Have You Forgotten Me? By Meera Badmanaban

Have you forgotten me?

I am the boy whose legs turned black.

You saw my amputated legs; didn’t you?

The rubber hose was his form of attack.

I prayed hard for the torture to stop;

But he still continued; and so I died.

 

Have you forgotten me ?

I am the girl who was raped by granddad.

You read the papers; didn’t you ?

He loved me, he said; his face all sad;

But what he did to me hurt real bad.

I screamed ; “Atok ! Jangan ! Tolong ! “

But he carried on; and so I died.

 

Have you forgotten me ?

I am the boy who fell asleep in the van.

You heard the story; right ?

The driver forgot me right at the back,

My unconscious body limp and slack;

He realised too late; and so I died.

 

Have you forgotten me ?

I am the girl at the back of the class.

Did you know they threw acid on me?

I just could not take it anymore;

To another world I had to go.

I hung on a rope; and so I died.

 

Have you forgotten me?

I am the boy who drank poison;

You don’t believe the gang forced me?

They said they would kill my sister;

Slash with a Parang my brother;

Poured it down my throat; and so I died.

 

Have you forgotten me ?

I am the girl they found in the gym bag.

All tied up; neatly; don’t you remember?

Like a sandwich, my holes were stuffed,

With a brinjal and a cucumber; buffed.

I was only eight; and so I died.

 

Have you forgotten me ?

I am the girl made famous on Facebook.

“Fat Ugly Bitch” - a friend called me that?

“Cheap Whore”; and a whole lot more.

I slashed my wrists and  posted the gore.

The blood spurted and spewed; and so I died.

 

Have you forgotten me ?

I am the boy in the plastic container.

The triple murder case, do you recall?

Thrown like garbage, with my sister;

I shouted “Come; arrest my mother!”

But you came too late; and so I died.

 

Have you forgotten me ?

My ghost – do you not see?

While my bones are rotting;

You just sit; doing nothing.

There are others out there;

All around you; everywhere;

Beaten; bullied; tortured;

Neglected; abused; raped;

Why do you turn a blind eye?

While our children slowly die?

 

Meera Badmanaban is a mother and teacher.

This poem is dedicated to  victims of child abuse in Malaysia.

Meera's creative process :

Day after day, we hear of children being abused in Malaysia. Abuse is a vague word and covers so many things : neglect, bullying, beating, domestic violence, torture, rape, sexual abuse, cyber crimes - the list goes on. Statistics show that these horrors are increasingly ending in fatalities. Sometimes the ghosts of these children haunt me. They appear before me and beseech me to remember them, and to implore society to change for the better.

 

2. Bio :

Meera believes that poetry can be a powerful means of social change. She believes that bit by bit, words can make us think or see something that we did not before. They can help us to heal, to hope, to inspire and to aspire to be a beacon of light in times of darkness. Being trained in the law, she is concerned about miscarriages of justice that happen around us. As a teacher, mother, and Malaysian citizen, she dreams of seeing her country be the glorious nation it is, and can be, in the future.

 

Photographs by Vernon Daim

See the sprawling branches of a tree

bound by bloodties and surnames

on the wall. Frame by frame, 

be awed by milestones and anniversaries.

Look closely at the kindegarten shows, 

graduations, holidays abroad and weddings 

of relatives close and distant. Notice how 

at reunions and birthdays every one smiled 

their genuine best, their artificial best.

Can you, like Tolstoy, distinguish

the unhappiness of each unhappy family?

We were told, for the sake of posterity,

resentment and rivalry would look ugly. 

So we kept them veiled, masked and hidden.

We let the poison slowly, quietly fester

while frame by frame, the precious prints on the wall 

slowly, quietly discolour and fade. 

 

 

Biodata

Vernon Daim was born in Taiping, grew up in Kuching and found himself in Edinburgh. His poems have appeared in online literary journals such as Anak Sastra, Eastlit and Asiatic. 

