James Lynch is an aspiring astronomer currently pursuing a degree in physics and mathematics from the University of Pennsylvania. He believes there is more to life than atoms and galaxies. Subway TokensI used to look for you in the wind. The filtering of the leaves Beneath my feet once composed a Symphony of circular sympathy That brought the hair on my neck To a standing ovation. What beautiful sounds you sent me. What beautiful sounds. Maybe the leaves were swept away. Maybe the strings snapped. Maybe The fingers of those who plucked Were tired of receiving an empty hat After endless applause. I used to look for you in the wind. I think you stopped looking, too. The Wind |
KJ Hannah Greenberg captures the world in words. Her newest poetry collection is The Wife/Mom (Seashell Books, 2019). Her most recent fiction collection is Walnut Street (Bards & Sages Publishing, 2019). |
Like Some Croupier
We dealt love like some croupier, forever standing behind “best strategies,”
Paying forward nothing costing self-esteem, complicated remunerations,
Excepted. When taking time to master brio wrapped in shantung, we cried
The tenth decimal of all prescience regarding anathematized, filched ways.
To wit, our enduring éclat, a genetic marvel, remained flatteringly useless.
Small errors, it seemed, during those regular pastimes, consumed our chic
Vessels, disallowed our accumulation of far worse scenarios than regularly
Suffered by casino employees, zoo officials, club goers, or bingo fanatics.
Thus, that sometimes competent gambler kept ambitiously learning feints
When not passing pieces, elsewise restricting resources saved for friends.
In the end, our mislaid license to payoff partial sets, bad hands, guesses,
Compelled us to give back lots. Meanwhile, barred, talented players,
Pernicious about fortune, cashed in terrible cards, our splenetic bleats
Ignored among their: diamantés, one-armed bandits, gratis hotel stays.
No clean, warm, semi-animate objects buffeted our yammers as lights,
Bells, pit managers lingered surprisingly present alongside mad house
Winnings. Those breccia samples charged alongside our better options,
Made meringue of our good opinion, unwound our moral compass as
Mere background checks of major gamers saved our sport and career.
Today, high rollers abide no such awkwardness, demand full comps.
Expert croupiers neatly spool away all manner of crowd frustrations.
Money talks when synthetic shapes fade at grand prizes. Private jets,
Likewise exigent hustlers, amaze more than unmarried ladies’ acts.
Besides, poison methods champion no dealers flagrantly fraternizing.
Paying forward nothing costing self-esteem, complicated remunerations,
Excepted. When taking time to master brio wrapped in shantung, we cried
The tenth decimal of all prescience regarding anathematized, filched ways.
To wit, our enduring éclat, a genetic marvel, remained flatteringly useless.
Small errors, it seemed, during those regular pastimes, consumed our chic
Vessels, disallowed our accumulation of far worse scenarios than regularly
Suffered by casino employees, zoo officials, club goers, or bingo fanatics.
Thus, that sometimes competent gambler kept ambitiously learning feints
When not passing pieces, elsewise restricting resources saved for friends.
In the end, our mislaid license to payoff partial sets, bad hands, guesses,
Compelled us to give back lots. Meanwhile, barred, talented players,
Pernicious about fortune, cashed in terrible cards, our splenetic bleats
Ignored among their: diamantés, one-armed bandits, gratis hotel stays.
No clean, warm, semi-animate objects buffeted our yammers as lights,
Bells, pit managers lingered surprisingly present alongside mad house
Winnings. Those breccia samples charged alongside our better options,
Made meringue of our good opinion, unwound our moral compass as
Mere background checks of major gamers saved our sport and career.
Today, high rollers abide no such awkwardness, demand full comps.
Expert croupiers neatly spool away all manner of crowd frustrations.
Money talks when synthetic shapes fade at grand prizes. Private jets,
Likewise exigent hustlers, amaze more than unmarried ladies’ acts.
Besides, poison methods champion no dealers flagrantly fraternizing.
The Shrikes
Certain “innocent” passerine birds deign to be carnivorous
To feast on fascia, muscle, blood, to gobble up animate pulp,
To flense the flesh and fat from prey, to fatten from critters.
