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A Poem by Burgess Stanley Needle KUMARI OF KHATMANDU Hearts pound at any strange stop but Khatmandu's sucks lungs dryer than adobe bricks. Walk faster. Sense Taleju's presence. Their eyes, those Nepalese' arch and glitter. Hotel porters, nimble Sherpas, clutch your sleeves to your room. Feel the cardiac flush still blooming from Calcutta's Dum-Dum Airport: a cow’s head pecked by something with black wings is the final frame of that scene. Word is out the Chinese are buying dollars. Rastra Bank gives ten official rupees. Night hands slip out fourteen and try for your watch 'Your camera, sir? Your shoes?' Swedish mercenaries in from central Africa stride past with casual Mausers, brushing cracked stucco their shoulders touch Tibetan dust pressed into walls when our Lord Gautama spoke. On to Tiger Tops between bounties for a smorgasbord of fresh meat the freshest. Look away from the blue-eyed death pair to skeletal romantics from that place near the Golden Gate. Males in Kashmir shirts, so cavalier on cheap hash, deigning not to stare at young breasts grazing Shantung silks. And they have children! Fly-specked boys and girls with exotic leis jingle by a bit listless with dengue. Conceived near the border of Mustang, they’re now precociously bored with charm. Cutting stone, the Manahara River flows to fill the valley’s unseen aquifer with the wastes of Bhotis, Sunwans and all others who live high. Down it all runs to froth through bronze tiger eyes, elephant trunks and monkey lips Clear and cool, parasitically littered, so attractive in the shimmering heat. Rose petals are strewn in the path of nodding monks. II Where was I in all this? Watching the hotels at dusk when Western trekkers were hauled out on stretchers, their faces healthy as Tut when they found him. Going home from Shangri-la. Thinner. I sipped lemonade, listened to the fucking tourists. And waited for news. Her address came to me from a clerk at Rastra, a simple money-changer who knew some truths, cousin to a monk I'd befriended in Luang Prabang. Walking slow, I imagined how She would be, waking each day on the rim of Her life. She was born for us all. Again. Never having known the blade of fear how could I have guessed I would leave Her knowing dread? For myself, that is the dread of acceptance, a life already written. I wanted to be Saved and none of the Gods I knew were up to the challenge. Had I not tested out well in the field? The 40 baht whore's betel-stained teeth bruised my neck erect carrying hash taped secure passed the leather of law to a room in Rawalpindi where that German girl o.d.'d in the night by my side and, yes, Even Frau Eva's hot morning breasts could not take my chill. But She had warned me. You know when: 2026 Baisakh dateline: Khatmandu Let me tell you. III Kumari is all that is left. The Living Goddess of Nepal secure in third-story quarters overlooking courtyards and shrines. Red brick dust in my eyes, I squeeze each image down to fleeing atoms charming physics itself and get slapped by morning sun that forces Me to see bird-droppings on sills, up to the figures painted omega blue and magma red frozen in sequential postures of sex They cavort above the living. Where is there a Fisher King about these days to enact a few new rituals skillful enough to net a few worthy metaphors? No stone to move this time, merely a disappearance And, the sign? A stigmata! What does she show? I asked the clerk? She is he paused no longer pure! By what sign? She bleeds! You must hurry. They will take her! IV The carvings are finely wrought, ivory and wooden shutters. I look to Her window. She gazes out. Her face festive As a rouged mannequin. The Living Goddess. The Virgin Goddess. PHOTOGRAPHY IS FORBIDDEN She turns. Then, sadness I feel, and more, to be aware of Kumari, and, finally, the endless game. Despite myself, I know of all that happens in this place that tries to explain in a single act the great cycle enveloping us all. But, for what? Her eyes what have they seen in twelve years? In a thousand? Stared down at me yes, serenely! But, black, my liege, black as those wings in Calcutta. It is true, sire. By my faith, I have been here since. She died for us all. And for you, sire. A rupee for salvation? Bless you! (More Poems by Burgess Stanley Needle) A Poem by Vanita Niranjan Thakkar WE When I fell, you were with me In the dark, despairing shadows, You were by my side in the brightness Of inspiration when I rose, You were my mistakes and lessons, My setbacks and success, My courage and timidity and fears, My sorrow and happiness, You were what I was, Weren't you, but me ? You are