Alok Mishra writes

My Lovely Spirit

Why does your memory
Give me a sense
Of ocean's depth
In my trembling heart?

Times ago
I used to ask you for
The words of my thoughts.
Now I am barren.
How to tell you,
O my lovely spirit?

Not a second passed
Without your breath in my lungs.
Every part of my tangible frame cries for its existence.
How do they survive,
O my lovely spirit?

No one in this world
Is so beautiful and dear to me,
But it is my strong nature
That I stand in both worlds
Even if you are not before me
To give me support.

No, no it is your supporting nature
That is alive in me
Even today.
You are not absent,
You are present, present, present
Before me.
Your breath I feel in my lungs;
Your blood circulates in my veins;
Your feelings are in my nerves;
Your tears I feel in my eyes;
Your supporting nature tells me the words
That embellish this poem,
O my lovely spirit!

 Veronica -- Benjamin Garcia

Andreas Saag makes music

All of Me

Jack Scott writes

Road  

The road itself was night 
dark as space, 
studded here and there 
with random light 
streaming past as if in flight, 
as if celestial, 
but not so, 
no stars or comets, galaxies, 
only tollbooths, turnpikes, 
treadmill roads, 
rest stops begging quarters.

New England names streak past 
a flashcard for each passing town 
twenty names, related, in a row, 
extended family of 
northeastern aristocracy, 
much the same 
for every by-passed town, 
but none yet for where I want to be: 
now a name upon a map, 
unreal until I get there, 
abstraction at the end of mileage 
measured by some hick 
in love with distance 
and not so sure of light.

Six hundred miles 
of car chase on a screen, 
a game played with a fast machine. 
The prize is simply getting there. 
Six hundred miles of road, 
a one-night trick, 
stag film without a cunt or prick. 
My love is home away from home,
asleep from yawn of ten 
till well after dawn. 
I will arrive before she wakes 
however long postponement takes; 
odometer is a kind of clock, 
time and distance
 much the same, 
under observation: 
both molasses.

My eyes are tired and burn, 
but bore into the thickness of the air. 
My ears tune in the beacons of the night, 
aural outposts sharing loneliness 
until their signals fade 
and I dial the safe 
opening another. 
Tendonitis stings one driving arm 
and then its alternate. 
The body moves because I tell it to, 
the car because it’s driven.

Kennebunktown, 
aloof to the Thru-Way, 
adjacent by necessity 
architecture veiled by dawn, 
its dwellers deeply hidden, 
a sleepy blink from lowered lid, 
a guest for gas, then gone, 
and on through fog toward Portland.

I cannot glimpse Maine’s water, 
on my right and parallel, 
but hear imagined activity 
like a docked boat’s grinding 
against restraints, 
and feel a rising tide of memory.
I’ve always had a sense of water.

Not far to go, 
I was closer than I thought 
to Portland, right where I left it 
too many years ago. 
It didn’t have this sadness then; 
I guess I brought it with me. 
I found the place I ate 
lobster breakfast ten years past 
with beer and Bromoseltzer -
a dockside dive, clean enough 
for watermen and stevedores. 
Closed and swanky now 
with cocktails and Italian chow. 
Progress has caught up to both of us. 
Portland has a By-Pass now 
and North is further north, of course; 
its frontierness has been gentrified. 
Shedding luminescent fog 
day reveals itself. 
Having driven through my deficit 
of sleep and comfort, 
like Tantalus, 
my destination 
recedes still further north 
in space and time, 
or so it seems: 
a woman sleeping in a bed, 
myself beside her; 
until then, uncertainty, 
and the same thereafter. 
Incomplete trajectory. 
I have landed in an alien day         
indistinct upon the map. 
Rand-McNally, take a nap.

I wish I could, 
but high on sleeplessness 
between two beds, 
on tightwire spanning them 
I’m not flying, merely up, 
dangerously so. 
Down is a direction, 
gravity its compass. 
When I’ve landed 
I’ll drive on 
toward the land of you, 
or failing that, its embassy.

 
Maine -- Florian Rodarte

Jeff Norris shoots

John Sweet writes

late january, city of ghosts

early morning in blue and

grey all salt and dust and dirty

                                         frost all

                   failed connections all

                   threads of war but here just the

            soft hum of absolute clarity just the

dead weight of a merciless god

and i am thinking of you and

i am sorry for the pain i’ve

caused and together we are

less than what was promised but

     in this moment we are eternal

in the seconds before

the snow begins to fall

i have meaning

not enough to change the future

but i still grab it and run

 

 Dawn -- Odd Nerdrum

Parveen Sethi writes

In a small rustic teastall where
aroma of tea comes wafting mixed with kerosene 
Dimly lit hues of late afternoons
draw crisscross patterns on my heart full of longing
The scraped plaster on the walls tells stories of bygones
The wooden stools whisper to me that you have been here
Sipping tea from ridged glasses
Singing songs of Shiv and Sahir
Eyeing the sly beauty on the opposite table
Whereas another smiled coyly  by your side

These places talk about you to me
The winter sun still carries the warmth of your having basked under it,
discussing Nothing, everything and life
Every nook says how you
have belonged here once upon a time
And How I am late in coming looking for you now
You Left a while ago
Just a little while or maybe more...

Now you sip tea from fine porcelain
In some place unknown to me
The fragrance of freshly brewed ambrosia now mixes with the memories of those left behind noons and days
I sit today breathing in you
where I could not be when you were

But did you ever leave .....
I am not sure

 

Umid Ali writes

AN ANGEL IN IMAGE

A shining dream in your eyes,

A magical sense engrosses my look.

I stretched out my hand to you sadly,

I whispered, my life: “An angel of love”.

A heart creates a big estrangement,

I cry as a madman while remembering my past.

I say again and again, but am not sure:

“Will my happiness come back?”

I am far way from you around a million years,

I am wandering daft and sullen.

Sometimes by sorrow, sometimes by joy trapped,

A night and a dawn alternating in my heart

The worlds never open their doors which you left,

Only love and a valuable sense stayed from you.

Your eyes are telling memory to my eyes,

My saved picture is a girl with whom I fell in love.  

tr. Asror Allayarov from  "The Gate Opened by Angels"