Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Two Minds

Poetry by Sayantan Sur

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Never have I surfed the waves
But I know the feel
The sky endless blue and bright
Cold Sun and Warm Sea
Strength of a Manta Ray, open wings
Riding a Tsunami about to fall
My senses in desperation for a thrill
Salt in my eyes, on my lips
Even now I can hear the roar
Washing over the brain corals

Never I have been to space
Yet, I see the Earth
All beings in a ball of blue
My limbs floating in a void
The dark seeping in
I, spinning away farther
No sound, null
No matter how much I bawl
The smell of seared flesh
Aether is where I belong

Dr. Sayantan Sur is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Glasgow. He received the prestigious AWSAR award from the Government of India for his scientific essay. His literary works have been published in the Borderless and Aphelion.

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Categories
Poetry

The Raiders

By Rhys Hughes

Courtesy: Creative Commons
The raiders reach the crest of the dune
and rest their horses for a quarter hour
while they scowl down upon the town,
the clustered huts and a wooden tower,
dimly illumined by the crescent moon.

Their hooves will clatter like a shower
of barbarous arrows onto the tin crown
of the toy king, each rider keen to prune
with a cruel hook every troubled frown,
a demonstration of their ruthless power.

In both wine or music a man may drown,
the war god clearly demands some tune
to shake out the nectar from the flower,
and for all the petals that will be strewn
his laughter is that of the maddest clown.

Do not despair, give no thought to fears,
the isolated peaks must eternally gleam,
and when all the thunder is a faded hush
nothing shall appear as it now may seem,
and the whittling worlds require no years.

The stream of themes that flood my dream
wash clean the screams in a headlong rush
and I watch for eyes when the mist clears
that blink eyelids weighty enough to crush
every ironic invader with his iron scheme.

And now stony heads dent beds of plush,
tears dilute rum to the strength of beers,
half-defeated and lost they remain a team
and that is true despite those burning ears
that blush as cheeks in youth’s first flush.

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

Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson

Summer is Dying
Bowl of Black Petunias
Photographs provided by Michael Lee Johnson
SUMMER IS DYING 
 
Outside, summer is dying into fall,
and blue daddy petunias sprout ears—
hear the beginning of night chills.
In their yellow window box,
they cuddle up and fear death together.
The balcony sliding door
is poorly insulated, and a cold draft
creeps into all the spare rooms. 
 
BOWL OF BLACK PETUNIAS 

If you must leave me, please
leave me for something special,
like a beautiful bowl of black petunias—
for when memories leak
and cracks appear
and old memories fade,
flowers rebuff bloom,
sidewalks fester weeds
and we both lie down
separately from each other 
for the very last time.
 
MEMORIES PAST
(Hillbilly Daddy)
 
I settle into my thoughts
zigzagging between tears
my fathers’ grave—
Tippecanoe River 
Indiana 1982.
Over now,
a hillbilly country
like the flow 
catfish memories 
raccoons in trees
coon dogs tracking
on the river bank,
the hunt.
Snapping turtles
in the boat
offline—
river flakes
to ice—
now covered
thick snow.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL.  He has 284 YouTube poetry videos. He is aa published poet in 44 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. 

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Categories
Poetry

Shadows

Poetry & translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Many shadows must surround a child for them to grow well.
They should have the shadow of their mother and father,
The shadows of their grandparents should be drawn like the sky's shadow,
The shadows of their aunts, uncles, and cousins,
The shadows of their elder and younger brothers,
All these shadows should be abundant like a harvest,
If there are shadows of their older sisters, older brothers,
It's like a cherry on top.

They should push, pull, turn them upside down,
Step on them, crumple them, and embrace them while playing.
They should fight, argue, dislike the shadows,
Then reconcile, shake hands again, and sit side by side to eat
While saying, "When did that happen?"
They should separate and come out,
And happily, grow alone, enduring solitude once again.

They must have the shadow of their mother and father,
But there are children without the shadow of their mother and father.
Some children lack their mother's shadow,
While others lack their father's shadow.
Without shadows, some children may experience fear.

Growing amidst various shadows, children seek another shadow.
Some seek the shadow of Einstein,
While others blend in with the shadow of Park Soo-geun.*
When essential shadows like the shadows of mother and father are absent,
Who should replace those shadows?
When I didn't have my father's shadow,
My grandfather's shadow stepped in and averted the crisis.
Even children without a grandfather's shadow
Could have their teacher as a substitute.
But there are children without even the shadow of their teacher.

Sometimes, it's difficult to find shadows no matter where you look.
In such cases, you can turn to books,
Because they are filled with shadows of love.
If you grow within those shadows, you will flourish.

