YOU
© Debashish Haar


In silence and in the percussion of silence...

You have been sculpted
in the parison
of bloody truce
signed to athwart
abject surrender
of
truth and time.


You have been carved
out of realizations
of unrealized dreams.
You have been smeared
on the endless sky
of ecstatic grief.

You have been screaming
in silence of history's shame.
You have been
buried
under
the pride
of contrived magnificence.


You have been dreaming
with eyes wide open
under the sun,
finalising
the drafts
and designs
to end satan
at the cost
of civilization.



DIMINUTION
© Debashish Haar


Sifting out of leverage
of living,
carrying a baggage
of wound,
purifying the touches
and senses of nonsensical.

Living in love
of the essense
of love,
of freedom,
of a mighty teeming
parison of no relief.

Living in death,
living in pain,
living the suffering
to lift civility
out of devilish devour.

The shame of man---
in replacing man,
in replacing the abnegations,
in defeating his essense---
an anathema for his worship.

Diminution of man,
his anthropomorphic
misanthropes,
his salvation
of pretense.

The absolving ---
the persistence
of love,
the communion
of holy souls---
our essense.



COLOURS CONCEALED
© Debashish Haar


Thy touch Christ's poignance,
thy memory Mary's soul.

Birds were celebrating
the dark's last hour,
which fled before them;

I could recognise
the quivering of the sea
as we made our way
across the lonely plain,

like one returning
to a lost pathway,
who,
till he finds it,
seems to move in vain.


When we had reached
the point where dew
contends with sun and,
under sea winds,
in the shade,
wins out as
it won't evaporate,
my love gently placed
both of her hands-
outspread upon the grass;
therefore,
aware of what gesture
and intentions were,
I reached and offered her
my blood-stained cheeks,
and on my cheeks,
she totally revealed
the colour,
that inferno had concealed.
I realised that my face
is not me anymore-
it is her reflection on me
and mine lost to inferno!



LET ME SLEEP
© Debashish Haar

       

A blissful ignorance
   of impunity,
  a stream cleansing
  repugnant wounds,
  a quilt sheltering
   me
    at the heels
      of your
       unbecoming.

The trickery of satan,
  the lies, the loathsome
   blatant
  abuse of human rights,
    the whimsical pangs
          of
      ghetto ruling communion
       of abject bloody
      realization
of structures
  constructed
and destroyed.

I didn't see all these,
'coz I was asleep.
I lament,
  I spoke in my sleep.



PERCUSSION - A SEQUEL TO 'LET ME SLEEP'
© Debashish Haar


Cufflinks of straw,
sifting images
of
capsized ships
of pride:
looted again
and again
in battles
comprehensively
incomprehensible.

Navigating against
the currents
of cerebral impulses
to athwart
the march
of zombies.
Euthanasia
bargained
in séance
to ease the
pain and palsy,
in this acrimonious
parison
of
abject surrender
at the heels
of your becoming.

"Hey you departed souls!
You numb bags of bones,
the preyed in cowardice jolts,
the dictated in malicious  roles.

Hey you the medallion
of satanic conquests,
you the pawns deceived
and betrayed.

Hey you the practitioner of alchemy,
empowering power
and weakening
sick and poor.

Hey you the contagion
budding Yggdrasil's
blood seeking rib,
you the lies
de
dictated doctrines
preached and repealed.

Hey you the pregnancy
of
the phantasmagoric creations,
the zillion microbes
lounging the globe,
the zillion arrays
of toys created
to cremate
civilization
in the globe.

Let me sleep!

Let me sleep
in the cauldron
of truth and lies
a place
history will hide
at the end
of
the persistence
of memory."




PRESCIENCE -  A SEQUEL TO 'BOND'.
© Debashish Haar


Oysters at the gates
Spawned pearls
of devoured consternation.
The reticence branched
in streams of smiles
and screams.

The remains of the day,
the bravado
of daybreak’s laughter,
the cauldron
of veritable breather,
tarmac
on the path to eternity.

March of automaton,
over pages of ruin,
over vowed prowess,
over listings of unlisted crimes,
over preachings never practised,
over the radiance
of his unbecoming.

Numbness of alcove:
bath in blood and oil,
pretense of prescience,
pretense of pride,
pretense of amending
the amnesic amnesty.

