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| Anna Pou |
Every time I steep tea,
measuring tea leaves
into the kettle and the
liquor gains an orange blush
I think of Baba sipping
his fragrant flush,
and that image is a prayer
a silent intercession
for his wellbeing, wherever
he is; an invisible orison,
instinctive and natural.
When I place lit candles
on my doorstep at Diwali,
each flame, supple and ardent
is a reminder of a dear one
lost to the shadows.
Simple superstitions, silly habits
sometimes become unuttered
invocations to an unseen power.
Counting stars in the evening sky,
for instance, is my ritual of vespers,
and soft autumnal breezes
my evensong of hushed voices raised in tuneful supplication.
© Ajanta Paul
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| Ajanta Paul, Ph.D. |
Ajanta Paul, Ph.D., is a widely published poet, short story writer, and literary critic who was a former Principal of Women's Christian College, Kolkata. A Pushcart nominee, Ajanta has been published in journals including Capella Biannual Journal, Offcourse, The Statesman, The Wild Word, Atticus Review, and Spadina Literary Review.
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