IMAGES SUPPLIED BY THE AUTHOR GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASSTHE SHIT HIT THE FAN. WE ALL CAME UP LAME. LIVING TO HIGH. NEVER TO BE THE SAME. THE BULLSHIT ARTIST’S. ALL SWORE AND PROCLAIMED. LEFT US ALL STRANDED. SO WHOM IS TO BLAME. ALWAYS THOUGHT. IT WOULD ALWAYS LAST, NOW WERE ALL. POUNDING SALT UP OUR ASS’S. SOLD OUT BY THE POLITICIAN’S WHO LED US ASTRAY. NOW THE ASSHOLES AND SCUMBAGS. HAVE LITTLE TO SAY. PECKERHEADS IN THE HOUSE AND SENATE. OUR FUTURE SEEMS DOOMED, SHITHEADS AT THE VOTING BOOTHS. WE’LL ALL SOON BE MAROONED. SO GET YOUR HEADS OUT OF YOUR ASS’S. STOP LOOKING THE OTHER WAY. GO TO THE POLLS. AND MAKE THEM ALL”JUST GO AWAY” LIKE A WILTED ROSE Time Comes---Time Goes. We Slowly Fade Away---Like A Wilted Rose. Once There was Failure---Then There Was Fame. Now Only Defeat---Always Coming Up Lame. Fought All The Demons---Many Un full filled Schemes. Lost Track Of The Future--- Searching For Long Lost Dreams. Should Have Resisted--- Yet Always Looking For More. Lost In The Shadows---Too Many Empty Doors. Stood Up On Your First Date---Always Singing Off Key. All Your Checks Have Bounced---Never Knowing What You Wanted To Be. Now That It’s Time To Leave---And Have Not Achieved All The Goals. Always Viewed Like A Forbidden Soul---Doomed To Fade Away Like A Wilted Rose. FREE ME Deep inside , My exiled soul. I’m a prisoner of my own torment. It’s a costly toll. Chained to the memories, Of times gone bad. A self-imposed solitary. To reflect and be sad. To be free of these chains, I must forget the past. Release me from this bondage. Is all I ask. I’ve served my sentence, Only ask to be free. To resume my life. And return to being me. YESTERDAY’S GONE Yesterdays gone. Tomorrow will never come. The Sun can’t shine, Rivers can’t run. Slowly evaporating, Like the morning dew. What once was, Will never be. Excluded from the future, confined to the past The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, Do we really care. Where have we gone, And where have we been. Once un-destructible walls, Crumble and fall. Sleep walking thru life, Unable to perform. Rising tides, No longer go out or come in. The light at the end of the tunnel, Now remains dim. Visions of grandeur, Never again to return. Exploding emotions, Now Silent and still. Were we ever here, Or did we ever exist. Lost forever, Your ship has sailed. Marooned on a dead end street, Forever alone. Left at the altar, Consumed with regret. Yesterday’s gone, Tomorrow will never come. THE BELLS FOREVER SHALL TOLLTHE BELLS ARE AGAIN TOLLING..FOR LONG LOST RELATIONSHIPS
LIKE A LOST SHIP IN THE NITE..FOREVER HIDDEN IN TIME. THE EFFORT TO REBUILD THEM..HAVE BEEN PLAQUED BY RESENT. LOST FOREVER..NEVER AGAIN TO BE HAD. SIMILAR TO THE GREAT CLASSICS.. SOME REMAIN FOREVER. THEN THERE ARE THOSE..THAT JUST DISAPPEAR WITHOUT A TRACE.. RELATIONSHIPS SO SPECIAL..MANY LOCKED AWAY FOREVER. ONCE THE SPELL IS BROKEN..ONE NEVER REMAINS THE SAME. THRU-OUT THE AGES..THEY RISE AND FALL. MANY REMAIN..OTHERS AWAIT THE CALL. MANY TORTURED FOR EVER... NEVER TO REGAIN WHAT ONCE WAS. LITTLE TIME TO REAP THE HARVEST..NO TIME TO RECAPTURE THE LOSS. ONCE THERE WAS JOY, AND MOMENTS OF ETERNAL LOVE. REMNANTS OF WHAT ONCE WAS..IS ALL THAT REMAINS. ONCE SOLID AS A ROCK..NOW FRAGILE AS A FAULT. SILENCE PREVAILS..AS THEY FADE AWAY. THE BELLS FOREVER SHALL TOLL..AS THEY SLOWLY SLIP AWAY. ONCE LOST..,MAY NEVER BE AGAIN.
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VOLUNTARY ACTS The trees dislodged the leaves off their branches. The wind turned cold. The clock rotated like a merry go round. The corpse on the couch gazed at a mystical screen. Screen with flashes of beauty. The corpse was a living man. Breathing away each day to reach its end. The scene on the screen flashed a smiling beauty. A woman with glitzy eyes and flowing hair. Mr. Malik gulped down spit. His dry throat ached. The woman embraced a snake. Snake that traced her skin and curled around her neck to choke her. Snake that bit her neck to infect its venom. Mr. Malik longed for such poison. The morgue where he was locked now felt the cold wind. Coughs interrupted his breathing now and then. Mr. Malik switched off the screen. His weary eyes closed. His right palm picked an executioner and shot him at his head. Breeze rushed out of the morgue. The trees were stark bare. The man ceased to breathe. Humble Monday Morning |
Harjeet Singh is an Indian English poet and short story writer. He has earned a Master's degree in English from his district college Hoshiarpur (Punjab). His father, Principal "Joginder Singh," was a keen lover of the English language and his guidelines have made Harjeet able to grasp some of the fundamentals of this language. His work has appeared in Indian Ruminations, Conceit magazine, Stray Branch magazine, Children Churches & Daddies, Literary Yard, "Across the Wall" chapbook, Scarlet Leaf Review, Indian Perodical, The Enchanted File Cabinet 2018 Conceit Magazine. He is a denizen of district Hoshiarpur (Punjab).He can be approached while searching in Google "Harjeet Singh poet or poems". |
Son of a Shoeshiner
An opulent district businessman
lunched in a restaurant,
After lunch, he tipped the waiter five rupees
It boggled the server’s mind and he spoke,
“Sir a few days ago on this desk your son lavished
me with one hundred and fifty rupees after lunch,
“You are a captain of industry!”
Now, the businessman broke his silence
and uttered: “Of course he would pay such cash
because he is the son of a rich industrialist".
But I didn’t forget bygone days,
How poverty swallowed my father.
Wellaway! he didn’t watch my single success,
my richness!
I am a son of that poor shoeshiner
Who on many occasions used to polish the shoes
of affluent class for nothing, gratis.
And he kept struggling to earn
five pennies a day.
lunched in a restaurant,
After lunch, he tipped the waiter five rupees
It boggled the server’s mind and he spoke,
“Sir a few days ago on this desk your son lavished
me with one hundred and fifty rupees after lunch,
“You are a captain of industry!”
Now, the businessman broke his silence
and uttered: “Of course he would pay such cash
because he is the son of a rich industrialist".
But I didn’t forget bygone days,
How poverty swallowed my father.
Wellaway! he didn’t watch my single success,
my richness!
I am a son of that poor shoeshiner
Who on many occasions used to polish the shoes
of affluent class for nothing, gratis.
And he kept struggling to earn
five pennies a day.
In the vast lake
Man of letters enters the vast lake
with soaring hope.
In the vast lake he reads the art of
past great personalities
Who have earned name and fame.
Over there he meets his coevals.
Being fledgling he suffers so much.
He tries to seek some place,
He does his best to swim along with the dominants
He struggles with the storm of several waves
Some are topsy- turvy and some are so chilled.
While going in the depth of lake,
While swimming fast,
He has to save himself from sharks, crocodiles
As their attack can destruct his literary voyage
If his creative fragments are sans mentation.
In the vast lake he encounters with the standard of language, themes, subject-matters
and universal forms.
Besides, the tastes of audience and his own
personal whims.
