by Satish Verma
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Rated "G" by the Author.
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TILL THIS DAY
WAR AND FEATHERS
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Monologue of a monolith
to live in a moment
was futile. A young house was in disorder.
Not listening, I would find the missing links.
Grey ash to be smeared on forehead in horizontal
lines for shifting the planets.
The age creeps quietly, irremediably poor,
unchanged in hysteria: after hysterectomy
the womb lies in dirt. Ethnic violence will fill
the carts of mutilated bodies, move to market,
selling the rage. Be in today, or tomorrow,
the blood brings honour.
Do not complain of weather, these arthritic
fingers, crooked toes, you will end on a cliff
after the logic of war fails. A bald year
moves, untrusting the noble men, I ascend
a coin to find the circa of topless democracies
destroying the pillars of feet.
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|Reviewed by Andy Turner
|Truth where is thy truth, or even men of nobility.
You bring to life the dearth of such life.
|Reviewed by Peter Schlosser (Reader)
|the emperor has no clothes; but he stands on clay feet. excellent poetry.|