Month: April 2018

Poems by Shimul Salahuddin

A myth of a seizure   There is no one  no where though nobody belonged to! Only a mountain the golden mountain We have had our days on this golden mountain No silver, no metal, no copper, no clay Only glittering gold Women’s breasts were like the gold dome of gold men’s penis were like gold minaret   That petal of flowers covered with gold Lotus, Roses, Jessamine, white Jessamine That time we had village A tale of a mountain could be seen through window And we dreamt whole night for a day  And at the day, A tale became true. We were starving sleepless even though it became true We had giants in whole village But giants were very affectionate And we had weak king We had princess, prince, fight We had abominable cry Still people knew how to smile How to take care One day a tale become epic A suited demons came in our village They forced a burden of a wisdom of time And showed us a dream of an orgasm instead of gold Stream of bloody river get wider Flattened fairy tales in length and width Become modern poems Our beloved village Slowly went to nostalgic childhood Oh !that mountain of gold With scary bloody face Greet us at the window of dawn    Inside the scene    It’s here ! and we are...

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Joy of Humanity by Najib Tareque

Darkness means there is light somewhere a 14 years old lady came to me & asked `who is the artist?’ I was the 19 years old boy asked her `why are you looking for artist? She said pointing to the three year old little princess `my niece had something to ask the artist’ Me, kneel down in front of the princess `yes mam what do you want to know? I’m the artist!’ princess asked, “why did you draw those ghost pictures?” (November, 1989. Goethe Institute, Dhanmondi 2, Dhaka) B Ghost story is always popular in the village and towns. This is the kind of story which tells of life. Why? Do we love fear, Mystery, Gothic, horror or darkness! No! We want to be free from those but we don’t know how to go beyond the dark. Ghost story shows us the way to light. Typical Ghost story always has a happy ending. Victim or human finds someway to be free from the dreadful states which he/she describes as fear, mystery, gothic, horror or darkness inside him. C My reading, writings and paintings are the part of the journey to `know thy self’. I’m born in a land, I’m born in a time, and I’m born in a situation. I try to explore all of these and I want to share what I find. It’s fear and it’s the...

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Poems by Tola Ijalusi

the evil ONE I know the evil one that strays you away, tell tiny true tales that leading you to death, whose wickedness betrays paradise. I know the evil one and will show you. Explore the mirror clap your eyes it isn’t him, it isn’t her, it is you. Daresay,    the evil one is you.       Midnight Singers      Hunn hunn    Hunn hunn hunn   Can you hear them sing? Not the bats No, not them.   Listen and look Through this wrecked window That fence innocence plus ignorance But echoes fear.   They are dressed in White, Red and Black Carrying calabash Costumed with chalk Chanting incantations. They are there At the crossroads.      Ha ha ha    Ha ha ha   They sing at night, We danced by day.   NIGHT  DEATH   I rise at dawn seeing the day won creeps into the day as the lifeless dark monitor trails hidden in my mind I knew I shall die tonight with hope to wake next dawn either here or there   About the Poet Tola Ijalusi writes from Ibadan, Nigeria. His poems were featured in the 31 Days of Poetry 2015, 2016 and 2017 on EGC Creativity. He has been published recently in Kalahari Review, Tuck Magazine, Nantygreens, Hub201, BlackBoy Magazine and elsewhere. He enjoys country and reggae music....

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Poem by Thomas Piekarski

The Ship Captain   While wandering the French Quarter during Mardi Gras I was a stake in the heart Dixie. Colored beads like hailstones peppered me, and there were drunk revelers sporting masks.   I became overwhelmed by claustrophobia, so leaving those revelers to their fine insanity down to the mighty Mississippi I made haste and listened to the paddle wheeler’s steam hiss.   At river’s edge I peered down like Narcissus to view my image in its immaculate reflection. But much too murky was the brown river, perhaps poisonous as is the vaunted Ganges.   I stood tiptoe like an elaborate ballet dancer upon that muddy shore, perfectly balanced, then spun at such speed my head soon dizzied and my skin evolved to a faint powder blue.   A lion’s roar came bursting from the sky and a herd of wild jackals raced past me. Twin jets streaked in the sky overhead as a three-headed serpent slithered nearby.   Heaven hath not host haughty as the mermaid journeying upstream from the Gulf of Mexico. Bouncy and brisk, she skimmed the wide river atop a crimson tortoise with diamond eyes.   Fifty buglers appeared in phalanx on the jetty playing “Taps.” I recognized them from a dream. They were demigods bent on my total destruction that I dismissed with a flick of my powerful wrist.   I remained focused...

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Poem by Kristi Kar

Love in the Time of Black Death   Doctors are said to have beautiful hands. Clean, white, and with long thin fingers, embalming the deaths as they happen. Transparent nails leaving crescent marks on the necks of lovers and concubines and sometimes carelessly on dead bodies in the post mortem room. Pretending to cure them the next moment with liquefied sunset antiseptics on cotton balls.   I have avoided falling in love as if it was a bubonic plague, creating swollen and spherical individual fortresses on my body which no Knights shall conquer.   But you were a young doctor from the twenty first century when you time travelled. You had alchemical eyes looked like green vitriol and a small harp winged on your back. To be honest, you didn’t look much like a doctor. You looked like worn flannel shirts tossed effortlessly in a leather bag along with a half eaten bag of chips for an autumnal sojourn in the forest.   I fled to a cottage in a French suburbia that summer to escape black death. People said you’d been drinking at the tavern lately, and your lips have become very purple, and you toss your tresses from your forehead very arrogantly if someone happens to mention a killing or a theft.   When I saw you, I was weaving melody into a raven’s song from the...

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