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Sunday, December 29, 2019

FIVE POEMS BY JANNE DE RIJCK FROM BELGIUM, INCLUDING "RISE, CHILE, RISE!"


Janne De Rijck from Belgium (Mary Jane on Fb) writes poetry since the age of 14 and brought out many collections. After playing music with Scottish Brian Nelson during many years, she became a freelance travel, art and music reporter (writer/photographer) from 1990 onwards. She took up web building in 1996, traveled a lot in Europe, Africa, and Asia.
She writes in English since 2010.
Since then she brought out seven new books of which six poetry volumes, “Magma in the Breeze”, Primalogue, Bangalore, India, 2012 -
“Through the crystal veil”,  Brian Wrixton, Ontario,  Canada, 2013 –
“A hundred and one ripples”, Ontario, 2014,
Traveling Light” 2015, Argotistonline, UK, ebook.
'The Trail of the tree”, 2016,  Bloom editions, be.
each holding over a hundred poems. Her poems appeared also in about 8 anthologies.
The novel “Saved by the Swell” 2nd edition, ebook by Argitistonline, UK 2017
“Outside the gray”, Dec 2018, Bloom Editions, 103 poems.
Her website: http://jannederijck.wordpress.com

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR

Mirrors inside out·


When the persistent grays become
too dull to stay omnipotent- like the present
Cold comes and grabs them by the scruff of the neck
Skin screaming
What the heck?
An icy grip, a frozen heart reflecting,
Gnawing at all hope,
Challenged recollection.
Rain has no colour, nor does ice,
When the morning reveals all branches laden
with a startling frozen layer,
Shining like crystal in dim sunlight
Reflecting our north-wind-lashed mind 
Like they were mirrors inside out. 

Silent partner
Death, you silent partner of our future
You came again today
To grab hold of whom we love
To blow out another torch of joy,
the humble light we keep alive,
the anemone to rest another arm...
the simmering glow of our affections.
Death you silent partner of my future,
today again you bring the snow
While we lay her body gently
the black coffin in lilies' glow.
In memoriam Paula van Lancker, my dear old landlord and friend. who passed away aged 93.

~

Green Valley

 ·
Slowly our body shows the marks of our lifestyle.
Slowly our head starts to look like our mind.
Surely the numbers of days are showing,
Surely both, the bad and the excellent times.
Your life partner dies, a part of you goes missing.
The echo of your footsteps is bland.
The soundboard to your deepest emotions
The voice that drove you mad, but made you take a stand.
The road feels ended, the path has been walked
A ravine or a desert is where you now belong
The sky throws kisses, is his ghost there?
What I’d give to be still believing
There’s another green valley ahead.

8 Oct. 2018


What is this silent fight?

What is this silent fight,
this tenacious struggle to avoid the 
final glide into the abyss of despair…
What is this strangest phase in life when all seems done,
the reasons to stay and keep the nest now obsolete?

What is this silent fight, against our self,
Reason trying to overrule emotion?
Why were we born with the devotion, to be true to our heart?
Every single day in our individual growth,
we strive to follow the whizzing arrows of our heart,
we ache to be loyal, and not lose our own core…
Integrity your destiny…
Only to realize towards the end, now that our ego has withstood
the test of all raptures,
we have to let it go.

What is this battle to hold on to what we know,
our own self hard enough to control,
and when it has become our only best friend,
we are told to let it go.

This abyss tho’ is but one side of this coin,
Above it, a vast sunny sky beckoning
a universe of the free soul to welcoming.
Wouldn’t it be thrilling to meet our guardian angels…
and put our heads to rest.

April 2017

Rise, Chile, Rise!

Is it time for us, poets
to speak of these moments
These moments when a country cries out for the truth
The truth of suppression, of murder and corruption
The weight of a dictatorship, democracy a fluke!

