Monthly Archives: June 2018

Amrit Gangar

5th vol  No 1 (July 2018)

‘KANHAIYA’ BACK IN KOLKATA: 1953-2017

Kanhaiya has returned to you Kolkata, now 74
his father’s rickshaw was broken with his leg
your sky in his eyes had gone unconscious
his scream you had refused to hear then!

Shambhu Mahato is no more, nor Parvati
Kanhaiya has returned to you Kolkata, now 74
he has repaired his father’s rickshaw
nobody there to sing ‘ajab tori duniya ho mere raja’!

Where has everybody gone? Why are slums so silent?
where is the kind Thakurain? And the little girl?
Kanhaiya has returned to you Kolkata, now 74
to find these souls in slums, and Lalu Ustad!

Old Dhangu Mahato killed himself under a wheel
Harnam Singh’s son has 2 + 200 bigha zamin now
and a factory, and a school to his name, a temple too
Kanhaiya has returned to you Kolkata, now 74!

 

Note: He is the same Kanhaiya of Bimal Roy’s film Do Bigha Zamin (1953) who returns to Kolkata to eke out living by pulling rickshaw. I assume he was 10-year-old in the film, and hence he would be 74 in 2017 when he has returned to Kolkata, completely tired of life, both his parents, Shambhu and Parvati, and grandfather Dhangu Mahato have expired; and to his misfortune, his wife too. Old Kanhaiya is back to Kolkata, which is no longer Calcutta.

 

MUKHTAR ALI: WHEEL, VAJAN AND VARICOSE VEINS
“Sahab, mere liye to aap baitho,
aap ki peti baithe ya aapka kutta,
sab ek hai,” in his philosophy of life
septuagenarian Mukhtar Ali was more clear
than i was, he walked on earth, slept on earth
For him ‘vajan’ was the ‘wajood’ all the rest was ‘fazool’
sheer middle-class Marxian mumbo jumbo
i know sahab, looking at my legs and veins
you will write poems and make some money too
“naam bhi kamaoge…”
Mukhtar Ali ferried me every day from
home to office, office to home
i was convinced by his ‘vajan dalil’ (weight argument)
weight is a weight is a weight
and he would charge by weight
Man or machine or maachh or mishti doi or mythology
mattered little to him but vajan brought him a roti
moti mahila will be charged more chhoti less
middle class was chagrined by his humanistic rule
even while going to their gods
One evening a body was found in a Kolkata lane
Mukhtar Ali was no more, his varicose veins
weighed no pain, no vajan, no wajood
only a slogan remained on my city’s wall baaki –
sab fazool! sab fazool! sab fazool!
Amrit Gangar, 18 June 2017

 

A RICKSHAW-PULLER AT BELGACHHIA

As sun scorches your skin at this insane
Kolkata junction, Belgachhia
a chugging tram takes care of him
nor the honking limousine
it would have crushed him, brutally
a bunch of bones
skin showing the whiteness
inside no haemoglobin
he has spent up all his deposits of
erythrocytes, the red blood cells

On this insane junction of Kolkata
many skeletons move, many bunches of bones
jinns are scared of them, ghosts keep away
they carry loads and men and women
pulling them to their destinations
selves getting closer to graves, much closer
wanting no do gaz zamin nor two logs of wood
sticks of bones will burn like incense
skin already burnt awaiting a pinch of ash
wind will fly it not to mountains nor rivers

Wind will fly it to you, your guilt and city’s
where politics has sucked away his ecrythrocytes
to paint flags red, where slogans have turned
him into a skeleton carrying heaps of hopes
useless deceptions he was feeding his children with
as dollops and dahi Marx always chuckled at
the city has robbed this skeleton of his dreams
death he is told not be afraid of, bones have marrow
marrow is your power, comrade, marrow is your tenor
your hips and thighs still run and pull, pull, pull

On this insane junction of Kolkata…
skeletons only look at the sky and the burning sun…

Amrit, Kolkata, 20 May 2017

 

 

Amrit Gangar is a Mumbai-based writer, film theorist, curator and historian. During his college days he used to write poems off and on both in English (as also Gujarati) and several of them were published in journals including Kavi India, Mirror, Youth Times, Calcutta Canvas, Bharat Jyoti, an anthology of poems on Emergency, etc. Of late, he has again picked up his poetic thread. He has authored a number of books on cinema both in English and Gujarati languages. His recent book Cinema Vimarsh has won the Gujarat Sahitya Akademi award. For the past decade or so he has been engaged with developing and expanding his concept of Cinema Prayoga, which he has presented so far across many venues in the world and India, including Kala Bhavan, Santiniketan.

