Quack, quack! Oh, what bad luck! Pappu the duck got stuck in the muck. Flapped his wings, kicked his feet, but that thick mud was his nemesis! He was to attend a birthday bash with ‘Papri chaat’ and scrambled eggs... his favourite. Pappu sighed, "This isn't fair! I should be partaking that birthday fare". Then a cow walked by and advised... "Try harder, Pappu!” So, he tugged and tugged With all his might and with one big SPLAT, tumbled free and waddled off to the birthday party, albeit with muddy feet
From Public Domain
Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a passionate septuagenarian writer with five published books, including Fragments of Time, her deeply personal memoir. A lifelong lover of storytelling, she blends fact and fiction with a keen eye for detail and emotion. Her works span diverse genres, reflecting her rich experiences and insightful observations.
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No eyes to cry. Only the weight of numb eyes. Like a scream That stopped just short of the throat. Somewhere, someone waits -- not to be found, Just to be remembered.
There is a kind of loneliness that doesn’t shout. You sit in it. Feed it. Let it braid itself into your spine. And when you try to speak, even silence looks away.
The world keeps moving like a feed you can’t pause. It scrolls past your face, your name, your grief. And you learn how to be present without being anywhere.
Shahriyer Hossain Shetu is a Bangladeshi writer and researcher currently pursuing his Master’s in Sustainability Management at University of Waterloo, Canada.
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Painting by Egon Schiele(1890-1918) From Public Domain
NOTHINGNESS
Leaves fall in two and threes. Where do they go as the wind pushes them down a deserted street? No one will grieve. As they disintegrate, I walk the lake’s edge, and watch a crow, circle over my head. Waves break against stones, and it’s as if I can hear their moans. I gaze at nothing. That’s what my mind sees. The crow lands in a tree. He doesn’t bother with me. He’s unperturbed. He’s an unknown, so I leave him alone, and I simply walk home.
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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A grey mountain moves Trunk packed, no passport needed Ears cooling tall trees Flapping theatre curtains On the fruit flecked wordly stage
A dart in shadows Whiskers twitching cello strings Cake crumbs are quavers On the stave of his visage A sunbeam the resined bow
Long nose elegance Termite dance futility Twilight adventures Strong claws a gratuity On the equator's tightrope
Nut nibbler furtive Turning his breakfast slowly Watchful sequined eyes Centres of spiral galaxies Bushy tail a semaphore
Cooling the burning Depths of a green muddy pool Drowning memories Leopard bested hours ago Bear digested yesterday
Down the forest path Someone dropped a walking stick A green stick that lives And moves without needing legs Faster than a hobbling man
Broad sail on his back Scaly schooner majestic Like an arrow shot From the horizon's bowstring Over the curve of the world
Drumming on the ground Building a many arched bridge Across the sand sea As it hurries to escape all possible pickpockets
Emerging from bushes Ears longer than crescent moons Feasting on soft grass Dressed with sweetish evening dews And dozing on small flowers
Perched on sloping roofs Of buildings that mimic cliffs Cuboid cave studded And shrieking at each other While the troglodytes study
From Public Domain
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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Every time I write to you a letter, I pray it won’t be the last. Why is my love so unstable?
If I look away for just a moment, it feels as if you might fly far away. I hope this letter isn’t the last.
But if the seasons change, and I hear nothing back from you, this could become the last letter.
That word — last — brings sorrow.
If I receive no reply from you, and this letter is the final one I ever send, then winter will come, and I’ll watch the snow fall alone. Spring will come again, and I’ll walk the blooming fields by myself.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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The sun and the sky today look like a flashlight trying to shine through a thick wool blanket, and a lone falcon or hawk (I can never remember the difference) is hunkered down out of the wind on a sagging telephone line that hangs parallel to the two-lane highway I’m currently ambling aimlessly along from one no- where special to the next and the next and the next, it seems, ad infinitum…
RIGHT ABOUT THE TIME
Old chair rocking with the wind on the front porch, screen door slamming every now and then, flurry of leaves skittering up and down the street, from yard to yard and drive to drive, then back again, plastic grocery bags darting about like drunken birds playing catch me if you can, cats and dogs conspicuously absent from the scene and that’s right about the time that the dark sky decides to transform and show us its teeth
Jason Ryberg is the author of twenty-two books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and countless love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books.
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Five Odia poems by Sangram Jena have been translated by Snehaprava Das
Sangram Jena
RETURN
Is there ever a return? Do the years left behind, Or, water flown away in the river, Return ever? Do parents who had quit the world years before come back? Or, the erstwhile beloved married now to another man? What are the things that return after having gone? Doesn’t the sun that depart every evening return on the next? Perpetually, endlessly? Is returning a reality or, an illusion of one? And, wrapped in it, life moves on from the crib to the crematorium.
