Poetry in Our Time

We are presenting three strong poets from three part of the world. Alexandra Nicod  is Swiss-Spanish poet, who is presenting  the emotions like fear, death and strange love in her poetry. Ganesh Puthur is young Indian poet, writes in Malayalam and English. His poetry brings different mood and shades . Linda Nassar is from  Lebanon, and her country is also facing war like situations. These three poets are showing  the painful situation of our world. RS

 

Alexandra Nicod (Swiss-Spanish poet)

 

THAW

 

Yes, I admit it, I’m afraid. Afraid of death or, perhaps, of life, of that life that on days like today appears to me as a labyrinth of uncertainties, a maze of implacable intensities.

 

Yes, I admit it, I’m afraid. Afraid of not knowing how to live life, afraid of going through it without really being alive, of being a mere spectator destined to watch it slip away. To die without having lived. To disappear without having discovered. To expire without having found. I’m afraid of wasting love, beauty and laughter. I am afraid of leaving paths unmemorized, whispers untrusted, desires undreamed. I am afraid of no longer being in this conquered body, in this known reality, in this life that may be the last or, perhaps, the only one.

 

There are moments when life seems so infinitesimal to me and fear so immense. My steps become unfocused, my wounds accumulate and my certainties melt like the ice that has covered my heart since the beginning of time and, once again, fear arises. Fear of not being enough, fear of abandonment, humiliation, rejection. Fear of being left alone, completely alone, alone and crucified. Fear of suffering, of pain, of the death of loved ones. Fear of being wrong, of pronouncing forbidden words or vetoing my truths. Fear of losing the person I love not for lack of love, but for excess of fear. Fear of opening up and getting hurt, of making myself vulnerable and receiving another blow, of flying high and burning my wings.

 

How is it possible to be so afraid of fear? That something might happen to trigger it again and that it might assail me at night in the form of that galloping heart in the darkness that wants to talk to me about deep secrets and whose alphabet I still don’t understand.

 

Yes, I admit it, I am afraid. Afraid of death or, perhaps, of life, if it is not the same thing, because to know how to live one must first know how to let die, to let go. That’s why I feel so fragile and at the same time so brave. Because for me, there are days when the night is a descent into hell and the dawn an umpteenth escape to heaven. To inhabit the tear. To remain calm. To detach from attachments. But how? How not to be afraid to let go? How to do it when the earth seems to become too light and nothingness peeks at your own reflection? How?

 

Maybe it’s not about asking questions or scratching for answers. Maybe it’s just about staying on the path. To continue and let it happen, let it occur, let the miracle take place. Maybe that’s why I write, why I dream, why I continue. To allow the thaw of my own path.

 

ORIGIN

 

I left my body like someone leaving a burning house. My body was no longer a safe place. Not anymore…

 

And suddenly all the birds fell from the sky, in mid-flight, the white ones and the black ones, the big ones and the small ones, those that fly high and those that glide low to the ground… The clouds fall, the sun hides, the moon does not appear… Cars stop, walkers petrify, the roofs of the houses collapse, and, all of the sudden, all the girls burst into flames, the daughters and granddaughters, the sisters and nieces, the cousins and goddaughters… All the girls burning in their homes, their rooms, their beds. In every house, every village, every town flames arise, one after another, flames calling for help… and you hear them and try to scream…

 

but you are only a girl and girls on fire can not scream….

 

I WOULD LIKE TO

 

I would like to love you without cultivating fears
nor feed monsters

 

I would like to desire you
without falling into the well of the past
to collide with you between sheets of hope
giving birth to the new woman

 

I would like your fingertips to know
how to play my instrument at all times
sing hoarsely in unison with our desire
feed the soul bite by bite

 

I would like all the whispered words
to land on my retina
to visualize each vocal
to blind myself with you

 

I would like our laughter to multiply in difficult moments
the stagnant air in the bedroom to become transparent
when the silence got unbearable

 

But

 

above all
above all

 

I would like to see you again
the moment I have lost you

 

Alexandra Nicod is a Swiss-Spanish poet and actress graduated in Translation and in Dramatic Art. She is the author of many theaters plays as well as of the collection of poems “Deshielo” and has participated in poetry readings and festivals in Switzerland, Spain and Marocco. Several of her poems have been translated and published in international media and poetic anthologies.

