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A Poem by Deepak Kapur


INNOCENCE

A bowl of soup was in my hand,
I was enjoying its aroma,
Preparing myself to eat it hot.

Suddenly, flashes of erratic thoughts,
Whitened my mind.

My form changed,
I was the grim reaper, incarnated,
With a heap of myriad dead bodies,
In my hands,
Life boiled to death.

A deep sense of disgust overwhelmed me,
I craved for innocence.
 

(More Poems by Deepak Kapur )



Yelena Dubrovina

THE DEAD SUN


The sky is flowering with stars,
Like diamonds they are dispersing light.
The heat has painted the August night
With shadows of black on left and right.

From Kingdom of the dead
The cold has penetrated skies.
The world is silent. Nature dies.
Behind the mystic land
Nomadic wind is hiding starry beams

From kingdom of Cimmeria,
The semi-tones appeared hardy seen.
They covered world with strokes of a green.
The gigantic iceberg swallowed the sky,
And under fading sun the world would die.

The sun has gone as black opal at dusk
In oval shape of pupiless eyes.
All faces on the earth are scary white.
They look as faceless masks.
A smile of triumph enlightened night.
Without the sun the earth in darkness lies.

And only wind is powerfully mourning
By throwing the dusk from blackish hole of morning.
------------

The reminiscence of my room
Is sad and round,
I see my childhood behind the window.
The air rushed around,
Remembering the twilight.
And in the chair,
The darkness hides at night.
The spider is resting on the wall.
And after all,
I feel as being lost
In winter frost,
The wind is feeding dusk
From stretching hands.
And then, at once,
It calms and ends.
I feel that silence entered space.
The vintage clock in wooden lace
Is playing music of the past
That nothing lasts.
And still remembering the rest,
I see my mother
Shapely dressed.

Her tender kiss.
She is so graceful and so slim,
Emerging from the winter dream.
Of childhood.I miss.

--------------

It is my room that sharps the angle. A place
Where the autumn ray is lost in space,
Returning from the daily wander.
It hides in narrow passage and under.

I think of how often we are deprived
Of understanding the simple things in live.
The rain continues, and drops

Are falling heavily on roof,
As if they are looking for a proof
Of reasons to reveal
Misunderstanding and to heal
The wounds. I never thought
That you can be so badly hurt,
So sensitive, and deeply feel
A sadness of the past.

A broken rhythm of event
Will never last.
But you don't even care.
Why does a sorrow of life will never end?
It is not fair
To brake the sentiment of night
By turning on the morning light.
And artfully to knit a spider net
To interrupt the beauty of sonnet.

( More poems by Yelena Dubrovina)


A Poem by Kamal Abdul Nasir

Autumnothings

"Bare it all"
A voice echoed in the rocky valley.
"ok."
Silence of the trees answered.
"Leaf by every green leaf"
"o.k."

"Its time to wear me"
"Its springtime".
"o.k."
The voice touched
The lips of the dew-drunk leaves in the forest.

( More Poems by Kamal Abdul Nasir)
 


A  Poem by Shaleen Kumar Singh


Carbuncle

I foster
Many carbuncles within me
Nourish and look after them.
Despite knowing its pain
Despite aching without complaining.
It oozes and its sore
In the form of sighs
And mute cry,
I behold it is LOVE,
It is the most painful SORE
Gnawing me, my within
Is filled with these cankers
Of pain-
I find no panacea for it
Except
DEATH.
 

(More Poems By Shaleen Kumar Singh)



Poem by
Monica Mody


The red-lipped daughter of the Mother Dairy owner
next to our house,
with a scythe for a neck and scimitars
for eyes,
walked on her two scissor legs.

Conversations with her were difficult.

As she met your eyes, she turned
asudden into
your reflection.
You were left staring at yourself.

One morning I carried
a rufous stone bowl to the shop
and --
amidst the onions, chillies, leafy spinach --
tumbled water into it,

slid next to the daughter as she
bent to take out frozen peas,

and saw her reflected
eyes snared and swirling black.

