Darling, you look like
you’ve never washed the hair
who hurt you
I’ve always been
a Good Samaritan
when it comes to
but I can’t go on
pretending I’m doing this
the airport lies abandoned
as I check in my luggage
air sealed hearts
and finger food
we’re cannibals of love
until our next tragedy
Henna is a novelist and a poet from Finland, interested in surrealism, science fiction and making people around her uncomfortable. She blogs on WordPress as HJD writes. Visit her there.
Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a
collection of poets and poetry readers in the Triangle region of North
Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes
and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017.
Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut
for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes
money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit. www.bartbarkerpoet.com
Siddharth is an Engineer by passion, Poet by design. Studying aerospace in France, he occasionally finds some time to reflect in a pond or study the pattern of gulls flying in the beach. Dark & twisted life of his is a concoction of melancholy & joy. He doesn’t stare into abyss; he has a flat there. Writing out of passion, Poetry reflects his struggles to overcome depression fuelled by his trauma & harassment. Sprinkled with a self-assumed sense of humor & a self-confessed love for rock music, he has been featured a few times on the front page of Allpoetry.com (weird flex!).
depression of your collarbone is a part of something
bigger. You break it. It does not exist. Now.
But one knows it had been,
there. You stick.
You should lose an arm
and I, an eye.
To know what other ways,
To wave and watch.
My mother after
an Eye operation
she would have loved to see everything.
before losing sight for an hour.
An obvious fear of incapabilities.
I have it. I know you have it.
You do not have to hurtle away.
You pack mangoes. The green mangoes.
you know it takes four days to reach back.
The woman knows you’d be home.
The wind is softer.
You travel and reach home.
The water in your belly hurts when you sleep
facing floor. Everything about leaving our place
would hurt, I knew.
For a month. Or four, maybe?
Not any longer. It shouldn’t be.
You work and live good.
My head bronzed the picture in mind;
One I imagine you to have become.
Good, in every way.
I write. I need to think of you.
You don’t have to think of
You couldn’t squash the honeybees.
You loved them
and you loved your skin.
My island isreal. Your city too.
By the time
We ate the sun and tried to become.
Everything. Anything, we could.
The land looks swollen.
We return the sun to the place the other day.
After flood. Everything about it is sadly red.
a sinking loon, if it needs to be pulled.
It cries for mother.
It’ll be late.
I remember you want to sit on the top of that oak.
You reach. You’d fall anytime. I know
I ask you, if you’d like me to catch.
You shut eyes.
A bit too late.
I talk about things for hours. Sing a few poems
By the end, they wanted to know
if I wanted them to listen. They were ready now.
I lost the power to redo things.
On an empty beach. While two people make love
An orange dog with sunken belly,
vomits in the background.
They loved dogs. But they
An hour later they reach it.
The orange of its body goes blue.
Nothing beautiful left. Anymore.
The short woman behind the fat sunflower,
I talked about. Hasn’t lamented
since morning. She touches
everything beside her.
Like touching is the only way left
to realize how unusual the detachment
felt in the sides of her head.
It ached, often.
It ends. All of it.
Everybody knows her now. ~the end of a day.
The dark of the little ship against the whitest
table in one of the rooms. It has the right sun
falling on it, from the window.
I allow myself to venture back
into the time where I found out-
to love is easier.
Erroneous methods where you went mechanical.
I do not look forward
to talk about sadness.
So I’d talk about the ship.
I never played with it.
It reminds one of the turquoise.
Losing its life. Popular voyages we never
even had time to listen.
A long time that it takes to reach any bay.
The pretty women
A group of people with bitterness-
dead of dissipation
Men with long
An old head of them.
The prayers for
bounty. The tale of pitcairners of the Norfolk.
Small boats feeling nothing
ahead of the ship.
They think they’re small with no big Islands to head
The afternoon passes like that.
With still beautiful sun
on the ship, kissing it “It is a memory of the big boat that
My father brought this little ship,
telling me about the many who
did not survive.
They hadn’t known the ship, the people.
Some even jumped off.
They needed to be free.
There were men and women who wanted to live.
But the ship couldn’t.” He kept it on the white table
few months back.
And, it’s been there.
what love sounded and felt.
Priyanshi is a seventeen years old girl from Kashi. She studies humanities. She has been writing for past
two years. She likes to write about anything that involves details, mixed feelings, nature and experiment
Her words haven’t been published before. Hope you’d enjoy reading.
For better connectivity, you can find her on Instagram: @abeautifulturtle_