RANI PINK
Oh Lord, trees. How they dress and undress
unhurriedly through geological time!
This one I pass on my way to tea
is presently putting on a blush
of rani pink that stands out so
jauntily against the clear blue
drape of the April sky in Chennai.
Oh, how the colour becomes it!
I stop dead in my tracks every time,
staring anew. Life in hues. So old. So new.
Carol D’Souza lives in Chennai.
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We were all romantic heroes, back in 1958.
We’d line the good guys up, go with them scrapping,
outwitting villains, wooing and winning the girls,
the final clinch, the fade-away, the ever-after.
South Pacific was tricky, from the very start.
De Becque the hero was the same age as our Dads,
and his little boy and girl too much to cope with,
even with Mitzi Gaynor as the prize.
But then the sub-plot came and we found our hero,
Lieutenant Cable, and after mystery journeys
and boat trips through exotic seas, he found the girl,
a pearl of South Sea Island beauty.
We were settling to the film’s rhythms now,
De Becque and Cable off to war, a matter of time,
surely, before they foiled the enemy, went back
for the final clinches, fade-away, the ever-after.
And Cable died. Uneasily, some half-hour later,
we stumbled home, with a lot to assimilate.
A native girl? Were they saying it was all for the best?
Was that the idea? It was bloody sad, all the same.
Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet widely-published in Britain, where he won the Prole Pamphlet Competition in 2017, and in the USA, where he is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee.
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The door slammed shut with a thud.
And then, with another thud, it swung open again.
The door that should have remained closed,
Opened, allowing the unwanted noises and the wind
To fill the room.
The wind outside and the clamour assail me,
So, I gather myself and politely shut the door once more.
The door becomes calm again.
The wind finds its own path among the alleys of wind,
And the room becomes tranquil,
Filled with the stillness of the room, the air of the room,
And the thoughts of the room.
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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THE PRECIOUS CARGO
As the mean machine rises,
Its blades whirring,
Its wings cutting,
Through the air,
A silent prayer
Escapes the lips,
From many who
Stand and stare.
Parched lips,
Beating hearts,
Controlled tears,
From eyes
That avoid looking
Into the other.
Forced smiles,
Shaky hands,
Does the mean machine know,
That it carries precious cargo?
Men and women in uniform.
The story repeats,
Across countries,
And continents,
Uniforms that define soldiers --
Olive, green, blue, black,
Soldiers who move on orders,
Leaving behind parents,
Spouses, siblings, children.
Men and women who are soldiers
Lug their heavy hearts,
Putting up a façade of bravery,
Stoic and composed.
Men and women who as human beings,
Are allowed to carry only memories,
Precious as treasures from the deep.
Men and women who cannot tarry,
As they have sworn their loyalty,
To their respective countries.
Men and women who as soldiers,
Move as one.
Men and women who shudder,
For any loss here or there,
As each relationship
Is very dear.
As the plane lifts,
Human hearts beat
In the heart of the machine.
Does the mean machine know
It carries precious cargo?
A father’s companion,
For his twilight years,
A mother’s heart,
The loving mentor,
Of their children,
The prankster sibling,
The loving husband,
Whose hugs would be missed,
Does the mean machine know
It carries human hearts?
The question looms --
Why these wars?
Dr. Kanwalpreet teaches Political Science to undergraduate students in a college affiliated to Panjab University, Chandigarh, India. She has written 12 books that include books for children as well as biographies. Writing is a passion and she delves into it frequently. Living in a male dominated society Kanwalpreet, usually, writes about the pain that women go through. Her book, Rings of Life a collection of 13 short stories tries to show the struggles of women.
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BREATH OF TREES
In ages past, when Earth was young,
Beneath a golden, blazing sun,
Amidst this world, a sacred birth,
There grew the trees, a force of worth.
From ancient groves to verdant glades,
They stretched their arms, offered shades,
A symphony of life unfurled,
Where trees shaped the wondrous world.
In forests vast, their secrets dwell,
They whispered tales, in leafy spell,
Their roots deep plunged in fertile ground,
Trees held the secrets yet unbound.
From towering pines to gentle birch,
Each tree a guardian, where birds perch,
They breathed the air, with lungs of green,
And gifted life, a glorious scene.
With branches reaching to the skies,
They caught the winds, as nature's prize,
And in their leaves, the sunlight danced,
The symphony of nature enhanced.
The woodlands thrived, in harmony,
A living web, for all to see,
From mighty oaks to willows weep,
Their grace and roots ran rivers deep.
They sheltered creatures, great and small,
Provided homes for one and all,
From feathered songbirds to furry kin,
The trees embraced them deep within.
Their branches carry the songs of birds,
Whose melodies speak more than words,
And in tree bark, the songs they dwelled,
With tales of ancient days they held.
Oh, trees of Earth, forever reign,
Your worth immeasurable, not in vain,
A living force, a gift untold,
In every leaf, new stories unfold.
Teach us peace and love and laughter.
Live forever more hereafter,
Until the day no humans dwell,
On earth, just remnants of magic spells.
THE WORLD THAT NEVER KNEW WAR
In the world that never knew war's woe,
Where compassion's rivers eternally flow
A symphony of care for fellow man,
A dance of love, Earth's greatest fans.
In idyllic realm of boundless grace,
Every soul finds solace and their place,
Hands interlaced, hearts open wide,
A tapestry of unity, love as our guide.
In streets adorned with vibrant hue,
Kindness blossoms a daily brew.
Strangers greet with warm embrace,
A gentle smile on each lovely face.
No hungry child, no sorrow's tear,
For compassion's feast is shared, sincere.
Communities thrive, support entwined,
No soul forgotten, no one left behind.
The Earth, revered as sacred ground,
Her forests lush, her waters resound.
Through whispered vows, humanity cares,
Guardians of nature, love everywhere.
Animals roam with freedom's grace,
No cages confine, no fear they face,
A world where creatures find their worth,
A harmonious dance upon this Earth.
Technology's gifts, harnessed for good,
Advancing progress, as we know we should,
Renewable dreams power the land,
Green energy pulses, hand in hand.
No borders divide, no walls stand tall,
As love's embrace encompasses all,
Embracing differences, voices are heard,
A symphony of cultures, harmony interred.
In this world, poets and dreamers rise,
Their words ignite, paint love in the skies,
Each verse a testament to human might,
Weaving dreams of peace, an eternal light.
Oh, to witness such a world, so fair,
Where empathy reigns, banishing despair,
Let's strive, let's believe, let's make it true,
For this world can be ours, for me and you.
In the world that never knew war's dread,
Compassion thrives, with love widespread,
May we weave this vision, hand in hand,
And create a world where peace will expand.
TEARDROP
Long in sorrow’s cruel realm I dwell,
Where memories cast a melancholy spell,
My heart, once hopeful, now an empty well,
As I endure the pains that life does tell.
A single teardrop as it falls from grace,
Betrays the timelessness of its embrace,
Through sad-stained eyes, I glimpse its measured pace,
In heartbreak's throes, a languid, ever slow trace.
How could it be those moments so profound,
Are stretched and drawn, as silence seems to resound?
Each second lengthened, sorrow's clock unbound,
When love is lost, slow-motion universe unwound.
The laws of time, in grief, are but a wisp,
A feeble grasp, a phantom's icy kiss,
Yet as that teardrop descends, my heart insists,
That in its fall, hopeless eternity exists.
Oh, wretched soul, stumbling through the night,
While sorrow's burden keeps you from the light,
But see, the drop, its fall slow but finite,
In its descent, it tells of love's respite.
Though heartbreak's weight tears spirits down,
And in the depths, the wearied soul may drown,
This drop of water, falling, ever down,
Reveals a truth wound into the sorrow's crown.
For in its languor, solace does reside,
A fleeting solace that periodically subsides,
A moment's breath, a pause, a world implied,
Wherein I find new paths, undenied.
So let me dwell, within this steady fall,
And find in sorrow a tender call,
For in its pace, I find my spirit renewing,
To heal the wounds, heartbreak’s undoing.
Samantha Underhill is a poet, voice artist, and professor. Her vivid emotional works can be found in publications such as Sadness of the Siren; Weird Tales; Weird House; Animal, Vegetable, Mineral, and more.
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Guernica by Pablo Picasso (1881-1973). Courtesy: Creative Commons
SURVIVORS
In truth, we do not feel the horror
of the survivors,
but what passes for horror:
a shiver of “empathy”.
We too are “survivors”,
if to survive is to snap back
from the sight of death
like a turtle retracting its neck.
VEILED
She has belief
without comprehension
and in her crutch work 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.
SALVE
The world is unsalvageable ...
but as we lie here
in bed
stricken to the heart by love
despite war’s
flickering images,
sometimes we still touch,
laughing, amazed,
that our flesh
does not despair
of love
as we do,
that our bodies are wise
in ways we refuse
to comprehend,
still insisting we eat,
drink ...
even multiply.
