Union of our solitude

vintage love

The first time I met her,
I met her eyes instead of her
and the sweating palm
that didn’t go with her charm.
Oh, how she managed to remain calm.
But as I stood among the audience,
each trapped in their worlds
with stories and histories
and hysterics that filled the air
they kept breathing,
I listened to the million voices
raging in my ears, each demanding attention
each pushing me a little to the edge,
petrified, I stood in the crowd, misplaced.
…when you think you can’t take it anymore,
she was reciting,
as if saying what I dared not speak,
but beyond the strength and the zing
I could see in her eyes,
the makings of the same cliff.
This cliff that demands my fall,
enticing me with its heavenly call,
to take me to a place that will be mine,
without a soul to judge, without anything divine.
And I knew I could hold on to her and stayed,
but to succumb, to lose myself clinging to her,
meant both of us that I would have betrayed.
It has been years and many such recitals
till she gave up and started to fade away.
But I remember that first afternoon after the event,
when among the dust motes
the sun-kissed air smelling of spent love,
lying next to her, I didn’t take the offered hand,
thinking it was me who had to take the leap.
And every time the thought fills me with a pang,
a slap on my soul it strikes me with a bang,
if she was instead the one
who was stretching her hand for me to pull her back,
yearning for me,
in her poetic interludes,
maybe she wanted to hold on
and I let her slip away,
so that instead of us, our cliffs stood together,
but finally defeated as they faced
the union of our towering solitudes.

At most he can say that besides the mundane, he loves to read and write or rather ramble.

the silent shadow

Age 32: The Year of an Authentic Me

 

In a complete and serene silence

we’d walk,

and through our scrutinizing eyes

we’d talk.

Maybe we’d walk for miles,

reciprocating each other’s smiles;

caring not to look at the judging eyes,

pretending to be deep in thoughts,

pretending to be wise.

Or maybe,

it’ll be just a stroll in a park,

caring not if there’s still light or if it’s dark.

 

In complete and calming silence we’d sit,

ignoring the eyes calling us misfits.

Maybe we’d sit on the freshly mowed grass,

staring into each other’s soul in a trance.

Or maybe,

it’ll be in a luxurious restaurant seat,

where slowly will our hands crave to meet.

 

In a complete and pious silence we’d live,

where full trust will we swear to give.

Maybe it’ll be near a city,

where the people surrounding us will be witty.

Or maybe,

it’ll be far away in a melancholy house,

where one day we’d be enthusiastic,

and another, we’d lose.

 

And through this silence,

we’d get to know each other’s strengths and fears,

and give contagious laughs, while wiping the dripping tears.

 

Within this silence,

one day,

will echo your screams filled with pain and agony,

while the sharp knife in my hand will twist unhappily.

“For speaking lies here is a crime”,

My shadow will whisper to you all covered in grime.

 

And then will I wake,

feeling as though through my heart is a stake.

“It’s just a dream”

I’ll convince myself, I’m sure,

but the shadow,

the shadow will lurk there and lure.

 

And now,

as you open your mouth and let the meaningless words dart,

I realize,

how much I want to shove the sharp knife straight into your heart.

 

A nightmare it has now become,

and slyly my shadow whispers,

“Darling, they have just begun.”

(By Anjali Sharma.)

 

Anjali Sharma: She’s 20, lives in New Delhi, India. Currently, a history honors student, who’s also a content writer at Withered Weedy Writers.

Kairos

@the_wylde on Instagram: “Aruba with Lucette wearing The Mama Earth Kimono, back in stock soon in white • Only one piece left in honey  #thewylde #wyldewoman”

Dunking a cookie,
O, sweet Fika!
I realize
You happened to possess perfect timing.
You came at the right time
And vanished at the right time too.

I thank the gods we didn’t meet earlier,
The consequences would have been disastrous.
I simply wasn’t ready for someone like you,
Back in the days.
Dunking a second biscuit,
You left all of a sudden
We didn’t even argue.
Darling Reeya,
I wish to thank you.
In ghosting me, you left me with my new best friend
Scilicet my loneliness.
The one I embrace
Who constantly reminds me that besides you,
The rest has always been a waste of time and energy.
I tend to cling to everything we talked about
Diving in a cathexis of you,
My main drive towards my goals…
I dunked the biscuit for too long,
Half of it sunk to the bottom of my cuppa
Let it be, it is still a Fika!

