Category: Short Prose

[Poem] The Spice Must Flow pt 3 (1300-1800 AD)

Constantinople falls to Turks

Spice trade monopolies they seize

Then Marco Polo travels east, writes books

And Vasco (de) Gama starts journeying the seas

Anchors at Calicut but awry breeze

Engulfs his trade deal; Cannons roar for war

Now France, Holland(e), Britain enter the squeeze

Addicted! Spice they now demand much more

Effects global! Napoleon, Conquistadore.

 

Damn iambs! I give up…

Image:  http://www.around-amsterdam.com/dutch-east-india-company.html

[Poem] The Spice must Flow, pt2 (circa 2000BC)

My second attempt at writing a Spenserean sonnet. I don’t think I succeeded with the meter and rhythm here either… Oh well! I guess I’ll have to write a part 3. 

 

“Sumerian beer for your Indian pepper

Beer for pepper, sixty shekels for ten”

Merchants sell their last stocks; tough endeavor!

Sesame oil, lapis lazuli, tin

Ivory, cotton, even carnelian

In short supply these days… Hundred year drought

Leaves bare northern plantations Meluhhan

Pepper keeps alive this ancient trade route

Great Meluhha, abandon your cities, flee South!

 

Note: shekel here refers to a measure of weight… One shekel= 9 grams

 

[Poem] The Spice must Flow (4000-2000BC)

Melluha, the mount of spice: pepper hoard

Ships in port await the dawn to trade wares

Sailors, merchants, tourists and priests grow bored

Awaiting their turn for entry: dawn nears

Sunlight streams on shorelines, darkness’ shears

Sailors whoop as barges tow in their ships

Priests cry, “Holy Mountain”… joyful tears

Home at last! One jumps overboard, no he slips

Accidental ablution, or auspicious drips?

 

A/N: my first attempt at trying to write a poem with meter. It’s tougher than it looks.

 

[Poem] Mamankam the Festival of Death

A dispute that has raged for millennia

A vendetta turned into a global festival

The Mamankam festival is here

The Chaver tempers his will

 

Trained from birth to die in the fest

Master of sword and shield, urumi and spear

After this battle he can sleep in rest

The fifteen year old’s final hour draws near

 

He enters the arena with his suicide squad

Staring at his Target, the Zamorin of Calicut

There are Chinese, Arabs and even Greeks watching from the quad

The Chaver’s life purpose, the death of that nut.

 

His urumi kills ten with one swing

The Chaver inches towards the king

Nearly there, nearly there, his ears begin to ring

Missed! His elastic sword only shaves off the Zamorin’s hair

 

And so the vendetta rages on for centuries more

Turned into a festival, with lots of gore

Thousands die to satisfy the vainglory of foolish kings

Barely adult, the Chaver sings,

“For Pride, Glory and Honour”

 

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mamankam_festival

 

[Poem] The Servant King

Oh Marthanda Varma, King of Travancore

Padmanabhadasa, servant of Vishnu

Oh notable man from Kerala’s lore

I greet you, your life I now view.

 

Descendant of the Kolathiri and the Chera

Ruler from Kanyakumari to Aluva

You dedicated your kingdom to Parabrahman

Eschewing your riches in your search for Atman

 

You defeated the VOC, and then recruited them

You tamed the feuding Nair, and ended their penchant for vendetta

Oh most astute judge of character, with DeLannoy at your army’s helm

You extinguished the pyre, and ushered in peace, progress, the whole enchilada

 

Unfortunately, your descendants couldn’t measure up to you

While Pazhasshi fought Arthur Wellesley in the North

Nearly bringing an end to the Bombay Presidency too (though only swords they held and arrows they drew)

Your children squandered their advantage in the South

 

And fell into Britain’s ingenious debt trap

That forever changed the world map

 

A/N: The later rajas of Travancore were good and decent kings, but I don’t think they measure up to Marthanda Varma.

And yes… Arthur Wellesley, of Waterloo fame.

 

[Poem] The Flag of Constantine

The world weary pilgrim enters the monastery

Finding the chants of the monks sometimes dreary, sometimes cheery

He hopes to find here missing parts of his history

While outside, the flags of Constantine and the East Roman Emperors fly tall

 

He understands only a few words of the liturgy

Responding: Kyrie Eleison, Hallelujah, Hagios, Amen

He can sing the Trisagion, he has memorized that beautiful hymn

Inside the monastery there is wonderful energy, but no electricity

 

What does this all mean, he wonders

As the deacons bow in quick succession while they infuse the air with incense

What does it all mean, he wonders

Unable to comprehend, he bows and pretends

 

On Mount Athos, where the future is held at bay, and the past is present

Where the clock still ticks to the time of Constantinople

The pilgrim tries to sense his ancestors’ scent

Before he returns to the network global

 

Image: Father Joseph waving a byzantine flag in the Skete of Saint Minas… found on pinterest. I was going to put the Constantine cross, but this one looked so much nicer.

 

[Flash Fiction] Flash Fiction? WAAAGH!

“More words, you lazy shit,” the manuscript said to the writer.

The writer scratched his head, “But it’s flash.”

“I don’t give a damn,” the manuscript tried to spit out ink. “Where’s the soul, where’s the character development, where’s the frickin writing? Dostoevsky’s turning in his grave. You write some shit and then deliver a punch line, like that settles the whole thing. There’s no commitment from the reader, no time to ponder, to sit down and think about it by the fire. Use a roll of fricking toilet paper for this flash crap, not me.”

“It’s the latest fad,” the writer pleaded, “everyone’s writing it. Don’t you want to be read?”

“Sure, if it’s in the Quotable Quotes of Reader’s Digest,” the manuscript simmered down. “That’d be kind of nice actually.”

“Nobody reads the Reader’s Digest anymore,” the writer shrugged.

And so the Revolution of the Manuscripts began, and the written word vanished from this world.

http://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Waaagh!

Image courtesy: https://m.imgur.com/gallery/HEyKkDJ
A/N: This is my last attempt at experimenting with Flash Fiction. It’s just not for me. I’m going to pay more attention to my serial novel from now on.

[Poem] Broken Guitar String

Oh broken guitar string,

I knew not how old and rusted you were

As I began to shred and sing

Your presence on my rosewood fretboard did reassure.

And your adherence to tuning on my Floyd Rose tremolo

Was most appreciated.

As we explored Schumann Resonances

Oh, you dear old fellow

My every emotion you reciprocated

As we played sad little dirges.