Category: Poetry

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Poetry

Drunken Cockroach in my Wine Glass

By Saranyan Bv

Drunken cockroach in my wine glass

Dear Panchami,
Today I woke with a new angle to look at the way
The world revolves.
Panchami, don’t get hassled about my drinking,
Things could have been worse like for the cockroach
I met this morning
After I got off the bed.
By the way Panchami, how are you?
How sound was your sleep? Let me know.
The lone cockroach, Americana Periplaneta,
Suffering loneliness like I do
Had fallen last night
In my empty cup of wine.
Oh Panchami, my soul,
As you always complain
I had forgotten to clear the table.
There was this residue of that purple vintage
That stayed in the cup through the warm night,
Upon which, the roach floated
On its dorsal, looking up,
Beating its six legs, two antennas
Like old women in old days
When someone old died.
Dear Panchami,
I didn’t want to play God,
Didn’t upturn the fellow, I let him remain
In that unfussy state of combat with air.
Panchami, my soul which stands apart,
I didn’t want to play the devil either,
Didn’t want to reclaim him
From his stuporous state of inebriation
Where the universe seems faultless.
Dear Panchami,
After all he chose to drink,
Partake a sip of the Bacchus without encroaching into mine.
What if I didn’t clear the table
Put away the empty glass, wash, dry
And stack it where you always did.
Dear Panchami,
We are not here in this infinitesimal life
To play God or Devil, judge and judge not.
I am sure you are angry, but please.….
I don’t even ask your forgiveness
Dear Panchami.
For I don’t want to let you suffer the burden of
Judging and being entangled 
In matters of judgement knots.
Roaches are survivors Panchami! So am I.

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.

Categories
Poetry

Wake

By A Jessie Michael

I awake to a wake,
(my very own it seems)
Of people familiar and not,
Unaware that I am awake at my wake.

What have I left 
in the wake of my awake life-
A speed boat existence
Swirling a lengthy, frothy wake?

How many were drenched by
The spray of my life’s wake?
I never turned to see
Too busy awake to the things before me

Now they reminisce, drink, smoke and snack
To keep awake at my wake.
“Go home. Sleep!” I say
But to them I’m not awake.

They keep awake at my wake
To celebrate me dead.
Where were they
When I was truly awake?

“O we were there,” they chatter.
“We were drenched by the wake
Of your speedboat existence.
Were you truly ever awake?”

A. Jessie Michael is a retired Associate Professor of English from Malaysia. She has written short stories for online journals, local magazines and newspapers. She has published an anthology of short stories Snapshots, with two other writers and most recently her own anthology The Madman and Other Stories (2016).

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Poetry

Witchy Halloween

By Michael Lee Johnson

Witchy Halloween

In this late October 31st night,

this poem turns into a pumpkin.

Animation, something has gone

devilishly wrong with my imagery.

I take the lid off the pumpkin’s head

light the pink candles inside.

Demons, cry, crawl, split, fly outsides —

escape, through the pumpkin’s eyes.

I’m mixed in fear with this scary, strange creation.

Outside, quietly tapping Hazel the witch,

her broomstick against my window pane rattles.

She says, nothing seems to rhyme anymore,

nothing seems to make any sense,

but the night is young.

Give me back my magical bag of tricks.

As Robert Frost said:

   “But I have promises to keep,  

   And miles to go before I sleep.”

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson is published in more than 2033 new publications. His poems have appeared in 42 countries; he edits and publishes ten poetry sites.

Categories
Poetry

Grandparents At the Wedding

By John Grey

GRANDPARENTS AT THE WEDDING


His hair is gray as tidelands,
combed where it can be,
while hers is pancake-shaped, 

rinsed blue and black –
the past always keeps the young
waiting, goes button to button. 

hem to hem, asks the mirror 
for a favor – none granted –
rubs the red out of eyes,

the grave from cheeks,
in case the photographer 
sets off an alarm – come

the hour, they’ll bury heads
in flowers, mutter “how beautiful” –
standard fare for weddings or funerals.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and the Round Table. His latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head, are available through Amazon.

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Poetry

Poetry by Mike Smith

The Thinker(1904) by Rodin. Courtesy: Creative Commons

The Ways of Working

The sculptor will tell you how you can
If you wish to make a man
With some it’s what you take away
With others what you overlay
So start with wire
Or start with stone
I know a hundred ways to be alone

With wire you make an armature
To shape your man on true and sure
The stone you prize from out of earth
As much as makes a whole man’s worth
Wind the wire
Carve the stone
I know a thousand ways to be alone

Add the sinew mould the face
But of your fingers leave no trace
Gouge out a mouth chip out some eyes
Finely etch a skin of lies
Bury the wire
Polish the stone
There are a million ways to be alone

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

Cupcakes & Poetry

By Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Everyone likes my cupcakes all the time 


When the cupcakes emerge from the oven they are 
perfectly springy to the touch. Some things are so 
much easier than others, I think to myself - baking 
more than writing, in my case. There has never ever 
been a bad cake day in my life. But bad poem days, 
well...

*
We are at the bar after the open mic, talking about 
the usual things: the loneliness of being writers, 
the treadmill of multiple drafts, the inevitable downer 
of rejections, when my phone dings with a mail alert.
That journal on my wish list does not have a place for 
my piece. My heart sinks in a way my cakes never do.

*
Old habits die hard - I have always soothed pain and 
disappointment with sugar. I pull out the hamper 
I brought for my writer friends - my cupcakes wrapped
in festive paper, bow tied in fountains of cellophane. 
Everyone digs in.

