Poetry

September 25, 2015 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

By

Ananya S Guha

 

 

Poets

 

 

They are born out of a poem

they talk and weep

with words which stalk them

they are born out of ruminations

in isolated fragments of living

they think, then write with words

spilling over in light and darkness

poets, where does their starkness lie?

in prayers unmitigated truth?

in calls of the crow?

in ravenous forebodings?

I go to the poet when racked with pain

they have love, and desire for the up beat

they wallow in sorrow and imperfect understanding

their what is the where, the how and the beautiful

poets they come to us in unfettered understanding

of myriad images of the possible, impossible

poets

their hands and body are tired

tiredness and the self wound bodies and soul

poets, go to them when dilapidated by life’s

uneventfulness.

 

They will know what you mean

you will know what they mean.

 

You will be wounded by their craft.

Not hurt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roads

 

 

I go to these roads

when legs are weak

walking is way of talking

silently in mesmeric

words. The roads unwind

past. no, don’t call them memories.

They are wishful thinking.

Roads and walking co-exist

in myths and past. They tell stories

sing songs of blood and war.

Roads and walking are a tireless never

ceaseless endeavour

of strapping

of clapping

amidst waterfalls

and, whispering pines say

Roads.

 

 

 

 

 

Never Have I …

 

 

Never have I seen these rains

in mirrors of desire

or on the waylaid streets

or in the visage of a beggar boy

I have seen these rains plummet

down on rain washed hills

I have seen the rains whisked

away by runaway, embattled streets

and the pines look askance.

 

Never have I seen these rains

tepid, pale and wan

coming in torrents these rains

take away time and stupor

my langurous ways.

 

Never have I seen these rains

awakening anger

and a fetish lust.

 

 

 

 

 

And Outside …

 

 

And outside is murmur

of rains, the cyclonic storm

is making a heavy presence.

The rain persists gnaws at

memories, when with mackintoshes

we stomped ways to school

the puddles on the way

provided games and light entertainment.

The murmur is incessant, past and present

in dialogue. The dialogue holds

the pen wavers, the rains talk

whisper how eternity climbs slopes

of these hills with rains slitherng down

roof tops.

 

I go to these rains in silences

I go to these rains with book

in hand, poem riveting in the mind

I go to these rains wondering how

these  hills are washed green by

sporadic showers and outside

she sells vegetables, with umbrella shade

unwavering that these rains will save her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ananya S Guha

Ananya S Guha was born and brought up in Shillong, North East India. He has seven collections of poetry and his poems have been published worldwide. They have also been featured in several anthologies. He is also a columnist, critic and editor. He now is a Regional Director at the Indira Gandhi National Open University and holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding.

1 Comment

  1. Ananya S Guha September 25, at 12:29

    I am very grateful to Tuck Magazine for publishing my poems. I think it is a very good mag with strong credentials.

    Reply

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