The Final Gamble Beyond the Panorama January 14, 2023

The Final Gamble

indian poetry

In the deserted city of Syracuse
East coast of ancient Greece,
The guerrilla truce, the Jews lose
The monarch fell, the rules cease.
A vision of desolation, a deflating population, none remained but young Artemis.
After her song, she trudged along
Between the woods, beneath the trees.
Artemis; mother to four- Lily,
Jose, Poppy and Theodore
After the guillotine attack, nearly died of young Jack.
Homeward, she comes only to stand before the helpless sight;
Of little Theo rummage for his sisters’ lives
In the carnage, where the weak
Were slain with the guilty man’s knives.
(of the bright sunshine; that was once their smiles)
Mid-slumber, her mind seized with thoughts..
(‘we are dead; we were alive; months ago; years back; we lived and laughed; we dined, we pined; we saw the pink and violet sky; tramp and trudge; then vision smudged; solitary we walk; but oh life; this life; this moment of June; this very minute; sleep; seize; how do they sleep; I sob, I sob.’)
..what wild potion puts men to rest, even at the doom of their greatest unrest;
Then gently and silently, Theo caressed.
An echo of better days, when Artemis welcomed an unexpected guest,
The Grecian king stood before the charming miss,
Infrequent sighs; time invites her to shred her worth in front of his eyes
But now, Artemis gives out a loud and galled cry
“you see the fire under my rugged camisole, but not my people burning? Speak. For you never speak. Horsemen; pass by. Oil and tar; southwest wind; what do you think? Of war, this strife. Inexplicable splendour of the wind, speak? Of the wires they send? Nowhere a soul to call one’s friend. Perhaps you never think- of me, the people, ruins, Theo, rugs, bread, dying, dead. I shall walk out as I am, hair awry; undraped and walk the street to go cry with the gulls.”
Colossus crumbling behind her; she sat upon the shore smiling “my people humble, my people who expect nothing”
Shanti. Shanti. Shanti.
[After Eliot]

 (Picture credits: Pexels)

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Triasha Mondal
Triasha Mondal

Writing to me is a keenest pleasure and the happiest indulgence. I engage in this pursuit for I think it’s a cathartic relief. Through the annals of what I write and have written, I attempt toward a disjunction from the corporal mundanity with total semblance to reality. For art is a mirror to the realistic. A tryst with the known and the unknown. I personify my poems to be a safe space. To write is to liberate my soul to the unfamiliar yet thousand times familiar with the presence of it. 

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