Constantly, we folks of fairly typical appearance and intellect,
“Invite” ourselves to act as secondary “authorities,” to attempt
Conversing crudely with potential apprentices, to give orders.
See, aureate or charcoal, no amount of cosmesis can overcome
Nature’s reactor control rods. No shiny hafnium, ever provided
Specious security to smaller, less formidable, sorts of creatures.
Plentiful plumage notwithstanding, wolf spiders’ oubliettes, solo
Among global fauna’s myriad hazards, can’t satisfy their owners’
Cephalothoraxes to tumescence when quarry’s viscera go missing.
Neither avocet nor pigeon similarly approbate gory ends; beckon
Bits and bobs of fascia, intestines, marrow bones, fail gainsaying
The delicate loveliness of eyes, feathers, beaks, ruinous pursuits.
To feast on fascia, muscle, blood, to gobble up animate pulp,
To flense the flesh and fat from prey, to fatten from critters.
Constantly, we folks of fairly typical appearance and intellect,
“Invite” ourselves to act as secondary “authorities,” to attempt
Conversing crudely with potential apprentices, to give orders.
See, aureate or charcoal, no amount of cosmesis can overcome
Nature’s reactor control rods. No shiny hafnium, ever provided
Specious security to smaller, less formidable, sorts of creatures.
Plentiful plumage notwithstanding, wolf spiders’ oubliettes, solo
Among global fauna’s myriad hazards, can’t satisfy their owners’
Cephalothoraxes to tumescence when quarry’s viscera go missing.
Neither avocet nor pigeon similarly approbate gory ends; beckon
Bits and bobs of fascia, intestines, marrow bones, fail gainsaying
The delicate loveliness of eyes, feathers, beaks, ruinous pursuits.
Transversing Ideological Deserts
Our society transverses ideological deserts,
But leaves behind nothing at oases, instead
Molting impractical expectations of success,
Or sloughing certain sporadic clumps of truth.
Even when our verity’s eviscerated, we demand
That raconteurs grasp why euros, yen, dollars stay
Foisted on artificial altars. To us, savvy word slingers
Remain nothing more than chewers of expose bilge.
Critical thinking’s many threnodies, those last-ditch
Attempts to correct our unscrupulous manipulations,
Every so often, break through, impact bleary brains,
Register difference among right, wrong, uncertain.
It’s not so much that our mental whirlybirds interrupt
All samadhis as it is that quiescent notions have soft feet,
Frequently pop up in unexpected places, nearly constantly
Yield to exacting sobriquets, bold paeans, flashy rhetoric.
Meanwhile, rebellious sorts remain unafraid of highbrows
Keen on caparisoning, forcing paroxysms. Bold insurgents
Tend toward detailed lists of shipped goods, comprehensive
Bills of lading, meticulous accounts of drayage or long hauls.
Accountability, sometimes, does manifest among amanuenses,
Does burn bright due to diligence of free, plus for-fee versions,
Possibly recognize perceptions left behind by genre giants, by
Children’s scratchings, also by cognitive Piezoelectric Effects.
Eventually, both festschrifts and encomia do nothing for
Humanity’s evolution. Anet, most of our widdershin pains
Wind up addressing stentorian declarations, go unnoticed,
Alternatively, stay unwelcomed by our assigned consignees.
But leaves behind nothing at oases, instead
Molting impractical expectations of success,
Or sloughing certain sporadic clumps of truth.
Even when our verity’s eviscerated, we demand
That raconteurs grasp why euros, yen, dollars stay
Foisted on artificial altars. To us, savvy word slingers
Remain nothing more than chewers of expose bilge.
Critical thinking’s many threnodies, those last-ditch
Attempts to correct our unscrupulous manipulations,
Every so often, break through, impact bleary brains,
Register difference among right, wrong, uncertain.
It’s not so much that our mental whirlybirds interrupt
All samadhis as it is that quiescent notions have soft feet,
Frequently pop up in unexpected places, nearly constantly
Yield to exacting sobriquets, bold paeans, flashy rhetoric.
