A Metonymy for life! Luminescent sobriquets, nuances and innuendos, Oleander dreams, a morsel of left over words decoding syntax and semantics! Taxonomy of hysteria, transfered epithets, shifted proxemics blurring the gap between space and dimension. Peeping from behind translucent ballads are hurrine rhymes trying to carve a niche within a heartfelt epistle. Noctilucent clouds on summer skies. Splurged with meta communication midst graphic metaphors. Dangling dreams from distant corridors on sordid noons. table fan, Ma's flowing hair, fish bones on aluminium plates, the smell of egg curry in my fingers. Baba's sweaty shirt smelling of his toils. Thamma's broken wooden chair! Spring evenings and an ivory reticence wrapped within an empiricist sheet! A metonymy for life climbing down the spiral staircase of remembrance, wearing a galvanized smile! Debarati Sen Bio: Works in Presidency University Kolkata as a Junior Assistant. Her debut poetry book called 'Blurred Musings' has recently been published. Recipient of the Tagore Award 2022 and the Sylvia Plath Women's Literary Award, Debarati finds emancipation in her poetry! She has also been the winner of the International Poetry Writing competition held by the Elite Book Awards in November 2021. She has also grabbed the third position in the National Poetry Writing Month 2022 contest hosted by the Elite Book Awards. Debarati features in the Council Year Book launched on the occasion of Women's Day 2022 by Literoma in association with the Public Safety and Security Council of Bengal. She has also been declared as an Empalled Author in the International Author's Conclave held by Literoma in December 2021. She is one among the top ten poets of the Women;'s Day poetry contest organised by Delhi Poetry Slam. She has co-authored more than 15 anthologies and is recently compiling her first anthology as a compiler with the Quill House Publishers. Her poems have found shelter in prestigious websites like The Antonym, The Yugen Quest Review, The Kolkata Arts, Lapis Lazuli, The Das Literarisch, to name a few.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Shakhzoda Kodirova
My motherland! My country, you are so beautiful, You are charming, You are spectacular There is no equal in beauty, You are a paradise. You are the only one in the country. There is no word for your description, You are the most unique country. We love you dearly, We are faithful to you. We will introduce your dear name to the world. ✍ Shakhzoda Kodirova Good and rewarding work For many years, a small stream flowing from the side of the river made Cain's heart ache. Because once upon a time, clean and clear water flowed from this ditch, people used it to quench their thirst and rejuvenate their gardens. No one would throw garbage in the ditch, and whoever saw the dumped garbage would clean it immediately. Unfortunately, by this time there was no "trace" left of the clear water in the ditch. The younger generation did not listen to the words of their old ancestors, but instead of reducing the waste in the ditch, contributed to its increase. Despite the fact that he was over 80 years old, Mahmud himself was the head and wanted to do a hashar to clean the river, so he called young teenagers, strong men from house to house, and asked for help from the neighborhood. Unfortunately, many did not have the patience to clean the river, which was full of garbage. And it didn't work either. Finally, Grandpa Mahmud thoughtfully went to his old companions. Gathering them together, he got everyone’s opinion on the matter. The old men agreed and decided to clean the river themselves. Not many people know how good it is to clean a ditch, and those who do know do so without breaking the bank. Is there no one willing to clean this small ditch that has been flowing for years ?! If they need to irrigate their gardens, they are ready immediately. but to clean up ... Well, let's clean up as much as we can, said Mahmud looking at his comrades angrily. So the old men got to work. Ketmon in hand, belt at waist. Seeing this zeal in the elders, some honest people came and joined them. Some were embarrassed and apologized to Mahmud. The neighborhood gathered the workers again, this time they were full of enthusiasm. Volunteers also came and began to join. The work is "hot". Neighboring women were busy cooking for the hard-working hashers. Thanks to 3 days of hard work, the river was completely free of waste. Grandpa Mahmud joined the ranks of veterans for his efforts to clean the river. When he addressed the villagers, he said, "The most important thing, you know, is that you and I have a great reward. Cleaning the canal is the best and most rewarding thing to do". Flower garden 🌸 I went to Gulzor today, I saw a lot of flowers. They were more beautiful than each other, And the smell was fragrant. It charms person The fragrance of every flower. It attracts, when you smell it. I really like, These fragrant beautiful flowers. It lifts your spirits, Friends, look at this. Rose, basil, tulip Colors are red, green I sweat from them, I make many bouquets. ✍ Shakhzoda Kodirova The world 🌎 What a world it is, Both transient and deceptive. What a world this is, After all. No man can live in this world, For a thousand years. No one can remain in such a world, Eternally. So my friends, Let's do a lot of good. Let us not be deceived by The way of Satan. Let us not sink into sin. Without thinking of the Hereafter. Let us do good as much As we can. We know that in this world, Tests are not rare. We will defeat them, If we have a little patience. The world, the world is the end, Never complain friends. Do not despair and torment yourself And let's do good !!! ✍️Shakhzoda Kodirova
Shakhzoda Kodirova is 15 year-old aspiring poet from Navoi, Uzbekistan. From a young age she was fond of literature age of seven she began to read books and study oriental literature. Her poems and stories have been published many magazines and newspepers, including Uzbekistan and Germany.
Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams
"The End Again" (Trilogy) "Depopulated" Desolate the land of cities buildings like decapitated statues streets covered in chucks of ruin slump shouldered we wandered for months finding the rims of the far mountains forests covering where we hid our quiet settlement of the depopulated survivors thankful and now unhurried accepting weak walls and roofs of tree rain and ponds and a lake of sweet water faraway from the sea full of past pollutants our children now no longer afraid they play and sing and we listen trying to forget the long ago explosions my wife tenderly touching scars on my back loving me at night darkness still memories of the dying and what we could have done. "The Wind" My brothers often visit trying to give me a constant of cheer telling me where they've been and what they've seen assuring me the sea recovering stench of death disappearing schools of fish returning without sores that never heal my brothers have found and married young wives with unblistered skin boats rebuilt and sails tall in the wind many new islands blossoming some seeing a gondola balloon with people waving above the clouds wind cleansing past the horizon world freeing flowers again. "Just Like the Old Days" The old man walked into our new village claiming nothing changes men fighting again over land and women and beliefs shaking his head with tears beard matted like his hair prepare yourselves he warned they've repaired their guns bullets reclaimed from the ruins helmets and knives and brass knuckles with a maniac in charge speaking smooth words dripping with poison promising the power of hell in his back pocket the old man laughed and spit looking at my wife and kids and peaceful land you should tell the others chaos is coming again returning with twisted faces eyeing every direction where you dream and live but this time maybe you will pray a little more and mean it.
Poetry from Mahbub
The Padma Bridge The moon has risen in the dreamy sky of us From Mawa to Janjira you dreamt of Linking the two parts over the river Padma 25 June 2022, the plan got established It blazed the light on the dark river Long waited love came to light Joining the south and western part of the country to Dhaka city Facing the challenge we once had for freedom in 1971 Our great leader Bangobandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman handled the leadership His fittest daughter Sheikh Hasina, our prime minister Just proved how brave she is in her heart and fruitful her merit! The Padma Bridge provided us all to live in connection Mitigating the needs from one part of the river to everywhere in speed. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 28/06//2022 Fire Fire is in, fire is out The heart is firing for sex On the other it's firing in love Look! the bodies are firing in the container depot fire at Chattogram In some distance the body is fired on suicide The sun-burnt eyes are firing in terror On the other some are firing in anger or pain Some are firing for the absence of the lovers or beloveds The garments factories are firing with bodies of the workers Plastic warehouses containing hazardous chemicals At Nimtota of Chawkbazar in Old Dhaka fired hundreds of lives Some are firing with the neighbors to win the fight Some are smiling with fire Over the glory of entering into world unknown Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 28/06//2022
Poetry from John Sweet
self-portrait in tar
and words aren’t actions,
and prayer is as
meaningless as regret
the temperature is a nervous
stutter between rain and snow
the town is a vast expanse of
empty parking lots, of
grey shot through with crushed
plastic and dead leaves
i have wasted my life
i am afraid of growing old and
dying in front of my children
i am afraid of
growing old and dying
in the end we are only
something
subtracted from nothing
the drowning years
it’s always the same stupid shit,
always these self-inflicted wounds
his 15 year-old girlfriend pregnant, the
asshole from the barfight in a
coma and not expected to live but
brenda laughs, says why not
dead-end job at the minimart and her
boyfriend doing six months in county, and he
says his stepfather has a place down
in north carolina
tells her he’s had a crush on her
since middle school, and she
asks if it’s gonna be a boy or a girl
and he says he doesn’t want to know
doesn’t really give a shit
one way or the other,
and she nods
tells him she needs to
leave a note for her sister
needs to feed the dog
small, ordinary acts to help her
feel like she’s
moving into the future
the forest of the profane
early autumn frost in the
shadows of sunlit buildings, all
blue sky and junkie dreams
man walking past you says he’s
got god in his veins
says there are other
versions of hell that have nothing to
do with faith, and his smile
is filled with blood
this town is where i live
but it’s not my home
this idea of judas as scapegoat
needs to be reconsidered
despair is a sickness
not a weapon
but it will always be used by
tyrants to beat you down
will you suffer the first blow or
will you burn down the castle?
will you set the gospel aside
and hear the truth instead?
all choices come to an end when
the dog you fail to praise
decides to take your tongue
as his own
skeleton afternoon
this is the man with no eyes who
tells me he pities my blindness
this is the party to celebrate
the death of the deathless kingdom
i fuck his wife in the back seat of
someone else’s car or
he seduces my daughter before
they both disappear
a stalemate
a gun for every starving child
so they can all grow up safe
even here in this cramped and
sullen space between
disposable gods
we are all someone’s enemy
notes on ideology
good times in the suicide
factory down on your hands and knees
swallow the cock or swallow
the barrel, and
how many choices do you really need?
