126 thoughts on “Poems of the Month ( In Full )

  1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    * 2013 * : A month by month retrospective

    JANUARY : – Calcutta Confessions – Mukherjee Twish

    FEBRUARY : – Landfills – Reena Prasad

    MARCH : – So what happens to the words that I read ? – Martin Waterhouse

    APRIL : – As your beauty unfolded – Jan Christian Sorensen

    MAY : – Kaviguru Rabindranath Tagore – Ampat Koshy

    JUNE : – The infinite mirrors of Ocean – Iulia Gherghei

    JULY : – Listen to the Whirlwind – Ogunjimi James Taiwo ( Poem of the Year )

    AUGUST : – Tapestry,silhouettes and ink – Iulia Gherghei

    SEPTEMBER : – Dhaka University – Moksedul Milon

    OCTOBER : – Kunjumon – Reena Prasad

    NOVEMBER : – On Children’s Day – Nalini Srivastava

    DECEMBER : – On a Pier – Rahul Aithal

  2. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JANUARY 2013 : – Calcutta Confessions – Mukherjee Twish

    Week I
    How strange must we be?
    Strangled by forces of love, must we desert our very humanity in the pursuit of a sick, lost cause?
    And then, must we celebrate it, immortalize it, and eulogize it, with an ink like this on a paper like this, until the night of the blind?
    But, when the blind poet finds his light, it burns him into ashes.
    He wakes up in a body bathed in sweat, in a mind brimming with memories of feverish nightmares, train of eerie episodes that his miserable, mortal soul sprinted through, in its snatches of solace in the guise of slumber.
    Until the planets stop, the spirits breed contempt for all that is contemporary.

    Week II
    When all the steel claws have crumbled into lustful rust, the dust clogs the lungs of the poet from the beach town who wants freedom from freedom’s phantasm, while breathing his last on an imported harmonica.
    Confused daylight invades the smug darkness of his idle workshop; glides over the ancient spare parts waiting to be assembled at the bid of a beggar.
    No shattered glass shall wield a piece sharp enough to bleed his consciousness to death, to life, or the heaven between.
    Until the planets stop, diseases and disorders will define the destinies of well-educated minds.

    Week III
    A rave underground life, a visual constraint, a girl with big eyes and a sprained ankle will mock the myopia of patriotism.
    Howard Roark and Dean Moriarty will meet in a room with two and a half windows and analyse the angst of Antoine Doinel.
    Summer-burnt faces will fill the rectangular spaces of this decaying city; their sweat pores will swallow all the clear streams of labor; our robotic protégé will spit our daily deities out, like morsels of an inexpensive delicacy; sticky, skinny, bony, bare and bruised.
    Until the planets stop, my private London will lie rotting beneath a murky green pond.

    Week IV
    I met a misty-eyed woman on the train, who leaned on the rail, her pretty nostrils dancing to the invisible rhythm of the odor of perspiration. She sustained my city tonight. Tomorrow, the stench will be unbearable for her.

  3. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    FEBRUARY 2013 : – Landfills – Reena Prasad

    Reminiscences stuffed into frayed pockets, she walked
    in no particular  direction, going as far as house waste goes
    in search of a treasure trove of  stinking landfills
    Tattered as her life of forty, are her gathered  clothes
    Fading grey underskirt with trailing,weeping ends
    ignorant of the  boundaries that defined the sari-remains above.

    She poked around the stagnant mound, not particular about any find
    Bits of  plastic, broken bottles, an abandoned diary of teenage throes
    All lay in companionable silence in her brown sack of unwanted orphans
    She picked in  silence, watched by a scraggly, one-eyed, stubbed tail cat
    Twin wandering  souls, united in casual neglect, relegated to the night-soil trenches. Previous birth karma, wrinkled noses, anti-beggar sentiments and disgust
    compete for supremacy.

    1. Amita Paul

      That reminds me so much of TS Eliot

      The worlds revolve like ancient women
      Gathering fuel in vacant lots

      The fading grey underskirt and the stub tailed cat are only too familiar

  4. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MARCH 2013 : – So what happens to the words that I read ? – Martin Waterhouse

    What happens to the words that I hear?
    Do they float into one, and then out the other ear?
    Or does something more horrible happen in my brain,
    Are they pulped into mash and never heard of again?

    Or do they just echo around my skull? It could be,
    Because that would explain all those voices in me;
    They never use words I’ve never heard before,
    I always understand what they mean, and what’s more,

    Some of the speakers sound like folks who have said
    Enough over the years to have filled my head.
    I know one of them sounds a lot like my Mum
    And wants me to calm down when I’m having too much fun.

    Or are words recycled and stored in my mind
    On well numbered shelves, so they’re easy to find,
    And when I’ve got something to say, and I speak,
    They’ve been taken down and dusted all ready for me.

    Because that would explain what happens to people
    When they know what they mean but they’re just not able
    To find a word, and it’s on the tip of their tongue,
    Instead of the shelf it’s supposed to be on.

    So what happens to the words that I hear?
    Do the words full of joy explode into cheers?
    Do the sad ones melt and turn into tears?

    And what about the big ones like onomatopoeia?
    Do they dazzle then buckle and crumbling disappear …?

    So what happens to the words that I hear?
    I asked a wise man once, but it’s still not clear.
    He said, “What happens to those words is obvious indeed.
    They  go to the same place as the words that you read.”

  5. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    APRIL 2013 : – As your beauty unfolded – Jan Christian Sorensen

    As your beauty unfolds before me I am reminded… That no matter how well you guard something it can always be lost… Or in this case did I give it away?

    As your beauty unfolds before me I am reminded… That you cannot walk forward to a place that you have already passed… And you should always welcome a new day with more joy than the last…

    Much smarter now… There are urgent matters at hand… There are urgent hands that matter… Touching places that have not existed… Until your beauty unfolded before me… Gloriously…

    Until your beauty unfolded before me I thought passion existed only in the minds of Poets and songwriters… And it seems I have become one of them… Because You have become my favorite song…

    And when I am not singing it I hear its music as I recite… Words that describe you…

    And words that can’t describe you… Tapping my feet as some type of continuous applause… This would have been strange behavior…Before your beauty unfolded before me Passionately…

    Until your beauty unfolded before me… Time had a pace that outran me… During workdays and lonely days… Time had another name Loneliness…

    It is Next time, your time… That is what is important nowadays… The next time I am next to you Precious time… No longer my enemy

    Before your beauty unfolded before me… Instantly… Isn’t it funny? That a heart once so weak Beats rhythmically sending a message… Through the jungle that announces… A new space inside of itself where only visions of you cover the walls…

    With unfolded beauty… That caresses every sense… Touch everlasting and untouchable…

    Since your beauty unfolded before me… Tastes like what Mama puts in her food…

    Since your beauty unfolded before me… Smells like the grass after the rain falls…

    Since your beauty unfolded before me… Sounds once foreign sound like we…

    Since your beauty unfolded before me… Mercifully looks like you…

    Since your beauty unfolded before me… Standing there in an archway with my Heart… Secure in your hands… Its fluorescent light only out shined by the smile you wear for only me…

    A slight tilt of my head enables me to recognize Love… Beautifully… Gloriously… Passionately… Instantly… Mercifully…

    As your beauty unfolded before me Finally I did understand…

    It was in my darkest hour that I realized the light came from within… That was when I truly learned that I wasn’t blinded…

    My eyes were closed…. All this as your beauty unfolded before my eyes…

  6. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MAY 2013 : – Kaviguru Rabindranath Tagore – Ampat Koshy

    Your shadow fell across my mother and father.
    I listened to the Song Offerings’ best parts
    learned by heart by my loving father,
    heard my mother speak of Paresh Babu
    as one of her ideal characters from books.
    I read Wreck but was blown away by Gora
    for teaching me how to invert a tale,
    subversion before the word became common;
    agreed for that you deserved the Nobel.
    Heard of the man from Kabul,
    felt sad when the Homecoming did not take place.
    I wanted to be Upagupta,  love Chandalika and Kadambari
    did not like the essays that showed intolerance.
    I keep on multiplying my reading of you.
    I loved Shanthi Nikethan so have not gone there.
    Arya Samaj and Brahmo Samaj
    impressed the Mar Thomites
    (my mother was one before she wed)
    who believe in ecumenism and wider ecumenism
    and impressed even us C.S.I.
    I taught your anjalis, archanas and Yeats’s introduction
    so many times that I lost count –
    my students blown away by ‘my’ insights.
    Some shadows seem to grow longer as time goes by.
    I no longer know if you are a curse or a blessing.
    I only know your shadow now covers
    – your songs, plays, paintings and all –
    the entire horizon
    while others who think they love you threaten
    to blot out my cheerful, pure blue sky
    for daring to think your lesson to me was
    that I can be as great a writer as you
    even if, unlike you, being born in a dull time
    I cannot be as epic, collosal or epochal.
    Happy birthday, Gurudev;
    not to the you they all bow down to,
    the one they think none can equal or surpass,
    stunting all growth with that narrow view;
    but to the one my mother and father
    inspired me with, to take up the pen, among others:
    The one they loved and passed on to me
    in the same mode as you
    in a clear, lyrical, simple and purely Tagorean way.

  7. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JUNE 2013 : – The infinite mirrors of Ocean – Iulia Gherghei

    Why do we call this planet Earth
    when it is the vast waters that gave him the colour
    no matter where you look a tide
    will answer the moon call
    a breeze will caress the seagull wing
    a blade of sand will sting a thirsty eye

    Where else but at the shore we will meet
    the horizon line uniting sky and ocean vastness
    a kiss in the infinite mirrors
    a taste of no boundaries
    a fear that the next tide
    will slap and crumble all your certainties

    When if not in the middle of storm
    God becomes a dry shirt
    a farewell tear
    a letter never to be mailed
    a list of sons abandoned at the shore

    Again calm waters, little joyful waves
    enormous blue wearing a sky
    breeze to comb my curly hair
    Ocean, the moon lover, you,
    hung my star in your tide!

  8. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JULY 2013 : – Listen to the Whirlwind – Ogunjimi James Taiwo

    I will consume; Oh yes, I will
    I will ravage; don’t doubt me I plead
    I see blood even though the world can’t see.
    I see death when life is what your preachers preach.
    I feel it approaching, the consuming anger of the wind.

    They want us in chains; will we allow them I ask?
    They like us jobless; should we sit under their tables praying for crumbs to fall off their laps?
    They thrive on our fear; should we not dare to take up the fight?
    They like us fighting ourselves; should we not forge our path?

    The world stands watching; waiting to see if we’ll get it right.
    The helpless kneel praying; hoping we’ll neglect our fear.
    The enslavers sit in dark corners watching; keen to see if we’ll bring our words to life.
    The one question lies hanging: Who will bell the cat?

    Listen to the whirlwind as it speaks in clear tones.
    Listen to the whirlwind as it promises to sweep through and pull down their poles.
    I will come when the eyes of the people are opened.
    I will sweep through, visit the oppressors and break their stranglehold.

    I will not come when timidity still reigns supreme.
    I will not come when your voices are not united in tune.
    I will come when your minds are made up.
    I will come, I am coming, and they will fall.

    Listen to the voice of the whirlwind as it promises to the oppressors death.
    Listen, they say, or thy tongue will keep thee deaf.
    The anger of the People will come as a whirlwind; it will cleanse, it will consume.
    Listen; oh listen to the voice of the whirlwind as it calls out in revolutionary tunes.

  9. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    AUGUST 2013 : – Tapestry,silhouettes and ink – Iulia Gherghei

    A tapestry of promises I seen in your
    shadowy eyes
    your silken syllables have woven the sonnet
    for our moonlight serenade
    the silhouette of Love passed through our loneliness
    our senses laced in a kiss:
    a velveteen touch of the night breeze within,
    carried away on your fragile lips
    a rose, a stolen heart, a dewdrop rolling on my cheek
    fragments of paradise, the echo of a forgotten symphony
    the eclipses tattooed deep on my retina
    you in your intoxicating splendor
    me, starry-eyed, wooed,
    completely lost in ink
    gathering rhymes
    alleviating beaded sighs of pleasure
    poetic delirium on ice

  10. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    SEPTEMBER 2013 : – Dhaka University – Azmm Moksedul Milon

    Seven long summers, I slept in your lap,
    With thousands thirsty bugs in your sari
    And millions mosquitoes over your head
    Sucking all my jaundiced blood drop by drop.

    In rainy days, I heard you cry and sob,
    Seeing me take some stale rice and rat-smelt dal
    And live on just two modest meals a day,
    Turning myself into a bag of bones.

    I used to wake up late to miss my milk,
    And save some coins every cloudy morning;
    My friends and field work used to freak me out,
    You just warned me not to miss the tilting.

    Like the old Ant you kept advising me,
    But this Grasshopper indulged in idleness;
    Seven Late Autumns, I missed my harvest,
    But you kept feeding me with what you had.

    When all my little hope used to wither,
    Like the leaves of the trees by my window,
    You watered it with the tears of blessing
    And helped new hope sprout and rejuvenate.

    What I am today is what and how much
    I drank from the little springs of knowledge,
    Gushing out in stream of your skinny breasts
    That still do suckle thousands thirsty lips.

  11. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    OCTOBER 2013 : – Kunjumon – Reena Prasad

    Sprawled near the shop door
    dangling coir, bright plastics, baskets
    flimsy balloon balls, flower pots
    and you-
    a fallen statue reeking of neglect

    Irritating to bustling feet
    but they stepped over your motionless form
    and left the air fouler
    with curses that you inhaled

    You were the underworld
    without the beard, gun or pot belly
    ribs painfully embossed
    upon your sallow youth
    We fattened up our kids
    using your nightmare shamelessly

    the luckiest woman of all
    three hefty sons she had
    A thief, a madman and a drunk but no girls
    so wasn’t she blessed!

    Septic tanks and cow urine tanks called you
    armed with a bottle of the cheapest toddy
    you swung down holes
    where no devil dared to breathe
    scooping up discarded human bits

    Our girls under your protective stagger
    safe as they quickened their steps
    from the lonely bus stop to the
    lamp-lit shadows of motherly forms
    none would look at their budding youth
    while you thrashed out your lungs
    and limbs at the road romeos

    Kunjumon, you fell out of life suddenly
    just like you did everyday
    but among the fallen
    you still stand tall

  12. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    NOVEMBER 2013 : – On Children’s Day – Nalini Srivastava

    Ingenuity and credulity,
    Mark their wisdom.
    Big innocent eyes ask
    Thousands of unspoken questions.
    They mark the survival of humanity,
    And with them we are so inhuman.
    Being almost unwanted and uncherished,
    Are they just pests crawling on earth?
    Born out of a human’s choice,
    They are left to beg and eat.
    Whether orphans or orphaned
    They are children too..
    What is our future?
    If we treat them the way we do.

