Category: Poetry

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Poetry

Whir in the Orbit

By  K.S. Subramanian

WHIR IN THE ORBIT  

The fans' blades are still. 
They sense they will swing
only when I want to warm up,
be ready to set about my day.

When still they look like Yogis,
In evanescent reverie, 
unblemished lotuses in the pond,
 
Untroubled or undismayed by
the coagulating dust on their frame,                                                     
Any more than shrivelled leaves 
Eviscerate the lotus in the pond. 
Time breathes on them,                                                     
leaves no moss on their being.

The day comes alive only 
when they set on their toes. 
Else they are as just vivacious 
as the whir in the orbit.

 K.S.Subramanian, a retired Senior Asst. Editor from The Hindu, has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India.   His poem “Dreams” won the cash award in Asian Age, a daily published from New Delhi. His essays and blogs can be found under his name in http://www.boloji.com.

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Categories
Poetry

The Party is Over

Poetry By Michael R Burch

Courtesy: Creative Commons
THE CENTURY’S WAKE
(Lines written on New Year’s Day at the close of the 20th century and introduction of the 21st century)

Take me home. The party is over,
the century passed—no time for a lover.
And my heart grew heavy
as the fireworks hissed through the dark
over Central Park,
past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee,

hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas.
And my heart grew heavy; 
I felt its disease—
its apathy,
wanting the bright, rhapsodic display
to last more than a single day.

If decay was its rite,
now it has learned to long
for something with more intensity,
more gaudy passion, more song—
like the huddled gay masses,
the wildly-cheering throng.

You ask me—
“How can this be?”
A little more flair,
or perhaps just a little more clarity.
I leave her tonight to the century’s wake;
she disappoints me.

(Originally published by The Centrifugal Eye)

PREMONITION
Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over ...
we stand in the doorway and watch as they go—
each stranger, each acquaintance, each casual lover.  

They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go,
though we know their forced laughter’s the wine ...
then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows 
endlessly on toward Zion ...

and they kiss one another as though they were friends,
and they promise to meet again “soon” ...
but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end,
and the mockingbird calls to the moon ...

and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines,
and the crickets chirp on out of tune ...
and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight,
seem spirits torn loose from their tombs.

And we know their brief lives are just eddies in time,
that their hearts are unreadable runes
to be wiped clean, like slate, by the dark hand of Fate
when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined ...

You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss
as though it were something you loved,
and the tears fill your eyes, brimming with the soft light
of the stars winking sagely above ...

Then you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside;
if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while."
And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie
and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile.

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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Categories
Poetry

Shadow by Jared Carter

Courtesy: Creative Commons
SHADOW

Oh no, not so, and now you say
          that it could not
Have possibly occurred that way,
          the merest thought

It could be otherwise must be
          dismissed. It was
Illusion of some sort -- to see
          the moment pause,

That face appear. You knew how far
          she'd come, but when
You failed to speak, the way things are
          flowed back again.

Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.

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Categories
Poetry

Fun Poems for the New Year

By Michael R Burch

NEW YEAR’S COIN FLIP
 
Rise and shine,
The world is mine!
Let’s get ahead!
 
Or ...
 
Back to bed,
Old sleepyhead,
Dull and supine. 

A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION FOR THE MADNESS OF MARCH HARES
 
March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!
 
This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.
  
 
SONG CYCLE
 
Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!
 
Nay, the future is looking glummer.
Sing us a song of Summer!
 
Too late, there’s a pall over all;
sing us a song of Fall!
 
Desist, since the icicles splinter;
sing us a song of Winter!
 
Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!

THE UNREGAL BEAGLE VS. THE VORACIOUS EAGLE
 
I’d rather see an eagle
than a beagle
because they’re so damn regal. 
 
But when it’s time to wiggle
and to giggle,
I’d rather embrace an angel
than an evil. 
 
And when it’s time to share the same small space,
I’d much rather have a beagle lick my face! 
 
 
OVER(T) SIMPLIFICATION
 
“Keep it simple, stupid.”
 
A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful,
or comforting, or horrifying. Move
the reader, and the world will not reprove
the idiosyncrasies of too few lines,
too many syllables, or offbeat beats.
 