how many lives are you planning on
screwing up other than your own?
goddamn kids gotta grow up
sooner or later, i guess
can’t be sucking at their
mother’s tit forever
they need to know they’re useless
need to know how much blood is
required to solve each problem, and
maybe you have to smack them around
a little to drive your point home
maybe a house gets burned to the ground,
maybe a car gets stolen or some
fifteen year-old girl from the
trailer park out at the edge of town
gets knocked up, but this shit
happens every day
you fuck or you get fucked
you walk or you crawl
a lifetime of meaningless rules and
blown chances, and then
you die
and the story ends the
body is found,
but how do we get there?
same goddamn way
every time
14 yr old girl sits on her bed,
curtains pulled,
father’s gun,
instructions on her laptop screen
knowledge is power,
right?
puts the muzzle to her head and
pulls the trigger, and so
turn the music up a
little louder
send flowers
bring shovels
a lot of bodies left to be
buried before this
part of the story ends
halcyon
tired of being so fucking
old, and tired of all
the goddamn years i wasted
tired of being on
the wrong coast
or not being able
to forget your face
of everything i write
sounding
like a suicide note
Poetry from Nathan Anderson
Bodhisattva Projecting
Orgone
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
tempest
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
the spring has (rung (in the dietary removing (a cause and
not a grown thing (left-most removing (rightmost rightmost
rightmost (lapping at the silk (an order and order an order (
faster through the thread and colour (reacted in synthetic (
a hammer guide (a metal armament (less speaking and more
spoken (****************(outside in the distance (cold
cold cold (foundational without sighting (the spring on the
tongue (99999999999999999999999999999999999999999
9999999999999999999999999 (alphabetical conniption (
less tragic than the one before (_________________(outside
and out of order (stupefaction to the modal interview (a clap
and the thunder has arrived (god and god and god (0000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
00000000000000 (000000000000000000000000 (00000000
0000000 (except you are the same (a static and a deep hum (
found connection (found extraction (found reduction (growing
growing (growing (growing (sight gone (sight come (asterisks
against the climbing side (northern facing (eastern facing (.....
...................(it's good to be back (modular and entrapment (
floor design (wall hanging (get out of the town (sweet sweet (
tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetttttttttttttttttttttttttt (tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttttttttttttt (ah)))))))))))))))))))))))))
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))
Orgone
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
tempest
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
Carry (over_under) Carry
velocity speaking after tone removed and impulsed through the cataleptic normalised without synthetic movements and interrogation as scientific impulse drivers conscript and writhe in torpor now removed and collated into breakage and anticipation cast out and found without the forming and selective tired flashes of liability
this = skull
magnetic in the skyfall betterment longitudinal as ascetic entertainments re-modify entrapments known to fakir tempestuous and lotus shunting a speed so formal not antiseptic and renowned in thought and name so juxtaposed
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++
+++++++++
++++++
++++
++
+
solution breathes itself to life with transcendental
longing at magnetic height and muscle complexity
as selfsame as the honorifics embellishing through
mud brick anti-natal concluding only wake and
enterprising
Oratory Illumination (fracture)
illegitimate [phone as rung]
promulgated over this +
a shell to crack and take
abandonment so well
[phone ringing]
[phone ringing]
[phone ringing]
this colour comes in articulation writing sound through
causations known and unknown a crown atop the head
and breakneck pace
+running+
+running+
+running+
[the bell [phone]] has...
Oyster as Baptismal
explain
(explanation)
explain
(explanation)
+
+
+
vulnerable to this reciting
notation is the key
vouchsafed as
vouchsafed as
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
now the number is...
(,,,,,)
Bio: Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of Mexico Honey, The Mountain + The Cave and Deconstruction of a Symptom. His work has appeared in BlazeVox, Otoliths, Selcouth Station and elsewhere. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter @NJApoetry.
Poetry from Gaurav Ojha
Nirvana Gaurav Ojha There is no way out From the prisonhouse of language As long as we keep on hanging To symbols without content imprinted on our neurons We are the self that exists without reference of its own Assumption of a thinker hiding behind a thought A drop of rain separated from a cloud for the ripple on lake There is no still point that holds things together We are living a dream with a dream We have been speaking too much Let us put aside these tedious monologues And, listen to the silence of non-human existence It takes us beyond the meaning humans have made Why remain as a burden to our brains? Humans exist, therefore the denial of reality What is it like to live without our stabilizing assumptions? We have ideas for everything Our heads have become so weighty For the respite from this headache Take a dip into constant toothache of existence No need for a great renunciation Even as we embrace our illusions We can still become a Buddha on the dental chair No need to glue the self together for a social protocol Discompose your desires, identifications and memories As nothingness of being overflows, the self empties (KATHMANDU, NEPAL)