  13. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    DECEMBER 2013 : – On a Pier – Rahul Aithal



    Outstretched I lay on a pier wide, square,
    gaze up at the sky which stares down at me.
    when the dusk-sun, a different colour wears,
    and eve-winds aid a flock of birds to flee.
    Deeper, the long white sails lazily sway-
    a romance with blue waters as they waltz.
    And my mind saunters away from the bay-
    if only the sand in the glass would pause.
    Far, the sun dips further into the bowl.
    Wonder if you too are seeing it from miles.
    I look up and watch the dispersing clouds
    to find your face flash and sparkle a smile.
    Nor distance nor time can untie the lace,
    forged by your memories – a boundless trace.


  14. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    * 2014 * : A month by month retrospective

    JANUARY : – The Dawn of a Change – Ogunjimi O Joel

    FEBRUARY : – 1947 – Sarita Jenamani

    MARCH ; – In Winter – Michael Yates

    APRIL : – Autism – Neetu Wali ( Poem of the Year )

    MAY : – The Picture – Sana Rose

    JUNE : – Golden – Witty Fay

    JULY : – Blank Diary – Maaya Dev

    AUGUST : – Fakery – Reena Prasad

    SEPTEMBER : – Weighed against the ashes of the tears – Keith Wallis

    OCTOBER :- Not This Song – Never – Marieta Maglas

    NOVEMBER :- Seashell – Rahul Aithal

    DECEMBER :- Wild Meadows – Sunita Prasad

  15. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JANUARY 2014 : – The Dawn of a Change – Ogunjimi O Joel

    Living the life everyone wants for me
    Blindly following instructions that ain’t real
    Walking paths already picked out for me
    But I wanted to be me,
    i wanted to be real

    Going the way of the Lord
    Cos i never knew any other
    You tried to teach me to be a leader,
    The best among peers
    tried to teach me to grow up
    and let change take over
    i kept being a kid for so long
    Blind optimism and dumb reasoning
    expecting so much from people
    and being let down everytime
    the cycle of raised and dashed hopes continued

    Influences; good and bad
    pulling right and left
    but you wanted me to stay
    right where i was
    till the awaited dawn rises on me
    till change comes
    and overshadows me
    like a cloud pregnant with rain,
    and sweeps me off my feet like a whirlwind

    I was naive
    young and stupid
    Fell for love
    foolishly in love… I was naive
    but it passed, like all infatuations do
    the hunger came though
    the need for company
    the need for friends
    but not just friends, fans!
    people who cherish my opinions
    who respect my views
    I found them amidst my peers
    it was great, the look in their eyes
    the passion!
    like fire in the wind, so it danced in their eyes
    we felt the love, that great connection
    We were one…
    but not for long
    till the cynics came in
    with them came their kind of change
    defiling the sacred circle
    jealousy and envy, hate coated with affection
    never knew what they had up their sleeves
    like the cankerworm,
    destructive and yet harmless
    back-stabbings, telling tales

    And so the fans were gone
    friends, not so friendly anymore
    with it came the heart break
    couldnt stand it, friends turned enemies
    it hurts still

    amidst the hurt and heartbreak, though
    the best times of my life were embeded
    Times of laughter, tears, fights, make ups
    life goes on.
    My mistakes I named experiences
    But that chapter of my life ended
    Bitter sweet memories still linger
    And in no time, I moved on
    and another chapter began to unfold.

    Ogunjimi Joel O.

  16. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    FEBRUARY 2014 : – 1947 – Sarita Jenamani

    They depart
    And more houses sink
    into darkness
    The street shrinks a little bit more
    Night clenches
    the morbid left-over light
    From the Tower of Silence
    flocks of fear-symbols descend
    in quest of a morsel
    Those remaining behind
    continue to slumber
    under a thick layer of indifference
    They wake up
    only to move
    from dream to dream
    and murmur
    unanswerable questions
    They depart
    And life shrinks
    a little bit more

    Sarita Jenamani



  17. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MARCH 2014 : – In Winter – Michael Yates

    In winter we become crystal, blood
    coagulates, turns cold
    like the skin of ages,
    loses its colour. Say
    we are transparent, but we could
    be invisible except old
    breath hangs in the air, engages
    attention, gives us away.

    In winter we are thinner than
    the surface of water, light
    as dead butterfly wings.
    We use our voices only
    to exercise our lips; scan
    the sky for sign, bite
    into a glut of sour things,
    notice the road is empty.

    In winter we marvel we survive
    the small hours given us, we
    list tiny predicaments, ease
    the fright in our brains
    with memory, strive
    with dead spirits to see
    a hint of ourselves, freeze
    attitude so one thing at least remains.

  18. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    APRIL 2014 : – Autism – Neetu Wali

    Regret the mismatch

    Wish I was like everybody else

    Not because I want to

    Don’t want them to take

    The trouble of reaching

    My levels

    Though they think

    To be better off

    I know I am the special best

    How magical

    Balanced steps to a misbalanced life

    Dis-balanced steps to a balanced life

    I heard a friend is around

    Hiding behind that corner

    Enough for me for the rest of my life

    Why then change

    And honestly speaking

    Have a secret desire

    I pray for them

    To be deprived of

    Such wonderful life





  19. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MAY 2014 : – The Picture – Sana Rose

    Melting lollipop

    I can see the distances growing, 
    The childhood rhymes fading, 
    The lollipop memories melting, 
    The irreversible gluey drops 
    That can’t be savoured nor 
    Saved for another day… 

    I can sense the gaping holes, 
    The frozen icicles in souls, 
    The rain-washed, lonely strolls, 
    The one-sided page left behind, 
    That can’t be imprinted nor 
    Scribed for another age… 

    I can see the fingers unwinding, 
    The held hands departing, 
    The dripping dreams returning, 
    The new green leaves curling 
    Back into their branches – 
    A picture of non-existence… 

    – May 15th, 2014
    © Sana Rose 2014

  20. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JUNE 2014 : – Golden – Witty Fay

    As in the petals of roses after the hoarfrost,

    A sickening shade of late bloom

    And whithered summers.

    Barely the metallic shine of your gaze at dawns,

    As you unfold from my touch.

    Rather the vivid yellow of canola fields,

    As they encircle my waist into unfolding grace,

    And distil my laughter

    Into the slippery dust of your lens.

    As the age of our youth,

    Brief, yet meaningful, summerlike mostly.

    Like the oyster that adorned the fleece

    At the depth of a forgotten sea.

    And, definitely, the music that comes

    From the swing of things.

    As for the rest, I’ll come to you in colours.

  21. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JULY 2014 : – Blank Diary – Maaya Dev



    A blank diary lies on the desk.
    hiding the purpose on its pages.
    It is willing to absorb
    the unkempt emotions as ink.
    Moisture of ink is ready to get dry
    as scribbles of an untold tale.
    It may reveal its destiny as testimony
    through mysterious mist as saga.

    The papers are fragile so as fingers.
    Thin texture may not bear the accumulated weight
    of emotions the heart carry with much ease.
    As all emotions are frost in compressed past.

    The chamber is sealed by the present
    and key is lost in the depth of future.
    But the heat of burning memories
    melts the chamber creating flash flood
    and gush from the heart as tears.
    It reflects on cheeks as rainbow hues
    masking the melancholy in its splendour.

    The destiny of diary remains blank
    as it never got wet by ink or contrive the tale.
    Heavy emotional down pour rewrites
    the destiny of  an unwritten tale.

    Diary got into the shelf as a mundane routine.
    While disclosing a truth of life for us.
    ‘Some tales are better left unsaid’……

  22. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    AUGUST 2014 : – Fakery – Reena Prasad

    The music will soon cease
    The trapdoor will shut without a creak
    The pied piper was never a friend

    The mirror was always enchanted
    We have fought our way into it
    to get whipped over what we desire most

    The sunlight is polite
    It stays behind brocades of heavy clouds
    keeping away from illuminated beings

    It is  the dark heat
    sweltering in the trodden pavements
    that now lines our thoughts

    Burnt sockets
    where eyes might have once
    seen past the horizon of lack

    An immaculate waist
    A beautifully arched eyebrow
    An angry sun tears at motherhood

    We have picked up stray suns
    that gnaw into our fabric
    while we sweat

    A beach album
    snuffs out cheer from the lives of those
    without suntan lotion

    Envy eats us for breakfast
    alarming us with the un-shareable
    unenhanced images of our lives

    Honey merely tastes like more malice
    Greed branded as ambition
    chews up the spaces between skin and soul

    Somewhere in this voyage to One World,
    our nights wade through rainforest tapestry
    stripped of any fragrance

    We hang on to sensory orbs
    spinning past
    our etched  lifelines

    A giant advertisement
    blots out the old sun
    Give it a decent burial

    From post to post let us run
    Could there be somewhere
    a better sun?

    Goodbye to
    …awkward pauses
    There is always a key to depress

  23. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    SEPTEMBER 2014 :- Weighed against the ashes of the tears – Keith Wallis

    Untidy time and tide return
    as blood unfolds
    and houses burn,
    as children cry as they journey on
    to other lands
    for theirs has gone.

    And limbs lie strewn across their way
    from easy prey
    who simply lived before migrant fear
    destroyed the old
    and they fell victim here.

    And all who seek to move frontiers
    with bomb or gun or knife or spears
    should place them in a balance
    weighed against
    the ashes of the tears.

  24. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    OCTOBER 2014 :- Not This Song-Never – Marieta Maglas

    In the night the song waves start to disappear
    Like white trees, when there is no one their fall to hear.
    Earth’s shadow hides the moon, a harp without strings.
    Lasting love shines on crazy engagement rings.

    What does love mean, when the elves come life to cheer?
    In the night the song waves start to disappear,
    And in the moonlight your feelings become blue.
    The flowers cry for our time with tears of dew.

    Bud butterflies become whispers in our dreams
    To complete our entwining in the life’s streams.
    In the night, the song waves start to disappear
    On the moon, a double-meaning pamphleteer.

    The green knows that through the darkness shines the light.
    And love has sense, when the saints pray for the height.
    And life blooms, when the God’s angels hurry near.
    In the night the song waves start to disappear.

  25. Louis Kasatkin Post author


    Sprung from the depths of the sea-
    lay half-buried in the sand,
    Shelled with stories and mystery
    of the deep, brought to the land.
    Often unnoticed remain,
    mingled with pebbles ashore.
    Adrift in the soft terrain
    the relics roll and unfold.
    Should I pick up to picture
    or let it nestle, linger?

  26. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    DECEMBER 2014 :- Wild Meadow – Sunita Prasad

    I carried,
    Those wild berries
    In my fist,precious,
    Like my old friends.
    Reminiscing the lost childhood,.
    Those were the paths,
    Where childhood left footprints
    Etched on its barks,
    The birds homed,hopes danced
    Wild berries rested among
    The tall sentries of time
    Fanciful abundance leaped,
    Where innocent cherubs laughed
    Through the tinted canopy.
    Those were the days
    Where freedom breathed freely
    The carefree days
    Had an essence,
    A vigorous zest for life
    And the spirit felt the breezy sunshine.
    And now, the glazed reflection
    Reflects in the shunted vastness,
    A bleeding,chaffed soil, seeking refuge
    In the heart, of an aquamarine gorge.

  27. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    * 2015 * : A month by month retrospective

    JANUARY :- Invoked – Lopa Banerjee

    FEBRUARY :- Shadows of my Poetry – Shamsher Singh

    MARCH :- A Lovelorn Gypsy’s Last Love Song – Shashikala Sasidharan

    APRIL :- Ashtavakra – Vineetha Mekkoth

    MAY :- Exchange of Sorrows – Reena Prasad

    JUNE :- Living in the Shadows – John Anthony Fingleton

    JULY :- The Last Whistle – Rekha Moothedath

    AUGUST :- New Delhi 1966 – Vijay Nair

    SEPTEMBER :- My Own Water Diviner – Witty Fay ( Poem of the Year )

    OCTOBER :- The blow ,the glow – Mangeni W.Obwaya

    NOVEMBER :- Stone Eyes – Elizabeth Kuriakose

    DECEMBER :- Promise of the Morning – Kamlesh Acharya

  28. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JANUARY 2015 – Invoked – Lopa Banerjee

    Time had sung its inevitable song, a body

    That had once planted a tree of love,

    Had burnt to its last finishing embers.

    The face, hung in silence, floating around

    Unspoken words, etched in the timeless annals of memory.

    The face of life, a sudden, elemental burst

    A gleam of hope along the rusty corridors of nothingness,

    Hungered for the pitter patter raindrops of a moment in time,

    In the plastic quiet of the hospital room, death waited,

    A silent companion at the next station, while life

    Chewed on his final wishes of a succulent meal.

    The finishing touches of words, beneath the breathing tube,

    The pinching ache of the intravenous, the seeking out

    Of lovingly knit faces, the hands gripping unfulfilled promises

    A flash of seconds, then hanging loose.

    Life had been beckoned in an unknown itinerary.

    Twenty-one years since the sun had last gone down,

    Memories unfailingly water, nourish the roots, the leaves,

    The fruits the tree had borne, while the face

    Hangs in the wall, a dusty portrait, in a home full of the living.

  29. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    FEBRUARY 2015 – Shadows of my Poetry – Shamsher Singh

    The shadows of my poetry
    Shadows thy swirling
    And, sparrows chirping
    Sky and I both are awake
    Me with my tears flowing in words
    And sky too cried whole night
    Paper of grasses became greener with Dews
    Oh the greatest irony
    All are here listening to my words
    Don’t know what these words means
    But believe me my silence have infinite poems
    For withered yet untethered was my soul
    For it was the conspiracy of resonance
    That I die every moment to breathe
    For a moment of my love
    And yes don’t dare to ask me of love
    I here say ,Before you and Before all
    Am ready to embrace infinite deaths for one live
    But again the shakespearean tragedy
    Won and I failed
    For its written by you, I won’t say by almighty
    And I kept dying, dying, dying
    But nobody could feel the pain nor my silent sober
    They ask what happened??
    What should I say
    My life is lifeless because so and so..
    I don’t need few words of empathy or sympathy
    Let you pray for my darling death
    My dream, my destiny
    That my thrust remained thirsty
    With its own unparalleled impulse of love
    You won’t see ever,
    You won’t feel ever
    You won’t understand ever
    And the silence of mine is teasing infinite mirrors
    But who cares
    Neither sunflower stops kissing sun
    Nor waves stops drinking the wine
    And here my heart is out
    And ‘ the shadow of my poetry’
    Sprouts but alas to fade only

  30. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    March 2015 – A Lovelorn Gypsy’s Last Love Song – Shashikala Sasidharan

    Gypsies living for the day, it’s joys and sorrows,
    Never saved a penny of thoughts for tomorrow,
    Spent it all buying solace of that moment silent,
    Echoing mellifluous like old songs forgotten.