Sometimes he approaches at a distance
From where he can watch the dominant ones
from behind.
Sometimes with remorse he thinks to
abandon all contests and competitions
In the vast lake.
Because he lags behind.
He becomes self-distrustful.
But one thing that tortures him
why he is not among others.
Where does the fault lie?
He begins to swim again with dejected zeal
Because he is well aware, only continuous swimming could save him from drowning.
No matter he lags behind
Or at nearby area with dominants
Constant travelling can keep him in literary background.
Maybe in future some literary shark would
do the evaluation of his work and
would discuss his art before others,
That couldn’t get full- fledged fame in bygone span.
It is an honorable point on his side
That he has joined that vast lake to which
No one can cross so easily.
One who crosses successfully, he is victorious.
He will survive after so many deaths.
Posterity would know him through verses.
So he will have to swim, to travel long.
He will have to excogitate,
He will have to delve themes.
He will have to develop creativity.
And to nudge such inclinations
Which induce him to hunker down.
Every writer wants to appear in college or school literature but there are so many writers in the world .Who would survive like Shakespeare or other writers.So I called "In the vast lake".Everyone is writing with a point of view that his writings be read by college students in future.But out of thousands who would survive.But hope sustains life.
Sharks, crocodiles-- critics who criticise someone's art.
with soaring hope.
In the vast lake he reads the art of
past great personalities
Who have earned name and fame.
Over there he meets his coevals.
Being fledgling he suffers so much.
He tries to seek some place,
He does his best to swim along with the dominants
He struggles with the storm of several waves
Some are topsy- turvy and some are so chilled.
While going in the depth of lake,
While swimming fast,
He has to save himself from sharks, crocodiles
As their attack can destruct his literary voyage
If his creative fragments are sans mentation.
In the vast lake he encounters with the standard of language, themes, subject-matters
and universal forms.
Besides, the tastes of audience and his own
personal whims.
Sometimes he approaches at a distance
From where he can watch the dominant ones
from behind.
Sometimes with remorse he thinks to
abandon all contests and competitions
In the vast lake.
Because he lags behind.
He becomes self-distrustful.
But one thing that tortures him
why he is not among others.
Where does the fault lie?
He begins to swim again with dejected zeal
Because he is well aware, only continuous swimming could save him from drowning.
No matter he lags behind
Or at nearby area with dominants
Constant travelling can keep him in literary background.
Maybe in future some literary shark would
do the evaluation of his work and
would discuss his art before others,
That couldn’t get full- fledged fame in bygone span.
It is an honorable point on his side
That he has joined that vast lake to which
No one can cross so easily.
One who crosses successfully, he is victorious.
He will survive after so many deaths.
Posterity would know him through verses.
So he will have to swim, to travel long.
He will have to excogitate,
He will have to delve themes.
He will have to develop creativity.
And to nudge such inclinations
Which induce him to hunker down.
Every writer wants to appear in college or school literature but there are so many writers in the world .Who would survive like Shakespeare or other writers.So I called "In the vast lake".Everyone is writing with a point of view that his writings be read by college students in future.But out of thousands who would survive.But hope sustains life.
Sharks, crocodiles-- critics who criticise someone's art.
Professor B.N Thapar said
Donate books when scanned
You would not dismiss from mind
Like lala Hardayal (a scholar).
I recall my days,
Your wine mask(face), gainly profile
Like you mine was gules(red).
A well-groomed young soul,
Knack also runs parallel.
A rising genius.
Before drawn-out spell
Sir, your augury went true,
I have been bookman.
Iambics, trochee,
rhyme ballads have been my prey
And vice-versa.
Besides, I have made
A personal stanza in
Literary street.
Seven line stanza
And seven syllables in
each and every line.
Because my first name
contains seven characters,
Expressly “Harjeet”.
“Former vs latter”
And “Humanities teamed up”
To boot, “Sans Soulmate”
First two poems got
Printed in United States,
Last, in canada.
Oh! surprisingly,
You were discussed oftentimes
But never thought hard.
You would not dismiss from mind
Like lala Hardayal (a scholar).
I recall my days,
Your wine mask(face), gainly profile
Like you mine was gules(red).
A well-groomed young soul,
Knack also runs parallel.
A rising genius.
Before drawn-out spell
Sir, your augury went true,
I have been bookman.
Iambics, trochee,
rhyme ballads have been my prey
And vice-versa.
Besides, I have made
A personal stanza in
Literary street.
Seven line stanza
And seven syllables in
each and every line.
Because my first name
contains seven characters,
Expressly “Harjeet”.
“Former vs latter”
And “Humanities teamed up”
To boot, “Sans Soulmate”
First two poems got
Printed in United States,
Last, in canada.
Oh! surprisingly,
You were discussed oftentimes
But never thought hard.
A Primrose Fallacy
She would rather I believe any other
rather than none
Pious for the sake of gnomes
left to burn in open fields and open doorways
Venomous serums administered by hordes of madmen
Poignancy throbbing through their holsters
Inevitably tended upon by widowed nurses
endlessly aching for the ravens to caw their strain
Information on crumpled parchment
Information smothered by vast particulars
Take them where they can spin no yarns
Heed their wails and bear witness of no known mercy
Give them light,
only to snuff out their brilliance with a searing gleam
Who would she have me believe in?
If not for no one and none and nothing
I want her righteous heart more than I care to admit
Scratching that prickle for a compassionate deity
Spent on time for the sake of seeing time pass
Counting blessings in lieu of follicle enumeration
If any are listening
then I expect them to attune my bellow
For all who would also cry an octave higher
Justice for the souls who had no say
Salvation for the kindred a mile in every direction
Profit for the investors relegated to any tier but first
Now is not suggestion
Now is a reasonable demand of overlooked vassals
Courteous to a limit,
limited only by the discourteous bromides
Return the favors that were never beckoned to begin with
and offer homage for the souls earlier deemed unfit to pass
I will believe for her then as she asks of me;
any other above none at all
rather than none
Pious for the sake of gnomes
left to burn in open fields and open doorways
Venomous serums administered by hordes of madmen
Poignancy throbbing through their holsters
Inevitably tended upon by widowed nurses
endlessly aching for the ravens to caw their strain
Information on crumpled parchment
Information smothered by vast particulars
Take them where they can spin no yarns
Heed their wails and bear witness of no known mercy
Give them light,
only to snuff out their brilliance with a searing gleam
Who would she have me believe in?
