Thursday, November 01, 2012

Danse Macabre


 
 

Saffron daubed dancers on bowed legs
Gold tipped fingers tilted upward
Wide eyed but expressionless
Beckoning with uncertain malice

Peacock headdress strutting, eyes like
Black dots darting left, then right
Oblivious of the boisterous, crass crowd
Heads cranking on the plink of the gamelan

Foot bells tinkle at the angklung’s hollow beat
Earthy auburn songket sarong with gilded edge
Glittered playfully with each half turn of
Pretty boys masquerading as nubile dancers

At the last clang of the agong they scampered
Sucked into the emptiness of the night’s void
Piercing sounds shrieked from the dead quiet
Augured that somewhere tragedy has struck

It was a chilling, killing night in Bali
Terror struck with hellish ferocity
Blood striped pale faces run helter-skelter
Minced by shards strewn by wrathful blast

Mangled limbs dangled on dancing carcasses
The hapless hobbled and crept, lost in terror
The pall of the blackened smoke draped heavy
Kuta reeked with zealot’s pungent hate

In nearby Nusa Dua, the merriment ran on
Youthful artistes plied their age-old trade
While revelers loud with obscene laughter
Unaware of the other despoliation elsewhere

In the morrow they washed their bikinis
To rid of the red that came with the tide
Batik now indelibly stained with carmine blot
A stain in the land’s richly textured tapestry

Where now the inimitable Balinese smile?
Where now the art of the woodcarver, the painter,
The smithy, the batik dyer, dancer and the wayang maker?
Where now the white sands, the majestic promontories?

Senseless slaughter of anyone, anything, everything
Not for all the promise of virgins, white horses and
Heavenly gates can ever make right the selfish injustice
Pancasila violated by militant butchers of the faith

The music and gaiety of the festive stambul   

Drowned by pained moans of the stricken
And the wheezing whines from mutilated throats
Cry anguish, echoing strong even in distant lands

What a waste, what a shame! Why Bali? Why?
Fountainhead of art, island of beauty and amity
God’s pearl crushed by the ugly hand of inhumanity
Of ignorance, of intolerance and of manic zeal

 

How Soon


 
 

The clock’s pendulum strikes the gong

The pulley pulls readying it for another strike

Outside the leaves have been swept in the curbs

Even before they turn brown, flame red and gold

Impatience goad the blossoming and ripening

Not allowing them to stay awhile as green and sour

Hot housing and hurrying their reddening

Sweet and acrid to the taste, gritty to the tongue

 
 If it has not been by now it will never be

You have shunned others and they, in turn,

Have left you recalling false remembrances

Fantasies trying to be real yet in a blink are lost

In desolate streets as you nail signs on rickety posts