    Searching for some old forgotten poems,
    Some savings left of memories’ balance sheet,
    Rummaging through yellowed piles of years,
    Found old accounts all spent and defunct.

    Blank pages stare back a while then diligently stoop,
    Back into words lilting on templates of yesterdays,
    Tracing the lost face of dreams, fingering through,
    Those strands of hair flying with wind to times bygone.

    I catch that fragile parachute seed, silver like the
    Beard of a lovelorn gypsy singer, treading vast
    deserts in moonlit nights, with his sobbing sarangi,
    Perched on the memories strung tight and tuned.

    One more night he sings, one more love song that,
    Hums, cries and croons melodious, resonating…
    Within all the pain wrenched out of gut, heart and mind,
    Searing the soul evenly, even on such chilly nights.

    A lovelorn gypsy’s last love song…

  31. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    April 2015 – Ashtavakra – Vineetha Mekkoth

    Boiling like prawns
    in an earthen pot 
    we lay.
    The brine
    seeped into every
    cell of our being.
    There was nowhere
    to hide.
    My palms
    split into two,
    my legs
    twisted outward.
    Every nerve
    racked, tortured
    and there was fire raging
    where my eyes
    would have been.
    I cried out mutely
    yet there was
    no release.
    As I twisted out
    of my mother’s womb,
    my parents unaware
    welcomed me.
    Smiles faded.
    Eyes glazed
    they stared at me
    cradled in their arms.
    Broken, twisted,
    skin stretched over
    my ribcage.
    The Endosulfan baby.
    I am waiting.
    My siblings will arrive
    in similar glory,
    cursed in the womb
    by the Fathers,
    unlived lives shattered,
    we the modern

    Vineetha Mekkoth
    All rights reserved.

    1. Ashtavakra – According to the Hindu mythology, Ashtavakra was cursed by his father while in his mother’s womb because he dared to correct the mistakes of the former. As a result of the curse Ashtavakra was born deformed, with eight crooks or bents (hence the name. Ashta=8, Vakra= bents). He was a scholar and he later saved his father from a dire situation. Ashtavakra is an innocent victim of man’s arrogance as well as a symbol of learning, filial love, patience and forgiveness.

    2. Endosulfan – a pesticide which was used extensively in the cashew plantations of northern Kerala, India. It was administered through aerial spraying. This has affected all life forms in the region leading to congenital disabilities in humans as well as animals. After widespread protests throughout the state the government has decided to phase out its use gradually. Because of its threats to human health and the environment, a global ban on the manufacture and use of Endosulfan was negotiated under the Stockholm Convention in April 2011. The ban has taken effect from mid-2012.
    (Source for Endosulfan:Wikipedia)

  32. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    May 2015 – Exchange of Sorrows – Reena Prasad

    Why do I write
    of flowers that bloom outside imaginary windows
    of leaves cried by absent trees
    of the stream that stays poised at the hilltop
    in the wall painting
    real to me as much as it might once have been
    when it flowed into the artist’s veins
    These don’t exist except in me
    and I don’t want to
    without them in me
    It is not easy to breathe in the odour of living
    and to pump out life
    though the punished potted plant does it all its life
    The rooted ones want to chop off their lower selves
    and imagine they will float upwards
    The floating clouds drop rain seeds
    hoping to latch on to a steady hearth
    and clutch a gnarled claw worth of brown dirt
    The homeless and the trapped
    always in a troubled quest to be the other
    not seeing that it would be just an
    exchange of sorrows

  33. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JUNE 2015 – Living In The Shadows – John Anthony Fingleton

    Here no one can see my tears,
    Here no voices form my name.
    Night and day eclipse this place,
    Until my eyes just stare into the darkness
    Of unrealistic hope;

    Here, only you knew of my existence,
    But you stayed silent –
    Far too long.
    Here is where you abandoned me,
    To be devoured slowly by the Shadows.

  34. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JULY 2015 – The Last Whistle – Rekha Moothedath

    It was a long winter night here
    I’m arriving home ,with the wild wind
    breaking those venetian blinds
    belgium mirrors and dark rooms
    Drowned in the snow,wet with dews
    forest shivered,bare and naked ..
    Stirred by the dying breath of leaves,
    Trees waited worst testament of storm
    i have been wishing all the way
    Without a choice or compromise
    Whether i breathe him or
    meet him at the grave..
    Every beating of my heart
    Played a rhythm of secret
    through my nerves and veins
    Intensely desiring him
    In unhappy hours of this journey
    No storm could beat me
    as those memories did
    No hurricanes could toss me
    as those words he filled me with..
    Would you forgive me again
    seeking those days left behind..?
    It was an unnatural beginning
    And waiting to sum up naturally..
    A promise that swift past me long back
    Last train stopped in the midnight
    through the mist and meadows
    My eyes haunted for the sweet vision
    Only once before the last whistle..
    When the footsteps approached
    Its his arms take hold of me now
    Now i’d burn myself in the fire
    And breathe in closing lips.

  35. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    AUGUST 2015 – New Delhi 1966 – Vijay Nair

    With all the new banians
    Neatly folded in the almirah
    Father at his rustic
    Subversive best
    Gestured magnificently- –
    Seemingly ambidextrous
    Two perfect
    In the armpits
    Of a vintage vest – –
    Entertaining a host
    Of faithful relatives
    Who came visiting
    With guffaws
    On sleepy Sunday afternoons – –
    Slapping his thighs
    While making a point
    Urging smug faces
    To munch
    Monaco biscuits – –
    Amma, seething behind
    A convent-educated smile
    And a tray
    Groaning under
    Steaming cups of tea
    Muttered beneath her breath
    As she moved endlessly
    From kitchen-smoke
    To drawing-room smoke
    And back
    Exhausted by
    The fiction
    Of her reality:
    “He wears this on purpose
    Every time.”

  36. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    SEPTEMBER 2015 – My Own Water Diviner – Witty Fay

    A woman a man leaves
    Is bound to smell a cornucopia
    Of semantic imperfections
    In the way her vowels string
    Around her crane-like love,
    Up above the snowflaked heart,
    Where her arteries bear anatomy.
    A woman a man keeps
    Is sure to taste of apple fennel
    Pistachio apricot in the combs,
    The thighs, the whispers, the lobes
    Of the dangling guilt of staying
    Within the sheltered promise,
    Right in the middle of things.
    A woman a man de-meanings
    And re-meanings first into a noun,
    Then a faltered adverb of dainty
    Struggle and human awkwardness,
    Shall burn and luxuriate in the disease
    Of his own incarceration in bareness.
    Such woman a man cannot contain.

  37. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    OCTOBER 2015 – The blow ,the glow – Mangeni W.Obwoya

    The blow, the glow,
    Flashing on the surface flows,
    – A drop on a mirror.

    The smile I wear,
    Smeared with the hurts inside my core,
    – A goat’s smile

    Time is young,
    Life, a briefcase of thought,
    – Hiding sad memories time brought.

    Frown with confidence,
    Ride and rhyme in happiness,
    -Hymns to a grieving soul.

    Songs, in grief heal,
    Tunes from the hill fill,
    -The crevice, time created.

    Ask not, about the singing you hear,
    For it might take what you most fear,
    Just listen and sing along,
    And forget, those who did wrong.

  38. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    NOVEMBER 2015 – Stone Eyes – Elizabeth Kuriakose

    eyes shut
    he prayed fervently
    the pain in his appeal
    cruising down his cheeks
    opening his eyes
    he saw the stone eyes
    of the deity
    nary a change in
    her expression

    he walked out
    forgetting to drop
    in the temple hundi
    the 100 rupee note
    he held in his closed fist

    realising it only when
    bending to put on his shoes
    he looked around
    he saw the old beggar woman
    wrinkled hands outstretched
    putting it in her hands
    he looked at her face
    no god’s eyes
    ever lit up
    like hers did
    he knew
    his prayers
    would be answered

  39. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    DECEMBER 2015 – Promise of the Morning – Kamlesh Acharya

    Every morning holds
    a promise for me.

    That unknown moment,
    when I return to myself
    and shuffle slightly
    in the crumpled bed
    as I wake up,
    the hope of a better day,
    the power of my potential,
    the lustre of letting go,
    the largesse of love,
    the fruit of forgiveness,
    and the nectar of newness.

    Every morning holds
    a choice for me –
    a choice of choosing
    my freedom.

    The morning shows me
    the beauty of its promise
    in the song of a bud
    on the same shrub
    that sees the withering
    of a fragrant flower,
    in the shine of the sun
    that dispels darkness,
    in the gurgle of a river
    that is new every day,
    in the flight of a bird
    that celebrates a new sky.

    And yet I hold on
    to what I shouldn’t
    and let go of
    what I mustn’t.
    I doggedly guard the pennies
    in my tight fists
    as pounds pass me by.

    Every morning holds
    a promise for me.
    A promise that
    I don’t keep.

  40. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    * 2016 * : A month by month retrospective

    JANUARY : – The Tears of Christ – Elizabeth Hexberg

    FEBRUARY : – Where Do I Belong ? – Kamlesh Acharya

    MARCH : – When the Night Weds the Sun – Sana Rose

    APRIL : – Catherine’s Shadow – John Anthony Fingleton

    MAY : – Unique Love – Joel Ogunjimi

    JUNE : – You Are The Messenger – Jan Phillips

    JULY : – In million hues – Pramila Khadun

    AUGUST : – The Infinite illusion – Shalini Samuel

    SEPTEMBER : – Levitated – Jan Christian Sorensen

    OCTOBER : – The Invisible Painter – Santosh Bakaya

    NOVEMBER : – Mom – Witty Fay

    DECEMBER : – Restored – Vijay Nair

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      JANUARY 2016 – The Tears of Christ – Elizabeth Hexberg

      The tears of Christ are falling,

      on the murdered unborn child.

      ‘Its only three per cent’, they said,

      no reason to be riled.


      The tears of Christ are falling,

      on children packing guns.

      In the name of Liberty,

      the reddest river runs.


      The tears of Christ are falling,

      as politicians war,

      and despairing starving refugees,

      can find no open door.



      The tears of Christ are falling,

      for those who use His Name.

      Judge, condemn, misrepresent.

      His Heart,

      His Walk,

      His Pain.


      A New Year is upon us,

      I pray that the world will know,

      His Grace,

      His Love,

      All hope in Him.

      The Way to

      stem the flow.


      John 14:6,

      ‘I am the way, the truth and the light. No one comes to the Father except through me.’

      1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

        FEBRUARY 2016 – Where Do I Belong ? – Kamlesh Acharya

        I belong to the place where
        the lark doesn’t sing because the sun is rising,
        but the sun rises to hear the lark sing.

        Where the sea doesn’t roar because the moon shines,
        but the moon shines to see the waves soar.

        Where it doesn’t rain because the earth is parched,
        it rains because the sky yearns to kiss its beloved.

        Where the wind doesn’t carry the fragrance because the rose bears it,
        but air wraps the rose to unwrap the fragrant gift.

        Take me to that place where
        I can see but I need no eyes,
        I can hear but I need no ears,
        I can walk but I need no limbs,
        I can fly but I need no wings.

        Take me to that place where
        I can listen to the light
        and watch the sound,
        where I can taste the fragrance
        and drink the wind.

        Take me to that place,
        for that is where I belong.

  41. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MARCH 2016 – When the Night Weds the Sun – Sana Rose

    The valley calls it a day,
    as it eats up the sun
    like in a kid’s
    crayon-coloured vista
    of the world –

    I had pictured an early moon
    when the sky darkened its face,
    but the stars on the ceiling
    were already in place.

    I sigh through the nights,
    unwillingly taking strides
    with the clock hands
    ticking on and on
    until daybreak –
    another day begins,
    another dawn
    for birds to rise.

    But not for me;
    For me, it is night
    in a sparkling gown
    of blinding white –
    saying, “I do” with the sun.

    The fireworks when the couple kiss
    are their dreams and my pain –
    I wait for the valley
    to swallow the sun again.

  42. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    APRIL 2016 – Catherine’s Shadow – John Anthony Fingleton

    The frontdoor would slam
    And the ‘auld fella’ was off to the pub.
    On those winter nights, I would have her all to myself,
    The blazing fire dancing our images
    Like frog toed shoes, on the diverse pattern of the wallpaper.
    Crackling sparks stinging the soot walled hearth;
    With it’s light teasing back her lost beauty.
    After awhile she would make us both cocoa,
    And toast fresh cut slices of bread, over the flames –
    A taste and aroma that remains an archaeological treasure,
    Forever buried in my memory –
    The hot sweet drink seducing my soul, for later dreams.

    Then she would lay back her head
    And begin to sing.
    Old songs, older then her own songs,
    Her eyes wide open. As if there were people
    Only she could see,
    But had been there, waiting on cue all the time.
    I would close my eyes and try to enter her dreams,
    Cuddling into the womb of her soft voice,
    Reluctant to re-emerge from her shadow.

  43. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MAY 2016 – Unique Love – Joel Ogunjimi

    I could write of love all day long
    and tell of its sweet moments in a song,
    the painful memories of its loss
    And the shattered being that bears the cross.

    I could tell of love’s tragedy;
    like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.
    Of crossed fate and destiny
    and the sweet destruction true lover’s get.

    I could write a poem to express
    Sweetness and distress,
    A poem such as Poe’s
    That tells of woes
    And serves as a bittersweet dose.

    But none could tell truly,
    or express intimately
    how much love feels
    or how lush it blossoms
    with innocence and freedom
    when it comes and sweetly sweeps
    a lover off their feet.

  44. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JUNE 2016 – You Are The Messenger – Jan Phillips

    Do you feel forsaken?
    Is your faith ever shaken?
    What to do when it happens
    That’s when you take action.

    You say a prayer of praise
    Then your voice you raise
    You sing a song of love
    To God up above.

    Do you tell those around you
    How your love for God grew?
    Do you tell them what He has done
    That He sent His only son?

    Do you tell them you’ve been blessed
    By one of the best?
    Do you live your life well
    So that everyone can tell?

    Do you follow God’s plan for you on earth?
    Do you know just what it’s worth?
    When you accept Jesus in your life
    You must be willing to tell of the afterlife.

    Jesus lived a life free of sin
    He is willing to let you in
    Get the message out
    Tell them what He’s all about.

    You are the messenger
    Of our one and only savior.
    Tell someone today
    And show them how to pray.

  45. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JULY 2016 – In million hues – Pramila Khadun

    I wrote your name

    On the rocks by the mountains.

    The snow came

    And all was covered.

    I felt sad

    And cried quietly.