Anwer Ghani

Whitish

The White Field
My mother said that the wheat fields are white and beautiful but I see their birds; they are black. Yes, the wheat spikes have come from the Far East in a white night and had seeded all this glory but when I go to our field I did not find white butterflies and all our white colors have traveled toward the gulf. Now you can understand my lost white feelings and you can see all the black colors which cover my smiles.

White Things
They said: we know everything even the white roses. Yes; your rights are reserved but we know the places, the white words, and more hidden white things. We work hard to save our white world, so we know everything even the black side in you. ​We are in the era of privacy and these satellites and internet are just for taking beautiful white pictures. We are in the time of love in white nights. Where is that whiteness? And where is that love? You don’t see anything but redness and you find nothing but antecedent condemnation.

A White Land
The icy lands color my life with a white world, but what you see in my depth is killing blackness. May be the white clothes had been run out. Please don’t steal my dream, and don’t cover my life with illusionary roar. Yes, my foot is cold, hand is so short, and you have a nice whitish tongue but the water in my glass is not warm and not white. Here, in my eyes is a white tree, but here, in my heart is a stolen white land.

 

Anwer Ghani is an Iraqi poet and artist. He was born in 1973 in Hilla. His name has appeared in many literary magazines and anthologies and he have won many prizes; one of them “World Laureate-Best Poet in 2017 from WNWU”. Anwer writes; expressive narrative poetry, and he is the author of “Narratopoet”; (2017), “Antipoetic Poems”; (2017) and other 40 books. He is the editor-in-chief of Arcs prose poetry magazine. Websites: https://anwerghani1.wordpress.com.

Suman Pokhrel

Along the Bank of Word
by Abhi Subedi

At night, how much tears
did flow
I knew not;
after hearing the swish of morning’s river,
I, hurriedly, ran along the bank of word
to pick my flowing soul.

(Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)

Sky, Wrenched and Stretched to Dry
-by Abhi Subedi

On falling a showering wail onto
my ears
from sky,
I rushed to find;
earth, by entwining her attire
into the wheels of my motorcycle,
got herself almost unclad, and
sat plumped like water.
akin to wet laundry, I got hanged stretched
with love, and
I became an ethereal sky, wrenched
and stretched to dry.

(Translated from Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)

News
by Dinesh Adhikari

Yesterday, as well as
the day before yesterday
and further earlier that day
and today also, news of
killing of too many innocent people
is published in newspapers.

I am reading the news-
four corpses of Nepalese workers are arrived
from Arab in a single day, yesterday;
a dead body of an unidentified girl, raped and
killed, is found on bank of a river;
following an announcement of election
a youth, converted into pamphlet of
his master, for the sake of his hunger, is killed
while fluttering in procession, carrying
his own face, in a clash with opposition;
while deploying government mechanism,
on demand of a land-mafia to evacuate the land,
after getting the whole settlement registered
to its ownership, a mass of people
gathered for resistance, has been killed at spot
from bullets of police;
all passengers in a bus have been killed
by collapsing a bridge, while the bus was
crossing the bridge, that was recently handed over , and
the construction contract of which was given
to a brother in-law of a minister;
by taking date expired medicine
distributed by a government hospital
two pregnant women has been died in a village.

And, I am in hope that-
the masks of those,
who took them into the poisonous tunnel,
of those, who made them their life jackets for self protection,
of those, who hunted them for sake of entertainment,
of those, who, made them porter of their illicit actions by
hiding their identity of being master;
be removed at main streets, like peeling out of
ripen banana, and, let their breath get floundering
in front of a huge mass of people.

Can somebody tell me,
when would a news of their assassination
be published in newspapers?

(Translated form Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)

Rain in Jungle
By Dinesh Adhikari

It’s raining pitter-patter
in jungle, and
together with every droplet of rain
an enlivening aroma is spreading
from the soil thirsty for long

Trees are swaying, on
getting exhilarated from that fragrance,
leaves are turned into moans,
the jungle is boasting a symphony of passion.

At present, the jungle has forgotten
the dreary yearning of past,
it has forgotten the fire
that engulfed on its chest
and has forgotten the hot wind that
blew akin to whistle of despair.

