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A poem by Nabina Das

Lost Landscape

Bamboo flutes
That my father had played once
The leather-jacketed book
That had always been a prop on my table
The Borgeets from the Namghar
In sticky caramel noons
My teacher’s voice across the blackboard
That death silenced and
My mother’s rosebushes of hope.
What remains when blue hills weep
Or the red river goes into hiding?
Even the goddess watches from the hilltop
Squirming at slow blood oozing from
Deep coves of deathliness that
Neelachal never for once has known.
What dies when new words are born?
Not the wounds, not the burning shame.
I wonder if I still should paint
Those paddy fields, peacocks and skies
With my brush of golden taint.

(More Poems by Nabina Das)
 


A Poem by Cheryl Antao-Xavier

Devi comes home

Devi, after a night
Of splendour,
Comes to his home
To find her prison.
Thus begins a new phase
In both their lives,
His life with her
And her duty to him.

Devi, after a childhood
So free,
Comes into maturity
To lose her identity.
She must die in spirit
To begin a new life,
As someone's wife,
And someone's mother.

Devi, after a thousand
generations,
Comes into this world
To find the same destiny.

( More poems by Cheryl Antao-Xavier )


A poem by G David Schwartz

My Pen Don't Write 


My pen don’t write
Thought it’s not out of ink
And my head don’t hurt
Although you may think
But don't say it
It does not take any ink


(More poems by G David Schwartz )


A  Poem by Saroja Ganapathy

The visit

a black gleam
of polished stone.

the tacit welcome of half-closed eyes.

a soft beauty hangs over the surface
like the memory of cool water.

bathed in freshness,
blackness enhanced
by a single unpretentious string
of orange marigold

free of fragrance or adornment
stripped of ceremony

god meets

the visitor

in an embrace of elemental stone.

the rustle of trees
leaves no room for prayers

as the obscure temple
with neat pillars
and open walls of swaying green

tucked away into a
forgotten lane
on a hillock

rolls in seamless continuity
onto the kindred rock
down the hill

and floats back

to the gentle tinkling of a bell.

( More poems by Saroja Ganapathy)



A Poem by  Zofia Beszczynska

,,I am alive" Emily Dickinson
 

I am still alive: warm twigs
shoot out of my palms :
the roots penetrate softly my stomach
even my toes submissively
give themselves to ants' caresses: so
thee sky takes me slowly
and I was thinking: what could be more tender
than your mouth?


(More poems by Zofia Beszczynska)


A Poem by Triin Soomets

Come to my grave,
at the edge of the abyss.
Too near the edge: I will slide down.
Come to my grave by the flowing water,
bind my tainted body with its own slime.
It doesn’t matter: I am awake.
Take your hand from between my legs, it doesn’t belong to me:
my hands are on my breast.
Turn your thoughts away from me,
otherwise I will wake up again
and we will find each other
in whatever century, in whatever suburb.
Make short work of it,
then, full of hope, we can travel through centuries,
without fear of encountering a judging glance except in a
mirror


(More Poems by Triin Soomets)


A poem by Ekiwah Adler Belendez

Soy

Entre las estrellas... Soy*
con las tormentas desgarrantes... Soy
por fuegos que dejan cenizas... Soy
envuelto en pasión... Soy
cara a cara con la soledad... Soy

Yo y el universo somos uno
paso a paso hacia la gran eternidad...

Soy

(1998)

I am

Among the stars... I am
tempered by storms... I am
in the smoldering memories of fires long gone... I am
enveloped by passion... I am
face to face with loneliness... I am

The universe and I are one
one more step, ever one more step
towards the great eternity...