Is it time to talk of all the injustice
Of millions of people that can't make ends meet
That work and work, and seem to get poorer
While politicians bathe in money and laugh in their greed
Rise, Chile, rise, avenge all your artists!
that were silenced by your government, that inhumane beast

That banned all that's freedom and gave away your riches
Exploited the soil to give away what you need,
The copper-mines, the glaciers, the water is melted
To sell far away, while desert-folks die of thirst indeed
While people are struggling to even take the metro
While avocado that grows there doesn't even come cheap!

Is it time for us, poets
to stand up for humanity?
To speak of these rodents that spoil a good scene
And of the fact that this special and peaceful revolution
brings people together when in frantic need.
 October 26, 2019












Friday, December 27, 2019

FIVE POEMS BY AMIT SHANKAR SAHA - PUSHCART POETRY PRIZE NOMINEE SERIES 6

Dr. Amit Shankar Saha is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English at Seacom Skills University. He is also a widely published short story writer and poet. He has won the Poiesis Award for Excellence in Literature, Wordweavers Prize, and the Nissim International Runner-up Prize for Poetry. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Griffin Poetry Prize. He is the co-founder of Rhythm Divine Poets and the Assistant Secretary of Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library. He is the Fiction Editor of Ethos Literary Journal and the Chief Executive Editor of Virasat Art Publications. His two collections of poems are titled "Balconies of Time" and "Fugitive Words".





All rights reserved by the author


1. Exanimation of a Nation

Like a draught
of air being held 
in the geography
of my palm.

I blow on 
the topography
of crisscrossing 
lines of destiny.

Spirals of genes
migrate the borders
into chromozones
of D-N-A-tion.

Sometimes 
what we oversee
is what we 
oversight. 

2. Food

That day in Hyderabad
you were so hungry,
you ate a large meal
of various food.
But it's okay,
I understand
food is nostalgia
and nostalgia food.
And people still kill
for the choice of food
when people still die
for want of food.

3. By Bread Alone

A baker in the bakery
once hid a message
in my packet of brown bread.
At home when I unwrapped
those slices for breakfast,
I found nothing secreted.
I turned over the slices,
their dark brown margins
and their light brown centres.
There was nothing cryptic
inside the leavened spaces,
nothing I could have tasted.
So I ate it uninterpreted - 
I don't like spreading rumours
about our racial biases.

4. Revolution 459

At revolution 459 it stopped.
There was an attempt to restart it
but it will not.
You know when the night clears
light tiptoes into your room
and you find things are there
where you had kept them still.
Nothing has changed
or they've come back
in a full circle.
You so much want
revolution 459 to continue.
You know how the grass grows
tearing through the earth.
There is rage tearing through you
at the paused revolution.

5. Perihelion

A faint noise made by the panel
of a window in the wind.

A noise within
at the sight of the breeze
beyond the pane
rustling the leaves.

At the moment 
of perihelion do I ask
the sun to embrace
this movement?

When something leaves time, 
something is still left in time. 


Dr. Amit Shankar Saha
Assistant Professor (English)
Seacom Skills University
Co-founder, Rhythm Divine Poets
http://rhythmdivinepoets.blogspot.in
Media Chairperson, IPPL
Mobile: 8335824287
Blog: http://amitss6.blogspot.in
Website: http://sites.google.com/site/amitshankarsaha
Author of "Balconies of Time" and "Fugitive Words"

Saturday, December 21, 2019

FIVE POEMS BY THE RUSSIAN POET KATYA GANESHI, THE BLOND(E) BEAST.


Katya Ganeshi (Blonde Beast or Blond Beast) is a well known Indo-Russian poet. She is the founder of a new literary style «Overaggressive Masterpiecism». The edition of her book «Blond Beast» has brought her popularity in all the societies of vanguard and literary underground associations in Moscow. In poetry, Katya Ganeshi continues to develop the philosophical ideas of Friedrich Nietzsche and Azsacra Zarathustra, as well as the risky conceptual ideas of Antonin Artaud (The Theatre of Cruelty). The beauty of a human body and Spirit in the Absolute Break, and Spiritual War — are the basic themes of her poetic, nonconformist books. Katya Ganeshi is persecuted in Russia as a free poet and independent performer.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE POET.



