A PLEA TO OUR PREDATORSThe period we 've tasted sufferings Carrying sorrow like yam to our barn The misfortune that befalls man And havoc that comes in form of storm Through the great wilderness of life The circle joy is not fetched Tracing the foot of our predators A fate within us We ve eaten it raw The forbidden meal The famished road Could not take And the miseries our fate awake Through the raged region Anxiety is seen parading The street with bare foot The fierce battle that consumes lives Trial laid our famous bridge Gifting us in turn grief that's made by men Ekunife our progenitor! We are the victimised Its idema the last children The minimals of Nsede And the remains of Taba The unfortunate beings Whose existence were hindered By existing beings We ve come a long way with our burdens abroad Appealing the gods Through the voice of Ngele Here the forest of death We bring presence So our voices be heard clear Our remembrance The ravaged name of Ibera The region under siege of ill-health Ekunife when will our hope be recalled For the sake of Ngele And the victims of wuhan Adversity a prodigal Whose homage leads To a dead toll Fetching the youths of our days And as many with raw strength A distance whose mile we ve been digging deep The days are evil Ekunife! And our mind is not settled With constant parade of our predators Roaming with harms the merry land Visiting our breeds and barns Here at the famous feet Remedy is locked down Giving disaster a seat To sweep us all I ve been forced out of the incessant killings To beseech your face aloof Before another death toll Our abodes like wilderness of regrets Starving the sons of sanity From living a desired life Here i am in hunt of the breeders nest Unveiling our ill-fate Knowing our quest is life and not ill-health INDOOR...The years i 've been out of sight While running from the affairs of the bad elements Haven withdrawn From the military And other national duties To exhaust the running days With my anus at home My action a shock To the parliaments Knowing my stand for equity Inequality an opposition That divides our modern democracy My fear for the press And the new government Whose presence excrete various ailments Feeding the subjects with anguish and regrets Them that 've taken a toll The city heart with firearms Shooting at sight with impunity The outspoken,disabled And the middle men The diehard activist Whose voice is for the less privilege Denying many their civil rights In silence I've chosen to dwell So my life won't be plucked unripe Not showing my heart to the masses Whenever the country is shut down Or found wanting in speech Though I am a strong supporter Of a good governance Politics of the past era When life was quick to germinate Not this current men of Mr Rowland Gang of stars clothed in bloody regalia Whose thought evict our cause to celebrate And bad influence damages our sacred name Our image they buried overseas Indoor I've chosen for years Because of the black colonies Whose anger burn like dry wood And cruelty is a dozen dose Compared to that of the civilized world Their impurity is in the heart And not their cooperate uniform They segregate us from the most privileged Holders of the nations cake Have built doubts in our hearts With their bias handling of mere promises Our leaders inability to serve makes me more confused Here I've escaped demons Both them in the country force And them wearing the face Of our country head Neither with the will to serve Their desire a quest to roast in power Alas! I've been ridiculed in psalms And mother tongues Many keep hitting me hard Where the pain aches Saying I place the country on left hand Not giving my opinion to the press So my mind could be made public Peace has pushed me this far Living to avoid the wrath of men Those that enjoy battle to peace of mind Forgotten my wisdom has grown tall Above the wretchedness of Abani the city dweller Our country suffers a low mind And frequent backslide We prefer the white man's lifestyle To his inventive prowess We admire the efforts of the developed countries But it does us no good Cos it only shows in our tongue And not in the work of our own hand When it gets to following their footsteps Our vision will hang on the slippery ground Our leaders are incompetent in thought And different in mindset We are only smart to siphon the nations treasury We are the real enemy of the state And the country's growth Our brilliancy is outside the government house Period election is fast approaching Then you can see the good of men Many 'd become disciples of dooms Preaching salvation barefoot on the local street Where waste bin assembly Giving the lame some legs to walk And gifting the poor the hopes to see another day Time the deceased also boast of giving life Revealing what makes our life incomplete Judging from the sense of man; We have no thinking bed To sleep a whole night And harvest a full thought On how to cure this menace Placed on Isi-uzo citizens I FALL IN LOVE |
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Rosenblum Poems published by Cholla Needles Arts & Literary Library, 2020. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com. To view one of his interviews please follow this linkhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8 |
*
braces for the back and forth
by changing colors
beginning with moonlight –in time
the leaves become tea, gutted
the way an old woman with beads
weighs your palm for riverbeds
then spreads each finger
whose only memory is the darkness
that helps you breathe
underwater till it burns out
smells from emptiness
and standing in a circle while you drink
from a cup filled with some meadow
overgrown, forgotten, all at once.
