel the signposts

And we'll score on the rebound
          While the columnists gossip,
          gossip with their chattering pens.

With passion and fire-bombs
          We are ready to become diamonds.

Internal Design

This is probably my most personal poem, although it's a bit cryptic...

Pastels in the hall
make a gentle impression.
Beyond, a frieze of seasonal blues,
wooden greys; everywhere,
everywhere, dark patches,
turning, setting, turning...

Panels uphold the old rules:
wait for them to recede.
Gold grates against greenish brass
of designer deeds;
ready-made regrets
are distinctive and orange,
enough to paint the earth.
The library of favours
is locked today.

Romance has its place:
a cheap vase on red linen,
indiscreet luxuries,
intimate hideouts:
glossy alcoves with cold linings.
Where can flesh be found?
Does it even exist?
Who knows?

Detail – always written,
never drawn – is monochrome,
oversized, dished out in bowls
to cover the expanse
of huge floors
waxed with confusion,
walls that appear on their own
and doors that become slabs.

Look! There are
antique marbles on the ceiling!
But the staircase is impossible.
Never mind:
vagaries are raining
from the chandelier.
Who could create
such an immaculate mess?

A Modest Desire, Surely

My wish is not that you should dance
in the clouds with tomorrow's dawn -
merely that you scale heights enough
to gather the pure fruits of respect
from the trees, to salute the sun and rise
above vipers' lies and the acidic smiles
that precede handshakes gloved in cyanide
and morphine-drenched barbed-wire words.

On a Mother's Advice

Your smile was always a gentle gleam
and your lullabies pure as silver,
but you showed me the blackened tarnishes
beneath, that I may avoid
such withering and heartache.

I never meant to tread
on your confessions;
several mirrors later,
I regretted it.

Lesser things, you said,
had pulled many a girl from the sky.

What if the Rebels are Right?

Inspired by Leon Fortunato from the Left Behind series. He's the False Prophet, the Antichrist character's "kingmaker". He's also a huge buffoon.

Immune, immune to slanderous lies
Am I! I slay them daily in excess.
Such stark attempts to sensationalise
Could never match the soft caress
With which I have been kindly blessed.
I bask, content in this delight,
But have often wondered, I must confess:
What if the rebels are right?

They told of the fire that fills the skies
And I was ordered at once to suppress
These disturbances, these troublesome cries.
But as seas turn to blood, I fail to express
Anything other than futile distress!
For if I should trust in my own sight,
I feel, ergo, I must acquiesce.
What if the rebels are right?

How can a man disbelieve his eyes?
And yet, how could I ever transgress
Against the one whom I saw arise,
The one who is perfect in all his finesse,
The one over whom I fawn and obsess?
Oh, why does the sun seem uncommonly bright
And its heat so unbearable? but I digress.
What if the rebels are right?

ENVOI:
My Prince, the power which you possess
Could surely conquer any plight
But have you considered, nevertheless,
That perhaps the rebels are right?

Only an Adventure

Watching from a distant day, I can no longer
Account for such a wanting of laughter,
Nor the trials in your eyes as you said,
"We're within sight of the Inquisition."

Always certain that this time would surely,
Surely be the last, I inhaled you, fed upon
You, our passion so strong we believed we
Could transcend visibility.

I've never suffered from reservations, nor sunk
As low as to be a temptress, but I have
Hidden away monsters for the sake of catching
Those little words.

Then I discovered forever lying asleep in our hands
And all at once, you crumbled, leaving only a husk.

City

Litter chatters to no-one
as it slowly, stubbornly
crosses the street. It
throws itself at a window,
slumps to the ground
beneath soulless fashions.
It knocks at a door,
reads the boredom
that covers its surface,
receives no answer.
Shrill sirens, and the
litter takes sudden flight,
silent as a thief.

Spring

A cloud of ravens thunders over the graveyard in passing
but the quiet parades of turtledoves halt,
settle in the theatres of the bell tower windows
and the sycamore branches to watch children
in pursuit of flowers, hands outstretched and laughing,
dancing with their daisy chains to the song of the breeze.

Morningstar

A religion of strings and confetti,
of castrated righteousness,
sacred recalcitrance,
barren selflessness.

Nothing from nothingness comes.

Obedience makes things sweeter.
Obey, and the sky will open.
Obey, and offer up your honour.
Obey, and endure all the persecutions
that come with creation.

But nobility is far too galling for me.
You could never impel my affection
nor demand my surrender.

Save Yourself

Put duality on hold.
Unravel yourself,
untangle your mind
and contemplate:

...the celestial essence that develops
from common delight, when charming
individuality concedes freely
to a touch...

..bonds blighted with suffering,
wound apart by lofty expectations
and wishes that missed the mark,
unified only by resentment.

Recline and let claret
cascade from the glass.
Gaze ahead and do nothing,
as if mere strength of purpose
could open the door.

Estella

Inspired by Estella Havisham from Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, who is basically my Victorian alter ego...

