Calling all poets. Submissins are open for Wingword Poetry Competition!

Tryst

Antak Biswas 

Growing roses from blood,
This is a poem of rebellion
How I lost my religion.
No, I'm not a rebel
I tremble at the sight of guns,
So I try to scare them
Fight them with my guitar.
I write my poems to fight chaos;
Fight chaos with flower buds,
I refuse to be societal minion,
Of the self-declared Gods,
I choose to be scattered.
But in god I do believe
I am their creation and,
I have created them,
Written down age old mystic stories
And forgotten mythical tales.
I have never understood
The divisions of god
Can god be a body?
Can they be cut?
Then why do we divide them,
Into different parts?
And wage wars and riots,
To make a single part
Claim the body whole?
Isn't that the job of parasites?
Or the creepers green?

Society says it has found God
It has found them in buildings of sandstones
In statutes of terracotta,
And idols made of clay.
In patterns of mosaic floor,
Of tall marble structures
And in stories of glasses stained.
But, do I need to find god?
What good shall it do?
Will the world be borderless?
Will all the wars stop?
What is the use of omnipotence,
When the innocents still die
The children go hungry,
And bomb shells still fly?

I don't want to depend
On the society's veiled help,
Or the blame god for the mistakes,
Of my fellow human species.

And I did not want to wait
For the attention of fate.
To change fate on my own
To find my own peace
My tryst with spirituality.
I decided to get out of the bowl,
To explore lands uncharted,
To swim across the cosmic river.
To rebel and to find,
How big is the ocean wide.


Leave a comment