Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

A Moth as My Mantelpiece

By Saranyan BV

A moth came home last night. I must have been asleep when she did

She was not there when I retired to sleep.

She’d found a place on the mantel where some curios are kept

To tell the people the kind of person I am, the visitors who come home.

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The mantel holds up a teacup with a picture of my under-grad days,

Long sideburns and disheveled hair and care-a-damn appearance.

Also, there a mascot from the University of Duke.

My son had brought and left so we could remember he was there.

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I am thankful the moth found a vacant space

To spread her wings and in that order chose to die,

I think she is dead for she hasn’t moved since —

The moth not as colorful on her wings as butterflies,

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The wings spread like eagle in flight, above in the sky

The wings have all the sheen, all the curve on the verges

The wings look like cape extending from kingly shoulders,

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The motif on her back hard not to see in the morning sun

The body structure the same, ugly cylindrical, rolling pin with rings,

Her proboscis now immobile, coiled, were once ceaseless foragers.

It would be foolish to remove and cast her

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As dead carcass in litter of the world,

Let her be, be my guest in that departed condition

Till it’s time for my going —

The house has all the air and all the oxygen.

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That it chose to die in my home as mantelpiece is a benediction,

I watch her, the piece of advice sent from heaven,

Something like Gita or Guru Granth Sahib

Passing out in an unaffected stance of corporeality.

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Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves works of Raymond Carver.

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Categories
Poetry

Turn This Country Into Shaheen Bagh

By Nabina Das



i want to write about shaheen bagh
but i’m not able to write about shaheen bagh
they say there’re thousands in shaheen bagh
burqas and bindis tell stories in shaheen bagh
but alas, i don’t live in shaheen bagh
thousands brave the cold in shaheen bagh
there’re songs flowing in shaheen bagh
the shamiana is lucky to be in shaheen bagh
it guards the women sleeping in shaheen bagh
dupattas become swords in shaheen bagh
hands clap and cheer in shaheen bagh
tea cups brew rebellion in shaheen bagh
the community kitchen serves freedom in shaheen bagh
flags and placards dot all of shaheen bagh
tasbih and slogans hold hands in shaheen bagh
fairies and djinns watch over shaheen bagh
narrating the magic tales of shaheen bagh
oh, it’s an alif laili shaheen bagh
where schehrezade wakes up in shaheen bagh
from breastfeeding infants sleeping in shaheen bagh
the toothless amma in nineties sing in shaheen bagh
their beauty lights up the streets of shaheen bagh
when rulers balk at the chants from shaheen bagh
naani-daadis dare modi in shaheen bagh
the “aaeen (Constitution)” shines in shaheen bagh
yes, azaadi lives in shaheen bagh
it wants a country of post offices in shaheen bagh
who are those that don’t know shaheen bagh?
only those murderers who rampaged shaheen bagh!
i’ve been dreaming each night of shaheen bagh
though i’ll barely know the sorrow of shaheen bagh
just because they hurt my friends in shaheen bagh
i want to be now called shaheen bagh
although i cannot write of shaheen bagh
i say, turn this country into shaheen bagh!

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Nabina Das is a poet and writer based in Hyderabad. She has published three books of poetry, one short fiction collection, and one novel. In the age of Coronavirus, she tackles here the questions of isolation already experienced while she grew up in Guwahati, Assam, among ginger roots and swamp dragonflies.

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Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not of Borderless Journal.

Categories
Poetry

Cry for One Korea

by Wansoo Kim    

Cry for North Korea                     

The waves of civilization

Flow so fast

That we can fly

To China or Russia

Within half-a-day,

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But in North Korean land

That one blood flows.

What kind of river of grudge

Is so deep there

That even parents, brothers and sisters

Can’t cross it

For over sixty long years?

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In the North,

People go over the Tumen River

Casting away even their lives

As they don’t fill their empty stomach,

But in the South,

People pour a bundle of money into drugstores or clinics

As they don’t lose the fat on their belly;

Is it Okay to do so

Among parents, brothers and sisters with one blood?

It is said that last summer,

Even houses to lay their body down became like the sea water

Owing to the indiscriminate bombing of the sky;

Where do they sleep

And can they eat even any porridge?

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Cry, the fat Southern land.

Cry on your knees

Not making any excuses.

Don’t you hear the groan

Of your starved parents, brothers and sisters?

Cry for South Korea

North Korean land,

Those whom you trampled with military boots

Shedding cannonballs

With your blood of hatred

More than sixty years ago:

Who were they to you?

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Those living in the South

Whom you want to burn

Through the fire sea

As your blood of anger hasn’t cooled

Although they send rice to you:

Who are they to you?

