Drowning
this poem
is like the deep blue sea
rolling with numerous history
lingering in its sleeves.
at the depth of this poem
are dead bodies swimming to freedom,
bodies that have bumped themselves into death
while escaping the jaws of slavery,
this poem, too, is a graveyard
like the deep blue sea,
this poem is a diary
of many lives that never returned home
& dreams the sea waves have destroyed;
dive to the depth of this piece
you will see pieces of mama Liberia
swimming to the shores of freedom
wanting to be independent like the sun
with corruption glued to her skin;
she’s wearing a floater, but
her body is befriending the sea’s bottom.
Poetry from Sayani Mukherjee
Tipping Tinkle The hemlock trickles down, Slowly collides with the amber booze. The surface within, dilates Just like your hazel pupil. And the tipping tinkle, Notes the fifth symphony. A nausea of flagrant flashes blanks, Then all is fumed with nothingness. The hair I gripped and the arm I bled, Cloning of my own double, The smacked lips of lavender hue, Drunk her own poison too. Caved within shadows and flames, Of labyrinth of knowledge and of slumber, I too got burnt in the fire. Then a sudden drop of curtain, And the wall is now fallen. And the rest is the burning Sun. Bio Note: Sayani Mukherjee is a budding writer and an ardent lover of literature hailing from Chandannagar, a former French colony in West Bengal. Currently, she is pursuing her Master's in English literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. Recently her writing has been published in the literary magazine of her current alma mate and various international and national magazines and journals. In her free time she likes to engage herself in the world of cinema, art and cooking.
Poetry from Sushant Thapa
New Chapter
While studying your lessons
Do you wish to open the ball of clothy imagination?
Do you care to lighten your path
With a delightful conviction?
While touching the books from your shelves
Do you realize they are your
Guiding kingdom breathing in you?
The scent of pages of your books is
A perfume of true human essence
That has been inked by magical minds
Surpassing generations.
It can be the world you see with your mind's eye.
What forgiving hands hold the books!
A well-engineered nest of comfort
Where even a winner of the world
Takes a dive of love into another precious heart
And losses his own.
The teachings you choose
Make you a teacher itself,
A lifelong student deep inside
To appreciate the teacher of purpose.
You may teach life a new chapter every day!
2. Pleasure Is the Forgetful Pain
Freshness, joy
Height of bliss!
Solitude is a name
Of beautifully alone early dawn
Even before good morning
Is greeted.
Recollections keep finding itself in the
Address of deep and dark dusk.
In nature lies the truth
The zeal to uncover,
The moment to capture.
The net of will casted to
Cage the wide sky is eternity.
Forever the sleeping time awakes
In one moment.
The music of the rain
Pleasure is the forgetful pain.
In the atom of thought
Simplicity chooses
To become the only clarity.
Written by Sushant Thapa
Nepal
Poetry from Arthur Russell
On A Night When The Crickets Insist They are interested in power. They have a passion for moving large solid objects with their minds. They like waking up and tennis, from which they draw life lessons. They like chess as a metaphor , but they do not play. They are past wanting cars, watches or love beyond affection. They like frying chicken in an iron skillet, and cornbread stacked like a pyramid on a dinner plate. They don’t care about horses except as backdrops. They don’t know where fatigue comes from or where it goes. Ideas, even those filled with white moths, are steamer trunks. Their mother is 96. Their daughter is 30. They care about voter registration; less so, but still, to some degree, about the minimum wage. The moon is of no interest. They have no interest in construction sites. At a reception, when they see someone they worked with years ago, they brim. Harto is the word in Spanish. They have made their peace with their partner, though peace is not what they thought it would be. The center continues to vibrate like an impacted wisdom tooth. They are clean, sober and off Paxil. On the walls of their townhouse are souvenirs of longings they once felt the possibility of fulfilling when a gallery opening made them sense that life had been wasted on social missions. They love best at arm’s length. They are not afraid of famous or powerful people or intellectual prowess or athleticism, but they love Simone Biles. They never underestimate their enemies, or mistake passion for loyalty or kindness for weakness. The speed at which the Earth moves as it circles the sun – 67,000 miles per hour -- is never far from their mind. They used to go to a club in the basement of an office building in midtown and nurse one beer. People would sit down next to them, start a conversation, then move on when they didn’t respond to the vibe. Bees on a blossoming tree once meant something to them. They like a Korean barbeque place in Astoria. They believe in God without an ounce of anguish. They do not keep a clean house. Their maid once quit citing futility. The hallway that goes from their front door to their kitchen has African masks lining the wall. They are prepared for the end that often never comes. There are three people whom they keep away from their other friends and from one another. They sit on the board. They have one cup of the real stuff in the morning, then they switch to decaf. They remember: on the Staten Island Ferry, one New Year’s Eve, at midnight, in the harbor, out on deck, in the rainy wind with the woman whose idea it was to come, how their face felt, pelted with harbor spume and droplets of rain, hurting, vivid, but they don’t remember where they met her or how the night ended. They saw, early on, the limits of what intelligence could accomplish, but never escaped its addictive gleam completely. They like being in control the way books put them in control. Pick it up. The book speaks. Put it down. It shuts up. Speaks. Shuts up. Speaks. Shuts up.
