Giving Birth
I feel the
mountain push against the air,
Growing red in
the frustration
Until it gives
birth to the wailing sun,
Unable to
breathe under all that blood;
That blood
which drips onto the blanket of the sky,
Turning the
white fabric pink;
The very pink
that calls on to the birds to sing,
The very pink
that turns the water into something worth painting,
The very pink
that stops the red child from wailing,
So that it can
smile upon the purple earth,
And play with
the darkness for long enough,
Until it runs
to the other side of the earth,
To rest and
return…
I feel the
mountain push against the air,
Growing red in
the frustration
Until it gives
birth to the wailing sun
Whose
cry awakens the world…
Guidance
I am a
lighthouse with a broken bulb,
Unable to
attract the wandering and the lost;
All alone
And spinning
without light,
Without
purpose,
Without a crowd
to embrace my shores…
I’m stuck here
All alone,
With these
waves that try to kiss my feet
In vain,
Stopped by the
very rocks
Which hold me
in place…
I am a
lighthouse with a broken bulb,
Unable to
attract the wandering and the lost,
Forever stuck
with the sea
And the rocks
That know their
place…
Abel Johnson Thundil is a young poet from India. He is the author of two anthologies of poetry. His poems are sometimes sentimental, sometimes dark; but always with a madness that’s very enjoyable. His works have appeared in The Hooghly Review, Fevers of the Mind, The Whiskey Mule journal and other publications. His latest anthology, ‘Wilted: poems of modern tragedy’ is available on Amazon:
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