Journalism is a fertility ritual
the art of performing for others who till
sow and harvest, while the gods stand still
I sell my body to free myself, she says
somnolent Devadasi girl with eyes
like an ox, her red-and-yellow sari
is made from lac and safflower. She was
sold off the farm at twelve to men who
slid open her quarters like a bread cabinet
who do not look god in the face because
she is Maadiga, that which cannot be seen
so glorious is her immanence, like
each star was a torch passed on to her
who looks up at the night for warmth
from trillions of long ago lights. Suffer
O ox-eyed Yellamma, while men pay
to grind your fine grain into sand.
Whoever cannot believe can swear to god
for a covenant that justifies your ways
to the lustful race of man buying his own.
Thought is the thing you hear while you’re reading.
This, right here, is a thought. Abide it this moment.
Consider what it says to you apart from my words.
It is your own poem overlaying mine, like latticework.
What is it saying to you about me? Such a thing
I’ve been curious about for a long time now.
In what ways, I wonder, is it like my own?
My encounters as I meet new people and explore different things
Land of opportunity where everyone is given an opportunity to grow
my poems and others I like - Dennis Allen Lange
the abc of lifestyle and fashion
thoughts of an ambiverted coffee drinker.
By Bob Marshall
Lost to the pages...