Bijay Kant Dubey

The Myths Of Dark Daughters (Poetry Of The Dark Daughters) - Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

Poetry as the dark daughters,
dark, but lovely,
mythical and mystical,
symbolical and historical,
archeological and sculptural.

Poetry, what is poetry,
ask you not,
poetry is poetry,
what take you,
narrate you to?

Poetry poetry,
the poetry of life,
myth and mysticism,
poetry symbolism,
love of art and artifacts.

Poetry mythical, symbolical and mystical,
poetry historical,
a delineation of the dark daughters,
the daughters dark, but lovely,
lovely and beautiful.

Dark is dark,
let it be,
what it was,
what it is,
as it will remain as ever.

Dark is dark,
let it be
as it will continue to evade us,
dark is dark,
let it be.

The dark daughter
as a devadasi
dancing before,
a sevadasi

A nautch girl
tired of dancing,
fatigue and routined business
and the anklets
lying fallen and scattered.

Say, say you,
Who brought here
as for religion's sake,
piety and holiness of feeling,
but they too are not holy?

Lo, the sculptures and figurines
on the temple walls
speaking under the starlit skies
of the terracotta temples,
lime clay and small brick made!

Dark is dark,
dark will it remain,
the myths of darkness,
dark life and living,
where all is but dark.

The myths of darkness,
how to unravel them,
lay them bare
what it was dark,
what it is?

Who made them,
when did they,
what the purpose and motif behind,
where the masons and artistes,
why is history silent about?

Were they the Aryan girls
or the Austro-Asiatics
or the dark natives,
who, who were they,
the dark daughters?

Dark is dark, let it be,
all the myth and mystery of it,
relating to,
as from the dark,
breaks it the light.

Is the temple complex
the right place for the daughters
to dwell upon and to delve,
who were those brought them
to the place?

Were the bad pundits,
the astrologers, the palmists,
the horoscope-makers,
the soothsayers
or the florists?

Dark is dark,
let it be,
what it was,
what it is
as these continue to be.

Dark is this creation,
the tales of it,
dark the womb,
the things shrouded in mystery
and these can never be.

Dark the world not,
dark you not merely,
dark the Goddess,
Goddess Kali,
The Mother Divine.

Whatever be that, the pottery work
which we see is excellent,
The sculptures and figures
Seem to speak,
hiding in, murmuring the truths of life.

Topic(s) of this poem: art

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, May 17, 2014

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