You did remember you and I; we both took birth under the same sky.
And one day my shape was under threat; let the dark turn more dark to disappear my fate. What’s the fate? You wrote as per your choice. To kill my unborn child, to tear off my privacy, you went wild. I am also that mother’s daughter, a daughter who had to stand in fire. Let the fire raise, let my ashes fly in the same sky under which your mother was born. You tore each of my petals, my limbs and my soul too. But you forgot I can rise again from the ashes where you ended the lust of your dick.
I forgot we once took birth under the same sky. I only remember you tore my strap and left some pieces of brawn.
But I won’t pray for your mercy, I am not crippled any way; don’t expect any light from me- I chose to rebel in dark against your forcing rape.
Sonali Chanda is an eminent poet/writer/reviewer from Kolkata, India. She pursued her Post graduation degree in English literature and language from Burdwan University. At present ,she is pursuing her Phd in Post modern English Language, Indigenous Language of India, different usages of phonetics in Language. Her three books published and running successfully in Amazon and Flipcart Platform. She won the Nissim International award in 2020 for ” the excellence in Writing” for her Debut Travelogue Ladakh- Enroute Tibetan Taboos “.
I am not the one To lead the herd, The one that chooses the path That leads to the cliff And the necessary fall And slaughter.
I would rather be the one Who stays At the edge of the herd Watching and worrying About the wolves, And the men dressed in hides That set fires, and fan the smoke. No. I am not the one to lead. I am the one to start to fight, Or try to change the direction Of the wind.
The Gospel of the Delivery Man
Pizza I give you, And cash you give me, Hopefully more Than the price of the bill.
There has to be A tip in there somewhere. My wages are low And barely cover The cost of gas.
Someday with luck And lottery tickets, I will have a nice house, Like you do, And be able to send out For food as well.
Until then, I shall dine On oatmeal for breakfast, A free hoagie For lunch, And the cheese fries I forgot to give you And you failed To mention.
Not Your Stooge
No. I will not be Your stooge. I will be My own buffoon,
Without need Of eye pokes Or theatre Or television Audience.
The pratfalls Will be real, Known only By those Who chance To be around.
The laughter, If any, Will be gathered And kept in a can To be served later Along with Cold duck soup.
The Hare’s Lament
No. I can not do it, Fulfill the expectations Required of me To exist.
All this breathing In and out, Foraging on all fours, The fear of things With sharper teeth or beaks And claws.
There has to be A better way, A life one could Truly live.
I sense it out there, Somewhere, A different incarnation Worth living Or dying for.
Zen Procrastination
Poetry is one of the ways I delay dealing With reality, All those duties And responsibilities.
Who needs them And their Anxiety ridden Timetables?
The poet revels In the now. In the moment All is glorious.
Let’s not talk About later. Later will be A mess,
But possibly Another opportunity For poems if we’re both lucky.
That Ego Of Yours
It is an ugly monster, larger than your shadow. It won’t stay behind you. It wants to walk up front. It obscures your vision and the path you travel.
You wish you could get rid of it. You have tried. You can’t.
Exorcised, it returns. It only takes a single compliment to grow from nothing to a looming mass taller than the Statue of Liberty.
When will you learn? Never it seems.
“You could be so nice if you weren’t such an asshole.”
Shadow People
I do not fear the shadows. That is where I hide best. I watch the world of sunlight And know it is not mine. I dwell where the others are, Vacant but not alone. Where we are is where we must be For our faces seem Too horrible For those who walk in the light, But, as for ourselves, We know we have value And beauty of a kind. Maybe the many Cannot appreciate Who or what we are, But the strange Will know the strange, And recognize them As kin, No matter where they are Or what their particular sin.
Joseph Farley has had over 1350 poems and 140 short stories published. His 11 poetry collections include Suckers, Her Eyes, Longing For The Mother Tongue, and Yellow Brick Pilgrim. His fiction books include Labor Day, Once Upon A Time In Whitechapel, Farts and Daydreams, and For The Birds.
You can find more of Joseph’s work here on Ink Pantry.
