Category: Poetry

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Poetry

Love in the times of quarantine

By Amrita Sharma

Prologue

Your confessions never mattered,

Your agreement was never my call,

Your choices never governed mine,

Your confusions were born out of your own mind.

Your perfection was never my necessity,

Your insecurities were never my concern,

Your impatience was not my drive,

Your anger was not fuelling my life.

Your comfort was never my hope,

Your peace was not a part of my shopping list,

Your charm never made me insecure,

Your happiness was always yours.

Scene I

Something tells me it might possibly be a dream

It shall be over with a wink

With nothing changed.

Scene II

There is a new word we learnt— ‘quarantine’— and the television news now begins to alarm,

But I have stumbled upon your ‘presence’ somehow,

Now it’s a newer world within a changing time.

Scene III

The possibilities of an end finally liberate me from my fears

And I dare to embrace you in my thoughts,

For I know we would never step out of our houses and ever meet.

Scene IV

Your voice is enough to calm my nerves,

Your smile is enough to take me to mine,

Your presence within my smartphone suffices my quarantine.

Epilogue

With no promises of future,

Escaping the dreads of the present time,

The most beautiful of its kind was perhaps,

An encounter with love in the times of quarantine.

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Amrita Sharma is a Lucknow based writer currently pursuing her Ph.D. in English from the University of Lucknow. Her works have previously been published in Café Dissensus Everyday, Muse India, New Academia, GNOSIS, Dialogue, The Criterion, Episteme and Ashvamegh. Her area of research includes avant-garde poetics and innovative writings in the cyber space.

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

Categories
Poetry

Following the white griffin’s trail & more….

By Stefan Markovski

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Following the white griffin’s trail

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In a body of demigod beast imperial shadows of chthonic forces douse

kingdoms united into the singularity of all beings

become golden ruins under steel-feathered wings

in an incense smoke sighs are clothed through which gods send answers

when you pass through tunnels of glass hope

virgin blood supplies your cells.

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A griffin pierces far into the heavens in search for

a magnificent day for a perfect melancholy.

Everyone knows, few believe that the blank in each whiteness

holds the most colorful rainbow sewed up in a full stop

the well in which the souls drown

suggests an illusion of all destinies buried into a tunnel with one exit

where the celestial blueness reflects off the lonely trains’ glass.

Asian winds blow statues of flesh

before showing you the way to the only truth — downward

all the definitions of joy and wisdom are carrying explosive 

waiting for its moment in front of faces yet to blush.

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The rain is rage of myriad of mirrors and swords

they guard the innocence of the land pieces between us

and the magic of the air with taste of white birds

black hounds chase the moon at dusk

and, hiding behind the mountains,

bark with a lion’s roar

then the night sculpts new tunnels of hope from itself

hope undefiled as an intact wine bottle pointing the way.

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A short history of а fireproof purity

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Exhaustion is a time not passing,

be patient and leave, it could be that you’ll taste natural paradises again,

you extinguish by a prayer mortals, hasting to become rivers,

your eyes, never touched

are enough to the fields, with or without water

to hatch them and offer to the red-shining skies

O, flames, evaporating heretical thoughts painted into a body,

only you, you give birth to purity identical to that of a new flesh,

novum and spiritum novum tribuam in carnem potest,

every birth is a new path to Thinking,

ora pro nobis,

every craftsman, saint and sage, every bishop of exorcisms, every celestial clown and every mage

builds white pain in Snow White’s snow,

ora pro nobis peccatoribus,

and the truths shall remain One.

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Stefan Markovski was born in Gevgelija, where he completed primary and secondary education. Graduated on both the Department of Comparative Literature and the Institute of Philosophy and obtained MA in Screenwriting at the state university in Skopje, Macedonia. He has won domestic and foreign literary awards for his novels, short stories and poetry and has been included in numerous anthologies of contemporary literature, he has participated at literary festivals, and his works have been published in over 20 languages.

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

Categories
Poetry

Will There Be?

 By Amrita Saikia

I sat listening to the tap tapping of the raindrops,

And the blissful sound of the wild mountain stream,

I smelled the pure and pristine air of the valley,

Laden with the sweet scent of orchids,

The ones blooming near the lush green fields.

 .

The golden rays of the splendid sun in the skies,

Battled their way through the magnificent clouds,

Victoriously, they landed on the bosom of mother earth,

Illuminating the raindrops on the blades of green grass,

And transforming them into thousand twinkling stars.

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A cuckoo was perched on a branch of the mango tree,

Crooning a soulful melodious tune with glee,

As the sound of the song reverberated in the skies,

And in the faraway mountains standing gloriously tall,

My heart skipped with a feeling of inexplicable joy.