ROCK*
What did he stumble on? The unobtrusive block of stone that lay on his way, the sacred scriptures, the hearsay all carried the story that the sinning Ahalya was redeemed at the touch of his holy feet; When Indra had touched her that day, what was that touch? Was it a pretence? A betrayal?
It matters little whose touch is it if there is trust in love! A pretense of love is sometimes More intimate than a relationship that has no life in it! What promises of redemption the world That labels love a sin, held out for her? She was neither a wife nor a beloved after she was transformed from a rock to a woman; Hadn’t it been better to have remained a rock and lived the rest of the life holding on to the memory of a handful of those ecstatic moments!
*Refers to the story of Ahalya in Ramayana
IT IS NOT THERE WHERE YOU LOOK
It is not there where I look! May be, what appears to be where is never there in reality, Like the face that is not there in the mirror, Or, the pain in the body, Will the words that need to be said Ever be there in written letters? Does the meaning dwell in the words? Does the sun sit behind the mountains, Or the sea ends at the skyline? Actually, what appears where Is never there!
SEARCH
There is no point in searching.
A river flows while You keep searching words. As you look for the right colours, the painting fades. The sun drops into night as you grope for the morning
and a moon comes up while you chase the dark.
The petals wilt and drop before the search for fragrance ends. The poem is lost before the right images are found. While you seek the sea, The horizon shifts further. The feet are lost Through the search for a ground underneath. The thread of the kite snaps In the quest for a sky. The clouds dissipate While craving the rain, And the body dissolves While you look for the shadow.
Ther is no point in a search.
Life fritters away quietly As you keep browsing.
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
Life does not flow the way you expect.
Do you think morning does not arrive Till the crows’ caw? Does the kaash not bloom after the river recedes?
Do you think butterflies never circle The flower after the petals drop? Does no one look up at the sky After the moon goes into hiding?
Do the frogs stop croaking When the rain goes away? Can the night be omnipresent With its darkness? Can everyone find the way When there is light?
Doesn’t your shadow stay back After you leave? What do you think?
Sangram Jena (1952), is an eminent poet, translator, critic and editor. He writes both in English and Odia and has published more than 70 books. Translation of his poems have been published in several Indian languages including English, Bengali, Hindi, Tamil, Assamese and Marathi. His poetry in English have been published in many magazines in India and abroad. He has translated Classics of World Poetry into Odia and classical, medieval and contemporary Odia Poetry into English. He has received many awards including Sahitya Akademi Award (National Academy of Letters, New Delhi) for translation, a Senior Fellowship from the Department of Culture, Govt. of India and served as a jury member of National Selection Committee (New Delhi) for award of ‘Saraswati Samman’. He edits two literary journals, Nishant in Odia and Marg Asia in English. He has served as Vice-President, Odisha Sahitya Akademi. He lives in Odisha, India.
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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Art by Salvador Dali(1904-1989) From Public Domain
BEHIND BARS
I write about what I see…
If you don’t want me to see it Close the TV channels down
I write about what I see…
If you don’t want me to scroll up and down Close the internet down
I write about what I hear…
If you don’t want me to listen Put all the people behind bars
Though I fear, the truth May slip through the cracks
COME BACK THE COUNTRY I LOVE
Come back the country I love Come back and put Food on my table
Come back and bring me Peace and Love
No one is excluded and I belong here again
Not trembling over words Or the bang at the door
It is you who don’t belong here anymore
Come back Come back the country I love
THIS IS HAPPENING
This is not happening This you can’t see The prison cells are filling Whilst you digest the lies on TV
This is not happening This you can’t see
You play deaf dumb and blind Until you see
This is happening This you can see Your brother your mother your father Taken away Live on TV
CHEERING YOUR GENOCIDE
Every time I let the tap run, I feel guilty Every time I fill my belly, I turn away from the screen Every time the key clicks to my door, I can open and walk around But you and yours are raised to the ground, No guilt from those who cheer on your genocide.
DEAD SOUL
There is no limit Because babies are still born And each by being alive is dead
The last straw a family of nine wiped off this earth
But there are fields and fields of such dead souls.
SOMEONE IS KILLED
Everyday someone is Killed on your street. . . No one says or does anything to help . . .
It’s not your street. . . But everyday someone is killed on a Gaza Street A human being just like you and me.
