A Fall of Lucritus

a poem by Naveed Khalid, Pakistan

A Fall of Lucritus
Tis tigris, sir, for a wild hunt waning through
the forest deep,
frailty of her Wing hath salt of seven seas,
of so sickening a desire in ill-omen,
O horrible, horrible that e'ery groaning heart
feeds upon nurslings of immortality,
lo! our jordie passes-by, having nothing much to say
except a few fumbled words up his chin,
go loitering around the world;
so sayest I, "you want me to dumb this for you,
else I go get a drink",
weighed down by my bagpies
I moved to the counter with heavy steps
for a toast of times eternal,
a little above the archway, thy supreme most angels
sit still brooding o'er the dale in silent hours
of soliloquy; heart of coral-made
play music in the background;
so swayed by some dry leaves outspread in autumn
from dust-covered page of thy book,
capped with snow that old wooden house
of mortal clay; where blue-bells hang in the backyard
of rosemary garden, a cold kiss hath dried
Santa's mini skirt of a dragon skin at clover-beach,
of so rich his pride to her faults more
than old folks can afford:
my deeds to pry, a star-y velorum, at midnight lease,
of wayfarer's clime, a broccoli, beneath the bed
of crimson joy, marsh-mellows of hazel nuts,
neatly dovetailed along the pavement of cow parsley
her night-long love beside the oak,
pricked with small minions of soring thumb impressions,
from sullen earth arise by Swana's lake;
the setting sun of auburn looks at my door,
o'ershadow'd by seventy winters have thy November,
of first fall the lark at heaven's gate, Maestro, Sings!
yet far from the maddening crowd on wings, on wings,
e'ery flower upon a barren heath;
needs not day's old rhetoric illumine all woe-betide
my shipwrecked dreams,
half-way between the carpet upon thy iron car
blows the tumpet horn at Matilda's farm,
mere wild wagoner's wheel in rust, while some shadow fell
under the hedgerow of a cottage-tree;
against past woe's deceased frame thy haggard bones
upon the sand dunes that fair youth of golden tress his hair,
still to my decaying form abides;
away from high heavens that pelted grave
is swallowed at the foot of thy craggs,
O sea! of silver angels in age-old gray the eagle
of unerved blood in vein runs in deep sorrows,
Ovid's veneral amores beset against time's devouring hand:
the clock, our bedtime stories tell by the sweat of thy brow,
more subtle than the reality of yore battered things,
our esteemed Poet's mind, pays homage to our Lord in manger
of mandrake roots, a barefooted shoe-horse in the stable,
shall have no place in heaven; else on earth, if so you please,
phoebus's vocal rage of cloven-hooves, clawed jaws tugged in with
gurgling goggles among waded lots of wonton mire,
of smokey suburbs by the shabby island,
rest content be oblivion of a host among daffodils,
indeed! by thatch-eaves plays a hunch for the parade,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown in the late evening.

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2018.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Monday, February, 12, 2018 at 4: 24 PM

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