 

 

Ganesh Puthur

 

Dusty Streets of a Bustling City

 

Dusty streets of a busy city
Silently taking me forward
Even though I am not moving my legs
But slowly going past different shops at Park Street,
Or are these shops walking backwards?
Certainly not!

 

Now, the crowd is fully dispersed.
I can finally feel my legs touching the road
Only to get trapped right in the middle of traffic,
Whistles of a policeman in white uniform.
Suddenly, the traffic light turns red and
All the irritating horns ceased its screaming.

 

I see graffitis everywhere –
Vacant walls, shutters of closed shops,
The outer frame of dilapidated buses.
Graffitis of hammer, sickle and star, of lotus,
Of hand and Two flowers with grass.
And old men taking bath
In the busy area of an unknown bazaar.

 

Through all these chaos,
A tram is crawling at a snail’s pace.
Stopping in every few metres,
Patiently waiting for the luxury cars to clear its track.
The tram is old, like a giant box from the 90s,
Going to all those forbidden corners of this lost city.

 

The night is spraying darkness everywhere,
Only to make the music of fakis louder
Like the heavy flowing of hooghly river..

 

Through My Broken Window

 

Sunlight enters my room
Through a broken window
Still not replaced
Even after years of getting hit
By a cricket ball,
Smashing the glass into pieces.

 

The window’s joint was broken and
Thus opening it became forbidden.
So I pasted a paper
And covered the hole in its entirety.
But I ripped it off during the peak of COVID,
When stepping out of your home was a sin.

 

Then, I could see the world
Through this ball sized hole.

 

The cool breeze sneaked into my room
Through this hole, took a round
And went back through the same hole.

 

What I could see was an empty road,
But animals roaming freely
Without the fear of being pelted with stones.
Birds flying so high with the belief that
Their pathways won’t be intruded by
Giant mechanical birds carrying humans.

 

Through my broken window,
I saw what a captive sees from its cage or a prison –
A broken world
With all its dreams quarantined.

 

Citadels Will Fall

 

All the citadels made with lies
Will crumble and fall,
When all its makers are inside
Feasting with bottles of champagne,
Intoxicated with the capsules of power.

 

The regime follows strict prohibition
But its jurisdiction ends at the gate of these citadels
With men writing laws
Like love letters for their mistresses.

 

These citadels are painted with the blood of
Commoners, deprived of their wealth,
Stolen by the nobility
Fooling them showing an utopia
For the noblemen to flourish.

 

Despots believe that their lies will last forever
Like an ancient religious text
Which has outwitted the blackholes of time
To be still taught and preached.

 

One day all their lies will diminish and
The truth shall arise from darkness
Like a thunder, so loud that it will
Tremble the castles of lies.

 

Every citadel will fall
And all despots will disappear.

 

Silence

 

I can no longer sing a song
The monsoon has arrived and the raindrops
Have started hitting the roof
With all the vigour it could have,
Making it too loud for my voice to resonate.

 

The rain has muted all the other noise.
The sound of horns, acceleration of car engines,
Prayer from the nearby temple,
The call of vegetable vendors and so on.

 

People sitting in the tea shops
Are silently watching the rain
Without uttering a single word,
Taking tea sips in between,
Feeling the warmth in the midst of this cold downpour.

 

There is silence everywhere.
But I can still hear the rain murmuring,
As if it is telling me a riddle
Which I fail to understand every time…..

