King is not well
Polished floors, closed doors, clean ceilings, and patched windows stare at the raped halls. Raped halls. People ran, dirty feet pilfering. Then came, the disjointed band. Legs up-down, up-down. Arms stiff-up-sideways, stiff-up-sideways. Hollering, bellowing lies. Megaphones being charged with diesel generators inside soon-to-be culpable throats. Throats that are so dehydrated they can’t stop sipping water from huge non-recyclable bottles. Bottles that echo back human noises and add to the planet’s waste. Crude and intimidating. Unwise injunctions mandating. And the solon of environment squatting cross-legged on bruised, panting skin, cringes, shifting its body weight to ease the pressure on ancient bodies. In thick haze lies the kingdom. The king is not well. Subjects remind him of glorious days. Sometimes he grins, sometimes he waggles. Subjects staunchly pray to the Gods. “Take his pain away, let him walk again. Let him eat, croon, cavort and rule again.” But the subjects are in deep fight. Squabbles are in open sight. They will not find a solution till rid of self-promotion. Drop the power game. Throw the dice in the drain. The world is ablaze, and untimely ghosts are out seeking victims. They question the mock pride of kings, nobles, clans and ordinary folks who are now like demons. There seems to be no absolute truth except humankind torturing their own. Seeds of hate sown. Legs up-down, up-down, arms stiff-up-sideways, stiff-up-sideways parade down the obstruse streets, nails strewn across the cold tar. No blood oozes. They’ve steeled themselves. The king no one refuses.
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Please don’t say he is dead, Trivia is possible
What’s in a word? Sometimes, it’s all in a word. History bears witness. So, please don’t say he is dead. Say he has passed away, no longer with us, left us, passed on. “Please revert the rights of his book to his daughter, the author is dead.” Please don’t say that word. Heart pounding, everything in me flooding out, not listening. Hey slow down, it’s okay, it’s only a word.My hurt is agitated by a word, language as used, stress as laid. Word or not, I know, I can find him no more. If I call his name long and hard enough, my cell might ring with his number popping up. My feet are darting now, don’t know where. Stop them, they are too quick, into the cold without socks, seeking chill, moisture or numbed freedom. This season will never change, and seed sods are kind of speechless. Disorganized, chaotic, hoping to land at the station that will take them home. Which home; my home; his home; final home? Is it final there? Where is there? I cannot think beyond the word that slid down my throat like a shaving from a sharpened pencil piercing my esophagus without shame or guilt, echoing inside resolutely. Perhaps I can turn the volume down to prove the word wrong. Or they are wrong who used the word, it rolls right off their tongue. Not thinking, maybe. I close my eyes and see him. I open my eyes and speak with him. Too many doors and windows, unsure of new beginnings or last endings. Leaving a jumbled matrix for Janus to resolve or solve. I’m just going to seek Apollo to keep singing, repeating things my ears pine for. So, please don’t use that word. Muta is better than Libitina and Trivia is not impossible. “Please revert the rights of his book to his daughter, the author is dead.” Heart pounding. Hey slow down, it’s okay, it’s only a word. Papa’s just sleeping, resting, maybe on a long journey. Perhaps you don’t even fully understand the word.
*Trivia: God of magic *Janus: God of doors and beginnings and endings *Apollo: God of sun, poetry, music and oracles *Muta: Goddess of silence
Libitinia: Goddess of death
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BIO
Anita Nahal, Ph.D., CDP is a poet, professor, short story writer, flash fictionist, and children’s writer. She teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington D.C. Besides academic publications, her creative books include, two volumes of poetry, a collection of flash fictions, four children’s books, two edited anthologies of poetry and one of nursery rhymes. Nahal’s third volume of poetry, What’s wrong with us Kali women? is scheduled for release bu Kelsay Books in August 2021. Her poems and stories can be found in national and international journals and anthologies in the US, Uk, Asia and Australia. Nahal’s poems are also housed at Stanford University’s Digital Humanities initiative, and she is also a columnist and guest contributing editor for New York based aaduna journal. Two books of Nahal’s are prescribed on university syllabus at the University of Utrecht, The Netherlands. Nahal is the daughter of Indian novelist and professor, Late Dr. Chaman Nahal, and educationist mother, Late Dr. Sudarshna Nahal. Originally from New Delhi, India, Anita Nahal resides in the US. Her family include her son, daughter-in-law and their golden doodle. For more on Anita: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal
