Napowrimo Day 2 - Nanthencode Then (a poem on a specific place/time/space or locality)

"....take a page or leaf from James Schuyler's chapbook (Pulitzer Prize winner) and write a poem about a specific place —  a particular house or store or school or office. Try to incorporate concrete details, like street names, distances (“three and a half blocks from the post office”), the types of trees or flowers, the color of the shirts on the people you remember there. Little details like this can really help the reader imagine not only the place, but its mood – and can take your poem to weird and wild places."


Poem 2.1.

Nanthencode Then

Although we no longer stay at Nanthencode
O junction 'tis of thee
I sing
My childhood memory
From and of its rich paucity
Your small side-road of a mud path from my first rented house
- Not being rich, it was a small house
That was my paradise
But it was the junction that was my palace -
That led to the butcher's shop
No longer there
Where hung slabs of pink-reddish chunks of meat
On hooks
Where first I saw blood, innards, and bone
And skulls of cows
Thankachen's shop in the center of the junction from which we always bought provisions
Sugar, salt, parippu, payaru, sweets, rice, and wheat....
Whose youngest brother was Unni who was my age
O junction, you had your drunkard MR (Radha, short for Radhakrishnan)
And your own version of the village idiot or madman in Oollen Paakkaren
You had your vegetable shop which also had cycles for rent and two small ones for children, one red and one green, as if just for me and my sister
Next to it was the ration kada with its green planks to shut it with and the sacks of rice,  kerosene in cans, wheat and kadala in rough brown sacks
And murukkaan kada
Your tea shop  just next to the small bus stop that was only two pillars and a tin-roof
With its brass samovar to make tea
And your miller and his shop, whose son was the locatough
Venu who was always good to me
You had your dhobi whose son Vinod was a madcap
But friendly with me
The dhobi who ironed with red coals in his isthiripetti
You had your Mao building! Imagine that, these days!
You had your center as a  circle with its flags
You had a locksmith's shop and forge
And a toddy shop
You had your Western bakery
With Binu and Biju who came to my mom for tuition for all subjects
With cream-filled cornets, plum cakes, and bread so soft it would melt in our mouths
Who studied, worked and were my friends too
Next to the bakery was Shivan's barber-shop and nearby an old rickety wooden staircase we loved to climb led to the kind tailor's shop we loved to go to
Fascinated by the many sewing machines in there, the zips, the differently-colored buttons, and his measuring tape
O junction with your one mangy brown stray of a street dog and many stray cats
O junction, you are my Malgudi
My Wessex, you are my Tbilisi!
My junction, yet never mine only!
Junction of my mornings, sunshine-noons, evenings, twilights and my nights
I immortalize you in this poem and in my story
Titled aptly "The Junction"
Not as you are now
But as you were then!
In my mind, you have not aged!
Babu's vegetable shop that came later is not a part of you
By this crazy logic
But the Mar Thoma church of the faction that split away (Evangelical) is!
Junction, I have you in me
And every detail is of importance to me
Vimal's cows let out in the daytime
And each post and their yellow, dim, lights at night
A symphony of sounds, smells, and colors
Shapes, touch, sights, and tastes
Fantasies and dreams!
O small junction, 'tis of thee
(Not the one in Google maps
Or the one as it stands today)
I sing my ode, forsooth!
I sing my elegy!

Nanthencode Now (unrecognizable and leaving me strangely unmoved!)

Napowrimo April 1 Prompt 2 Self Portrait

Prompt: "Today, however, I’d like to challenge you to write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life – one that typically isn’t done all that often, or only in specific circumstances. For example, bowling, or shopping for socks, or shoveling snow, or teaching a child to tie its shoes."

