Jeevesh Augnoo is currently based in Mauritius, where he teaches law, management and employability skills. He is also a content writer and voice actor. Over the years, he has lent his voice to various causes including youth empowerment, community development, mental health and the environment, through leadership positions within numerous organisations, including the Port Louis Hub of the Global Shapers Community, St Joseph’s College Old Boys Association, Mind Matters Mauritius and Rotary Club of Mahebourg.
He is the author of the poetry book The Alphabets and keeps on writing poems and stories in English, French and Mauritian Kreol .
Here are some poems and a short story by Jeevesh Augnoo:
English
Up and Down
You can do it It is not always too late Do not just say this is my fate It is about keeping faith Believe in your ability Take action with humility Seek help if you need to Reach out when you need to You are not alone The moment is not yet gone The story is not fully written You can make it happen| You are wonderful You are powerful [1]
[1] Read it from the top to bottom and the other way round.
The world is mine
Life in the fast lane Was more than I could bargain Tears of joy in the rain In the sun, tears of pain An aching heart, yet hopeful For the love I am grateful I am enough yet more I will settle the score Like the seed in the darkness I will blossom in all my greatness I know it will be fine The world is mine
Now
You are a seeker of light Looking to do what is right You do not give up without a fight You get it done with all your might There is a promise you make To no longer be fake To be simply true To be simply you Make it today, make it now And uphold your vow
Mauritian Kreol
Loraz lor baz
Enn gro lapli pe fwete dan laplas Partou nwar kouma kafe dan mo tas Monn asize tousel lor mo teras Pou admir lanatir fer so grimas Enn kou enn zekler nek desir niyaz Enn gro toner swiv ek so gro tapaz Loraz Lor baz Dan mo leker mem sinema Depi ki to nepli la Me mem si mo pa trouv twa To bann souvenir amenn mwa lazwa Kouma disik kinn fonn dan mo kafe Zot rann lavi amer inpe sikre.
French
Mesdames
Mesdames, vous êtes les créatures de noblesse, répandant autour de vous tant d’allégresse, avec vos façons de faire mielleux de finesse, vos habitudes à comprendre avec gentillesse, mais si besoin un tempérament de tigresse, à cause de ceux qui tombent dans la bassesse. Mesdames, vous êtes pleines de sagesse, dignes héritières des anciennes prêtresses, avec le charme et la beauté d’une princesse, prêt à écouter nos prières comme une déesse, et à punir nos pêchés comme une diablesse Mesdames, vous vous êtes fait une promesse| de tout donner comme les Spartiates de Grèce, tous les jours, afin que tout le monde progresse, mais je tombe trop souvent dans la faiblesse. Mesdames, je vous envie, je le confesse.
The legend
The air was crisp and fresh. The chirping of the birds in the distance made this early moment of the day full of romanticism, as the rays of the rising sun split the morning mist and showered the whole area in a golden hue. Yet, the two individuals crouched against the rocks and shrubs that sweet morning were far from indulging in what seemed a moment of serenity. As the sun started to emerge from behind early morning clouds, and the dew started to evaporate slowly diffusing the fragrance of the flowers around, the two bodies moved furtively and steadily along what seemed to be a path in the forest around them. Each step seemed to be unsure, yet bravely taken. Suddenly, there was a deafening silence.
No bird singing, near or far.
No leaves rustling in the breeze.
Nothing.
They could hear their hearts beating, in an increasing tempo, similar to the rain drops hammering the small pond outside their village during the sudden downpours, which had become more and more common as the temperature rose to indicate the arrival of summer.
They remained completely immobile in the stillness of the moment and waited, not certain what to exactly expect. As quickly and suddenly as the silence made its appearance, it went away. The usual sounds of the forest came back, with the melodious cacophony of the birds becoming stronger and the sound of the wind through the leaves of the various exotic bushes and trees becoming more vociferous. It seemed that the eye of a cyclone had just passed. The two individuals looked at each other and thought now was a good time to make progress. They arched themselves slowly into a standing position and started to make long strides across green and brown natural carpet of the forest floor. As they made their way ahead with caution, they could hear the faint sound of the water from the stream. They looked at each other with hope. This could only mean one thing. They were not far away and the legends they had heard were true. They heaved a sigh of relief, looked up at the sky and mumbled something to themselves, before walking again.
It had been two days already since they had left their village on the Northwestern part of the island. At first, they thought they would have been stopped by someone. They were wrong. They had passed a few people on the way, and not even one of them seemed to care. The passers-by looked mindlessly ahead of them, as if oblivious to their presence. Those who seemed to notice vaguely smiled, and then made their way to their destination. This prompted them to act normal and follow the same ritual of moving ahead looking straight in front of them. They managed to do it with one small difference. While most of the travellers were walking nonchalantly, the two villagers looked too focused and engrossed in deep thoughts, which led to their faces being covered in small beads of sweat. A more careful eye would have noticed it easily. The latter had set out late in the afternoon, and it seemed everybody who crossed their path was eager to get somewhere.
As they reached the bottom of the valley, they could hear the sound from the stream being amplified. In front of them, a huge boulder obstructed their view. They were certain the stream would come in sight after they passed the boulder. This gave them fresh hope. They knew, from what they had heard, that once they reach the stream, it was a matter of simply following the course of the water in the direction of the bright star. They once again looked at each other and nodded slightly, as if ascertaining what needed to be done. They made their way warily towards the boulder. As they got nearer, they noticed the colour of the boulder looked unnatural. It did not look as if it belonged there. They tried to climb around it and felt there was something moving from inside. They stopped in their tracks and thought they there were imagining things as they had neither slept nor eaten properly for the past two days. As they tried to climb around the stony obstacle again, they felt their heads slowly emptying and their bodies drained of all the force. They looked at each other again and could see terror and fear reflected in each other’s eyes. The last thing they remembered was their bodies slumping against the boulder.
After what seemed an eternity, they slowly opened their eyes. It was already dark. The ruckus of the morning had died down and there was another more sinister brouhaha going on. At first, they tried to speak, but nothing came out of their mouth. As their eyes slowly started to adapt to the darkness, they squinted to try and see where they were. There was definitely no boulder in sight. They looked at each other with more scrutiny to check for any signs of a wound.
Nothing.
One of them tried to get up on his feet but could not feel them. It was impossible to get up even by pushing down on their hands for support. A weird feeling started to take them over as their breathing accelerated. They had barely talked to each other since they left. There had been practically no need as they communicated with their eyes and body movements. This led to them developing a weird sense of synchronicity and understanding. They sat quietly trying to recall what had happened.
The boulder.
The numbness.
The blank.
They did not know what happened and did not know what was happening. They tried to look around again and could only establish that they were in some sort of small clearing surrounded by huge trunks. The leaves of the trees were so dense above that the weak light of the stars were not visible.
They resolved to lying down to preserve their strength and huddled together one against the other.
