Your fingers tinker
untouched corners
of my skin.
Lingering
sloppy kisses
wayward embraces
While I melt in
the traces of cusps
left on me.
Come back
not today
but in forever,
Rested in longing,
holding the ephemeral
of us in each other.
Vikas Sehra is a researcher and aspiring poet residing in Hyderabad, India. His work has been published in Economic and Political Weekly andEKL Review among others.
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Afsar Mohammad teaches at the University of Pennsylvania, and he has published five volumes of poetry in Telugu. His English poetry collection is forthcoming. He has also published a monograph with the Oxford University Press titled, The Festival of Pirs: Popular Islam and Shared Devotion in South India. His current work, Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad, has been published from Cambridge University Press. His poetry collection, Evening with a Sufi, was published by Red River.
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My mind embroiders shapeless thoughts
upon the fabric of my being,
as my body crawls beneath
the darkness of a velvet blanket.
Night dipped in a pale silvery moonlight,
I knew it was an eclipse
where the moon reached for the earth,
where they became shadows of each other.
But the episodes of thoughts
that flashed through my head,
refused to align with the matinee
of the harsh, real world.
I yearned to doze off,
to slip peacefully into a pool of serene sleep,
to taste the nothingness of life.
The air infused with the scents of subtle lavender flames,
winked through the eyes
of golden fairy light bulbs.
My eyes twinkled brighter!
A zillion poems have found their roots here,
upon the barren soils of my empty,
at times tangled, heart.
A restless soul seeking refuge
in the atoms of those weary limbs,
a coiled mind that yearned to unfurl its tales
onto a blank white sheet.
Beads of sweat channelling maps, from the nape of my neck
to the deepest pores of sleeplessness.
I listen to my whimpering heart, fluttering its wings
as if ensnared in a net of ‘what ifs’.
Motionless, I hold fast to a squishy pillow
and the cosy blanket that never offers any comfort.
Searching for a hand in vain,
to pacify a delirious heart,
slowly...
at some odd hour in the vacuum of the night,
I fall asleep --
devoid of dreams, poems and memories --
With thoughts that beat louder than my heart!
Arya K S is a passionate writer from Kerala. Currently, she is pursuing her PG Diploma in English Teaching at EFL University, Hyderabad. Poetry is a cool breeze to her musing soul. You can find her on Instagram @letter_shore. Email: aryaksgem@gmail.com
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THESE DAYS
see me here and there—
many say I do nothing:
well they may be right.
what I do is hear and absorb —
both the natural fresh air
and the odour of foul chatter.
my people— sadly— live unaware
my presence taken for granted,
and my preemptions denied.
MEETING WITH A STRANGER
For some odd reason
I was halted in my tracts—
This strange man with nothing on
Wanted to know why I was dressed.
What could I say to him?
I smiled hoping he’d be satisfied.
But he persisted— “Why are you dressed?”
I smiled again and sheepishly said—
“Because being naked is a luxury,
One, I can’t afford, really.”
He smiled again, this time ruefully,
And said very confidently—
“Understand, good Sir, understand
The real meaning of the Fall.”
The Bard by Benjamin West (1738-1820)
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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I have long been interested in unusual rhyme schemes, especially if they have a pleasing mathematical pattern. Deciding to attempt an ambitious rhyme scheme unlike any other, I produced the following poem. Regarded as a whole, the poem relies on chain rhymes, with a linking rhyme carrying over from one stanza into the next one. Thus, the rhyme scheme is AABAA, BBCBB, CCDCC, DDEDD, EEFEE and so on until ZZAZZ, which completes the loop. This means that for every word at the end of every line there are four other words at the ends of other lines that rhyme with it. I was careful to ensure that no types of rhyme were duplicated, so the progression from A to Z is authentic. After the poem was finished, I discovered to my surprise that my rhyme scheme was quite similar to one that already had a name, the ‘virelai ancien’, and a respected history.
AABAA
It happened on a rainy day
when I was strolling through the grey
curling mists that hid each tree
I soon enough lost my way
and what remains for me to say?
BBCBB
Not a lot, you will agree,
and as a practical insight this is key
therefore I kept wandering on
deeper into the illusory sea
of thickening fog that shrouded me.
CCDCC
I stretched my neck out like a swan
and crooned an old wayfarer’s song
and snapping a branch from a trunk
I beat my stomach like a gong
and not once thought it very wrong.
DDEDD
You might suspect that I was drunk
but I was as sober as a monk
and yet the boom of my belly flaps
summoned strangers as they shrunk
like dinner guests who are in a funk.
EEFEE
And why in funk were those chaps?
They were ghosts swathed in wraps,
forest phantoms who died long ago
caught in the jaws of various traps
who expired after the first collapse.
FFGFF
They lined up before me in a row
opening their mouths very slow
expecting food that they could chew
thanks to each beating note so low
that called them with an urgent blow.
