Jean-Paul Moyer, my cat, has proven himself a poet with 22 publication credits within his first year of writing. More recently, he has taken up painting with the same aplomb.
Each morning, while the oven preheats for breakfast, I prepare newspaper, canvas and paint, which is then covered with cling wrap and a top sheet. Jean-Paul waits until catnip has been sprinkled atop it all and then hops onto the setup, moving the paint with his body.
Recalling the smell of laughter
A faint scent lingers in the creases of my palms when you leave
Something like young coconut and the tinge of oily sweat just
Dripping down the tips of thick brows. It smells like eyes just grazing
Over each other before falling down to worn miss-matched socks
Before the smell is rubbed off by dish soap, hot water,
And porcelain scrubbing off the day’s light caresses,
I anoint myself in it, blessing my filtrum with remnants of
Your heaving laughter, how the exhaustion of your lungs
Caused you to sweat, those bits of your joyousness engraving
Themselves in the fortuned lines of my palms when I held your
Face earlier in the evening. I mirror my hands into my face hoping
The smell might stay: not in my hands but in my recollections
So when I forget what we laughed so heavily at, I will remember
We laughed. I will remember the sloppy whiff of your coconut Vaseline
Far before I remember any joke we’ve made,
because nothing has stained my memory quite like your smell before.
ALL ALONE I AM!
All alone I am in this earthly world
My own shadow is my only friend
Am neither infatuated nor crazy
Have never been a part of any show
Empty paths always hold me far off
Who has the sorrow of destination
Me nothing but a traveller of the heart
A lonely swan leaving the banks of lake
Busy travelling on the crest of waves
The moon and stars do simply inspire
I love myself more than anyone else.
MYTH OF THE NIGHT!
I ask noon if it has met anyone like you
I hunt for the face like yours all around
The buds haven’t found anyone like you
Florists aren’t sure of flowers like you
With that gait on heaven or the earth
The killing tresses, the lotus petal lips
Intoxicating eyes only myth of the night
The Google confirms ‘ur special status
Your uniqueness makes one really crazy
What should I call you,a Beauty or Bomb
If I may say so there is no poem like you .
SCATTERED I AM!
I want to be yours and make you mine
We are bodies intertwined into one soul
Accept this fact for all those moments
They feel like living for centuries to me
Your aroma that delights heart in toto
Slips away from my palm like rain drops
My tears obviously flow to connect you
Being crazy, I rove to find you in my alley
Scattered I am for a moment in the air
By holding your trust, I do walk ahead
My heart, a little emotional , overflows
With words splattering out of my eyes.
THE SOUL OF MY LIFE!
Your soul forces me to keep on walking
In my dejected and gloomy world
Even the seas are thirsty and famished
The nectar is in the beauty of your eyes
Can I paint your image or write a poem
An amalgamation of hues and rhythms
You’re the beat of my innocent heart
And the very soul of my mortal life
Your breath is as fragrant as blooms
Your arms have the softness of lotus
The brightness of sunray is in the face
A deer I do find in your gracefulness
Your love can stitch up my torn heart.
Biography of the Author
Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai (DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum- bilingual poet while a tremendous lecturer of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha.
He is an accomplished source of inspiration for young generation of India .His free verse on Romantic and melancholic poems appreciated by everyone. He belongs to a small typical village Nandiagada of Ganjam District, the state of Odisha.
After schooling he studied intermediate and Graduated In Kabisurjya Baladev vigyan Mahavidyalaya then M A in English from Berhampur University PhD in language and literature and D.litt from Colombian poetic house from South America. He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems that are related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that needs urgent attention.
He is an award winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writing worldwide. His free verse poems not only inspires young readers but also the ready of current time. His poetic symbol is right now inspiring others, some of which are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems been translated in different Indian languages and got global appreciation. Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in the future.
He is an award winning poet author of many best seller books. Recently he is awarded Rabindra nath Tagore and Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips . A gold medal from world union of poets France & winner Of Rahim Karims world literary prize 2023.The government of Odisha Higher Education Department appointed him as a president to Governing body of Padmashree Dr. Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar. Winner of ” HYPERPOEM ” GUNIESS WORLD RECORD 2023.
Recently he was awarded from SABDA literary Festival at Assam. Highest literary honour from Peru contributing world literature 2024.Prestigious Cesar Vellejo award 2024 Completed 200 Epistolary poems with American poet Kristy Raines. Books. 1.Psalm of the Soul. 2.Rise of New Dawn. 3.secret Of Torment. 4.Everything I never told you. 5.Vision Of Life National Library Kolkata. 6.100 Shadows of Dream. 7.Timeless Anguish. 8.Voice of Silence. 9.I cross my heart from east to west . Epistolary poetry with Kristy Raines
Madagascar
He loved dogs, but he didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of owning one, on top of which the concept of “owning” an animal made him uncomfortable. But he’d always stop to pet a friendly dog on the street or in a shop, and he’d jump at the chance to board a traveling friend’s dog for a few days, even weeks.
His wife was somewhat indifferent to dogs, but she always welcomed the temporary visitor, as long as he did the feeding and walking. She was even happy to steal the occasional stomach pat, or to receive a brief lick.
The friend’s dog, a medium-sized male of unknown lineage, was called Winslow. The friend referred to it as That Winslow Boy whenever it did something naughty.
He was walking Winslow one morning when a passing neighbor said, “Oh, got yourself a dog?”
“Just for a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’m caring for him while his owner is in Madagascar.” He regretted having said “owner.”
“Oh, Madagascar, marvelous!” the neighbor exclaimed, and went on to tell him, in voluminous detail, about her own trip to Madagascar the year before.
