A Poem by Debasish Parashar

4 delhis


my existential plane of experience and the extended floodplains of Yamuna
create an angle
inversely proportional to my house rent.
4 delhis.

if there is a car on the street
the car on the street is cars
can be edited like a video clip.
4 delhis.

there is a wedding on the second floor
and here i am, a stranger happy like a voyeur without a convincing reason
living can be like passive smoking.
4 delhis.

i can climb this city like a lizard against gravity
i can roll this city like old photographic films
i can read and deconstruct this city.
4 delhis.

I was born in a house without a house number. I just knew that house
just like the sounds of my mother's bangles. Just knew it.
Now i live in a multiple city multiplying vertically into a complex matrix of numbers.
4 delhis.


(Originally appeared in Persian and Russian languages in New York and Kyrgyzstan)


(More poems by Debasish Parashar)


A  Poem by  Hadaa Sendoo


Karakorum
 

Ancient capital, Kharkhorum
More than autumn rain
More than stone and jade with carvings
You hold the lingering feelings of my life

Ancient capital, Kharkhorum
Standing like a stone man in the wilderness
Like the god of war in the night
Wearing the robes of the empire

Ancient capital, Kharkhorum
I missed your brilliant moment
And your courage
I became the most painful poet

Ancient capital, Kharkhorum
More than this snow flying in the cold
This calm of the great earth
And the smell of dried cow dung

*Karakorum, also known as Kharkhorum, was the capital of the Mongol Empire between 1235 and 1260. It was one of the most important cities in the history of the Silk Road.



(More Poems by Hadaa Sendoo )


A Poem by Pratyusha Sarkar

1

Despairs can walk
Desolation conducts the truth
That elfin moon comes on
Crazy hacks become smooth.

Night had a soundless sleep
We looked back more
Heaven splitted us somehow
Fortuity opened the door.

No one believed the dream
You perceived, and me too
I dwelt in, felt your gaps
You traced all reckless hue.

Neptune offered a birth
Woods were spotted in Heaven
The more we latent within us
More words remain unspoken.


( other two parts are there in next page)



(Poem in three parts by Pratyusha Sarkar )


A Poem by  Saumyajit Acharya


Tree

Keep six stages for him
And twelve awards for the other

Then make me tree....

When the face is burnt by the lights of glamour
When the awards are as heavy as wet cotton
These and those people will walk down the tree
They will removes all colours with leaves
And the lights will be faded off by the bark

Make me the tree

Successively standing still
for the tired racing people ...


(More poems by Saumyajit Acharya)

 


A Poem by  GIRISH GOIRIC


DOAM

Death of all colors is the white color
The same you can get in the coffin of a dead body; in the air too.
There remain some untold words in the air, but
Only DOAM can read those words.
He didn’t know why a man’s dead body is white.
Though, the cave-generation of DOAM got the idea
From a cold and white body’s palm of hand-
It maybe the demography of a man-
Did the map of the world come from the human demography?
Is it from the palm of a hand?

The history of that cave is flowing in our red blood.
But how amazing that red blood is, after death- all
Reds become white. The aroma of the white tuberose
Is always loved by all; but nobody likes its rotten petal.
So the living- hands always bury the dead body and
Always purify them through the fire-bath.



( More poems by GIRISH GOIRIC)



A Poem by  Charlie Jones


Sonnet for Langston Hughes: Rivers of the Soul

My father, he is white as English snow,
Beneath a silver moon and butter sun
The rivers of his spirit swiftly flow,
Through dipping vales and glens his waters run.

My mother, she is brown as Syrian sand,
Under a ruby sun and emerald moon
Her spirit’s rivers course that ancient land,
On many banks her muddy silt is strewn.

I am the snow that settled with the sand,
The dusty earth that warmed the fallen snow,
The rivers of my soul traverse each land,
Though neither sun nor moon the waters know.

And yet the waters glint an emerald green,
In yellow vales my eyes have never seen.



(More poems by Charlie Jones)

 


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