Category: Poetry

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Poetry

Poetry by Rhys Hughes

Courtesy: Creative Commons
THE FLAVOUR

There was a bird
who pecked a cake
and scattered crumbs
around the lake.
There was a monkey
with sore thumbs
who took a rake and cleaned them up.
There was a ship
out on the water
that had lost its fleet
just as a calf might stray from a herd
and close to shore
it observed the details of this feeding
and all other proceedings
between itself and the distant chateau
and rather wondered
at the flavour
of the shattered gateau
that had despoiled a lakeside that 
looks nicer neat
and concluded it tasted
quite like an unwashed yeti’s feet.


 
OH NOAH

I have been
thinking
about Noah’s Ark
and wondering
where
Noah put
the woodpeckers.

Including them
seems wrong.

Then it occurred
to me that
they made
the portholes
as the boat
went floating along.
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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Poetry

Two Poems by David Francis

Art by Hennie Niemann(2020). Courtesy: Creative Commons
SENTIMENTAL PAST


She has a sentimental past
of old friends, of an ideal love
of friends she misses dearly,
of shared laughter that leaves an ache
that no one new can now ease,
no one else can ever fill,
you can never take
their place: nor should;
they remain, but are far away…
but when her face looks sick, or dead
and she thinks of him instead
of a passion still-smouldering
if only for a full instant
like a toppling revelation
of a colossal mistake
the realisation
of being on the wrong highway
that is to say: with you --

She has a sentimental life
of homesickness and heartbrokenness

I know
because the tears start to flow


WHAT IS THE WAY?


A compliment is the way to your heart
but your heart perversely seeks its pleasure
and, latching onto him, would rather smart
than be its boring admirer’s treasure.

Intimacy, pure and undemanding,
falls into your lap and graces your day --
how have you merited understanding
and now with indifference throw it away?

“How” is the question one wishes one knew.
Meanwhile, apathy makes all hopes shatter.
When you said “You don’t know me” was the clue
and the rest, all the rest doesn’t matter.

For now you’re left with him and I with me
as sun rays glance opaquely off the sea.

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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Poetry

Poetry by Gayatri Majumdar

Gayatri Majumdar
SURRENDER
Tiny fish shift the fluorescence of your eye,
the red, yellow, fuchsia gaze of flowers
remain the same.

You would think tonight the moon
would chase a random supernova
exploding your heart

With a sky lowered spooned by a sea,
butterflies leave patterns marbling time
yellow, black and moss

Your hair falls into the eye of an impending storm
shifting about mauve lily leaves to the edge of sleep,
Pothos giants scaling the green fever of silence – 
sometimes too much can be said.

Now then beside the chipped bricks of last millennia’s debris
against myths and homes of owls, parrots, geckos, baby squirrels

Inevitably jump-start 
                           from light portals around leaves and deep hurts
to lost causes and terracotta bells.

With great difficulty the bees on your grey-striped shirt, escape – 
tonight they plan to make nectar

And this red staircase – damaged, broken – climbs nowhere

Stuck in forever

Which is now cupped in the palms of your heart
held out to pray.

Water-green dragonflies force the lilies coming out
as the night’s Indian lilacs, rusty leaves crackling 
carpet this page white – their fragrance rhapsodic – 
how will this inebriated night end

Spinning as it is with make-believes, fights over territories,
creepy crawly things?

Gayatri Majumdar, the founder of The Brown Critique (1995–2015), has authored six books. She co-founded ‘Pondicherry Poets’ and curates numerous poetry/music events. Gayatri is associated with Sri Aurobindo Society in Pondicherry

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Poetry

God and Limited Shelf Life

By Saranyan BV

Courtesy: Creative Commons
The sound of raindrops
Made sweeter through night
By the tin shade outside my window,
The chill in the air has stories of
The days we were lost in the woods,
In the wattle forest fighting for cover
Watching lake-waves in subtle throes.

Dreams come like flush of meadows
I roll back and watch shadows and lights 
Bouncing in equal proportions
Through maple leaf drapes.
In the dark, curtains have no colours.

The green carpet tells of the spilled drops of tea,
Fallen crumbs of the vanilla cake and more,
Mere illusions of having been too long
In that lonesome lodge.

