But it is anchored to earth while the wild winds sing
.
It longs for new love and youthful flings
It wants to break free, fly over the sea
But my heart is a kite with a stone on its string
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It wonders what the future will bring
When the heart is corralled to what can only be
It is anchored to earth while the wild winds sing
.
I was the air beneath the falcon’s wing
I was the joy of sunshine before day’s reality
But my heart is a kite with a stone on its string.
.
Sometimes in a dream I feel the old zing
Of our youthful love, my heart’s soaring glee
But it is anchored to earth while the wild winds sing
.
The loss is too great, no end to the longing
The fluttering and flittering of fantasy
My heart is a kite with a stone on its string
It is anchored to earth while the wild winds sing.
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*Qi pao – Cheongsam, a dress of Manchu origin.
A. Jessie Michael is a retired Associate Professor of English from Malaysia and a writer of short stories and poems. She has written winning short stories for local magazines and newspaper competitions and received honourable mentions in the AsiaWeek Short Story Competitions. She has worked with writers’ groups in Melbourne, Australia and Suzhou, China. Her stories have also appeared in The Gombak Review, 22 Asian Short Stories (2015), Bitter Root Sweet Fruit and recently articles in Kitaab (2019) and poems and Short story in Borderless (2020). She has previously published an anthology of short stories Snapshots, with two other writers and most recently her own anthology The Madman and Other Stories (2016).
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They talked of how small they were, yet with dignity.
They talked of how humiliated they were, yet sheltered.
They talked of betrayal they faced, yet pretended to be loved.
They talked of brother’s love, lost on the way due to land and properties; owed.
They talked of husbands beating their wives, yet pretending to be a perfect practicing Muslim; destined to be a Jannati.
They talked of lovers; promising to spend life, yet broke hearts and crushed innumerable souls.
They talked of insecure women, tired and wrinkled with their husbands’ gift. Gift of beatings and scrapings on their skin. Gift of hair torn out of their heads, and the pain tinctured into the skin.
After all the necessary yet unnoticed talks; born out of boredom and exasperation,
One of them walked into the kitchen, taking frozen beef out of the fridge, marinating it with love.
Love born out of husbands’ gift, love born out of fear; it was not!
It was love born out of gifts…. of beating and scraping, hair torn out of heads and pain tinctured into the skin.
Beef, somehow, felt soft and suffered. A story involved and a tale to tell. Hands shivered as if she could feel the love (born out of husbands’ gift) on the softness of the beef. The cruelty it faced and hardness it cherished; yet the softness it possessed.
She couldn’t marinate beef; the sun took leave and husbands came with their gifts; as always!
Next time, they talked of beef; thrown out on the verandah.
Next time, they talked of yellow turmeric-paste used in the marinade; splattered on the verandah with its anti-inflammatory properties; yet it looked as inflammatory as their husbands’ gift.
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Md Musharraf hails from the silk city of Bhagalpur (Bihar), who believes it to be a place of intellectual labors and hard-working scholars. He has completed his graduation from Sharda University in B.A.(Hons)English and has published with Half Baked Beans and Select Publishers.
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Watching the little red rose that is yet to bloom.
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As the moon and the stars twinkle in the sky,
Where no one can reach so high,
They light up my little bedroom floor,
With millions of dreams in my head I snore.
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With a positive hope and thought in my mind,
I leave all the worries of the previous day behind,
And start my day with a whole lot of new things,
This is how for me a new day begins.
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Y Deepika is a facilitator in Delhi Public School, Nacharam, Telangana. She a Doctoral in Life Sciences and teaches in a school. She loves to experiment and enjoys trying and learning new things.
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Earthen bowl painted with green elaborate designs.
I go up with joy as I run down this slope
With the wind ticking my loose hair
As it bids me adieu while rushing upwards,
And the blushing sun secretly peeking at me
Through the fine cracks between the canopies.
I feel the excitement even in my breath
As I float in the air for nano seconds
With my heart beat rising at an elated pace
Jumping up and down cheering me with joy.
I run down this uneven rigid path
Unsure of my each step on the ground
I might make my stiff perfect landing
Or I might trip and fall hurting myself
Yet I don’t fear for I am enthralled
I enjoy this silly risk I am taking
In this predesigned life I claim to be mine
Besides I am closer now, to my sanctuary.
Finally, down and down I go till I suddenly stop
Yes it is my home, I see my safe haven
Waiting with its familiar pleasant smell and
Warm welcoming smile as it senses my arrival
And I go inside leaving my insecurities behind.
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Anjali V Raj is a natural science researcher from Kerala, India. She currently works as a research assistant at ATREE, an Environmental think tank in Bangalore. She writes poems and short essays based on her thoughts cultivated from observations of nature, lifestyle and society. She started literary writing at the age of 16 and recently she has published few of her works in the Down to Earth, Café Dissensus Everyday, Borderless Journal and Times of India Reader’s Blog. Most of her poems are published in her personal blog in WordPress (Outburst of Thoughts).
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One of mythological scenes carved on the pillars of Sun Temple at Modhera. appears to be Sita abduction scene from Ramayana. Notice Pushpak viman and Jatayu the bird. Photo courtesy: Wiki
Lament of Jatayu*
I heard some cries,
And woke up rubbing my eyes.
I looked up and saw —
My breath suspended in awe —
A giant chariot
Running through the moon-lit clouds,
Like a frightened snake hastening through crowds.
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I rushed up,
My eyes following the magical chariot.
I was surprised to see
The mighty Ravana*, sweating with anxiety,
Speeding away with grief-stricken Janki *.
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His eyes were tinged with fear,
His face withered as I drew near.
