Sunday, February 16, 2020

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"Mavis. Sway moon."

Mavis. Sway moon.
Curses expunged.
Behave? Never mattered.
Volitation, irregardless. Extreme night.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"Anushka, I hammer the air" 

I hammer the air
with your name 

The afternoon
slides down your hair
ever so slowly.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"A blue hawk eats the universe" 

A blue hawk eats the universe
Umbrellas dance naked
Horses contemplate solar metaphors.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"I died in Palestine I died in Kashmir" 

I died in Palestine
I died in Kashmir
I am history’s corpse. 

Curfewed souls forget to laugh
The gardens are quiet
My corpse is kicked away to somewhere unknown 

I died knowing my little brother was also dying.
The number on my body vanishes soon enough, 

I am too far away
from the festival of butterflies.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"Pistol shots in the dark" 

Pistol shots in the dark,
The Buddha chases a rabbit.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"you ink your face with halogen" 

you ink your face
with halogen 

a balloon writes elegies 

a poem
cannot wait 

autumn ignites stars 

we touch in
ether and speak Enochian 

a violet cat
offers bread 

we enter
the street's love story.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"far away but surely, death's song at the door"

far away but surely, death's song at the door;
turned insane by love, the man bent down to collect shadows of snails.
at the beach you may meet my ghost and we'll quiz each other on Tolstoy

in the cup of my hands
I hold the night's glory

shadows, shadows all about
light hides among the sparrow's wings

in the war my head

the city breathes a thaumaturgic eagle;
a lonely bat looks for solace in the ruins,

time spins like a bullet.

Tolstoy -- Ilya Repin

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"The copper moon hangs" 

The copper moon hangs
at the end of the corridor, 

and someone
sings of love,
so quietly.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"at night I roam with Jibanananda"

at night
I roam with Jibanananda

(my feline malaise)

touching the fabric of a melancholy tune

I catapult a word
to its destiny

my heart
is an Eskimo

I need an audience
for my madness

all we have is this operatic winter night. 
 The most widely used portrait of Jibanananda Das (date unknown)

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"the sun pours in through the window" 

the sun pours in
through the window,

an angel runs down
to earth
with an errand, 

the eagle
lifts the veil
off time and space, 

a war ends
with the victory
of flowers.

Inam Hussain Mullick

"I am enslaved" 

I am enslaved
by the blue night
of your armpits; 

decades pass.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"the eagle listens" 

the eagle listens
to whispers
at the high sky's altar, 

the sun is trapped
in fishing nets, 

I am shipwrecked
in unknown waters, 

at the snap of your fingers, the rocklands
catch fire.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"your breath" 

your breath,
the sound of oceans 

birds chronicle
the journey of the clock 

a game of cards is elided
from history's rail yard of songs.

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"in your hands" 

in your hands
is a toy

night's engines
the wind, 

city of paperwork dream
witnesses Adam's rising
lust for witches 

in the arc of moonlight
you sing 

ducks populate
the hut of witchcraft 

winter becomes music 

what is more urgent
than me meeting you
in the garden of apricots?

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"the sun"

the sun
the whole landscape

a child cries,

Inam Hussain Mullick writes

"a boat sinks" 

a boat

poems become

a shadow goes to sleep.

Asoke Kumar Mitra writes


Someday we will go
On a trip across the night
Where white lily blooms
Will sing a song of the cyclone

Two impatient hearts
Two vagabond heads
Folded in our pockets
And the sound of our own voices

We are a full-time dreamer
Ocean clouds only know our dreams
Voices of broken guitar and violin
Dark locks of the night
Today is Saturday, day after tomorrow
On Monday night
We are going for a poetry meet
Wordless poems, what this night needs…

Asoke Kumar Mitra writes


Waiting for a song to sing Together
Song of humanity and creation…
We are butterflies
Between a thousand flowers

At night we run among dreams
Stars and moon both merge
Us in love
Neon signs and billboards
Who cares

Like a potter who gives life to clay
The moon creates a shadow
Evening’s silent approach
To a blank page of our heart

Sea waves, winds and sea shells
Sky and clouds
Talking to each other
Our secret poetry dissolve in perfect silence…

Asoke Kumar Mitra writes


Another day we went to the sea
Seagulls emerging from the clouds
Home bound birds and memories
Inside my heart lost love letters

Sand dunes and seashells
Night washed out in silence
Half-forgotten dreams
Don’t want to wake up

Time a silent stalker
In an empty space on the sea waves
Seashells, mundane thoughts and imaginations
Inside me your existence

Sand dunes, quick sand and seashells
Parched lips
Fire in our hearts…
And we part…

Asoke Kumar Mitra writes


Remembering you wrote letters…
Described the situations, you said
Will back home soon,
Days, week, a fortnight, months gone
It’s going to be ten months,

No letters, no phone calls,
Last time wrote from Paris
Dated May 13, 2014

Waiting for you at breakfast table,
Empty chair, half empty glass
How long? This silence…

At the crossroad of sleepless nights
I am listening to my own heart beat
My own song…
With a sound of weeping violins
I am sinking in quicksand

Asoke Kumar Mitra writes


The moon swallowed the dark
Broken dreams silently hanging
Through the window pane,
A rusted frame of night
Stars twinkle gently
Owls moaning

Dreams are fragile glass
Untold story of joy and pain
Come alive with words you have not spoken
This night beside the window
Eyes speak a thousand words
In silence

What are the colors of rain
Falling like lost dreams…
Forgive, but never to trust again.

