Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

A Grandchild

By Ashok Suri

O, the company of a grandchild!
A joy unparalleled --
There is nothing like this
In the entire world…

To see the little angel 
Sleep in the cradle with a doll,  
Crawl excitedly, 
Scribble cute lines on the wall,
Move with nimble steps around the table,
While you hold the soft little hand,
Fearing the little lamb may fall.

To have the sweet soul
Ride on your shoulders,
Play in your lap,
Hold you back with all her might
When you try to go out,
And rush on all fours towards you
When you come back.

Play hide and seek,
Guide and teach,
Take the little one 
To school, park and beach.
Weave each night new stories
Of kings and queens, angels and fairies,
Till your darling goes to sleep.

O, it’s a delight!
Pure bliss!
Even angels come down on earth
To relish this!
Courtesy: Creative Commons

Ashok Suri is a retiree and is settled with his family in Mumbai. He tries to convey in simple words what he wants to say.

.

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

Categories
Poetry

Black Clouds Drifted

By Sybil Elizabeth Pretious

Courtesy: Creative Commons
BLACK CLOUDS DRIFTED

I floated heavily across the moonlit field.
Above on the cliff, the light graced the wind-dancing grass
For a moment I was still.
Listening … nothing but the sighing.
Black clouds claimed the light
Drifting, secretly drifting.
Wind grasped my hair,
tugged it across my eyes.
Shutters came down.
The light captured behind lids and hair curtain.
Silence but for the wheezing of the wind 
and the roar of the sea. 
Sound surrounding thoughts:
Thoughts drifting like the black clouds.
Solutions? None.
A violent gust and I fall to my knees
A whistling through my heart,
A small prayer ventures out in the blackness.
And then
black clouds drift once more.
The moon captures my sadness
and lifts my soul to breathe again.

 Sybil Pretious writes mainly memoir pieces, paints and composes an occasional poem to reflect her varied life in many countries. Lessons in life are woven into her writing encouraging risk-taking and an appreciation of different cultures. 

.

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

Categories
Poetry

Rhys on the War

Poetry By Rhys Hughes

Courtesy: Creative Commons
POEMS ARE USELESS


Poems are useless
at stopping wars that have started
but wars are more useless
at poetry than poets.
Missiles dipped in the ink of blood
write nothing worthwhile.



PROPAGANDA


The
invaders
are claiming
that we are shelling
     ourselves.

            That's nuts.



THE INVADERS

The invaders came across the land
but tripped on the steppes
and fell down
to death.

 

DICTATORS

Dictators strut
up and down like clowns
wearing big egos
   like oversized shoes.



GENERALLY

Generally
generals bend the knee
to politicians  
while privates have no
leg to stand on
after they leave the trenches.

At least that
is the way it used to be.
Now civilians
are legless too, a footnote
to official history.

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.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not of Borderless Journal.

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

Categories
Poetry

Wars are for Powerful Men

By Sutputra Radheye

Guernica(1937) by Picasso (1881-1973). Courtesy: Creative Commons
COWARD LIKE ME

there was a sea of dead bodies
and a sky of jets passing by
when i scrolled the curtain
of my window this morning

yesterday night was loud
i could hear the firings
the screams and the cry 
for help but like a coward
i hid behind the walls
praying to see the sun again


i know i am not the ideal citizen
but why should i be?
wars are for powerful men
and not a poet like 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.

.

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

Categories
Poetry

I Am Ukraine

Lesya Bakun, a Ukranian Refugee, writes of her country under attack giving courage and hope to the rest of the world.



Ukraine: Courtesy: Creative Commons
REFUGEE IN MY OWN COUNTRY/ I AM UKRAINE 

I am Kharkiv.
I am Volnovakha.
I am Kyiv.
I am the blocked Mariupol on the verge of humanitarian catastrophe.

I am the completely destroyed
City of Shchastia --
That is literally translated as "happiness" --
Where people have to sit in the bomb shelters,
Because nothing else is preserved.
The Russian troops are not letting them out.

I am Ukraine.
I am a fighter. 

I am a refugee
In my own country.

What's in the minds of Russians?

Nine years ago, I was in Strasbourg, France.
Seven years ago, I was in Dublin, Ireland.
Two years ago, I was in Istanbul, Turkey.

Today, I am 
In an internally displaced people’s centre --
In a city that I cannot even publicly disclose
For the security of too many families
Who are fleeing to remain safe.

"The Ukrainian IT company N has left the markets of Russia and Belarus forever".
We should have done it eight years ago.
We should have done it thirty-one years ago.

A lot of my friends are switching from Russian to Ukrainian.
We should have done that thirty-one years ago
So that no one comes to "protect us".

I am the gasoline 
that NATO sent us
Instead of closing the sky -- 
Apparently so that we can burn
The Budapest Memorandum.

We have seen the real face of Russians.
Again,
They negotiated green corridors
And started shelling with heavy weaponry.

Evacuation is cancelled.

"I wish you survival, 
Health
And the closed sky above you."

