Queenie the Sloth
Queenie the sloth
lives in the labyrinth
of the Olive Green Pen
and toils daily to trace
straight lines on pink A4 sheets
Her behaviour often confuses me
and when I ask her,
“Do sloths work so hard?”
She laughs then sings,
“Banished was I ten years back
from Yellow Land of Lazy Hands
for building a bridge from Ant-land
to River of Silvery Friends
O sloths!
O sloths!
Laze around, laze around
and let the Earth rock
on its own beats!
That’s what most sloths do, don’t they?
But I’m Queenie
and I’ve chosen my way
Yes I’ve dared, I did, I did it
and I’m happier with my purposeful life”
“But don’t you miss your family?
Don’t you ever feel sad on New Year?”
I asked
“Oh no, no my friend!
In life, Never regret!
Have a cookie
Enjoy a chocolate drink
Laugh, pray
and let your mission shine
all day!"
King Snaky-Dragon
When King Snaky-Dragon
loses a battle
he often wears
his huge fan-brush hat
and orders the largest canvas
As he paints
a leafy green Pringles can
and writes with the finest brush,
“Drum it’’.
Mischievous Raccoon whispers,
“ Flip the fan, flip the fan!”
The king frowns
and shouts,
“Don’t you ever dare to challenge my wise fan!”
Vatsala Radhakeesoon is an author/poet and artist from Mauritius. She has had numerous poetry books published and she is currently working on her flash fiction/short stories book. She considers poetry as her first love and visual art as a healer in all circumstances. Vatsala Radhakeesoon currently lives at Rose-Hill, Mauritius, and is a freelance literary translator and an interview editor of Asian Signature journal.
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Rhys Hughes takes us through Greek mythology with his own brand of humour blending the past and the present
1
When Bellerophon
saw a unicorn
upon his lawn
he was somewhat
disappointed.
“I have no wish
to make a fuss,”
is what he said, “but this
is the day appointed
for me to receive
a visit from
Pegasus instead.”
2
Hydras are bad
in Hyderabad
or so
Hercules has heard.
Needless to say
he therefore
plans
to go there
gladly
on Pegasus Airlines
but not before
he goes to Goa
because he badly
needs a holiday.
What a legendary chap!
3
In order to earn
money as well as learn
something, while
writing her thesis on Theseus,
Ariadne works
as a guide
to sightseers
and gives them
a Minotaur of the famous
labyrinth.
4
Sovereign of dolphins,
king of the waves,
the god of the sea
makes bubbles
without any trouble
when he plays the flute
as he bathes.
And jazz in the oceanic
jacuzzi is cosy
and groovy
but the melody
is unfamiliar to you.
Yet I can name
Neptune in one.
5
There’s a Zeus
loose about this house,
his thunderbolts
will cook your goose,
assuming that
you are unlucky
enough to have one.
But even if you don’t,
when you hear
him stir,
it’s better to duck!
6
Simple arithmetic
ought to be taught
in the schools
that heroes go to,
so they will know,
without any doubt,
that one minus one
equals nought.
The stealing of
the Golden Fleece
celebrated with
a premature feast
in the near vicinity
of the daring theft
adds up only to trouble.
Sail away first
before slaking your thirst,
sail far from the
hostile nation.
But enraptured by wine
and more potent brews
Jason plus crew
(that fiery few)
are captured and thrown
into jail.
While serving time,
forget the blue sea,
remember instead
all that you learned
about subtraction
and count down the years,
one minus one
equals nought, a free
Argonaut…
and that is the sum
of this tale.
7
Atlas, holding up the sky,
looks and sees
aeroplanes flying by
around his head
and through his legs,
the passengers
respectful to his
massive thighs
but oblivious
of his giant sighs.
8
Pan in the kitchen
clattering pots
and chopping boards.
What’s the god
of nature doing
indoors? He’s frying
so hard to be
a domesticated chap,
that’s what!
A non-stick goatish
do gooder with
a skillet skill set.
9
Prometheus on
the promenade
walking in
the shade of trees
no longer gives
away anything
to humanity
for free, not even
lemonade: those
days are over.
Now he hopes
to make money
and only offers
his fire for hire.
10
Socrates was such a tease
in the market square.
He doubted this
and questioned that
until some people
had had enough.
They felt he mocked
their authority
and in a cup
of hemlock they turned
a key, the skeleton
key of his mortality.
11
While the rock
goes up his socks
fall down. Poor
Sisyphus!
When the rock
rolls down his socks
are quite forgot.
Mighty but mild
Sisyphus!
