Saturday, November 7, 2009

The Snake is Long - Seven Miles

Couldn't stand, the waters pulled me down

And never ever the wilderness, lost beyond

Whatever colours left, I’ll worship you, there

Where’s that lady that lady that lady so fair ?


I think of mornings that yield to dawn

And of those nights that cry for freedom

Nothing remains save the Mayflower

carrying the pilgrims beyond the tower


This moment and only this, and nothing else

Blasphemy for some, for others, sex sells

Yet it’s a carnival where it rains throughout the day

You can stay for a while, then you've got to go away


Couldn't stand, my feet shook with the mast

Couldn't crawl down, couldn't move fast

Cramped by the walls, but the journey was long

Had to come back – right where I belong

Home sweet home, the bed and the dead

Sleep makes amends, as poets might’ve said

Do waters meet? Seas shores islands and crooks

Dear T.S. Eliot, they haven’t yet read your books


With plagiarized oaths, false rhymes and aching bones

I’ll be writing my own stories across the granite stones

But I can not stand, journey and fever has made me weak

A few moments more, a few seconds more – that’s all I seek


Couldn't stand, the fleshes had blood – virgin blood !

Of primitive Goddesses, faith and draught and flood

Posters and handbills to fill my dreams I guess

You can hide your body I know, but can you hide the face?


There’s nothing to mourn, except for the telephone

and forgetfulness – the only two things I call my own

I’ve found myself sleeping in some cobwebbed tomb

Mother, mother, will you take me back to your womb?


The mother, the sister, the lady, the wife and the whore

Staring down the frames for fifty two centuries and more

Voices speak of themselves, and the leaves – they talk of shame

She stood before me and she asked – “Do you know my name?”


Couldn't stand, couldn’t bear the smell of tears

They pulled me down – the water and the hidden fears

The night is cold and dark – like seventeen empty wells

In those very depths of darkness our banished Eve dwells


And if she doesn't know, then let her know

What poison these soils can grow……


The words keep on staring from the other side of the shore

But now there’s nothing left to be said anymore, anymore…..

3 comments:

Nightwing said...

the pain in this poem becomes real....i can empathize with the author....another superb piece of work....kudos brother!!!

Soumi said...

There you go! You had to mention Eliot? Only I know how many sleepless nights I've spent reading him! He's an addiction. Had he read it,he'd have been proud of you. You struck a fine balance between being modernist and staying true to your roots.

Soumi said...

There you go! You had to mention Eliot? Only I know how many sleepless nights I've spent reading him! He's an addiction. Had he read it,he'd have been proud of you. You struck a fine balance between being modernist and staying true to your roots.