THE STARTLING, VERY FINE WORK OF THE BEAUTIFUL ANTONIA ALEXANDRA KLIMENKO - FIVE POEMS AS LOVELY AS HER

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few.  After his death, it was his friend, the late great Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her and encouraged her to write. A former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. Her work has appeared in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (in which she represents France) and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Writer/ Poet in Residence. Her collected poems, On the Way to Invisible is forthcoming in Spring of next year.

All rights reserved solely by the author.

The Merry-Go-Round

So here we go again   you and I

picking up speed   on our magic steed

gliding   up and down  

whirling   round and round

with no ending or beginning

Everything happens like this

Everything passes through us--

a breath   a memory   a vision  

some inexplicable Miracle

that has happened before

that is happening right now

all   at   the   same   time

One moment…

you’re a child of six  

riding into the sunset   on a wooden horse

Next moment…

You’re a child of six-ty  

stepping  back into yourself  

like your favorite rerun

Tonight

your dreams have packed their bags

and are leaving for Paris without you

your night-lite is flirting with that first star on the right

all the lovers in the world are coming together 

in spontaneous combustion

In this very moment…

a stellar explosion 

thousands of light-years away 

is spinning through space  

is becoming   that radiant smile  

on your down-turned face

Past future and present

are converging in harmonic synchronistic rhythm

The sun and moon are aligning

with Venus Jupiter and Mars

Energy synergy electricity    deaf lightning 

is coursing through your varicose veins

Every broken atom   every imagined pain

every cell is being reborn     

Words that have flown south  

missing in action   or in revision

are coming alive   are exploding into light  

are taking back the night                                                                  

The unspoken and unsaid   are at this very instant  

orbiting your head   

Soon…                                                                                                 

dust particles are colliding coalescing

merging converging    to form a new planet 

The music of the spheres is unrehearsed

Black cosmic rays are holding the magnetic field--

a convex mirror in reverse                                                                   

My tears   a cinematic film  

are rolling back into my eyes

Regret that once escaped my lips  

is falling to its knees

is begging me to PLEASE not wear it  

like a saddle ‘round my hips

is begging for forgiveness

So here were are again   you and I

on a carousel in the dark

We fall off our horse    and dust ourselves off

and fall in love   again   of course     

before it grows cold and stark

One day we’ll get it right   you know

The moon is out tonight   you know

Nothing is by chance

The music is playing   

Remember our first kiss?

Please save me    this one last dance

Feather Pillows 

                            How unbearably white
                                 The blind on the white window.

                                                    --Anna Akhmatova

That Winter 

my grandmother reached into the sky 

for dreams bluer than blue
to slip inside our heads

while we lay sleeping

Every morning  

flowers sang   from outside her window
In the pleats of her skirt---choruses of Irving Berlin
Every day 

summersaults of grass  

                                    sprang from under her feet
and every tree on every corner  

                                                whose every leaf was a poem
invited her to dance on air
 

That Winter   in San Francisco  

she was looking for Summer  

when all   the sweet humming in her veins 

spilled into the street   like a Gershwin Rhapsody
 

How she slipped into that pillow— so unbearably white-- 

awakens to this moment    as I breathe in the air 

Is it your sky   Grandmother? that reaches into me?
I reach into myself     to find my own leaves of summer 

like all dreams eternal     slipping into light 

Our Lady

 Flames scorch your walls   your wood-beamed ceilings

Gargoyles lick the smoke-filled air

Your ancient timbers once echoed in forests

Now turn to ash    but you’re still there

Centuries have not obscured your face

Nor revolutions your holy brow

How you’ve looked at the world through rose-colored glass

How saints pass through you even now

How many have entered your sacred space

Like the mirrored moon from behind her veil

Bright flickering stars crown your thorny head

They would raise your roof but to no avail

As April springs into fragrant flower

Memory stands transfixed   transformed

We are all but hunchbacks in the Belltower

We were all meant to be reborn

Surreal Architect of Untold Meaning

Unfolding petals   on the tremulous Seine

How you inspire   mute words on fire

The passion of love   the burst of flame

Living Canvas   City of Light

Your candles lit from within our souls

The intimate silence of your unspoken prayer

It is for us    for whom the bell tolls

I hear them now

at my tear-stained window

Ave Maria Ave Maria

Just beyond the River’s bend

Hymns in the night

Angels of Light

Glimpses of iconic vision

Our heart is melting

The world is turning

Paris is burning

Twilight

His love of open space

left blanks between his words
gaps   between his teeth
silences within
All intervals in time--
the measure of   height and width
the depth in which all things exist

