This spring dawn, birds begin their cacophony of chants, all sex and violence, imprints of who will rule the yard, whose offspring’s offspring will populate this patch of earth.
The morning traffic, too, has its cries, trills, alarms, greetings, rich or thin, metallic, harsh, calls for submission, and dominance over the interwoven nest of roads, ways, signals, and signs.
Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region. He invites you to follow his poetry Facebook page: “Richard Stimac poet”.
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Horseman of Death by Salvador Dali (1904-1989). From Public Domain
DO NOT SPEAK FOR OLD STAVED MEN
Do not speak for old staved men whose faces glint like tyres, In the twilight of their years, they hum a tune so grim. Their stories told in whispers, kindling ancient fires.
Beneath the moon, their silhouettes like church spires, Stand testament to lives lived on the brim. Do not speak for old staved men whose faces glint like tyres.
With every wrinkle, a saga that never tires, Eyes that sparkle with memories, vivid and dim. Their stories told in whispers, kindling ancient fires.
They laugh with the madness that freedom acquires, Dancing to the wind's capricious whim. Do not speak for old staved men whose faces glint like tyres.
In the hush of night, their spirit aspires, To cast off the shadows, stark and slim. Their stories told in whispers, kindling ancient fires.
So let them be, these merry old sires, As they sip the stars, on the world's rim. Do not speak for old staved men whose faces glint like tyres, Their stories told in whispers, kindling ancient fires.
IF AT FIRST DEATH'S WORLD IS ROUND
If at first death's world is round, take heed, Where shadows dance and silent whispers play, A routed cock will sing for prayer indeed.
In twilight's grasp, where heartbeats intercede, And stars above in quiet judgment sway, If at first death's world is round, take heed.
The moon's pale light, on which dark dreams will feed, A canvas vast, where lost souls might stray, A routed cock will sing for prayer indeed.
Through time's thin veil, where ancient fates are freed, The echoes of the past are not held at bay, If at first death's world is round, take heed.
In madness' grip, where sanity will bleed, And reason's voice is oft led far astray, A routed cock will sing for prayer indeed.
So listen close, for it's the earth's own creed, In life's grand play, we all must find our way, If at first death's world is round, take heed, A routed cock will sing for prayer indeed.
OH, WHAT NOW FOR THE FORGETMENOT MEN
Oh, what now for the forgetmenot men, In a world where fathers jack all pleasure? Their laughs echo, "Ha ha," and then?
They dance in boots of heavy leaden, Stomping on dreams with no measure. Oh, what now for the forgetmenot men?
With every chortle, they count to ten, A madcap rhythm to their leisure. Their laughs echo, "Ha ha," and then?
They sip on the nectar of a pen, Ink-stained lips betray their treasure. Oh, what now for the forgetmenot men?
In absurdity's grip, beyond our ken, They find in oddity their true pleasure. Their laughs echo, "Ha ha," and then?
So raise your glass to the when, To the forgetmenots, in all their splendour. Oh, what now for the forgetmenot men, Their laughs echo, "Ha ha," and then?
O, WHENCE VENAL BODIES BREAK AND SPURN
O, whence venal bodies break and spurn, In twilight's sickly, dolorous embrace, What now for death but a new day made up from sickness?
The stars above in cold judgement turn, As shadows cast by the moon's pale face, O, whence venal bodies break and spurn.
The raven's call, a direful mourn, Echoes through the void of this haunted place, What now for death but a new day made up from sickness?
Beneath the earth, where the lost sojourn, Lies the heart's desire without a trace, O, whence venal bodies break and spurn.
A dance macabre, the world does churn, Absurd the stage, life's fleeting race, What now for death but a new day made up from sickness?
So sing the dirge, as the candle burns, And time erodes all but disgrace, O, whence venal bodies break and spurn, What now for death but a new day made up from sickness
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.
