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Returning Home Spiral wisps of lung-squeezing smoke escaping holes in conical thatched-roofs, forming curly pathways of ribbon, floating heavenly on the sounds assembled by the snake-charmer’s magical flute, while languishing behind, the spicy aroma, wafting from meager evening meals. Bowed low with burdened aching-backs, farmers trudge overused trampled-paths, balancing life-giving fluid dexterously on grimacing sun-drenched female heads; no robust camel-back for the last straw; Lilliputian rib-caged humans struggle behind cracked, cow-dung plastered walls. Far away in the shimmering distance, the round orange-red glow sucks on planetary fare, wheezing for one more slumber-acquiring breath, before the asylum of lightlessness tranquilizes its neurotic flaming quest, while the half-starved mongrels scavenge scattered accumulation of scant edible garbage. The old immortal mango tree majestically bends its saturated ephemeral head, masochistically docile to the wasteful evening-repast of ravenous tail-swinging monkeys, mimicking stone-casting dirt-caked children, relishing the occasional bequeath of charity bestowed by the bounty of the tree. In the quiet of the settling dusk, bumpily fuming, a moaning-car gripes; struck by the cough-invoking snail-like rush, arthritic bullock-carts wobbly amble, while children wave, breaking invariability, suspicious-frowning adults raise dust-clad brows, inhaling the demise of monotony. Villagers gather in rustic curiosity, mesmerized by city-dweller’s heartfelt plea. Sitting by her pyre, scales tilt perilously, lingering accrued-dreams yet unappeased, torment weighing the weary over-weighted beast, emanated from the scoriae of rare prophecy, where his doubts had remained sagaciously. With clenched fists, the village progeny defies the still-remembered prodigal son of yesteryears, impaled by potency of iniquitous temptations, with new-found mythical resolve he dares, "unchain my mind from the vassalage of my body. My home is where my heart was born, where I will imprint the footprints of my soul." |
Additional Notes:
I am resubmitting this poem NOT because of any changes that I wanted to make, but because I would like to inform those critiquers who do not understand a perticular poem, to not critique it. You may "misunderstand" it
or understand it as it relates to you (that is ok) but when I get critiques like "I did not understand the poem but I think it is very good" or "I understand the last verse which was very good," or something like that, I would appreciate the crtiquer not to critique this poem. Firthermore, I would appreciate an explanation (perhpas examples) of what is not right. It is very easy to make general comments that the poem should cut down a few wrods to make it more understanding but what words, where? I have, as a critquer tried to follow what I am stating. For example, during May, the winning poem was one of the best poems I have read in a long long time, but I could not critique it because I found it a little hard to understand it in the begining.After reading other critiques, I came to really appreciate the poem. I, however, have received critiques from three critiquers for this poem ( just a few lines - two of them with only two lines) with comments like the one I stated above. I am trying to learn and, therefore, have decided to spend one more of my submission points in an effort to get an honest evaluation. You may not like it, but please do not like it for a reason that is a bit more than "it is too long, too short , etc."
To make it easy for the critiquers, I am going to describe the poem and what it entails:
This poem was written with 8-10-10-8-10-10-8 meteric although it may not follow it to the 't.' It amy still be considered as free-flowing because i have not checked out where the syllable empahses are in each line (courtesy of my friend, Brenda). The first part of the poem describes a village scene in India (where hut walls are plastered with cow-dung -also used for fuel). The farmers carry great big loads of hay and farm equipments on their back while the women balance pots of wwater on their heads. The village son returns from the city but finds his loved ones dead (the reference to the pyre for cremetion). The price he has paid is great but he is still caught betwen two worlds (village and city), "lingering accrued-dreams yet unappeased,"
Finally the son realzes that his desitny remains in the old village prophecy that states that a person's home is where he was born and where a true son always returns. He asks for the freedom from the slavery of the wants of his body and decides to stay back. i hope this helps.
Sorry, there are no critiques for this poem in our system... If the poem is older, the critiques have been purged!