|
A
Poem by Karen Bowden
Revelations
We talked of shopping, gardens,
children, hair
cuts, husbands, books we’d read, films we’d seen
or hoped to see. We listed who we’d vote
for, who we never would, who we’d meet, where
we’d visit if we could. I told my tales.
You mirrored each with like ones of your own,
and I thought nothing of it till you said,
I look into your eyes and I know why
Li Po, full of wine and glad
at river’s side, reached for the image of
the moon, fell in, and died.
ass="tip">
(One More poem by Karen Bowden
)
A Poem by Aliya Ma Lynn
Aiming High
dir="ltr">
“Kind people love mountains.” – Chinese proverb
The wind makes a harp of mountain folds
while ocean tides drum the cliffs.
Clouds, snow, moonlight, sunbeams listen.
The mountain stands high and strong,
fencing valley and plateau,
holding earth still.
Like an old, commanding teacher,
it inspires in silence.
You can cower; you can stretch.
(
More poem by Aliya Ma Lynn
>>)
Kanchi’s Poems
WAITING
I had planned to watch a movie with a friend
I was on time, she was late
I fumed and fretted, was sore from looking at my Piaget
I brushed away stray thoughts of buying a sleek Rado
To look once more at my expensive gadget.
Fluorescent screens blinking sms, lacquered with “5 min away”
Multiplied with the discreet pools of light
To sketch lattices on my brow.
In the buoyant world of twos, threes and multiples,
I sunk in my discordant solitude.
Collage of expressions, patchwork of gestures, moody
conversation throbbed away
While I stood there stark and mute
I knew my friend – “5 min away” would fester into an hour-long
dis-ease.
I sighed…so what’s new? That is the way these days…it is, it is!
How many friends are on time?
How many friends live up to their lines?
We hardly mean what we say,
Short-term buffers – they are ‘in’ these days!
Life is hung in a surrealist time frame
Piaget or Rado, waiting is the name of the game.
As I waited and watched the skeins of portmanteau feelings curl
up in smoke
I looked all around me and saw it all crumple into this weary
moment --
The yoke of stillborn life.
Dusty husks of lives
Mythic yearning and waiting
The granite finish of lonely crowds.
We were all waiting for our friends to arrive
To hold our hands when we go to watch life in all its
psychedelic colours.
(More Poems by Kanchi>>)
Poems by Farideh Hassanzadeh (
Mostafavi )
DIRE NEED
The telephone of a poet’s home
Is not the telephone of a doctor’s home
but it rings
at the expectant silence of the midnight
and a voice, painful and anxious
asks for a poem;
the nights that
nothing relieves the unknown pain
Neither the hanging rope
nor the beloved’s bosom.
Even the sound of shouting
Doesn’t stain the dead peace.
Translated
by : Mohammad Ali .Mozaafarian
(More
Poems by Farideh Hassanzadeh (
Mostafavi )
>)
Poems by Abha Iyengar
ABHISHEK
“Achyut, achyut,” don’t touch me
Get out of my way.
I am a kulin Brahmin
You should know, girl,” he says
And gingerly raises his dhoti
From the defiling touch
Of the pavement
Where I sell my wares.
His eyes take in my dusky face
My wide brown eyes
My slim waist
And trim ankles.
Late that night
He comes to me
Raises his dhoti once more
For the defiling touch
Of me,
A maiden
Of the lower caste
And howls in ecstasy.
“Achyut, achyut” I whisper in his ear
to tell him
that he is the one,
forever impure.
His eyes widen with shock
As he gathers his dhoti
And his wits about him
To leave my side.
Next morning
I watch him once again
And find his dhoti
Has been edged by dirt
from the pavement.
He raises a corner
To wipe his forehead
And anoints himself with filth.
Bestowing upon himself
The mark of one who is
Truly tainted.
(One
More poem by ABHA IYENGAR >>)
Kala Ramesh’s Poems
dead body lay . . .
only the shadows of leaves
dance on her face
**
dripping mist
pulls the sky
into the valley
( More
poems by Kala Ramesh >>)
A
poem by Jessica Nash
The Economy of Air
She paces along streams of shopping bags--
a cacophony of shop window temptations:
painted ceramics with wispy spring tulips,
Japanese paper lanterns, transparent strings of beads,
stained-glass candle holders, ruby satin pillows.
Future belongings of those who have,
stagnant daydreams of those who have not.
Her soul is soured, yet electrified by want.
She knows second-hand treasures
must soothe those cravings
driven by the spark of sight.
