Indunil Madhusankha is currently an undergraduate reading for a BSc Special Degree in Mathematics at the Faculty of Science of the University of Colombo. Even though he is academically involved with the subjects of Mathematics and Statistics, he also pursues a successful career in the field of English language and literature as a budding young researcher, reviewer, poet and content writer. Basically, he explores the miscellaneous complications of the human existence through his poetry by focussing on the burning issues in the contemporary society. Moreover, Indunil’s works have been featured in several international anthologies, magazines and journals. I See Her Hands I see her hands when she dearly holds mine with hers She has cold, but lingering hands So, I can still feel the very warmth The skin shrivelled and clustered with lifeless wrinkles They have a pinkish hue and a scatter of dark red spots Her aged hands are the portrait of a great life story daubed with enormous sweat and tears The reflection of a triumphant odyssey full of love, courage and perseverance and also a strength, a staggering strength, so lavish to enliven generations Hold Your Envy at Bay This breathtaking land of our lion race, impeccable both in shape and structure Yet the perilous thunder of western sky posing threats with their obnoxious comments, since their jealousy is for good raging Needless to make an extra attempt in portraying the vulgarity of your people The long list of pestilence needs pages incalculable None of the citizens in the world will delete from their memory, the irreversible blot to humankind that the notorious war-mongers have committed And also the black mark earned by their ravenous greed for human flesh Why should we “behold”? The members of our race have not formed such an “unbroken line” of follies Yet it still lingers as a conundrum, why those western scholars prove to be fools in their evaluation of the human nature You must not forget that throughout the known history of mankind, men and women with such blunders have always been in existence They are the inborn traits of mankind depending not on the culture they belong to Definitely apparent is the intention of theirs in raising these rotten motifs That is their envy Misanthropes they are, upholding chauvinism My heart swells with justifiable elation to remind you that the Buddha, the greatest teacher of all has taught us all the values leaving no shortage Keep thoroughly in your mind the incident of Pānadurāwādaya Robert Knox, your own fellow, despite a western, we are willingly ready to bow him for sans the least hesitation, the wiser man understood the uniqueness of our tradition, and gave it an impressive literary acclaim Even your western luminaries were glued to the spot with open mouthed wonder, witnessing the ancient creations of our race Unmistakable are the moments the European continent vibrated in a moment's earthquake when the Portuguese were defeated by our men Nor are you qualified enough to drill our irrefutably glorious lion race Never point out a finger at our nation, for four fingers will naturally be pointed at you So you are the shameless What an unbearable shame that there is a rootless lot born in and fed by Mother Lanka, but embracing the westernized elite and cracking jokes at our prestigious cultural heritage Our poetry testifies they are the fans of sea, yet feeding on the river That absolutely is the killing embarrassment of ingratitude! At least we can write fiction, Yet, your history, felicitous only to write tragedies We are bound to write another golden page in the chronicle of our unmatched civilization, vanquishing of terrorism There are neither lies nor hyperbole Our voyage is going on as long as the sun and the moon glow in the sky So hold your envy at bay. Fading Beauties of Youth (Composed in cessation of the spread of AIDS) Cascading beauties of mellow youthfulness overflowing from her physical frame Enthralled by her carnal fancies and flamboyant existence, dressed in shimmering vermillion garments, sowed the seeds of her own destruction Ripeness of her soul, a creamy milky chocolate pudding Sought for the fantasies and delicacies in uncontrollable intoxication Regardless of the truth behind the rosy side of life that the Enlightened One, the Lord Buddha once preached The tormenting pain of abject poverty compelling her to walking the streets Carried away by the appetite for bags of cash Reached the very heights of sensuality Seductive ecstasies of youthful desires The fever of adolescence and nihilism Vivaciously exulting young lass in the heyday of life groping in the darkness of overflowing lust Now suffering the grinding decease, HIV/AIDS, an outburst of physical, mental and moral ailments Desolately dumped in her dark isolate dwelling, with her closed face, a cancer for the society Mellifluous music, now ringing in her ears in utter silence Curse on the ephemeral enjoyment of life Mercilessly thrown away even from the brothel The burst of her scream rattles the windows The new born fresh bud in blooming beauty Despite the very virginity of the soul even before seeing the light of the world faced with the crippling plague Excruciating monster of AIDS, with no mercy, tattering and snatching the dreams of life She suffers, nagged by the splitting emotional injuries and the heap of painful sicknesses The day and night both alike for her Swarms of young birds now flying away from her that once beguiled to her magnetic grace and enjoyed her as if she was a juicy cherry Glancing at the dying sun, its falling rays, gradually becoming pale and soft in brilliance She suffers until her body slips slowly into the earth just as the fading sun dips below the far horizon.
