THANKING THE DEVIL

You and I are crossing and counting
the upturned slabs of the precincts of
the temple with the ruling deities,
the cracks in the redbrick peeping walls,
unwiped, augmented saffron marks,
bespeak of the decor and devotion,
in the ageless, uncared construction,
our visits are a daily routine and ritual,
immersed in the sacred waters of
unstinted faith and devotion,
stabbing enemies are stabbing and stabbing
at the back, smiling smiling,
the ultimate mounting mysteries
Unraveled, unlocked,
Allahuddin’s lamp glows, in the
Surrounding dark.
How often we crossed the long ropes
Carefully fearing to be snakes,
We thank the harrowing devils
for making us cling to God.

Radhamani

EMILY AND ME IN NEW YORK

I wonder sometimes at the call
Miss Dickinson derived
from every atom in the hall
of living – which she strived

to blast into a blinding frame
of flame – expunging breath –
so for an instant she could name
that moment before death

which we call life: predicament! –
or so it sometimes seems
that her sole cool medicament
for dealing with all dreams

proceeded from a cracking egg
that no one else could eat
or see, or think to ask or beg
to explicate the heat

of human hearts – that Emily
prevailed in any way
through metaphor and simile
to undergo the sway

to-wards the darkness and the gold
of turning on the light
on everything, not least the cold
experience of night

exhorts me: what would I have done
had there not been this city? –
there is no place I could have gone
as ample or as gritty –

it is as if Miss Dickinson
had taken over here –
deployed a magic trick, or sin –
thereby to commandeer

each atom for me of this grand
experience of place
so she could wield her wild hand
to grant it fathomed grace.

Guy Kettelhack (GuyBlakeKett)

UNNOTICED

The silence we don’t hear
makes the most frightening
noise

It’s nothing like screams
we might think we hear
and more like the crack
of a backyard oak tree
during a cold snap
in the deads of January

Eventually, of course, it must
be cut down, but not before
suffering in silence

Or it might be the eldest son
leaving after acquiring a license,
his mother’s resigned sigh
and the nervous closing
of her eyelids

It could be cigarette
smoke trailing above
the hand, his blood exhaling
blue corpuscles

But it’s really more like
the heaving of a heavy stone
into a shallow lake, the sound
it makes while settling

Barely there and just
out of sight.

Tim J. Brennan (68degrees)