Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Three Poems by Sanket Mhatre

Sanket Mhatre
THE FESTIVALS OF MIND 
We roister when a word bursts into a million atoms 
Each atom carrying the ink of thousand suns 
from one infinity to the next 
through blood streams 
We gyrate when we find the skin of our nuances 
melting into history’s conscious 
We revel secretly when the universe whispers a dark truth  
A firecracker erupting in our bones
For hours, we keep tying and untying tributaries of time
disentangling one soul from the next 
until we catch our dragonfly tailing past in alphabets 
tie them together with uneven hooks 
of kaanas and maatras, rhasvas and dirghas *
in a string of verses that light up against the evening sky 
Them blinking: a language of the unspoken
We gambol on discovering the lost sheets of an age
as we raise a toast to an empty labyrinth of chairs 
when a poem gets published, unexpectedly  
Like an accidental child or
a rocket dying a fragmented death 
by morphing into countless crackers that sends ripples
through the Prussian sky
We celebrate the festivals of our mind 
unknown to any calendar
uncharted by any astrologer
yet 

*different accents in Indian languages highlighting pronunciations


MATHEMATICS OF LUMINESCENCE
 
Light loses its equation on discovering the orifice
Yellow multiplies yellow, sprawls like an overnight rainforest
The amorphous supplicating the symmetry 
 
A beat erases from the history of her moment
Chest convulses under a string of lost screams
As if, an Atlantis was stolen overnight
-        She still doesn’t know the misery of her departure
 
Meanwhile, her face turns brighter
A wooden cottage caught in the web of sunlight
A chaparral waking up or -
a desert closing its eyes
while luminescence finds meaning
in its own circle
behind her

FEAR IS AN UNWANTED CHILD

Fear is... 
            ...a shooting star from the deep 
            ink of unwritten possibilities

            ...a nagging piece of bulb that 
            blinks in an unilluminated sky

Fear is...
           ...a faint smile of pink 
              on a weary face with broken 
              eyes that forgot to forgive

           ...a sneering bastard that 
          gesticulates at the flesh 
          of your heart even when it is dripping, tense 

Fear is...
          a gash on the skin of hope
          a glitch on the contours of time 

Fear is... 
            a poem written in the underbelly 
            of two thoughts in a bid to slay

before it rebirths 
an unwanted child

Sanket Mhatre has been featured at Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, Jaipur Literature Festival and Glass House Poetry Festival. His first book of cross-translated poems, The Coordinates Of Us won the prestigious Raza Foundation Grant after been shortlisted at iWrite2020 at Jaipur Literature Festival. Sanket’s poems have appeared in multiple anthologies such as Shape Of A Poem, The Well Earned, Home Anthology by Brown Critique, Poetry Conclave Yearbook as well as literary magazines such as Punch, Borderless, Muse India, Madras Courier, The Usawa Literary Review, Men Matters Online, Anthology by Querencia Press and many others.   

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Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Poetry

Hands, Tentacles & Paws?

Poetry by Rhys Hughes

IF I SAW A MONKEY

If I saw a monkey
sailing on the sea
I might feel inclined to laugh –
but not with
     a tee hee hee.
It seems to me
that a ho ho ho
would better fit the rhythm
of the oars
     in his paws
     as he rows
     with his toes while the juice
     flows below
his banana canoe as he paddles
across the ocean
with a regular motion 
all the way to say
               hello to you.

Wait!
Do monkeys
actually have paws?

 

A FAN OF HANDS

I’m a fan of hands,
I am.
Tentacles
are all well and good
under the sea
and I don’t agree
that they never suit
the environmental mood
but when it’s time
for a cup of tea
on the beach, 
hands are handy
and although it’s sandy
we can reach
for the plate of biscuits
with more ease
and alacrity.
And when it’s too hot
there’s not
a lot we can do
to cool our brows
if we don’t have a fan
of hands.
Courtesy: Creative Commons

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

Kurigram

By Masud Khan: Translated from Bangla by Professor Fakrul Alam

Courtesy: Creative Commons
I’ve never been to Kurigram.

In the dead of night, sleeping Kurigram steadily detaches itself 
From the world that we know.
Ignores gravity completely 
Taking off with its tiny kingdom 
To some far-off galaxy.

We keep looking then at the deep blue of the sky 
While the tiny village becomes a speck up high.

For a long while Kurigram floats from one dome of heaven to another.
Till that star in the southern sky that pursued it so single-mindedly 
Settles by its side and claims it as its own.
Then from this new luminary
A mild red vaporous smell wafts across the sky.

In that realm, in Kurigram,
The Kingfisher and the Pankouri bird are stepbrothers. 
When all the rivers of Kurigram become calm
The two brothers make the river their home 
Squabbling with each other like families bickering!