If not for no one and none and nothing
I want her righteous heart more than I care to admit
Scratching that prickle for a compassionate deity
Spent on time for the sake of seeing time pass
Counting blessings in lieu of follicle enumeration
If any are listening
then I expect them to attune my bellow
For all who would also cry an octave higher
Justice for the souls who had no say
Salvation for the kindred a mile in every direction
Profit for the investors relegated to any tier but first
Now is not suggestion
Now is a reasonable demand of overlooked vassals
Courteous to a limit,
limited only by the discourteous bromides
Return the favors that were never beckoned to begin with
and offer homage for the souls earlier deemed unfit to pass
I will believe for her then as she asks of me;
any other above none at all
Widget
Fractures are rarely ever hairline
Bled from bone; bleeding out when there is depth
An assembly line is a median causation,
where the mundane begets the norm, and
attention is drawn toward details and detail is not capacious
A single contraption
Born of many
Borne across the well-worn pavement
Given enough time the contraption withers,
its function outlived by untold,
but not by all
A den formulated by a family television
A porch held true by holding hearth
A playground swing offers comfort of a thousand paternal interactions
Except when it doesn’t; made hollow when the blood has all been drained
Remaining hidden in the shadows, residing smugly in the details
Bled from bone; bleeding out when there is depth
An assembly line is a median causation,
where the mundane begets the norm, and
attention is drawn toward details and detail is not capacious
A single contraption
Born of many
Borne across the well-worn pavement
Given enough time the contraption withers,
its function outlived by untold,
but not by all
A den formulated by a family television
A porch held true by holding hearth
A playground swing offers comfort of a thousand paternal interactions
Except when it doesn’t; made hollow when the blood has all been drained
Remaining hidden in the shadows, residing smugly in the details
Spouse
My Europeanness fails to match her Europeanness
The ancestry is weaker
A lineage of no noteworthy stock
Hers roamed untethered across mountains and immense bodies of water, while
mine prayed to be kept safe from her people
O’ but then,
my head in her hands
Centuries later the structure of her face, and
the strength in her fingers demand I forget myself
I made vows to keep her safe
Promises inverted long before ever spoken
Rubbing away the worry
My head in her hands
I do all to live up to our contemporary bridge,
worrying just the same
We owe each other nothing
Derived from opposite sides of a fitful continent
divided by mountains and immense bodies of water
Roamed by Corsicans and Heathens and unpronounceable tribes
conjoined by heat and dust and slough
Promises made by two for the benefit of all who descended
Her presence keeps me still
Meant to calm
I am calm
My head in her hands
The city long ago sacked
The ancestry is weaker
A lineage of no noteworthy stock
Hers roamed untethered across mountains and immense bodies of water, while
mine prayed to be kept safe from her people
O’ but then,
my head in her hands
Centuries later the structure of her face, and
the strength in her fingers demand I forget myself
I made vows to keep her safe
Promises inverted long before ever spoken
Rubbing away the worry
My head in her hands
I do all to live up to our contemporary bridge,
worrying just the same
We owe each other nothing
Derived from opposite sides of a fitful continent
divided by mountains and immense bodies of water
Roamed by Corsicans and Heathens and unpronounceable tribes
conjoined by heat and dust and slough
Promises made by two for the benefit of all who descended
Her presence keeps me still
Meant to calm
I am calm
My head in her hands
The city long ago sacked
To a “T”
Out with a false harbinger
Out with all the treason
Out with golden haze
Out with tenor
Down with muddied waters
Down with a twisted tongue
Down with insect cataclysm
Down with an imbalanced tete-a-tete
Who among us will cancel tomorrow’s tour?
Out with bloodied personnel
Down with the second Tesla
Curse this disproportionate national quilt
Fuck any emblemized golf tee
Your trust falls mandate a tourniquet
Your tall tales now too many to tally
Go on then, bill me for your time already
Out with all the treason
Out with golden haze
Out with tenor
Down with muddied waters
Down with a twisted tongue
Down with insect cataclysm
Down with an imbalanced tete-a-tete
Who among us will cancel tomorrow’s tour?
Out with bloodied personnel
Down with the second Tesla
Curse this disproportionate national quilt
Fuck any emblemized golf tee
Your trust falls mandate a tourniquet
Your tall tales now too many to tally
Go on then, bill me for your time already
Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has stayed in print since on four continents. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed forty two years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All. Saloni Kaul is also an accomplished broadcaster , writer-producer-presenter with innumerable documentaries and features to her credit. Most recent Saloni Kaul poetic production has been published in The Horrorzine, Mad Swirl (contains ongoing Saloni Kaul poetry page), The Penwood Review, The Voices Project, Scarlet Leaf Review, OVI Magazine, Five 2 One Journal, The City Poetry, The Lake, House Of Horror Glitter & Words, The Whimperbang Journal, Mantis, The Paragon Journal and The Imaginate. Upcoming publication acceptances include those of The Penwood Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, OVI Magazine and The Horrorzine. |
WISELY ON CUE
All kindness comes from instant recognition from afar
Like strict geometry is altogether accurate
Of this wide world and its people as they drawn are;
To accept facts and foibles at face value straight.
Most lovers look once and then ask for more,
In that glance exercise all options sane,
Having little use for all that dilly-dallying at the door
Seen as analagous to moody vane.
Be swift to pounce on each chance's brimful pails
As all the wise latch on to some wholesome adage
And kindly make the most of what's offered in bales,
Be it most weighty cumbersome equipage.
Grab what you can afford by the handful or in hordes,
Defined well, certain, like moves to augmented chord.
Like strict geometry is altogether accurate
Of this wide world and its people as they drawn are;
To accept facts and foibles at face value straight.
Most lovers look once and then ask for more,
In that glance exercise all options sane,
Having little use for all that dilly-dallying at the door
Seen as analagous to moody vane.
Be swift to pounce on each chance's brimful pails
As all the wise latch on to some wholesome adage
And kindly make the most of what's offered in bales,
Be it most weighty cumbersome equipage.
Grab what you can afford by the handful or in hordes,
Defined well, certain, like moves to augmented chord.
SONNET MISCELLANY
KIND SCENTS ON
There's always a glimmer of hope in the darkest times,
Always the promised golden dawn after the longest night,
There's always kind Future packed with dollars and dimes,
What it tight holds in store dispels moments of awful fright.
Laden with pearls of wisdom, ever the optimist,
Inborn gift of improving , buoying up the present,
You blend and generate materials like the alchemist
That sprightly stamps and sprints the cogent scents.
There's always hope as long as we poets all write
That something beautiful and kind to see and grasp,
Something exquisite far beyond immediate sight,
All that power punch put into poetry's clasp.
For only kindly-placed hope sees one bracingly fortified
As aspirations backed by zeal and faith get gratified.
Always the promised golden dawn after the longest night,
There's always kind Future packed with dollars and dimes,
What it tight holds in store dispels moments of awful fright.
Laden with pearls of wisdom, ever the optimist,
Inborn gift of improving , buoying up the present,
You blend and generate materials like the alchemist
That sprightly stamps and sprints the cogent scents.
There's always hope as long as we poets all write
That something beautiful and kind to see and grasp,
Something exquisite far beyond immediate sight,
All that power punch put into poetry's clasp.
For only kindly-placed hope sees one bracingly fortified
As aspirations backed by zeal and faith get gratified.
HOPES ALONE
Hopes elastic as dream and fiction stretch
The canopy to the greatest extent
Like kindness generosity have a 'go and fetch'
Capacity that's infinite in content;
A build-up magnitude that is akin
To plain brasstacks hardboiled consumption
But for the fact that its wholly squarely based approach firm on chin,
Hinges entirely on that kindest assumption
That realisation fulfilment of the hope
Is somehow by virtue of the long quest
Intrinsically guaranteed definite in scope
That beyond the straight expression hoping for the best
Makes the hope, the best, happen actually
Like wishing wells in myth all grant eventually.
Clinging to hope Dreamer flimsy plumbline pulls clear.
The act of drawing it up makes prize draw near.
The canopy to the greatest extent
Like kindness generosity have a 'go and fetch'
Capacity that's infinite in content;
A build-up magnitude that is akin
To plain brasstacks hardboiled consumption
But for the fact that its wholly squarely based approach firm on chin,
Hinges entirely on that kindest assumption
That realisation fulfilment of the hope
Is somehow by virtue of the long quest
Intrinsically guaranteed definite in scope
That beyond the straight expression hoping for the best
Makes the hope, the best, happen actually
Like wishing wells in myth all grant eventually.
Clinging to hope Dreamer flimsy plumbline pulls clear.
The act of drawing it up makes prize draw near.
STYLISTICS ALL ON EACH SPREE
Whales throw their tails so high up in the air,
Regardless of who's whale-watching perform antics;
Eagles patrol the skies, circle handsomely as they stare
Indifferent to your interest in their tactics;
So unlike those who with falsehood effuse,
To gain cheap popularity even start a coup,
'Bout anything to earn attention and amuse
And make it somehow to the ranks of who's who;
We that are wise and sensitive see through all this,
Like plots nipped in the bud by those few in the knowing,
At times ignore, at times curtail contents of chalice
And quietly make amends, smoothen the rough-going.
Remember, highflyers don't push their way to the forefront.
It's style that gets you there without affront.
Regardless of who's whale-watching perform antics;
Eagles patrol the skies, circle handsomely as they stare
Indifferent to your interest in their tactics;
So unlike those who with falsehood effuse,
To gain cheap popularity even start a coup,
'Bout anything to earn attention and amuse
And make it somehow to the ranks of who's who;
We that are wise and sensitive see through all this,
Like plots nipped in the bud by those few in the knowing,
At times ignore, at times curtail contents of chalice
And quietly make amends, smoothen the rough-going.