Ananya S Guha: poems

Hills Of Slow Time

There was a time
when the hills denuded
scattered out of myth
origin and ash
came tumbling down
with waterfalls, lakes and rivers
to give succour to incarnadine hues.
The hills I have known, paraded with
my destiny, the hills that moulded clay
into mythic dolls. Yes these were the hills I knew.
Molten clay, shrapnel hirsute legs the hills were
not man made. Man. Woman
and in the Sacred Groves the hush could be heard. 
Not felt, only scatter of rains.
with a wild myth of flowers
heaping mounds of love.
Prescient hills you shoot out the future
and supinely lie on the past
in eternal rest.

Marigolds will not turn your hair
into wounded gashed fingers.
Marigolds only wither and mingle
fortuitously
with these hills of slow time.

I Never Had To

I never had to because 

I never had that flower

that clasped like shower

gives you that you had a taste

of eternity, penumbra.

Then rainbows come tumbling 

down, because you never had it, 

look the other way. I'ts no shame 

to say you never had it

never got it.

The mountains will arrive

only when you have it

incense like the fire of destiny.

Today, Yesterday by Ananya S Guha

Today is once again a ripple of warmth,

murmur of the wind desultory, everything

is happening, with the loud speaker in a

fit of manic blaring. Doesn't matter, these things

happen as days pass in circular motion

with wind and stones narrating stories

of past. A myth walks across this land as gushing waterfalls

take on the realities, unraveling all that is hoary.

Go to Sohra and see the Nohkalikai waterfalls replete with stories

of a fallen angel rushing to death. Suicide, this word is modernist.

The past had no language, only expression, only action.

 

Ten years from now as the seasonal cycle will cohabit with

fluorescent malls and dancing night clubs

fireflies will gather in our mouths, on our heads.

 

Shall we once again dance to the tune of rippling waters, gurgling streams

and read the myths of an ancient land, timeless with boundaries overlapping

two countries, where trade flourished, and people knew how to love?

 

 

Ananya S Guha

Shillong, India

Ananya : This poem was prompted  by a Khasi myth and legend of Meghalaya, the province  which I live in, in India.

Protocol by Clinton Van Inman

Just two of you I need to lend a hand
First to measure the rope from base to base
Then here along the wall from here to where
The rope is tied around the ceiling post.
Careful there because all must be exact.
The tale is always in the tape you know,
Just an inch or so an inch here or there
Even one and it would be a different story.
But we can rule that out because here
Is the can he must have stood upon
For he was seen here from time to time
Once it seems to look for work I’m told,
Must have known the garage to be a quiet place,
But still it doesn’t do a business good
For this sort of thing—everything is as it should
All looks typical enough and is in order.
One last entry and my work here is done.
Thank you for your help now cut him down.

© Clinton Van Inman 2011


Clinton Van Inman is a high school teacher in Hillsborough County, Florida.  He is 65 and a graduate of San Diego State University. He was born in England.  He has had many publications throughout the years.  Recent publications are Blackcatpoem.com, Tower Journal,  The Hudson View, Winter 2011,  Inquisition Poetry, and Munyari.com, to name a few.  These poems are included in a forthcoming book called, “The Last Beat,” as he believes Beatniks like him are a dying breed.

Poems by Isabella Amaris

SALTED EARTH

Salted earth,

Preserving the sweat

of the hundred feet that stepped upon you,

and your kind,

before my time.

Lending your softness

to careless streams,

so that hard minds may drink from them.

Preparing the mountains with hope,

and so they stand

still beneath the seas.

And yet they dig you up so mercilessly,

that even your blood is not given its time to heal.

They plough through your future,

With the ease of metalled machines,

That are their heart,

Though not half your strength.

When will you fight back, I wonder?

When will they realize that you could bury us all,

With one word, one gesture, one turn,

Of your rough and loving hands,

made of the gold of the Earth,

and the life of the stars,

so that we might live.

