In the courtyard where the sun beats down,
Warriors face, muscles taut and keen,
Dust rises like a fleeting crown.
Hands lock, a forceful, living machine,
Every twist a story, every hold a test,
Bodies weave through movement swift and lean.
Grunts echo, hearts hammer in each chest,
The ground shakes under strength’s embrace,
Skill and sweat put courage to the quest.
Oil-slicked skin shines, faces set in grace,
Legs sweep, arms grapple, the battle flows,
Time slows, measured by each strained pace.
Till one falls, the victor’s triumph shows,
Yet honor binds them, ancient as the sand,
And in each match, the old tradition grows.
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Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: March 18th, 2026 00:02
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is about malla-yuddha, the traditional form of combat-wrestling originating in the Indian subcontinent. For mor context visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malla-yuddha
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: Sports Poetry.
Offline)
Comments2
This very well could be about any martial art. Nicely written it draws focus on the physical and becomes sensual in that sense of muscle and force. Well written
Matthew, this pulls you straight into the dust and doesn’t let go…that “fleeting crown” image sets up something bigger than just a match. It feels ancient, ritualistic, almost sacred in its intensity. Strength and honor woven together all the way through. Really powerful work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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