Today’s choice
Previous poems
Amlanjyoti Goswami
Morning Beach in Gopalpur
Those night boats are back.
Fishermen string their nets
Counting fresh catch.
The fish stink.
Flies buzz around crabs.
They are knocking hammer on wood.
I want to take a few steps more
To see what’s going on –
Find them gripping the universe with rough palms
Reborn with the morning sun
Clean beach, white sand, the boats moored
And the rigging endless.
The boat is tied to a block of wood.
The fishermen are immersed in morning
Before they can go home for a snooze.
But I don’t venture any further.
Perhaps it is the stink of fish, perhaps something else.
Perhaps the sun blocks my view.
A sea wall separates us.
There are so many worlds, and I don’t break the wall
That stands between us.
I walk over calmly to the other side
Leaving my mind blank at sea
Still looking for a boat to take me somewhere.
Amlanjyoti Goswami has written three widely reviewed books of poetry, A Different Story, Vital Signs and River Wedding, published by Poetrywala. River Wedding was shortlisted for the Sahitya Akademi Award. Published in journals and anthologies across the world, including Poetry, The Poetry Review, Penguin Vintage, Rattle and Sahitya Akademi, he is also a Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee. His work has appeared on street walls of Christchurch, buses in Philadelphia, exhibitions in Johannesburg and an e-gallery in Brighton. He has reviewed poetry for Modern Poetry in Translation and Review 31. He has read at various places, including New York, Mumbai, Chandigarh, Bangalore, Boston and Delhi. He grew up in Guwahati and lives in Delhi.
Peter Leight
There’s more waste than we use for the things we ordinarily use waste for, such as piling it on barges and sending them out to sea, tucking it under the surface like a layer of insulation . . .
John Grey
there are some lives
lived poolside
and others that
mostly consist of
a bent back in a field –
Adam Flint
All summer automatic exits remain
open, and no one leaves or boards.
David Van-Cauter
You are pleased to see me
in my gothic T-shirt –
those bats, you say, have been your friends.
Mark Wyatt
yes of course/ it was idyllic, reclining (pint of/ cider in hand) poolside in the harvesting/ sunlight
Catherine Shonack
when confronted with vast, endlessness of the ocean
who wouldn’t go mad?
Ansuya Patel
Women scrape coins from their purse,
count pennies, one lifts up a watermelon
in mid-air like raising a newborn to light.
Pippa Little
a woman’s rage cannot raise the dead
but it may split stone like lightning
Abiodun Salako
a boy grows tired
of dying again and again.
i am building him a morgue
for Thanksgiving.