Rasputin’s Glimpse

The fourth poem from S D Anugyan’s poetry book, Here Are The Empire Builders!

Characters, times and continents oscillate back and forth, around the infamous Russian’s perspective as he dances between life and death. Essentially he has experienced Satori, but lacks the wisdom to act on it in a beautiful way. He is like a ronin, a warrior without a leader or, more accurately, a disciple without a master. The Seeker sees the nonsense going on around them, the stupid stories that people tell, even extending to future space exploration, but feels powerless to do anything about it.

Every planet we seek
Builds a new glory, a fresh course
Of events. And a lost cause.

We return to Rasputin at the end, where the attempts to assassinate him are doomed to failure, because he has tasted deathlessness.

Meanwhile, the vast empire around him is about to crumble.

Rasputin’s Glimpse

I didn’t know
For sure but I guessed
A half-truth whisper grown
In these infinite sugar-walls
Of this dungeon-palace, arrested
By my open skull and ears. What to do.
Invitation to dine
In another of their sick halls.
None of this is new:
Fields and acres of horses slain by experts,
The ice-beauty queen besieged by time,
Sky-troopers descending on frost-eaten walls,
Slow futile escape of a child unhurt,
It would seem, ‘by them who know’.
Engine fist of blood and snow.

Lonely silent cascade of trees.
A raven poised and alert.
All of this he sees
Alone in an avalanche of guile
And deceit, humanity cursed.

David is young. Poetical evidence.
He has no chance, much less than
I. His blood is so weak
Can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t
play. But, in the heart, we say,
Giants are defenceless.

It’s chanceless. Every planet we seek
Builds a new glory, a fresh course
Of events. And a lost cause.

An hourful raging sky
From an old man’s slammed fist, spilling, walking,
Peering often through night’s daytime shards
In purple, crimson, red mist
Swimming, creating oceanity
Or destiny:
Small point in one crystal eye.
Here is a bitter taste
Of incisor, canine, molar decay.
Half-life so short.

Smiling policies above the tablecloth
(Not poison)
Echoes from the usual sense
(Not reason)
Dramatisation of the animal
(Not gunshot).
Not death.

A cup of tea.
I woke once
A long time back, rain dripping
On my face
Careful and welcome
As her morning smile.

Featured image by Tim Mossholder via pexels.com