Posted by Durlabh Singh. on May 18, 2001 at 11:23:33:
In Reply to: An asian poetry website looking for submissions posted by stephen on May 24, 2000 at 02:24:54:
LA MANCHA.
Bereft of the poetry of his soul
The knight took refuge in the house of death
Into darkness he went with his mind crushed
Wandering lust gone and with his own trust.
The enchanter gone
And disenchantment entered
And the land of La Mancha
Slowly turned to dust & cinders.
Talisman of allurements or of feasts
Chimeras of windmills or of fabulous beasts
Golden liquors and the shining decanters
Tales of poets sorcerers and of wizards
Adieu to stillness and the romance
Tryst and other typographical stance.
His merry madness had to go
And sanguine sanity had to be constructed
Don Quixote had to be demolished
And Alfonso had to be resurrected.
Alas! there is no poetry left now
In the lands of the Al Toboso
And no veils of Dulcinea now accrues
Across the knight of the mournful rue.
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PALE BLUE SKIES.
Under the pale blue soft skies
On white sanded sculpted shores
Where the birds cast their shadows
Amid decreasing days of summer lores.
Paths of never returning a thousand ages
Paths of ever occurring a thousand clefts
Cast out by wakeful gates of sheltered eyes
In echoes and the silent sound of the foot steps.
Here in the time where the paths end
Amid laborious hells carried within oneself
Pivoted fingers in moth moulded stance
In ever widening circles of the fiery spells.
Knowledge of ignorance, knowledge of knowing
Knowledge of light, knowledge of dark sowing
Knowledge of deeds, knowledge of the unsaid
Knowledge of beginnings, knowledge of the ends.
And how should I know
And what should I hold?
When I am only a novice
In the complexities of my soul.
___________________________________
GOLDEN TEMPLE
Riding high on the limpid waves
Rising high on the shimmering presence
Blue waters of white marbled chequers
For the eternal hymns of wayward heart
The golden domes invoking a saffron path.
Novices of thoughts and sunshine abiding
The golden swarms of vibratory atoms
The hush of pilgrims on the circular pitch
Tearing apart structures of egoed ditch.
Give vent to destinations of beauty & liberty
The concerns of soul now past its restrictions
Illuminate a glance bereft of the inner tumult
Saluting the Guru’s presence in a silent rebirth.
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THE MOON.
The moon
Oh catch the moon
Put a noose in its nose
Bring it back to harness
The icy wilderness of the noon
Sprinkle it with flowered dew.
Catch it before it runs
To penumbra of sun hide itself
Oh run and run to recover
From suffocation of grief & bart
Stiffen its dust with tears
Or the ceremonial flood
Of the tidings of the present
The anti poetic
Peregrine of the sedged cart
The olibanum of crushed heart.
The moon
Oh catch the moon
Catch it till it runs
To the hilliard mansions
The septic pun
Where the master of hounds sleep
With his metallic face
Turned to the wall
Where under the greenish shadows
Shines the dool
The moon
Oh catch the moon
Catch it before it runs
To the penumbra of the sun.
Durlabh Singh