THE IRRITATING SNOOT

Such an irritating snoot it is,
Such a nuisant; pestilent snit!
It slithers and whines,
And pretends to resign,
With sinfully slow intent.

An alarmingly snooty relic,
Of alarmingly shaky habit,
You sorrowful make,
Of bumbling take,
And parenting skills of a chick.

Ah, snoot, a snoot you so are,
As snooty as those who, by far,
Have more cause to bear,
The whimpers you share,
But slither far less than you care to repair.

What can a snoot like you want?
With you, all reeks so redundant,
You procrastinate,
Hyperventilate,
Of persistent repute,
Rambunctiously rude,
And then when you still,
With strained strength of will,
It’s rest that you want,
From workplace to fun,
In wonderful haze,
Of recurrent laze,
In dastardly whim,
For all you can skim,
With such unerring haste,
For heaping your plate,
With all it can take,
Although you are late,
Immense in mistake,
And proud as a rake,
What an irritating snoot you are!

I PART WITH ME

I part with me,
On Monday and Tuesday,
For the sake of Wednesday and Thursday,
And so Friday is forgotten.

I part with me on Saturday and Sunday,
On creation and new birthdays,
For the sake of money and bank holidays,
And so my dreams are forgotten.

I part with me,
Today and tomorrow,
For the sake of yesterday and forever,
And so immortality is forgotten.

I part with me incessantly and always,
When I sleep and when I wake,
For the sake of living on the outside,
And so I am dying on the inside.

I part with me,
But a part of me lives still,
For the sake of who I should be,
And so my faith hangs by a thread,
Spun of gossamer and sweat,
And I’ll part one day with this I,
That parts with me.

WHEN THE BLOOD STOPS FLOWING

When the blood stops flowing,
where does it lie?
Beneath the bushes and the shrubbery,
of this forest-tree life?
Out of sight, like hidden madness,
from the gaze of prying eyes,
So that neither mind nor open mouth,
would dare to ask the reasons why,
It stopped flowing.

Feed off the earth! it
cries to itself at night.
Let it seep into the flesh,
of this grasping existence.
Swat off the thorny branches,
of Nature’s protection,
and eat the harvest of its
summer days,
until it seeks to replenish itself,
and the world breathes
a sigh of relief, for
it is flowing again,
through the bowels of the earth,
and the life of our forgiveness.


© Isabella Amaris 2011

Some of Isabella Amaris's poems were published online by Silverfishbooks (Malaysia). The short story The Story-Catcher was in Silverfishbooks's two anthologies in 2004 and 2006. Another, The Shoplifter, was in Singapore's Quarterly Literary Review (Vol. 9 No. 1 Jan 2010). Isabella Amaris has also published some poetry ebooks, The Rhyme Whisperer Series.

ROYAL WEDDING by Clinton Van Inman

Unannounced
The couple at the courthouse
Standing tall in khakis
A soldier back from Iraq
His bride flowerless in dress
She bought at Ross for less
Yet their wedding
Priceless.

© 2011 Clinton Van Inman

Clinton Van Inman is a high school teacher in Hillsborough County, Florida.  He is 65 and a graduate of San Diego State University. He was born in England.  He has had many publications throughout the years.  Recent publications are Blackcatpoem.com, Tower Journal,  The Hudson View, Winter 2011,  Inquisition Poetry, and Munyari.com, to name a few.  These poems are included in a forthcoming book called, “The Last Beat,” as he believes Beatniks like him are a dying breed.

no one can be read

by Maslina Arshad

no one can be read
like an open book
tho some may claim they could

for sometimes secrets seek refuge
in between the lines


© Maslina Arshad 2011

Maslina Arshad is a closet poet who is also a lawyer by day. She loves reading and is especially blessed to have married a fellow bookworm. She loves watching the rain fall, staring into space for ideas to form into words. She has been writing since many moons ago but never submitted anything to anywhere, until the existence of this webzine. She would love to publish the rest of her work someday. In the meantime she is happy chasing her son chasing the cat, somewhere in the middle of a town called Temerloh. Visit her blog, to see more of her work.