    After a month,

    When I went back,

    Wild flowers had blossomed

    Beautifully on the slopes

    And your name glittered

    On each petal

    Like diamonds

    In million hues.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      AUGUST 2016 – The Infinite Illusion – Shalini Samuel

      A basket swiftly skates on a decorated promenade
      Attractive and awesome- akin to glittering Gold
      Everyone runs behind, some nonchalantly
      Some ardently, the rest anxiously
      Flowers and thorns slither through its openings
      Though it pricks, the whole world follows to pick
      A thorn/flower before it disappears on the slippery aisle
      Stuck in a thorn/flower picked long ago
      Some men wander forever in the lost lane
      In the long run, handing over the baton, men sleep

      Running blindly, everyone wants to win the race
      But none knows what they are running for
      For a blessed life, they dream of- I guess
      Oh basket, where are you going, I shout from behind
      Men say – “Run, Run, Run or you will be stranded forever
      Like a river, the basket never touches the same promenade twice”
      Won’t the droplets come back to the same river as rain?
      Linear it is because limited is our life and memory
      We will meet it again and again in the same promenade
      Isn’t it a infinite illusion? Time, you keep running;
      Let me stop, walk slowly and enjoy the walk.

  46. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    SEPTEMBER 2016 – Levitated – Jan Christian Sorensen

    For moments to share…far to few to bare…
    I recall how you picked me up many years ago…
    Levitated to be so close to Heaven and you never let go…
    ever so lightly in the air…the wind so easily touched my hair…

    I had so many hopes kept in you…far to many dreams you blew…
    I recall the joy you gave to me as I grew up…
    Levitated from childhood to feel that it would never stop…
    ever caught up in memory…ever the pain in, I am sorry…

    So many days has passed me by…so many years in total deny…
    I recall the last time I saw you lay there all pale and grey…
    Levitated to face the reality that I’ll never see you another day…
    ever so silence I will whisper what I do…after all, forever loving you…

  47. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    OCTOBER 2016 – The Invisible Painter – Santosh Bakaya

    On the undulating meadows stands a cottage small
    Painted in hues of red and green.
    Next to it a tree stands sentry with a phlegmatic air.
    With a mischievous air, the clouds dip low
    Over the cottage green and red.
    One cloud looks like Joseph Roulin with a fedora hat.
    Is Vincent Van Gogh around
    Painting the Roulins, one member after another?
    Another creeps towards the hat, and tilts it naughtily.
    One ancient looking cloud watches with a stiff upper lip
    Over itself unable to take a grip.
    Clouds and more clouds standing in queues
    And an invisible painter splashing hues.

    My heart beats frantically
    Trying to be heard above the din of existence.
    A cloudlet rumbles with rambunctious hilarity
    Side –splitting.
    The sky throbs with unsung songs
    With a shimmering lyricism the air is replete
    From the shrubs, squirrels dart in and out, on tiny feet
    Stop in their tracks, trying to listen to my heart beats.
    And the invisible painter paints on with a frenzied brilliance.
    Unfazed by an itinerant songster singing of life’s evanescence.

  48. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    NOVEMBER 2016 – Mom – Witty Fay

    The luminous clarity of you,

    Evanescent and easy when held,

    Unsheltered. I remember it to

    Be a fair part of my continuum,

    The way I strove for balance,

    Among the lithe rope walkers

    And substituted fear for grace.

    Such flickering precision,

    Of the lips, the fingers and the

    Eyes spoke of a lovable version

    Of life itself in its many layers

    And I took it all, on the cusp

    Of losing myself to the merits

    Of you, plentiful and alive.

  49. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    DECEMBER 2016 – Restored – Vijay Nair

    It is true for far too long
    Our breathless dreams we let
    Drag their tired feet
    Down others’ one-way street

    But now that you are here
    I feel your presence everywhere
    And thoughts of shared tomorrows
    Lip-lock and make us stare

    At crosses on the calendar
    Marking memories once ignored
    Of moth-eaten lost summers
    In rusty trunks, now restored.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      * 2 0 1 7 * – A month by month retrospective

      JANUARY :- Beyond the Walls – Vatsala Radhakeesoon

      FEBRUARY :- Porcelain – Jan Christian Sorensen

      MARCH :- Lika A Shade Upon The Earth – Manjeni Wycliffe Obwoya

      APRIL :- Speechless – Vijay Nair

      MAY :- All Begins and Ends in You – Suzette Portes

      JUNE :- Metro Malls – Madhumathy Rajamma

      JULY :- The Sheaffer Pen – Santosh Bakaya

      AUGUST :- Cataclysm – Swati A.Gadgil

      SEPTEMBER :- The Poet that was my Father – Iulia Gherghei

      OCTOBER :- Barely Treading Water – Elizabeth Hexberg

      NOVEMBER :- A Home Upon The Hill – Bhuvaneshwari Shankar

      DECEMBER :- A Carefree Soul – Dr.Nikhat Bano

  50. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JANUARY 2017 – Beyond the Walls – Vatsala Radhakeesoon

    Walls of intellectualism
    block my freedom to dream,
    Poetry breaks the blurred prism.

    I leap in the air
    on the back of a mare,
    God whispers,
    “For this child, it’s fair.”

    Sheltered by my muse’s boldness,
    the clouds I caress,
    My pains I confess,
    God whispers with a pure life
    I’m blessed.

    Back to the ground,
    I’m the lotus in the mud
    resisting all of temptations’ buds.

    Unbound to previous births, this birth;
    Unbound to the better-half, no half;
    Beyond the walls my thoughts fly,
    Up, high in no bound sky
    deeper, deeper beyond the sky
    where at my poetry
    the Supreme smiles.

  51. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    FEBRUARY 2017 – Porcelain – Jan Christian Sorensen

    You shine like the Moon, the light inside all the darkness…
    I am but a shadow of your reflection, the dark spot in all the light…
    Your skin so pure and untouched, in a clarity brighter than crystal glass…
    If ever an appearance could hurt, your beauty outshine it all so bright…

    As the taste of love filled up a cup of porcelain…
    nothing of your being is touched and will ever be plain…

    Fine lines and features so perfectly shaped, eyes so deep and dark…
    From where I am it is slightly obscured, and your shine is the blazing true…
    I wish you would come closer, close enough to leave your mark…
    In every mirror you paint your beauty, a trace of white in all the blue…

    You look so frail and vulnerable but I see the strength in you…
    Captivated and seduced I now feel so frail and so damn plain…
    You have the taste of infatuation and I can sense your presence too…
    The meeting with you has changed my heart to brittle porcelain…

    As the taste of love filled up a cup of porcelain…
    nothing of your being is touched and will ever be plain…

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      MARCH 2017 – A Shade Upon The Earth – Manjeni Wycliffe Obwoya

      To dust and to decay
      to solitude and to silence;
      like a shade upon the earth,
      is loneliness creeping over me,
      and to life comes the long forgotten faces
      forming like mists from the silent past,
      bygone, bygone are the voices of infancy
      voices that long ago grew mute
      to once familiar songs we sing no more.

      Give me that pipe, ye little piper,
      while the wind outside weeps,
      Bring me that flute, hand me that harp
      when the angry beatings of the rain upon the roof
      diminish to tranquil patters upon the sea;
      to kill this loneliness that creeps over me,
      Like a shade upon the earth.

      Let’s dance and dance ’til we drop
      and one by one bury these noises
      of hurrying footsteps of wounded travellers,
      Let’s silence their randomness again and again
      die to leave no sound behind;
      let mine skill pipe-a-tune,
      to kill this loneliness that creeps over me
      Like a shade upon the earth.

  52. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    APRIL 2017 – Speechless – Vijay Nair

    Like the bearded old man on a moonlit night:
    A worn-out life in worn-out clothes
    Standing on a swaying bridge
    Singing a soul-stirring song
    For an audience of one.

    Like the young girl cycling at dawn
    Smiling like a wingless angel
    In the slowly disappearing mist
    With her beautiful hair
    Searching for freedom in the breeze.

    Like the tired woman in the paddy field
    Silhouetted against the spreading glow
    Of an unwilling setting sun:
    Returning home
    Her gait is enshrined.

  53. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MAY 2017 – All Begins and Ends in You – Suzette Portes

    when once in life someone came
    to fill out every inch of you
    … then walked away
    …leaving every dream behind

    was it pain?
    or living without life…

    in everything we are here for,
    there are reasons
    …for every reason worth it all
    …worth living for in joys and in pain

    but sometimes we are just left
    for the reasons of being left alone

    sometimes we never took the time
    to do little things left undone

    until everything fades
    and all that there was,
    …is what is left in our mind
    … been there with all the memories to last

    then, memories remain
    to be there forever

    how can we end up
    from where we start?
    … how can we say goodbye?
    … how can i say goodbye?

    goodbyes are always the hardest to say
    and the most painful to accept

    goodbyes are always meant forever
    and wishing it back is impossible

    we know what is here
    deep in our heart,
    … wish there was never hellos
    … to say goodbye

    though it was a chance
    for whatever there was

    things were just never right
    even from the very start
    … and ends with “what is?”
    … that is supposed to be

    which only remains what is in the mind
    a thought that should never be there

    as it “all begins and ends in you”

  54. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JUNE 2017 – Metro Malls – Madhumathy Ramjamma

    Past your prime, escalators are a boon.

    One step forward and up you go

    Then slide on to level ground

    Global markets, singing Sirens

    Lead you to lands hitherto unknown.

    Petrified mannequins pining for Pygmalions

    indifferently display the latest in vogue.

    In air-cooled milieu, reckless youth

    listlessly ignore tick-tock rhythms

    of minutes and hours. Wide-eyed children,

    shuffling grandmas, liveried attendants –

    all on fast track. Outside, on dusty streets

    heat waves gleaming silver

    dance on asphalt roads.

    Humming hymns of urban glory

    Metro life bursts balloons

    filled with colourful confetti.

  55. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JULY 2017 – The Sheaffer Pen – Santosh Bakaya

    Ah, papa that Sheaffer pen!
    “I will write my novel with it.
    I will have all the time in the world
    After my retirement,” you had said.
    Every now and then, you would pull out your table drawer,
    Look admiringly at that Sheaffer pen
    A gift from your Ph. D student, accepted reluctantly
    Lying between stacks of papers and Morton toffees
    That you gave us every now and then
    When we did something good.
    But I was a good – for- nothing. Did nothing good.
    I remember, after a sound tongue –lashing
    When my ego came down crashing
    And I spent a day, sobbing and thrashing around on my bed
    You tiptoed to my bedside with a piece of paper.
    I feigned sleep. Deep.
    You kept that piece of paper under my pillow.
    You had written in bold letters with that Sheaffer pen.
    Papa, you never got to write a novel with that Sheaffer pen
    You had hoped you would have all the time in the world.
    But no, you did not!
    In that ‘Relic’ of a house in Kashmir, you breathed your last
    [Ah wasn’t it your dream to go back to your roots?]
    With a truckful of books, a trunkful of clothes
    A heart full of dreams, and that Sheaffer pen
    You shifted base from Jaipur to Kashmir.
    I would often glimpse you standing near your study window
    Twirling that Sheaffer pen
    Looking down thoughtfully at the houseboat –dotted Jhelum.
    Your mind whirring, an idea stirring in your mind.
    But before you could put it on paper, with your Sheaffer pen
    The words left you, and we, the bereft ones were left
    Clutching to your memories, and that precious relic
    That Sheaffer pen.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      AUGUST 2017 – Cataclysm – Swati A.Gadgil

      Am I sensing depletion ..
      Am I sensing recession…
      No, I am not a banker..!
      But yes, I possess some treasure,
      Most precious to me….
      Its my pride and others envy
      Self esteem and its sanctity…..
      but what worries me
      Is it depleting ?
      or falling in value
      Values? what are they….
      Life as shallow as a
      stream while it rains,…
      Depth and mass,
      What does it mean…?
      splashing money,
      position and graft,….
      What is depleting , did I say….
      Oh my words go extinct,
      values antique….
      They suit decor of a
      rich living room,
      shelved away neatly,
      displayed after taxidermy…
      What am I talking about..?
      Depletion ,..! Recession ,…!
      Sorry…it is extinction ….!

  56. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    SEPTEMBER 2017 – The Poet that was my Father – Iulia Gherghei

    Dedicated to Grisa Gherghei

    The poet was my father
    He read his poems to our family friends
    And all were mesmerized by them
    How wise, how deep, how entangled but also bold
    In a time of dictatorship
    The poet was my hero
    Till one day when the feeble man crawled
    from under his own built effigy
    Sad day for me
    I became deaf to his words
    And started writing my own lines
    Lines on my own coin
    The poet left
    Vaporised in some blond vagina
    Only then I have found out
    that was his pattern
    Sliding slowly from one black hole to the next vortex
    Blond haired and with witchy eyes
    The poet and me lost track from one another then
    I remained with the one instilled by him in the cells of my soul
    Later, decades later
    The poet have raised again from his pit
    He stands besides his trees
    The trees that in one of his poems were craving
    to see a naked woman for they had never been in paradise

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      OCTOBER 2017 – Barely Treading Water – Elizabeth Hexberg

      Barely treading water,
      Lord, I don’t know why?
      All the dreams I once believed,
      somehow passed me by.


      Do I make a difference ?
      Do I serve you well ?
      Or am I just a failure?
      Sometimes so hard to tell.


      I need to feel You close to me
      I need to see Your Face
      I need to rest upon The Rock
      To sleep in Your Embrace.


      I need to find a better day,
      a better way to be,
      then perhaps I’ll get it right,
      see the You in me.


      But for now Im tired Lord,
      I can’t find Your Hand.
      This thing called life has got me beat,
      and I don’t understand.


      So Father, could you carry me,
      at least, until I see,
      a plan, a purpose to it all,
      a reason just to be.


      Pity parties aren’t my style.
      So this is just for You.
      You know,
      You see my shredded heart,
      Help me shine on through.

      1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

        NOVEMBER 2017 – A Home Upon The Hill – Bhuvaneshwari Shankar

        I will build a home upon the hill

        With windows for every sun

        Each room with mountain air shall fill

        And night and day will be as one.

        Bird song will waken the day

        While cicadas lull it to sleep.

        The fragrant air so wholesome

        With shades of

        Eucalyptus, pine and balsam

        Will make a confluence

        Of every room.

        In Spring time flowers will bloom

        In Summer the drones will moan

        Punch drunk on pure nectar

        Teetering to the honeycomb

        In Autumn the colours will flow

        The world will dance

        And fall in a trance

        From the crystal shine of the Winter’s snow.

        The warbling stream

        Will feed an afternoon’s dream

        Where the muse will descend

        Her song to lend

        Our blended song shall delight

        The daze of moon blanched nights

        1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

          DECEMBER 2017 – A Carefree Soul – Dr.Nikhat Bano

          I feel like a free bird
          in the vastness of this dusk;
          Though my freedom is confined
          yet I smell a familiar musk.

