Three Poems by Anant Dhavale

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Crimson

What makes
tonight’s tropical wind so cold
I wonder how the trees will survive

Come and kill me, engulf me
in your wild currents
in you, I have heard, everything melts

You, the one who remains on my dreams
your beauty; like the dew atop a rose
your kisses, wet and full with a thousand dreams

This land of masons, of men and women
such simple and true; amongst them
I am but a lost cause

Love has sown its seeds; water and fire
smiles adorn mouths, full of hope
bodies, fresh with the drizzles of spring

Crimson, green and pale
what a vivid tale; a kind of a rare solstice
that hides everything, leaving a few colors behind

On understanding and other such myths

1.

There is a void

I try to fill

It’s impenetrable

I toil nonetheless

I attach it to people and things

equally in-vain

It is my Nessun dorma

a sleepless lament

Logic has failed me 

and religions have mislead me

mostly

I look at the old people

they look so calm

beyond the fading lines

maybe they weren’t what they are now.

2.

There’s fire and moon

from where it all began

to create the un-made

to annihilate the created

create

a voice said

and it all came to being

Reminiscences

linger

mountains, rivers, oceans

people

3.

Mithyaa

you see all of this,

you, me, this world

is a magnificent lie

said the poet

before he was pelted with stones

Smallest amongst the atoms

Expansive than the sky;*

some said he disappeared

some said he was dragged from a bridge

before being killed

Gods, they said, came down and took him along

unto the heavens

we believed them.

4.

The layer thickens

the songs we sing

the love we make

the sadness we feel

The pain that’s throbbing in my knee right now

All beyond a broken veil, the discernment

a mere illusion

brilliantly

ornate

* These two lines are a loose translation of a poem by Tukaram, a sixteenth century Marathi poet.


Civilizations

“You breathe, thanks to the phytoplanktons”

expounds a wise man

“April is the warmest month”

sighs another

But it doesn’t matter –

shadows

linger along the silent white wall

in an eternal stupor

a slow humming wind

drags along like a tired caravan

on this dry , drawn – out afternoon

parched by a lonely sun

A wind-chyme

makes a feeble effort –

twinkles the dust – laden remnants of leaves

a stillness is stirred

fading to the gray;

Civilizations

lie

cold and buried under.

Anant has been writing poetry since his late twenties. He attempts to explore the intricacies of the human mind and the cultural milieus that it breathes in through a conversational style of poetry. His poems seem to emanate from an urgent and pressing need to ‘word’ the abstract. He blogs at www.newagepoems.blogspot.com and has been publishing his poetry through numerous social media groups. Anant lives with his wife and son in Herndon, Virginia, and can be reached at anantdhavale@gmail.com.



Image © Vyacheslav Argenberg / http://www.vascoplanet.com/, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

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