Category: Poetry

Poetry

Slow Cats Loose

Poetry and Photography by Rhys Hughes

Slow cats loose.
Fast cats tight.
Cats of middling
velocity
are neither slack
nor light.

Pretty witty kitty,
heavy on the purrs,
I don’t know why
you remain so shy
with the passing
of the years.

No moonbeams in
our dreams
are mellower than you,
no hats in fact
have softer fur
in all of fashion history
(although it’s true
we lost the clue
to the solution
of that mystery.)

A smoother, cooler
ruler of
our town will never
be seen again.
The largest bat and
ten hot rats,
a gymnast and a clown,
however caught,
ought to frown
in random tandem
at the very thought.

Cats, cats, cats, cats,
cats, cats, cats
cats, cats,
cats.

Why do we keep thinking
about and winking at
and writing about
and glorifying
our cats?

Is there something
not quite right about that?
I don’t know,
I can’t say for sure,
but the accepted rules
of the matter in hand,
to say nothing
of the laws of the land,
require, nay demand,
that we appreciate,
accommodate,
adjudicate and anticipate,
authenticate
and tolerate
and even overcompensate
with great
enthusiasm cats!

The taut sort,
wiry and wild,
and the haughty taught sort,
portly and mild,
all belong in our domain:
that’s the main
thing for us to remember
(and they’ll never
let us forget it.)

In the meantime
it’s teatime: the slow cat
with eyes like saucers
watches the cup
of brimming brew
as it hovers
towards my mouth.
The hot liquid
will soon be going south
into the humid
tropicality of my belly.

This is a diversion,
a subject tangential to the
theme of cats.
Will the feline masters
regard teatime
as an incursion into a poem
that rightfully
belongs to them?

I don’t know but I hope not.
The knot of life
tangled from threads of strife
is undone by tea,
so let me be, feline fandango!

In a village we stayed,
picked blackberries and made
beautiful jam
(at least she did, I am
clueless at such things)
and every time
we stepped into the lane
the same slow cat
was sleeping
next to a windowpane,
and we tiptoed past fast 
in order not to
wake him.

Cats, cats, cats, cats,
cats, cats, cats
cats, cats,
cats.

Why do we keep thinking
about and winking at
and writing about
and glorifying
our cats?

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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Tags Rhys Hughes

Poetry

Poetry by Afsar Mohammad

Art by Salvador Dali (1904-1989). From Public Domain

A LOVE SONG IN THE BATTLEFIELD  

1

we inhabit a battlefield,
blood and bodies around. 
nothing to wrap except deadly weapons.

yet
our songs are flowery 
hued in green
as we dream a quiet solitude.  

2

we walk along the rivers
imagining an ocean at the end of our eyes,
never knowing 
what connects a river and an ocean.

rivers end up in a desert and
oceans fly into unknown skies,

as our gods and goddesses await immersion. 

3

we devour sacred foods
dance around all possible divinities,
and share a hundred stories 
of joy or sadness that 
flow into our blood, seeping deep 
into the lower depths of the body.


4

we meet quite surprisingly at crossroads,
embrace each other. 
we spread our arms to the horizon,
all set for the day of lights and kites
knowing fully well that 
we’re those little lamps left in the glowing river.

5

breathing next to the bombshells, 
limping around blood canals
we still walk through huge utsav pandals, 
perform namaz amidst thousands of believers,

then, we vanish into our narrow lanes
shutting down every innermost chord of the heart. 

6 

didn’t you see that
me and you remain 
all alone
on this day of 
lights and kites…

*Utsav – festive/festival

Afsar Mohammad teaches at the University of Pennsylvania, and he has published five volumes of poetry in Telugu. His English poetry collection is forthcoming. He has also published a monograph with the Oxford University Press titled, The Festival of Pirs: Popular Islam and Shared Devotion in South India. His current work, Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad, has been published from Cambridge University Press. His poetry collection, Evening with a Sufi, was published by Red River.

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Tags Afsar Mohammad, Cambridge University Press, Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems, Oxford University Press, Red River, Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad, Telugu, The Festival of Pirs: Popular Islam and Shared Devotion in South India, University of Pennsylvania

Poetry

Let’s Sing…

Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

THE BLANK SHEET

Let’s sing on the blank sheet
for an hour, half an hour, or
for a few chaotic minutes.
Let’s sing of days and nights,
of good and bad times with
words, with a sentence or two.
Let’s bring dancers around
who can dance as we sing.
Let’s sing of happiness and
misfortune. Let’s sing for the
birth of water and fire. Who
wants to join me in song?
Let’s sing of all things real
and surreal. Let’s sing about
you and me if there is any
space left on the blank sheet.

