the room is quiet now
only the scent of lust
ghosts loitering air and i
perched at a table by the window
are proof of life
the locals are coming for me
torches ablaze
sicles in hand
i have their princess soiled in my bed
the scents of outrage and boiling blood
rise from beyond woody hills
asleep on the bed
she’s motionless
legs apart
open to me
she is beauty
bruised brown skin and
bite marks on the small of her back
make her love me
broken flesh
makes her need me
i’m a virus in her indian heart
our lines mixed
the damage done
still
they are coming
she was mine for a time
in a moment of raging release
wide-eyed, tight gripped and panting
foreign
a queen wrapped round the
milky body of an aging poet
a beggar
while she rests
peacefully
nakedly
they are coming
like smoke on moonlight
i disappear
gone when she wakes
she’ll be thankful
not for having me
that i was gone when they came
the flames crest the hill now
they arrive to find me gone
hands high in the air
they cry
injustice
black and blue
my wings spread wide
soaring
above the tree-line
i’m the kingfisher
slicing through fog and rain
i leave her behind
making my way south
trying guiltily to escape suicide
on the hills of jatinga
Michael Lorne Leard
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This poem was inspired by strange happenings in Jatinga, India. Every year flocks of birds reportedly commit suicide there. The majority of the blame goes to the weather, it happens right after monsoon season, there is major fog in the air, and high winds. This leaves the birds confused and disoriented. They sometimes just fall to the ground. Also the local villagers use torches to attract the birds.
ReplyDeleteBUt every year it happens.
I tried to compare this with the human capacity for doing things we know are wrong. Like the birds flying into the fog intentionally but unaware of the ramifications, we too do things that are against our better judgment.
This was meant to be a way of telling the story of the birds, but in way we can understand. And expose our traits for self destruction.