Autophony

Yont   brattlin  clood an seelent glen Tweetlin a-lood the ingine skirls this noisome train wi lanely men hame-comin whaur thair lassies birls whit lends thay awe, an whit dets thirls whit ailin mam, whit seekly bairn thair dreams forby the train-smeuk swirls bi new gless tour or auncient cairn thay ken nae sang, thaur herts made airn thair mynds full o the twalmonth tack regairdless o loch, pen or tairn thay anely think o whit thay lack ay but thinkna muckle o it ye an a, we're an aw in it Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2017 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

I come at last to a wanderer's grave, My sexton is the vulture's jaw; He'll bury me by the wanderer's law In open field or cloistered cave. The buzzing flies will make up my shroud, As the wind howls my death lament. While I convulse through my last torment, They chant my rites clear and loud. The vagrant at last shall come to stay, In the maggot's fattening zest. May I think I've found eternal rest As my tissues ferment away? But for peace I shall pray in vain, For my bones roll on upon the plain. (Published in GloMag, December 2015 p72)

A gunshot in the temple, tempered by cocaine; Barbiturates, so honeyed dreams shall never fade; Or seppuku and its seizing, searing pain As tenderly nurtured flesh meets the whetted blade; Plunge a dagger into one's own neck, and wailing Screeching, screaming qualis artifex pereo; Or must it be by self-immolation, flailing, Buckling, gyrating in an obscene rodeo; Fall upon one's sword, or trust one's loyal maiden To smuggle in an asp and to it surrender; Perhaps a ripened apple, cyanide-laden To exit without pain, and go out in splendour; Which is it truly, the most beautiful way To pass into freedom, and escape from today? Published in Lakdi Ka Pul - II The Poetry Bridge 2017 — an international anthology by Twin City Poetry Club

Who stood at Kosovo Polje? Who heard the guns at Waterloo? who remembers those days today, to bear the rancour this day too? The time we were meant to forget, the writer's pen traps it in ink. We read much but we do not think, and contrived hatred we beget. None lives who saw the mad work done. But mention an imagined past, None hesitate to pick a gun And swear to defend to the last. The last who remember are dead We rush to take their place instead. Published in  Remember , ed. Paragram; Four Point Press, Shepperton, 2014. ISBN: 978-0-9927123-2-7.