Fragrant juniper wood

beneath the reed eaves,

a garden full of birds

and chestnuts in blossom,

a great bright light

gathers in their crowns

as I lie on the ground,

looking up.

 

 

By evening I am again

herdsman of the dark sky;

I await a new

day and clarity.

Before I drop off, the sun appears

flaring up

in the ashen clouds.

 

 

Everyone is left naked

for a moment before themselves.

 

 

 

 

Hands that reach

into unfinished grey

 

Unfinished the hands

unfinished the grey

 

In a sketchbook

of time,

a lifetime

spent on dreaming

 

But once

you’re safely sleeping,

let remembering be done away with

as the pale moon swallows everything

 

An old striped sack

will be enough

to carry all you’ll ever need

 

A sketchbook, some berries

a handful of light

 

Mathura M. Lattik is an Estonian writer and poet, author of eight collections of poetry and a short novel. He has won the Gustav Suits Literary Award and the Annual County Culture Award of the Estonian Cultural Endowment. His work has been translated into a dozen languages.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forlorn island

in her eyes, she speaks of blue

rhythms, tears in toxic tones.

Deep blue mountains, spiky edges

Hike that never seems to reach peak.

Navy netted traps lay amongst thorny

bushes, each

a hurdle

 

Heat pierces, intense blue skies

not a fluff of cloud stain. Blue

black spots marred with crimson

sits on her skin

 

She takes a break

 

White blue mist blows

on pale blue face, heart beat mellows

 

Valleys and fields stare back, yellow

blue dots, scenery she never sees. Surreal even

 

Towering blues above her, brighter hues

surround her, blue green sea

swells in pools of pupils, she

embraces beauty

bruises

in blues.

 

 

 

 

I wish to help

 

Beaten

I wish to use

as explanation

At least I know

Why

 

Invisible bruises

Pain throbs

every movement

as if middle spine

broke

 

Canvas lies

waiting

wanting

My fingers

My purest touch

 

Mama cleans

house inside out

Her fingers

fitter than mine

flying like dragonflies

Calloused

but deep rooted

My lungs

bellows for help

within

so I can

help her

 

But

 

Nothing

 

Imageries of doctors

tests and tubes

smell of hospital sanity

screamed insanity

Nothing was wrong

Nothing was right either

Battlefield not

a refuge

 

Shoulders bend backwards

shoots hammer through

upper back

down to bladder

Green phlegm

throws in arrows

cough conquers

Gratitude swells

at Mama’s non expectations

Aunty’s too

 

Canvas is still

empty as I

believe

 

I am fighting

another

Fibro Attack

Or is it

Something else?

 

 

I hear a voice

Faint Humming

 

Perhaps

If I am a nightingale,

I will sing to the moon and back,

Like in a fairytale, melt darkest shades

of bitterness

 

If I am a sunflower,

I will beam and hover over

your coldest nights, a beacon

in your fights

 

If I am a bee

I will sting you, a reminder

that you are never alone, I am

near you

 

If I am a marula tree,

I will let you hide under

my gigantic leaves, far

from warfare

 

If I am a float,

I will let you rest on me,

bobbing on the sea, wash your

tears away

 

If I am a fortress,

I will shield you from storms,

depression and distressing

fumes

 

If I am a needle,

I will weave and mend

your broken heart, my golden

pricks set you free

 

Alas, I am only

human, as real as you,

even if you do not hear or see

me, my heart is yours

 

My only wish, spring

will dance soon, sweeps

away winter, your woes

shrivel and wither

 

My shoulders are small,

but ready for your tears,

my heartbeats hug

you in pain

 

Perhaps then

 

I can see a smile

Even if for a while

Not on your face

Within you

 

Voice left, humming ended.

I never get to see human angel who spoke to me.

My heart was so blue it

turned black

but you know what?

I can finally breathe

through this cage.

 

Angelina Bong is a Sarawakian-born, Malaysian poet and visual artist with a background in Fashion. She represented Malaysia at the 3rd Delphic Games 2009, South Korea in the Lingual Art-Poetry category. Since then, she has read and performed physically in Malaysia, South Africa, Botswana, UK, Australia, India, Brunei, Egypt and Japan with poems translated into Korean, Malayalam, Japanese, French, Arabic and Malay. She is published online and in print including several poetry anthologies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

1

You must be demoratic.

Alright, but please pull your fist

from my forehead. Shouldn’t you be…

Shut up! It is entirely up to me whether my fist

will be placed on your forehead, or in my pocket,

or to be punched on your nose.

The important thing is that you must be democratic.

Besides, we are not talking about me, but

about you. Meaning you must be democratic!

 

Of course, I agree, didn’t I’ve always tried to…

Cut it out! We don’t want to listen

to your arguments. No need to waste time

defending yourself. I order you to be democratic,

end of discussion!

Beware, the mobs of democrats that we’ve gathered

will crush you down. So from now on,

no more tricks, you must be democratic.

Beware if you are not!

 

Translated by Nikmah Sarjono

 

 

2

Dear editors,

allow me to make some complaints

and a small suggestion. That crane

on the river bank has been standing there alone

for nine consecutive nights,

that the frogs and the fish feel reluctant to mate,

whereas the moon is shining so beautifully.

 

While nine handwaves ago,

on the edge of a meadow, right at the bend of the road

toward the forest, a flower wept alone.

Her orange petals were lain fallow

beneath the shrub, abandoned.

Whereas every day she has always dressed her petals up

with morning dew.

 

I suggest the gloomy moonlight

floating above the pond to be paired

with a fawn standing on the edge of the forest,

whereas hunters have already gone

shouldering their ravin: an infatuated buck

collapsed by bullets strikes.

 

That’s all I have to say, I hope my letter

will benefit other readers

as well as a pair of butterflies

which trapped in my room’s window,

while the weather outside

is absolutely nice, cool, and fresh.

 

 

 

 

Agus R. Sarjono (born 27 July 1962 in Bandung, West Java, Indonesia) is an Indonesian poet and author.[1] In 1988, he graduated from Department of Indonesian Literature of IKIP Bandung, and then finished his postgraduate program in Universitas Indonesia at the faculty of literature and cultural studies in 2002.

 

He writes poems, short stories, essays, critics, and drama, which have been published in Indonesia, Malaysia, Brunei, and several journals in Germany, France, Netherlands, Poland, England, and the United States. His poems are included in more than twenty anthologies.

 

He works as a lecturer in the Theatre Department of STSI Bandung, as an editor of the literary magazine, Horison, and as the Program Director of The Jakarta Arts Council for the period of 2002–2006. He was a writer-in-residence at the International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS) in Leiden from February through October 2001, courtesy of Poets of All Nations Foundation. From December 2002 to March 2003 he stayed in Langenbroich, Germany, as a guest writer of The Heinrich-Böll-Foundation.