Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Keeping up with being Human

By Pranjulaa Singh

At the tap of a finger, I have my friends.

One swipe could make a stranger a trend.

A race to see the most beautiful things.

A race to be on top of every errand.

.

Get active on linkedin,

Post tantalising pictures of food on instagram.

Click, click, click!

The time runs out.

.

They congratulate on good occasions.

Friends and family would call on birthdays and some random seasons.

Closed behind empty minds,

These walls stare at my bare behind.

.

A hug, a touch, a curse that has become.

I can feel the virus in my veins.

It’s loneliness that I will die from,

Before I die from climate change.

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Pranjulaa Singh has an Msc in Creative Industries Management, from Birkbeck, University of London (2015). Her poems have been published in Poetry Nature, Poets India, Image Curve and Nocturne Journal, amongst others. One of her poems, based on a painting, won the first prize for the Arts Illustrated poetry writing contest. She has also authored an audio book, “Short and Sweet Story”, which is on Storytel, and has published her first collection of 23 positive poems in “Sparkle: Life is Poetry, a book of positive poetry”, on Kindle Amazon and a second poetry book, “Romance with Lock Down” across digital channels and is available for print by order. When she is not writing, she connects the worlds of art and management at www.PranjalArts.com

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Categories
Poetry

The Lost Hymn

By Milan Mondal

The rails are still there

To carry the train.

The clattering is heard—

But there is no rhythm anymore,

For it does not reach the ears of Apu and Durga*.

.

The smog has transported the kaash*

And fails to transplant it.

Apu and Durga are no longer free

To run through the furrow

For the pavement has anaesthetized their gentle feet.

*Apu and Durga: This is a reference to the young village children in The Mango Whistle, a novel called Aamer Anthhi in Bengali, by Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay.

*Kaash : Long grass or reed

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Milan Mondal, Assistant Professor in English at Narajole Raj College (Narajole, Paschim Medinipur, West Bengal, India) is a young bilingual (English and Bengali) writer of poetry and short stories. The major themes of his creative writings include ‘partition’, ‘diaspora’, ‘psychoanalysis’ ‘existentialism’ etc. Some of his poems have been published in reputed magazine.

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Categories
Poetry

Doubt


Poetry by popular poet Avaya Shrestha, translated from Nepali by Haris C Adhikari

Avaya Shrestha


Doubt the beautiful 
Collages rendered by 
These various images of clouds, 
Doubt the beauty 
Of the existence of various 
Floating colours on beautiful lakes
And of the snow— like patches of clouds—
That has come to your hands. 
.
Doubt the sensational 
News in newspapers and TV,
The flowery, immaculate poems of poets,
The mind-blowing thoughts of intelligentsia,
And the Prime Minister’s speech 
In the name of all the citizens. 

Doubt 
Even the stories told 
In sweet language 
By your respected teacher,
Doubt 
The history written 
By great historians 
And the all-accepted values 
In the world. 
.
Doubt 
Yudhisthira’s loyalty
To truth, which is like snow 
Melting; and doubt
Arjuna’s bravery, which is like the sky
Untouched; doubt
Devavrata’s BhishmaPratigyaa*,
Duryodhana’s meanness
And the magical stories of the
Vedas and the Puranas. 
.
Socrates, Marx and Gandhi 
Darwin, Freud and Einstein 
Are only your co-travellers;
The Holy Bible, the Ramayana 
And the Mahabharata 
The Dhammopadesh, the Tripitak 
And the Quran 
Are not the ultimate truth;
Neither Brahma is real 
Nor false is the world; doubt
Vishnu, Maheshwor, Shree Ram, 
Christ, Kabir, Mohammed,
And even the Buddha 
Who himself speaks of doubts. 
.
No one is outside 
The circle of doubts 
In this yard-like 
Collective world—
Doubt !
Even this poem of mine
That creates 
The god of doubts … 
.
Unstoppable, 
I do doubt my own conscience 
The way the soil does
Give a test every time 
To the seeds sown in its womb. 

*Bhishma Pratigya : A terrible oath taken by Devavrata (who later came to be known as Bhishma), one of the most important figures in the Mahabharata (Note:In this poem the persona doubts both the eulogized characters like Yudhisthira and Arjuna, who have been depicted as completely flawless and godlike, and the hatred-inspiring character like Duryodhana, who has been depicted only as a figure full of foolishness and demonlike character in the epic).