Remember, highflyers don't push their way to the forefront.
It's style that gets you there without affront.
TRELLISES ALL IN SEQUENCE
Arched trellises as children we strolled through
Of saturated time replete with summer’s scents
Appear before us in their shades of pink green blue,
Arcs painted randomly perhaps evanescent.
The scenes that once were knit clear in sequence,
Precise and ordered as a fragrant jasmine hedge,
In fragments flash across like loved one's face years hence,
Perhaps a shower here and there has then erased the edge.
But even smallest piece of arc soon brings to mind
Full circle; one aspect glimpsed thin remits to one the all !
Each bit that's seen links back and forth those times ahead behind
And thus to Mind’s sharp eye the whole recalls.
As many as scents mingling in the scene are shades of sky’s lavender.
What artistry is exhibited by our rainbow bender!
Of saturated time replete with summer’s scents
Appear before us in their shades of pink green blue,
Arcs painted randomly perhaps evanescent.
The scenes that once were knit clear in sequence,
Precise and ordered as a fragrant jasmine hedge,
In fragments flash across like loved one's face years hence,
Perhaps a shower here and there has then erased the edge.
But even smallest piece of arc soon brings to mind
Full circle; one aspect glimpsed thin remits to one the all !
Each bit that's seen links back and forth those times ahead behind
And thus to Mind’s sharp eye the whole recalls.
As many as scents mingling in the scene are shades of sky’s lavender.
What artistry is exhibited by our rainbow bender!
STOICALLY YOURS
Thin sequinned showers preempt the season like a prologue wearer,
Narrator-like hint at what’s to be the hankered after confection,
A prelude beckons, brings the scene ahead a shade nearer
And coaxes that backward-forward connection.
Like swiftest of wide smiles that click on and then off ,
A curtain raiser and then shutter like cocktail samples on a tray,
To one ensnared it is as good a deal as mixture sold for cough ,
You see yourself way into the years all in that sequinned spray.
Such are the ways and guiles that time deploys ,
A host of flashing things before we lid the pot, pan, box,
That modify the hurting pain and trim the joys
And blunt the dropping claw anchor fluke as the yacht docks.
Quite baffling time and space , in reverie I am stacked steep
In lands where even those willows no longer weep.
Narrator-like hint at what’s to be the hankered after confection,
A prelude beckons, brings the scene ahead a shade nearer
And coaxes that backward-forward connection.
Like swiftest of wide smiles that click on and then off ,
A curtain raiser and then shutter like cocktail samples on a tray,
To one ensnared it is as good a deal as mixture sold for cough ,
You see yourself way into the years all in that sequinned spray.
Such are the ways and guiles that time deploys ,
A host of flashing things before we lid the pot, pan, box,
That modify the hurting pain and trim the joys
And blunt the dropping claw anchor fluke as the yacht docks.
Quite baffling time and space , in reverie I am stacked steep
In lands where even those willows no longer weep.
SULPHUR-STAMPED SKYSCAPES
Pale opalescent cloudscapes of vapour
Breathe like a canvas stained in vibrant pigment blur,
All sulphur-stamped’s the sun’s clouddriven capers ,
Poetic’s distillation from weak sunlight skycolours.
Odd golden sparks soon burst upon the canvas scene
Dissolving shapes in waveplays yellowish of light;
The dramaturgy of forms cosmic always ready, keen ,
Takes on man’s dream views of ethereal delight.
Transparency holds those celestial matter arcades,
Quite irrespective of how turgid or how volatile !
Yet hazy mysticism my own cloud study pervades ,
Each issue veils as I close in , analyses compile.
Skyscapes revolve as all these clouds conduct their dance
And leave me in a daze , the gold day in a trance.
Breathe like a canvas stained in vibrant pigment blur,
All sulphur-stamped’s the sun’s clouddriven capers ,
Poetic’s distillation from weak sunlight skycolours.
Odd golden sparks soon burst upon the canvas scene
Dissolving shapes in waveplays yellowish of light;
The dramaturgy of forms cosmic always ready, keen ,
Takes on man’s dream views of ethereal delight.
Transparency holds those celestial matter arcades,
Quite irrespective of how turgid or how volatile !
Yet hazy mysticism my own cloud study pervades ,
Each issue veils as I close in , analyses compile.
Skyscapes revolve as all these clouds conduct their dance
And leave me in a daze , the gold day in a trance.
CONSULTATIONS ALL ON
Stretched lazily across, it shows up in the sky
So like a long forgotten loved one dear
At your doorstep leaning against the woodframe high,
Startles the eye and heart with unexpected image clear.
Out of a blurry blue that merry bobs
All the birdsong filled day that chirping tweeting turns
All shingled colours dressed, top space it sudden mobs
Like an arched wing that ready flight soon yearns.
The fleeting showers-swept land that upward looks
In darkening changing blue then sees now shade now gold,
The radiance stunning as enlightening books,
Alone up there, sheer beauty its own holds.
A spectacle in transcience, all exult ,
As hastily you and I too that rainbow consult.
So like a long forgotten loved one dear
At your doorstep leaning against the woodframe high,
Startles the eye and heart with unexpected image clear.
Out of a blurry blue that merry bobs
All the birdsong filled day that chirping tweeting turns
All shingled colours dressed, top space it sudden mobs
Like an arched wing that ready flight soon yearns.
The fleeting showers-swept land that upward looks
In darkening changing blue then sees now shade now gold,
The radiance stunning as enlightening books,
Alone up there, sheer beauty its own holds.
A spectacle in transcience, all exult ,
As hastily you and I too that rainbow consult.
Jayanta Bhaumik is from Kolkata, India. Basically from the field of Metaphysics and Astrology (a Research Member of American Federation of Astrologers Inc.), he finds Poetry as his Quest. He spends a period in Singapore and other south-east Asian countries every year for professional assignments. His works can be found in recent or upcoming issues of Poetry Super Highway, Zombie Logic Review, The Pangolin Review, Merak Magazine, Pif Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, PPP Ezine, The Local Train, Cajun Mutt Press. He is on Twitter @BhaumikJayanta. |
For what you know as combination
In fact,
the rehab-man said smoking,
mind is occasionally vertebrate
a squat charmer in pose
and like horns,
twisty and hard,
horns so full of keratin
fingernails too,
nails are polished in labyrinthine colours
and please, a mind can be flatland
cityscape as in wartime curfew
without sounds and figures and all so coagulant
or a mind is
a mind-shaped screen fuzzed in
tendrils
or you understand filaments?
he said, whose mouth
did not smell of a phenom
he had a shirt made of
threads weaved in silhouettes
zigzags of grey and teal blue,
bit of sappy green grasses
can filaments look like grasses?
ichor evergreen, so inexorably fresh?
grasshoppers on blades, no secret link to fail?
and scary, no integument withered in eerie old wrinkles?
what all stingy souvenirs?
flipping blues, past is your genie bottled
say time dented, say present debris
sum of the cameos ruined always in combination
oozes with oyster
frozen in a form that people try to save,
– why not? he said with a cigarette
combination, not much aching, rubbles of time
do it for stains to pickle my heart
maybe in a day or two or three
my mind finally ready to end in smoke
the rehab-man said smoking,
mind is occasionally vertebrate
a squat charmer in pose
and like horns,
twisty and hard,
horns so full of keratin
fingernails too,
nails are polished in labyrinthine colours
and please, a mind can be flatland
cityscape as in wartime curfew
without sounds and figures and all so coagulant
or a mind is
a mind-shaped screen fuzzed in
tendrils
or you understand filaments?
he said, whose mouth
did not smell of a phenom
he had a shirt made of
threads weaved in silhouettes
zigzags of grey and teal blue,
bit of sappy green grasses
can filaments look like grasses?
ichor evergreen, so inexorably fresh?
grasshoppers on blades, no secret link to fail?
and scary, no integument withered in eerie old wrinkles?
what all stingy souvenirs?
flipping blues, past is your genie bottled
say time dented, say present debris
sum of the cameos ruined always in combination
oozes with oyster
frozen in a form that people try to save,
– why not? he said with a cigarette
combination, not much aching, rubbles of time
do it for stains to pickle my heart
maybe in a day or two or three
my mind finally ready to end in smoke
In a mattering point of being impassionate
It is not sheer doors and windows
crashed open to heartbeats. It is festival, folks.