One can say-
the jungle seems carefree; of
whether the Sun stare at it,
seems ignorant of, if the moon sees it or
the darkness kept gazing.

Perhaps at this moment, the jungle
wants to forget every detail around it;
by avoiding scrutiny of time, the jungle
at this instant, perhaps wants to
get drenched in every pleasure of subsistence.

Pitter-patter parade of water,
with whew-whew whistling of leaves and
whiffing fragrance of soil, amid
crackling footsteps of wind.

Oh ! how pleasurable is it, to
listen to this song of rainfall.

This reminds me of
whispering to my beloved in our youth.

I like rain in jungle
so eminently.

(Translated form Nepali by Suman Pokhrel)

 

Abhi Subedi was born in eastern Nepal and educated in Nepal and Britain. He is a professor of English at Tribhuvan University in Kathmandu, and an established writer who has published works in both Nepali and English, including plays, essays, poems and literary criticism and history. He has also translated works from English into Nepali, and from Nepali into English. He writes regular columns in Nepal’s Nepali and English-language media and is very closely associated with language pedagogy, especially the teaching and syllabus writing of English in Nepal. Besides English, Subedi has taught Nepali to expatriates in Nepal at different times: these have included tourists, ambassadors, and priests. Abhi Subedi’s many published works include Bruised Evenings (play, 2009), Nibandha ra Tundikhel(essays, 2008), Nepali Theatre as I See It (2007), Panch Natak (five plays, 2004), Dreams of Peach Blossoms (play, 2001), Poems of the Century(edited, 2000), Ekai Kawaguchi: the Trespassing Insider (1999), Shabda ra Chot (poems, 1997), Chasing Dreams: Kathmandu Odyssey, (poetic play, 1996), Sirjana ra Mulyankan (literary criticism, 1982), and Nepali Literature: Background and History (1978).

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abhi_Subedi

Dinesh Adhikari

Renowned lyricist Dinesh Adhikari is a brilliant poet, capable of framing in poetic frames timeless ripples of the experiences woven in the songs of life with rhythm and vibration. He enjoys simple, symbolic presentation, temporal awareness, and serious revelation of contents in simple expressive style.
Away from the assumptions of any movement or doctrine, the poems of Adhikari, written in celebration of being humans, exhibit simplicity and beauty, and appeal more to heart than to intellect. They decently keep echoing in the heart of the readers. This is his poetic perfection

Suman Pokhrel

Suman Pokhrel, an eminent Nepali poet, lyricist, playwright, translator and artist; is widely reckoned as one of the most creative contemporary voices. He lives in Biratnagar, a city nestled in the foothills of Himalayas. He writes in Nepali, English, Hindi and Urdu. He has three collections of poems. Beside English, his poems are translated into Sanskrit, Spanish, French, Italian, Arabic, Farsi, Hindi, Bengali, Urdu, and Oria; and are published in various literary journals, anthologies and webzines globally. Pokhrel has translated poems of several poets from around the world into Nepali; and has translated various Nepali language poets’ works into English, Hindi and Urdu. Recently, he wrote a solo play ‘Yajnaseni’, based on ‘Draupadi’, one of the lead characters from the famous Sanskrit epic Mahabharata. The play was premiered in Irvin Art Center, Dallas, Texas in USA and was late performed India.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suman_Pokhrel

Phina So

I’m floating
Phina So, Cambodia

I’m floating in the Mekong river.
I dare not glance at my decaying body.
I’m floating.
Last night I was drowning and you looked away.
I cried my heart out, but you walked with dismay.
I’m floating on the Cambodian news.
People are feeling sad –
But that could not help me.
I left behind a handicapped child
Who I will always miss his smile.
I left behind his childhood.
With no return.
My drowning body is floating.
Security men without heads and hearts.
Depart without giving their hands.
I was dying and I only see my child’s innocent face.
I could not help but blaming myself for being his mother.
I was a sex worker whose life was beyond cheap and lower.
Oh Mekong river, swallow me.
In fact, I have no interest in living long time ago.
Swallow me, river!
Fishes eat me, do not hesitate!
Please you – fishers – do pretend as if you do not see me.
Let the river swallow my body.
Slowly.
Peacefully.
Calmly.
Oh how I wish to reborn again.
To be a mother with full protection, love, and grace.
For her child for the rest of her life.
And do not share the fate as how I die this life.
To the security men who left me to die,
help yourself find peace so that I could go to paradise.

