Brackish, dark, the lips that refuse
to break into a smile,
the roses in your yard
are tinted blackish red.
And yet the perfume, aggressively starts
to move across the borders between the walls.
I respect your silence, your silent watch
melting and letting an estuary form
to let the fresh-water flow.
the brine will never turn sweet,
yet with a tinge of the bland
the balance may tilt towards a thaw
.
The manuals and the codes that the sea and the sand,
the rivers and the ponds derive the sense from geographies,
the times and the climates of ancient lands.
Shakespeare will not shake hands
with the Jew of Malta in a foreign land.
Moreover, the prehistoric, regressive beings
will retreat behind walls
on the scent of civilized aeroplanes
high over their heads in the sky.
The brackish rose will smell as sweet, though
it's hard to lose the dark glow.
Sushama Karnik
20 Sept. 2015.
20 Sept. 2015.
Reading my poem written four years back was like entering into an alley in an old town, not being able to make a headway. But I found it engrossing, nevertheless. Thanks to @fawzi hejazi for his pages of infinite possibilities for roses, where somehow I felt sure of finding the 'brackish rose' for this quaint poem.
Deep and sweet poetry!🌹😊
ReplyDeleteThank you, Sem. Maximum inspiration
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