An Ode to My Beloved Inamorata |
Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and for Best of the Net, Sibanda is the author of Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things, The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence, The Way Forward, The Ndaba Jamela and Collections and Poetry Pharmacy . https://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/ndaba-sibanda.html. https://ndabasibanda.wordpress.com/2017/03/26/first-blog-post/ https://www.amazon.com/Ndaba-Jamela-Collections-Sibanda/dp/1712864173 http://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/03/ndaba-sibanda.html https://poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com/2020/03/19/ppp-ezine-poetrypoeticspleasureezine-volume-4-issue-3-march-2020/ |
The Rhythm Of Africa
Its dishes are rich in culture
Servings of fresh injera & tibs
Shiro, doro wot, what a capture
Vegies, spiced butter, meat like ribs!
Kenya ,a taste of maize meal, a taste of ugali
Menus to suit all palates, religious dietary needs
Potatoes, corn, beans, cassava, yam, pumpkins in Kigali
African music echoes across all colours, countries & creeds
Servings of fresh injera & tibs
Shiro, doro wot, what a capture
Vegies, spiced butter, meat like ribs!
Kenya ,a taste of maize meal, a taste of ugali
Menus to suit all palates, religious dietary needs
Potatoes, corn, beans, cassava, yam, pumpkins in Kigali
African music echoes across all colours, countries & creeds
Whirling In The Open In Bulawayo
Outdoors in one worthy season
Barbequed meat and all- served
Babies crying, smoke one reason
But their feasting moms unnerved
Beautiful happy souls hooked on meat
Roasted to perfection, what a delicacy
Without Afro-music the party is incomplete
Bulawayo, a fabulous food haunt and fantasy
Barbequed meat and all- served
Babies crying, smoke one reason
But their feasting moms unnerved
Beautiful happy souls hooked on meat
Roasted to perfection, what a delicacy
Without Afro-music the party is incomplete
Bulawayo, a fabulous food haunt and fantasy
Born in the village of Majkhuria in Bangladesh, Rehanul, a bilingual poet started writing poems at an early age. Although he has interest in different forms of literature, his first and foremost love is poetry. Falling ‘upon the thorns of life’ as Rehanul takes refuge in the lap of nature, so also he seeks pleasure in poetry. He finds no antagonism between art and science. Rehanul believes beauty is religion and poetry can build a habitable earth by promoting beauty and truth together through the appreciation of beauty. He dreams of a future ruled only by love. |
Song of the Heart
The bird’s song mingling with the sylvan dreams
Of unbridled youthful vigor, flowed through channels
Like a spring flowing with foamy waves;
The waves moved in circular motion while
The bird sang in a long melodious tone
Its enchanting tranquility reminded a lovely past,
The wheat afield and trees by the bank
Absorbed the song in warm breath.
The song bridged the seamless rivers of
Past, present and future
Everything became motionless
Relativity gave in to melody, emotions turning to fair ladies
May seem unrealistic but all reasons were proven wrong
At least, as long as the bird sang.
The reason that a song could curb the flow of time-
Souls awoke from graves, phantoms put on flesh
Trickster coaxed to enjoy his magic show
The show gradually left everyone in a trance
In the meantime,
A chaste woman of the 18th century India lost her sanctity
Yet, it was a mind-blowing experience
Now the woman finds it pleasing to jump upon
The funeral pyre!
Heart is set ablaze but love is Phoenix.
Bird, for days your song is no more heard
The burning sensation seems in a maze
Love wanes as much as to become a dead river
A sick man struggling with asthma lies in the Hospital bed
He is left with choking feeling and batted breath
Blood becomes frost, midnight creeps slowly into head
Nothing remains in memory except an empty cage
Bird, you made me an Orpheus
How long will you play hide and seek?
Please come back; never go away leaving me behind.
Bird, the fair countenance of Emily and Issac singing pop and rock-
The extract is speechless afternoon,
Sheer hollowness hidden under uniform, relentless fear,
Moths eating out time, desires dissipate, senses become inert
Meanwhile, tortured by Nitrus Oxide
I’m bound to show a smiling face
Bird, why I cannot flee like you!
Bird, the lost face of Mayan civilization
Laments till today!
With a look to avoiding cruel treatment by Habub,
Although Ostrich hides face in a dune
Its dreams don’t evaporate!
I am a flickering light, but live on some hope
Bird! Please accept me
Play your song to this lonesome soul, a little more.
The heart that the mind wants to be with
Let two drops of tear be placed at her feet as swan song
A sigh, little happiness, small tales of everyday-
Only for her, I know these are not enough!
Bird, wherever you are, never forget to sing for us
Your song is song of the heart.
Of unbridled youthful vigor, flowed through channels
Like a spring flowing with foamy waves;
The waves moved in circular motion while
The bird sang in a long melodious tone
Its enchanting tranquility reminded a lovely past,
The wheat afield and trees by the bank
Absorbed the song in warm breath.
The song bridged the seamless rivers of
Past, present and future
Everything became motionless
Relativity gave in to melody, emotions turning to fair ladies
May seem unrealistic but all reasons were proven wrong
At least, as long as the bird sang.
The reason that a song could curb the flow of time-
Souls awoke from graves, phantoms put on flesh
Trickster coaxed to enjoy his magic show
The show gradually left everyone in a trance
In the meantime,
A chaste woman of the 18th century India lost her sanctity
Yet, it was a mind-blowing experience
Now the woman finds it pleasing to jump upon
The funeral pyre!
Heart is set ablaze but love is Phoenix.
Bird, for days your song is no more heard
The burning sensation seems in a maze
Love wanes as much as to become a dead river
A sick man struggling with asthma lies in the Hospital bed
He is left with choking feeling and batted breath
Blood becomes frost, midnight creeps slowly into head
Nothing remains in memory except an empty cage
Bird, you made me an Orpheus
How long will you play hide and seek?
Please come back; never go away leaving me behind.
Bird, the fair countenance of Emily and Issac singing pop and rock-
The extract is speechless afternoon,
Sheer hollowness hidden under uniform, relentless fear,
Moths eating out time, desires dissipate, senses become inert
Meanwhile, tortured by Nitrus Oxide
I’m bound to show a smiling face
Bird, why I cannot flee like you!
Bird, the lost face of Mayan civilization
Laments till today!
With a look to avoiding cruel treatment by Habub,
Although Ostrich hides face in a dune
Its dreams don’t evaporate!
I am a flickering light, but live on some hope
Bird! Please accept me
Play your song to this lonesome soul, a little more.
The heart that the mind wants to be with
Let two drops of tear be placed at her feet as swan song
A sigh, little happiness, small tales of everyday-
Only for her, I know these are not enough!
Bird, wherever you are, never forget to sing for us
Your song is song of the heart.
A Tribute to You, Darling
Darling, under the guise of lightning in a dream
You appeared as nightmare-
The rest is history.
An extended vision accrued from electromagnetic spasms
Pervades my body and soul-
Renders a rhythmic motion into you
Within the precincts of a linseed,
Your fragrant body is so unblemished!
You are a beauty par excellence lain like Europa whose folds
Stimulate an undulating lust
My entity, as swirling nitrogen
Leaps up to ten km. and pervades the horizon
I get goose bumps
You are as serene as quivering lips
Time unified in your eyes.
Beautiful darling,
Hurl kisses after kisses numberless making me
As crazy as you can
Let me, in the process of becoming dense to denser
Turn into iceberg, where
Unbounded flows of love are lying in a heart
For you.
You appeared as nightmare-
The rest is history.
An extended vision accrued from electromagnetic spasms
Pervades my body and soul-
Renders a rhythmic motion into you
Within the precincts of a linseed,
Your fragrant body is so unblemished!
You are a beauty par excellence lain like Europa whose folds
Stimulate an undulating lust
My entity, as swirling nitrogen
Leaps up to ten km. and pervades the horizon
I get goose bumps
You are as serene as quivering lips
Time unified in your eyes.