          The twilight has darkened
          many marvels of the world;
          But it couldn’t hide you
          in the widespread bits of gold.

          I’m stretching my arms far out,
          beyond this saffron horizon;
          Fingers are groping in the dark
          to feel remnants of the gone sun.

          Once a carefree soul,
          flying in and out of my heart’s door;
          Now, seeing a ghostly apparition
          floating between my two worlds.

  57. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    * 2018 * – A month by month retrospective

    JANUARY :- Gone,gone is the Country we loved – Mangeni Wycliffe Obwoya

    FEBRUARY :- Everywhere and Nowhere – Vijay Nair

    MARCH :- Sterling – Swati Gadgil

    APRIL :- Can we talk about us my friend? – Sameer Tembe

    MAY :- The friend long lost – Nalini Srivastava

    JUNE :- Sunday Morning People – Martin Nicholson

    JULY :- Pax Vobiscum – Jonathan Huggybear

    AUGUST :- The Flood in Aluva – Ampat Koshy

    SEPTEMBER :- An Ordinary Night – Geetha Munnurcode

    OCTOBER :- High Tea – Vandana Kumar

    NOVEMBER :- On the Back Porch – Jan Phillips

    DECEMBER :- I am a Poet – Sarala Ram Kamal

  58. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JANUARY 2018 – Gone,gone is the Country we loved – Mangeni Wycliffe Obwoya

    Gone, Gone, Is the country we loved,
    Here time boils the rain,
    And memories die with the wind,
    When the dawn mist rises;
    from the valley that kept our bones,
    Peering through the haze,
    their images stare, and their songs rise;
    And in file they march -leader at the head,
    and behind him comes his followers,
    to the land we once held,
    teeming with life in our dreams,
    where pristine rivers run clear,
    the grass and trees are all in bloom
    the bees abuzz over their blooms,
    while the birds drunk in songs sing,
    through this world of perfection,
    Mine are the elders walking passed in melancholy,
    Through a land ours no more.

    Sometimes when the evening comes,
    and its anger eats the sun-light,
    death distills over the water,
    when in the shadow plays my imagination
    creating the old homes -my people cherished
    smoke from lit bonfires curl from their kraals
    and in the rivers that roar,
    I hear the yells of the mothers
    and the laughter of the little children
    As in the olden days -the good ole days;
    Am I not going mad?

    Again, and again and again I see shadows dark
    and roars of our antique rivers,
    When teardrops turn into icicles crystalline
    mourning to moan -the good ole days gone.

    My heart is so full of sorrow,
    for the generations gone by
    And mine still is a heart mournful for those to come,
    when a disease eats a village,
    It leaves a few to mourn and bury the dead
    and through echoes of their footfalls walk
    in the absence of their form.
    Here lies the country we cherished,
    Gone, gone, Is the country we loved.

  59. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    FEBRUARY 2018 – Everywhere and Nowhere – Vijay Nair

    Hanging on the wall is a photograph of grandmother:
    Her sepia-tinged impish smile
    Drawing you through the black and white mysteries
    Of childhood, to the bald is beautiful
    Potbellied bloke at the steering wheel
    Who finds happiness in the sanctity of a memory
    Of clutching her gnarled fingers
    During their clandestine visits to the unnamed shrine
    In the unbroken heart of the forest
    Undisturbed by the bird shrieks of falling trees
    Which he now remembers, stuck
    In yet another traffic jam,
    Between the wild honking and colourful cursing
    And the crossed signals of anxious people
    Going everywhere and nowhere.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      MARCH 2018 – Sterling – Swati Gadgil

      I am a woman
      I was a girl
      I was a baby
      I was just a soul….
      wonder why
      will cry my soul
      I was equal
      sterling and unmitigated ,
      abstract and conceptual….
      know not why ?
      got trapped in a cycle ,
      embodied and trampled ,
      clothed in beauty
      to suckle humanity….
      while being whipped ,
      and my wings clipped ,
      enslaved in a body
      visible and tangible
      gullible ……
      I forget why ,
      I dont have to die
      to feel my core
      dignity , esteem , virtue and more
      conjectural….am I ?
      Wish luck to humanity ,
      to live until infinity !
      femininity versus ferocity
      shatters equality ,
      celebrations of body ,
      celebrations of soul ,
      fathom ….
      what I aspire
      love or fire ?
      lighting the pyre
      burning desires…..
      soul is equal ,
      soul is vagrant ,
      I crave for justice
      I pine to exist
      in the master’s piece…….
      I am grace
      I am pace
      I am humanity !
      abundance of passion
      loads of compassion
      I am a woman
      I was a girl
      I was a baby
      I am just a soul !!!!!

      1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

        APRIL 2018 – Can we talk about us my friend? – Sameer Tembe

        Can we talk about us my friend?

        After long you met me; like a song
        in life filled with insurmountable
        deep and never ending void.
        as i looked into your eyes,
        I felt my childhood running
        down those small lanes
        where the chocolate seller used
        to live.
        You used to give all to have them.

        The bell of our school,
        the long walks near the river
        cycling back to home.
        All remind me of you
        but now you are not talking.

        You are asking me about my job,
        my wife and you think those are my life.
        You talk about money, growth, town.
        about death and afterlife.
        I am holding my breath,
        to listen my name.
        I am not in those things
        dear friend.
        Can we talk about us my friend?

        I don’t live to buy a car
        I not interested in some property;
        you bought as investment so far;
        I want to hear how the flowers smell
        when we where young.
        How we used look at girls in the park.
        but you talk about the movie actor,
        the new phone you gifted,
        or how you spent your holiday in honolulu.
        Can we talk about us my friend?

        How we used to spend our
        lazy afternoon.
        Kissing dew drop in the morning.
        Sipping the sun in the spoon.
        sleeping underneath the stars.
        how you felt life was amazing
        every moment with you around
        was like a never fading star.
        Can we talk about us my friend.

        1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

          MAY 2018 – The friend long lost – Nalini Srivastava

          How does it feel when a friend vanishes.

          Someone as close as your shadow,

          Someone whom you trust

          And look up to as next to God.

          A friendship that blossomed out of the blue.

          Two females struggling their way through life’s odds,

          Waiting eagerly ,yet not waiting for Life’s nods.

          Hard working moms,working to create wonders,

          Leading the brigade in respective fields.

          And one day the sparkling star stops to respond.

          No parting words,no goodbye.

          And the one left wonders – Why?

          1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

            JUNE 2018 – Sunday Morning People – Martin Nicholson

            The sound of people
            leading ordinary lives,
            People pushing wheelie bins
            down craggy concrete drives,
            People washing cars
            on early Sunday morning,
            While other people stay in bed
            stretch arms and still are yawning,
            People pushing lawnmowers
            in Sunday morning sun,
            while the sizzle sizzle sound
            of a Sunday joint is done,
            People playing radios
            Old songs that we’ve all heard,
            drowning out the trilling song
            of every singing bird,
            Men back from pubs
            Yelling at their wives,
            Sounds and sound of people
            Leading ordinary lives.

  60. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JULY 2018 – Pax Vobiscum – Jonathan Huggybear


    As I write this, somebody somewhere in the world is laughing,
    crying, hoping, suffering. At this moment, a woman is giving birth.
    At this moment, surrounded by friends and family, somebody is dying.
    At this moment, somebody is achieving his loftiest ambition,
    and somewhere also, somebody is healing wounds of humiliation.
    Somebody is staring at a photograph, a memento of youth.
    Somebody is gazing at the sea, searching for the truth.


    There are moments, when, unbidden, I felt at one with the universe.
    I am blessed, as I became witness, when a deeper layer manifests,
    in intellect and spirit, in heart and soul, as I soar to a higher existence.


    There is peace in moments of serendipity:
    a kiss from a child, a perfect shell on a beach, a glorious sunrise.
    Beautiful moments I have known, and have known well,
    perhaps unlike my shadow, unlike a constant companion,
    but like a bird on the window, to alight, to sing, to delight,
    but only for a moment – then she soars once more in flight.


    Peace I have found, brief moments in time, they glimmer
    like fireflies on a moonlit night. But to Man, grasping for hope,
    a morsel, alas, is not enough. There is more to this world,
    in our lives, than Mammon’s lot; there is to be found
    the nature of angels – joy, serenity, peace and love.


    Not the peace of the desert; there is solitude, but only wilderness,
    not to commune with nature, but to fight for your soul for eternity.
    Not the peace of the grave; hollowed ground, but filled with emptiness,
    for our time on earth is but a spark, a glint, in the blinding light of infinity.


    To have peace, some say, is to call for war,
    for only in eternal vigilance can peace, like freedom, be defended.
    Yet for peace to grow, like a lovely flower, the soil needs not
    the blood of a martyr; the altar of peace needs not
    the lives of the brave, the righteous and the just.
    The cries of widows and orphans shall pass,
    as all things pass, but a peacemaker, he who lights our path, is forever.


    There is finally, divine peace, for, at the moment of our death,
    a vision opens the eyes of the soul, an awakening beyond understanding,
    and that, my friend, is real peace, and peace be with you.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      AUGUST 2018 – The Flood in Aluva – Ampat Koshy

      The water rose in our house
      to the first floor

      The water came suddenly
      from the river
      to where it had never come before
      as the dam had been unleashed into it
      and it had overflowed even to the midst of the town
      We left without further ado
      An old man and an old woman
      a daughter and her husband who both cannot speak or hear
      and a granddaughter who could
      the son being away
      to the nearby house
      of the old woman’s sister
      We left like the five find outers and we too had with us a black dog
      The house became Kirrin island

      The phones died
      The neighbours cried
      Life does hide
      We had to, our time, bide and abide

      36 hours they waited
      our other daughters
      to hear from us
      Our grand-daughter charged her phone from a neighbour’s car
      (“Haven’t I told you to put a charger in the car?”)
      The water kept rising
      to the first floor in our house nearby
      It was the old man’s birthday when it started receding
      and they could go back to get him a shirt for a change

      No calls got through
      that the daughter’s husband made
      from Bangalore
      except to someone in Thrissur
      and someone in Thiruvananthapuram
      A Rebin who bothered to answer and listen patiently and even try to help at the son in law’s insistent pleas born of anxiety
      All lines were bust, or busy
      or phones switched off
      Getting no news was like eating fire
      No electricity, net, little water, less food

      A cousin and her husband was trapped in a church with some fifty others
      Their son abroad took to facebook to try and help
      The children ate fire
      Finally a boat came and rowed them all to safety

      Water got into all the cars
      but the old man’s was kept on a raised platform
      and they were working on it
      when the floods came
      They left
      It remained high, stranded
      And all that was left was the sound of the water
      lapping against the legs of the raised platform
      but the car was saved

      9000 people in UC College, Alwaye, in a hastily put together relief camp
      run only by a few staunch volunteers
      waiting anxiously for supplies of all sorts
      medical, fiscal, clothing, food, water
      and next day a 50000 waiting to register for aid to reconstruction
      but an old student of the old man had mercy on him
      took him to the front of the line
      as he was too old to wait
      and got him registered

      Cleaning and restoring the house will take ages
      How many more such stories
      How many months and years
      how many lives
      and bruises
      How much time and how many dangers
      How many fights with insensitive vultures
      Hear the message the waters left behind
      time and tide
      wait for no one
      and do not differentiate between the mad outsiders
      not in danger who can say any shit they like
      and the sad insiders
      who had to face the battle and war
      of sudden collapse
      brought on by years of neglect to the warnings given
      by nature and the wise
      At the end remains the task of rebuilding
      and remembering the dead
      avoiding the poisonous
      for there is only one sky on earth
      and you will always have the water and the vipers with you
      which and whom you have to live with
      the next time too
      & eat fire
      and come out
      unscathed, because you are just simple people and true.

  61. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    SEPTEMBER 2018 – An Ordinary Night – Geetha Munnurcode

    Scrubbing and washing daily

    On the hearth

    She keeps

    The grains of labour

    In blackened pots.

    They talk to each other, boiling,

    Of the stories of every hour

    Be the force of sighs that help

    The flames keep flaring non-stop.

    The feminine fingers

    Take a boiled grain

    test whether done, and

    Keep off the pot

    Mixing a tinge of salt.

    She starts wiping off

    The tear-filled dark eyes


    ‘To mix with red chillies,

    I just smashed the onion springs…’

    Into a brim-broken cup

    Filling with the moonlight drops

    That is showered through the

    Gaps on the roof

    She pours the gravied rice

    blended with grains of love!

    All the grievances shred as snow

    Dissolves in embraces

    When the breeze plays mischiefs,

    The branches spray

    Thousands of blossoms down.

    There isn’t left any mark or scar

    as a memoir there

    Yet, apart from

    The familiarised paths that revolve

    There shines the life

    In those brightened eyes!

  62. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    OCTOBER 2018 – High Tea – Vandana Kumar

    Seated ‘lady like’ and demure  

    Diagonally opposite you

    We the convent indoctrinated

    Skilled in social niceties


    Your head shook at the right moment

    “No thanks I am done”

    At the mention of another petit four

    But our cores throbbed

    In unison

    Wanting to devour each other

    Instead of the canapés on offer


    The heaving bosom saw your discreet glance

    And wanted to dance loose for you

    But for the constricting apparel

    That came in the way


    The self-conscious legs crossed again

    Flashes of you spreading them

    On verdant lawn

    Pounding in open blue sky

    Settled on that sofa across  


    You never did ask how hungry I was

    And I, wrapped in bourgeois propriety

    Never did tell

  63. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    NOVEMBER 2018 – On the Back Porch – Jan Phillips

    Out on the back porch
    Just talkin to God
    That’s what I do
    In the middle
    Of the night
    When everythings quiet
    I’m on the back porch
    Just talkin to God

    Now God, I know
    I’m not always good
    But I want YOU to know
    I know I’ve been understood
    Your SON Jesus
    Oh what a man
    As we walk together He holds my hand
    I’m on the back porch
    Just talkin to God

    He’s patient
    And loyal to you
    He understands me
    If He didn’t
    Don’t know what I’d do
    I’d be in a pickle
    That’s for sure
    I’m on the back porch
    Just talkin to God

    Lord, I just want you to know
    How grateful I am
    To be here for the show!
    It looks like somebody
    Went out of there way
    To sprinkle sparkle dust
    All over the sky.

    Just talkin to God it’s why
    I can face tomorrow
    How lucky am I
    I don’t have to be rich
    Just talkin to God
    It’s my pleasure to see
    How much He tolerates me
    Father I don’t want to take up too
    Much of your time
    But you know how much
    This means to me
    Sittin on the back porch
    Just talkin to you.

