And We Are Still Dousing Flames
by Ananya S. Guha / November 15th, 2015
There is nowhere
a country looks into future
with blinkers, and then the
tirade begins. The tyranny of
becoming an agnostic. The dead end
is that there is none. Everything is
horizons of space. Infinity is gawkish
so are stammering ways of the world.
Somewhere, however, there is pain
a stab, a wound and few drops of blood.
Infinitesimal as it may be, it has thunderous
claps. Clap. Clap. Clap.
The blows rain, fells trees and grass withers
into a wan ghost. Animals shriek. Clap.
Then the bellicosity of protests, noises.
A country thunders. The young and the old
the blue and green. Grass refuses to grow.
Stumbling block. The train cannot enter the tunnel.
In its horrific omen protest is death like. Wears a mask
or two. In deep slumber villages burn.
And, we are still dousing flames.
Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India, where he was born and brought up. He has been writing and publishing his poetry for the last forty years. His poetry has been published in both electronic and print formats such as: Indian Literature, Other Voices, Osprey Journal, Glasgow Review, The Literary Nest, Up The Staircase, Asia Writes, Art Arena, Praxis Online, Muse India, Your One Phone Call, In Between Hangovers, The Peeking Cat Magazine, Post Colonial Text among others. He has also written widely on educational and social matters. He has ten collections of poetry and his poetry has been anthologized in various collections of Indian poetry in English. He holds a doctoral on the novels of William Golding.
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This article was posted on Sunday, November 15th, 2015 at 8:02am and is filed under Poetry.