(Phina So is a researcher, writer, a poet and a member of the Khmer literature collective, Slap Paka, and the head of the Women Writers Committee at PEN Cambodia. She has published an anthology of short stories with a group of authors. She lives in Phnom Penh, Cambodia with her family.)

 

 

Moinak Dutta

Universal 

You talk of cherry orchard
Jazz and your God Father,
And how just being merry
You colored your auburn hair
Turning it more of a flame
Which never ever dies,
You talk of your marriage
With a beautiful autumn sky,
Your wardrobe is filled with
Garments never worn
You carry red shoes
Like berries to your home,
And your window has
A view of a maple tree
From there you claim
You can see me easily,
And I here sit under
A cloudless sky so blue
From here I get the scent
Of thistle and you,
You talk of New Orleans
How there sun rises too
You talk of silvery eyes
with which moon loves you,
And perhaps of that tavern
Where comes the friday night
Filled with renaissance songs
Mary from wall watching you quiet,
I think of temple gongs
How sombre they feel
I think of going with you
To an unknown pleasant hill,
There we would oneday sure
Forgetting all boundaries
Make a garden filled
With oranges and blue berries.

 

 An afternoon saga

how do they feel whence thy hands thou lay?’
She asked me one afternoon , seizing the day
As it was slowly gliding down her nape, her breasts,
There the slanted light was taking a sleepy rest,
As rest on the meadows green flowers taking sun beams,
Taking dew too as they make a descend slow
Her hair found I how on her shoulders did flow
Cascading , rippling thing, brown and tantalising,
Somewhere there had been an absorbing scene
Of a green valley decked by seasonal flowers wild
Somewhere there the heavenly painter drew like a child
With curious strokes of brush , meadows quite lush
And I seeing all that was just about to gush
Forth all that was coming to my throat,
Songs of communion, songs of boat,
And other things, like a portion of the Holy Book
Bible was all in my hands I took,
And she poured wine red red in the glass
Seizing the day , I thought time’s chariot shouldn’t pass
Such an afternoon of winter, young and green
Such wonderous painted calming a scene.

 

 3. Samson and Delilah

At the Valley of Sorek whence
Samson first Delilah saw
He had perhaps that pervading sense
Of love within him growing raw
So he sought love from her
The maiden with wonderous looks
Eyes that could pull him near;
He pledged his heart to her
In lieu she asked what could make
Samson such a valiant warrior
And he , being what he was
Without doubting made the mistake
He told her if could someone his hair
Cut and take those strands away
All of his strength would just disappear;
Hearing this Delilah made a pact
Betraying love that was sacrosanct
She took Samson to the bait
Luring him upon her lap to meet his fate,
And how awful had been that sight
To find Samson losing the fight
Like a child as he dozed off
Upon the lap of his lady love.

 

4. Seagull and the morn
‘My cherub art thou!’
Saying this the Seagull took a flight
Over the sea blue that glittered in morn’s light,
I just looked at her so going away
Through the sea breeze finding her way
Beautiful as she looked white and winged
How she to dreams of unknown lands me sent,
Her soaring to see was itself an act of joy
Seagull bright as she spread her wings! Ahoy!
I yelled at her , clapping hands like a friend,
Seeing her so wonderous , taking turns and bends,
Cutting through the air, with ease, so elegant
O how I wished to go with her to her land,
And the Seagull perhaps knew my heart too
For out of the sky white and so blue
She swooped down fast before me,
(Afterall called me she a cherub, hadn’t she?)
And taking a round around my enchanted state
She flew up, up happy and straight,
Till could I see her no more
Morning whence touched me pure
With her light, her mirth, her beauty so,
O how I stood by the sea, watching The Seagull’s glow.

 

5. It must have been an Ordinary Day

It must have been an Ordinary Day
And you might just say
It is always good to get
The smell of coffee waking up late
We got no need to argue
We can always bury the hatchet
And sing songs true
To the faithful departed,
It must have been an ordinary day
And you might just say
It is always good to get the hair cut
Making it pixie kind, buzzed, smart,
We got no need to please us
We can always sing a song
And make it quite melodious
Just to make our days wait for you long.

( * written by poet as a tribute to Dolores O’ Riordan of Cranberries. ‘ Ordinary Day’ is her  first single.)