It is unsaid, this night, tongue crushed, silence crawling out of its hole and into the moonlight, the salt air. I am a history of silence, with you, with anyone of the past, the present, the future. You wait for my commencement, its following, but how to reckon truth eludes me. My speech instead decides on agitated mumbling on the dark inexorable, the universe unbelievably immense. I cannot speak of all that terrifies me so nothing is said, to you, to someone, but to you above all others. I’m the winter sky frozen with stars, on the beach, clung to footprints, and the ocean listening, seething and heaving
Solar System
We’re down here concerning ourselves with pitiable stuff like did I ogle that woman who just passed by or why did you buy that new microwave oven when the old one still works fine.
Meanwhile, the sun is slowly burning itself out.
No knowledge of our lives. No familiarity with our emotions.
Someday, it will cave in, fold up in one almighty bang. We’re out of its league with our modest implosion.
The Losing Game
He lost money on the prize fight. And the poker game. And the roulette wheel at the casino.
He lost money through the hole in his pocket and the woman he gifted a fancy bracelet to who never afterward returned his calls.
He lost money on the stock market. Then he lost money on the church that he tithed to his entire life that left him as nothing more than a body in a hole in the ground.
Tree roots benefited from the minerals in his rotting corpse as did the weevils and the worms.
But, as far as I know, no money changed hands.
Her Man Returns
A small blue Japanese car pulls into her driveway.
It’s as thrilling as the rose she planted in early spring that’s now blooming in the height of summer.
Though not blue. Though not Japanese. And, of the bees that buzzed away from its bud, not one knocked on her door.
The Current Occupant
In this room are some who will never be again.
One is sitting on the bed. Another pokes in the drawers. A third interrogates closets. The flightier kind gravitate to the ceiling. The dour, the funereal, lie down in the dust.
Ancestors? Most likely. They resemble me and yet are remnants of other lives.
They’re cursed with hands that don’t touch, mouths that can’t speak.
Yet, I dread the feel of them. I fear what they have to say.
The Cry
In one house, the attic window is a long, painful cry.
And that cry passes through glass and darkness, treetop and streetlamp, shivers the sidewalk below.
It resonates with the primal dynamo from which everything comes but also the fear, that all living matter must now come to a stop.
A woman’s face, wide mouth pressed against the pane. upholds this dichotomy.
But then two bodiless hands squeeze her white throat, cut off all sound at the source.
The street now reflects the silence before life, the silence that comes after.
As the only witness to this frailty of life it’s a struggle, on my part, to be anyone.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head, and Guest of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
You can find more of john’s work here on Ink Pantry.
You feel too much. You’re real too much. Start thinking that you– Can heal too much.
You hear too much. They feared as much.
Line/Break
I break lines With thunder-crack Keystrokes To outshout The voice Of your lover.
Chris Courtney Martin (They/Them/Theirs) is a multidisciplinary artist and psychic medium originally from Philadelphia. Their post-kundalini creative quest has yielded a prolific burst of poetry publications via Alien Buddha Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Erato Magazine and more. Their debut poetry/prose chapbook THE BOOK OF I.P. (Idle Poems) is available on Amazon in paperback. The follow-up full-length collection SLAM POEMS FOR MY BATHROOM MIRROR…And Other Selected Works… is due to launch in the Fall of 2023. Martin also releases music under the name KWEAN OONTZ and continues to build a career as a screenwriter and budding producer. TwitterInstagramThreads
Me and Amelia. On our way to the hospital. Visiting. We are. A sick friend. But these places. Geez! Whose idea was this? Who? That hospitals should be the size of small cities? Tell me. I’d like to know. Hey. At least they allow support dogs. But still. All these towering buildings. So, so tall. All of them. All the same. And now. Of course. We’re lost. We are. Me and Amelia. Driving around. Rats in a maze. That’s us. Until, until. We find the right one. The building we want. And a parking place. Alrighty! I slip Amelia into her harness. Attach her leash. And off we go. Amelia in her pretty little dress. Pink. Of course. And me in my t-shirt. The green one. The one that says: “Emotional Support Person for My Rescue Chihuahua.” Close enough. Right? Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking.
