David Norris' Poetry

Dim clouds swirl in sky 
Dark coffee stains 
A rooster crows at the glass-door entrance
Reminding me of the apostle's betrayal 
No prophecy is fulfilled
Instead,
The blade of an unhostile youth
Cutting my greying beard
Like that story about the Man from Ironbark
He plays tricks 
Accusing me of being American
Nay bhai 
A mutual enemy
His fingers on my face 
Smell like burnt toast 
The slightly nauseating familiarity of a 
Breakfast eaten hours ago
Pre-fast for a God I do not know
 
Black flags and black shirts
Like a fascistic parody 
But softened by a calm green
A bright golden-green 
Like dreamt hills 
Here, children ride motorcycles 
Spin ropes and old tyres around
Like industrial revolution-era toys
 
A pile of split wood, half day's labour 
Metal buckets of milk
The oily smell of goats 
Out of sight, lingers and floats in the cool air
Like wool balloons 
 
A gregarious local man mistakes me for 
Someone else 
A film star? Nay, a friend 
Vigorously shakes my hand with earnest sincerity 
I play along
Maybe I am every westerner to him
How are you? 
Is everything OK? 
Are you safe?
Of course Uncle-Ji, 
Calm response 
I just had haircut 
Good good
Stay well
God bless
Allahu akbar
Inshallah
Take care
The revolution will not be TikToked 
A slow burning cigarette with saffron 
Lipstick marks that speak the same script 
But with different accents 
Burning in a stagnant puddle lined with moss
 
Gently asphyxiated by a wet black plastic bag
On the concrete road 
To carry bananas gifted to a woman
Who looks like a beauty beggar,
Not with hands out but head down. 
Squatting, alone. 
Looking up only to smile
Kya, her eyes say. 
Keela?
A silent yes. 
The entire bag is given because if only one 
She will not keep
Like my own mother, all others are fed first. 
She will be last. 
By choice. 
This is how it has always been. 
Her generous heart is most trodden upon 
As are the needs of those around her
 
Asif, Umair, Mohammed (peace be upon him)
And all, why not all?
I name them like Yeats in his poem about those
Irish men and women
Who fought and died at the post-office a century ago
Posting letters never sent 
Decaying paper words in crimson pockets. 
 
This, a quiet Sunday street 
The day after a festival. 
Not Easter. 
Long after. 
No Second Coming here. 
Only a haircut that always seems to force meditation 
Stuck in a silent chair
Walking out a different person
The same land, same people
Preceding an anticipated war where the innocent
Are wrapped in the bloodiest flags
Like bedsheets for their soil beds 
The same soil, the same
Don't tread lightly with boots on this green carpet
These khaki pants 
A fashion, no, 
A Hindi word
But a certain shade of militant danger 
Cast like an orange sun
Burnt blast fruit 
Thrown on a people who only want peace
Doors behind doors behind doors. 
 
The sky slams shut.