Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Two Poems by Ananya S. Guha

From Public Domain
TWENTY MINUTES

Twenty minutes of darkness 
The hills disappear from sight
Twenty minutes of listlessness
The rain unsheathes its sword
Twenty minutes of rain
And the hills are washed
There is no one to clothe them

Twenty minutes are gone
And the people have returned home
Sidling to untruths 
Where is the warfare 
In minds or on roads?

Twenty minutes.

IN SUSPENSION

The day is about to end
The honking cars are muted
I don’t look out in fear of seeing
The rushed traffic, always believing
That the day ends with a whimper
Reminding of those days
When we could cross the street blindfolded
But the mountains remain unruffled
Stoic and resigned

Who are we to understand change?
The mountains are witness to all
The changes this hill town has undergone
Now they call it a city, everything has changed they say, cars have increased
Houses have vanished, malls have come up

Only the mountains and the rains haven’t changed

I remain suspended between the Old and the New
From Public Domain

Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong where he was born and brought up. He has been writing and publishing poetry for over forty years.


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Categories
Poetry

Boats of Joy by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

From Public Domain 
BOATS OF JOY 

Bringing the story, through most maven eyes
by texture and by grade they coalesce,
grand blooms of spartan exposures gone wrong,
a compromising emerald sea now replaced by brute-black slashing;
the slumping frame of the dock, missing daytime bird squawk, 
the courage of sleeping men soon squid-sundered and dragged away:
mended fishing nets piled in seaweed shawl.
The absence of double-sided oily trawler buckets 
that come with larger operations.

Betraying nothing in the bob of things,
these boats of joy tied together, swaying in the harbour,
in a crashing whorl that could be mistaken for dance;
by this man of many miscalculations, wandering night
restless in a pairing of different coloured socks.
Unseen pirouettes for the boats that slam together.
The way young love does, blind to all but
a foolish heart.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.  

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Poetry

A Moment in September & Other Poems by George Freek

From Public Domain 
A MOMENT IN SEPTEMBER 

Leaves fall in the moonlight,
as a solitary girl strolls
down the darkening street. 
Leaves blow like rose petals
before her hurrying feet.
The leaves will fall
throughout the night,
as the moon becomes like glass.
It reveals nothing, 
and that girl is soon gone,
like last summer’s leaves.
She’s left me with a memory
of other things that pass,
but that will also not last.


A POEM WITH NO FOCUS 

Tonight, the moon appears 
as if it had worries
that were almost too much
for it to bear. 
I’ve been there,
and beyond that moon,
there’s only emptiness.
I feel lost in this universe,
with nothing to steer by.
I see a distant star
shining above my head.
It seems courageous,
but it’s probably long dead.
What goes on in the sky?
It’s alive with sounds,
which I can’t hear.
They drift through
the lonely cosmos,
and will never come near. 


WRITTEN DURING AN ECLIPSE

The day has no face,
as it dies anonymously.
It reflects my feelings,
without emotion or grace,
leaving darkness in its place.
Clouds drift like dead sailors
in that merciless sky.
They look at nothing
when they pass me by.
That relentless sky
is a lonely place 
even for a star to die.
I talk to myself as someone apart.
I think of many words, 
but they all seem absurd.
Like other men and women,
I sit in the dark.
My soul is buried in ashes,
as if it were somehow
simply waiting
for my real life to start.

George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Poetry

One Last, Unfinished Mango by Laila Brahmbhatt

Alphonso Mangoes. Public Domain 
ONE LAST, UNFINISHED MANGO

Slicing a watermelon in my kitchen,
I crave an Alphonso
from a tree grown in the middle of summer,
ripening through snow,
whose branches
meander in all directions
carrying mangoes in every shade of yellow
from his desk in the east
to my window in the west.

On my empty wall, a photograph:
us drawing a mango,
I in forgiving yellow,
he in stubborn pink-
a mango color
neither of us
has ever seen or tasted.
We leave it uncoloured.
Still, its scent roams
in all directions,
through his clothes, then mine.

In the drawing:
me eating half a mango, out of season,
while he saves his other half.

Laila Brahmbhatt, a Kashmiri/Jharkhand-rooted writer and Senior Immigration Consultant in New York, has published haiku and haibun in several international journals, including Cold Moon Journal and Failed Haiku.

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Categories
Poetry

More poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

From Public Domain 
YOUTH’S SYMMETRY

A penetrating dream
brought my childhood 
to the forefront.  The 
splendour of summer
warmed my blanket.
On three-year-old legs
I followed a butterfly.
The world was large
in youth’s symmetry.
I did not know why
the air in my dream
blew the butterfly out
of my reach. It blew away
my childhood memories.
Soon I was an old man 
in the same dream.


