Better Than Starbucks International Poetry March 2020

International Poetry الشعر শ্লোক ကဗျာ ליבע ਪਿਆਰ өлүм கவிதை บทกวี ποίηση költészet 詩歌

with editor Vera Ignatowitsch

Guitar and Gun

My brother buys a gun with a barrel to remain arctic for long

and a sawed-off-head guitar.

He, when drunk, sometimes forgets which one to load

with the leads and which one to strum following the lead.

Every night we shall pass his door displaying Keep-out to earwig

him breathing, his inhalation having an argument with

his exhalation, his balloons inside dandling the riddles of life.

His impromptu gunshots rehearse for a gig at some wilderness of crowd.

His guitar bangs its way into a trouble with our neighbors.

Together we stare at one bloody rabbit shell out in the moon

momentarily revealed through the tattered smog.

Two whiskey and tap water rock our guts. A guitar and a gun sitting on the porch.

Oh rabbit, run.

Kushal Poddar is from Kolkata, India. He has authored The Circus Came To My Island, Understanding The Neighborhood, Place For Your Ghost Animals, Scratches Within, Eternity Restoration Project—Selected and New Poems, and Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse—A Prequel.

Raindrops

There is absolutely an archaic music ruffling in my ear;

I call it home.

Pitter-patter raindrops,

wrapping a ceremony around my waist.

There is belongingness to this body,

with nature being receptive to my patterns.

A short polka dot marrying the tablecloth,

the small details that you often ignore.

And I surrender my eyes, amongst the worldly chaos.

The chopping of walnuts, the breaking of my patient knuckles,

as if waiting desperately for something abnormal to occur.

Raindrops/ a plural form of tears,

or a singular verb to soothe the reaction of popping pills.

I rest my fingertips,

whirling blue pain,

as heavy as a cotton ball

on the drops of this waterfall.

Devika Mathur resides in India. Her works have been published in Dying Dahlia Review, Pif Magazine, Spillwords, Duane's Poe Tree, Piker Press, Mojave Heart Review, Whisper and the Roar, and others. She is the founder of surreal poetry website Olive Skins.

Three Micro Poems

I looked behind the creaking door, shivering

In the middle of the darkest night, only to find a cat

Cramped, hiding out of fear of me.

The wave rose to several meters high

Frightening, dashing towards me at a great speed

Only to touch my feet and return back.

III

My empty plate after eating made her happy.

Her plate was empty right from the beginning.

My mother feeding me in extreme poverty.

Balakrishnan VS writes from Tamil Nadu, India. He is 28 years old and currently employed in a bank as a clerk. His poems have been published in Better than Starbucks, Pif Magazine, and Dissident Voice.

Room 411

She lay too confined on a hospital bed,

a drape of selflessness over a camouflage of pretentiousness,

she had never in her life been this selfish.

A strange air of peacefulness

protected her from the thankless cries

that my larynx was involuntarily producing.

Its obstinacy saved me from the hefty cost,

and she finally responded —

firmly held my hand,

moved two pearl-white globular capsules,

that doctors called ‘eyes’ after she lost consciousness.

With her heart rate going up and down,

sp02 was not giving my mom what she deserved.

I was sure she would get her due

but the oximeter’s self-serving attitude pissed me off,

and I asked the doctor to remove the oxygen mask.

Mom looked at me,

perhaps to tell me that I sing better than Lata

because I have no breath control.

Funny mom!

I changed my clothes the other day — so unlike me —

showed mom the blue dress I wore especially for her

— she nodded,

‘I know what you are doing, beta.

Be you, be natural. Go and never wash your face —

my eyes are accustomed to the symbols of your indolence,

don’t disappoint me with these ornaments of self-care.’

They believed the left side of mom’s brain was severely damaged.

I think mom won over her stroke

but her adamant brain needed an outlet to showcase its strength,

so it stopped functioning.

A flower calmly rests in my hand,

enveloping the small grains of sand

that I secretly stole from my mom’s grave,

to tell others my interpretation of peace.

Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published at many platforms including Indiana Voice Journal and Poetry Pacific.

The Unlived

Our unlived life in the ether-realm waits

like a perishing black dog in an Iranian cafe,

a difficult terrain to traverse over tea.

Even mornings freeze in zygotic stillness.

The unlived is a penitentiary,

a winding shadow of a black dog.

There like absence in suspended animation.

Kalyani Bindu is an Indian writer, researcher, and author of the poetry collection, Two Moviegoers. Her poems and essays have appeared in Variant Literature Journal, Active Muse, Madras Courier, Muse India, Ethos Literary Journal, Modern Literature, Indian Express, and others.

The Unheard Story

Say “farewell” to me, Deep Sea,

I know there’s not much time left for me to live . . .

So wish me luck when I’m falling in

To the abyss of “no-way-out”. I hope

I was a good son to you, faithful and honest,

Maybe a little naïve . . .

My name was Whrowhl, at least

Some friends used to call me that. But I heard

One little boy call out “A wall! A wall!”

It rhymes so nicely, my Sea Lord,

And I remember my brothers laughing;

This has become our favorite joke.

I know

Nothing’s perfect all the time and fluffy

Gentle waves can turn into a storm when least expected.

That’s what my uncle told me.

“You are too serious,” I said, “Come on,

Where is your positive spirit?”

“You’ll see,” he said. I saw

A whaler who harpooned him

Forty-four days after, in July

Twenty Nineteen . . .

And I will die today.

Forgive me, my dear Earth,

I still don’t know when a wall

Started coming down. Last night my friend

Said I must have swallowed

Too many plastics,

So I’m most likely bleeding inside . . .

But I don’t feel sorry for myself, because

Any physical pain is nothing —

Like heartache. I heard

That “everything happens for a reason” —

A famous quote

That you, people, keep repeating . . .

But what’s the point of ranting

About nobility that you don’t care about

While all your words are just false

Messages written in poison? What’s

The point of showing your humanity

If you’re starting wars and throwing

People on the street like garbage?

What’s behind your indifference and silence

When you’re losing touch with Nature

And your only joy comes

From destruction and high oil prices?

You can say I am just a whale,

A worthless sea creature,

Born to be unheard . . .

But we still remember that

Nature is not a word on posters,

It’s not a trending TV topic,

Real Nature is a sense

You have forgotten . . ..

Anastasia Crown is Russian designer, writer, and poet. Her work has appeared in The Writers Union, L'Atelier, Green Avenue, Literature Day, The Birmingham Arts Journal, and others. Her first book, Exopulus Raises Waves, was published in January of 2019 by Algorithm.