It only matters that she taps her feet
or that he frowns, or smiles, or grimaces,
or sits bemused—a child—as images
of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then . . .
they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen.
 
A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful.

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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Categories
Poetry

Christmas Poem

By Rhys Hughes

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Christmas is coming,
the goose is getting fat,
the moose is getting fatter
(he has eaten all your hats).
Your baldness is appalling
under the midnight sun,
the polar bears are warming
their thumbs around a drum.
Who set the drum on fire?
It wasn’t me or even you,
I think it must have been
that cold mutineering crew
from the good ship Caribou
that sailed to Arctic latitudes
simply to enjoy the view.

Christmas is coming,
the serpent is rather thin,
the stick is getting thinner
(it never poked your dinner).
Your moustache is atrocious
under the northern lights,
the penguins are out of place
after their long-haul flight.
What agent gave them tickets?
It wasn’t me or even you,
I think it must have been
Rubadub Gimp, the limping
chimp or maybe London Zoo.
And as for the walrus: his
bigger moustache appals us.

Christmas is coming,
the rain remains the same,
but now it is frozen hard
(shards bombard the yard).
Your elbows are despicable
under my critical gaze,
the narwhals are practising
seasonal songs of praise.
Who made them so devout?
It wasn’t me or even you,
I think it must have been
Graham Greene in a dream
researching a future theme.
Now regarding the festivities,
I’ll have more pudding, please.

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

Two Sonnets by Asad Latif

Courtesy: Creative Commons
AN INDIA LIKE YOU
For Alma

Footprints in the dust on a Delhi street,
Or Singapore or Washington DC,
The siren world stays faithful at your feet,
But you find her wherever you might be.
And India, too. Tightly, she holds you:
"Never leave me, child. I've nowhere to go."
"I've left?" Alma says. "Indias are too few
to be born in, to see the world, and know.
I'm as Indian as you, India.
It is you, my Bhuvanamohini,
O land of immortals who lie too near
for unlit lamps to show the way to me.
Get a life of your own, female country. 
You've been Bharat always. Now, Bharati."


A TOY FOR YOU
For Ahaan

I've brought a toy for you Master Ahaan.
It's so large I can't get it through the door.
Come out and take a look, my sweet insaan
And it will remain just yours evermore.
"This map is blank," you say. "Nothing to see."
Fill it up with the colours of your mind,
With a river that runs through drought, a tree
Still standing, a spot where the sun can find
A freezing child, a school for girls to grow,
Indias made of laughter and of joy,
Harvests for outstretched hands to overflow
For all time to come. This map is your toy.
Al-Hind is your Āsthā, Bharat's Imân:
Do bigha zameen. Ek mutthi asmaan.


Glossary:
Bhuvanamohini: Charmer of the world
insaan: human being
Āsthā is the Sanskrit, and Imân the Arabic,  for faith
Do bigha zameen. Ek mutthi asmaan: Two acres of land. A fistful of sky

Asad Latif is a Singapore-based journalist. He can be contacted at badiarghat@gmail.com.

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Categories
Poetry

The Decliner

By Santosh Bakaya

Courtesy: Creative Commons
THE DECLINER

“Never seen a wife writing poems at her husband’s expense,”  
Remarked the aggrieved one with an expression very tense.
At me, he waved one almost-threatening admonitory finger,
the other on the mobile screen continued to resiliently linger.
  
One eye watched Miss Marple on the television screen.
The other keen on the cricket match on the mobile screen.
“How can anyone caricaturize ones’ husband, beats me,”
Said the bitter-half, sipping absently from the cup of tea.

“Hey, were you not on the verge of completing your book?”
I remarked, handing him the third cup, with an angry look.
“Hey, my protagonist is shovelling snow from the driveway.
Don’t disturb me, I beseech you, desist from nagging, I pray.
 
 And by the way, I see your ways you are still not mending.
You have been a storyteller, so what if your poems are trending?
Go and finish those novels three, and let me watch the World Cup.”
This cricket enthusiast was now on the offensive; was my time up?

I hastily ran towards my manuscript lying wordlessly on the table.
Hot-hooved horses thudded in my brain reducing it to a stable.
Suddenly a boisterous bellow came to my rescue from husband dear.
He is a jolly good fellow, so at his yells, I never quiver with fear. 
 