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The bitter enemies

Whom you want to kill

With missiles and nuclear bombs

Gnashing your teeth:

What kind of mistake did they make?

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Until when will your great leader be bragging

A strong and prosperous country,

And the Earthly paradise,

While the people are bawling out

Due to their starvation

As days go by?

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Cry, the northern land.

Cry beating your heart,

Not making any excuses.

Be young children

And cry your eyes out

Looking at the blue sky.

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Wansoo Kim has a Ph. D. in English Literature from the graduate school of Hanguk University of Foreign Studies. He was a lecturer at Hanguk University of Foreign Studies and an adjunct professor at Incheon Junior College for about 20 years. He has published 5 poetry books, one novel, and one book of essays. One poetry book, “Duel among a middle-aged fox, a wild dog and a deer” was a bestseller in 2012, one page from the book of Letters for Teenagers was put in textbooks of middle school (2011) and high school (2014) in South Korea, and four books (Easy-to-read English Bible stories, Old Testament(2017), New Testament(2018) and Teenagers, I Support your Dream”) were bestsellers. He was granted a Rookie award for poetry at the magazine of Monthly Literature Space in South Korea, and the World Peace Literature Prize for Poetry Research and Recitation, presented in New York City at the 5th World Congress of Poets(2004). He published poetry books, “Prescription of Civilization” and “Flowers of Thankfulness“ in America.(2019), received Geum-Chan Hwang Poetry Literature Prize in Korea(2019) and International Indian Award(literature) from WEWU(World English Writer’s Union)(2019).

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Categories
Poetry

The Mysteries of the Night

                               

A flash Fiction by Vandita Dharni

The stillness of night spelled doom for the Bellamy family as the light of their home flickered only to be extinguished tragically someday. The neighbourhood echoed with a cacophony of strange moaning sounds each night. Everyone had ostracized them ever since their only child was declared a witch or to put it more plainly, ‘demon possessed’. Neurologists failed to find a remedy and so they termed it as a form of epilepsy.  Neighbours vouched seeing her walk barefoot along isolated lanes, communing with spirits while some saw her in the small of night eating bugs and lashing herself with a serpent. They attributed these strange occurrences to paranormal visitations or an entity that had taken possession of her body. A ghastly expression now painted the contours of her cheeks that bore perpetual scratch marks on them. 

I had been practicing exorcism for a year, without any professional training. When these occurrences crawled into my ears, I became insanely curious to meet this girl. A shop vendor who was pulling down his shutters to the setting sun, guided me to their home. I had carted all the paraphernalia I required to vanquish these diabolic spirits, hoping they wouldn’t be needed. But there she was in a catatonic state looking at me from the corner of her eyes, manacled to her bed. I was horrified to see her tied up with a thick rope so I requested her parents to release her. They quipped, “It is a regular ritual now. We have to strap her up or Satan will take her away.”

 Not convinced by their logic, I asked my man Friday, to light candles so we could create a sombre atmosphere. Aromatic incense sticks were burnt that swallowed up the nauseating stench emanating from the dark room. The girl gnashed her teeth and laughed mockingly on observing the crucifix in my hand. Her hair hung loose like the wild untethered fury of the Niagara below her shoulders while her head spun like a ferris-wheel. Her body shook convulsively as I began to chant the beads of the rosary. She tattooed her hands with feline claws, digging deep into her skin until streaks of blood dripped from both arms. The two white balls of eyes upturned, without visible corneas. She held her neck, trying to release herself from being strangulated by an invisible force, all the while hissing with guttural sounds. She grabbed her thighs, pounded her chest and contorted her restless body while her throat swelled up like a balloon. I began to work her up into a state of hysteria by clicking my fingers and summoning the demonic spirits to leave her body. I murmured a few verses from the scriptures while invoking them,

“Be quiet, I rebuke you in the name of the Almighty. Leave her alone, I command you.”

 Within seconds, the tongues slithered out speaking strange languages, hissing and cussing. All I could understand was, “I am Lucifer,” “I am Aamon,” “I am Agares,” “and I am Belzebub.” “We have taken possession of what is our inheritance and we are not leaving.” They spoke in multiple tongues all at the same time. It was for the most part gibberish to me.

