Homer and a South Indian War

A poem written in January 2002, that was leaping from the screen
today. Still remember discussing Homer et al in class when the
poem began to write itself.
My ink drunk hands, miss the scratchy papers..

They lean over the terrace wall,
their bellies squished against
and three layers of thin lime.

From one end of the street,
the man on the white horse,
changes his
it is time to eat lunch, not
save the world.

The god of thunder with his
consort has glazed his fingers
upon the pearl
Zeus saw his reflection in Indira,
combing clouds.

Inside, two women sit talking,
of their men who ride with
with a quiet hurricane lamp
for company.

on her beloved she spied
through flimsy fuzzy perforated
and now when the birds have
taken flight.

only the clang of the iron
shoes of the horse is heard above
welcoming the warriers from the
unfinished war.

the women rush down the
staircase and into the brown muddy
inside the rice boils for the
victory feast.

twenty four bangles leap upon
the lover’s face, and in them
is his still soft being, obscurity
of being,
slowly ebbing out,

life finds reason in that

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