 

 

Moinak Dutta, born on 5th September, 1977 to an immigrant family, he has been writing poems and stories from school days.Done postgraduation in English. Presently engaged as a teacher of English.Many of his poems and stories are published in national and international anthologies and magazines.Written reviews of books and fictions, one on Upanisads can be found at www.blogapenguinindiaclassic.blogspot.com. His debut fiction ‘Pestilence’ was published in 2009. He had signed an agreement with a publishing house in October,2012for the publication of his second english literary fiction ‘Online@Offline’. The fiction had been published in 2014, January by Lifi Publications.His third fiction titled ‘ In search of la radice’ is published in August 2017 by Xpress Publications.
Blogs regularly at www.theboatsong.blogspot.com .Interested in photography, films and music.
email :moinakdutta@yahoo.co.in

Mithlesh Kumar Chaudhari,

On Marriage Table the Funeral Food

Hamlet and his royal pain Nursed by his uncle’s reign.
Devilish Claudius’ incestuous flame Kills King Hamlet in a garden-game.
Uncle’s aim at his brother’s wife Mar his master for incestuous life.
On the marriage table the funeral food Used by Claudius with cunning mood.
Husband’s killer with wife’s consent Moves to arrange new marriage tent.
Philosophical attempts of convince Shows her son her incestuous sins.
A brother’s incest for his brother’s wife Bloody brother takes gentle brother’s life.
Hamlet like an orphan son Burns in sin for retaliation.
The feigned madness in search of guilty Strengthens Hamlet’s revengeful duty.
He arranged fratricide play within play To know the guilty by smooth display.
Trembling tears in guilty eyes Culprits like sound, sink and rise.
Claudius’ sealed heinous order Fails to reach Hamlet’s border.
Hamlet’s life in Claudius’ mind Robs the peace of Claudius’ mind.
Mother of Hamlet namely Gertrude Keeps heinous heart, wickedly rude.
The poisoned cup intended for son Poisoned Gertrude as a serious fun.

The Delicate Land
I drowned my heart in her love Who made my heart like desert land; Closing door of my beloved’s love Trembled my whole heartland.
My heart swims in the river of love Like a veteran swimmer in her eyes; She asked her wishes to race in love And love opened her heart and eyes.
My travelling reveries in her love Spoke to the heart again to remain; Deeply drowned heart sighed in love ‘Oh! I swim no more in stormy rain!’
My drowned heart with floating feelings thinks besides the delicate land May these hearts in the country of love enjoy true love with folded hand!

Do My Heart You Like No More!
Kill me, hate me, I am ready, Loving I cannot stop my lady.
Cupid like I worship thee.
Can mortality of thy loathing Discourage my Love in solitude?
My heart that runs blood for me From thy mercy it runs whole night.
I am too badly torn. My heart alone sighs forlorn!
Do my heart you like no more!
Tell me: How I sink in thee?
Now I must not travel more. Keep my heart without a door.
My heart for thee weeps and roars.
O Heart! You pine for a spoonful pleasure. O! Ungracious heart! Suffer for treasure.
Let me remove The blinkers of forgetfulness.
Has ever Love buried a lively heart?
Forgiving is the marvellous sign of love Like sunlight it sharpens the winter-labour.
Don’t measure my love in cups of time. Let us drink together Love in the cups of lips for heavenly joy.
Our hearts may travel more than us In search of love without sunlight.
Let us feel together in silence The presence of Love from eye to eye and heart to heart.

 

Dr. Mithlesh Kumar Chaudhari, (Ph.D. & N.E.T.), is working as an Assistant Professor in the Department of English, G.L.A. University, Mathura, Uttar Pradesh, INDIA. He has several years of research and teaching experience. He is currently teaching the courses on communication skills and soft skills in the university, and has published several articles on Indian English drama and Third Gender. These two poems are taken from the first unpublished volume entitled The Brainchild and Other Poems that contains fifty four poems. Many poems have already been published in Peer Reviewed International journals.
Email ID: mithleshchaudhari@gmail.com

Sandeep Kumar Mishra

When You Buy Their Sorrow

Icy winds filled with chimney smoke
Signaled the burning of Christmas block,
When colorful lights all around gleam
The holy monks sing the merry theme,
Sacred lilies, decorative ivory, fill homes
Town to town our joyful echo roams,
Perch like a bird around the tree to sing
Listen to chorus, sweet jingle bells bring,
Meet the beloved ones you missed daily
Hug the foes; don’t let slip away easily,
Rich and poor at the same table
Do the labor but make it a fable,
Let care go some hidden place
Let love take its due space,
Drink and drown all the worry
No one seems alone or in hurry,
Once you have the Christ sign in thy heart
Feeling His grace makes you Gilbert,
The God loves all in their true form
Shun the bad habits in His charm,
Time to wish all a prosperous morrow
It’s Merry Christmas when you buy their sorrow.

