Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Lagoon Boss by Rhys Hughes

Photograph by Rhys Hughes 

Lagoon Boss:
We will pull it off.
That’s what he
said as he mopped
his forehead
with a damp cloth.

Pull off what?
I wanted to know.

The Boss replied:
The disguise worn
by the Creature from
the Black Lagoon.

Then he sighed
and seemed rather
sad. I was just glad
he didn’t cry. It was
too soon for that.

He was very upset
and I bet the issue
with the eerie chill
waters of that geographical
feature (the Lagoon
where the Creature
lurks in the light
of the reflected full moon)
had made him sweat
more than the tissues
in his coat pocket
could cope with. Hence the
handkerchief pressed now
to his brow.

My next question was
inevitable: How
was he aware
that the Creature liked
to wear a disguise?

Because one night,
he said solemnly,
I turned over in bed
and saw that the face
of my wife had fallen off
in her sleep: and I knew
immediately that she
was really a monster.
Yes, she was a demon
from the deep, and not
Mrs Boss, as I’d always
believed. I can’t say
I was relieved to discover
this squamous fact. No,
it rather rattled my nerves.

Those were his very words
and I believed him.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon
had clearly decided
it preferred a bedroom
to the slimy bottom of a grubby lake.
There are no snakes
in ordinary houses, no crocodiles,
alligators or toxic frogs,
and even if the style
of the furniture is quite passé
on any given day
it’s still better to dwell in peace
than cavort with leeches
and torment one’s thoughts with
the strange dangers
that exist in a legendary Lagoon.

The Boss shrugged his shoulders
and made a statement
bolder than any uttered so far:

He was duty bound
to pull off the monster’s disguise
in public and shame
the soggy villain to such a degree
that it would agree
to depart the region forevermore.

But I had my doubts
about the wisdom of this
strategy. I said:
What if the Creature doesn’t feel
any shame? What if it
refuses to accept the blame? The
game will be lost.

The Boss glared at me
as if I was trying
to trick him or take the monster’s
side. He snarled
and lifted a gnarled fist and cried:

I am the chief of this town
and my frown
is feared by all and sundry.
If I crease the
skin above my eyes, don’t
be surprised at
the fuss it might create. I
am sure the bravest men
in the vicinity
will help me in my quest,
whether they walk about
bare chested
or prefer to wear a vest.

While waiting for infinity
to finally arrive
we are inclined
to be a little petty. I sighed
and volunteered
to join the band
of volunteers he proposed
to assemble. Not because
I wanted to help
the Boss unmask the beast,
but simply for
the lily-lagoony experience.

But I knew deep down
that love is mysterious
and that the Boss
was secretly pleased he had
married a monster
who liked to tease him
by pretending
to be his devoted wife.

Life is strange:
the Boss is stranger,
he thrives on danger,
and when he plays his nose
like a flute, the tune
he elicits will be sure
to attract her back to him.

His scaly underwater spouse
will leap into his arms
from the gloom of the Lagoon:
houseproud but dripping,
his awfully web-handed wife.

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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Categories
Poetry

Where can We Look for the Past

By George Freek

Painting by Claude Monet(1840-1926)
WHERE CAN WE LOOK FOR THE PAST 

Autumn has arrived,
like an expectant mortician,
dressed in sombre grey.
To whom can we pray?
The flowers have died, 
and frantic squirrels scurry
to salvage a few remaining nuts,
where leaves fall to their rest
in yellow, red and brown,
falling to the ground,
without making a sound.
The moon’s silver light
clings to the trees,
then vanishes into eternity.
If I look at the stars,
I can barely see them.
They’re without eyes,
So they’re unable
to even look back at me.


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

Dreams Are Not for Real

By Pramod Rastogi

Wake, my cherished daughter,
And see who waits at your door.
Step forward, welcome it warmly --
This dawn, a guest meant for your heart.
 
Dawn is a dense foliage, alive with its flame.
Look how it rushes to embrace you.
Pluck it from the sky, let its glow
Fill the vase of your waiting soul.
 