 

Ganesh Puthur, a bilingual poet in Malayalam and English, is a recipient of the prestigious Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar (2023). He has published two anthologies of poetry in Malayalam, Achante Alamara and Amma Varakkunna Veedu. His English poems have appeared in esteemed publications like The Muse India, Setu Bilingual Journal, Teesta Review, Poems India, Madras Courier and the Borderless Journal. A native of Kerala, Ganesh also holds a Masters degree in History from the University of Hyderabad.

 

 

Linda Nassar (Lebanese poet)

 

This world does not fit

 

A sadness-destroying poem
painting a floating scene
amid isolated beings…
On the dark side
blindness is the key to life
I stumble for the thousandth time
while I write for a sculptor, the text resides with me
leaves when I leave
I don’t want a discarded life
and countless hearts weeping on my passing
and you were the one who transported me to the other side
where exists no pain, no agony, no memory… death then life, only astonishment
and a passion dictated by the eye’s poetry
I pen a single word at leas
And from your expression gaps, you grant me another word,
giving birth to a title or text for a final poem
and another chapter of existence
I thin
on the other side, a poet’s glow
his verses fitted my dreams
As I turn the flow my ink inward
Today, the skies weep heavily, and a day mimics autumn’s somber days
fullness in the sky
Only the flocks of birds I glimpsed yesterday, journeying between realms of white, bear witness to my words
Today, the world’s doors are shut, yet my poem remains open to life’s embrace…

 

Another season of life

 

I have a handful of seasons
to write a poem
its years outpace my shadow
So much remains missing
as I stood witness
an ant searching for its strength
or a cockroach with a fractured cry
with Martin’s tales
in my life
I committed a lot of foolish acts
I altered my mood and discarded habits that no longer fit me:
The impressions of my isolation melted among the crowds
OCD
Claustrophobia
I threw myself from above
Worry eludes me now
A full-time poet paid in metaphorics
I long for our names to merge in a poetic couplet
Years are but a moment moving in opposite directions
My journeys were filled with dreams
My purse is full of stops,
The twenties: a blur of identity, recklessness, and madness
The thirties: a torrent of passion and haste
The forties: a time of impossible love
My friend tells his young girlfriend who got married: In ten years, you’ll return…
Ten years have passed, and we remain poets of folly
I bore a burden of shameful anxieties
I also bore success…
what cost? A bird asks me, weary from its solitary vigil
This language isn’t enough
to unveil the costs I’ve borne
to satisfy seasons unlike my cherished autumn
and I am in between
a tree, solitude, and an everlasting instant
It appears I am years too late…

 

My freedom

 

I am free
I live my prison
moment
by moment
I hide in my eyes a wine bottle
and an illegal cigarette
I create a shadow for myself between the bars of black steel
I search for the time fingers’ movement
drawing with its nails
a poem from a lover
behind the memory
I remunerate it all over again
to transform its pages into my victims
I let it breath into a new text.
freedom is not enough
to monopolize the secret box
this night is a thief fleeing my justice
escaping the mural’s dream
rejecting its wall
to get lost again in a sterile color

 

The black belt

 

The black belt
is falling in my blood
getting colored giving me a soul
adjusting the love rhythm
and here are the strings softening on my chest
triggering sleeping melodies
here are my fingers blasting life in music
the black guitar belt keeps swallowing light in light
and the sky screams only in dreams

 

Wondering snow

 

Lonely, i trace my lines
Over the wet glass by the years of sweat
In my memory, a lot of tapping
From the songs of grave diggers
And a wondering cloud
Floating from Sinbad’s stories
This is a sad evening
Only the snowflakes
Thunder in the empty room
And break my isolation
Drop by drop
I watch the corner of the eye
Shedding tears in search for an adventurous memory
Amid the rubble of the past
Alone, i reform the story’s events
I rearrange my sadness
To sing joyfully and embrace life
From the porch of poetry
And whisper in his ear: i wish i was a poem so I could fly away.

 

Linda Nassar (Lebanese poet) –