Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Steeled

By Scott Thomas Outlar

Rock in your shoe. Beam in your eye.

Curse on your tongue. Snot on your nose.

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I’ll reserve most judgments for the mirror

and swallow pride until it profits my soul.

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Ace in your cut. Crush of your velvet.

Vice in your fix. Hue of your glow.

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Of gavels and hammers,

of slow aches and hallelujah.

Of portions and measures,

of postures and prayer.

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Scott Thomas Outlar lives and writes in the suburbs outside of Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the 2019 and 2020 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Bengali, Dutch, French, Italian, Kurdish, Persian, Serbian, and Spanish. His sixth book, Of Sand and Sugar, was released in 2019. His podcast, Songs of Selah, airs weekly on 17Numa Radio and features interviews with contemporary poets, artists, musicians, and health advocates. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com. 

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Categories
Poetry

November Fire

By Fizza Saeed


Image courtesy:  Photo by Yaoqi LAI on Unsplash

A winter chill circles the city

Amidst howls of forgotten dogs and invisible people

Cars whizz by, cutting through a summer in transition 

In Lahore, wandering lanes and kicking pebbles

A lone stranger walks, a sound of cracking fallen leaves  

A Bob Dylan song plays in the mind

The road is long and to kill time

Is not such a bad proposition

It is November now

On the news are buildings, bodies aflame

The stranger, a citizen, with hands buried deep in an old, cheap coat

Breathes deeply, walks on, the night is long

In the morning, winter will arrive with her icy embrace

A fire will have to be made

Out of stones and yesteryear’s hopes

To keep warm a heart inside a cheap coat.  

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Fizza Saeed is a student of English Literature at Government College University, Lahore. She is the Editor-in-Chief of the varsity’s magazine, The Ravi. 

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Categories
Poetry

‘Festas’

By Navneet K Maun

Madhubani: Art of Mithila. Wiki

Festivals celebrate, the beautiful colours

of cultural heritage.

Keeping alive traditions for posterity.

A respite from the mundane life.

Spreading happiness, joy.

A time to rejuvenate, bond

forgive and forget.

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The joie-de-vivre

of Durga Puja celebrations.

Pandal* hopping in new attires

the very air abuzz

with excitement, bonhomie, music.

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Tantalizing smells

of pucchka, ghugni, alur chops*, cuisine

enticing one and all

with gourmet delights.

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Maa Durga’s matchless, divine beauty

instills in us faith, hope and courage

binding millions of hearts.

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Each and every festival

propagates brotherhood, peace and harmony

an absolute precedent.

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The quintessence of festivals

Lost in the metropolis

Of hectic lifestyle, numerous diversions

gridlock acting as dampeners.

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Where are the folklores

That enthralled children for decades?

Grandmothers, happy narrators

never tiring of replicating them.

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The magic needs resurrection

from its nemesis, the Internet,

The wizard of all distractions.

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*Pandal — A fabricated structure in India housing stalls,events or festivals

*pucchka, ghugni, alur chops — Savoury snacks

Mrs. Navneet K Maun was born in West Bengal. Did her initial schooling from Oak Grove School, Jharipani, Mussoorie. She furthered her education from Regional College of Education, Bhubaneshwar. She did her Graduation and BEd from there. She did her Masters in English Literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. She has vast experience in teaching and has retired as a Senior Teacher from a Public School in Delhi. Her hobbies include reading, travelling, writing and cooking.