Meanwhile, rebellious sorts remain unafraid of highbrows
Keen on caparisoning, forcing paroxysms. Bold insurgents
Tend toward detailed lists of shipped goods, comprehensive
Bills of lading, meticulous accounts of drayage or long hauls.
Accountability, sometimes, does manifest among amanuenses,
Does burn bright due to diligence of free, plus for-fee versions,
Possibly recognize perceptions left behind by genre giants, by
Children’s scratchings, also by cognitive Piezoelectric Effects.
Eventually, both festschrifts and encomia do nothing for
Humanity’s evolution. Anet, most of our widdershin pains
Wind up addressing stentorian declarations, go unnoticed,
Alternatively, stay unwelcomed by our assigned consignees.
Akshay Sonthalia is a poet from Versova, Mumbai, India. He runs a poetry publishing startup called Poets Choice. He has been a special guests at Lit-o-fest Mumbai, TISS Fantastyka Lit Fest, St. Pauls Institute's Mediathon Fest, Equal Streets, a Times of India initiative. He is currently the publishing partners with Rotaract Club of Churchgate, a branch of Rotary Club. He has hosted poetry open mic events across Mumbai with Whistling Woods International, Bombay Art Club and Factory of Artists. He is one of the founders of Shekhawati Art Club. His poems can be read in a weekly newspaper of Dehradun called The Dehradun Street. He started his writing journey as a poet 13years back, when his school magazine published his poem ' Devils' Workshop'. His poem, Seven, speaks of the 7 chakras is loved the most by his readers. |
IT’S A DAYS LIFE
A drop of water,
The rising sun-
The winds kissing the trees
The historic walls.
The ray of hope,
The flowing blood-
The embracing hands
The firing – words.
The cry of birds,
The barking dogs
The loving fish,
The cunning fox.
The trickling pearls
The unwanted sneeze-
The echoing mirth,
The jumping heart.
The whistling devils,
The cute lil angels
The mischief in the eyes
The clear skies.
The building enthusiasm
The bubbling love-
The bursting desire-
The compressed sobs.
The unlocked doors
Melting the ice-
The blooming flowers
Said, -
“ It’s a day’s life.”
The rising sun-
The winds kissing the trees
The historic walls.
The ray of hope,
The flowing blood-
The embracing hands
The firing – words.
The cry of birds,
The barking dogs
The loving fish,
The cunning fox.
The trickling pearls
The unwanted sneeze-
The echoing mirth,
The jumping heart.
The whistling devils,
The cute lil angels
The mischief in the eyes
The clear skies.
The building enthusiasm
The bubbling love-
The bursting desire-
The compressed sobs.
The unlocked doors
Melting the ice-
The blooming flowers
Said, -
“ It’s a day’s life.”
SPLASH !
As I went shrieking down the whirlpool With a raindrop calming it –
Rescued, by a speeding surfer
But there was no land ahead,
I knew I was moving further
I had my eyes tight shut,
The man said, “ Hang on.”
And I plunged before that thought,
Whoosh! A scuba diver caught me
Cramming the spares he had,
Then, we moved on seeing the beautiful aqua But soon I started to suffocate-He forsake me like any other fish
I started to drown,
Going lower and lower to the ocean floor Desperately calling out-When a light lit up on my bedside,
And my mother said, “ Good morning, my son.”
Rescued, by a speeding surfer
But there was no land ahead,
I knew I was moving further
I had my eyes tight shut,
The man said, “ Hang on.”
And I plunged before that thought,
Whoosh! A scuba diver caught me
Cramming the spares he had,
Then, we moved on seeing the beautiful aqua But soon I started to suffocate-He forsake me like any other fish
I started to drown,
Going lower and lower to the ocean floor Desperately calling out-When a light lit up on my bedside,
And my mother said, “ Good morning, my son.”
THE POWER
The power of emotion,
Bubbles in our heart
Bursts out from our laughter
And flows from our eyes.
The power of love,
Helps achieve heights
Fighting even death-
Never so they divide.
The power of will,
Makes you live life
Moving in your voyage, with pride-
Passing the ‘falls of life’.
The power of faith,
Washes all dirt
Crystal clear mind, trust sans bound, so strong-Say jump, and he’ll jump.