Arlene Corwin writes

Friend Thesaurus

The writer’s friend, 
A blend of possibilities and inspiration.
Thesaurus, dictionary -
Whomsoever you may be.
You may be shy,
          unable to express but haltingly,
Verbally restricted or constricted.
Stumbling, jumbling up idea and flow,
Noticing that when you sit
The things you know and feel ‘in here’
Become immediately clear
And you can write with style,
All the while the face a smile;
A ‘freebee’* as an old friend used to call it.
I call it ability.

You may be face-blind, absent-minded,
Abstracted, scatterbrained,
But when you’ve paper, pen you’re won-
Published, praised, commended,
Held in high regard.
You can create!
For goodness sake, you write!
You can bring to life a whole new world
Without having to communicate,
Or state illuminations now unfurled
Which formerly were coiled, twirling round inside that brain.
You’re articulate on this new, wholly other plane.

If you’ve nothing much to say -
Well, that’s a different story.
But if you’ve got the bent to write day, night or dawn,
Put it down!  
You’ll find you’ve not had so much fun
Since  your day one when eight or so,
You wrote, though slowly
Putting youthful concepts into poetry.

Use your friends!
They’re there to end 
Those agonies
Inhibiting potentialities.
*freebee; something you get for nothing.  The ‘old friend’ was Teddy Charles, well known jazz vibraphonist.

Asoke Kumar Mitra writes

Fragrant days of autumn
Chariot of clouds at dusk
Here the clay goddess comes
Carries all my songs

The golden touch of her feet
Makes my joy to shine infinite
Birds sing in the morning
And the whispers of the wind
Flutes sound and the laughter

After four days—

Memories swirling into nowhere
Plunged into a sea of silence…
Image result for clay goddess

Robert Beveridge writes


The Haitians believe
that every rainbow
is the manifestation
in our earth
of heaven
so here, drunk, Judy
Garland on the radio
again, I wonder what
is beyond the river
of heaven manifest
in the night sky
 Judy Garland singing "Over the Rainbow" during a broadcast of the "Command Performance" radio program.

Robert Beveridge writes


It's trouble
to have the lights off
before ten.
The neighbors wonder.
The bathtub backs up
spits hairballs
into the sink
where there are no cats.

Robert Beveridge writes


This is how it works. You order another Grand Marnier on the dime of that rich old guy who says he runs the studio where Alice Mutton recorded their latest album and when you fade back in it’s foggy, you’re outside, and two violinists stand over you, recite the Nicene Creed until you, too, think you believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church.

It’s when you get up and walk home you realize these guys are with you for good, and there are only so many reels your head can process before you need to sleep the sleep of the spray-tanned sailor. At the risk of being seen a walnut, you ask, in as polite a tone as you can muster, if your new friends might cease and desist, at least till cockcrow, but they just switch to a narcocorrido ballad, vocals in something that may resemble broken Spanish in some alternate universe. When Alice Mutton’s drummer pulls up, even if he’s wasted enough to see nickels on every dime, you dive in, beg him to floor it, destination Braşov, Paris, the final patch of Oblivion-surrounded earth at the end of the world, anywhere but here.

Robert Beveridge writes

for Laura Aquilino

You smiled today, touched
my hand in greeting. I could no longer see
the fires along the river at night
yet again they sprang forth
those talismans
against the flood that threatens
to overcome us.
What great beast is this? One more
sweaty night, no end to this heat
can't sleep so I think of you
wait for something, nothing
you'll know it when you find it.
Hadn't seen you for two days
after I read you my last poems.
Are you in bed with the verse
I opened to you? Do you wonder
if I write you another? I do.

Robert Beveridge writes


The clink in the basement might be a leaky pipe or a loose piece of glass caught in a sporadic draft. The Derby favorite might look sore in the post parade because he needs to warm up a little more. Your bank might have sent that email because they do indeed care about the safety of your personal information. Perhaps the cult nailed the carcasses to your door for protection. He’s from the government, and he’s here to help you. The green on the cheese is just a rind. It’s got a 0% rating at Rotten Tomatoes because critics don’t understand art. The editor hasn’t responded because the work is still under consideration. Your favorite knife isn’t in the block because it’s still somewhere in the dishwasher.

Robert Beveridge writes


You toss back
another bourbon
and laugh at me
for my Southern Comfort
and later
I rub your back
hold your hair
away from your face
you try to kiss me
in reply and I hand
you a glass of ginger ale

Robert Beveridge writes

upside down
the slow march
of beads
from ankles
to wrists
harder to breathe
with each hour
that passes
but you can still
smell the heavy
odor of liver
and caramelized
onion in the air
the occasional
spider bites
your heels,
your back,
and you swear
you hear each
whisper “what
tangled webs
we weave”
before they fall
to the floor
a glaive seems
an odd choice
but when he
comes back
into the room
he selects one
begins to work
once more
on his newest