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| Artwork by Floris Arntzenius |
Going Gently into the Good Night
When I go into the good night
Alone with only myself to bring
I hope to go in peace, in light
Injustice, hurt, rightful rage, slight:
Calmed, un-grasped, nothing to cling
When I go into the good night
Not in strength, nor even might
Not in the slowed lease of ageing
I hope to go in peace, in light
Give away, be unburdened, light
Feel no lack of love or loss of wing
When I go into the good night
Sound, smell, touch, taste, sight
Gently eased, left to crave nothing
I hope to go in peace, in light
Freed of what may or what might
Will I keep in heartful reckoning?
When I go into the good night
I hope to go in peace, in light
5 images and 1 metaphor
ceiling fan stuttering
on its rotator cuffs
lamp light focussed over
the study table, its penumbra
diffused over the wall
scent from camphor
blossoming on a low flame
books bookmarked, notes
lined and underlined
laptop fired up, documents
open and crackling
a swimmer bracing at the
edge of the pool…
Ba Ba Black Sheep
Ba ba Black Sheep
Have you any wool?
Oh so much -
Baba Saheb replied,
pulled over our eyes
when they lied
about how they are
Manu’s twinkling star.
Up above the world so high
born as Brahmins in the sky.
As for the boy who lived
down the lane…
Little boy blue is blowing his horn
Telling it like it is to be dalit born.
Not lined in shells or cock & bull bells
Keepers of sheep will drink from your wells.
Have you any wool?
Oh so much -
Baba Saheb replied,
pulled over our eyes
when they lied
about how they are
Manu’s twinkling star.
Up above the world so high
born as Brahmins in the sky.
As for the boy who lived
down the lane…
Little boy blue is blowing his horn
Telling it like it is to be dalit born.
Not lined in shells or cock & bull bells
Keepers of sheep will drink from your wells.
Pattern
What
is the pattern
of a square peg in
a round hole?
Neatly aligned lines
joining at right angles
finds a home in a sphere
that with every turn
around the sun repeats
not now, not here.
Red, a (sort of) ghazal
When I dwell on the sound red
I hear chillies being ground red
The grinding of a stone pestle
in a stony mortar pound red
The pounding, anxious heart
beating till it is drowned red
The drowning deaths await us
for no hands will be found red
Finding blame to heap and keep
is not unique just crowned red
Short Bio: Anannya Dasgupta is a poet and photographer who lives by the sea in Chennai. Her book of poems Between Sure Places is available from Writers Workshop.
is the pattern
of a square peg in
a round hole?
Neatly aligned lines
joining at right angles
finds a home in a sphere
that with every turn
around the sun repeats
not now, not here.
Red, a (sort of) ghazal
When I dwell on the sound red
I hear chillies being ground red
The grinding of a stone pestle
in a stony mortar pound red
The pounding, anxious heart
beating till it is drowned red
The drowning deaths await us
for no hands will be found red
Finding blame to heap and keep
is not unique just crowned red
Short Bio: Anannya Dasgupta is a poet and photographer who lives by the sea in Chennai. Her book of poems Between Sure Places is available from Writers Workshop.
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