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.
Anita Karla Kelly, CE Collins, Clare Painter on International Women’s Day
In the beginning of the end she bit the thing she wasn’t meant to bite.
Apple stuck in her throat, one bite taken, then swallowed whole.
Elaine Baker
To my Ovaries
My cahoonas. My muscular daisies.
Potent white olives. You make me sick.
Jan FitzGerald
What is not to love
when you draw back curtains
and taste clouds
in their newness and innocence
Helen Finney
At my feet the window sprawls a view of kneaded land,
craggy baked by the hand of the gods, dusted green
with short bit grass.
Eugene O’Hare
It hasn’t been this bright all year –
the moon’s white scalp, spot-lit,
a head turned away from a thing
the rest of us fear: unearthly dark
Juliet Humphreys
Though I am not a painter
this is to be a portrait
of my parents and my sister.
Julian Dobson
You too I guess
have studied the surviving starlings
as they swoop and whistle
by the snack trailer at Moorfoot
Mark Czanik
I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars.
Nigel King
My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow
goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been
no place as still as this.