Categories
Poetry

The Grave is Wide…

Poetry by Michael R. Burch

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Epitaph for a Refugee Child
		
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

Epitaph for a Refugee Mother

Find in her pallid, dread repose,
no hope, alas!, for a human Rose.

who, US?

jesus was born 
a palestinian child
where there’s no Room 
for the meek and the mild

... and in bethlehem still 
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of “no Room!” 
and Puritanical scorn ...

under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same— 
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame:

“who’s to blame?”

(First published in Setu)



Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein”


I went to Berlin to learn wisdom
from Adolph. The wild spittle flew
as he screamed at me, with great conviction:
“Please despise me! I look like a Jew!”

So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom
from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes.
“If we lose this small square,” they informed me,
earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!”

I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom,
but his Book, from its genesis to close,
said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!”
(I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.)

So I travelled to bright Tel Aviv
where great scholars with lofty IQs
informed me that (since I’m an Arab)
I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes.

At last, done with learning, I stumbled
to a well where the waters seemed sweet:
the mirage of American “justice.”
There I wept a real sea, in defeat.

(First published in Café Dissensus)

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

Wyvern by Jared Carter

Wyvern. Courtesy: Creative Commons
                  WYVERN 

In European folklore, and also in British
heraldry, a winged, two-legged dragon.

You stood your ground and pawed the grass,
          and mewled, while I     
Aimed for your heart. My spear point passed
          on through. Your eyes

Lost all their sheen, your glossy wings
          fluttered and failed,
Till you became a tattered thing,
          still writhing, nailed.

And called unto your funeral dole
          in that dark fen,
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
          crept back again.

Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.

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Poetry

Poetry by John Grey

FROM 2.A.M. TO YOU  

The night reads to me from its book of shadows.
Curtains rustle the song of the wind. From poplar
to grass shoots, the outside dabbles in the art of
the whistled weep, the passion of the scent.

What have I to be afraid of? Awake at 2.00 a.m.
and staring into blackness? That's when I'm at the
my most awake. So what if the moon pegs me for
a lunatic! I go crazy with scrutiny and reflection.

It's an indistinct country here and whatever retains
the most shape, rules. So the dresser is king.
The door is its queen. My arms, my hands, are the
curious princes. My wife sleeps on as the populace do.


LOOKING BACK

My memories are webs,
long after the spider has departed.
What I knew then,
I have a way of knowing now.

It’s woven loosely
so I get tangled now and then.
But the facts are there.
They float on the wind of my thinking.


HEREWITH, THE NIGHT

Routine entails shine, glitter, glimmer,
as stars glow with ancient flame
and the moon rises through cloud remnant,
a slow waltz with the earth’s turn
on a dark fire-specked dance floor.
 

CRYSTALS

When you examined the crystal 
in the antique shop, 
it turned your face in my direction.

That jewelry dish
selected various angles,
repositioned them,
joined these threads together,
aimed them delightfully at me.

I must have swallowed crystal
at some time in my life
because, at that same moment,
its manifold reflections
reassembled soul, heart, even mind,
in an odd vortex
that overwhelmed the lenses in my eyes.

Yes, when you and I first met, 
it was at the behest of allotropes. 
You remember things differently, 
more happenstance, 
less optical engineering.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books are Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself, available on Amazon. 

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Poetry

Philosophical Fragments by Don Webb

Don Webb
Heraclitus wrote one long book on papyrus.
It is believed to be called On Nature.
The title page was destroyed, and much of the content during the burning of the library at Alexandria.
Recent efforts have restored some of the charred fragments.
For example, the famous couplet --
“War is the Father of All,
War is the King of All.”
Actually reads,
“War is the Father of All,
War is the King of All.
Just kidding!
War is Stupid.”

Don Webb teaches Special Education (High School English) by day and horror writing by night.  He has 25 published books, and around 100 published poems.  He likes cats, fireworks and Egyptian history.

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Poetry

‘Poetry is a Recipe to Taste Life’

By Nivedita N

Poetry 

Poetry is a recipe to taste life
words, a ladle; silence, a bowl.

Blend what you hear, see, 
touch, feel and taste 
into a scrumptious paste
stir it with a ladle 
and pour into the bowl

Nivedita N is a poet from Hyderabad. She has been published in a few noted journals. Apart from poetry she enjoys cycling, cold coffee, and gallivanting around the gullies of Hyderabad in an auto rickshaw, her dream vehicle. She hopes to work as a postwoman someday.

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Poetry

Veiled Defences

Poetry by Michael Burch

Courtesy: Creative Commons
VEILED

She has belief
without comprehension
and in her crutchwork shack
she is
much like us ...

tamping the bread
into edible forms,
regarding her children
at play
with something akin to relief ...				

ignoring the towers ablaze
in the distance
because they are not revelations
but things of glass,
easily shattered ...

and if you were to ask her,
she might say—
sometimes God visits his wrath
upon an impious nation
for its leaders’ sins,

and we might agree:
seeing her mutilations.