As the moon goes up
his efforts are
with moonlight
flooded thus. Don’t
make a fuss, old
Sisyphus!
12
A cyclops is like
a bicycle headlamp
coming the other
way. We meet them
on country roads
at night when we
are cycling far away.
“How do you do?”
we always ask
as we zoom past
very fast, but they
never deign to reply.
They just hiss
and wink darkness
back to life and
softened by gloom
or the glow of
the moon they
become rather more
beautiful. Now
there’s a cyclops for
sore eyes!
13
Icarus upstairs
on the omnibus.
His wings
were things
that fell apart.
Some people fly
for business,
others for sport:
But since his
accident Icarus finds
that he prefers
public transport.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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Poems by Tom Merrill have recently appeared in two novels as epigraphs.He is Poet in Residuum at The Hypertexts and Advisory Editor at Better Than Starbucks.
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Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
of autumn’s heavy late-afternoon traffic – an urgent
meeting of brown dry leaves
and some broken yellow sunlight
.
Here I am going to leave
all old latitudes and longitudes
neatly creased
and folded like a new tourist map
near the empty tea cup; in them, you may find
shadows of fish, bougainvillea seeds,
bees in November, dry deciduous leaves
and ample ember
.
But coordinates are much like our obsessions– hard to go;
they will follow
you through the busy streets in the evening
behind every pedestrian with algae masks
like numerous notifications
for one lost search
.
Sekhar Banerjeeis an author. He has four collections of poems and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. He is a former Secretary of Paschimbanga Bangla Akademi and Member-Secretary of Paschimbanga Kabita Akademi under the Government of West Bengal. He lives in Kolkata, India.
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As Mr. Jologg was getting ready for a date He was hooked by some twist of fate . In the centre of his face waved a red satin heart all flappy and as soft as petal . “Oh my nose! Where is my nose?” He shouted . Hastily he cancelled his date He called some healthcare modernists He called some traditional apothecaries They prescribed him capsules They prescribed him potions Some even prescribed him songs and some even pyramid- shaped canvas He tried them all Nothing worked . Then he jumped, jumped, jumped on the green grassy hill He ran, ran, ran across the Antelope-fields But nothing worked . Lost in despair, he called Vanilla – his girlfriend, the nurse with sunflower smile . “There’s no curse, Jologg” She assured, “Go on , take this, Sniff, sniff, Breathe in”
As he did what she said black and white pepper swirled magically A roman nose settled in
.
“Oh, my nose! My nose!” he exclaimed overjoyed “ It is back but never forget Watch out! That trickster! The nose!”
Vatsala Radhakeesoon, born in Mauritius in 1977, is the author of 11 poetry books, including Tropical Temporariness (Transcendent Zero Press, USA, 2019), Whirl the Colours (Gibbon Moon Books UK/Kenya, 2020) and नीली हंसिनी के गाने – Songs of the Blue Swan (Bilingual Hindi -English, Gloomy Seahorse Press, UK/Kenya,2020). She is one of the representatives of Immagine and Poesia, an Italy based literary movement uniting artists and poets’ works. She currently lives at Rose-Hill and is a literary translator, interviewer and artist.
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The scientist who meddles with dark thoughts in the privacy of an apparatus-cluttered attic
is feeling ecstatic because of the sight that greets him on the automatic operating table in the centre of his gloomy room.
It is a monster constructed from parts that once belonged to people who now are dead
but he only knows for definite the name of the one who contributed the brawny left arm and that was Fred.
.
When read aloud the names of the others might resemble a chorus of doom
especially as he thinks he vaguely recognises the chap who contributed the major portion of the misshapen head
(a fellow who expired so recently that standards of decency prevent me from revealing exactly how, for what that’s worth)
so Victor the experimenter won’t mutter anything at all, thank goodness! and yes that’s the name he was given at birth.
.
He hopes to be famous for being the first man to create artificial life on Earth.
If he is successful with this monster he will go on to design himself a wife.
Not that he couldn’t find himself a girlfriend to marry if he really applied his mind.
But he prefers to make a refined spouse from scratch right at the top of the house and mend her as required.
.
All the body parts he stole came from the graves of very polite people
but he wasn’t aware of this fact when he exhumed the corpses with a spade in the moonlight shadow of a churchyard steeple.
And now the monster is ready and he will dare in his lair to pull the lever that sends electric current tearing through the flesh,
most of which is fresh but with a few gone off bits here and there.
.
The creature stirs, sits up and murmurs a gracious hello to his creator and notes that Victor appears to be famished
and so he invites him for tea and some buns with honey at a nice café later even though he has no money to pay for them.