And so we touch ...
touch, and only imagine
ourselves immune:
two among billions
in this night of wished-on stars,
caresses,
kisses,
and condolences.
We are not lovers of irony,
we
who imagine ourselves
beyond the redemption
of tears
because we have salvaged
so few
for ourselves ...
and so we laugh
at our predicament,
fumbling for the ointment.
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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GUN
It always
hides metal seeds
of volcanoes and
new wars inside.
They are as heavy
as human lives.
The bullets pumped into
the flesh of soil
tears the tissue of earth
into pieces as the blood
spreads as roots into the ground.
Not one seed —
There are thousands that
yearn for the effigies of
tribal people.
There won't be
a reason for
the deluge of bullets
but, they say
It has to be done.
Ramesh Karthik Nayak is the author of three books in Telugu—Balder Bandi (Ox Cart, 2018), a poetry collection, Dhaavlo (Song of Lament, 2021), a short story collection, and co-editor of Kesula (Modugu Flower, 2022), a compilation of Banjara stories. His debut collection of poetry Chakmak is forthcoming from Red River Press.
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The lone Bos primigenius on the hill at night,
do you suppose she ever wonders
in her laconic, bovine way
what the stars could possibly be?
Does the Tyto alba contemplate
the moon’s topography (from his
hayloft perch) or what mysteries might
lay on its darker side?
The Nephila clavata centred in his jewelled web,
does he receive strange frequencies
(or just old radio transmissions)
on its taut wires and filaments?
What about the sleepless philosopher/ poet
taking his thoughts out for a late-night
walk around the neighbourhood?
Does the universe leave cryptic,
fortune-cookie clues and candid
little Polaroids of the Bigger Picture
lying around for him to find
and piece together later?
Or is this semi-educated fool merely
adrift on a sea of his own imagining
in the leaky rowboat of his skull
and nothing but a kerosene lamp,
a stone jug of his uncle’s corn liquor
and an old typewriter on which
he may compose
such (otherwise) ridiculous
and impertinent questions?
Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry letters to various magazine and newspaper editors.He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is Kicking Up the Dust, Calling Downthe Lightning (Grindstone Press, 2023). He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters.
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TIME IN ITS FLIGHT
(After Su Tung Po, Song Dynasty poet)
Torn from darkness,
the sun reveals a dismal day.
As if from a sermon,
a bird turns away.
I drink my tea with care.
I lean back in my chair.
It emits a squeak
of compressed air.
I sometimes think
life is unfair.
Dead leaves fall
everywhere, caught
in a fierce wind,
they careen wildly,
like epileptic drivers,
unaware they’re
no longer survivors.
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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HOMA-BIRD
Once I fall, how much must I drop down before I can rise up again?
As this thought crosses my mind, I am reminded of the Homa-bird found high in the sky. It even lays its eggs there. The eggs then fall down. But because the bird lives so high in the sky its eggs take ages to fall. Its chicks hatch even as the eggs descend. And then it’s time for the chicks to fall. As they begin to fall the chicks sprout eyes and feathers and wings. And one day they discover that they are falling down and down. It is then that they begin to fly to their mothers high up in the sky. They fly so high now that they emerge as specks scattered all along the spread-out body of the sky
We are of the breed of these birds. We procreate, raise children; we drop down and rise up again!
[Homapakhi; Translated by Fakrul Alam]
GONE WHO KNOWS WHERE
An unending queue of children flowed forward
Going who knows where?
With great difficulty, I spotted my own child there.
But when I tried kissing him
I ended up kissing someone else’s child!
And then I lost him— lost him forever!
Dazed, distressed— I seem doomed to a lifetime of waiting.
[Aggato Uddesh; Translated by Fakrul Alam]
REJECTION
Abruptly today a baby is expelled from its mother’s breasts.
Though it keeps gravitating towards her— hopefully—
It continues to be rejected. Startled, it still keeps trying....
How can the innocent baby make sense of such evictions?
It can comprehend nothing— neither the implications
Nor the reasons behind its mother’s bizarre actions.
All it can do is wonder— is mother playing with it?
Or is she just being cruel, suddenly unmotherly,
Distracted by the sudden heat wave of the season?
The baby broods, all alone, helpless. And then once again
It turns towards its mother, only for another round of rejection...
Now inconsolable, it breaks out into tears, feeling hurt
And rejected, sobbing endlessly till sleep silences it...
Only its craving for love keeps striking one’s ears
Its magnitude scattering here, there, everywhere!
[Protyakhyan; Translated by Fakrul Alam]
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.
Borderless 