In a beseeching tone, he asked me, “What is the spelling of obsession?”
I gaped, scratching my head. No,  this was not a mere hallucination.
Before I could tell him the spelling, he eyed me into total silence.
Frantic his moving finger, furrowed his brow, in his eyes a glint intense.

Whispered he, “Hush, my protagonist is conferring with the butterflies.”
Hissed I, “I am fed up with your untruths, half-truths, and blatant lies.”
“I asked you a  spelling, and you are unspooling synonyms of mendacity."
He capped the pen, glared dangerously at me, and got up with alacrity.  

“There is some missing link, let me go watch Benedict Cumberbatch.
He has solved many a mystery; in him, I am sure to find my match.”
“He is only an actor, not a writer, writing seemingly unending tomes.”
“But, mind you, he is a much-appreciated actor playing Sherlock Holmes.”

This wagging of tongues and battle of wits continued for a  long time.
Who said, a petty squabble, short of fisticuffs between couples, is a crime?  
So right now, both of us are sitting together watching 'The Abominable Bride'.
Folks think we are made for each other, unaware that we just took them for a ride.

Dr. Santosh Bakaya is an academician, poet, essayist, novelist, biographer. She has more than ten books to her credit , her latest books are a biography of Martin Luther King Jr. (Only in Darkness can you see the Stars) and Songs of Belligerence (poetry). She runs a very popular column Morning meanderings in Learning And Creativity.com.

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Categories
Poetry

The Light, the Sun, the Stars…

Poetry & Photographs by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

THE LIGHT

Who has seen the light?
Who has been blinded by the light?
The stars at night, the sun setting,
do you know it is not to be taken lightly?
Have you felt its significance?
Is the woman you love your light?
How much do you believe that?
You are surrounded by light.
Your head is filled with it.
There is a flash of light that shines on you
as your life is in danger.
You feel it on your skin.
It blinds your eyes, touches your heart.
If it ever goes away,
you will go away.
You must not take the light for granted.



MY LIKENESS

Dear, who are you?
My likeness and enemy.
Weaving false stories.
Who may you be?
Am I to blame?
Soft are your punches.
Almost like words.
You want to kill me.
I love you still.

Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives 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, KendraSteiner Editions, Mad Swirl, SETU, and Unlikely Stories.

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Categories
Poetry

Innerworld

By Sutputra Radheye

There is someone. I am
scared of the shadow that forms
in the mirror when I stand in front 
of it. The horns on my head 
freak me out. This can’t be true.
No. Hell no. All of it is an illusion.
It laughs at me. The eyes are red
and they stare through me. A rugged
hand climbs to my throat like a vine.
It strangles me. Save me from this python.
Save me from this devil that lives in me.
It whispers -- urging me to commit sins
and fall. It calls me its fallen angel. 
I don’t want to be. It doesn’t let me sleep.
It keeps talking in my ear to get up
and hone myself. The war against God
is coming. It’s coming sooner than
you think. I stare at the mirror again.
I see the same shadow that looks 
just like me but isn’t me.

Sutputra Radheye is a young poet from India. He has published two poetry collections — Worshipping Bodies(Notion Press) and Inqalaab on the Walls (Delhi Poetry Slam). His works are reflective of the society he lives in and tries to capture the marginalised side of the story.

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Categories
Poetry

Garlanded Guest

By Sharanya B

GARLANDED GUEST

I wish to invite Aphrodite over for chai
Katy Perry will do too
The blue-eyed goddess could arrive
On a dark horse and I shall stand
At the entrance of my brown house 
Too unconventional for a twenty first century conversation but perhaps I could greet her
With a tantalising inquiry
“How are enemies made?”
What fluxes out of your fingertips
Webbing and falling over abstinence
Like a silky cage and for heaven’s sake
Enlighten me on
“How do I make them stay?”

I am blind to anachronism so I 
Couldn’t tell if it’s an Aphrodite or Katy Perry
Brandishing their wisdom 
I would still stop them mid-sentence
To only return with something brewing
In an arabesque teacup

You see, it might be sweltering here
And revenge might be cold
But chai is best served hot

Sharanya B lives in Trivandrum, Kerala and studies English literature. Her poems have been published in several magazines/sites such as Madras Courier, Literary Vibes, Annual anthology by Poetry Society of India and many more.

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