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Poem Mathura ( Margus Lattik)
Logs of juniper
beneath a reed roof’s end,
I smell juniper
while the garden
fills with sparrows,
the chestnuts blossom,
a great white light
stuck in their heads;
I lie on the ground,
my eyes lifting,
By the evening, though,
I’ll be a herdsman
of the darker skies again,
I’ll stand here waiting
for a new dawn,
a brand new clearing.
Before the slumber, then,
the Sun will flare up
in a sudden,
a streak of light inside
the ashen clouds,
for a moment,
More Poems By Mathura ( Margus Lattik)
A Poem by
There are not more tears.
The pebbles melted in my back bone .
Sometimes ,when is full moon
I number these pearls
and them I replace them.
The pain is a light curtain
sheding itself through a tiffany curtain
from the hospital.
You will not understand this tiffany light
every morning is sliping down on my backbone.
No cloth can cover it.
No caress can touch it .
Clelia Ifrim )
A Poem by
Life is too short to hate
In the midst of night,
I was embraced by the amicable solitude,
The tender touch of silence.
Twinkling fireflies soothed my senses.
I was then transported to the terrain of paramshanti.
I was soon flown in the stream of meeting souls.
The dawn indeed led me to the shining dusk.
The heart spoke soul to soul.
We were transcended to the land of compassion.
The quiet shade of the pipal tree
Illumined the little fireflies,
To light the lamp of the soul.
Then chanted in harmony.
All is Love-
Life is too short to hate.
poems by Sanchita )
A Michael Lee Johnson
Hanging Together in Minnesota
Two thousand men on death row
in the state of Texas. I've never
been here, still I'm worrying
myself to death.
Webs of worry travel fast,
scan over my memory bank
back and forth like a copy machine.
I refuse to get out of my bed
I'm covered with burnt dream ashes
held in custody my cobwebbed anxiety
sheets waiting for the on looking armed
system of justice to take me away.
Their loud speakers keep screaming channeled
commands through vibrating my eardrums;
their messages keep cross-firing against my own desires.
There must be a warrant out for my arrest.
I will not listen period. I will shut out the sounds period.
Insanity echoes with stressed sounds.
It's Sunday morning, prayer time, I swear I will block out
the church bells ringing on Franklin Avenue, ringing
at St. Paul's Baptist Church.
Religion confuses me like poetry or prose.
I curse I will hang where Christ used to dangle;
wooden cross-post in a Roman Catholic hole,
or was it protestant reformation?
I'm the thief, not the Savior.
I don't want to die in my worry, my words, stranger in this
I want to resurrect the dream before the wounds came, and placed
me in exile.
Long before the sounds of cell phones came ringing.
There must be a warrant out for my arrest.
Mixed in war, thunder, and sentence fragment.
poems by Michael Lee Johnson )
A Poem by Sridala Swami
The summer's hardly begun and already the afternoons have the
of mid-summer. Draw the curtains. Shield yourself from the
light. The air
presses you down into the mattress. Your skin burns.
Your dreams drown you with their possibilities. You sink into
the luxury of
their promises. You come up for air. No longer sure of shapes,
you fall into
your body and wait.
More Poems by
love is not here, beauty
is not to think it longer.
coming back, kisses
on fingers and hands, a man
to a man. God will protect the letters,
with light and strawberries,
calling, invoking, waiting.
hunger and thirst dont come
before the coloured screen
is open. this man was widely
a child, calling mother mother.
a full flowering body
is enough, redeemer due
is too much and perfect.
the unborn daughter will
be about to come, or a sister
widely appearing, light
after hooves and tears
and shrieks and red flood.
A Poem by Jyothi
One that symbolizes the parting day
Bidding goodbye to a day’s wart
it rescues men out of their toll.
How fragrant, its intense shadows
Deep and vibrant its nuances
Reflecting ghastly images
Lurking its pros and cons.
