Shabdaguchha: Logo2 edited by: Hassanal Abdullah issue: 57/58









Poetry in English





Stanley H. Barkan

METAMORPHOSIS

for Stanley Kunitz

Having emerged
from the chrysalis,
a butterfly
(not a moth),
all the colors
of the morning,
	afternoon,
	evening
in his movements,
passing through
the winding paths
of his wild braid garden,
he seems reborn,
yet another
	change,
another
	transformation.
He has become
not just a word
but a living
breathing poem.



JUST TO REMEMBER

I am not the explorer
I once was,
climbing the Huachuca Mountains,
because they were there,
not the seeker in a red shirt,
fearful of any bull longhorns
I might meet on the hitch-hiking
way to Nogales, Arizona,
and across the border 
to the sun-blinding white Canal Street
I sought and found,
where a beautiful woman 
sat leaning against a red-brick building
reading a comic book.

I said, “¿Cómoestá?”

After a long silence, when
with a sign, I sat down next to her,
leaning against that same building,
she said, “¿Quéquiere?”

I said, “Usted.”

She smiled, then said, in English,
“Where’re you from?”

I told her, from Brooklyn, 
my first day assigned to Fort Huachuca,
before assignment to my company.

She told me that it was not working hours,
but took me inside to her room.

After kissing and caressing her, 
I, a virgin, asked, “What do I do now?”

She laughed, said, “¡Chichito!  
You one big liar.”  

But I wasn’t.  She was my first.

Now, lying in my well-covered bed
in my Mexican-style stucco house 
in Merrick, Long Island,
I am content just to recall,
no longer to seek such sagas,
just to remember 
in the comfort and closeness
and security of  a 73-year-old
with wife at my side,
children and grandchildren 
near and not so far,
in retirement,

. . . but still dreaming of the past.




SO WHAT’S TO SING ABOUT?

Gourmet grasshoppers
are cleaning out 
beds of basil, sage, and mint,
and the katydids and cicadas
are, as usual, stridulating more than ever.
So reports The New York Times
in “A Bumper Year for Bugs.”
The song they hum
they have been singing 
for millions of years before
we evolved out of the trees.
There’s a comet out there
with Earth’s name on it.
So what’s for bugs or us to sing about?


New York


Afzal Moolla


BLINK 2.0

As you walk down the dusty street,
looking back to where,
yesterday and today meet,

try to keep your weary heart on fire,
dulled and numb, 
though you may feel,

know that the petals of each blood-red rose,
fans the embers of desire,

a simple desire,
to feel again,
to laugh at the cold, lonely rain,

a simple desire,
to lose it all, 
believing there still is, 
a world of soft peace to gain,

Keep blinking through it all,

because all you need, 
is a gentle hand,
to help you up, 
if you should ever fall,

keep blinking at yourself,
and never regret all bygone days,
for your eyes have watered,
your ocean of tears, 
for far too long,
that simple desire,
to live, love, to feel,
to cry all anguish till it departs,
keep blinking,
and believe,
always believe,

that the most painful closures,
herald bright, soft,
comforting starts.



BLINK 3.0

in a murmur,
trapped inside a quiet corner,
of your tranquil heart,
a new dawn,
will break,
shredding the thorns, 
that once tore you apart,
in a breath,
of life,
caressing the bruised kisses of your dreams,

nights of barren desolation,
shall surely pass,
while nourishing your being,
as the pristine mountain streams,
in a blink,
from the corners, 
of your serene eyes,

a sliver of a thought,
assures you, that time flies,
and when,
you feel, 
your awakening,

your days in the sun,
and in the placid night,
shall surely be,
resurrected, 
by hope's redeeming light,

and when awakened,
your whole being feels enveloped,
by feelings anew,

may your morning be as peaceful,
as the flowers embraced,
by the glistening dew.


South Africa





Bishnupada Ray


BLACK BOX

a black box of the inner chamber
safe in the dark sea of nights
where ripples break on the grey shores
rough as the grains of white blood

the fallacy of that Lockean page
seeks the comfort zone of mermaids
where music of the uninspired waves
records a rainbow of tremors

my ink spills all over again
perpetuating my mortal weakness
the crime I commit through ages
needs a bonfire for regeneration

no light comes from my fire
so I recreate myself from the darkness
the sand traces the pink footprints
approaching a soft crimson sun.


Kolkata




William Wright Harris



GRADIVA

dali sketched you 
                    almost in waves
hips ebbing
                    as a frothing tide
navel an undertow
                    dragging the eye
deeper than a 
                    watery cemetery
breasts estuaries
                    hungry for salt
and one foot 
                    bringing you closer



TWO HANDS

knuckles gnarled &
calluses carved from
a life of toil

one hand
bent
as if attempting a fist

the other 
open
& stretched upwards

van gogh begging
salvation from a god 
deaf or apathetic

Tennessee




Seema Gupta


DESERTED WOMAN

She is born with the 
silent language of desert and winds
engraved in her soul and 
every night staring towards the sky
fighting with her own guesses
which she made to catch the star
her beloved was following 
to reach his destination 
she sends her whispers
along with tender kisses
placing on the wings of wind
believing the wind would surely
travel far and far away 
to transfer her kisses
with her passionate message of
longingness to her beloved
she lives in fire of
endless waiting moments 
with flood of storms in her eyes
and suffers moments of blazing coals
as horrible pain
with a desperate desire to
rest in his strong arms forever
she tries to gather dews of her
evaporating deep breaths
and creates imagery of being
beside him peeping in his eyes
she never knows
her wait would end or not
But she knows one thing
she is a desert woman 
and with flux of stone body
she would be waiting till her last breath . . .


ISOLATED MIND

Isolated Mind being nomadic
with eruption of hidden pain 
in the form of ice 
always craves to wander 
on the scattered street of old memories 
where shadow of frozen wound 
throws pearl of notion 
in darkness of uncertainty
and dried up perplex moments 
with some known odor
and diffused silence;
shed tears with consistency
on the paved path of destiny 
and that moment heart bleeds 
for aesthetic sense of togetherness


India






Saptadeep Basu



A FEW WORDS

A few words left unspoken yesterday,
A few words kept hidden from today,
A few promises that were broken to keep others alive,
And a few spare feelings, that were left buried deep inside.
The seconds ticked by in a gruesome pace,
Caught in a web of “could have been” moments;
Sometimes I whispered them; sometimes I had chosen to shout;
But my feelings had always been spoken to myself.
Couldn’t tell you how beautiful you looked with your dimpled smile,
Couldn’t hum the song that I had written for those mesmerising eyes,
Couldn’t give you the letters, I had dumped below my lonely bed,
Where often I had expressed; and which only I had read.
I never cared for the flowers to bloom,
Never dreamt for the rainbow to peep through my door,
I had never wished for the violins to play for us,
All I waited for was a perfect start.
Today as you walk away with your steady steps,
Tramping those silly feelings that you never knew existed,
I wish I could stop you and pour out my heart,
And not fade away unnoticed, as my life slowly departs.
Few words will yet be left unspoken today,
Some promises buried with my soul,
Few spare feelings with no wings to fly,
And tell you all I had always wished for.


India




Shabdaguchha, an International Bilingual Poetry Journal, edited by Hassanal Abdullah