THE WITHERING LOTUS Our friendship was unique, kind and loyal everyone wanted to mimic us Friends from our childhood We've been wining and dining as brotherhood. We would dart into a dungeon together, We would fight for freedom & success We supported each other like rhizobia and legumes To fix our lives to this stage Climbing each stairs, clearing each steps; We would laugh, and lay each other's problems, to be shared and solved. But, how come? We're now dissolved I thought our bond was bound to eternity But, he's blinded with money and disloyalty grows He is greedy for gathering money And we strove to secure it until our success But he's a snake spitting out white saliva full of spites. Our stunning friendship like the moon and stars has dimmed and quenched Our white lotus was withering and yellowing Our pure friendship ended with stain.
Poetry from Abubakar Auwal
Mother's birth/journey to grave She died once more After she was born. The husbands she married Were blind, since she gives joy. Her children spread; Convolvulusly but not convolvulus. All her breath were shadows out. Not knowing she corrode in corral. Yet, her children were blind in proposals ; On whom to titled a father... Since 70s, 80s, 90s, 20s, till date ; All the cosmopolitans enjoyed her hood and goes away. May the spider-weavings of her children. Fall out from their coronets. To rewind mother, back alive.
Poetry from Imam Sarafadeen
Morning Dew
I sat down beside the tree
Talking to myself and and the surrounded bee.
Inside me, nothing shows but thy love
Turning and turning as the day rough.
Impossible possible, not my love for you,
Table for two is ours for true.
If your love is a prison, then I’m your criminal
Tag me around you and take me to anywhere tonal.
Is love not a beautiful thing?
Think of it, and tell me everything.
I am not ready for your preaches
tones that come by your inches.
Instantly, I wake up everyday,
Thy love comes to me as the morning dew and stay.
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Oh father oh father, oh father of the nation You are the Bangobandhu, Shaikh Mojibur Rahman From the heaven make the garden of Sonar Bangla You are alive in the slogan 'Joy Bangla'. You have given us a flag of green and red We are still under your love and shade We shall never forget your contribution You are the father of the nation. You have given us wind of independence We see in our heart your courageous face You are the source of our inspiration You are the hero of the heroes of the nation. Oh father.oh father, oh father of the nation You are the Bangobandhu, Shaikh Mojibur Rahman.
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
August, New Hope, 1961 By Christopher Bernard The heavy ripening summer, green in the mountains, high wheat, sleek corn, alfalfa massed against the ground, strawberries, raspberries, black, peaches almost over-ripe, tomatoes big and sweet – a sultry land baking hot with loam, topsoil, sleep. The year ripening: the wind from the north, in snow, rain, ice, forgotten. Trickles of moisture tickle the back of your neck. Nothing tempts like ice-sweat lemonade, except maybe a plunge in a pool under the hickories. Time stops for weeks. You never want it to move again. August the earth in that place slept and dreamt of a half-forgotten spring, winter dead, July’s hopes, as a whisper of coolness slipped inside, like a drop of water inside a crack. And under the sultry atmosphere a breath of ice stole like a knife, steely and rare. . . . Someone now long dead looked up from her summer book, hesitated, and said, to no one in particular, “I can feel fall in the air.” _____ Christopher Bernard’s collection The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award for Literary Excellence and was named one of the “Top Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews.
Poetry from Michael Pollentine
Ash When the tips No longer sprout Leaves And those clinging on Curve upwards Almost drawing A blanket over Itself Means It is dying It is easier to bring Down A dying tree Than a dead one Like transferring her to the hospice After we had transported her From her home To my bedroom And then From the hospice To the mortuary To be burned Amongst tears And scattered memories Of a life Voiced By someone else In my room Clearing Magazines With half finished Crosswords And curling pages I regret throwing out Pyre Purity Rages Its swollen scent Sucks Oxygen inwards Along with terror A procession Of curtains And burning eyes Terrarium A melting vortex In the shape of understanding A blind tear Virulent Energy blast Claw scrapes A cistern Spat in Capped Shaken The fizz forms After it stagnates Repugnant Ooze Bubbles Joy flicker In the slime of Transmutation Dare you touch the glass? Plush A flying Slug Torpedoes Glitter Trails Through a Black Eco-system Will it hit? Will it miss? Will it be lost? Will it even be first? Flirt Pheromones Tangle in the air Ejaculate A liquid rain In colour form Invisible Tangible Yet free of fingers Eyes Trace Lines Minds Wish To caress Inside a black hole A claw Waits For reckless Forms To eviscerate Or smother With Pathogens
Poetry from wv sutra
brother charles should a man wear a smock if not an artisan walking alone with his spirits feeling their affectionate regard his shoulders draped with the black flag of freedom wise to keep distance from the innkeepers and townsfolk wishers of ill should a man wear a large bow tie if he sings every day in a thrilling voice would he look absurd in the midst of greatness however briefly of the bourgeoisie waxing eloquent in a space of vermillion or possibly amaranth daguerreotype image ambiguous showing frustration or pique willing in spite of all to live in his own times helpful to others to me certainly in my fragmentation my dislocation any brief refuge any respite from the runaway omnibus i remember brother charles and the other brother charles the teacher opening wide his arms to the singer the francophone buddhist nostalgic for salad days at the sorbonne his reading list dragging behind him not to forget brother charles the trumpeter the messenger the bike enthusiast who filled his bottle as a boy emptying a thousand as a bearded man who now has gone hence in his winding sheet hand in hand with psychopomp where is the bygone man who would beat another on the street for what had been written and as the beaten one staggered on disgusted women would gather their skirts and spit with contempt fearful of the threat to polite society and with good reason yes the silence of my dreams is real the thrilling voice hallucination charles my brother gave me tones of gray for consolation and raised for me a temple in the midst of desolation wisest of brothers stretching forth a hand in loving valediction
w v sutra was born in Africa and raised in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, borne hither and thither on the surging tides of cold war and soft power. He has been at various times a rock musician, a public health professional, and an educator. He began writing poetry during the Covid-19 lockdown. His work can be found in various online journals and at wvsutra.com . He lives and works on a horse farm on the shoulders of the Holston Mountains in East Tennessee. Twitter @w_v_sutra