Categories
Poetry

Stricken by Red Rain: Poems by Jim Bellamy

Art by Paul Nash (1889-1946)
HOW NOW DO DEAD KINGS LAUGH WHILE STRICKEN BY RED RAIN
(a villanelle that doubles as a song)

In twilight's hush, where shadows softly sway,
How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?
Their echoes drift, as if they still had play.

The crimson drops like petals fall, betray
The innocence that once danced on this plain.
In twilight's hush, where shadows softly sway,

The laughter's gone, yet memories stay,
A haunting tune, a bittersweet refrain.
How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?

They ran with joy, not knowing of dismay,
Nor thought their laughter would become such pain.
In twilight's hush, where shadows softly sway,

The sky weeps blood, the earth cannot contain
The sorrow of the young ones we've slain.
How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?

So hear their mirth, in ghostly disarray,
A chilling laughter, under skies arcane.
In twilight's hush, where shadows softly sway,
How now do dead kids laugh while stricken by red rain?


WHERE ONCE BLUE MIDNIGHT BURNS


Where once blue midnight burns, what then for babes midscream?
In dreams, they clutch at stars now far beyond their gleam.
The night's cold lullaby, where shadows dance unseen.

The moon, a silent witness to the quiet, keening theme,
Whispers through the willows, a soft and silver stream.
Where once blue midnight burns, what then for babes midscream?

The sky, a tapestry of wishes and of dream,
Holds tight the secrets of the heart, a vault supreme.
The night's cold lullaby, where shadows dance unseen.

What tales will be told of the light that once did beam,
When innocence was cradled in the arms of esteem?
Where once blue midnight burns, what then for babes midscream?

The stars, like sentinels, their steady gazes deem
To guard the slumbering youth from the world's harsh regime.
The night's cold lullaby, where shadows dance unseen.

So sing the babes a song of time, a flowing ream,
And rock them gently 'neath the midnight's azure seam.
Where once blue midnight burns, what then for babes midscream?
The night's cold lullaby, where shadows dance unseen.


TODAY, ALL SWEETHEARTS

Today, all sweethearts will blossom in a glass cage,
Where whispers cling like ivy to the walls.
That gaols all fevers under vows, sage.

In crystal confines, love's eternal stage,
Each heartbeat etched upon the pane, it calls.
Today, all sweethearts will blossom in a glass cage.

With every breath, they sketch a new page,
Inked with passion, as twilight softly falls.
That gaols all fevers under vows, sage.

Their touch, through glass, a timeless adage,
A dance of shadows, love's tender brawls.
Today, all sweethearts will blossom in a glass cage.

And though the world may change, turn, and age,
Their sealed ardor never stalls.
That gaols all fevers under vows, sage.

So let the lovers their pure wars wage,
For in this prison, love enthralls.
Today, all sweethearts will blossom in a glass cage,
That gaols all fevers under vows, sage.

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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Categories
Poetry

Awakened from Sleep by George Freek

AWAKENED FROM SLEEP

The dead would gather
somewhere to discuss life,
but death is an absolute,
and remains forever mute.
In my mirror I see a stranger,
who has arrived at an age,
when illusions are lost,
like the messages in books
he read in his childhood.
A small fraction of truth
passed over his head obscurely,
like clouds passed on a night,
when an ordinary day dawned,
and like so many others,
was misspent or misread.
There was no hurry or bother,
a bright future still lay ahead.
This was a time of long summers,
with no thoughts
of the soon forgotten dead,
but thoughts of love
that would never die instead.
A Summer Landscape by Georges Seurat(1859-1891) From Public Domain

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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Categories
Poetry

Identity by Munir Momin

Translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

From Public Domain
(1) 

If you were a lamp,
I would not become the night—
Nor a moth,
Nor a window,
Nor an eye.
If you were a lamp,
I too would be a lamp.

(2)

Whether you dwell afar or near,
To me, you are everywhere.
Be it dawn or dusk,
You bloom—verdant, evergreen.
With famished lamps,
I wander, seeking you.
I crumble, collapse.
With my tired soul,
I sow and grow whispers.
You are my pasture.

