The Crystalline Side of Time by Fahredin Shehu

There’s sunlight and your words like thunder split my being

there’s a flashlight in my Soul

perhaps you waited hardly – out of empty stomach to see a smile in his face

there are no tears in a full stomach you shall know this too

and I see the smile of the ignorant as the most ignorant

one can be – I’m the one – who stands as rock and I watch with binoculars

down the lake and the swan couple I see in the pond playing the erotic game

perhaps you recall how we met in a Crystalline side of Time

and you hold now the empty shell echoing my name

the war ended roughly two decades ago and we still Love

as mad as no one can be, in here where the age of smirks rolls its dice and

in a place of serenity we call heart




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.


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)



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


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,


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]


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.