January 2004 | back-issues, poetry
When we scrubbed our hands
with ash and water,
brushed our teeth
with fingers
and charcoal powder…
When we sat
in a semi-circle
on the kitchen floor,
raising a din
with spoons and brass plates
waiting for scolding amma
to give us food…
When we ran barefoot
on the dirt roads
after bullock carts
and horse carriages,
dodging cow-dung
as our feet pranced
or we plunged in the pond
with frogs, fish
and buffalos…
We were happy.
Ashok Gupta
ashok1082 [at] yahoo [dot] co [dot] uk
May 1999
January 2004 | back-issues, poetry
We hiked to Gurkha Fort
in the heat of mid-June,
Victor and I.
The stream had dried
into shallow pockets.
Clear sunlight shone
on rounded stones.
Little pink fish
gulped tiny mouthfuls,
darted pell-mell
trapped and starved.
They rushed for the bait,
the black barbed hook
pierced clean through
eager open mouths.
It was easy, so easy;
we caught so many
and cast them away
on our way back to school
by Ashok Gupta
January 2004 | back-issues, poetry
Children would run behind
Dadaji on his bicycle.
Children of the hut dwellers
and those from the bungalows.
Dadaji ,a huge figure in black
with days old salt-pepper beard
in his long flowing shirt
hanging from behind the seat
and white broad pyjamas.
He would paddle away
on the same path
day after day
They would scream and shout
gleefully- “Dadaji”, “Dadaji”
and chase him over long distances,
till he tired and balancing his bicycle on a foot,
took out from his pocket
peppermints of bright colours
and gave to the children.
Hardly would he have started again,
they would scream unsatiated-
“Dadaji”, “Dadaji”
teasing him
till he was too far from home to follow.
This was forgotten
and children went their ways.
I chanced upon Dadaji
sitting on a charpoy
outside a dilapidated hut.
I stopped uncertainly.
“Da.. .Dadaji”, I hesitated
He was paralysed on the right side
and couldn’t hear me
so I said a little louder —”Dadaji”,
my mouth close to his ear.
He turned to his side,
in slow halting motion,
took out a red peppermint
and placed it on my hand.
Ashok Gupta
Jakarta, Sept 2003
January 2004 | back-issues, Janet Buck, poetry
I question the empty page
like a moldy slice of bread —
it might have been a decent meal
in someone else’s hands.
The clock records a passing hour.
Still no verse worth printing out.
A filthy kitchen floor
sticks to my shoes
like an uttered lie —
I flip through yesterday’s mail,
stacking bills in heavy bricks,
thinking I’m an ad for grief,
ought to get different life
that dwells upon a butterfly.
Our puppy slams the keyboard tray,
pulls at my socks with rollicking teeth.
Her tail wags east then west —
pointing out with clarity the aching light
I’m missing in this clouded room —
all the blinds pressed
firmly shut like coffin lids.
She rolls upon her fluffy back,
offers me her tender skin
and clammy paws fresh from
morning’s dewy lace —
she knows somehow that suns
aren’t jars of mustard seeds
to stash on racks and never use.
December 2003 | back-issues, poetry
by Mike Boyle
No new worlds left
The streetlights roar by and
the cars just stutter
while I try to remember
terminal velocity
120 feet per second?
I look at the postcards
my ex-wife sent me from
Paris
and Mexico
as the concierge nods
Someone is passing a pipe
around the backseat
I can smell it
The driver and I pass on it
200 miles to go
Driver’s knuckles are white
around the wheel
as he grinds his teeth
We’re not passing as many
body mounds today
as the past few days
and the gunfire has died down
200 miles to the ammo dump
and we’re
running short
There’s still
some hide-outs
in Mexico
she says
And I think
Maybe in the spring
If I make it
She still signs
her cards
Love,
December 2003 | back-issues, Kelley Jean White, poetry
You have left your hat, but I do not trust it.
Maybe the sky should be stormier, its color the color
of my hair. There is a door. There is a doorbell. You
don’t ring it. I could not lock the door against you
but I have let you hold a key. Perhaps there could be shaking
at the foundations. Perhaps some plaster could fall.
The windows are stuck but I have not locked them.
I pulled the shades down but they are broken and torn. I have
cut the phone wires to your house now. I saw you push
them back through the wall. I have turned to sleep
but I hear you pounding. There is lightning. It was thunder.
That is all.