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Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India. He is currently Regional Director at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. He has been writing poetry and publishing his poems for over thirty years. This letter of sorrows this unholy drift this whirlpool of massacre this sordid rift what is in death makes it alluring, race and kindred so bewildering prayers will continue as they must take out the dagger break the bust images are hollow seekers are none. This summer of sorrows woebegone. Tamsen Grace is a published author and poet, inspirational speaker, martial artist and a cancer survivor. She lives in the Midwest with her three children. She enjoys reading, writing, spending time outdoors and teaching children Martial Arts. Loopholes I need pillars to hold up the sky, I look for loopholes in life, wishes on shooting stars, burn up in my atmosphere. Lottery tickets scratch-off lovers, try again... not a winner, not a winner. Churches offer redemption, like flower petals picked in the wind... God loves you, He loves you not, a fifty-fifty chance to be condemned, by a Paper Doll Preacher with a plank in his eye. I need pillars to hold up the sky, before it falls on my head and kills me. Tide Flows I am fluid, in your arms, the tide flows, heated sand shifts to cradle me, the breeze cools burning skin, the tide flows, taste of salt water on our lips, force of nature as waves crash against the shore, the tide flows.... and I am swept away. Dollhouse Dreams Two sleeper sofas from the assisted living apartments where my aunt worked, one in the bedroom the other the living room, a borrowed tv and a friends pick up truck. A kitten from the shelter, which we ended up giving back. You cooked and liked the bed made military style. I drove you nuts, and made you smile. We built a doll house of dreams, but eventually you got too old to play, and when you pushed for more, I walked away. Thirty years later you died still loving me, and I ... still search for those doll house dreams. Life Ravages Life ravages, cuts the jugular of hope. Does pain cease if you just let go? Ease in to the darkness, make love to oblivion. "I am woman hear me roar," but then why do you judge me for my screams. What is death then but absence of life, a gradual fade into nothingness, a bleak existence without the chance of restitution, to think to escape from pain, in reality just creates, no chance at absolution. The last broken shard of me, I drive through your heart, And I am finally set free. "I am woman hear me roar" by Ray Burton and Helen Reddy from the song I am ready Nicholas Antoniak, is an 18 year old emerging Australian writer. He writes both creative fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry. He has been included in the 2015 Lane Cove short story anthology and will be published in the 2016 Questions Literary prize later this year. In July he will commence a bachelor of arts majoring in philosophy and sociology and hopes one day to become an author/poet/philosopher. A Backwards-facing Tile. You never really did get me, did you dad? I was that backwards-facing tile on the bathroom floor and you had OCD. I was the kid in grade school who had that odd shaped birthmark, and you were the one to point it out. Because for you being different was analogous to being wrong. Like an oversized pair of suit pants, or a jumper that had shrunk in the wash. But I never asked for you to like it. I knew you couldn’t embrace it. I just wanted you to accept, and move on. Yet you became America and I was Vietnam. You thought you were fighting against evil, but all you did was leave me in ruins and fuck me right up. And I get it; no, I really do. You came from a era with well kept kitchens where everything had their place. Of course you would get mad if someone came in and messed up the spices. But this is not a kitchen, and I am not a spice. I am your son, and you were my dad. A golden prison. A golden prison. Seething with black tar and bubbling gravel laid down by a thousand twitching faces just waiting to rest. Some were crying. Where now, they asked, were the reverent values of deafening solitude, harmony, silence and bliss? Where now, were the trees, whispering secrets unattainable to us, yet lined in the sand? Where now, will we find what we lost through false friends, waking fear, and the pleasure, lying wild in the dark? I’d rather see a reflection of beauty in my half lit cave than the reality of