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A Poem by Jason Lee


The Impulse


They are in there now.
Buying things.


It is essential they have
It all.


Otherwise they would
Have nothing


To talk about


I ring them up -
'What have you bought now?'
'Wouldn't you like to know?'


And then they are off
Spending every last penny
And half a crown


It is true they have too much
But it works as scaffolding


Soon my phone doesn't reach them
They move to a bigger house
Wear posher clothes


Realise they must find more shops
To sell everything they have
Back to those below them


Then they feel better
Even the linen sheets from their wedding
Hung on the balcony as after the bullfight


This gets auctioned off
Their skin and bones on e-bay
Organs left in jars for experiments


She then wraps herself in his ego
And feels comfortable for once


For all her friends the lights on green
But she waited for him to raise his finger


Which of course he never did
And when she wanted a baby
He bought her a dog


'At least it won't need nappies,' he said
slept on their bed


Pushed its head down hard on her thigh
As if it was telling her something


She felt both their cocks jump
It was getting too much


She went to stay with her sister for a week
Came back to find the dog gone


Toby the Red Setter
John the trendsetter


Now both living together
In a kennel at the bottom of the garden


How pathetic she cried
Raising her finger


Like a neo-Nazi on amphetamine
Loving every last second of it

(More Poems by Jason Lee )



A Poem by Usha Kishore

Cultural Exercise

Teaching Indian Poetry in English
is more than a cultural exercise;
Much more than political correctness;
A lot more than awareness of the
world and its million views…

To me, it is translating my sensibility
into your language; it is colouring your
imperial tongue and re-christening
it mine…

It takes me back to my roots -
to my market days of spice, gold
and crystal dreams; it dyes me
in the colours of song and dance
that float as words in the pages
of your anthologies…
 

( More poems by Usha Kishore)


A Poem by Sara Brummer

DANCE

Dance, languid as a courtesan begins.
Silk, colored like hibiscus, orchid,
Bougainvillea, lit by a mesh of music,
Fans out in pleats, like flames. We watch,
Listen, stunned as two fires converge,
God and Shakti, male and female.
Ornaments jingle, limbs rise and fall
Like waves shifting with the glow of evening.
In unison their gestures signal unknown
Stories, words of ordered rhythm,
Each movement planned yet seen
As careless passion, emerald essence passed on.
Arms are sinuous, like branches supporting
A leaf-like flutter of fingers. It is they that speak
The grace of poetry. Legs are solid as earth
Embraced by feet, sure of contact,
As if inventing rhyme. Dance is being, one minute simple
And straight as a flute, the next, coiling with contradiction,
Alone, he balances on a bronze plate,
Earth’s own weight thrusting, dominating.
Together, they swirl, skirts of ruby,
Topaz, sapphire, casting stars
Around us, gathering force until
Their spirit finds its own golden
Equilibrium, as if suddenly awakened
By a spark of the divine.

( More Poems by Sara Brummer )
 


A  Poem by A.Thiagarajan

Violence

The air we breathe
Senseless denial
make dread of days to come
refusals continuing
glorified, standardized, made the norm
by social scientists, politicians, all
the few who don’t agree are minority...

It was a bloodless violence no physician willing to treat
The chased seen on the scrolls of honor in the lands they fled to
In the Dow Jones and the ess and pees...

Woo them now
As saviors of the chasers who still
Persist
Keeping the dead alive
Chasing the living
Language stifles...

The air still is full of senseless denial
And of bloodless violence

The poem first published in Subtle Tea

(
More Poems By A.Thiagarajan)


 


 
A Poem by louis kwaku amprako


BEAUTIFUL THINGS

So I decide to write something beautiful,
To make your memory a souvenir in my heart,
As I scribble these words I see your apparition,
Smiling soothingly and telling me we are still one,
I take a glance at your picture in my wallet,
The one with the mysterious Mona Lisa smile,
I place a kiss on your picture and fantasize,
My fantasies send me to realms where we meet,
Even though we've already separated at the crossroads of love,
There seemed to be a junction so we meet again,
Rushing to each other with a warm embrace,
We try to tell the tales of our lives and all its pain to each other,
Comforting ourselves in the end,
Now we sit in the soft moss,
My head on your laps,
Enjoying your caress as you finger my hair,
Treating as some idol of importance,
So I vow to keep on writing beautiful things about you,
You who treated me as a king when others treated me as a slave,
You who treated me tenderly not like others, who tr
eated me with scorn,
You who valued me as a diamond and not dirt,
I'll forever write beautiful things about you RITA.

( Morems by louis kwaku amprako)



A Poem by C. P. Aboobacker,

The Corpses

The Emperor called his opponent
Corpse-eating animal!
The Emperor killed, despising corpses.
Every corpse once had a life
Once warm and loving, and hating too.
We read a biography that thrills us, and enthralls
With a history of a locale different from ours
The corpse is calm and composed,
The clock needles rhyme,
Time has a silent rhythm.


In the mortuary
Corpses are a phenomenon
Landless, nameless,.
The old mother moans in my dreams
How her beloved son strangled her
For a tiny piece of gold
So that he could go to a bar
Or to a local whore.


Corpses from the train crash
Drowned in the river
Were recovered by a finger raised above water level
Or from hair floating aloft.
Corpses from the tongues of flames
Deliberately caused by unfaithful men
Clotheless, skinless, they reverberate.