The power of memory,
However unrealistic it seems
Spreads the love within-
Anger or glee.
Bubbles in our heart
Bursts out from our laughter
And flows from our eyes.
The power of love,
Helps achieve heights
Fighting even death-
Never so they divide.
The power of will,
Makes you live life
Moving in your voyage, with pride-
Passing the ‘falls of life’.
The power of faith,
Washes all dirt
Crystal clear mind, trust sans bound, so strong-Say jump, and he’ll jump.
The power of memory,
However unrealistic it seems
Spreads the love within-
Anger or glee.
WAITING !
Hope enrolls me,
And then-
See-saws
Back to despair.
Elation embraces me,
With love,
And then again –
It deflates.
Will she call?
Does she care?
Swings-
The restless vibes.
All I do,
Is wish that wish
Which still, is running
In my mind.
Was in college,
Lecture going on-
But my hand was
Reaching out, for my phone.
Dining I am,
On my table-
But my ears
Await her call.
Love, indifference
Care, frivolity–
Shadows, and then–
Vanishes.
Waiting desperately,
Fingers crossed-
For a ring, with a
String of hope.
And then-
See-saws
Back to despair.
Elation embraces me,
With love,
And then again –
It deflates.
Will she call?
Does she care?
Swings-
The restless vibes.
All I do,
Is wish that wish
Which still, is running
In my mind.
Was in college,
Lecture going on-
But my hand was
Reaching out, for my phone.
Dining I am,
On my table-
But my ears
Await her call.
Love, indifference
Care, frivolity–
Shadows, and then–
Vanishes.
Waiting desperately,
Fingers crossed-
For a ring, with a
String of hope.
Marianne Brems is a long time writer of textbooks, but also loves to write whimsical poems. She has an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in several literary journals including The Pangolin Review, Armarolla, Foliate Oak, La Scrittrice, The Sunlight Press, and The Tiny Seed Literary Journal. She lives in Northern California. |
We Can’t Replant
Were the loss a favorite book
with a spine cracked
so yellowed pages lose their grip,
or a beloved sweater pilled
from tender friction
against the perimeters of things,
we could stay fastened to roots,
deep,
but not so deep
we can’t replant.
While spread within the borders
of books and sweaters,
a broader resonance beckons
where blood and breath
and winsome ways
take hold our fictile hearts.
Brimming love
these captured hearts
endorse a higher calling
where love persists
as the loved perishes
and roots detach
beneath the weight of emptiness.
Here we can’t replant.
with a spine cracked
so yellowed pages lose their grip,
or a beloved sweater pilled
from tender friction
against the perimeters of things,
we could stay fastened to roots,
deep,
but not so deep
we can’t replant.
While spread within the borders
of books and sweaters,
a broader resonance beckons
where blood and breath
and winsome ways
take hold our fictile hearts.
Brimming love
these captured hearts
endorse a higher calling
where love persists
as the loved perishes
and roots detach
beneath the weight of emptiness.
Here we can’t replant.
Supercharging
Vehicles in a perfect row like soldiers in a march
in front of nineteen identical miniature towers
planted in a landscaped strip of brick chips,
noses toward Chipotle and Starbucks,
as conception at 72kW travels through a cable
in an office park for worker bees
where electricity hums softly
like a team of bustling insects
as thirsting sedans draw restorative energy.DMV, Stems, Replant
Drivers, suspended from conversation,
caught for half an hour
between hurry up and what if
stare at small screens to scramble
then unscramble
remaining obligations of the day.
Or they abandon personal sanctuaries
behind windshields
for necessities or indulgences
at Pet Smart or Jamba Juice.
A productive model
created in a remote office
means pairs of eyes need never meet
and voices never mingle.
in front of nineteen identical miniature towers
planted in a landscaped strip of brick chips,
noses toward Chipotle and Starbucks,
as conception at 72kW travels through a cable
in an office park for worker bees
where electricity hums softly
like a team of bustling insects
as thirsting sedans draw restorative energy.DMV, Stems, Replant
Drivers, suspended from conversation,
caught for half an hour
between hurry up and what if
stare at small screens to scramble
then unscramble
remaining obligations of the day.