Beautiful darling,
Hurl kisses after kisses numberless making me
As crazy as you can
Let me, in the process of becoming dense to denser
Turn into iceberg, where
Unbounded flows of love are lying in a heart
For you.
Beyond the Smog
From Supernova I set off on my journey
leaving behind Singularity, recurrent explosions and the burgeoning tail
of a mammoth existence that falls apart
As microbe-
You call as asteroid
Since then I began to tread my way through
Years.
Dismembered from a primitive existence, I grew up
in the manner of blooming excrescence
You feel as rising pimple
Yet, it is not parting from the existence that causes partition.
The sharp eye quivers at my approach though darkness tends to be
Dismal
Sparks reach to the far east corner.
I am imperturbable and tireless
Without any question of digression on way forward,
this journey will go on as long hydrogen burns and produces helium
Everything but for the sake of attaining the goal.
May be-
She is beyond reach.
May be-
None realized my pains
May be-
The universe is tilted
May be-
Telescope is slewing wrong
May be-
Pendulum still swings.
The careful eyes yearn for a moment gentle waves get cracked
Short and long waves fall behind
Frequency becomes irregular.
For hundreds of years I am sleepless on the lap of
An everlasting soul
My secrets are unearthed to a dew-drenched grassleaf
in vast field
The leaf trembles a bit and then dances with morning sun.
Still I have no recognition-
Whether any unknown heart heaves a deep sigh for me
is moot point
but there is no news on popular newspapers
Science defines image with the qualities of affecting eyeball, iris and retina,
as well as the capability to turn up topsy-turvy in brain
Sadly, I have no
Image.
The song of skylark booms in hydrogen blast and
sends message all around
Skylark, your song is relayed for generations
though hardly any ear can perceive beyond hertz
Your song pervades through amorphous ways to finally rest
in a drop of tear.
Laws framed by tradition fail to resist the vocal cords
Slogans are raised only to fall flat
A ripe and juicy watermelon wallows on ground.
The narrow sharp share of the plough breaks down
while cultivating a fallow land
The heart is racing against concerns for a loving face
History is rewritten- Rommel lost the war.
There is a spring called serotonin.
Serotonin starts drying up but wherefrom came the flow,
What brought drought to a land of rivers?
It is time for Mount Kilimanjaro to break silence
Ash cloud will cover the sky
Earth has to face another ice age
The shore of Africa and the spiky beach of America will recede further
Civilization along with her glories will be entombed alive
Ice won’t melt the least despite sky being torn by thunderbolt
People will run amok; they will become pale as death
Some more innocent faces will become coated with fog and smoke
‘Whatever may happen, let it happen’- Kilimanjaro, never look behind
It is high time you took a
Rebirth.
leaving behind Singularity, recurrent explosions and the burgeoning tail
of a mammoth existence that falls apart
As microbe-
You call as asteroid
Since then I began to tread my way through
Years.
Dismembered from a primitive existence, I grew up
in the manner of blooming excrescence
You feel as rising pimple
Yet, it is not parting from the existence that causes partition.
The sharp eye quivers at my approach though darkness tends to be
Dismal
Sparks reach to the far east corner.
I am imperturbable and tireless
Without any question of digression on way forward,
this journey will go on as long hydrogen burns and produces helium
Everything but for the sake of attaining the goal.
May be-
She is beyond reach.
May be-
None realized my pains
May be-
The universe is tilted
May be-
Telescope is slewing wrong
May be-
Pendulum still swings.
The careful eyes yearn for a moment gentle waves get cracked
Short and long waves fall behind
Frequency becomes irregular.
For hundreds of years I am sleepless on the lap of
An everlasting soul
My secrets are unearthed to a dew-drenched grassleaf
in vast field
The leaf trembles a bit and then dances with morning sun.
Still I have no recognition-
Whether any unknown heart heaves a deep sigh for me
is moot point
but there is no news on popular newspapers
Science defines image with the qualities of affecting eyeball, iris and retina,
as well as the capability to turn up topsy-turvy in brain
Sadly, I have no
Image.
The song of skylark booms in hydrogen blast and
sends message all around
Skylark, your song is relayed for generations
though hardly any ear can perceive beyond hertz
Your song pervades through amorphous ways to finally rest
in a drop of tear.
Laws framed by tradition fail to resist the vocal cords
Slogans are raised only to fall flat
A ripe and juicy watermelon wallows on ground.
The narrow sharp share of the plough breaks down
while cultivating a fallow land
The heart is racing against concerns for a loving face
History is rewritten- Rommel lost the war.
There is a spring called serotonin.
Serotonin starts drying up but wherefrom came the flow,
What brought drought to a land of rivers?
It is time for Mount Kilimanjaro to break silence
Ash cloud will cover the sky
Earth has to face another ice age
The shore of Africa and the spiky beach of America will recede further
Civilization along with her glories will be entombed alive
Ice won’t melt the least despite sky being torn by thunderbolt
People will run amok; they will become pale as death
Some more innocent faces will become coated with fog and smoke
‘Whatever may happen, let it happen’- Kilimanjaro, never look behind
It is high time you took a
Rebirth.
Waterfalls
When she is crying, a woman
is a waterfall, water cascading
Down her breasts.
Waterfalls are most like an argument
With its deafening fall.
Fall is like a fire blazed
Across the dying countryside.
The countryside is a graveyard.
Graveyards are mostly crying women,
Hanging heads over empty holes.
Empty holes are like your eyes,
Little oceans devoid of light.
The ocean is empty like a grave
That’s been robbed after midnight.
Midnight is lonely like a woman
Standing alone in a red field.
The fields used to grow crops,
But their fertility has withered
Like an old woman’s breasts.
Women’s breasts are robbed
Like creeks, pan-mined for little bits
Of gold. Pans will tremble
Long after morning until she screams.
Her voice can drown waterfalls.
is a waterfall, water cascading
Down her breasts.
Waterfalls are most like an argument
With its deafening fall.
Fall is like a fire blazed
Across the dying countryside.
The countryside is a graveyard.
Graveyards are mostly crying women,
Hanging heads over empty holes.
Empty holes are like your eyes,
Little oceans devoid of light.
The ocean is empty like a grave
That’s been robbed after midnight.
Midnight is lonely like a woman
Standing alone in a red field.
The fields used to grow crops,
But their fertility has withered
Like an old woman’s breasts.
Women’s breasts are robbed
Like creeks, pan-mined for little bits
Of gold. Pans will tremble
Long after morning until she screams.
Her voice can drown waterfalls.
A MAN IS A DOG
a man is a dog and by that i mean
he is either loyal or vicious.
vicious can mean either aggressive
or immoral and either way
he will be celebrated for his manliness.
manliness is a hoax and by that i mean
there is no reason for you to harm
me to protect your pride.
your pride is a bee and you’ve stolen
my nectar. nectar can mean flower-juice
or the drink of the gods. i’d like
to believe i was feeding Zeus
before you came and stole me away.
he is either loyal or vicious.
vicious can mean either aggressive
or immoral and either way
he will be celebrated for his manliness.
manliness is a hoax and by that i mean
there is no reason for you to harm
me to protect your pride.
your pride is a bee and you’ve stolen
my nectar. nectar can mean flower-juice
or the drink of the gods. i’d like
to believe i was feeding Zeus
before you came and stole me away.
Black Treacle
it’s black treacle leaking out her eyes.
she wears her heart on a cord around her neck
like some sort of prize for you to snatch away.
she knows the game you’re playing
and she’s decided to deal herself in. her poker face
is to die for, especially when she’s playing
russian roulette with your pistol. it’s a never-ending
game of who will die before they feel the other’s pain.
she wears her heart on a cord around her neck
like some sort of prize for you to snatch away.
she knows the game you’re playing
and she’s decided to deal herself in. her poker face
is to die for, especially when she’s playing
russian roulette with your pistol. it’s a never-ending
game of who will die before they feel the other’s pain.
Skin, a Fractured Un-Sonnet of Memory
If I tear the skin away from my face so you have no reason to hate me
You’ll spit at me still. And if I reach between my legs, cut the skin away
Suture the holes so you have no way to hurt me, still you’ll find a way.