*
the way someone pawns a coat
and butterflies disappear
though you remember the road
before it forked, became a valley
and the town, driving through
with the trunk propped open
helping you count over and over
to ten, half someone’s breath
half moonlight pressing against the hood
to open it, let out the wings, the road
and how much longer.
*
whispering back, keeping you awake
the way sailors embrace the stars
with rope when the rigging loosens
as the coming wave
falling to its death in your ear
–a nameless shell holds your hand
so it stays wet when lifted by moonlight
swollen from the darkness it needs
to flood the Earth, let go the railing
jump from the afternoons –you should look
for piling to carry away
on your shoulders as the voice
still circling overhead, almost a sea
almost all from your eyes.
*
the way this hillside
sets for some far place
as evenings –it’s safe now
to drink from the birdbath
then throw your head back
purified by the pebbles
now gathered in a circle
as if they were the ones
you dead listen for
with your eyes closed
–in such a darkness
water becomes distance
finds the place in your mouth
for a field where a plane
skims by to cover you
as mist from its descent
still burning in the ground.
*
greeting someone not there
though the cap still tilts
is falling behind as the gust
from passing sirens and bells
helps you close your eyes
where the brim from the inside
folds end over end
catches fire and over your forehead
cushions it with ashes the way a stone
softens another stone, moves it closer
wants it to press your mouth
against the evening and open it
for the darkness you bring
to loosen the earrings and sparks.
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, Canadian & American magazines.Readers can reach him while searching in Google “Harjeet Singh Poet or poems”. |
“Terror of Corona Virus”
It was a psychological dream as government
had exhorted public to imprison themselves in home because of corona virus,
Until circumstances are comfortable.
But kid in dream had gone public place,
He had played with his peers.
He had whispered in their ears while playing with them.
He had touched many ones with his hands
He had touched his own eyes, mouth, lips with same hands time and again.
With same hands he had drunk and eaten from some store.
While returning home two constables wearing mouth masks stopped him in the way.
And scolded him for going outside the home.
And they told,” you know well patients of corona virus in the city are augmenting speedily.”
You should be in the know about former deaths”.
In dream he got awareness about this terrible disease that it was strictly probhibted to go outside.
He shouldn’t have visited the play ground.
In dream he had forgotten about corona curfew.
He was without mouth mask and senitizer.
Now he was worried that he would have been victimhood of corona and his whole family would be affected
If he enters home.
He chides himself for perpetrating such huge mistake.
He thinks that his days are numbered now.
He bewails with loud cry and wakes up from sleep.
His whole family besets him,
The second they listen to his painful voice.
But he shouts at them go away, “don’t come here, don’t play with your life.”
I have been Corona virus patient.
“Psychologically sick because of Corona”
They watch here and there while standing on roofs.
They fear to touch themselves especially mouth
and eyes.
Sanitizers have been costly,
People are preparing sanitizers at home.
People fear to touch the furniture and other luggage in their home.
Because they had to wash their hands after touching them.
People have been slave in their home.
They have been yardbird.
People have been psychologically sick.
They are washing even locks and keys.
They have washed bike and car keys with anti-germ soap.
They are cleaning the gate and door handles
after pouring senitizer on cotton.
Kids are playing with balls inside the home after washing them.
They are playing video games on mobiles.
They are watching television expecting that when as government would declare freedom of going anywhere like past days.
Through whatsApp and calling people are sharing their views and problems over Corona.
People’s hands have been dry after washing them time and again.
Because now the question of life has arisen.
They are cleaning their mobiles with collins.
People fear to touch their own preferential things promptly.
They have to develop thought process before touching some material.
They wash sanitizer bottles before using it.
When some itching occurs on their face, nose or eyes,
They graze the affected portion with shoulders.
They forgot to believe their hands.
They keep their towels dry while hanging them on wires beneath the intense heat of sun to avoid germs.
New towels have lost their colours.
People roam in their homes while wearing masks.
