Trauma by Pitambar Naik

Nauseated fate on the streets

Fragments of pang and pain scatter in your bosom

Brownish fields, stony breathlessness

No more she, he, her or him, morning to evening

The lovely sky up even gasp for a little solace!

 

Coal mines, black gold, an illusion

Exceeds and disproportionate trauma

Stinky smell of callousness

Hoary deposits of the sweat and blood

An algorithm of fossilized humiliation

That might be Birbhum, Kalahandi or Mednapur.

 

The future is bleak and the hutments

Gaze like the Bengal of 1966

Coal, bauxite buries millions of lesser gods

The byword, the replica of the biblical no people

How can that fetid shame be brushed away?

 

Gray ashes of gloomy centuries

Noah’s floods

That far off Ethiopia

Somewhere in our backyard.

 

Advertisements

Thinking on Ferlinghetti’s #34  by Janette Schafer

Singers are poets too

    at least, I look at it that way,

         and like the wordsmith

 

(and the surfers)

 

they are seeking the eternal rhythm

     the lilt of the syllables connected together

          caressing the tide of music floating beneath

 

they too, seek to interpret

     the world through sound and language

          the echo of resonance and vernacular

 

the voice for them is the rolling wave of sea

     the buoyancy of timbre and harmonics

          bobbing on the surface tension of a melody

 

 


 

Sonnet 9 by Zulfiqar Parvez

With a smile as wide as the beaming sun

The angelic souls were having fun

In ways no words can give vent to

But can only be felt as the hearts do

On their feet they were out of joy

Dancing as if not the least coy

Singing songs though not in voice

Leading them to frenzy and a maze.

Not every day do they get to see this

Teachers dancing with them not to miss

Full they were of life for a day

Regardless of what haters may say

It will be a day worth being remembered

When they part with a dream deferred.

After Man by Ann Christine Tabaka

Nothing more exists, but the wind in the trees,

translated into whispers by vanishing time.

All that was is no more.

 

Spread thin with busyness and strife

there is nothing left to give to tomorrow.

The night swallowed up all. 

 

Red carpets and black limousines,

things of the past.

Books open with no one to read.

 

Nature has taken over with no

thought of loss. 

The best will survive as it always has been.

 

Decaying structures,

a salute to the past.

The earth continues to spin.

 

Spraying Adverbs by Debashish Haar

It’s that time of the day when men perspire
adjectives and talk about their pay-packets,
and women discuss the incentives, spray
adverbs, and stroke their cell-phone babies.
The dogs in the streets lick
used up tissues and napkins, and swallow
the scent of whatever they can’t chew.
Friends exchange sweets and mementoes,
lovers worship lack of separation.
The day ponders its immensity
to take the flight of birds.
Insomniacs are stoned to sleep,
and children read junked literature.

Poet of the Month: Blanca Alicia Garza

The Missing Piece 

 

One by one

I’m picking up the pieces

of my fractured heart

scattered along the way.

One by one

I will put them back

where they belong.

Some pieces are sharp

and make me bleed,

some are full of scars

and unrecognizable.

One by one

I’m putting the puzzle together

although some pieces will

not longer fit; only dust left.

One by one

It’s almost complete but

there is a missing piece

an empty space hard to fill

The missing piece is YOU.

One by one

I’m turning my tears into letters

letters into words

words into poems

and my shattered heart

into an unbreakable masterpiece

A heart made of stained glass.

 

 

 

Holding On

 

I’ve been lost in my own darkness,

I’ve touched the deepest abyss…

feeling like I’m drowning in my own tears.

My heart was in darkness,

like a caterpillar in its cocoon…

searching for a little bit of light to escape,

and I’ve found it now…

I’ll hold onto this rope stronger and tighter,

no matter if my hands bleed.

I will not fall again.

My broken wings have healed,

the sun now caresses my being,

my time in the darkness it’s over…

it’s time to soar higher than ever before.

 

(Initially published on Indiana Voice Journal)

 

 

Brain Washed

 

What is happening

with our beautiful world

It is tumbling and

Falling apart.

 

We’re destroying it

with hatred and beliefs

 

We’re living with fear

even to turn on the TV

 

To find just bad news there

and meaningless advertising

 

Poison in our food

New diseases

But less cures

 

Where the clowns now

wear suits and ties

 

And the Justice has

closed their eyes.

 

(Initially published on Tuck Magazine)

 

Preface

It began with the first issue, then the second, third and now PPP Ezine has reached its fourth issue. It’s not been easy. There were times, and I know there’ll be times, when I was not sure whether ten good poems will be submitted. Then, issue after issue, the magic number was somehow reached, with a lot of help from facebook group friend-poets and many editor-poets. This ezine is a joint effort. The editor has only brought the poems together and published them. PPP Ezine belongs to those who wrote for it, and those who read it. May they keep supporting it in the same manner for  decades to come, and beyond!

Façade by Eliza Segiet

Yesterday

she met

with the past.

 

She was hoping

that she was gone into oblivion.

