"gatherers" poems - Hello Poetry

Dal Lake I float on Dal Lake Suspended between the thick soupy crisp air of soldiers water lilies, Kashmiri bread and the Muslim prayers that penetrate the hardness of war chanting Allah Bismallah Floating Islam Holy words drenching the air Drenching the green cloth of Hindu soldiers Sliding down the cool metal of a rifle 9 years of war 1,000 houseboats lie empty in the Himalayan fog Intricately carved furniture Thick with dust and the powder of blood and bullets Himalayan silhouette etched black against the song of lotus gatherers Foggy voices like cloud of moon Lotus lake Gray of war and desperation Children beg 1 rupee 1 rupee 1 rupee Endless monologue Parched like lotus shaped paddle They throw flowers to me endlessly I throw them back endlessly Time passes slowly like smoke on a lizard’s tail trailing in the thick, rancid air of burning meat and maple leaves Like a shikara moving over the glass of Kashmir The sound of a dozen Bangees floating over the water Hollow, solemn and mournful Echoing against the hardness of the surrounding mountains The circle of Himalayas Like a womb around the prayers of Pachin In the middle of the lake I hear the call to prayer Azan Nemarz Suba Azan Nemarz Pashin Azan Nemarz Degar Azan Nemarz Sham Azan Nemarz Koftan From dawn till dusk Azan 4 mosques 4 singers 4 directions staggered by a breath like an imperfect echo Azan slips into the pockets of island soldiers Waters the impatience of soldiers on the shore Steals into the vacant eyes of soldiers in the Mosque They want to go home to their wives and children They want to leave the place of prayer, which is not theirs The place of prayer, which has seen death The place where God was pushed out In order to not see the killing To **** what they don’t see The place, which was no longer a refuge Outside Dal Lake turns to the color of red lentils cooking in a dented metal *** In the Shikara boat we eat dal and rice and throw scraps into the silver water where it washes up onto the ***** boots of a soldier I hear the dull gray click, click of his rifle as it touches the ground The prayers have ended

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Aug 13, 2014

Aug 13, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC

jeff-raheb

Dal Lake

Dal Lake I float on Dal Lake Suspended between the thick soupy crisp air of soldiers water lilies, Kashmiri bread and the Muslim prayers that penetrate the hardness of war chanting Allah Bismallah Floating Islam Holy words drenching the air Drenching the green cloth of Hindu soldiers Sliding down the cool metal of a rifle 9 years of war 1,000 houseboats lie empty in the Himalayan fog Intricately carved furniture Thick with dust and the powder of blood and bullets Himalayan silhouette etched black against the song of lotus gatherers Foggy voices like cloud of moon Lotus lake Gray of war and desperation Children beg 1 rupee 1 rupee 1 rupee Endless monologue Parched like lotus shaped paddle They throw flowers to me endlessly I throw them back endlessly Time passes slowly like smoke on a lizard’s tail trailing in the thick, rancid air of burning meat and maple leaves Like a shikara moving over the glass of Kashmir The sound of a dozen Bangees floating over the water Hollow, solemn and mournful Echoing against the hardness of the surrounding mountains The circle of Himalayas Like a womb around the prayers of Pachin In the middle of the lake I hear the call to prayer Azan Nemarz Suba Azan Nemarz Pashin Azan Nemarz Degar Azan Nemarz Sham Azan Nemarz Koftan From dawn till dusk Azan 4 mosques 4 singers 4 directions staggered by a breath like an imperfect echo Azan slips into the pockets of island soldiers Waters the impatience of soldiers on the shore Steals into the vacant eyes of soldiers in the Mosque They want to go home to their wives and children They want to leave the place of prayer, which is not theirs The place of prayer, which has seen death The place where God was pushed out In order to not see the killing To **** what they don’t see The place, which was no longer a refuge Outside Dal Lake turns to the color of red lentils cooking in a dented metal *** In the Shikara boat we eat dal and rice and throw scraps into the silver water where it washes up onto the ***** boots of a soldier I hear the dull gray click, click of his rifle as it touches the ground The prayers have ended