Laura Stamps is the author of over 50 novels and poetry collections. Most recently: “The Good Dog” (Prolific Pulse Press 2023) and “Addicted to Dog Magazines” (Impspired, 2023). Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Lover of feral cats and Chihuahuas.
You can find more of Laura’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Reading the philosophers From sun to moon rise, Transcended to ages Amalgamating the Infinite pain.
Memories radiate along, With Blaring Roars and fierce Glints through the pathway of deluge. Serenity alluring through Just like, The absolute circle that radiates taking the light of gleaning flame.
Memories with their cluster of pain Gazing from the clouds Emerge to reveal the blaze Of Warmth in the dark.
Was then The moments of sight Still sharp and defined A ball of brightness In a feel of trance.
Smudged with emotions heavy A smoulder I saw Life in my hands The torment, pain of life process – Call it by any name! Was no less than bliss To see My celestial boon.
Dr. Anila Pillai is an assistant professor of communication skills. She teaches in the land of Lions- Gujarat, India. Her passion is to pen her emotions in verse. She has published her literary creations as well as academic articles with national and international publishers. Kailani is her collection of poems published in the year 2022.
At the deepest hour of night, You, my Lord, come to me in hiding. In your strong arms, you pull me close enough – You are my bliss. You are the charioteer of my chariot moving past amidst all sorrow. You, alone, are my friend. You are my vulnerability, you are my catastrophe. You are my bliss. You conquer my enemies in concealment. You, my Lord, solely is my friend. You are the Rudra incarnation, you are the fear of the fear. You are my bliss. You are the thunder bifurcating my bosom. You alone are my friend. I bid you to lull me in death cutting me from the ties of all the bondages of Samsara. You, you are my bliss.
Had I known
Had anyone known that you would beckon me? I was dead-ignorant-asleep. Samsara had encroached on me in deep darkness. Had I known that you would pour in the bliss of grief in my soul, had I known that you would drench me in tears! I had not known when the sun of your benediction graced the eastern hemisphere, without much thought, I could feel your gracious warmth filling the innermost folds of my heart, soul, skin – You, my Lord washed off my shore with the tide of your immortal sea – You broke open all the bars that I had put across. You brought the wind of evensong, you brought hope in my heart. The boat of my existence is now anchored at your lotus feet.
At your touch
My sadness has crossed the paths of infinity. At last it has touched your feet, a summation of happiness and mirth. Since days, I have shed tears boundlessly, I have not known why it has been flowing relentlessly- Today, I have woven a string of my teardrops, to garland you, O my Lord. Your Northern Star has beckoned me in evading darkness. I have never reasoned the sadness that I have borne all the while I was still in quietness. Today, after ages, at your touch, my sadness has become a string of the lute that plays for you.
Ritamvara Bhattacharya writes from a darling’s heart, Darjeeling. She believes in what Sylvia Plath said, “And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” She writes for the pleasure of it. She writes for the ‘I am in her heart’, a voice that creates ripples and sensation. She received The Nissim International Poetry Prize in the year 2020 and the Tagore Poetry Prize in 2020. Her poems have been published in some noted portals like The Muse India, Café Dissensus, The Sunflower Collective, Aynanagor, Chakkar, The Indian Periodical, Plato’s Cave and others. Her debut chapbook,’ In the mirror, our graves’ along with veteran writer Ravi Shankar N published in 2021 has received accolades. She is an avid lover of life, literature, colours and has lived in awe for the past quarter-century. She intends to see the world stricken with fear and courage, in silence and sound, in love and hatred, all. She believes contradiction adds to the aroma of living and would love to dwell in the same, giving birth to more celebratory bells. August Rituals is her first solo debut poetry book published by Writers Workshop in August, 2022.
Where are you, Poets, You, Wizards? Let us paint with our poem This sorrowful world And people with masks, For behind the mask Even eyes are lacklustre And we no longer breathe. Let us raise voice And scrape the mud from our soles. Let us raise voice For all of those silent in their homes And isolated, Immersed in the misery Of everyday boring jobs. Let us cloak with our imagination This programmed world And keep the scent of childhood And first kisses Alive. Let us bring back love, That divine joy of life. Let us pour it over from our poems, May it flow down the streets Worldwide And may it touch Every solitary man in tears And women wearing black.
