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

Mythology

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

Chalk 

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.

Pratap Kumar Dash has published poems in The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, Rock Pebbles and The Commonline Journal.

His first anthology of poetry entitled Emotional Savings have been published by Authors Press, New Delhi.