International Poetry الشعر শ্লোক ကဗျာ ליבע ਪਿਆਰ өлүм

guest editor Michael R. Burch

     RAINBOW
 
They color their hair
paint their faces to look younger
then speak aged lies
to emulate rainbows but stare 
into the sky to find
which color follows which
before melding into one
they wonder what to do
with beige and indigo shades
that cloud their vision 

 

     CLOSED EYES
 
The faces appearing
and receding in
the darkness of closed eyes
 
don’t answer why
they aren’t winged souls
fading in the sun
 
I emptied before it set 
in the gowns of girls 
stopped from dancing barefoot:
 
they shake autumn in the rain
mist blurs the image
water spills in shady pools
 

     SMALLNESS 
 
I live in a crowd of fakes
smallness rises with age
 
my mind has ceased to think
new metaphors hardly happen
 
hunger keeps me awake all night
I mitigate minginess
 
inner lives are emptied
and filled with fresh stresses
 
too many fault lines run through
to make sense of the divide
 
my passion itches and prompts
I nuzzle the virtual too
 
it’s the same virus replicating
the same hackers that hurt
 
the vigor and rigor of 
the new, left or pushed behind
 
whatever the remedy
wounds take deaths to heal

 
Ram Krishna Singh, born, brought up and educated in Varanasi (India), has been writing poetry  for about four decades. Recently retired as professor of English, he has authored  forty-two books, including his latest collections  God Too Awaits Light (2017) and Growing Within (English/Romanian) (2017).

The Dog Whisperer

 

Famished,
Wandering down the indifferent streets,
The half-clad blackish man
Talks to his
Invisible friends,
The pack of half-starved dogs
Following the pathetic figure
Like faithful pals.
The man
Stops midway,
Interrupts his dialogue
With airy nothings
Not seen by all,
And kindly,
This homeless wanderer 
Whispers
Sweetly
Some kind words
To the poor
Shunned
Street dogs.

 

Forgotten

 

I no longer see—
The familiar numbers
On my waiting cell 
Nor hear—
The familiar caller's lilting tunes.
I have been forgotten
By friends
And 
Erased forever
From their lives
Like old
Superannuated messages;
I am
Not remembered
Upon their waking up
In the morning—
Like a 
Faded 
Receding
Dream.

 


Sunil Sharma is a Mumbai-based senior academic, critic, literary editor, and author with nineteen published books: six collections of poetry; two of short fiction; one novel; a critical study of the novel; eight joint anthologies on prose, poetry and criticism; plus one joint poetry collection.

DAY AFTER DAY: DAY AFTER DAY

Again,
The same day with the same familiar smell I have breathed for so long.
When one day ends, another hurries to replace it.
Days always arrive in quick succession.
None waits even a second.
They are vying with one another
To occupy my space.
As if one holds a promise
The others can’t offer.
All want to affect something
That memory could carry on forever.
 
I don’t remember
If any day was different from another
Or had set a benchmark?
All seem to have the same
Shape and Shade, Texture and Trick.
Pushing and shoving one another
In hope of getting better treatment.
Alas! That they never receive.
At last—
Tried, Tired, Tense and Terrified,
Terminated.
Again
The sunset and the hopeless Night.
Is there any space or scope left for
A sunrise?

Mrityunjay Jha is an Indian writer. Although he primarily writes poetry, he recently finished a play. Most of his poems are available online. He holds a master’s degree in English Literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi (India.) At present he teaches English and political science at a local school.

Lizard an Mosquito

 

Mosquito bite yuman,

Now e full a blood.

Lizard eat mosquito

Say, man dis is good.

 

Lizard help hatch mosquito,

Raise dem up good.

Send dem out like good daddy

Fe go find yuman blood.

 

Mosquito so happy

Dem eat plenty blood.

Lizard so happy

Dem mosquito taste good.

 

Politician same like dis:

Yu clap an yu sing,

Yu eleck im an den

E tax yu ting an ting.

 

 

Beach

 

Here on the vast beach, you, my hundred friends,

Can see how sea stretched tight round curved earth bends,

How empty sun-filled sky fills timeless Time.

My arms stretch out, but you can’t see how I’m

Trapped, caged, confined, boxed in, in love, alone.

Come, sun, burn beach and skin, bleach hair and bone,

Flay life to its essentials: love alone.

 

 

Robin Helweg-Larsen is British-born but Bahamian-raised. His chapbook Calling The Poem is available as a free download from Snakeskin Poetry Webzine, issue 236. He lives in Governor’s Harbour on Eleuthera.

In the middle of May
When the summer is in its full glory
I missed that time
When my mother would read me bedtime stories
Sleeping in her lap peacefully
The summer never seemed cold
I felt I became bold
But now as I grow old
I miss that warmth sometimes
Caged in the cruel sadness in me
I have forgotten the warmth
of the summer breeze 
That made me believe in light
Despite the darkness of the world
And my own soul 
 
 
Hira Naz Sulehri, from Pakistan, is a process improvement executive by profession, a poet at heart, and an avid reader out of love.

The best solution

 

Where do I stand?

My answer is ‘no where’.

Since by ‘I’, people usually mean

their bodies, minds, intellects.

All this has only evanescent existence

like an ocean wave:

so long as the water rises

it appears to exist

but when it subsides nothing is there.

Yes, life may be only transitory existence;

yet still I exist in my sorrow, in my happiness …

I find it quite punishing!

Life is a blunder of creation

which the Almighty could easily avoid.

The pity is that It wants to enjoy

Itself at the expense of our awful sufferings.

Nobody can question It

since It is the most powerful Force

and beyond ‘cause and effect’.

Only two options are open to me.

Either I should follow a religious path

and get salvation or the whole of life should perish

never to return again.

Extinction of humanity or even life as a whole is ideal

since my salvation alone is of no use,

as I am linked to every individual soul.

Peaceful extinction, gradually

tapering out birth, for our own sake, is the best solution.

 

 

Dr. Sandip Saha was born in Kolkata, India. He graduated first in his college class and went on to earn a PhD. Later in life he began to write poetry in his native Bengali, then converted to English, “seeing its vast arena.”

Two Tanka

snow melts and
cherry blossoms bloom
under the soft sun
my heart melts and
love blooms

moon reflected
against dark water
reminds me
of your presence
in the world

 

Pragya Vishnoi is an Indian who is intrigued by oriental poetry.

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