Tag Archives: Kali

Tuesday Poem: “A Face Immense with Murder” by Zireaux

Kali trampling Shiva, Chromolithograph, by R. Varma: '...as from a face immense / with murder; swelled malevolence; / bloated, blue-skinned Kali among  / the Hindu’s devilry...'

Kali trampling Shiva, Chromolithograph, by R. Varma: ‘…as from a face immense / with murder; swelled malevolence; / bloated, blue-skinned Kali among / the Hindu’s devilry…’

Ahead of me a storm cloud masked
the dying sun, and seemed a tumour
there, with bolts of bronzy hair
projecting from its swollen bloom, or
swarming hive, or epiphyte
or gushing growth in crushing night –
whatever it was, the sea below
was cast in darkest indigo

and seemed, that level sea, a tongue
protruding, as from a face immense
with murder; swelled malevolence;
bloated, blue-skinned Kali among
the Hindu’s devilry. O pagan
horror! O see me tremble, Megan.
Great Muse! Lend me your size, your heavenly
amplitude, your wing-spanned weight
which magically rises, 747ly,
above those billowing effigies,
those dreaded cumuli of fate.
Lend me, love, your infinite ease
to tranquillise the Gorgon’s wroth.
O Utterfly! My Behe-moth!
Let’s travel, dear (you promised me)
to some unfathomed galaxy –

Okay. I know. First finish the poem…

The storm was not the thing I urged
Sayeed to see; but what emerged
from it — from that infernal foam,
what churned within its stygian throat.
A tiny moving thing. A mote
amidst that murky deep, a speck,
a spot, a floating fleck of bile
came drifting toward our island wreck.

‘A boat!’ my stowaway cried and leapt
across the rocks to where a pile
of scrap was gathered – a thing he’d kept
for just this purpose: a freezer box
was steeply wedged into the rocks;
and to it, obliquely, with rope attached,
the drum from which Sayeed had hatched.

And rings and winches; a blade from Tug’s
propeller, some davits, roller chains,
a crossbar from a hauling crane
— all jammed and hammered, crammed and plugged
in place, and bound with bailer bags,
and irons spars, and nailed-on flags.
Atop the highest point, about
four meters up, an empty jar
of Newman’s Salsa gave a snout
to that strange upward-sniffing creature.
Inside this high-hung reservoir
was stored some oil, its crowning feature
(peak oil, you might say). This cup
was what now fueled its keeper up
the sculptured peak. A boat was sighted.
That high-held cup must be ignited.

'Atop the highest point, about / four meters up, an empty jar / of Newman’s Salsa gave a snout /  to that strange upward-sniffing creature.'

‘Atop the highest point, about / four meters up, an empty jar / of Newman’s Salsa gave a snout / to that strange upward-sniffing creature.’

No torch-bearer at the Olympic games,
no squirrel-athlete could have scaled
that pile more quickly. Sayeed prevailed,
and with a single Flick-Bic’s flame
(where had he found my lighter?) the deed
was quickly done. A glowing seed
was planted in the growing dark.
And to that hanging lamp the boat
now honed, as when the dreaded shark
in Spielberg’s films locates its prey.
A far-off, faintly bleating goat
at first, and then a donkey’s bray,
the outboard motor rumbled nearer.
The pink that fogged the night-sky’s mirror
soon faded away. But just as soon,
behind us rose an amber moon,

which cast sufficient light, a golden
barley smear of light, for me
to track the roaring noise and see
the motorboat as it rolled in.
A sleek half-cabin craft it was.
Its engine slowed — a muffled buzz —
then silenced completely. Inside the gently
swaying craft I dimly perceived
a single figure, a child evidently,
a child all alone (although
my eyes were not to be believed).

‘Hello!’ Sayeed was there to throw
a rope.

                    The figure caught it, and now
it stood upon the moonlit prow,
a thing of physiologic distortion,
child-sized but adult-proportioned.

…tbc

_____
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Filed under Poetry by Zireaux, Res Publica, Book Two