Inhale the sacred scent it offers,
A divine aroma to ease your sorrow.
Exhale your grief into the morning light,
For your heart -- steadfast and jewelled -- endures.
 
Through every shadow, my love remains,
A constant light to ease your pain.
No trial too heavy, no wound too deep,
My arms are here, your fears to keep.
 
Fairy tales are not birthed in heaven.
They do not spring from the void.
Remember, they are our creation,
And you, my dear, bring them to life.
 
Your father held you once in his arms,
Steadying you to explore new paths.
Be not despondent; time will mend the scars.
Dreams with edges are dreams that endure.

Pramod Rastogi is an Emeritus Professor at the EPFL, Switzerland. He is a poet, academician, researcher, author of nine scientific books, and a former Editor-in-chief (1999-2019) of the international scientific journal “Optics and Lasers in Engineering”. He was an honorary Professor at the IIT Delhi between 2000 and 2004. He was a guest Professor at the IIT Gandhinagar between 2019 and 2023. He is presently an honorary adjunct Professor at the IIT Jammu. 

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Categories
Poetry

Roadside Ritual

Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

Embraced in a friend’s arms,
a framed portrait enters the school gate.

Wearing glasses, dressed in a school uniform,
With a heavy backpack,
He walked sluggishly to school every day.
But today, it’s the last time, surrounded by friends.

The principal follows behind.
The homeroom teacher trails along, gloomy.
The old security guard stands in his booth,
watching the procession through the glass window.
A short while later, the procession leaves again.
Along the school fence, yellow
forsythias bloom like black mourning ribbons.

Forsythias. From Public Domain

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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Categories
Poetry

A Sailor’s Sea-faring Song

By Paul Mirabile

From Public Domain

Red-bearded hearty sailors take up their oars,

Singing in high melodious harmony —

Coarse, vigorous staves offered in overt sympathy

To the Sea while their drakkar[1] quits the mossy shores.

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Are those sea-faring Vikings afraid of stormy waters,

Of the lurking dangers beneath the briny black ?

With heaves and hoes never do their muscles slack;

Those long-haired raiders without homes, without borders.

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There are no seas that welcome comfort,

Nor warrior hearts that shun adventure.

Bold are the Viking oarsmen of solitary investiture

For from the bottomless Deep their hearts are wrought.

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[1]        Viking boat.

Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.

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Categories
Poetry

Unforgiving Summer

By Meetu Mishra

UNFORGIVING SUMMER 

The savage, unforgiving summer,
took a toll on an amateur thief,
who, only to beat the scorching heat,
switched on the air-conditioner,
succumbed to the chill,
lost his will, fell asleep --
only to wake up to a cop’s baton
poking him, the owner staring,
caught him red-handed!

Meetu Mishra is extremely fond of reading and writing poetry, as it truly inspires her.

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Categories
Poetry

The Cleft Stick

By Vidya Hariharan

From Public Domain 
They took away the knives,
The scissors, the forks, 
The matchbox, lighters, candles,
Hammer, nails, tape,
Ropes, ribbons, bottles
Made of glass, metal jars,
My dog, my children.
For safekeeping --
So they said.
You can have them back
Anytime you want
As long as you 
Learn to walk, not fly
To speak, not scream,
To kiss, not bite,
To look, not stare,
To blink, not wink, 
In short, not die, not live.
Exist, having expunged.


Vidya Hariharan is an avid reader, traveller, poet and teacher. Currently she resides in Mumbai, India.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi
AMMA’S DIAMONDS…
 
Amma’s stunning collections rest in the large jewel box.
I don’t dare to take them out of the locker.
 
I’ve great memories of those blue diamond ear-studs
that were a part of her wedding trousseau—
She was the only offspring of a wealthy family.
Her divine countenance emanated joy
and positivity, the blue diamonds dazzled in
the morning sun and more in the evening,
the luminescent lights were put to shame.
Adorning them made her ‘invincible’—‘Adamas!’
 
She cared for them more than she did for me.
Gently removing them, placing them safely
in a small box on the kitchen shelf
She’d take a customary ‘head-bath,’
on all Mondays and Fridays, then dry
her jet-black tresses over the fragrant ‘sambrani dhoop’,
She’d sit on the ‘pattu pai', spread a white towel o’er her thighs,
wipe the jewels, the diamonds et al till
they sparkled; then decked herself again.
 