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Alas! These are the memories of the bygone days,

The once sapphire skies now wear a veil of gloom,

The breeze no longer brings tales of sheer bliss,

Only helpless cries from a distance,

Cries that send a shiver down the spine.

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The gory violence swept away their homes,

And snatched away their loved ones,

They throng the camps in masses now,

And spend restless days and sleepless nights,

In anticipation of better days to arrive.

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Their innocent faces wear a look of aghast,

They have doleful eyes and deeply scarred hearts,

They have little food to fill their famished stomachs,

They have little drug to cure their deep wounds,

All they have are prayers to soothe their tormented minds.

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My heart bleeds for the helpless people,

And at the plight of my incredibly beautiful land,

Will there be peace and harmony again?

Will songs of love and unity echo in the mountains?

These few questions disturb me again and again.

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Amrita Saika is a PhD student at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai. She is passionate about writing and pens down poems and short stories every now and then. Her writings are inspired by events that transpire around her. Her short story titled ‘The Unspoken Truth’ was published in New Asian Writing Online Asian Literary Community in 2014 (http://www.new-asian-writing.com/the-unspoken-truth-by-amrita-saikia/). In 2012, her first short story was selected for an anthology published by MSN and Random House.

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

Categories
Poetry

The Chef

Jee Leong Koh Photo credit Mihyun Kang

By Jee Leong Koh

for Richard Chan (Yummy Tummy, Flushing, New York, March 24, 2019)

Unctuously fried oyster omelet.

Hainanese chicken rice. Sambal fish balls

pierced on a stick, as in the old night markets,

airborne kerosene lamps lisping with a flair.

Mee goreng with sliced fish cake, Chinese sausage

and egg. Bak kut teh spelled the correct way,

the way of memory, for bone meat tea.

And finally, the chef’s very own favorite,

the pièce de résistance, on which he lavished

a fiery, slurry, egg tomato sauce,

the chilli crab, made from Dungeness crabs,

in which we dig with fingers for sweet flesh.

The critics got him wrong. He has not changed

profession. He is still a travel agent.

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Jee Leong Koh is the author of Steep Tea (Carcanet), named a Best Book of the Year by UK’s Financial Times and a Finalist by Lambda Literary in the US. His latest book is Connor & Seal: A Harlem Story in 47 Poems (Sibling Rivalry). Originally from Singapore, Koh lives in New York City, where he heads the literary non-profit Singapore Unbound.

Categories
Poetry

Lockdown Blues

By Gopal Lahiri

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Sometimes there is a night you just want

to get so far away from,

fire burns out in life’s long years,

memories are plucked, timid words wipe the window

long after the moon reaches its climax.

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A strange world of quarantine is slowly

strumming with silence,

there is no paper, no blue ink —

envelopes never arrive, the inbox isn’t loaded with emails

it’s time to live with the lonely shadows.

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The archipelago of hospitals empties sad memories,

patients fighting for life with short breaths

trip letters in social distancing,

no flowers, no relatives or friends

a virus attacks inside in a different trajectory.

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The first layer of darkness hides the melody of stars

in alleys, in streets, in subways,

rewind the scene of weaning the ventilators.

many dead mothers have left their smiles over the corridor

on the margins of the white washed wall.

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Form the undulations of courage and fear

eyes stare at the distant light,

the whispers are carrying alphabets of the dead planets

lying beneath the disposable trough.

there will be another universe to live for.

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Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata- based bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 20 books published 13 in English and 7 in Bengali, including three joint books. His poetry is also published in various anthologies and in eminent journals of India and abroad. His poems have been published in 12 countries and translated in 10 languages. He has been invited in several poetry festivals across India.

Categories
Poetry

At Arms Length

By Vandana Kumar

It felt like another eon

This surely wasn’t our century

Plagued by something

As evil as the bubonic

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No heroes to the rescue

No masks to fall from the skies

Stay away from human touch

We were told

.

Just as well

We got accustomed 

Adding virtual friends

Boredom in the air

That we filled

With cyber sex

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Within your home

A parent who sneezed

A spouse who gasped for breathe

A child with raging fever

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All were enemies

Of each other

And of state

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Maybe a good thing to stay

At arm’s length

To avoid gathering in large numbers

God knows the world

Needed a break

From those assembling

With hate

Armed with matchsticks

Some fuel

And hand grenades

Vandana Kumar is a bon vivant who loves travelling, working with young minds and exploring possibilities beyond the ordinary. She contributes poems regularly to online publications like ‘Narrow Roads’ and ‘Our Poetry Archive’. Her poems have featured in the ‘Emerald Hues’ and ‘GloMag’ anthologies. She has also been published in international journals like Toronto based ‘Scarlet Leaf Review’ and Philadelphia based “North of Oxford”. In addition she has been published in poetry websites like New York City based ‘Spillwords Press’ and UK based ‘Destiny Poets’. One of her poems was shortlisted and published by the “All India Poetry Society” as a part of the All India 2017 poetry competition.

