When the storms came, father tied a rope through the whole of each iron frame, supposed to hold glass panes of the windows tight. Latches of the window frames were long broken, like our families, known and unknown. There were glasses everywhere, between you and me, transparent, yet invisible; we can see, but we’re unable to.
Ropes were ephemeral, unlike the storms. They were blown away quickly. And the glass panes were shivering in fear, like me and father, everyone knew iron frame.
In the storm, I failed to realize which was more vulnerable; — glass or the iron frame.
Revolt
On a dangerous turn of the mountain, I saw someone trying to cut winds through his hands.
I felt shaky, yet curious. And tried to replicate. But my hands revolted.
Informed, they were tired with socially warm handshakes.
Baffled
Initial interactions whispered, you were a poem without punctuation.
Finally discovered myriad notes of interrogation, without any comma.
I felt like a semicolon, unable to guess, whether I should move a full stop.
Playhouse
We have created this playhouse & named it undecipherable. Here, our daily sojourn runs smooth as if on rail tracks; where our sons and daughters take a ride, which we tend to think as merry ride. When the train gets a jolt, we try to change the track, not the coach. In this coach, several games are played, some tough, some easy. In this coach, we stage multiple dramas, some straight, some imagined, some undecipherable.
We have created this playhouse, to remain happy, or to believe happy, satiated. This playhouse devours us, until we leave … & we do not know the ultimate fate of our coach, which for some years remained our playhouse
Aneek Chatterjee is from Kolkata, India. He has been published in poetry magazines and anthologies across the globe. He authored 16 books including four poetry collections, namely, “Seaside Myopia” (Cyberwit, 2018); “Unborn Poems and Yellow Prison” (Cyberwit, 2019); “Of Ashes and Persiflage” (Hawakal, 2020) and “Archive Avenue” (Cyberwit, 2022). He was a Fulbright Visiting Professor at the University of Virginia, USA and a recipient of the ICCR Chair (Govt. of India) to teach abroad.
Sun sets the honey hive on fire. This is still earth, here, a little more ornate, a shade of bride-fresh.
I cover my mother’s hand with mine, hers ever tinier, shrinking further, becoming those of my daughter’s, still large enough to drown the sky if held before my eyes.
Gone River
Along a long gone river rove my memories.
The rhyme of ducks, ashes, ashes, and the old stone bridge that stays
loyal to those who dare to cross, say, “You may stand on the devil’s arc
but there will be no shadow to forge the hole, not in whole.”
Who am I who tour the echo? Why a revisiting hollows out spaces hallowed?
A Tale From My Memory
We play memory-game today, pretend we do not know this place and form O with our mouths when we find all the hidden keys and knives.
On A Seismic Scale
I sewed my lids tight against my rapids of eyes. Earth quivers, people already pouring into the thoroughfares, avenues, roads, streets, lanes, alleys behind your moss and mess. The couch canoes in a vortex. A falling jar of silence crashes even before hitting the floor. What are we now? Where are you when the earth shakes? My friend calls me to say his mistress doesn’t know what to do with his body. Bury in a debris? I whisper.
Narrative
He can see her, his wife, singing in their son’s wedding and drowning in the pallor of cancer, him singing to her. The song he cannot recall is a milestone. One can move either way.
He can see her, the song. A woman blinds it with her hands, soft, whiting away hands. She says, “Guess the lyrics, dear tune.”
An author, journalist, and father, Kushal Poddar, editor of ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being ‘Postmarked Quarantine’. His works have been translated into eleven languages.
Two years ago I reviewed Maisie Chan’s delightful debut children’s novel, Danny Chung Does Not Do Maths, about an eleven-year-old Danny Chung who loved drawings and hated Maths. One morning, he received an unexpected guest in his house – his grandmother who he had never met before. Over Easter break, he got to know his grandmother more, and his initial animosity towards her grew into an appreciation for her presence. Since its publication, the heart-warming story has won the Jhalak Prize and the 2022 Branford Boase Award. Now, two years later, Chan follows up her success with her second children’s novel, Keep Dancing, Lizzie Chu, published by Piccadilly Press. This time, Chan doesn’t disappoint.
The novel opens with a twelve-year-old girl, Lizzie Chu, who finds her maternal grandad, Jimmy, whom she affectionately addresses as Wai Gong, ‘on his knees jabbing a piece of wire through the cracks in the roadside drain like he was trying to hook a duck at a fairground’ during one of her shopping runs when an eco bus threatens to knock him down. Lizzie rushes to his aid and saves him in the nick of time. We can surmise something isn’t quite right with Wai Gong. He has been acting strangely lately. He is becoming more forgetful than usual and spends a lot of time talking to Guan Yin – the Chinese goddess of compassion, kindness and mercy.
