The Peregrine Muse
 

Poetry of Ananya Guha

These poems...

are history, and
to revive them
I have to refurbish
cracked spaces
in the mirror, appearing
like a ghoulish monster
These poems saunter
like the stray bird, these
poems are inane songs
of the lost minstrel,
these poems are simply
peregrinating words,
in their lostness I die
several deaths.


It's True

And you will never be true
as the eglantine flutters
shadows lengthen
on your face, even as it darkens
the true you unfolds,
not that I weep,
not that I laugh
only a poem sidles
and whispers-yes it's true.

 

This Time

I write once again of whispers of the wind
cradled in nature's mythic past
what bewilders time
what ails it
the hills know
so do these stones immortalised
by the sky, river red
and wondrous fluttering of leaves
but the sad monotone of the cawing crow
sidles into umbrella of pent up fears
which admonish effervescence
of bubbling dreams.
of my pent up dreams.


Disbelief

Throw upon me
those rains of disbelief, and I will know
what thunder is.


We Meet

I walk ways
of paths that are ancient
roads bristle with briars
the fences are warped, barbed
and the stones that I tread
speak old
songs, unheard
I walk my own desultory ways
You yours, yet at some
togetherness, destination
We meet.


Dreams

Dreams, they gyrate

In the mind's terrain

And speak homecoming truths

Or are they images, which

The mind contemplates in tensile moments?

I do not know

All I know is that like

The recurrent ghost they are divinations of the

Future, past, present like a crystal

And harbour sensibilities, pictures in which

The camera takes snapshots.




Winter


That is a time
When golden oranges resonate
With pine clad houses
And verdurous forests sing the
Eternal song, when cherubic boys
With white teeth dressed in mufflers and caps,
Remind with a visage of the boy,
Who loved to bathe in its sunshine
With christmas trees adding to the flavour of winter...


Me

That is a story
I won't like to repeat
Me has a hurt
Me has the beast
Me is unfurling rabid
Truths about myself.
Me is the pontificating ridiculous
Rabble rouser
Me has a hurt
Me is a history
I won't like to repeat
That's Me.


Poem

I think of the dust
which erodes the mud
and brings sanity to
the earth.


Evening

Spreads its tresses,
as I fumble with opacity
I want to see those tresses,
tresses of the evening which
I am told is like the raven's hair,
wild it spreads into oceans of breathtaking
delight, I want to fondle those tresses
to be reminded of you, your catwalk,
your bird's nest eyes, those tresses,
they linger on my mind
all that I find is the broken hourglass,
dilapidated crumbling, as I know this vacuity
my shattered visage in those tresses.


Rains

The rains this afternoon
brought poetry into a reminiscing mind
the rains scattered seeds, threw up
the mind, extolled the skies in this festive
season, people with upraised arms paid
obeisance to the Goddess
who, it is whispered actually
brought these showers from rainbow tilted skies
little children playing, laughing crying,
I want this, that; as the Goddess looked
on serenely, the rains paused, askance
then tearfully said goodbye to the Goddess and her
ensemble.

Somewhere people are still praying for the rains
some to abate, some to give them fresh lease of life.
Give them O Goddess, give them!


Across The Rainbow

Across the rainbow
I see your visage
with many coloured
hues, and angels
then speak.

Wings flutter
in the shape
of golden voices
instruments strumming
you humming
and angels blessed ones
they speak.


I Love

evening
spreading
tresses

remembering you.


True Poetry

brings grandeur to
the heart, absorbs
secrecy within
sets mind thinking
passions flaming

it was yesterday i wrote
that poem, it was yesterday
the miracle of poetry
sought my being
it was yesterday
that the shadow of the poem
threatened lunacy; sanity

it was only yesterday.


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 strip me
into importunate surrender.


In This...

In this
I never thought
that poetry desires life
in truth,
poetry breathes that
life, which answers
questions, looking at
imponderables askance
wide eyed, searching
for life's innuendoes.
Is it acclaim that poets desire
the quarrel is with ourselves
wings of faith soar
in unplumbed spaces of living.
This mirth;
the poem climbs ladders
of desire
dies a death
when mortals
are touched with want.