The propagation
of the premise,
the chutzpah
of issuing decrees.
The reeling castles
of firm belief,
of hatred separating
troika of realms---
treading on the
amnesic amnesty.



I LOVE YOU
© Debashish Haar


Milieu of thoughts
percolate
into flora blithe.
A zephyr savor
a sessile drop of dew,
together
a mutiny of soul
prevailed.

You looked magnificently poised
in crimson kurta, white dupatta
sipping Earl Grey.

Your smell,
still trafficking
through the nerves.


Your touch, your smile,
your laughter and baby-babbles
and
all that permeated
through a flagging memory,
sending cadenza
through veins.


Oh you elusive shapes,
you the benediction of holy souls,
you the goddess of love,
truth and wisdom
subjugated in the fiefdom
of gold.


Oh you lissome shapes,
you the power
in my blistered soul,
you the voice
of the empty spaces,
that spoke to me
in ecstacy,
in trepidation,
in the times when
aquamarine contend
with the might of sun.


I speak to you,
in silence
and in percussion
of silence.
In the numerous
crusades
against Rothbarts
to free Odettes.
In the fusion
of molten
and
frozen
times.

The weaving of satan,
mine and thine
can never athwart
to convey
that
I love you.

Yes I love you
my princess!
I love you.

ST. LAURENCE'S NIGHT
© Alessio Zanelli

 
No comet ever shone on high of yore to show the way,
No mystic star up in the sky, no token on display.
 
It was a covered track, a secret plot inscribed in sand
That only humble-hearted men detected on the land.
 
Around a hut had gathered shepherds, farmers, passers-by,
As kings had knelt and dropped their crowns to see and testify.
 
So few the humble are today, no king is left, no quest,
But all still sift the night to sight a gleam, a sign—gain rest.
 
Two thousand years have passed awaiting meteors to be found,
The eyes are still upturned—that track still hidden in the ground.


Previously unpublished


THE PROOF
© Alessio Zanelli
 
They knew. 
They missed what,
but they knew there was something.
 
In his look, in his voice, in his gestures.
Something squirmed inside him—
something as unusually disquieting 
as to bereave those close to him of sleep.
 
He carried it within;
everybody sensed it, but could not fix it—
perhaps not even he.
 
Kind of dark, ineluctable drive.
 
His eyes—his eyes above all,
as if always watching acutely beyond,
even when staring at yours.
 
All in him 
could induce chilly thrills along the spine.
 
They can’t remember 
when it began to show,
they only know 
he hadn’t been always so.
 
And—happily—nobody
ever recognized ahead of time
what they had been having to do with.
 
When they found him—rigid,
with blue-brown tumefactions on the face,
discomposedly recumbent 
on the bathroom floor—
it all became clear at once.
 
Nothing sinister 
had been lurking inside him,
nothing elusive or obscure.
 
What in him for years
had been creepingly perturbing them
simply was the maturing embryo
 of an ordinary, innocuous, undeceitful
—because irrefutably certain—thing. 
 
 
And he, like them, 
had been wondering in vain;
he, maybe more than them, ignored.
 
Is it we actually happen to fear
the only thing we shouldn’t fear?
Is it a proof that Yeats 
was right about our doom
and what disturbs our blood
is but its longing for the tomb?


Previously unpublished



PHASE TRANSITION
© Alessio Zanelli

 
From October through March homeland borrows
its breath from the river. For days the fog
becomes the sole thing that can be seen. When
it paralyzes the country, streets, trees 
and houses vanish, shapes and contours change,
each man’s or nature’s work doesn’t exist. When
it saturates the space, the sky sublimes,
sounds are muffled, the air smells. Everything
undergoes a phase transition, fuses
into the sole thing—the fog. Londoners
and those who mythicize the fumes of the
city would panic at it, if driving
through would stop and leave their cars, go on on
foot off the road. We—residents of the
place—always find our way home; it is our 
land. Such fog has bred us up, has filled our 
lungs and wet our eyes from birth, and still will
condense to droplets or rime upon our
abodes to come. We know it; we can trace
and put each thing back to its place inside 
it just because of our blood and our noses. 

First published in Eclectica (WI), all rights retained by Alessio Zanelli.