As they did so, they heard footsteps approaching. They sat down immediately, trying to make out the figure approaching in the dark, holding a small torch made of roots. Whoever emerged from the darkness looked very similar to them, yet with a stronger build, with a body that was covered in scars, some short and some long, and a face impossible to decipher, with the shadows formed by the small light, disfiguring its features. They looked at the figure with a little bit of hope and sensed they were not far from their destination. Their journey had not been in vain. They had the stories about the legend so many times, from the elders. There had been so many versions of the story over the years, but the core remained the same. The legend was true. They could feel it. They looked at each other again, and looked at the individual bearing the light, who simply nodded and started to walk away.
They tried to get back on their feet again, and this time, there were no issues. They got up and started walking, in silence, following the light. As their eyes started to get more and more accustomed to the dim light, they could see the path, which they were following. As they walked on, they could hear voices, muffled. They went in their direction. A few minutes later, they found themselves in front of a cave. Their escort stopped and motioned them to get in. They looked at each other and nodded. Looking at each other was reassuring. They stepped in and found that the cave started to get smaller and smaller before turning into a tunnel. They kept walking, finding their way from the dim light that was now behind them. The stranger had not said anything at all, yet they seemed to understand one another. The orifice they had entered into started to move in an upwards slope. At some point, they could hear the sound of water, and wondered if it was the stream.
After walking for what seemed like a long hour, they reached a fork in the tunnel, and stood there helplessly, not knowing where to go. Just then the lights went out. They could not see anything. They stood there helplessly and tried to look behind them for a sense of direction. They could not see anything and did not know if there was someone there after all. As panic and fear started to engulf their bodies, they saw light at the end of path on the right of the fork, and hastily made their way in this direction. As their footsteps became more confident, they started to take longer strides and crossed into the light.
They could not believe their eyes.
They were finally there.
The legends were true and did not do justice to where they were. They looked at one another again and kept looking around until they felt the presence of somebody else. It was the same stranger, who said in a raspy loud voice.
“Welcome. You were poisoned by fungi near the boulder. We brought you here now. Let us meet the chief!’’
They looked at each other, nodding in agreement and started to follow the stranger. As they walked across the cave, those around them brought their hands together across their chest as a way to salute and welcome them. They responded similarly, still in disbelief that they had actually made it. They reminisced about the late conversations around the fire in the night, as the stars glistened in the sky. The legend was real. It existed. She existed. She had been talked about so many times by the elders, so many times by those who had walked in from far away destinations. They knew they were going to see her. As they reached a larger space within the labyrinth underground, they saw a piece of paper stuck to one of the pillars. It looked like one of the notices which were sometimes nailed to the village entrance, as you would walk in. While their gaze slowly moved away from the paper to someone who had just entered the room, they looked at her and looked at each other.
She was here.
The legend.
They saw her slowly making her way down towards them and looked at the piece of paper again. There was no mistake.
It was her in the flesh.
Suddenly, there was a refreshing tension in the atmosphere and in a dramatic coincidence, her face became aligned with the piece of paper on the pillar. Maybe it was not a coincidence after all. They looked at her face, then the notice. It was slightly torn in the middle, but they could read what was written at the bottom clearly, even though their literacy skills were not as extensive as the other villagers. In black stencilled letters, they could make out the name of the legend.
Melissa A. Chappell is a poet, a writer and a musician. She also loves the outdoors, as she works as an assistant park ranger in one of South Carolina’s state parks. Nature inspires a great deal of Chappell’s poetry as she resides in rural South Carolina and enjoys the land around her. She graduated with a BA in Music Theory from Newberry College and an MDiv from the Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary. She served for a year in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in the inner city, where she learned and received much more than she taught or gave. She spent eight years serving a small parish in southwest Virginia, where she became more committed to her writing. Her work there eventually led to five published books. Her most recent book is For the Next Earth, (Wipf and Stock, 2021). The writers most influential to Chappell are Sylvia Plath, Wendell Berry, Adrienne Rich, Mary Oliver, and Carolyn Forche. Chappell also credits as an inspiration the Hub City Writers’ Workshop, out of Spartanburg, South Carolina. She has met many wonderful writers and poets there and has become all the better for it. Melissa dreams of traveling one day, especially to Spain.
Here are some poems by Melissa Chappell:
Blue for Air
The ground trembles with love in its running, railing veins, capturing the slow earth around, as you capture me, turning, circling, with haste, your pulsing arms red, as writhing roots encase the underworld.
We are the air, leaves afresh, stems penetrating earth with the velocity of fiber optics, capturing our essence, blue for air, red for life. We burst into being: bone to bone, flesh to flesh. Sun to sun.
We rise into the blue ether, the colorless sunset, the vermillion earth left beneath us. Freed from the loving bonds that once held us ages past in the underworld, we have come into a stranger world of our love, only, with the air, the blue air, our garland of bleeding sky.
Remnant Day
Remnant day along the sidewalk, leaf bones rattle in the growling wind. No one sees them, as no one sees orphans and widows or a rotting orange peel
on the rasping pavement. The penny, Lincoln’s noble head desecrated once again with soot and grime, ground beneath someone’s heel outside the Aldi’s. No one bothers. It is worth only one hundredth of a dollar,
and what is a dollar worth now? The wind catches it up in its teeth and, unleashed, whisks it away between the tall man buildings, which see nothing. The unseen slips away into a street grate, forgotten.
The sun slings its light as a branch, shining across the concrete, for a sparrow. It drops seeds that grow into a broad field of flaxen wheat. We are the blind man by the pool of Siloam. Yet even sighted we trample the field until the light burnishes ragged and rusting, then shimmering in the twilight, as ossified bones, hoping we will
at last see the day’s fractured remnants so small, holes burrowed deep and bright in an asphalt sky: the evening’s undefiled lights.
Out of the Meadow, and Dreaming
We crawled beneath the low fence, bloodying our backs, to find the meadow of stars which had been cast down by the Most High. They burned like ice. We lay among them, you and I, in the weeping grain, the wayward rain that should not be falling, but “should not” is a trivial negative grammatical spice, a modal continuous of the verb “have not”. Let it lie in the ground and instead cry “Rise!” to the “shoulds”. This is life in God’s
meadow.Bury my lover and me here among these effulgent stars that have come hurtling through the demented night to be caught in love’s pocket, in this smallest of meadows where the grass grows so sweet that I want to taste it, drink the water from its blade. So lush, it is not even sung by the fire stones that have come to rest here. Hear the cricket sing praise. Hear the wakeful bird sing joy. Hear the hissing snake sing peace.
It is a meadow of reconciliation. Yet as the sun eclipses the moon, we were eclipsed from one another. Strike us with your judgments of “shoulds” and “should nots”. Of “righteousness” and “unrighteousness”. A loneliness large as a great field stands between us. We lost our shadows somewhere in the deranged night. The stars in the slow meadow were replaced with cold stones. We went weeping, crawling out of the meadow underneath the fence, and dreaming.