07.03.2022
Ukraine

Lesya (Oleksandra) Bakun is a polyglot poet and non-formal educator who resides in Ukraine. She has been writing since the age of 14, in Ukrainian, Russian, and English; her poems were published in the local young poets’ anthology. Oleksandra has the ‘young’ and ‘adult’ periods of her writing life, and challenges of each are vividly seen in the words she’s sharing – both as texts and in poetry readings. Her poems revolve around complex themes like trauma, gender, societal issues, relationships, and mental health.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not of Borderless Journal.

Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

GIVE NIGHT

Give night
my purest blessings 

and sky

my deepest thanks,
a solemn sigh,
the lost words
of a child that has
grown too fast.

It is not easy
to watch morning fade.
My eyes fixate on the sun
and the sound of nature
when I close my eyes.
The smell of your
absent scent 

is a smell I miss.
Between you and I,
I dread summer
and its heat
which finds joy

in my suffering. A
day does not go by
where sleeping soothes
these tears.
Suddenly,
the fiery sun
and the smell of you

not being here
reminds me how far
away you are. Funeral 
processions
fill my thoughts. The dead
go to the light.

In this state of being
it is hard to think.

The cool breeze fills the room
as I shake the sheets.
My soft pillow awaits
to take me to a new land.
I open my mind
and give in to sleep.

Give night
my dark blessings
and let the sleeping begin.

TAKEN DOWN

Taken down
by the huge
security guards
at the break
of dawn. This
village is
not for all
of us. I 
feel like First
Blood Rambo.
I just want
a place where
I could sleep
till five in
the a.m.
I will get
off the floor 
at five or
four forty-
five. No one 
is working
here until
six or so.
I was slammed
on my face.
I am not
so pretty.
I look worse
now than I 
did last night.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal is a Mexican-born author, who resides in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Unlikely Stories.

.

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

Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Anasuya Bhar

DUSK
The line of dusk makes itself visible
Not in orangish yellow, but in sullen grey, 
And confused white – 
I yearn towards my tea,
Sip in its golden warmth,
Feel it surging down my parched throat
Along the cold tissues. 
It wizens me -- 
Making me quietly aware 
Of all the days gone by
And how slowly my own sun 
Has passed its noon
And is veering towards its dusky route,
Mostly in grey abandon – 

CODES
There are codes
Unsaid arrangements
Making you act, talk and move
In a pattern specific
Rendering facile, redundant, peripheral
The presence of the other,
Called the outsider,
Who seems to intrude 
Into your closed circles
Of intimacy or conspiracy.  
It is the codes
That determine loyalty and staying – 
Beyond which, there is hardly any saying

DISCOVERY
Again and again
Into the cesspool 
Of confusion, desire and hurt,
Of misgivings and disbeliefs too, 
Sinks the sad heart – 
Until one discovers how
The deliverer is the destroyer. 
Again and again 
One realises
The slips so made and,
In the clarity
One perceives
The dynamics of play.

Dr. Anasuya Bhar is an academic teaching English literature in St. Paul’s Cathedral Mission College, Kolkata, India. She would also want to be known as a poet.

.

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

Categories
Poetry

Seaside Reverie

By Uma Gowrishankar

3.20 P.M.

the sun on the palm frond breathes 
salt and the breeze sets inland 
the water sweeps in linen tides
waves dither in a band of silver, the cursive script 
scrolls end of the day
the grey of her eyes 
washes a thousand beach moonflowers 
faces pressed on dark silt, their pollen 

star her iris 
gravelly with shots of goldthread the sand rises 
in the silk he holds against her skin

Uma Gowrishankar’s poems have appeared in online and print journals that include Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English 2020-21, Poetry at Sangam, City: A Journal Of South Asian Literature, Qarrtsiluni, Vayavya, Entropy, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Curio Poetry. Her full-length collection of poetry ‘Birthing History’ was published by Leaky Boot Press.   

.

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

Categories
Poetry

Eve, Raphael & the Proletariat

Poetry by Sutputra Radheye

Painting by Raphael
(1)

when she walks away
she melts the snowflakes
as raphael stares
to draw lines and exhibit
in a gallery in Paris
where woody allen would
direct a film on her untamed
skin before the midnight grows
old and falls down

she causes earthquakes
in multiple planets
with each step marching
forward as eyes gather
to glimpse the art
that inspired raphael
to move away from God
and draw Eve


(2)

If anyone asks you
Who are you?
Tell them
You are violence
The violence of the sickle
That a farmer carries
The violence of the hammer
That a majdoor uses
The violence of words
That Paash vomited
The violence of dissent
That proletariats hold
In their warm hearts

*majdoor is a labourer
*Paash is a Punjabi poet

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.

.

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

Categories
Poetry

Poetry by George Freek

IN THE LAST ANALYSIS 
(After Su Tung Po)

The sky is a vast table
I’m hiding under,
but it seems fragile as glass.
Clouds drift through its cracks,
and when night arrives,
another day is lost.
A star flickers. Then
like this fleeting day,
it simply burns away.
It’s what we’re made of.
It does what it was
meant to do. It rises.
It flickers and it dies.
It was only meant
for me to wonder why.
Su Tung Po (1037-1101) Chinese writer, poet and governor. Courtesy: Creative Commons

George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.

.

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