Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

           Lunar Talk   

By Craig Kirchner

The Moon from Earth 1968. From Public Domain. 
I have lived with over 27,550 moons.
Weather permitting, I speak to them.
Occasionally, one speaks back
depending on my schedule and needs.

Tonight, he’s full, starts the conversation.
This is new and exhilarating,
he describes quite poetically that he
sees himself as an island of truth.

I am responsible for tides, time and light,
my phases affect your sleep, he smiles. 
I help birds migrate, navigate, and now 
I need to get involved; it is true that

truth is subjective, depending on the tides,
two people will see the same event and have 
different recollections, descriptions, analysis -
a third comes along and says it didn’t happen.

He says earth’s aura is turning murky grey,
indicating that its credibility is burning out,
that the lying and hate have become normal,
and the universe, the galaxies are watching, 

They always have, thinking man humorous until 
the last hundred years, caging, killing your young 
isn’t acceptable. I see karma in man’s horoscope, 
the planets aligning. You should leave, find an island.

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

Becoming

By Nia Joseph


BECOMING

This monsoon: that darkened
Now dresses my windows in the glory of her wetted pearls 

This monsoon: that (g)rumbled
Now sings an opera; sometimes whispers a Hallelujah

This monsoon: that quieted
Now visits the sonnets huddled upon the mantle of her mind

This monsoon: that scattered 
Now draws us to the hearth, immersing us in the infinite unsaid 

This monsoon: that shadowed
Is now a Hail Mary, that our Mother may bring forth Her flower and fruit

This monsoon: a monster unclothed
Now purrs like a kitten, that I may tickle her chin

This monsoon: an adversary
Now walks arm in arm. Innocent. Whistling a tune

This monsoon: pick-pocketer of hope
Now lends us a full breath of abundance divine


This monsoon: once a marshland
Washes away longing and regret, that we may flourish to be

Another Garden of Eden

Nia Joseph is a part-time poet with a published children’s book. She is of the belief that poetry says what no picture or thousand words can. She draws inspiration from nature, relationships and her three young children. 

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Categories
Poetry

A Family Portrait

By G. Javaid Rasool

      A family of climate evacuees
    Escaped the rage of magisterial Kali
     In one of her imperious avatars,
        Ingraining its identity,
        And tears-strewn remains
   Of missed lands – the lands with the promise 
    Of a tryst for life, long years ago.

     The family in its distant perches
   Was left with food not for its memories,
         For aspirations and hopes.

    Frail childhoods of children of the times,
    Plausibly moulded by maladies of life, and
       Bereft of love-struck reminiscences,
     Inured in the given as divinely ordained.

   Growing lives shrouded in the garb of serenity,
         Construing the writing on walls
                 Making ends meet
     All by themselves as alienated individuals
         On estranged lands of prejudices.

        The tide of time moved on
   Bringing motherhood and fatherhood to them.
  And their children, like those of a lesser god,
    Find time to accompany them, occasionally,
      With manifest sense of bonding,
  Overshadowed by packages of individuality
Causing suffocation in posing for an unlikely family portrait.

G. Javaid Rasool, a self-proclaimed Lucknow boy, is professional social worker specialising in documentation services and training. The Wire has been publishing his poetic compositions.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Koiko Tsuuda

I’M NOT HAPPY 

I haven’t been happy for so long
I don’t even remember
How it feels to be happy
I’ve lost it
Somewhere along the way I lost it
And when I look back
And try to search for it
I find nothing
As if all the memories
That used to bring me joy
Have been eaten away
And all there’s left
Is a silent hollowness
And it feels so very mundane
So very normal
Like life has always been this way
So dead and wasted
So awful and useless
Even in the brightest of days
The sun can’t outshine the dark
And I don’t know how
To not notice it anymore
And I can’t hold it in anymore
But I can’t allow other people
To see me like this
I don’t want them to be sad
I don’t want them to cry
As they stare into my gloomy
Blank
Lifeless eyes
And witness the hell
That burns inside

I WISH I WERE STRONGER

I wish I could keep up the facade
But I can’t bear to plot through
Yet another masquerade
To paint happiness on sorrow
To say the lines without a hook
To pretend stars mean something in the sky
To act like nothing is wrong
When nothing is right
And smile
And smile
And smile
So nobody would worry about me
I know there’s a light somewhere
But I can’t pretend everything
Is just going to be all right
When it’s all still in my head
The unforgettable dreams
The inescapable present
The picture of a faceless man
Standing in an empty room
With no windows and no doors
Living a life
Punctured with an ache
That’s so fierce
So persistent
It breaks the spirit of his soul
And its will to resist
And I can’t help but wonder
Maybe the muzzle flash
Is the famous light
At the end of the tunnel
Everybody has been talking about

Koiko Tsuuda is a writer from a little town in Estonia. Originally, Koiko picked up writing for his band, where he played drums. But when the band ended, the writing stayed and became more important than the music ever was. In his work, Koiko explores the dark, the ugly and the grim reality of the human experience and does that in an honest and evocative language. These poems are from his book, Twenty Six and Twelve.

