Read Sonnet: Behold, the artistry of Mother Nature, by Rishabh Parmar

Behold, the artistry of Mother Nature
Flawless and seraphic
Little-bitty birds tweeting on the soggy branches
’tis mother Earth, not mine or not thine

Behold, the puissant rain
’tis shower time of the Earth
Clouds art blazing like king of the beasts
Taking stunning snapshots from the loftier berth

Behold, the children
Blissful creatures of the sturdy world
bring joyousness to the old man’s heart
who is waiting for his fortune, to be unrolled

Behold, ’tis thine future
that has to be nurture.

Read Poetry: Utopia, by Ndue Ukaj

Everything is different, in the horizon the Sun is crumbled

The crumbles remained on the earth’s heart like triumphant arrows.

We can’t recognize the colors through the wind caressing the memory

We do not read poetry in the universe of foolishness

Where relations between darkness and light

Appear just like relations between the wall and thought.

Behind is played the surprising game, just like before

Birds are falling in the ground, just like in times when hell was written,

Oh God, everything has changed,

At a time when a small fence is darkening our big eyes.

 

The moon finds a path through mummy hands remaining like arrows towards the sky

And the sun dissolving just like a candle through tired eyes

Who can’t see anything in the blue sky, except a small cloud

A cloud darkening everything 

Therefore vision is coiled in space

Just like the wind creating its avalanche

Then many faces appear.

At a night, when everything is different,

Containing inside the borders within your head

When you feet walk through illusions

And squeeze their bad dreams

For the time that isn’t 

For the time that wasn’t

For the time that will not come

For the time that goes with the wind.

Utopia struggling against reality

Her dreams hiding at the corner of secrets

Are swallowed

Read Poem: A THOUGHT TO EXPERIENCE, by Andre Ariel

I always wondered
I always questioned
but I was never happy

always wondering
but never happy

a hungry voice
inside of me
but never happy

always still
forever wonder
and I wonder still
to be happy

why did my mind
work this way

I forced myself to think some more
of why it thought so strange
because, I wasn’t happy

and i’ve spent my days
forever wondering

Now time has passed
and I learned that to be
happy
I had to choose

Now I spend my days smiling
with a crowd wondering
“Why he’s happy?”

“We know he’s afraid”,
I hear them say.
“Yes, but not of being happy.”

I let them wonder.
I let them think
always questioning
always wondering
never happy

Read Poem: Death, Death and Death, by Thala Abhimanyu Kumar. S

I see the death everyday
Death in relations
Death in religion and faith
Death of man in man
Everyday, everywhere, every moment
Death, death and death.

I experience the death around me
Millions and billions of ceremonies
The smoke on maps of mankind
Death in temple and streets
Death in clubs and parties
Death, death and death.

I foresee the death of humanity
Harassment, discrimination and hatred
Death in purity and sacredness
Death in broken mirrors and home
Death in king, death in masses
Death, death and death.

Thala Abhimanyu Kumar S
Assistant Professor of English
New Horizon College
Bangalore,India

Understood – A Poem by Maia Cuellar

Understood. Maia Ariadne Cuellar
I am afraid that all I have is myself
So I’ve learned to need no one
Except myself

I will always be alone
So I choose to be comfortable with a life of solitude
And be my own best companion

It sounds quite sad and lonely
A life spent within my own mind
But It wouldn’t have to be this way
If I found people of my own kind

I can fit in with those around me
But I never profoundly connect.
I am unseen on a deeper level by others.
It’s what I’ve come to expect

I do wonder if there’s someone out there
Who accepts this feeling as real
Maybe others are too afraid to sound crazy
To explain this feeling, to make an appeal
To others to be conscious of the mental isolation
That we all very well may feel

Perhaps I simply feed my ego
With the thought that I’m the only one who’s knowing
Of this sensation. That I’m one who’s unique
Out of 7.5 billion persons – and growing

But If I’m not,
Then why does it seem to others outlandish
To voice these fears of mental detachment
And to wish my soul could be easily recognized

I can grow near others
But a part of my mind is quarantined
I don’t feel superior
More as though an important part of me is unseen

And maybe I’m too far in my own mind
But wouldn’t it be lovely
To have you back
Because you
Made me forget
These feelings of being
So terribly misunderstood.

Theming: Existential, Meta, Disconnected

Maia Cuellar
Tumblr: MaiaTries
Medium: @MaiaCuellar

Poetry Reading: The Girl on the Bus, by Ed Teja

Performed by Katelyn Varadi

Get to know the poet:

1) What is the theme of your poem?

We never know exactly what is going on in life. It’s complex and confusing and its real beauty is often bittersweet.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

A girl I saw on a bus in Hong Kong while thinking about the difficulties of connecting with people.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

Over fifty years.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?

Henry Miller.

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?

I like hearing poetry read well. Hearing someone else read it will let me think about it differently.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

I write novels and short stories.

7) What is your passion in life?

To live it fully.

Read Poem: Hot New Summer Day, by Rishabh Parmar

’tis a playing field for many kinds
out in the arena, to discern the companionship of the puissant sun
’tis a hot, new summer day , blithe and sound
maketh thou run, run, run…

syrupy voice of nightingale, fills candied fondness
brisk zephyr from mount, gives the kiss of life to excitement
’tis a hot, new summer day, with couthy happiness
pulpous din of childlike leaves, giveth splendiferous compliment

Always, be youthful, thou art not old
sayeth the mighty tree
’tis a hot, new summer day, nitid and bold
thine cravings should never perish that maketh thee free

Last, but not the least
hot, new summer day bids thou for the feast.