 

That Nice Elderly Year
That nice elderly year
Lying on his death bed,
A fellow of our previous path
A willing caller to everyone’ longing;
His days were once lustrous
Evening, a rosy blonde,
When his hope was high
He weaved fanciful visual nights;
How he lavished his liberal hand
All the treasures in his possess?
I find his tiny traces in Apollo
Or vanishing lunar light,
As I have all praise, less to blame;
I thank God for past every moment
Love you for thy timely prick,
It’s all my choice
If I were a failure;
Now I can shun my greed and strife
As thou taught me a restful sleep,
To wake up for New Year morn
Sound in judgments,
Devoid of wasteful desire

A Cold Call
In snowy unpigmented drape
Wintry withdrawn world waits
For the warm kiss of the day;
Through the long lonely valley
The elevation blows the glacial gale
To cheer the deep and solemn solitude;
Over the bare upland, a pious sunbeam plays
When the heartless west extends its blast;
But the stormy north sings sleet,
All the field lay bound beneath
A crispy integument of snow,
It withers all in silence to expose the earth
And show its susceptible skeleton life;
I walk to crash crunch beneath my feet
See a dancing darkness in vivid blue,
In an ecstasy the earth drink
The silver lukewarm sunlight;
The beast or bird in their covert rest,
These leafless trees resemble my fate,
A lonely robin with its burning breast
Sits in subtle sweetness of the sun;
How ruby banner of poppies spread
Where the lilies fell asleep but
The rose’s hearts are beating still;
When the fresh sap of earth
Finesse the flaxen flowers;
The snowflakes swarmed in the yard
To beat the feeble window panel,
When, I step in warm chamber,
I wonder how like me
The grief worn threshold stone was?
Distorted and shivering shadows
Upon the dim lighted ceiling;
The colorless clusters of lackluster stars
Ornaments the night bride,
The lenient liquid moon
Slides through bare black branch;
A chamber corner draft swept the night stand;
The cruciform contour of winged craving
Took a fleety flash flight,
I swear to keep every sweet promise
Under a warm furry blanket
Of seed prospect,
God pity all those homeless souls.

Sandeep Kumar Mishra is a writer, poet, and lecturer in English Literature. He is the art instructor at Kishlaya Outsider Art Academy. He has edited a collection of poems by various poets – Pearls (2002) and written a professional guidebook -How to be (2016) and a collection of poems and art-Feel My Heart(2016)

http://www.sandeepkumarmishra.com/

Abu Sufian

Light vs Darkness

When mind dwells in between
light and darkness,
good and evil;
mind doesn’t know what dominates:
is it the temporary light,
or infinite and endless darkness?

 

 

Not for the Flowers

I waited for ages,

longed for your presence,

tormented my soul with

the agony of love

and with the yearning for your flowers.

 

Having rained down with your flowers

and mesmerized with their enthralling fragrance,

I grasped the meaning of my longing.

It wasn’t for the innocent flowers,

nor was it the alluring fragrance;

it was you for whom the heart hankered after;

and it is you, it will long forever.

 

Of Men’s Jealousy

Of men’s jealousy

of God’s wrath

of destiny unknown

that split up our paths forever.

 

You will never be mine,

cause it was not destined

in the divine writ

written and endorsed without consent

without our submission of the yearnings

of our crying souls.

 

Beyond Desire

She was desperate to know

how much I care and love her,

how love resides in my heart in her absence!

 

I replied with sigh and assurance:

‘Wherever you are and will be.

Remember and believe by heart,

someone loves you passionately,

far from your soul,

at a distant corner of the world.

 

And he doesn’t depend on your love

to love you.

His love is beyond expectation,

beyond desire,

beyond condition of any sort,

beyond everything except Love,

Love with a capital L.’

