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Poetry in English

Hal Sirowitz

BAD MUSIC
 
We went to see the new band "The Eye
of the Hurricane" perform at a club.
The force of their music didn't seem
to be aimed at the audience, but at
some far off critic with his head buried
in the past. It flew by us. There were
booing and catcalls from some unsatisfied
customers, like "If my watch ticked
the way the drummer drummed, I'd
throw it away." Though, I've heard
much worse—the time you and I tried
to make music together with our bodies
as instruments. It started out like rock
but never reached the rolling part.
 
 
ONLY THE LONELY
 
She was popular. Her pen pals wrote back.
Ours didn't bother to write, making us believe
loneliness was an addiction, like alcohol.
At least, if you drank too much whiskey
you'll start to sway, as though you were
on a carnival ride. Whereas with loneliness,
you couldn't convert it to something useful,
like solitude, as Thoreau did at Walden Pond.
It was completely non-transferable. And if
you'd ask a woman out, you'd be told she
doesn't date anyone of your ilk. Even if you
scream from the mountaintops, "Loneliness,
let my soul go," it will cling tighter
to your personality. Its only attribute
is you'll be able to spot the lonely, because
they look like you. But what's the use
of spotting those you want to avoid.
And the problem with their opposites,
the Popular, were they were too busy
to hang out with you. They had
to run home to make sure they
had time to write to their pen pals.
 
 
LONG DISTANCE LOVER
 
We started and ended our relationship
by letter. During that period
the postal carrier was the most
important person in my life. She
could tell how I was feeling
by that day's delivery. I'm sure
she read the postcards my
long distance lover sent me,
and took my side.  She must
have figured out what happened
when she saw me in front of my mailbox,
hoping. She was extra friendly, letting
me look through her truck in case she
accidentally misplaced my ex-lover's
letter. But no such luck. She was
impeccable. I should have been
friendlier, even though she was
at least forty years older than me.
But if you can trust someone
to deliver your mail, you should be
able to trust her with a relationship.

Pennsylvania




Stanley H. Barkan
  

MY WIFE SAYS 
after Hal Sirowitz

I

Don’t try to pass that car,
my wife says.
If you do, we’ll get hit on my side, 
and I’ll get killed,
but you’ll survive.
Then you’ll be all alone,
and, after a while, you’ll be so lonely
you won’t want to live anymore.
Then you’ll call Dr. Kevorkian
who’ll help you to commit suicide
and probably be put on trial 
because there’s a law against it 
in New York.  Then nobody else 
who needs to end his suffering 
will be able to do it, all because 
you didn’t listen to me.


II

Don’t do the Atkins diet,
my wife says.
All the meat you’ll eat is full of fat, 
and you know you can’t do without bread & pasta.
What’ll you do when we go to Sicily
and they cook pasta trapanese for you?
Are you going to refuse and insult them?
What about all that garlic bread you love so much?
And how are you going to refuse frijoles 
with the chili you taught me how to make?
And how are you going to eat
chow mein and chop suey without fried rice?
Your veins will just fill up with fat and cholesterol
and you’ll get a heart attack and die young.
Then I’ll inherit everything 
and eat pasta and chili and chow mein
with garlic bread and filjoles and rice
to my heart’s content, and live to a ripe old age.


ANTIQUE SHOW

Still, gray-tinged clouds
covering the aquamarine sky
over the antique show
in Stormville, New York.
Ancient books bound
with marbleized endpapers,
gold-stamped cloths,
glimmering out of the past.
Poets buried in the pages
still speaking in tongues
made for the eyes
& ears of seekers
of truth & beauty,
all we need to know
while we journey
above ground,
passing through
the rows & rows
of tents spilling
out daguerreotypes, ambrotypes,  
tintypes, stereograms—
portraits of families
forever encased 
in paper, thermoplastic
(so-called guttapercha),
mother-of-pearl, and glass,
waiting for the curious
to hold in the hand,
to look into the fading faces, 
posed moments locked in time.
We are time travelers
moving backwards
into the layers 
of moments fashioned 
here as valued detritus 
of bygone days . . .
conscious of the realization 
when we, too, will be laid out 
upon a table for someone 
to look into our frame,
open our book covers,
and see & read our words,
before the clouds turn black,
open up,  and spill down 
all that waiting rain.