Garden Of Gethsamane

Withered is the gnarled
bark of the tree, standing
sullenly, with drooping head
and, by its side the
soft petalled rose, blooms
eternally, rising into
heaven of glowing embers.

The tree predates the garden
like a pontificating lion,
king of animals;
the rose
spreads wings of damnation.

I observe both tree and rose
and, the garden of Gethsamane.


Tomorrow

Will beauty remain
on lips, on calloused hands
will troubled times abate
will the blood lessen?
bombs deafen?
will pain of love
combat death of horizon?
will masks drop?
fatigue lessen
tommorrow
after all, is only
an afterthought.


When Do We Meet?

Will it be in the twilight hour?
fate interceding
will it be in profusion of delight
some call it love
skeptics destiny?
let me inhale from garden of roses
to be reminded that, ah
you were mine
just for those few palpitating moments
as you resonated swirled-with the world around you.


Summer

Summer is here
Regal visitor, Lord of seasons

Red wine, cherry lips are in plenty:
Fruits of the earth

O goodness, cascade from the toiling earth
Harbinger of the future
When birds sing in wonder…
Every year it is the story of seasons
But summer is another season
River of expectation…
Fireflies cloud the air
Hum evening tunes
After this evening warmth
Life springs surprise,
Only we; masked faces
Remain.

Birds retire, in wintry flight.


This Evening, Another Evening

Silence is beating its heavy wings
This evening; like a grey bird
Sundays are always desolate I tell myself
Sunday and me lie nestled in each other’s arms
In doubt, asking one another questions
Telling old old tales, simply thinking…

Somewhere in this town there is a fire
Let there be a fire around us
To warm ourselves our hearts
A telephone call is just not enough.

Silence beats its wings rapidly, heavily
Wavers, is an iridiscent lamp
A sullen, caged bird
This evening, another evening.


The Arrogance of Blood

The arrogance of blood raises its head
How long must we cringe so?
Or lower our heads in shame?
We find the hawk in the wind, the trees, the hills.

This huge loneliness has ensnared its net upon us
We are but its shadow
The fields shiver, the sky grimaces
Unmoved by the emptiness of our threat;
Who are we to protest?
Are we all afraid of being human?

For the wind is doing horrible things
Last night a bird was sent plummeting
Crashed from soaring heights…

And we are left sitting with our furies
Face to face, flesh blood and bones…

As we sense the wind’s rage
And listen to the lament of the stones
With the stale breath of our fantasies
Hanging like a question mark
Stifled, surprised.


In Calcutta

The city sprawls unending like its hovels
Humanity amorphous swoons
We crawl with it, begging for alms
Calcutta explores moods of behaviour,
Human negligence, the onslaught is
Against time; the hidden myth…
Every time you are in, Calcutta,
You say : ‘just two, three days’
City of disbelief, these few days
I relive tempestuous moments
Desiring to love and be loved
What ails the heart? It must suffer
Your heart may be golden
Calcutta, but
Impurities surround you like your
Brazen speech, your ribald utterance
Like your teeming thousands: poor,
Uncared for, unsheltered
Let us worship the derelict

Let flowers bloom for you,
Restoring heavens;

This touch will extinguish leprous hands
We gather a prayer, when alone
With you.


Prose Poem

I’ve discarded my first poems like old clothes, shoes, and ideologies.
One of them came and told me: I’m tired, old and rotten can’t you see?
Old poems, my first love spring-time cherries, cannot be sweeter than you…
I see my face in you, wrinkled and contorted: perverse mirror that you are.
Don’t kill me. Bringing to you sunshine and laughter let me flesh you
with new face, new eyes, new teeth.




Ananya Guha was born and brought up in Shillong, a beautiful hilly region in the northeast of India. He taught English Literature prior to joining the Indira Gandhi National Open University where he is now a Joint Director in New Delhi. His poems have been published in a number of journals, e-zines and on web sites in India and abroad. He holds a doctoral degree in Modern Fiction (novels of William Golding).