GGHGG
The fault was mine, yes that’s true
and now I was jostled by this crew
of ghouls and spectres immaterial,
my unmoving limbs stuck with glue
as if fear’s an adhesive turgid brew.
HHIHH
I broke the spell with a great yell
and turned to escape from this hell
but one of the ghosts held me back
and advised me all my fears to quell
or else I might make myself unwell.
IIJII
And now all my limbs did go slack
while my nerves began to crack
for I trusted not that phantom brute,
no more than I might trust a quack
dressed not as a doctor but in a sack.
JJKJJ
“Sir, your terror appears to be acute
but please relax for it’s more astute,”
the phantom said with a twisted grin.
He meant no harm although destitute
of bones and flesh worn like a suit.
KKLKK
“What do you want?” I implored him
and in response he lifted up a limb
and made a gesture most mysterious
as if touching an invisible hat’s brim,
a mark of respect to a man named Tim.
LLMLL
For yes, that is my name, I am serious,
on no account have I become delirious
and I continue to insist ‘Tim’ is alright
as a cognomen neither very imperious
nor in any manner judged deleterious.
MMNMM
“Our rotten bodies were our birthright
but now forever more lost to our sight,
lonely we are in this transparent form,
very melancholy in our present plight,”
replied the ghost who might be a sprite.
NNONN
“How can I help you to feel less forlorn
or at least assist your sadness to warm
and thaw itself until into liquid it melts,
into teardrops as pungent as chloroform
that evaporates and is gone by dawn?”
OOPOO
That was the question that ancient Celts
might have asked when tightening belts
in preparation for the Roman invasion,
but I vocalised it now at the ghostly pelts
that scarred my sanity like whiplash welts.
PPQPP
“Amuse us with a dance on this occasion,”
they answered rapidly without evasion,
and I suppose they expected me to decline,
but as it happens I need little persuasion
to begin dancing, although I am Caucasian.
QQRQQ
Having taken lessons, my dancing is fine,
also in good time my steps usually align,
and so I waltzed with an imaginary friend
and the ghosts were no longer saturnine
in demeanour as they followed in a line.
RRSRR
Both straight ahead and around the bend,
I propelled myself fast, you may depend,
hoping to shake off my spectral entourage
for the rest of the journey I wished to spend
reassuringly alone until I reached the end.
SSTSS
But if I couldn’t outpace them, camouflage
was my other option: in the mists a mirage
my outline would be, indistinct, just a blur,
and I might get away in the foggy montage
like a carrot that hides in vegetable potage.
TTUTT
So now I abandoned the pose of danseur
and from my imaginary partner I did incur
non-existent chidings and a vocal uprising
that I chose to ignore like I do a longueur
in a play in the theatre acted by a poseur.
UUVUU
I took to my heels and puffed, exercising
my legs and my heart, while galvanising
my soul with thoughts of ghosts behind,
and thus, by rushing, it is not surprising
I fell and indulged in a spot of capsizing.
VVWVV
My pursuers caught up and I was resigned
to being surrounded by apparitions unkind,
but in actual fact they were concerned,
expressing sympathy in voices combined,
meaning they had been unfairly maligned.
WWXWW
We touch a hot topic and end up burned:
the subject of ghosts is one I have learned
to regard with caution if lectured by men,
for the grim spirits we may have spurned
perhaps by death into sweet beings turned.
XXYXX
I struggled to my feet and stood again,
bowed politely every now and then
as they gently touched me on my arm,
I laughed as if tickled by a quill pen
until I stopped, but I don’t know when.
YYZYY
Softly they spoke, not wishing to alarm
an injured stranger who must stay calm,
and I listened with not a little surprise
to amazing words delivered with charm
by ghastly brothers who meant no harm.
ZZAZZ
My fall killed me, I was in a new guise,
a ghost like them, for all that lives dies,
despite the fact it sounds like a cliché,
my flesh I cast off like a cheap disguise
and now with spooks I will harmonise.
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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SUNSET BY THE BLUE RIVER
The arching branches shelter
the roses from a gusting wind.
Their perfume draws angry bees
and makes them mellow.
As I wander through my garden,
it’s fragrant and colourful.
I’m momentarily sentimental.
Then night falls like a curtain
at the end of a play.
The moon becomes an unresolved mystery
and looks very cold,
and as I drink a cup of tea,
this new spring
has suddenly become irretrievably old.
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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It is the beginning of a saffron day.
She tinges her white salwar with colour.
The walls are thin and we listen,
Offered prayers to Sikh Saints,
Inside a room of crippled faith.
We wait,
We wait for the devotion to finish,
For her to step out,
To tsk at our negligence,
To sigh at us heretics…
Chiffon is what covers her head,
Falls over so elegantly onto her shoulders,
Only to be quickly put back to its position.
She bends over in much pain.
