Friday 9 September 2011

Poetry - Shurooq Amin

Truth


But no one ever speaks 
of sea-wide expanses 
of clear sky, refracted 
silver-coins on wave-tips, 
and pregnant palm trees 
unfurling frond-boughs 
heavy with green-mesh 
ladling unripe-as-yet 
dates to be picked in fall,

of palm-frond plumes 
netting the sky like a 
woman’s sacred caul;

no one speaks of the 
desert’s chalet-roads
lambent with mirages,

a piebald sky with 
puffball clouds 
ruptured at the edges, 

of dark green seaweed, 
like pliant obsidian 
trawled by the waves’ 
strumming on the sea-face, 

of swatches of fish-bones
fine-fettled in the morning
sand, pure and untrodden,

no one speaks of the sky
huffing wind, chinking
porch lanterns, suffusing 
spadices with life-breath,
bespattering pollen; no,

no one speaks of these:
when they open their silent lips, 
they just complain of allergies.

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