spiders and hallelujah


Light is giving way to the shadows.

To new truths, to new streets—

Those that never augur destinies.


The cobwebs are certain to replace

The light and the spiders will dispense

With having to do the tricks on the walls,

Around high corners as they please, or the spare

Beams that jut the ceiling of a dome—


The brow of the heavens?


The crest that the spiders threatened

To mount and then defile with ease as they please.

Oh, the daddy longlegs, the redback, the brown recluse,

The black widow or, your ordinary arthropod!

All raking up the dregs of the first fire.


The spiders are no longer there.

The place of paradise was burned by the gods.

Time has gone by, and by the listless innocence

Of the dusty and wispy threads

Growing like untended hearts,

Life is slowly aging, drooping for the next act:

To lick its sores littering on the old charred earth.


Like an insect attracted to the filmy threads

Life can be charmed by the spiders’ webs.

With a little glow emitting from the strands,

At an opportunity to catch the light wherever it happens,

And sometimes it happens when one augurs romance,

The insect is drawn into the promise of sex.

The insect is like a life slavering, ready to fornicate.

“I am an insect, I am ready for one.”

Exclaimed the man named ‘spidey’.


But the spiders are no longer there.

Light is giving way to old age.

The shadows, at one point, will take

A life of their own, walking, ambling,

Sauntering on streets, the old streets

Where old desires seared like audacious spiders

Doing their tricks on the walls, around high corners, or

Spare beams that jut the ceiling of a dome—


The brow of the heavens?


They left cobwebs adding up on those

Of their parents’, their folks’,

Their neighbourhood’s, their country’s,

Their brood’s, their religion’s.

All the cobwebs that the past had formed,

Its eroticism, its heroic bungee jumping,

The bird-like act of invading what little

Atmosphere was left around stone-cold walls

Inside the new buildings, planting on columns

Tiny claw tufts left by their slender limbs, the traces

Of their preys trapped beneath the spinnerets, the mucus

Sticking on their palps that are sensitive to touch—


All are giving way to memories of spiders

Springing, gamboling, or ‘horsing’ around—

Doing the hallelujah.

`from Mabini Review, 2008