In the Shadows of Autumn

Far, far from the withered leaves that decked the shadowy autumn twilight -

Nameless buds fading into the dew-drenched grass in the stillness of the night,

I sought once more the paddy fields that rose and fell before my eyes,

The streams that rippled across the mind, amidst their feeble voiceless cries.

Those were the days when the sun-kissed shores smiled upon the dreaming new-born,

The days when the song of freedom echoed, in accolades of red, across the nation's horizon,

The nights when glared the lolling flames, leaping over the silent meadows, green,

And teary-eyed, they fled from home  to these hostile lands unseen,

Dragging along their blood-washed past, doomed to perish in the fiery outrage -

A tremor in the morning song, weeping over the ruins of the forsaken village,

While a million stories jostled for space in the wilderness-the refugee camps,

Up gazed a million pairs of eyes at the smiling, blind star-lamps.

Down descended a curtain of mist over a world in perpetual war,

As the autumn breeze, in twilight clad, left Winter's door ajar.

A young mother sighed in the soothing melodies of a long-forgotten lullaby,

Her newborn's whimpers softened - she said, "Come morning, it'll die."

Who knows when, in stealthy steps, up crept the morning sun,

Over corpses piled high on wailing roads, blood seeping through the golden morn?

Decades hence, today, as the autumn air rings out in the laughing festival-bells,

Teary-eyed return the drowned through the wrath of a million gales.

On flows the wave, in bright hues of gaiety, far below our elegant high-rise,

Echoing in its restless heart , once more, their feeble, voiceless cries -

The wails of those who lurk in the shadows of these dazzling lights;

The goddess steps down from her throne, sauntering away into the night.

On the nameless graves along the endless path, she sheds her repentant tears,

For the souls that withered into the morning white of the newborn's early years.

Yet, beyond the holocaust, the paddy fields still rise and fall,

The nightingale sings across the dale - our green fields still call.

On the decaying walls of the crumbling mansions, linger many an unheeded sigh, 

Flowing down the lane, across the darkening years, blending in with the winter sky.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

You have created a variety of differing images. From the tranquil and beautiful, to the war torn and ugly. There is much to contemplate in your lines and in the lives of people born into this world not knowing whether they will endure kindness or torture. One thing we can be sure of, time stops for no one, all things pass. An a
accomplished write.

Chris

[Esther]

Thanks a lot!

[Meghan Renee]

This is beautiful. The imagery alone was moving. You can feel the emotion as you read, the uncertainty of where we will one day be. So many of us suffer throughout our lives that the idea of no one suffering is foreign to us. It's a beautiful read that really touches the reader.

[Esther]

Thanks a lot!

[wordman]

love a good story,and this is a good story

[Esther]

Thank you!

[wordman]

you`re welcome esther

[Einstein Noodle]

well done..love the language and epic style of story telling ... love the use of contrast between whats thought beautiful and what is horrific .. especially this line:
"Who knows when, in stealthy steps, up crept the morning sun,"
the stealthy steps (nice) and the creeping sun (brilliant says i!) a sad remembrance .. and quiet respect for the fallen .. many never recovered .. laying in unmarked graves and fields now regrown .. you have really gotten me in a thoughtful place Esther .. well done!
E.
ps. if you haven't read Christine's "Scarlet Skirts" you might check it out ... its also about the War ;)

[Esther]

Thanks a lot. I'll surely read "Scarlet Skirts."

[Verse]

I read this write last night, and again today. It is just as stark and vibrant while at the same time touching the heart. It takes true wordcraft to do those things with such serious subject matter, while maintaining rhyme and meter.

Amazing. :):)

V

[Esther]

Thanks a lot!

[‘Thoughts In Time..]

Sad how life goes on and the sadness and grief lays unsolved cold and will always remain whispering silent wishes of freedom and tears left undried-innocent and never forgotten🌹

[Esther]

It is. Thanks for stopping by.

[‘Thoughts In Time’🌹]

My pleasure🌹

[Ted Kniffen]

Intriguing! There is quite a bit here to take in, maybe enough for two poems. I agree with JayG that it is in need of editing. Nothing wrong with that, it's how we improve as writers. One thing to consider would be the elimination of several definitives 'the". This would tighten up some of the lines for dramatic effect...not that it needs more drama.
i.e.
Those were the days when sun-kissed shores smiled upon the dreaming new-born,
days when songs of freedom echoed, in accolades of red, across the nation's horizon,
nights when glared the lolling flames, leaping over silent oceans, green,
And teary-eyed, fled from home to these hostile lands unseen,

All in all 'a good write'
Keep at it.