Take part as the biggest part of this
suspended imagination. Or I just name it like that.
I only know creeps that
are still waiting to be uttered, worded.
Heard. Open to pages. I know I have
told about everything that makes the
real crowd. Heart, lungs, bloods, urine, sweats,
libido, love for silent underpass, rains, deep mountains,
tongues of countryside, long dreams, dewdrops
frozen on my iris of rhododendron. My desperate even
soul. Even my absence that can look like a sudden
night spill missed by a river.
Except how they all can be yours, you
crashed open to heartbeats. It is festival, folks.
Take part as the biggest part of this
suspended imagination. Or I just name it like that.
I only know creeps that
are still waiting to be uttered, worded.
Heard. Open to pages. I know I have
told about everything that makes the
real crowd. Heart, lungs, bloods, urine, sweats,
libido, love for silent underpass, rains, deep mountains,
tongues of countryside, long dreams, dewdrops
frozen on my iris of rhododendron. My desperate even
soul. Even my absence that can look like a sudden
night spill missed by a river.
Except how they all can be yours, you
let’s accept it, mother
I am seeing you on a portrait
Watery bokeh fizzing in the backdrop
And I can feel your heart
spreading through the matted paper
beating surreptitiously,
lest the surrounding hear your life
that is present only for me to get all the
twilights of mind
acclimatized
it’s a learning, mother, worth your memory
I didn’t see my mother on her death bed
my sister told me it looked like a
huge porcelain with bone-white moons on Mondays
my sister, littler than ever, stood with
me, smiling, meditating at
your urn so you emerge again into the face of the
lamp,
shades,
shadows recast in a length
my sister said your heart wanted to go to a
place before you selected to
be continual,
burst mode
I try going so deep into my mother’s physical
oceans wrenched off into a snapshot –
you’ve safely taught a heart to surprise me now,
it’s a learning, mother, worth going with days
and nights out to no memories rebirthed for us
Watery bokeh fizzing in the backdrop
And I can feel your heart
spreading through the matted paper
beating surreptitiously,
lest the surrounding hear your life
that is present only for me to get all the
twilights of mind
acclimatized
it’s a learning, mother, worth your memory
I didn’t see my mother on her death bed
my sister told me it looked like a
huge porcelain with bone-white moons on Mondays
my sister, littler than ever, stood with
me, smiling, meditating at
your urn so you emerge again into the face of the
lamp,
shades,
shadows recast in a length
my sister said your heart wanted to go to a
place before you selected to
be continual,
burst mode
I try going so deep into my mother’s physical
oceans wrenched off into a snapshot –
you’ve safely taught a heart to surprise me now,
it’s a learning, mother, worth going with days
and nights out to no memories rebirthed for us
In the mirrors
In the mirror I can hear it make wispy tunes,
enjoying mistakes of saying lips
my lips that I say at times lids
what opens and gulps the closed –
And airs that come and slow my
lies to the slopes of dopes
of life
my rimming green around an
original tree based in where birds
never die
in the mirror
where silver leaves dry in
hard glassy farmland curled to the
hubbub of an asphalt
water stuck in water
gust, stilled gust
no bigger framing skied –
so why no sickle pruning all the needs ever
planted in soil wetter than kisses?
I have twigs broken in
every mirror you always name love
Maybe love
in the trees,
fruits are the dreams of the eternity mine
enjoying mistakes of saying lips
my lips that I say at times lids
what opens and gulps the closed –
And airs that come and slow my
lies to the slopes of dopes
of life
my rimming green around an
original tree based in where birds
never die
in the mirror
where silver leaves dry in
hard glassy farmland curled to the
hubbub of an asphalt
water stuck in water
gust, stilled gust
no bigger framing skied –
so why no sickle pruning all the needs ever
planted in soil wetter than kisses?
I have twigs broken in
every mirror you always name love
Maybe love
in the trees,
fruits are the dreams of the eternity mine
Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Birmingham Arts Journal. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB).
Did you ever know that there are no real answers in psychology?
This is something I have pondered,
This is one field with no direct answers,
People seem to just estimate here,
You get answers in engineering or medicine,
However, psychology never seems to have any,
I know people love to know about the human mind,
However, concrete answers would be nice,
Let's face it, this will never happen,
People will keep having certain ailments,
Like medicine, we all die with what we have,
You hear about breakthroughs,
Then nothing develops,
Yet, a new pill is developed,
We all live and die,
Death is a reality for all of us,
Psychology will never have concise answers,
This is just the way it is,
Nothing else to say here,
Take care for now,
And again, carpe diem.
This is one field with no direct answers,
People seem to just estimate here,
You get answers in engineering or medicine,
However, psychology never seems to have any,
I know people love to know about the human mind,
However, concrete answers would be nice,
Let's face it, this will never happen,
People will keep having certain ailments,
Like medicine, we all die with what we have,
You hear about breakthroughs,
Then nothing develops,
Yet, a new pill is developed,
We all live and die,
Death is a reality for all of us,
Psychology will never have concise answers,
This is just the way it is,
Nothing else to say here,
Take care for now,
And again, carpe diem.
Did you ever notice good people get the short end of the stick?
Nobody nowadays likes good people,
Yet, a religious robot is looked upon with greatness,
Religion of any kind is mind control,
It always has been and always will be,
Yet, good people are shunned,
Good people are in low quantities on our planet,
Yet, people like bad individuals,
Look at women as an example,
She married a two timing jack in the box and married him,
Yet, she wonders why she gets abused,
And she wants you and I to feel sorry for her,
I don't and never will,
This happens a lot in our world,
Why not marry the geeky nice guy with a great job?
Someone who is an asset in our lives,
Not a pain in the ass like the bad boy,
When bad things happen to bad people, I feel great,
Whether they get injured or preferably die,
Bad things should happen to bad people,
Good things should happen to good people,
However, this is not always the case,
Think about what I have said here,
Keep an open mind and believe what you want,
For now, take care and carpe diem.
Yet, a religious robot is looked upon with greatness,
Religion of any kind is mind control,
It always has been and always will be,
Yet, good people are shunned,
Good people are in low quantities on our planet,
Yet, people like bad individuals,
Look at women as an example,
She married a two timing jack in the box and married him,
Yet, she wonders why she gets abused,
And she wants you and I to feel sorry for her,
I don't and never will,
This happens a lot in our world,
Why not marry the geeky nice guy with a great job?
Someone who is an asset in our lives,
Not a pain in the ass like the bad boy,
When bad things happen to bad people, I feel great,
Whether they get injured or preferably die,
Bad things should happen to bad people,
Good things should happen to good people,
However, this is not always the case,
Think about what I have said here,
Keep an open mind and believe what you want,
For now, take care and carpe diem.
Imagine if God was tangible
Imagine if we could see and touch God,
Also to hear and embrace him,
Of course, this is just a fantasy,
But imagine if he existed,
How would the world be?
Would there be world peace?
Would there be a need for a military and law enforcement?
How about poverty and crime and natural disasters?
Questions to ponder,
To even think about,
I don't believe in God,
This is just me,
This is a free world,
Believe in what you want,
Take care for now,
And may your future be positive as the future calls us with its embracing powers.
Also to hear and embrace him,
Of course, this is just a fantasy,
But imagine if he existed,
How would the world be?
Would there be world peace?
Would there be a need for a military and law enforcement?
How about poverty and crime and natural disasters?
