An umbrella of hues upon fall of society spout;
golds, browns and reds,
enter the seawater at twilight,
both frenetic and soft at the same time,
as though espying
the strongest base possible
for rebuilding— I pace myself as we turn on
the axis of fate once again.
Who drank the sour milk of bigotry the first time
round?
Who threw pebbles in the face of equality?
What once was tightly woven is loose,
has frayed at the edges,
has come apart,
similar to leaves yellowing,
the wind has turned the other cheek,
has become lost in wheat fields—
and now I can’t help but think back to crossroads
in the past,
would we have been better off we did things
differently?
Would there be lesser disputes in the streets
outside or are beauty and ugliness
just two sides of the same coin?
Don’t ask me, I wouldn’t know what more to say,
just that something went horribly wrong
a few decades back.
Cities aren’t clean, no, not really, roseate
caverns and turquoise canals
a mere mirage,
a travesty, a debased, distorted version
of actuality that hides in the shadows,
while we stand watching with our mouths open,
screaming on the inside,
I am 7 AM wide awake in the apartment,
writing what seems to be
the starting of a chronicle of lives lived,
who created the divide between nations?
who spit venom instead of listening
when it mattered,
who conspired countless deaths of humanity
over the span of centuries,
are just a few questions that plague
my mind from time to time,
I weep at the loss, at the loss, at the loss.
Today, daylight is oddly bright; it’s begging me
run outside and hug the trees,
most of the world
at this time is grey,
is desolate, is dour and drear,
it’s an omen that if we’d only ever seen
mud and rain
how could we dream of buttercups—
I know it isn’t going to be easy,
it will probably take forever to mend,
but I cannot sit back while a scarlet pause
exists between cirrus clouds
and city,
cannot hope to do nothing as uncertainty
frolics on sand,
I am much too obstinate to begin with.
Photo credits: Kal Gajoum Painting, Pinterest
For my prompt tonight at dVerse where I invite others to write inspired
by Allen Ginsberg and the Beat Generation. Come join us! ❤
Posted for Poetics: Allen Ginsberg and the Beat Generation @dVerse Pub
I love this… how beauty and ugliness maybe are just the opposite sides of the coin… I think we can change, but it would be hard living in a world without any shadows… and we need to be a bit obstinate I think
Thank you so much, Bjorn 😀 so glad the poem resonated with you! Yes we need to be a bit obstinate, definitely 💄❤️
So much to love about this poem – how you’ve captured the underbelly of the city and then you smudge the whole with some delightful asides (besides those first 3 most memorable lines) –
“it’s an omen that if we’d only ever seen mud
and rain
how could we dream of buttercups—”
Thank you so much, my dearest Laura 😀 so glad you liked it 💄❤️
Admiring the questions specially: Who drank the sour milk of bigotry the first time
round?
Who threw pebbles in the face of equality?
The last stanza speaks of sadness, desperation and grey desolatenss. But I am an optimist, ever hopeful that the youth and all of us, will act with good intentions to others. You got the fire in your belly writing this one Sanaa!
Awww gosh! Thank you so much, Grace 😀 so glad you enjoyed it 💄❤️
I fell in love with the title first, and then the rest of the poem just blew me away, Sanaa! I especially love ‘I pace myself as we turn on / the axis of fate once again’, ‘the sour milk of bigotry’ and ‘if we’d only ever seen mud / and rain / how could we dream of buttercups’. How indeed?
Awww gosh! Thank you so much, my dearest Kim 😀 so glad the poem resonated with you 💄❤️
(I love coming up with titles haha) 🙂
This is gonna stand head and shoulders ………. I feel the beat!
Thank you so much, Helen 😀 so glad you liked it 💄❤️
who threw pebbles at equality blew my mind.
❤️❤️❤️
“Who drank the sour milk of bigotry “? Far too many, it seems. Everywhere I look, this ugliness is right out in the open, bigots are not only not evolved enough to be ashamed, they are proud of their hate, intolerance, and venom. It’s extremely distressing. One of the things I really like about you, Sanaa, is that you don’t have any patience with bigotry. It’s a disease of the spirit and we all have to do what we can to show a better way.
Awww gosh! Thank you so much, Shay 😀 so glad you enjoyed it! 💄❤️
“I pace myself as we turn on
the axis of fate once again.”
Wow Sanaa
This is avrelish of ‘beat poety’
Happy you dropped by my blog today
Much❤love
Thank you so much, Gillena 😀 so good to see you 💄❤️
Much love back 🍹
i love the juxtaposition here, Sanaa. and how powerful is this: Who drank the sour milk of bigotry the first time
round?
Thank you so much, Rosemarie 😀 so glad you liked it 💄❤️
The crossroads you wonder about — which we emerged from sailing down the wrong road — is curiously posed here: Beat was a white boy’s jazz, verse as wannabe Bird, flying the spiritual ether distilled from garbage. Amid all that there too were the freedom riders, crusaders for social justice who achieved equal rights for America’s black population — temporarily as suburbia cruised past in its shiny Chevrolet. OK – my point here is that Beat spiritual values (I assume “the scarlet pause that exists between cirrus clouds and city”) were fueled by drugs and alcohol which always bring something crashing down. Western civilization perhaps. Ergo the confessional poets, I suppose, whose madness was rigorous for the art. I don’t know how this translates to the Global beat echo. It’s a great idea for a challenge — to wave the Beat freak flag for a night — but Awe became a much different thing over the next 75 years (something, by the way, you mine quite diligently and beautifully). Open mike rant over, snap fingers and done.
I absolutely agree, the confessional poets were the ones whose madness was rigorous! Thank you so much, Brendan 🙂 so glad the poem resonated with you 💄❤️
This is stunning! “Who drank the sour milk of bigotry the first time
round?” Excellent.
Thank you so much, Colleen 😀 I enjoyed writing this one 💄❤️
Sanaa, you painted the underbelly so deftly, asked such pertinent questions but this,
“but I cannot sit back while a scarlet pause
exists between cirrus clouds
and city,
cannot hope to do nothing as uncertainty
frolics on sand,
I am much too obstinate to begin with.” was truly outstanding! Bravo!
Thank you so much, Punam 😀 so glad the poem appealed to your poetic side 💄❤️
This:
“while we stand watching with our mouths open,
screaming on the inside”
…and all around it, is resolved perfectly with this:
“but I cannot sit back while a scarlet pause
exists between cirrus clouds
and city”
Thank you so much, Ken 😀 so glad the poem resonated with you 💄❤️
You come back to that “scarlet pause” that exists in the grime of cities. This is amazing!
Awww gosh! Thank you so much, Sara 😀 so glad you enjoyed it 💄❤️