But I continued to mutter words from the holy book and within seconds, the girl’s movements became more chaotic. Her cheeks turned ashen, face contorted, with eyes charcoal black and teeth laced with blood and traces of chewed up skin almost like a revenant. Demons hurled her up and down in the volcano of her head. Twin black pellets rolled in their sockets while her hands were splaying frantically in revulsion. Soon, a violent seizure gripped her when I began uttering my rosary prayers. I sprinkled holy water on her forehead to expel the spirits but they wailed inside, persisting to be left alone. Her body broke into a feverish sweat as rivulets of blood splattered out from her raw wounds. I bound the spirits with a final prayer of deliverance, ordering the powers and principalities resident within her to loosen their control immediately. After six grueling hours, I heard the wind howl, rustling the four shrieking demons into the blanket of night.  An owl perched upon a tree screeched, to chorus their departure as it glared at the sky.

The cavernous gloom melted away suddenly as the first kiss of sun streamed through the dewy-lipped morning to dispel all the forebodings of the night. Vanessa’s catatonia had withdrawn. She collapsed, almost in a comatose. On waking, her eyes wore innocence once more. The ethereal calmness of her smile returned, injecting hope into the cold dark walls of a home that shut its doors to sinister visitations forever. The night buried its evil in graves of rotten leaves only to be resurrected again in another resident of the neighbourhood.

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Vandita Dharni is an acclaimed poet, scholar and a gold medalist from the University of Allahabad. Thereafter, she got a Ph.D.  degree in American Literature from the same University. Her articles, poems and stories have been published in journals like Criterion, Ruminations, GNOSIS, HellBound Publishing House and International magazines like Immagine and Poessia, Synchronised Chaos, Sipay, Fasihi and Guido Gozzano. She has published three anthologies.

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Categories
Poetry

Of Nationhood

By Shyamolima Saikia

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When you are made just a pawn,

Being fiddled at the hands of a conjuror

And you dance to his tune

Forgetting that too, your own lines;

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When perchance you vent your spleen

Straight to his face,

Your mouth alas is then gagged

And doused is your rage;

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When you feel you could

Breathe in free air,

But then you are choked

And gasp as if going through a nightmare;

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When you think

You can play the perfect role,

The charlatans enact a farce

And you’re left just a spectator;

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It is then…

Invisible without a name,

Without the power to judge,

Without a mind to think,

That the ground beneath your feet slips away

And the hapless ‘you’ dies a thousand living deaths!

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Shyamolima Saikia is an Assistant Professor in the Dept. Of English, Gargaon College, Sibsagar, Assam. Prior to this, she was serving as a lecturer in the Centre for Juridical Studies, Dibrugarh University, Assam. She has also worked as an Academic Counsellor in the Directorate of Distance Education, Dibrugarh University. She has presented papers in various National Seminars and International Seminars. Besides editing a number of books, she has also published a book of poems titled Palimpsest. Moreover, she has also contributed several poems and few short stories in several regional dailies, magazines and e journals.

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Categories
Poetry

The Storm that Rages

From the conflict ridden state of Kashmir, Rayees Ahmed writes of hope and restoration of peace. He translates his own poem, Ab tak Toofan, from Urdu to English. 

Neither this torrential rain has the will to stop

Nor the monsoon sky has the will to light up this darkness!

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God only knows what happened to the skies,

That breaks and explodes on us!

Maybe the sky is bleeding and wailing in agony,

As the Earth is clutched by the claws of oppression

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Is this the end?

Perhaps there may be another tempest broiling.

Yes, I could see this droplet of rain encapsulating the Psalms of freedom

Neither does this rain want to stop.

Nor the sky light up to burn this darkness.

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This will not stop!

How on Earth will this mayhem stop?

When innocents were killed and buried under mountains,

And the grass blanketed the pain and cries choked inside the soil

The Earth was bloodied with murder and arson! 

From that wetness of blood bloom new voices.

Voices of wisdom and humanity will resonate freedom,

new slogans of humanness will echo through the mountains.

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Yes the mother Earth  nurtures us with her milky dews,

The trees wait to witness the secret moves

Of a whirlwind that brawls faraway!

The time will stop when doomsday arrives,

Yes I know this rain will bring back a Hurricane…

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The thunderous clouds looming over with war-cry!

Yes this thwarting rain is bringing back the storm

And will wash away the pain and bloodshed,

uncover, and unveiling the nameless tombs and free the souls.

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Yes, these Dark clouds will clear up for a new Dawn

Yes, this New sky of Freedom will prevail Peace

the new sky will bring warmth of Hope and Life.

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Rayees Ahmad is a budding writer and poet from Kashmir. He has bachelor’s in mass communication and masters in Peace and Conflict Studies. He hopes to add a new colour to Kashmir and the conflict it faces through his poetry. He has written many poems and articles on the Kashmiri diaspora. 

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Categories
Poetry

Spring of Sorae Port

by Eui Joong Kim

The wingings of seagulls are light

Among the beams of sunlight fluttering

With the cold wind.