Lost

by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus

It was the glorious terror of an instant when
the sun was lost in the moon - and
the explosion shook the hair out of
the world into our abyss
nourished by the blinding light,

… enraptured and captive, we ran and hid
then dared to play,
first, you were the sun and I was the moon,
next, you the gem
haunting the silken web of night...

… and the explosion still
shakes our abyss
nourished by our enraptured eyes filled
with the terrifying
glory - of a joined moon and sun...

© Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus 2011

Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus was born in 1950 and started writing creatively at a young age. He's published a novel and a collection of original asphorisms, as well as written flash fiction, poetry and short stories. Currently, he is Assistant Director of The Pueblo Poetry Project, in Pueblo, Colorado, USA.

FRANKINSTEIN et al by Clinton Van Inman

FRANKINSTEIN

Color coded complete with picture I.D.

We’ll teach you to be like us.

Give you a turtle neck or bow tie

You will be our kind of Mensch

Complete with certificate of authenticity

Credit rating and charge account,

Security, savings, and even disability.

We’ll teach you how to walk and talk

in circles as if you had some sense.

We will give you some brand named shoes

We’ll even call you Frank or Frankie

We gave you a brain doesn’t matter

Which for they all are just the same,

But why are you still reaching for

Flowers?

         NO IN MY NOEL

I learned at an early age

What happens to all snowmen,

Why the fake beards

As I sat upon his lap

And took his hard candy.

Now there is only no in my noel.

But I fool them in my

Berry reds and holly greens

Perpetual as prize ribbons

Now New Years breaks with bad breath

While the world awaits with

Its perfect white teeth, I run like a gnome.

GUESTS

It was no accident my coming here,

They must have known long before

I wandered to their farmhouse near

That soon I’d knock upon their door.  

Call it more than a good neighbor’s sense

In snow to leave the porch lamp lighted

Or post the sign on the picket fence,

For those in need are all invited.

  

MONO-GAMY

Dragged before white cake    

I dare choose only      

Mono in my gamous

Before the life sentence of I do.

I will learn to settle

Down to yard work and

Become a tinker in my trade

Before the perturbations prove

Too much for me with

More patience than a starfish,

My topsails are still flapping.

Run Jane run

And drag some

Other toad of a prince

Before you!

IF WE COULD DANCE ONE NIGHT AWAY

If we could dance just one more night away

Filled with champagne and candlelight,

In hours held by our own delight,

Only this and this alone would please.

Like Chablis mixed with sweet bouquet

In moments we soon shall not forget

Save all not close to the clarinet,

Where only perfume and tobacco lingers

Our love shall rise above all of these.

While we tango upon the outer terrace

Moonbeams shall fall upon your face,

And I shall say that nothing really matters

Except this time that we have passed

Because we have saved our best for last.

© 2011 Clinton Van Inman

Clinton Van Inman is a high school teacher in Hillsborough County, Florida.  He is 65 and a graduate of San Diego State University. He was born in England.  He has had many publications throughout the years.  Recent publications are Blackcatpoem.com, Tower Journal,  The Hudson View, Winter 2011,  Inquisition Poetry, and Munyari.com, to name a few.  These poems are included in a forthcoming book called, “The Last Beat,” as he believes Beatniks like him are a dying breed.

Diligent Hypocrisy

by Sarah Rani

The sombre street fills with emptiness,

As echoes of cries resonate within these walls,

Ghosts of the past linger in the darkness,

Translucent amber,

A limp body descend into the ground.

A heavy step dragging this battered body,

Don't bury me.

Drowning in your acid bath,

A disease you say,

We pay with our lives and you survive.

Break this shackle around me,

Breaking your pretentious vision of reality.

