A Poem By K.Satchidanandan


Stammer is no handicap.
It is a mode of speech.

Stammer is the silence that falls
between the word and its meaning,
just as lameness is the
silence that falls between
the word and the deed.

Did stammer precede language
or succeed it?
Is it only a dialect or
a language itself?
These questions make
the linguists stammer.

Each time we stammer
we are offering a sacrifice
to the God of meanings.

When a whole people stammer
stammer becomes their mother-tongue:
just as it is with us now.

God too must have stammered
when He created man.
That is why all the words of man
carry different meanings.
That is why everything he utters
from his prayers to his commands
like poetry.

(Translated from the Malayalam by the poet)

( More Poems By K.Satchidanandan)

A Poem By Deborah Rey

Auschwitz Insomnia

My mother was not gassed.
Much easier to accept, isn’t it?
Oops, I forgot:
for those who do not know,
we’re talking ‘bout
those camps of yore,
of 1940 - ‘46.
No, not the summer camps,
the other ones,
the ones of many stars.

When she got into the camp,
the chambers had been broken down
to hide all shame.
Chambers filled with gas, I talk about.
Those lovely showers,
don’t you remember?
Or, don’t you know?
You didn’t know?
Well, they were there and
people took a shower and
instead of water there was gas
and that was all.

But, anyhow, my mother did not
have to take a shower.
She, a musician, played the violin.
So, probably,
they let her live until
they got sick of music, too.
They most likely shot her in the head ... Poof!
Or, maybe, she died of some sick sickness.
Who cares?
She died, that’s all.
Enough filling in?
Or, do you want the pestilence,
the diarrhoea, the pain of
famine in more detail?

And some people cannot sleep,
because they miss their mother.
But, who the hell cares?
She died and I,
I miss her every,
each and every
night, and
cannot sleep.

© Deborah Rey 2005

( More Poems By Deborah Rey)

A Poem by Vipin K M


Failure knocked at the door
I tried not to open
The knocking became louder. I had to open
And I was beaten…
People call it ' failure of success'.

Failure knocked at the door
I shouted back at my full voice
Failure would not return. I would not stop shouting
The battle continues...zero-zero on either side
People call it 'success versus failure'.

Failure knocked at the door
I took a gun and opened the door
Failure never expected it
And failure was beaten
People call it 'success of success'.

( More Poems by Vipin K M) 

A Poem by Joneve McCormick


In first grade, I learned long fingers indicate aesthetic bent and
vision. Felt discouraged, until I saw pictures of chimpanzees
with very long fingers, long arms too, especially adapted for
grasping and swinging.

One of my professors remarked that in his experience people with
wide, triangular eyes have benevolent souls and those with round eyes
evil ones; his own eyes were remarkably wide and triangular, and when he
saw me looking, noting their glint too, he frowned. When his round-eyed
dog barked, he put it in a closet on a vegetarian diet; it only lived
six years.

And so it goes: white, brown, short, tall, plump, thin, old, young;
we make one better than the other because someone has to lose.
So why don’t we play more games, like, who can be truly kinder?

(More poems by Joneve McCormick )

A  Poem by Dean Nicholson
And, suddenly I said –
I love little yellow foxes.
Why? They asked amazed
Well why?
Because I do not see-
- I laughed
Indeed it was
quite amusing;
they knew I used to love
little black and red and blue ravens
but the foxes?
And do you still love little
black and red and blue ravens?
I was asked
but of course I do I replied
feeding little green eyed dog
with bloody red liquid foam
I must feed with something
the little yellow foxes!
how stupid, I thought
the foam I loved just as much
they are all.

( More Poems By Dean Nicholson )

A Poem by J.T.Jayasingh

There was a Time

There was a time, my son,
Wild parrots shrieked
And koels sang from the groves
To wake the humans from sleep.
No clang of machines drove
Them to the end of their life.

My son, rainbow coloured Gujarati women
Would wove their dreams
With their tender bangled hands.
They dreamt their life
In the colour of yellow and crimson
Around the corner of our streets.
No globalization drove them
To the far away wilderness.

There was a time, my son,
Elders uttered parables
Under the shades of coconut trees
In the corner of the streets,
While happy mothers fed moonrice-
Hand-made in the grinding stones-
To their really hungry children.