    I may not pray just
    Like everybody else
    But Lord you know I am sincere
    I want to ask that you
    Keep this country
    In the palm of your hand
    And God help the politicians
    To understand we don’t want
    A lot you see, just leave us be

    Okay, I’ve whined enough for now
    Be talkin to you
    out on the back porch soon

  64. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    DECEMBER 2018 – I am a Poet Sarala Ram Kamal

    I am a Poetess
    (Everything about a poet/poetess is poetry only)

    When I was a newborn
    I wrote poems with my four limbs
    Throwing them up in the air
    Only God knew what I wrote

    When I was a little bigger
    I wrote poems with my lips
    In an unknown lingua franca
    Only my mother knew what I wrote

    When I was a school girl
    I wrote poems on the river water
    Which flowed westward
    Maybe Arabian sea had them all

    When I was a teenager
    I wrote poems on the western sky
    With my dreamy eyes
    On the golden canvas where the clouds rested in many a shape

    When I got married
    I wrote poems with the broom
    On my new home’s floor
    They were very dark

    When I was pregnant
    I wrote lullabies with my breath
    Hearing them my baby kicked
    And I knew it liked them all

    When my child started walking
    All my poems I wrote till then
    Came back once again
    Through those little feet, with their new steps

    Now, when the kids are up and on their own
    Poems come to me, I pick pen and paper,
    Write them; the alphabet is known to the world
    Many reads, likes, dislikes …

    All poems written in my life till now are there
    Lingering in my breaths, sighs and inside the dreams
    They are so sweet with all spices mixed in the right proportion
    I am a poet, still writing, may be will be writing through my death

  65. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    * 2019 * A month by month retrospective

    JANUARY : – Ellana-1,Ellana-2,Ellana-3 – Pushmaotee Subrun

    FEBRUARY :- Brighton – Martin Nicholson

    MARCH :- The Incubator – Jan Christian Sorensen

    APRIL :- Elegy for Tina.. – Ampat Koshy

    MAY :- Way of the World – Tapeshwar Prasad

    JUNE :- Where are the Folks? – Abu Siddik

    JULY :- I Need To Forget – Swati Gadgil

    AUGUST :- Thrift Shop – Joan McNerney

    SEPTEMBER :- Complete – Amruta Nerukar

    OCTOBER :- Musings From A Rainy Afternoon – Nisha Arudra

    NOVEMBER :- Gratitude – Sunil Sharma

    DECEMBER :- The poet and his island – Iulia Gherghei

  66. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JANUARY 2019 – Ellana-1,Ellana-2,Ellana-3 – Pushmaotee Subrun

    Ellana walked full light hearted,

    And firm footed,

    Praying to the Lord
    of all regularly,

    For guidance, for
    right direction accordingly,

    With a thousand and
    one thanks repeatedly,

    For all her

    All, from her
    earliest recollections,

    Of her dear mum’s love

    Her unconditional

    Her reason for

    Her reason for her
    confident being,

    Her reason for
    fervent faith in the Supreme Being.

    Ellana – 2

    Her stoicism, her integrity came

    Through motherly inculcation,

    Of right values, specially integrity,

    Shirking laziness and instead inviting assiduity,

    In every act moderation,

    Curbing hankerings leading to destruction,

    Learning to be content,

    Giving love, support, and encouragement.

    And a thousand other motherly inculcation,

    Ellana treasured with great appreciation.

    Ellana – 3

    Virtue is her inner trait

    Wisdom illumines her gait,

    Pleasure always at hand,

    Pain she bears with a stoic stand.

    Her reason brings light

    Contentment is what makes her heart bright

    Peace replaces in her bosom all scepticism, 

    Hope shedding rays of optimism,

    Her life, though at times burdensome,

    resilience, made less wearisome.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      FEBRUARY 2019 – Brighton – Martin Nicholson

      Sunny starling-spattered skies
      swirl down to autumn-coloured seafront,
      Tides that come and tides that go
      a sea that never really was;
      A little London by the sea
      hums and buzzes
      bleats itself;
      Blue skies back white rendered buildings,
      wrought-iron railings climbing high
      look down on busy footworn streets
      and many different passers-by;
      The little pretty fashion girls
      with colour-spangled shapely legs
      and huge emancipated breasts,
      the ends describing little circles
      on their sheer-look cotton vests;
      And drunks and people drinking drinks
      occupy the monuments,
      people sleeping
      people begging,
      Go North young man
      not said but thinking,
      youths with nothing but a beer can
      just for show or just for drinking;
      All these people passed by me,
      and all of them were passed by me
      in Little London by the sea.

      1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

        MARCH 2019 – The incubator – Jan Christian Sorensen

        It is a time of great words without any value created

        a time when few fractions control your truth.

        It is a time how great men without value the globe creates

        a time when your creation increases inequality and creates a queue.

        Rip to shreads open wounds in the surface and burn the soil to sand

        blame it all other helped by twitterchat in the thin-lined ozone.

        In a time when it has become everything or nothing

        a time when the election can be spared and hid by hateful words.

        At a time when freedom costs you your freedom

        a time when so many are led by the same rhetoric with acknowledging nod.

        It is a time when truth is fabricated and forged in sweaty gold

        a time when so many have so little to say and so few to say it all.

        It is a time when truth is ordered, purchased and paid for

        a time when truth digs a gap no longer anyone can cross.

        The right to live ripped off by those who never share and only steal

        walls and borders raised monuments and flag hoisted.

        At a time when ever fewer decide

        a time when fear again dominates wings.

        At a time when you can of course buy your power today

        a time like the one before reversed, now only for contempt.

        It has been in time like this, that put your ancestors in the dark mold

        a time when you now have to choose only one from your own litter.

        It is a time of hypocrites and civil servants who can not manage

        a time when the power they believe in still delete all traces.

        It is time now to say stop and for those brave to quit

        so the Earth can turn so beautifully and dancing in the light from our sun.

        At a time when we give it all away

        A time when getting poor has become a rich man’s sport.

        During this it’s time to throw away all that old covetousness

        a time when our children have no chances put into their incubator.

  67. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    APRIL 2019 – Elegy for Tina.. – Ampat Koshy

    Someone put some mud in his extended left hand
    He looked at it, uncomprehending
    Put it in, down there, a voice said
    He looked down at his feet
    And as his eyes travelled, from left foot forward
    There it was
    A two foot by one foot hole, dug in the ground
    Holding the small box of wood
    In a shape he could not describe
    Not having the word for it
    Ten years old is too young to know much
    (Elongated, hexagonal, it was, he knows now)
    He could no longer see that face
    Only the clean, almost white, yellow of the wood’s grain
    Around him the voices which he could not make out, in refrain
    of sad song or funereal chant of prayer
    Around him the milling crowd of people, people, faceless, faces, known ,unknown, when all he wanted was to be left alone, everywhere
    What had drawn so many there?
    He opened his hand and let fall the earth
    Watched it fall with no sound he could hear
    And disperse into its tiny particles
    Along with other clods of earth
    ‘Dust thou art and to dust thou dost return’
    Then he understood
    Something wet his cheeks burned
    He wondered had she discerned
    The sound of the sand
    Hitting her roof
    That it was different
    And from his hand
    Then jerked
    Out of that mad reverie
    She was gone
    Under, forever
    Even her tiny face
    Tiny, how funny, so close to her name
    You just change one letter and a whole world shrinks and a person is gone
    Only the hope was left
    Of meeting in eternity or heaven
    Or some other life
    Or the memory
    Or both, or whichever
    Was more true
    So with Nothing left to do
    He left
    Before they covered her and the box up
    With spades and shovels and picks
    Gravely, as befits a new grave
    He does not remember if he turned and looked
    One last time –
    How lame! –
    The scene to frame
    Not knowing it would never fade…

  68. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MAY 2019 – Way of the World – Tapeshwar Prasad

    I was not familiar
    with this co-walker on my morning walk
    Who was striding slowly, barefoot
    on a long two tiled bridge –
    a road and the rail lines under it

    But, his act of finishing his thoughts
    and starting it again
    drew me a little closer to him –
    and I nearly paused my steps further
    to listen to his less comprehensible sentences –
    Meaningful et al

    I knew
    I was getting closer to him
    by his truthful utterance –
    as he was slicing it part by part
    He was ragged, and grey of hair
    Stinking badly, but
    of a princely milieu

    I took pause
    Under His guidance
    and thought about the way of the world –
    Those who are self proclaimed rich, have little of their own
    Those who are ragged, have all the wisdom to share

  69. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JUNE 2019 – Where are the Folks? – Abu Siddik

    Where are the folks?

    Street is deserted and dull,

    Shops some gutted,

    Some shuttered.

    Where are the birds

    That sway on these electric loops?

    Where is the shoe-shine boy

    Who smiles and shines my shoes

    At that corner?

    Where are the fruit sellers

    Who sit by the wall of this gold showroom

    And shout?

    The air is heavy,

    Smoke smouldering

    Burnt tyres and bamboo poles

    Scattered, diffused at my step.

    An uneasy calm

    Lulls the city to sleep!

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      JULY 2019 – I Need To Forget – Swati Gadgil

      I need to forget myself ,
      just ignore and let ‘Me’ vanish
      my image my identity
      my name and ‘Me’ ….
      I am in search
      of something divine ,
      calm and beautiful
      full of life ….
      energy and peace
      I do not know
      what it means ?
      what am I looking for ,
      solitude or company ?
      confused , Am I ?
      To find a way
      I need to lose my ‘Self’ ,
      it brings ego
      ego brings hurt
      hurt brings agony
      all in tow ,
      a basket full of sorrow ……
      hence I start ,
      in search of a state
      no name no face
      no life no trace ,
      just peace around …..
      world of glow
      gallons will flow
      mingle and dissolve
      this puzzle I solve ,
      now I know
      I need to melt
      I need to forget ……

  70. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    AUGUST 2019 – Thrift Shop – Joan McNerney

    I descend clutching a
    teetering banister to the
    bowels of this holy place.

    A sign welcomes me to
    St. Mary’s Basement Boutique
    where scent of unloved
    clothing assaults me.

    I finger grubby blouses
    and skirts hanging limp
    week after week unwanted.

    Where is it? Hidden beneath
    mounds of faded tee shirts?
    Where is that swag I will
    brag on for months?

    At last I uncover something
    beyond belief….a mohair sweater
    snow white with pastel flowers.
    A good fit, my prayer answered.

    Retired ladies glance up.
    They are volunteers filling
    another empty afternoon.

    The cashier consults her price list.
    “One dollar” she says as I reply with
    quick “thanks” fleeing blissfully.

    When I get home, my bonanza
    is baptized in cool water and suds
    now reborn, lustrous and all mine.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      SEPTEMBER 2019 – Complete – Amruta Nerukar

      Complete … is a word that has always intrigued me. I feel inadequate the moment I say that I have completed something.
      What exactly makes you complete? There is seeking for stability, security, a sense of self esteem which is considered to fall within the conventional realm. Then there may be the seeking for perfection, even excellence. There is a constant search for a sense of being part of a structure … a social system, a family, a relationship. There is an incessant longing for feedbacks and acknowledgement for the acts that come into being through us. There may be a pursuit towards experiencing a certain role … that of a spouse, a parent, a grandparent. There are milestones we chase, gifts and approvals we aspire for and through all this we seek an experience which is consistent with the ‘logic’ of being complete. Do we find it?

      Perhaps…… it is the very obsession with being complete and bringing closure to something that causes the experience of completeness to confound us.
      It is the concretisation of the life experiences which keeps us deprived of being connected through the universal continuum.

      No one can deny the importance of structures … material and social. They are the very medium via which one can enjoy the tangible experience of the life process. What needs to be understood is that they are ephemeral in their existence as structures and eternally connected as gradients through the story of the Universe.

      How about a seeking that morphs through those roles… the one for stability, security, affiliation, approval, esteem, perfection, excellence and then just goes beyond all of this into a space less travelled? How about being inspired in a way that the unknown and unexplored feel like the friend one is looking forward to meeting? To be looking at challenges as an opportunity to experience the splendour of the process a little longer, to be enjoying darkness as it holds within its expanse the possibilities that are waiting to be unravelled, to be enjoying the pain …. physical, emotional because it heralds the coming in of a new state of being, to be in awe of the moment that connects one with the Nature’s wisdom which is way bigger than my conscious awareness ……. To be in Love …. with life ….feeling delightfully incomplete and then …. may be… be blessed in a moment with a rare feeling of having experienced the Universe……complete!!!

      1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

        OCTOBER 2019 – Musings From A Rainy Afternoon – Nisha Arudra

        I’m deceitful enough to believe you’re no one’s but mine

        But then you are

        When you pour down in all your fury

        I see no one but you

        And I know you drench no one but me.

        I’m deceitful enough to believe our love story is one of it’s kind

        And it is

        When we are together nothing else matters

        I have you and you have me

        And we have our endless stories.

        I’m deceitful enough to say I’ll love you in my own terms

        Sometimes making you beat relentlessly

        On the forte of glass I’ve built

        And sometimes simply walking into you

        Letting you have your way with me.

        I’m deceitful enough to believe I care less when you walk away

        Even when I burn inside

        Knowing how enslaved I am

        To your beauty sometimes vicious

        Sometimes divine.

        I’m deceitful, and I don’t care

        For when you come, you come for me

        And sketch a fantasy of eternity

        Of us forever holding our hands

        And watching the world go by.

  71. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    NOVEMBER 2019 – Gratitude – Sunil Sharma

    After the cruel, abrupt downsizing

    The man leaves the office, forever

    Face downcast, a bag in hand and

    Few memories in a grieving heart.

    The boulevard does not look like

    The one experienced in the morning

    Of the wintry New Delhi—crisp and smiling

    And the crowded paths, pavements, similar, yet different!

    Daily, years together, the man, now in 50s, walked the

    Lanes and by-lanes of the Connaught Place

    Afternoons, post-lunch, in the company of

    Colleagues and friends from the nearby offices for Chai.

    All that is past, within 24 hours! He stands at the same spot, near the

    Tea vendor; being ignored by the same set; except the stray dog that wags its tail and

    Yelps—in pure, friendly delight—at the forlorn man that daily

    Fed the emaciated, spurned dog—bread with loving hands!

