Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Poems by Caroline Am Bergris

Portrait of an Old Man by Johannes Vermeer(1632-1635)
YOU AND YOU 


I know exactly how to touch you,
how to slide my finger
down your forehead and moist nose,
then tickle you under your chin
with four of my fingers;
I glide down your back
navigating the abacus of your spine
as you turn over
and lie back in unabridged bliss, woofing.
I tickle your nipples
and softly caress your furry belly.

I know exactly how to touch you,
how to shelter your clawed hands in mine,
I dab concealer onto your eyebags
with my second finger
then, using my whole hand like a spider,
massage your grey scalp
until you murmur wordlessly.
I slap my hand on your back
during one of your coughing fits
and give you my arm to hold on
as I become your walking stick.

TRANSGRESSION                                                                                 

It wasn't the shock of him saying it.
It was the shock of my reaction - 
" I just do it to kill time."
KILL TIME?
AT OUR AGE?

Killing time is for twentysomethings
with long hair and journals
and daisychain dreams,
or for the terminally ill,
drinking regret on the rocks.

I felt an electric numbness --
he had taken time in vain.
When the hourglass sand
begins to look bottom-heavy,
then a year begins to feel like a month.
Like a crack addict,
all you want is more.

I wanted to shake him,
screech some sense into him,
but it was his time to lose,
not mine.

GIOVANNI

I can’t write a poem about you. It would be like flashing an emotional boob. We sit every week, talking, and I look at the curls in your beard dashed with grey. They seem to be a different formation every time, a different highlight, a different sign. It’s like interacting with a dynamic ancient Greek statue. The Vermeer light haloes in through the window to your right even when there is no sun, and the pink-brown skin of your face shimmers with optimism and comfort. Our conversation is sprinkled with ancient languages, modern dilemmas, and each other’s violent Netflix recommendations. We could have a timeless friendship except I signed a contract that we can’t be friends. It is so easy to read too much into cultural commonalities and humorous asides. So I do. We are both very Latin and very English at the same time, with veins of sarcasm pulsating at the temples. Maybe we are modern day explorers destined to meet like Livingstone and Stanley in Africa. I don’t love you. I don’t think you’re perfect. You leak grumpiness as you listen. Your feminism is mild. But. And we haven’t even met.

Caroline Am Bergris is a half-Colombian, half-Pakistani poet living in London. Her poems have been published, online and in print, in Europe and America. 

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Categories
Poetry

Let there be Light…

By Papia Sengupta

Fire! Fire! Run, said the voice
But where? Where should we go?
It is the smell of burnt souls all around us
Not just dreams, aspirations, hopes and love

No, we do not have any place to go
Just a last flicker
That the fire will light the heart of those
Who use it to burn homes, forests, and hospitals

Illuminate the lives of all
I wish for such a fire within
For all my fellow-beings
A gleam, a flare to escape
this darkness of war, death, and violence

Still, I dream with hope
Of children's innocent laughter, not wails
Of blooming ferns, of love returned,
Of holding hands, of playing with clay,
Of eating together, of sharing that unbridled laughter
With the blaze called life without borders

Papia Sengupta is an academic, poet and artist who teaches at Jawaharlal Nehru University.  . Her poems have been published in RIC Journal and Yugen Quest. Presently, she is a British Academy Fellow at the University of Sheffield.

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Categories
Poetry

Maithili Poetry by Vidyanand Jha

Translated by Vidyanand Jha from Maithili to English

Madhubani Painting or Mithila Art
TRANSLATION

My eyes made through swimming 
in the waters of the pond full of algae
carry greenery, see greenery everywhere. 

My blood made of the juice of Ladubbi mangoes,
flow in my veins continuously, sweet, juicy.

Made from pieces of Rohu fish,
made from Garai Garchunni fish, 
my body is shimmering, slick. 

The sound of the hooves of Salhesh’s* horses, 
the reverberations of the sound of the Chaukitora dance, 
the desolation of the consequences of Vidyapati*,
and my voice, my clear language
made from mixing all these — 

Gets translated —
speaking an unknown language outside my home, 
spending my life in an unknown place, some other place, 
losing myself, making myself into someone else 
making myself into a customer in a glittering market. 