He mocked me as old and weak,
Struck me on the beak.
I swooped down on his head,
Had him almost wrapped up
In my fierce fluttering wings,
With my claws cutting into his limbs.
.
His golden crown
Tilted and fell down.
Like a wounded lion he roared,
Chopped off my wings with his sword.
He sped away into the southern skies,
And I could do nothing
But only hear her fading cries,
With tears welling up in my eyes.
.
Wounded, defeated, in despair,
Unable to hold myself in air,
I fell down with a thud,
Like a huge heap of blood.
.
Dear Rama*, how I wish
I had saved her from that monster!
To stand mute before such cruelty,
Is against my nature.
I would have done my all,
Even if she were a stranger.
.
O Lord! Let the cord of life snap,
As I lie with my head in your lap.
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Jatayu*: In the Hindu epic Ramayana, Jatayu is an eagle-like divine bird.
Janki*: Also known as Sita, wife of Ram, the Hindu deity in epic ‘Ramayana’.
Rama*: the major deity of Hinduism, the central figure in epic ‘Ramayana’
Ravana*: the demon-king of Lanka.
Mr. Ashok Suri retired from the Revenue Service in 2014 and is settled with his family in Mumbai. He loves to read and write. He tries to convey in simple words what he wants to say.
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A Nepali poem by Manjul Miteri: Translated to English by Hem Bishwakarma
Manjul Miteri
Orimen*!
Oh, Orimen!
Mouthful of your Tiffin
Snatched by the ‘Little Boy’*!
The Tiffin box, adorned with flowers,
Scattered and spoilt,
Blown out brutally.
A handful of your young breath
In the silence of Hiroshima Peace Museum,
In the depth of this stillness,
Sobs every day and night,
Cascading incessant tears!
Oh, Orimen!
Blown out
With the hot lethal smoke of the Bomb
In the misfortune of your hunger and thirst.
Looking at your Tiffin box that carries
An unuttered scream,
I feel that
In the nooks and corners of this Earth,
By the tremor of the missiles
Blasted in war celebrations,
Your deformed body
that bears the creviced Earth,
Is postured in peace.
Oh, Orimen!
The war slays
Countless innocents like you.
The war deletes many opportunities
For innocents like you.
Then,
As your Tiffin box
Stands on the ruins of life
That is destroyed and slain,
War repetitively writes
Histories of triumph and courage!
The war
In the sky, in the cloud, in the air,
In the rays of the sun and the moon,
In the womb of the Earth,
In the surface of the oceans,
Is trying to pen a ballad
Wiping out the existence of life.
We are out to teach,
The scripts of love, life, peace and harmony
Copied from your Tiffin box
To all the guns that merely write death!
With the same avowal,
I have arrived feeling so frantic
From the land of the Buddha, Nepal,
Striding on the roads fired in war,
To bring this message to you.
Sorry, if I have been too late!
*An innocent boy who lost his life in Hiroshima Bombing during WWII.
*A devastating atomic bomb dropped in Japanese city, Hiroshima during WWII.
Manjul Miteri is a renowned sculptor and poet from Nepal. He is currently working with the biggest sculpture of Gautam Budhha in Asia in Japan.
Hem Bishwakarma is a translator and poet from Nepal. His works have been published in national and international poetry and literature journals and magazines.
First published in Gorkha Times, edited by Borderless to suit our needs.
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when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
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What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
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Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough …
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—
.
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
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I Pray Tonight
for the mothers and children of Gaza
I pray tonight
the starry light
might
surround you.
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I pray
each day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.
.
I pray ere tomorrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels’ white chorales
sing, and astound you.
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“I Pray Tonight” was originally published by Kritya and has been set to music by the composer Mark Buller and performed at a charity concert for Houston hurricane victims.
First they came for the Muslims
after Martin Niemoller
First they came for the Muslims
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Muslim.
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Then they came for the homosexuals
and I did not speak out
because I was not a homosexual.
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Then they came for the feminists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a feminist.
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Now when will they come for me
because I was too busy and too apathetic
to defend my sisters and brothers?
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The above poem was inspired by and patterned after Martin Niemoller’s famous Holocaust poem. It has been published in Amnesty International’s Words That Burn anthology, which is used as a free training resource for young human rights activists.
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Michael R. Burch has over 6,000 publications, including poems that have gone viral. His poems have been translated into fourteen languages and set to music by eleven composers. He also edits The HyperTexts (online at www.thehypertexts.com).
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Rituals to dispel evil and vice, as diyas flicker in silent attempt
To retain some sun in eclipsed hearts.
November skies a strange contradiction
With pristine blues and weeping greys
That pour some secret wishful moments
In the confluence of heat and cold.
As verdant rain-washed desires and dreams
transform into mellowed gold.
Flashes of evil in ghostly chill
fill apprehensive autumn nights-
As hearts gear up for snowy heights
shedding the past in a stupendous feat,
November diaries fill with past
that blends with confused present-
Macabre tales of trick or treats.
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Dr. Piku Chowdhury is a teacher in a government aided post graduate college of education and an author of 8 books. She has published more than 70 articles in international journals and acted as resource person in many national and international seminars and symposia. She has published poems, acted as editor, translator and core committee member of curriculum revision in the state.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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…
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To the Victor, the spoils!
Pumpkin
Would you like some toast?
(The waitress was a most gracious
host as she approached.)
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You have bread! I said.
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And she replied:
Yes, of course. A thoroughbred horse
is the best kind of bred.
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Then in my silence
she continued:
I would deduce you have led a
sheltered life if you prefer any variety
other than that?
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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?
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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!)
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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.
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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
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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…
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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.
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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”
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“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”.
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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.
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