  72. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    DECEMBER 2019 – The Poet and his island – Iulia Gherghei

    The poet walked in helping himself with a cane
    But one could easily see that he caressed many thighs in his time
    Whom he then rounded about in rhymes

    On his island all the women melt in the Mediterranean sea
    So the poet has to leave the verse free
    To build a maize of subtle meanings
    To lure back the maddened sirens
    Maddened by his rocky kisses

    The poet was reciting
    The poet rolls out verses in an unknown language
    The way how he breaths in the h’s is familiar to me though
    The sounds emitted are faucal, like spell of some sort
    The poet has a warm smile as if he met some old friend
    And in his eyes he wears all the warmth of his island

  73. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    * 2020 * A month by month retrospective

    JANUARY: A mendicant’s perspective – Bilquis Fatima

    FEBRUARY: Father – Smruti Ranjan Mohanty

    MARCH: The ants in my kitchen – Pramila Khadun

    APRIL: An Imaginary Friend – Iulia Gherghei

    MAY: Wheel – Rahul Aithal

    JUNE: The House of Waiting – Amita Paul

    JULY:The Never Changing Monarch – Shalini Samuel

    AUGUST: The Funeral – Geetha Ravindran

    SEPTEMBER: The Embrace – Parneet Jaggi

    OCTOBER: Let The Womb Hold – Naheed Akhtar

    NOVEMBER: Trinkets – Santosh Bakaya

    DECEMBER: Erasure – Madhumathy Rajamma

  74. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JANUARY 2020 – A mendicant’s perspective – Bilquis Fatima

    Why do you ignore
    An empty hand that implores?
    For a few crumbs of bread
    Or some pennies instead.

    A strong resentment in you I feel,
    Reflecting repulsion in the glance you steal
    Ready with hollow advices to preach ,
    Declaring begging a perpetrating disease.

    No comforts you offer nor a penny you spare.
    Comparing mendicants to criminals is not fair.
    For if you are deprived of endearment
    Don’t blindly give your judgment.

    Addicted to wasting meals ,
    How would you know our ordeal
    For pangs of hunger buffeting thus,
    Seems a relentless curse on us.

    Forced to live on others mercy, dying each day of ignominy.
    This plight of us brought about by your tyranny.
    Your malpractices and selfish schemes, havoc wreaks.
    Unfathomable greed makes humanity weep.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      FEBRUARY 2020 – Father – Smruti Ranjan Mohanty

      My father!
      how sweet were those days
      when i was at your feet
      chanting your hymns
      siba sahasranama and mahimna stotra
      from morning to evening
      how beautiful were those moments
      when your temple was my lone asylum
      your prasad my only diet

      How captivating were those nights
      spent in repeating your name
      visualising your resplendence
      so engrossed i was
      could not differentiate
      when i was awake
      and when i was asleep
      in my conscious mind you were
      in my subconscious mind you were
      in every moment of my life
      i felt your presence
      and your sweet smile
      guided me in each step

      In a weak moment
      might have craved for
      your affluence and splendour
      and you gave me the whole world
      but took away those fulfilling moments
      those fascinating days and nights
      that innocent smile on my lips
      that simple mind
      far away from this glittering word
      and its lovely amenities
      i lost those beautiful feelings
      my heaven on earth
      what i gained
      everyone knows
      but what i lost
      i only know

      My Lord!
      what to do with your spellbinding grandeur
      when you are miles away
      beyond my horizon and
      the more i look at your splendour
      the poorer i become

      My master!
      take away everything you have given
      but return me those days and nights
      which were once completely mine
      let me be at your feet once again
      praying and repenting
      feeling your presence in whatever
      i see and what lies beyond
      let me have a bit of the poison you drank
      to be of any use
      in this cosmic drama of yours

  75. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MARCH 2020 – The ants in my kitchen – Pramila Khadun

    My kitchen shows my personal touches

    And my artistic sensibilities as well,

    For this is the place where I spend

    A lot of my time

    Preparing, cooking, serving and washing up.

    Every time I place my chopping board

    On my work surface near my cooker,

    A dozen red harmless ants approach

    To taste the colorful vegetables

    Which I am dicing, chopping,

    Shredding, grating, top and tailing.

    They always seduce me like the Trojan Horse,

    With warmth emanating

    From their inner selves,

    Reflective of their souls

    With the oceanic depth of their hearts.

    With tranquil, vast expansive eyes,

    The females move with passion

    Exuberance and coquetry

    And the males maintain

    The decorum of being gentlemen.

    With a camouflaged smile,

    I look at them

    And I know how guarded they are,

    And how they trust people

    Only when they have proven themselves

    Trustworthy and loyal.

    I blow a kiss with glee

    When they move back

    Behind my cooker,

    Their quiet zone, their comfort zone.

    When I go on a holiday,

    I think of them

    And about what they must be doing

    In their world of silent love,

    Beyond the intangible,

    Beyond the apparent

    Far from this madding crowd.

    Suddenly, my ants flash to my mind,

    Climbing the mount of hope

    With no rope,

    Like a group of white star cabin crew.

    They know I will be back soon

    And I can see the fireworks blazing

    In a glorious moment

    When the sound of my chopping board

    And knife ring the bells of joy

    For the rapprochement.

  76. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    APRIL 2020 – An Imaginary Friend – Iulia Gherghei

    An imaginary friend?
    No, I don’t think I had one
    The pattern on the curtains scared me though
    Rows and rows of monsters perfectly aligned
    Waiting for my moment of weakness

    Later, the very same curtain will become my princess veil in my daydream play
    The monsters got forgotten
    But still perfectly lined up

    The mirror was my friend by now
    There I found my safe place
    A dance, a swirl, another pirouet
    There I could split up the sad me from
    the scared me
    Danger lurks in the curtains’ folds

    A dance, a pirouet, the news of my dead mother
    The news that she was my real mother
    The mirror was my single true friend now
    Another pirouet and again one more

    A perfect swirl

    Wings grow on my shoulders

    One fluffy stretch and I am next to her

    To guide her through the mirrors

  77. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MAY 2020 : Wheel – Rahul Aithal

    Worldly wisdom the cart loads

    to reach somewhere that seems wise.

    The wheel eyes the random road,

    and the axle squeaks and shies.

    The spokes squeak with mighty strain-

    align to juggle this weight.

    Lose no bearings bogey-train,

    and oil the armour of fate.

    Wobbly ride across the span-

    along rolls the journeyman.

  78. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JUNE 2020 : The House of Waiting – Amita Paul

    It’s all dust and old newspapers and books and notebooks
    Big folio registers and diaries and files
    And outdoor clothes gathering dust in heaps
    Never disturbed in years now
    Boxes made of steel sheets
    In all shapes and sizes full of old issues of magazines
    Bedspreads and blankets and quilts no longer in use
    It’s not a dead house but a dying one
    There are smells lurking in its corners
    Some dank some sunshiney full of motes
    In the air caught in beams of light
    From the wide old windows
    It’s a shabby tired house , much suited
    To slow decay , but proliferating in Calendars
    Showing this month this day today
    And clocks showing this hour this minute
    With a little variation from the bedroom to the kitchen
    From the hall to the prayer room
    Food is cooked though , mostly fresh
    And there is water and tea and curd and fruit
    And sherbets . It waits cheerfully enough
    For death and the final disintegration
    It may look sad but it is not afraid .
    There are flowerless flowerpots by the front door .
    Few visit but those who do , do not starve
    They go with bellies full .
    The House of Waiting is absent- mindedly
    Sprawlingly , lazily , impersonally kind .

  79. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JULY 2020 : The Never Changing Monarch – Shalini Samuel

    The bustling road to the distant town with shops and traffic closed- stands numb
    The scurrying vehicles fed up and exhausted, stand by the parking lot,
    Drowsily dreaming with their masked yet shabbily clothed masters.
    The tenants of the empyrean, their only guard and companion.

    As I walk sporting a face mask, the green lush paddy fields dance
    Or did my mind jump in excitement, I know not-
    Hither side of a large pond, I stand and watch the egrets,
    The marshy land, the glowing sun, the palmyra trees.

    The highway breathes silence but the birds chirp loudly
    Or were I deaf to their happiness beforehand, I know not
    Hither side of a railway track, I stand and watch the rodents play,
    the track, the gatekeepers’ cement bench, the dried leaves.

    Yonder, a well-cleaned hut, with fresh neem leaves on its fence
    And a pot of turmeric water- the poor man’s sanitizer welcomes passerby
    Flawlessly the lockdown days proceed with discipline. It’s picture-perfect.
    But the other days, the fear of the disease, awareness disappears- economy reigns

  80. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    AUGUST 2020 : The Funeral – Geetha Ravindran

    In the clumsily shrouded

    Backlogs of multiple pages

    Torn and worn out

    Yet fast retreating

    The front line memories

    These scattered shards

    Yes, these certainly are

    My butchered and severed

    Mutilated dreams of love

    From heart to heart

    Once those waved

    And thrilled,

    Now, seem to die in fret

    The weather is funereal

    Just aiming at one and only me In havoc,

    do taunt me

    It’s the ever clouding

    Low skies of friendship

    Drizzling in the marshes of Estuary,

    I am pained!

    Totally broken…

    None to condole

    None to shed a drop of tear

    Neither a glance passing by,

    Broken my esteemed mirror of

    Faithful courtship

    My confidence simply spiraling…

  81. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    SEPTEMBER 2020 : The Embrace – Parneet Jaggi

    The embrace that steals you,
    like a pearl secretly picked from the sea,
    as a tremolo that benumbs you
    from the innumerable sounds of the world
    to leave you in the company of a glitter-
    a matte, flattened, embedded glitter of the pearl,
    naked, pure,
    in essence and beauty,
    deprived of the gaudy finery,
    is the embrace one lives for.

  82. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    OCTOBER 2020 : – Let The Womb Hold – Naheed Akhtar

    Grown alike the full moon
    Adorned in hues – multiplied
    Dazzled her eyes –
    Unanimously grinned the lips

    Gazing – the loaded cloud
    She mesmerized
    Of that, she advanced
    Sailing along a non-terminated
    Voyage prolonged
    Since – she originated
    A tiny zygote
    Fed from the core
    Her blood
    Drop by drop

    She felt
    She spent long
    Lengthy nights – numberless
    Awaited to pacify thirst
    Cuddling close – her extended throbs
    Her eyes brightened
    At the sight unseen

    Thence, the darkest smoke
    She oversees – on the dusty island
    Populated by wolves

    She repudiates to open
    The gates –
    Hearing cries numerous

    She pleads to let her hold
    The bud about to anchor

    Known of unbridled monstrous desires_
    Sinful, lustrous appetite_
    Of those hungry crocodiles’ bellies
    Scratch infants thighs.

  83. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    NOVEMBER 2020 – Trinkets – Santosh Bakaya

    Through the chinks in my curtains,
    I see an undernourished woman
    with calluses on her palms, dirt on her fingernails,
    an equally undernourished, cranky child in her arms
    and a cheap nose-ring in her nose.
    She picks up a wilted rose, and hands it to her kid,
    who bursts into a chuckle of delight at this bonanza,
    in which he finds nothing trite.

    On an impulse, he flings away the rose,
    as now it is a sunray dancing on his mother’s nose-ring
    that has sent him into a tizzy.
    The sunray now shifts to the bald pate
    of an obese man gingerly getting out of his latest acquisition- a brand new car.
    The twinkle in the child’s eye has now become a star,
    his gaze transfixed on the dancing ray.
    His eyes dance with joy at the glint in his mother’s nose-ring.
    The man’s eyes admire his reflection in the gleaming car.
    These different hues of joy, I watch mesmerized from afar,
    wondering which one is a trinket – the nose ring or the car.

  84. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    DECEMBER 2020 – Erasure – Madhumathy Rajamma

    Run the wet mop over the floor,
    take a look from a distance,
    make sure footfalls are wiped clean –
    I give my maid instructions.
    Trying to bite the tail end of a dying year
    hours and minutes roll over days and nights.
    This cozy home treasures a trail
    of faded footfalls – a host of trodden
    imprints, from toddlers to old men,
    wheel marks of potty chairs,
    dotted flowers by feline paws,
    geometrical patterns from rubber soles,
    crutch marks from a son’s tendon tear,
    classical dance steps tapping a tattoo.
    The reptile motion of a wet cloth
    dissolves all these and more.
    Like a forgotten family tree
    I used to stomp around once
    spinning aspirations, scattering
    agile footprints everywhere,
    like lazy doodled lines.
    Now, I hobble all the way
    hanging onto fingertips of love.
    Like Jupiter meeting Saturn
    on their orbit, not bothering erasures
    dear ones meet and part
    as night dips a round seal
    in black ink to wipe clean
    the rainbow colours of vibrant earth.

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      ** 2021 ** a month by month retrospective.

      JANUARY : Game of Life – Suma K.Gopal
      FEBRUARY : Of Death and Illusions – Reena Prasad
      MARCH : World Poetry Day – Vandana Kumar
      APRIL :My last wish for now..- Nalini Srivastava
      MAY : Cobwebs – Russell Crabtree
      JUNE : Interlocked:1975 – Vijay Nair
      JULY : Flame Tree – Swati Gadgil
      AUGUST : My Grandmother’s Last Days – Fathima Manal
      SEPTEMBER : I love my white locks – Viji Naranyan
      OCTOBER : Chisel – Tapeshwar
      NOVEMBER : As a Woman – Jan Phillips
      DECEMBER : Tired Night Fruits – Amita Paul

  85. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JANUARY 2021 – Game of Life – Suma K.Gopal

    On many of those winter nights
    I wish to see your breath on the stained glass
    imagining the warmth of ease, instead
    I get the familiar instant message
    explaining the shades of your chase.

    Sometimes you surprise me, when
    you occasionally hold my palm
    that reassures the existence of a bond
    and a scent of cigar enters my dream
    altering the plot, for good.

    Between the reality of the bright day
    and the romantic dream after dark
    our life sails defying the rubrics
    There is no pause to this play, even
    to frame a well-captured moment.

  86. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    FEBRUARY 2021 – Of Death and Illusions – Reena Prasad

    There is nothing to fear
    when I float, nailed to a watery cross
    blue clouds sponging my heart,
    the sleepy sun locked in my eyes
    my body featherweighted by sandy palms
    and a wave comes to play.
    It rolls me over,
    flips me onto its warm chest
    and caresses me breathless
    I know death will be
    a familiar wave, saltier perhaps than this Arabian one

    but I fear the death that lurks in a hushed thought
    upon the onslaught of a salvaged memory
    that ripples the placid face of an afternoon
    while the breeze fans the golden mango tree’s leaves
    and sends impish gusts
    to ruffle the tail feathers of the mating pigeons
    on the parapet
    They coo, my death throes echo

    and the bleakness that advances
    to grip the afternoon’s shadows leading it to
    the edge of an ocean where life teems
    under every mossy stone
    and tries to push me into a whirlpool
    where no sane thoughts swirl
    A suicide point
    where I come to rescue me
    to drown some killer illusions
    and take home to bed
    what is left
    of me and the day

  87. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MARCH 2021 – World Poetry Day – Vandana Kumar

    It’s again a day
    One among days
    Social media tells me
    It’s a day for poetry

    Perhaps I had a poem
    Last night

    This morning
    Your tags killed the fetus
    Oh! Poor unborn child

    I would have written one
    But for your pressure
    The rebellious teen
    Who just won’t succumb….