New York



Kelven Ka-shing LIT

I MISS THE OLD OLD LANTERN

I miss the old old lantern.
When I was young and innocent,
It was you who brought me downstairs;
Carrying this little old old lantern,
On the day when the moon was full.

I was afraid,
Afraid that the lantern would be burnt,
Afraid that the candle would be hot,
Afraid that you would leave.

Your caring hands,
However just comforted me,
In that frightening moment,
You just held me,
Across the festive path downstairs,
Carrying the old old lantern.

It was my happiest time,
When warmness is no longer in scarcity 
When family is no longer in dream.

Today,
I am still afraid,
The lantern would be burnt,
The candle would be hot,
And you would have left.

You really left.

The day when the moon was full could no longer be the same,
I cried,
But please don't worry,
One day,
Under the full moon;
I will hold your hands again,
To show you what I have done,
To honor what you have dedicated to me.

We will play the lantern together again, one day.

I miss the old old lantern.
I miss you.



TELL ME THAT I AM JUST DREAMING

Tell me that I am just dreaming.

It was our last night.
When we had hotpot in Sha Kok Estate.
I, playfully, put sauced Chicken Wings into the pot,
The soup then became red in color.
You argued with me,
Saying that sauced Chicken Wings shall never be put inside.
You said that I will be heavily criticized if I am having this with others.
And you kept silent.
After 5 minutes, we talked again, we laughed again, we smiled again.

This is our last night,
An ordinary night, 
That we have been coming through for so many times;
That I am eager to have it, for one more time.


Tell me that you are just playing.

We were in a department store,
Window-shopping around.
You told me, a modern flat shall look like this and that;
Or otherwise my future wife will be disappointed due to my bad taste. 
I argued with you—I am just a beginner.
Telling you that I need to learn, and please keep teaching me.
And you kept silent.
After 5 minutes, I realized my mistake, I apologized, and you kept on sharing with me again.
This is our last walk,
An ordinary walk, 
That we have been going through for so many times;
That I am eager to have it, for only one more time.

Tell me that I am just dreaming.

I stared at the screen,
Asking you how to write a good message.
I drafted, and you said, 
“You are so silly how come you do things in this way.”
You revised, screen kept showing “Amy Chan is now typing.”
I then read.
After 5 minutes, I was touched, and you, like my late grandma, 
Reminded me for not committing this kind of mistake anymore, 
As you cannot be here with me for the rest of my life.

This is our last Whatsapp.
An ordinary Whatsapp message, 
That we have been going through for so many times;
That I am eager to have it, for just one more time.

Tell me that you are just playing.

After the death of my grandma,
You replace her roles,
Teaching me how to take care of myself and my family.
You replace her roles,
Teaching me how to cook well for my future wife.
You replace her roles,
Caring me in every aspect for my future.
You replace her roles,
Accompanying me, walking around the city, 
Driving along different highways, 
Enjoying some of my happiest moments so far in my life.

I am Nobita, and you are my Doraemon.

Without you, I can never be recovered from the death of my grandma. 
Without you, I can never realize my problems. 
Without you, I can never know so many things.

And,
Without you, 
Kelven, who was buried with his late grandma,
Can never be reborn.

This time, I still hope for a reborn.

But the reality keeps telling me that,
This time,
A reborn is impossible.

This is the first time that I hate reality so much.

Sadly I need to say,
Don't worry, I shall live well, 
I shall be independent.
I shall follow your advice,
I shall be serious and constant towards relationship,
I shall never forget what you have taught me.
No longer I shall be a playful guy,
As I am now a Mature Man.

You are always my good sister, 
Even though we are far apart now.

