National Poem Writing Month 2021: Poem xviii: Arriving

Written for National Poem Writing Month 2021 Day 18 Prompt: …. comes to us from Stephanie Malley, who challenges us to write a poem based on the title of one of the chpaters from Susan G. Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words. The book’s table of contents can be viewed using Amazon’s “Look inside” feature. Will you choose “the poem squash?” or perhaps “grocery weeping” or “the blue socks”? If none of the 60 rather wonderful chapter titles here inspire you, perhaps a chapter title from a favorite book would do …


“Sweeping with the Broom of Plunder”: The Anarchy (2019) by William Dalrymple (1965-)


The ebb is high after storm sleeps, sweeping and tumbling Them over the past few hours and showing them the death Which is not peaceful as it was depicted or said. Passing the ship now the owls not like seen in the villages and The nocturnal birds that they have to learn the names, If they remain alive.

A land of opportunity they say–the elders and all. A land to plunder and be wealthy–the letters said. But, no one says it’s the land that still in the darkness Of the past; the same past that glittered the name of the land.

The storm haven’t killed them but the mosquitoes and the bugs Are the assassins of top prime followed by swords and bullets.

The yellow of the flambeaus high on the tower dancing in The chilly river wind–monsoon is the season now and winter was–The Season when they start their journey to the land of treasure. The air smelt watery or is it the odor of the slits and muds from– The bank, or is it the smell of shits and diseases. A boom was heard startling them, the men in red coats.

The war is here, they murmured and panicked dancing their Weakened limps and shouting in the tired toiled voices. The commander smiled and said, those are hours; Shoot every few hours to let you know that you’re still alive; And he smiled like it was nothing to worry of.

All aboard; now we will land, lads, in Hindoostan. Polish your scabbards, shine your daggers, load the guns to brim. And keep the brooms ready in the sacks to sweep the plunders in.

Death. Everywhere its slouch and crouch here in this darkened city– Darker than the countryside in the new moon night, or– Eyes of the beloved.

By Sangbad

A poet, an author, a reviewer--in one word I'm a literaturist (means one who is trying almost everything that Literature is made of). My books are available at Amazon. I'm a Bengali, born and raised in Kolkata, West Bengal.

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