September 8–15, 2008: Michael Pacholski and C.P. Aboobacker

week of September 8-15, 2008

Michael Pacholski and C.P Aboobacker

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Michael Pacholski
bigtallcubsfan@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Jan Oskar Hansen is a poet from, Benafim, Algarve, Portugal He is the author of “Letters from Portugal”, “Lunch in Denmark” and “La Strada” and his work also appears in the anthologies “Routs” and “Shaken & Stirred” published by Bewrite books

Visit Jan’s blog here: oskar.aucklandpoetry.com

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Michael Pacholski nd may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Fringe

There was something no poet could name for sure
about the one girl who smiled at me
years ago with the glitter
on her cheeks and the red fringe scarf
she wore that bore those faint traces
of perfume stolen from an older sister
Even Shakespeare himself
would not have had a word
for how she walked up to me
a mere 11-year-old tall stick
that could not speak as she said
“Hi, Michael How are you?
Are you okay? Are you frozen?
Are you some sort of snowman?”
while she giggled and draped
that red fringe scarf around me
me — a newly growing boy
a new boy now
watching her skip away
without a word
a new boy now
with lips of red fringe (lips without a word)
new hair of red fringe (hair without a word)
new mind and body and soul of red fringe
(mind and body and soul without words, words, words)
my tongue frozen from wanting
and toes curled from wanting

Dorothy Budd

“The Dialysis Bandit”
loves to laugh round and bright
with her gathered children
and strangers all alike
even through the flimsy cotton mask
she must wear whenever
the nurses adjust her tubes
agreeing this nickname is far better
than calling her “Whistler’s Mother”
simply because she sits quiet
most of the seconds
minutes and hours of the day
in a nursing home
in the corner of a room
in a recliner
knitting

C.P Aboobacker
aboobackercp_mpr@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

C.P Aboobacker was born 18th March 1945 He is a retiredd professor of history working on the syndicate of the University of Calicut So far, he’s published twenty books, of which five are Malayalam anthologies He has also been a Poetry Super Highway featured Poet of the Week four previous times C.P is chief editor of www.thanalonline.com He is left in politics, very liberal in religion, anti-imperialist and was member of the national preparatory committee that organized the Students Federation of India in 1970.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by C.P Aboobacker and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Singing in the chorus

Singing in the chorus
I forgot myself;
A clap from the crowd
Solitary and sweet
Reverberated in my bosom;
Oh, are you in the crowd?

I sang into my fathom
Bringing the last drop out The chorus was magical Again a clap in the crowd
Solitary and sweet;
Are you alone?

Lights are dim and pale
Life a fairy tale;
From street to street,
Town to town,
The wagon moved;
Hamlets and oases covered,
Camels stood beside the camps
Heads rising, attuning to our chorus;
Infernal birds slowed their wings
To receive our vibrant songs
Mountains had throughways to enter,
Orchestrated by the passing of time;
Warriors and seers passed by
Accompanied by the stirrings of history
And the tambourines of victory
And the melancholy harping of losses The chorus moved along,
Pedestrians of the ages
Through deserts and mountains
Plains and shores
I heard your clapping
Solitary and sweet
From eternity to eternity
You travel parallel
To the paths I traverse
Singing to generations
In the moments of sighs Between the strings of notes
I wonder whether you could identify
The strain that rose from my bosom Did you ever identify me in the chorus?
I could never find you
As time passed by
The last flute was separated from my reed My bosom was empty
No note was sung You clapped still
Unto the last breath
I piped into the flute
I saw a glass jar broken
At the spot where you clapped It remained in pieces
With no contents showing A breeze was blowing
Along the passes I came,
Wet and warm It touched my cold and dry arm.

.Edited by Joneve Mc Cormick