Questions to ponder,
To even think about,
I don't believe in God,
This is just me,
This is a free world,
Believe in what you want,
Take care for now,
And may your future be positive as the future calls us with its embracing powers.
Nobody's Perfect
I am not perfect,
Nobody is,
One can be a perfectionist,
Perfection is not a reality,
One can persevere or persist,
Yet, perfection is not reality,
People strive for perfection,
Yet, things come in the way,
I can go on and on here,
Failure can be good,
It says we are mortal and have flaws,
This is how I feel,
Give your interpretation,
Take care,
And again, carpe diem.
Nobody is,
One can be a perfectionist,
Perfection is not a reality,
One can persevere or persist,
Yet, perfection is not reality,
People strive for perfection,
Yet, things come in the way,
I can go on and on here,
Failure can be good,
It says we are mortal and have flaws,
This is how I feel,
Give your interpretation,
Take care,
And again, carpe diem.
Denise is an editor by trade. Born in Italy, she lived in the UK before emigrating to Australia. With a background in commercial book publishing, she set up her own imprint, Black Quill Press, in 2015 to help authors publish independently. She is Poetry Editor for Australia and New Zealand for The Blue Nib and her poetry is published in journals such as New Reader Magazine, Other Terrain Journal and Poetica Review. Website: https://denise-ohagan.com/ |
The lady on the steps
Even when I tried not to
I’d catch sight of her on Sunday morning
As, hand cupped in my father’s larger one,
We made our way down the narrow street
To the flower-stall on the edge of the piazza
And having seen her, I could not un-see her
So I twisted my head back for more
While he ferreted out his pocketed coins
For my mother’s bunch of roses:
‘Careful now,’ he’d always say,
‘Hold them by the newspaper, here.’
But more often than not
I’d grip those stems so tight,
My clammy palm imprinted,
Because she’d be sitting there
In her chair outside the palazzo
At the top of a flight of ashen steps
Bolt upright, hands joined in silent supplication
Formally clad, hair pinned and piled high
Haughty, not an ounce of self-pity on her
And her head just kept turning
And turning, back and forth
Forth and back
Back and
Forth.
I was intrigued, frightened
And intrigued by being frightened
I knew not to stare, but did anyway
As in answer to the question I didn’t ask,
‘Things happen,’ my father shrugged.
And in that moment
My childish world quivered and tilted
Its ballast of certainty loosened
And it veered off-course slightly,
Brushed by cool, adult intimations.
I’d catch sight of her on Sunday morning
As, hand cupped in my father’s larger one,
We made our way down the narrow street
To the flower-stall on the edge of the piazza
And having seen her, I could not un-see her
So I twisted my head back for more
While he ferreted out his pocketed coins
For my mother’s bunch of roses:
‘Careful now,’ he’d always say,
‘Hold them by the newspaper, here.’
But more often than not
I’d grip those stems so tight,
My clammy palm imprinted,
Because she’d be sitting there
In her chair outside the palazzo
At the top of a flight of ashen steps
Bolt upright, hands joined in silent supplication
Formally clad, hair pinned and piled high
Haughty, not an ounce of self-pity on her
And her head just kept turning
And turning, back and forth
Forth and back
Back and
Forth.
I was intrigued, frightened
And intrigued by being frightened
I knew not to stare, but did anyway
As in answer to the question I didn’t ask,
‘Things happen,’ my father shrugged.
And in that moment
My childish world quivered and tilted
Its ballast of certainty loosened
And it veered off-course slightly,
Brushed by cool, adult intimations.
For my cousin in Faenza
The hollow of time
That hangs between Christmas and New Year
Found the four of us
Bound (was it really on a whim?)
For Faenza,
That city of arches, mist and gloom
And, of course, ceramics,
So startlingly and exquisitely colourful
They hardly seemed to fit in at all.
Those days
Indistinct, hazy, blurring at the edges
Form part of the landscape of my mind
Its contours indistinguishable
From my remembered version of it:
The muted beauty
Of roads dotted by the tips of cypresses
Walks through Renaissance colonnades
And furtive late-night liquors
Sipped while the city slumbered
And we fed on laughter and conversation.
How to understand
What we felt then?
Faenza,
(surely the city merits its own line)
Or Faventia, as the ancient Romans knew it
With its Etruscan, even Celtic origins,
Was elegant, contained and onomatopoeic.
You could not hurry in winter in Faenza
Time was slowed to a point of utter stillness
And transposed to this foggy alternative reality
We could, at last, breathe free.
I realise now, though I didn’t then,
That we were all escaping something
If only a certain disjointedness in our normalcy
A lack of pieces fitting snugly together
Even me, sensing as only the young can do
That primitive, universal lunge towards
Inhibition.
We were always going to return.
Our journey by train as nebulous as the fog itself,
Yet we were fortified, buttressed against what lay ahead
And something had, to a degree,
Shifted.
Published in The Blue Nib (Issue 37), 15 March 2019
https://thebluenib.com/article/denise-ohagan-new-poetry/
That hangs between Christmas and New Year
Found the four of us
Bound (was it really on a whim?)
For Faenza,
That city of arches, mist and gloom
And, of course, ceramics,
So startlingly and exquisitely colourful
They hardly seemed to fit in at all.
Those days
Indistinct, hazy, blurring at the edges
Form part of the landscape of my mind
Its contours indistinguishable
From my remembered version of it:
The muted beauty
Of roads dotted by the tips of cypresses
Walks through Renaissance colonnades
And furtive late-night liquors
Sipped while the city slumbered
And we fed on laughter and conversation.
How to understand
What we felt then?
Faenza,
(surely the city merits its own line)
Or Faventia, as the ancient Romans knew it
With its Etruscan, even Celtic origins,
Was elegant, contained and onomatopoeic.
You could not hurry in winter in Faenza
Time was slowed to a point of utter stillness
And transposed to this foggy alternative reality
We could, at last, breathe free.
I realise now, though I didn’t then,
That we were all escaping something
If only a certain disjointedness in our normalcy
A lack of pieces fitting snugly together
Even me, sensing as only the young can do
That primitive, universal lunge towards
Inhibition.
We were always going to return.
Our journey by train as nebulous as the fog itself,
Yet we were fortified, buttressed against what lay ahead
And something had, to a degree,
Shifted.
Published in The Blue Nib (Issue 37), 15 March 2019
https://thebluenib.com/article/denise-ohagan-new-poetry/
Destination nowhere
We twisted and dipped and dipped again
The road cast over the land like a ribbon
By turns slack over flats and taut over hills
Stretching and curving, rising and falling.
We chased it as children might a rainbow
In thrall to a never-ending journey
Our destination nowhere.
Squinting in the high sun of siesta hour
Against the dull hum of the engine
Lulling our thoughts, blunting our senses
But for a passing pity for the tiny bodies of insects
Smeared across the window screen, then blown off
By pure speed.
A village shrank in our rear-vision mirror
And its outlying shacks, abandoned long ago,
Lay scattered like crumbs on the hillside.
High above us, a monastery ate into sheer rockface,
Granite testimony to faith and structural engineering,
Stalling time and raising the big unanswerables,
Then falling away into the past as the fields filled in again
And swathes of dark-tipped wheat on slender stems
Spread in a single silken undulating carpet.
We didn’t talk; we didn’t need to.
Poppies cut a line of ketchup red
Across a field; olive trees curled into view
Squat, grey and hunched in on themselves
Gnarled forms of warning and reproof.
We chose to look away
Eschew the music, adjourn the aftermath
And cup the moment in our hands
For a brief eternity.
I hold it still.
The road cast over the land like a ribbon
By turns slack over flats and taut over hills
Stretching and curving, rising and falling.
We chased it as children might a rainbow
In thrall to a never-ending journey
Our destination nowhere.
Squinting in the high sun of siesta hour
Against the dull hum of the engine
Lulling our thoughts, blunting our senses
But for a passing pity for the tiny bodies of insects
Smeared across the window screen, then blown off
By pure speed.