When I Consider Him
When I consider him, I have no means to measure the oceanic truth of his love for me. There is no sonar made for such a purpose, no line sounding, nothing to gauge the phosphor fathoms that both hold and haunt.
The crescent shore is a bare leg burnished by the sun. We walk into our worlds of mist. My world with him is filled with sharp-edged shells that wound me, the dune grasses that caress me, ambiguities that mystify me,
passivity that agitates me, and a touch that razes me. I am deep in places where he cannot reach, a book of pebbled words that I collect for me alone, in jade, alabaster, coral, cyan. I keep them in my water globe,
for things precious have been taken before. He possesses his own deep place. He is quiet as a tidepool. I cannot reach him. In the rim of the night, next to him, I do not know where he is, or where he goes, behind his thalassic eyes.
Of Yarrow and Tarragon
Man of dust, from where did you come? From the troubled, umbrous earth of Eden? Or did you come forth through woman’s crimson canal, with the wail of Faulkner’s crying| riverboat?| Man of sorrows, did you come from the tide of battle, the last red poppy broken, possessing no honor to| give to you? Then bend to me. Let me catch a fistful of your breath as a hungering woman tears the apple from a tree. I will taste and see what truth lingers on my tongue. If there is both water and blood streaming from the wound, the warring past and the newness of the present “now,” let us lay down our befouled blades, making peace with the earth. Then let us go walking in the fields from which we both arose, among differing, bitter wars, among the yarrow and sweeter tarragon.
No celebration is complete without music. So, this year on the occasion of International Dylan Thomas Day, I’m glad to feature some songs highlighting Dylan Thomas’s famous poem Do not go Gentle into that Good Night.
Many thanks to the singers for these moving songs!
by Vatsala Radhakeesoon (Artist, Editor and Organizer)
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated each year on 14th May. This date marks the anniversary of the reading of Dylan Thomas’s popular play Under Milk Wood for the first time in New York in 1953. 2023 is a special year as it marks the 70th anniversary of that memorable masterpiece.
This event welcomes people of all artistic fields to express their appreciation for Dylan Thomas’s writings. So, I am delighted to feature the works of some artists inspired by that Welsh poet’s unique creativity.
Many thanks to those artists!
Hope fans of Dylan Thomas will appreciate the following paintings:
LIDIA CHIARELLI ITALY
Artwork of VISUAL POETRY
“Visual poetry can be defined as poetry that is meant to be seen – poetry that presupposes a viewer as well as a reader”.
LLAREGGUB Digital Art, printed on paper 70 x 50 cm
Lidia Chiarelli (Turin, Italy). Writer, artist, translator, founder with Aeronwy Thomas of the literary-art movement Immagine & Poesia (2007). Six nominations for the Pushcart Prize (USA). Awarded the Literary Arts Medal (NY) 2020. Sahitto International Grand Jury Award 2021. Coordinator of Dylan Day in Italy.
Flight into the Magic Mixed media on canvas 60 x 50 cm
Gianpiero Actis (Torino, Italy). Eye surgeon and artist, with permanent exhibitions in the UK (Swansea, Wales) and in Belgium (Huy). In 2007 co-founder of the art-literary Movement “Immagine &Poesia” with Aeronwy Thomas. http://gianpieroactis.jimdo.com/
JULIET PRESTON USA
Flow of Time Digital Art 2048×1936 pixel 4.0 MP
Juliet Preston is a poet at heart, an artist by passion, and a RF engineer by profession.
FAISAL MATEEN INDIA
Deaths and Entrances Watercolour 26 x 18 inches
Faisal Mateen is a renowned artist of Bhopal (India). He has been active in the field of “Art and Designing” for 31 years. He is the founder of “Art for Cause”, “I Design Dreams” and created “Surma Bhopali” a fictional cartoon. He has over 50 group and solo physical art exhibitions, 30 Online exhibitions in Pandemic time (including 2 exhibitions held in famous Jehangir Art Gallery, Mumbai) to his credit. He has conducted 5 auctions of his artworks to help the people suffering due to the Pandemic. Now, he is working as illustrator & artist at Mr Neelesh Misra’s Slow contents Pvt Ltd. (Mumbai). He recently got the award ” Faqre- Bhopal ” By begums of Bhopal at pari bazaar 3.
VATSALA RADHAKEESOON MAURITIUS
Song of Silence Acrylic on paper 40×30 cm
Vatsala Radhakeesoon has been writing poetry for 30 years and is the author of numerous poetry books. She is also an abstract artist and likes to experiment various possibilities that bless Art. She considers Visual Art as her healer in all circumstances of life. Vatsala is a literary translator and currently lives at Rose-Hill, Mauritius.
by Vatsala Radhakeesoon (Writer/Poet, Editor and Organizer)
Hello Writers/Poets and Literature-lovers!
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated each year on 14th May. This date marks the anniversary of the reading of Dylan Thomas’s popular play Under Milk Wood for the first time in New York in 1953. 2023 is a special year as it marks the 70th anniversary of that memorable masterpiece.
International Dylan Thomas Day, Mauritius is back on my blog and this year I am really delighted to receive various styles of poetry such as free verse, haiku, haibun and a unique telegram embracing a prose poem. The contents of the poems are all related to Dylan Thomas and his works as perceived by each individual poet whose work has been accepted and published here. Thus, I’m really grateful to all those who have sent their well- crafted poems expressing their appreciation for the greatest poet of Wales.
I would like to thank the granddaughter of Dylan Thomas, Hannah Ellis, and Lidia Chiarelli, the founding editor of Immagine and Poesia for inviting and encouraging me to conduct this event from Mauritius.
Hope the readers will enjoy reading the poems featured on this blog post.
Thank you!
Sending blessings of peace and light to Everyone!
POEMS
John Thieme UK
Milkwoodings
When I wake-Wednesday mornings from my dreamt bible-black of drownings in Milkwoodings, I am renewed by the Dylin-sanity of the unhinged ever, never-moving village. As I watch Llareggub reverse its backward letters, I have the wherewithnothing to throw off my polar sheets and the mid-weak night-time melting of the planet’s icecapes. Llareggub’s crazed community of day-long dreamers will once again postpone the waning of the world, until such time as commonsanity returns at dusk and fresh tsunamis drown the blazing fields. Though seas now climb to record levels, and frowning hills have avalanched coalpitted towns, daytime Milkwoodings still speaks a self-sustaining language that keeps the coastlands sheltered from the storm. Milkwoodings resurrects the wondery of words.