But still,
Can you please tell me,
I am just dreaming.
You are just playing
Only.

I cannot pretend as usual, 
As usual.

Hong Kong



Peter Thabit Jones
 

SOLILOQUY OF A LEADER

My limousine moves like a long black shark
Through the dust and poverty of the towns,

It cuts through the frantic and happy crowds
That clap like children at a carnival.

I am their God on Earth.  The suit I wear
Is worth more than their miserable lives.

My chauffeur opens the window an inch,
Till I’m overwhelmed by the growing stench

That’s like a whiff of tomorrow’s despair.
They jostle like trees in a whipped-up wind.

Their shouts of joy begin to annoy me,
I long for the shade of my palace room,

Where my American-made fan blades the heat,
Where I rule them with thoughts of my father’s ghost.

My bodyguards surround my moving car,
For too much freedom can foster hatred.

But I am tuned in to their whispering,
Their tongues stall when they recall my shadow

That falls like the night all over the land
And my billboard face barbed-wires their plans.

Now I am bored, my gloved hands are restless,
I could redden all these towns with their blood.



FATHER

You sailed into her life
and out of mine.
And who can blame you?

Your sea of words
broke
on their harbour

of frost.
A strange shadow
lost in their whispering town.

Your smiles dropped
from the dark cliff of your face,
the long odyssey of your youth

ended in their house.
A child’s cry splintered
down a winter of years.

A secret ship took you
to the summer of your life,
a fiction of postcards

that came back to the boy.



ELEGY FOR A GHOST OF A DAY

I am like a man
Who has come out of the fog
Out of the wasted years
Left smoking.
On a path
Above the Pacific,
The landscape fanfares
A meaning for my life,

As my mindscape 
Diminishes my false mists
Of dreaming,
I am a man walking

On a hard route of facts,
As the future
And the past
Fall away into dust.

The poems, the books,
The image in the news,
The dark muse calling,
And the voice on the stage

Now disappear
Like a bay in the fog,
Until I am just me,
A man who is alone,

With truths newly unveiled,
No longer enslaved
In a cloud of my making,

As the sea makes its noise
For a ghost of a day,
And a humming bird hovers
On a moment of faith.

Welsh





Mike Graves

NO OTHER
 
I come to this place,
With neither woman nor child
a  narrow ravine shadowed by Eden,
abandoned and barren
unable to glimpse
even a gleam
of the sword of the angel
who stood as its guard
to answer your question:
I grow older and there is no other.


WAIT     
   
In this place I haunt
where came and went
her willing self
In a dance that seemed protected
from the end it met—
the shock of unexpected meeting, the turning of her head
to seek my eyes,
the running by with backward looks,
the standing still outside the door
awaiting my approach,
approach I failed to make
this place where the bright, circling moon
looks upon her face
that looked at me
as now she hurries past
this place I haunt
to glimpse her face,
although the dance is done.

New York


Bishnupada Ray

SHADOW ON THE DOOR

a shadow falls on the door
a tired pair of eyes thinks
it may knock
but it never knocks
how many shadows are there
in the world?
shadows that fall on the door
but do not knock

long distance buses come
stop and then go away
a tired pair of eyes waits
and counts them all
how long is it before
someone will get down
and say “hello?”
someone who had left home
but did not return

a wry smile contorts
the eyes on the verge
of tears
for this hope 
and betrayal
how much love is left
in the world we live?
love that makes us endure
and wait for ever.


PASSING PHASE

this golden crop shining in the golden sun
makes me feel that something is coming 
to an end, a phase, vanishing before my eye
and something yet to come, a transition
but I have no name for it, except a different
climate zone, demanding from me a rigor
about life, some hard talk, a toughness
that may damn my past but will rescue
my future, from a morass of stupidity. 