A village shrank in our rear-vision mirror
And its outlying shacks, abandoned long ago,
Lay scattered like crumbs on the hillside.
High above us, a monastery ate into sheer rockface,
Granite testimony to faith and structural engineering,
Stalling time and raising the big unanswerables,
Then falling away into the past as the fields filled in again
And swathes of dark-tipped wheat on slender stems
Spread in a single silken undulating carpet.
We didn’t talk; we didn’t need to.
Poppies cut a line of ketchup red
Across a field; olive trees curled into view
Squat, grey and hunched in on themselves
Gnarled forms of warning and reproof.
We chose to look away
Eschew the music, adjourn the aftermath
And cup the moment in our hands
For a brief eternity.
I hold it still.
No room for tears
His fingers moved swiftly
Folding, smoothing and folding again
Until every plane sat snug against the next
‘Fold flap down along centre crease’:
The dotted lines and arrows of instruction
Brought to textured, exuberant life
To the wonderment of patients around him.
But deep inside he carried
The hard bullet of conviction
That this was no hobby.
He wasn’t just making boxes or flowers or birds
But smoothing out the creases of life
Pressing out the awkward bits
Filling each space with meaning
And pure targeted purpose
Shiny and inviolable.
Climbing into the world
Of geometrical precision
And cleanly calculated precepts
Absolved him from ambiguity
Dismissed damning doubt
And left no room for tears.
Folding, smoothing and folding again
Until every plane sat snug against the next
‘Fold flap down along centre crease’:
The dotted lines and arrows of instruction
Brought to textured, exuberant life
To the wonderment of patients around him.
But deep inside he carried
The hard bullet of conviction
That this was no hobby.
He wasn’t just making boxes or flowers or birds
But smoothing out the creases of life
Pressing out the awkward bits
Filling each space with meaning
And pure targeted purpose
Shiny and inviolable.
Climbing into the world
Of geometrical precision
And cleanly calculated precepts
Absolved him from ambiguity
Dismissed damning doubt
And left no room for tears.
A gift for the taking
Hunched on the edge of her bed
Fingernail curling into the blanket
She felt the slow wings of panic
Closing in around her
Beating her thoughts out of her
Squeezing her breath thread-thin.
Life is a gift, my father said
She sat there
A husk of her former sixteen-year old self
So light she could blow away
It would be a relief, really.
It’s a gift I never asked for, I replied
But what would it be like
To not be?
No one asked, he responded
Hugging her thin t-shirt tighter
She frowned at the ink stain on her sleeve
And shivered on the edge
Of a perilous moment.
It’s still a gift for the taking.
So she clutched at his words
Mantra-like, embossing them
On the walls of her mind
Shielding herself
From herself
And from what lay outside.
Published in Poetica Review 2, Summer 2019
https://poeticareview.wixsite.com/mysite-1/poetica-review-2?fbclid=IwAR1pYtRIguLQ9-PNVw7YJlyZjR7yy_-IF2y9X-VmzW7E7xSb6q8NMu3Jqbo
Fingernail curling into the blanket
She felt the slow wings of panic
Closing in around her
Beating her thoughts out of her
Squeezing her breath thread-thin.
Life is a gift, my father said
She sat there
A husk of her former sixteen-year old self
So light she could blow away
It would be a relief, really.
It’s a gift I never asked for, I replied
But what would it be like
To not be?
No one asked, he responded
Hugging her thin t-shirt tighter
She frowned at the ink stain on her sleeve
And shivered on the edge
Of a perilous moment.
It’s still a gift for the taking.
So she clutched at his words
Mantra-like, embossing them
On the walls of her mind
Shielding herself
From herself
And from what lay outside.
Published in Poetica Review 2, Summer 2019
https://poeticareview.wixsite.com/mysite-1/poetica-review-2?fbclid=IwAR1pYtRIguLQ9-PNVw7YJlyZjR7yy_-IF2y9X-VmzW7E7xSb6q8NMu3Jqbo
Julien Berman is a tenth grade student at Georgetown Day School in Washington, DC. In 2019, he won the Jaclyn Potter Prize for student poetry presented by The Word Works, a DC-based poetry organization. In 2018, his story “A Partition Parable” won a gold prize in the Scholastic Arts & Writing National Competition. |
Sailboat Mathematics
A stretched canvas tarp
Not ungainly in style, but again not cut in a perfect polygon.
A wooden beam or two
Slung upwards and out, at ninety degrees.
A slit box in the center
Inserted down and through, to make a perfect line, not a parabola or catenary.
A rushed first-class lever
Protruding out the back, pushed this way and that, a reflection on the coordinate plane.
And fringed, taught chords
Not through a circle, but acting as hypotenuses for right triangles
A wedge
Parting the water, its graceful figure a pelican; or a snooty cormorant
Her bow
Turned up, a nose in scorn
More cloth at the top,
To signal what awaits.
Not ungainly in style, but again not cut in a perfect polygon.
A wooden beam or two
Slung upwards and out, at ninety degrees.
A slit box in the center
Inserted down and through, to make a perfect line, not a parabola or catenary.
A rushed first-class lever
Protruding out the back, pushed this way and that, a reflection on the coordinate plane.
And fringed, taught chords
Not through a circle, but acting as hypotenuses for right triangles
A wedge
Parting the water, its graceful figure a pelican; or a snooty cormorant
Her bow
Turned up, a nose in scorn
More cloth at the top,
To signal what awaits.
Ode to a Candle
Creator and founder of the new,
Close companion of the blossoming sun;
I bow to you
To shake free my sorrows and regrets.
For now, as I look up to see the celestial fireball vanish
and graciously grant a silver orb the power of the sky,
You remain steady
Illuminating the bitter and somber black--
The sun has set. The birds are silent.
I set down my drink
Half empty
And I take a seat at my oakwood table
Pull a small match box out of my pocket
And stare at your faceted wick.
I ignite your flare, your catalyst
And the memories drift and fade away
When you alight.
I set my head in my hands.
Who has not loved you and sung your praise?
Speak out! For I will come and do justice to the
Mortal beings who do not savor your power.
He who has now departed has
left me his candle, and so
Has given me hope.
I watch the fiery spade of flame
Sway, as a gust sweeps through the silent
Ripples of dust as they slowly twist through the air
And I realize that you are not one to banter
For such powerful dance needs but a spark.
You are god of internal beauty
But you have not been stoic and composed for eternity
You lash out at the evil that tramps through our midst
And you rest, poised, in your wax-smeared cup
Fading ‘til your last hour, minute, second
When I replenish your deceased carcass
With a new wax stem
Please, temper your might
And spare us, your lowly subjects, from your ire
When you are wrought with rage.
Where, oh master, is your cheer?
You have set us forth onto a new road of light
But you are not joyful.
You do not revel in the beauty that you create.
Expel the sorrow that the darkness which you
Constantly fight has set upon you.
Kill it I say!
You have a right to enjoy the heat you ooze for others
As your fire shimmers in the viscous air
And I am content
With just your warmth.
Close companion of the blossoming sun;
I bow to you
To shake free my sorrows and regrets.
For now, as I look up to see the celestial fireball vanish
and graciously grant a silver orb the power of the sky,
You remain steady
Illuminating the bitter and somber black--
The sun has set. The birds are silent.
I set down my drink
Half empty
And I take a seat at my oakwood table
Pull a small match box out of my pocket
And stare at your faceted wick.
I ignite your flare, your catalyst
And the memories drift and fade away
When you alight.
I set my head in my hands.
Who has not loved you and sung your praise?
Speak out! For I will come and do justice to the
Mortal beings who do not savor your power.
He who has now departed has
left me his candle, and so
Has given me hope.
I watch the fiery spade of flame
Sway, as a gust sweeps through the silent
Ripples of dust as they slowly twist through the air
And I realize that you are not one to banter
For such powerful dance needs but a spark.