Avaya Shrestha (b. 1972) is a powerful poet, well known for his subversive, rebellious, anti-conformist and thought-provoking poetry. He hails from Bhaktapur district. He is also known as a short story writer and columnist. He holds a bachelor’s degree in sociology and political science from Tribhuwan Univesity. Shrestha has three books to his credit: Phul Binako Sakha and Kayakalpa (both anthologies of poetry) and Tesro Kinara (an anthology of short stores). He has received several recognitions and awards including Garima Best Prose Award (2012) , Best Creation Award in Prahari Bimonthly (2008), Nepal Academy Short (Best) Story Award (2004) and Dristi Weekly Columnist Honour (2008). He has worked as reporter and feature editor for different national dailies of Nepal. His columns Satyakura is popular among Nepali readers.

Haris C. Adhikari, a widely published poet and translator from Nepal, and an MPhil scholar in English language, teaches at Kathmandu University. He has three books poetry and literary translation to his credit. Adhikari’s creative and scholarly works have appeared in numerous national and international journals. Until 2017, he edited Misty Mountain Review, an online journal of short poetry. Currently, he co-edits Polysemy, a journal of interdisciplinary scholarship, published out of DoMIC, Kathmandu University. He can be reached at haris.adhikari@ku.edu.np

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Categories
Poetry

Gaia Breathes Again

                 

            By Kaikasi V .S.    

                      

The bridal bouquets extended their arms to the surreal patches of evening

Blended with a bounteous passion of Autumn

Meanwhile the leaves laden lands cuddled in the passionate embrace of –

A fragrant breeze

Jacarandas proudly display their purple blooms

Blanketing the stone-laden, abandoned palace of worship

The meadow leaves its coyness

Only to set ablaze the labyrinths of green pathways

Myriad hues paint the ‘Goldilocks’ as they used to call her—

Even as the last human has left the final chemical signature behind!

Behold the gorges, the mountainous terrains and the caves of hounds

Swarming with the inheritors of the soil,

Crawling and creeping millions

Even as the pupa awaits its most exciting phase

The festive season of the planet heralds the resurrection of maggots

While the land sings praise of a forgotten eon

Ice-sheets have already taken the cue to trace their way to their spotless abode

As magpies and blue jays greet each other holding fresh olives in their beaks

Squabbling sparrows forget their fights as the grains lay scattered

In fields where machines used to dictate the measurements a meal

Squirrels have forgotten the act of hoarding

Heaving sighs of relief at the sight of rusting pieces of snare

Forests adorn with wild flowers

That await the fresh kiss of untainted dewdrops

And here, the last sapling has sprouted

From the dishevelled tree trunks

From the last block of an abandoned civilization

No one heeds for entreaties

Borders or hoardings that reads—

No-Man’s -Land

Gaia Breathes Again!

  KaikasiV.S. is presently working as Asst. Professor of English, University College, Thiruvananthapuram. She has published a number of articles in the field of literature, sociology and film studies. Her area of research is Indian Mythology and is equally interested in translating literary works in her mother tongue to English. She is also an accomplished creative writer and bi-lingual translator whose poems have appeared in several national and international anthologies including ‘The Poetry of Flowers’ and ‘Mytho Madan’. She has also contributed to ‘Indian Literature’, the bi-monthly journal published by Sahithya Akademi.

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Categories
Poetry

No Brutal Dynasty

By Robin Wyatt Dunn

no brutal dynasty

pink as gruel

shepherded and stolen

to try its fist in the night

.

no dead ringer

cut and chopped and lighted for the storm

.

no bleak narrow tomb

bridged over the moor

.

not your tremor or your trial or your train

.

out of this earth:

.

you stuck the mic into her throat

to listen to her death:

.

and showered it over the park

and piped it into the mall

and into the bedrooms all around

.

to demand your hell come home:

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you wrote a song of love about a child

that you kept alone

.

and all your friends

wrote it down

and sang and sang and sang

.

in the most beautiful voices

.

tis a brute must walk

pashing their life out

over and over

.

creatures of the tower kept in time:

.

the funeral march of love is no longer yours

for you are neither living nor dead

.

and the monsters are overseas

and beneath

.

here come the drums of war so slow it is like a lightning storm in dream

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kept shuttered against fate

and no oboe nor cello can compete with them

for their caroled keep:

.

and marbled thought:

.

cold blue and wrought like iron are her eyes

atop our arms

.

Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his
work at www.robindunn.com.

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Categories
Poetry

Camping Out & More…

By John Grey

Camping Out

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The night is the sky mostly.

Trees are one heaped shadow.

The lake’s lost to its shore.

Mountains retreat beyond the eye.

Only high, do shapes remain.

.

My fire gives details to my face

but no one’s here to see.

My sleeping roll

unfolds to its edges

and no further.

Shadow, night, sleep, blackness –

I’m at the rim

of every known dark.

Hunger

Hunger tells you stories

of hot wind across desert,

of sheet lightning,

of trembling guts and empty pockets.

.

When the city noise

is too loud for it to shout over,

it keeps the tale going from inside you,

becomes more circumspect,

speaks with a crackle,

like an old phonograph record

of a politician giving a speech.

.

Hunger needs an audience

and it always knows where to find you,

under the same overpass,

with the usual cronies,

all green teeth, ratty hair

and breath like gasoline. 

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Sometimes hunger comes in disguise

as thirst,

and it encourages you

to take a swig from that bottle you found

that could be whiskey,

could even be kerosene.

.

Hunger can sing soft but compelling

in the voice of the one who last

provided you with three meals a day.

That’s years ago now.

Hunger has no memory

but it assumes that you do.

Death Valley

.

Sand abbreviates a ghost town’s story,

shutters the mine,

buries the roads leading in and out.

.

A lesser history gives birth to saltbush,

No trees. No shadows. 

The sun’s advance is unstoppable.

.

Grainy winds

blow from the West

Dust devils dance

on the rocky floor.

That’s it for movement.

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.

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Categories
Poetry

Uprooted

By Adrian David

A disastrous drought dried up the lands,

but not the impoverished peasant’s tear glands.

The field was barren, hardly a sapling in sight.

None lent a helping hand, adding to the plight.

 .

Every day, he looked up at the cloudless sky,

hoping the rain gods will hearken to his feeble cry.

Alas, not even a droplet reached the root.

Decades of heavy toil yielded bitter fruit.

 .

Almost all the green acres he possessed were sold,

for hunger and thirst plagued his agrarian household.

Debt upon debt piled up to a gargantuan sum.

Inflicted by life’s many blows, he grew numb.

.

Despite hopefully voting in every election without fail,

there was no answer to many an anguished wail.

“Agriculture is the economy’s backbone,” they said.

Ironically, it bent, making the farmer bow his head.

.

The hands which had brought food to your plate

had no other go than succumbing to fate.

Deep inside the empty well, a frail body lay dead.

‘Yet another farmer suicide’ the daily report read.

.

(In the drought-stricken parts of Asia and Africa, debt-ridden farmers commit suicide owing to abject poverty)

Adrian David writes ads by day, and poetry and short fiction by night. His poems explore themes of society, war, conflict, gender, human emotions, and everything else in between, from the mundane to the sublime. He resolutely believes that art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

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Categories
Poetry

Not Promised

By Aminath Neena

Oh you there, you who loathe someone somewhere

Why carry the black beast on your shoulders

When on your left breast there is a fountain?

Fill it to the brim with the essence of love instead

‘Cause tomorrow’s not promised

And today, may be the only chance you have

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Oh you there, you from this race and that creed

Why instill such gluttony In your thoughts

When there is so much generosity running in your veins?

Fill your mind with the essence of love instead

‘Cause tomorrow’s not promised

And this day, may be the only chance you have.

.

Oh you there, you from this nation and of that town

Why carry so much spite in your mind’s tongue

When there is so much light within you?

Fill your soul with the essence of love instead

‘Cause tomorrow’s not promised

And this time, may be the only chance you have

.

Oh you there, you from this family and of that colour,

Why such ostentation and self-worship

When all by entrepreneurship, were fashioned by one?

