A Memory

Her face rose as angelic as it had set,
unblemished by star-light.
A view so divine,
even the moon lingered a while longer.

Iyer

The Birth

I had a dream few weeks ago where a strange scene played out in vivid detail.
I got up and penned half of this poem immediately. The rest of it took excruciatingly long to write and I nearly gave up. Well, a splash of dark mood churned out the rest tonight.
A little long, a bit rough and a few days late!

The Birth

The smoky moon and the dust-grey clouds
On a somber march in the starless sky.
Death pale beams light a parched earth’s crust
Unearthing bones that scream out “Why”.

A scorching wind like the dragon’s breath,
Is born in the bosom of the dark mountains west.
Bringing a hint of burning metal, of flesh,
And faint whispers of souls that never rest.

A rumble erupts turning into a roar,
And out leaps a train with a blazing mane.
Speeding on tracks that have long been gone,
Lurching and scarring the barren plain.

The virgin lies sprawled on the rusty floor,
Pregnant with life from spring unknown.
The swelling grows with impatient life,
Clutching her belly she lets out a moan.

In the orange glow of the burning train
The dead army rises like mist from mire.
Lusting for blood they rush for the feast,
Swarming the train and fanning the fire.

The train shudders as the beasts crawl all over,
Slaves to the Dark Lord, with hearts of lead.
The voice of their master booms loud in their ears:
“Before his first breath, he must be dead!”

Warm droplets roll down her knotted brows,
As she heaves and pushes with her knees wide.
Gripping the blooded head, she coaxes the life,
With a yank and a tear she lays him aside.

Wide-eyed and cold lying in the rust,
The babe divine, swaddled in blood.
“Breathe my dear, breathe my child,”
“May the night with your cries be flood.”

The army stands a whisper away. The voice
In them grows shriller now “Go for the kill!”
The mother continues to stroke the child,
Murmuring those soft prayers still.

It was almost as though all was lost
When this strange glow did spread.
The infant shone like the naked sun,
And the beasts trembled with dread.

The scorching light grew big and bright
A mushroom of mountain height.
Engulfing the beasts, the train, the bones,
It turned each to ashes white.

The land with mountains that yore was dark,
Now bathes in holy light.

The stars come out of their hiding,
And in unison they sing:

Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and Child.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.


Iyer

Stupidity

Here is the poem titled “The Leader” that was taught to Pakistani college students. The first letter of each line spells out the American President's title and name! The heights the Pakistani administration would go to show support to the Americans! Though it has stirred up controversy and the education ministry has removed it from the books, it is strange how such substandard poems could be considered to be a part of college curricula.

The Leader (author: anonymous)

Patient and steady with all he must bear,
Ready to meet every challenge with care,
Easy in manner, yet solid as steel,
Strong in his faith, refreshingly real.
Isn't afraid to propose what is bold,
Doesn't conform to the usual mould,
Eyes that have foresight, for hindsight won't do,
Never backs down when he sees what is true,
Tells it all straight, and means it all too.

Going forward and knowing he's right,
Even when doubted for why he would fight,
Over and over he makes his case clear,
Reaching to touch the ones who won't hear.
Growing in strength he won't be unnerved,
Ever assuring he'll stand by his word.

Wanting the world to join his firm stand,

Bracing for war, but praying for peace,
Using his power so evil will cease,
So much a leader and worthy of trust,
Here stands a man who will do what he must.

(Source: http://www.abc.net.au/news/newsitems/200512/s1525154.htm)

Iyer

A Tribute

25 years and the world is unchanged.

All we can do is Imagine.

Iyer