The Poetry Marathon

Calm settles upon us,

and the shrill of the night is

heard on both hemispheres.

In these four extant corners of convergence,

the earth, the wind, the fires, and the waters

melt into our virtual migrations.

Even as cardinal points make synaptic sketches,

with desert storms and monsoon winds in fierce clashes,

the centre still remains where we all belong.

We will trudge on,

through mist and fog, dust and dew,

under clear and cloudy skies.

From my differential desk of divergent words,

a periscope captures the fleeting motion

of us all, in this global feast of virtual migration.

Written from a combination of the two parts of Hour 6 text prompt.

They seek to destroy our map of peace,

to shatter the piece of the map we always knew.

They seek to employ the architects of silence,

to mute our tongues and drain our ink wells.

They seek to blur the sight of the map,

to irrigate its roots with termites of destruction.

The questions are running agog,

as we have not been bred in pots of hypocrisy,

and trees remain rooted generations before they go away.

We will paint in the colours of glittering melodies.

We will paint in the colours of glittering melodies.

We will paint in the colours of glittering melodies.

Our peace will not become a shattered piece.

In the basket of many eggs,

a few bad eggs will not foul up our air for too long.

We will paint in the colours of glittering melodies.

We will paint in the colours of glittering melodies.

We will paint in the colours of glittering melodies.

As this map of peace will stand, in one piece,

rioting memories will paint in the colours of glittering melodies.

Written from Hour 3 text prompt.

They have been my greatest friends lately,

all of them unseen.

Yet they keep me company in these times that I can see.

Sometimes, I feel them crank away with joy

in sweet noisy bantering.

Sometimes, I see them stretch their hands

for handshakes in the grinding.

Sometimes, they smile, wink, and laugh hard at me.

In a mix of comfort and some little hurting,

they have been the best friends I know.

All these things I see,

…all of them unseen.

Hope, faith, care, and love…

I see them all,

…all of them unseen.

Tenacity, belief, and assurances…

I see them all,

…all of them unseen.

My new unseen friends,

I see them all.

Written from Hour 2 text prompt, using “The Joy of Unseen Things” as jumping off point.

i

Pains perch on parallel buds around us,

intersecting like painting gone wrong;

but they will flee, they will flee.

They may as well continue to nibble at us,

they will be doing so only to mock themselves;

for dawn will always come,

stretching from the opaque into the transparent,

mending the fences of reality.

ii

For Se:

The dark days never got through your doorsteps,

for your words wear a silk gown of bravery,

sweeping your floor clean,

as all sides of near-death receded

far and far away from your glow.

Silk and floor and life,

all sparkle;

breathing in whole-life,

deep and long,

in the sparkle.

iii

For Ingrid:

Those days of pain drowned

in the ocean of your love for nature.

Those images of the seas and the skies and the landscape,

they amplify the light your being feeds from.

Your external eyes are pretty, they already defeated the set back;

your inner eyes are bright, full of light,

full of life

iv

For Caitlin:

Your inner strength is a moving mountain.

Light waves of agony do not prevail against mountains of life.

We will mock those pains and all its associated distractions.

Light waves of agony do not prevail against the laughters

that feed from your strength.

v

For Anjana:

That quarantine scare was a mere hoot

in the broken trunk of the scary trumpet.

The glow of your home is strong against the ills

of uncertainties flying like kites above us.

It is pretty clear we are not at its end.

It is pretty unclear we are in its middle.

Yet we live strong, ahead of the evening victories.

And your shout of relief sent a healing balm

across the conferences.

vi

For Mildred:

The chaos grew, swollen like the discarded dead.

Howl for the chaos;

I know, I know.

Howl…

If you are hanging in there, you are hanging well;

for dawn will always come.

vii

For Tanya:

How can pain not be scared

of the one who overcame it

over and over again?

You know your story, your story knows you.

Victory found you, got stuck with you.

Hold that grip, all the aces embrace you.

Victory will always find you,

even as gratitude dances for your living.

viii

For Jacob:

Great seeds sprout in silence.

They tower up high once above the surface.

With many fruits to spread around the globe,

yours is the manifestation of great harvests.

Many yet to come;

we will mock those pains, they cannot prevail.

ix:

For Tobe:

In a time of revisiting sorrows,

you savour the refreshing flow of the Vermont wind,

basking in the renewing words of converging poetry.

with chocolates drumming the echoes of time,

healing memories down the lane;

healing us all.

x

For Richard:

Seventieth is an upper landmark of life,

and there will be more decades of the line drawn with cheer.

In these conferences of poetry,

poems write us, you say.

As your words jet its healing all around us,

we await your twelve new surprises,

like a dozen denizens of poetic paradise.

xi

For us all:

Your voices are embraced with warmth when you speak.