and move    moved in him--
a boundless three dimensional
journeying between the planets and the stars
the flat surfaces of  his mind

How he distanced himself
from things and people
invading his terrain--
floor space   parking space
objects and events which occurred 

in the space which occupied him--the Absolute Space--
was beyond even him

Often he would go to great lengths
extending himself
the rings around his eyes--
sunken in their dark orbits
spinning
in some alternate Universe

Space
is relative to position and direction
he said
but only in the physical realm
The celestial beauty of inner space

is infinite  
There is no separation   between
sunrise and sunset
shadow and light
the dead and the living
Life belongs to both worlds
and to neither--
rests in the breath
inhabits the mystery
of here

and oh so there

He said   he said                                                                

taking one last drag
on his burnt-out cigarette
before he shut the door

behind him

Blew his brains out
in the hallway     he did

Now, go to Hell !
he said

 Song of the Dying

                                                    Hello darkness my old friend

                                               Sounds of Silence—Simon and Garfunkel

           

O   Dark Sphere–

face revolving with the earth

changing shape and color–

will I never see the whole picture?

I am falling within

the flickering shadows

of my eyes   They are the fields

of childhood

patterned with liquid dream

disappearing into their horizons

I am closing within

the closing eye of the needle

that threads light

through the visible veil

of God’s invisible world

I know all your human songs from memory

The unpopular   the unsung

remain on my lips–-

my mouth opening like a grave

Who   with her long black gloves

holds a hand darker than night

and places it over each living eye

so we cannot look into the Light–

the beautiful Light that remembers?

Tell me   Old Friend 

is it your bow

that draws so sweetly

across the universe of my heart–

a single violin?

FIVE POEMS BY MALLIKA BHAUMIK - PUSHCART PRIZE NOMINEE SERIES 3

Mallika Bhaumik’s poetry, short stories, articles, interview,  and travelogue have been published in e mags like Staghill Literary Journal, The Wagon Magazine, Cafe Dissensus, Oddball, Spark magazine, Pangolin Review, Narrow Road, Ethos Literary Journal, The Woman Inc, Learning & Creativity, Get Bengal, Glomag, Shot Glass Journal, The Mark Literary Review, The Metaworker, Madswirl, In Parentheses, The Local Train, Harbinger, Asylum, Madras Courier and others
She has published two poetry books,’Echoes’ (Authorspress) which has won the Reuel International Award for Best Debut Poetry book, 2018, and ‘How Not To Remember’( Hawakal Prokashona). She has received the nomination for the Pushcart Prize, 2019. She lives and writes from Kolkata.



lost property box

My rickety rickshaw ride
to our old red house at the end of the crooked lane,
now derelict,
I climb the staircase of dusty memories,
my steps grow lighter,
sprightly,
as I see you at the end of the stairs,
a broad indulgent smile waiting, and I hurry through the steps to bury my face in the soft white drape of your six-yard mulmul,
a mixed musk of spices, zarda and your scented coconut hair oil,
a comfort inhaled, that used to fill my senses,
a familiar part of my girlhood years.

Never did I think
that it would form an isle in my heart
to dwell as a memory,
~an allure, that makes me walk towards
it
with hesitant steps
as it recedes and I cannot hold
an intangible fog,
and trips to this empty space
turn out to be a peep
into the lost property box

©mallika bhaumik

zarda -Indian chewing tobacco
(flavoured)
mulmul -a type of fabric

Rain ~song of departure

I have seen the rains
I have painted the picture
of the dripping pain,
the iridescent rays of daydreams
have strummed rain on my guitar.
~chalat ~
the oar splashes against the
flowing water,
I have wandered through the rains,
seeking homelessness,
freedom from the walls of confinement
where the mirror reflects faces of strangers
and the blurred skyline of the city.

