Sat crooning by the roadside of the year,
So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, thou art here
To read dark fortunes for us from the book
Of fate; thou flingest in the crinkled brook
The trembling maple’s gold, and frosty-clear
Thy mocking laughter thrills the atmosphere,
And drifting on its current calls the rook
To other lands. As one who wades, alone,
Deep in the dusk, and hears the minor talk
Of distant melody, and finds the tone,
In some wierd way compelling him to stalk
The paths of childhood over,–so I moan,
And like a troubled sleeper, groping, walk.
DUSK
The frightened herds of clouds across the sky
Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day
Into the dusky forest-lands of gray
And somber twilight. Far, and faint, and high
The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry
Sad as the wail of some poor castaway
Who sees a vessel drifting far astray
Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.
The children, riotous from school, grow bold
And quarrel with the wind, whose angry gust
Plucks off the summer hat, and flaps the fold
Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust
In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold
Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.
NIGHT
Funereal Darkness, drear and desolate,
Muffles the world. The moaning of the wind
Is piteous with sobs of saddest kind;
And laughter is a phantom at the gate
Of memory. The long-neglected grate
Within sprouts into flame and lights the mind
With hopes and wishes long ago refined
To ashes,–long departed friends await
Our words of welcome: and our lips are dumb
And powerless to greet the ones that press
Old kisses there. The baby beats its drum,
And fancy marches to the dear caress
Of mother-arms, and all the gleeful hum
Of home intrudes upon our loneliness.
Child waking up in a dark room
screaming I want my duck back, I want my duck back
in a language nobody understands in the least —
There is no duck.
But the dog, all upholstered in white plush —
the dog is right there in the crib next to him.
Years and years — that’s how much time passes.
All in a dream. But the duck —
no one knows what happened to that.
2
They’ve just met, now
they’re sleeping near an open window.
Partly to wake them, to assure them
that what they remember of the night is correct,
now light needs to enter the room,
also to show them the context in which this occurred:
socks half hidden under a dirty mat,
quilt decorated with green leaves —
the sunlight specifying
these but not other objects,
setting boundaries, sure of itself, not arbitrary,
then lingering, describing
each thing in detail,
fastidious, like a composition in English,
even a little blood on the sheets —
3
Afterward, they separate for the day.
Even later, at a desk, in the market,
the manager not satisfied with the figures he’s given,
the berries moldy under the topmost layer —
so that one withdraws from the world
even as one continues to take action in it —
You get home, that’s when you notice the mold.
Too late, in other words.
As though the sun blinded you for a moment.
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Sing
Hymn
For life and with
Truth it open.
About
RARe Stanza:
– – – – – – – – – –
6 Lines Poem ─
Syllables Meter: 1-1-1-1-4-4
Rhyme Scheme: aabbca; ababca; aaaaba.
RARe Stanza refers Right Angle Reza Stanza.
Geometric Theoretical Explanation of ‘RARe Stanza’
The 1st 4 (1-1-1-1) lines stand on the last 2 (4-4) lines,
At the joining point, line No.4 and 5 there the 90º angle is generated;
The 90º angle is known as Right Angle in Geometry.
Copyright © Muzahidul Reza │23 May,2018
Leave a Reply
Damn
Murk;
Nature reminds
Sun will rise soon.
About
RARe Stanza:
– – – – – – – – – –
6 Lines Poem ─
Syllables Meter: 1-1-1-1-4-4
Rhyme Scheme: aabbca; ababca; aaaaba.
RARe Stanza refers Right Angle Reza Stanza.
Geometric Theoretical Explanation of ‘RARe Stanza’
The 1st 4 (1-1-1-1) lines stand on the last 2 (4-4) lines,
At the joining point, line No.4 and 5 there the 90º angle is generated;
The 90º angle is known as Right Angle in Geometry.
Copyright © Muzahidul Reza │20 April,2018