*Park Soo-geun: Famous Korean painter

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

Wafting in the Breeze

By Ananya Sarkar

A Question I Caught in the Air

What happens when an ordinary person falls in love
with an extraordinary person?
No, wait!
What happens when an extraordinary person falls in love
with an ordinary person?
Does the absurdity of the situation become reason enough
to make it incompletely complete?
Or completely incomplete?

Ananya Sarkar is a creative writer from Kolkata. Her work has been published in various ezines. She loves to go on long walks, cloud gaze and ponder upon miracles. She can be found on Instagram @just_1ananya and reached at ananya7891@gmail.com

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Categories
Poetry

Naïve are the Phosphenes

By Saranyan BV

Phosphenes are the colourful depictions of lights that we sense with our eyes closed. Courtesy: Creative Commons
Naïve are the phosphenes

Asleep, when our eyes close,
It is not darkness as we imagine --
A night of timelessness and of starry wisdom unfolds,
In whose halcyon ambience,
Eyes link to ears to
Compose lilt-lyre music of intriguing feathers.
The mind is more alert than when we are awake.
The kind breeze throws up phantasmagorias.
The swank phosphenes,
Unlimited by and native to parameters of the iris’s womb,
Rove with infinite images,
Roving the planet and roving the universe,
Chariots of legitimacy, more beautiful than the colours of rain --
Naïve are the phosphenes, that we have seen, known and never embraced.

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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Categories
Poetry

Born To Be Me

By Rachel Jayan


Let no one tell me I'm falling short 
From expectations I so fiercely fought! 

Let no one tell me who I am 
Only me and the great 'I-am' --

Free from my chains, 
And free from pain.
Free to love my skin,
And free from so called sin.
Free from creed and colour
And free to find my Anchor!! 

I was born to be free! 
I was born to be me! 
I'm all of the above
And more than your eyes can see! 

I am my Father’s Daughter
And I just can't fall short! 
I don't want to measure up! 
And I don't want to match up!
I was born to be free!
I was born to be me!

Free from expectations I so fiercely fought --
Let no one tell me I'm falling short!!

Rachel Jayan is the head of the primary school at Indus International School, Bangalore. She is a passionate educator who wishes to see a transformational change in her students. She believes it is important that each individual makes time to reflect, introspect, apply, express and inspire others to make, and be the change they wish to see in the world today.

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Categories
Poetry

The Colour of Love

By Priya Narayanan

the colour of love

an astrophysicist friend once told me
that in his field, red is cold and blue is hot
-- that a red giant in much colder
than a blue ring nebula --
that’s when I realised 
why your roses never impressed me

Priya Narayanan’s poems and stories have found home in various anthologies and literary journals. In a parallel universe, she is an interior architect straddling the professional and academic worlds of design with equal passion.

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Categories
Poetry

Tell Me What I Should Feel

By Ron Pickett

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Tell me what to feel!
Please tell me what I should feel!
I read an obit this morning,
I need help!
I knew this person,
Worked for him,
Was a buffer for him.
Tried to keep his craziness from becoming an infection.
I should forgive him.
It is supposed to be a good thing to do.
For me, I don’t understand forgiveness,
Besides, I’m not the one his example killed,
I’m not the surviving family, only a surrogate.
The social environment protected him – but not the rest of us.
Now I know. Now I’m smarter. Now I know it was fuelled by alcohol.
I should have been smarter then, stronger.
I should have always been smarter.
I should be smarter today –
It’s been fifty years now, so 
Tell me what should I feel!

Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.

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Categories
Poetry

Eclipse

By Smitha Sehgal

ECLIPSE

Sometimes I pencil an octave across
the sky, when it grows blue, I sense 
the sea burn and blisters on my skin. 
When I was younger, I used to wonder 
why seagulls in certain oceans had to 

sound like falcons toward the onset 
of autumn. I belong to that ocean where 
Odysseus returned to Ithaca slaying 
the lotophagi. Borne of thought, 
in the cast of Pallas, we could persuade 

Neptune without a disguise or Ravan 
without burning the island. Yet a woman
has to grow into a blood moon sometimes, 
grow an arc to leap across the tides. 
At one point she would cross the boundaries 

of Earth and eclipse the shadows lurking
around the horizon. On the last day 
of spring,  hyacinths grow by the lagoon of 
rancour in the promise of redemption. I wonder 
how the female dragonfly deals with the times

she feels the need to rise beyond the lake 
and go right into the moon’s cold breath. 
Frozen in her words, I wonder how the female
centipede meets with an earthquake, 
in deep meditation inside the hollow of the oak tree.

Smitha Sehgal is a legal professional in Govt of India CPSE and a bilingual poet who writes in English and Malayalam. Her poems have been featured in contemporary literary publications such as Usawa Literary Journal, EKL Review, Madras Courier, Ink Sweat & Tears and elsewhere. 

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