Shell

 

#yincoven The Spell of the Shell

I’ll not wake up, no,
swimming here in this conch shell
of life, shadows tickling my ear,
playing house while the real
the world assumes it’s won.
I’ll not confront it, no,
kicking up the remains of reality
swept under expensive furniture
when we could afford the luxury
of not caring.
I’ll remain in my head,
enveloped by this conch shell,
closed to those sounds desperate
to encroach, honking displeasure
at deaf eyes shut.

 

Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives and writes poetry. A husband and father, he finds happiness in family, friends, reading, and of course, writing. He enjoys creating expansive worlds in as few words as possible. His writings can be read at http://www.phillipkscott.com.

Tectonic Plates

Untitled, 1950’s, Hans W. Silvester. Swiss, born in 1938

 

Tectonic plates move
Under my feet
Eerie sounds of the ground shifting
Shifting my soul and my
sense of self
Hope eludes me as the root cause of my uneven understanding of self
crumbles
Swimming in sea fog and black suns
A mile deep
into the Earths core
Magma is bubbling over
my heart
An electric jolt hits my mouth
as the black sun rises
No moral compass found
in this deep canyon just inertia
As feelings of hurt spread and drip down to my purpling heart
I can’t hide the sadness it fills my eyes
It drips down to my mouth where I taste salty tears disguised as stars of hope
As the earth shifts, I run to grab tree branches, but instead,
I float by in a sludge
my life in words and desolate scenarios.

Joann Cohen

Joann Cohen is a desert dweller from The Southwest. She enjoys
painting and photography. Writing has always been at the
forefront of her creativity since she was in her teens. Joann
enjoys finding inspiration for her poems and stories from the
world around her. Read more of her work at
https://jomillyblog.wordpress.com and at Free Verse Revolution

2 poems- Sameera Mansuri

A prayer God won’t hear.

Vietnam Memorial architect Maya Lin with her cat in her New York studio, 1986. Photo: Michalel Katakis
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.
eyes/skin
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
she loves
in the hope that she will take me away too.
But the walls of elegy have already started
building up grief around my house
my room,
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.
tonight
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.
tonight
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.

Sameera Mansuri

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
pastime.

Red Rose

A linguist stutters at her belly button

Lover’s crawl up to her chest

And drink upon the collarbone

One hums his mother’s Spanish lullaby

Another pleads for his father to stop

The reckless beating

She sits by the window pane

As the last lover bids adieu

He watches her paint the sky

With a vomit full of stars and

Ejaculate moons from betwixt

Her palms

Duct tapes hang from the corners of

Her lips

She becomes a red rose one last time

A throbbing heart sits in her mouth

The dead lover’s chest beats emptily

Without escape of a singular sound

BIO

 

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. It comes as no surprise that Edgar Allan Poe is her ultimate inspiration.

Grieving the grief

 

Take a shower, wash off the day. Drink a glass of water. Make the room dark. Lie down and close your eyes. Notice the silence. Notice your heart. Still beating. Still fighting. You made it, after all. You made it, another day. And you can make it one more. You’re doing just fine.

grief,

a shout in the void

where birds chirp and sing

meaningless songs of love

and heaven swings

to it’s highest position in prayers

but nothing is left,

at least it looks like this.

 

my mouth is an empty vessel

with a porous bottom

agony slips swiftly

bleeding the red of anger

from my chapped lips,

grief is too thick to slip

still.

 

my fingers are needles

of my mother’s tailoring toolbox,

I weave threats into poems,

and make sweaters out of pain,

it’s a comforting effort

for a dying soul,

grief can’t be woven,

it’s fibers are delicate.

 

my legs are nocturnal,

I take night walks

talking to the merciless moon,

I count dead bodies on stars.

sometimes the sky smiles at my strength,

sometimes it weeps heavily,

but grief doesn’t leave my eyes,

it’s too frozen to melt.

 

grief,

is a poem burning on my lips,

is an intricate thread scarring my fingers,

is a suffocated tear crawling inside my eyes,

is an aglet that keeps pain from unraveling

is a loss you kept coming back to.

 

grief,

is an epiphany,

too divine to be rejected as the present

and

too earthly to be asked in a prayer.

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 look out for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favourite
pastime. She blogs at https://poetryblog320.wordpress.com/

An imprisoned poem

 

study, college, and school image

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
Shapely shoulders
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
The seams
Pain tickles like a misunderstood
Melody
I weave blank fetishes
Devoid of your touch, kiss, sweat, you
You; my prisoner
This poem, my liberation

Nameera Anjum

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.

A tree as a protest Art

 

Breathtaking Moody and Mysterious Forest Photography by Dylan Furst #photography #forest #nature #travel #instagram

 

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
secrets into
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
so then
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

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.