She told me this:

Walk straighter than an assegai.
Kill faster than a scythe.
Paint lips red, wear
war paint on the heart.
Glow eyes coal at the millionth
second,
at the merest effrontery.

Apartness is yours. Claim solitude.
The dark is yours. Possess the night.

Saying this, she straightened, smiled,
and ebbed from my sight.


( More Poems by Monica Mody)
 

A poem by Susan Kumar

Winter Tryst

Two love birds nesting in our guest room
Emerging once or twice refreshed
Meshing lives, humor and cooing credits
Mixing drinks of elixir and caffeine
As they weave through night's lights
Together, one body filled with heart.

A woman held high by this man
Awed by her open arms and bright eyed
Laugh, tinged deeply with long searching.
A man remarkable and immediate
Reverberating with organ chords of love
Beyond her vision and yet tall as her way
Makes room everywhere for her light.

Trysting here midwinter with their own warmth
Gift-wrapping round Lincoln Center's holiday tree
A ring brilliant in diamond hue, platinum shining
Through intentions made known post-Prokofiev.
These scenes hallowed true way beyond
All our anticipations, this magic could not be created
Without love, divine, intelligent to their design.

(More Poems by Susan Kumar)



Poems by Jui Chitre


For you my fallen friend

I will be there for you my fallen friend,
like the silent wandering dragonfly,
on your misty blue marshland,
unnoticed, I will fly by.

I will be there for you my fallen friend
like the dead twig afloat,
watching you die,
as you continue to butcher.
Riding on the current
of your tremulous water.

I will be there for you my fallen friend
Unfound continents and seven seas,
the hell and the mummified identities,
the heaven and the slaved angels,
they barricade that stretch of the land,

their virtue and my vice,
restrict me from your premise.
That mirage on the grain of your sand
is my adamant hand; outstretched..
With every nerve stretching till it tears,
confessing to you like never ever,

I will be there for you my fallen friend.

(More Poems by Jui Chitre)




A Poem By Ashok Gupta

 
Dadaji

Children would run behind
Dadaji on a bicycle
Children from huts
and bungalows
Dadaji on the bicycle
a huge figure in black
with days old salt-pepper beard
A long flowing shirt
hanging from behind the seat
and white broad pajamas
He would paddle away
on the same path
day after day, everyday

They would scream and shout
gleefully Dadaji Dadaji
and chase him over long distances
till he tired and balancing his bicycle on a foot
took out from his pocket
peppermints of bright colours
for the children.

Hardly would he have started again
they would scream unsatiated
Dadaji, Dadaji
teasing him till he was too far from home to follow

This was forgotten
and children went their ways
I chanced upon Dadaji
sitting on a charpoy
outside a dilapidated hut
I stopped uncertainly

Da....Dadaji I hesitated
He was paralyzed on the right side
and couldn't hear me
so I said a little louder ..Dadaji
my mouth close to his ear

He turned to his side
took out a peppermint
and placed it in my hand

(More Poems by Ashok Gupta)


A Poem By David McLean


a tree

the tree thinks itself happy
but dreams of motors,
it siphons love from the mud
and spurts it at the sun
like a mad nipple
thinking psychosis
in the murky milk
(it thinks)

it is a sun an
earth whereat
a tree drinks

( More Poems By David McLean  )


A Poem By Kimberly L. Becker

Watching Rabbits, in Oregon

On the eve of surgery
watching rabbits
feed under the juniper
at dusk,
hearing the highway behind,

I remember how my mother hit a hare
in Germany and said later
she saw its mate
keeping watch
by the side of the road.

Someone always gets left behind.

I call my husband on his cell.
Tell him to watch for rabbits
as he pulls into the drive.
Later, headlights drape
sterile fields across the body of the night.



(More poems by Kimberly L. Becker)
 


Poems  by  Michael Lee Johnson

Twist My Words

I see the spring dance all over your face in green
you were arrogant before you viewed my willow tree
outside my balcony.
Now you wave at me
with green fingers
and lime smiles.
You twist my words,
Harvard collegiate style,
right where you want them to be--
lime green, willow tree, and
dark skinned branches.

( More Poems by Michael Lee Johnson)


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