THE SIMPLY-WHITE ROSE

No! The Rose isn't killed by the Height
It will inoculate thorns —
And irradiate a Sense of Coitus,
More adroit than bullets —
By other Cruelties,
Will shoot through foreheads!

And you, who believed in the Fall —
You will tumble into the morning of Hellish pits!
Bury, the Hero, your-self
Your Invincibility:
I — am the Rose White! —
I will burst with thorns
Your insides.

I — am the Rose White! —
And I want to blossom Differently —
Above the petals of
Paradise and Flowers:
To live
Greedily
Only
By devouring
Winds!

So Aromas of Regal Gardens
Devour a rough smell of honest flesh —
So simply a tiger
Frolics in Hunting,
So simply
Each revolver
Is ready for work.


STRONG FEMALE

By a snowy gait diligently
I go to you, Overgentle!
Of white beasts, a round dance
Leads Death,
On the contrary:

Open more quickly the eyelids,
Too weak, no hope,
Perfection is only a turn ―
The Blonde God
Is going!

By tender gait, diligently
He goes alone, Over-snowy,
The perfect Beast goes:

Strongest!

Strongest Females only
Turn!


OVER THE WORLD OF THE DEAD OF SIRENS

Over the world of the dead of Sirens
The dragonfly hovers with passion —
And the Minotaur, having left captivity,
He is fine: neither is the good, nor is the evil.

Over the world of the dead of Sirens
The threads of Ariadne twinkle —
The light and the pitiful decay
Already it is impossible to connect.

Over the world of the dead of Sirens
A Life won't tie up, more, a knot:
And the Monster damned — is blessed,
And on his face — a tear.


THE MURDER OF BEAUTY

The Murder of Beauty is
A malicious Evil
By «The Flowers of Evil».
Royal Lions growl and reign
Also exterminate Laughter.
Cruelty for the illuminated
Not a hindrance
We — claws of Laughter!
For us Laughter claws!
Let swallows
Look down —
Only bowels, giblets of flowers
Fly


THE PRINCE MAGNIFICENT

The female animal is given to Force!
From a bed crawl away servants:
When He gives wings —
Cuts off hands!
Unconcerned with
The Carrion of Hyenas
Without «I» is — I! —
I — the Lioness Opened & dissected
Veins:
The Devil ascending the throne  should die
The Demon!
Look —
The Light of Force hasn’t died away:
God opens the great Eye,
But pulls out an eye!



Friday, December 20, 2019

FIVE INCREDIBLE NARRATIVE POEMS BY THE FAMOUS AVIJIT SARKAR ALL THE WAY FROM AUSTRALIA




Avijit Sarkar is a musician, composer, illustrator, cartoonist, writer, poet, puppeteer, philanthropist and a polymath from Sydney, Australia. He has been endorsed by the Australian Performing Rights Association as a music composer. He has written two books so far and his other literary works have been published in many international anthologies. Avijit’s designs, illustrations and cartoons have appeared in many magazines and books across the world.

Avijit is the director of Natraj Academy in Sydney that he established 12 years ago to train and encourage new music talents in our communities.

Today all proceeds from his creative pursuits are donated to medical research and charity in Australia. In a career spanning over four decades, Avijit has left his footprint in every form of creativity in Australia.

The Flood


© Avijit Sarkar 2014

In the arid desert, the poor man sat under the scalding sun and amidst the limitless wasteland he looked down upon the burning sand. And a tear rolled down his withered face dropping silently, on the red infertile ground.

And lo – there was flood in the land.

The people called upon the great wise men from the Mosque, the Temple, the Church and even the Synagogue. And huddled over an ancient table, they spoke in whispers hushed, and then shook their heads in wonderment.