    Let me meet an ex-lover for tea
    Catch him by surprise
    The parting after all
    Was hardly in grief

    Let me buy a dress
    With plunging neckline
    Smoke grass
    Take on dares

    I exhausted myself
    Writing about the woman in me
    Not even been a month

    Let me waylay my words
    They shall come to haunt
    Some day
    In manuscripts with publishers
    Who never understand…
    The rhythm
    Of my non rhyme

    I am petulant today
    I don’t wish to obey
    Calendar diktats

    The words were mine
    All mine
    Till the flavor of the day
    Buried the poet inside.

  88. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    APRIL 2021- My last wish for now..- Nalini Srivastava

    Now I would like to lie down and just stare.
    Now since you are gone, my baby sister,
    Suddenly I have got lot of time to spare.

    I want to revisit all the moments we spent together.
    Recreate or weave in, the childhood net once again.
    The memories which have paled with passage of time,
    I want to dig them out ,polish and reframe.

    I wish I could cuddle you and hug you back,
    Resolve all conflicts which were left unresolved.
    Trust me I would do anything have you back,
    Even if it means giving my life and luxuries away.

    Why do we forget the innocence of childhood and grow ?
    I wish I could go back into childhood and freeze the time there,
    For now I would just like to lie down and stare…

  89. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MAY 2021 – Cobwebs -Russell Crabtree

    Cobwebs made by a spider

    So beautiful and artistic

    Looks like expensive lace

    Not out of place on palace walls or gentry halls;

    To think I’ve got lots of them

    On the windows outside our house

    I see them glimmer and shimmer in the light,

    For the day has begun

    On my humble dwelling of a weaver’s son,

    I do believe it was mother nature

    Who taught my parents how to weave,

    The threads are seen in every northern textile town

    Flowing through them like an expensive quality woven gown;

    I’ll rue the day when I have to ask the window cleaner

    To wash the cobwebs clean away

    Just like the wool and cotton workers they have gone,

    It could be a lamenter’s song

    Then I laugh with great excitement

    Lots of thoughts and happy memories

    Going round inside my head

    As I look outside my window

    I see the spider spin another web.

  90. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JUNE 2021 – Interlocked:1975 – Vijay Nair

    I remember how close you came to a meltdown
    When I loosely translated your silence:
    There was a mishap in semantics – –

    Later, you said:”There are eyes everywhere
    Like black holes.” But I could only see
    The unfolding contours of your thoughts.

    Soon, we shared an agreement of signs – –
    Meeting you became a daily reawakening:
    My words slipped through the syntax of your fears.

    We survived on stolen conversations and hurried paragraphs
    With you reading between the lines
    With a torch, when the hostel lights were switched off – –

    And afterwards when our fingers were interlocked
    With your long pauses and slender sentences,
    You possessed me.

  91. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    JULY 2021 – Flame Tree – Swati Gadgil

    I had missed my train…
    getting late was not like me,
    I was always punctual
    sincere and hardworking…
    burden of keeping my image
    would always push me around….
    peaceful moments so many
    slipping through
    my knotty fingers
    and my shuffling feet…
    I stood at the platform
    helpless as the train was gone
    wondering when the next will come
    and as I gazed up to the sky
    beyond the edge of the long roof
    of the long platform now empty,
    I noticed the flame tree
    standing tall by the rails…
    but sad it was, indeed dull
    now robbed of its red robe
    it probably was feeling naked
    failing to enchant passers-by
    melancholy with few red strands
    felt the agony of lone red bands
    few firey tips on the lush green spread
    why was it sad as if dead?….
    behold the beauty, somedays not
    somedays cold and somedays hot
    rains somedays and somedays not
    but flame tree is always hot….
    gorgeous red or lush green it is,
    Peace in life and Grace it is !
    I paused for a while to look at it
    sans red velvet but green grace was it..
    heart to heart I talked to the tree
    though flame was gone
    it was radiating peace,
    faith and confidence personified
    that it will bloom even if denied,
    by the railway track
    engulfed in flame to rise beyond….
    It promised to live forever for me
    In memory of these moments
    when we shared our plea,
    waiting for the next train
    chugging in and out
    our friendship will stay
    we had no doubts….

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      AUGUST 2021 – My Grandmother’s Last Days – Fathima Manal

      My grandmother, in her last days,
      Set out to the edge of the paddy field
      With a broken wooden chair from the attic,
      Along with her half eaten memories.
      There at the edge of the paddy field,
      She watched her childhood and teenage
      Running around, without impedance and loads.
      Then one day, when the monsoon broke out
      She ran to the field, half naked
      Leaving behind her head scarf
      Hopping and bouncing, in and out
      She could not be brought back
      She could not be explained
      For she never knew, she had a wide gap
      In her half eaten memories
      Where the world around her had changed
      From the much benevolent one
      To a much malignant one.

  92. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    SEPTEMBER 2021 – I love my white locks – Viji Narayan

    I love my white locks
    They are the memoirs of a battle,
    A battle fought fiercely and a battle field of fire.

    My snowy locks are like phoenix birds
    A whole flock of them,
    Rising from the fires of chemo,
    Bleached by the red devil
    Roasted by the radiation
    They murmur in my ears
    Words of love and hope,
    Every time I want to give up they
    Remind me of a battle fought with vigour
    And the days of incessant sinking-
    Like Arjuna listening to Krishna
    I listen to my snowy tufts every single day,
    Reflecting from my mirror they utter to me
    On a daily basis – same little words

  93. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    OCTOBER 2021 – Chisel – Tapeshwar Prasad

    What is this ilk
    of your hieroglyphics –
    Sacred words
    carved on my stony eyes
    in pursuant of a will.
    will you then, do me tears
    by my cheeks;
    whose blades have become blunt
    by the repeated use of your chisel.

  94. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    NOVEMBER 2021 – As a Woman – Jan Phillips

    I want people to see beauty in me

    Not physically you see

    But the beauty of GOD in me

    I want to be a teacher

    Not in a classroom would I be

    I would be teaching God’s word on bended knee

    I would like to be of service

    In any way that I can

    To each and every one who is in GOD’S plan

    I want to be a nurse

    Maybe not in the usual way

    But for the sick in spirit or have feet of clay

    I would like to bring hope

    To those who have lost it all

    And watch as GOD brings down that wall

    That GOD would lead me to anyone

    That they would gladly accept

    A ray of sunshine from my smile as to

  95. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    DECEMBER 2021 – Tired Night Fruits – Amita Paul

    A tired apple sits in my steel plate
    My plate with a raised edge so it won’t fall
    Won’t fall at night be it early or late
    Late for sometimes I do not eat at all
    To eat at all seemed hard when last I ate
    When last I ate a meal though it was small
    It was a small fruit bowl with an orange
    And a banana. The orange smelt strange.

    Strange how I keep this apple by my side
    My bedside table has these little snacks
    These snacks that I make no attempt to hide
    Why hide that life is slipping through the cracks
    The cracks that invite wisecracks, comments snide
    Snide remarks that some trains are off their tracks
    These soundtracks of dementia play on loop
    Some loopy people even want to snoop.

    Snoop away, people, ask this apple why
    Ask why it’s red and green and also yellow
    Yellow in bits decaying by and by
    And by the by rotting not growing mellow
    Mellow is sweet not dented wrinkly dry
    Dry rotting like it’s neighbour, a pomelo
    Pomelo shriveling up from the outside
    Outside it’s dry but overripe inside.

    Beside these fruits bananas also lie
    I’d lie if I said these are never eaten
    Uneaten bananas don’t soon go dry
    Not dry but soggy so if left uneaten
    Uneaten bananas are said to die
    To die they go to dustbins being beaten
    By apples and pomelos not grown dark
    Dark inner process not so quick and stark

    Stark staring crazy leaving fruit so long
    Long days and nights in symbolic safeguard
    Safeguard against night hunger never strong
    Not ever strong now dead a mere canard
    A canard, rumour, hoax, and simply wrong
    Wrong habits though we know often die hard.
    Hard to let go the apple, old and tired
    Tired old brains are truly weirdly wired.

    Weirdly wired my brain finds meanings odd
    Odd meanings after bawdy Baudelaire
    Baudelaire whose flowers of evil prod
    Prod tired mind in ways largely unfair
    Unfair comparisons conclusions broad
    Broad similarities to draw ensnare
    Snare tired night fruits into double meanings
    Meanings towards which I just have no leanings.

    A tired apple is a tired apple
    A tired grapefruit a soggy pomelo
    Pomelo brain is in no mood to grapple
    With double entendre or that bawdy fellow
    That fellow Baudelaire or such like scrapple
    Scrap scrapple and let tiredness turn mellow
    Mellow unlike the fruit that’s slowly aging
    In my steel plate while all these thoughts are raging

    1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

      ** 2022 ** a month by month retrospective

      JANUARY: Poetry is Peace – Swati Gadgil
      FEBRUARY: Sweater – Rahul Aithal
      MARCH: Weekly Forecast – Anoucheka Gangabissoon
      APRIL: Not asleep ,but aware – Brindha Vinodh

      1. Louis Kasatkin Post author

        JANUARY 2022 – Poetry is Peace – Swati Gadgil

        When life keeps going
        and it keeps me going,
        every moment is defined
        every emotion occupied,
        it is hassle free, yet
        bustling every way around
        ample fun out of every pound
        lights activity dance and sound
        lots of momentum and energy abound,
        and suddenly I close my eyes
        to look within and feel my vibes,
        I want that me time so precious to me
        where my eyes are closed yet I see
        through the tall walls of hedonic heaps
        I wish they crumble as realisation creeps
        I want solace I want peace,
        through rising walls
        or crumbling bricks
        I don’t care and I can’t bear
        I wish to live away from fear….
        fear of being sucked in,
        in to the black hole
        of magnificent fake affluent life
        and wails of the destitutes
        screeching through my ears
        tearing out my heart….
        am scared of rising walls
        and crumbling bricks…..
        wonder how I get trapped in groans
        I shut my eyes and plug my ears
        look within and let out my tears
        and words flow through my pen
        melting away all my fears
        to regain confidence and
        set my gears….
        poetry is all that keeps me alive
        I rest my head in its lap and survive….
        nothing but my pen
        and my mind I possess
        I breathe my thoughts
        and fears I suppress…..
        when life keeps going
        and it keeps me going
        words are bliss
        and Poetry is Peace…

  96. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    FEBRUARY 2022 – Sweater – Rahul Aithal

    The wool of the sheep lying in her lap,

    my mother would make me a warm sweater.

    The long thin needles would then go snap-snap

    with a smile blessing the coming weather.

    Her hands would knit, the emotions would churn,

    a steaming cup of coffee idled by.

    The spool of memories unrolled and spun,

    threads of the past to let the present fly.

    Sometimes I watched as she silently stitched.

    The design of her thoughts would calmly fit.

    Where all my patience would constantly itch,

    her piece of art would glow but bit by bit.

    At times I wish all seasons to be cold-

    just to wear my yellow sweater of old.

    1. Lynda Flint

      How, magical the fact that, with only words at our disposal, that a poem can evoke, image, setting and feelings. In regards to this poem, the author has done all that, and I think I should knit a yellow jumper so I can share in the joy of it.

  97. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    MARCH 2022 – Weekly Forecast- Anoucheka Gangabissoon

    Dear people of the world,
    Be ready to live an awesome week
    On Monday, you shall feel butterflies
    Running wild in your heart
    Awesome shall be the day!

    It shall be a day,
    Grand as a full moon night itself,
    Imbibed with fragrance
    Emanating from the gardens of Eternity!

    On Tuesday,
    Allow yourself some time to stop your chores
    And to dance in the rain
    For water, it shall be,
    Flowing from the rivers of potent power,
    Having in them,
    The ability to cleanse one of every ill
    That may be clinging on to their soul!

    On Wednesday,
    The night shall be so clear
    That angels and witches shall play together,
    Games known to them solely,
    Games usually played in the secrecy
    Of hidden gardens and magical ponds!

    Be ready, on Wednesday night,
    To receive blessings
    As the mood shall be jolly and sweet!

    On Thursday,
    The sun shall shine so bright
    That it shall dazzle us all
    And it shall be a great day
    To light a candle in a chapel
    Or even on our home altar
    To seek healing for the many ills
    That our diseased world carries upon her skin!

    Friday shall be the day to connect to the celestial realms
    For the portals of our hearts shall be open
    To receive the energy of the divine
    And it shall be the right moment
    To sit and meditate in the silence of a sacred place
    Letting our heartbeats be overwhelmed
    By the grace of mercy
    As we know it not on Earth!

    And the weekend then,
    Shall be two days to let go
    Of our unexplained connection to a power
    Which we shall never understand for ourselves!

    On Saturday and Sunday,
    The opportunity to spend time with closed ones;
    Family, friends and relatives,
    Shall present itself upon a cheerful note
    And best would it be
    To party together as each one of us would want to!

    Be ready,
    To live an awesomely poetical week,
    And I shall be back
    For another forecast,
    As soon as I shall be done
    With playing with my telescopes and with my crystal balls

  98. Louis Kasatkin Post author

    APRIL 2022 – Not asleep ,but aware – Brindha Vinodh

    Asleep but not oblivious
    of the unslept, unsleeping” – Adrienne Rich

    She comes home, around 9 pm,
    opens the house,
    tiredness crawls into her every part
    of being, body, from limbs to
    like a creeping worm,
    does the routine,
    the usual,
    somewhere there on that
    dining table, a half-eaten piece of
    wheat bread from that hurried
    morning schedule waits to be
    chewed, just like so many
    things around her…

    She stands from her balcony
    and gazes at the night sky-
    a black blanket with silver stars embroidered
    and a white daisy moon with petal clouds-
    her only muse these days being
    the night sky…

    gets to bed,
    thousands of thoughts unfurl
    before her like water from a tap let open,
    of all the news she read while
    coming back home, buying
    the evening newspaper
    from that local boy, hardly
    pushed to
    early employment from
    the pricking pangs of poverty-
    yet another case of
    an eight-year girl being abused
    by her male teacher,
    a sixteen-year tribal girl raped by
    three rich men,
    air strikes, invasions elsewhere,
    a farmer’s suicide,
    rising refugees,
    racist remarks,
    a case of dowry harassment death
    in a remote village,
    civic bodies dumping the
    plan of banning plastics…

    she knows of all the black
    gossamers around her,
    the economic crisis
    to the politics
    in the world
    to the
    civic sense, common sense being
    lost by some local bodies,

    but she falls asleep at 11 pm,
    without being oblivious
    to the unslept, unsleeping,
    the tiredness crawling to
    her eyes finally,
    when she becomes a noun,
    knowing of all the verbs
    around her.

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