On the other hand, Lizzie has been holding the fort at home since the death of Grandma Kam. She has big shoes to fill, and her plate is getting full with caring for Wai Gong, running errands, sorting out the household bills and cooking while juggling her schoolwork and being a normal twelve-year-old girl. The question is, is Wai Gong feeling sad because of Grandma Kam’s passing or is it something else? One day, Lizzie and Wai Gong discover that Grandma Kam has left a golden chain with a jade circular pendant and four tickets to Blackpool Tower Ballroom. A light bulb instantly lit up in Lizzie’s head, and she devises a madcap plan. She’s going to bring Wai Gong on a trip of his lifetime to Blackpool Tower Ballroom, ‘the Mecca of Ballroom Dancing’ where he always longs to go with Grandma Kam.
Targeted at young readers, the uplifting intergenerational story takes them on a rollercoaster ride, with unexpected twists and turns, which surprises them on every page. The journey to Blackpool Tower Ballroom has me sitting at the edge of my seat, and I can’t help but cheer for Lizzie. In contrast to Danny Chung Does Not Do Maths, this novel has more awareness of inclusivity. In one of the chapters, Lizzie’s school teacher, Mrs Begum explains to the class:
‘We don’t call people names. We do not talk about other people’s family members. Luke, just because someone looks and acts different to what you’re used to, doesn’t mean that they are strange.’
We also are also introduced to an ensemble of diverse supporting characters that make Glasgow. Among them are Lizzie’s best friends – Chi, a self-centred but kindhearted and hard-core Comic Con fan, who is a mixed Welsh and Vietnamese and Tyler, a black British boy who has a gift of making clothes and has two fathers. Chan’s strength as an author lies in her knowledge of the Asian and British cultures, given her heritage. She cleverly weaves the classic Chinese folk tale Journey to the West into the narrative as a parallel to Lizzie and Wai Gong’s journey to Blackpool Tower Ballroom. She does it with sensitivity and meticulousness. She uses ‘Wai Gong’ for Lizzie’s grandad as Wai Gong is a commonly used term in Southern China to address maternal grandad and is widely used in Asia. Using the Chinese deity, Guan Yin as a motif adds depth to the novel and provides a good entry point in understanding Chinese culture. Chan further incorporates other British cultural references, such as the ever-popular Strictly Come Dancing and Comic Con event to show that one doesn’t have to lose sight of their heritage in another country.
Despite being a middle-grade novel, Keep Dancing, Lizzie Chu doesn’t shy away from discussing weighty topics about death, loss, grief and illness. It sheds light on the role of young carers and their daily struggles. It acutely captures the carers’ initial denial of their loved one’s loss of cognitive functioning and their gradual acceptance of the condition.
This is a timely topic happening globally as the ageing population increases. The novel illustrates the dependency on a larger community during challenging times and why it is so important in a rapidly developing society. As the well-known African proverb says, ‘it takes a village to raise a child.’ But I believe in this story it takes a community to support one in need of help and to show that the human spirit is more resilient than what we can imagine.
Keep Dancing, Lizzie Chu is published by Piccadilly Press, which is part of Bonnier Books Ltd. The U.S version will be out on 28th March 2023. The children’s novel is now available in Waterstones, Book Depository and Amazon UK.
You can find more of Yang Ming’s work here on Ink Pantry.
I’ve been seeking something in Cornwall I’ve been searching for it in Wales I’ve been studying the latest guide books And listening to the Ancient Tales I look deep into the eyes of the people I pass But none of this gets me too far I’m in a battered place called Britain And I’m looking for who we are.
We’re the bastard sons and daughters Of the Romans and the Celts Our potential’s the tip of the iceberg But it’s one that slowly melts If all that was then and this is now I gotta work it out if I can ’cause I’m bruised and I’m bloody and British And I wanna know who I am
You won’t find answers in our hearts anymore They’re as con-fused as our heads You won’t find nothing out from the words we say ’cause they aren’t quite what we said You won’t find it in Jubilee, authority Or in shared conscience anymore We’re nasty, brutish and short of ideas And can’t remember what we’re here for
Identity is what you want it to be You can make it whatever it fits Call us English, Northern Irish, Scots and Welsh Call us Limeys, Poms or Brits If you think that will help explain to yourself Who we are beneath these scars Then you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din In working out who we are
Good people are all around us I keep telling that to one and all But The Moral Majority gets bigger And they haven’t any morals at all Too many turn into dyslexics by choice To read the Letter of the Law We’re a busted flush called Britain And we don’t know what we’re standing for
Let’s talk about the Union Jack, Jack Talk about St. George’s Cross If it wasn’t such a drag we’d rally round the flag And show everybody who’s boss Boss of quite what, we’re not sure anymore There’s been a change to our regime But we’re British right through to our misplaced hearts Trying to figure out what that means
Born in Stockport and now living in Congleton, Cheshire, John Lindley’s poetry has appeared widely in magazines as well as being broadcast on radio. John was Cheshire Poet Laureate in 2004 and Manchester Cathedral Poet of the Year 2010.