For they knew not the reason for the flood.

The sagacious Physicist, summoned from the sanctuary of knowledge, was joined by the crafty Mathematician and the mysterious Chemist. And huddled over an ancient table, they spoke In whispers hushed, and then shook their heads in wonderment.

For they knew not the reason for the flood.

Explorers scanned the earth and adventurers scoured the globe while sailors traversed the vast seven seas looking for the elusive answer to this great earthly conundrum. And huddled over an ancient table, they spoke In whispers hushed, and then shook their heads in wonderment.

For they knew not the reason for the flood.

Days passed into weary months, months into cumbersome years and years into tiresome decades as ignorant men looked for an answer to this absurdity never seen before. And no nook, no corner on earth, escaped the prying human eyes ….Save, of course, one.
The eyes of civilization forgot to peek into the poor man’s heart where countless tsunamis of pain, fought for his listless attention; and from whence, but just a drop could create a flood that was beyond the comprehension of the mortal man.



An Ode To Little Mary

© Avijit Sarkar 2018

Mary was little, she was just five; cheerful, cheeky and alive.
A beautiful, petite curly-haired lass, delicately chiselled like a crystal glass.
A wonderful lyrical soothing smile she had,
that lighted up her elegant eyes just a tad.
And when she laughed, her face scrunched up;
very much like a little cuddly pup.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary was a pretty one; all frolic and all fun!

The birth of happiness is at home, they say;
and happiness was with Mary every single day.
Loving Mum, doting Dad; never a day bad, never a moment sad.
She was, in their crowns, but a priceless jewel,
that adorned their lives with happiness like that of Yule.
They prayed for her happiness before every meal;
her presence, day and night, was all that they could feel.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary was the apple of their eyes, their dream, their prize!

In all her simplicity, did little Mary revel;
all her wants, her desires just lent into a smooth bevel.
She loved her food; hated her bedtime;
and whined at 6 pm when the clock would chime.
But you could always be her friend; if only to her,
a chocolate you could lend.
Her eyes would brighten; your heart strings would tighten.
Such was her innocent pleasure,
those moments that you would always treasure.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary was the one to adore, the little girl next door!

There was however, one fear that had made its abode in Mary’s little heart.
The old lady, Belinda, next door; at the sight of whom, little Mary would dart.
The old lady had long hair; flowing, white and wild,
that streamed from under her beret and scared every child.
The hooked nose, the arched eyebrows, the hooded eyes of a veritable witch;
the sight of which made Mary twitch.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary was very scared of Belinda, witch-like and wild-haired!

But little Mary had many adorations in life;
one of them was a little yellow fife.
On which she played often; meaningless noises but in a variety of poises. And…  Butterscotch biscuits, gingerbread teddy bears,
orange juice and poached pears;
the swing in the green park; the beautiful beach;
sun-glazed and within reach.
But she loved her neighbour on the other side, even more;
old man Jack whose laugh was always a roar.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary loved Jack; the cheerful old man, always ready for a yak!

Years flew by; Mary’s fear of Belinda the “witch” heightened;
Mary was always cautious, always frightened.
Even when the “witch” offered her lollies and cake;
Mary, in fear, could only hide and shake.
Oh! How Mary wished for a grandpa like old man Jack; hair combed neatly with gel, always laughing; always had a story to tell.
After school, Mary would often chat with Jack, over the fence;
most of it useless and a lot of nonsense.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary and Jack did have a great time; stories, jokes and even mime!

She came back walking, early from school one day;
and then stared at the locked front door in utter dismay.
Little did she know that, in a hurry,
her mother was at the shops without a worry.
Mary knocked on the door and then in a flurry,
sat on the doorstep; for she was in no hurry.
Out of her tiny school bag, she took out a book;
it was her favourite one that everywhere she took.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary loved that book; and with mirth her little body shook!


