Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Zeyar Lynn

Elegy

Pass us by, O . . . Cavalryman!
We are the fallen.
O . . . Death Angel,
will you convey our bodies to heaven!
A night in the life of New York’s Times Square,
centrous, imperious & lustrous. Riches reproduce riches.
In Venezuela, a coffee plantation owner from the Mainland
makes his laborers sing in unison at every dawn –
‘Arise ye workers from your slumber! Arise ye prisoners of want!’.
At the battle for Aleppo
victorious generals wine & dine on a reclaimed bone yard.
News-news is all I know.
In the afterglow,
crows on the roost tittle-tattle about their day.
They strategise for tomorrow.
On the corpse-strewn ground,
amid the tongue-clicks & the whimpers of the dead,
the spirit of a horse whose only existence is
its whinnies looks for his master
in the thick clouds of smoke in the far corners of the world. 
I hear you.
I haul myself up on my broken sword, but
having lost the sense of direction . . .
of course,
the Seine seems smoother from the Eiffel Tower.
‘The Age of Heroes’
is the name of a computer game in this age.
The coffee seed from the plantation is worlds apart
from the coffee price at the supermarket.
I give my horse a whistle call.
When I walk into the Effigy Mounds of Native Americans
at the Great Mississippi
I hear the wind among the trees,
playing celestial symphonies.

As much as I am alienated from the world,
it was a blood-bond with nature.
At Hong Kong Poetry Nights I gaze at
the silver-haired wizard Adonis.
His stare back into my eyes makes me squiggle.
What is to be done?
In the spirit room, the Master of the White Horse,
riding a papier-mâché puppet white horse,
dances for me on its strings. 
I straddle the bloodless neigh, 
I am lost in my own existence.

In New York’s Central Park,
at MOMA, at the Tate, at the Bury-My-Heart-in-Wounded-Knee  
of Sitting Bull of the Sioux,
in the throat
of the late poet Maung Chaw Nwe,
in the whimper of his TB-ravaged entrails.
O . . . the blue throat of Lord Shiva
in the blue throat of Lord Shiva.     
O, lift us up, carry us away –
carry us away to Heaven.

Klaaglied

Ga ons voorbij, o . . . bereden soldaat!
Wij zijn de gevallenen.
O . . . doodsengel,
zul je onze lichamen naar de hemel voeren!
Een avond in het leven van Times Square in New York,
Geconcentreerd, heerszuchtig & luisterrijk middelpunt. Rijkdom reproduceert rijkdom.
In Venezuela laat een koffieplanter van het vasteland
zijn arbeiders bij zonsopkomst eenstemmig zingen –
'Ontwaakt, verworpenen der aarde! Ontwaakt, verdoemde in hongers sfeer!'
Bij de strijd om Aleppo
dineren zegevierende generaals uitgebreid op een heroverd kerkhof.
Nieuws-nieuws is het enige dat ik ken.
In de naglans
kwebbelen kraaien op hun roest over hun dag.
Ze zetten de lijnen uit voor morgen.
Op de met lijken bezaaide grond,
te midden van het tonggeklak & jammeren van de doden,
de geest van een paard die enkel bestaat in
het hinniken de blikken voor zijn meester
in de dikke wolken rook in de verre uithoeken van de wereld,
hoor ik jou.
Ik richt mezelf op op mijn gebroken zwaard, maar
omdat ik mijn richtinggevoel ben kwijtgeraakt . . .
natuurlijk
lijkt de Seine kalmer vanaf de Eiffeltoren.
‘Het tijdperk der helden’
is de naam van een hedendaags computerspel.
Het koffiezaad van de plantage staat enorm ver af
van de koffieprijs in de supermarkt.
Ik fluit mijn paard.
Als ik de beeldheuvels van de Indianen inloop
bij de Grote Mississippi
hoor ik de wind tussen de bomen
hemelse symfonieën spelen.

Hoezeer ik ook van de wereld ben vervreemd,
het was een bloedband met de natuur.
Op poëzieavonden in Hong Kong staar ik naar
de zilverharige tovenaar Adonis.
Als hij terugstaart kronkel ik.
Wat moet er gebeuren?
In de geestenkamer danst de meester van het Witte Paard,
die een wit papier-maché poppenpaard berijdt,
voor mij aan zijn touwtjes.
Ik zit schrijlings op het bloedeloos hinniken,
verloren in mijn eigen bestaan.