Life, like a lusty figure, shimmers at a distance
and I see myself,
a parched soul walking through the long rugged stretch,
beguiled by the mirage of happiness.

The raging sky stands in angst,
the storm-tossed palm leaves mourn the tale of my loss and betrayal.
I have learned to let all go,
yet, letting you go
has been the hardest of all.

©mallika bhaumik

The Third Eye

Night swims in the pool
of her eyes
the lover that never was,
spreads himself,
the dusk of her skin,
the doe eyes,
those that prompted the poet to call her 'krishnakali',
look up to see the circling blades
the jingling bangles count the moments.
The melancholy of Bhairavi trails off
~ 'my armlets are falling off '
the dreams of beloved's home hide behind a cracked mirror.
Memories of hopscotch days
run along the kaash field,
the whistle of the train beckons.

Durga sits on a tulip painted bedsheet,
clutching a crisp pink note
The blooming buds of mogras
twisted around her plait,
lie scattered.
Her window opens to a dingy lane
of worn-out tales,
the eyes do not see a sky,
the embers of the night's rage
faintly colour the distant horizon,
-the third eye.

© Mallika Bhaumik

when love becomes a four-letter word

The large bay window opens out to the sea. A mellow morning has unfolded. I look at the silvery spread of the sand and beyond that, the blue of the ocean; sparkling occasionally.
I dip a tea bag in my cup, letting the infusion drown the unquiet mornings I left behind, mornings that were marked by several voices, Ananda Bazar Patrika, cups of milky hot tea accompanied by Britannia biscuits and a few quivering moments of sindur- (vermillion) smudged togetherness with you. Those have long since receded like waves.

Time is like a mystic saint, it transforms itself into a tiny hyphen between now and then. A kaleidoscope of frames rushes towards me along with the brine of the sea. The bird songs of spring, the melancholy of autumn leaves converge seamlessly. I become the sea wind; laden with the saltiness of all that has happened The fading moments' slow dance in my eyes, our old lane broadens to a dazzling beach where I stand alone amidst empty seashells. I call out your name. There is no audible sound, only a trembling of the air and an after-taste of milky, frothy days.

©mallika bhaumik

Reborn

Some moments do not bring back the rains to me anymore
yet they remain
like beads of water on a lotus leaf
after the rains.
I let them be,
my dun-colored sky gets used to them.
They too get used to my winding caffeinated days, a potpourri of memories, my blue dipped silence,
our stony indifference gulped down in vodka pegs.

Nights are only pills, pillows, quilts,
faded hues of paisley dreams,
the foliage of sights, sounds, the smell of an unfinished tale
a hunchbacked hillock of time spent.
Next morning I term the moments 'unreal' as if, I have never walked through them.
My wakefulness hovers over each news item,
rapes, petrol price, movie reviews, nullifying of an entire state.
I lose count of loves that I may call surrogate.

My kohl fenced eyes draw time in elliptical circles.
I have lived many a life
as wishes tied to a tree trunk, seeking fulfillment,
red, yellow threads ...'mannat' as they say.
The stoic look of gods, the chants and bells, floral scent of agarbattis choke me,
breaths become the knots and creases of my bandhni dupatta.
I come out and inhale a lungful of the slogan,
some protest rally on the opposite side of this bustling promenade.
I too have a heart that wishes to protest.

A murmur of my own voice fills my ears.
I speak a language that is weary, moss-laden corners of an unkempt garden
you trample as you walk by.
A boy picks up my writhing pain with a coin and some dirt and playfully ties to the tree trunk.
I become a wish, reborn.

©mallika bhaumik 2019

PUSHCART PRIZE NOMINEE SERIES - 2. ELIZA SIEGET'S FIVE POEMS

We have already featured Jagari Mukherjee who is a Pushcart nominee in a previous post.

