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Where's the Dream?

A doctorate in English Literature and an Associate Professor, PG Department of English, MCM DAV College for Women, Chandigarh, Dr Mridula Sharma has authored 'The Hotel Room: A Collection of Stories'. 

She has also co-edited 'Scholars In Shakespeare' and published research papers in reputed journals. She has recently edited 'Alfaaz: A Trilingual Anthology by Academicians'. She enjoys writing  poetry in Hindi & English and story telling.

Have you ever jumped out of your chair

your curiosity routing you out

of the warm family circle

on lazy winter afternoons,

making you strain yourself across

the familiar crunch of peanuts

the easy hum of  routine gossip

to inspect

on all fours

that ‘some’thing

fluttering

at a distance

among the grass blades

glittering in the sun

beckoning to you

firing your imagination

your heart

plopping

at the possibility of hitting

 a jackpot

an abandoned treasure

just like that


Of course I am talking of childhood!


That sort of a thing

doesn’t happen now

You step rather gingerly

when little shards of glass

gleam in the moonlight

on the pavement

Gingerbread houses

talking mirrors

pumpkin carriages

are naturally the farthest

from your thoughts

already crowded with

grocery lists

car insurance deadlines

behaviour therapy bills

Where is the time

to scatter

and keep scattering

drops of water in the sunlight

hoping to make

instant diamonds

and

personal rainbows


It was a long time back

that I lost my milk teeth, you say

but

it is really

your citric heart

that has curdled the dream forever

Agreed,

the grunting limbs

aren’t elastic enough

for any kind of acrobatics

anymore

but it is actually

your dour-faced disbelief

that doesn’t google the map

to la la land

or your stiff-kneed spirit

that stubbornly refuses

to walk to it

and swing

from branch

to branch

of the tree

that breathes out stardust

and grows

everyday magic

in all seasons

seen or unseen

 
Image by Caleb Woods

Late Night Garage

John Grey is an Australian poet and a US resident. His works have been published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. John Grey's latest books, 'Leaves On Pages' 'Memory Outside The Head' and 'Guest Of Myself' are available through Amazon. His work is being featured in upcoming issues of Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

House lights are out,

but not the garage’s solitary bulb.

Your day has still not ended.

Nor has the dim glow.

Despite the hour, you’re the kind

who has to finish what they started.


A greasy radio plays golden oldies.

The calendar on the wall is twenty years out of date.

And the lawnmower is laid upside down

like a corpse in a forensic lab.

Its parts are scattered across the oil-stained concrete.

You bring to the party

your favorite old coffee can full of

bolts and screws and washers.


It’s close to midnight

yet you’re still trying to jam

metal into holes where it doesn’t fit,

connect wires that refuse to make

any kind of electrical loop,

and all without cussing loudly.


Suddenly, like a ghost, your wife,

in long blue robe, appears at the garage door.

“Why don’t you come to bed?” she says.

Here’s a woman who’s trying to squeeze

a man on a mission

into the confinement of bed and blankets.

And you still don’t cuss loudly.

 
Image by Joyful

You Lie in a Hammock

Dmitry Blizniuk is an author from Ukraine. His most recent poems have appeared in 'Poet Lore', 'The Pinch', 'Salamander', 'Willow Springs', 'Grub Street', 'Magma Poetry' and many others. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he is also the author of 'The Red Fоrest' (2018).  He lives in Kharkov, Ukraine.  


You lie in a hammock

under the canopy of two cathedrals fashioned from stained glass.

The ash of the sky pours down as light-blue rectangles;

your whole suntanned body dreams itself to be

a lacquered baby violoncello:

red nerves are going to be here and there,

tight strings are going to be stretched,

and the shadows of branches strum your changing in the chiaroscuro face,

the curls of your snaking hair.

Gray almonds of the sky

pulse in your eyes

as if something alien and evil tries to break free.

You are tired of waiting for love,

like a landmine that lies in the forest since WWII

is tired of rusting for decades in the damp soil,

under thick grass,

and waits for someone's steps;

you wait for his steps.

Pushing yourself with your bare foot, off the apple-tree trunk,

you swing the whole sky – the carcass of the blue bull on the spit of sunlight,

and the shadows of leaves work spells above your face,

like kids pretending to be sorcerers, harrypotters, wizards -

the reticulate magic of silence and

the ticking bomb of your gray eyes…



 (Translated from Russian by Sergey Gerasimov)

 
Image by Nico Meier

A swallow that makes spring

Jernail Anand is Professor Emeritus at The European institute of Roma Studies and Research, Belgrade. Dr Anand has  authored 120 books of poetry, fiction, non-fiction, spirituality and philosophy and is the innovator of the theory of Biotext. 

Between Love and Hate strides the whole world and our actions and thoughts too

have no other quality than being on this or that side of the divide.


Love when practised with passion takes me towards the abode of God turning this world into Eden and brings me close to my all time love Eve leaving no other passion worthy and worth the pains and pangs of a lifetime.


Hate when practised with passion takes me into the heart of the Pandemonium where Satan once addressed the fallen angels and I see myself losing my humanity and turning a monster, a killer, a gangster, a politician with a hundred masks on my face.


O  Gods!  vaccinate me against hatred and inject me with a lethal dose of hope, love, and compassion, so that I firmly remain one among the holy swarm of swallows whose arrival makes Spring.