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Categories
Poetry

Ghosting Sally Fairchild

By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Lady With a Blue Veil (Sally Fairchild) by John Sargent(1856-1925). Sourced by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
GHOSTING SALLY FAIRCHILD 

What a ghost of a woman!
That Sally Fairchild, with hand raised to chest
as if poignantly aghast at the very sight 
of her own faded rendering,
a noticeable accompaniment on the ring finger,
so there is that limited certainly,
but the thickets already seem to be gripping at apparitional days,
a loosening auburn bun swallowed up in blushing blues,
rimmed day hat, much the same:
perhaps, it is that maniacal jungle of colour 
all around her, swirling spiked monsters 
jumping out from a forgotten child’s scary closet –
what was John Singer Sargeant thinking?
No woman wants to be painted like that.
As if she is disappearing right out of existence.
Vanishing before everyone, even herself.

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

Poems by Adeline Lyons

Adeline Lyons
UNDRESSING

flaming trees 
whisper

I sought
infinite

turned
immovable

became
dimensional

shed
body

embraced
nakedness

found
light 

froze
in reaching

for the absolute

FINDING, FULFILLED

fiercely, you freed me,
roughly parting the chained
veil of my keeping.

		you knew not to touch
		or look too deeply.
		you claimed me,

cutting the barbed cage
with your smooth scythe.

		aged eye gazing
		on freshly fallen flesh,
		you said,

cherish this gift.
ask for none other.

Adeline Lyons is an emerging writer from New York.  She studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.  Her work can be found in The Hooghly Review and Spark to Flame Journal.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry on Migrations

By Nilsa Mariano




BEAUTIFUL  AND COLD 

Soundlessly they move at night beautiful and cold
morning light reveals a lawn covered in snow
a red headed woodpecker chips and drums steady 
oak trees that stand strong bare witnesses to it all

morning light reveals a lawn covered in snow
blood spatters announce predators overhead and near
a red headed woodpecker bangs steady blows
hungry finches frantically feed watching the sky in fear

blood spatters announce predators overhead and near
the news announces more dead due to Ice and climate 
hungry finches frantically feed watching the sky in fear
we fight for climate change but tolerate ICE

the news announces the dead in Ice and snow
the damaged fall like tree branches on the border
we fight for climate change but tolerate ICE
children in tents watch the snow and cry mother

the damaged fall like tree branches on the border
both sides claim and deny any blame
children in tents watch the snow and cry mother
the red headed woodpecker watches with shame

Both sides claim and deny any blame
the oak trees stand strong bear witness to it all
children in tents watch the snow and cry mother
soundlessly they cross at night resolute beautiful and cold


CORN BEANS SALT

Querida madre,

we crossed the border made it here tired but well
we were caught by la migra there are many of us in a shelter
which smells bad but they feed us and give us water
the food is cold and bland
I am grateful and do not complain
but at night at bedtime 
the lights make it hard to sleep
in the quiet you hear the little ones crying 
for their families or because they are afraid
as for me …it is you I worry about I miss your face mama
keep the dog near it can keep you safe it will bark and warn you of intruders 
try to keep your strength do not wander far from the house
right now I see you clearly
hair dark as frijoles negros held back in place with a thin ribbon
you are smiling and shaking your head
that here I am far away telling you what to do

I have faith that any day now I will make my case
the judge will understand after he hears my plans and sees how strong I am 
despite all the weight I have lost
I will tell them that I am already fifteen
I will work hard so I can send for you 
they are lining us up for a shower it's been a long time
God keep you safe
I hope you have corn beans and salt 
enough to keep you going
you are always in my heart

te quiero mama

tu hijo


SWEETWATER 


Just the name made my mouth water
With sugary southern syllables
Sweetwater
he carefully tracked the path of the Eclipse
this was one of the cities (he smiled) 
spectacular prime viewing
Although the shabby hotel
The best in town did not meet my big city artificial aspirations
fine-tuned over the years to four dollar hotel ratings
But It was outside town had an expansive lawn and the right cost
Arriving the night before the blessed event we drove into town
Looking it over with small expectations
The town center howled back with pacemaker shattering music
A stuffed astronaut dressed in silver affixed to a post
like a symbol of Christ 
Vendors and stray dogs filled the streets
Around the plaza were small shops with enticing windows 
I could not resist
I saw some old luggage I envisioned using as props
the owner strode over as backup to the salesgirl
We looked each other up and down
New York she said
Brooklyn I said
Williamsburg we said 
Espanol we Espanglished
Screaming and laughing like teenagers
We hugged and traded ancestral names and towns
trying to establish our connections
We discovered we lived blocks from each other in Brooklyn
We knew the same vibrant scary neighbourhoods
We had Family names we shared
I kept quiet about the stories 
of my father the case worker 
Visiting families to assess their needs
long hours away from home with select
Desperately beautiful women
As she drew me close to answer her questions
and we declared we were sisters
She wanted me to meet her blind mother
blind with the same rare disease 
My blind father had….
my heart went on pause…. breathe
We traded phone numbers 
Made plans to visit each other
Had a glass of wine 
A toast to life
I paid for my discounted luggage