 

The Distant Star

The distant star has a story,

just like us,

just like our sun!

Her story is unknown to us,

concealed from all our hearings and visions.

 

I see the dim light

from billions of light years away,

gazing at the pale white dots.

 

I wonder whether someone else,

from a distant star

is peeping through window

looking for us,

just the way we behold;

seeking for answers,

just the way I seek;

gazing at me,

just the way I stare

at the infinite heaven

beneath and above.

 

Abu Sufian – who is also known as The Silent Poet – was born in 1989 in Comilla, Bangladesh. He is a poet, journalist and social worker whose writings have appeared in many national and international publications that include newspaper, magazine, literary journals and books. Sufian currently lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and he can be reached at his official Facebook poetry page, The Silent Poet (facebook.com/Sufian.Author). During his undergraduate years, he fell in love with the poetic world. Finishing his bachelor, he moved to Malaysia in 2013 earned his MA degree in English literature. During studying English literature, he has been exposed to Sufi poets like Rumi, Saadi Shirazi, Hafiz, Omar Khayyam. His poems have been greatly influenced by these Sufi and mystic writers. And his poems have been published in literary journals including Scarlet Leaf Review, Criterion, Literary Voyage, The Literary Herald, Tuck Magazine, Clairvoyance, and also in the poetry anthologies, Voice of Monarch Butterflies (2016) and Apple Fruits of an Old Oak (2016), both anthologies were published from USA. His poems have been accepted for publications in two more international anthologies: Where Are You From? and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses.

Faiz Ahmad

COLD EXISTENCE

Tonight
If you rest your hand upon
This strange silence of mine,
You maybe reminded
Of a cold stone
Aching to feel the road’s endless sadness
Or you maybe reminded
Of words that lost their
Warmth as they became distant.
Tonight
The wind is indistinguishable
From its absence.
Tonight
All of my existence
Is staring back at me
With its blank, unblinking eyes – freedom laden.
Where shall I flee?
Where shall I flee?

I, who stretched my arms
To match time,
Am thirsty like an empty cup,
Thirsty for clusters of violet
That grow if a window opens itself.
A cupboard is wide
Sometimes wider than those moments
When I had nothing to do.
I am cold like that stone
And imagine how cold
Would the soil’s cry be,
If sunlight became tired and heavy
Before it could reach the earth’s lips.

 

Tonight
I no longer wonder
At the fact that my dreams
Have lost their sleeping place
As I stare at the swinging of mirrors
From my lonely bed.
Tonight
I shall turn my face away
From those offers
That promised truth in their
Vague, colourless hands.
Tonight
I became a white cloud of my thoughts
I became a gap sunken in the
Ambiguity of two sleeps.
Yes, I am scattered across time
And my heart is witnessing
The birth of eternal longings.

 

LIFE AND NOTHING MORE

I have lived on shores
For too long
And like a matchstick
Amidst so many more matchsticks,
I am well aware of my insignificance.

I have loved
And I have fainted like
Leaves in the embrace of light.
I have loved
And I have seen
How minute all else appears from heights.
I have loved
Until my heart contained only horizons.

I have heard people exclaim
‘Perhaps life shall shed its skin soon’.
I have seen the youth of banyan tree
Descending into the earth.
I have seen death turning yellow
In the arms of leaves.

The thought of death
Burst upon my dinner table
And I picked up
Of what was left of my freedom.
My feet have no
More hunger left in them.
(My feet that once
Feasted on rain rich soil
And love struck alleyways
And playful dream-laden grass.)
My maze like journey through these
Sorrowful roads,
Caused the rise of languages
Within my soul.

The dried up throat of my soul
Coughed, and the
Moist passage of wind between the door and
The window of time,
(Time has room like properties:
Square, man-made and
Full of shelves, closets and wardrobes)
Caused my eyes to turn outwards.

 

REALIZATION

I shall s p r e a d myself
In front of my eyes
To become a lake for
Fishes born out of my
Loneliness.

 

A HOPEFUL FLIGHT

My heart is full of windows
That open to the green pastures of leisure
That open to the direction of wind
That open to the transformation of shadows.

The journey to friend’s home
Is ripe with metaphors
Behind blue doors
And remember
To not grieve
When the heart sheds its clothes
Beside the pregnant lake of loneliness.

The sky may extend
A friendly hand to
A sad faced passerby
And dreams shall hatch
Like eggs
In his eyes.

