General Poetry Page with Suzanne Robinson 

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poetry magazine, poetry book collage, free verse

  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
 as usual
 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


Glossary
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.
Putha, Son

 

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.

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

and bedrooms

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

and now…

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

right now.

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.

Safe Harbor

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

now camouflaged

by midnight waves.

A flickering light through the gloom

sparks a flicker

of hope

in frozen hearts.

Inch by endless inch

moment by crawling moment

a lighthouse

leads sailors to a safe harbor.

 

When tornados tear apart homes

and destroy lives

a musty mouse-infested cellar doubles as a

storm shelter.

Amid heart-wrenching sobbing

loss

a loving embrace becomes

an anchor.

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

any light

is a safe harbor.


Sarah M. Prindle
Lords Valley, PA