Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

A Place of Solitude & Rest?

Poetry by Michael Burch

PILGRIM MOUNTAIN 

I have come to Pilgrim Mountain
to eat icicles and to bathe in the snow.
Please don’t ask me why I have done this,
for I do not know . . .
but I had a vision of the end of time
and I feared for my soul.

On Pilgrim Mountain the rivers shriek
as they rush toward the valleys, and the rocks
creak and groan in their misery,
for they recollect they’re prey to
night and day,
and ten thousand other fallacies.

Sunlight shatters the stone,
but midnight mends it again
with darkness and a cooling flow.
This is no place for men,
and I know this, but I know
that that which has been must somehow be again.

Now here on Pilgrim Mountain
I shall gouge my eyes with stone
and tear out all my hair,
and though I die alone,
I shall not care . . .

for the night will still roll on
above my weary bones
and these sun-split, shattered stones
of late become their home
here, on Pilgrim Mountain.


PARADISE 

There’s a sparkling stream
And clear blue lake
A home to beaver,
Duck and drake

Where the waters flow
And the winds are soft
And the sky is full
Of birds aloft

Where the long grass waves
In the gentle breeze
And the setting sun
Is a pure cerise

Where the gentle deer
Though timid and shy
Are not afraid
As we pass them by

Where the morning dew
Sparkles in the grass
And the lake’s as clear
As a looking glass

Where the trees grow straight
And tall and green
Where the air is pure
And fresh and clean

Where the bluebird trills
Her merry song
As robins and skylarks
Sing along

A place where nature
Is at her best
A place of solitude
Of quiet and rest

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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Categories
Poetry

Try Your Brakes

Poetry and Photography by Rhys Hughes 

TRY YOUR BRAKES

Try your brakes!
After they have been arrested
for squeaking
you should prosecute them in
court: don’t fret
that you might be thought haughty
or vindictive.
Justice must be done.

The brakes deserve it.
They never gripped the wheel rims
smoothly: they always
screamed for more oil
while you toiled
to keep your balance downhill.

Cats on the path were startled
by the sound. You even found
that pedestrians
jumped in fright
when you attempted to reduce
your speed on slopes.
One hopes they soon recovered.

But enough is enough.
You ought to take
the smooth with the rough.
So wheel your bicycle
into the hallowed halls
where the judge awaits
in an itchy wig
and barristers fan themselves
with cryptic legal documents
as if they meant
to blow themselves away.

The frame of the bicycle
is not on trial
and in a while you will hear
how the wheels
are innocent too: they should
be held dear by you.
But the brakes are scoundrels
through and through!

Try your brakes!
Find them guilty, you are the jury.
Mitigating circumstances
like damsels in romances
dance deceptively
and will put you in a trance.
Heed them not!

Your brakes belong in jail
before they fail
completely and propel you
into me. Hurry!
Try your brakes today.

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

Poems by George Freek

THE HAWK IN THE MOONLIGHT

I stare at the dying sunlight.
When that passes, stars
will light the night,
but sleep won’t come.
My wife is gone.
My children are grown.
The story is very old.
I watch darkness closing in alone.
A hawk slowly circles
over the sluggish river.
The moon has vanished.
It’s unable to light my way.
That hawk is my only companion,
and I won’t be unhappy,
if he doesn’t stay.


AS IT IS IN OCTOBER

As autumn arrives,
dressed in somber gray
like an expectant mortician
the flowers die.
Where squirrels scurry
to gather a few remaining nuts,
leaves fall to their rest
in yellow, red and brown
on the cold ground
without a sound.
The moon’s silver light
clings to the trees,
then fades into eternity.
If I look at the stars,
I barely see them,
and they never 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

Sylvan Musings

Poetry by Milan Mondal

THE REVERIE

Two score and ten I passed,
Voicing, save water, air and earth.
Many were indifferent.
A few cared. 
Two and two, four and four,
Six and six... 
The series goes on
And the cares increased.

