Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

Spring Poems by Michael Burch

An Orchard in Spring. Painting by Monet(1840-1926). Courtesy: Creative Commons
SPRING WAS DELAYED

Winter came early:
the driving snows,
the delicate frosts
that crystallise

all we forget
or refuse to know,
all we regret
that makes us wise.

Spring was delayed:
the pallid rose,
the orchid-like sun,
the wind’s soft sighs,

all we omit
or refuse to show,
whatever we shield
behind guarded eyes.

THERE'S A STIRRING AND AWAKENING IN THE WORLD

There’s a stirring and awakening in the world,
and even so my spirit stirs within,
imagining some Power beckoning—
the Force which through the stamen gently whirrs,
unlocking tumblers deftly, even mine.
The grape grows wild-entangled on the vine,
and here, close by, the honeysuckle shines.
And of such life, at last there comes there comes the Wine.

And so it is with spirits’ fruitful yield—
the growth comes first, Green Vagrance, then the Bloom.
The world somehow must give the spirit room
to blossom, till its light shines—wild, revealed.
And then at last the earth receives its store
of blessings, as glad hearts cry—More! More! More!

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

Autumn is Long

Poem written in Korean and translated to English by Ihlwha Choi

Courtesy: Ceative Commons
AUTUMN IS LONG

Until the farmers finish their harvest
Until the boats laden with fish reach the harbour
Until the oaks of the hill fully ripen
Until the squirrels finish their storing of winter foods
Autumn stretches long enough
Until all the peppers on the straw mats are dried
Until the drops of sweat on grandma's forehead evaporate 
Until the seeds of the wildflowers ripen
Until the migratory birds finish their long journey
Autumn stretches long enough

Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time, When Our Love will Flourish, The Colour of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.

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Categories
Poetry

Last Lights

Poetry by Mike Smith

LAST LIGHTS

Some colours glow as darkness falls
Orange of bracken in the last light
The sky’s pink, the grey of walls
Some glories show at the brink of night

Orange of bracken in the last light
Stronger than in mid-day sun
Some glories show at the brink of night
Even in our endings much may be done

Stronger than in mid-day sun
This gloaming will not be for long
Even in our endings much may be done
Listen to the night bird’s song

This gloaming will not be for long
Tho’ blues grow richer as the light fades
Listen to the night bird’s song
Calling the shadows from their glades

And blues grow richer as the light fades
The sky’s pink, the grey of walls
Calling the shadows from their glades
Some colours glow as darkness falls

Mike Smith lives on the edge of England where he writes occasional plays, poetry, and essays, usually on the short story form in which he writes as Brindley Hallam Dennis. His writing has been published and performed. He blogs at www.Bhdandme.wordpress.com 

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Poetry

Lest We Forget…

By Supatra Sen

LEST WE FORGET...

A deadly virus…a feared disease
A catastrophe
Or an enigma
A mirror…
To confront
To seek
Or pause
And ponder…
And wait

Lest we forget…
Smiles are rare
Compassion rarer
Forgiveness is strength
And patience for the courageous
Resurrection is within
Combat with the self
To slow the pace
One needs be wise
Only and only then
From the ashes
Shall we rise…

And so 
The ‘mirror’ cracks from side to side
The human race shadow-battles
A self-inflicted curse...

Every hundred years
It does return
Lest we forget…

Dr. Supatra Sen, Associate Professor, a veteran academician in Botany and Environment is also the founder and Chief Editor of an ISSN peer-reviewed multi-disciplinary academic journal Harvest since 2016. Her tryst with poetry writing and publishing began in 2020 during the global pandemic and in October 2021 her poetry anthology My Autumn Sonata was published.

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Poetry

Too Fussy

Poetry by Rhys Hughes

Sindabad
Robin Hood
Courtesy: Creative Commons
WILLIAM TELL

It’s hell
to be a fussy
William Tell.
He refuses to aim
his crossbow
at the apple
unless it’s peeled.
   But how does one
       peel a crossbow?


ROBIN HOOD

Robin Hood
has a slightly strange quirk.
He could rob a bank
instead of travellers
if he chose to
and many would thank
him for that.
Yet banks didn’t exist
back then:
he would have to
establish one himself
in order to raid it
but he’s afraid of paperwork.


