Categories
Poetry

The Not-So-Glum Panjandrum

Nonsense verses by Rhys Hughes

Courtesy: Creative Commons
The Not-So-Glum Panjandrum
likes to play the drums
on every day of the month of May
and in the night-time too.
If you happen to be his guest
when his fingers are twitching
and his drums are itching
to be played, you will surely find
it most bewitching
while he sits in the kitchen
to listen to his rhythms. They go:
        tikky tak tok, boom blam bash,
        takky tok tik, blam boom bong!

And often when the owls hoot
in the garden where the suits
are flapping on the washing line,
he adds a cymbal to his kit,
hits it with a thimble on the end of a stick,
keeps the rhythm steady.
It must be a symbol
of something profound,
and the total result, at least I have found,
sounds somewhat, if not a lot,
like this… Are you ready?
        tikky tak tok, boom blam ting,
        takky tok tik, ping ding bling!

He often smiles while drumming
and his eyes are running
with tears of joy. His drums are toys
that must be played with
in order to make a compelling noise
and if you aren’t careful
he’ll expect you to sing along
in the music room
while his fingers rapidly tap
a pulsating jazzy racket
after he removes his jacket:
        boom shack, a whack and clack,
        ching bing bong, shack a boom!


Sing along? you cry in alarm
for you know that your voice
can do great harm
to innocent bystanders
but the Not-So-Glum Panjandrum
refuses to accept excuses.
And so, abandoned by the Muses,
you open your mouth
while he beats out his rhythm,
like a mathematical lumberjack
chopping up logarithms,
and this is what you croon:
       yowdle curdle, furdle durdle,
       screechy vichy, bongo blighty,
       bangy wangy, shrieky speaky,
       warble burble, yubble wubble! 


And now the month of May is over
and silence reigns
yet again.

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

Rendezvous

Poetry By Sanjukta Dasgupta

RENDEZVOUS

Every midnight I live a little
As you appear out of the horizon
To hold me in a dream
Every night sleep seems
To be an entry ticket 
To the boudoir of fantasies

As we hold each other
The grip sways 
Between a clutch and a touch
The embrace of the vibrant Unreal
Enlivens the comatose Real

Every midnight I die a little
I stretch my arms
And hold each dream 
Breathless in ecstasy 
Drunk with the elixir
That only dreams can stir

Happiness jerks me out of sleep
Dreams disturbed
Lie like glass shards underfoot
The dreamless daze of day
Living death everyday

Waiting to wake up 
In your arms again my love
When midnight strikes
And dreams of you 
Dispel living death. 

 Sanjukta Dasgupta is a poet, critic, short story writer and translator. Indomitable Draupadi (2022) is her eighth book of poems.

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Categories
Poetry

1914 by Amit Parmessur

Amit Parmessur
1914

A foot kicks a ball out of a mortal trench.
It hangs like a mud-coated bomb in the air
and lands before the approaching enemy.

After the silence, men of both hues rally
and embrace and rush to No Man’s Land for an
overdue chitchat and kickabout. Wishes

traded and gay carols hummed, they soon let loose,
following the leathery sphere as it glides
over the frozen mud. And if a player

fires it into the forlorn barbed wire, they go
to bring it back together. Caked in wet clay,
they cover, tackle, attack—all in fair play.

And when the goalies fly like horizontal
rockets to deny deadly shots, the crowd goes
wild. During the little break, merry jokes on

meeting under the mistletoe are cracked. The
game is done when the moon spills the holy clouds
to have a peek. Everyone forgets the score.

Under the chilly stars further down the line,
wine and sausages are swapped for chocolate
and cigarettes. Christmas trees are lit, looking

like fat rondel daggers full of bliss, of peace.
But the talkative tongues of War soon fan the
fiery ears of the superiors with news

of this rash, monstrous fraternity; orders
are given to forget (Instantly!) this lull
and gun the old foes down at the crack of dawn.

Extra time: Heinrich, Herbert, Harald, Helmutt
versus Oliver, Oscar, Ollie, Owen...

