Poetry

July 4, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Tommy Ingberg

 

By

Ananya S Guha

 

 

In A Way

 

 

In a way a poem moves

the figment and then goes

mercilessly to no ending.

An open loop the poem

castrates imagination,

it works steadfastly on

vast promontories. Take

it, have a look if possible eat it

it –  swallows your mind, leaving

vestiges of a body, sullied

temperamental, a body fighting

angst, a body that knows no limits

tethering limits. A poem is what is

inside curdled emotions, waxing

waning.

 

 

In a way a poem moves, and takes

out your guttural instincts.

In a way a poem moves like a finger

points accusingly at its creator.

In a way, a poem moves on and on

longitudinally, creating geography

cutting across,

arithmetic of the bones, plasma of soul.

A poem is blood, soft, pale yellow.

 

 

In a way a poem moves like a metaphor

willing to be trapped in ever arches

symbolism, the meta, alpha, beta

I wonder what is in it, its dried soul

and sucking body, that I get enmeshed

in its frivolity. It is a carping hyena, a

mad dog howling at moon’s overtures.

In a way a poem moves the hell out of me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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