As I would step into my three score,
I had a dream…
Wonderful and pleasing. 
In awe I saw,
Chirping sparrows…
I heard, 
Babbling rivers…
And I felt,
A gentle fresh breeze
In the scorching heat
Like a Zephyr…


THE WOOD NYMPH 

I intruded
Into the heart of the forest
To collect frankincense. 

The addiction of smuggling 
Blinded me,
And I chopped a number of sal trees. 

Suddenly a shadow 
Beckoned me within. 
And I was paralysed. 

The shadow slapped me. 
And I came out running 
With a sapling in my hand.

Milan Mondal’s poems have been included in journals and anthologies of international repute.

Categories
Poetry

At the Tip of a Thistle Tree …

Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

NOW, WHAT I CAN DO...
 
Presenting a poem as a member of a poets' group,
Climbing the mountain hoping not to disturb the peace of birds and trees, I can look around,
Feeling relieved that quitting smoking was a good decision.
I think it's time to quit drinking after reflecting on over-drinking the other day,
Think it's better to eat lesser for health.
I sit on a sesame field or at the tip of a thistle tree like a red dragonfly.
Yielding the television to the family,
I return to my room and browse over poetry I used to enjoy.
Finally, I look back on not being a good father figure,
Finding excuses though to say that isn't it in my heart.

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

Poetry by Craig Kirchner

Craig Kirchner
THE GODLY PAID
 
 We live between the
          past and the future
       -- Mattie Stepanek*
 
Life for most turns, churns
through dry tomorrows
to next unwritten pages.
Some sing, mould, paint,
any number of modes,
on call for celebration,
lifting hearts on rare occasion.
 
And then the specials,
... the godly paid,
doing what only they can do --
shooting souls with beacon rays,
a path to the essence --
inspiring those less capable
to phrase true words
with moist todays.

*Matthew Joseph Thaddeus Stepanek ( 1990 – 2004) or Mattie Stepanek published best-selling books of poetry and peace essays and died at thirteen.

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

A Tale of Every Night

By Shamik Banerjee

A TALE OF EVERY NIGHT 

By midnight, once his bottle's downed and trashed,
They sprawl out on the couch and talk of stuff
Still unresolved: which tutor for their son
Can make his Latin-fearing brain more tough,
Some loan-related duty yet undone,
Or which investments need to be encashed.

Amidst such things, if something unrequired
Sprouts like a weed upon a verdant yard—
Some past discordance or unfounded blame—
It makes the husband seize her, all off guard,
Distressing her with words that sear like flame.
No sense of fault can douse his evil fire.

And she, the lesser, stands there like a wall,
Mute to his waistbelt's whips. Perhaps, such wild
Savagery even beasts might pause to use.
She finds a little corner, and their child
Has ample proof before him to deduce
The weak's meant to be trampled after all.
Painting by Picasso (1881-1973)

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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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Stephen Philip Druce

Stephen Philip Druce
ADVICE IS FREE BECAUSE IT'S WORTHLESS

Go on a skiing holiday -- it will do you good.

You're a novice that doesn't walk with any
measure of style or grace, so fly off an
icy mountain at seventy miles an hour on
a pair on sticks,

olympic skiers get injured but you're exempt
from such physical injury because you're a
manager of a launderette,

ride a motorbike, it's the freest way to travel,
free to leave the road and land on your head
three fields away,

bungee jump! the ten second thrill 
is worth the trade off - whiplash and
long term spinal damage,

fly on an aircraft as often as you can,
you have more chance of getting struck
by lightning than crashing in an airplane.
Ignore the fact that unless the machine is
in perfect working order you could nosedive
from thirty thousand feet into an ocean bed
that is so deep the creatures there have teeth
shaped like tennis rackets,

undergo plastic surgery!

Put your blind faith in a bogus surgeon who
may consequently render you with half a chin
and no nostrils. Forget the post-op catastrophe,
okay so you entrusted a surgeon with the credentials
that extended to that of a pottery teacher -- he
fled with your cash and now you breathe through
your ears, but give it a go.

Ocean surf!

Take advice from the veteran surfers who lost
all their limbs and torsos to numerous shark 
attacks. They can still roll their heads onto the
surfboard. There is nothing more aesthetically
pleasing than watching a human coconut surf
on a giant pitta bread.

Get a tattoo!

The best way to pamper your soft, elegant, 
silky skin? -- deface it with ink! ink! A substance
that if spilt over your coffee table would spark
a major household crisis, but your precious 
velvety skin? -- screw it, you're good to go and
vandalise yourself with tacky meaningless ink stains.


THE BIG LIGHT

She made a candlelit dinner,
but without thinking he put
the big light on so he could
see what he was eating -- so
she left him,

keeping her happy was like
walking a tightrope for him,
and the night he put the big
light on, he fell screaming,

he hit the ground, unlike
the falling leaf he caught
when he placed it in her
palm and asked her to
make a wish,

he always forgave her, like
a bird forgives another for
stealing its bread,

and as he flew alongside her
he wondered how passing clouds
could find their way home,

he would talk about how the sun
and the rain could make pretty
rainbows - the colours of the flowers
on the mountain he climbed to pick
for her,

but without thinking he put
the big light on so he could
see what he was eating -- so
she left him,

finished her meal,

blew out the candles
and left him.


ANALOGY OF A POLITICIAN

Two schoolboys are summoned
to the headmaster's office for
stealing apples from a tree
belonging to a resident next
to the school field,

One of the boys admits to
stealing an apple, but tells
the headmaster that his friend
didn't take one -- though both
boys took an apple each,

one of the boys is given detention
but the 'innocent' boy escapes unpunished,

the 'innocent' boy tells the headmaster
he is profoundly remorseful for being
present at the scene of the 'crime',
and though regrettable he fully understands
the decision to punish his friend as it isn't
fair on the owner of the apple tree.

The 'innocent' boy is the politician.

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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Categories
Poetry

The Stone-Ribbed Lane

By Radhika Soni 

THE STONE-RIBBED LANE

This stone-ribbed lane is familiar to me,
I have traveled its air before,
Drawing the whiff of chamomile tea,
Brewing inside a closed door.

Stray notes of a piano in my ears,
Waft from the window across;
From the melody, it appears,
The strain that's playing, is one of loss.

The cars sitting atop the wheels,
Appear to have not budged for long;
The place resounded with laughter
In those times, when children thronged.  

How still and silent are its nooks,
Where you and I once strolled,
When stars gleamed from the sky's hooks,
As we sat under a dim lit pole.

The once bustling lane appears to sleep,
As in the distance ships set sail.
Though my feet desire to leap,
The heart still wants to prevail.

Radhika Soni writes in quest of harmony. She is greatly influenced and inspired by the poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Frost, Pablo Neruda, W.H. Auden and William Butler Yeats to name a few. She loves nature walks.

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Categories
Poetry

‘…The Young in One Another’s Arms…’

By Kirpal Singh 

SPRING IN INDIA

I arrive just as Spring begins —
There are the usual songs
And dancing which excite,
Especially, the merry young.

For oldies, like I, it’s nostalgia. 
I recall Yeats and his haunting line —
The young in one another’s arms —
What happened in my life?
Where did my youth go?

It’s okay mutters a soft voice — 
You have other springs to enjoy!
Excerpted from WB Yeats’s ‘Sailing to Byzantium’ (1927)

Kirpal Singh is a poet and a literary critic from Singapore. An internationally recognised scholar,  Singh has won research awards and grants from local and foreign universities. He was one of the founding members of the Centre for Research in New Literatures, Flinders University, Australia in 1977; the first Asian director for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize in 1993 and 1994, and chairman of the Singapore Writers’ Festival in the 1990s. He retired the Director of the Wee Kim Wee Centre.

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