My birdbrain never could understand –“They are about
a carat each!” she’d say with pride,
she was the epitome of grace and poise.
The blue diamond studs she constantly adorned
The changes were a long chain with a chunky
diamond pendant or the slim diamond necklace,
paired with a dozen diamond bangles.
Her sartorial preferences temporarily numbed my senses.
 
The day the biopsy results came out
She took off the blue diamond studs
And sent them along with the other jewellery
to be placed in the bank locker.
She remained stoic through the chemo and radiation
as the Big C mercilessly spread its tentacles deep into her.
 
Amma’s magnificent collection rests in the large jewel box.
I don’t dare to take them out of the locker...

 Sambrani dhoop – A fragrant resin used  in homes on auspicious days and during prayers.

Pattu pai —  Aka pattamadai pai, mats silk structure were part of the wedding ‘seeru’ or gifts given by the bride’s parents. 

Note: Diamonds,  gold jewellery, the silver idols, and the brass utensils are given by the bride’s parents. The blue-diamond and other jewellery symbolized  opulence and power at South Indian weddings.  They remain treasured as heirlooms.

Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), event organiser, independent researcher, and resource person for language development courses. She has authored Joie De Vivre, The Cuckoo Sings Again, Everyday English and Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3. 

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Categories
Poetry

Tale of the Unheeded

By Thompson Emate

From Public Domain 
She showed them the way,  
but they dismissed her. 
They called her an old piece of art  
and fell into the hands of the night.

She urged them to listen to the trees. 
There’s a message they convey in their swaying. 
They loathed and abhorred her words,  
Losing themselves in the woods. 
 
She told them to follow the rhythm of drumbeats
that would lead to chambers of secrets.  
They claimed the ancient stories were irrelevant for the modern  
and were swallowed by mysteries.

She encouraged them to look into the tranquil stream,  
to see who they truly were.
They considered it an illusion of the mind,  
and so, lived in the darkness all their lives.

Thompson Emate spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose. He has a deep love for nature and the arts. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria.

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Categories
Poetry

The Years I Still Have

Poem by Saranyan BV

From Public Domain 

I am in Haridwar. Haridwar is a holy town where people wash sins in the Ganges.
I watch the waves touch my feet, then tumble over the cobblestones, take the curve and veer off.
I watch the horizon dissolve, vanish into the darkness of the night.
These kind acts of nature are reminders of the years I still have.
There is absolute uniformity in the sound from conch-shells. 
The blower has no control over the notes of appeasement.
The blower is dressed like a sage. I cannot vouch if he is one.
I hear the cow-bells shake off satisfaction, 
I envy the bovines heading home for a regular meal from the wife of the herdsman. 
The cows have before them a whole night of masticating after the day-long grazing is done.
The river or horizons or even the cows and their sweet  moos are mere physical things.
An angel comes in my dream and proclaims that we are products of time.
Though men often wish not to ponder over this labyrinth of metaphysics --
Nothing is truer than death, death is real, it is the only truth --
The angel doesn’t explain in so many words, simply leaves the footpath of left over life ahead. 
I sit on a stone to study the footprints left by the muster of crows, 
What made them descend to the ground although they have wings?
What did they forage? 
Oh angel, you are evanescent as are my dreams. Do not go away. I long for you. I have no power to criticise or doubt. 
I will even drink for your presence -- though I stopped drinking long ago.
There, let us join! Young monks prepare for the aarti*  of mother Ganges!
The lights from the aarti act as beacons for the dingy boats of sins,
Are there  labs to check the density of sins or instruments to measure the river’s purity?
A horde of pelicans fill the wintry sky with rosy feathers and fade out
Giving the sky back it’s blue. 
Nothing is permanent -- everything seems good, everything –
And that’s why I’d feel secure when I close my eyes later in the night.

*Offerings accompanying prayers
Religious offerings on Ganges. From Public Domian

Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.

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