Monsoon wings


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro) capturing an imaginary ‘rain- animal.’ When it was killed, the creature’s blood and milk were believed to fall as rain. The fish and eels indicate that the ‘trance-event’ is taking place in an underwater spirit realm. Lesotho. After Stow 1930: pl. 67a. Copy made in the 1870s. 

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro)

I went to buy some eggs
and I saw a winged ant sparkling upon the white lap
of a woman who sits.

I told her
popping fear-delight,
of the company she had,
and all she did
was cluck her tongue,
and say that they die, after the rains.

Of lately, my sweet dreams
in restless jaws
but with calm odors of the ground
my flesh-reap
I am riding an Aladdin lamp,
to moth to flames
and oh so clearly, I see the clouds
upon my tongue
a purple night–
We’re born again
if only to die.


The Void without ambition


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Tough by ChrisCold

                                         Dedicated to a dear friend. She probably won’t guess it.

Ghost dust
and air like circling hair,
but not warm and covering
rather open
like a dark mouth
with a sincere eye at its end.

You can actually hear the room you know
as if all the bustle of life,
or questioning
and all you want
is to close your ears like a child
and run
until you see the light
that blinds that ever so watchful eye.

One day I met a girl,
I thought she was like many other with cold veins,
pale forehead
but with a hidden fire to reign upon life,
that life
which itself is a fire,
but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

On a warm afternoon,
behind her shoulders
I saw the eye,
and she unblinking–
“I see”, she said,
“you have met our eternal state
of emptiness,
but peace”.

The sooner the better.

Image by: “ChrisCold”, Artist profile:



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


Image Credits: Grahan by Pulkit Kamal 

In the city of heart,
cold weather like an honest storm,
wrenching your face like
an old lady rowing a boat full of
people peopled by
forlorn eyes.

An irritant in the eye
and a knife in the navel
the curtains on the window
and dust in the mouth of the dead,
land, oh land, you Eliot’s maze.

To be doomed upon the platter of friends;
As soon as the starving ghosts sat to eat in the graveyard,
their food turned into the stones of sea,
my food, a pen.
Hunger is endless.

Another cold day of May,
a tree oiled by the witch under the Peepal
like a girl possessed by the devil,
and I am sleeping,
but not “sleeping”,
I simply can’t open my eyes.

But sometimes an odd spark in the wind,
brims me up
burns the fallow lands of my mirthless men
and for a moment,
just for a moment,
I can remember again.

Memory is a pill
One must take every night before bed.

The Gaze


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for tree of eyes

Image, “The Trees Have Eyes” by Wim Lanclus


Close the doors
lay under the blankets,
and even under the eye lids,
O the,
O the,
eye follows.

It is not about people prying
It is about people prying about people prying.

One day I could not breathe
as I found a tree embryo
upon my navel,
an eye-tree
an I-tree;
It was nodes of thoughts that people could have on me.

Narcissus a rose
drowned in mirrors
of other minds
before it can ever love himself.

And so mirrors are bad-luck.

The Gaze remains,
it is un-human to be completely rid of it,
often more so un-lady-like
but sometimes when I sit alone
and listen to the birds,
I am just me
and no other words
for a tree of eyes to scrutinize.

Perhaps in such sweet music of nature,
we can return
like an elegy from a churchyard grey
and so we revive–
you may call it the “true self” if you will.


The Crocodile


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for crocodile surreal

Image by Vitogoni 

Dear words,
make me
me again.

There is a river in the jungle,
in it,
men floated like water
and animals bowed their head
to drink in life
even when death muddied their beds.

I keep having horrible dreams,
of children and swimming pools
water, for death
as in womb.

Dishonesty or Way of life?
Predators drinking at the bank,
Oh, what an uncanny space.

You think you have stopped watching the news,
but have you?



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


By Elizaveta Porodina

I imagine us carrying
a rock on our back
up above the blue-bell mountain.

For me,
my bones are cracked
and only the scent of the horizon
soothe my nerves
to carry on.

I remember
I did not always knew
there was a rock on my back
and so only after a storm,
when rain fell upon,
I knew there had been scabs
thirsty to heal.

My hands shook
and there began to germinate
love on my collarbone,
I moved on,
I was okay.

Then I found people on the way
with their slippers
from a childhood puddle;
I was not sure if they were playing
or dying.

I had no pity
but I had anger,
that how could they let their pebbles
be circus balls
of no destiny but death.
Then I had no anger
but I had guilt,
that their pebbles felt heavier than my rock
and then there were those,
who carried mountains.

I came in the world
full of help
but that was when I could not see
my back
But what now?

There was a gentle poet on the phone
she told me
my love, all your life,
what of your hurt–
no stretched out hands for your drowning.

But I carry on,
I tell her
people don’t try
but I receive
the love they could not give to me
and because I can save myself,
I shall save them too.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Samy Charnine surrealism


I woke up one morning
and my heart was a fish
out of the water,
up on a weathered road, dying.

A vapid fume of tiredness
and, guilt
of not letting my guilt stay.

I have a habit of taking love seriously,
gifting reassurance like a shawl
covering their ears
till their eyes are full of milk sleep–
I would often sing in long paragraphs
and could even take back
a mumble hum,
but what when
the seasons are upon them for a change?

Of loved ones without antidotes
and no water for a fish.




100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


“La Pausa” by Kelly Borsheim

For many days,
I sat upon the swing of my mind
and played with word-games
till my mouth was full.

I told people
I am gentle,
You have to chew my ambition
and twirl me a little bit to–
But wait.
I am suffering an interruption.
A rather vivid eruption,
of a heart that was supposed to stay quiet
throughout the course of this poem.

There is a figure that stands in the room
and slips under my eyelids every-time I sleep
And every morning when I wake up,
I am always afraid
I am still dreaming
and then I go out and really see You,
the figure,
playing word-games
as if reminiscing the cloud that was last night.

I am afraid.

I am pleased.

Author Notes: As a surreal poet, form is my greatest play. But sometimes
my heart does not obey me and that is potent. Unifying.