Wednesday, October 22, 2008

In Dry Land

the wrinkled are scattered in
parleys on the pyols, boasting
about the children in the city.

their furrowed faces are moist
with sadness of separation
and happiness of escape from the cracked soil.

they are left behind as forgotten milestones
bent and supported by sticks.

(*pyol - Raised platform in front of a house)


Rukhiya said...

Though the last two lines give a wonderful meaning, the picture doesn't seem to sit well with me. The rest of the work is 'wonder'ful as ever though. In your singular style!

Usha Pisharody said...

Rukhiya has said it.. your singular style.. through and through in this one! Startling metaphor, and great imagery, as always!

Purnima said...

I don't know what makes a good poem, but this one gave me a image with clarity and the emotion is overwhelming for for the moment.

I liked it!