She remembers yesterday,
how a newspaper spoke
in stony ink: money is freedom
Memory dissolves
with the sudden scurry of a sparrow,
it's fluid emergence with air,
the only gem of geography
too infinite for desires and limitations.
The only thing we all possess
yet can not own.
She inhales a gust of air,
stuffs it down her lungs,
as a child engulfs a stolen cookie.
The crosswalk's scarlet hand is still.
She waits for the sign to change. Only then,
may her legs exercise the liberty to walk.
(More
poems by Jessica Nash>>)
A poem by
Shanta Acharya
IF WE COULD
If we could see the consequences
of our thoughts, words, acts
unfurl in an instant,
not over years, decades, centuries
would we mend our ways?
Being human, we cannot resist such temptation,
dream of mastering the present
as we play our lives back into the future,
except we rarely get a second chance.
How does one with a knitting needle
salvage stitches dropped all over
the canvas of space and time?
We learn slowly of the
movement of butterflies’ wings in the Amazon
forest influencing events beyond our conception:
The future remains sealed to us.
Apart from death which is certain
and change that touches all –
The way forward could be through knowing
our strength, our limitation –
for we are not as strong as we might appear
nor as weak as we fear.
Our only hope is embracing the Other
inviting them into our hearts and homes,
not in the name of the father or mother
Nor by any other, except love and compassion
though even that may not always be an option...
(More
Poems By Shanta Acharya >>)
Poem by Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper
Elemental Me
I am the wind,
gently caressing a brow,
sassy in my attempt
to blow hair in tangles,
spirited as I interact with others,
blustery when confronted by anger,
quiet when faced with hurricane forces.
I am water,
still and peaceful - my true self,
ruffled when forces stir my depths,
frightened and fitful as storms drive me
to churn and froth in intense waves.
Extremes batter my psyche until
I form a whirlpool that drags me down.
I am fire,
feel emotions deeply.
Anger finds me seething with heat,
a burn deep in my grate.
Seldom escaping my surroundings,
my coat of ash, deceivingly pale,
flows like hot lava.
I am soil, for all who wish to be gathered close;
sit, relax, enjoy my softness.
Life rises to blossom in warmth,
then withers when cold winds blow,
retreats, under a scatter of flakes,
for kinder times.
Too much, oh God, too much snow,
too little comfort - chill so deep
that thoughts of starting over
are daunting. My seasons go on and on;
there is no change, no hope
that nature's battles will improve,
...then...
the sky pours balm,
fertilizer for my soil that lets
the spirit thrive and flourish.
As battles against bitter elements
threaten my very nature,
I find a beginning...
wind, water and fire, join hands to applaud.
(More
Poems By Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper >>)
Poem by
Donna Bamford
Ode to Haliburton
Incandescent leaves, oceans of incandescent leaves,
amber, orange, translucent crimson
set among cobalt lakes, roaring streams
gushing over rocks and stones
as if glad, glad to be free and rushing
clear and mystical, laughing, dancing,
shattering with enigmatic light
black fir trees silhouetted against stained-glass leaves
a tall moose staggers out of the forest
with eloquent dignity
In the sunset the lake is gold, then rose-alabaster ,
and now phosphorescent silver under an opal moon
ethereal, the cry of the loon
some say a lonely call
but to me, a cry of transcendent joy
(More
poems by Donna Bamford >>)
A
poem by
Stephen Mead
Resilience
Diamond-hard shines your tenderness,
Heart pure the eyes of headlines lived
In touch itself.
Happiness gives the best compassion
After suffering much.
I know this in the hirsute, the fibrous roots
& the innocence naked from experiencing wisdom.
God, the mountains learned there, & the valleys,
& the deserts, such oceanic landscapes of leveling
might.
Fathomless-----
Bottom touches top
Like sap from the core tapped & trickling------
A storm in each stream & our tree faces, enduring.
Love, come with your memory
As I come with mine.
(More
poems by Stephen Mead
>>)
David Schwartz
She Wrote Me A Poem
She wrote me a poem
About an event long ago
One I have forgotten
Or left in the snow
It spoke of a poetic scholar
Who certainly was not be
All my essays are deep
In philosophy
But she is so very kind
Certainly at certain times
That I will have to thank her
For her free verse rhymes
She says the philosopher has a dry wit
Well let it be as it must
She is wise and intelligent
And so her I will trust.
I won’t dare tell her that I think
She is so very attractive
That that is why in there I am so active
For yes I am a philosopher
So says my masters degree
But how will that explain why I
Am enthralled with poetry
Actually I am not
‘Tis her which is sought
But I can’t come out and say it
Firstly because I do not have a rhyme with
Chauvinist pig
(More
poem by David Schwartz
>>)
|
