Categories
Humour Poetry

Songs of a Sloth & Dragon King

By Vatsala Radhakeesoon

 
 
 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.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL


Categories
Humour Poetry

Sticky Myths

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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Categories
Humour Poetry

Let Old Acquaintance Not be Forgot

By Tom Merrill

.

I remember Vergaza and Diddlyweed,

who drove me to Tina and then Flambé;

there were numerous others along the way:

.

Mere Ois and Reptile, Genghis and Pogo,

Martha and Mother Superior,

Majestique, Weenciepoo, Skew the hobo.

.

Pinocchio’s gone, like RH and Daisy;

Leena is driving old Boblett crazy;

Twinkle and Juliet got the heave-ho.

.

Troisieme’s zoo lacked the esoteric:

just whoozit, what’s-his-face, so-and-so.

Mine tends to be more nongeneric.

.

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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Categories
Humour Poetry

Christmas Poems

By Rhys Hughes

Krampus on Campus

Dear Admissions Tutor

I am rather too mature

a fellow

to present myself to you

in this manner

(it is true)

but I believe potentially

I will have a

bright future

if you allow me to enrol

at your university.

.

And let me now explain

the meaning

of my name. Krampus

the word derives

from ‘claw’

and I am wearied by my

seasonal chores

which unlike those of

Santa Claus

involves punishing bad

children instead

of rewarding the good.

.

I am hairy,

my long tongue lolls

and I have cloven hoofs.

I leap across

your roofs at night

giving children such an

awful fright!

and this has been my role

for years.

To cap it all my head

has horns.

My appearance generally

as you can see

is hardly prepossessing

but that’s

how I was born.

.

And now

I’ve had enough!

I want a

change of career,

no more

nastiness and no

more fear.

I long to improve myself.

Please permit

me to enrol and achieve

my goal,

a Krampus on campus

will be quite

a boon to your noble

institution.

My essays will all

be referenced properly

with the correct

attributions.

I promise this!

Yes, you

can provide the solution

to my woes!

.

I write this letter

with my talons crossed for luck.

I have inspected

your prospectus

and the course I choose is

“Mythology

and Cultural Studies,

modules one and two”

and in advance I am thanking

you. Sincerely yours,

without a fuss, Krampus.

.

P.S. What don’t

you want for Christmas?

A Krampus

Once I was an Elf

Once I was an elf

(a real elf)

and I was proud

and strong.

I loosed my arrows

at dragons

and never thought

it wrong

to engage in battle

with my other foes,

the goblins

of the underworld.

.

How I miss

those ancient days

with their better ways

when mounted

on a flying horse,

a quiver on my back,

I soared above

the mountain peaks

that chewed the clouds

like demon fangs,

ready to attack!

.

Few back then

were quite so bold

and fewer still

so keen to seek

mighty new heroic deeds

to perform each week.

Caring not for

fame or wealth

while swooping

from the sky,

I defeated giant lizards,

evil wizards

and necromancers

for I was an elf

well versed in magic

with nothing tragic

about my circumstances.

.

But times changed

as they always do

and the age of wonders

passed away,

for even valour

and honour too

must eventually decay.

I fell on hard times

like all the elves

and sold my golden arrows,

cut short my hair,

lost my flying horse

and begged for work

everywhere,

cursing the worsening

of my situation

until at last I found a boss

willing to take me on.

.

The work is seasonal

and very hard

and now is the busiest

time of year.

I sometimes weep

as I recall how long ago

the good times were

when to be an elf

earned both respect and fear.

I have become

little more than a slave

in the modern world

and it is cold

so near the North Pole.

.

Yes, once I was an elf

(a real elf)

but now I am a mockery

of myself.

I slay dragons no longer

but every day

I just make toys

from a very long list

for girls and boys

who doubt I even exist.

.

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. 

Categories
Humour Poetry

Algae Masks

By Sekhar Banerjee

It is always easy to use Google maps

when you love to guess

a place but do not wish to reach,

as if, it is an old mulberry bench

in a bottomless sleep

.

However, you will not possibly find

this place

where I am sitting now in the middle

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 Banerjee is 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. 

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Categories
Humour Poetry

Watch the Nose

By Vatsala Radhakeesoon



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.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Categories
Humour Poetry

Thankestein & More…

By Rhys Hughes

Thankenstein

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.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Categories
Humour Poetry

Nonsense Verse

By Vatsala Radhakeesoon



Dog of the Fog

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.

Categories
Humour Poetry

Writer’s DUI

By Penny Wilkes

I grip the wheel stung

by consonants and vowels.

Nouns smudge the windshield.

.

As windows swarm with phrases

Verbs whine, bite and beg me

to pick up a pen at 65 mph.

.

“Write me. Me. Me. Me.”

.

Ideas flash and honk my horn,

they force swerves and street slaloms

as I sing to stay on the road.

.

When mind fireflies go incandescent,

I beg for red lights or stop signs.

Oh, let traffic slow.

.

On manic freeways

No stopping places

When the buzz heightens.

.

If I’m cuffed for DUI* when writing,

will the kind officer trade the ticket

for a signature on my poem?

.

*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 LandIn Spite of War, and Flying Lessons. Her Blog on The Write Life features life skills, creativity, and writing:  http://penjaminswriteway.blogspot.com/

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Categories
Humour Poetry

How to Kill a Poem

By Sambhu R.

.

It takes much time to kill a tree,

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.

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*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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