The stillnesses of the aeons before
the world-times which stir in Him adorned of
skulls of all the forms that ever arose,
who knows of what age when first He walked here?
Staff in hand, for who walks His path is but
Him, garlanded in beads native to heights
of the times before time, clad of the ash
burned of tenses, master of dance, in whose
drunken steps rise, these universes vast:
auspicious, three-eyed the Lord of all.
Second of my 5-part poem on Shiva the great God of Hinduism; Set to Iambic pentameter!

Part - 1:
Conches and cymbals rend the air peering
into the mists of time vast like the snow-
clad peak, ancient that shines in the cells as
in the stars, matted whose locks gather the
sky-river in their folds, bearing the moon-
shell on his brow, merged in etherial that
datum where shine neither the moon nor stars
still like heavens that serpents slither lone
the one beyond all dual, red-hued like
the glacier anointed nigh at dusk
the 1st stanza of the 1st poem 'Shiva' in my now poetry project 'Sati' - this one is set to Iambic pentameter
Prabhu Iyer Jan 5
And darkest the night when all seems
lost, parts thick the blanket of fog;
Desiccated to the bone when
moonless in agony,
go emptied of Spirit the skies,

Broken in Her temples,
desecrated in the shrines
veiled, chained, burned at stake;
Scattered lays She,
as hope among the stars.

Among a thousand tribes risen,
to burst forth again,
Diana and Ishtar, Athena and Brigid,
crimson the rays that flood
regnal the horizon in waves;

Who casts time in the thrall of Her dice
fire cannot burn, nor weapons hurt,
who measures worlds in Her strides,
the black rose, Mistress of the night,

Garlanded in skulls of a thousand such
who know not Her might
whose hands sewn Her garment great
trampled death under Her thunder trail
Here She comes the ancient One:
Prabhu Iyer Dec 2017
That's how you break it
now you are alone
and I am alone
but that doesn't
make us of each other

the universe, starry night,
from the ringside view
of a puff rising;

let it rain, for
I must not get wet
out in the fury,
I've lost all adhesion

of nightbirds
rend the sky
this lonely hour
Prabhu Iyer Dec 2017
The year that went by
was interesting:
very interesting,
and I did way many things,
and didnt
do many other things;
Among them,
this one little thing
that I know I should do,
do more, much more, I know,
this tiny little thing:
that like the blue blossom
little hides beneath the bush
mingling its fragrance
with the morning wind;
Who knows of it's existence?
Neither the sun, nor the moon
nor the stars, certainly not
even the birds and men that
move about there:
but it exists, this tiny little
bundle of delight
shining beneath the bush;
Yes, like that little blue blossom
this thing that I must do:
I blue-velvet know it:
saying I love you
yes, I'll do it more, more and more
now, this year that comes
pouring in the rains,
Now when I wade out
into the light.
Time for the mushy side :)
Season's greetings and a wonderful New Year 2018 all!
Dont forget the little things! Esp to those that matter to you!
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2017
haze across the distance
graying horizon
silence deep, as
in anticipation
emerging from the eye
of some future time
wonder lines
winter morning
wandering mist
flooding the lands
and homes
it will rain, and
more and more
until who knows when
don't flood our home
this time,
no not our dreams
Prabhu Iyer Oct 2017
Overcast in mid-monsoon
bursting over ceaseless in rains
whirl-dancing dervishes
petals in ripple lakes,
chiming with the thunder
bridging heaven and Hades
hot a spring steaming here;
When we walk hand in hand
dimpled smile to smile
a hundred voices stream forth
in the bush streaking my cheeks
black unknown the hands of fate;
Flaming a firebrand dagger
dug into the earth will not heal
searing the roots, fuming stamen
in wilting flowers of the flame tree;
Dry the wells after all the tears
to the sky and beyond.
You are free, woman, of all
oppression, by force or love
unfettered be your spirit,
rage over me, dampen the soul!
Frame-holding an angst
disinterested at the edges,
rain, gail, storm in the soul,
withered trail of blossom fall:
spectral here sepulchered.
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