Hard Times
He received a phone call, out of the blue, from a childhood friend he hadn’t seen or spoken to in decades. This friend had fallen on hard times and was “reaching out” to his old buddies.
He had fond memories of the guy and did want to help, so he asked, “How can I help?”
“I could use a place to stay,” the friend said.
Oh, no, that was out of the question. Not only would his wife never stand for it, neither would he.
“I’d love to help, but we don’t have the space,” he told the friend.
“I understand,” the friend said. There was a pregnant pause and then the friend said, sheepishly, “Maybe you could help me out with a little money for a motel?”
Should he suggest the friend find a shelter, or would that be an insult? Sure he could afford to give his friend a few hundred bucks, but what happens when that runs out? What about the long term?
He told the old friend to meet him at an ATM downtown. He withdrew $500 and handed the cash to the friend.
“Thanks, this means a lot to me,” the friend said.
He was about to say, “Any time,” then he caught himself and said, “Sure.”
Endgame
Before he met his wife, in a college course on postwar European drama, where they bonded over Beckett’s Endgame, he was dating a girl named Josie, but there had been no real spark; apparently the feeling was mutual, because when he told Josie he’d met someone new, she said, simply, “OK.”
That was thirty years ago. He and his wife had not discussed Beckett for the past twenty of them. Like most marriages.
***
man is a fire
every time I burn with shame when I see a bird pecking at bread crumbs at a bus stop
children’s bread and milk are poured from heaven onto the rain earth
minced meat at the meat market screams
***
in the morning I watched fish bones on the shore
autumn crying to the crunch of ears and bones
the heart turns inside out in the hope that aluminum birds
also fly home from warm countries after wintering
***
platinum night in the back of the head
who breathes rose petals into the crown of the cemetery?
perhaps this is another hanged or unborn brother
maybe it’s a local jesus
maybe it’s mom who smiles with raindrops
it would be nice if it was someone good
but black and white don’t exist
there is only a synthesis of colors
it would be nice if such an abstract love corresponded to a non-abstract world
and at night a cemetery emerges from under the pillow
and flowers dream of growing not for the sake of mourning ribbons
the night goes on a journey
morning will never come
***
I press a laptop key unknown to me and hope to summon the spirit of the deceased grandfather in this way
what you do not understand: the life of the elderly is death
I would like to live forever but I’m too poor for that
I would rather not love but I need to fill the void inside my chest
I would like to be an inanimate object but I move like a worm
I’d rather live like a worm with no limbs so I wouldn’t be forced to take death in my hands
my grandfather promised to play with me after work and didn’t come back
the cast-iron milk of the night covered his eyes
after lunch it is very dark outside
***
my feet are stones
I step on the leaves by force
I feel a crunch under my feet
whose bones turned out to be leaves?
why is the tree silent?
why does the bush not wave its branches with its hands?
whom I trample under my sole on the way to death?
The First Love Song
The night is beautiful as an angel is in my arms
She is dancing and singing the first love song
I am trembling with new feeling
I found love fighting against some odds
I am in the first love song,
Though it is unknown to me.
The night is perfect as it holds her dreams
In the darkness l can easily read her dreams with love’s light
She says, “Darling, dive in my heart and
take my heart to fill it with your love.
I have been looking for you for a thousand years
At last I have found you tonight.”
The night is beautiful as all the flowers bloom
The time watch is right
The angel owns my time
I become a timeless boy
I share my night
She shares her secrets
We see our future in one another eyes
we sing the first love song in the world.
The night is attractive and l deserve it
I have faith in the first love song
I have faith in the angel
I have faith in the night.
Big Check
A big check weighs us down –
till deposited. Then it disappears
into the realm of business
the business we did before
that big check weighed on us.
But from the bank’s parking lot
through the door, through that
line, lined up to the teller, it still
was part of our mystery of money
heavy in our pocket. We try to look
causal about it all, want the teller
to think that we are used to big checks
earning, carrying, and depositing them.
She takes it, looks it over, checking things
we can only guess at. She never looks our
way. She clicks away, and our big check
even as heavy as we thought it was, disappears.
Photo
It saves that moment, one of the many
we pass through every day, every hour,
but this one is caught, frozen and will
never change. The photo captures
a street scene, one we all live through
holds it. The couple at the curb, about
to cross will never cross. They have gone
this far and no farther. We don’t know if
they are happy or sad. They are just this
couple in this moment. What are they
thinking? What did they just say to each
other? Will this action, this about to go
across this street, make a difference in
their lives? Will they look back and say
that this made all the difference? We don’t
know, will never know, but that moment
for them has become part of us, part of
us if we hold this picture and watch it go
through the things the photographer was
trying to convey to us about time and its
mystery, the way we are in the midst of it
and never know what is next for us and for
the people around us – or even that couple
who he or she stopped in the midpoint of
their day out together and made it stay fixed
one foot off the curb, the other about to
follow.
Side-Effects
Of course, they warn us about side-effects.
the unintended consequences of taking
whatever it is we’re taking or are thinking
about taking. They’re the stuff of small print.
You could end up with “swelling of ankles or
feet.” How about “confusion, difficulty breathing”
Along with such things as “dizziness, faintness
or lightheadedness.” The things we take come
with their own litany of possible side effects.
Imagine “black, tarry stools” or “bleeding gums”
as you take a daily dose of what they’re selling.
Even TV ads touting the latest meds for public
consumption are weighed down with side-effects
both mentioned by the voice-over and in print
at the bottom of the screen. They give us a group
dancing and singing followed by their warnings.
It’s as if the cure or whatever we’re taking to try
To cure or at least curtail one thing brings on an
Assortment of other candidates for our undoing.