SINDABAD THE SAILOR

His tailor was a failure
and it drove Sinbad mad
that the colourful robes
he ordered to be made
tended to fade when exposed
to just a little salt spray.
“How can I have adventures
in pastel clothes? I want
to wear bolder shades
when I go looking for gold
and gems!” he muttered.
His tailor only smiled in reply
but when Sinbad’s back
was turned, he returned to his
original shape. He was a
gigantic genial green genie.


NED KELLY

Suits of armour
rather do chafe
but they keep you safe
from the bullets
of the Law. If you are poor
and truly believe you need
to rob banks to feed
yourself then taking precautions
is a lot less awful than
being shot into small portions.


DANIEL BOONE

Daniel Boone needed more room
so he went westward
until he came to Kentucky
where he was lucky
to survive all the various dangers.
Easily bored and
a man of few words
he rarely spoke to his friends
but often said howdy to strangers.


HONG GILDONG

He had magic powers
but no pockets on his trousers
So he kept his keys
strapped to his knees with a bowstring.
That was a clever thing
to do because if he was attacked
he simply bent a leg
and shot one of those iron objects
with serrated teeth
into the locks of their shocked looks.
Sometimes a key
ended up in an assassin’s mouth
and unfastened his tongue
and it wasn’t much fun
for that very bad man.

MARTÍN FIERRO

On the pampas
he was hampered
by fate when
he filled a hamper
with picnic foods
but forgot to bring a knife
to cut the bread
and cheese. Sitting
down with a deep frown
and trying to tease
meaning from political
debates while chewing
vast sandwiches
with the local cowboys.
   Gaucho Marx!



JESSE JAMES

He was a bushwhacker
in his youth and the bushes
plotted to whack him back
eventually. And they did
but not with a literal club
when he hid in thorny scrub
one prickly dangerous day.


DON QUIXOTE

His beard is a goatee.
His horse is a bag of bones.
He has no home.
His servant, Sancho Panza,
acts like a panda,
slow and plodding, chewing
often. While he,
chivalrous in a haphazard
frivolous manner,
never clamours for dinner
but only demands
noble and gallant repartee.


TWM SIÔN CATI

A cunning thief and trickster
he once took a leaf
out of his own book and refused
to give it back. Into a sack
of looted treasure it went
while he went into hiding
in the hills near Rhandirmwyn.
Those cursed heights!
Whether or not he read
the words on that stolen page
or not matters not a jot.
Our concise advice is the worst.


HENRY MORGAN

Why is that pirate yawning?
Doesn’t he know
that the golden age
of salty rogues is dawning?
He will do well
come hell or high water
and never give quarter
if he wakes up
in parallel with the zeitgeist,
ropes all spliced
so his sails won’t fail
but billow large and not nice
like a poltergeist
wrapped in the sheets
of a foamy sea. Wait and see!


RASPUTIN

I don’t want these cakes!
I don’t want this wine!
You might say I’m fussy
but I know my own mind.
I won’t dispute in this room
that Rasputin is doomed
but right now I feel fine.
It’s not time to become
just a footnote of mystery
in the annals of history.
No cakes, no wine for me!

DICK TURPIN

The highwayman is hurting
because of a pin
that was concealed within
the bag of coins
offered to him by the hand
of his victim
through the curtain
of a stagecoach window. His
thumb is bleeding
and the carriage is receding
down the rutted road.
He is annoyed
and will take no joy
from the successful robbery
because he is fussy
about injuries at work
and only respects big ones.
That’s his rule
        of ruddy thumb.


PANCHO VILLA

It’s time to retire
from revolutionary thrills
and live in the hills
in a cottage or bungalow.
But just in case
you don’t know
fussy Pancho declines
to dwell in any abode
less swell than a villa
in classical mode
well-stocked with wines.


