Category: Poetry

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Poetry

Footprints of Love

By Pramod Rastogi

From Public Domain 
I would love to live a life
In rhyme with the wise
To help our planet renew
Its heydays of yore,
When a child could dream
Of the moon as a football
And would need to just stretch
His hands to touch the ball.
 
I live in accord with visions
Built with imagination.
Tied to my wishful dreams, 
I like to give nuances
To my fleeting clouds of hopes 
With a sketch pencil that scribbles
The rudiments of my compositions
Eager to soar.
 
Clouds soar when winds are nigh.
The Oceans, the Earth, and the sky sigh.
I leave footprints of my own
At a languorous pace
To embrace our progeny
On the palette of my dreams.
I leave these footprints of love
That leave no trace and sound.

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 has published over hundred poems in international literary journals.

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Poetry

Autumn of Life

By Paul Mirabile

Painting by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775-1851); From Public Domain

I’ve performed upon many stages of the World

Have donned many masks,

Am today like a ship whose sails furled

Floats listlessly upon the horizonless seas of uncertainty.

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Passed are those days of fury and adventure,

Of desert crossings, mountain passes and oceanic swells ;

The hour has come to lie down and venture

Forth towards a novel existence of tolling kneels.

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All has become pensive, still and Silent

Amidst the glorious illumination of nightly bidding ;

Where vivid Dreams and Tales invent

An irrevocable identity, so unexpected, yet so fitting.

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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

A Balochi Poem by Mubarak Qazi

Translated by Fazal Baloch

THE MIRROR

The world has changed, so the people claim.
Knowledge and wisdom have reached great heights.
Yet my unyielding heart remains ever the same.

Dawns and dusks often ask of me,
When will the sun glide upon the sea?
When will, like the moon, the rainbow
Cast upon the earth its colourful glow?
When will stars adorn the earth's lap,
Descending from heavenly height?

When will the wind chant like a cooing dove?
When will elegies transform into songs of love?
When will lizards and moths soar like birds?
And mountains soften to cotton flakes?

Your smiles and giggles, unfurl in my songs,
When will fire rise from beneath the water?
Lightning leap from eyes, the scorching winds
Blow across as gentle as gentle breeze?
When will fig blooms scatter, a feast for all to see,
When will Man regress from the heights of grace?
When will he grasp his true essence?
When will this world birth a new dawn's light?

When will life witness such glories?
With fervent urge, I plead.

The world has changed, or so the people claim.
Yet my unyielding heart remains ever the same.
I ponder, will change ever find its way?

Mubarak Qazi (1955-2023), is one of the most prolific and popular of modern Balochi poets. He is credited with making poetry a vocation for the masses in a lucid vocabulary. In other words, Qazi is like the conscience of the people — one who addresses them in a language they can easily comprehend and decipher. Instead of maintaining a subtle or vague approach, he conveyed his sentiments in simple and unembellished language. He has published ten anthologies of poetry.

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.

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Categories
Poetry

Too Old

By Craig Kirchner

I release you, moral underpinnings,
you all have a journey in front of you.
Some will leave quietly like summer winds,
others will be packed in boxes and shipped,
some I’m sure will go underground.
 
All will be in mourning
of what was a wondrous coming together,
spelled out in words that allowed for growing,
held for centuries until they somehow
could no longer be understood.
 
History will say you should have stayed
and fought, not realising the struggle
is not foreign or about winning,
it is about the being, the empathy,
caring for the lesser.
 
This is not a battle fought, or a flag flown.
That war was already won.
Fathers and grandfathers died to rid
the planet of leaders and demagoguery
that came to power on the rhetoric of hatred and fear,
 
and yes in my lifetime the mantra was,
Never again in my lifetime.
 
My lifetime is almost over,
and despite history, it’s back.
I wish I could be travelling with you,
instead of crying about your departure,
but I am too old for such a journey…
Painting by Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)

Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Cal Freeman

Cal Freeman
PERSONHOOD

Jawbone of a deer along the trail,
jagged incisors winged 
with little points, sheath of bone 
damask with clay and blood. 

I heard coyotes arguing with dogs last night
and thought about the senselessness 
that can’t be helped, the cunning 
and cupidity of hunger, the indiscriminate 

meals we stop to take. This unnamed
sandy stream babbles as it doglegs
around itself. A muskrat carries
an apricot into the earth. The resident 

blue heron lights off when it hears 
my footfalls on the path.
Its complaint is an asthmatic,
dissonant sound. It throws its shadow

on the dead ash trees
whose dehisced branches rise
like antlers, like trophies
rooted from their little skulls

Cal Freeman is the author of Fight Songs and Poolside at the Dearborn Inn. His chapbook, Yelping the Tegmine, has just been released.