*
Beer buzzed and bleary, we stumble into the night
when a gaunt and drenched apparition asking for spare 
change emerges from the shadows. My friend takes 
my hamper and stabs slits in the cellophane with 
his keys, asking me if he may give the man one 
of my cupcakes. I watch him sink in hungry teeth,
relishing the treat. He asks if I baked them and I nod, 
smiling, as he pronounces me an outstanding baker. 
My friends laugh and agree.
I scroll through my inbox again, and sigh.

Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad is an Indian-Australian artist, poet, and pianist. She serves as a chief editor for Authora Australis. Find her @oormilaprahlad and www.instagram.com/oormila_paintings .

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Poetry

Many Things Wonderful

By Jason Ryberg

Many Things Wonderful to Tell


The mad monkish scientist of jazz
sits smiling at the grand unveiling of his

latest creation, while a railroad bridge
riveted together of mostly weathered

driftwood and old rusty pieces of scrap
iron shows us the nearest way to many 

possible futures where, amongst many
other things wonderful to tell in this 

hot and swampy Sargasso sea of broken-
down cars, campers, bicycles and boats,

a lone pristine Cadillac sits, ready for
lift-off, to take us to what all the locals

swear is the best damn greasy spoon 
diner in the galaxy.

Jason Ryberg is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is Are You Sure Kerouac Done It This Way!? (co-authored with John Dorsey, and Victor Clevenger, OAC Books, 2021). 

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Poetry

What If I Uproot You

By Beni Sumer Yanthan

What if I uproot you?

If I uproot you from my heart,
I would have spare breath to
squander among the babel of crows
that swaddles this wayward house. 
I would have space to house abandoned
love songs that have been sleeping
in the mouths of robins.
I could take in the dead-silence
that arrives at the end of
a long day with a hard kiss, 
I would have room to shelter 
uncompanionable poems like this one
that prickle with vulgar melancholia,
I could describe every regret with digestible
verbs without having to blame
it on my foibles…
     I could break tradition – 
     speak my mind, get worked up,
     pick the choicest meat from the table  
     and hold it up as a homage to forgotten deities
     all in the presence of outraged men,
     without breathing in your scent -
     I could do all this and not allow
     anger to walk into our world but - 

Of what use is a republic,
even if it’s a republic of one,
if there is nothing inside of
       us.

Beni S Yanthan (Yanbeni) is a tribal, feminist poet and academic from Nagaland, India. She belongs to the Lotha tribe. She teaches English and Cultural Studies in Nagaland University, Kohima. 

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Categories
Poetry

Animal Limericks

By Michael R Burch

  • Hippo
  • Leopardess
  • Dromedary
Courtesy: Creative Commons

The Hippopotami
 
There’s no seeing eye to eye
with the wondrously great Hippopotami:
on the bank, you’re much taller;
going under, you’re smaller
and assuredly destined to die!
 
 
Dot Spotted
 
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!"
"The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot!"
 
 
The Dromedary
 
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, “You can’t sing,
but here’s the thing:
just think of the tunes you can carry!”


The Platypus: a Double Limerick
 
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not erotic.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
 
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or beaver.
Duck-billed platypus. Courtesy: Creative Commons

Michael R. Burch has over 6,000 publications, including poems that have gone viral. His poems have been translated into fourteen languages and set to music by eleven composers. He also edits The HyperTexts (online at www.thehypertexts.com).

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Categories
Poetry

Gandhi & the Robot

Written in Manipuri by Thangjam Ibopishak, translated by Robin S Ngangom

Gandhi and Robot
 
A long time ago
Nehruji owned a robot gifted by Russia,
that could chant a thousand ‘Hare Ramas’
in a minute!
Vallabhaiji possessed a Gandhi borrowed from Birla,
that could spin ten balls of thread
on the charkha every hour.
Vikram Sarabhai proclaimed on Republic Day:
I’ll create a new pilgrimage site for science 
at Trombay.
 
In Delhi’s Red Fort, donkeys bray
with parched throats on an empty stomach;
the dhobis who rear them feed them
old copies of the ‘Harijan’ newspaper
by tearing them into bits.
 
Today, sadhus announce:
we will build a pagoda at Pokhran
to shelter the ‘New Buddha’.
Elated, I cried:
‘Bravo, Bharat, bravo!’

(from The Smell of Man, Red River, 2021)

Thangjam Ibopishak (b 15 February 1948) is one of the leading Manipuri poets. Based in Imphal, he taught Manipuri literature at GP Women’s College and has published 10 volumes of poetry, three of which earned him some of the most prestigious awards in the state, including the Manipur State Kala Akademi Award in 1986, the Jamini Sunder Guha Gold Medal in 1989, the first Jananeta Irabot Award in 1997 and the Kavi Ratna Dr Kamal Memorial Award in 2012. He has also published two books of essays and a memoir. Ibopishak also won the Sahitya Akademi Award for poetry in 1997 for The Ghost and the Mask, and the Manipur State Award for Literature in 2009.

Robin S Ngangom is a bilingual poet and translator who writes in English and Manipuri. Born in Imphal, he studied literature at St Edmund’s College and the North-Eastern Hill University, Shillong, where he currently teaches. His poems have appeared in The New Statesman (London), Verse (Georgia), Kunapipi (Denmark), Planet: the Welsh Internationalist (Ceredigion), The Literary Review (New Jersey), The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins India), These My Words (Penguin India), Chandrabhaga (Cuttack), Kavya Bharati (Madurai). Ngangom describes his poetry as ‘mostly autobiographical, written with the hope of enthusing readers with my communal or carnal life — the life of a politically-discriminated against, historically-overlooked individual from the nook of a third world country’. His third book of poetry, The Desire of Roots, was published by Red River.

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