The metaphor for my life is something
no one ever talks about
except once when Judith Butler did it when I was lecturing on radicalism
and extremism in art
She came up front and spoke of it
She said it is something everyone does
but no one talks of
as they are ashamed to
but talking of it is my idea of being radical.
Maybe it was suggested by the synaesthetic metaphor
generator, I could say, and try to cover up 
but it is not as I had already planned to use it earlier
This is organic imagery
You have to guess what I am talking of as to say it
may make you think
but who would use that as a metaphor
You would not unless you felt it was like that
life
your life
something that has to be hidden 
then comes out and grows unexpectedly
and leaves a mess behind
Pleasure, then sleep
and children born
but mostly it is wasted
most of it
tonnes of it
What else is a metaphor, better
for life
my life
and wondering if I was a woman
and was writing of this as the metaphor
for her life
life
how it would be
and knowing that one cannot ever know
that
but this one can know
I need to break the suspense
or the ice
whichever you think is better
so let me tell you
what my metaphor is
it is nothing but
that my life
life 
is 
a lot like -
but before that
it is not such a low-down, cheap, dirty, filthy one; after all
I can make it sound great
by saying 
some worship it
and the explosion can be compared 
to the Big Bang
still & all 
one never talks of it
but let me be
radical
or extreme
or dare to be a fool
joker, clown, harlequin
on April Fool's Day
and say
my life
(your life?)
life
the perfect metaphor for it
an action, as the prompt says,
that describes it a hundred percent
is the most-people-do-it thing 
but never-discuss-it thing
which is nothing but the act of -
masturbation.

Painting of Natalia  by Schiavonni.

Napowrimo Day 1 April 1 First prompt Synaesthetic metaphor generator

A Five-finger Exercise to Fulfill a (Silly?) Prompt

We talk
She talks
I talk
of poetry
Discourse
turns to intercourse
In the future it will cum
to Be Di eS uM
when "the padded whistles
of emission
nebulae."

Napowrimo 1 March 31st Early Bird Poem

My early bird poem - Napowrimo 1 Koshy AV

THE SAUDI SPARROW

Lord of the tower,
the tower of the quarantine,
how are you building it
so you remain happy?

Asker, so fair,
I build it each day
listening to the birds
outside my window

Yesterday, caught sight
from my bathroom window
of a single sparrow
playing in the niche of the air conditioner
ventilator's netted metal cover
with its yellow plastic frame
in the building, opposite
outside, in the sun
happily
& smiled ...
anon

It's never lonely
in the quarantine tower.

SEVEN POEMS BY AMBIKA TALWAR - A VERY FINE POET

AMBIKA TALWAR is an India-born author, wellness consultant, artist, and educator whose vision is to realize her sacred destiny and invite you to your brilliance. As a poet of ecstatic verse, her poetry is a “bridge to other worlds.” Some publications include: CQ-California Quarterly; Collateral Damage; Grateful Conversations; Kyoto Journal; Chopin with Cherries; On Divine Names; St. Julian Press; Tower Journal; Tebot Bach; VIA-Vision in Action; in Poets on Site collections; Life and Legends, and others.  She authored 4 Stars & 25 Roses (poems for her father) and My Greece: Mirrors & Metamorphoses, a poetic-spiritual travelogue that probes what is our human purpose in a roving personal and mythical narrative. This book is on Amazon.

She won the Best Original Story award for her film “Androgyne” in Belgium. She asserts it is time for creative visionaries to offer narratives that change our worldview, and the big film studios must play a part in this transformation.
               She also offers group healing workshops noting that poetry and healing go well together for language is deeply coded in our cells. Her intuitive and subtle healing practices achieve rapid results for clients ready for change.  Loving this work, she says in these fascinating troubling times, we must call in our best possible resilient self. 

               An English professor at Cypress College, she lives in Los Angeles, Ca and New Delhi, India.  And when she can, she picks up her paints and enjoys play of color, a  pleasure for which she wishes to have more time.

All rights reserved by the author.