SILENCE
Silence in me strikes in lightnings of the sky, too grey and destroys my accumulated fear in the years of non-belonging. Silence in you does not know my fears and gets lost in the words of unknown people whose hands cannot touch the softness of our hearts. Don’t let me stay silent because my love is louder than your smile. The loudest one.
LIFE
This life is soaked with tears and the words are too small to pronounce all life in an instant and my love hidden in the corners of solitude.
This life is soaked with tears and the pain of the past is stronger than the impending ecstasy in the kiss of the night and my escape is stronger than the strength of your will. This life is soaked with tears and the joy gets crushed by the sorrow of the desperate and disbelief in a new longing. This life is soaked with tears but today there is a smile in my eyes so don’t walk away from my smile. Don’t let the grief to put out these embers at least sometimes when I forget that this life is soaked with tears.
HOPE
I would like to take the paths of new hope and erase my footprints behind me because your escort is superfluous before the rising sun. I would like to walk the land of solitude for years and walk on the silence of the pathlessness liberated of all your words and deeds. I would like to be born again bathed in purity of my soul and stand in front of the starry sky as a newborn. And pardon my rude words and be patient because my loneliness is your loneliness, too. You are my other self. You do what I am afraid of.
All Rights Reserved @ Jasna Gugić
Translated by Anita Vidakovic Ninkovic
Jasna Gugić was born in Vinkovci, Croatia. She is the Vice-President for public relations of the Association of Artists and Writers of the World SAPS; Global Ambassador of Literacy and Culture for the Asih Sasami Indonesia Global Writers, P.L.O.T.S USA the Creative Magazine Ambassador for Croatia; and a member of Angeena International, a non-profit organization for peace, humanity, literature, poetry, and culture. She is also co-editor of the anthology, Compassion—Save the World, one poem written by 130 world poets.
The last important award with a single nomination for Croatia was awarded by UHE – Hispanic World Writers’ Union – César Vallejo 2020 World Award for Cultural Excellence. Jasna is a multiple winner of many international awards for poetry and literature, and her work has been translated into several world languages. Her first independent collection of poetry was published in 2021, a bilingual English-Croatian edition, entitled Song of Silence. She lives and works in Zagreb, Croatia.
Many of her poems have been translated into several foreign languages and are represented in joint collections. Her poems have been published in magazines in the USA, Spain, Greece, Italy, Russia, India, Syria, Denmark, Brazil, Mexico, Bangladesh, Serbia, Albania, Nigeria, Belgium, China, Chile, Nepal, Pakistan, Korea, Germany and etc. Her poems are published in so many world-famous print and electronic magazines, journals, websites, blogs, and anthologies like Spillwords Press – USA, P.L.O.T.S. The Creative Magazine – USA, Mad Swirl – USA, Synchronized Chaos Magazine – USA, Cajun Mutt Press – USA, WordCity Literary Journal – USA, Medusa’s Kitchen – USA, Atunis Galaxy Poetry – Albania /Belgium, Lothlorien Poetry Journal – UK, Polis Magazino – Greece, Homouniversalis – Greece, Chinese Language Monthly – 中國語文月刊 – China, Eboquills – Nigeria, Azahar Revista Poetica – Spain, Sindh Courier – Pakistan, Magazine Humanity – Russia, Entre Parentesis – Chile, Daily Asia Bani – Bangladesh, Bharat Vision – Denmark, Litterateur Rw, Dritare E Re – Albania, Literary Yard – India, Gazeta Destinacioni – Albania, The Moment International News – Germany, Kavya Kishor English – Bangladesh, PETRUŠKA NASTAMBA, an e-magazine for language, literature, and culture – Serbia, Güncel Sanat magazine – Turkey, Cultural Reverence, a global digital journal of art and literature -India, A Too Powerful Word – Serbia, Magazine Ghorsowar – India, Al-Arabi Today Magazine, Magazine Rainbow, Humayuns Editorial – Bangladesh, Himalaya Diary – Nepal and Agarid br. 24 and 16, Online newspaper NewsNjeju, Korea, Willwash. wordpress blogzine – Nigeria.