They wash their hands after touching currency(rupees, dollars)
Because currency comes from different nations.
Its circulation is all over the world.
People shrink back to visit nearby hospitals and medical stores without any major cause.
People have stored medicines for general temperature or sickness.
Because hospitals are open for corona patients.
Healthy people are afraid of being infected.
Necessary things for people are being delivered at home with one phone call namely medicines, liquid milk pouches, dry milk pouches and other indispensable items.
Women are giving birth to babies in traditional way with the help of midwife.
There are a few things in homes to whom they touched a few days or a month ago.
At that time corona had not been rife on all places.
They touch those things with some hesitation.
How long corona can survive upon different things?
As corona vanishes after particular spell of 12 hours usually upon few things.
People are washing packed items from outside after getting food delivery.
They take bath quickly after coming in contact with someone and wash predictably affected clothes.
People don’t open their gates if some neighbour from colony knock at the door.
So while taking precautions people have been psychologically sick.
A poet’s dilemma
On matters of the heart,
My conceited wont
To speak of the psych,
My wistful eyes
Lost in a ceaseless quest,
My inept trials
To emote through words,
You have figured
That I am a poet.
Blithe and chaste,
You asked me nonchalantly,
Can I write
A sonnet or ghazal for you,
Verses that extol
Your grace and allure,
None that can
Even begin to elucidate,
The ample light
The Maker has filled in you!
Indeed, I can
Only if my heart suffers,
Said I warily,
Torn between truth and lie!
You smiled obscurely,
Walked away into the light,
And I waited,
Waited and waited anxiously,
Until I figured
That you have now left me.
I then wildly
Ran across this white paper,
With a pen,
And throes of such loneliness,
Birthed a song,
Let the winds carry it to you,
Then turned to
Blank walls, sought an answer -
Should I feel
Exultant for penning a song or
Repentance for losing you?
Witness
Handwritten, typed, and some spoken,
Sounds that I have drowned in silence -
Those discordant tones of monotony,
Eyes frozen with your image inside -
Defiant to thaw and melt away,
The circles I ran while standing still -
And all odd shapes my brash feet drew,
The passive struggle to break away
From this tangled web of emotions -
Weaved around you and your absence,
And countless hours that have slipped
Through the gazillion holes you made
On this tattered thin veil called life!
You will find this all pretentious
And express disbelief - I know.
I have some witnesses to call upon,
Those privy to this state of mine -
The large mirror in my bathroom -
Once misty eyed, and then clear,
The pillow that held my face tight -
Still warm and lost in muddled dreams,
An empty fishbowl filled to the brim -
Ever eager to have an occupant,
A half intact, half charred candle wick -
And the dance of its anxious flames,
Those fake flowers in a crystal vase,
Alternate ticking sounds from two clocks -
And their zealous pursuit to seek life,
Few more in each space I have been to,
Who can all affirm what I wrote here -
Seek them, seek me and set me free!
Phoenix
That was just half open,
Unannounced, undevised,
Let a shadow of your light,
Into this space called heart,
(Where I often hide myself
When in doubt or when lost)
Sauntered across the floor,
Measured each held emotion,
Examined each strewn scar,
Crushed walls, built windows,
Demolished those bunkers
I had to fight wars within,
Broke cages, cuffs, fetters,
Mounted a rainbow sky,
Sprang a freshwater sea,
Sowed seeds for new verses,
Awakened muffled dreams,
Roused the soul to revolt,
And unannounced, undevised,
Walked out of that lone door,
Unaware of the tumult
You had caused...
I gathered myself, again,
And dragged my numb feet
To that door, now all open,
To vanish in the blackness
Of your hair, of your eyes,
Or to get pieces of me
Wrapped in your footprints,
Yet, a thought held me back -
Is this world you left behind
More tranquil than the real?
An orphaned fancy
a thousand scattered fancies remain unfulfilled. This time.
Fraught with fiendish restrictions that defined this union -
our parts, this stage, the plot and the imminent adieu.
Among those orphans, I desire a stroll with you the most -
through the dense streets of all my vacillations, fears and woes,
our hands and fingers knit tight, our hearts brimming with such pride,
as we witness the fall of each of those malefic demons
at each of our steps, slayed by the rhythm of quietude.
