Poem: Salome
I am not a poet.
Salome
A long way away, there is a place where the sand
Glistens and glosses beneath the sun’s hand,
And all the filth from across the land
Collects ‘neath a cyan sky.
On the streets, the world is of wandering eyes,
An ecstasy of dust, debauchery and lies;
A small boy drops to the gutter and cries.
His sobs go unheard.
Over here, a merchant sells stolen red scarves,
There, another man spits in the grass;
And behold! a young woman watches it pass
From her first floor window.
Black material folds around lustrous hips,
From those apatite eyes to those soft coloured lips.
She turns away from the window and slips
Into the room.
Yet Salome is not like the other girls:
Whilst they all seek riches, lust after pearls
And gold, there is something beneath those dark curls
That needs more.
A peacock has wings, but cannot fly
(She picks up a feather and raises is high,
Stares with longing into its single black eye
And smiles to herself).
I wonder…
She turns to a guard and spits words, lest
She comes across feeble (girls must look their best):
“Listen, my man, for I have a request.”
He stops and stands by.
“There is a man in this town,” she says,
“Hunt him down, slaughter him-I want him dead.
Sever his throat and bring me his head
On a plate.”
And so it is done, and for all her toils
Salome loves that head. Watch as she twirls
And kisses its cheek, caresses its curls
And sighs.
Yet every storm must come to a still,
Like the proudest of lions, after a kill,
Knows nothing is left but more blood to spill
So lies down and weeps.
Salome is torn; watch her drop to her knees
And shriek, “You fools! What is this disease?
This plague you have cast-I need a release
From this hell.”
Poor child: I smile as you lay on the ground.
The silken head rots, it falls through and browns.
Outside on the street, the world goes around,
Never stopping; never changing.
Salome
A long way away, there is a place where the sand
Glistens and glosses beneath the sun’s hand,
And all the filth from across the land
Collects ‘neath a cyan sky.
On the streets, the world is of wandering eyes,
An ecstasy of dust, debauchery and lies;
A small boy drops to the gutter and cries.
His sobs go unheard.
Over here, a merchant sells stolen red scarves,
There, another man spits in the grass;
And behold! a young woman watches it pass
From her first floor window.
Black material folds around lustrous hips,
From those apatite eyes to those soft coloured lips.
She turns away from the window and slips
Into the room.
Yet Salome is not like the other girls:
Whilst they all seek riches, lust after pearls
And gold, there is something beneath those dark curls
That needs more.
A peacock has wings, but cannot fly
(She picks up a feather and raises is high,
Stares with longing into its single black eye
And smiles to herself).
I wonder…
She turns to a guard and spits words, lest
She comes across feeble (girls must look their best):
“Listen, my man, for I have a request.”
He stops and stands by.
“There is a man in this town,” she says,
“Hunt him down, slaughter him-I want him dead.
Sever his throat and bring me his head
On a plate.”
And so it is done, and for all her toils
Salome loves that head. Watch as she twirls
And kisses its cheek, caresses its curls
And sighs.
Yet every storm must come to a still,
Like the proudest of lions, after a kill,
Knows nothing is left but more blood to spill
So lies down and weeps.
Salome is torn; watch her drop to her knees
And shriek, “You fools! What is this disease?
This plague you have cast-I need a release
From this hell.”
Poor child: I smile as you lay on the ground.
The silken head rots, it falls through and browns.
Outside on the street, the world goes around,
Never stopping; never changing.