I recall the day you finally spoke.
Pressed for a verdict, you uttered,
"Proud and insulting," but it never
passed the haughty guards resting within my ears.

"And pretty."

Pretty.
Pretty.
Pretty pretty pretty.
Two syllables,
the permanent alpha and omega
of my universe.

Perchance I may have smiled when you gave them to me,
but in time they became like the countless clumsy mouths
from which they
stumbled,
tripped,
fell.

Cheap. Common. Too easily attainable.
Even words, you see, should play hard to get.
If only they had learned what I was taught:
The heart is a man's strongest weakness
and his own greatest enemy.

I am not damaged, Pip.
I'm flawless.

Penelope: To Her Husband

You know my devotion to be mature
And I have been docile in tribulation,
But it becomes irksome to remain pure
When I am bared to such high degradation.
I lie all but conquered by melodies,
And yet I do cherish our enduring yoke.
Even Heaven listens not to my pleas
And I tremble with fright lest I should provoke
The wrath of that goddess who bids me bend,
Whose great beauty now fills me with dread!
Alas, my honour I must fiercely defend
For the marriage that lingers upon our bed.
Your slightest response will bring blesséd joy.
Until then, sweet love, patience I shall deploy.

Penelope: To a Suitor

My meter is all over the place.
I won't be writing any more sonnets any time soon.

Good Sir, my nature is suited for peace
And I am not ignorant of what I owe,
Therefore my stubbornness must shortly cease:
Societal inclinations make it so.
The illustrious treasures you produce
Delight and enchant, but they cannot compel
A righteous woman, nor her seduce,
As any benevolent suitor knows well.
Only modesty drives me to oppose
The love you offer, but with its cessation,
Loyalty from roots of gentleness grows
And thus I blossom in cooperation.
The day will come when I shall, without fear,
Yield to your harmonies and forfeit with cheer.

Avarice

It's raining outside.

Here is a king, resting in a lap:
Pure velvet. Cashmere throw.
The cork bows to his demands. It says,
"Sir, you have fabulous taste in years."
The broadsheet unfurls.
You can tell it's good news by his grin.

The downpour hammers its objections against the window.
The curtains are drawn.

From a carousel in a crystal cabinet,
A necklace winks seductively.
It belonged to a real duchess,
But he only acquired it for its gorgeousness.
He once caught his daughter embracing it.
"When you're older," he lied.

The skies are scourging the distressed panes
With thongs of liquid leather.
The king is oblivious.
He doesn't care.

Figure Skater

Silken blades asleep on greenish sheets
stir with a purr at the troubadour's touch.
They are her accompaniment,
harmonising as she tells stories
in the language of her body,
a body unbound with arms like lissome branches,
tenderly curved and steadfast in the breeze.
She makes for a glittering mystery,
this princess, this undaunted maiden
laden with sapphires and violets,
her ensemble perfectly backless.
The brilliance of her ballad
makes even the coldest shiver.

Millie's Song

He demolished my world with his sledgehammer glance.
There was never a mention of love nor romance.
I knew it. Yes, knew it, but worshipped him still
And I did and I do and I swear that I will
Not be swayed by their preaching, their bitter advice.
They tell me his beauty is but a disguise

For the evil within; they don't seem to care
That I dwell with him, therefore I'm fully aware
Of what demons and devils reside in his head!
Aware, but a masochist? Brainwashed? Misled...?
That could never be. I choose to exist
In this hell, at his mercy, subdued by his fist.

He's beautiful. Am I such an ingrate
That I answer his passion and ardour with hate?
I don't want it. No, I don't want it, I say!
Self-assertion? Oh, Christ. He should lock me away!
For what right have I to these graces and airs?
I blaspheme in bed and I don't say my prayers.

Delirium Tremens

Hello, it's been two weeks. Easily.

Yes, much better. Gone are my days of nervous
survival; losing control is dead and buried.
No, my problem now is uncontrollable loss.
Haha.

I mean that this maintenance needs to progress.
Deprivation only makes me irritable. It's
getting away, making its dilated escape from
my skin right now. I'm watching it. Can I
exchange this fatigue for something more
attractive? Can you decipher this for me?

Oh, come on. I'm telling you that this is good
for me. I'm getting an education in tolerance.
The pulsating is only ephemeral and I'm getting
used to the fusion of fever and pallor. I think
my heart feels clammy, but what does it matter?

I need it.

I'd murder for it.

Only kidding. Don't take me so seriously.

Look, I must tell you that this is no regardless
compulsion. I got a discount on insomnia, you see.
I've neglected sleep for this connectedness -

- with what? With the world, of course. And isn't
it going rapidly these days? Haven't you noticed?

Don't mind me. I've an appetite for frustration
and an aversion to normality. Always had it.

An addiction to harm? Never. I'll admit that the
delirium is involuntary sometimes, but -

Check my prescription? I have it right here.
It says 'Resist temptation'.

No, it's not my writing. What are you implying?

No, I'm cutting the loop now. Bye.