Doors: Nothing is Ever Lost

~ Ambika Talwar

Minarets come into being with the drumming. Three claps – She arrives. Goddess of radiance slowly crumbles illusions.  We surrender to her hideous smile. Dropping aged cloaks, we move into our bliss. Her mien changes form and expression; her limbs contort then gracefully weave matrix of all that is.

In such hush lush, we find our stillness, we find our center, we find dance of grace. Her beatific eyes bring us to ecstasy. Thusly, Shiva comes alive, rocks to mountains to galaxies. Such beauty of the terrifying wanders into our ache-less minds, stirring awe. 

No more sacrifice, Beloveds – a dying paradigm – now is way of cosmic wonder. Flowers dance on shoulders of mountains...white on Mondays...yellow on Thursdays. Lavender sage tulsi musk permeate edges of rivers where water comes to rest.

Drumming ripples until dawn cracks open egg of sky.  My eyes take in vast turmoil of time; rivers of light pour through my dark corners like sweetest joy, as Gratitude for this wonder impregnates cosmos!

I ask, I command: Show me more!

Three galaxies emerge ... far there.  Here in my heart gazing into stillness are eyes of deer golden-brown with desire where floats a full moon, silver-white unyielding...! She rises in love that has no other way but to be itSelf fully. Irreducible. Irrevocable. Luminous wonder walks ground of being until nothing is left—nothing can be. This is gateway of all promise—nothing is ever lost.

Fallen leaves stir soul

as moonlight skirts footfall

doors creak open –

Walk through Beloved

to hinterland of wonder

let love prick your burns

Ready to be skinned

alive? Fool! Drop the mountain

Sit by small silent stone.

#

(April 2018)

 Three Ells

~ Ambika Talwar

     ~ after photograph of Japanese red maple

Am walking these leaves
embers of wise voices
muted cicadas
near where a river runs
whipper-twittering of a single bird
slices air
in-an-instant auburn reds
meld in gold

My heart is afired
wandering between gullies
mulch making continues
reminds me of Kabir's potter
who makes dust of whom

How much space and time
dance between each lick of flame
each particle
becoming a window
each breath a raaga
music of loss of longing of love
Three ells which mark
our days from end to end

as maple woods change gold
to blackish driftwood

hanging in the sky
between my glances
where you reside

Where spirit becomes flesh

crimson vermilion crashes across blue

I linger gazing at sage-like trees

my toes fresh out of freezing

river currents glare at my hesitations.

#

(11 Nov. 2018)

Night's Silent Aroma

~ Ambika Talwar

Camphor of night pervades my waking
moments as mingled thoughts of you

swing into view tied to tender habits

Moon's single ray a silver cord

measures distances – one end swallowed
by old sun's burn. With eyes closed

I recall camphor of night's breath
when smiling you held my face as smoke filled         
borrowed room with scattered rose petals.

We slipped we sank on gold-green lawns
as sunlight traveled momentarily laughing
along our silhouetted undulation sinking

into night's silent aroma...

You hummed into my heart's crevices

made me forego a step so I lose balance

Doors shatter these days wildly opening

to directions hidden – as a cleaved heart shies

far somewhere between ache-less stars

#

(12 Sept. 2019)

 Losses Into Treasures

~ Ambika Talwar

My father - dear glorious one.

How do you fare so far away?  I am

readying for another visit to

a distant home. I miss you as mad

earth who contains all our stories.

Your absence so palpable – even trees

bend to gaze in my eyes; in these presences

I gather riches of your wise brown eyes

I wrote of wild moons ago.

Some riches are borne of loss – all losses

become treasures – not yours not now

maybe tomorrow. I cannot shed pain

of my lostness of you.

Wild orange blue bird-like flower courses

through my domain – walls wither.

There are no excuses for not speaking

tongues of love.  Moments of eternal stories

gather moss strung in my heart’s eyes.

I must speak of them now. To you.

Tales from my little days – as teen years

pulled me tall. My injured hand,

shy smile, falling star – maker of tea.
I could never say them aloud; power of silence

of shutting had me captured with tales

of she's too much.