Or they abandon personal sanctuaries
behind windshields
for necessities or indulgences
at Pet Smart or Jamba Juice.
A productive model
created in a remote office
means pairs of eyes need never meet
and voices never mingle.
Seth Grindstaff teaches high school creative writing classes in northeast Tennessee. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Sheila-Na-Gig, The Dead Mule, Forbidden Peak Press, Vita Brevis, and Panoplyzine, among others. He spends his time alongside his sun-loving wife and foster children. |
At Sycamore Shoals
we’d walk as far as the park’s gravel was spread
out alongside the Watauga River to get a good
perspective of the shoals, too inexperienced
to navigate yet in our kayaks. We’d picture
the Overmountain Men wading their way
out from our 8th grade history class,
rifles lifted to ford hip-high waters, hazardous
even after the TVA forced its change.
Before long, talk would turn to Andrew
or Logan, how both claimed to get their first
real kiss under those sycamores, secluded--
two creek crossings from the parking lot,
where the path ends to circle a sitting bench
like the silver loop around the eye
of a needle. I still can’t thread
the idea that their pick-up lines worked
or that once the city widened
the highway, and we had kids our own,
the spot could be seen from the road
clear as day, and the bench, renovated
as some boy’s Eagle Scout Project, sits
unfilled in the shade, so that what travels
with us won’t have a fogged hush
to test the waters by,
to ford their youth unseen,
green as kudzu, feet rooted
by the bank, time peeling white
like sycamore.
out alongside the Watauga River to get a good
perspective of the shoals, too inexperienced
to navigate yet in our kayaks. We’d picture
the Overmountain Men wading their way
out from our 8th grade history class,
rifles lifted to ford hip-high waters, hazardous
even after the TVA forced its change.
Before long, talk would turn to Andrew
or Logan, how both claimed to get their first
real kiss under those sycamores, secluded--
two creek crossings from the parking lot,
where the path ends to circle a sitting bench
like the silver loop around the eye
of a needle. I still can’t thread
the idea that their pick-up lines worked
or that once the city widened
the highway, and we had kids our own,
the spot could be seen from the road
clear as day, and the bench, renovated
as some boy’s Eagle Scout Project, sits
unfilled in the shade, so that what travels
with us won’t have a fogged hush
to test the waters by,
to ford their youth unseen,
green as kudzu, feet rooted
by the bank, time peeling white
like sycamore.
Chrissie now lives on the south coast of England with her daughter. She gained her degrees In Psychology at USC , Southern California. She is widely travelled and has lived in three countries. She has been published by Ariel Chart, Anti-Heroin Chic, Mad Swirl, Plum Tree Books, Dissident Voice, Scarlet Review, Democracy Now, and other poetry publishers. Her poetry has appeared in several anthlofies. |
For Jackson C. Frank
In 65 you took the boat to England and hit it sweet
wiith your Martin guitar and beautiful voice
You won the hearts of London's folk scene
yet you were too shy, full of pain
Physical and mental scars so long your companions
never let you go. Blues ran the game.
You had compensation money, a Martin guitar
fast cars to thrill your pals, a girl on your arm
But confidence was not given you.
A shaming shyness kept you from fame.
Shadow over you. Blues ran the game.
Mental illness haunted you, kids threw the stones,
you did the drink and the drugs, beautiful voice,
you were the crazy guy in your town
Traveling in your head, England maybe Spain.
Then fire got you once again. Blues ran the game
wiith your Martin guitar and beautiful voice
You won the hearts of London's folk scene
yet you were too shy, full of pain
Physical and mental scars so long your companions
never let you go. Blues ran the game.
You had compensation money, a Martin guitar
fast cars to thrill your pals, a girl on your arm
But confidence was not given you.
A shaming shyness kept you from fame.
Shadow over you. Blues ran the game.
Mental illness haunted you, kids threw the stones,
you did the drink and the drugs, beautiful voice,
you were the crazy guy in your town
Traveling in your head, England maybe Spain.
