Pratima Annapurna Balabhadrapathruni… I Almost Drowned: One Girl’s Body Remembers

 

I Almost Drowned: One Girl’s Body Remembers

A vase of lilies toppled,
tossing me back
into a twenty year old memory.
I choke
on the flowers
my skin mottled, the water darker,
only the lights on the pier
to salvage the self from sinking
into the murky underbellies of night.
Fish, tadpoles, larvae
memories dance with flecks of dust.
…Someone stole life from in here &
moved it
…with a pitcher of lemonade
poured it into a glass
and shook me awake.
It made my hair dance around
like dry hay.

 

Pratima Annapurna Balabhadrapathruni is a writer, poet and artist from Singapore. In the summer 2014, she participated in the Advanced Non-Fiction Seminar conducted by the International Writing Program, Univ. of Iowa. She enjoys interviewing poets and writers from her website is wordsatnine.com

Copyright © 2015 by Pratima Annapurna Balabhadrapathruni

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Pijush Kanti Deb… Turning Over a New Leaf

 

Turning Over a New Leaf

The turning over a new leaf

throws down the gauntlet

to the luminous sun-rise,

takes aback at the new leaves-

turning their noses at the nectar

and preferring a glass of hemlock to sink.

The blissful neighbors are prompt

to take down the useful epics by turns

yet reluctant they are

to take a leaf out of another’s book.

Alas! Undead robots they are of dead scientists,

programmed diplomatically

and manipulated commercially from top to bottom.

Paralyzed they are too to own eyes

but ambidextrous to their blockhead ears-

Receiving blindly others’ provocation,

bring about untimely spring in consequence

and shed down before their maturity.

Counseling, good wish and blessing-

the glittering pearls are cats and dogs

in shedding on them

yet putting two and two together

seems to be more difficult today.

Nevertheless, tomorrow is quite hopeful

for a giant and effective push-

delivered by an honest morning

capable of breaking their sombrous slumber,

reshaping them to humans from robots

and rewarding them a reformative zeal

to turn over a new leaf forever.

 

Pijush Kanti Deb is an associate professor in Economics. Has had published over a 120 poems and haiku by Indian and international publishers since June 2013.

Copyright © 2015 by Pijush Kanti Deb

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason Constantine Ford… My Baby and Me

 

My Baby and Me

Looking back at a picture recently taken,

Convinces me that my eyes are not mistaken.

As I am holding my youngest baby in my arms,

I contrast the warmth of her touch to an image of her charms.

The distance between the mobile phone I am holding

And my eyes is a gush of air with sweetness unfolding.

As the both of us are gazing at a moment in time,

My baby’s love raises my emotions to feelings sublime.

Her presence is a spark of strength reaching well beyond

This moment in time as we achieve a special bond.

She is touching my face with the grip of tenderness sweet

As a merging of the past and the present is complete.

With moments ticking, I take another picture with my phone,
Assuring my baby that she shall never be alone.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Constantine Ford

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kudzai Mahwite… Pressure It Is But Do Not Crack

 

Pressure It Is But Do Not Crack

Wit and interest sure be stale,
Angry and dry but sure not pale,
Sure could do with a glass of ale,

Yet this is my boat and I must sail.

Dawn did break before timbers creak,
Nightly bobbing, rest not robbing,
Gothic vision of what could be,

Yet bliss do line sweet reminisce.

When heat do atoms make awake,
Felt I the leak where timber crack,
Knew full well what I do lack,
Some peace and rest before timbers break.

 

Kudzai Mahwite is a young Zimbabwean poet inspired greatly by the works and life of William Shakespeare. He is an Economics student and as part of his studies runs a small-time blog on the African Economy. Kudzai is also a Sportswriter with Football.co.uk.You can follow him on Twitter @sir_tos.

Copyright © 2015 by Kudzai Mahwite

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guinotte Wise… High Bridge

 

High Bridge

He was scared shitless, up this high. But he was scared not to come up, off balance with the bucket of bolts, a drift pin and a wrench. The steelworkers above him placed angle-iron sides and he put the cross pieces on, an X, stuck the drift pin in a hole to secure it while he bolted the open holes. Then he’d tap the pin out, bolt that hole. Three inch angle iron was his footing. Climb up the X, do another one. No one used harnesses. It never occurred to him. OSHA was not a factor in the 1950’s.

He’d heard about steeplejacks and mountain climbers just letting go, relaxing backward to gravity, falling without a sound, no yelling. It was a rapture of some sort, a fuck you to fear. They gave themselves to the monster.

The wind was wilder up here. His hard hat blew off. He grabbed for it reflexively and lost his footing for an instant before he hooked an elbow on the X, hugging it while he watched the metal hat fall. The hard hat turned over and over in seeming slow motion as it fell, smaller and smaller: he saw it hit the deck a hundred feet below, a hundred and fifty, bounce off the plate steel, into the water, flashing in the sun. A couple of men tying steel below looked up, shading their eyes.

He left his bucket hooked to the X, climbed down X by X, slowly, shaking. When he got to the bottom he fell forward on all fours. He saw the foreman’s Red Wing boots, heard his voice, lowered so only he could hear, “You don’t like working high, you don’t have to, son. Hell, I got welders who won’t get up on a stepladder.”

 

Guinotte Wise has been a creative director in advertising most of his working life. A staid museum director once called him raffish, which he enthusiastically embraced. (the observation, not the director) Of course, he took up writing fiction.

Copyright © 2015 by So-in-so