Poetry is Peng - March
Silence
He took his time, he waited years
That night, they put the kids to bed
And he watched her gentle eyes
reflecting dying fire embers
And when the embers were almost
out,
he said, “Sweetie, I have a secret.
A secret I’ve never told a soul.”
And her eyes were fearful, curious.
He contorted inside
The truth was, he’d waited for the flames to die out
Not just to stall
But to make sure they wouldn’t hurt him
If she pushed him in.
She, oh she would never, could never
But he’d told before and nobody
Least of all himself
Had understood, or even been
Sympathetic.
Closed doors and blood from fingernail scratches
Broken nose, tired eyes
Dark circles in pretty purple smudges
Ugly.
He finds himself back in this familiar living room
His house, his wife, his rules.
And he must tell because it hurts like broken
glass
to keep it inside.
“And, darling, when I was in prison, I didn’t kill a man.
I didn’t murder, I didn’t steal
I committed a capital offense, unforgivable,
And for it I still burn in the hell of my own skin
In self-captivity.
I didn’t kill a man, I loved one.”
She knew, then, what they’d tried to do
With slow torture; as if his soul was not
tortured enough already
As if he would not have committed another capital sin
If he had the chance.
Sparks, spasms, liquid cruelty
Screams and tears of acid pouring down his face and in his veins,
Silence.
Silence.
“But that is not my secret”, I whispered, my voice splinters, my voice the ashes of the fire gone.
“My secret is, it didn’t work.”
Anon
M’avvolgeran ancor le nubi,
Frattanto che tu,
Manchi.
Clothe me shall the mist, anew,
So long as you’re,
Amiss.
Anon
Gods Port
Our neighbours refused, we welcomed – ale in arm,
Two ships; Sihab-I Bahri and Miraty Zafar.
Four hundred and sixty Ottomans, a six-and-a-half-month moor
is why Gosport’s been named Turk Town since 1854.
Sea and dust combined, twenty-six sailors died,
cholera and tuberculosis to mention the least.
From Haslar they were sent, to an eternity of rest,
in the cemetery besides Clayhall street.
Still across the creek it flies, Turkish flag in pride,
Abdallah and Hayrunnisa are handed flowers.
Beyond the prison we gaze, as the poppies are placed
over the bodies this town once towered.
Yet, as in Ocean Breeze we feast, this history is uncomplete
besides, Orhan’s is a teenager’s dream.
And as long haired we stand, outside Ramze’s red door,
I gladly name Gosport Turk Town today and since 1854.
Amy Thomson
My inability to get hurt Like dead flesh It doesn’t hurt like a fresh rose When stomped Dead flesh sees future Of being hung After cut for steaks.. It doesn’t complain or Can it complain after being dead? Feathers ceded by birds in flight Are like me. They don’t get hurt For they are not butterflies squashed by Children in play..
Rutuja
My Mistress is Agony
For Mental Health Day
What? Wait. No, please wait my dear,
I’m not ready for this, I’ve just barely healed,
I’m begging you please, oh ma cher,
These words echo in my mind as I see agony approaching,
Her eyes are filled with hatred & devotion,
Her temptuous lips glittering with abusive admonition,
Her soft hands are so cold, so dead, yet fair,
Her hypnotizing scent would will any man with despair,
Her flawless skin makes me tremble with fear,
And with a kiss from her lips, soon death shall be here.
Zeeshan Malik
i no longer need to explain myself
my experiences have allowed me to push out my emotions
whether good or bad – it is my personal coping mechanism
when approached with an opportunity to talk
i question “what is this going to change”
yes, talking is good for the soul
but, recapping all that has broken you isn’t ideal either.
i don’t want to remember anymore, and as harsh as it sounds – you can’t help.
so save your generic responses
they don’t plant any seeds for me to bloom
let me grow at my own pace
accept me for choosing this path
because, if my pain has brought me this far you can’t blame me for adjusting to the effects of it.
new beginnings
-raheema_ek
