Friday, January 16, 2015

A Reign of Fire (A Rain of Fire)

(Author's note- This poem may be hard to understand and I advise everyone to read the explanation in the ending after reading the poem once, and then rereading the poem a second time for deeper understanding)

A silent night, peaceful and pleasant, 
interrupted by a fiery rain that
rips through the land like a thief, 
taking what if wants.
And now everything is alight,
with a burning fire so sinister it
chills to the bone.

I wake up to screaming,
my mother grabbing me frantically.
Only four, I am confused.
So many lights… is this a celebration? 
The wetness on my mama’s face looks strange,
and the smell of the red pain she wears burns my nose.
Outside it is bright, and so hot for a winter’s night.
Everyone is running round, most wear red paint like Mama. 
Fireworks are in the air, landing closer than usual. 
There are strange Green Men, holding
black contraptions that also give off fireworks.
Sometimes one would hit a friend, or a neighbour and
they would fall, pretending to sleep, red paint magically
appearing from under their still bodies. 
What kind of game is this? I wonder,
my eyes darting around, eager to join.

Why won’t mamma stop screaming?
Why does the air smell painful?
Why does it hurt when I breathe?

Suddenly mamma takes me to a dark corner,
and lays me down.
‘Child listen to me,’ She says, and
something in her voice seizes my attention. 
‘Let’s play a game, ok?’
‘You close your eyes and count to fifty, and 
mamma will hold you close.’
‘This is a weird game, mamma.’
'Will you do it for me?’
‘Of course I will!’
I close my eyes, and feel mama’s warm arms
wrap around my little body. 

Mama begins shaking
water and red paint hit the floor in strange, uneven splatters.
There is a loud noise and mama cries out.
The darkness in my eyelids turns bright orange,
the light outside must be white hot.

My Child counts the numbers
learnt in the village school
disciplined and innocent,
unaware our lives teeter dangerously on this
monstrous cliff of blood and metal.
We play our game as the Green Men play theirs.
The blood on my body and the tears in my eyes fall
like my brothers and sisters have tonight,
and like them, there is no way to get it back,
it is gone, gone forever. 
I pull my baby close.
An explosion sounds above us.
I bury my face in my angel’s hair. 

My child never gets to finish. 

- Diya
Recently, my family and I went to Vietnam. It was beautiful, but tragic too, as I saw photos in war memorials that personally will affect me forever. The brutality of war was something so tragic and intricate I was immediately inspired with a strange concept. The Point Of View (POV) in this poem is split three ways-

One goes to no one in particular, as it is a description of the scene at hand.

After that we see a small child (who's gender I didn't want to specify to add to the illusion and mystery) who has woken up, obviously confused and excited. This child's POV is a little weird, and will take maybe several readings to fully decipher and understand.

Finally we see the mother, who knows exactly what's happening, but has obviously not clued the child in. She is protective, injured, probably poisoned and on the cusp of death. The poem finishes off with the same abrupt, unsatisfying and instant effect we often feel in real life. 

Hope you guys liked it, and after reading this titbit will read it again with more understanding. If you like it please share and follow, thanks (: 

1 comment:

  1. Dear Diya
    Was touched when I read this poem.I can't believe that my cousin is now an eloquent poet!!Well done and I am sure you will soon be publishing your own book of poems!!
    shoba akka