Fill your sight with the essence of love instead

‘Cause tomorrow’s not promised

And this moment may be the only chance you have

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Oh you there, you, friend or foe,

Why dip yourself in the sea of animosity

When you have no capacity to deny the natural law?

Fill your bath with the essence of love instead

‘Cause tomorrow’s never promised

And this, may be the only chance you have

Aminath Neena is an English lecturer from the picturesque archipelago nation of the Maldives. Currently, she works at Maldives National University. An avid lover of words, poetry is a hobby closest to her heart. Her poems usually revolve around themes such as love, relationships, spirituality, society, and global issues. According to her, poetry is the gateway to spirituality because it resonates purity like no other. Among her achievements include having her poem featured in ‘Words And Music’, a programme on BBC Radio. She believes her writings to be a reflection of her thoughts, her feelings and her life.

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Categories
Poetry

Liberation

By Gopal Lahiri

That’s the fall, that’s the liberation,

beautiful blow of the autumn leaves,

explosion of red and yellows.

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I go to find myself in the rays of sunshine

not to be guided by slur,

usurping the reign of light

to flow beneath the skin and bone.

.

Stand in the shadow of a cave

root and rock, senses of separation,

plant and man- today and everyday

even link unevenness in me

.

From the world within

I often bend down and collect star dust

in the tenants of ruddiness,

the unknown meadows of whisper

weave carpets of colour and light.

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Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator. He is the author of 22 books published including fourteen volumes of poems in English (includes four edited/ jointly anthology of poems) and eight volumes of poems and prose in Bengali, His poems, translations and book reviews have been published across various journals (includes Indian Literature) worldwide. He has recently edited the book titled ‘Jaillianwala Bagh- Poetic Tributes’. He has attended various poetry festivals in India and abroad. His poems are translated in 10 languages.

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Categories
Poetry

In which climate will you celebrate?

By Anita Nahal

In which climate will you celebrate life and festivals? Fake? Reality? Make believe? Fool’s paradise? Another planet? An artificial bubble? Or on a cleansed Earth, your home, that you chose to set, right?

Delhi, Washington DC, anywhere, climate is a far, far removed stepchild. Kind of shunned, alone and tattered, stained. Fumes, gases, plastic, paper, poop and vomit thrown and regurgitated recklessly into waters, air, ground, our home’s core. Festivals or the usual humdrum of life, the same chars and corroding in alleys of all. My eyes pinch, skin scalds, the coughing, scratching in my throat and my heartbeats pounding in my ear when all is silent. Its dark outside and inside as we roam in circles of asphyxiation. Pulling, jostling, pushing. “Where are you, mama?” I hear my son’s reassuring voice shaking me from my reverie to the sights of huge sparkles bursting in myriad colors and designs above the Washington monument. Contained, glorious, royal and safe. I believe. As I try to comfort myself, images of tiny children’s hands blistered in smoky, closed, sweat shops appear in the residue of the firecrackers. I bask in the knowledge of citizenship achieved and past discarded as I take in the ethereal reflections of fire bursts in the Potomac. Past discarded? My roots pulled and thrown askance? I still carry. I still carry. I still carry the smells, the sights, the memories. I still celebrate. I still celebrate. I still celebrate the festivals of past lives added on with a smidge of the different. There will be no end to festivities, festivals or roots. It’s intentional elongating. It’s intentional retaining. Intentional remembering. Intentional celebrating. Only Earth needs to be watered, nurtured and saved. Why do we clean our bodies and pollute the body of Earth? Why do our personal temples worship human ones if there is disparity, cruelty, hate and violence? Edifices of mortar are layered with shame.

In which climate will you celebrate life and festivals? Fake? Reality? Make believe? Fool’s paradise? Another planet? An artificial bubble? Or on a cleansed Earth, your home, that you chose to set, right?

 Potomac: Name of the river that weaves between Washington DC, Virginia and Maryland 

Anita Nahal is a professor, poet, short story writer and children’s writer. She teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Nahal has two books of poetry, one book of flash fictions and three children’s books to her credit, besides an edited poetry anthology. Her writings have appeared in journals in the US, UK, Asia and Australia. Nahal is the daughter of novelist Chaman Nahal and educationist Sudarshna Nahal. More on her at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

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