General Poetry Page with Suzanne Robinson
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I am not Going to Prepare Kevun this Time
(Published in the two international anthologies of poetry, “Journeys
Along the Silk Road” and “Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze”)
Loku Naenda sitting still on a bench
watched the framed photograph
of her son, my cousin,
that made an exhibition of him
in his army uniform and fortitude
My puerile questionnaire had its flow
One question of mine
received an answer,
which obviously touched my heart
“Wouldn’t you prepare some kevun for the new year?
The nicest, your konde kevun.”
“No putha, I am not going to prepare kevun this time,
What kevun for me?
I have already lost appetite.”
As her speech came to an end
she returned to the photograph
and traced the contours of his figure
with her quivering fingers.
This time the koha didn't sing
its ritual new year song
in its seminal tone
Only the strident,
reedy tune of the crows
hobbling in the compound
Kevun, Oil-cake. It is a traditional Sri Lankan sweetmeat made of rice and sugar and is served particularly in festive occasions. The village folk are used to consider it as a taboo to cook or eat kevun in sorrowful situations especially when there is a funeral.
Koha, The cuckoo bird. It announces the arrival of the New Year in the beginning of April.
Konde Kevun, A type of kevun or oil-cake (See kevun)
Loku Naenda, This is how somebody calls the eldest sister of their father in Sinhala.
Indunil Madhusankha is currently an undergraduate reading for a BSc
Special Degree in Mathematics at the Faculty of Science of the University of Colombo, in Sri Lanka. He is a budding young researcher, reviewer, poet and content writer. His work has been widely published.
Frozen sleet slashes the ship
as it lurches back and forth
right and left
over violently churning water.
A sailor clings to the crow’s-nest
scanning the horizon
by midnight waves.
A flickering light through the gloom
sparks a flicker
in frozen hearts.
Inch by endless inch
moment by crawling moment
leads sailors to a safe harbor.
When tornados tear apart homes
and destroy lives
a musty mouse-infested cellar doubles as a
Amid heart-wrenching sobbing
a loving embrace becomes
When children point and laugh
at the outcast on the playground
a kind word
leads the way home.
In a world of cruelty, darkness
and blinding hatred
is a safe harbor.
Sarah M. Prindle
Lords Valley, PA
f l o a t i n g
I used to mock the ‘crazies’ who were too afraid
to leave their homes
and explore the world
because my middle school mind couldn’t understand
that the flowery walls of some people’s kitchens
and living rooms
were the world to them.
their tvs were telescopes
into other parallel planets
and their books were backpacks
that carried all the tools they needed for adventure.
but I just didn’t see it that way.
until I grew older
and more anxious about getting good grades
to get a good job
to live a mediocre life
full of mortgage payments
and microwave meals
and balancing vacation days
just to go on one tiresome trip a year
I just couldn’t see it that way.
but time has passed and I have grown even older
now I am n o t h i n g.
nothing but a floating parasympathetic nervous system
who doesn’t even bother worrying
about finding my life’s purpose anymore
because I’ve already found it
conveniently located within the flowery walls
of my own bedroom.
curled up under blankets with a novel,
I am completely content with not leaving
because leaving would be joining the world
and the joining the world is just too scary for me
Patricia Grudens graduated last year from Ithaca College with a B.S. in Marketing/Communications.
She also was recently diagnosed with Panic Disorder and Depersonalization/Derealization Disorder.
She says, "Both of these mental illnesses have really caused an extreme disconnect between my mind and my body.
In my journey to reconnect the two, the best coping mechanism for me is definitely via poetry."
We find her coping mechanism has created some interesting poetry.
Note: her second poem is posted below as an image to preserve formatting.