John Thieme is a Senior Fellow at the University of East Anglia, UK. He previously held Chairs at the University of Hull and London South Bank University and has also taught at the Universities of Guyana and North London, and as a Visiting Professor at the Universities of Turin, Hong Kong and Lecce. His academic books include Postcolonial Con-Texts: Writing Back to the Canon, Postcolonial Literary Geographies: Out of Place, The Arnold Anthology of Post-Colonial Literaturesin English, and studies of Derek Walcott, V.S. Naipaul and R.K. Narayan. His creative writing includes Paco’s Atlas and Other Poems (2018) and the novels The Book of Francis Barber (2018) and Cabinets of Curiosities (2023). His most recent critical book, Anthropocene Realism: Fiction in the Age of Climate Change is forthcoming from Bloomsbury later this year.
Jhaya Gujadhur Mauritius
Spirit in a Cage
Tame thy beast.
Do thee need a leash? Inside are anger and hunger. In the mind, a feast. Wants the heart a rise. Dwells freedom outside a jail of spy. Sleep desires in west and in bruise. Is the sun in grief or is it a ruse? Asks the animal facing the east.
Holding are instincts, on guard are ethics and pitiless is a world of critics. Yelling is a misery called truthand – the hope of crafted lies.
Beyond the bars, learning morals and fighting wars,| a set of principles and values do thee have to please. Pulsions and carelessness do thee have to appease.
Embracing danger, scuffling the soul in a jail of detainees, burning prudence in a mistrust of guarantee and good faith. Alas, firm is judgement in showing no mercy. Call it not cruelty!
Oh spirit in flesh, burdening thoughts in a mess. Vibrations and wishes are on quest. Ain’t time a hook but feels growth an arrest. Reside timings and processes in nooks. Looking for the key, if wise words can pacify wilderness, may the beast grab books and start to have a closer look. Red of rage, steamed words pressure a vent overcooked.
A beast in prison knows no reason. Break want thee rib cages like a lunatic searching for the unknown cosmic. Feathered by angels, shielders against abyss and shadowers of aurora. Guardians of the untamed, wake no beast to a frantic.
Warding off temptations, dousing the bosom of rebellions, greet the light of liberation as ahead is the pathway of salvation.
“A conversation among the confused, the stable and the insane!”
“I hold a beast, an angel and a madman in me. Said Dylan Thomas! “
Jhaya Gujadhur is a writer/poet and nurse. She describes herself, “As a passionate writer, contemplating on topics and debates, writing flows as prescriptions through the pen of the nurse. Where she just feels, she heals!”
Linda Imbler USA
From Swansea to Laughame
Son of the sea, virtuoso of the villanelle, the sound of his verse glides as a rhapsody, the bind of his words, like (magic) roses to a bower,| carries through memory| (like lovers who be lost.)
The mythology of his soul, drunk with alliterative prayers, the imagery of verbal (rage,)| defosiwn (devotion) to| his belief that one language is not enough, (he walks abroad in the shower of all his days,) reflecting the chain (from his fierce tears) that afflict all poets.
Linda Imbler is an internationally published poet with ten published poetry collections and one hybrid ebook of short fiction and poetry. She is a Wichita, Kansas based author. Learn more at: lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.
Sunil Sharma Canada
Romantics never die!
There! Sits the last Romantic of England
the scents of the Welsh countryside and Celtic legends/ myths formulating in his bloodstream.
Dylan Thomas, the poet hears the sounds of the sea (Marlais, middle name, is the name of a river; rivers and seas run in his soul)
sitting in his shack that overlooks the fishing village of Laugherane, off the coast, beyond Carmarthen, where he continues to revise poems, (sometimes, 500 alterations in a single poem, we are told).
Caitlin provides the anchor to a mind restless, searching for the right words for emotions deeply felt.
The Boat House, a much-needed home, home| as a sanctuary for this Keatsian descendent;
The Cross House Inn and Brown’s Hotel, his daily stage.
Thanks to Dylan, the world can still see hear those mellifluous words imagery that leaps out of lines, composed with tender care!
And: See
the clown in the moon feel the winds of the Fern Hill
rage, rage, rage before going into that night out there waiting, for all, at some point of time!
Sunil Sharma loves to listen to the symphonies of the birds, winds, oceans, rivers and watch the sky and stars for their ethereal beauty. Currently based in Toronto, Canada, he has published 26 creative and critical books so far— joint and solo. A winner of, among others, the Golden Globe Award-2023, and Nissim Award for Excellence for the novel Minotaur. His poems were included in the prestigious UN project: Happiness: The Delight-Tree: An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, 2015. Editor of the monthly Setu journal (English): https://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html
It’s that time On this earth When the sun Breaks down, or So it seems…
The sun breaks down… Its pieces fall into the sea And the rays of the breaking sun Get reflected in the waters That absorb the light and the
SUN!
And I look at the dying Sunlight and think of My lost lover… her face Elbows out the last remains Of the dying sun and then Disappears in the sea
A seagull circles Above my head…
Am I a lost lover? May be…
But my love is not lost. Love Has Its own Dominion!
Pranab Ghosh is a poet, writer and journalist. His poems and prose pieces have come out in several international and Indian magazines and e-zines, including, Indian Literature ,Dissident Voice, Piker Press, Impspired.com, Visual Verse, Memoryhouse, Scarlet Leaf Review etc.. His second book of poems, Soul Searching and Other Poems, was published in 2017 from Toronto by Scarlet leaf Publishing LLP. His latest book of poems, Vision of the World and Other Poems was published in 2020 by the UK-based Impspired.com. Couple of books are in the pipeline.
Juliet Preston USA
In the Flow of Time
I go about my day each and every day. Moonrise and sunset witness how time flies. The stars at night, they too have stood the test of time.
It is the same force Dylan Thomas echoes in his “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower.” In the flow of time, I too am a part of this helpless ploy. The very same force causes frailty of life, innocence gone. Powerless to change the wheel of time is my melancholy. Opportunity to savor the bittersweet of life is my deliverance. In the presence of the eternal time, I humbly pray to lessen my agony for the passing of time.
Juliet Preston is a poet at heart ,an artist by passion and a RF engineer by profession.
Kieu Bich Hau Vietnam
Dance my life
A note of music falls to my dream My mind starts to swing My heart starts to sing My soul starts to dance And all the world dances Around me
A sudden dance falls on the pavement Can inspire the loving woman Compose thousands of verses Start a beautiful life Inside me
Kieu Bich Hau was born in 1972 in Hung Yen Province, Vietnam. She graduated from Hanoi University for Teachers of Foreign Languages (English Department) in 1993 and holds a Certificate of Creative Writing Course from the Nguyen Du School for Creative Writing. Currently, she serves as the Executive Expert of the External Affairs Office of Vietnam Writer’s Association, a position she has held since 2019. Prior to this, she was the Managing Editor of Vietnam Textile – Garment – Fashion Magazine from 2011 to 2021. From 2008 to 2011, she served as the Deputy Editor-in-Chief of Intellectual Magazine, and from 1993 to 2003, she was the Deputy Manager of the Editorial Board of New Fashion Magazine. She currently resides in Hanoi, Vietnam.
Sabyasachi Nazrul Bangladesh
Dream fly…
Oh, a million of dreams in a nourished chest, Dreamy flying birds that do not fly! Rest… In a full moon of lights in skies Fly your dreams in Jotsna of blue skies.
Feeling lively heart in souls kring kring punch, Why do you stay behind like a staunch?
Concentrate on your face immanently sweet eyebrows, Focus on your front like an invincible hero. Way is it so late! why on delay? Go ahead with firm oath on right way…
Sabyasachi Nazrul is a renowned bilingual global poet, motivational author, translator, presenter, and world peace ambassador. He has won many awards and accolades for his work, including a Global Peacemaker Doctorate and being recognized as a World Symbol of Peace. His works have been translated into 31 international languages and published in numerous national and international newspapers, magazines, and literary journals across 54 countries. He has authored two poetry books and edited a literary magazine called “kittinasar kirtti”.
Lidia Chiarelli Italy
Llareggub
(Tribute to UNDER MILK WOOD by Dylan Thomas)
My dreams lead me to an ebony dark town. I see dancing and fluid shadows behind the windows. The church clock strikes midnight.
I can hear the dew falling and the sleepers’ quiet breath. No star or moon enlightens the sky tonight.
Llareggub is silent under an invisible star fall. Yet so fairy yet so innocent and eternal caressed by the night sea breeze.
And I sink deeper into that magic world into that bible-black well of night. An invisible and timeless realm surrounds me silently.
Then the night surrenders to the first lights. Now the voice of the sea becomes a water and wind Prayer among the fleeing clouds.
Lidia Chiarelli (Turin, Italy). Writer, artist, translator, founder with Aeronwy Thomas of the literary-art movement Immagine & Poesia (2007). Six nominations for the Pushcart Prize (USA). Awarded with the Literary Arts Medal (NY) 2020. Sahitto International Grand Jury Award 2021. Coordinator of DylanDay in Italy. Her poems are translated in many languages and published in several countries around the world. https://lidiachiarelli.jimdofree.com/
Allison Grayhurst Canada
Poet
My breath and blood, my spiritual soldier, death expresses itself then ends to find another muse. Hold me in your form, unoffended, know I am capable of true choice, planting colours before unseen.
My last call, I am withdrawing, weakening, biting a bitter morsel. Darkness is a hymn, infiltrating my subconscious.
I will take the globe and smash the sphere, my boundless exemplary love, lover of the embracing midnight, star light and roses.
I will give up all my rituals, my summer garden to walk again, with you, on fire.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for “Best of the Net,” she has over 1375 poems published in over 525 international journals. She has 25 published books of poetry and 6 chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay.
Collaborating with Allison Grayhurst on the lyrics, Vancouver-based singer/songwriter/musician Diane Barbarash has transformed eight of Allison Grayhurst’s poems into songs, creating a full album entitled River – Songs from the poetry of Allison Grayhurst, released 2017.
Some of the places her works have appeared in include Parabola (Alone & Together print issue summer 2012); SUFI Journal (Featured Poet in Issue #95, Sacred Space); Elephant Journal; Literary Orphans; Blue Fifth Review; The American Aesthetic; The Brooklyn Voice; Five2One; Agave Magazine; JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, Drunk Monkeys; Now Then Manchester; South Florida Arts Journal; Gris-Gris; Buddhist Poetry Review; The Muse – An International Journal of Poetry, Storm Cellar, morphrog (sister publication of Frogmore Papers); New Binary Press Anthology; Straylight Literary Magazine (print); Chicago Record Magazine, The Milo Review; Foliate Oak Literary Magazine; The Antigonish Review; Dalhousie Review; The New Quarterly; Wascana Review; Poetry Nottingham International; The Cape Rock; Ayris; Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry (now called The Journal); The Toronto Quarterly; Existere; Fogged Clarity, Boston Poetry Magazine; Decanto; White Wall Review.
Dustin Pickering USA
Polypterus*
– after “Ballad of the Long-Legged Bait”
Evolution courts its pleasures from Love which is a unity of life. Intelligence inflames with definitions and the gray horse rides on,
uncertain of its own ambiguity. Plasticity! The placenta of the sea holds a pearl of Love’s true way– the walking fish, casts from the sea itself.
Oh, vertebrae of long-cupped Time! Brimmed posture of wonder where the sails are cast brightly and in fear– Aphrodite-shell of renewal, Jericho the ravaged city,
We know doom enters the night solemn-birthed and long-legged, woman is sin and the sexes divide; the fairer love can handle the rotting impulse.
When did this angelshape arise from the sea? Man’s necessity called for her, temptress of dawn, death culls back the ghostly flesh, and evolution courts its pleasures.
Each city falls into misty slumber, history aching within the rubble, woman’s form is the shadow of death– she climbs the seven tombs of the waves
catching a glimpse of what knowledge spares. We should not know what it means to be God. This frightening Circumference inhales bitterly, re-examining the plight breathed into us
by life’s solemn forms. Shapes of demon, thought of foam and pearl announce: this apple of the fisherman’s plucked middens catches the illiterate off guard
as night spreads over life a castle’s shadow. All of life’s forms are within the castle’s walls, before and after Time, illumined by sun: by Joshua’s call are all things turned away again.
* Note: This poem is an interpretation of Thomas’s poem, seeking accordance with the principles of evolution and how Thomas’s own poem strikes that note. A polypterus is a fish that can walk on its fins, and it is seen as the bridge between sea life and land life.
Dustin Pickering is founder of Transcendent Zero Press. He has contributed writing to Huffington Post, Café Dissensus Everyday, The Statesman (India), Journal of Liberty and International Affairs, The Colorado Review, World Literature Today, and several other publications. He placed in the top 100 out of 12,500 entries for the erbacce prize in 2021, and was a finalist in Adelaide Literary Journal’s first short fiction contest. He was longlisted for the Rahim Karim World Prize in 2022 and given the honor of Knight of World Peace by the World Peace Institute that same year. He hosts the popular interview series World Inkers Network on YouTube. He is 42 years old and lives in Houston, Texas, USA. He graduated from O’Connell College Preparatory School in Galveston, Texas. He is an autodidact.
Barbara Anna Gaiardoni Italy
Haibun
Apparition
Such art thou, Nature Mother, the defence of many truths, the grace and harmony of beauty. Water: rivers, lakes, waterfalls, dewdrops on a leaf, raindrops on roses and on a window pane. A fisherman in a boat at night under the Milky Way. But suddenly, a single gaseous cloud began to contract under the force of gravity and in that moment I wished I’d have somebody smiling in the light.
fighting over a grain of rice… the weak owl
Barbara Anna Gaiardoni is an Italian pedagogist, author, doodler, ex-violinist and former swimmer. She has participated in national literary and poetic competitions, leading to the publication of her texts. She currently publishes Japanese poems in English on the international trade journals. She creates haiga and shahai in collaboration with Andrea Vanacore, life partner, visionary photographer & videomaker. Drawing and walking in nature are her passions. Her motto is “I can, I must, I will do it”.
Santosh Bakaya India
Spellbound
I have always been a Dylan enthusiast, perennially lamenting his early death. His deftly used words, and refreshing phrases, left me awe- struck, making my heart sing, leaving an impact, everlasting. His exquisite poem Fern Hill, sends me into ecstasy, still. With him I have oft imagined that I was the princess ‘of the apple towns,’ forever beholden to his luxuriant descriptions, I too have become ‘green and golden’ under the rotundity of the sparkling sun.
I have lost count of the number of poems I wrote on him. His autobiographical stories, some sad, a tad whimsical too in “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog” left me spell bound. Still do.
Mesmerizing tales of love and loss, so ruggedly poignant, every story revealing something new. Suffering, nostalgia, shattered dreams, financial realities, and the emotional struggles, tugged at my heart- strings.
Mesmerizing prose paintings of his youth, creating everlasting images about dignity, pathos, lost innocence, and things, so tragic. With spectacular touches of his pen, he conjured magic.
His sardonic humor, anecdotes so funny, I remember having read, lounging in a hammock, sunny. Scenes of ecstasy, remorse, pride and humiliation filling me with a stupendous fascination.
I have oft pictured him in his writing shed, head bent, scribbling away. This incredible wordsmith was a genius with language, a master of autobiographical prose and the highs and lows of life. In a tender, satiric manner, with compassion laced, he sensitively balanced comedy and pathos, surreality and hilarity, with an effortless dexterity.
Wearing an invisibility cloak, I have often fantasized accompanying him on a visit to his grandpa [A visit to Grandpa’s] enriching myself with his tragicomic pen strokes. But I simply choke on the sad thought of a genius dying so young, with many stories whirring in his head, and myriad words left unsaid.
Winner of International Reuel Award for literature for Oh Hark, 2014, The Universal Inspirational Poet Award [ Pentasi B Friendship Poetry and Ghana Government, 2016,] Bharat Nirman Award for literary Excellence, 2017, Setu Award, 2018, [Pittsburgh, USA] for ‘ stellar contribution toworld literature.’ Keshav Malik Award, 2019, for ‘staggeringly prolific and quality conscious oeuvre’.Chankaya Award [Best Poet of the Year, 2022, Public Relations Council of India,], Eunice Dsouza Award 2023, for ‘rich and diverse contribution to poetry, literature and learning’,[Instituted by WE Literary Community] poet, biographer, novelist, essayist, TEDx speaker, creative writing mentor, Santosh Bakaya, Ph.D has been acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu [Vitasta, 2015], her poems have been translated into many languages, and short stories have won many awards, both national and international. Part of her column, Morning Meanderings in Learning and Creativity website, is now an e-book. She has penned twenty three books across different genres.
Authorspress: Where are the Lilacs? [Poems, 2016] Flights from my Terrace [Essays,2017 ] Under the Apple Boughs [Poems, 2017] A Skyful of Balloons [ Novella, 2018 ] Bring out the tall Tales [short stories with Avijit Sarkar, 2019 ] Oh Hark! [ Award winning long poem, 2022] Songs of Belligerence [ Poems , 2020 ] Runcible Spoons and Pea -Green Boats [Poems ,2021] What is the Meter of the Dictionary ? [Poems, 2022] A Sonetto for the Poetic World and You heard the Scream, didn’t you ?[ With Dr. Ampat Koshy, 2022]
Only in Darkness can you see the Stars [ Biography of Martin Luther King Jr, Vitasta , 2019 ]
Collabortaive E- Books : Two collaborative e- books : Vodka by the Volga [ with Dr. Koshy, Blue Pencil, 2020 ] From Prinsep Ghat to Peer Panjal[ with Gopal Lahiri, Blue Pencil, 2021] have been No # 1 Amazon bestsellers.
Other collaborations: Mélange of Mavericks and Mutants[ With Ramendra Kumar, Blue Pencil, 2022] For Better or Verse: Passion. Profundity. Politics [ With Ramendra Kumar and Ampat Koshy, AuthorsPress, 2023] The Catnama [ With Dr. Sunil Sharma, Authorspress, 2023]
Ken Allan Dronsfield USA
Blood of the Summer Moon
As the sun rises he goes to the wood.
Carrying his bow of red elm with six arrows; deeper and deeper he hiked into the great forest he listened but could hear only the birds chatter then something rustled in the leaves on the rise…
what is there lurking within branches quiver tall tree limbs snap crashing to the ground
suddenly a great hairy beast stands tall; taller than a horse no face can be seen it holds a birch sapling which it threw at the hunter flying just above his head but…
gone he’s gone his eyes darted first left, then right he cannot see the thing it’s all peaceful now.
At sunset a hunter walked from the wood.
Somehow he was wiser calmer and alert his eyes scanned left then right and saw it all in the blood sky of the summer moon.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize-winning poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has six poetry collections to date: The Cellaring, A Taint of Pity, Zephyr’s Whisper, The Cellaring – Second Edition, Sonnets and Scribbles, and his latest collaborative book, Inamorata at Twilight.
Ken has been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize and seven times for Best of the Net. He was First Prize Winner for the 2018 and 2019, Realistic Poetry International Nature Poetry Contests. He has recently begun producing Creative Content on his YouTube channel and has had wonderful success sharing his poetry with the social media community. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, coin collecting and spending time with his rescue cats, Willa, Yumpy, and Melly.
Nell Jones Australia
At 86
(Inspired by Under Milk Wood)
Early evening, I sit, And listen in the peaceful green. Possum in laughing growl, Intermittent frog, Splashes of delight as the dusk comes down, Crickets, Branches moving with life.
Dank clouds, Hold onto the tops of trees, A leaf, twists, and settles on its side, Cicadas, voices, Whirling cars, Happy birthdays in the pub, next door and A rustle in the leaves.
The berries, dive bomb the shed, Bats up ahead. A yellow recycling lid is raised, Empty wine bottles crash, Intermittent frog, The parties over.
Children, like tiny droplets of air, Hover in the mist, their faint laughter in the waves, Smash the hum of suburbia, in paradise by the sea.
A metal pipe rolls on cement, Silence, But for the intermittent frog. A new croak, Praying Mantis leaving eggs at the door, Hope a cat didn’t eat the mummy on the way out.
Rowdy singing in the pub, Drowns out, the muffled yells by the river. The beer garden swills,| The cobbers meander – Got to get home.
Bloke talk in the lane, Schooner glasses in the bushes, Loud music on the wind, Sounds like the brewery going off, In a drunken suburban anthem.
