Verse Mosaics

Four Poets, Two Nations

'LITTLE BOY'

The zen was noisily broken Into a motley of emotions Plebeians lay forsaken As little boy fell from heavens A raconteur tried in vain To compose a little limn About the portrait of pain And the mortals therein The quiddity of a nation Changed once and for all Bliss became desiderium With the little boy's fall A mausoleum stands and sings today A sad, orphic song of decay * (Little boy refers to the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima, Japan) Poem is written in remembrance of the horrific atomic bomb attacks on Japan.

© SHWETA SAHAI India

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"BEYOND THE RAMPANT OF TIME"

The raconteur spins tales of yore, Before a motley crowd, quite engrossed. He weaves old legends of valor and gore, With words, that fly like arrows, deftly skittered. He has the gift of a spider, his words limn softly The anecdotes of a gentle old world, which is long gone. His orphic voice traps the listener, quietly, In the web of legends, that seep and linger on. The listeners feel a deep desiderium in their hearts For the characters that fly like Aegean heroes Scaling long forgotten, insurmountable ramparts Regaling them with their romance and pathos

Each legend is but a part of a thread, beautifully spun, Chronicled by the word spinner, with a vibrant core Of quiddity, the subtle and perfect one, Which survive tides of time, now and evermore.

©KALUCHARAN SAHU India

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"BARD OF SPRING"

The last chunks of mountain snow are in deep desiderium for the winter, when nature limn the emerald scenes in the landscapes like a portrait.

Wind, the bold raconteur - -

Regale trees with tales of the ocean.

Every bloom in the motley crowd of wildflowers jostle each other to be all ears. And rain, in her restless quiddity sings in the background.

Whistling wind is the bard of spring.

© RAFIYA SAYEED

India

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"THE PORCH BETWEEN WORLDS"

In the hush between stars and sleep, a raconteur leans on the porch rail, spinning tales from dust and ash, his voice a chimney of memory. The sky is mottled in motley hues,

where crows circle like half-sent thoughts.

He pauses to sip from a chipped cup,

then begins again, as if the tale wills it.

I limn the outline of his face -

shadow-bent, a sketch in lanternlight.

My pen waits, its nib breathing fog,

each word a tether to something lost.

There's a name I won't say aloud,

though every syllable aches with orphic weight.

That longing - ancient, bone-wrapped - is no less real than dawn.

And what I cannot say, he speaks with a silence that bears the weight of desiderium.

The porch creaks; the story never ends.

© CONCETTA PIPIA

U.S.