by Rupali Mistry
I asked if she Would help me To cross the street My vision’s a blur I don’t even hear My bones as they creak The street’s so wide I cannot decide Where to point my feet Read the rest of this entry
What happened to metre and feet?
Why how and when did the poets abandon them?
Were the strictures too tight?
Did they suffocate their flights
I escaped from paradise
Free in the green, the grey mist
The ice and sometimes sunshine…
How did the serpent find me here?
She with the brown-scaled skin, lidless eyes
Grey hood flaring slightly
Sipping whisky, noiselessly,
Mirthless smile and silent laughter
Lips lifted only slightly
Above the fangs and hollow affection
Watching and waiting to strike
And suck empty my egg of peace
If I should look the other way.
This is some more old verse written many years ago.
I came across this piece I’d written almost forty years ago and was quite prepared to relegate it to my personal slush pile or trash it. But, I do believe, we’re all rather attached to our own creations so I didn’t. Then at one of our poetry meetings David Hollywood asked us to write a poem about justice and present it at the following meeting. Since this was my own creation albeit many years before, I decided to read it to the group. And now I offer it to you. I’m curious, does it in any way give away the difference in age?
What is truth?” said jesting Pilate
As he mocked the Prince of Peace
The saddest fact that now remains
The scorner’s sentiment’s increased
And ‘truth’ having gone through much change
Now goes around in guises strange