INTO THE LIGHT 

One more lonely night.
I stare into the light
until a new day comes.
I stare into the ray

until there is no more
to be seen. The rays of
light make me blind
as time flies by.


NO SUCH SHADOW LIVES HERE  

I check on my shadow
daily. I ask it questions,
write it letters so many
times a day. It makes me
sad that it never answers.
It says nothing at all.

My last letter was returned.

No such shadow lives here.
The letter was smudged up.
The letter had its own shadow. 
I was of sound of mind when
I wrote it. Now I am not.
I just ramble on like a madman.
I just wrote one little letter
when I was feeling pensive.

If I was a poet, I would travel
to Spain or France, and leave
my shadow behind. I would
walk in foreign streets and
greet the mailman. I would 
ask him to bless my feet.

I would have no letter for him.
I would expect no letter in
return. My shadow is dead to
me. We never correspond. I 
tried and failed. I gave up. These
days I feel lighter on my feet.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, now lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His poetry book, Peering into the Sun, was published by Poet’s Democracy.

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Categories
Poetry

Cortege by John Swain

Notre-Dame-de-Moirax. Photo Courtesy: John Swain. 
CORTEGE

Sky severs the river
in the eclipse on the bridge,
you paint my eyes white.
You measure the city of air
with silk threads
from cedar roots,
and on the foundation,
marbles effigy the dress
of every name.
I praise the blue movement 
of the evening,
the wind settles
on the back of your neck,
the running waters nourish 
the cortege of a solar palm.

John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France.  His most recent chapbook, The Daymark, was published by the Origami Poems Project.

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

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Categories
Poetry

585 Trees by Stephen House

Painting by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890)
585 TREES

in the city i come from 
they want to kill 585 trees
for a golf course development
to bring money and tourists
          and the people of that city
don’t want those trees removed
for plenty of good reasons 
including wildlife and nature

i did some research this morning 
it was easy to do on my phone
about how many native creatures 
rely on one mature tree
        and it is somewhere between 
five hundred and a thousand 
who live in or visit that tree
for their survival

i won’t write any more
it’s all been said by those wiser
but if you investigate 
with the sums and figures
         you will quickly see
why the killing of 585 trees
is a terrible mistake 
and must be scrapped right now

Stephen House has won awards as a poet, playwright and actor. He’s received several international literature residencies. He’s published often and performs his acclaimed monologues widely.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Poetry

Half-a-beat Behind

Poetry and Translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

HALF-A-BEAT BEHIND

I am a person
half-a-beat behind.
Some say I am lazy,
some even call me incapable,
but in almost everything I do,
I am half-a-beat behind.

I walk half-a-beat late,
arrive half-a-beat late,
and sometimes pay the price.

Yet, when I need to be fast,
I can be that too.
At my elementary school sports day,
I even won prizes
and was chosen for the relay team.

Perhaps it is because I am a country boy,
I sometimes think.
But then again,
I have country friends
who move two or three times faster than I do,
so perhaps that is not quite it.

If only I had been 
half-a-beat ahead,
or even simply walked 
with the same stride as everyone else,
everything would have been different.

But because I walked
half-a-beat behind,
I met poetry
walking a little way behind the others.

And with poetry,
which no one else seemed to notice,
I have walked slowly, step by step,
all the way to here.
From Public Domain

Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.

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Categories
Poetry

Stolen Spring by Goutam Roy 

From Public Domain 
STOLEN SPRING

Many buds fall
from trees
before their petals
can unfold
and offer their fragrance
to the waiting world.
Hands meant to play,
soft as petals,
are made to carry
the weight of bricks
instead of holding
dreams of childhood.
Some are trapped
in the cruel shadows
of corrupted minds,
their innocence wounded
before it learns to trust.
And so the buds wither
before their season comes—
victims of a stolen spring,
while the world looks on,
and forgets
how to let them bloom.

Goutam Roy’s works carry philosophical and societal messages. His works are regularly published in Muse India, Literary Yard, and he has also been published in Borderless Journal and Muse Pie.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Poetry

There is Nowhere Else to Go

By Jenny Middleton

Painting by Alfred Sisley (1839-1899). From Public Domain 
THERE IS NOWHERE ELSE TO GO

She is following the cool air 
north of love, into the mountains. 
She lies to herself; makes lies prayers. 
She is following the cool air -- 
climbing higher, up through despair 
believing she can conquer pain.
She is following the cool air 
north of love, into the mountains.

Jenny Middleton is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites.  Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats.  You can read more of her poems at her website  https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles