When winter's embrace arrives, Softly stirring from slumber, Like a hushed lullaby sung by gentle winds, Yearning for the familiar path of old, Guiding us towards the new. Like the courageous battle of dawn against night, I witnessed mama's presence, fierce and overpowering, As she crushed the boy and his mother, With a force that echoed through the air, Sucking the light from their souls. She attempted to bind the elusive breeze, But all she saw was the breeze binding her, Within the confines of her modest bamboo kitchen. Moments passed by, yet the tangled threads above remained oblivious, To the elusive vapor that perpetually emerged, From mama's fiery stick that dances with flames. But in the end, That flammable liquid quelled her burdens, And the threads warmly welcomed their companion, Transforming the walls into a canvas of darkness. Are you a soul, a being enraptured by melodies in this vast world? Yesterday, my mother's voice, like a bare tongue, unraveled a prophecy within me. It spoke of a looming day when those who cling to the insignificant beats will be drawn towards the allure of the most enchanting tones. On that last day, drums shall resound, reverberating throughout the realms for all to hear. Yet only a select few shall surrender to the rhythm's irresistible pull. But I question if this day bears the weight of judgment's hand, a day where girls and boys, women and men, shall race swifter than a fleeting sparrow. I beseech not for our presence in witnessing such a day, but for our transcendence, away from its grasp. For this day is known as "Nafsi, Nafsi," a whispered call to depart, where no companions can remain. It is a mystery, where strangers move alongside one another, their true selves concealed. In the depths of our hearts, we crave a tranquil oasis, where peace flows like a gentle river. Like the sweet embrace of a mother's love, unity is the tapestry that adorns our deepest desires. Our nation, once plagued with turbulence, yearns for the soothing balm of harmony. Fear shall not bind us, for we possess the courage of steadfast warriors. As we kneel in humble reverence, our prayers ascend like fragrant incense, seeking divine intervention for our heralds. Together, we must forge an unbreakable bond of trust, as solid as the earth beneath our feet. For the lands we tread upon are vast, stretching infinitely towards the horizon, beckoning us to summon our leaders and beckon forth their unwavering support.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
“ ‘Dead’ woman bangs on coffin during her own wake in Ecuador”
—Recent headline in an English newspaper
By Christopher Bernard
It is so dark. Ay Dios!
What is that smell above my head?
I think it is candles. Yes?
Why so? And there is singing?
No, it is sighing,
and moaning and weeping.
I think I hear
little Perdita with her husky voice.
My foot itches but I can’t reach it,
my arms are all wrapped up!
I can hardly move!
And what am I doing in a closet?
Graciela really needs to clean it out,
it smells of mothballs and bedbugs.
And what is it doing on the floor?
Am I dead?
But where are the angels?
Unless they are the ones weeping.
Or maybe they are devils,
and all their tears are lies.
If I am dead, I think it is very
uncomfortable.
My butt hurts! They really need to
consider adding a cushion.
I remember Beata’s face look
suddenly scared.
We were gossiping away – “When will
Teresa have her baby?
How is your niece in Nueva York?
Why did Alejandro do that terrible thing?”
– in her kitchen? in my kitchen?
Ay! My memory is getting so bad!
Then suddenly nothing.
But I heard something fall.
Then I was asleep, yes?
But such dreams!
Such shouting
and rushing through the streets!
I thought I saw a bit of sky.
I have not looked at the sky
since I was little.
And there, there it was . . .
It is quieter now.
And the smell of wood is restful.
I think there is a door close to my face.
What will happen if I knock on it?
If only I could move my hands!
I think I will give it a kick.
My feet, they seem free.
Si! I could give it a big strong kick!
Even an old lady can give a
strong kick if she wants.
I will give it a kick,
and maybe it will open.
And then maybe I will finally see
whether there is a heaven or not.
_____
Christopher Bernard’s collection The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Topic 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews. His two children’s books, the first in the “Otherwise” series – If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment Of Biestia – will be published by Regent Press in November 2023.
Poetry from Monira Mahbub
It's My Country My country is Bangladesh Filled with flowers and fruits With folk songs and cottage industries Green color and freshness Spread the green glow across the fields With its thousands of rivers and lakes This is my country-Bangladesh. 29 October, 2023 Monira Mahbub is a student of grade 6 in Nawabganj Government Girls' High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Poetry from Sayani Mukherjee
Peace. For Peace comes slow A sudden birth Unexpected win Balms your soul A royal blue impish touch Sometimes A hurricane It just Soothes For Peace comes slowly More difficult Than Love Loving One Each breathing Each Eyelashes It is private A fine jewel Must be hidden Kept Under your shirt For peace is precious Than Love Itself.
Poetry from Taofeeq Ibrahim
THE LAST MAN STANDING (1) I rise with a white flag in my hands for peace But shown up with a sorrowful smile Which holds none but my country's name. On my face there is a tint of jeopardy And scribbles that widely cover it Such that I look no more like a human being. With my tone I feel the waves of agony, And in my heart, there is an emblem of death For I alone has fought and vanquished my woes. Say, let it be as it is, and If there is still life Then, there is still hope even with a bloody heart Cause the last man standing is one with might But let be know that death is of no exception Thus even the last man standing today Is likely to become the first blood of tomorrow's war. By TAOFEEQ IBRAHIM (Newborn Poet 4)
Poetry from Nathan Anderson
Circular [movement] over [juxtaposing]
L
L
A
LLAC
CALL
L
A
C
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
lifted
from
nothing
to
find
in
nothing
////////////////////////////////////////////////////
///////////////////////////////////////////////////
yet...
...
the
hair
catches
in
the
monument
yet...
yet...
yet?????????
YES
YES
YES
'...............................................'
■
Language {as the} lotus {pulse}
ah
a
ah
a
..............................................
...................a
...................................ah
..........a
............................ah
□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□
□ □
□ □
□ sound □
□ □
□ □
□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□
now without reform the corner
turns and bleaches into noting
not spoken or stolen but ringing
and ringing and ringing and...
ETC.
ETC.
E C.
TC.
E .
and now I'll take the tune and
smother the ring into the bound
hand and the corner that has
come unstuck and coloured
white and blue and gold and...
a n d
s o
s a i d
a g a i n
BREATH
AND LET
GO
Lost without Translucence
ba
ba
ba
ba
!
only
lonely
this
==▲
==■
==●
SHUTTERED WITHOUT WARNING
...................................................
'I told you to watch the weather'
...................................................
a
WARNING
to
THROATS
in any case I am estranged
==▲
==■
==●
pause
pulse
ba
ba
a
Progression [into] hyper-modern
as
S T A I N
//strip mined//for mercury//
ABSTAINED
//from the//dense step//
half===============this
half===============this
++
++
..............................................
walking
backwards
talking
eastwards
{{shaped
like an}}
{{elephant
TUSK!}}
Re(turned) to form as (catalyst)
re
re
re ----member
e
m
e
b
e
r
▲
▲▲
▲▲▲
and fit to size
the
bicycle
and G
O
D
sit
the
same
where is your
LOTUS
NOW
▲
▲▲
▲▲▲
Nathan Anderson is a poet and artist from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. He is a member of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter/X and Bluesky @NJApoetry.
Poetry from Manzar Alam
Hope in hopelessness Souls are craving to breath in air a little fresh. But the air is polluted By the smoke of injustice Unruliness, suppression and lie. How can we inhale The breeze of the morn and the eve? The wind is giving the smell of rotten things Then how can we breathe and how can we live? Illegal power, money and wealth Are killing humanity and human rights. The present world is experiencing silently the all. Musclemen are amassing wealth Depriving downtrodden, middleclass and the poor as well. And the right of the people crying in vain. But amidst this hopelessness there is a hope With great Shelley can’t we say ‘If winter comes can spring be far behind?’ Surely, surely the spring will come Demolishing injustice, deprivation and lie. (Manzar Alam from Bangladesh. By profession I am a college teacher.)