Slash the muscles in my throat so you won’t hear the fear rising,
But still you’ll see it in me. My body will be bloody and bruised,
Tendons holding ripped muscle to burned organs to broken bones
And by the time you realize your faults it will be too late for me
And you’ll forget. My body will be a pile beneath a pile of Earth.
Maybe you’ll apologize and strangers will hate you more than you hate me
I was innocent. My offense: breathing air you believed I didn’t deserve.
Maybe you’ll be shredded to pieces like a fox in the jaws of Hell’s Hounds.
But that won’t reverse a thing and I’ll still be beneath the ground.
But can anyone remember the things they cannot see?
Maybe they’ll question my existence? Say you’re innocent, maybe?
The skin once peeled from my face will be forgotten.
The stitches peeling away from my womanhood will be forgotten.
The muscles in my throat bleeding out will be forgotten.
You will hate again. Be prosecuted again. Be forgiven again.
And another innocent person will be forgotten again.
You’ll spit at me still. And if I reach between my legs, cut the skin away
Suture the holes so you have no way to hurt me, still you’ll find a way.
Slash the muscles in my throat so you won’t hear the fear rising,
But still you’ll see it in me. My body will be bloody and bruised,
Tendons holding ripped muscle to burned organs to broken bones
And by the time you realize your faults it will be too late for me
And you’ll forget. My body will be a pile beneath a pile of Earth.
Maybe you’ll apologize and strangers will hate you more than you hate me
I was innocent. My offense: breathing air you believed I didn’t deserve.
Maybe you’ll be shredded to pieces like a fox in the jaws of Hell’s Hounds.
But that won’t reverse a thing and I’ll still be beneath the ground.
But can anyone remember the things they cannot see?
Maybe they’ll question my existence? Say you’re innocent, maybe?
The skin once peeled from my face will be forgotten.
The stitches peeling away from my womanhood will be forgotten.
The muscles in my throat bleeding out will be forgotten.
You will hate again. Be prosecuted again. Be forgiven again.
And another innocent person will be forgotten again.
Seasons
why ask about seasons inside body.As synopsis
of reflections squirm through measure of time
some losses remain at mercy of limbo, catapulted back
from memory juxtaposed to liminal space
what is it to identify restive sunsets
coterminous to outlasted voice
with symbolic breaths
how easy is to walk beneath mushroom years
play of manifold titles with blanks
with alcoholised scripts of undissolved remorse
what's left behind half-awoken goneness.A body
forged to a sentence with translations
of apology on balance of convenience
oxidized love scraped stays longer
inside nails and where the universe creases
wears laundry of angles wrapping accused equations
of some essential din,a caricature
buckled up for existence
of reflections squirm through measure of time
some losses remain at mercy of limbo, catapulted back
from memory juxtaposed to liminal space
what is it to identify restive sunsets
coterminous to outlasted voice
with symbolic breaths
how easy is to walk beneath mushroom years
play of manifold titles with blanks
with alcoholised scripts of undissolved remorse
what's left behind half-awoken goneness.A body
forged to a sentence with translations
of apology on balance of convenience
oxidized love scraped stays longer
inside nails and where the universe creases
wears laundry of angles wrapping accused equations
of some essential din,a caricature
buckled up for existence
Tell them if not you
Tell them if not you
the language
obliterating inside gamma solitude
loses body
for words shed photons
plucked from places
i saw you punching sunsets
polymerizing love
no one understands
episodes of memory
keep filling
void inside chest- bones
timeslots duplicated
by shapes of our mixed definitions
a way of disclosure,from world
limited to folded thoughtshades
of isolation
somewhere on abated reciprocals
of preformed hopes,
i am absorbed
by everything pathetic
lacking exit doors.
Loneliness is a transparent narrow opening
consuming everything
the language
obliterating inside gamma solitude
loses body
for words shed photons
plucked from places
i saw you punching sunsets
polymerizing love
no one understands
episodes of memory
keep filling
void inside chest- bones
timeslots duplicated
by shapes of our mixed definitions
a way of disclosure,from world
limited to folded thoughtshades
of isolation
somewhere on abated reciprocals
of preformed hopes,
i am absorbed
by everything pathetic
lacking exit doors.
Loneliness is a transparent narrow opening
consuming everything
Merge
While we retouch concepts of love
metaphors for burnt silence stand
defaced between gravity of balancing acts
on some dusks we wish to leave
this heaviness behind
our bodies are photons
reaching for last transparent life wall
a journey indestructible till
time plumbs mortality inside bones
if someday our shadows
rebound from congruent handful skies
we shall then merge
like secrets of mist origins.Unpack
history on autumn leaf lines ,aware
of echoes like balloons pushed down
there's always a wait on insides.An urge
to rebuilt shapes from addled equations
Lying unsolved in language
with green wounds.Forgetting
pulse of the void ,mills
on deranged pronunciations
While we retouch concepts of love
metaphors for burnt silence stand
defaced between gravity of balancing acts
on some dusks we wish to leave
this heaviness behind
our bodies are photons
reaching for last transparent life wall
a journey indestructible till
time plumbs mortality inside bones
if someday our shadows
rebound from congruent handful skies
we shall then merge
like secrets of mist origins.Unpack
history on autumn leaf lines ,aware
of echoes like balloons pushed down
there's always a wait on insides.An urge
to rebuilt shapes from addled equations
Lying unsolved in language
with green wounds.Forgetting
pulse of the void ,mills
on deranged pronunciations
A Home to Crouch In
You and me - both 17 - crouching in our home -
a water well pump house with an electrical outlet
to power the stolen turntable
to spin our shoplifted albums.
We had just listened to Down Under
and then you left Kentucky forever.
'Bumfuck Kentucky!' you called it as you stood up
and flipped your duffel bag over your shoulder.
You waved goodbye and I said 'See you later!'
because I thought we would see each other again.
Soon afterward AIDS got you.
The Office of the Unclaimed Dead
in the city of San Francisco cremated you
and buried you at sea.
(Nowadays it's considered impolite to say 'AIDS' -
and there is no more Office of the Unclaimed Dead -
now it's the Medical Examiner's Office.)
(Not that you'd care.)
About a year after you left - sometime in 1984 -
somewhere between Slab City and the Pacific Ocean -
I lost the Polaroid picture of you - shirtless
and holding a Polaroid picture of me.
There's not a single memento of our time together.
Curt - you'd never believe I'm holding down a job these days
and paying rent on time - almost like a bourgeois.
I have a bed to sleep in now - but at 52 years old
I have to stretch out in the morning
as if I'd slept in a tiny tarpapered pump house.
I still pop pills and drink -
all alone inside the four rented walls of an apartment.
If you were here with me now - we could sit on a sofa -
not forced to crouch knee to knee while passing a bottle
over a yellow humming water pump.
'We aren't runaways - we're rejects - nobody wants us.'
That's what you always said.
You're still right and correct after all these years.
a water well pump house with an electrical outlet
to power the stolen turntable
to spin our shoplifted albums.
We had just listened to Down Under
and then you left Kentucky forever.
'Bumfuck Kentucky!' you called it as you stood up
and flipped your duffel bag over your shoulder.
You waved goodbye and I said 'See you later!'
because I thought we would see each other again.
Soon afterward AIDS got you.
The Office of the Unclaimed Dead
in the city of San Francisco cremated you
and buried you at sea.
(Nowadays it's considered impolite to say 'AIDS' -
and there is no more Office of the Unclaimed Dead -
now it's the Medical Examiner's Office.)
(Not that you'd care.)
About a year after you left - sometime in 1984 -
somewhere between Slab City and the Pacific Ocean -
I lost the Polaroid picture of you - shirtless
and holding a Polaroid picture of me.
There's not a single memento of our time together.
Curt - you'd never believe I'm holding down a job these days
and paying rent on time - almost like a bourgeois.