‘Nanak’ she says is the medicine --
Handing out the sacred sweet.
We roll our eyes but stretch our hands,
Whilst scuffling her salwar,
Remembering the sun of 1947
She’d narrate,
In silent murmurs and naked
Soles,
She had covered miles to feel
Uninhabited,
She remembered intervals
On makeshift mornings,
Toppling over bodies with
No sound,
On footpaths familiar she remembered
Runnels painted with blood,
Leaving behind dupattas* and flags,
Flying spirits in the sky,
She was certain she’d return,
To unlocked doors,
To obscure meanderings
To Bitter-sweet memories
Of abandoned and burnt
Homes,
Rest assured,
She never did
She found refuge in language.
*Veils or Scarves that are almost the size of stoles
This poem is about the journey made by the late Kuldeep Kaur (seated on the left). She was originally from Rawalpindi (now in Pakistan). As a child, she had to travel on foot, stepping over heaps of dead bodies from Rawalpindi to an army base camp and finally settled in New Delhi, Patel Nagar. This photograph was taken in 1993. She is seated next to her daughter, both of who also witnessed the 1984 Sikh-Hindu riots, another face of fundamentalism. Photo provided by Masha Hassan.
Masha Hassan is a PhD student at the University of Bologna, Italy. Her research entails identity constructions at the margins, the ‘liminal identities’, focusing on the South Asian diaspora. You would occasionally find her wandering in Kebab shops in Italy talking in Urdu, Hindi or Punjabi with the shop owners, listening to their journeys. Her articles have been published in The Speaking Tree, Times of India, Jamhoor Magazine, and online Italian magazines such as OgZero and connessioneprecarie. Her first poem, ‘Main, Junaid’, (dedicated to Hafiz Junaid who was lynched on a moving train on the suspicion of carrying beef) was published on the cover of a local Marathi magazine called Purogrami Jangarjana, Mumbai, India in June 2017.
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UNANSWERED
In seasons to come, in moons to come,
Each passing month accumulates
Into a full year, each more hopeless,
Drier, deadlier than the last.
Birdsongs fade into oblivion,
Stop colouring the misty mornings,
When rainforests turn asthmatic,
The forest floor caked into drought-scabs.
Frail with hope, laughter is no longer heard
On the beach, now oil-stained,
Now plastic-choked, now fume-shrouded.
Will children see sunrise or taste rain,
The way we did generations ago?
Will they point fingers at the politicians,
God-like, honest, and wise too?
Vernon Daim is a Malaysian writer. His poems have appeared in local and international publications. As an English teacher, he has also presented papers at various ELT conferences.
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A poem by Sangita Swechcha, translated from Nepali by Hem Bishwakarma
Painting by Bernardus Johannes Blommers (1845-1914). Courtesy: Creative Commons
A purpose in my life,
A reason to survive,
A flower budding inside me
That impatiently cried,
Begging to understand the meaning of life.
The terrible struggle with life --
Hundreds of questions from
A one-day old
Deluged me,
Exhausted and distressed.
Though life was not that easy--
The flower that desired to flower
Did not want to wither
Without a struggle.
The amusement in my life,
Lost in strange thoughts
With silent, helpless emotions,
Tensed, fell down and cried,
With an abrupt pain of separation.
A life as in a story
And a story of life
With hope dared to live.
She, her courage and I --
The entanglement of
Struggle and pain,
Perhaps, was a trial of restraint.
A tiny life to chuckle that learned
Living was a novel mesh of affection.
The life that sprouted inside me,
Has patience to contend her life.
There is a desire, and a trust
For her whole life is a dream that has yet to unfold!
O dancer!
Come and dance
with ecstasy and trance
to set my heart aflame.
This dark and ebony night
may never see dawn's light.
May the jingle of your anklets
never cease into silence,
even for a moment.
As long as lingers the hangover,
Move forth, stretch out your hands
and see how the colourful cash floats.
Why think of honour and modesty?
You're helpless, so am I.
You're famished, so am I --
You, for a crumb of bread.
I, of an anguished heart.
Who is chaste? Who is wanton?
Who is innocent? Who a sinner?
I know each and everyone.
Sealed are my lips.
These perfidious Masters and Chiefs,
shameless Mullahs and Pirs,
blood sucking oppressors
Are Man's eternal enemies.
Keep shaking your body,
till it crumbles apart
and all your organs shatter
like crystal on the floor.
O dancer!
Come and dance
With ecstasy and trance
And set my heart aflame.
.
Bashir Baidar belongs to the generation of the Balochi poets that emerged on the horizons of Balochi literature in the 1960s. Drawing inspiration from Progressive Writers Movement, Baidar’s poetry is widely cherished for his political undertone. So far, he has published four anthologies of his poetry. This poem is taken from Gowarbam (second edition) published by Pak News Agency Turbat in 2021.
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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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Borderless 