I am
(translated by the author)

( More poems by Ekiwah Adler Belendez ) 


A Poem by Vera Zubarev

CONVERSATION

For Harvey

Does life tend to poetry? Does life tend to prose?
“Why are you asking?” you ask.
Because…

Because this long, long line (as long as my waiting for something to happen),
Crawls into space, and wakes up time
That sobs in the clock,
And its constant echo
Resounds in every single word, in comas, in question marks, and even in spaces
Between the intangible and what
Makes it tangible (but still no less
Valuable than a poor piece of prose
Struggling to become a good poem.
“But it never will,” we suppose,
and here we agree, but just for a moment.).
“So, what about it? Where do we go
with all these assumptions about poems?”
“I have no idea. My only goal
Is to make a discussion,
But where it flows
I can’t determine like the flow of this line that can be anything, including nothing
(which makes me mortal), like the flow of life,
Never-created
And ever-lasting.
I can’t determine. Space has time.
Time has no spaces, which is asymmetrical,
And even unfair. But it’s not my
Fault – I’m not the host of that spectacle.
I only stare at the moving piece with cracking stars and burning comets
And try to figure it,
And beg on my knees
For getting my line’s whereabouts…
I only stare.
I only ask.
“Do I talk to myself?”
“Alas! Alas!”


* * *
He is no one’s and he is no one,
And his path on this earth is unknown,
And his name is like all other names,
And you take him for somebody else.

He is no one and he is no one’s.
Date of birth is all that he owns.


( More poems by Vera Zubarev)



A poem by Cyrus Cassells

Fleur

No, it is not suffering that engenders it;
it is beyond suffering,
The Flower—
though it rests beside
the tears, the million barricades,
fusillade upon fusillade . . .
it rests,
soft as a fontanel:
the poultice,
the mother of all fragrance,
The Mother
ceaselessly whispering
without tenderness, we fashion hell, we fashion
incoherence.
* * *
Fifty-four whales beach on the shore,
vials of blood, and syringes,
so that we might perceive The Flower,
cry out for it.
* * *
With sternness and delicacy,
Georgia O'Keeffe,
that clear-eyed woman,
leaned into its sacred warmth,
with her paints,
her probity.
* * *
Yes, its stem is like
the jammed, astonishing column of crutches
the healed leave behind,
a column of miracles
in a snowlit, hallowed shrine.
* * *
Stopping on the road to Tula,
to Tolstoy's estate,
I found a flower
like one from my childhood.
a great, seraphic bloom.
But there were missiles between it
and its Western twin.
missiles!, missiles!,
and a killing mystique.
* * *
Not long after Chernobyl's gasp,
I looked from a window
in Dostoyevsky's house,
and watched a man pass a sinister wand
over the vegetables for market,
over the flowers.
* * *
How much can the petals withstand,
while we hasten the leavings,
the radioactive waste?
* * *
It cannot last, it cannot last,
this juggernaut, this whirlwind futility:
surely joy will outdistance
the century's mass graves,
the earth's furious junkyards;
surely joy will outdistance us.
* * *
A woman strokes the numerals
seared forever into her skin,
and with deadsure fingers examines
stark photographs from the war:
this happened to me,
and this, and this—
and still I survived. . .
Yes, there were lupines in the camp,
and our joy in them was real,
as real as our misery.
We would find some little corner of the barracks
to put them on display;
we would pick and scoop them into our arms,
after a day of forced labor.
* * *
Oh once, during the war,
there was a boy,
bewildered, deaf from birth,
unable to comprehend
the men in dark uniforms barking
Jew, Jew,
get down on your knees!—
so that his father had to coax him
to touch the paving with his mouth,
to take part in the wretched street cleaning.
And after wetting a stone
with a sullen tongue,
the boy found his work
had made it shine.
Then ridicule, and bullying hatred,
then indignity gave way
to something rapt—gave way
to sheer accomplishment.
Undaunted, he found a tiny flower-shape
set deep into the stone,
let its brief, invisible pollen brush him.
And for that one instant, let me believe,
the universe was moved:
all the gall of the day
was changed to wine:
ma fleur, ma fleur. . .
Oh what would you give to find that flower?

Copyright © Cyrus Cassells
 

(More poems By Cyrus Cassells )


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