It’s last drinks at the Boaties, The old pub voices casually walk the streets, Their shadows, pass by my window, Sometimes talking, Sometimes brawling, -mostly drunk. It’s the same dude spitting, The same bloke who coughs, The same bloke singing, Same Keno man gambling. The same characters with prattling stories on their tongues, Scuttling home to their dreams.
Now a plane flies overhead and the anthem is in crescendo, Saturday night in fever pitch, A beep, a siren and the chopper chopping.
This is Stockton, crazy twigs and the plumbing of days gone by, Ships in the night, My garden, My place, My home. At 86.
Nell Jones (Daniella) was born in Adelaide in 1964. She has Dutch and Welsh heritage. Writing from the age of 12, Nell had her first play, Dead Man’s Alley, a work focused on the plight of homeless men living on the streets of Melbourne, performed at the Nimrod Theatre, Sydney, a second play, The Blind Forty, set on the Torrens River during the Depression in Adelaide, performed at the Seymour Centre, Sydney. She has been the recipient of a Master Writers Grant, from the Australia Council and has written several other plays for youth theatres and schools, as part of her role as a drama teacher and director in those organisations. Nell has published many works over the years, including Jack and Lily, a chronicle of short war stories and poetry. Nell’s first novel, The Lost Sister of Groningen, based on the life of her mother in WW2 and 1950’s Australia, was launched at the Tap Gallery in Sydney in 2010. It was later launched at the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival (URWF) in 2011. Her second novel, A Token for Perry, which was launched by Libby Hathorn in Sydney at the 371 Gallery Marrickville. Her poetry volume, The Sky Is My Religion was also launched in in 2012 with the support of the UWRF and opened by Australian poet and children’s author, Libby Hathorn. Nell performed her poetry daily with Balinese musicians and dancers in an art space at Dewangga Gallery in Ubud, with paintings that were specially created to reflect her poetry volume. At the opening she performed with Balinese dancers and a 30-piece orchestra as part of the festival celebrations. She has had poems published in 2021 for the ‘How Time Has Ticked A Heaven Around the Stars,’ eBook, Poetry Anthology, by Infinity Books as part of Dylan Day celebrations. She was also featured on a poster with a haiku poem for that year. Poem, Blazing Star for Dylan, in 2021 and, In Ceremony of a Fire Raid Past, 2022 were both featured on Vatsala Radhakeesoon’s blog, for International Dylan Day Poetry Celebrations. In 2023 she co-authored an article based on John Keats, which was published on the Australian Children’s Poetry website.
Nell has two degrees in Education and lives by the sea in Newcastle, Australia. In 2021 she retired from teaching and is a full-time writer. She completed an Artist in Residency placement at, Lighthouse Arts in Newcastle in 2022, while working on her third novel, The Ingenious Professor based on the life of artist, Joseph Lycett. Nell is a member of the Society of Women Writers, NSW.
An Urgent Telegram to Dylan Thomas in Swansea in Autumn
SEEKING AN APPOINTMENT [STOP]
WATCHING SERIES OF ONE -STORY BUILDINGS [STOP] STACCO BLUE OR YELLOW [STOP] IN DREAMS [STOP] A STAIN ON MY LEFT EYEBALL [STOP] SNAKES FLY [STOP] HELLENIC TORSOS [STOP] EGG-SMELLING PYRITES [STOP] LAUGHTER OF GOD [STOP]
A MIRROR HORIZON BREAKING [STOP] INTO ABYSS [STOP] I FALL ON CRYSTALS [STOP] DREAMS DIE DYLAN [STOP] UNNATURAL DEATH [STOP]
WILL TAKE THEM IN A WHITE ENVELOPE [STOP]
Sekhar Banerjee is a Pushcart Award and Best of the Net nominated poet. He received the Editor’s Choice Award for a poem published in Arkana. He has been published in Stand Magazine, Indian Literature, The Bitter Oleander, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Lake, Better Than Starbucks, Verse-Virtual, words and Worlds, Thimble, The Bangalore Review, Kitaab and in other literary journals. He lives in Kolkata, India.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Mauritius
Tribute to Captain Cat
(for the 70th anniversary of Under Milk Wood)
Voices enclosed amidst the misty abstract and the grounded obvious echo memories of the sea voyages shaping some life -wrinkles, yet leaving some unique shades of innocence.
Sweet mermaid songs summon me to sleep-night, but under such moony rosy cheeks, How can I?
Even in that free space where monotonous routine cannot even hug the monkey- shadows, I wander around, the insomniac soul!
Oh dear! What do I hear? It grows, it grows, The sound deepens, a Huge Hyphen – the blank, the void.
The weeping and wailing of the woman hiding the pink love letter in her bosom, Hair unkempt, gazing the stars; Index finger resting on the lips, then shakily whispering, “O Love! Where are you? Gone! O Waves! Bring him back!”
Now, the miracle manifests, Fades, fades the lament! At last, I can close my eyes. O Neighbourhood! You wake up now, Tea fumes caress the ethereal of my whole being, I’m safe here; Please churn the wheel over there as you wish it to be, as time sings the request!
Vatsala Radhakeesoon has been writing poems for 30 years and she is the author of numerous poetry books. She is also an abstract artist and likes to experiment various possibilities that bless Art. Vatsala is a literary translator and currently lives at Rose-Hill, Mauritius.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Four of her poems were nominated for “Best of the Net” in 2015/2018, and one eight-part story-poem was nominated for “Best of the Net” in 2017. She has over 1,375 poems published in more than 525 international journals and anthologies.
In 2018, her book Sight at Zero, was listed #34 on CBC’s “Your Ultimate Canadian Poetry List”.
In 2020, her work was translated into Chinese and published in “Rendition of International Poetry Quarterly” and in “Poetry Hall”.
Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then, she has published twenty-one other books of poetry and twelve collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012. In 2014 her chapbook Surrogate Dharma was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press, Barometric Pressures Author Series. In 2015, her book No Raft – No Ocean was published by Scars Publications. Her book, Make the Wind was published in 2016 by Scars Publications. As well, her book Trial and Witness – selected poems, was published in 2016 by Creative Talents Unleashed (CTU Publishing Group). More recently, her book Tadpoles Find the Sun was published by Cyberwit, August 2020. She is a vegan. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
Here are some poems by Allison Grayhurst:
Marsh
I walk into a forbidden marsh, to rest from the penalty of my dreams. I place my head on a pile of wet debris and wait to see who or what approaches.
If everything was in line with a harmonic tune, with the uniting truth, then my hopes would not cling like leaches to my thighs,| reducing me with malnourishment. I could piece together a path to travel out of this marsh, out of the gloom and rotting mulch.
As it is, I am overdrawn, my bucket is cracked and my clothes outgrown.| The wind has always scooped me into its scarcity and a solitary translation without recognition. No one sees me or needs me anymore.
The marsh is my devoured saving. The stench of what is left fills my nostrils, reminds me of my stagnation, is the rising gaseous force of my obvious doom.
