Today’s choice
Previous poems
Ananya S Guha
Halting Dreams
The leaves are growing out of
a harangue of loneliness
palms cupped I listen to silences
of winter or summers
and unmask faces caught in
tangle of storm, the history of
what was not written or recorded
in books, time’s erasure in moments
fraught with changing paths or charge
with turbulence of rains;
A vast momentary haul of a ship’s load
or a vessel’s yachting,
it is fun to remember and demonise time
in these hills where a cloudburst thumps
the heart, pounds on it like merciless beating
of bird’s wings, or like the beak of a crow
steals thunder, I walk and then a reservoir
pumps blood into the hiatus of living the dead.
Or, the dead living. Shadows typically torment,
lengthen or shorten to spin yarns
in these dead blue hills where a rosary
does not match prayer, but the bluish hue
carps on dreams and a thicket of grass
stumbles in front of you. I wash pains momentarily as a rising quicksand halts
my dreams.
Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong. He has ten collections of poetry in English and has been writing and publishing his poetry for the last forty years.
Col Fleetwood
Unmoored on an ocean of heather
no wind to pluck the strings
of the aeolian harp
Amlanjyoti Goswami
Those night boats are back.
Fishermen string their nets
Counting fresh catch.
Brian Kirk
That was the time you caught
the mumps and I was half
afraid I’d catch it too.
Dawn Sands
Walking home from the lecture on Frankenstein
through the November mizzle, small breaths of exhaust
sighing in the twilight headlights, particles of wet air commingling.
Ken Evans
Octopus I am one Like short of being beautiful. Five hundred more Followers, I’m away to fight culture wars. I Block two for lies Quora does not verify. Counter-factuals are ok, there’s simmering wastelands to make out of vague, but someone sent a shroom...
Mary Mulholland
It doesn’t trust paper. It writes itself
in my head where no one can reach it,
laugh, tear it to shreds, or
call it a waste of space, a disgrace.
Afolabi Ezra
It was a quiet day—
no bad news,
no sudden loss,
no reason to hold my breath.
Karina Jutzi
I think today of the boy in choir class
who closed his eyes when we sang
about Jesus. Who swayed, as if the Lord
Isabelle Thompson
We saw a kingfisher threading the bright needle
of his body along the river. We saw a shag, stamping
her prehistoric shadow on the sky. We saw a hobby,