The rain is suffocating inside the clouds
The leaves are burning in agony
I pluck flowers often
and place them in my books
wondering anything beautiful needs to be preserved.
My eyes have begun resembling a museum
because every time I close them
death falls like an art.
Sometimes it hangs above my eyelids
and researchers introspect in awe.
Everything that was once alive
has touched the sand or wood
before embracing death.
Everything we love is protected by touchwood.
The skin I carry isn't dark
but a fair shade of brown.
Maa never told me to apply cream
until I was down with fever
and started looking like a wilted flower
a lover holds my hand often
and memorizes the marks on my skin.
He says it looks like a fallen autumn leaf.
We both smile at the connection
and weep at the metaphor.
Maa tells me to apply cream
the fever hasn’t left me yet.
I have nothing to show you more than these two things,
I have nothing to carry on my spine.
My back is a coffin
where flowers bloom sometimes.
A graveyard isn't dead
but full of life that embraced
peace too early.
Life is a great job until it starts to underpay,
We regret what we don't choose,
we cry for what we often choose.
The rain has begun to fall
I hear Azaan mixed with splashes of water
petrichor diffuses in the air along with
the camphor from the temple next door.
I close my eyes when I hear the Gurbaani
and wish for the brother who works in the Church.
My skin is a brown country
My eyes a forgotten history
The steps that lead to the prayer
are often heavy and lost
God was last found in a dead fetus.
2-Losing voices like blood
mother stitches wounds into poems
her words buried deep under the sky
sometimes when it rains
I hear metaphors knocking on my door
a faint petrichor diffuses in my room
choking the paper flowers I made yesterday.
the origami sheets lay like autumn leaves
this marble floor beneath my feet
is no less than a graveyard
I often pluck flowers,
one by one.
this summer appears like monsoon
taking its first breath,
my arms almost shed the pain
but winter is all about aches
and that's all I await.
If mother ever comes back to the earth
to take her pride
she will encounter it hiding in a closet
behind the collection of summer dresses
the floral ones she once stitched.
I would allow her to take everything
in the hope that she will take me away too.
But the walls of elegy have already started
building up grief around my house
her garden of words
are forbidden territory.
we often write about loss as again
but no one cares to look beyond the clouds
that brings rain
no one knows that at midnight
they often weep and wail
but thunder falls like a judgment
and silence spreads itself.
in this way or another
there’s always a loss
we never express.
I am wearing her floral dress
the last one she could stitch
her words hang like a necklace
around my turtle neck
her poems adore my waist
no one cares to touch my skin
I am her poetry
and at this hour
the world will never get metaphor
the sky outside is bleeding
I remember mother's silence
over the last phone call
when I confessed that I am not happy
her sobs hid themselves
behind the sound of thunder in my ears.
I am slowly becoming a poet
she would have fallen in love with
but you should not search for the spark in my eyes
A poet always burns her muse alive.
mother stitches wounds into poetry
while rain falls as a metaphor in my palms
silence echoes in the paper flowers
and unstitched wounds lose their voice
like a blood,
like a memory.
A mystical poetess with a straightforward style of writing. Her poems
question norms and portray naked truth, sometimes subtle sometimes
clearly evident. Sameera took up writing as a means of escape and never
looked back. She is on a constant lookout for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favorite
Grief always find its way
like the water under the door
an anxious child lost in the maze
seeping quietly to places unknown
it will sink and seep in your soul
evade you at times.
You cannot force tears of joy
like a thief
a house abandoned,
sand slipping through the fingers
my eyes have run dry
every loss leaves an impression
sometimes the grief is dichotomous
like the balloons slipped through
those tiny fingers
a loss intermixed with wonder.
You have left long before the last spring
a dying songbird in my hand
reminds me of the broken prayer
once we were.
I still find pieces of your
broken memories, shards
lodged in me
pulling out your claws from my supple body
pieces and sieved with pain,
my pain impaled on the stars in the nightly sky.