His instinct is to be civil at all times even with a bolt through his neck that prevents him from courteously nodding
and thick cotton wadding in his mouth that stops him from speaking clearly when he is being impractically lavish.
.
Victor is baffled by this behaviour of the ghastly creature, whom he expected to act in a manner more horridly apt
but he simply shrugs his shoulders and accepts the situation as a hungry cat might allow a radish to be placed in its dish.
Not that the comparison is a good one, but the hour is late and I’m the one who happens to be writing this poem
so we’ll let it stand as it is and wait for Victor’s shrug to finally vanish.
.
Still hoping for an answer, the monster steps off the table onto the floor and offers his right hand for a friendly shake
and Victor doesn’t know the name of the original owner of that particular set of fingers but suspects it belonged to a girl.
Then the monster pats his creator on the back and thanks him again and again with a smile like an array of black pearls
and wishes him all the best and inquires after his health and praises his lustrous curls.
.
But Victor’s curls are nothing special for they are just unkempt locks that have been combed by his studious fingers.
The warm but slightly odd feeling generated by the monster’s compliment nevertheless continues to linger within him.
In the mind of Victor as he inspects his creation at a more judicious angle there rise doubts about what he is dealing with
and he feels alarmed at the distinct possibility that his monster might be congenitally friendly to all and sundry.
.
Monsters are supposed to be malign and frighten everybody in the nation
but this one is turning out to be the most genial entity in the entire history of biological experimentation.
Victor is bemused and considers the patchwork of good manners that stands unsteadily before him on mismatched feet
while the devoted monster sways but says thank you and remains sweet without an obvious motive or reason.
.
Then the scientist comes to a sudden decision and lunges for his adjustable spanner
and undoes the neck bolt with savage twists until the head falls off and rolls along the floor into a collision with the corner
but the dreadful head in motion still mouths a silent thank you and blows a majestic kiss, polite to the bitter end.
I don’t want a wife like that, Victor tells himself with a shiver, for she would offend my notion of domestic bliss.
.
I want a spirited woman who will keep me on my toes and not a docile little lady who will apologise when I pull her nose.
He considers his experiment a failure and plans his next move and soon in that attic room he is full of qualms and fears.
Should I take all the parts back to the graveyard, he asks himself, his chin upon his hand, or keep them as souvenirs
of the time I proved to myself that a rude and lewd nature is more desirable in a monster than a respectful gentle mood?
.
In the end he judges it easier to keep the parts, but the jars in which he seals the flesh turn out not to be quite airtight
and depression makes him indolent in the weeks that follow and he watches sadly as the bits slowly decay away.
He wasn’t exactly the greatest scientist of his day nor the happiest man in his town
but one thing can be said in his favour that should add considerably to his renown…
.
To the Victor, the spoils!
Pumpkin
Would you like some toast?
(The waitress was a most gracious
host as she approached.)
.
You have bread! I said.
.
And she replied:
Yes, of course. A thoroughbred horse
is the best kind of bred.
.
Then in my silence
she continued:
I would deduce you have led a
sheltered life if you prefer any variety
other than that?
.
To which I responded:
.
A horse is not a loaf
all things being equal. I don’t wish
to make a fuss but equus
for breakfast is worse
even than a poached top hat.
What else do you have?
.
No top hats at all, she sighed.
.
How about a bowler soup?
I inquired with a drooping
mouth (it surely was
uncouth of me to look like
that… but no top hat!)
.
Nothing, she sighed. The
kitchen flooded and all the food was
spoiled. We are growing
pumpkins to pump out the water but
they will take many more
months to be ready.
.
At this point I felt quite unsteady.
Pumpkins won’t pump out water!
That’s absurd. Consider
the word more carefully. They
pump kin. Though I will
concede that they sometimes
shift kith too. But H2O?
No! Rue the day that
idea came your way. Why it’s
chemically outrageous,
the logic of the notion is
quite fallacious. Now please be
gracious enough to show
me the door.
.
There it is, she said
as she pointed with a long
itchy finger. It is ajar,
a jar of apricot
jam.
.
The door jambs were made
from fruit,
this is true, yet
there was still no proper toast
so the point is
moot. I stood up in my boots.
.
I swear that
I’ve had better service from
a ghost, one with a
pumpkin head,
I said as I departed. But the
waitress snarled
at my retreating
back and started to hurl abuse.
.
You ought to drain your spinal
fluid, oh pesky druid.
Warts for keys!
Birds and fleas!
Pumpkins for frumpkins such as you!
There is no such word
was my final retort as I slammed
the door behind me.
