Moinak Dutta writes

In memory of that man

Writing something about you is like

Trying to make a swim through a sea,

Through wave after wave of memories,

The first distinct smell of you

Had that peculiar mix of tobacco and shaving cream,

The first distinct touch of you

Had been to feel your palms a bit roughened,

And to feel how those lines on them

Had withered the ups and downs of time -

Partition, independence, state of political instability, carnage, emergency, flood of seventy eight, hartals, strikes, lockouts, bandhs,

Then your smile, never too loud,

Just a sweet candid one,

And your angst - silence spreading over clouds of even more silence,

Your writing hand curved and sparkling

Your fountain pen dipped in ink –

Your poems and stories, your sessions of debates and discussions,

Marx , Lenin, Engels, Tagore, Vivekananda, Aurobindu –

All turning like lively figures standing before us as if saying their words,

Your recitation of poems, your acting at amateur theatre – glittering dresses, swords of tin,

And then ' Krishanu' and literary adda over cups of tea,

Mail posts arriving with your name printed all the way from foreign shores,

You teaching me cycling one spring day

You cooking special dishes,

You drawing a beautiful sketch of a train passing through the curves of hills,

You taking us to evening show of a flick - shown for charity –

A Satyajit Ray masterpiece - an adaptation of Ibsen,

Now as time has moved with its winged gait,

And as age has come and sat like a philosopher queen

Just betwixt us,

How I just think of you

As a tree old

With stories written on its bark.

 On a Rugged Path -- Pauline Persing

Aprilia Zank shoots

Casimir Wojciech writes

A PARADE OF NODS

for Jim Carroll

Forests

of granite crawl

from bent tears

of my prayer

to make a mouth

of silence.

A torrent of teeth

behind sunlight

carve sand castles

out the body. 

It is not for dreaming

or escape. Herds

of angry gods

keep the drums warm.

The power of nations

in a flash against

my ribcage, I feel

alive. An invisible

greedy hand reaches

into the nest, the

birds sing louder 

than death. And 

I save them by

unfolding the shadows

wrapped around their

secret wings.

 Jim Carroll Portrait -- Dan Lacey

Dan Cardoza writes

For Sylvia Plath

In the Moon And the Yew Tree, you pointed the dying light of your heart toward the nights, slate board of gloom.

All those dark trees & wind knotted branches, clawing their way, relentlessly, upward.

Your moon, how can we forget, that terrible white parchment, stuck in those dark branches.

Confined in your own perpetual midnight church of pain, you pressed your flat porcelain palms against cold granite walls, stumbling forward, seeking the relief of escape.

It was not to be, your tortured search, published in all those posthumous reviews, your every thought & emotion analyzed, with thousands of interpretations. Autopsied after death; scapel/verb, adjective/bone-saw, toothed forceps/noun.

And all those intellectuals, fingering pages of your darker interpretations, second guessing your life & art; their searching, a counterfeit braile of sorts, feeling for the textures of your dead thoughts. Now, you sleep in the green grasses, you feared no longer unloading their grief on your swollen, porcelain blue feet.

Now the "eight great tongues" still ring, clouds flower over godless nights, your pain an open hinge in the pale of eternity; the blackness & silence is defining.  

Self-Portrait in Semi-Abstract Style -- Sylvia Plath

Sunita Paul writes

All in the Name of Love

We smiled

Eyes spoke in silence

We laughed

Till tears flowed in a real sense.

We held hands

And walked down memory lanes

We kissed each other 

Shared all happiness and pains.

We embraced in each other's arms

Your tender caresses

I could hear your heart beat

When I lay on your chest with my open tresses.

Our eyes got lost in each other's

When your lips locked in mine

Those passionate smooches

My love life used to shine.

Our love making was a treasure to me

It was so pure and true

We fought and made up again

As the days passed through

In our own small world

All we did was in the name of love

We were meant to be always together 

Because it is a boon from heaven above.

Michael Tischer plays

Gustav Holst's "St. Paul's Suite" performed by the Akiruno Chamber Orchestra.

"Jig" (1st movement)

"Ostinato" (2nd movement)

"Intermezzo" (3rd movement)

"The Dargason" (4th movement, finale)

Carloluigi Colombo paints

An Unsuccessful Experiment of AI (artificial intelligence)

 

Lily Swarn writes

Destiny 

It's the palanquin 
of destiny 

Swaying its waist 
like a folk dancer
in the sand dunes 

Invitingly curvaceous
dauntingly rigid 

Attired in black skirts
Alluring yet widowed 

Tapping its feet
Whirling a la dervishes 

Enticing with its limpid eyes
Warning with its jaunty rhythm 

Striking a statuesque pose
Not unlike the stone carvings
Of the lifelike Khajuraho temples 

One toss of her serpentine braid
And Destiny can arrest life in her tresses 

The come hither looks deceptive
The oceanic depths hazardous 

Destiny is ruthless
Mercy is not even her middle name
She smirks in her silver edged odhni
Confident of her endless power.