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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