You are god of internal beauty
But you have not been stoic and composed for eternity
You lash out at the evil that tramps through our midst
And you rest, poised, in your wax-smeared cup
Fading ‘til your last hour, minute, second
When I replenish your deceased carcass
With a new wax stem
Please, temper your might
And spare us, your lowly subjects, from your ire
When you are wrought with rage.
Where, oh master, is your cheer?
You have set us forth onto a new road of light
But you are not joyful.
You do not revel in the beauty that you create.
Expel the sorrow that the darkness which you
Constantly fight has set upon you.
Kill it I say!
You have a right to enjoy the heat you ooze for others
As your fire shimmers in the viscous air
And I am content
With just your warmth.
The Lost Tale from a Poet in ‘Nam
I never dreamed of my anonymous name,
Another vet in the heart of America at last
Instead I write my mind, emerging from the crowd,
With nothing to comfort me, nothing but shame --
For fighting in a massacre truly blemished my past.
Now I have an experience to write my mind out loud.
Each stanza a message, to unforget the death
How once I longed for it to hide from people’s hearts
Once escaping me, now the message is together again.
I come as the cry of the meadowlark’s breath
Singing mournfully when all the protest starts
I am not the placid war hero, no matter America’s urge
I stand strong here under the olive tree
My life has a certain fallacious quality
A happy-ending gone awry in me
As I cast aside my veteran name at last
All vengeance forgotten as a smile graces my dirty past.
Another vet in the heart of America at last
Instead I write my mind, emerging from the crowd,
With nothing to comfort me, nothing but shame --
For fighting in a massacre truly blemished my past.
Now I have an experience to write my mind out loud.
Each stanza a message, to unforget the death
How once I longed for it to hide from people’s hearts
Once escaping me, now the message is together again.
I come as the cry of the meadowlark’s breath
Singing mournfully when all the protest starts
I am not the placid war hero, no matter America’s urge
I stand strong here under the olive tree
My life has a certain fallacious quality
A happy-ending gone awry in me
As I cast aside my veteran name at last
All vengeance forgotten as a smile graces my dirty past.
The Cappuccino Machine
Those times when you caress the cappuccino machine
For the worthy customers behind the counter.
After resignedly greeting the person, you ooze the thick life force out of the filter
And you stare into space as you fill the time between orders.
When you glance at the TV all you can see
Are jittery color changes and cuts that blend together into ads
And time after time you are shaken awake again by the entry chimes.
A man walks up to the counter
And orders a mocha with that sort of half smile half nod
He asks for your name
But you know that once he leaves seconds later
He will forget it, having banished you from his life,
You fall from the foreground of the present to a meaningless memory in the past
Of another low-class minimum wage acquaintance.
At the end you return home--
Yes you are still living with your parents--
And you squeeze a cappuccino out of your kitchen coffee maker
For your father, who isn’t so bad when he’s sober,
A state he never seems to be in when you’re home.
While the coffee brews, you bear the brunt of his stupored tantrum.
And that moment, when he raises up his right fist to strike you,
You shrink against the kitchen wall, next to the machine,
Molding your eyes to match
the pained expression on your face, which you know he is only half seeing,
feels like a metonymy for your existence:
Alive, barely
Mobile, though crippled
Self-sufficient, yet still weak
Obedient, but fuming inside your weak, crippled, dead, filthy body.
And then you give him the lukewarm cappuccino,
Which he sips, and he finally returns to reality.
Tomorrow, you rouse your battered body and you
Rinse and repeat without change, or purpose.
For the worthy customers behind the counter.
After resignedly greeting the person, you ooze the thick life force out of the filter
And you stare into space as you fill the time between orders.
When you glance at the TV all you can see
Are jittery color changes and cuts that blend together into ads
And time after time you are shaken awake again by the entry chimes.
A man walks up to the counter
And orders a mocha with that sort of half smile half nod
He asks for your name
But you know that once he leaves seconds later
He will forget it, having banished you from his life,
You fall from the foreground of the present to a meaningless memory in the past
Of another low-class minimum wage acquaintance.
At the end you return home--
Yes you are still living with your parents--
And you squeeze a cappuccino out of your kitchen coffee maker
For your father, who isn’t so bad when he’s sober,
A state he never seems to be in when you’re home.
While the coffee brews, you bear the brunt of his stupored tantrum.
And that moment, when he raises up his right fist to strike you,
You shrink against the kitchen wall, next to the machine,
Molding your eyes to match
the pained expression on your face, which you know he is only half seeing,
feels like a metonymy for your existence:
Alive, barely
Mobile, though crippled
Self-sufficient, yet still weak
Obedient, but fuming inside your weak, crippled, dead, filthy body.
And then you give him the lukewarm cappuccino,
Which he sips, and he finally returns to reality.
Tomorrow, you rouse your battered body and you
Rinse and repeat without change, or purpose.
Lost
When in the course of my many events
I stumble far from the pack
Like the fathers of America
I panic, agonizing over each step forward.
The King’s last breath goodbye to the one being lost
Is a sultry blessing;
It splits the metal shackle tying the colony down.
And lets America explore passion.
But it is also a curse; America’s becoming lacks purpose
And thus she is prone to rambling
And so, getting lost has two meanings, don’t you see?
The only difference is that one is intentional.
But is that really a difference?
Aren’t they both purposeful?
When I escape the chains tying me to my family
I am lost to them, but I am not lost.
I fall under the first definition
Reveling in my newfound opportunity and agency
When I stumble off into the woods sometime by accident,
I am lost to my world, but I am not lost.
I fall under the second definition,
Exalting in my rambling reverie.
So you see, neither definition actually defines the word lost
Simply the state of being apart.
That brings us to the word found;
Is the state of being found in opposition to being lost?
Is it running back to where you were before?
No, that’s just returning, and so you mustn’t have been lost.
Is it waiting for another one to see you?
No, what if you are metaphysically lost?
To me, it’s all a question of want.
Do I want to be found?
So please tell me:
How do I know if I am lost, and how do I know if I am found?
And after,
Is the nation lost?
Will it ever be found?
I stumble far from the pack
Like the fathers of America
I panic, agonizing over each step forward.
The King’s last breath goodbye to the one being lost
Is a sultry blessing;
It splits the metal shackle tying the colony down.
And lets America explore passion.
But it is also a curse; America’s becoming lacks purpose
And thus she is prone to rambling
And so, getting lost has two meanings, don’t you see?
The only difference is that one is intentional.
But is that really a difference?
Aren’t they both purposeful?
When I escape the chains tying me to my family
I am lost to them, but I am not lost.
I fall under the first definition
Reveling in my newfound opportunity and agency
When I stumble off into the woods sometime by accident,
I am lost to my world, but I am not lost.
I fall under the second definition,
Exalting in my rambling reverie.
So you see, neither definition actually defines the word lost
Simply the state of being apart.
That brings us to the word found;
Is the state of being found in opposition to being lost?
Is it running back to where you were before?
No, that’s just returning, and so you mustn’t have been lost.
Is it waiting for another one to see you?
No, what if you are metaphysically lost?
To me, it’s all a question of want.
Do I want to be found?
So please tell me:
How do I know if I am lost, and how do I know if I am found?
And after,
Is the nation lost?
Will it ever be found?
Categories
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AKSHAY SONTHALIA
A.M. PFEFFER
BEVERLY M. COLLINS
BOBBY Z
CARA LOSIER CHANOINE
CHRISSIE MORRIS BRADY
CORDELIA HANEMANN
DAN RAPHAEL
DEE ALLEN
DENISE O'HAGAN
ERICA MICHAELS HOLLANDER
EZEKIEL ARCHIBONG (OLUWASALVAGE)
HARJEET SINGH
JAMES LYNCH
JAYANTA BHAUMIK
JULIEN BERMAN
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KJ HANNAH GREENBERG
K SHESHU BABU
LISA SÜß
LOIS GREENE STONE
MARC CARVER
MARIANNE BREMS
NDABA SIBANDA
SALONI KAUL
SAMRIDDHI RAJ
SAMUEL STRATHMAN
SETH GRINDSTAFF
SUSAN CLEVELAND