I have a bed to sleep in now - but at 52 years old
I have to stretch out in the morning
as if I'd slept in a tiny tarpapered pump house.
I still pop pills and drink -
all alone inside the four rented walls of an apartment.
If you were here with me now - we could sit on a sofa -
not forced to crouch knee to knee while passing a bottle
over a yellow humming water pump.
'We aren't runaways - we're rejects - nobody wants us.'
That's what you always said.
You're still right and correct after all these years.
Can You Go Back Home Again?
'Where are you from originally?'
It's a question often asked in California -
sometimes used as a conversation starter.
If the conversation flows - it'll sometimes be
followed up with - 'Do you ever go back home?'
I'm not even sure how I got here.
California was never a destination for me -
I just ended up here like a piece of litter
blown into a chain link fence.
A few years after I had left my old Kentucky home
(a rented camping trailer in a pensioners backyard)
I took a road trip in a car that I had bought with
an enlisted sailor's pay.
I pretended that I was not going to return to that place
where my fellow vagrants and truants hung out
and plotted. They wouldn't be there anyway.
Would the arcade even still be there after two years?
It was - and I strode up to the token machine -
stuck in my bill and got a handful of tokens.
Putting in a paper bill made me feel rich and successful -
very different from the days of old when I
exchanged the occasional quarter for a token.
A game of Sinistar - a game of Pole Position -
and I had convinced myself that the old gang
was gone and had moved on with their lives.
One of the loiterers outside the arcade followed me -
calling me by name as I headed back to my car.
'Hey Hugh. I thought you said you was never coming back.'
I didn't recognize him. He must have been one of those
who crashed at my trailer - smoked my dope -
drank my beer - 'borrowed' my music in the party blitz
I had in the days leading up to my departure.
'Yeah. Just passing through.' I said - trying to place him.
'It's good to see you.' he told me.
In the awkward chit chat that followed he certainly noticed
that I did not remember him and he let me off the hook with a
'Well - it was nice to see you. Take care.'
When people ask me if I've ever been back home
I always lie and say no.
It's a question often asked in California -
sometimes used as a conversation starter.
If the conversation flows - it'll sometimes be
followed up with - 'Do you ever go back home?'
I'm not even sure how I got here.
California was never a destination for me -
I just ended up here like a piece of litter
blown into a chain link fence.
A few years after I had left my old Kentucky home
(a rented camping trailer in a pensioners backyard)
I took a road trip in a car that I had bought with
an enlisted sailor's pay.
I pretended that I was not going to return to that place
where my fellow vagrants and truants hung out
and plotted. They wouldn't be there anyway.
Would the arcade even still be there after two years?
It was - and I strode up to the token machine -
stuck in my bill and got a handful of tokens.
Putting in a paper bill made me feel rich and successful -
very different from the days of old when I
exchanged the occasional quarter for a token.
A game of Sinistar - a game of Pole Position -
and I had convinced myself that the old gang
was gone and had moved on with their lives.
One of the loiterers outside the arcade followed me -
calling me by name as I headed back to my car.
'Hey Hugh. I thought you said you was never coming back.'
I didn't recognize him. He must have been one of those
who crashed at my trailer - smoked my dope -
drank my beer - 'borrowed' my music in the party blitz
I had in the days leading up to my departure.
'Yeah. Just passing through.' I said - trying to place him.
'It's good to see you.' he told me.
In the awkward chit chat that followed he certainly noticed
that I did not remember him and he let me off the hook with a
'Well - it was nice to see you. Take care.'
When people ask me if I've ever been back home
I always lie and say no.
Sitting Still - Waiting
Outside the back gate in the sun-scorched stinking alley -
he sat there in his wheelchair - blanket over his thighs - 90+ degrees.
An orange plastic dinner plate on the stained concrete beside him -
topped with some sort of wheat bread sandwich -
left by one of the neighbors to make themselves feel good and charitable.
A lot of these homeless guys steal wheelchairs
from the hospital ERs to be used panhandling props
and to deter the cops from arresting them.
(Handicapped people require special handling for arrests.)
You can see the fakers as they propel themselves
along with their feet.
But this guy looked unable to walk.
He sat there for two days without moving.
His graying short cropped afro told me
he was too old to give a shit anymore.
He was content to sit there under a hot sun
as long as it meant he would not be bothered.
He asked me this morning if I had a light -
displaying a cigarette with a raised hand.
'No - sorry' I said. There was a Bic somewhere
in my apartment but I didn't want to go back and get it.
Someone must have told him to move -
the next day he was 100 feet over - under a stairwell.
It was still on the sunny side of the smelly alley.
He still had the blanket over his skinny legs.
He said nothing as I passed by on my way to the liquor store.
He said nothing when I passed by again with my wine box.
He sits in the alley all day and night -
under the hot killing August sun and then the moon -
accompanied only by insects and the stench of urine.
he sat there in his wheelchair - blanket over his thighs - 90+ degrees.
An orange plastic dinner plate on the stained concrete beside him -
topped with some sort of wheat bread sandwich -
left by one of the neighbors to make themselves feel good and charitable.
A lot of these homeless guys steal wheelchairs
from the hospital ERs to be used panhandling props
and to deter the cops from arresting them.
(Handicapped people require special handling for arrests.)
You can see the fakers as they propel themselves
along with their feet.
But this guy looked unable to walk.
He sat there for two days without moving.
His graying short cropped afro told me
he was too old to give a shit anymore.
He was content to sit there under a hot sun
as long as it meant he would not be bothered.
He asked me this morning if I had a light -
displaying a cigarette with a raised hand.
'No - sorry' I said. There was a Bic somewhere
in my apartment but I didn't want to go back and get it.
Someone must have told him to move -
the next day he was 100 feet over - under a stairwell.
It was still on the sunny side of the smelly alley.
He still had the blanket over his skinny legs.
He said nothing as I passed by on my way to the liquor store.
He said nothing when I passed by again with my wine box.
He sits in the alley all day and night -
under the hot killing August sun and then the moon -
accompanied only by insects and the stench of urine.
Life at the Weekend
No need to tie a double knot in my shoelaces -
it's just across the street and I'll be right back.
The plastic pouch of beef jerky is buy one - get one.
Then I grab a clear plastic clamshell of salad - expired two days -
with a slice of boiled egg on top.
I snag a long whip of Slim Jim on my way to the beer cooler.
The beer will be laced with no-name whiskey
sometime later in the midnight hour.
All of it enjoyed in the dim yellow light
of a tiny apartment - alone on a Friday night.
One block over they are dressed to the nines
in a five star restaurant/live entertainment venue
sipping fifteen dollar martinis.
One block over the other way they are seated on the concrete walk
hiding behind an overstuffed shopping cart - handing a half pint around -
vodka passing directly to bloodstream through empty stomachs.
Behind my bedroom in the alley a group of three plot
a shoplifting run on the liquor store - unaware
that the parking lot overhang acts as an amphitheater
propagating their whispered intentions
and boasts of past successes.
All of us loving life at the weekend.
it's just across the street and I'll be right back.
The plastic pouch of beef jerky is buy one - get one.
Then I grab a clear plastic clamshell of salad - expired two days -
with a slice of boiled egg on top.
I snag a long whip of Slim Jim on my way to the beer cooler.
The beer will be laced with no-name whiskey
sometime later in the midnight hour.
All of it enjoyed in the dim yellow light
of a tiny apartment - alone on a Friday night.
One block over they are dressed to the nines
in a five star restaurant/live entertainment venue
sipping fifteen dollar martinis.
One block over the other way they are seated on the concrete walk
hiding behind an overstuffed shopping cart - handing a half pint around -
vodka passing directly to bloodstream through empty stomachs.
Behind my bedroom in the alley a group of three plot
a shoplifting run on the liquor store - unaware
that the parking lot overhang acts as an amphitheater
propagating their whispered intentions
and boasts of past successes.
All of us loving life at the weekend.
