Discourse Poem by Anuradha Bhattacharyya

The index of the point of a spear
In parabola directs action.
Touching ground leaves no clear
Statement of its course in air.
A sleek quick motion whizzing
Through thick and thin disappears.
Light rootless objects get stirred,
Bewildered breathless reactionaries.
Discourse is self ironic, tracing
Darting spears, in-construable spirits.
Somewhere down the line in history
We too have been caught mid-air and hauled.

Date: Knots 2012