Find out now – how too much I am

I love too much to come close…

you with the grand trine in the skies

that mirrors mine – Stargazers have told me

But I could tear apart the sky looking

for you – to tell a story a day for 100 years.  

Your palms bruised curved ridges

disappear into a lost horizon –

I search – my shadow walks behind me… 

Your voice remembers.

#

(11 Nov. 2018)

Wound: Point of Origins

~ Ambika Talwar

for Rumi’s 'The wound is the place where the Light enters you.'  

If the wound is the place where light enters through,

then I am shot with white and gold;

I pulse infinitely in geometric patterns.

If the wound is point of origins,

the gate after gate of heaven, then my body-being

must be the paradise I had quite forgotten.


I ask for that wholeness to enwrap me

beyond time and fragmentation.

If wound you speak of is a paradigm of welcome,

then I am that curtain that parts and all light subsumes

my all and you – for what is a repast made of?

If wound is a cry of longing, then light is that love

that makes me whole and you.  Stitches us up

with sutures beyond skin – nerves enlivening

even passersby waiting for a sip of rain.

This bird of my heart sings, so I be not

forgotten, nor the hem of my skirt.

#

(21 July 2015)

Oh Poets! Oh Travelers!

~ Ambika Talwar

Poet! What makes your heart hum?

Your travels tipple across time whose breath

a cosmic silk thread is a stitch in your palm…

whose words and silence, dew and raindrops

carpet lands you traverse – cliffs riffs rocks

under mulch, fragrance of jasmine, a stolen walnut?

Five syllables from a running squirrel who emerges

after season has slept, then awakes in mating –

from shore to shore aquiver because that is how

you describe the waves and the shivering.

Sometimes, it is just because you are wordless

your feet bleed on morning dew

skin is cracked deserts.

Your eyes darken like flowers at night

as shadows that called you to journey – the ache

beckons, disappearing, then reappearing.

How you hungered for the hungry

to realize you were the famished one

eating words that fall from witnessing oak.

Stop the shivering – stillness like satin milk

makes the paper you write on an epic of your fingernails

mean something:

light of syllabary – coat of love, a favorite shirt

muslin of ancient lands, fathers, mothers

parchment, rice paper made by hand

numb smarting fingers that tear leaves into pools

of water to make an inkwell... Water for your travels

is wisdom enough to laugh white teeth in sunlight.

Same way river runs on by.  Desire turns

her head – sees you kneeling.

#

(4 Dec. 2012)

Night Sky Hum
~ Ambika Talwar

        Eyes open wide
        Kuan Yin adorns laddered night
        stars wonder and asterisk…


When my being weaves in night sky hum
a kind of rest subsumes my skin -
I feel a tension between wishing to curl away
or pry my eyes open to see, do, know more.
My head spins in wonder as a poem
becomes memory – will I recall these lines?
One stitch ladders through weaves of night…
I cannot sleep until I shed leaves of gratitude

A summer tree springs with turning of season
singed aria - sudden wind swifts inward
tremors of gratefulness; I wish each finger-tip
mark a wing on 1,000 poems
Beauty of this world wraps a blanket on my bones
satin strings hum a lullaby, but I resist
for I might lose a verse or two – I wish…
I wish I could smell you

I surrender my feelings to lull - for I feel so full...
tender bed turns my curling toes and hair

May sweet night's gentle dreams fall
upon your tensile curving frame –
listen to drum of your heart beat
even if mine is so far away…
#

(24th Sept. 2017)

Sites: http://www.patreon.com/goldenmatrixvisions

http://www.creativeinfinities.com

https://smile.amazon.com/My-Greece-Mirrors-Metamorphoses-Discover/dp/1937207234/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=My+Greece%2C+Mirrors&qid=1576475188&sr=8-1

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” 2^nd 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

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"

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!