Sentinel Poetry (Online) #54 ISSN 1479-425X


Editor-in-Chief: Amatoritsero Ede

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Damo Bullen


Below Scopello

To become, to belong, bohemian,
So many miles my smitten songsmith sent,
Striving for prospects paradesean
& an immortal moment’s monument -

Time carves us this vista Tyhrennean,
Tranquilo corner of a continent,
To become, to belong, bohemian,
So many miles my smitten songsmith sent.

This rocky cove, this tower, this mountain,
Blend in an often prophesied fusion,
              Sweet Sicily!
                                   Sat silent & content,
Recently have my dreams increasing seen
Visions of places I had never been
Where I should sit a songsmith & invent.

Marzemi Sunrise

As all the sky grew lighter at the change,
With pastel arms, from rich & vivid heart
Emboldening & merging with god’s art,
The peachy dawn reach'd round the ‘risons’ range,
As milk-white sea caresses waves to shore,
Which kisses rock, bows gracefully, takes leave,
Where rising from the lands of make-believe,
            The red, all-seeing eye that I adore.

Tho’ you are far away in outer space,
All other images crumble to dust,
Filling with feelings more than love or lust
My humble soul enters that special place
Of two spirits conjoined by nature’s hand,
    One omnipresent, one a grain of sand.

Lines Written at the Jait Sagar

If India can make a man a man
More than the brothel-nests of Amsterdam
If thro’ the chaos he can make a plan
Respecting Hinduism & Islam

If he can give the beggar his rupee
& tip a tout charging over the odds
If he can read his Rajput history
& choose a god but still bless other gods

If he can bear the rolling railway run,
Find fresh clean waterfalls amid the dirt
If he can wonder how the Raj was won
Then pause upon the horrors & the hurt

If he can haggle down & know his daal
Then does he need to see the Taj Mahal?


More tranquil than the murmour of a rose,
The piazzas of Pratovecchia,
Bethlehem-twinned, harbour a sweet repose,
Calm cluster shepherds call Casalino –
Here Dante mused upon his fifth canto,
For Paulo & Francesca tears did pour,
Mixing with the streamlings of the Arno,
Flowing to ev’ry Italian shore –  
A place to set poesia in store,
Where sacred sisters break ancient bread,
There, summoned by the grunting of wild boar
Into a place where feet have seldom tread,
Not life nor history shall help my art,
Just fragrant music of the valley-heart.

Fort Cochin

Come share a second with serenity
Up in this lake of European rooves,
The crescent lamp’d oer th’Arabian sea
Lulls me thither, I hear the sound of hooves...
At once a sacred chime grows on the breeze,
Some teller of a thousand ‘ancyent tayles’,
Some from the world’s crop-fellers overseas,
Some cross the Karakoram’s lofty trails,
Some were seekers of immortal glory,
Some content to be husbands & be wives...
Tho’ the vision is all clutter’d & hoary,
With me a single memory survives,
Being extras in the global story
We are stars in the movies of our lives.

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 Damo Bullen


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