And my Maithil existence
gets translated
into Indian citizenship. 

*Salhesh is a folk deity in Mithila(Nepal and Terai region in India)
*Vidyapati (1352-1448) was a Maithili poet


TOGETHERNESS

A filled in disused well reverberates with 
the mumbled Sahajiya song of a Vaishanvi*,
mixed with your name whispered softly,
mixed with the sound of a thundering river flowing in full spate. 
So many eager songs swirl,
straining to come out of our souls
to touch the heights of the sky.
Sounds are mumbled, words are mumbled
in a filled disused well. 

On the banks of a water tank
under a tree with leaves falling, 
in a locked old box
are kept for many years so many embraces, kisses so many,
pressed and folded for many years, 
the touch of your skin on mine - quivering, exciting,
impulses so many, so many disappointments. 
Everything is folded and kept inside. 
A box that is rusting slowly is thrown away. 
It’s becoming one with the earth slowly.

Routes to many cities utterly unknown, 
paths to many villages deserted
wait to be measured 
by your feet, by my feet. 
Many fabulous scenes, strange scenes many, 
sad scenes many, grotesque scenes many
await our eyes,
lost in an unknown corner of this Earth,
in a deathly silent lost village,
Or in an utterly unknown strange city.

Would my being be
yours?
Or maybe on the path of annicca*, 
I would be, you would be
separately, alone.
Or is that that I wouldn’t be, you wouldn’t be?

*Sahajiya -- a form of Hindu tantric Vaishnavism; Vaishnavi -- a woman follower of Vishnu
*annicca—Buddhist principle of impermanence
Photo courtesy: Ira Jha

Vidyanand Jha is a poet, short story writer and literary critic in Maithili. He is also a translator translating texts from and into Maithili primarily to and from English. He has been publishing Maithili poems in literary journals since 1980s. He has three poetry collections to his credit: Parati Jakan (Like a Morning Song), published by Sahitya Akademi in 2002, now in its second edition; Bicchadal Kono Pirit Jakan (Like a Lost Love) published by Antika Prakashan in 2019 and Danufak phool Jakan (Like Danuf Flowers) published in 2021. He has received many prestigious awards for his poetry in Maithili. His translations from Maithili have appeared in journals like Indian Literature and Anthologies like The Book of Bihari Literature. He was awarded Katha Translation Award in 1998.

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Categories
Poetry

Poems for Peace

By Stuart McFarlane

    GAZE ON GAZA

Gaze on Gaza; and weep.                                                                                              See the child in A and E,                                                                                                       the child, alone, in A and E.                                                                                               See the man who stares,                                                                                                          the man who only stares.                                                                                                See the woman who screams,                                                                                         the woman who only screams.

The bloody bandage, discarded limb,                                                              the blasted street, all rubble.                                                                                               Thick smoke billowing; low down                                                                                    a tepid sun that strains to shine.  
                                                                         
See another bloodied child,                                                                             the mother who still screams,                                                                             and a father who only stares.                                                                                              See what may not be unseen.                                                                                       Try, if you can, to avert your eyes.                                                                   Gaze on Gaza.                                                                                                             Gaze on Gaza. And weep.


     A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER

A birth of light on the skyline,                                                                                                                                   as keen as a glinting knife,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             seeps through the sky like red wine,                                                                                                                              a sweet celebration of life.                                                                                                                            So the sun rises at its preordained time,                                                                                              the world awakes, night is gone,                                                                                                                      as it continues its inevitable climb                                                                                                             in a sky far too blue for the Somme.                                                                                                              And a mutilation of light and sound                                                                                           destroys the day, destroys my brother,                                                                                              shells, shrapnel tear up the ground                                                                                                            on a day in France; a day like any other.

Once the days fell gently, like apples from a tree,                                                                              and all our summers gathered there.                                                                                               Older now, the kitchen, my mother here with me,                                                              where burning butter permeates the air.                                                                                   A bicycle on a country lane, church bells pealing,                                                                       a looming shadow, then a doorbell ringing,                                                                                a face, not quite a smile, eyes afraid of feeling,                                                                                 a shaky hand, a telegram and the news that it is bringing.                                                                   And a conflagration of bells and butter                                                                                   destroys the day, destroys my mother.                                                                                                  And my time, too, will come; complete and utter.                                                                                On a day in France; a day like any other.