Drizzle adds to Its beauty
Slightly wetting Its,
Not-so-harsh, velvety texture.
Mends with the moon
They conspire to engulf,
The world in unison.
Lures the lupines to flesh.
Leads birds to their nests.
Severe winds spread their scent.
Hither and thither.
Highway - Knights,
Corrupting Its silence.
Cities burning of violence.
Whatsoever, it bears with the angry nature,
Bestowing chill on its creations, by
Providing a lulling backdrop.
Poems by Jyothi Jagadish))
A History Walk
Well, I’m going to write one anyway, said Mister Today.
Even if no one bothers to read it.
I am going to watch the clouds.
A straw between my teeth and the buzzing of flies
around my ears.
Some wind behind my shirt collar as I ride through the
forest of maize.
An electronic glow of an afternoon and the Champs Elysees.
A line of people, winding among sycamore trees,
is devoured by the entrance of the house
where Paul Gaugin’s paintings are on display.
A TV gallery
Each painting trembles on its own TV screen
(the originals are kept safely in the treasury of the
If you trace your finger across the screen, the image of
the orange female body turns
into green convolutions of a ficus.
Interactive arabesque from the virtual Haiti.
Mister Today, however, manages to keep his head.
The world is seven times bigger than everything one
could possibly grasp, and Mister Today knows his human
nature, so he transforms all the TV images of women into
ficus convolutions, until the gallery is tied ninety times
over into a Gordian knot of a greening Paul Gaugin.
Then he walks into a bank and cashes a check.
With thanks from " Third Word" edited by Lana Derkac and
Thancham Poyil Rajeevan
(More Poems By Iztok Osoinik)
A Poem by Xhevahir Spahiu
I will saddle a cloud
to ride above the mountains;
if they want rain, I will drench them with tears.
I will saddle a horse
to know the taste of the wind
when love is waiting for me.
I will saddle a river
to bear me to the sea
and will carry boats upon my back.
I will saddle a fruit tree
so it does not grieve without birds
and its roots sink deeper in the earth.
I will saddle a dream
without stirrups or bridle
to carry me to tomorrow
I will saddle a song
:ts master and its slave, to sing
of movement even at the still point.
poem by Xhevahir Spahiu)
(With thanks from " Third Word"
edited by Lana Derkac and Thancham Poyil Rajeevan)
A Poem By Suma V S
Bhibatsya - Disgust
Nine months now.
It is time for her to
bear the unwanted child,
and listen to all the mad curses
her relatives will give her.
That night beside the Kaveri river,
she was somehow smitten
by his hands between her thighs.
What shall she do?
She hates herself for losing her speech
to his kisses.
Disgusted when she thinks of it now,
how cruel he is to
never return after that night.
Poems by Suma)
A prose poem by Rati Saxena
A Soul in the Well
A square courtyard, surrounded by four high walls. is it a
courtyard or a deep well?… a well where live six souls..
together but never together. Smallest one.. almost two and a
half years old is looking at the sky.. the square sky.. the sky
which could peep into the courtyard. She is balancing on her
left toe, trying to twirl like a spinning button. Falling down
again and again. There is so much noise in the house. Some are
frying pooris in the kitchen and some are collecting clothes.
What is happening? The little girl is disturbed nobody has time
to explain the things. She is feeling too lonely, whereever she
goes, she gets scolding-O my. My…get out from here, what are you
doing here.. why don’t you go and play. Hey—don’t touch that..
Oh such a tender age and so much scolding! Leave it she
decided—let me look at the sky…the square sky peeping through
courtyard….shining sky..sometimes blue, .some times yellow.
“Maa, who is going to get married in MAMA’s house.” One of the
sisters asked. loudly. Oh we are going to MAMA’s house.
Now the little girl got a new game—how is MAMA’s house.. is it
big? A big court yard., tiled roof, a number of rooms.. do not
know whether she was imagining things or she was recalling
memories. Anyhow she got some mental exercise for some time.