Jewels of unhappening My solemn thoughts to unbind me What is timeless may stand still Creation’s bemused space The nightspring of desire May collide in one union platform May lyricism found peace in The softness in the unchanging innocence May the lamp burn forever Furthermore pain more destruction I have come in full circle What lies beyond thoughts Mundane responsibilities everyday living Little wonders joy sorrows My aching cup of imagination It’s half brimmed in full measure In places my eyes seek What comes in surface stays for two Three days But ideas are my life force It pours in rain soaked abundance The cup is endless Beyond.
To win the greatest prize, one must first find, The light in life, near streams where meadows grow, And where the trees rise above the clouds, Towards paradise for renewed life.
Stay away from those who speak with thorns, The spikes of hate, always shed innocent blood. Becoming the enemy of companions of faith, Those who cherish bonds are the advocates of joy.
Open your mind and reveal your heart, Within your soul lies the seeds for growth, Nurture and encourage your fruit to bloom, When harvested the doors of paradise unfold.
Light
Is light a blinding sight? Should all run and hide, Staring into the light, As the light stares back, Deeply into one’s soul.
I hope one can find hope, Surrounded by rich rays, A safe embrace of faith, Relieving the sombre torments, That life always forms.
Sorrows Inside
The sorrows of this world disappear, As the clouds in the sky fade away, Releasing the weight inside, A burden that sustains all of life.
Behind the veil, there is light, Sorrows to never again cause harm, Never to materialise and acquire time, Beyond this world awaits infinite life.
Mohammed is a writer from Manchester. He explores a wide range of topics in his poetry, expressing and experimenting with different styles. He endeavours to raise awareness for important issues in society and wildlife awareness. By using his unique perception to share different perspectives. His work can be found on LinkedIn and Instagram.
Love is a lasting word even when it is temporary. Oh, that feeling. What was it? A spring fever? A sweet delusion? Yes, we both enjoyed the rubbing of parts, a blessed friction, and all the skin we touched, and the flowers given and received.
It was all so nice, even the agony and the lies. I’ll never forget you. Maybe you will never forget me. Old faces worn like thumbtacks pressed into our eyes.
A Sense Of Rank
My ancient peasant blood trembles at the thought of greatness, so I avoid it in others and in my self.
Who needs a halo and epaulets? I am general of the armies of dust balls racing across the floor.
Dimensions
The multiverse I heard will be going out of fashion. Unfortunate. It explains so much, such as why it seems we are together and so far apart, and why the wind blows so hard, but cannot turn a pinwheel held in your hand.
Family Album
All the lies and all the dead now forgotten along with their crimes. Oh ho, you there. Step this way please. By order of so and so you are cut out of the picture.
Gasping for Air
I don’t know the colour of my lungs, and do not want you to check.
Peace be with you brother. Let me breathe as I am, one quarter lung or less of freedom and forgiveness.
Hard Time For The Circus Clown
I have run out of paint to cover my face. No powder, No nose round and red enough.
I shall sit here in puffy clothes smiling at the strangers who look my way and pass by
in search of a more entertaining prisoner along death row.
Joseph Farley is former editor of Axe Factory, Poetry Chain Letter, Implosion, Paper Airplane and other zines. He has had over 1300 poems and 130 short stories published so far during his 40 plus year writing career. His fiction books include two story collections Farts and Daydreams (Dumpster Fire) and For the Birds (Cynic), and a novel Labor Day (Peasantry Press). He has also penned nine chapbooks and books of poetry. His work has appeared recently in Schlock, Horror Sleaze Trash, Home Planet News Online. Corvus Review, Ygdrasil, Eunoia Review, US 1 Worksheets, Oddball, Alien Buddha Zine and other places.
Pure grey, impure white Paleness is everywhere Towers with considerable height Blocking the view Of the ancient black and blue.
The murmur of the crowd Busy narrow road But the sight, the hearing craves for The swish, the tweets, the rainbow.
Fresh soothing stream The crystal glowing current Can never be like The hurrid rushing flow Of shineless fluid From a metal pipe.
Infinite majestic waters Waves hitting shores The calming whoosh A gentle breeze Cannot be found in a tub Full of stillness and soap.
Fields of colour Green, red, blue Dance on the gentle melody Of the breeze that blew Need to be seen By the eyes that had only in memory Plastic, paper, artificial beam.
The horizon is near The white walls embrace me here Where’s the far line The mesmerising colours, the twilight.