James Mulhern has published in literary journals or anthologies over one hundred times. In 2015, Mr. Mulhern was awarded a fully paid writing fellowship to Oxford University in the United Kingdom. That same year, a story was longlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His most recent novel, Give Them Unquiet Dreams, is a Kirkus Reviews Best Book of 2019.
The Crosswalk
Today I saw a father and son
stepping onto the crosswalk.
I braked and watched them pass.
Son on father’s shoulders,
headed to the park with swings.
I drove on, thinking of you
and wondered why you
never lifted me and held my legs
or brought me to the swings.
But you were not that type of father.
Once, we built a shed together.
I heard you say at a family party years later,
“Remember when Danny and I built the shed.”
But it wasn’t my brother
who cut wood and hammered nails with you.
I was bothered just a bit.
I had other memories,
like when you held my hands as we knotted my tie,
how we both looked in the mirror,
and I saw myself in your face.
You patted my shoulders.
Someone crossed the room and paused to take a picture.
It was on the table by your coffin. Your hands on mine.
Proof that we had closeness for a moment,
and that is enough.
stepping onto the crosswalk.
I braked and watched them pass.
Son on father’s shoulders,
headed to the park with swings.
I drove on, thinking of you
and wondered why you
never lifted me and held my legs
or brought me to the swings.
But you were not that type of father.
Once, we built a shed together.
I heard you say at a family party years later,
“Remember when Danny and I built the shed.”
But it wasn’t my brother
who cut wood and hammered nails with you.
I was bothered just a bit.
I had other memories,
like when you held my hands as we knotted my tie,
how we both looked in the mirror,
and I saw myself in your face.
You patted my shoulders.
Someone crossed the room and paused to take a picture.
It was on the table by your coffin. Your hands on mine.
Proof that we had closeness for a moment,
and that is enough.
Copacetic
The word of the day is copacetic.
I see my brother and me packing suitcases for our trip.
In the frame of the doorway my father stands.
“Everything copacetic?” he says.
One time I asked him where he learned that word.
“As a Marine,” and he told me about his service in the Korean War.
“It was tough,” he said.
In the end, I visited him at the hospital.
“Have some jello.” I held a spoon with a wobble of red before his face.
“Don’t want it.”
“You’ve got to eat, Dad.”
“I’m not hungry.” He pushed it away.
I sat by him from morning until shadows crossed his face.
Mostly he slept. Sometimes he asked what time it was.
I left at nine. The nurse called.
“Your father’s agitated. He wants to leave. Talking about a trip.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
I stand in the doorway of his hospital room.
He’s at the window,
wearing the blue bathrobe my sister gave him.
“It brings out your eyes,” she told him.
“Everything copacetic?” I say.
He turns and looks.
“It was tough,” he says.
I guide him to the bed and sleep in the chair beside him.
When I wake, I find that he has gone.
I see my brother and me packing suitcases for our trip.
In the frame of the doorway my father stands.
“Everything copacetic?” he says.
One time I asked him where he learned that word.
“As a Marine,” and he told me about his service in the Korean War.
“It was tough,” he said.
In the end, I visited him at the hospital.
“Have some jello.” I held a spoon with a wobble of red before his face.
“Don’t want it.”
“You’ve got to eat, Dad.”
“I’m not hungry.” He pushed it away.
I sat by him from morning until shadows crossed his face.
Mostly he slept. Sometimes he asked what time it was.
I left at nine. The nurse called.
“Your father’s agitated. He wants to leave. Talking about a trip.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
I stand in the doorway of his hospital room.
He’s at the window,
wearing the blue bathrobe my sister gave him.
“It brings out your eyes,” she told him.
“Everything copacetic?” I say.
He turns and looks.
“It was tough,” he says.
I guide him to the bed and sleep in the chair beside him.
When I wake, I find that he has gone.
Dark City
My only memory of you--
in the dark hallway of your Boston house,
just off the sunny kitchen.
I was two and you sixty.
Tall and thin, wispy hair, light-blue eyes
illuminated by a slant of kitchen sun.
"You don't know me?"
I couldn't speak,
but I understood what you meant when you rubbed my head
and walked down the shellacked hallway towards the parlor.
You died in your sleep a few years later.
Years of hard work behind you--
a gravedigger during the day,
hauling bags of mail onto the trains
at South Station every night.
Raising five children.
Close to your age now,
I visit your homestead in Ireland.
Cars whizz by where once was a dirt road.
No one lives in the tiny stone house.
I hear birdsong and smell cut grass.
The air is cool and damp.
Sheep amble in the fields.
The sun moves into clouds,
and then lightness comes again.
What were you thinking as you exited this door?
How conflicted you must have felt.
Twenty-one-years-old, off to America,
leaving nine siblings and parents behind,
knowing you would never see them again.
From Athlone on the Shannon River, dead center of Ireland,
you walked and somehow made it to Southampton, England,
where you boarded the ship Adriatic, a word that means "dark city."
You knew no one in the promised land of your imagination,
but you had courage and a dream.
Just a few belongings, I'm sure, and not much money.
Mostly you had hope.
I press my palm against the stone wall,
just as you touched my head so many years ago.
I see you move from light into darkness and beyond
in the dark hallway of your Boston house,
just off the sunny kitchen.
I was two and you sixty.
Tall and thin, wispy hair, light-blue eyes
illuminated by a slant of kitchen sun.
"You don't know me?"
I couldn't speak,
but I understood what you meant when you rubbed my head
and walked down the shellacked hallway towards the parlor.
You died in your sleep a few years later.
Years of hard work behind you--
a gravedigger during the day,
hauling bags of mail onto the trains
at South Station every night.
Raising five children.
Close to your age now,
I visit your homestead in Ireland.
Cars whizz by where once was a dirt road.
No one lives in the tiny stone house.
I hear birdsong and smell cut grass.
The air is cool and damp.
Sheep amble in the fields.
The sun moves into clouds,
and then lightness comes again.
What were you thinking as you exited this door?
How conflicted you must have felt.
Twenty-one-years-old, off to America,
leaving nine siblings and parents behind,
knowing you would never see them again.
From Athlone on the Shannon River, dead center of Ireland,
you walked and somehow made it to Southampton, England,
where you boarded the ship Adriatic, a word that means "dark city."
You knew no one in the promised land of your imagination,
but you had courage and a dream.
Just a few belongings, I'm sure, and not much money.
Mostly you had hope.
I press my palm against the stone wall,
just as you touched my head so many years ago.
I see you move from light into darkness and beyond
Catherine
When Mom and I arrived, you hid the donut behind the picture.
You sat in the sunny kitchen, embarrassed that you'd been caught with a sweet.
My mother tsk-tsked as you deflected our attention to the old photograph,
gray and yellowed, like your sagging skin.
I stared at the image—a girl wading in the ocean not far from the shore.
"That's me." You pointed to your former self, wearing a bathing suit like a dress.
Your stockings rolled, you pushed dark water aside to reach a boulder
in the crashing waves and foam.
I moved closer to inspect. I smelled sweat from your large body.
"Did you sit on the rock when you reached it? Was it fun?"
My mother rummaged around us, putting dirty plates in the sink,
running water in the basin.
You laughed, then held your pudgy hand against your cheek.
"I was gathering food for dinner. Sea lettuce is what we called it.
We scraped the rocks and made stew. 'Twas the food we needed,
but it was good and we were happy."
"Time for your bath." My mother put her arm under yours.
"Jimmy, help your grandmother up." I wrapped myself around your back, pressing into your soft flesh. "Up you go. On the count of three. One, two, three," she said.
You moaned and breathed deeply as we lifted.
When we reached the bathroom, my mother said she'd take it from here.
"That was Clew Bay in County Mayo," you told me before the door shut.
As she eased you into the warm bath, I listened to my mother scold you--
your diabetes and hiding the donut.
She blathered on about your eating habits and hygiene.
Silent, except for sighs as she sponged your back,
you were three thousand miles away, walking into the sea.
The water was colder, but its sweet memory was all you needed.
You sat in the sunny kitchen, embarrassed that you'd been caught with a sweet.