“ Maa, we are going by train, no?” one of the sisters asked
Now the girl is playing train—train,,chuk---chuk—kkoooo…kkooo.
she is engine and she herself is the bogy… kkooo—koooo. “my, my,
how is this girl made!” One of the sisters got annoyed.
Now it is evening, Father is back from office. Hat on the head,
came on bicycle. He was quiet. Coming of father at home was a
different experience. As if the house stopped breathing, as if
air became heavy. Mother gave him tea and asked in a low voice-
“When shall we go to the station?”
“For what?” Father asked bluntly.
“Don’t we go to Bhopal?” mother was annoyed.
“ O I forgot to bring tickets, we will go tomorrow, Now serve me
food” Father replied in a firm voice.
There was no question of asking any question. Tiffin boxes were
opened, every one was upset. Father ate quietly. Perhaps mother
did not eat. How could any one enjoy the pooris, which were made
for eating in the train.
Night falls; sisters are arranging charpais in the courtyard. At
the right side father’s charpai (bed), then three more… at last
mother’s charpai. All of them were covered with white sheet.
White pillows, and a silken sheet arranged at the other end
neatly. Father was very particular about neatness. Such a
beautiful experience ..look at the stars and when you get tired,
go to the world of stars..
Anyhow, at last we could reach MAMA’s house.. All of us were
almost hanging in TANAGA. (horse puller). Father is sitting at
the front and we are all at the back. covered with parda.
As soon as we reached near the big gate, so many people came out
rushing—Chandrani bai has come… Arey, look Chandranibai of
Jaipur has come. We are surrounded by mama’s mamai’s , mousis
and number of children. Oh, mother has changed a lot.. how
beautiful she looks.. she is hugging every one.. Father is also
looking very cheerful. And so many children!
Mother was the dearest sister of all the three brothers, she was
beautiful, educated and loving. All the brothers liked their
sister very much. O my God , this is mother or a small girl. At
home she barley laughs, but now she is laughing, chatting and
freely wandering about in the whole house.
A number of children are seen, children of all ages, all are
cousins, girls are playing separately, boys have different
groups. Nobody needed toys those days. Boys could play a number
of games with the help of some stones and a ball. Cricket was
not a popular game those days. The most popular game was “Sitoliya”:
seven round stones were collected. Stones of seven sizes. From
the biggest to the smallest. One party arrange them on each
other and run away. The other party try to trough the ball on
the heap and try to catch the boy of the opposite side. Boys of
opposite sides try to arrange the stones and sometimes do not
come in catch. This was a very fast game. Some girls also like
to play this game. Girls have a number of other games. They need
five pebbles and start tossing on their palms and back of the
palm. That was called “chapete”. Or draw eight square and jump
on them with one leg, tossing a stone- called Ikky-Dukky.
Sometimes they cook in imagination, they stitch the clothes for
dolls or knit a sweater. Those dayswe never wanted any
artificial toy. Any stone, any lid of bottle, any useless thing
could change into a toy. This was the time of marriage, all the
children were enjoying. Every one was laughing, enjoying. “ Hey
God, why not this laughter comes to my home?”.
While playing hide and seek the little girl came into a dark
room. What a smell?, A number of big jars are kept neatly
covered with cloth. The girl opens one, oooh. what is this…
mango?… the mouth is full of water. She took one piece and kept
it in the mouth. Somebody opened the door. Who is hiding there?
– O little girl you are here!, hey what are you doing.. do you
like pickles? .. wait I shell give .. take.. this lime.. and
The girl was astonished, she was expecting scolding or beating.
Who is this lady who talks so sweetly.. This is bari MAMI, So
“ why don’t you stay with me, I will give you lots of pickles. “
she was telling her..
Days of laughter passed so quickly, we are again in the same
well. O god send us a RajKumar, who can save us.. like the
prince of the stories… well and prince.. prince and well….