Dreams come with crows in rainbow feathers,
Petite beaks, not longer than what eyes could see,
Heads crested with crowns dipped in chrysanthemum pollen;
The pillow reeks of the perfume
Of the woman who slept last, or of her jasmine.
I roll again as if to end the dream.

Dreams have a way of haunting
Like Gods who have limited shelf life
Gods who rise and die with us.

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

Two poems by Jim Bellamy

Courtesy:Creative Commons
WE CANNOT HEAR THE SLEEP OF WORDS

We cannot hear the sleep of words
Under the seas, under the flowers, under the tides of out lots
And the bustling over sheets in skies depleting
Or our infinite whispers unheard. How
Inevitable silence whisks us is the tune
That, like the spires of monks, grows tired with the trends
And, dreaming about the text,
Shies into the fire. Words
Are as remote as the stars and their staring dawn,
As perceived as God. Does
This quiet sleep of words hide schemes, hide fears?
Does the last lash of the wind and the failing wing
Outwardly spiel an end? Let us listen,

Open the mind and listen
For a sigh, a sign
Of speaking unadorned. There is
No cry, there is only
The one weathered night whose wakefulness stings and
Hoots the Word over and over
Until the speaking dies.

A KIND OF DECALOGUE

Item, an animal, and how it changes shape,
Now a slick leopard, then a white air
Of tigress, ape or lemur. The forms won’t take
One simple pattern for long. Item, the crow
And then the simple blackbird, gathering up
Hunted petals. Item, a demesne of guns
Hotly presented to a potted face,
A shaft of holly leaves, darkness begun

And flapped astray. Item, motors without grace,
Churning the fair aside. Item, the bones
Of reservations, now Plot One, Plot Two
Purveyed by engineers.
The hunters are half-conscious of their Deeds
And cackle. Signs are made, sometimes honed,
And then the silent Blue

Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.

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Poetry

Three poems by Irma Kurti

Photo Courtesy: Biagio Fortini
RAIN AND TEARS

Can the tears be wiped off in a day
like this, or hidden behind my dark 
glasses, when the sun doesn’t shine, 
when the dark gray clouds invade
the sky, brewing the storm within?

Can the tears be wiped off on a day
like this, or can they be disguised?
The rain descends from the heavy 
clouds, hitting my hair and glasses;
hard to distinguish rain from tears. 


AMID THE PAINS

When you smile amid the pains, 
Father, it is not like a ray of sun 
in a cloudy sky, nor a rainbow in 
the tempest, nor a happiness or a
joy that enlightens my heart.

When you smile amid the pains
that don’t leave your weak body,
I see the portrait of this life filled
with beauty and pain, light and 
shade, joy and despair, and then,
my fragility turns into strength.


THE NECKLACE

Don’t shed tears in front of people
who consider them raindrops that 
flood their road—people that can’t
feel your sorrow, the ones that go
away not to sadden themselves.
 
Tears now roll down your cheeks,
and slowly, they reach your neck, 
form the most beautiful necklace,
so clear, limpid, and transparent.

Irma Kurti is an Albanian poetess, writer, lyricist, journalist, and translator. She is a naturalised Italian. She has won numerous literary prizes and awards in Italy and Italian Switzerland. Irma Kurti has published 26 books in Albanian, 17 in Italian, 8 in English and two in French. She is also the translator of 11 books of different authors and of all her books in Italian and English.  

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Poetry

Where is Home?

By Shivani Shrivastav

Courtesy: Creative Commons
They say home is where the heart is.
I ask what if the heart is shattered
Into so many pieces that I know not where they went
Scattered in different directions.
Even if I find them 
And put them together
They will always show the cracks.
Where is Home now?

They say home is where love is.
I ask what if love has fled,
Hiding from reproach,
Hurt and embittered,
Not knowing where to turn,
Afraid of blind alleys
Where is Home now?

They say home is where you are Whole.
I ask will I ever then be One,
Being pulled in so many directions,
Unable to do anything but simply flow
Along with whatever current guides my life.
I have lost all bearings.
Where is Home now?

Home oh home!
Is it in the eyes of strangers,
In the gently falling rain on my head,
In the sun-dappled hills of a faraway town,
In the rays of the setting sun,
Or right here,
Next to You?

