A SAPLING, IN RED
An
unusual deluge it was,
when
a sapling was borne
not
with green tendrils
but
roots of red.
It
occupied the garden,
A
ghastly, doomed presence
Half
bent from struggling
hands
and coloured with the
red
of demented growth,
Soiled
by a dozen bullets
around,
encased in Sunday's
bloodied
nursery.
It
had no two eyes to witness
its
plunder
No
visage to be etched upon
Or
even the delicacy of
active
movement
Mute
target of terrors and
horror
it was,
its
branches slivered a day
before
fruition
Its
birth metaphor
impaired.
All
that remained was a
crippled
conscience.
A
sentience of a sapling in
red
Its
umbilical cord
separated,
Even
before it could be
embraced
by this
orphanage,
all leafless yet
What
a carnage ensued in
this
garden, and what
doom
could be foreseen by
the
gardener?
His
beloved sapling now
nothing
more,
A
spitting image of those
human
trembles and sighs
Struggling
hands and
sewered
souls all touched
those
tendrils so benign.
What
fate had his sapling
borne?
Stroked
by its ultimate
punisher,
A
shadowless miscreant
As
he uprooted its fine cord
Now
a stillborn symbol,
The
Sapling, renouncing its
incarnation,
is buried in
its
muddy womb,
mourned
by the gardener.
Embodied
by Sunday's
bloodied
nursery,
Now
dry and defunct.
The
Orlando shooting left me( and us) benumbed . This is the poem that acts as a
metaphor and symbol of the senseless cycle of violence that surrounds us.
THE
OLD GOA CHURCH
You expect chants of Hail and Hallelujah,
All
you hear are Chinese whispers,
a
muted melodrama of secret wishes
A
dialect of goodwill and wishes,
marked
by ellipsis and subtle pauses,
all
too sincere.
The
holy corridor and unattainable, imposing reserve of ceilings all bathed with
January .
All
crystallized chandeliers higher than our imaginations could leap to touch.
There's
botheration of being overdressed
or
underdressed here
But
hardly anyone is overwhelmed under the aegis of this salient silence.
No
judgements are here,
only
a fluent stance and straightened positions.
Here
in the Old Goa Church,
an
assembly of tourists too become unsuspecting congregationists.
So
many pious marbled wonders of virtuosity
They
make us count our follies and sin,
like
every inch of nail grown on our pruned fingers
Every
inch of human temperance guessed,
and
falling short by our marginal desires, we make our clever confessions.
A
stark, domed curiosity is imagined by these pillars everyday.
A
generous largesse found in this wonderful land of North Goa.
Who
takes stock of their blessed flocks of virtues here ?
Under
the great Shepherd's proper inspection, non intrusive and tactful,
inanimate
smile and sophisticated restraint.
We
are touched by His presence in the garden,
His
flowing marble tresses fashioned by stone,
modelled
by the air.
In
the church, a precocious girl enunciates the term pew ,
in
place of wooden seats in time of prayer,
While
the toddler's view of beautiful, devout nuns and saints is blocked by mountains
five feet and above.
No
lilies in the field are here
So I
draw a rose on paper,
a
rose baptised by this hour long sermon of joy.
And
etch His eyes,
the
best I can get to being a sketch artist.
Memories
of January ,
flanked
by the Old Goa Church.
NOTE:
both the above poems were self-published by the author on his Wattpad poetry
collection WHISTLING CHIMES around 2016.
The writer's name is PRITHVIJEET SINHA from Lucknow, India, a proud member of the faculty of ENGLISH AND MODERN EUROPEAN LANGUAGES, LUCKNOW UNIVERSITY . He is a post graduate in MPhil, having launched his writing career by self publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog AN AWADH BOY'S PANORAMA besides having his works published in several varied publications as GNOSIS JOURNAL, READER'S DIGEST, CAFE DISSENSUS EVERYDAY, CAFE DISSENSUS MAGAZINE, CONFLUENCE, THE MEDLEY, THUMBPRINT MAGAZINE, WILDA MORRIS' POETRY BLOG, SCREEN QUEENS, BORDERLESS JOURNAL, LIVEWIRE, LOTHLORIEN POETRY JOURNAL, CHAMBER MAGAZINE and RHETORICA QUARTERLY, encompassing poetry and prose
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