WHEN I SAY NOTHING

When I say nothing
that says plenty.
I pay attention.
I listen.
I let you talk
till the fly on the wall
cannot live another day,
till the cricket is the next
to talk from a crack
in the door. I keep my lips
rested for your kiss.
I am not going to stay
silent for much longer.
As sure as my breath can
no longer keep its secret,
my heart, my mouth, is yours.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California, works in Los Angeles, and was born in Mexico. His poetry and illustrations have appeared in Black Petals, Borderless Journal, Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Unlikely Stores. His latest poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Tags California, Los Angeles, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Mexico

Poetry

Poetry by Malashri Lal

EASTER LILIES IN AN EMPTY HOUSE  

“Come” they call out,
“It’s the season of forgiveness”
A hundred lilies stand tall
Renewed by the magic of seasons
The pink stripes may be scars from yesteryear
The white streaks are healing balm
To be washed by the dew.
The supple leaves
Flat and curved
Cradle the flowers that have no other family
Some do, maybe three lilies on a stem
But they squabble like siblings
Pushing for space.

              They calmly grace the garden of a silent home
              The owners alive only in obituaries
              The lilies don’t worry on that count
              Buried bulbs know they will creep upwards in season
              Life’s renewal is a beautiful certainty.


DREAMING OF MA BY THE SEA

You live somewhere between the black night and the bright star,
Free of body and its temporal limits.
In green leaves turning to red in a mellow autumn
I catch a glimpse of the saree pallav on that day
You knew life was short and might become shorter.
In the shimmer of an unsteady wave on the lake
I recall your tremulous smile
When you whispered trying a hopeless cure.
In the rough-hewn rocks that line the harbour,
I remember your will to fight an uneven battle with the rouge cells.
Here, on shores unknown to you and me,
We meet again.
When the dark sky rests on the sparkle of stars,
Living and dying are no longer apart.

Malashri Lal is a writer and academic with sixteen books to her credit. These poems are from her debut collection of poems, Mandalas of Time. You can read an interview with her at this link.

Click here to read an interview with Malashri Lal

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Tags Malashri Lal, Mandalas of Time

Poetry

A Captive

By Udita Banerjee

A CAPTIVE

This poem stands as a big yellow wall.
I see multiple montages through its crevices,
A bag of preyed dreams,
The corpses of half-burnt friendships,
The shifting silhouette of an intangible love.

This poem is a big yellow wall,
Growing taller by the weight of silence.
I live inside its slowly dying edges,
A captive for eternity.

Udita Banerjee is a PhD student at the Indian Institute of Technology, Gandhinagar. She has earlier published in digital platforms like Cafe Dissensus and Indian Review.

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Tags Gandhinagar, Indian Institute of technology, Udita Banerjee

Poetry

Mother’s Tongue-lashing at Father and Me

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date October 14, 2024
No Comments on Mother’s Tongue-lashing at Father and Me

By Shamik Banerjee

"It's summer; hence, each day assumes
an oven's role," my mother tells
us. "See those bone-dry village wells
Or any of our flaccid blooms—

“their soreness is quite evident,
for they stand right beneath the high,
conflagrant skies. So, likewise, my 
entire day and noon are spent

“inside the kitchen. You all know
that very well, yet order tea
two hundred times by tossing me
before the cookstove's kiln-like glow."

One day, I simply went inside 
the kitchen (just to clear my doubt).
Some minutes later, I came out
flesh-moistened, gasping, and half-fried.

Shamik Banerjee resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit and Modern Reformation — to name a few.

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Tags Assam, Shamik Banerjee

Poetry

Poetry by Stephen Philip Druce

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date October 14, 2024
No Comments on Poetry by Stephen Philip Druce

THE GOLDEN FLOWER


Let the blue mountain slide,

to the pink snow abyss,

let the green city hide

from the burgundy mist,

let the copper creature wither

in an oil painting splatter,

give the new crimson river

for the silver sky to scatter,

let the violet tree tumble

in a turquoise dissolve,

let the yellow hill crumble

in a ruby moon fold,

let the purple sun sear,

let the orange lake drain,

take the red rainbow spear,

lance the cherry forest flame,

chase the claret rain away,

sink the lilac in the sea,

let the amber cloud decay

but let the golden flower be.