Close

Elegy

Pass us by, O . . . Cavalryman!
We are the fallen.
O . . . Death Angel,
will you convey our bodies to heaven!
A night in the life of New York’s Times Square,
centrous, imperious & lustrous. Riches reproduce riches.
In Venezuela, a coffee plantation owner from the Mainland
makes his laborers sing in unison at every dawn –
‘Arise ye workers from your slumber! Arise ye prisoners of want!’.
At the battle for Aleppo
victorious generals wine & dine on a reclaimed bone yard.
News-news is all I know.
In the afterglow,
crows on the roost tittle-tattle about their day.
They strategise for tomorrow.
On the corpse-strewn ground,
amid the tongue-clicks & the whimpers of the dead,
the spirit of a horse whose only existence is
its whinnies looks for his master
in the thick clouds of smoke in the far corners of the world. 
I hear you.
I haul myself up on my broken sword, but
having lost the sense of direction . . .
of course,
the Seine seems smoother from the Eiffel Tower.
‘The Age of Heroes’
is the name of a computer game in this age.
The coffee seed from the plantation is worlds apart
from the coffee price at the supermarket.
I give my horse a whistle call.
When I walk into the Effigy Mounds of Native Americans
at the Great Mississippi
I hear the wind among the trees,
playing celestial symphonies.

As much as I am alienated from the world,
it was a blood-bond with nature.
At Hong Kong Poetry Nights I gaze at
the silver-haired wizard Adonis.
His stare back into my eyes makes me squiggle.
What is to be done?
In the spirit room, the Master of the White Horse,
riding a papier-mâché puppet white horse,
dances for me on its strings. 
I straddle the bloodless neigh, 
I am lost in my own existence.

In New York’s Central Park,
at MOMA, at the Tate, at the Bury-My-Heart-in-Wounded-Knee  
of Sitting Bull of the Sioux,
in the throat
of the late poet Maung Chaw Nwe,
in the whimper of his TB-ravaged entrails.
O . . . the blue throat of Lord Shiva
in the blue throat of Lord Shiva.     
O, lift us up, carry us away –
carry us away to Heaven.

Elegy

Pass us by, O . . . Cavalryman!
We are the fallen.
O . . . Death Angel,
will you convey our bodies to heaven!
A night in the life of New York’s Times Square,
centrous, imperious & lustrous. Riches reproduce riches.
In Venezuela, a coffee plantation owner from the Mainland
makes his laborers sing in unison at every dawn –
‘Arise ye workers from your slumber! Arise ye prisoners of want!’.
At the battle for Aleppo
victorious generals wine & dine on a reclaimed bone yard.
News-news is all I know.
In the afterglow,
crows on the roost tittle-tattle about their day.
They strategise for tomorrow.
On the corpse-strewn ground,
amid the tongue-clicks & the whimpers of the dead,
the spirit of a horse whose only existence is
its whinnies looks for his master
in the thick clouds of smoke in the far corners of the world. 
I hear you.
I haul myself up on my broken sword, but
having lost the sense of direction . . .
of course,
the Seine seems smoother from the Eiffel Tower.
‘The Age of Heroes’
is the name of a computer game in this age.
The coffee seed from the plantation is worlds apart
from the coffee price at the supermarket.
I give my horse a whistle call.
When I walk into the Effigy Mounds of Native Americans
at the Great Mississippi
I hear the wind among the trees,
playing celestial symphonies.

As much as I am alienated from the world,
it was a blood-bond with nature.
At Hong Kong Poetry Nights I gaze at
the silver-haired wizard Adonis.
His stare back into my eyes makes me squiggle.
What is to be done?
In the spirit room, the Master of the White Horse,
riding a papier-mâché puppet white horse,
dances for me on its strings. 
I straddle the bloodless neigh, 
I am lost in my own existence.

In New York’s Central Park,
at MOMA, at the Tate, at the Bury-My-Heart-in-Wounded-Knee  
of Sitting Bull of the Sioux,
in the throat
of the late poet Maung Chaw Nwe,
in the whimper of his TB-ravaged entrails.
O . . . the blue throat of Lord Shiva
in the blue throat of Lord Shiva.     
O, lift us up, carry us away –
carry us away to Heaven.
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