Munir Momin is a contemporary Balochi poet widely cherished for his sublime art of poetry. Meticulously crafted images, linguistic finesse and profound aesthetic sense have earned him a distinguished place in Balochi literature. His poetry speaks through images, more than words. Momin’s poetry flows far beyond the reach of any ideology or socio-political movement. Nevertheless, he is not ignorant of the stark realities of life. The immenseness of his imagination and his mastery over the language rescues his poetry from becoming the part of any mundane narrative. So far Munir has published seven collections of his poetry and an anthology of short stories. His poetry has been translated into Urdu, English and Persian.  He also edits a literary journal called Gidár. This poem originally titled as Pajjar (Identity) is taken from Munir Momin’s poetry collection Yak Bechelley Aazman (A Span Long Sky) published by Gidar Publications in 2014.

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights to Munir Momin’s works.

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Categories
Poetry

Poems on Migrants

By Kajoli Krishnan

A HOME TO BELONG

You and Me,
Tucked away in the quiet
Side street,
Close to where I
Once lived,
The Beauty Salon
Was sparkling clean,
Lined in the front
With potted plants
That looked
Cared for and green.
Old country music
Played inside.
The gentle drone of
A shaver,
The snap of a scissor
--Were the only
Other sounds
As the tresses
Softly touched the floor.

I still remember
That pre-pandemic year,
When Kevin,
My hairdresser
From the far eastern
State of Manipur
Had said to me,
How much he
Loved his life
And work
In Bangalore,
A city that
Opens its arms
To so many
From all across.

Today as my
Salt and pepper
Sprays on the floor,
Kevin, the Naga
The husband
Of a young bride
Father of a baby girl
Yearns for his home,
His mother and father,
Siblings and his own,
The hills and the vales
Of what is now
A tortured land
Torn with strife
Amongst Meitei and Kuki-Zo,
Two thousand miles away
In the far eastern
State of Manipur.

Jobs are few and far
Says he,
There are few means
To make a decent living
Back in my town.
So, in Bangalore
I must stay and work,
Even as I pine
For those I love,
Those I was forced
To leave behind.

Those like Kevin
Who travel far
For fulsome work
And money to earn
Vacation is a time
To visit the place
They still think
Of as home.
When there is war
And peace is gone
Where is their home?
Where do they belong?

NATIVE

Ride along a country road,
Hike over a hill,
Thirty minutes in a Metro rail,
Or an hour and a half in the
Traffic of Bangalore,
A myriad of means
To get to the haven
That we call home.

But for those
Who leave behind
Their land,
Bonds of a family,
The language they speak,
The rituals that weave
Through the fabric
Of what had been,
Their daily routine,
Does home remain
An eternal wish?

I may not ever know
For I have no village
To return to.
I belong at once
To no place and every place
A Native
At home.

Kajoli Krishnan was born in the Shimla hills of India. She descended at the age of two and thereafter remained consigned to plains and plateau. Kajoli is a Physicist by training and has been an active researcher for four decades. She loves to read and write; cares for Nature and cherishes liberty.

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Categories
Poetry

Waffles and the Easter Egg

By Snigdha Agrawal

On Easter morn, with baskets bright,
Four tiny tots dressed in onesies white
Set out on an Easter egg hunt.
All bushy-tailed and bright-eyed.

But lurking near the garden hedge,
A rookie pup stood on the edge,
His name? Waffles. Coat fluffy gold
With one big dream: an egg to hold.

He sniffed and snorted the flower beds,
Then spotted what looked like an egg!
Pink and huge, dusted with gold,
His to claim, his to own.

But then the tots raised a hullabaloo,
“Hey, Waffles! That’s for us kiddos
Drop it at once, will you?!”
What followed was a tug-of-war

Four kids and a fluffy pup,
With an expression that said
I’m not giving up,
heard a loud crack!

The egg exploded.
They jumped back,
Out popped a chicken
Bathed in glowing light.