(Published by Modern War Poems)


DEFENCES

Beyond the silhouettes of trees
stark, naked and defenceless
there stand long rows of sentinels:
these pert white picket fences.

Now whom they guard and how they guard,
the good Lord only knows;
but savages would have to laugh
observing the tidy rows.

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.

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

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Poetry

‘A Stray Feather of Blue’

By Saranyan BV

Courtesy: Creative Commons
TUMBLED BELIEF

We sit on 
one side 
of the seesaw plank,
and think 
we have conquered: 
When you conquer 
one side alone --
Know ye 
Men of Destiny --
There is 
another side 
which needs defending.
Never sit on 
one side 
of the seesaw
and think 
you have arrived.
It’s like collecting
a stray feather of blue,
mistaking it
for an ostentation.

Courtesy: Creative Commons

Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.

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Poetry

Poetry on Rain by Masud Khan

Translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam

Courtesy: Creative Commons
RAIN - 1 

It’s raining abroad now, in countries close by or far away. 
Occasionally a cold wind from some other land blows this way 
This summer evening brings with it sadness and beauty 
Blowing this way from some distant land!
 
A cold, cold wind keeps blowing
Slowly stirring desire, fomenting longing
For alien rituals on such an evening.
 
In the distance, in a riverbank ruled by beauty
In another land, wonderfully wet in the rain,
Lightning flashes time and again
Stirring desire for one’s lover steadily
Inevitably, on such an evening!
 
Towards my homeland
The cold wind keeps blowing
O my alien lover
Where could you be staying?

RAIN - 2
 
It’s raining
Over distant lands
Over Brahma’s world,
Over Rangpur and Bogra’s vast expanse
In alluvial plains,
The rain veils Burma’s evening fields
And keeps streaming down.
 
And below these lightning flashes,
At the rain-formed night’s third quarter
Radiant races
Spring up at home or abroad
Like hyperactive frogs leaping
Into the unknown.
 
Provoked by thunder and lightning’s violent outbursts, 
Allured by their promises,
In the thick veil 
And swirling stream,
In the darkness of the wet wind, 
In the eastern expanse, 
Underneath the sky
In vast and empty fields
Under the vast spread-out arum fields of the east, 
Incredibly, unformed new nations emerge --
Innumerable unsteady chaotic nations,
Restless, perturbed, incapable of standing up, 
Lending themselves to grotesque maps,
Forming unstable, quivering, permeable boundaries
Governed by ill-defined laws and dwarf impotent ombudsmen 
And armies marching past unimpressively,
They spring for no good reason
And seem destined to be doomed.
 
The night draws to a close. The rain too appears spent. 
When day’s first light breaks out,
Those nations that would thrive and grow
And glow with innumerable rituals and fast-spreading religions 
Feel their bodies disintegrating and disappearing
Under the vast spread-out arum fields of the east.
 
*Rangpur, Bogra— Two small cities in the northern part of Bangladesh

Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology,Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh(Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan(English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania.  Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.

Fakrul Alam is an academic, translator and writer from Bangladesh. He has translated works of Jibonananda Das and Rabindranath Tagore into English and is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award (2012) for translation and SAARC Literary Award (2012).

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Poetry

Strange New Home

Poetry by Heath Brougher

Outside the frame
                         is where we’re living now.
No big deal. Only a few will remember.

Outside the frame
                         is what we’re leaving in
on the outskirts and borders
of pastorals and self-portraits
of horses with broken legs.

The stallion paints as the bullet
rips through what will become
a headless space in a matter of milliseconds.

In the distance Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”
can be heard resonating at a distorted frequency—
one that human ears can barely hear.

Hope is not lost though.

It’s still there — right
                          outside the frame.

Heath Brougher is the editor-in-chief of Concrete Mist Press as well as poetry editor for Into the Void Magazine. After spending the last four years editing the work of others, he is ready to get back into the creative driver seat. 

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Categories
Poetry

Pinnacle by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Crest not bade me soul – not a more perfect sentence in the  
language. Tops! The pinnacle! I wasn't there yet, for the crest had  
not bade me. The shoulders of my shirt cinched down between  
drowsy hanging arms, revealing a scraggly dark patch of chest hair.  
If there were gifts left to give, they would come by those splintered  
brazen workbench hands. Unshuttered windows, that briny  
squawking clime of distant sea air. Great parapets of lost concealments.  
Bilging heels gong-rung together in startled splay.  
Suddenly, like banshees wailing across the moors – it came!  
"Christ hath bathed my soul," the beautiful voice sparkled. I looked  
up from the pew to find a priest standing over me. Cherub-faced  
and nipper drunk. A smile like fresh linens. A great light! – "Crest  
not bade me soul," I muttered inaudibly. His way was fine too

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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