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it’s enough to make me cry twice that bad news bang but we still laugh you and me in the mornings and beyond
please stay as you are always you know i know your all like the sky see magic of pure good in you
we didn’t accept others walked as just us through it day after day into years decades with you ‘my nice’
so much sharing is ours we see trees and flowers alive tiny seabirds running and our dreams beautiful in real
a dog barks in the distance we listen and smile as the sun joins in with us and ours
your face is so kind to me in life i always call you ‘my nice’ it’s your true name to me
Stephen House has won awards and nominations as poet, playwright and actor. He’s received several international literature residencies. He is published often and performs his acclaimed monologues widely.
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I pause and smile as you cross my mind while I sit with friends, talking about politics, pop culture, and the lives of people who think they are kings and queens.
But when the noise fades, when everyone goes quiet, that is when you are loudest.
I miss that version of myself, the one who laughed without trying, who felt light and alive.
I miss the sound of your voice, calm and kind, the kind that could quiet a storm inside someone.
Yes, I remember that day. I saw you sitting with your friends at a table. You took off your glasses, and you looked like my childhood crush from when I was eleven, when life was all mixtapes and slow songs on the radio.
And that was enough to miss you, quietly, sweetly, all the same.
Yes.
Juliet F Lalzarzoliani is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Economics at ICFAI University, Mizoram. She writes about nostalgia, relationships, and self-reflection. She lives in Mizoram and is passionate about exploring life’s quiet moments through words.
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And yes, this is a city, a city, a city. And words repeat as they learn from sound -- shape-shifters, taking moulds, forming legion. And I see cacophony knocking on my windowpane In the dead of night, In the tender morning light.
Yet escape comes from hindsight. I drown and drown myself in your voice -- pebble in a pond, milk in coffee, sweat in the ocean, And as I sink to lower depths, I try to avoid the unavoidable, writing my name on a single blade of grass.
Cacophony stares back as I finish this line only to pick up the phone and say, "Hello...”
Soumyadwip Chakraborty, born and brought up in Sodepur, currently residing in Hyderabad, works in a multinational. Since the body can run on food, water and oxygen, he chooses to have literature, music and cinema run his soul. His poetry is nothing but a by-product of his living.
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If you can, look for a few words scattered somewhere across the vast distance between two untimely wishes.
Upon tall pillars of silent moments, someone may have tried to build a bridge — a bridge adorned with unspoken words of promise.
Dr. Shamim Akhtar is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Management at ICFAI University Mizoram. A researcher, writer, and a passionate poet explores themes of memory, longing, and the human condition. His work reflects a blend of lyrical sensitivity and deep introspection.
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Five poems by Ashwini Mishra have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das
Ashwini Mishra
RIDING THE EARTH: THE LAST DAY
Farewell! A final goodbye! The prologue to an epic of an endless rest Has to be something Extra special.
Gathering up all the strength Of his senses He strove to know the people Around him. He spoke fondly to them ‘Let you all be there in my heart Forever, May my world keep shimmering With the glow of this endearing bond.’ He rode each passing day That galloped on -- Like a well-fed, robust horse, He rode on, His feet securely stuck in the stirrups His hands gripping the rein hard. In an instant he could Gallop around the earth Cradling time under his arm. The river, the ponds And the rainclouds brought water For his parched throat,
Towards the end of the journey He called one by one his folks Whom he held dear to his heart. Some of them sounded assuring, Some promised to come. A few fulfilled their promises too And came -- Still, there was a disturbing emptiness Somewhere within.
Where has disappeared The knot of love that had held So strong in the days of past? It was as though that knot Had loosened and shredded. Worn out like a weary page In the mindscape, Like someone that had once Played a major role, And had moved away from the centerstage, To stand by the stage-wings Distanced and dispassionate! SWORD
I had never wanted To wield a sword, a dagger or a goad. I had always wanted to tuck plumes into the hair, To draw a lotus on the palm, To play the notes of spring breeze For the ears of the Blazing summer noon. I had wanted to be a dreamer, To let my eyes close At the touch of the delicate petals Of exotic blooms! But you did not let that happen. My loved ones, My folk I held close to my heart, Fell at the merciless blows Of harsh and hostile words Your canons shot. Your anger, your cruelty, Weighed heavy on me And a thunderstorm brew inside me. Unnoticed by others. In the end, My compelled hands Reached out to the scabbard Lying abandoned under The smuts of time To draw the sword out.