 Stuart McFarlane 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

Stepsister Syndrome

By Arshi Mortuza

I’ve made it to the ball – 
And I’m waltzing with the prince
But do I still reek of cinder?

With every move of his body
And every twitch of his nose
I wonder if he smells it too.

I’ve made it to the ball – 
But do they all know I’m a fraud?

Why did I bother coming out tonight?
A princess among mice but
Pauper among royals.

Sometimes I feel like 
I am my own stepsister.
My barrier to the glass slipper.

Even when they say my accomplishments 
are no small feat –
I curse myself for not having 
smaller feet.

Arshi Mortuza is the author of the poetry collection, One Minute Past Midnight. She currently resides in Toronto, Canada.

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Poetry

Sailing the Absinthe Sea

By Michael R Burch

The Magpie by Claud Monet (1868),Musée d’Orsay, France
LIQUIDITY CRISIS 

And so I have loved you, and so I have lost,
accrued disappointment, ledgered its cost,
debited wisdom, credited pain . . .
My assets remaining are liquid again.


ANALOGY

Our embrace is like a forest
lying blanketed in snow;
you, the lily, are enchanted
by each shiver trembling through;
I, the snowfall, cling in earnest
as I press so close to you.
You dream that you now are sheltered;
I dream that I may break through.


AS THE FLAME FLOWERS

As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame,
arches leaves skyward, aching for rain,
but all it encounters are anguish and pain
as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem.

Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem
reaches through night, through the staggering pain,
for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain,
as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame.

Mesmerized by a wavering crescent-shaped gem
that glistens like water though drier than sand,
the flower extends itself, trembles, and then
dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind.


ASHES

A fire is dying;
ashes remain . . .
ashes and anguish,
ashes and pain.

A fire is fading
though once it burned bright . . .
ashes once embers
are ashes tonight.


Am I

Am I inconsequential;
do I matter not at all?
Am I just a snowflake,
to sparkle, then to fall?

Am I only chaff?
Of what use am I?
Am I just a feeble flame,
to flicker, then to die?

Am I inadvertent?
For what reason am I here?
Am I just a ripple
in a pool that once was clear?

Am I insignificant?
Will time pass me by?
Am I just a flower,
to live one day, then die?

Am I unimportant?
Do I matter either way?
Or am I just an echo—
soon to fade away?
 
absinthe sea

i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe

the bitter green liqueur
reflects the dying sunset over the sea

and the darkling liquid froths
up over the rim of my cup
to splash into the free,
churning waters of the sea

i do not drink

i do not drink the liqueur,
for I sail on an absinthe sea
that stretches out unendingly
into the gathering night

its waters are no less green
and no less bitter,
nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light

they both harbour night,
and neither shall shelter me

neither shall shelter me
from the anger of the wind
or the cruelty of the sun

for I sail in the goblet of some Great God
who gazes out over a greater sea,
and when my life is done,
perhaps it will be because
He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea.

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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Poetry

Why the Rivers Run Black

By Suzanne AH

A SONNET TO MAKE A WISH 

I am a conflicted woman, my love.
I understand as strongly as I wish.
I understand there’s no world without war,
Only wish for a sliver of a niche.
I understand why the rivers run black,
Why smoked skies once blue, sends no more relish,
Why that man on the pavement sleeps hungry
While kings at feasts seldom touch their plenty.
I know why there’s no joy without sorrow.
All want more. They may beg, steal or borrow.
Everywhere I see, ladders of deceit.
Climb darling climb, in this farce you’re to fit.
Someday our love may cease, I understand.
Wish till the end, I am holding your hand

Suzanne AH is an aspiring writer from Assam with a passion for words.

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Poetry

Autumn in India

By Avantika Vijay Singh

Autumn, 
The bridge between nature’s seasons,
Summer and winter,
Heat and cold,
The cooling whites and the fiery oranges
So beautifully reflected in the shiuli’s* colours. 