THE FIX

Oh what a drag,
to be a perfect
duplicate of two,

burdened with all
the characteristics
of our makers, we are
struck down with their
every trait for our
precise imitation,

once the fresh
dewy offspring shoots
in the new wind, we
rose from the good earth
as one-off hopefuls,

the first day of spring -

"damn!, I'm turning
into my mother!"
shrieked one,

"I'm turning into
my father!"
shrieked another,

"We didn't bloom
unique, we're all copies!"
chanted the endless sea
of petals, washed away
by their own tears,

true, we are our makers,

what we do,
and the way
we do it,

every detail,
passed down,
traced back,
and nobody ever
broke the mold,
never a break,

we're all sentenced
to the same fate and
there is no escape,

that's the fix,

so think twice before
you roll the dice.

Stephen Philip Druce is based in Shrewsbury UK. He is published in the USA, India, the UK and Canada. He’s written for theatre plays in London and BBC 4 Extra.

Contact: Instagram – @StephenPhilipDruce

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Tags BBC 4 Extra, Canada, India, Shrewsbury, Stephen Philip Druce, Uk, USA

Poetry

An Apology

By Alpa Arora

AN APOLOGY 

Where do knives go when they die?
Do they sink in the ground,
Without a sharp sound?
Or do they watch with devil wings,
While you sit around and cry?

Do they burn to lava, molten, but cold,
Steel words purified by silence,
A sad, pungent shame released into air?

Do they sit around and wait for their funeral,
A rigid coffin forever holding their fiery breath?

The one who cut even the hardest of fruit,
Now sits around sulking because no one
Really knew, they didn't mean to be so cruel.

Where do knives go when they die?
Where do words go to return to silence?

Alpa Arora is a former journalist/content writer who has been writing articles, poetry and short stories for the last 25 years. Her work has been published in The Times of India and Bengaluru Review. Her first novel, Floating Worlds, is looking to be published in the coming year. She resides in Bengaluru.

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Tags Alpa Arora, Bengaluru, Times of India

Poetry

Strolling among the Stars…

By Fhen M

𝑽𝑰𝑹𝑮𝑶 

I see you in the eastern sky
a fair maiden strolling among the stars
your feet, light as a feather,
like the feet of my daughter.

a rope mark around your neck
I heard the wine god
(I refrain from drinking liquor)
inflicts insanity on unmarried women

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘣* 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶,
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦

the willow branch broken
she dropped beside a brook

If I die, I want my daughter
to live a long and happy life

so I say a prayer to Erigone*
sometimes to the drunkard deity
before wine is poured to a glass

a fair maiden strolling among the stars
(death will kindly stop for me)
let me sing a song on your short life
in the eternity of the heaven.



*Rue is a herb that gives relief from anxiety 
*Erigone in Greek mythology was the author of Icarus. She was placed in the constellation of Virgo after she hung herself post her father’s death by his friend, Dionysus, the god of wine.

Virgo. Digital art from the Public Domain

Fhen M was a fellow in a creative writing workshop. His poems “A Name Whispered in the Wind,” “Yakal House beside the Sabang River”, among others appeared in 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢 anthology.

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Tags Dionysus, Erigone, Fhen M, Icarus, Sabang River, Virgo

Poetry

Dust, Dreams and Desert

Poetry by Michael Burch

DUST

Flame within flame,
  we burned and burned relentlessly
    till there was nothing left to be consumed.
    Only ash remained, the smoke plumed
  like a spirit leaving its corpse, and we
were left with only a name
ever common between us.
  We had thought to love “eternally,”
    but the wick sputtered, the candle swooned,
    the flame subsided, the smoke ballooned,
  and our communal thought was: flee, flee, flee
the choking dust.


EVERY MAN HAS A DREAM 

Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ...
a dream of contentment, of soft, starlit rain,
of a breeze in the evening that, rising again,
reminds him of something that cannot have been,
and he calls this dream love.

And each man has a dream that he fears to let live,
for he knows: to succumb is to throw away all.
So he curses, denies it and locks it within
the cells of his heart and he calls it a sin,
this madness, this love.

But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams,
and he struggles, but so he ensures that he falls,
and he finds in the end that he cannot deny
the joy that he feels or the tears that he cries
in the darkness of night for this light he calls love.


IMPRESSIONS OF A DESERT

a sulphuric
wasteland

seethes and glows

as from the sky 
strange brightness flows

to heat, 
congeal

oases vanish

or waver
,unreal,

even scorpions
languish

~~~~~~

sombre mountains
shift and merge

bonedry oceans
at the verge

of the horizon
stretch, converge

the sky is poison
sand storms
surge

~~~~

lizards, whining,
curse the skies

squinting fire
from burnt eyes

slipping, squirming
rattlesnakes

quench awful yearning
for moisture

and hate

~~~~~~

a flower
fated soon to die

rustles, crinkles
worn and dry

Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, and set to music by seventeen composers.

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Tags Michael Burch