Charles Fishman
Bishnupada Ray
Geraldine Green
Rob Frail
Tammy Nuzzo-Morgan

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Issue 47/48 : January - June 2010 : Volume 12 No 3/4

    Bishnupada Ray


    through the window I can see
    the truncated picture as still
    as the lull before a storm
    the leaves of the trees are apprehensive
    before the fall
    a bird flies out of the leaves
    in anxiety of everything falling

    the cocktail I have consumed
    is a heady mix of instinct,
    neurosis, charm and desire
    sublimated into a feeling of love
    that romantic song still rings
    in my heart cripples the head
    like an addiction
    the hangover I like to prolong
    as an effervescent dream
    repeated in my nightly change
    of personality
    split I remain ever after
    as the truncated picture
    before the fall.

    Last Meeting

    how much time do I have
    before you go away
    to your destiny? I cried to her
    at the most difficult moment of parting

    she laughed, uncertain of her destiny
    uncertain of making up her mind

    amidst the bounty of nature
    the sunlight made ways through porous clouds
    through the leaves and shades
    like the eyes of a visionary
    lost in a dream of horizons
    learning and unlearning existence

    there she stood with a stare
    perhaps a flickering flash
    of water crossed the eyeballs
    in lightning speed

    in that split second
    of a razor sharp emotion
    I saw my destiny

    I did not have the heart
    to save my soul from getting split
    lest I should lose her
    as an absurd dream.


    to hold it
    to feel it in the heart
    is the power and joy
    and the ideology of love

    right instinct
    sound judgement
    and a great amount of caution
    make up to that all consuming passion

    but the snail withdraws
    and shrinks back to its own world
    sensitive to the slightest hint of hostility
    the oblique reasoning of hatred
    and the self mutates into the other

    excess has a quick sobering effect
    the moral malaise at the top
    percolates down to the roots
    as imperceptibly as the advances
    of death

    the soul does not know
    when it loses its mate.


Shabdaguchha, an International Bilingual Poetry Journal, edited by Hassanal Abdullah