A villanelle for the forsaken

What’s memory but a reverb of whispered pasts?
On ashen, sordid ground, I take root; here I stand –
Expecting withered trees to clasp; some dew that lasts –

With such fierce passion we plant or forsake our masts –
Fly flags on fruitful, fertile, or dead, barren land –
When memory’s but a reverb of whispered pasts –

Oh, how I long for love that changes, holds me fast –
Through strife, fear, test, ache and pain – an aesthetic hand –
Expecting withered trees to clasp; some dew that lasts –

Hope tosses, shuns me, puts sick bones in breaking casts –
And songs become a dirge with sounds from banished bands –
What’s memory but a reverb of whispered pasts?

Perhaps the answer’s in the wind, truth left unasked –
Perhaps I hope to see and must accept what’s planned –
Expecting withered trees to clasp; some dew that lasts –

Oh, how I long for love that changes, holds me fast –
On ashen, sordid ground, I take root; here I stand –
What’s memory but a reverb of whispered pasts?
Expecting withered trees to clasp; some dew that lasts –

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published in Morality Park

When even nature fails to invigorate

When even nature fails to invigorate,
When forests seem bleak and mountains heave a sigh,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate

Whose worn existence and stale cigarette
Makes me – a twisted catcher in the rye
Whose broken nature fails to invigorate.

When gnarly trees do threaten, castigate
With haunting browns, dead leaves – a sore to the eye,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate,

I look at you and set apart all hate
And embracing love with its low and soaring high
I look past, ‘Nature fails to invigorate,’

And such sayings that just sear, eviscerate
The little strength I cherish and hold nigh
When things just fall apart like a reprobate.

I cannot deny the existence of fate
Because it brought me you, beyond the ‘Why?’
When even nature fails to invigorate,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Hipsters

So, send him Ginsberg store dudes and some money
He’s in a bar, with his high tenor and prose-lullaby
He’s just a hipster in a Kevin Spacey actuality

He does not know of Hagel bettering faith with philosophy
Or Soren’s fatalism prior to that abstract see
So, send him Ginsberg store dudes and some money

He writes his ‘raw’ verse with no structure; sense of prosody
And Camus’ negative truth can’t fit his wee
He’s just a hipster in a Kevin Spacey actuality

Don’t ask him of those devils, brothers or men never free
Don’t mention tests of faith, the fumie, silence or apostasy
Just send him Ginsberg store dudes and some money

His telos is a stinking snake and logos the same old pee wee
They chain him to his sordid cave, without analogy!
He’s just a hipster in a Kevin Spacey actuality

Do I scare or put terror in thee?
Walk, then in my flames, purgatory
Or hush! And don’t talk of what you don’t see
I’ll bury you, child’s play, Tu-whit, Tu-whee
So, take your Ginsberg store dudes and some money
You’re just a hipster in a Kevin Spacey actuality

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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