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.
Jim Ferguson
we can travel anywhere
she winks, but let’s rest here
in amongst these words
a moment can take a while
Gabrielle Meadows
I am tearing the peel from an orange gently and somewhere
Far away a tree falls in a forest and we
don’t hear it but the ground does and the birds do
Hongwei Bao
Every five minutes it does its job,
hoovers every inch of her memory,
declutters all pains and sorrows.
Gary Day
And once the father frowned
As the boy struggled to fasten
The drawbridge on his fort.
‘He’ll never be any good
With his hands’ he declared,
As if the boy wasn’t there.
Royal Rhodes
Perhaps the friends of Lazarus, who died
and slipped his shroud, on seeing him might swoon
or rush to hear the tales of that beyond
they hoped and feared to face.
Dmitry Blizniuk for World Poetry Day
God in his worn, greasy jeans like a car mechanic
is lighting a new life from an old one.
Jeff Skinner
It takes ages. Tell me what it is you’re after
she says, when finally I get through.
Annabelle Markwick-Staff
I devoured the Olympics, filled my mouth
and scrapbook with sticky ephemera.
Charles G. Lauder
beneath night’s skin he unearths raw stones
serrated encrusted enigmatic cold