My mother tsk-tsked as you deflected our attention to the old photograph,
gray and yellowed, like your sagging skin.
I stared at the image—a girl wading in the ocean not far from the shore.
"That's me." You pointed to your former self, wearing a bathing suit like a dress.
Your stockings rolled, you pushed dark water aside to reach a boulder
in the crashing waves and foam.
I moved closer to inspect. I smelled sweat from your large body.
"Did you sit on the rock when you reached it? Was it fun?"
My mother rummaged around us, putting dirty plates in the sink,
running water in the basin.
You laughed, then held your pudgy hand against your cheek.
"I was gathering food for dinner. Sea lettuce is what we called it.
We scraped the rocks and made stew. 'Twas the food we needed,
but it was good and we were happy."
"Time for your bath." My mother put her arm under yours.
"Jimmy, help your grandmother up." I wrapped myself around your back, pressing into your soft flesh. "Up you go. On the count of three. One, two, three," she said.
You moaned and breathed deeply as we lifted.
When we reached the bathroom, my mother said she'd take it from here.
"That was Clew Bay in County Mayo," you told me before the door shut.
As she eased you into the warm bath, I listened to my mother scold you--
your diabetes and hiding the donut.
She blathered on about your eating habits and hygiene.
Silent, except for sighs as she sponged your back,
you were three thousand miles away, walking into the sea.
The water was colder, but its sweet memory was all you needed.
Piano
On that gray day, you chopped the grand piano with an ax.
Surrounded by yellow and red leaves on the hard earth,
you raised your arm to smash it all apart.
I could only wonder. You were a man raised to think
crying was weak. Strength and power should define you.
Men like you could not voice their secrets or despair.
You shattered the instrument, exorcising its shiny veneer.
Resin-impregnated paper, dovetail joints, wooden ribs,
and polished mahogany scattered around you.
Slowly the curved outline of the piano became a ragged mess.
The soundboard heart cracked. Small planks of air-dried wood
joined the miscellany of strings, keys, and padded hammers.
I thought of my mother, the day she moved out,
how you changed the locks and emptied every closet,
destroying each vestige of your shared lives.
If I had left the window to join you outside,
I would have seen your tears,
glistening strings on the soundboard of a broken soul.
Surrounded by yellow and red leaves on the hard earth,
you raised your arm to smash it all apart.
I could only wonder. You were a man raised to think
crying was weak. Strength and power should define you.
Men like you could not voice their secrets or despair.
You shattered the instrument, exorcising its shiny veneer.
Resin-impregnated paper, dovetail joints, wooden ribs,
and polished mahogany scattered around you.
Slowly the curved outline of the piano became a ragged mess.
The soundboard heart cracked. Small planks of air-dried wood
joined the miscellany of strings, keys, and padded hammers.
I thought of my mother, the day she moved out,
how you changed the locks and emptied every closet,
destroying each vestige of your shared lives.
If I had left the window to join you outside,
I would have seen your tears,
glistening strings on the soundboard of a broken soul.
Joan Carol Bird is an emerging poet living in the Arizona White Mountains with her husband and their four cats. She has been a high school English teacher and is the author of the short story collections "Holy Innocents and Other Stories," "Cat Circus," "Nightmare and Nostalgia," and "Annie Falcon."
Summer Dance
Tantalizing flower--
bloom without promise.
This dance is graceful
brief.
Fragile fiction
full of convention
on a sweltering night.
Solitary
intimate encounter
hasty shallow
desultory
wistful
eloquent.
An embrace
relax
yield--
relinquish.
The music always ends before
one is ready.
bloom without promise.
This dance is graceful
brief.
Fragile fiction
full of convention
on a sweltering night.
Solitary
intimate encounter
hasty shallow
desultory
wistful
eloquent.
An embrace
relax
yield--
relinquish.
The music always ends before
one is ready.
Acequia Madre
For Lynn
For Lynn
Reflections of a dying sun
rust savage cliffs.
In the West
the earth will sleep again.
You nurture
fair garden flowers.
Wild lavender strains flourish
beyond the broken
adobe wall.
Within clay constraints
(the human plight)
delicate, elegant features prevail.
Steel-gray eyes pause
fixed and distant.
Warm summer winds stir.
The Acequia Madre presses on--
You tend, gently, children
defying protection
as you turn your heedful gaze
from the old, ambivalent, fading
light.
rust savage cliffs.
In the West
the earth will sleep again.
You nurture
fair garden flowers.
Wild lavender strains flourish
beyond the broken
adobe wall.
Within clay constraints
(the human plight)
delicate, elegant features prevail.
Steel-gray eyes pause
fixed and distant.
Warm summer winds stir.
The Acequia Madre presses on--
You tend, gently, children
defying protection
as you turn your heedful gaze
from the old, ambivalent, fading
light.
That Which I Am
Peru
The curator lingers
on monastery steps--
restoration renders four
fanciful tourists
fortunate voyeurs
in this sixteenth-century cloister.
Besides the hermit
all life here is for the moment banished.
Our monk ushers us
from one macabre chamber
to another
locking ghostly elements in place
behind us.
Cedar wood reliefs of martyred saints
encircle an ornate choir
while catacombs below the grate
insist we coexist with specters.
In one secluded sepulcher where
consolidated bones promiscuously tangle
the sign above the sealed door proclaims
Lo que eres fui
Lo que soy seras.
Near a fountain in the courtyard, eclipsed in dusk
Inca eyes flash. The old man is
Preternatural. Pale with the lack of light
and like his ancestor
an artist in his own right.
He captures us with studied care
in a snapshot
a candid still-life.
We freeze, uneasy in the frame
under his keen, judgmental glare.
At the entrance and exit
before we ascend to Cusco streets
we pause beneath The Last Judgment:
oil on canvas
a vision of heaven and hell
where an Inca artist has set himself
in full ceremonial headdress
between rapture and torment.
The face of every other painted soul
tortured or exulted
suggests an ecclesiastic
who lived and died within these walls.
Years later
trapped on emulsion
overexposed
I tuck the faded photo in my book and shudder
at our own Last Judgement:
Lo que eres fui
Lo que soy seras.
on monastery steps--
restoration renders four
fanciful tourists
fortunate voyeurs
in this sixteenth-century cloister.
Besides the hermit
all life here is for the moment banished.
Our monk ushers us
from one macabre chamber
to another
locking ghostly elements in place
behind us.
Cedar wood reliefs of martyred saints
encircle an ornate choir
while catacombs below the grate
insist we coexist with specters.
In one secluded sepulcher where
consolidated bones promiscuously tangle
the sign above the sealed door proclaims
Lo que eres fui
Lo que soy seras.
Near a fountain in the courtyard, eclipsed in dusk
Inca eyes flash. The old man is
Preternatural. Pale with the lack of light
and like his ancestor
an artist in his own right.
He captures us with studied care
in a snapshot
a candid still-life.
We freeze, uneasy in the frame
under his keen, judgmental glare.
At the entrance and exit
before we ascend to Cusco streets
we pause beneath The Last Judgment:
oil on canvas
a vision of heaven and hell
where an Inca artist has set himself
in full ceremonial headdress
between rapture and torment.
The face of every other painted soul
tortured or exulted
suggests an ecclesiastic
who lived and died within these walls.
Years later
trapped on emulsion
overexposed
I tuck the faded photo in my book and shudder
at our own Last Judgement:
Lo que eres fui
Lo que soy seras.
Two Minutes of Darkness
Solar Eclipse
Madras, Oregon
Bold, brash, brave
confident and undeterred
by demons, dragons
giant wolves
that gobble up the sun.
Daredevils don’t dodge
angry gods
harbingers of plague
or oracles of doom.
We zigzag from Seattle
on a weaving two-lane drive
and end on drought-dry Madras turf
bone tired, swathed in capes
under clear high skies
and blinking desert stars.
Mid-morning, campers peer
through a neighbor’s high-tech scope.
Amity with strangers grows.
Zealots from around the globe
are here for a magic show--
the total eclipse of the sun.
