A satiric reverberation

A satiric reverberation

 

Twining like creepers

the crisscross of rivers

offspring of a titanic river

flow garlanding their mother,

each with a wreath of flower

changing it with time for color.

gold, blue-green colors myriad

with reflections, decors added.

Poets compose to say

them in man’s way

they as children to their mom

the Mahanadi a river awesome

long to stay fondling their mother

and need her care and shelter forever.

In this nature’s scenic play

curdle they land where we stay

in a village amidst such display

from maddening crowd far away

on the bank of the giant river

having more than a kilometer,

its width, on length of its run

shortened by either side horizon(s)

that onlookers’ eyes can guess

plundering pearls in the process

blue water with tiny waves, run

reflecting and breaking the sun

to gold in a molten state on flow

dry sand beds as solid gold show

at moonlit night dancing of moon

not as one but many to a divine tune

As sited on her bank is our village.

grows with her our close bondage

deepening since childhood to old age

we, ending her grace at every stage

Recollect them, I as a dream memory

vanished they have to a grand ma’s story

Now it runs dry except a month or two

desert sand for miles only left to view.

Green foliage on the banks cease to exist

rabbits mongoose serpents are missed.

Missed are also birds’ melody sweet.

Missed is the women folks’ meet,

their art and craft of changing wears

carrying home water without fears

in an earthen pot over pot over the head

gossiping, giggling dame caring it to aid.

Missed are also its evening necklace, gold

from banks trees banyan, peepal being too old,

the boat and the late-night to it the call

ghosts ghouls, night light killing them all.

Dam big was made upstream in the river

to irrigate lands and control floodwater.

Missed we the fury of a flood, its blessings too

since centuries with it our ancestors grew.

Now the bridges embankments illuminations

force village life to run the way city life runs.

 

 

At this threshold of exit

often my thoughts visit

to my days with the river

that time and age cannot blur

nor can blur it, my arrogance

of exposure and experience.

As an infant I prayed the river

to return, from a chore, my mother,

as a growing child my tryst with her

to play swim and to get rid of the teacher

and the reverberation of own voice

berries on the bushes as per choice

the fun of sights of wolf jackal and snake

search I now all and miss with heartache.

As a youth and grown-up man on leave

wails, worries and tensions to relieve

I sought its grace on its bank and bed

on water sand and grasses well spread

At this ripe age for me she is badly mauled

by the wheel of civilization, as hauled.

On its bank now as old I cry aloud for pardon

only to listen painfully to a satanic reverberation.

 

 

P K Routray

In the service of Lord