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Categories
Poetry

Paradise no more

By Kashiana Singh


*2020 California wildfires are still raging


there is fire, everywhere

an inferno of shadows as

anaemic as the men who

bleached the ground of its

resilience, its benevolence

the ground that rises now

into a billowing cloud, of

lashing tongues that

hiss and piss

at everything

they see below— the ground

is a charred body, dead in

a concentration camp

left

to singe for water—

parched

tall forests are falling

to our fallen grounds

no more their spines

can hold our organs

destroying the path

to verdant morrow’s

no more these tunnels

can hide our shadows

cleansing of terrains

to garish

fire tongues

no more a kiss of love

will erase our own rot

an ash

spitting death

to frescoes on my sky

no more dripping blue

into our deranged souls

the walls are punctured

to gaping battle holes

no more a loving nest

of a futureless hope

the rivers are in wailing

to arson, ignorance

failing

no more erasing pestilence

bleeding into its crust

these patterns repeat

lyrical, a greek poem

unfolding

before and after us

flames into flames

we extinguish

our own

as water rises itself into a

high tide, feverishly some

of us wobble into the

stagnant water

bearing on our backs

fistfuls of these savanna’s

cawing

cooing

crying

into a smokeless horizon

where a weary

Noah

awaits at the edge

of his burning ark

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Kashiana Singh lives in Chicago and embodies her TEDx talk theme of Work as Worship into her everyday. Her poetry collection, Shelling Peanuts and Stringing Words presents her voice as a participant and an observer. Her chapbook Crushed Anthills is a journey through 10 cities – a complex maze of remembrances to unravel. Her poems have been published on various platforms including Poets Reading the News, Visual Verse, Oddball Magazine, Café Dissensus, TurnPike Magazine, Inverse Journal. You can listen to her reading her work on Rattle, Songs of Selah and Poetry Super Highway episodes. She serves as an Assistant Poetry Editor for Poets Reading the News. Kashiana carries her various geographical homes within her poetry.

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Categories
Poetry

This Island of Mine

By Rhys Hughes

Every year the storms

are far more powerful

and more frequent too

on this island of mine.

The roof of my house

was blown away only

yesterday and my wife

and neighbour just now.

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I watch through an old

astronomical telescope

as the receding forms of

those sadly supple fliers

dwindle like an eloping

couple, yet the residual

hope in my despondent

heart is still swindled by

climate change deniers.

.

(Liars who sold their

souls to the diabolical

buyers of rotten goods

and wallow in the mire.)

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My dog, my cat and my

bathroom mat, and also

my geometric lawns, all

are gone thanks to those

violent winds, and even

words I hoarded to use

in this poem have been

blown away. You may

find them at the end of

this verse, all forlornly

disordered as follows…

.

wet

cold exposed

without a home useless

fruitless rootless and doomed

cocooned boiling floods

mudslides in our

eyes

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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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Categories
Poetry

The Last Dance

By Smitha Vishwanath

I see it steal the lead

break away

and pirouette-

a dancing ballerina

swirling on the open stage,

a Turkish dervish

whirling to a melody I cannot hear,

I strain my ear

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I watch still

as it pauses

for a beat

It seems forever

and then a final ghoomar*

before it gracefully sways

and lands

nimbly, on the terra-firma.

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My heart applauds

the performance-

‘The last dance’

Before it bites the dust

joining the rest

who fell before it

after doing their bit

Of living,

.

breathing

giving to the world

now lying dried and curled

on the earth’s bed-

yellow, brown, orange, green and red

united, irrespective.

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*ghoomar – Rajasthani dance involves twirling of dancers

Folk dance from Rajashthan, Ghoomar

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Smitha Vishwanath is a banker turned writer. A management professional, she embarked on the writing journey in 2016, with her blog, https://lifeateacher.wordpress.com, while still heading the regional Cards Operations of a bank. After having worked for almost two decades in senior roles in the banking industry, in the Middle East, she quit and returned to India in July 2018 when her husband was transferred on an assignment. Her poems and articles have been published in various anthologies. In July 2018, she co-authored a book of poetry: Roads – A Journey with Verses. Other than writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and painting.

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Categories
Poetry

Lingering Sounds and Scents…

By Hema Ravi

Grandma’s house resonates with distinct sounds and scents

of agarbathis* and aromatic spice(s)

In gleaming tins and porcelain jars the contents

were stored, hand-pounded by grandma, all in a trice.

The ‘clang’ on the brass filter ere decoction fresh

added to creamy milk with aroma pleasant

for heavenly ‘kaapi*’ to start each day afresh

Tumblers filled and emptied, brought smiles effervescent.

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While grandma meditated with large pots and pans

Grandpa pored over religious texts for long hours

Our play would halt when we had to wash feet and hands

In prayer we stood; to deities, offered flowers.

In that easy chair sat Grandpa under the large neem

post the sumptuous dinner, it was story-time.

