The Naani is a stanzaic form found at Shadow Poetry and is most often an observation of human relations or current events although it can be open to any subject. Naani means “an expression of one and all”. The stanza form was introduced by Dr. N. Gopi an administrator at the Teluga University.
The Naani are:
stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
syllabic, with a total syllable count of between 20 and 25 syllables.
between the booms, bangs
i plead above
let this bad dream be
cursed and damned.
This is a fictional poem inspired by the still unending war in Marawi, the only Islamic city in the Philippines. I can never fathom the reasons of these groups in killing not just lives but the hopes, the future of the children left clueless and helpless in the middle of this war. May peace blossom again in this corner of my country.
Fellow dVerse Poets, your prompt today is to take a closer look at Alley’s collection featured within the post OR from her website. Look within yourself, find your own interpretation and write a poem. When using an image of Ally’s work, please remember to credit it properly with her name and a link to her website, allyart.ca
Our children, our great grandchildren, and our great great grand-kids wanted to have a big centenarian birthday bash for me. I refused. I am too old for a party. I can’t even do jiggly jives any more. All I want for my 100th birthday is to be with you. That’s why we’re all here.
While our children’s eyes admire the grandiose Dôme des Invalides’ ceiling, I slowly closed mine and let my soul feel the dead heart you left— interred inside the vaults of Les Invades.
Time was not able to take my pain away. I still long for your body, your probably-mutilated-body left undiscovered. Most of all, I still wish your heart is still beating with mine today.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction inspired by a non-fiction detail. There are real tombs and vaults in Les Invalides. While the most notable is Napoleon Bonaparte’s remain, there are French soldiers, now considered military heroes, whose only their hearts’ remains lie inside Les Invalides’ vaults.
After a slow thorough scan of our almost-two-decade house—“Mom!!!”
The last photo dad has captured before he turned into unrecognisable pieces, is missing! I grew old admiring that heartfelt, solitary moment between the soldier and his dog. Now it’s missing!
“Dad’s final shot is missing, Mom!!!”
“No, son. It isn’t. I took it down.”
“What? Why? I tho—.”
I’m too confused to think and speak, while my ageing mom looks so close to tears.
“You’re only two when your dad left for the war. He snapped that photo seconds before the soldier and the dog was blown apart. He actually… survived. But… he never came back. He looked for the soldier’s widow, found her, fall for her. He left us, to be with her.”