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The smile of the Spring that I suddenly meet

Though sunlight is still weak

To awaken the sleeping earth.

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Sorae Port, where the living things at the risk of their lives

In the repeated ebb and flow of the tides,

Live in harmony.

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Spring doesn’t push the winter away

But melts it holding it in the breast

Slowly, softly and warmly.

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Eui Joong Kim was granted a Rookie Award for poetry in the magazine of Monthly Hanmaek Literature and Hong Kong Dongshin Literature Prize. He is a member of Hanmaek Writers’ association and Incheon Writers’ association. 

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Categories
Poetry

The Kangaroo

By Vatsala Radhakeesoon

Vatsala Radhakeesoon was born in 1977 in Mauritius. She has authored 10 poetry books  including Unconditional Thread ( Alien Buddha Press, USA,2019), Tropical Temporariness (Transcendent Zero Press, USA, 2019) and Whirl the Colours (Gibbon Moon Books UK/Kenya, 2020). She is one of the representatives of Immagine and Poesia, an Italy based literary movement uniting artists and poets’ works. She has been selected as one of the poets for Guido Gozzano Poetry contest from 2016 to 2019 and nominated for Rilke Prize 2019, USA. She currently lives at Rose-Hill and is a literary translator, interviewer and artist.

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Categories
Poetry

Beyond Words

By Ashok Suri


Words spoken are sweet,

Those unspoken may be sweeter.

My lips often fumble

With thoughts that run deeper.

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O, beauties of the Earth,

Mysteries of the universe,

Whose hands are at work!

How I will express?

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How will I describe

Tears of joy flowing from the champion’s eyes,

Hunger of the hapless child,

Whose mother pats his back when he cries?
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There are depths,

Where words cannot peep.

A soft touch, a tender look

Can make even a stone weep!
  .                              

Mr. Ashok Suri did MA (English) from Kurukshetra University in Haryana. He retired from Revenue Service in Mumbai in 2014. He has a passion for reading and is particularly interested in reading biographies and poetry. He loves to write also, but he is not a published writer.

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Categories
Poetry

Deathless Death

By Nirmal Kumar Thapa

Taking the first sight of this planet, a glance around the world;

With your first cry

Shouting the demands of joy,

Even without smelling the sagacity;

Your demand with horrific tears

Being meaningless,

I can sense the deeper entails of your crying;

Perhaps, you are grieved with fear of death

Unknowingly.

A journey from the cradle to the grave,

From a reckless infant to a mystic older soul,

From a brighter shine to a stout pale ray, I know your vexation;

For a lavish survival,

How to guard your soul;

Dido for savouring equanimity,

And where are you going?

Stepping moments towards a grave!

You can’t catch all.

Everything is accompanying you, your serenity, safety

and leading you to the bone yard;

Before death arrives,

Get delighted with festive being-ness, forgetful of your aim;

Don’t rush your existence, too meaningless,

If you couldn’t tap your feet under the blissful shine,

No realisation can ever let you smell the iciness of the grave,

So, don’t miss the great songs of life.

Feel the rhythm and dance, before you go a deep-sleep,

Dance without songs and music,

Cheer-up from your silent world;

You may stir your own-ness melody

Music, far away from Beethoven’s.

Cherishing a divine music of Cosmic flute,

But such silence is hard to keep, relish those very moments,

While you lived silently

It brings completeness, intensely.

Then you comprehend those moments,

A death of deathlessness;

Graveyard is the aim but death is not,

While you endured wholly,

A journey to enjoy deep into the self

Can also enjoy the journey to the grave;

Are you missing the eternal principle of life?

The real fruit of life?

You’re stepping towards a mere departure of your life.

Uttering with tears,

You surprised me.

don’t lose your own joy

that you can sense sitting alone silently,

Death seeks a normal visit,

That you most welcome and celebrate;

For an ultimate challenge of the unknown

Enter in death enjoying a silent song.

Then death is no more a fear of the soul.

Take it as a sutra

A mantra of life, like ~

OM MANE PADME HUM

SATYEM SHIVAM SUNDARAM

And exert it in your own inner space,

Where your beloved one has placed;

Live adventurously, with a wild wisdom,

Cheer up your Laughter without gags,

A great joke laughs at me.

Birth is nothing but live it with a source of passion,

Reunite your passion with the next ardour.

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Nirmal Kumar Thapa from Nepal is a unique poet, famed for his spiritual blend into contemporary life. He lives in Kathmandu. His edited work COVID-19, an anthology of short stories featuring 26 authors, has recently been published under the ‘Nepal Centre International’ Banner.

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