Nappies. Knew nothing about nappies in 1965, nor 1970. Nappies in 1980 meant: Big Sis with toddler under one arm, milk bottle in her mouth and my camera playing tricks.
Yet in 1993 we bought full-size/ boy/known brand and experts in disposables within a week. Tried pull-ups, swim shorts, recyclables: sodden, all. Too scared of pins. Nappy mountain friendly; reluctantly.
Advanced driving next: ante-premature super-mini (and willie test-tube in the hospital). SCBU/humilactor/and that gentle sweet aroma of breast-fed Tinies. Experts in six weeks.
Gave up on nappies in 2000 (incontinence pads reach the parts…). Occupational Therapy assistance, a life-saver. Granny grab-rails to assist the ‘crouch and drop’ of special needs. Learnt in no time. A year for collection of discharged equipment.
So, when I say that I’m thankful: the Care Home took charge of extra-small dementia and personal care… Nappies. Nothing extra-sweet like a pure breast-fed baby.
Island Dreams
Happenstance of Zoom meetings: it was a new day, a new name, I could manage to sign in/unmute/and Leave. My dreams, like hot air balloon rising post-sleep, for friendship on a little ethereal island for a couple of hours. Memories are made… of – a name – Poet and Editor, speaking on Publication and Performance. Vibrant young speaker challenging beginners and experienced poets to move forward, floating on enriched tomorrows; avoiding drowning lands. Awaiting the fruitiest stork to fly in, select the wing- beat for a new birth; far at sea before sunset.
I wake to stacked competition, soft mess of guano bleaching the Farne Isles (post-season). Lark rise…
Polly Poodle’s View with a Room (Sestina)
I watch that awful photo fade so fast, regret the scuffs and scratches from that time no-one could imagine as worth preserving. It was just a flat, shared grounds, open-plan, somewhere to leave in daylight (leave behind). So many times returning. One day, gone.
I know it was expected, now you’re gone, I thought that bin estate would not fall fast. My memories of you are there, behind those boarded windows into frame-washed time. I had thought to improve your room: a plan that vanished – with you – nothing worth preserving.
The mantelpiece a hazard. Worth Preserving? You knocked your head; the bed-head wrong. Now gone, within such view (your things/path/grass). No Plan to catch and throw each stick beyond that fast road without a crossing, just dodging Time. Don’t cross to corner shop. Don’t look behind.
I found it on the sideboard (bills behind your lottery card). Was it worth preserving? A rug/a chew, yet dog-hairs spread in time, exacerbating your chest. Now long-gone, Polly-Poodle. Oh, such a dame! So fast, she ruled your heart (and purse), yet no Vet’s Plan.
You should have moved – for her, for you. A plan for slowing down, city living left behind, before that pooch ran out, wagged tail, too fast for doggie treat from old man. Worth, preserving? He left for hound-view heaven. Now all’s gone: the flats, the paths, the busy road. And, time.
You kept quiet (what the doctor said). Your time vanished before last visit. All cold-plan, to pack/house clearance/keys; a service. Gone: nostalgia/demolition/visits behind one scratchy late-found photo worth preserving, while I breathe peace to my view, over breakfast.
So now it’s time to leave this frame behind, within my heart. For what plan’s worth preserving? They’re gone, self too, releasing heaven’s fast.
Wendy Webb: Born in the Midlands, home and family life in Norfolk. Published in Indigo Dreams, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Envoi, Seventh Quarry) and online (Littoral Magazine, Autumn Voices, Wildfire Words, Lothlorien, Radio: Poetry Place), First in Writing Magazine’s pantoum poetry competition. She devised new poetry forms; wrote her father’s biography, and her own autobiography. She has attempted many traditional forms and free verse. Favourite poets: Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins, John Burnside, John Betjeman, the Romantic Poets (especially Wordsworth), George Herbert, William Blake, Emily Dickinson, Mary Webb, Norman Bissett, William Shakespeare, the Bible, and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