Now she knows that she will not be silent.

Those days still entice.

 

On a short, one-way

—like life—street

she wanted to see an old house

with a wall that was marked

by her love.

 

Someone was renovating the façade.

He painted over the signs

and shouted from above:

 

do not worry, it’ll be fine!

 

The same words she has heard before,

but

this voice sounded different:

 

do not worry, it’ll be fine.

 

On the wall

of a townhouse without a future

there was no more sign of time.

 

On a short, one-way

—like life—street

one can paint over words,

 

but there is no paint

for erasing memory.

 

[Translated by Artur Komoter]

Preface

Three is a number with strong mystical associations. It is trinity, and elements, and worlds and past-present-future in one. Our third issue comes with the Monsoon showers and brings poetry and poetics to you. This issue has poems, interviews and articles on poetry and poets. We are proud to present to you poets from Nigeria, Nepal, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, India, Canada and the USA in this one issue. Thus PPP Ezine takes one more step towards weltliterature.

Interview: Asha Viswas

PPP Ezine: Who are your favorite poets, if possible, also tell us what makes them your favorite?

 

AV: My first love was Shelley. 19th century poetry, both Romantic and Victorian, appealed to me. Amongst individual writers Blake, Eliot, Neruda, Lorca, Borges were my other loves. I have avidly read Australian poets like David Malouf , Crabbe ,Kinsella ,Thomas Shapcott and Les Murray. Amongst the Indian writers I admire Daruwalla, Adil Jussawalla and Mahapatra. Now to the second part of this question as to what makes them my favourites , it is really difficult to answer . I think in our teens and early twenties we all love Romantic poetry.  Romanticism starts as a revolt against the conscious mind- “Le Romantisme c’est la revolucion“. From this conscious thinking level they move to the dreaming consciousness and finally tap at the doors of eternity. This quest for the evading beauty one finds in all the Romantics and perhaps, this is what appeals to me even now .

 

PPP Ezine:  This one is a direct descendant of Matthew Arnold’s Touchstone Method: ‘They say that there are lines in a poem that make its heart. You may call them the poetry of poetry. Do you remember some such lines of yours or from some of your favorite poets that will help us understand your vision of poetry? If yes, please do give us some of those lines.

 

AV: I think one can always quote Keats’ lines: “Beauty is Truth, Truth beauty” – this is his advice to the poets, not to ordinary human beings. Poets should not ignore realism at the cost of imagination – a sort of bringing the two together. Beauty for him was the way to vision. With reference to a work of art, beauty is the emotional recognition of truth. Then we have Wordsworth’s oft quoted lines “poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings “.  Almost every great poet in every age writes about his own views about poetry- what it is and how it comes into being.

 

PPP Ezine: There has been a debate raging among the lovers of free verse and formal verse. Where do you stand in this debate? Why?

 

AV: Poets write either in traditional formal verse or free verse. Sri Aurobindo , amongst Indian writers , was the master of traditional formal verse. Ezekiel wrote some of his poems in traditional verse. Most of the modern writers in India write in free verse.  I think we should leave it to the poets whether they write in free verse which gives them much freedom or in formal verse. As most of the Indian poets writing in English are not the native speakers of English, it is not easy for them to have a thorough command over English versification. Hence they write in free verse. Of course, there are exceptions. I write in free verse.

 

PPP Ezine: You have been writing for a long time. If you could tell us something about what inspired you to write poems in the first place, and then, what kept you going, it’d be inspiring for the new poets.

 

AV: Usually, it is said that our parents make us what we are. But I think it is our siblings that make us what we are. I was the youngest of the four daughters and there was a lot of difference in our ages. As a child i was never included in their games or teen age talks. I always felt a sense of loneliness, alienation and isolation. I sought comfort in a dream world all my own and built a shell where i wove those poetic dreams. I wrote some short stories in class ix which appeared in the school magazine. At college level a few poems were written and destroyed. Being a very secretive person I never showed my poems to anyone. It was only when I was working at the University of Calabar, Nigeria that a colleague of mine, Robert Meredith from Harvard University, U.S.A. read some of these poems and encouraged me to publish them. I feel that poets feel this need for writing a poem- a sort of bug that bites you .

 

PPP Ezine: Give our new poets a few tips (3 or more) for composing well.

 

AV: The only advice I can give is to read poetry, does not matter what poets you read, but read and then start writing, if possible a few lines every day.

 

 

PPP Ezine:  Rejection is a life-long friend or enemy of a poet. Please tell us how you responded/respond to your rejections in the past, and now?

 

AV: My very first collection Melting Memories got me MICHAEL MADHUSUDAN   Academy award, so there was no sense of feeling rejected. I have won many awards, was also short listed in a poetry competition organized by the poetry society India and the British council. But it is also true that a poet living in small place finds it hard to get his or her poems published. I think in the present scenario it is really difficult to get your poetry published in metros like Delhi and Mumbai. no one reads poetry and the publishers charge a lot of money for publishing your poems.