Pain shines brightly in the darkness
this pulverized pain
reminds me broken pieces I foraged together
to make a whole of me.
the painstaking process of keeping this soul together
when like a hungry vulture
you are shredding and scraping bits of me
sometimes I think you scooped
and carved out the light out of me
this ache in my bones
stripped of light
the pain feels different in darkness than in light
like a million feathers burning
still not leaving soot
Your existence in me in invisible
this pain is invisible.
Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a contributing author at GoDogGO Cafe, Candles Online, Free Verse Revolution, Whisper and the Roar, Poets Corner and contributing editor at Ariel Chart.
Her 290+ works have been featured in 521 Magazine #Sideshow, Oddball, Pangolin review, Fourth and Sycamore, Paragon Press, Royal Rose, Visitant Lit, Quail Bell, Modern Literature, Visual Verse, Dime show review, Nightingale and Sparrow, Piker Press and many more. Her works have been anthologized in “We will not be silenced” by Indie Blu(e) Publishing, (“All the Lonely people”, Blank Paper Press) and upcoming in 12 other anthologies by US, Australian and Canadian Press. Her poem “Survivor” was selected for the “Survival is Insufficient” series by the Jersey City Writers as part of the event sponsored by the National Endowment of Arts.
Butterflies perched upon lashes
The dark in my eyes is engulfing all
Stars in yours
A hiccup stung the memory of you
I knit a bag of lies to carry on
Disproportionate bones break like
Twigs under weightless traumas
My demon is a friend in the reflection
A lover without rules or confrontation
My expectation is the sin I pay for
With bouts of sanity
Loss flows from between my legs
When strange fingers pull me at
Pain tickles like a misunderstood
I weave blank fetishes
Devoid of your touch, kiss, sweat, you
You; my prisoner
This poem, my liberation
Nameera Anjum is a nineteen-year-old aspiring poet who loves to pen
down her thoughts and feelings as fearlessly as possible. She believes
that the utmost liberation comes to her through words; writing is a
part of life she wishes to keep intact until the very end. Gothic fiction is
her absolute favorite genre while reading and writing. It comes as no
surprise that Edgar Allan Poe is her ultimate inspiration.
we talk in circles and to anyone
they shout, ‘just get to the point already’
when none of them studied geometry
or physics or Wordsworth or expectation
you expect poetry to greet you like an old friend
so, i will be friendly for the sake of the words we are spilling
you ask me how the research is going
i reply i am learning to code
which is not just a defense mechanism
but also, boxes i bought from target
for all the things that refused to burn
men were never given journals
a sacred place to whisper
diaries with little locks and little keys
maybe that is why this is so hard for you
to speak coherently, so the words drip down your face instead
i’ve learned so many new languages
strange to speak this one again
you are not scientist but can you at least appreciate
how unlikely and precious our meeting is
the stars still have tricks up their sleeves
are they trying to make a fool out of me?
of course, i had a plan for this recurrence
but now my axis are so out of sync i forget
you tell me volcanic soil is the most fertile
why did you leave?
let’s plant a tree, here at our common ground
it will grow and lay roots deeper than we could
it will protest the distance, the hatred, the resentment
as we hurtle away
one day a young girl will lay under its shade and listen
to our traditional stories and laugh
at how simple a morning could be
let us make sure there will still be trees
let us make sure there will still be air to breathe
let us be absolutely sure in the incomplete
we could dance through life knowing we left a battleground clean
let us welcome flowers and animals to choose this place to retreat
our bitterness will only make the fruit that much more sweet
let us have one last conversation please please, please
Adeline Fecker is a biology student at the University of Oregon Clark Honors College. She has previously been published in the Journal of Wild Culture and Ephemera Literary Magazine. When she is not writing, she can be found dissecting zebrafish brains in the Oregon Institute of Neuroscience or tutoring undergraduate chemistry. Currently, she is working towards her thesis on the influence of sensory conditions on Autism related social behavior and neurophysiology. She lives in Portland, Oregon.
Katherine Robbins Karr grew up in a small sleepy town in Northern NJ where
people don’t dream of becoming artists. She is a promotional model with a candy
cigarette girl company in SF, a rock n roll fashion seller online, a musician/singer in
a duo, and a poet with a degree in Creative Writing from Mills College. Katherine
lives in SF with her partner Haji and dog Aly.