Over the colourful story, as little Mary ran her eyes;
she suddenly hesitated, for she could smell pies!
A shadow fell across the book; Mary looked up with a scared look.
She shivered and let out a cry of help
that sounded more like a terrified yelp.
For it was Belinda who stood before her; a pie in her hand; tanned;
her white hair in the wind fanned.
Little Mary went white in the face;
inside the house she wanted to race.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary was very scared and in utter horror she just stared!

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Mary let out a little scream.
She closed her tiny eyes and ran out on the street; full steam.
She looked to the left; glanced to the right;
scampering to old Jack’s house in utter fright;
She knocked on his door; desperation brimming,
“Save me from the witch!” She was all but screaming.
Suddenly the door opened ajar, Jack peeked out;
a smile on his lips and on his face, a bit of doubt.
He saw that Mary was scared, all alone.
“Come,” he said. “I will give you toys, cookies and a scone.”
Little Mary jumped into his arms;
completely at peace with his charms.
The door closed shut. Quietly, not a creak, not a noise;
 as Mary disappeared inside to play with toys.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary trusted him; unlike Belinda the witch, he was never grim!

And that was the last of Mary; she was never seen again;
everywhere they looked, all but in vain.
The police had no answer; sadness, fear spread like cancer.
Jack was interrogated; he was someone that everybody hated.
But there were no clues, there was no news.
Soon, just a memory she was; a horrible loss without a cause

Oh! Yes! For sure - little Mary had been taken; and everybody was shaken!


Mary’s mother died a sad death;
pining away for her baby till the last breath.
Twenty years have passed, and the “witch” still weeps;
she dreams about Mary whenever she sleeps.
Jack moved away from his house; nobody knows where;
he left no clues and had nothing to say, nothing to share.
Mary’s desolate father still roams the streets;
looking for Mary and hardly ever eats.
Yes, twenty years have passed,
And somewhere little Mary still lies
Innocence lost; no smiles… just closed eyes.

Oh! Yes! Little Mary was a pretty one; all frolic and all fun!



The Lonely Man
© Avijit Sarkar 2015

Twilight it was, as I laid down,
an overworked soul,
on the banks of a river,
exhausted yet relaxed,
eyes closed; at the very doorstep of a dream,
the swaying water cooling my feet.

Abruptly, my eyes popped open,
for a drop of water,
on my forehead,
had rudely fallen, disturbing a rare moment
of quiet ecstasy.

I looked up - contemplating rain.
But lo! It was the face of a young man
staring down.
A young man? Nay a child
A child? Nay, a very ancient face.
that looked so like
a withered child's, yet was laced
with the sagacity of a million years.

And streaming down his ageless face,
gushing down,
stronger than the river at my feet
was an unending forlorn rivulet
of pearly white tears
that added a strange hue to the look of
utter desolation, dejection, and despair.

"Who be you, Sire?” I asked. "Be seated,
for you do look so tired,
so lost, so sad.
Pray let your heart out and if you be hungry,
then share this poor man's bread and
tell me your woeful tale
so that the anguish be eased."

"I am the personification, Sin personified", he said,
his voice soft yet cold
like an old torso in the morgue.
"And I am sad, for I have no place to go -
no field,
nor an abode,
nor a province
or country.”
And as he sat down, the world around me
seemed to chill.

"Why be that?” I asked,
my voice tremulous
"has the world turned so good, so pure
that there is no lost soul,
no forsaken place to embrace you,
to take to you,
and then empower themselves
with money, greed, murder and avarice?"

He looked down and shook his curly golden locks
"You are ignorant. Nay, nay a fool", he said.
"I have no place to go because I am already omnipresent,
in every heart,
every soul,
every reflection,
every nook,
every corner,
everyday,
everywhere".

"I have no new immorality to offer," he wailed.
"All new-fashioned lures and fresh temptations
have been exhausted;
there are no modernistic transgressions
and neither another sinful road!
For already, saturated and moistened
is every earthly soul
with malignance,
depravity,
malfeasance
and vice".