this golden prison we have built. A mood, creeping into buildings, (alone), yet surrounded. Like a flower, skewed carelessly, dancing fragrantly, in the wind. I lie unencumbered, not haunted, by the shallow glee that follows me, (occasionally), in the air. And I sit, as children sit, waiting and wondering on the ways of the world. But the world speaks nought. Alone. A white silky moon runs freely through my veins. Like a crooked dancer on ice. Don't talk down to me I beg of you, for I am one not too fond of the dust. And I wish I could hear the sounds of strings echo from a lonely field. Embrace me, in their tender rigid arms. In that field I would dream of moonless nights as the soft serenade of emptiness lulled me to sleep. This is not a love poem. Watching as in the corner of the bar you share tainted love with some piss-drunk guy without even giving me a second glance. I burn without running. In your playful black skirt that frolics gracefully around fragile knees, you dance. I burn without thinking. You tease me sporadically, bouncing back and forward like some sick game of pong. I burn without feeling. I wish we could rest, side by side in Budapest, Rome or Berlin and do whatever. But not you, my dear, my partner self pity. I burn myself. And although it hurts as I watch across the room, I realise something. I enjoy burning, and I enjoy the flames. Dustin Pickering is founder of Transcendent Zero Press, publisher of the award nominated Harbinger Asylum. He is a host for two readings in the south Houston area. He was a Special Guest Poet at Austin International Poetry Festival in 2013, and was published twice in their anthology di-verse-city that year. He also was a feature for Public Poetry that year. He is published in Lost Coast Review, Seltzer, Artistic Muse, Pyrokinection, Texas Poetry Calendar 2016, and others. His interview with bestselling author Kiriti Sengupta was published in The Statesmen, a popular national newspaper in India. He self-published The Daunting Ephemeral and The Future of Poetry is NOW: Bones Picking at Death's Howl. His latest work is called Salt and Sorrow published by Chitrangi in India. He lives alone and doesn't watch TV. He is an autodidact, songwriter, visual artist, and book reviewer for Yellow Chair Review. Purple Judas The bride blushes near dawn’s awakening. She kisses her brush, and chases the night into a corner of her heart. The dark bridge hides the mask of purple Judas. The eager will enter the havoc of sunlight, combed in bliss. Her hair is in tangles but the morning will sort them. The mask is worn by her followers-- dense morning at the altar of forgiveness. Abandoning the bridge, nothing seems right to her eyes. The kaleidoscope rises but the Father is still asleep. Now His curtain rises, but His shadow is what is seen. Where is the Father? He is where He’s been. The past we forsake but our fortune comes late. Past is Future in our hands. We make of what we seem, to sand. Pulse At once I am certain-- the throbbing of life, the pulse of existence, is not only within me: it is concealed beyond me. Concealed like patterns, hidden, the atoms of light create a room of their own. I am within the room itself, the Presence is near and a gift is eternal only if it is shared. To: a bullied youth Although your heart is darkened by steel assaults, your happiness stays the day’s golden glow. Laughter in the halls causes emotional duress, but you can offer another some happiness. (Shelter your dreams, keep them in a black box where only darkness will awaken them.) Giggle like a babe in the morning. Embarrass them with your smiles. The world will still turn. She Asked A black woman taught me how to read and write, the greatest gift next to life. I lived in a small Mississippi town near Jackson, where robed men drowned a black kid decades before. I left my books at the table, adoring her boundlessly, a love only a patient mentor knows. ‘Spite old Jim Crow, though a threat no more, Ms. Mary Ott read beside me. She asked about me before she died. Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks, published in USA and Europe. He has won several European awards for his poetry and he’s nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others. Endless Struggle After reading some of the Russian classics I fell asleep and dreamed an illiterate dream. Mediocre giftedness woven into my DNA circulates in the bloodstream. Who else is there to blame except the words? The heart is silent as a nun in the middle of prayer and so is the mind. But one day this calloused hand will grab the pen so beautifully and-- or the hammer and the sickle again. Finding Things This street is as lonely as it gets and the same goes for the little girl playing with dolls alone at the corner - like a shadow in a dream - between houses covered in twilight. In this small and godforsaken town, proud to have made the map, in the middle of nowhere, the sun is about to go down, but it sinks so slowly, like a biscuit in a bucket of milk. The grown ups are probably inside the houses behind the drawn shades or maybe in the graveyard under the large stones