It twirled, it chirped.
Waffles stood and stared,
Then licked its face
Without any protest.

‘GO…GO…’ the youngsters cried
But Waffles just stood, eyes open wide.
Then, ‘GO’ rang a bell in his doggy mind.
He left to chase a squirrel with wise eyes.

Thus, the war of “who wins”
ended on an amicable note,
The tots with their baskets full
Got back in time for Easter brunch.

From Public Domain

Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a passionate septuagenarian writer with five published books, including Fragments of Time (Memoirs), 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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Categories
Poetry

Moment by Snehaprava Das

From Public Domain
MOMENT 

I could be that moment
When life seems to begin
And end,
I hold in me the immortal woe
Of the human race,
A canvas carrying sketches
Of man’s undying wishes;
I might be one moment of mystery
That secrets mankind’s dark history;
I am a moment molten
And a moment frozen,
One of chaos and creation,
I could be a speck of dust
Holding inside me a world gained
And a world lost;
I could be holding the whole cosmos
I could be the stasis, the rush;
I could be one endless moment of ecstasy,
Or of eternal pain,
I could be that moment when life ends
And begins again!

Snehaprava Das is an academic, translator and writer. She has multiple translations, three collections of stories and five anthologies of poetry to her credit. She has been published in Indian Literature, Oxford University Press, Speaking Tiger, Penguin and Black Eagle Books.

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Categories
Poetry

Mesmerised by Kois

By Elizabeth Anne Periera

Peering attentively through the gated steel fence with astonishment,
I caught sight of the elegant Koi fishes swimming gracefully.
Splashing aimlessly in the rippling crystal-clear aquamarine pond,
Bold hues of orange, red, black and white paint their agile bodies,
Delicate, slippery and swiftly swimming in windy and circular motions,
Enchanting my hazel eyes with childlike wonderment and amazement,
Calming the turbulence of my beating heart with peaceful serenity,
A golden symbol of prosperity signifying these water dragons ravishing presence.

Elizabeth Anne Pereira is a dedicated educator and versatile writer contributing to national/global development and the broadening of the human mind especially in areas concerning children and youth. Her numerous creative works have been published in local and international publications.

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Categories
Poetry

Glass-Bound by Ajeeti S

Ajeeti S
     I know this space.
Every side of it.
The plant in the corner doesn’t move.
The castle isn’t real.
I’ve been inside it a hundred times.

I turn.
I turn again.
Because that’s all there is to do.

They come close,
press their faces to the glass.
They look,
like they know me.
Then they leave.

I don’t.

I sleep.
I eat what falls from above.
I swim in circles.

The water is always clean.
Too clean.
No mud, no current, no sound.

But I remember something—
not a place,
it’s a feeling.
Like the world used to be bigger.

That’s what hurts.
Not being here.
But knowing
there was more--
once.

Ajeeti S is a banking professional with a passion for poetry and painting. She explores creativity beyond numbers through verse and visual art.

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Categories
Poetry

First of the Season by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

From Public Domain

Stabs of natural light
and the bears are woken
from winter.

Bony yearlings
on their own now.

Ambling down the street
with a laboured
chuffing.

Pulling down the early buds
of berry bushes,
looking for an easy meal.

Early risers, the first of the season.

The ones
out at the dump
live right beside the humans.

They are seasoned, more conditioned.

There is a loaded shotgun
in the back of the bulldozer
if there are any issues.

But there is seldom anything.
Old dryers broken down to scrap.

The long winter
has everyone stunted.

Our fleet-footed fox
brought to lumber.

The birds
in the songless
trees.
From Public Domain

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Christine Belandres

Public Domain
THERE IS NO POINT IN WRITING 

There is no point in writing when
misery isn’t in your ink. There is no magic, no denouement to wait, no
promises held and broken so hard,
our hearts are compelled to tug our
ring fingers to pick up our pens.

Christine Belandres is a writer from Cebu, Philippines. She studies Literature and is a Poetry/Prose Editor at Pen & Quill. She likes to read classical literature and drama in her free time.

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