In that single horrific moment,
I jumped up and pried into my very own soul
and knew to my horror
that He spoke the unwritten truth
of this world.

He clutched at my hand and
in desperation shrieked
"Oh! Tell me!
How long will I suffer
this solitude, my friend?"

I shook uncontrollably and answered.
"Years, ages, generations,
endless time," I said,
"For surely no salvation for you
can my mortal eyes see till,
humanity metamorphoses itself
into a kindly,
sinless existence.”

And as I turned and walked away,
I looked back, but once,
as He sat there, head bent down,
waiting for eternity
waiting for that imaginative God
and that mythical goodness
to descend on Earth.

The House of God
© Avijit Sarkar 2018

A warm and humid summer evening it was,
and the golden sun desperately sought to hide
behind the overgrown trees

And the child stood holding her father’s hand

Mouth agape in wonderment, the little girl,
eyes wide open, gawked at the marble structure,
bright and white; the likes of which she never could imagine

The sheen from the marble was blinding;
she narrowed her tiny dark eyes;
eyes that absorbed every resplendent detail…
the silver minarets,
the golden dome,
the ornate doorway,
the manicured gardens artfully decorated

And the wonderstruck child stood rooted to the spot; grasping her father’s hand even harder

The sweet smell of incense permeated
through the still evening air; and the child sniffed
at the aroma that oozed from within the flamboyant structure;
succulent sweetmeats, roasted nuts, warm delicious food

And the hungry salivating child clutched her father’s hand with both her little hands.

“Father,” she said, looking up
The father spoke not, for his eyes were closed in ecstasy
and the child tugged in desperation
at his torn sleeve and raised her soft voice.  
“Father,” she said. “What is this building?
 Who lives there?
Such splendour, such richness!”

And, torn asunder by curiosity, the child tugged harder at her father’s frayed sleeve.

The father opened his weary eyes; a dreamy look
drifting through them.
He spoke in a tone that was but a mere whisper.
“God,” he said. “God lives here; in this, his magnanimous home
that we call a temple.”

The child spoke not for a while; lost in a myriad of thoughts that
weaved through her tiny minds like rivulets
flowing through a maze of trees.
At last, she looked up again. 
“Does he also cook all that flavoursome food?”
she asked licking her lips
The father shook his head and closed his eyes again.
“Nay,” he said. “It is the food brought by His worshippers;
and the priest in His blessed house feeds Him;
cleans Him every day.”

The bewildered child looked up at the gleaming mansion and pondered awhile
“But why, Father?” she asked. “Does he not have a family?”

The father looked down; a kindly smile etched
on his weather-beaten face, and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “God is alone and sits inside on His silver cushion
that is laid upon a golden throne,
and spreads His kindness
through the world.”

The child looked down and unwanted imageries
flashed through her little mind...
her dilapidated home that embraced just one shoddy room;
a vague lightbulb that shone on her six siblings,
huddled together in the cold months and
that torn photograph mounted in a cracked frame;
of her mother who had breathed her last many moons ago.

Desperation swelled in the little heart and she tugged desperately at her father’s torn sleeve once again.

“If God is lives all alone, does he need such a large house?”
she asked, looking up, hope moistening her soft eyes

The father looked up; eyes to the sky and raised his hands in prayer.  “Yes,” he murmured. “He does, because we are all his family.”

The child suddenly let go of her father’s sleeve;
a joyous spark in her eyes;
 a tidal wave of hope in her heart.
“Really?” she asked, a smile spreading across her emaciated face.
“If he is kind and alone, in this beautiful, delightful home
that has a silver cushion,
a servant and
so much food,
can we then not go and live in his house?

Silence…. eternal silence ensued

And twenty years later…..