ALCHEMY

the ingredients are all rare
nothing is of nature’s original variety
but meddled with and pried upon
by science and human knowledge
	
but there is a youthful spring
and a natural rock formation
in the shape of ancient deities
inside the red zone of a forest

only on the annual worshipping day
an access is opened up for people
to visit the inaccessible spring deities
and a nightlong occult festivity

faith has various names for alchemy
a young girl’s unalloyed love
a wife’s faith or a child’s trust
can do more wonder than any god. 

Kolkata



Dhanonjoy Saha

I SAW THE MAN

Once I was a man I never knew
In the midst of romping chaos, I saw praying men sitting on the floor 
Lips sealed, eyes closed, body still, breathing slowly
I walked down the quiet aisle, passed the pedestal and the closed door
I felt the still vibration, mystic candor, the sweet smell of redemption
I passed the empty mind, solitude, earthly wealth and bodily temptation
I burned in silence, cold, purified with divine dew
I saw the man I never knew.

I discovered the deadly force of living, lively comport of dying
The dignity of the scarifying dead
The perception of the empty head
The meaning of the sky, the river, the mountain, the springing grass 
And humble bees on fluttering flowers in the flustering wind
The vast seas, the shooting stars, the burning sun
The soothing moon and the mighty monsoon.

Did not vex me or greet me with feat the power of ignorance,
The pyrrhic politics and the lyrics of Wall Street
The pernicious power of bodily beauty did not cross my mind
I could leave, for a moment, without trying everything behind
I flew in the sky, I walked on the moon, I reached the stars
I played with the frolicking angels with heavenly hew
For a moment, at least once, I saw the man I never knew
Or was it a dream come true?


North Carolina




Hassanal Abdullah

CALAMITY

There is no escape from it,
I told myself. There is no escape
from juicy apples and ripe bananas.
There is no escape from
sunlight and darkness,
laughter and sorrow, making
and remaking 
a single bit of dreamy image
that floats in the air
of my deserted island of gorgeous
sand dunes, my everlasting headache.
There is no escape from poetry.


MOMENTS

I still remember holding hands as we passed
the city of dust and found an old restaurant
where walls were covered with loose plaster
of white paste and people were talking in
high-pitched voices in half-dark tables,
like the stories in the Arabian Nights, as if
they were obscene characters of 
Biblical beauty and as erasable as
the morning dew of some unknown valley
where people are the only commodity
to be found only once in a thousand years.
A city of dust and rickshaw, pedestrians
and panhandlers, car horns and cobble 
stones, recalling the crackdown       
on the night of March 25, 1971, by a brutal
army that killed several thousand,          
and the blood rushed through the streets,
corners of houses, student dorms,
staircases of the apartment buildings, and
the overwhelming ghostly screams were coming
out of everywhere in fear of mortar shells.
Though we had not had that brutal history
in our minds at the time we entered the 
quick entrance that led us to the second floor,
we were in the state of a newly wed couple, 
but our lost ones still did not abandon us.
Sitting across the table, I could see my face
imprinted in your eyes, exactly like the moon,
as I later experienced, seen under the
calm and clear Hudson at midnight.
I remember, looking at each other’s face,
we passed eternity, and hoped the waiter
would take as much time as possible.


OUR ENGAGEMENT

Sitting together under the new moon,
we were mostly engaged in
speaking about
the Magnetic Field
from which nothing managed to escape
even for a single moment.
We were happy
circling around our own magnificent orbits.
While passing over Africa, Asia,
Latin America, and the islands
spread about the globe and
defusing darkness
over our beloved universe
and making us worry too much,
we managed to confuse them
spraying stink bombs
and sometimes calming them with a
descending dust cloud of humility.

The moon was shining without having
any light whatsoever of its own,
and so did we. We were talking about
the prevention of illegal drugs,
high teenage pregnancies,
political corruptions, cyber crimes,
gang rapes, and child labor,
gathered in a little group of our own.
Our vicarious voices
often deplored the hissing sound
of a snake that deliberately
diluted the hope of others to get ahead.
We, in fact, lived a life
of selfishness, cowardice, and foolishness. 


New York

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