There was a time, my son,
The crystal water of our brooks
Faithfully drew our pictures,
And we swam with silver fishes
In the morning cool water.
No beverage factory then
Made life-drops silver coins.

I tell you, I tell you, my son,
There was a time
We really lived our life !

( More Poems By J.T.Jayasingh)

A Poem by  Rehan Qayoom.


*No it is not that the allure of the sun's stilettos *
That bedazzle the eyes
Or that the wiles of the dawn-breeze-route-beguiling gait
That roast the heart when in it reflected
Can no longer emerge in the elegance of another
Nor is it that beauty and love and desire
The rituals of Courtly Romance, the tradition of Chivalry
Have no role to play to play at the midnight masquerades
But that we live in this perpetual city you and I
Uninvited to the carousels
Nor hearing the horn-blow portending doomsday
What sempiternal taverns do this Muse and I haunt
In which none can hear the tumult of the revellers **
*Let alone catch the glass-heart shatter*

( More Poems By Rehan Qayoom )

A  Poem by Robin R. Baldwin


My parents conceived
And to think, born my first journey as me
But how many others have been
And how many more will come;
How do I know
In those silent dreams
When my mind is still
To what I have seen
But, when in meditation
Asleep, but awake
To see, images appear
And then, to relate
A journey
To see the mind clear
Of those faces and shapes
Images of the likes
Not recognised, as here
But not to be afraid to see
I let them pass on by,
And to some, to stay a while,
Sometimes by my will or concentration;
Before it fades into nothing.
But, I do not look for them after
Or to find what's been before
I sit and be still and wait;
Like a fisherman, watching his fly
Cast upon the calmest pool,
The lesson that one must learn
To cajole; the first journey in.
The one I have every morning
When I sit, in meditation
Every one a new beginning
A first journey; in formation
For I have no knowledge, no idea
Of what I am going to find;
But I know it will be:
A first journey,
Each and every time.
A funeral day
But it is also a day for life

( More Poems By Robin R. Baldwin )

 A Poem by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers


every time i drink
every time i sip
every scratch
every wound
every silent scream
every time i think
every lesson is learned
every time i need
every time to believe
every work is true
every stab so deep
every time i want
every thing so neat
every instinct tells me
every thing is wrong
every time i am
every time

( More Poems By Jeffrey Spahr-Summers)

A Poem By Ratna Rajaiah


I watch the caravans of deceit
In your eyes
Glittering, glowing strands
Over golden, barren sands

Carrying their cargo
Of mirages

I watch the caravans of deceit
In your eyes
They pass me by
I look inside

In a flash
I am Mehajabeen
(Did you whisper that in my ear?)

The night sky lines my eyes with sorcery
The North Star is my diamond nose stud
The sickle moon clasps my hair
In a thick, passionate coil
(Did you caress that through my hair?)

Not only you
But the whole world
Lies besotted
At my feet
(Did you trace that on my body?)

The stars shiver in ecstasy

I am drunk with the infinite horizons
Of my own possibilities….

Something ebbs in your eyes
And dies
The golden barrenness
Are icy, dark seas
In which drowns

I watch the caravans of deceit
In your eyes
Peddling a hundred

(More Poems By Ratna Rajaiah)

A Poem By Christina Pacosz

The Mother of Violence

Now I am seeing
the natural blackness
of this world
not only objects
illuminated by light.

How to measure the darkness
lingering beneath the trees –
the imported silk, the native oak –
even as their upper-
most branches

are a green blaze
in the sun.
Remember the iridescent
plumage of the hummingbird
is black

without the light.
Black like a branch
bereft of the life of the living
leaves, charcoal waiting
for the flame.

This is not the time
for debate: which came first –
the light, the dark
but recall how shadow
is at the beginning

before the word.
The vinyl appliqué
a black silhouette
of a hawk
on the window.

A warning for birds
to stay away.
How the shadow
of the predator
troubles the dreams

of its prey.
The swift darkness
of the mongoose
darting across
the blacktop road

on the path
of lava erupting
from the molten void
at the center
of the earth.

( One More Poem By Christina Pacosz )

A Poem by Gary Beck


A meritocracy may be
the surest possibility
to continue democracy,
since profit should not be the measure
of access to the public treasure.

( More Poems by Gary Beck)

My Voice | Poetry In Our Time | In The Name Of Poetry | Editor's Choice | Our Masters
Who We Are | Back Issues | Submission | Contact Us | Home