The girl, no longer a child,
but a withered famished prostitute,
stood, once again, upon the same spot;
at the doorstep of God.
Her father was no more,
her siblings had but separated.
She looked up at the temple,
more bewildered than wonderstruck….
and pondered hard.
Why was she still hungry,
while the house of the kind God
had grown ten-fold?

The Two Visitors
© Avijit Sarkar 2018

Upon a brown broken bench
on the green grasses
of a sprawling park sat two visitors;
one shrivelled in clothes tattered, sad yet proud;
and the other rotund, a perpetual smirk
on a narcissistic face.

They spoke not for a while
as vanity took its toll and then,
after minutes passed into
a dreadfully dreary hour,
the shrivelled man glanced
at the stout man and said in a voice;
quavering and curious
“I am sure I have seen you before.”

The stout man, head at an arrogant angle,
snorted, snarled, sneered.
“Of course you have,” he replied
in a voice, rasping and curt.
“I am everywhere; I am omnipotent
and my will spreads everywhere
from lands ancient to
modern-day majestic metropolises.”

And then as a spurious afterthought,
he said, extending a hand,
bejewelled heavy,
towards the shrivelled man:
“By the way, my name is Religion.”

The withered man gasped, gulped, gawked;
recognition awaking misty memories;
eyes swelling up with awe;
and he shook Religion’s hand again,
with a renewed vigorous vitality.

Then, Religion pulled out
a laced silken handkerchief
from his overstuffed pocket
to wipe his manicured brows, and
a wad of money fell from his overstuffed pockets.

And suddenly, greed replaced awe
in the shrivelled man’s eyes
as longingly he looked, at the fallen packet.
“You can have that,” said Religion,
a sneer crumpling his plump lips.
“I won’t miss it. I am filthy rich.
And there is more to come tomorrow,
since my influence is boundless.
I affect more societies than your sodden  
Imagination can fathom.”

The thin man picked up the packet
from the grassy ground and his hands shook
but then he stiffened immediately;
a ripple of pride
shooting through his emaciated body.
He stood up erect and looked down
his pinched nose
at Religion.

“To your statement, I take objection, Sire,”
he said at last,
adding a little more sizzling,
supercilious steam to his querulous voice.
“You cannot lay, in any way, claim to such influence; for that is my legal right. I have authority;
I exert clout on more people
than you can possibly ever conceive.”

In a sweeping move, Religion stood up
 breathing horrendous haughtiness
through his fat nostrils.
“How dare you!” he said, “How dare you challenge
my authority, my power?
And who, may I ask, are you?”

The shrivelled man looked into Religion’s eyes,
defiance swimming in his rheumy eyes,
and said in a voice, cold and tired:
“I am known by many names,
But I like to call myself Poverty.
I cover every nook, every corner
of this dismal world;
millions live under my shelter;
and countless have failed to escape
from my refuge.
Such is my spread; such is my influence;
such is my control.”

Silence descended upon the duo
as the darkness of the evening engulfed them.
Religion stared at Poverty; eyes red, nostrils flared, voice shaking with intrepid indignation.
“Do you realise,” he muttered.
“That you exist solely because of me?
I have taken the world’s money;
I have taken their trust;
I have created social layers
under which you lie crushed.
Poverty shook silently as mirth shook
his diseased body; and a short, hoarse laugh
rang out through the park.
He pointed a thin finger at Religion,
and said in voice, dripping with morbid menace
 and a distinctive disdain:
“You ignorant fool;
I have invaded earth
long before your conception;
I am, since the dawn of mankind,
the source of your subsistence.
I have spawned hunger, desperation,
and under my refuge,
this world has fashioned you
out of artificial fear,
dishonest hope and
the primordial fear of the unknown.
And when I cease to exist,
in the bright light of truth, you will be,
but cast asunder by humanity.”

And in that moment, as time stood still,
as night descended on earth,
a silent sob rang out far and wide,
as Religion knelt down,
bowing under the truth of nature,
and kissed the hand of Poverty.








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