Then fire got you once again. Blues ran the game
Cordelia Hanemann is currently a practicing writer and artist in Raleigh, NC. She has published in numerous journals including Turtle Island Quarterly, Connecticut River Review, Dual Coast Magazine, and Laurel Review; anthologies, The Well-Versed Reader, Heron Clan VI and Kakalak 2018 and in her own chapbook, Through a Glass Darkly. Her poem, "photo-op" was a finalist in the Poems of Resistance competition at Sable Press and her poem "Cezanne's Apples" was nominated for a Pushcart. Recently the featured poet for Negative Capability Press and The Alexandria Quarterly, she is now working on a first novel, about her roots in Cajun Louisiana. |
The Stroke
Daddy, the day you died, I never got to say
I’d have stayed forever, waiting for words
to come. I hated watching you reach
into your new speechlessness, in the blank
hospital room, to find some words
swimming vainly in your brain.
Daddy, when you taught me math,
I was filled with questions.
I got lost in strange equations,
in the formulae of givens, unknowns,
incomprehensible constants, when
all I wanted was your words.
Daddy, that final silence…. After
all the spankings; after the turned head
when I came to kiss you goodnight.
Was it because you owned the shadow
at the door? What devils needed
such exorcising when I was 8, 9, 10?
Daddy, I beat myself up
in your absence. You taught me
so well—it all added up: unknowns
became constants; givens spelled out
the incomprehensible gulf between us.
I’d have stayed forever, waiting for words
to come. I hated watching you reach
into your new speechlessness, in the blank
hospital room, to find some words
swimming vainly in your brain.
Daddy, when you taught me math,
I was filled with questions.
I got lost in strange equations,
in the formulae of givens, unknowns,
incomprehensible constants, when
all I wanted was your words.
Daddy, that final silence…. After
all the spankings; after the turned head
when I came to kiss you goodnight.
Was it because you owned the shadow
at the door? What devils needed
such exorcising when I was 8, 9, 10?
Daddy, I beat myself up
in your absence. You taught me
so well—it all added up: unknowns
became constants; givens spelled out
the incomprehensible gulf between us.
absence makes the heart
I mourned your passing
because I needed your presence
needed for you to wake one day
and say ah my precious one
my daughter but you did not
speak when you could
and then you could not speak
and now you cannot
and the moment has passed
and I no longer mourn
the absence I have always
had.
because I needed your presence
needed for you to wake one day
and say ah my precious one
my daughter but you did not
speak when you could
and then you could not speak
and now you cannot
and the moment has passed
and I no longer mourn
the absence I have always
had.
A Mind of Winter
Cold crusts barren branches;
the mind of winter comes.
What I have known recedes,
as trees surrender leaves.
Little remains. Names I’ve sworn
never to forget, precious words,
coveted over a lifetime of dwelling
in books, fly out like shadows of birds.
The I drifts in the frigid hour;
ice crunches under foot,
and the sun which should be here
is not; gray of sky merges
with gray of mind, and the white
outside is not so much white
as devoid of color.
the mind of winter comes.
What I have known recedes,
as trees surrender leaves.
Little remains. Names I’ve sworn
never to forget, precious words,
coveted over a lifetime of dwelling
in books, fly out like shadows of birds.
The I drifts in the frigid hour;
ice crunches under foot,
and the sun which should be here
is not; gray of sky merges
with gray of mind, and the white
outside is not so much white
as devoid of color.
Liminal
the real world
takes flight the way dreams do
breaks up into disconnected
fragments as dreams do
haunts our waking hours
in wisps of déjà vu as dreams do
revisits us at odd moments
sleeping in wakenness as dreams do
lacks continuity
and comprehensibility as dreams do
wants clarity but
beggars explanation as dreams do
dissipates in a haze
of ambiguity as dreams do
entices with snippets
of unrealized promise as dreams do
fades into dis remembrance
oddly just as dreams do
takes flight the way dreams do
breaks up into disconnected
fragments as dreams do
haunts our waking hours
in wisps of déjà vu as dreams do
revisits us at odd moments
sleeping in wakenness as dreams do
lacks continuity
and comprehensibility as dreams do
wants clarity but
beggars explanation as dreams do
dissipates in a haze
of ambiguity as dreams do
entices with snippets
of unrealized promise as dreams do
fades into dis remembrance
oddly just as dreams do
The Leap
Begin at the cliff’s dark verge,
where edge meets air; fall or fly
triumphant into the void,
without reason or will,
wingspan, muscle, or sinew--
trust wind and wonder,
as when the musical note
leaves the violin, strains
towards the ear, becomes
desire—or nothing,
cacophony—or everything.
where edge meets air; fall or fly
triumphant into the void,
without reason or will,
wingspan, muscle, or sinew--
trust wind and wonder,
as when the musical note
leaves the violin, strains
towards the ear, becomes
desire—or nothing,
cacophony—or everything.