It can be found here:

https://koshyav.blogspot.com/2019/11/five-poems-by-jagari-mukherjee.html

We include Mallika Bhaumik on Friday and Dr. Koshy AV on Saturday

Today Pushcart Nominee Eliza Sieget, the upcoming Polish writer, who is also famous on Spillwords is our honored guest.

Eliza Segiet is a graduate of Jagiellonian University. Her poems can be found in numerous anthologies both in Poland and abroad.

The laureate of The International Annual Publication of 2017 for the poem Questions, and for the Sea of Mist in Spillwords Press in 2018. For her volume of Magnetic People, she won a literary award of a Golden Rose named after Jaroslaw Zielinski (Poland 2019 r.). Her poem The Sea of Mists was chosen as one of the best amidst the hundred best poems of 2018 by International Poetry Press Publication Canada. In 2019 Poet's Yearbook, as the author of Sea of Mists, she was awarded the prestigious Elite Writer’s Status Award as one of the best poets of 2019 (July 2019).

She was awarded World Poetic Star Award by World Nations Writers Union – the world’s largest Writers Union from Kazakhstan (August 2019).

In September 2019 she was 1^st Place Laureate (Foreign Poetry category) – in Contest Quando È la Vita ad Invitare for poem Be Yourself (Italy).

Her poem Order from volume Unpaired was selected as one of the 100 best poems of 2019 in International Poetry Press Publications (Canada).

In November 2019 she is a nominee for Pushcart Prize in Pangolin Review's list.

All rights for the following poems belong to her.

Translated by Artur Komoter

New Opening

She stopped planning,

waiting and dreaming.

Her monotonous time

it became overwhelming.

In the evenings she whispered:

- No future anymore.

Time to die?

Everything apart from her?

It is not too late yet

to do something,

to get to know a fraction

of the world’s secrets.

Every day is

a new opening

- not a time to shut the longings

in unaccomplishment.

In the beginning she chose Georgia.

Delighted with the beauty of

Tbilisi, Batumi, Poti

- she breathed more fully.

She already knew that

the wind of her strength

will become the

previously unattainable goals.

Adventure

Between the Panamanian Passage,

the surrounding water,

fragments of ancient civilization,

nature stronger than man.

Waterfalls attract the curious,

they show

their strength and powerlessness

of the human

towards them.

Emerging from the mists

variegated rocks,

sometimes in the sun

glisten with not one rainbow.

A surfy water storm

awakens the imagination.

How many people saw it,

How many more will see?

Gardens

floating on the lakes delight.

A lot to write about this part of the world...

It’s better to experience it.

In the past, El Dorado was sought for

today

- hello, adventure

on the ledge behind the great water.

Echo

On the rocky walls

suspended coffins.

Long ago mourned

they connect

the past with the present.

Prepared

for the soul to be closer to heaven?

Awarded for a good life?

Maybe just to

give them silence and peace,

when they themselves are silent?

In the Echo valley

still are alive

the sounds of history.

Prepared

for remembrance,

they hang

not to delight.

But to amaze!

To Have Less

In the evening

through the alleys

seeps the music,

Cesária Évora’s voice

delights and calms.

Joy is painted

on the faces.

Here everything is:

- no problem,

- no stress.

Sunk in delight,

nowhere do they see evil,

they do not share time

- it is theirs.

Tangled problems

become nothing.

Here they understood

that

to

- have less

means

to be more.

Be Yourself

Between the lands,

life occurs,

under the crystal panel -

another world.

A multi-colored,

delightful agitation

that one can become part of.

For a few moments

breathing differently,

looking closer,

experiencing anew.

In the vastness of the depths

underwater magic takes place.

Even for a moment,

forgetting that our place is above,

where breathing in and out

do not require thinking.

Where the needs

are getting bigger.

Becoming a fish,

compelling admiration,

not exceeding one’s own abilities.

Just:

Be.

Be - yourself.