Category: Poetry

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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

.

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

.

Within your home

A parent who sneezed

A spouse who gasped for breathe

A child with raging fever

.

All were enemies

Of each other

And of state

.

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.

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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.

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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.

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Poetry

Soul of A Single Mother

By Sushant Kumar BK

You know? I was a single mother,

Hear my story of pain.

.

I struggled to raise my children,

Putting my own hunger in shade,

I always managed for them a full loaf of bread.

.

Every moment I worked like a machine,

With no sense of time,

No morning, no evening!

.

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.

.

One day,

I sold my body to buy life for children,

And auctioned my pride

To bargain books for their study.

.

Another day,

I vended myself in the market

In exchange for their school fees.

.

    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.

.

When life was more unfair to me,

I moved to old age home to let myself free.

.

.

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

.

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.

.

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

.

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

.

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.

Categories
Poetry

The Mythology of Gyres

By Anjana Basu

Abhimanyu Or The Mythology of Gyres

Like a circle in a spiral

like a wheel within a half heard song

from a womb

my father talking strategy to my yawning mother

and the son seed within her

tales of gyres and labyrinths spinning

on a needle point

clockwise twice pause twice more

then counterbalance

two slashes discus on needlepoint if not finger

and then? this work will set you free

but mein fuhrer father

from this spinning heart of fury

gas seeps slow creeping through my veins

till the light dims into a moon

and my life runs rings around it

this work will set you free

mother tell me the end of it

my father’s voice silenced by sleep or a kiss

you were bored and I the seed

plucked before I could bud

the fluid holding me spinning me

lullaby rhyme

counter clockwise twice and then

the clock’s hands spinning in a mad race

to holocaust time

suicide bomber detonated at sixteen

by an unfinished story

nothing sets you free

.

KALI 2

the wild creature formed from night and blood and the pale gleam of stars edged with steel a whirlwind of darkness darker hair and a tale of lolling tongue as destruction spirals into a force and form not woman at all or a she shaped before the elements known to the night stalkers plea of mother ending in a whimper  the calm I cannot find within the storm

.

.

Anjana Basu is a writer based in Calcutta, India. She has 9 novels, a book of short stories and two anthologies of poetry to her credit. Her byline has appeared in Vogue India, Conde Nast Traveller India, and Outlook Traveller.

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Poetry

When silence finds its way between the soft

by Michael Bailey

When silence finds its way between the soft seconds of a hushed reminder, the unquiet dark will soon fill the void with ragged cacophonies: alarms and buzzers, the steady tick of irrelevant deadlines, the restless pace of lighted dials. It is a futile attempt When the second hand of arteries and valves stop with a silent sigh of relief, there will be only a soft hush of inner and outer darkness nestled in the light. Music of the Cells It is the music that changes us, The happy hum of well-being The shrill scream of illness Like miniature whales, we moan In the vast sea, calling out to each other, Calling out to the Other. A pod of harmony Until the song is stilled And the crackle of static signals Our descent into the deep. When silence finds its way between the soft seconds of a hushed reminder, the unquiet dark will soon fill the void with ragged cacophonies: alarms and buzzers, the steady tick of irrelevant deadlines, the restless pace of lighted dials. It is a futile attempt When the second hand of arteries and valves stop with a silent sigh of relief, there will be only a soft hush of inner and outer darkness nestled in the light. Music of the Cells It is the music that changes us, The happy hum of well-being The shrill scream of illness Like miniature whales, we moan In the vast sea, calling out to each other, Calling out to the Other. A pod of harmony Until the song is stilled And the crackle of static signals Our descent into the deep. The Grammar of Life The grammar comes from the consonants and the verbs from the sentences: simple, complex, compound compound-complex; from phrases strapped on for effect nouns sometimes become nouns and verbs themselves doing double duty the only way in which to wrench sense out of the extreme nonsense that pours from our heart, our soul. The words hang before us, invisible, children of our breath, incarnated in lines and circles, spirit becoming flesh with a cry that comes from the silence between heart beats. But do we ever capture the experience get it correct with the stick figures and ovals capture the rapture of sunrise of sunset where transcendence gives birth to metaphor and simile between the white spaces and meaning scuttles among the vowels and consonants.


Music of the Cells is excerpted from Strange Vibrations: Doctors May Soon Listen to the Music of Your Cells by Monika Rice Spirituality & Health The Soul/Body Connection March/April 2005.

Michael Bailey is a graduate of the University of West Georgia and Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. He served 12 years in pastoral and educational ministries. His poems, columns, and short stories have appeared in the Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, THE POLISH-JEWISH HERITAGE FOUNDATION OF CANADA /newsletter, National Christian Reporter, The Christian Index, Journal of Secondary Gifted Education, Wellspring, and Resurgens, and The Chattahoochee Review.

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Poetry

The Girl Who Went Fishing

By Biju Kanhangad

(Translated by Aditya Shankar)

Beneath the blue waterline,

father’s catch basks in the sunlight: a fish.

The gray-black of crows shroud the pale oar.

Reddish crabs reach the shore, transcending

the festered basket discarded by mom.

In the houseboat, the yellow flowers on

the worn rouka* are still wet.