Poetry from Chris Suah
It Is All Gone 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅, 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔, 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒊 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅, 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅. 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅, 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒅, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒊 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚. 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝒊 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒏𝒐 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒈𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒖𝒕. 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆, 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚, 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆. 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒉𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒃𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒆𝒅, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒚 𝒋𝒐𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒌, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅s. Poem By: Chris S. Suah
Poetry from Joe Balaz
RIGHT ON KEIA Wen you play dis crazy game nutting is really da same so you go easy, easy, and be right on keia. No freak ‘um out, just blow kisses from da mouth, and make dem realize dat you know wat it’s all about, right on keia half and half hurricane and gentle wind. Watch da leaves in da trees and see da various degrees on how tings stay gusting. Read it all like wun map and give ‘um right on keia half and half hurricane and gentle wind. No even trip it, moa bettah you HIP it, so bebop da constant cop trying to arrest your innate sense of reason and continue wit right on keia half and half hurricane and gentle wind. Keep it level to da eye even dough you stay up in da sky and make da buggahs question why dey no can bring you down. Deah’s only one way to play, as you move from day to day, right on keia half and half hurricane and gentle wind. right on keia Keia means “this” in Hawaiian. HIP Acronym for Hawaiian Islands Pidgin.
Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (HIP) and in American English. He has also created works in visual poetry and music poetry. He is the author of Pidgin Eye, a book of poetry. Balaz is an avid supporter of Hawaiian Islands Pidgin writing and art in the expanding context of World literature. He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio.
Short story from Abdulloh Abdumominov
The world of books Books lived on a beautiful ground. Books controlled children to read books. The books were like family. They were upset that a child was reading a book. The boy's name was Ozodbek. He didn’t really read books. He was just tired of computer games. The houses were a mess, only computer games could be played. Books in the World of Books interviewed the Book Council with the intention of inviting him to read a book. The books worked hard. The child was sent to a dark room. There was a book on a table in the room. There was also a lamp next to the book. Ozodbek used to say, "I will not go there even if I die." Because he couldn't get a book at all! From somewhere he would say, "We have four conditions for you. If you fulfill them, you will go home, and if you do not fulfill them, you will remain in this darkness." Ozodbek, who are you? Why did you bring me here? There were more "meet the conditions" calls. In desperation, Ozodbek read the terms. He began to fulfill the first condition. The first condition was: "He must work examples from the science of mathematics." Ozodbek could not work the examples in the first. He could not solve the examples even with his hand. Anyway, there was no result. He was very sorry he hadn't read the book. Then he started reading the book from beginning to end, and he did it, he read the book. He then slowly began to solve the examples. He couldn't solve one example, it was the last example, because it was a very difficult issue. Ozodbek was playing on the phone when his teacher explained. It is not written in the example book. He thought, unable to remember. His friend Diyor had explained the example to him. Diyor's words were memorable. Ozodbek did not like his friend Diyor, he thought his friend was very smart. But, after that, he found out he was a good friend and solved the example. After solving the example, he was given awards from the world of books and a “congratulations” sounded. He moved on to the next condition. The next condition was very helpful to him. Because he had to introduce himself in some language. He had bought a book when the book market came to his school. At that time, Ozodbek received a lot of money from his father for the book. However, he had taken a cheap book and used the rest. But that book helped him. He taught the book German. He nodded and introduced himself. He also passed this condition. Those who could not get the books were amazed to see the change in it. Then the boy moved on to the third condition. The third task was difficult for Ozodbek. He did not pass this condition well. Because this condition was to tell the life and work of a writer. Ozodbek regretted that he had not read the book and had not listened to the teachers. This condition helped him. He hated learning about writers. But Ozodbek liked to study writers. And he was given the last fourth task. He was given a book, he had to read the book. As he read the book, his hands trembled and he cried incessantly. Because this book was written about a child who had never read a book ... He had read about the plight of a child who had not read a book ... Unfortunately, Ozodbek was sent home from a dark room. The world of books was glad that the boy was back to reading again. When Ozodbek came home, he cleaned his house and immediately began to read a book. After that he started reading books. Ozodbek left new impressions ... The world of books was calm. It all ended well. Abdulloh ABDUMOMINOV, is a 7th grade student at School No. 102 in Tashkent