Read Poem: Wet Dreams, by Atandi Anyona

Fear blinks endlessly from both her eyes
what kind of soul does this to a child
a love suffocated while still so young
when she sleeps you can hear her dreams cry.

Assigned a mentor exemplary at his work
every teacher recommended him to their class
all she wanted was to be better, to learn, work hard
he pinned her to the dusty chalk board
ripped her skirt and innocence apart.

Her friends dream daily of falling in love
with those tall handsome knights
she can’t stand the sight of a man
can she ever be touched as a wife?

Tonight there’s a knife tucked under her pillow
there’s a feel he’ll appear in her nightmare
she prays she’ll wake in sheets wet with
his blood
she will begin to heal
at last.

Tuck Me In, A poem by Ruthie B

Your voice is like a cradle
It rocks me to sleep
When I’m not able
To shut it all down

On a porch swing made of song
You sing and strum
I hum along
And try to shut it all down

I tune in
When I want to tune out
All the noise that’s coming through

It’s all so damn romantic
Music is my blanket
What’s a girl to do?

With your notes
You weave a hammock
Rhythm, Tempo
Verse, Dynamics

Take me to the Bridge
There’s that sensation
Intro, Outro
False Relation

I don’t know about
Chord progression
Or keys or hooks
Refrains, compression

But here’s the thing…
When you sing…

Sigh…

It’s all so damn romantic
Music is my blanket
It tucks me in

Read Poem: Li-si-bi-fi-fac-man, by John White

Li-si-bi-fi-fac-man (pron. ‘Lissy Biffy Fackman’)
Some of us take many years to work out who we are.
Some, like me, lack wisdom: some bear a different scar.
I’m just over sixty, and I’ve finally worked it out
I’m a ‘li-si-bi-fi-fac-man’ – there’s a few of us about!

 

The ‘l.i’ stands for ‘lift it’; the ‘s.i’ stands for ‘shift it’, 
The ‘b.i’ stands for ‘build it’; the ‘f.i’ stands for ‘fix it’.
And when the lifting, shifting’s done, and the building, fixing too
There’s often ‘fetch and carry’ when there’s nothing else to do.

 

That’s what ‘f.a.c’. stands for, and I’m sure you’ll understand,
That while there’s a time and place for that, It can get out of hand.

 

I for one allowed it; I’ve done it all my life,
I thought the way to happiness was try to please the wife.

 

But I now know that’s not possible, I wish I’d known before;
I wish someone had put me straight and let me know the score.
I wish I’d had the wisdom to know what was good to do,
I wish I’d had the courage, to do it and see it through.

 

It seems she doesn’t realize it’s not my job to be
the one to make her life the way that she thinks it ought to be.
That her life’s up to her, and my life’s up to me,
And whilst we help each other out, we let each other be.

 

But I know it’s up to me to say ‘enough’s enough’,
(It’s like a bloody game of golf that I’m playing in the rough!)
I’d like to be accepted just the way I am,
And valued for the qualities I value in this man.

 

I know that my life’s up to me, I said that earlier,
I blame myself for where I am; I’m not blaming her.
I wish we could see soul to soul; live our lives with ease,
Better dying on our feet than living on our knees!

 

So come on, brothers, stand up with me,
Let’s get on our feet.
Let’s treat our wives, our sweethearts
to the real men we can be.

 

Strong and wild and gentle,
and wise as heaven too,
Knowing what is right to say
and what is right to do.

 

Not just to please another
to satisfy a whim
that only comes from ego; 
the child of original sin?

 

But, rather, let’s commit to hear
the spirit voice within
the deepest centre of the soul; 
from where life begins

 

to appear in its true form; 
not the pale cut-out shape
of a world devoid of colour;
politically correct…
pathetically inept…
tragically bereft
of uniqueness – the primary design
of this amazing  creature, 
dynamic and divine.

 

And let’s go on with you and me,
each one of a kind.
Let’s find and celebrate that ‘one’,
let’s never let our minds
and souls be deflected from their design;
let’s find and live the ‘me’
that each was designed to be.

 

Not bow to any pressure
for any pale reward,
What travesty! What disgust!
a carrot where a sword
should be wielding, cleaving
evil from the good.
My brother, my sister, I beg you,
Live your life: don’t take on board what belongs
to your husband or your wife.

 

And don’t allow, I beg you,
their wants to pressure you,
The world is dying the tragic death
of one trying to live for two.

 

So, Li Si Bi Fi FAC man,
If that’s what role is yours,
I want to say that it’s OK
If that is your choice.

 

But please don’t demean yourself:
the glory that is you
this tired world needs;
a palette of every colour, 
a palette of every hue.

 

And you are one essential shade;
without you life is bland.
Your partner’s lost a hero,
your partner’s lost the hand
that really would be useful
if only it be allowed
to do what it, alone, could do
if free from expectation,
free from trite demand –
free from unaware request,
free from fatal harm.

 

So, my friend, my brother,
my Li Si Bi Fi FAC man,
I beg you, claim your ‘holy ground’,
the ground on which you stand;
the ground that God has given you
belongs to no other man –

 

or, especially, to woman –
that delightful, frightful sex
who, in their desire to be secure
often overstep the line
that actually belongs to us;
the unacknowledged
warriors of former times;
the saviours of tomorrow
if only we heed the call
sounding deep inside.

 

And let the bear awake,
and let the god arise
in all its glory, all its power;
all its wisdom too.
All your beauty, all is lost
if you will not be you.

 

John White, 2011