Amit Parmessur is from Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius. He spent his adolescence hating poetry before falling in love with its beauty. His poems have appeared in several online magazines, namely The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal.

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Categories
Poetry

My friend, Maria Kirichenko by Vineetha Mekkoth

Painting by Ukranian artist, Maria Kirichinko, as mentioned in the poem
My friend, Maria Kirichenko, is an artist
Her paintings are so real
I love the way she captures the light
That falls on the side of a house
In the woods by the fields
There's a brilliance there
There's life in those paintings
She draws people too
Some smiling, some serious
She lives in Ukraine
She shares pictures of the war
Her country under siege
I worry
I worry about her, her art, her life
I worry about the life, lives around her
I message her to stay safe for that's all that I can do
I, like many others, am a silent witness
I do not want to know the nitty-gritty
Of what is politically right
Or left or centre
Politics of war are men's creation
My thoughts are from the human angle
All I care for is that my friend is happy and safe
I want the attacks to stop. Childish me.
Or are these just the normal thoughts of a woman?
Women go to war only if attacked.
Not for material needs. Not out of greed.
Not for power. Never out of ambition.
Maybe countries should be run by women
There would be less aggression
And as my thoughts go round in circles
I think of Maria Kirichenko
I think of her beautiful paintings
I think of the once pristine land of Ukraine
And hope that light dawns with the coming year
In the minds of men

Vineetha Mekkoth is a poet, writer, translator, editor and reviewer. She has translated for the Kerala Sahitya Akademi and has also contributed articles for the Malayalam Literary Survey, a quarterly brought out by the Akademi. Her poems and short stories have been included in various anthologies.

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Categories
Poetry

History by Masud Khan

Translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from the Bengali poem, Itihas (History)

Masud Khan
How then can an authentic history of the world be written? The one who writes— who is he and where is he writing from? When is he writing? From which vantage point is he writing and for what reason? All these factors will decide the truth of the history. And in any case the subject itself is bound by its own conventions and is inevitably subjective.

Is it then impossible to write an authentic history of the world?

No! In the light already reflected from the surface of the world till now is impressed the history of the world— chronologically! Which is to say, the history of the world is in the light dispersed from the world. And that must be authentic version of the history of the world since it’s being written naturally. Perhaps in kingdom after kingdom of the cosmos someone or the other is sighting that history through telescopes, unknown to us all.

But will such a history be absolutely authentic? What about the chapters of history that are dark and depressing? Of episodes that have been denuded of light and have become shrouded in darkness and decadence? Of episodes that have never exuded light and will never reflect any radiance anywhere? What about them?

And what about the history of people who are dark or tan-brown?

Perhaps their evolution has become blurred in the lenses of telescopes; perhaps their histories have become obscure in the telling— since they are dark and tan-brown; perhaps because they are able to transmit only a feeble light they are deemed to be totally incapable of reflecting any light at all!

Does this mean that the history of dark and tan-brown people will remain obscure forever in the history of mankind? And in nature? Bereft of light and therefore of history too?

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

In the Coldest Desert

By Swati Mazta

Waking up at dawn, raise the curtains,
Gaze at the snow-capped mountains
From the Arctic room window.
It seems a true treat for your eyes and your soul.
 
Scan the mountain through plastic-insulated windows
For Himalayan brown bears, snow leopards or ibex goats.
May luck be with you next time!
Till then, enjoy your love with fur on four paws.
 
Relish lip-smacking hot black coffee
In a beautiful ceramic blue cup!
Munch on some coconut cookies
All the time, think of the glee club.
 
Hear the chirping of pigeons and magpies.
As the breeze flows, the wind chimes tinkle.
It feels pretty comfortable and soothing,
Like someone pouring honey into the ears.
 
As the day begins,
Flush the body of toxins,
Dry clean your body with warm water-soaked muslin
Apply a little oil massage to rejuvenate your skin.
 
Put on insulated, comfortable clothing --
A woollen cap, socks, fur boots.
Keep yourself warm on this day --
A new day, a new beginning.
 