When the river calms down again
The womenfolk, once bound by scriptural edicts, 
Throng to the riverbank.
Breaking all barriers,
They sparkle like large resplendent crystals.
 
Suddenly, a lonely babui bird, sans weaving skills, 
Perched on a battered old mast, starts swinging,
Finally settling down on the translucent steel-foiled river water. 
Kurigram, ah Kurigram!

Where Kurigram used to be
Is a dark and solitary space now.

Alas, I’ve never been to Kurigram
And I don’t think I ever will!

Kurigram—An innocuous town located in the northern region of Bangladesh
Paankouri—A species of bird, black in colour, found in marshes and rivers
Babui—A species of weaving bird
Kurigram is marked in red. Courtesy: Creative Commons

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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Categories
Poetry

I sing the body plastic by Kirpal Singh 

Painting by Gita Viswanath
Yes, electric is gone, now it’s plastic—
From sex to food to procreation
Plastic rules the day and rues our time
Making it all easy and oh so convenient! 

All is plastic save, possibly, the brain;
This mass of nerves and neurons
Mirrors the bewilderment outside
Where people die and kill and cry

Where O where is the human 
We crave for meaninglessly?
In the dust bins of our hearts 
Mangled and confused, dying.

Save us O Lord, save us. Save.

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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Categories
Poetry

That Smile on the Vendor’s Face

By Pragya Bajpai

Courtesy: Creative Commons
 
Yet again, I land in a new city, a new rented flat
After a long day’s work, I plan
to treat myself like royalty tonight
I imagine creamy mushroom risotto
that melts under the palette and complements wine
 
My appetite isn't willing to compromise
even though it’s late evening
Half of the stalls in the market
are wrapped in rags indicating
closure for the day
Some vendors have earned enough
to feed their family today
 
I silently look around for fresh mushrooms
in the unfamiliar narrow lanes
eyes scanning kaleidoscopic vegetable heaps
surrounding old and young women
hiding helplessness with grace
in the folds and gathers of the ageless fabric
that survives every weather
 
Their hopeful eyes follow me 
Probably, their enough-for-the-day is yet to be
One of them tells me coldly, 
"You won't find in poor man's market what's meant for the rich"
and that hit me
 
I change my mind and buy fresh vegetables instead
for a colourful salad too complements French wine
That instant energy
that one smile on the vendor’s face
was worth it

Pragya Bajpai, Ph.D., is serving at the National Defence Academy, Pune. She has authored a collection of poems and has edited four anthologies celebrating the armed forces. pragyabajpai@gmail.com Instagram: pragyabajpai29

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Categories
Poetry

Three Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Drawing by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
LONG NIGHTS

In their speaking,
long nights
can’t stop weeping,
their sorrow transforms
into song
no man could hum.

The white moon can
hear it
and weeps as well.
The stars shine on in
clear skies
with unseen tears.

Snow falls gently
at night
and in the day.
Time cries and cries.

In their speaking
long nights
can’t stop weeping.


WHEN MY DESIRES BEGIN TO FADE

When my desires begin to fade,
that is when my senses will return.
I will take a small breath, a sigh,
and let the darkness come. I will
listen to the melody of night birds,
and hope my desires do not return.

THE DEAD LIVE IN MY DREAMS

The dead live in my dreams.
They wait for me to fall asleep.
Some are dear to me and
some are diabolical.

Decomposed and frail, they
walk like children taking their first
steps. Some walk with a limp.
I find it disconcerting.

I talk to those I love
again. I ask them to pray for
me. They are always waiting
for my body to tire out.

I listen to their complaints.
I wake up and remember what
they said. Some talk without breath.
Others do not utter a word.

Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozáballives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA.His poetry has been published by Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Escape Into Life, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, SETU, and Unlikely Stories.

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Categories
Poetry

Today’s Child by Atta Shad

Translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Today’s child,
Tomorrow’s father,
A star of hope for the days ahead,
May you forever glow like moonlight!
 
From the ocean of the sky,
Countless stars sprinkle pearls of light.
Yet the dark night
Spreads out its tattered cloak.
Howsoever, it remains bright
Night is but night.
 
The moon is alone --
But it's a beacon of light,
The spirit of tomorrow’s hopes,
The soul of the night nibbled, glows
A harbinger of dawn,
A gift of the morn.
 
Countless are the stars
The moon is alone.
But absolute is its light.
 
Today’s child,
Tomorrow’s father,
Your little world --
Whether you drag it into a dark night,
Or illuminate it with moonlight.
 
Today’s child,
Tomorrow’s father,
A star of hope,
May you glow like the moonlight!