[Esther]

Thanks a lot!

[JayG]

Not bad, but, needs a bit of editing.

Some of the rhymes are a but strained. "Outrage" and "village" did because poetry is meant to read aloud, and they don't rhyme when that's done.

Rhyming singular and plural, like "lights," and "night" seem a discord.

And you lost me with:
- - - -
I sought once more the paddy fields that rose and fell before my eyes,
The streams that rippled across the mind, amidst their feeble voiceless cries.
- - - -
I've seen many rice paddies, but not a one of them rose, or fell, while I watched. Hell, I didn't know they could stand. Nor did I know that streams could either invade the mind, or cry. Unless you mean that the streams invaded amid some unknown person's cry? Impossible to tell.
And:
- - - -
The nights when glared the lolling flames, leaping over the silent oceans, green,
And teary-eyed, they fled from home to these hostile lands unseen, flames, leaping over the silent oceans, green,
And teary-eyed, they fled from home to these hostile lands unseen,
- - - -
Lolling flames leaping OVER oceans? If you mean jumping over them, from country to country I can't see it happening. If you mean flames over the ocean, what's burning? And...lolling flames would be lazy flames. So they can't leap.

And, by the text, and antecedent, The flames are teary-eyed and fleeing. But...but...

In other words, an editing seems necessary. Add some more time between writing a poem and posting it, so when editing you'll see it more as a reader, and catch such things yourself. When we read our own work just after writing it, our own intent for the meaning tends to blind us to how readers will see the work.

[Esther]

Thanks a lot! I'll keep it in mind.

[Esther]

I meant to speak of the plight of the refugees from East Bengal in the autumn of 1947,i.e., the year India gained her independence.The paddy fields have often been used as a symbol of rural Bengal, mostly, the present Bangladesh.Many homes were burnt down, hence, the lolling flames leaping over the green fields (here, called oceans, because of the resemblance).
Again, it's in autumn that the Durga Puja is celebrated across Bengal. So, in the midst of the revelry, a long-lost autumnal despair seems to return.
I ought to have mentioned at least the back ground somewhere, at least, as a note.

[JayG]

• "I meant to speak of the plight of the refugees from East Bengal in the autumn of 1947,i.e., the year India gained her independence."

And with those words you encapsulate the problem that plagues more hopeful writers than any other, which is that we lose sight of the fact that our intent doesn't make it to the page. The words we use have meaning to us because in our minds are all the references, background, and more, that make make those words so meaningful to us.

But the reader has only what the words—to any given point—suggest to them based on THEIR background and experience.

If I say, for example, "I remember that time in Mexico with Charlie. That poor chicken was probably never the same after that." What does it mean to you? Nothing. You might be curious as to what happened. And were I to explain you might laugh. But until I provide you with the necessary context, the words mean nothing. But to work, the reader must have, or deduce, the context as they read. In other words, we must provide a kind of self-guiding trail for our readers.

That's why I so often say that context isn't just important in writing, it's everything. That's why we need to edit not from our chair, but that of a reader who is of a different age group, background, education, and perhaps even gender. Instead of hitting our own cultural and memory references we need to provide them for the reader.

We have the power, if we learn to control it, to make a stranger, someone we will never meet, weep, or laugh, or boil with rage. And it's a learned skill, one well worth the effort to acquire.

[LazerRays]

At first this was beautiful and then you splattered blood on it in a perfect sadistic painting :D I'm so proud! You've amazed an Edgar Allan Poe lover :)

[Esther]

Thanks! Poe is unparalleled.

[Perdition]

I was walking Arlington Cemetery in this poem, although it could fit so many others. It needs to be read slow, very slow, and with the structure that you gave to it as that passes over this poem in something not on the page but something tangible. The images repeat and who knows whether those stars are bombs or actual stars or prayers or embers cast at God...doesn't matter...when you slow it over there are just some beautiful lines...and I definitely heard the lullaby. Thanks!

[Esther]

Thank you so much! I happened to have the refugees from Bangladesh way back in 1947, in mind. But then, the poem is applicable to multiple scenarios.

[Onlyme]

Spectacular images of death and destruction to beauty and life. Variety of pictures inside the mind's eye taken from this remarkable powerful compelling poem. Really plays with your emotions. Good and bad. Makes you really feel all.

[Esther]

Thanks a lot!