Ananya S. Guha


Afternoon

The afternoon
sighs once again
for the rains
as cumulous clouds
envelop skies, and
me with my hauteur
desire once again to play chimerical games
but afternoons are like sunset
takes refuge in the solitariness of these forests,
and, hills so I linger,
continue lingering with hallowed
dreams, as the afternoon's equipoise
reminds us of rugged winter times.


Truth

... is an astonishing mountain
have you seen it?
derelict joys, tears of sadness
every passing shadow is truth
celestial mountains, abode of
unreleased dreams
let's climb this mountain
to unwind, midst cloudy,
tumultuous seas.


Words

They numb me
talk to me
in whispering solitude
yoke me into water tight dreams
elude me, when I
want to escape
spill me over to
yester years, bringing wraiths
catch me unawares as I write,
speak forbidden truths
wait for me in zones
of discomfort
they are; what I am, or not
Yet with hauteur
they striptease me
into importunate surrender.


Tree

Now I am alone
alone as the tree
with its drooping dismembered self
planted for nocturnal years
near the window of
a peregrinating house
the tree is taciturn
knows the sun, the hills
the moon and speckled stars
The tree stands anonymously
refusing to mingle with habitat
even when stormy skies
threaten to shake ramparts
in the whirlwind;
Views landscape
with gnarled
spreading branches like tentacles,
melting into fistful of waif like tears
We are alone the two of us
Waiting patiently like the hawk


Changing Faces

I don't like the changing faces of men
They smile when they ought to
And sad when they are not to...
I don't like the changing faces of men
They are like snipers, ready to fight
Prolonged wars, in ghostly cupboards
With leering skeletons doing somersaults
I really don't like the changing faces of men
they sport moustaches in ghoulish ways
among talk of humanism and love
Their light banter among arid ribaldry.