THE CLAY LAMP
A clay lamp can always guess How long the ghee and The wick in it will last. It is a living thing How brief might its lifespan be. It can, like all living beings, Battle the wind and the darkness In its struggle to survive In an unenclosed space That is vulnerable to The assault of hooves of animals Or the misty spray of the dew. It knows that The moment the curtain rises, Revealing the stage All set for the entry of light, The first act of the play will end And Its role will be over Even before the makeup is Rubbed off the face or the artificial tint On the hair fades. The hand that had lit it May turn impassive, too!
A woman, her heart and hands Focused on the act, Keeps lighting up the clay lamps, Not knowing for sure How long their light would last Or when the flames would die. The idol of the goddess That glittered in the light of The lamps she lights Never steps down to help her When the flames char her body. There is not a soul in sight When her flame dies, Except a few burnt insects.
GAZA You neither have a chest Nor arms now To embrace those who once saw You as their own Like you did before. The natives and the foreigners, Who trod your soil, Now take a turn either to your left Or to your right and move on. No longer the chirrups of birds Come sprinkling down Either from your sky, or your trees. There are vultures everywhere Scavenging on the tender human flesh Getting fat and heavy. The sun, the moon and the stars In your sky are Blown away into thousand pieces now. You may dig up some of them Graved under your ground. The Death in your sea breeze And in your explosive garb Haunts living humans To turn them to corpses. Like a farmland ladened with crops, Skeletons are heaped in your streets. Houses and buildings where life dwelt Are mounds of shattered concrete. Wreckage of kitchenware, And of home appliances Lie on the desolate roads In pathetic scatters. A book satchel slings from the Severed hand of a dead child. The thirst for war is not quelled yet, New strategies are deliberated upon To pursue newer missions of death. New weapons must be hoarded In the arsenal To launch an attack on the netherworld After this world is razed to ruins.
WHIP
The whip that once basked proud in The love of the kings and the feudal lords And danced in elation on The defenseless back of the oppressed, Now lies worn and weary In a niche in the royal palace or Behind the glass doors in the shelf Of a museum, Coated in dust and dirt. The obsequious tanners, Who were far below the Aristocracy, Polished this tool of tyranny Bright with oil, And it jumped crazy On their haggard backs, Drawing crooked lines Of livid blue and red.
How wide is the chasm between Sage Dadhichi who gave his bones For forging a thunderbolt To kill demon Brutrasura*, And the stingray that gave its tail to Shape a whip That performs its brutal dance On the back of innocent humans? Even today, The barges of history and legends Voyage across the pages Of text books taught in the classroom, Their sails fluttering On their proud masts.
*Brutrasura was killed by Indra with a weapon made with Sage Dadhichi’s bones as per mythology.
Aswini Kumar Mishra has 13 poetry collections to his credit. He has been translated widely into English, Hindi, Bengali, Tamil and other Indian languages. He has authored a fiction in English, Feet in the Valley (Rupa Publications, 2016), His poems and essays have appeared in several literary journals including Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, Wasafiri, M.P.T, The Little Magazine, Samakaleen, Konark, Rock Pebbles and Vahi etc. A recipient of several awards, he currently lives in Bhubaneswar and can be reached at cell phone +919438615742, +918456953936. His email id is: mishra.aswini53@gmail.com
Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit.
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THE SANCTUARY Somewhere in between the woods, Where trees flutter, flowers bloom, Bees hum, winds chime. And when the night turns, A nightingale guides strangers in the night, And when the seaman is lost, The stars brighten to direct the right sight, Like a saint, Who holds the panacea to an evil mind. As an itinerant, I am frightened by the demons inhabiting all sides, So come and shield me, And provide me sanctuary in your arms full of serenity.
EMBRACE ME
Embrace me, And I would place them all in your heart -- The tales of grief, And fables of betrayal Of the Jasmine and Lilac By the stream where they bloom.
