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.
Jenny Hope
No man can hold me.
See –
I blur the line between days . . .
Damaris West
In the circle
of its trees
the lochan shines
midnight silk.
B. Anne Adriaens
symptoms she is aggregate concrete and grit held together in a human shape lying on her side knees drawn up flesh tensing to stone and tendons in flames the weight of her body pressed into the mattress leaves a shallow hollow once she’s gone a...
Martin Potter
glimmer blades
the field’s lightly fogged
grass green
Moira McPartlin
Outside the Berber tent
the poet and I contemplate
the boundless Sahara sky.
Matthew James Friday
We totem our empires with the raptor,
weave into flags, fix on coins
but what of the victims?
How come no one ever glories the fish . . .
Ansuya Patel
Think what it must have been like for her
fasting from sunrise to moonrise, to wake up
three hours before dawn, bathe, apply sindoor
on the parting of her hair line . . .
Chris Beckett
Zerihun drove him over the dead-cow hills and Bob’s long hair stood up with shock at what he saw.
Angela France
Driving into low cloud everything fades
to a blur, all colour and definition leached