The writer from anywhere and everywhere when ponders on the question ' who am I?',receives some response in a lyric by the Assamese singer Bhupen Hazarika ....
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
Tale difficult to tell
(Dedicated to rape victim of Hapur in U. P. India)
The child slowly creeped on the bed
Beside his thoughtful mother and said,
"Mama! Could I ask you something
As I am unable to understand anything?'
Mother sighed as usual and caressing
The little child was expectantly wondering
" what is it you want to know, dear,
Tell me your doubt, come near! "
"They say I am a fatherless child
Some say I had a father and smiled
Others shower sympathetic words
And slowly walk away like lazy toads"
"Don't worry! Dear little darling!
You're now just a little sapling ...
You will know , as you grow old
How to answer the vicious world !"
The child looked puzzled but couldn't insist
For a reply to the query growing like a cyst
In the little brain: absorbed in thoughts
Slept unable to decipher her words of knots
Looking at the child in deep snoring slumber She spoke softly in tears which she couldn't cumber
"How shall I tell you my tale bereft of shape
A sordid woeful experience of exploitation and rape"
"I was younger then, a toy in the hands of men
Who dragged me from the fields like lions grabbing their prey into den
The watered plants looked helpless with tears
The umber earth shook as if it were pricked by pears
" Seconds, minutes, hours and days passed
None rescued me as their crimes surpassed
All limits till they found nothing left in me
To satiate their desires like a honeybee "
"Time flowed like tumultuous waves
Leading my life into pitch dark caves
Some one, unknown, made me your mother
And left me alone! Your cruel father"
"Grow up! Soon dear! Learn about life
And understand my struggle and strife ..!"
She kissed the child with wet soft hands
Before going to bed with handstands
{Rape horror in UP's Hapur; Survivor raped by 16 men in 5 years, also had a kid from her rapist | Meerut News - Times of India, 13 May 2019, https:/ timesofindia.indiatimes.com}
Beside his thoughtful mother and said,
"Mama! Could I ask you something
As I am unable to understand anything?'
Mother sighed as usual and caressing
The little child was expectantly wondering
" what is it you want to know, dear,
Tell me your doubt, come near! "
"They say I am a fatherless child
Some say I had a father and smiled
Others shower sympathetic words
And slowly walk away like lazy toads"
"Don't worry! Dear little darling!
You're now just a little sapling ...
You will know , as you grow old
How to answer the vicious world !"
The child looked puzzled but couldn't insist
For a reply to the query growing like a cyst
In the little brain: absorbed in thoughts
Slept unable to decipher her words of knots
Looking at the child in deep snoring slumber She spoke softly in tears which she couldn't cumber
"How shall I tell you my tale bereft of shape
A sordid woeful experience of exploitation and rape"
"I was younger then, a toy in the hands of men
Who dragged me from the fields like lions grabbing their prey into den
The watered plants looked helpless with tears
The umber earth shook as if it were pricked by pears
" Seconds, minutes, hours and days passed
None rescued me as their crimes surpassed
All limits till they found nothing left in me
To satiate their desires like a honeybee "
"Time flowed like tumultuous waves
Leading my life into pitch dark caves
Some one, unknown, made me your mother
And left me alone! Your cruel father"
"Grow up! Soon dear! Learn about life
And understand my struggle and strife ..!"
She kissed the child with wet soft hands
Before going to bed with handstands
{Rape horror in UP's Hapur; Survivor raped by 16 men in 5 years, also had a kid from her rapist | Meerut News - Times of India, 13 May 2019, https:/ timesofindia.indiatimes.com}
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