They promised me they would reach you On the winds of spring, To carry my message of love. But I know You would throw it out.
Mian Ali, a Lahore-based writer published in The Brussels Review, explores love, hate, spirituality, and morality through his writing. He weaves the tale that narrate the stories of the grieved heart. His work lingers at the edges of feeling and thought, always reaching for something just beyond language.
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Families of 'saal' cover the forest with abundance just like the river's bouyant currents guide the Grand Boat ahead.
The last blossoms of warm sunlight emerge from among those trees and now circumambulate the farmlands.
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Oh medicine-takers!
Come here! The winds are not fidgety here. Greet them unhesitantly.
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Gather around here.
The tasteful smell of curries coming from the maternal homestead has turned this evening into a dominion of delectable flavours.
Tell sleep to resist.
On your feathery shirt hung on the clothesline, something intangible occurs. Watch how the moonlight sews its torn parts.
Those particles filled with voluminous light will now dispatch a night's worth of beauty for the days to come.
YAARA*
As the alumni sneer, we revisit the green mausoleum for the second time today.
A pup on our trail, giving curls of sound and rearing his curiosity at the edge of our hips. He has no problem with making new friends.
He isn't born of scandal or frenzy. Which is why he sits like a monk and watches us place a ring of flowers on the mausoleum's palms.
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Somebody loved the one who came with the sun.
Someone too put flowers in the name of a beloved here.
Someone once let another little pup from this bygone land trail them because he understood the meaning of love.
Today, it's what we understand.
The little pup sits at the mausoleum's gate and shakes his tail. We call him Yaara.
Our day starts here.
*Yaara means friend in colloquial Hindi
I'VE GIVEN PEACE A CHANCE
The vast interiors of my beloved cat's eyes, yellow and green the soundwaves of her love song and the primary softness of her body beget time, stilled to a superior attachment to the little hours where she adjusts her gaze with an unaccustomed earth.
The chances of her surviving this world are greater on an everyday basis. The holdovers of rage and diffidence are like indistinct clouds that pass in the sky before her wide eyes.
I had never known such stillness in my life. I had never known the comfort and balance of a creature who lets indivisible days and the lazy minutes after two o'clock become like marmalade spread out in an open jar, liable to be tasted and profoundly savoured.
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I've given peace a chance without accusing myself of being distanced from her. She now guides me to sleep, placing her paws on my chest and breathing with me.
Because of her, an unaccustomed earth has finally begun to share its mysteries of comfort, rest and acceptance with me.
BRANCHES
The branches were taut as an arrow or directly ploughing the air with arms shaped like pitchforks. They could never envision the violence of our world.
In a farm next to this foliage tailored by someone with superb skills, bearing a village's heartland and the phonetics of air, were a farmer and his cows. They were singing, without words, the last notes of an agrarian song.
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No animals rustled. But three teenage lads took care at this time of the evening. They asked me my name.
One of them gave me a good smile. He was the countryside's rising sun. He said the river was just an ordinary string of water now.
The call for prayer came when he put his arms around his friends' shoulders.
Shoulder to shoulder they walked but the river didn't end. Similarly, that evening of amity and fulfillment didn't end for them. All evenings are theirs for this devotion to each other.
The branches sway. Moths dance unabashedly around them and little mosquitoes hum like theremins. Long may this countryside live with them and the three lads.
About the Book:A Verdant Heart is a collection of soul-songs that captures Nature in its full diversity of expressions and experiences, tilting its omnipotence on diurnal human lives. It is a labour of love and a poignant reflection on the poetic lens that allows mortal beings the freedom to observe and commit to creativity.
About the Author: Prithvijeet Sinha, a resident of the cultural epicenter that is Lucknow, India. His prolific published credits encompass poetry, musings on the city, cinema, anthologies, journals with national and international repertoires as well as a blog ( https://anawadhboyspanorama.wordpress.com/). His life-force resides in writing, in the art of self-expression.
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Borderless 