Categories
Poetry

North London Nativity and More…

By Sarra Culleno

North London Nativity Year 2 file into the assembly hall, For parents, arrange the order they stand. In dreidel graphics, white and blue. Or all Gold jewellery, bindis and henna hands. Or Angels in white with tinsel halos. Or vivid, embroidered, lace Baju Kurungs. Like Slade, "Khag Ha Molad!" the class bellows. Wham's best "Pichale Krisamas" is sung. King Rama lights the eight-night menorah. Nakasura follows star to manger. Macabees light clay lamps for Ravana. "Feed the World" sang to end world hunger And Iftar turkey with all the trimmings Gifted to Our Lord's humble beginnings. Huxley’s Hatchery Glitter and glue may circumvent our data projecting trajectories. Creative clay play might prevent obedient, marshalled factories. Let's force the teachers with CPD to abandon sandpit epiphanies. Let's privatise academies to vertically disseminate hegemonies. So that four-year-old, newly hatched chicks never question their place on front lines. Eggbox builds are worthy risks, but heads above parapets must learn declines. Have them too early uniformed, before they can do buttons up. "Fear to fail!" they must be warned, as tiny, unweaned, suckling pups, While still waking, crying through the night potential, examination replaces. Rear them locked in bondage tight, to crush the runners, climbers, chasers. We can blame their poor resilience. The test results are an irrelevance. We aim to maim the threat; Intelligence. Miss, What Did I Miss? Miss, why are we reading a story like this? So you’ll never have to shoot Lennie in the back of the head. So to hangmen, Salem’s witches will never be led. Miss, we just don’t understand this? Once lessons learned in Double-Speak are done, you’ll parley and decode that it was our drones which terrorised families in their own homes. Miss, why are we still reading this? So you’ll know the milk of human kindness instead of panics peddled to numb you mindless. So you’ll recognise that news is contrived, not reported. Lucrative narratives sold on facts contorted. Miss, why do we learn all this? To save your child and grandchildren too, from the system of ignorance imposed upon you. Miss, how can we tell what fact is? “The sanctions in Iraq killed more people than all of the WOMDs in all of recorded history” Miss, why do you bother with this? Your dignity is not bestowed from up high. It’s what you must claw for, or die. Be inconvenient dissents from under. From margins, monoliths are blown asunder. Miss, what do we do with all this? First, shield yourself with insight, from Roman Games of Circus distracting you to apathies in between. Then, take flight, beyond the narrow limits of the spectrum’s extremes.

Sarra Culleno is London born and Manchester based poet, mother and English teacher who performs at poetry events across the UK. She writes about children’s rights, motherhood, identity, gender, age, technology, the environment, politics, modern monogamy and education. Sarra is widely published. She features in many podcasts and radio shows, and was longlisted for the Cinnamon Press Pamphlet Prize. Sarra co-hosts Write Out Loud at Waterside Arts, and has performed as guest poet at numerous literary festivals.

Categories
Poetry

Three Dimensions

By Kashiana Singh

Three dimensions, home and more? ~1~ ~2~ ~3~ At Sea Sailboats at sea Neglected rains Dehydrate my bones Outlandish refrains Inertia that hurts Clouded windowpanes In Air Impatient hands drift Whispering membranes Incantation of spirits Evil estranged Feathers summit eagles Wisdom ingrained On Ground Infusions of agony Brisk champagne Remembrance in gestures Doctor proclaims Healing the toxins Demons remain ~4~ At Home Bring me home Bristling age My dimming lights Gaze reclaims The kettle sings Tea stains ~5~ In Between Is it a curse? To be trapped Weather vortex Perennially curled up In unconfirmed dimensions* *Klein theory says that the fourth dimension likely exists, but unlike longitude, latitude and altitude which are extended dimensions, the fourth is a curled dimension – it stays retracted We live in intermissions Large pickles in Costco brine Turning stale on refrigerator Shelves, its aseptic corners No one dead – just less alive Conglomerating in obedience Into astonished beginnings, like Cul de sac’s that never end Keep turning, porches that Open into eager doorknobs Being continuously wiped, of Contagion memories Every— Body an altar prepared feverishly Homeopathy Consumed differently, in small doses Retained into crucial pellets for predispositions Reacts tenderly over time, with logarithmic osmosis Extracting with potentization, poisoning gently with hypnosis Poetry works me similarly, crumbling into me drops of a slow kiss Maps Circa 2020 City Bare bones A walking cemetery River Floating oars Inflections stay afloat Mountain Suspended moon Longing for festivals Village Haunted temples Echo vanished voices

