Promontories | Ananya S. Guha
Evening’s wetness
has the tang of unobtrusive winter; emotions are upright
ostrich-like,
the wet earth, loose soil
will shackle me to songs.
Sprouting shadows.
Love will gesture towards faraway promontories.
Evening’s wetness
has the tang of unobtrusive winter; emotions are upright
ostrich-like,
the wet earth, loose soil
will shackle me to songs.
Sprouting shadows.
Love will gesture towards faraway promontories.
goodbye, we sang
to the sad sullen land,
pouting like a small child.
when we discovered
the dotted tree landscape,
the forest was vast and much
was to be discovered.
then we strip-mined
and strip-malled until air
and hair grew thin.
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I think
Quite a long time ago,
Somewhere in stately ways,
We met to dream of uncounted years,
Of healthy togetherness,
Offering each one help, hope and hands
To create in times great monuments
Of human relationships
To inspire silent generations
Into singing the praise
Of love and life and letters,
Catching the fleeting rays
Of plenty, prosperity and peace
Till the world long-lying dull
Stirs into forging bonds
Of friendship, fraternity and fortunate unity
Lest any time in gross unthinking
We should part on the path,
Forgetting that on earth
We stand tied to our destinies,
Inseparably since birth,
And afford we can never
To tear this planet’s gifts to tatters
Leaving a sad grey smoking universe
Dead because of our deadliest actions.
We fools think we are intelligent
To destroy a future spanning vast eternities
That we think belongs to others
Whom we must deprive
Because we don’t like.
This earth’s resources should be shared equally
Among all those who have genuine needs
Since our ever-bulging stomach of greed
Cries for ever for more
Than we could get,
Snatching resources belonging to others
And making them crying miserable wretches
For smoking and dead eternities
Stretched over uncounted millennia.
You and I arms outstretched
A river of flame between
You and I with gazes fixed
Glass wall stands unseen.
You and I twin river banks
running from mount to sea
You and I ever apart
Never to be we.
You and I with bleeding feet
walking on field of thorns
You and I banging heads
Till both heads spout horns.
You and I uprooted trees
No earth on which to stand
You and I forging paths
To create our new brand.
It is raining; mists unfurl
out of rainbow trees, soaked
hills and mountainous blues, houses
weigh under territories, the cold is steeped in comatose
clothes as stalkers look away, walk away without hindrance.
For long these hills have snatched disbelief in tremors, tacitly
brushing odoriferous pines, skies
fall out of silent winter,
spring or summer.
The cracked rocks stand heavy, forked, witness to
seasons, as fireflies of discontent hum tunes
in this evening town, of murmur.
I didn’t know the name of those flowers,
They were red, but not red, not quite.
Something about this flowering bush,
gave my eyes a peaceful loving site.
The bells of blossoms drooped down,
Like the leaves were crying bloody tears.
The image of this solitary plant,
it will haunt me for many many years.
For when I witness this beauty,
it was standing waist high in a open space,
surrounded by only grass and dirt,
it did seem rather out of place.
I drove away not knowing
that through time and space somewhere,
this vision of the perfect flower,
was one that we would both share.
He is master of the dark shape
with the round gray stomach,
and the tendency to charge.
He is like one of them, with large
knuckles.
When he speaks, there is the peace
of trees and shade.
The calm of working with great
creatures of strength.
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I will never forget
How your garden looked
It is frozen in time.
A memory I barely remember
I was only two or three
and yet I can still feel
– the grass beneath my feet
– the pebble-covered driveway
– the line of beautiful flowers.
We came when I was sick
from too many marshmallows
driving in the car
the motion made me nauseous.
We came to your backyard
and still I can remember
– the inside of your house
– the bathroom tiled in green
– the piano
– the delicate glass everywhere.
A house of memories
but the yard meant more to me
my first word ‘flower’
encouraged by your garden.
I can still feel the fear
the Bird of Paradise instilled
the orange and black foliage
made me wary.
Thinking that a spider
was hidden there.
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The winds have arrived
derived from mother sun
and these ancient rock-fastened hills
treading mills
the winds take a plunge into the water,
what does it matter?
The wind does not feel
like a keel it hovers around
for posterity, and these hills of antediluvian rocks on wing
whispering pine trees feel its earthly sting.
And the wind
wizened
the cocksure
Brew the air
in bale, no bliss
to the ears
When the trees
swirled and
nodded
And a bough
what the eyes borne
sighed and fell
Took mind to canvass
wrap in canvas
the heart
with cold comfort.