June Nandy junenandy@gmail.com Bio (auto) I’m June Nandy from Calcutta, India A Translator by profession.Tutored languages (English, Hindi) in high schools previously Post Graduate in English and Hindi Literature Diploma in Translation Science(Topper) Married and a mommy to a beautiful daughter Visit June on the web here: http://www.editred.com/junenandy | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by June Nandy and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
I will not wait for you The late sky dyed me indigo, while I stood holding the iron grille of the window Go to bed said the plastic bags dumped in the drain, wait no more A beheaded tree looked at me, I felt my neck, there wasn’t any slit line A night owl slept Face down upon the window sill the motor exhausts perhaps drugged it Hundred lighted bulbs from the highrise gold cages told me, it was snowing there inside An aero plane came flying towards me, the house thankfully is not tall enough to meet it in the sky It was business as usual with the roads cars stopped by, to buy minor bodies The bats have Entered into me, my folks say I hear supersonic, I look upside down I will not Wait for you any more You show me a different world. Ma You, Gentlewoman sat at the table, sipping Darjeeling tea like an eighteenth century painting the window behind, framing you I was then, just a young camera the long shots made you romantic with the close ups, always classical I could never edit you you came across as fragments in silhouettes, in shadows in hints, in hurts sometimes smaller than me I read you as a thermometer your silent mercurial blob moved up…down, while you hummed a folk tune like a broken record player the nights went to you without moon I knew it, seeing your jet black eyes your obedient black tresses your sulking room in the kitchen the stove made you red the smoke watered your eyes while you straightened the tuberoses now, when I see a Bible, near a lone lighted candle a Gita, on a rosewood book holder an Azaan, wafting through the air I know, you have made a home in me You- a peace You- a beauty You- tolerance You- goodness You- god like You- mine Me- proudly yours.
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KJ Hannah Greenberg drkarenjoy@yahoo.com Bio (auto) Once a rhetoric professor who wrote for periodicals like The American Journal of Semiotics and The Massachusetts Journal of Communication, and who spend National Endowment for the Humanities money in places like Princeton University ‘s Classics Department, Channie Greenberg is now a committed creative writer who tramps across genres Currently, she is the creative nonfiction judge for Notes & Grace Notes, the “Old/New World Discourse” blogger for The Jerusalem Post, the “Teen Stage” blogger for Type-A Mom, and the power behind Expressively Yours Writing Workshops®. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by KJ Hannah Greenberg and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. Alphabetical Trails My baby leaves a trail Of slime -d- Varmints My mollycoddle marks a route Of toy -d- Words My cosset queen verbs a path Of joy -ful- Xplorations My honey darling blazes directions ‘til no -one’s- The Yiser. Baby Spit Peas
At three, baby spit peas Across the dashboard, proving She is woman rather than Garbage can Shrugging, I pull Tall boys toward Quiet, against Taller mouths I smile, shrugging away Pain, Residing in their futures Hummingbirds strung on wires won’t Waste time poised for flitting When needed, they dive From hurt, hurrying Rather than remaining Moving targets rarely die.
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