Unable to submerge the shark, remnants of

the blue spreads into the sky, bawls.

*Bodice in Malayalam, can also be used to see connections

Biju Kanhangad is a poet, painter and post graduation in Malayalam literature. In 2005, he represented Malayalam in the national poetry seminar conducted by Sahitya Akademi. He was awarded the Mahakavi P poetry prize (2013), Moodadi Damodaran prize (2015), Joseph Mundassery Memorial Award (2017), Thamarathoni Kavita prize (2020) and other awards of repute. Thottumumbu ManjayilayoKanhangdu, Azhichukettu, June, Ucha Mazhayil, Vellimoonga, Puliyude Bhagathaanu Njanippozhullathu, Ullanakkangal, Ochayil Ninnulla Akalam, Mazhayude Udyanathil are his anthologies of poems. Essays: Vaakinte Vazhiyum Velichavum, Kavitha Mattoru Bhashayaanu. His poems have been translated into English, Hindi, Kannada, and Tulu.   

Aditya Shankar is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated Indian poet, flash fiction author, and translator. His work has appeared in international journals and anthologies of repute and translated into Malayalam and Arabic. Books: After Seeing (2006), Party Poopers (2014), and XXL (Dhauli Books, 2018). He lives in Bangalore, India.

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Poetry

Unconditional Thread & more…

By Vatsala RadhaKeesoon

Unconditional Thread Born from the Divine’s golden thread Molded with perfection, purity and grace I’m the invisible heart – the unconditional thread ruling the universe I’m soft I’m generous I’m not from the Mundane the materialistic world the uncanny competitive rules I’m omnipresent but recognized, seen only by the unadulterated I, Unconditional Thread survive in immortal realms and go on whispering in every ear “ Love, love and love discarding mental blocks and embracing spontaneity.” Reflections upon Covid-19 In the 21st century When Humankind has been boasting to be invincible, When wise poets have been considered to be insane , When genuine spirituality has been eclipsed by fake sweet talkers, When books have been replaced by shallow petty talks , Who had ever predicted A deadening virus would put the life of each and everyone at stake- rich, middle class and poor on the same plane? In the 21 century When Humankind has been at the apex of busy-ness, When only money has been the King, When even doctors have been taken for granted for their poise in voice , Who had ever predicted that no human being would be sure to see a new dawn? In the century of robot- like human beings, When 24 hours a day doesn't even seem enough time, when basic manners have become dumb, Who had ever predicted lockdowns in states, countries and across borders? Suddenly a global" Halt" screams, Unfortunately some are compelled to die, Luckily some fight for their own breath, Some save others' lives Wake up Human Race! The global picture is dim, But the wheel of Karma keeps turning, Don't curse God as he is dropping harsh hints , The saviors of the world are at work , Safety measures, Medicine, and Meditation in align - all on one plane are the key factors , Grab the signs! Be self- disciplined! Together we will all win this scary battle.

Excerpted from Unconditonal Thread , Alien Buddha Press, USA (2019)

First published in Le Defi, Mauritius, April 2020

Vatsala Radhakeesoon was born in Mauritius in 1977. She is the author of 8 poetry books  including When Solitude Speaks (Ministry of Arts and Culture Mauritius, 2013), Unconditional Thread ( Alien Buddha Press, USA,2019), and Tropical Temporariness (Transcendent Zero Press, USA, 2019). 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.  Vatsala currently lives at Rose-Hill and is a    literary translator, interviewer and artist.

Categories
Poetry

To Do list & Morna

To-do List: Today I will fall out of love with you. I’ll sweep out the motes of dust that clung to your feet. Each speck a single story, of your worldly being. I’ll climb ladders for the distant corners, to clear out limp cobwebs of words, whispered and strung in secret — prose patterns of our desire. I’ll pick out tea leaves caught in the sieve, filtering out sweet and twilit memories. A steel scrubber for the grimy pits of pots, dredging out the darkness of difficult days. I’ll dig out from under my nails, the memory of your skin. Make sure to clean behind my ears, the salt of your lips. I’ll iron out the creases of your smile, and allow my heart to ache for a while. Stretch out my fingers in vain, and tremble for your touch. I’ll cap love off with a shot of whiskey. A quick fix for the spirit. A cinder for my belly. A reminder to never quit it. MORNA The Cape Verdeans call it their national music A balm for the dis-ease of seafaring journeys. Destined as they are, these archipelagic folk, to grow roots in stormy waters. The lips of waves carry these drawn out sighs, a thousand and more exhalations. The ocean laps up these lamentations. Swayed as she is by their mournful preoccupations. It is this suadade that breaks upon our calloused feet, tempting us to wade and wallow deep. And we dive in — hungry as we are for borrowed emotion.

By Himani Sood

Himani Sood is a middle-school Humanities teacher currently residing in Mumbai, India. From a young age, Himani has found cathartic relief in writing in a myriad of forms, ranging to the more austere conventions of academic papers (which, she wishes to add, she happily disobeyed) to a number of comedic school productions. These poems mark a return to an art form she long-neglected — it is an attempt to connect with a long-stifled inner voice.