Literary Yard

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‘Art’ and other poems by M. V. Sathyanarayana

By: M. V. Sathyanarayana

I learned this art out of necessity…
of shaping straying storms into a poem.
It’s like brewing nectar from poison ivy
and like rescuing words from a burning tome.

My distressed spirits when seek solace from din
I dream of springtime woods, in dry autumn,
where greens burgeon with haste, fragrant jasmines
blossom in wilds and gallant honeybees hum.

Such runes are flying sparks from blazing veins
and tropes… fire floweres on long lightening-stalks.
But muse is a pseudo-anodyne; as pain
remains a pain behind the poesy blocks.

Let there be pain…what worth this life sans muse.
Don’t lotuses unfold from slimy ooze?


(Terza rima)
She walked my nigh with silky arrogance;
her eyes widened with showy ire and lips
in gentle quakes of gorgeous pretence.

Her strides with tandem synchrony of hips,
were long enough to cover inches short,
but made her sweat, that oozed like snowy drips.

Her rantings buzzed like propelled floral dart’
that synced with rasping whiffs of bouncing breasts
and fused tunes with her thudding heart.

Her loosened hair flew free with twilight zests,
her bangles clanged with hints of ebb’ng alarms
and anklets rang with skeptical protests.

She’s close! I smiled exuding manly charms.
She hissed, then sighed and fell into my arms.


They sign in blue, but I, in lucid ink
that often changes hues to suit my mood.
My lines allure, strokes tease, my sqiggles wink
and run like dancing script, but inside brood.

But often not I make robust imprints.
My ogees faze some men, my linears pain
and even dots infer some scathing hints.
In fine, my sigils odd, obscure remain.

Their lines are but like streaking cabarets
intoxicated by the modern kitshe.
They’re free like spinning smoke from cigarettes
and sprint berserk and blind with prosaic itch.

For me, but lines are art and craft mixture
and an etched mezzotint, my signature.


The big ben clanged twelve times, dingdong, dingdong.
I tore the sheets and threw into the bin.
That space is now empty. I laughed along
with wall enamel “Yeah…you’re dead…I win!”
I heard her demurs, moans and prolonged sighs
of joy, nostalgia and some distress.
I didn’t turn head. Nonsense, all lies…
she never delivered her promises.
I looked athwart. She was wiggling a bit.
Some keen cockroaches crept out, looked around,
as insects started gnawing it to whits.
She’s crying now with crackling sounds aloud.

I hanged a new calendar to the nailhead.
She hummed “I swear good days!” My face turned red.



My cruise on rudderless canoe of reverie…
my life a twisted braid of love and misery.

The summurs chill, springs shower burning autumn leaves
and winters sear my skin…why seasons go awry?

The sky daubs more azure on my weary visage.
My pleas for love, the hills with echoes, parody.

My broken heart reflects the same image as so
many…it’s me …a bleeding wingless honeybee!

The flowers laugh at me calling a tired amor.
and mocks a canary, singing an elegy.

I struggle to eschew the world by closing eyes.
But world is world, still smirking crass at me.

What’s left at last…few memories of slivered smiles,
few hugs and byes…all now I try to deep bury.


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