Ostara

I

He marked the spot in Jerusalem
where the dance began.
Thrice He told them to follow truly
and walk with Him
in the valleys
where the wind no longer weeps,
on the shores
where fishermen never sail alone
in the temple
where the curtain was torn
and haughty ministers forsaken.
"Better to heal than to condemn,"
He said.
"The believers' doors lead to Me,
not the tomb.
Lay the liturgy to rest."
But they had their own Easter.


II

They looted this spot,
morning pilgrims robed in brown
kissing their own footsteps,
sepulchral worshippers
on a new procession in the old city,
men of high office
prostrated before a peculiar altar
in the name of their fathers' faith.
He was a shepherd, not a clergyman.
An ancient knell;
they say the bell
turned black.
But what senseless hymns are these
and what mechanical services
and what hollow sermons
and premeditated prayers?
We will have our own Easter.

A Limerick?

There once was a man from Green Bay
Who wrote limericks everyday.
But most of the time,
He'd forget the last line.

Once a Teenage Flapper Girl

She consults the mirror:
A bird with Persian plumage.
Her wings have languished lately.

She may be penniless but she's still fanciful
and beautiful as Old Manhattan. Her uptown
shoes are exotically tattered: dusty gold pumps
- the exact shade of her eyeshadow -
with shoebox residue and dented toes from
countless mishaps. Oh, the miles she covered
in those heels!

Her face may be pale and subdued but
her gown is a circus of mercurial rubies,
shimmering in the recollection of the
notoriety it once shared with a feather mantle
- long lost, alas.
That dime was her undoing.

What a vixen you are, darling.

She thanks the mirror;
It takes so little to make one feel
like an empress.

And His Name Shall Be...

Inspired by Nicolae Carpathia, the Antichrist from the Left Behind series.

The brightest candle that ever held flame,
On the day of his birth, did promise that I
Shall be cast into night, and the world the same.

We nurtured him, that he may one day find fame,
And of him we whispered this wondrous sigh:
"The brightest candle that ever held flame."

With silver-tongued charm, he seized their acclaim
But avowed that even the ones who comply
Shall be cast into night, and the world the same.

The pure and the righteous he showered with blame
And death came to those who dared to defy
The brightest candle that ever held flame.

His unwavering prophet did boldly proclaim,
"This man is a god, and our enemies' lie
Shall be cast into night, and the world the same."

I was naught but a pawn in his covetous game
Yet take solace in this, since my fate is to die:
The brightest candle that ever held flame
Shall be cast into night, and the world the same.

I Think the Party's Over

Honesty has been injured,
as evidenced by the flushes
on the face of clarity
and promises similarly stained.

But wasn't she graceful
as she glided across that platform
- a stage built for mistakes -
with her silken train
of deteriorated integrity in tow?
She never stumbled over the backlash.

Bravo.

She managed a weekend of great circumstance
without morality but with much prosperity.
She left her cumbersome conscience at home
and it suited her well.

I could never invest in such treason.
I was floundering in disgrace.
I asked her to pass the rifle.

"I'm sorry, but this corner is running out of space."

With sensational understanding,
she smiled.

An Easy Armageddon

The war was clinical by all accounts,
but with hearts standing at attention,
everyone was ready to lay waste.

Time halted,
shivering in the air,
letting illusions recover
and chances unreel.

The immense charge was sounded,
the atmosphere shattered
and the right flank travelled
ceaselessly towards an advantage.

Elsewhere, more sudden
and agitated departures
(entirely plausible given
the expectations
and the outcome
and the preservation
of fragile souls).

Then came the end,
the world closing,
a triumphant ceremony
and such a personal finish.

Chair

plastic smooth
but edges rough
with near misses and miracles
and maybes and could-have-beens
sometimes clung to in lingering longing
sometimes deserted in despairing departure
the most reliable witness with faith that never fails

The heart isn't the seat of the emotions.
This is.

On A Hospital Bed

The floor is staring at me.
I loved you with just a glance
But I'm searching for tears
Lest you don't believe me.

They dressed my sorrow in white,
Saving nakedness for birth.
You reach out to me silently,
Entwined in cold ribbons.

I sense a trace of a hymn,
A caress of well-meaning whispers,
Countless candles like stars
And our lives asunder.

One more breath of feeling
And your last petal falls.
The light goes out with you:
A fading retreat.

Our final dreams pull me under
And I emerge, a castaway.
Beyond the door,
The wilderness begins.

Succubus

The moon was made as the devil's light.
The wolves are barely awake.
My breath hangs on the lilies
And even snakes don't dare to stray.

Now, I never claimed to trade in love
(For that would be a lie)
But perhaps, with my bouquet of thorns,
I could be your bride tonight.

Good evening. You're my puppet.
I'm tweaking your warm strings;
My fingernails draw pleasure.
Heaven trembles: God's watching.

Why, your smile suggests
That you're settling into Paradise!
I'm something else entirely
But the darkness hides the lies.