what I am You will be what I shall be !? Wonderstruck, however, as I look ahead, I see - You aren't only me Nor am I simply you. Yet, I cease to be I The moment I cease to be you And you cease to be you The moment you cease to be me For, my dearest, the World As far as my eyes can see Is a vast 'YOU' called WE. Yes, our wonderful world Is a vast 'I' called WE. ( More poems by Vanita Niranjan Thakkar) A haiku by Sunil Uniyal * an old book reading between the lines a silverfish * (More haikus by Sunil Uniyal) A Poem by Saroj Thakur My Masked Existence How can I share your pain, Anguish and distress? When I inhabit another world, A different sphere And a different realm? When I don't even hear Your quivering voice A resonating, trembling Shaking sound, Pleads for listening Empathizing Sharing your pain. At loss of trust, Breach of faith, A knife at the back. You seek conviction (More poems by Saroj Thakur ) A Poem by Jean Anaporte-Easton Gift At the Place to Start, we danced till you were out of breath. Smoke from your cigarette rose in the milky haze, blue as the shadows on your lungs. Unwrapped in that dark, the red curved blossoms startled. Like sirens, like you, they called and called. Twelve years ago in April, when the tulips arrived, I kept studying the dusky pink ones, the green of their thick stems rising into the base of the petals, the pink there flushed dark as burgundy. And each time I looked, I saw your cock, the big veins almost green under the skin. But tonight I won't stay, not even terminal can persuade me. You keep me there offering me crayons to color the cocks you draw, I float pink over burnt umber, calm the fuschia with a little mauve telling you that April those tulips while in my car the sub-zero night darkens and bleaches the flowers you bought this afternoon. Home I held the stems under lukewarm water remembering dead white tip of my daughter's nose the winter she was a stalk from anorexia. So the rest of the flower is opening wide and red-orange stretched like a mouth as far down its throat as I can see clear to the chartreuse center where the stamen spring up pale rooted, shiny orange stemmed bodies glistening pink with sticky yellow shoes at each tip while the petals like tongues cry for a sweet taste, their centers white streaked with violet spilling out on the tongue's plain, magenta, glossy red with dark veins reaching here i am here i am here i am don't go don't go don't go And the bud that escaped frostbite loosens a baby bird all beak and pointy tongue all opening all hunger and demand (More poems by Jean Anaporte-Easton) A Poem by Luigi Monteferrante BE LIKE THE EARTH Be like the earth When it rains Let men dig And pour cement Install glass fiber Into the network Lay pipelines Sink beams and oil rings Let jets Bore and tunnel the skies Satellites The universe Be like the earth When it pours Take me in Absorb ( More Poems by Luigi Monteferrante) A Poem by Yakoob. MY SOUL Like a warm hand on my weary shoulder you came close to me . In a dreamless night you became a balmy poem. For days sans a wrap you have given a shape. Shielding a heroic poet you infused inspiration , imagination. On a wounded body you landed as a bird with healing touch . Like spring that courted the earth You are a multi- splendoured smile. You became a butterfly far beyond evolutionary dynamics. You are the pollen of life with an amazing fusion of feelings on observing --- thorny plants, Caltrops, leeches that drained my blood in Nallavagu , nuances of songs composed on machans , tasty reeds and swinging ears of jowar corn . For a sharpened chisel like me you are an abiding aspiration. During the nights I slept you softly spread as tender youth . Across contemplative tamarind tree you are my sap green future painted by nature . You are my soul who showed me what I am placing me before a mirror. You are a loving lightning seen in the wrinkles of my mother's face . Like my father's humming tune ringing in ears, you glided into my inner core. So much compassion So much love So much warmth you shower! The moment you stepped into threshold of my life stretching your right foot I shuddered with a singular self-confidence. With the sense you lent to dreams blooming in my heart I have become a poet ! [Translated from Telugu by T.S.Chandra Mouli & B.B.Sarojini from the volume Sarihaddurekha , 2002,poem titled KuDi Kaalu,p-14-15] Yakoob He published 6 volumes of poetry and literary criticism.Translated extensively songs and material into Telugu for electronic media. Edited 12 books. Got 8 awards. Participated in state and national poets meets. Worked as Head of Telugu Dept, Anwar uloom College,Hyderabad. At present