I imagined my future with a sister I never had  
let the past be past and welcome the new
The next day we sat in wait
With hundreds of others
Waiting for the eclipse 
The crickets and frogs alerted us 
Special glasses in place
We watched as the moon
Passed between the sun and the earth
Darkness came with a loud gasp

Packing the car the next day
Sweating in the heat we left 
high with expectations 
But there were
No Emails no calls
Nothing but
crickets from Sweetwater 
A chance meeting
unexpected eclipse

Glossary:

La migra: Informal Mexican Spanish term  for US Immigration

Querida madre: Dear mother

frijole negros: Latin American dish made with black beans

te quiero mama: I love you Mum. I have to go

tu hijo: your son

Nilsa Mariano is a graduate in comparative literature from Binghamton University New York. She has been published in Stone Canoe, Five Minute Magazine and MicroFiction Monday Magazine, Muleskinner Journal, Wildgreens Magazine and Chicken Soup for the Latino Soul.

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Categories
Poetry

Leaving for Barren, Distant Lands

Poetry by Allah Bashk Buzdar: translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

Allah Bashk Buzdar. Courtsey: Fazal Baloch

The world of my dreams longs for you,  
My love, come and fill my thoughts with radiant hues and shades.  
Let my eyes feast on your glowing face,  
And grace my lips with the warmth of your breath.  
Let my hands feel your soft caress,  
And let the fragrance of blooming flowers  
Permeate the air around me,  
Filling my heart with boundless joy.  
Let the breeze rising from your comely gait  
Enchant my existence.

My destination lies far from here,  
I’ve to journey beyond borders of tyranny and oppression.  
Every stone and thorn along the way  
I must gather,  
The tangled strands of life  
I must unravel.

A new harvest of love  
I must sow.  
Bid me farewell with  
Blessings and infinite hope.  
Hold me in your gaze  
And beneath your sable tresses,  
Lest the sapling and bloom of love  
You planted should wither away.

I must leave for barren, distant lands,  
I’m aware
The quest of life may lead me astray.  
And who knows then, 
On whose shoulders  
Your tresses will fall in soft disarray?

Translator’s Note: Allah Bashk Buzdar is a remarkable modern Balochi poet known for his distinct diction, unique poetic language, and peculiar mode of expression. He writes in the Sulaimani dialect—one of the three major dialects of Balochi, predominantly spoken in the eastern regions of Balochistan and adjoining areas. Buzdar’s poetry reflects his unwavering love and commitment to humanity. Even when writing verses of love and romance, he connects them to the plight of people who live around him. He has published two anthologies of poetry so far. The translated poem is taken from his first anthology, Hoshken Rakk Saoz Bant (The Parched Lips Will Bloom Anew), published by the Balochi Academy Quetta in 2004.

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 this poem.

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Categories
Poetry

Monastery Lores

By Noopur Vedajna Das

LUNG TA/DARCHOG

Triangular thin
cloth flags,
Lung ta,
fluttering 
along 
the winding path
to the monastery.
 
Colourful 
in their appeal,
red, blue, green 
yellow and white,
the Darchog,
for peace 
and tranquility,
a heavenly abode 
high in the mountains,

Soon blown
to smithereens
by the blast
of the 
vicious wind.
Triangular flags at a monastery. From Public Domain

Noopur Vedajna Das is a writer, poet and an educator. She’s a keen birder and loves to travel. She resides in Mumbai along with her family.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Naisha Chawla

Naisha Chawla
GULAB JAMUN

Kafka would've liked these corridors,
these walls of painted advertisement,
these coloured towns with attributions to deities at every tree's feet.
The running nerve of this place,
through the garble of a thousand dialects,
sounds all kinds of chants,
of faith, food, and architecture,
of life weaving through its weighting waiting slums, 
through linoleum hardened heel-clad grounds.

Not a day goes by without auto horns,
or political instability,
or chai,
sweet, sweet, God-sent chai,
a thousand wicks in a thousand burning lamps,
a million lit cigarettes in stalls,
a million lit-up smiles in places you wouldn't expect to belong.

This home functions upon its dysfunctions,
builds upon what breaks it,
ever encompassing,
entirely amassing,
fields in farms,
skills of talents,
sacks of wheat,
bundles of wires,
collected coins,
plastic bags like Russian dolls,
ringing evening bells,
a life so culturally fulfilled,
lived in the grand denominations of
Division of the masses
and Parle G*.
 

* A popular brand of biscuits in India

                                                                 

Naisha Chawla is inspired by the works of Robert Frost, Oscar Wilde, W.H. Auden, Sylvia Plath, and Richard Siken amongst many others. She believes poetry to be a language of infinite letters, words and secret combinations to figuring out the better mysteries of life! Her debut book is called The Grants of Calliope.

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