Anticipation swells
as shadow consumes
our blazing solar disc.
Bailey’s beads, slivers of flare
bubble and broil on a lunar limb.
The flaming diamond ring goes slack.
Shadow cloaks the forenoon earth
cold bites, and the night sky
reigns in the dead of day.
And then a spirit eye appears
colossal and compelling
infinite, omnipotent.
The rocky landscape of the moon
throbs like a vast black pupil.
The corona, a sclera
radiates ribbons of plasma.
Charged particles flow
in twirls and tracks.
Spellbinding, this holy sight
too regal to resist.
Mind without mind
the temporal world dissolves.
A trance, a daze, a dream:
Jung’s sickbed vision
yin and yang in a mystical marriage
of perfect balance.
Krishnamurti, soul-infused
with healing glow
uninvited and unsought.
William James, high on nitrous
absorbing streams of opposites
no sober soul can know.
Watts, weightless before a fire.
Like love-struck Romeo
I am not any where.
For me
two minutes of darkness are
music without sound
light without sight
everything and nothing--
Creation’s wink and nod
a subtle glimpse of God.
confident and undeterred
by demons, dragons
giant wolves
that gobble up the sun.
Daredevils don’t dodge
angry gods
harbingers of plague
or oracles of doom.
We zigzag from Seattle
on a weaving two-lane drive
and end on drought-dry Madras turf
bone tired, swathed in capes
under clear high skies
and blinking desert stars.
Mid-morning, campers peer
through a neighbor’s high-tech scope.
Amity with strangers grows.
Zealots from around the globe
are here for a magic show--
the total eclipse of the sun.
Anticipation swells
as shadow consumes
our blazing solar disc.
Bailey’s beads, slivers of flare
bubble and broil on a lunar limb.
The flaming diamond ring goes slack.
Shadow cloaks the forenoon earth
cold bites, and the night sky
reigns in the dead of day.
And then a spirit eye appears
colossal and compelling
infinite, omnipotent.
The rocky landscape of the moon
throbs like a vast black pupil.
The corona, a sclera
radiates ribbons of plasma.
Charged particles flow
in twirls and tracks.
Spellbinding, this holy sight
too regal to resist.
Mind without mind
the temporal world dissolves.
A trance, a daze, a dream:
Jung’s sickbed vision
yin and yang in a mystical marriage
of perfect balance.
Krishnamurti, soul-infused
with healing glow
uninvited and unsought.
William James, high on nitrous
absorbing streams of opposites
no sober soul can know.
Watts, weightless before a fire.
Like love-struck Romeo
I am not any where.
For me
two minutes of darkness are
music without sound
light without sight
everything and nothing--
Creation’s wink and nod
a subtle glimpse of God.
Expat Hermosillo
His eyes, the washed tincture of wind
feral and savage, weigh the prospects.
He alights, fraught and greedy
between parked cars
and gasoline pumps
ravenously rummaging Sonoran trash
sparse refuse
in desperate times.
Somebody’s bedeviled
golden-haired child
lives on what others throw away.
Discarded, damaged, derelict
(somebody’s bitter regret)
his threadbare Texas tee
the color of scorched earth.
I cautiously approach
this wounded, wolfish teen
who warily accepts the traces of my lunch
the balance of a mean meal
a paltry offering.
Mute, afraid, he scuttles from the scene.
I watch him wander off and wonder
what brings this broken
third-world American
to the land of the poor
where all around
blue thatched mountains
and a burning desert sky
swallow his name.
feral and savage, weigh the prospects.
He alights, fraught and greedy
between parked cars
and gasoline pumps
ravenously rummaging Sonoran trash
sparse refuse
in desperate times.
Somebody’s bedeviled
golden-haired child
lives on what others throw away.
Discarded, damaged, derelict
(somebody’s bitter regret)
his threadbare Texas tee
the color of scorched earth.
I cautiously approach
this wounded, wolfish teen
who warily accepts the traces of my lunch
the balance of a mean meal
a paltry offering.
Mute, afraid, he scuttles from the scene.
I watch him wander off and wonder
what brings this broken
third-world American
to the land of the poor
where all around
blue thatched mountains
and a burning desert sky
swallow his name.
MYDAVOLU VENKATA SESHA SATHYANARAYANA who writes with the penname 'mahathi' is a postgraduate in law and once a practising lawyer in Nellore and later an officer in Central Industries ministry. He retired from Government service in 2014 'Mahathi' is considered as one of the finest Indian English poets of modern times, whose poetry is replete with high imagery, clear diction, humour, pun and satire. He is adept with both formal and free verse though most of his later works were composed in formal verse. So far his poetry was published as 6 collections and 3 epic long poems. His poems were published in a number of print journals and magazines like METVERSE MUSE, WESTWARD QUARTERLY MAGAZINE(Illinois) Society of Classical poets (New York), Bhakti Nivedana (US). His SUNDARA KANDA was serialized in SAPTAGIRI English MAGAZINE (TTD Publications) and many other articles and poems were published in the said magazine. |
BROKEN GLASS
Its brittler than a heart, this piece of glass
...when kissed a heartless rock slivered with clanks
and wine this, thinner than the tears, alas,
gushed out anon, towards the gloomy banks.
But there is more in bottle, and more tears
in eyes; ready to fill me more, and more
to spill, till vision blurs, deafen the ears
and seeps this poison deep into the core.
A seesaw state; between sweet memories
and oblivion, like hiking up the hill
and dribbling down. There're painful reveries
and mirthful nightmares... wow they're all and nil.
This's living too, though not it's living right.
But for lovelorns, nothing is left of right.
(Dedicated to Omar Khayyam)
...when kissed a heartless rock slivered with clanks
and wine this, thinner than the tears, alas,
gushed out anon, towards the gloomy banks.
But there is more in bottle, and more tears
in eyes; ready to fill me more, and more
to spill, till vision blurs, deafen the ears
and seeps this poison deep into the core.
A seesaw state; between sweet memories
and oblivion, like hiking up the hill
and dribbling down. There're painful reveries
and mirthful nightmares... wow they're all and nil.
This's living too, though not it's living right.
But for lovelorns, nothing is left of right.
(Dedicated to Omar Khayyam)
AN OLD STORY
An old story...
I tell,
but you can't recall!
Those redolent rose petals once crushed
under the time-wheel can never come to life!
Many Springs and Autumns passed from then...
I'm still here at the same place,
but miles away in time,
like any stoic banyan!
A long ago I stopped greeting my newly sprouting leaves
and looking at those fallen at my feet.
When you perched on my topmost bough;
as I said, a long, long ago,
I had some odd tickles..something new
that gave me a taste sweet and unforgettable!
But you're business-like, I suppose...
looked around, flashed a lovely smile at me,
pecked few fruits, made rounds,
collected fallen ripe fruits from the soil around my feet...
all the while smiling at me
and alas flew away without a parting word!
A rendezvous so short, that lasted just few minutes
but of lasting impression.
Now again you came back
and perching on the same bough, that became older now
and creaking with sugery reminiscences!
Your stares are queer, as if I'm a stranger
or as if you perched on a wrong tree!
Damn it, I want to say now
all that I wanted to say then.
But, what's there to say,
as much as the empty wind my boughs blow
and meaningless ripples my leaves whisper?
But still, I insist...
yes, I have a story to tell...
our story, old story...age old story...
but you can't recall!
I tell,
but you can't recall!
Those redolent rose petals once crushed
under the time-wheel can never come to life!
Many Springs and Autumns passed from then...
I'm still here at the same place,
but miles away in time,
like any stoic banyan!
A long ago I stopped greeting my newly sprouting leaves
and looking at those fallen at my feet.
When you perched on my topmost bough;
as I said, a long, long ago,
I had some odd tickles..something new
that gave me a taste sweet and unforgettable!
But you're business-like, I suppose...
looked around, flashed a lovely smile at me,
pecked few fruits, made rounds,
collected fallen ripe fruits from the soil around my feet...
all the while smiling at me
and alas flew away without a parting word!