GERONIMO

Geronimo is learning
to parachute
from one of the newly
invented aircraft
on the off chance
it will help his cause.
Paratroopers
will surely be effective
in future wars.
That’s what he thinks.
But he refuses to jump
out of the plane
unless he is given
a memorable name
to shout as he does so.
Twm Siôn Cati was the equivalent of Robin Hood in Welsh Folklore. 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

Oh! My Dear Face 

By Ananta Kumar Singh

Oh! My dear face 
Never be upset 
I didn't come to pimples 
I didn't come to dimples 
Oh! My dear face 
Never be upset 
I didn't come to wrinkles 
I didn't cause the mind to rankle
Oh! My dear face 
Never be upset.

Ananta Kumar Singh is an Indian poet. He hails from Bargarh in the Indian state of Odisha. He is studying English literature at Ravenshaw University. 

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Poetry

Poetry by Kirpal Singh

Painting by Tagore. Courtesy: Creative Commons
THE TIMES, THE MORALS
(After Ee Tiang Hong)

Testy times
Tempers flake, bruise
Blood swells veins
As memories burn.

Times were
When reason prevailed
And men talked --
Eyes glittering.

Now it’s tit for tat
No relenting
Frayed nerves
Know no restraint.

We pray n plead
For sanity’s return
As pall bearers 
Carry another dead.

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

Whistle & Fly

By Shaza Khan

UNESCO calls bird language a 'strong indicator of human creativity'*

Whistle to me. 
Tell me what you want me to be,
while sitting with you near the Black Sea.
Whistle to me,
the needs of your hearth.
Now, there are just ten thousand of us on Earth.
Make the tune perfect.
Gently fold your lips.
Sharpen the air in your mouth. 
Whistle to me your kiss.
I am an emotional ornithologist.
As the birds have left Kuskoy* to tell stories of their immigrancy, 
Study their flight as a behavioural psychologist.
Whistle to me your findings.
The mountains are waiting.
The foliage is coaxing these humans.
Be a bird and fly. 
See the Earth from above and cry.


*Daily News
* Kuskoy literally means village of birds, Located in Turkey, the village is famous for its 400-year-old whistled language.

Shaza Khan identifies herself as a hermit who had to become a human and remain one due to continuous and unavoidable natural calamities. She is an educator, yoga instructor, writer in progress, poet and a watercolour miniature artist. Shaza wants to keep writing therapeutic literary fiction. 

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Poetry

If My Life were Only a Dream

By Pramod Rastogi

Courtesy: Creative Commons
IF MY LIFE WERE ONLY A DREAM

How much would I feel unburdened
If my life were only a napping dream?
I would simply be a handful of water 
That springs from the melting glaciers
And flows down to embrace the ocean. 
 
But life as real as the sun and the moon
Is more like a candle flame
That a man carries within him
Always. Storms and typhoons rage.
If the flame blows away, life goes away.
 
The plot of life is as simple as it is tender.
Smiling joy and deepest despair are so visible
When we view life as a sheet of glass;
Yet, life is also as brittle. 
It could fall and shatter. 
 
The Creator has made man a part of His dream, 
And the dream on His part to accompany him.
Dreams are neither on sale, nor on barter.
They must be built, nurtured, and lived.
Dreams are of infinite shades, vivid and coloured,
And can silently fall asleep but never die.
 
Is dream an illusion, delusion, or reality?
It is all that and more, tethered in its veiled silence.

Pramod Rastogi is an Emeritus Professor at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology (EPFL) in Lausanne, Switzerland. He is a Member of the Swiss Academy of Engineering Sciences. He is the 2014 recipient of the SPIE Dennis Gabor Award. He is currently a guest Professor at the IIT Gandhinagar, India.

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Categories
Poetry

Do You Dream of People in Masks Now?

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Courtesy: Creative Commons
DO YOU DREAM OF PEOPLE IN MASKS NOW?

We were almost two years into some blurry day drinking 
pandemic that had failed everyone
when she asked me that question.
	
Do you dream of people in masks now?
she asked.
	
I had never thought of it,
but told her I dreamt of them the old way.

I could see the surprise on her face.
I could tell that she did not.
Not anymore.

It was probably another six month before 
I had my first masked dream.

Then I started to see them everywhere.
Jumping out of the popcorn ceiling overhead.

When I told her I finally saw them,
she seemed to feel a little better.

Not that I was seeing what see was seeing,
but that she was not alone.

All that wine.
The way you start to clank 
when you walk.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. 

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