In this room
In this ashen room
Of my small existence,
A bird on the rooftop is spreading its wings,
As gently as life in my palm,
With hope drawn from a child’s breast
I shall soar above green dreams.

 

THE PRIMEVAL CALL

I am alone
And someone is calling my name
From beyond the seas of the world.
My hands are weak
And the moments escape
From the edge of my fingertips.

My bed is cold
And my eyes always watch the
Longest part of night on the wall.
I am sad,
Sad like the pen that
Travels along the white page of separation.

I talked to the people of this town.
There is no breeze that
Blows over their words.
Nobody takes the shade of
The oldest palm seriously.
I saw shadows that open their wings
Above every sleeping man.

There have been moments of delight too.
I met a woman in spring time,
Who was so lost in comprehending the flowers
That their colours sang hymns
Right in her eyes.
I saw a poet who,
Like a cloud,
Was full of rain that washes the words.
I saw many children,
Their hearts full of balloons
That had escaped into the winds of time.

Someone is calling me again.
I shall leave this place.
I shall sail with the waves.
I shall sail with two dreams on my lips.

The walls around the loneliness
Of a fish shall break,
And the blue song of sea shall pour.
Dawn shall overtake my boat
And lead me into the
Widest expanse of fables.
The sky shall drift into my silence
And like a bud,
I shall blossom from the ancient soil.

 

Faiz Ahmad is  the founder of healthcare startup, Orbuculum and he hs a passionate interest in poetry as an art form for understanding life. His poems have been published in Indian Literature Magazine of Sahitya Akademi.

Pitambar Naik

Fury

Those spicy dreams dangle. A thirsty summer river

Smoldering for months gets back to life, there’s an age-old famine

Just a cold touch is relishing for the soul

Here around me a fence, your intimacy of turquoise fur

That’s amazingly sumptuous, what else could be sought again?

That old familiar song I hear on the top floor next to mine

It’s so hallucinogenic like mild kisses of the spring winds

Even it’s more like a few strokes from your fatty lips

I am hanging out on the verge of a deceptive evening

The wall clock above stops to take a glimpse of us

Night becomes a late drowsy winter afternoon; pregnant and lazy

All the panicked pain departs in haste, a sky of bliss spreads

Only the fury of restless ecstasy of an entombed history whines

The tide on the shore of our past lies prostrate, cool

My muscles twirl, a utopian octopus shies away

I am arrested and captivated like a moth or metaphor.

This terribly dry land now goes wild again

A fire mishap in between us gutters the monochromatic sorrows

And a hurricane from the North Pole

You ceaselessly gnash your blood-stained teeth till mid-night.

 

 

Sweet Carols of Christmas

Silver crease around the eyes, your words are smooth like rose petals

The freshest spring descends surreptitiously as you yawn

We walked tirelessly hand in hand those years

Thinking to sweeten the conjugation of our chemistry

The upbeat presence of my divorced intimacy

Clung to your ripe innocence, I had no option left with

I said goodbye to the diluted seasons

A mendicant in me was unsure of leaving everything in between us.

Now, whom can I trust? I bank on yet a deceptive camaraderie

The oppressive touches of a heinous past

Just a few flicks of our remembrance from the pages of history tickle me.

I unlocked your tightly-clasped knots, a potpourri of fluorescent vivacity

Rhythms of a luscious heart

The most admired artistic audacity that I loved

Where did we begin our journey from? I don’t remember

That’s been so antique now, but it was an evening of Christmas carols

At the doorpost of your duplex a sedative concoction

Swaddled with charming bougainvillea

Often I feel approaching you over again and rush where you lay peacefully!!

Pitambar Naik was born and raised in Odisha in India. He is an advertising copywriter based in Hyderabad and writes poetry and non-fiction in English. He has been featured in journals such as Brown Critique, Spark Magazine, CLRI, Indian Review, Indian Ruminations, Galaxy-IMRJ, UK, Hunter Poems, UK, Muse India, HEArt Online, Fair Folk-A Magazine of Fantastic, Tuck Magazine  in the USA, Indian Periodical, Hans India, The New Indian Express, Metaphor in the Philippines, and Bhashabandhan Review in the USA and elsewhere. Some of his poems are due to be featured in the Kitab, Singapore and Prachya Review in Bangladesh. He can be reached at pitambarnaikwriter@gmail.com