 Shivani Shrivastav is a a UK CGI Chartered Secretary and a Governance Professional/CS. She loves meditation, photography, writing, French and creating.

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Poetry

Jajangmyeon Love

Written in Korean & translated by Ihlwha Choi

Jajangmyeon noodles. Courtesy: Creative Commons
JAJANGMYEON LOVE

After so long I have found myself at the campus where
She would walk alongside that simple good-for-nothing boy
With a smile on her face.

I had set my sights on her.
She, who would always be next to that beastly boy.
Anyhow I was attracted to her and even if it was only once
I wanted to eat jajangmyeon* with her.

I found out her mother suffered from polio,
I found out her father had remarried.
Would she want to hide her limping mother?
As I thought these limping thoughts
I wanted to eat jajangmyeon with her.

I was a young single man.
She was like a bird fluttering here and there.
I gazed up to the sky where she soared.

After so long I am sitting on the bench I sat on
When I was in love with her.
Looking upwards and backwards into the sky from the past.
In that car park, there are more cars than I remember,
As I watch the students walking by, I think to myself
Are they junior colleagues of mine?

Unable to find part-time jobs they walk hurriedly,
Only their footsteps are quick.
Could there be among these boys one who holds someone
Close to his heart,
Without a word, someone he would like to eat jajangmyeon with?

Her steps-- they come and go -- have after all this time
Reached a crossroad.
The traffic lights from the past flicker.
Was she the only one I have ever lost?
The cars they keep coming the traffic lights are red.

*Black bean sauce noodles.

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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Poetry

I Gather Words…

By Ms. Shareefa Beegam PP

WORDS

I gather words, 
As a forest gathers sunlight through the interstices,
As a hut collects light through the crevices of a thatched roof.
The book I open is the sun that is ready
To beam into the depths of the earth in full swing,
But is impeded by the dough made in between
Neighbours ringing the doorbell.

I read a sentence,
And someone pops up from nowhere
Demanding a chit-chat I can’t shake off.
I read the next line --
It stumbles on twigs and leaves,
Orders of tea and snacks,
Demands for meals to be cooked and served,
To water plants,
Relentless demands of the household.

I read one more line and I am held up by offshoots.
My boy comes asking me to join him,
If not in play, to nap with him,
 “Please don’t read Mama, simply look at me.”

Dropping on these leaves and limbs,
The light in its fullness forms rays and showers.
Still, I get glimpses to gather,
The filtered vignettes of lights and beams
 I convert into,
Lightning and thunder.

Shareefa Beegam PP is an academic and a writer from India. She is an Assistant Professor at PSMO College, Tirurangadi, Kerala. She is also a researcher at Farook College, Calicut. She has translated contemporary Malayalam stories into English.

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Categories
Poetry

Cooking in Eden

By Arshi Mortuza

HOW TO COOK TENDER WOMEN

Preheat your ovens
because we are about to get cooking.
Today we are cooking females --
The tender kind.

It’s a fairly simple recipe --
All you need are ribs, apparently.
From a cow, a pig, or a man.

Cook your female for nine months.
And once she’s out --
raise her,
braise her.

Ask them feasters how they like their meat.
With just the right amount of seasonings,
Just the right amount of saucy.

Make sure she’s tender,
And stays humble to her roots -- the rib.
For the first batch of women 
were surely a wasteful plate. 


EDEN STEAKHOUSE

Welcome to Eden Steakhouse
I’m your server, Gabriel. 
Tonight’s special are our ribs
Ribs that come from 
100% grass fed men. 

Vegetarian options are available.
Veggies grown in our backyard soil
The same soil that made Adam.
The same soil, that in a trial and error, 
made his first wife.

But c’mon- this is a steakhouse
A place of meat and masculinity.
May I suggest having soil grown plants in your salad --
And ribs as your main course? 

Ribs it is? Excellent choice, Sir!
And for the lady? A stack of ribs too.
How cannibalistic.  

Let me also add that all fruit desserts 
Are off the menu tonight. 
How about 
some fig leaves and shame to go?

Arshi Mortuza is the author of the poetry collection, One Minute Past Midnight. She has a MA in English Literature from Queen’s University.

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