*Klein theory says that the fourth dimension likely exists, but unlike longitude, latitude and altitude which are extended dimensions, the fourth is a curled dimension – it stays retracted

Kashiana Singh is a management professional by job classification and a work practitioner by personal preference. Kashiana’s TEDx talk was dedicated to Work as Worship. Her poetry collection, Shelling Peanuts and Stringing Words presents her voice as a participant and an observer. Her poems have been published on various platforms including Poets Reading the News, Visual Verse, Oddball Magazine, Café Dissensus, TurnPike Magazine, Dissident Voice, Feminine Collective, Spillwords, Poetry Super Highway. You can listen to her reciting her work on Rattle Open Mic sessions, Songs of Selah podcast and Poetry Super Highway episodes. Kashiana lives in Chicago and carries her various geographical homes within her poetry.

Categories
Poetry

Soul of A Single Mother

By Sushant Kumar BK

You know? I was a single mother,

Hear my story of pain.

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I struggled to raise my children,

Putting my own hunger in shade,

I always managed for them a full loaf of bread.

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Every moment I worked like a machine,

With no sense of time,

No morning, no evening!

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A voyage,

From village to city, as I changed my location,

To offer my children quality education.

But my hard works, my skills,

Earned nothing in the city.

With no choice, with no pursuit,

No option was left to me —

Except to capitalize my body.

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One day,

I sold my body to buy life for children,

And auctioned my pride

To bargain books for their study.

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Another day,

I vended myself in the market

In exchange for their school fees.

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    But as my children grew older,

They began to question my choices,

The same dedication with which I bought for them,

Selling my own morality.

They insulted me and my being,

They treated me like worthless thing.

Pinched me with words,

Hurt me with behavior.

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When life was more unfair to me,

I moved to old age home to let myself free.

.

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Sushant Kumar B.K.  from Gulariya,Bardiya, Nepal. He has M.A in English Literature and Political Science from Tribhuvan University, Kathmandu,Nepal. He is a freelance writer for The Himalayan Times, national English daily of Nepal. His latest work, a poetry, Insane lover can be read in The The Republica. He has attended a workshop jointly organized by Fulbright Nepal and Dignity Initiatives. He has participated in Translation Workshop provided by Society of Translators Nepal where he learned translating from Nepali to English and vice-versa.

Categories
Poetry

Corona nights, This Spring & Quarantines

By Sarita Jenamani

Corona Nights

When our nocturnal solitude

makes us mourn the moment given

we should think of the images

of those handwritten notes,

family heirlooms

and poems sent in the hope

they would get buried

alongside those who die

in hospitals alone

.

We should not forget

contours of those who could not caress

cheeks of their dear departed

one last time holding their hands

and seeing them dying gracefully

.

We should be alive

to what happens

before the breadth diffuses

in the shadow of night

and the dream dissolves

.

We should be aware

a little harbour lies in the sand

of our grief-stricken survival

that builds a boat

out of this temporal wrack

enabling us sail

towards a new dawn

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This Spring

This spring

a dark sign looms

in the far-east horizon

Silk route brings us

neither softness of silk

nor aphrodisia of spices

myriad of dawns

the vermilion silhouette of night

rises to mark the mirror of death.

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This spring

denies dignity

to the dead

turn prayers into torture

as the honeycomb of memory

stacks the images of dead ones

This spring

When I write I write

only silence and solitude

by a flickering of hope

while attempting to overcome the dark

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Quarantines

In isolation

you understand

how isolated you are

from yourself

.

Walking through the eerily quiet streets

of your inner ruins

you discover

a virus-plagued world whispers

that you have forgotten

you exist

in relation to others

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Sarita Jenamani is a poet of Indian origin based in Austria, a literary translator, anthologist, and editor of a bilingual magazine for migrant literature – Words & Worlds – a human rights activist, a feminist and general secretary of PEN International’s Austrian chapter. She has three collections of poetry. She writes in English, Odia and translates to and from German. Sarita translated Rose Ausländer, a leading Austrian poet, and an anthology of contemporary Austrian Poetry from German into Hindi and Odia. She has received many literary fellowships in Germany and in Austria including those of the prestigious organizations of ‘Heinrich Böll Foundation’ and ‘Künstlerdorf Schöppingen’.  She studied Economics and Management Studies in India and Austria where she works as a marketing manager.