Bloom
You set me free.
In a snap.
No scarred iron bars,
No defaced walls,
No tired, muted chains,
No maimed locks.
None of that coldness,
That throbbing silence
That hurt us both.
No more drama
No more farcical struggles.
You gave me
What I always wanted,
Dreamed, sought after.
Freedom. It’s here now
In full bloom.
I inhale it all -
Clear blue skies,
A smiling Santa-like sun,
White feathered wings,
An always perfect breeze,
All gardens in bloom
In all seasons.
Yet, something’s amiss here.
In this wallpaper
Ready to rip anytime
With one touch
Of a famished hand,
Like it hides
A void bigger than
What we carried.
I make no movement.
I still rationalize,
Hush the vociferous heart,
And explore directions.
You are not around
To seek answers.
Standing in the middle
Of infinite space,
I begin to imagine
Iron bars, walls...
And once in bloom,
These past confines,
Life, a habit,
Sneaks back to me.
The Black Tree
with the brittle
leafless branches.
An orange sky serves
as a background
with a bright moon
above and dark birds
flying this way and
that. A green patch
of grass surrounds
the tree and not a
human soul around
to ruin a thing.
Live to Write
I write to live.
Nothing else is
greater than that.
It is for love,
not for money,
why I do it.
I write for life.
I read and I
save my money.
I spend it on
my favorite
things. I write for
myself. The word
is family
or a good friend.
Lost in the Labyrinth
I make no more moves
I sit and wait for time
to take me away
I will be here until
I am found in time or
a little too late
The elements will
do what they do
to my body and
my soul will find its way
Write the Truth
After Gyula Illyes
Write your poetry.
Write the truth.
Don’t lie or hide.
Let it all out.
Take a stand.
Go on and write
without constraint.
Stay a poet.
The word is air.
Stop choking, breathe.
Open your mind.
What else is
there, but the word?
Write your poetry.
Make it sing.
Tell the truth.
Write at will.
Fear in Strangers Eyes
in strangers eyes
when I go up
to pay for food
at the market.
Some are friendly
and some are less
so. I get it.
We are all in
this together
and we all need
to stay apart.
FIRST PUBLISHED IN Alien Buddha Press.
Behind the lens
Neither from your shirt's button
Or from your cheeks glitter.
I want things in a minimalist way,
with a bowl of souvenirs dancing around my waist.
With a hint of hiccups & stars
Always beside my pillowcase,
A soft lullaby of my mother's turmeric hands,
A sigh so soft this time.
I want details to be normal.
Perfection kills the sorbet of life.
A barren land full of moths& weeds,
for every creatures swivel a smile.
A jar of dreams,
Pink/ blue / red coloured visions of poetry,
An array of chemicals gushing
across my collarbone,
to be a scent of petunia always.
Life gulps the despair again & again.
A palm always speaking of trivial yet beautiful things.
The Talk
Chop chop chop,
A lemon is cut into two halves.
"But you did not trust me mother"
Tara could feel her warm hands going winter kiss.
"You did not listen mother"
You kept on performing your tiny rituals,
Walking barefoot around,
With mahogany table spread, knitting a brown rusty cardigan,
You did not listen of pills
Of him &me.
Mother, you hung my photos at the the back of your hand,
behind you sagging lines …
I defied time for your grace,
To make you mine always..
"But you did not listen mother"..
You slipped anyway.
Of a spotless dream
Levitating in the air.
My light
Water splurging
Across my mind of burning galaxy.
A premonition,
of my limbs hovering in shadows
It has not seen face of glow,
An eternal strand of light
Flickering still,
I want to swim & run now
No human, no words.
A bulging, opulent transparent lip of nothingness around.
On the surface of the sheet,
the song of the mountains.
A slippery slick poem of the God.
There-
my light,
A parallel plastic skin of night.
Plague Poem for Day Twenty
their own right, but limited things that lit up
my childhood neighborhood, the fiery crashes
at the Pearl Street corner, or the big one,
the nearby garage burning, lighting up the night,
exploding, taking out the back of its house.
These were communal events, we’d dress
the best we could – they usually got us out
in the middle of the night – waking to a bad
dream to share; we’d greet our neighbors
and stand together, back a bit, to watch what
was happening in our limited place, a world
that was ours to be in and watch -- things like
wars and starvation, riots and assassinations,
and, of course, epidemics and these shortages
happened outside our circle, happened to others,
and were easy to define that way, outside to others.
