Dawn Poem by Bhanu Padmo

Like tendrils of sky-goddess, cirrus shone;
Like omen of good fortune imminent;
Yet upon long swell did the trawler stagger;
Overwhelming was yet the sprouting dawn.

Aboard among mortals,
Me, the stranger at sea,
Denying images of swallowing waves,
Eager and earnest, I awaited shore;
Never recalling the home I dwelt;
Where sweet had gone sour;
Where heart had turned stone.

Cirrus shining still high above,
Below, the blue had gone lurid;
Denying images of swallowing waves,
Survival I sought amidst mortal sailors,
Wise and old.

Tearing surface ahead, rippled and serene,
Rose a nimbus nimble, sea-demon, they said;
In askance I looked at them,
The wise and old;
Wondered they how I knew not the rule secular.

Extraneous isn*t misfortune, they implied;
Like an apparition of soul-explosion it was;
Irresolution own, mourned yet unsolved,
Sparking heart-circuit it is;
To cause the conflagration.

Ship is the cause of storm, they said;
Swallowing waves were soon to ensue;
Lay aboard thus the secret
Of any escape magical.

Crossed my mind then the home I dwelt;
Where sweet had gone sour;
Where heart had turned stone.

Like smoke spread the whirlwind ghastly;
Like anaconda it wound around sea with ship.
And amidst mortal sailors,
Wise and old,
I sought remedy, indigenous and occult.

On the forecastle, panting and pounding,
In the teeth of that devouring devil,
Spoke the boatswain, old and wise:
Listen to me, O Ocean Queen!
Upon your golden forehead aha! I see,
Tendrils of anxiety irresolute;
Tempest of misfortune that entails ever.

Take a hair and split it fine;
Ritual of redemption this though,
Split it short never;
Lest demon swallows ship with us,
And the dawn.

Goaded by fear, I split the hair short,
Doubling the devil;
Burying deeper the sprouting dawn.

Shrieked sailors mortal, wise and old:
Ritual of redemption this though,
Split it fine, never split it short.

Steadying myself upon the craft contingent,
Plummeting and plunging,
I did manage to split it fine;
Killing the demon, saving the dawn.

Swell gone, shone cirrus again;
And shore rose above horizon like sun;
And the lurid turned serene blue.

Now I sought my forlorn home,
Where sweet had gone sour;
Where heart had turned stone;
*Cause I had a glimpse of a passing clue,
In the ritual of redemption.

Mystic among mortals aboard, the boatswain,
Looked on as I was to say goodbye;
Upon my face he saw the dawn dying;
Kitchen demon was the apocalypse, he knew.

Spoke boatswain, old and wise:
Listen O Heart Queen!
Upon your forehead aha! I see,
Tendrils of anxiety irresolute.
Take a filament and split it fine,
Home threshold as you tread.

Seek and propose no more a transverse,
Split it fine along its length always,
Never split it short, hurried and worried.

Eager and Earnest,
Of boatswain I sought the lurking secret:
Speak to me on transverse you see, O Mystic!
Tell me how you split an interval fine,
Still beyond the curse of being shortened?

Cause is the backbone, said the mystic;
By bone grasp it or time-span thereof;
Split the cause, split not its time, O Heart Queen!
And retrieve thus the home-dawn;
Kitchen demon is then history irreversible.

I didn*t dig thenceforth any trench transverse,
Across relationship, homely and heavenly;
Steadying myself in bottle-necks of life,
The long cause I did manage to split;
Finer and finer till life was full,
Killing the demon, saving the dawn.