he is Controller of Examinations, Dravidian University, Kuppam(A.P). Ph:9849156588 A Poem by Trina Nileena Banerjee Red Autumn It's one of those years. Walking barefeet in the heat will bring autumn spinning to your toes, and clouds of cotton will collect at your knees, refusing to let go. As you walk, the leaves will smell secret, heedlessly, unashamedly secret, the green veins pulsating as you pass, letting off something like disaster again, something like love. You will stand again in a room full of red curtains, corridors of chalk dust, blackboards and diagrams of strange birds, with bodies that you can see into, you will tear again the first ladybird's wings, set fire to the trail of crawling ants on the floor, roll vainly about on the bed, attempting crazy somersaults through the warm air in sweat-soaked underfrocks, watch the first spot of red appear on the bed at dawn, turning brown at the first finger of sunlight. you will tell no one this evening At the edge of the sprawling roof, no one but you will look up at that absent sky where the red kites litter the dirty blue. as ever, you will tell no one* but those eyes those eyes across the glasses of plum drink with autumn twirling disaster on its little finger, letting off clouds of secret sap the green of it swirling and sinking with the day, hitting the edge, on end, ridden with sudden sorrow, at your throat words will appear half-forgotten, like kites and crumbly flowers, dry litter in the air between. At the edge of something like disaster, heedless, you will sense again, something like love. you will tell no one this evening but that absent sky at the edge of the roof suddenly ridden with sorrow, all translucence, all red, her little fingers in the photograph against the setting light, will not let you go. (More Poems by Trina Nileena Banerjee) A Poem by Anthony Edmund Forte The spirit of the land A hundred, nay a thousand other men like me On this land we live, die and dream Slake our hunger and our thirst With waters from our rivers, wells and streams Taking our hard earned daily bread We farmers proud with nature toil To see our babies all well-fed As we tend the rich red soil The season’s rhythms dictate our lives From sowing of the soil to harvest time Harmonious with nature to survive For our children all, to grow and thrive While men cut wood for fires and fences Glorifying god with simple repentance The women who raise our sons and daughters Bear the child and pain with calm acceptance Strong men we, dig and plough the fields Milk the cows and harvest the wheat Plant seeds to grow and tend the sheep Rejoicing at birth, at death we weep Collecting tinder and storing fodder We set aside our winter fuel Blackbirds vie with the carrion crow To steal the seed so carefully sown The rich land nourishes the trees that bear Apples, Cherries, Plums and pears The orchard keepers rattle noisily stirs To fright and flight the greedy birds Six of the morn and six of the eve The Angelus bell from the church do ring And so begins and ends each day Men and women kneel and pray Neither summers drought nor winters howls Nor spring’s flowers sweet perfumes prepare For the vagaries of natures curses Nor taxes demanded for the rich men’s purses Bound by our masters awful tyranny Giving us justice without appeal Bowing low in his presence Touch our forelocks and humbly kneel Christian priests forbid us to tell Of eons before the churches were built Of witchcraft powers and ancient spells When here our ancestors dwelt Upon nearby mystical hills Our sacred stones still proudly stand Spirits abide waiting, watching To unite us with our departed kin In water, air, earth and fire We are guardians of all nature now Cohered of Ethereal substances Of drought and rain of sun and snow Bringing revelations and epiphanies And all those spirits caught within us Sylph like voices heard on the breezes Or a hiss through the golden cornfields The message that was written Is whispered gentle through the trees? Or on the gathering of the storm clouds This land belongs to you and me. ( More poems by Anthony Edmund Forte ) A poem by Abhimanyu. Raman The Remnant I am the remnant Of wars fought and lost For reasons, that I know not I remain, the others have perished Partners in my sin, yet alone am I Facing the reaper's scythe Neither hope nor pain do I feel Nor fear nor remorse I am dead to emotion I am the remnant I have faced a thousand enemies, I have had a thousand friends None remain as I do, to witness The end of an age, an era as no other Testimony to the final decadence of man Only I remain, Solitary witness to the inevitable I am the remnant (More poems by Abhimanyu. Raman)