“Autumn resurrected” read by Michele Baron


Michele Baron, Fulbright Scholar, author, artist, researcher, musician and social innovator reads my poem ‘Autumn Resurrected’. It is beautifully done and the artwork by her is amazingly delicate and I am totally in awe of her talents. A very thrilling experience for me and Michele’s lovely rendering gives another dimension to my poem. Thank you Michele and Ampat Koshy for making this happen.

Autumn resurrected

The path turned away from the bustle of life
We halted, finally alone with the tall trees
The floor, a striped carpet of sun and shade
Around us an orange rain of leaves
You kissed my hands, gently pushed me down
A replay of a younger season
In your dark eyes, a scented image lurked
Of green mangoes and silver-belled strings

I want this scene to break its waters
even if it leaves me irrevocably broken
So there I am under the tall trees
caressed by a vagrant breeze
but it seems this you cannot bear
You are on your knees shoveling furiously
till the assonance of twin coral-crested baubles
beneath a leaf-bejeweled corset
dissolves your peace

I stretch and fill my autumn grave
Deliriously content to be slaughtered
by skin, breath and unrestrained vigor
my back cushioned by purple heather
A delicate conspiracy of creation
murmuring its delight in my ears

That was then

Not long now
before you join me under the forest floor
A space waits alongside my imprints
A space to which I sometimes flee
to make sure you haven’t reached
before my time is breeched

Our spring has spilled over several seasons
I am a wistful bloom minus her green sepals
You juggle wildfires-a defiant breeze
whenever we meet
I try to hold on to my cast-off skins
But you devour each one, my fanged king
leaving me bare
A tree birthing itself
every autumn.

© Reena Prasad, 2014, a poem that appeared in Brian Wrixon’s Autumn anthology

Carpe Diem by Ampat Koshy


Carpe Diem – A poem by Ampat Koshy

You offer me words
like soul, mind and art
and want me
to feel
satisfied

but I’m not.

What satisfies me is
the craving for touch
being quenched
and the passion
for smell
(and movement)
being stilled,
after being stirred up !

And please know:
when you let me
kiss you
the taste
that fills us
with sweetness
opens ‘swarg.’

You try to tell me
this is slaking our lust
but it is hearts and love – becoming one in trust.
“Must it be, it must be..,” yes, it must !

Then when you unwind, and open your eyes wide
you see how my argument was…just, and right.
©Ampat Koshy

BLUE ANGEL- A poem by Alan Patrick Traynor


When a land sings,
silence becomes us

                                      The flow of its streams,
                                      the gush of our blood

Presenting a poem that moves beyond the ordinary -a sensual delight, a poem that speaks not through mere words but through the very feel, the form, the movement and the grace of it turning language into a willing slave and bursting through dust and bone into the blood. Thank you Alan for your generosity in allowing me to share this poem.

BLUE ANGEL
BY
ALAN PATRICK TRAYNOR

I see a piece of you

white
breast darting

she who wings her chest to swoon the moon

Prow the native torn out from her heart
walls will make you
listen
                                    …and Chalk!

it’s how she wrote in school
to make the
sun

talk

Pull the blinds woven down in through her aran
oh galway knitted mouth you
Leave too
much 

breathe too much, too little

Acicular curves swollen
growing
up 

She knows the marrow’s taste                        
                          and how it listens

And we kill what God has taught
                and She kills what love is not
There are no straight
lines

flowing scything blouse so roaming wheat goes through
                                          
                                                Come forth
Oh you who speak of breath
Oh apple storming
mouth
is

how the r(e)ains feel

Long woman swerving turning blade, you only speak of lemon
blue
and

Nude 

 

                        …into the land of hidden desk  

is how I wrote, when she 

forgot me

by Alan Patrick Traynor
© March 4th 2014

Blue angel

Fever and the Image Factory by Dr. A.V Koshy


Fever and the Image Factory

A poem by Dr. Ampat Koshy that sears with its depth and intensity of starkness. Thank you Sir, for the dedication.

Fever and the Image Factory – dedicated to my poetess friend Butterflies Oftime

Love resembles broken auk’s eggs
You broke my heart today
in the blue room
where the black rocks intruded
breaking in through the wall
with the backdrop of the
sound of crashing waves
Eggyolk spilled out sadly
as words, gooey,
slimy, sticky
made my fever rise
I felt pukish
‘You should not love me anymore
I do not need you anymore’
White words like the whites of our broken eggs
and the whites of my eyes when my pupils dilate
epileptic, my eyes rolled back
White insides of brown eggshells
littering the blue room
where I sat alone
crying
and you went away
drowning
in a blue threat of a to be alcoholic hazy surf
breaking something
only tomorrow
may or may not repair
But does tomorrow
ever come?
© Ampat Koshy

The Browsing Corner- 2nd anniversary issue. Sept 2013


Home.
Very happy to have a short story “John and Arunachalam” included in this lovely 2nd anniversary issue of The Browsing Corner. Many thanks to Minakshi Watts for a great compilation of poems, stories, video poems etc and for giving my story a super platform. Each piece is a gem that delights!
Link to my story ” JOHN and ARUNACHALAM”

In The Sandbox With Dr. Ampat Koshy: The death of poetry


In The Sandbox With Dr. Ampat Koshy. A superb piece to crunch and munch upon at the Plum Tree once again. Fully recommended – the writings /poems of  Robert Kroetsch


Should we be discussing  if poetry is dead
or is it enough to bring down a flower from a tree
and stare at it till it relents
to become strands of squeezed colour
stacked horizontally or failing that
vertically till the column
resembles
a free fall of gravity ?
Poetry hooks us when we are weak
and chokes us when we think we are strong
so is it dead
Is it only a ghost that drags us into its annals?
How powerful it is in death!
How much more if it breathes ?

The Wednesday Corner With Fycsene Shields | On The Plum Tree


The Wednesday Corner With Fycsene Shields | On The Plum Tree.

Thrilled to have Niamh’s Wednesday corner back and with a bang with an awesome, tender and healing post by Fycsene Shields. Her words have expressed with great sensitivity why art heals seen and unseen wounds. Her loss is shared by all of us for there is none in this world who doesn’t weep. A beautiful poem by her late husband captures the soul of her feelings. The feel of this post will stay with me somewhere even when as the  actual words are lost to passing time. An attempt to keep them near for a little more is what this share is trying to do! Thank you Fycsene and Niamh.