Let go of tomorrow...
Today is your day to shine.
Oh, my dear, the little things keep you going.
These little longings are tinkling!

Swati Mazta is an Assistant Professor in the department of English at the University of Ladakh, Kargil Campus, Khumbathang, Kargil, UT Ladakh, India.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Chad Norman

Chad Norman
PRIVILEGE IN TWO MOMENTS

1
To witness
the end of
so many
leaves' lives.

2

Along with
notification
being a tap
on the shoulder
from just one
with a farewell.

THE MORNING ACTIVIST
(In honour of the mothers in Ukraine)

Peace is
a female cardinal
eating snow
left by high-winds
between the needles
of a back-yard fir.

Chad Norman lives and writes in Truro, Nova Scotia. In 1992, he was awarded the Gwendolyn MacEwen Memorial Award For Poetry. The judges were Margaret Atwood, Barry Callaghan, and Al Purdy. His poems appear in journals, magazines, anthologies around the world. A new book, A Matter Of Inclusion is out now.

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Categories
Poetry

‘Dreams are Like Stars’

Poetry by Mitra Samal

GLOW OF DARKNESS

Dreams are like stars, each one
has them on their share of the sky
Glistening and in its light
spreading an ocean of hope
They come only in the shades
of the night and in the shadow
of our thoughts
In a state that isn’t real but
has a tiny connection with
the dimensions of life
It twinkles its way into a path
that lies hidden from the conscious
mind, only to show the possibilities
shielded by the blinding light
The glaze of aristocracy 
doesn’t shine on a plebeian
An unknown path is where all 
the known paths must lead
It is what the open eyes always
fail to comprehend
The eternal glow of darkness
waiting to be discovered 


CANDLE

It’s a candle fighting against
the darkness, for the ill-fated
electric bulb that failed to glow
It’s a candle that burns every
atom in it for the mood lifting
aroma and the flicker of light
It isn’t enough to keep you warm
in the chill of winter but
glows enough to ignite your mind
in the haunting absence of light
A candle that dies with the night
Giving way to more candles that
must keep burning till the breaking
dawn, for the moon isn’t enough
and the light bulb isn’t reliable
A candle that is rumoured to
raise the dead from their grave
I write with the glowing candle
in the faint moonlight
I pray with the candle to
strengthen my devotion
A candle that made a pledge to
sacrifice till the last whit of its life

Mitra Samal writes poems and stories or memoirs. Her recent poetry book called Beginning was published in 2018. Her poems have been published in Poetry Society India, Muse India, Borderless Journal, Madras Courier, Setu, The Punch Magazine, Dissident Voice and FemAsia among others.

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Categories
Poetry

Fragrance

By Priyanka Panwar

The stillness of love
No language
No haste
A calm touches the air;
your heart sits in one place
after having slogged for years.
The aroma of chai 
and the sound of rain drops
‘tis the only truth out there.

Love 
that blooms
in the wildest weather
and touches the ground
on a soft, winter morning;
shedding and giving. 

Ready for the morning prayers;
Living in the fragrance that is left behind.


Priyanka Panwar teaches English at University of Delhi. When she isn’t reading or teaching, she likes to travel and observe. A movie buff and a voracious reader; on most days she dreams of coffee and mountains.

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Categories
Poetry

Accounting Acronyms

Poetry by Rhys Hughes

ACRONYMS OF AFFECTION AND OPPOSITION

(i)
Significant
Other
Unique
Lover

     Makes
     A cup of
     Tea
     Every morning.

(ii)
Boundless
Energy for playing
Scrabble and
Travelling to the beach

      For fabulous frolics
      Relentless
      In the
      Endless
      Nocturnal
      Delightful surf

(iii)
Anachronistic 
Ruffian
Chews
His grudges

      Eternally
      Never
      Expecting to
      Make friends again with
      You (but they do)


 
NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTE

There’s no accounting for taste
and in my haste
to attempt to complete
a sweet and savoury tax return
I made a mistake
and ruined my chances of a rebate.
In future I will employ
a taste accountant
who will check the receipts
of everything I eat
in any gastronomic year.

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.

.

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

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