Autumn, when the shiuli carpets the ground in legion,
Signifying the advent of the Goddess Durga in Sharad season,
Corresponding to the months of Ashwin (September-October).
Dusshera, too, comes in this season.
Both celebrate the victory of good over evil and corruption…
Maa Durga (the Goddess) triumphed over Mahisasur, the demon,
While Lord Rama triumphed over Ravana.

Autumn, that celebrates both festivals with great revelry
Turning our minds towards triumphing over evil
In our own lives, and evil within us.
The evil of ego that is the cause of suffering.
Ego, that is the demon that persuades us to discriminate with frivolity,
Between man and nature leading to a loss of biodiversity,
Between man and man leading to a false state of superiority.
Stemming from a mind of inferiority,
Judging against age, weight, skin colour, poverty and other such absurdity. 

Autumn, 
The time of the Shiuli flower
The time that reminds us to put our minds in favour
Of the divine and all that they have to teach us with fervour.
In the Guru Granth Sahib, the holy book of the Sikhs, 
Guru Arjan says, that when we contemplate on the divine,
In our life manifest immense virtues with blessings combined
Akin to precious jewels like the flowers of the wish-fulfilling Harshringar*.

*Shiuli is also known as parijat, harshringar, and night jasmine.

Avantika Vijay Singh is the author of Flowing…in the river of Life and Dancing Motes of Starlight.

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Categories
Poetry

Roam in this Rainbow

Poetry by Caroline Am Bergris

QUANTUM


It was a miniature hemisphere
of chocolate ice cream,
in a silver chalice,
with a gleaming spoon.

When is enough, enough? 
Having just one scruple?
The first four notes of Beethoven's fifth?
Taking four hundred pills like sprinkles?

I skimmed the dome with my spoon,
and licked off the coating.
Then I picked out the dark chips
and crunched down on them.

Finally, I anointed my mouth
with the frozen chrism itself,
That one scoop could have been six,
or ten, or a hundred.





NOCTURNE



I opened the blind to reveal the riches of the night…

Red of the roads
            Orange of the tree bark
                            Yellow of the moon 
                                            Green of the cat’s eyes
                                                                  Blue of the grass
                                                                                        Indigo of the sky
                                                                                                          Violet of the clouds


Run from the high chroma of the day!

Roam in this rainbow instead.

Caroline Am Bergris is a half-Colombian, half-Pakistani poet living in London. Her poems have been published, online and in print, in Europe and America.

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Categories
Poetry

The Writer on the Hill

Kisholoy Roy writes of his encounter with Ruskin Bond

One evening at a city mall,
I met an elderly gentleman
at a café stall.
He seemed jovial and accessible.
His demeanour was 
pleasing and lovable. 
I was killing time 
with nothing to do.
Chatting with someone interesting –
I always love to do.
The gentleman’s persona was magnetic
“You would love conversing with him,”
said my gut feeling and my whim.
Why not introduce myself?
Thought I.
After all there was no harm
in saying Hi!
My introduction was short and formal.
The gentleman seemed impressed, 
and his reaction – cordial. 
“Why don’t you sit?
Then we can have a chat.
You seem interesting, 
and I, hopefully, will not be boring.”
I loved the offer and heartily accepted.
‘A lovely conversation’ – was the least I expected.
The gentleman introduced himself –
“I am Mr Bond – no not James but 
Ruskin…Ruskin Bond.
I am a writer from the hill.
You know Pari Tibba?
That’s where I often chill.”
As we conversed more,
I learnt more and more.
About the hills, about Dehra,
about Landour -- its flora and fauna.
About Mr Bond’s books,
the characters in them
and their looks, 
some incredible encounters,
some well learnt lessons,
some indelible moments,
some wise comments.
An hour passed and then
he got up.
As his driver arrived
for the pickup. 
We wished each other and bade goodbye.
“Take care my friend” said he, 
“until we meet next time.”
Humbled and quenched
That’s how I summarise
Meeting Mr Bond that evening
was surely a pleasant surprise.

Dr Kisholoy Roy is a PhD in Management with several years of teaching experience at the PG level. He is a published author of several books on management and has also authored fictions and books on cricket and cricketers listed on Amazon and other online bookstores. He has two published poetry collections titled, Thoughts of a Novice Poet and Perspectives.

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