Maple Syrup
Today the cup is cracked, freedom arrives lacking support but giving time for me to strengthen enough| to make the flight and wipe the table spotless. Today the gift arrives in the guise of a curse, compassion manifesting as trauma and either I will go mad or lighten my load and affirm the movement finally possible, outshine my fears, avoiding the scurrying ants in the pantry, close the door and find alternate sources of food, incapable of infestation, pure as well-water, pure as God’s love always is when I accept it, when I accept all I own is a choice of faith or cynicism, when I welcome the hand of the one who sent me, hold that hand, following and wanting for nothing more.
Gift
Rebellion innate in the seed, at the start, acknowledging. the culpability of the the acceptable unjust, of landing where others crawl, and still others, soar.
I cracked, eager for righteousness but ungrateful. You stood beside me, never wavering or surrendering to anxiety. Your devotion surpassed any generosity I’ve ever known. Where others have abandoned or made light of the news, offering no humanity or understanding – you alone held my hand, shadowed me through hospital halls, nourishing me through my despair and the savage aftermath of failure.
There is nothing else to be gained from that gruesome experience, but your triumphant love, that you were there and remain here as my refuge, an anointment of great mercy, a lasting antidote.
Slap
Limpid dreams removed with grand intervention, their ricochet aspirations receded past sight and anticipated applause. Avoiding their influence like I avoid a bruised apple, rancid undergrowth and go-to comforts. It doesn’t work to alleviate the raw intensity pangs or to revamp those dreams into something viable, buckled-up and worthy. I release my indulges of hope, release a future deserving of a satisfied death with seldom the anguish of regrets and senselessness. I let this excellent illusion end, concede, just breathe for the sake of it, just wake up and do what I do, corrected, my poverty exposed.
Crack the
Exterior, Interior
Resonance
Neither the net or the withdrawal will get you into its vice, but the trick of broken dreams, walking backwards, assuming nothing new is possible that will be your defeat, the pit| in the black olive that stuck in your throat, swelled up your windpipe and laid you down.
Throw away the decadence of fear, no matter how reasonable, fuel yourself only on ethereal faith even though you feel condemned, can see no exit door or revival.
Choose God over understanding, peace over rationality. Smell the oil, expose the miracle rising to meet you, pushing you on, defend its mastery and strength, choose truth that triumphs over traditions, penetrates every nook and cranny, inverting, setting alright. visible appearances.
Lynn Long is a poet, writer, voice artist, aspiring screenwriter/lyricist, floating on moonbeams adrift in hope. She has had six poetry books published and a new one entitled The Muse Within will be published soon. She considers her writings as reflections of reverie as she journeys on the path back to her.
Here are some poems by Lynn Long:
Time Effervescent
Memories of childhood For me, a blur… A contortion of thoughts Rooms larger in my child’s mind Filled with music and light And shadows too. Hidden in plain sight Where a thinly disguised veil often hung Casually draped over the windows and above the doors A remnant of youth I carry with me Alas, all that is seen is never truly as it seems. And though the veil disguised Remained There awaited a magical place Just beyond its reach Lined with citrus and magnolia trees Beckoning with the first rays of dawn I can still remember sitting beneath those trees. The feelings of innocence shared with friends and siblings- as we told stories and took swigs from a soda bottle Germs… never a forefront of thought in our minds Dreaming of future worlds… Knowing we’d someday leave this one behind. And time… effervescent as the bubbles in Ginger Ale Escaping without our consent
The Wildflower
The Awakening of her soul didn’t happen in the resounding of fireworks illuminating the ebony sea – as she had so often dreamed. Instead, it came in the watering of a wildflower growing by the roadside Wilting in the heat of a hot summer sun Often overlooked by many passers-by Told to let it be- for it will either flourish or it will die… But where they saw a weed, she saw hope and beauty Alive And so she watered the hope Growing by the roadside Wilting in the heat of a hot summer sun And she watched it flourish. And she watched it bloom. And its blossom became a tree And the many passers- by Who could only see a weed Marvelled at the beauty Alive Where once overlooked Left to flourish … or to die
Seeking the Sustainable Dream
Caught up in the nine to five Still seeking the sustainable dream Entwining the two… A spider’s web of deceit For time ever moving A vortex in the abyss of one’s soul Alas, mere perception Pauses in the creative flow Like a lasso to the moon The kraken’s tentacle pulls Gravity beckons And for just a moment I’ve lost the muse Yet, the artist within still resides Dancing the wanton path Waltzing high In homage to reverie A symphony at play Time ever present Hear the Koto sing Hidden hues still sought Amid a barren plain Splashes of color Upon the black canvas of dreams.
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated every year on 14 May. As a representative of Immagine and Poesia (founded by the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) and upon the approval of the Dylan Thomas Trust , I am conducting International Dylan Thomas Day 2023 online.
I invite all writers/ poets interested to submit one poem or micro-story (flash fiction) in English about the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas or appreciation of his works to: vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Only poems or stories with proper imagery and theme in context and having a refined language will be accepted.
If your work is accepted, you will receive an acceptance e-mail within 1 week of your submission.
Deadline: 2 May 2023
All accepted works will be published on my blog: vatsalaradwritingworld.home.blog
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize-winning poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma.
He has six poetry collections to date: The Cellaring, A Taint of Pity, Zephyr’s Whisper, The Cellaring – Second Edition, Sonnets and Scribbles, and his latest collaborative book, Inamorata at Twilight.
Ken has been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize and seven times for Best of the Net. He was First Prize Winner for the 2018 and2019, Realistic Poetry International Nature Poetry Contests. He has recently begun producing Creative Content on his YouTube channel and has had wonderful success sharing his poetry with the social media community. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms,coin collecting and spending time with his rescue cats Willa,Yumpy, and Melly.
Here are two poems by Ken Allan Dronsfield:
Fragility
Cloistered comments;
a difference of conscience.
Experience the ego;
a soulless insensitive.
Baseless or faithless;
a compassionate reason.
Impurity gathers surety;
rings and things of love.
Dreamy raucous visions;
dancing upon a whirlwind.
Full moon’s last breath;
work on the rejection.
Cherish the treasured bridal vow;
melted, brittle and broken.
Faking all the pleasures left;
for we’re all quite fragile.
Sepia at Sunset
Behind you are all your memories; Before you lay all of your dreams; Around you are those who love you; Deep within lies the passion for life.
Once again, it’s autumn my friend and leaves and temperatures do fall. I’ve been here in the squally scends; weeping willows and waves withal.
Been too long in tempestuous rains fingers wrinkled like dried prunes. Coldness felt deep within my brain hair wet and dripping by the dunes.
Tranquillity whispers upon my skin; With a crescendo of a chilled sensation. Anticipate a warmth watching puffins; basking serenely in the sepia elation.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Poetry, Prose, Translated Works 