Your silences are heard from across the horizons when you are mute.

All of us, as we chase essences in shapes and sizes,

we unite in these conferences, flowing into a confluence,

as we swim in the vast waters of unending renewal.

xii:

I sip from this cup of overflowing muses,

in these conferences,

converging into a confluence of communions.

All of the pains can nibble again.

They will be doing so only to mock themselves,

for dawn will always come.

Dawn will always come,

stretching from the opaque into the transparent,

mending the fences of reality.

Written from Hour 1 text prompt.

Hi everyone,

It’s me again, Ofuma Agali.

I was here last year for the Full Marathon, but I signed off after Half. And that too was pretty rewarding.

I had since gone ahead to plug myself back into the world of poetry. Prior to the 2020 Poetry Marathon, I had a published collection of poems, with the last poem in the collection written around 2008 and one last embellished one around 2014. And then, I had gone almost blank with creative writing, what with the other kinds of professional writing that was taking all of my time. When I came out of that lacuna, fiction came calling; poetry became hard, and the Poetry Half Marathon helped.

This year, I am here again. I wish to do the Full. And to finish it. And I really want to do this, despite several odds.

See you all soon and best wishes to you all.

Poems can elude us

The emoji prompt did that

It punched me silly

The pinnacle of the cliff

Holds my view stiff

Along the trough, the boat is empty

Gentle in its sail, its promise is scanty

At that frightening top, I am closer to the sky

They said it’s the limit, to the earth I won’t say bye

Oh I love jumping down, there is fun in the risk

If the boat is on a pool of tears, I’d rather shelf my frisk

The knack to navigate the peaks and valleys

Gives me a sense of what should be in my grocery trolleys

All said; for choice I’ll stay at the peak

That will keep my bird pointing to the sky with its beak

Jisike, you are the friend who chose to foldaway

Truth found us in the beginning

Its presence, unwelcome

Its garment of honour, invisible

The invitation to the unity of birth, void

But we tarried

We were nascent beings, volatile and transient

We stood always with hairs in the sky

If we have a date with truth tonight again

They will be rehearsing our beautiful songs

And you chose to travel

Truth will find us midway still

Truth will find us in the end

Those beautiful songs must sing themselves

Those dreams built on sand dunes will remain

Not to be buried in the cemetery of lost words

Clean suit on straight lovely pants

Screaming tie, transforming into a noose

An Italian leather briefcase ejects a suffocating Mac laptop

Spreadsheets pop out multiple eight-digit figures

A lean workforce trembles, a fat board expects

All sat, listening to slides brimming with lies

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

Profit is squatting nearby, seeking a new abode

The workforce is dying, beaten ill by the boss’ ire

The boss’ SUV outside exudes pity, unable to help

The board has slept with juicy tales all year long

All sat, waiting for the pregnant magic of transformation

But the spreadsheet figures are not adding up, they won’t

The board is spitting eight-digit curses upon the payroll

Profit is standing afar, winking at new spinsters

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

The meeting disperses like the aftermath of war

The bourgeois boss sheds tears under the corporate almond tree

The pillars will collapse like a weak house in the woods

It’s time to redeem the lies, to roll up the sleeves

But the beaten workforce will care no more

And the boss feels the biting hollowness of the pyramid top

In the crowded work room, the boss has been alone all the while

i.

Our songs will not be lost.

That euphoric declaration of twenty twenty,

a new decade set to bear new wings,

painted on walls of grand introspection.

Yet, the songs were going to peel off.

At the wake of the decade’s first quarter,

a pandemic flew in like unidentified flying objects,

with an airplane too big for the landing field.

ii.

You know how it looks, don’t you?

That invisible crown walking like a king,

snuffing lives, halting man, closing earth,

like a whirlwind high up to the heavens.

You see, it craves ignorance like lust,

Seeking victims of the sin of hindsight.

Go ahead and be clothed in the veil of precautions

and the invisible crown will fly around without perching on your head.

iii.

Man up, woman up;

there is a weak spot in everything, lying aloof.

Puncture those balloons of paleness

and let them hiss aimlessly out of your space.

iv.

Ashes have gone round.

Some blown into the air, like blinding dust;

some bottled in domestic columbaria;

some stuck, like glue, under earth’s feet.

It’s time for a dive out of these ashes.

v.

Let the arms gather, visible assemblies on the battle line.

Let the armies be adjured into action.

Let the swords take out all the jaundiced emotions that heap ashes beneath your feet.

The pandemic must have a weak spot somewhere.

The pandemic must have a weak spot somewhere.

vi.

Our songs will not be lost.

With fright thrown into the furnace,

with ignorance fleeing from us,

with earth healing beyond the ashes,

our songs will not be lost.