Summer Visit

| Filed under

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
The wind yours or mine
belittling a savagery
a cloudburst, will the storm
come, drying up the cells
ticking in my brain
a storm, a storm
a pause, as thick clouds swivel
into a graying world
the two dogs are silent
the tap water falls stealthily
it is night in day, colors blanch
the roof top of hills, mine is
simply a summer's visit
into these hills of thralldom.


- - -

I Sleep

| Filed under

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
and crows cawing
repetition of mind
or dream
crows cawing seven
times
figures and numbers
suddenly they stop
halt
cessation is endless
no other sounds
only movements
a bird swoops
chattering, the rains
abate
sky opens into fervid cry
movements up, down
halt.
I ease myself in a chair
the hills brood
over time
the crow snaps at a twig
a dog moves languidly
I sleep


- - -

Dead

| Filed under

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
Three times I died
that evening when
the teak tree in Grandmother's
house was cut, felled into pieces
dead.
Or the pine trees in the college
where I studied, shading us
in green light, broken into pieces
they heaved, and the light vanished
broke between my knees
as I clasped the bench sitting on
in the canteen they laughed
urbanization, let the green, the blue
all hue go from our lives
with smattering colours
brick and mortar
I watched as a little child
would look at a monster
awe, reverence ping of change
ping ping ping.
Little Lotta, Hansel and Gretel
of childhood, come back
into my hill torn body
wounded but not bloodied.
I love clours that keep me
floated for a while
like prisms changing
like the chameleon shading
flood lights
I died four, five seven times
as the hills became bare
almost nude
I would not worship
only rain washed hills and plum trees
but the plum trees and peach trees also
vanished from my orchard
now kneaded bare
they stand dead
to tell stories of the dead
like a faded house with pale colours
yellow paint, coated, withering tarnished
smelling hollow smells, decrepit
like shadowy past.
Smell life in past get a tang
an aroma of the forests and streams
with monoliths like a ghost's sideburns
standing erect. Beheaded.


- - -

Why Be It

| Filed under

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
The blue of everything
summer torn hair
winter of the wind
hair pins falling
glut of rains
why be it
why be it
again its coming back
mannequins ( of past)
hoary syndrome
why be it
why be it
cymbals will clash
annual festival of Goddess
and her cohorts
slain devil
why be it
why be it
they will look at stars
immerse her bedecked body
weep, and from the streams
anklets and bracelets will be stolen
why be it
in autumnal lingering shadows
come Goddess give me shades
of your ten armed strength.


- - -

Archives

Powered by Blogger.