As the full moon in the sky continued to beam

We sat all eyes and ears, until it was bedtime.

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Guavas and mangoes have gone; neem tree’s survived

Continues to invite the parakeets and crows

ammi and aattukkal* shelved when the mixer arrived

What happened to the assortment of pans, God knows!

The memories lie frozen in pictures of the past.

Now trendy, the large mansion does have its appeal

Technology had cast its spell on all too fast.

Progeny elated — they have got a square deal!

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*Agarbathis: joss sticks used in prayer.

*Ammi, aattukkal: grinding stone

*kaapi: Cofee

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Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), resource person and independent researcher. Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being the Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR).  She is a freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English.

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Categories
Humour Poetry

Writer’s DUI

By Penny Wilkes

I grip the wheel stung

by consonants and vowels.

Nouns smudge the windshield.

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As windows swarm with phrases

Verbs whine, bite and beg me

to pick up a pen at 65 mph.

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“Write me. Me. Me. Me.”

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Ideas flash and honk my horn,

they force swerves and street slaloms

as I sing to stay on the road.

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When mind fireflies go incandescent,

I beg for red lights or stop signs.

Oh, let traffic slow.

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On manic freeways

No stopping places

When the buzz heightens.

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If I’m cuffed for DUI* when writing,

will the kind officer trade the ticket

for a signature on my poem?

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

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Categories
Poetry

I Fear

By Nayonika

I’d fear the day when I would have to choose —

Between my beliefs and my beloved.

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I’d condemn such an existence,

Where I’m trapped,

Between the abyss of resentment,

And the restless waves of unforgiveness.

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I’d abhor if ever there came a time —

When I’d only mimic someone else’s plan.

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I’d pity such a person,

if so I ever became such,

Who’d only see the world as black and white.

I’d shun such a being, if ever I lost my own respect,

For it’d mean I gambled away my whole wealth.

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I’d want not such wits,

Where neither a sincere purpose nor a noble thought sits.

I’d dread such an unfortunate life, where

Expectation refuses to meet us; even half-way.

And I’d frown upon the day

That I’d only evoke scorn, no longer envy.

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But most of all,

I’d cease to be–

If ever I lost the spirit to raise my voice,

The unquestionable ability to rejoice,

And the simple liberty of choice.

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Nayonika is a Mechanical Engineering student from Guntur, Andhra Pradesh. She writes to express myself. She also is a passionate reader and an avid gardener.

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Categories
Poetry

A Warm Handshake

By Gauri Mishra 

                                  

A Warm Handshake White clouds of steam rising as I exhale, The cold chill of a December morning, A nip in the air, clothing in layers Cold, half-clothed children on the sidewalks and Half-burnt fires dying out amongst people in flocks How different it was – from the warmth of my Mother’s place Where everyone was free to have his own space… Home-baked cookies, warm coffee mugs, Playing carrom on warm earthy rugs. Ah… to be home again was my earnest wish, Swimming in strange waters, was I a goldfish? Turning a corner, I spied an old man… Huddled in a blanket and braving the dust of every passing van He looked ancient, face full of wrinkles But in his eyes I saw a twinkle… He gestured me to come near, In my mind I was nervous, but there was no fear. His cold rough hands held a few marbles Shiny, sparkling pieces of marvel… A crimson red, a sea-green blue, A blazing yellow with a purplish hue My eyes gleamed, as he emptied his treasure Joy knew no bounds; I was full of pleasure. Suddenly home was right there, In all its brightness, lovely and fair… Living alone in foreign lands, Away from home, lost in timeless sands What make life enriching are such chance meetings… A little joy, a shiver of thrill and A gay abandon for my heart to fill… Misery too had its glory and happiness was in every life story. How did he guess that’s all I needed? An endearing smile…a warm handshake No rich offerings, not cookies nor cakes I understood then…what life has to offer, Sometimes comes as a surprise… A beautiful sunset, and a warm sunrise.

Dr Gauri Mishra is teaching as Associate Professor in the department of English at College of Vocational Studies, University of Delhi. She likes to dabble in some poetry and short fiction from time to time. She is very passionate about teaching and also heads the placement cell of her college.

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