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
on all fours
at a distance
among the grass blades
glittering in the sun
beckoning to you
firing your imagination
at the possibility of hitting
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
are naturally the farthest
from your thoughts
already crowded with
car insurance deadlines
behaviour therapy bills
Where is the time
and keep scattering
drops of water in the sunlight
hoping to make
It was a long time back
that I lost my milk teeth, you say
it is really
your citric heart
that has curdled the dream forever
the grunting limbs
aren’t elastic enough
for any kind of acrobatics
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
of the tree
that breathes out stardust
in all seasons
seen or unseen
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The calendar on the wall is twenty years out of date.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.
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)
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.