Usha Amulya, Poetry 2021 Shortlist

 

Dusted archives & vaulted remains

"Circa 324" reads the stone tablet,

Behold the emperor, retold his sonnet,

Daggers down, stood the warrior poised,

Deciphers the curator, his voice bruised.

The armour, a thousand smelten ingots,

Inlaid rings, motifs of his strife in knots,

Golden coffers, his iron throne proclaimed;

Soiled sandals and territories claimed.

" Salve!" i count the plums on the porcelain,

" Salve!" i gaze at the peony tapering within,

" Salve. quid vis?" I turn, yammering unbridled,

The brass casket to the left spiralled,

"11:11" the ticking ancient dial reads,

Leaving the museum, bemused, i tread.

Fastening the window, i draw the shades on;

For tis blinding light, flashes upon,

Due past 10 days, warns the withered card,

I alight the stairs to the library, jarred.

I turn-in the card, its dues unpaid,

" Salve, salve!" the calls deluge,

Down the aisle of the scrolls refuge,

Dusted runes, i read the chronicles dismayed.

" Salve, salve" the calls reverberate,

Quivering, i unroll the sealed scroll,

Someone seizes my hand, tugging in control,

Alarmed i dart across, my eyes dilate.

The ceiling transmutes, the skies testify,

Twilight, the skylarks & swallows fly,

Clouded up above, the moon's grin,

Leaves the way for parade, chariots in,

Gaping, i smack my wrist crimson,

Startled, the horses rear up and halt,

The emperor & empress glance, guards risen.

Swiftly, curator slams the scroll & rolls,

Unfazed, yanks me out & censures,

" lady, do not venture the forbidden vaults,

Lest by heavens ordain, you shall remain,

In history's shackles, fettered rein."

I tread back to my room, muddled,

Unbolting the door, clearly befuddled,

The tea brews, "It's 12" the clock cuckoos,

I gaze aloft the sky, the heavens virtues,

The moon ascends the stairs ov'r the stars,

Beyond the cursed tombs, travails & scars.

I fill the rusted inkpen's cartridge,

For tonight, the ink's treads, rushed,

Stains the paper, crimson flushed,

Of the archives & chronicles unhushed.

Poetry 2019 Featured Poet, Usha Amulya

The Saga of Tribes, Battles & Empires

Coalesced the clans of each tribe lord
as the realms of purandara stood by accord
for the sacrifices by the shadows of creek
by the shards of epochs, hitherto meek


Beseeched the pantheons, forged in iron
unbeknownst to thee, the calleth of return
kubha, kruma, gomathi, swastu, beyond
where the spoils of war & riches, dawned


Thus spake, Vashishta, the venerated sage
"Oh, the descendant of tritsu, listen
thy travails of wanderings lest rage
beyond thy murky dwellings, glisten
for thriving path of honour, reckons
to crown thee, the heaven beckons
eternity, thee name shall be famed
thee shall be throned, it is heavens ordained.
Oh mighty, sudas raise thy sword
thy horses by ruins, stood saddled
by the river parusni, chariots rattled
for thy commands, thy tribes, my lord"


Clanking metals and sharpened saws
armours bound, threatening jaws
for now, treads the saviour heavily clad
the battle throngs of the extolled lad,

and, stood each tribe by the river, duly
oblations offered to lord Agni, in fury
for now heralds the new era, returned
puru, yadu, turvsu, others, yearned

bled the earth crimson, for rivers welled
as the lord said, "behold the glorious warrior sky
traverse the clouds, mountains high"
and thus began the battle to supremacy, unparallelled

Poetry 2018 Longlist, Usha Amulya

The Capricious Throne

Laden with the jewels imposing crown
stood the gaudy vicious throne
for who sat in its lumbersome lap
wore the diadem wreathed in its trap
clenching the mighty pillars afar
swept across the battle’s drums of war
allying it’s mighty ruler’s eternal chamber
painting each rival’s princess in sombre
sealed forever in fate’s caprice chess
she held her hand swapped as empress
donning the regal sautoir of bequest
sat as the ruler’s pretentious conquest
it’s saws ran amidst ruinous strife
as each subject laid down one’s precious  life
to satiate the ruler’s hegemonic grasp
starving for riches beyond its clasp
as it’s majesty’s reaches turned all grey
the ticking time circled round about
turning the tables of history in clout
the throne lured his rivals in its play
the battle chained the ruler aghast
as all his vast riches lay in the past
for now stood the new master crowned
in the clutches of the throne securely bound

Poetry 2016 Longlist, Usha Amulya

Only Six Feet of Land Remains

That wrinkled, tattered and weary smile, 
faded as each pace walked it's mile,
the jaded look of a worn out sire, 
sailing through his dismal dire.

Things that shone, now all gone, 
Along with the metals ever precarious,
all that's gone is the precious pal, 
Amidst the joy withering with each fall.

The drawers filled with silvers and gold, 
costed the sire, his soul being sold, 
all his grandeur made a pompous show, 
for all his metals did once glow.

The evening now wore a dreary look,
behind the restless hands he shook, 
gasping through his garish life, 
gnawing at his inner strife.

For now the sun marked it's crimson, 
burying his riches that's long ago won,
and all that remained at sire's command,
is his coffin buried in 6 feet of land.