Ashvamegh: ~~~~~~~~~~~ Poems ~~~~~~~~~~~ October 2015 ~~~~~~~~~~~ Issue IX ~~~~~~~~~~~ ISSN : 2454-4574
Featured poet: Bonnie Roberts.
Poems by Bonnie Roberts.
IN October 2015, Ashvamegh Journal has picked Bonnie Roberts as the featured poet. You can read her poems and introduction to the poet. Click here to read Bonnie’s poems.
Poems by Jim Bennett
Read Poems by Jim Bennett
I saw the Universe collapse in a cloud of dust
the sight of a bush a bird a reflection
my grandfathers head he thought of coal
he thought in poems saw in songs
pictures fully formed like photographs
wrapped in a spell rhythmical and metrical
but undeniably free
he collected all of Dylan’s records
some pages turned back brittle cracked
brown stained paper poems underlined in parts
maps to show a skeleton of streets
in his head there was a moment before
when everything was as it should be
that is not now now is a new place
hidden from daylight where streams become rivers
that scar the grey hills
The poet who knew the most important thing about his poem was the title
sometimes things you know for a fact hold you back
like the man who knew his dog pointed out race results in it’s sleep
he spent a lot of time finding places full of interesting smells
so his dog ran round and got tired and it got lots of nice walks
and while it slept on newspaper and it’s paws twitched
and claws pointed out the race horses to be bet on
although the man won little it was enough to convince him
as he waited for the big tip that would make him rich
so he watched while the dog slept and dreamt of chasing cats
or the woman who thought spending time in the library
touching feeling holding books she knew would make her clever
a process of osmosis she got the highest score ever
on Mastermind answering questions on titles of books in my local library
but scored zero in the general knowledge round
she did however get offered a job in her library
reshelving returned books and helping people find what they wanted
one day she opened a book and read what was inside
she thought it was rubbish and nowhere near as nice as the cover
and there was the priest who knew there was no God
but couldn’t give up her nice house or go out to find a real job
and the doctor who knew he couldn’t cure anyone
and the teacher who knew that the students laughed at him
and the police officer who was frightened of everyone he spoke to
who knew they hated him and lied to him
and the poet who wrote long rambling poems he knew mean nothing
but knew the most important thing was the title
they were all wrong and right in their own peculiar way
returning from the school
day trip to France the teacher
whose name I forgot years ago
brother something or other
said the white cliffs were made from chalk
like he used in school
I wish I could have pointed out
that classroom chalk was gypsum
and as a vegetarian I ate a lot of it
because it was used in tofu
and that a deposit was mined
near the French capital
so it was also called Plaster of Paris
if he had been a good teacher
he might have known this and said it
I wish I could have said that the white cliffs
were made from the coccoliths shed
during the cratatious period
which ended 65 million years ago
when an meteorite the size of Paris
hit the planet he might have used that
but I don’t think anyone knew about it then
he certainly didn’t I think he was a secret
Archbishop Ussher fan he was a Jesuit priest
and one thing I do remember is his smile
when he caned the boys especially me
hands for lateness or pants down for other crimes
he would raise the cane and say
I pray this will teach you a lesson it didn’t
because neither he nor it ever did
Jim Bennett has won many awards for his writing and performance including 3 DADA Fest awards. He is also managing editor of poetrykit.org one of the world’s most successful internet sites for poets. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Award on 7 occasions, and short-listed for the Basil Bunting Award in 2013. Jim taught Creative Writing at the University of Liverpool and now tours throughout the year giving readings and performances of his work.
Poems by Pratap Kumar Dash
Read Poems by Pratap Kumar Dash
In the Asylum
The soft chamber of the most valuable wealths;
Treasury under the hardened skully tomb;
That can explode more powerfully than atom bomb.
The realm of heaven and hell;
The assets of the artists’ excel.
Distorted, twisted, or damaged!
Is it madness maddened?
The child giggles; the young fizzles;
Smiles and cries; shout and lout;
Talks of philosophy—all absurd and false astute.
‘Yesterday he was creative, but today fag;
Yesterday he was in the retrace, but today in tag!’
‘He was sportive and she was active,
But nothing happens now as that is defective.’
The world of insane and the sane in the world,
Make all the difference as their words herald.
Body without mind and mind without body;
Body without body when mind is in malady.
Because I have a Stick!
Because I have a stick,
I can beat you; thrash you till it breaks into tattering scraps.
Bit by bit, fully scattered tit bit.
I can whip you all the way to follow my song;
Make you stand in one leg or alms for me to beg;
Step by step, I can chase you while you running away frightened.
I am really powerful with a stick although I know one day it’ll break.
I feel a stick is a scepter, my protector or so to say the justice of rupture—
A lathi for the criminal of my dream to capture.
Then you have to stand before me;
Hands folded, bound to be guilty;
And say, ‘..Sir…yes sir….ye..sirrr…’
Then you have to understand whatever I say.
Whether they are twisted or thwarted all the way.
You have to respond to me, explain to me.
Although getting exhausted and
Make your life and swipe at bay.
Because you’re a servant, or even a slave
To be beaten to your grave or more than that so to say.
Because I’m your master and I’ve a stick,
I can trick you to stickyphobia with insomnia
By whamming my master mania,
Make you creative and active
By tuning you up to the aesthetics of fear;
Never allow you to think and at least smear—
You’re a vehicle, and my stick your gear.
You’ve to think only lining my thoughts for sure.
Infringe my words into your mouth fraught,
Despite I have been brought up and being taught
That one day I will be in the time’s snare caught.
His first anthology of poetry entitled Emotional Savings have been published by Authors Press, New Delhi.