Atta Shad (1939-1997) is the most revered and cherished modern Balochi poet. He instilled a new spirit in the moribund body of modern Balochi poetry in the early 1950s when the latter was drastically paralysed by the influence of Persian and Urdu poetry. Atta Shad gave a new orientation to modern Balochi poetry by giving a formidable ground to the free verse, which also brought in its wake a chain of new themes and mode of expression hitherto untouched by Balochi poets. Apart from the popular motifs of love and romance, subjugation and suffering, freedom and liberty, life and its absurdities are a few recurrent themes which appear in Shad’s poetry. What sets Shad apart from the rest of Balochi poets is his subtle, metaphoric and symbolic approach while versifying socio-political themes. He seemed more concerned about the aesthetic sense of art than anything else.

Shad’s poetry anthologies include Roch Ger and Shap Sahaar Andem, which were later collected in a single anthology under the title Gulzameen, posthumously published by the Balochi Academy Quetta in 2015. The translated poem is from Gulzameen.

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. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights of Atta Shad from the publisher.

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Categories
Poetry

Picture in Sepia

By Pragya Bajpai

SEPIA PICTURE

The monsoon is here 
but where do I tie the ropes of my swing 
The trees are missing

The hot summer is back 
but where do I search for shade 
the land is cracking and the trees are missing

The birds are migrating 
searching for a branch to build a nest
They are tired of flying but the trees are missing

I pull out a sepia picture from my pocket
taken thirty years ago
where I'm eating marshmallow 
standing by the lake under the tree shade
waiting for my turn to swing
I'm gazing at the nest 
where a bird is hatching eggs 

I look at the picture again and wonder 
if I've come at the wrong time or
I've come to a wrong place
I don't belong to this dry lake

Pragya Bajpai, Ph.D. is serving at the National Defence Academy, Pune. She has authored a collection of poems and has edited 4 anthologies celebrating the armed forces. pragyabajpai@gmail.com Instagram: pragyabajpai29

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Poetry

More Poetry by David Francis

Madame Manet at Bellevue (1880) painting by Édouard Manet. Courtesy: Creative Commons
TO TERRY

The happy times spent talking in cafés,
staying up all night and walking the blocks
of the old neighbourhood until the sunrays
ruined it all like workaholic clocks.

Exotic films marveled at until dawn
and late late show movies caught on TV,
by turns dead-serious in conversation,
then in tears laughing uproariously.

Surrealism, slapstick and nonsense
and gossip about an inhospitable wife:
all grist to us except current events—
we desired only the romantic life.

The irritation of get-rich-quick schemes;
procrastination of infinite dreams.


NEGLIGENCE

How long had it been—
well, they couldn’t find the grave—
eloquent enough

*******

Over time     
you can’t find the birthplace;
the hospital is bankrupt;
the first house unvisited; 
one play finishes its run:
another on the marquee;
no flowers on the grave
through many seasons


THE PUGILIST

Each fight is distinctive
and, once won,
the impetus is gone.

Who can remember—
so long ago torn—
the struggle to be born?

The next is with family
who blindly neglect
the individual respect.

Then follows the world:
to play that game,
to survive and keep your name.

Always with the self,
faith, purpose, doubt,
moving from inside-out.

The last is with sheer mystery:
the unknown destination
reached through resignation.

Forms of fights subsumed
utterly by their fires.
And so, the fighter retires.

David Francis has produced seven music albums, Always/Far: a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books).  He has written and directed the films, Village Folksinger
(2013) and Memory Journey (2018).  He lives in New York City. 

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Categories
Poetry

Two Poems by Ron Pickett

Courtesy: Creative Commons
FORM VS FUNCTION

Stiletto heels in graveyard sod.
Shorts in a ski lift line.
Sneakers with a tuxedo
Style over substance
An apron over jeans.
Slippers – ever.
Form follows function,
Except when it doesn’t!
The rules we accept
Vs the rules we ignore,
My faded, frayed pale blue floppy hat.
The ultimate victory of Function over Form,
Of Substance over Style, 
Of Utility over Beauty
I love my floppy hat.

FREE LUNCH At CHIPOTLE!

How did we get here?
It’s noon, lunch time as I walk across the parking lot.
Four teenage girls, casually dressed, emerge from Chipotle.
Orders from the Web are on a table near the front door.
Orders paid for, filled and waiting for their owner.
One girl carries a large Chipotle bag.
They walk to a Lexus.
I hear a voice. “Stop I want to look at that bag,”
I see a server from the restaurant following the girls.
They hurriedly get into the car.
The voice repeats, “I want to look at that bag!”
She takes a picture of the license plate.
The girl in the back seat opens her door.
The server takes the bag, looks at the tag.
The car leaves -- quickly. 
It’s an old Lexus.
I hear one of the onlookers ask the server, “How did you know what they were doing?”
“It’s their behaviour!”
I shout to the server, “Great job, Thank you!”
I wonder, “How did we get here?”

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles