Category: Poetry

Poetry

Omid

by Smitha Vishwanath

Seven years she’d waited for him

She’d prayed five times each day

At fajr, zuhr, asr, maghrib and isha

On the nineteenth day of Ramadan

twelve thousand seven hundred and seventy five prayers

Had been answered

She thought, as his tiny fingers wrapped

Around hers, his eyes still closed

‘Ya Allah!’ she thanked God

for Omid

‘Omid’ – it means hope

His body still warm

From being nursed

At her breast

Now he lay still

His pure, fresh blood splattered on the white floor

I want to understand why Omid died

Was it her punishment?

For giving birth to hope –

an unforgivable mistake in the eyes of non-believers.

I thought like them that thrust the bullet

Into his tender chest. It shattered his ribs

and punctured his heart.

I cannot understand

I think, maybe, because I am not as bad.

I thought like the merciful God who gave him life

Seventeen seconds of motherhood He had granted

In exchange for her every prayer

I cannot understand

I think, maybe, because I am not as good

For God is always good

and merciful

my mother says

I cannot understand

So, I pray –

For Omid and

his mother

And others like Omid-

crushed

before they knew what, it means ‘to be alive.’

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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Tags Middle East, Smitha Vishwanath

Poetry

We All Can’t Breathe

By Mutiu Olawiyu

Mutiu Olawuyi (popularly called the Jungle Poet) is an international award-winning poet – 2013 World Poetry Empowered Poet Awardee, Canada, Honorary Professor of International Art Academy, Volos Greece; World Poetry Cultural Ambassador (2014) – Vancouver – Canada; and Master of Literary Innovation (2019) – World Poetry Conference, Bathinda Punjab, India . He is the producer and host of ArtFlakes on CBA TV, the Voice of East Africa and he is also the Editor-in-Chief of Parkchester Times and MCR newspapers (Print and Online) based in Bronx, New York, USA. He has authored numerous books of poetry (Among them are American Literary Legends and Other Poems [2010], Thoughts from the Jungle [2012], 9/11 Poetry [2012], and The Journey to the Archangels [2013]) and has edited numerous international anthologies, journals and magazines. Mutiu is a teacher, English language and literature curriculum developer, freelance writer/editor, literary critic and inventor of a new form of poetry called 9eleven (a poem of 9 lines written with 11 syllables) and the first writer of a story without verb – The Blotted Pawpaw (published 2013 by Bharat College in India). He is also an editor for The Criterion International Journal in English based in India. Mutiu has some of his poems, short stories and research papers published in online and offline journals and magazines in India, Ireland, England, Canada, Greece, Nigeria and USA. Finally, some of his works have been translated to Arabic, French, Esperantos, Malayalam, Telugu and Hungarian.

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Tags Artflakes, CBA TV, East Africa, Jungle Poet, Mutiu Olawuyi, Parkchester Times

Poetry

Taste of Ashes & The Toffee Wrappers

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date June 9, 2020
No Comments on Taste of Ashes & The Toffee Wrappers

by Parneet Jaggi

Taste of Ashes

In a remote village
amidst silent hills of the Himalayas,
a tale of the ashes lures every passerby.
Smoke lighting up the azure sky
in glittery patches
invites waste landers to picnic spots.
Patches of land covered with ashes-
that taste like jaggery,
offering not just sweetness,
but ethereal elation of mind and spirit.
Each day fires turn into ashes.
Each day lovers consume their splashy attires to
liberate of the two
to become one.
Taste of their ashes surpasses all tastes.

The Toffee Wrappers

Stripping the toffee wrappers
I undressed all
whims, colours, glaze,
coats of sweetness
thrust by automated machinery
of prodigal minds.
Now toffees at the core
remain delectable
to be eaten till death.
Wrappers dropped down on the road
to be trampled and crushed,
so that they do not creep into other lives.
The heart feels light.

Dr. Parneet Jaggi is an Associate Professor, a bilingual poet, editor, critic and novelist. She has four collections of English poems and two research books. Her name appears in the Directory of Writers of America’s – Poets and Writers. She was honoured with ‘Star Ambassador of World Poetry’ award by Philosophique Poetica, India, 2019. She was declared ‘Poet of the Year 2019’ and ‘Critic of the Year 2019’ by UK’s poetry website, Destinypoets. She won the Wingword Prize 2020 for her Punjabi poem. She has co-edited two books- Poets & Poetry: Spaces Within & Without and Dynamics of Poetry: The Said and The Unsaid. Her first historical fiction (co-authored) The Call of the Citadel is ready for release in 2020. She is the Secretary of Galaxy International Foundation, India, an organization that promotes literature and social activism.

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Tags Parneet Jaggi

Poetry

Birds Cry

By Melissa A Chappell

What do the birds cry

when the sun sinks upon a killing,

and the taken life feeds the hungering, blood-rich soil of a nation,

as it has for centuries.

What do the birds cry

over this blood that will not lay silent,

but runs restless, a river unencumbered, through the cindered streets.

What did the birds cry

when in such strange times

men drew up other men by ropes

to hang in trees?

What do the birds cry

when after so many words have been written,

so many speeches delivered,

and so many proclamations proclaimed,

that the sun still sinks upon killings unnumbered,

and the soil continues in its greed.

Cry, you birds, what do you cry?

“Silence, silence!

Until justice rises on the wing,

cry silence.”

Melissa A. Chappell is a native of South Carolina living on land passed down through her family for over 120 years. She is greatly inspired by the land and music. She plays several instruments, among them an 8 course Renaissance lute. She shares her life with her family and two miniature schnauzers. She recently published Dreams in Isolation: The World in Shadow: Poems of Reconciliation and Hope with Alien Buddha Press.

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Tags Melissa A Chappell, Poet

Poetry

Spectacles

By Himadri Lahiri

In the worst of times my specs too have betrayed.

Only the day before yesterday

it fell from my hand, lost its shape and swayed.

Though the lenses remained intact

the frame lost its right angles, to tell you the fact.

It being the worst of times, you cannot visit an optician

and get it mended – or go for a new acquisition.

So I continue wearing my specs bent.

And lo! Visions become unbelievably indecent.

White becomes black, blackness receives a jolt.

One who has been a friend so long seems a foe –

he appears with a false show.

Stranger still, how can one elected in a fair poll

inevitably turn into a mole?

Philanthropes, I believe, are god’s messengers.

How then are they trapped in messy affairs?

They appear as crooked as my neighbour

who for me holds nothing but a sabre.

Hilariously, men and women with sure stigma

are wonderful people – how it happens is an enigma –

who run errands for the aged

and reach out to the caged

during the pandemic, the worst of times!

These visions reversed

must have something to do with the specs perverse –

since its fall it behaves strange.

Hope, you’ll excuse me for the change,

for I have nothing to do with the detriment.

Blame it all on the instrument.

Bio-noteHimadri Lahiri is former Professor, Department of English and Culture Studies, University of Burdwan, West Bengal. Currently, he is Professor of English at the School of Humanities, Netaji Subhas Open University, Kolkata. He has written extensively on Diaspora Studies, Postcolonial Studies and Indian English Literature. His latest publication is Diaspora Theory and Transnationalism (Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan, 2019). Contemporary Indian English Poetry and Drama (Newcastle on Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2019), co-edited by him, has also been published recently. He writes book reviews for newspapers and academic journals. He writes poems at his leisure hours.

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Tags Himadri Lahiri, Netaji Subhas Open University, University of Burdwan

Poetry

Mango

By Ra Sh

Ra Sh has published three collections of poetry – Architecture of Flesh (Poetrywala), Bullet Train and other loaded poems (Hawakal) and Kintsugi by Hadni (RLFPA). Forthcoming books are The Ichi Tree Monkey and other stories (translation of Tamil Dalit writer Bama’s short stories) (Speaking Tiger) and Blind Men Write (a play) (Rubric).Rash’s English translations include Mother Forest (Women Unlimited) (from Malayalam), Waking is another dream (Navayana) (Srilankan Tamil poems translated with Meena Kandasmy), Don’t want caste (Navayana) (collection of Malayalam short stories by Dalit writers) and Kochiites (Greenex) (a book on different communities in Kochi.)

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Tags Ra Sh

Poetry

Without Leash

By Scott Thomas Outlar

Without Leash

Mellow is the fog hanging heavy with persuasion
all the doves are cooing near the edge of absolution

but nature doesn’t forgive without a bite

One more dance of light behind the optics of transcendence
curtains fall in layers pulled by wishes best kept silent

but dogs continue barking and chasing stars

Silver is the tongue babbling chaos in the blueprint
digging in the trenches for a shelter from the fallout

but blind decrees are riddled by the fools

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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Tags Scott Thomas Outlar, SETU mag

Poetry

Our Global Village & The Dawn after the Pandemic

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date June 3, 2020
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By Obinna Chilekezi

Our global village

a global village indeed!
as while in school, we’re
warned of dangers of going global
for a big small village, but we thought only
of the passion and money, the beauty and trade

never before is man this caged, as
the wilds freely move daily activities, unconcerned!

never told to watch that one day
china would sneeze, the rest of
the globe would catch virus
and locked down for days, and deaths
would rise to the mount and graves swollen

never before is man this caged, as
the wilds freely move daily activities, unconcerned!

here we are today, this virused world
revolving around in this global village
of national borders closed, states closing theirs too
even local authorities banging theirs strongly too

never before is man this caged, as
the wilds freely move daily activities, unconcerned!

can this be end of our global village
as the lights in the village went off, from house to house
to your tents O’ Israel, as local authorities banged their doors
and the villages return back to their huts
or could there be another rebirth of the globe, as we know it.

never before is man this caged, as
the wilds freely move daily activities, unconcerned!
The dawn after coronavirus pandemic

Loud smiles creep across the waves. Yes smiles were loud
At the meander of holding hands again together
All along the landscape of nesting
And the incredulous affectation, in the air
As we danced to the tune of the invigorated song of laughter

The weather in blue bright. Reminder of then days of isolation
From days of death, fear and rumours of
That deadly virus that swan across the
Gatepost of boundaries, darkly and oozing
Out more deaths along every corners of the globe

The earth became sick. Sick of the deaths of its pride, mankind;
our earth was sick, with its garters down, in the
foam chest of doubt. Darkness became
The beginning of the morning sun, and love
Was kept at bay. Our lovely sandlot turned gray

Then this new dawn. This dawn
Became warn and grew like our Iroko of hope. And
It came as a time of relief, unimaginable
Or imagined - we all in unison said
Bye bye to covid 19, bye bye to its death.

The Earth became sick. Sick of the deaths of its pride, mankind;
our Earth was sick, with its garters down, in the
foam chest of doubt. Darkness became
The beginning of the morning sun, and love
Was kept at bay. Our lovely sandlot turned gray

Then this new dawn. This dawn
Became warn and grew like our Iroko of hope. And
It came as a time of relief, unimaginable
Or imagined - we all in unison said
Bye bye to COVID 19, bye bye to its death.

Loud smiles creep across the waves. Yes smiles were loud
At the meander of holding hands again together
All along the landscape of nesting
And the incredulous affectation, in the air
As we danced to the tune of the invigorated song of laughter

Obinna Chilekezi is a Nigerian poet and insurance practitioner whose poems have been published in journals and anthologies. He has three published collections which are: Son Chikeziri too died, Rejection and other poems and Songs of a Stranger in the Smiling Coast. One of his insurance texts won the 2016 African Insurance Organisation Book Award. He can be used on ugobichi@yahoo.com or obinnachilekezi1@gmail.com.

Tags Covid 19, Nigeria, Obinna Chilekezi

Poetry

Walking & Spring in my Grandma’s closet

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date June 2, 2020
No Comments on Walking & Spring in my Grandma’s closet

By Sutanuka Ghosh Roy

WALKING

She is Rumki

No one knows whether she is a Muslim or a Hindu

She mops the floor in a sari shop in the city

Babu tells there are insects in the air

He closes the shop.

Rumki decides to go back to her village

Goes to the estation, the trains are closed

The buses are not plying

Decides to walk, she starts

Walking.

The mid-day Sun at her head

Makes her hungry,

Chews a green chili and drinks water

Kneads the maps of her village

Cements the cracks.

Starts walking

She will walk until she reaches her village.

Spring in My Grandma’s Closet

Does it remind her of the cheli

she draped as a child bride?

Sunlight peeps through the window;

she giggles — her bare gum protrudes.

The breeze ruffles her white mane.

Grandma falters a step or two;

she gathers her thaan and soft bones

as she enters the verandah clutching the railing.

Granny cranes her neck to find a primrose waiving at her.

Notes:

Cheli: Small sari worn by little girls in Bengal

Thaan: Borderless white sari widows were forced to wear

Dr Sutanuka Ghosh Roy is Assistant Professor and Head Department of English in Tarakeswar Degree College, The University of Burdwan. She did her doctoral dissertation on Two Eighteen Century British Women Poets: Hannah More and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. She has been teaching at the undergraduate and postgraduate level for years. She is currently engaged in active research and her areas of interest include Eighteenth Century literature, Indian English literature, Canadian Studies, Post colonial Literature, Australian Studies, Dalit Literature, Gender Studies etc. She has published widely and presented papers at National and International Seminars. She is a regular contributor of research articles and papers to anthologies, national and international journals of repute like The Statesman, Muse India, Lapis lazuli, Setu etc. She is also a reviewer, a poet and a critic.

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Tags Sutanuka Ghosh Roy, University of Burdwan

Poetry

Mulberry Tree

By Chandni Santosh

The day we returned from the mulberry tree,

You bought me a pair of gold anklets,

With the thirteenth symphony set inside,

The symphony of sadness.

When l walked,

I carried the weight of those days on my ankles,

And the river in my eyes,

Threatening to flood at times.

You sat me on your lap,

Dressed me in your favourite shirt,

Red prints on black,

Holding a wide mouthed glass of whisky,

With the ice cubes making

Gurgling sounds. Tinkling.

Your smoke swirls on my shoulder,

My mouth,

And the anklets melt on each other,

I sip at times from your glass,

And puke.

Tell me where you buried

The child. You hide your face in my harassed hair,

Blow the blue smoke into its strands.

Tell me.

The lights have been switched off,

Only the night light pours in through the gauzy curtains,

Tell me. You clink the glass and blow the smoke

Into my hair, my mouth.

The mulberry tree is the marker. After l leave,

Do not sit under any mulberry tree.

There is a light cardboard coffin

Buried beneath it.

Chandini Santosh is a novelist, poet and painter. Her poems have been published widely in solo collections, journals, anthologies and magazines. Her third novel, `Blood Brothers` is ready for release.

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Tags Chandni Santosh