Poems and Poetry

music poems

Music on the Pianoforte | A Poem by Ananya S. Guha

Origination in water
smouldering in fog
dry ashes, barren
Ogilvy’s note is on the
piano, antediluvian ways
the notes crisp, emanate
from the house
which the British made
for culture import,
my cousins played
pianoforte adroitly
only Ogilvy is not there
culture successfully
In the sitting room
the cuckoo made noises
near the wall clock
hanging. The serene Buddha, sat statuesque.
Music flows through my veins.
The house is now a boarding school, bought
by a family of musicians.
Ogilvy’s note plays on.

Remembrance | A Poem by Ananya S. Guha

Mother, the poetry that I write today is a whistling blowing song,
discovered in the wind that ruffles my surroundings. Yet it was at
your behest that I recited verse moved by music and the sonority of words. I did not possess stage fright as I recited poems written by others.

Yet today poetry has a special making, a deeply troubled voice as I
reach arcane depths to discover voices, my voice: protest, anger,
sadness like a gladiator sparring. Yes, Mother, poetry is what you took me to, adventurous, when I was just five. And, today at fifty nine, poetry stirs the everyday nuance of my soul. Not water tight, but a deep breath, disabling stoic beliefs.

Google Earth | A Poem by Marie MacSweeney

We begin our journey
from Eilean Hoan to Ullapool,
angling over these mountains
scarred by ice, billowing
across rivers which bleed
into lakes whose monsters
are more terrible
than the depths that succour them.

Curling sunlight pools
in the clumsy pleats stitched
into the tough skin of the planet,
snowy islands blot the snake black streams.

Could we see ourselves slot
into the nakedness of that place,
imagine the music made there,
storms drumming the highest points,
bird strings startling the sky?
Who listens here hears perhaps only one thing.

And so we drift downwards
to where grasses flourish,
to where sheep inherit
a tracery of pathways.
We could suck the air out of here
with one kiss, ignore cosmology,
smother weather,
wrap ourselves tightly
around each others’ lives;

or, when landscape yields
to seascape,
spilling over curved cliffs
to tormented sands,
and out into the North Atlantic
where earth is sunk in the ocean
without contour or creed,
without route or reason,
without signpost or ship;

where the force of truth
is all about us
could you and I land
on that blank island
in this sea and be ‘we’?

Travels | A Poem by Sunil Sharma

I will take you to where moon is
Or, other some such place where
You hear the Amazon singing at her tenor full.
The Niagara falling falling falling like tumbling $
The ancient Nile being travelled by a young Cleopatra and Antony
And recoded by the Bard for the King’s Men, 1607.
I will take you to the spot where a sensitive Keats first heard
The nightingale and composed his immortal paean
To the humble bird, a source of inspiration for others.
Come with me; fly to the orbiting lands imagined/real/imagined.
It interlinks —
The creative imagination-language-context
Called Poesy, now poetry by the stiff purists insisting on
Colloquial speech and modern terminology.
Call it any name, dear poetry creates something new
And, handcuffs us subtly
Both you and I
In this strange mental journey.

Visit Sunil at http://www.drsunilsharma.in/.