bloodied by the sunrise. The night falls and everything disappears, the houses, the prison, the hospital, the school, the bar and the gas station and even the small girl with her dolls made of even deeper darkness. Utopia The night is long and the stars race to their deaths in the darkness. A woman’s dress and a man’s suit walk past each other on the street devoid of humans. My name is Akintonde Praise from Nigeria. I am a student of University of Nigeria, I'm 18 years old and writing poetry is my hobby UNTITLED Letters engraved on The tomb of fleshy stone Words locked up In the belly of a golden canon Visions snapped With cameras without films Desires locked up In the cell of eternity Souls descending from the sky And souls ascending to the sky Do you see all these? Do you hear them? Do you feel them? MOUNTAIN OF GUILT A painting never to be wiped off A painting never to peel off A stiffened occurrence That has been glued to my head. Pulling it off Felt like pulling my brain Away from my skull. I thought I could climb And jump over it So I could land in the valley But the higher I went The taller it seemed And the weaker I became. It had occupied every space left And there was no escape route. So I’m left To remain with it Till the beginning of eternity. I was given a story to tell From the gates of nowhere From whom I was given I do not know To whom it should be given I cannot tell. The story itself I do not know All I know is I must tell it to the whole world. To the sinners And to the saints To the young And to the old To the poor And to the rich. To relocate Or to maintain. The story has been told And I am free! Soodabeh Saeidnia was born in Iran (1973) and received her Pharm.D. (1997) from Shahid Beheshti University of Medical Sciences, and also Ph.D. of Pharmacognosy (2002) from Tehran University of Medical Sciences (TUMS), Iran. She has worked as Visiting Researcher and awarded a Foreign Researcher Fellowship to work as a Research Associate both in Kyoto University, Japan (2002-2003 and 2005-2006), as well as Assistant and Associate Professor at TUMS (2007-2015) and Visiting Professor at Saskatchewan University, Canada (2013-2014). She has written roughly 150 scientific papers for various academic journals, as well as academic books and book chapters in both English and Farsi. She is also interested in English literature and poetry, and has published a collection of her poems, Harfhaee- Baraye- Khodam (Words for myself), in the Farsi language. Now, Soodabeh is living in New York and her poems have been published (or a head of publishing) in the American magazines and literary journals including Squawk Back, Sisyphus Quarterly, Paradox, TimBookTu, Bobbling of the Irrational, SPINE, American Writers Journal, Tuck Magazine, La Libertad, Tiny Poetry, Indiana Voice Journal, The Pen, 352 degrees and the Great Weather for Media. A number of her poems have been printed in the books Where the Mind Dwells and American Poet by Eber & Wein Publishing as well as Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze by Johnson Publications and Artistic. A collection of her poems, Street of the Ginkgo Trees is now available online on Amazon. Moreover, she is the editor of a middle eastern anthology by 10 poets, Voice of Monarch Butterflies, that has been recently published. The Year I was Born … When I was born, everything was as it used to be The sun was bigger than the moon and light traveled at a constant, finite speed (186,000 mps if you don't remember) and no one doubted if Armstrong landed on the moon When I was born, war blew as it does now and nobody cared if it was hot or cold! Africa meant hunger Asia meant opportunity (but nothing was made in China) When I was born, there were sweet berries growing on the streets They smelled like happiness and everybody could taste them on the right season That season is now extinct When I was born, blue jays were too blue to be Democrat and red roses were too red to be Republican and nothing was light magenta When I was born, I was supposed to transform into a rainbow butterfly - but as nothing went through the right way- I became a painter who paints everything in gray as it used to be Seeds of Sequoia You, daughter of the Sun A sunflower on the field of my frame of past Who brought you to this far land? You, a castaway frigate on the ocean A sailboat endured typhoons and tides the only remainder, the last Who turned your rudder toward a safe bank? You, a pollen of Sequoia a seed spread by winds of change Who watered your roots by tears of consciousness? You, a young branch of an old oak Never tell anybody who sang for you the melody of the rain during the hot nights of summer and gave you a dream of a cold breeze Micro-poetry #1 If you want to come Into my loneliness Step slowly! It’s crystalline, wholly taken from the finest, translucent emotions #2 Bars in nowhere Sides in no direction and I infinitely wonder Who’s the prisoner? Who’s the jailor? #3 Every day gives birth to a new chance sparkles in your hand Keep your fist tight! Don't let it leak until night |
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