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Categories
Poetry

Tides of the Night

By Thompson Emate

The body is at rest.
The soul is out of its nest.
It journeys into the unknown,
Encountering the deep.

The soul walks out of its chamber
In the state called slumber.
It is assailed by strangers,
The eerie that seems to hide in us.

Helpless, the body lies
In the ambience of the moonrise.
The soul goes on a journey,
Saddled with mystery.

The soul returns from its sojourn,
Out of an unseen region.
We ponder on our encounters,
Troubled by the tendrils of darkness.

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

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Poetry

 On a Misty Morning

By Stuart MacFarlane

              I
What is this strange apparition
shining in the morning mist?
Glimpsed through a thin line of trees
it appears like a magical palace;
yet with its spiral towers, its great walls,
like battlements, it seems more than that;
like a castle outpost, stranded
somewhere on the Russian Steppes.
The mist hangs a few feet above
the ground, and, through the mist,
shafts of sunlight pierce the grass,
where a layer of frost sparkles;
as if a thousand diamonds
are scattered lie.
And, in my mind's eye, now I see
a black horse emerge from the trees
on which a Cossack, robed in red,
sits proudly on the saddle.
The rider pulls hard on the reins.
A plume of smoke rises
from the horse's nostrils;
it warmly mingles with the cold of mist.
The horse is restless; hooves stamping
off the frosty ground.
 
            II
 
And, from across the field, another horse appears.
This one white; on which is mounted
a second Cossack, his blood red tunic,
splendid in the sun.
He, too, restrains his powerful steed;
tugging hard on the reins,
suppressing the animal's spirit.
There, the field gapes between them;
two hundred yards of open ground.
A sudden scrape of metal; and their keen sabres
flash menacingly in the morning light.
Gloved hands loosen on leather reins;
metal stirrups dig into the flanks
of the great horses.
They charge; each one briefly caught
in a sudden sunbeam.
Faster -- then faster still.
Pounding of hearts, surge of blood;
eye of horses and men, alike, intent on
a terrible imminence.
Sabres raised higher now, cold blades
cutting at the fleeing air.
A final glint of light.
A devilish cry rends the heart of the morning
and the clash of sabres jangles
in the mist.

Stuart MacFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.                                                                                                                    

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Categories
Poetry

Hidden Springs

Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

From Public Domain
THE SOURCE 


I once believed that writing poetry was the expression of noble emotions, the realisation of profound thoughts. 
But I've come to understand with age that this isn't the case.

I once thought that love was as urgent as matters of life and death, residing in a special, noble realm.
But now, in my later years, I realise that this was a mistake born of blind faith.

Looking back from the downstream of life, I see that poetry and love resemble the mundane things of daily life,
mixed with the noise and dust of the marketplace.

They emerge like sprouts in the midst of weariness, in anxious toil, during sleepless nights of deep contemplation,
and on the exhausting commute to home after work, welling up like a hidden spring

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

Secrets of the Evening Sky

By Jackie Kabir

SECRETS OF THE EVENING SKY 

The quiet evening sky
Holds secrets of unnamed people,
Echoes of the screams of some named people.
The colourful evening sky
Keeps memories of unfulfilled dreams.
The vast evening sky 
Has many stories to tell
Of those who refused to waver
From their path, knowing it is perilous,
Knowing life is but a fleeting moment.
The evening sky is witness to it all
It has secrets to keep

Jackie Kabir is a writer and translator from Bangladesh. Her collection of short stories Silent Noise was published in 2016. The titular story, ‘Silent Noise’, is being taught in colleges under Manomanium Sundaram University, Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu.

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Categories
Poetry

Under the Tree, there is a Shade

By K B Ryan Joshua Mahindapala

Under the tree, there is a shade
Away from the stomping parade
Down the street and through the city
With each step, draws closer the enemy

Under the tree, there is a shade
A quiet solace free from hate
We do as we please, none will see
Instead of being judged by cruel decrees

Under the tree, there is a shade
We do not expect to live like this forever
We can only endeavour
For a dignified existence before they annihilate

Under the tree, there is a shade
We can only sit and wait
We have no power, our fate hangs on balance
Why do they have so much malice?

Under the tree, there is a shade 
We hold each other’s hands, we serenade
Shielding the young 
From the volley of broken souls

Under the tree, there is a shade 
If an enfilade points directly at the trees
What will happen?
Surely — we will be dead on our bellies 

Under the tree, there is a shade 
But the time has come
As they inch closer,
Will we survive?

K B Ryan Joshua Mahindapala is a Singaporean author. He frequently speaks and writes on topics related to heritage, culture and identity.

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