And high above, in heavens wrecked,
The angel cackled and the air was
Filled with her evident pleasure.
And nearby, the demon watched, her eyes
Filled with evident gloom.
****
17. The Time Librarian
When the Earth was young,
Still ripe from its creation,
And void of all life,
And the bare rock waited with an expecting sigh,
The deep breath before life came trickling,
I watched— I recorded.
When the first green leaves began to grow,
And a whispering rain fell from the heavens,
And chilly dew formed pale pearls,
I watched— I recorded.
When the first living creatures appeared,
And gave a throaty cough,
As they swallowed the sweet nectar of oxygen,
I watched—I recorded.
When the first humans walked the Earth,
And speared their fellow creatures,
Ate them on burning fires, and,
Stripped the robes of the trees,
To build shelters,
I watched—I recorded.
I lived when there was harmony,
And everyone shared the free resources,
The toys that God gave to the--
Inhabitants of his world.
But then there was conflict,
And the soft hum of happiness,
The quiet murmur of equality,
And the lingering peace,
Were all shattered.
It started with the land…
The delicate piece of meat,
Adequate for all the people on Earth,
Was ripped apart by baying hounds,
People wanted more,
A lust unstoppable,
And the world was rewarded by consuming greed,
A greed which infected,
And contaminated the previously pure hearts of people…
With poisoning malice and dissatisfaction.
Wars brewed, tears were shed,
But people had become blind to the cause,
The root of all their misery.
The corpses piled, and creatures died,
Smothered by the hungry fumes of perpetual greed.
Land where once, people could roam free and unbound,
Became scarred with defacing walls and bitter boundaries,
And the face of the Earth, so noble and fair, became etched with
Lines which will never fade, and deny the entry of people,
Onto land that is theirs, that is everyone’s.
For who gave man the right to form such laws,
Where a person can’t walk onto the soil that gave him birth?
Onto the world that was to be shared?
Grass I has seen once lush and green became blackened,
Flowers caressing the dew of rain wilted,
And the sad audience of the whole chaotic battle,
Animals, Birds, Insects—all perished,
And withered into nothingness.
But watching all this unfold,
I myself was consumed by one question.
One question which had always haunted me:
Why are men so desperate for land?
For land they so blindly crave--
And are driven to kill each other to obtain it,
As, in the end, they depart from Earth,
With only six feet of mud,
And a few planks for a coffin?
These are the observations of the time librarian.
Note: This poem had won first place in the Quasimodo International Poetry Competition.
****
18. Wintertime
The mist rolls in,
Like a sweeping curtain
Falling upon the end of an act.
And as the veil around us
Finally begins to lift,
We look up to a darkened sky,
With the sun of a sickly
White.
Its battery of light
Dying and spluttering
As it rolls down the
heavens tiredly,
to the red lips
of mountains afar.
The ominous clouds,
A tight rug to smother the sun,
Gather in vicious mutiny.
We look up to smouldering ashes,
Spitting their anger
In pincer sharp rain
But the sun rises wearily
Its strength weak and wan
But its high command
Prevails,
And the clouds retreat in fear.
He shines a shallow,
Mourning ivory
So pale in complexion,
Toned down by the cold
We look up to an empty opaque sky
Where the skies wait breathless
In ill-disguised anticipation.
Then rolls downwards
A chaos of crystals
Gentle snowflakes cowering
From the stormy tempers above.
With them they bring an icy chill
Spread by their untiring steeds- the wind.
They ride their ponies.
And mules and mares,
A mass of clever disguises
Sweeping over land in
Anyway to get there.
Masters to a safe landing
They murmur their way around
Icy pinnacles
And their journey ends on a soft blanket
Of white.
Untouched by the pan of
Sorrow above
And spreading laughter and fun below.
****
19. Steel-walled Girl
When the clock was young,
She was on her fours,
Her mind brimmed with
Unanswered questions,
Her minuscule figure
Warbling her queries with
Unwavering determination.
When the clock ripened,
She was quieter-
her curiosity not quenched,
but piqued by silence.
Her replenishing wells
Of knowledge
deepening with more subject.
When the clock aged further,
She was reserved,
Her mind mulling
over the fruit
Of her perpetual muses.
Already constructing a shell
to immunise her against
Question.
When the clock turned old,
She was filled
To the extent of all her
dubieties,
And she was satisfied with
the answers she found.
Her exterior was now
An impenetrable shell,
Her core of the mind
Hidden in a labyrinthine
Armour.
Her answers had rendered her
protected-
Against the questions
that had made her the steel-walled
girl she was.
****
20. Recognition
As my face crackles through
The disembodied leaves and
Dry tired earth of a reddish hue.
There’s a murmur of recognition
As my breath intrudes upon the air
And breaks the stern immobility
That rents my childhood lair.
There’s a murmur of recognition
As the ashes and oaks gaze at me
With sunken eyes set in the
Gnarly limbs of the tree.
There’s a murmur of recognition
As my perspiring forehead brushed green vines
And a rustling discussion ensues
Of when they were tantalisingly far; my babyhood times.
There’s a murmur of recognition
/>
As I stride through the orchard
And see those sights which brim my memories,
The invisible beauty in which I had loitered.
There’s a murmur of recognition
From the familiar landmarks, so unknowingly cherished
Growing misty and stone-set over the years
In my labyrinth
****
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my parents for supporting me throughout writing all these poems. Their help and constant encouragement was amazing. My mother always sought to make me as happy as I could be during the times when I was often trying to unfreeze my blocked brain, while my father found some jokes to make me laugh.
I am indebted to my brother for those moments when he made me realise that siblings don’t always mean trouble and when he sided up with me and always found some way or the other to make me think that the day’s work was not wasted.
I would also like to thank my teachers, who first effectively introduced me to poetry and thus sparked an interest in me to write further.
My grandparents were great sources of humour and love when I was frustrated about something I was writing, and their dedication towards my happiness kept me going.
And last, but not least, I would like to thank my friends, who have helped, encouraged and made the whole journey a wonderful experience rather than an obligation.
Sruthi Ramaraju
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