And these were the usual shoulder to shoulder
committee-like meetings on common concerns,
we’d talk the details through, comparing this to
familiar things – there were no distances between
us then, we shared cigarettes, borrowed jackets,
shook hands, held hands, hugged if cold, and then
tired kids turned to playing, elders grouped together
their limited wisdom, but eventually we would tire
of it and wander home knowing we had stories worth
telling the next day, the next day, the quiet way
these things would always end.
Plague Poem for Day Twenty-Two
would come and we’d step out
into a world of silence, silence
brought on by our meddling with
nature, manipulating it to our ends
and there we would be with only
sounds of our own making, cars
going by, planes overhead, perhaps
some music from the radio if we
bothered with it beyond our talk
of the who and why of the silent
world, but something’s happened
on our way toward Carson’s silent
place, we’ve come to a new silence.
This morning, for instance, we step
out into a chorus of birds greeting
this early Spring day, the sun, food,
the bounty of it all, it’s their world
free of car and plane noise, and all
the clutter of human sounds, now
people go by, faces covered, quiet
for once, perhaps listening, with very
little to say, knowing full well that
we made it this way.
Plague Poem Twenty-Three
our books download, our sons
text their concerns, our isolation,
our exposure to something we/they
can’t see or understand,
the internet offers an update by
state with a map, a symptom list,
and something they choose to call
“stimulus package details,”
but we still wave to the neighbors
then they cautiously wave back
knowing that statistics have us,
the oldest on the street, first
to go and if it gets us first then
might/will come for them, and
for now, we know that this is
our life in the time of covid-19
and perhaps the best we can do.
Plague Poem for Day Twenty-Four
say that the day seems stale already,
smells like yesterday’s leftovers, or sounds
like listening to my parents’ best man,
years later, about his life since then,
sleep inducing, droning on and on, or
I could say it feels like full body tennis
elbow, an ache in all that’s left of my teeth,
or tastes like all that can go wrong to food
left out too long; I could begin with a litany
of the woes that stay with us, our isolation,
distancing, the list of the dying and dead,
numbers given by state as if we were in
a game of losers and losers, of shortages,
doctors and nurses pleading for supplies,
of news conferences that get good ratings
but tell us nothing worth hearing. I could
begin with something cynical and continue
to fill the page, but that seems way too easy.
Plague Poem for Day Thirty-One
a ghost town we go to every day,
a quick in and out by camera and
a comment. First, they were in line
waiting for emergency rooms to
have enough room for them and
the misery their presence implied,
then full hospitals and new builds
for beds to fill/filled with their sick
and dying, and now portable morgues
and mass grave sites. It’s a ghost town
with empty streets and a few masked
extras desperately gathering necessities
in a place that once represented plenty
and extravagance, street fairs and long
lines waiting to enjoy the moment,
lined up to be entertained, sung to,
danced for, brought into the secret of
living life to the fullest or as full as
they could make it. New York City has
become a sad place, a ghost town,
an empty movie set telling us a story,
a story we all are getting to know too well.
Plague Poem for Day Thirty-Two
something that sets it off from the other days
we have spent like this, yesterday, the days before
that. Let’s step back from this routine, what is it:
getting up, washing, dressing, taking the right pills
in their prescribed order, eating, reading, you your
romances, me my action thrillers, spies and serial
killers as if we need these alternate lives to hold us
together and keep us going. Let’s find something,
anything to set this day off from days we have lived
already. Let’s pretend it’s a birthday for one of us,
or our anniversary, a wedding day for one of our boys,
even a funeral to go to would get us moving out of
this quiet well-made play we’ve made of our day,
this tired storyline we have come to be, this tale told
idiot signifying that we can’t come up with something
anything to set one day off from another, something
to celebrate today, this far into their quarantine.
Little Houses on the Hill
At the barren trees and silver lakes
and the people in constant motion
They look up at the snowcapped mountains
At the vast straw fields below them
and the horses that long to gallop
But do they know, perched on the hill
they glimmer pink at sunrise
and glow golden at sunset
and have a backdrop of mountains
that look all the more majestic
behind them?
Categories
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