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| Leaf on bench. Lucknow Residency. January 22. |
Peace when it comes isn’t white, nor a dove
with an olive branch delicately held
in its beak. Nor a dusk skypink with love,
an even horizon where the days meld
into nights without fuss. It’s more a pulse -
a flare of time, hardly seen, hardly felt
rawred buds of sun, raucous squawks of gulls,
frozen cusps of dreams that sizzle and melt
like snowflakes falling into volcanos.
Peace, when it comes, is in a rush to leave
folding up its flags, scrunching up its logos,
allowing only the briefest of reprieves.
Folding and refolding everything small
as if to shrink itself, efface its shortfalls.
A haunting piece. I do hope that when peace makes its fleeting appearances I notice and celebrate. I fear often I do not. Which is sad and bad.
ReplyDeleteMe too, EC. I need to calm down and notice much more.
DeleteHari OM
ReplyDelete...peace as a seasonal presence, perhaps? YAM xx
very brief season, sadly...or so it seemed to me.
DeleteI like the dual edges of this poem. Peace of nature - a calm, a quiet - that we can be aware of or even shush others to embrace it. Or the peace of the bigger picture - countries stomping about - no friendly flags flying. I like how your brain works and writes the words
ReplyDeleteOmg the countries stomping about is so so stress inducing! As if we needed yet another unpeaceful front opened up!
DeleteTotally stress inducing. I wish peace would linger longer, but I guess that will only be when the end comes.
DeleteHi Nila - what an amazing poem ... I love your vocabulary - while we wait for our leaders to realise we're all humans and need peace to live in happily ... brilliant thoughtful poem ... cheers Hilary
ReplyDelete