I long for the alteration The variety of scene Of one horizon Day and night, seen.
What has been forever in sight We thrive to see on websites Go and feed the soul, the hearing, the seeing For in nature all to the soul is healing.
Dripping emotions
It is not as easy as it seems To pour the heart On a white sheet, To select the proper amount Of something inconcrete, Of drops, of adequate sense To bleed ink and make them see What resides behind these beats.
Broken blanket
Gentle steps indoors, Heartwarming voice echoes, In memory. Frozen under this cold blanket I remember that cozy one Broken blanket? How to get that heavy one I had? About thousands of kilometres back? It held your worries, your heart On me you laid a blanket You laid a palm So cozy, so warm So so far.
Raghda Mouazen is an English literature graduate from Tishreen University in Syria. She works as an English teacher and enjoys painting, writing, and language learning. She speaks Arabic, English, German, Turkish, French, and a little Japanese. Her poetry appeared on various websites online including Synchronized Chaos Magazine, and Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine.
Debate a rag into a frayed jacket, boundless shade structured around a colleague. Yet grin.
Misses function until a baron avoids bleeding that bestows a process beneath a pulp, shoes CRATER earth , from chaos Meek neck.
Pedaling mysterious takedowns in a pot delivered as a battered orange motion processing an ignored hive: Pockets Swell, express floundering rough draft translation.
chemical leather strap. Last bit of a crumb, forthwith blemish of limitations – – – menacing forlorn vistas, vibes, instantaneous verge.
Tug & tackle & twilight white noise.
Vague Threatening Ideologies
not a tongue animating stick but the present tense sneezing of a formaldehyde trapdoor cinching ventriloquist dummy less than OR equal TO a fetus protected more than an idea , as if communion wafers were nourishment, tho the insteps perform matter of fact hexes UNTIL all abandoned possibilities become the summation of a Nation.
regulatory effects, this last of luxurious empires:
all that crumbles and fades and burns from resisted needs.
warbly ounce of rosary
portray miniscule trouser snippets cough cough cough cough cough machine HITS sound FiLe escape: ‘harder than a neon empire sweatsuit’ & cylinder EXITS bellow cruising chop , whoosh WHOOSH ,, whiffing weapons of MaSs discontent – – – ‘shower & join us on the boot farm’ – – – bona fide fourth trench of the industrial circus window shipping vampiric snapping flask ]whosoever blanched meeting martini shades[ ,,, AdDeD bUrSt of yearly stipend.
circumstantial assertions avoid
heretics assent outlining caricatures lack distinguished section V further addressed disease of profound anemic limping all due wounded apprehension species
glow certain forms common integral list proper pooling arguments
of each of giving of ultimatum lungs
provided oxygen hampers an end a functional virtue wither substance however such skills lacking weapon existence assigned wholly
destroy communal controversy the hollowed void of partial citations resisting the logic of common sense
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author of the books automatic message (Free Lines Press), combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, Version (9), Don’t Submit!, BlazeVOX, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and experiential-experimental-literature. You can find links to his published work here.
You can find more of Joshua’s work here on Ink Pantry.
A man was eating breakfast at a restaurant and was subjected to a conversation from a neighbouring table
The server came over to tell him the restrooms were out of order The man suggested the server also tell the neighbouring table, because the four of them were full of shit
The man left before he found out if he had successfully prevented any accidents
A New World Record
Scene: A grave that people are constantly passing by, stopping for a few seconds with their backs to the audience.
Announcer (in excited sports-announcer voice):
This is a day of great pride for our city; the Guinness people are here to confirm the record. Today there have been many tens of thousands of people passing by the grave of (Audience can fill in for themselves the name of the person to be so honoured).
And the Guinness people have confirmed it: the new world record for the largest outdoor urinal!
Letter to a Medical Billing Company
(Sometime in autumn. The MAN receives a bill from his wife’s doctor at the nursing home for her services back in January. The bill threatens him with collection if he doesn’t promptly pay. The MAN consults his records and sees that bills from this doctor both before and after January have been paid, and sits down to write a letter to be sent with the bill in lieu of payment.)
I dislike receiving threatening letters, especially when the threats are due to your incompetence Bills both before and after January have been paid, so obviously someone in the office knows how to bill the insurance properly I suggest you find out who that person is and give this bill to that person so you can be paid Under no circumstances are you to contact me about it ever again
(The MAN never heard from the billing company again, and his wife switched doctors, though the switch had to do with the doctor’s medical competence, not her administrative competence.)
Michael Ceraolo is a 64-year-old retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet who has had two full-length books (Euclid Creek, from Deep Cleveland Press; 500 Cleveland Haiku, from Writing Knights Press) published, and has two more in the publication pipeline.