Air Guitar Contest, Wiki
Air Guitar Poem
.
Many people play
the air guitar. I have a friend
who plays an air lute
instead. It is cute that he feels
the need to be so
mediaeval. As for myself: I play
the air tambourine,
the air cymbals,
the air harmonium,
the air flugelhorn,
and pretty much the entire range
of possible musical
instruments, even those that
are tuned differently
from the scales I
know so well. And I even play
the air cow bells.
.
The only
instruments I avoid are the
air wind chimes and
the air Aeolian harp.
.
I find those rather tricky…
.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Amidst the fog lived Doodle the dog When the sun wore its golden attire Doodle barked like thunder “Burn, burn Green Island!” . Last Sunday, Owl the wise Seer declared his behaviour as “weird, undignified, and anti-cheer”
.
“Whoo-ooooooooo” shouted Doodle in anger wagging his tail in some way, rather peculiar, almost perpendicular And off he flew to some icy Penguin Land in his roaring machine The Grumpy Golden Retriever!
Yaya
When Yaya the yak yawned Marigolds and roses blew away and were reduced to scattered pieces . So the Ministry of Flowers enforced a law: Yaya should wear a gold-platted yawn-mask in Petal Land . Yaya smiled and complied as he loved all flowers And his mask looked much like a refined jewel to him . Afterwards whenever he yawned Poise-fully stood all flowers on the ground and in artistic pots At times they swirl in a dance all circular At times merrily they sang till dusk “ Yaya’s yawn is now gentle, soft, soft is the breeze Yaya, now is our friend, oh dear friend and in harmony we shall all live in this colourful no fear land”.
.
Biography: Vatsala Radhakeesoon Vatsala Radhakeesoon, born in Mauritius in 1977, is the author of 11 poetry books including Tropical Temporariness (Transcendent Zero Press, USA, 2019), Whirl the Colours (Gibbon Moon Books UK/Kenya, 2020) and नीली हंसिनी के गाने – Songs of the Blue Swan (Bilingual Hindi -English, Gloomy Seahorse Press, UK/Kenya,2020). She is one of the representatives of Immagine and Poesia, an Italy based literary movement uniting artists and poets’ works. Vatsala currently lives at Rose-Hill and is a literary translator, interviewer and artist.
*DUI – Driving Under Influence is punishable as it involves driving a car while impaired by alcohol or other drugs (including recreational drugs and those prescribed by physicians), to a level that renders the driver incapable of driving safely.
Penny Wilkes, MFA, served as a science editor, travel and nature writer and columnist. Along with short stories, her features on humour and animal behaviour have appeared in a variety of publications. An award-winning writer and poet, she has published a collection of short stories, Seven Smooth Stones. Her published poetry collections include: Whispers from the Land, In Spite of War, and FlyingLessons. Her Blog on TheWrite Life features life skills, creativity, and writing: http://penjaminswriteway.blogspot.com/
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Not a simple jab of the knife- On Killing a Tree, Gieve Patel
.
It’s easy to kill a poem.
.
If it’s the flying kind,
rip off its wings already slick
with the oil spill of words
and slit its throat
with the blade of your pen
run like a bow across the jugular.
The frantic flapping you hear
is the nerves straining for a final burst of music.
Plug your ears with indifference,
pluck the feathers, and clean up the blood.
.
If the poem is Black in its epidermal garb,
you may choke it with your knee
pressed ruthlessly to the back of the neck*.
It takes some time for the oxygen
to be shut out of the door of the lungs.
Be patient. Wait for the last leap of breath,
roll the corpse onto a gurney,
and smile at the spectators sliding mobile phones
out of the scabbard of their pockets.
.
If the poem talks too much,
incarcerate it behind thick bars of sense.
Try every trick from bastinado
to waterboarding and force a confession
of its all-the-perfumes-of-Arabia-will-not-sweeten guilt.
.
And if the poem is too popular,
chances are that it is adulterous;
then it merits no ordinary death.
Stone it with words
stone it
stone it
stone it
till all its charms are ripped out of its flesh.
.
To let a poem live, you need eyes
that can see the space between the lines
as the poem’s right to breathe,
and not as Nazi death trains
into which words are squeezed.
.
Killing it is a lot easier, takes no particular skill.
.
*Reference to George Floyd’s killing which took place in Minneapolis on 25 May 2020.
Sambhu R. is a bilingual poet from Kerala. He is Assistant Professor of English at N.S.S. College, Pandalam and is also a doctoral candidate. He has published an anthology of poems in Malayalam titled “Vavval Manushyanum Komaliyum.”
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