A rendezvous so short, that lasted just few minutes
but of lasting impression.
Now again you came back
and perching on the same bough, that became older now
and creaking with sugery reminiscences!
Your stares are queer, as if I'm a stranger
or as if you perched on a wrong tree!
Damn it, I want to say now
all that I wanted to say then.
But, what's there to say,
as much as the empty wind my boughs blow
and meaningless ripples my leaves whisper?
But still, I insist...
yes, I have a story to tell...
our story, old story...age old story...
but you can't recall!
CLOUD SONG
O' cloud-maiden, O' cloud-maiden,
don't weep, don't weep!
What jest thy yonder-man did croon,
don't leap, don't leap!
Let stars espy, planets lampoon...
their peep is cheap.
Thou lament well, to douse thy woe...
silly, silly!
No reason though I see well so
really, really!
Jolly drizzles thy smiles, gusto
chilly, shrilly!
But lo, deluge thy wail, oh no
vilely, vilely!
O' cloud-maiden, O' cloud-maiden,
don't weep, don't weep.
Whence fill our rivers, lakes and main
as rain and sleet
thee slake our thirst, thee make our grain.
How sweet, how sweet!
Thy tears of joy are pearls in chain
of grace replete.
Puddles thee make echo refrains
of childhood tweets.
O' cloud-maiden, O' cloud-maiden,
don't weep, don't weep.
Are fun, love fights, when tempers fly;
they say, they say!
He slurs, thee purr, he pries, thee vie;
ye play, ye play!
It's game, thee win, he wins, sly, sly…
but pray, we pray!
Ye mind, thy neighbors living nigh
O' yeah, O' yeah!
He loves thee much, thy man the sky…
allay, allay.
O' cloud-maiden, O' cloud-maiden,
don't weep, don't weep.
don't weep, don't weep!
What jest thy yonder-man did croon,
don't leap, don't leap!
Let stars espy, planets lampoon...
their peep is cheap.
Thou lament well, to douse thy woe...
silly, silly!
No reason though I see well so
really, really!
Jolly drizzles thy smiles, gusto
chilly, shrilly!
But lo, deluge thy wail, oh no
vilely, vilely!
O' cloud-maiden, O' cloud-maiden,
don't weep, don't weep.
Whence fill our rivers, lakes and main
as rain and sleet
thee slake our thirst, thee make our grain.
How sweet, how sweet!
Thy tears of joy are pearls in chain
of grace replete.
Puddles thee make echo refrains
of childhood tweets.
O' cloud-maiden, O' cloud-maiden,
don't weep, don't weep.
Are fun, love fights, when tempers fly;
they say, they say!
He slurs, thee purr, he pries, thee vie;
ye play, ye play!
It's game, thee win, he wins, sly, sly…
but pray, we pray!
Ye mind, thy neighbors living nigh
O' yeah, O' yeah!
He loves thee much, thy man the sky…
allay, allay.
O' cloud-maiden, O' cloud-maiden,
don't weep, don't weep.
OBLIVION
It's good...
people's memory is short!
The moments I rued
that my good deeds were forgotten;
of late, started melting down,
when I realized that
they let slip from their memories
my misdemeanors too!
Now my craving for glory died away
as much as the fear of infamy!
My walk became steady,
my eyes stopped veering around
for some face
either acquainted or much hated;
and mind, well
as empty as a summer furlough!
people's memory is short!
The moments I rued
that my good deeds were forgotten;
of late, started melting down,
when I realized that
they let slip from their memories
my misdemeanors too!
Now my craving for glory died away
as much as the fear of infamy!
My walk became steady,
my eyes stopped veering around
for some face
either acquainted or much hated;
and mind, well
as empty as a summer furlough!
THE TALES I DIDN'T TELL
I told you my little harmless tales O' friend
and made you laugh at my silly peccadilloes.
But those blunders I did; those grossest
sins I did perpetrate
and those moments when my head
had to hang down in shame
my mouth had failed to utter dear.
Forgive my reticence O' friend.
It's human that I'm such a hypocrite.
But carrying I'm, the load of my follies
heavy on my heart's shoulders
and traipsing hard to reach that
Judgment Day
for pouring them out as confessions
before the ONE
Who neither frowns nor laughs at them
...but simply executes His decision.
and made you laugh at my silly peccadilloes.
But those blunders I did; those grossest
sins I did perpetrate
and those moments when my head
had to hang down in shame
my mouth had failed to utter dear.
Forgive my reticence O' friend.
It's human that I'm such a hypocrite.
But carrying I'm, the load of my follies
heavy on my heart's shoulders
and traipsing hard to reach that
Judgment Day
for pouring them out as confessions
before the ONE
Who neither frowns nor laughs at them
...but simply executes His decision.
Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, The City of Gold , Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been more widely published in the UK, USA ,India ,New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria. TRANSLATOR: Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), who is a Chinese poet and translator, works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District , Jining City, Shandong Province, China. He can be contacted through his email- 3112362909@qq.com. |
Interstellar Kingdom
My snowflakes are white flames
and death is a singing of golden car from the kingdom of heaven.
I walked through the black forests for many years and slept soundly on the rocks
forgot images of the world, until the wings of gold were like clouds
when I heard a call from the outer world,
which was as sweet as the sun rays
I opened the doors of the ninety-ninth floor of heaven
the interstellar kingdom, with fragrant words of honey.
and death is a singing of golden car from the kingdom of heaven.
I walked through the black forests for many years and slept soundly on the rocks
forgot images of the world, until the wings of gold were like clouds
when I heard a call from the outer world,
which was as sweet as the sun rays
I opened the doors of the ninety-ninth floor of heaven
the interstellar kingdom, with fragrant words of honey.
Gods’s Solemn Kingdom of Heaven
I dreamed that the giant ships of the earth were flying in space
into the center of the Milky Way.
The vast kingdom of stars were suddenly like the great never-withering flowers of the universe
and their flames were fragrant and burning.
I heard the nameless fairy music,
which revived my prehistoric memory
ten thousand volumes of gold books, layer upon layer
huge wings like the rocs in the clouds,
piggybacked a city of giants from outer word
that gods‘ solemn Kingdom of Heaven.
into the center of the Milky Way.
The vast kingdom of stars were suddenly like the great never-withering flowers of the universe
and their flames were fragrant and burning.
I heard the nameless fairy music,
which revived my prehistoric memory
ten thousand volumes of gold books, layer upon layer
huge wings like the rocs in the clouds,
piggybacked a city of giants from outer word
that gods‘ solemn Kingdom of Heaven.
Wine of Soul
I picked a bunch of fairy flowers from the garden outside,
to make you instantly recall the prehistoric days of immortals
that travel leisurely by the light.
The golden car of the Dragon and Phoenix stayed on the island of fairyland,
and the layering of mountains of towers soared straight up into the purple sky;
a chant of a jade flute attracted the angels,
as if a bevy of birds hovered in succession
which made time sweet, like top-quality wine of soul.
to make you instantly recall the prehistoric days of immortals
that travel leisurely by the light.
The golden car of the Dragon and Phoenix stayed on the island of fairyland,
and the layering of mountains of towers soared straight up into the purple sky;
a chant of a jade flute attracted the angels,
as if a bevy of birds hovered in succession
which made time sweet, like top-quality wine of soul.
Angel’s Beautiful Image of White Feathers
The birds in my head sang the music of the Kingdom of Heaven,
sprinkled the rain of sweet dew and honeyed the dusty world
made the bones like jade and the king of soul to smile.
A golden axe cut off the body of a black python for thousands of years,
and the light of dawn bloomed in the giant’s prehistoric garden,
made the angel’s beautiful image of white feathers
intoxicate a giant city beyond the sky.
sprinkled the rain of sweet dew and honeyed the dusty world
made the bones like jade and the king of soul to smile.
A golden axe cut off the body of a black python for thousands of years,
and the light of dawn bloomed in the giant’s prehistoric garden,
made the angel’s beautiful image of white feathers
intoxicate a giant city beyond the sky.
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