David R Mellor is from Liverpool, England. He spent his late teens homeless on Merseyside. He is currently writing and performing in Turkey. His work has been featured by the BBC and the Tate, and his published collections of poetry are What a Catch (2012, Some Body (2014), Express Nothing (2019) and So This Is It (2020). His collection of stories An Englishman in Turkey (Turkiye’De Bir Ingililiz) has recently been published .
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I sit at the altar, my hands clasped for a prayer, but they bleed. There is a chapel in my throat, but all the hymns I want to sing bristle my throat.
By thirteen, I wrote odes to fawns. By sixteen, I kissed a razor and called it my Saviour. By twenty-five, I no longer dog ear my books for they bleed. So, I kiss them goodnight before I sleep. Out of guilt, I no longer pray. Redemption lies beyond.
Sometimes, I dream of Plath and she tells me: Write till it kills you wholly. So, I lay awake, my soul yearns to be heard.
The pen or knife, sinner or saint— contradictions lie in me and I cannot breathe. Half Plath, half prayer; one hand holds a light, the other holds a rosary. Paralysed by the ghosts of the past, I do not know what I'll hold next.
THE GRAMMAR OF WOUNDS
My mother corrects my Urdu, as if it were a wound I should have known how to clean. Little does she know that it remains like a broken record. It is on repeat…
To her, it is silk on tongue, gliding effortlessly. To me, it is a thorn, every word bleeds. It is a torn hem I keep stitching wrong. Her tongue folds while mine cracks, like the ruins of Mohenjo Daro. Specks of my identity forever lost in time, I speak in syllables that ghosts cannot recognise.
Each correction is a reminder that I no longer reside in my own body. The symphonies morph into a no man’s language, this remains my swan song. Yet I write relentlessly till my fingers blister.
One day, I’ll know how to write, knowing what I bled was not in vain. I will soon speak Urdu correctly as resilience.
Momina Raza is a writer from Lahore, Pakistan. She writes about ghosts that speak in broken tongues and love that doesn’t stay buried. When not obsessing over the texture of silence, she’s underlining sentences in Madonna in a Fur Coat and wondering if ghosts speak Urdu. You can find her on Instagram @momina17_.
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There is a marble top chest that fills the small wall to the left of the front door. It’s walked by multiple times a day, but unless you do the dusting, you forget it’s there.
Standing in front of it now waiting on Dee, I realise there is a crystal lamp and three books that stand by themselves, thick like upright bricks, no bookends, makes us look well read, haven’t looked at them in years.
There’s Texas by Michener, The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain, and The Oxford Book of American Verse. She says she’ll be a few more minutes, this is not a rare occurrence.
I take the Oxford back to the couch and let it fall open to Mnemosyne by Trumbull Stickney. There are 1132 pages, what are the odds that it opens to Trumbull Stickney. Trumbull died at thirty of a brain tumor.
He graduated Harvard in 1895, did his doctorate at the Sorbonne on the Bhagavad Gita. Had he lived longer he would have been one of the greats, his work did not have time to mature. I’m wondering what matures the work of poetry.
Certainly, sitting in this tome at the front door, aging like fine wine, tannins have smoothed the legacy of Trumbull’s goddess of memory. During the next wait, while Dee primps, I’m going to randomly open to a short story.
I lived in Texas for three long years and saw the movie with Glenn Ford, it doesn’t hold a candle to Mark Twain, and can’t touch what is now the undying remembrance, the myth of the near greatness of Trumbull Stickney.
PALM READER
Well, let’s take a look. You haven’t had to work too hard.
I haven’t dug graves or felled trees, but I’ve always worked hard.
I didn’t mean you weren’t productive, I just meant they’re smooth, not roughened, and of course, at your age, a little pruney.
Well, now that we have that out of the way, what about the future?
First the past. You don’t anymore, but you used to bite your nails and cuticles. You have an attention deficit and an inner tension. You also have a soulmate, someone who has loved you unconditionally your whole life. That doesn’t make you exclusive, but it is rare.
Right on both counts. There are children being slaughtered and neglected. It bothers me …. a lot.
It will take time away from you. You should do what you can to step away from these thoughts and this bitterness. Find a happy place as often as possible.
Are you suggesting political ignorance would make me live longer?
No, that would not make you happy, but you dwell on not being able to do anything, and you can. You can care, as you do, you can also spend more time focusing on the good around you and less on the evil. And as we both know you have the hands of a poet.
Craig Kirchner loves storytelling. He has been nominated for the Pushcart three times, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. He’s been published in Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, Borderless and dozens of other journals.
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Borderless 