You hold the key of silence,

People are dying in your empire,

Ignorance is your insolence,

Genocide in your written agenda.

Blinded by your vision,

Hush now - you say,

No need for resurrection

As you darken our day.

© 2011  Sarah Rani 

Diligence Hypocrisy is about people who are being oppressed by the larger community because of the cultural rules. It also symbolized by people who are struggling with restriction of traditional cultural values and wanting to break free from stereotypes. 

Sarah Rani is a graduate of BA in TESOL from Curtin University, Perth, Australia. She is a candidate doing M.ED in TESL. She has taken creative writing during herundergraduate years and planning to focus on writing in my Masters degree.

Counselor

by Gale Acuff

It's not that we don't love you, Mother says,

but we don't love each other anymore.

I stand before her and Father. They sit

on the newly reupholstered sofa.

They sit real close not to like each other.

That's right, son, Father says--your mother's right.

Oh, I say, my hands behind my back and

my bladder filling up. I hope I don't

pee my pants but I'm a little nervous.

What we've decided to do, Mother says,

is separate a while. Right, Father says

--I'll be living somewhere else for a spell

but I'll be over Sundays to see you.

Sundays. That's when God rests. Ed Sullivan

is on TV then. And if I have homework

on the weekend I do it Sunday nights.

Oh, I echo--I don't know what to say

but I ought to make a sound to stay in

practice and Oh's as good as anything

--it makes a big hole of my mouth and holds

everything else I could think of to add

if only I could think. If I've got them

right, Mother and Father hate each other

but they both love me. And I love them, too.

Suddenly I feel old, as old as God.

If you loved me you would love each other,

I blurt. I don't know how I know that but

it's so. They look at the rug. I look, too,

but faster. When I look at them again

they're still looking down. Mother starts to cry

and Father puts his arm around her. She

moves closer to him. Now they both hate me.

That's more like it. They're going to be fine.

© 2011 Gale Acuff

Gale Acuff has poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Adirondack Review, Worcester Review, Verse Wisconsin, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Poem, Amarillo Bay, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review,Sequential Art Narrative in Education and many other journals.

She has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).

She has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.

She is an American teaching in China. She is interested in recalling childhood experiences and trying to recognize something extraordinary in them.

Magnolia Song & Tightrope

Magnolia Song

by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus

(for The Beloved and in honour of Arthur Rimbaud)

… the magnolias are far away – still, I sing, begging

them for bridges to

brood with stanzas of butterflies

in the suffocation around and

heat mocking the sea where once we walked the shore

beneath the cruel commas of hawks

showering seraphimic curses,

pink roses upon storms

flung upward from spotted, inverted baskets, northern Iranian

mountains

aching

praying

wandering

the cavern between the olive-minuet of your eyes and

mine absconding their color from above and knitted by

anguished waves stumbling, floundering

into lunar mercury,

the slant of scouring rain

throwing blue into our faces

in cadences

dribbling from

lemons and leaves of tea, strong with riots

of black peppers hurting our tongues

along the central street

of our knowing, speaking

silence

without riddles

yet wrapped about our shoulders

with brazen mysteries hovering above

the staring magnolias

which now have crowded in...

… though I still sing

and always will...

… of you...

***

Tightrope

by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus

Sh-h-h!... the cat leaves feathers of silence

for footprints as she glides,

and refraining from knocking her off-balance,

the wind holds its breath

because it is hypnotized

by the grace and mystical communion

of cat-feet with the tightrope of the moon

along the windowsill of night...

Sh-h-h!... even the silence is mesmerized!...

All poems © 2011 Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus

Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus was born in 1950 and started writing creatively at a young age. He's published a novel and a collection of original asphorisms, as well as written flash fiction, poetry and short stories. Currently, he is Assistant Director of The Pueblo Poetry Project, in Pueblo, Colorado, USA.

Magnolia Song is a surrealistically symbolistic portrayal of a lover and the poet in Azerbaijan, not far from the Iranian border.