Corpses tell us how they died
From a stab, a shot, a fall,
A knock or strangulation;


Their wounds bleed even after petrifaction.
Surgeons stitch the wounds with grave respect,
With grim remorse on the death of young dreams,
The withering of the buds

Corpses smell differently,
A drowned one from a burnt one
Corpses petrified among rocks smell fear and agony.

(Edited by Joneve Mc Cormick)
 

( More Poems by C. P. Aboobacker )
 


A poem by Heidi Arnold


notes on his death
   (set of three)

the horned-toad strangeness of my creaturely bed soul. in your nude body my
courage still hides. the machine you entered each morning, as if it were
the slightest wind ...

the night also has a tongue, tongue of enclosed air, tongue of our bedroom
as envelope. we lived our small lives north of some border, drifting
always, to some unknown shared border,

border moon

---

namaste, to the willow in your veins, and to the stamen and pistil inside
your heart;
namaste, to the blind will of crowds, and to the inhuman power inside the
atlantic
namaste to the horrible birth of the kind of mirrors required for peace...

---

i dont know your name either, thing of fire in the visage of the spine-
tipped mountains at night
as if i could know the tongue against teeth in that gravel slope that evokes
you
and the folds of skin
a silence grows between us, this calling thing over and over
invisible deep calling to deep
a wave spreads the surface algae where it cannot be seen
i would know you anywhere by this mute feeling of otherness


( Heidi Arnold)



A Poem by VIKRANT SHARMA


A KISS OF RAIN

Today you are far
from my searching sight.
Day is looking dull,
ahead longer night.
Dictionary has no meaning
for the love of insane.
A drop fallen from eyes
or its a kiss of rain.

Sitting alone on stairs
with head touching knees.
Leaves hiding the rose
from the love of bees.
Soul waiting for soul,
heart feeling a pain.
Dry life seeing clouds
for a kiss of rain.

Clouds getting a bit darker,
Sun still showing face.
Fingers touching a finger
Ring shining with grace.
Moments blaming the time,
Birds singing in vain.
Darkness spreading all over
but not a kiss of rain.

A knock broken the Frigid
I felt, its a game of air.
Knave to my thought,
At back She was there.
A touch gave the proof
but unconscious was brain.
Came closer with a drop
a silent kiss of rain.


(More Poems by VIKRANT SHARMA )



A Poem By K.C.Prashar

No More Trees

Many are the ways
By which to put trees to death:
They are uprooted, nipped in the buds
(Thankfully, no gender bias though),
Are brutally crushed under feet,
Are thrown to cattle to be chewed,
Are left to die emaciated, a skeleton,
Crying for nutrients, a drop of water;
Are subjected to systematic slaughter-
Felling, chopping, logging;
Are charred, burnt alive by forest fires,
Are skinned alive, barks peeled off,
life-sap drained out

Till death

(More Poems by K.C.Prashar)



A poem  by Anindita Sengupta

The Names

Poet. Believer. Infidel.
Lover. Atheist. Bitch

These are mine.

Memorise them. Slake tongue
with them. Feed your thirst.
Open them to pure midnight
and turn them to gold.

Stripped of them,
I am unsyncopated

flat as slate, diminished
by your thick face in dreams.

It is not enough to know the names.

You must speak them loudly
in rooms, pile them into cars
on smoggy evenings and drive
them around the city, check them
in as misshapen lumps of baggage
on cheap flights, hurl them
across continents.

This is who I am, you must say.

(Not so much who, as what
or perhaps, which and how.)

But what if a gun cracks your sleep open
and you're running through
fields of blood?
What if you're on your knees,
arms clenched around
your belly
for an unnameable loss?
What if you worry that the shriek
will twirl in mid-air and disappear?

Will you know if something is still true when
there are no names for it?

( More poems by  Anindita Sengupta)



A Poem by Jim McCurry

Truce

Say the cradle-crescent of our race lies spread-eagled, tethered
Like Gulliver before us—What’s your take, Proconsul?
Are there signs, mundane or holy, the going forward
Were worth the brilliant juice these rotunda lights require?

Well, your Holiness—to paraphrase a secular divine
Of sorts—an old muff is a violent one.
We had ourselves worried, for a soupcon.
What with the always dicey odds of mistranslation—
A few crucial degrees, one side or the other of prime,
And then what? “Ice him down.” And but consider
The way some willful, oud-drugged potentate
May misconstrue the therapy, the salutary
Insults of the Fool; the Russert act jumped /cut
Yosemite Sam (“I’ll be HORNSWOGGLED!”);
The silver rinse at Bushy temples, all the razzamatazz
Of intent, context and compass—
A comma could cost 10 million lives.
Would the next gobbet raised for inspection
From our surrogate Prometheus prove rust or grey?
Yes, heads bobble, natter their Level 4 concerns—
That always happens, goes without saying.
Hardly a chorus, whitest of noise.
The crisis appeared to be averted—but wait!
Did a trace of borshch invade the general vanilla?
Well then, take the temperature and let’s have lunch.

Ah, mon Petit—the point d’appui?
Say we lie clasped tonight in mutually starry arms,
Is that any sign this life is more than fiction?
That the sun will rise to greet us, and all others
wish us well?

Dearly beloved foe, who can tell?


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