May 22-28, 2006: Helen Losse and A. Thiagarajan

week of May 22-28, 2006

Helen Losse and A Thiagarajan

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Helen Losse

Bio (auto)

Helen Losse is a poet, free lance writer, and Poetry Co-Editor of The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature Educated at Missouri Southern State and Wake Forest Universities, she taught English in private schools in Charlotte, NC She now lives in Winston-Salem with her husband and sons and occasionally writes book reviews for the Winston-Salem Journal She has published poems in both print magazines and on the internet, including poems in anthologies for survivors of Hurricane Katrina.  In 2004, FootHills Publishing released her first chapbook, Gathering the Broken Pieces, Poets on Peace #5.  Her second chapbook, Paper Snowflakes, is forthcoming from Southern Hum Press in late 2006  Her recent poetry publications include Right Hand Pointing, Subtle Tea, Blue Fifth Review, Southern Hum, Adagio Verse Quarterly, The Blueprint: An Assemblage of the Fifth Element, Spitfire Poetics, Scorched Earth and The Centrifugal Eye   In her poetry, she often combines her interest in creative writing with her knowledge of African American history in an effort to promote equality, justice, and a quest for peace.

Visit Helen’s blog, Windows Toward the World here:

And another site featuring her poetry sponsored by Writer’s Harbor Software, here:

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Helen Losse and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

A Memory Of Joplin

The snow begins falling in elephant-ear
flakes, dusting low branches of the back-yard

maple Harder and harder,
the snow swirls down

from white-delicious clouds Then flakes
became smaller, and silently, silently the snow

covers the blades of the tall, yellow grass When the wind blows, the drifts grow deeper
At least, next to the deck, they do And the deeper they grow the more I miss the girl-

warm in her snowsuit-
frozen in memory yet waiting for me to

admire her kitty-cat mittens
forthcoming in Paper Snowflakes, a chapbook published by Southern Hum Press

Rookie At the Barre

Now enter child-ballerina,

delicate, pretty
in pink-long-leg ribbon-wrap,
stretchy tights & leotard:

entendre before plie,
.en pointe:

but will she rise

to try the floor-skim: bourree, 

or opt, once again,
for just running and jumping
.Allegro! .Slender girl

climbing a trellis
beside the climbing roses,
and looking in the mirror

sees American Beauty
& a rookie at the barre
forthcoming as # 586 in the POEMS-FOR-ALL series
from 24th Street Irregular Press

A Thiagarajan

Bio (auto)

A postgraduate in English, A Thiagarajan taught in colleges in India, before joining the finance sector; he has been writing in English and Tamil since college days, though quite a lot of them remained on the paper he wrote on (that is, when not consigned by him to the waste paper basket).Nuances of relationship between individuals, mental pain and cruelty we inflict on each other and ourselves are his obsession Interests include finance, Sri Aurobindo and mythology He lives in Mumbai with his wife Rama and his 21 years old son, Ganesh studies in the US

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by A Thiagarajan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

T’was a small lizard on the wall

T’was a small lizard on the wall-
It tiny little tail

its motion and rest both
my wife’s fear,

menacing to her-

make her climb on the dining table

and stand for hours What it is to itself I don’t know
Remaining motionless and still
for minutes together consuming hours many
Suddenly darting across

shivers in her spine-
to unreachable corners

crevices unknown-
formless wordless poetry
lightning and noiseless thunder in the skies
-to be hit by the hubby’s stick
to drop dead
to be picked up
consigned to history

The Mirror

I look at it many times, day and night too,
after a shower, to have a shave, to comb,
brush, apply aftershave, have some powder sometimes simply to look, twisting muscles
turn the lips to odd shapes, catch yourself
doing strange things to your face
like you show a ghost to the child
showing you teeth like to your dentist
sometimes wishing to see a different face
Keep it in all positions to see your back
And all that you can’t see Alone you talk to it But, there comes a stage when
you don’t talk- but it talks to you
And you talk in reply like you talked to your dolls as a child The child outgrows the dolls
But you don’t Come to think of it, really do they?
And really don’t you?


Sitting erect, straight backbone
As if a man in military attention-
Like wayside gods on the village entrances
In the Indian minds, the kaaval dheivams *
Eyes closed with balls in the centre
In the closed-light or the dim one
Concentrate on the nosetip
Airstrip for fly landing
That goes humming around you
Despite every chase She strolls into there with the regualarity
Of a timekeeping pendulam
To comb, to change, to take, to keep
Or simply to cure
The flowing polyester
With the smell of spices
Enveloping, enveloping It’s a way of detachment.

* gods keeping a watch (protection)


There’s a garbage-bin in front of my house Neighbours and me

We all dump into it

The tied parcels

Thrown from afar

With the aplomb of a bowler

Many times, hit the rim

Spilling and spreading

The smell and the sight.

A small black cat is always there

Right next to the bin

It never stirs nor troubles
in passive and meditative quiet

gets into the house nearby
in the nights everyday Today as I was leaving house in the morning
I saw the cat getting ready
to move and cross my path-
saw me coming out of my gate

head bending to the left

looked at me

thought awhile halting
perhaps considered  the ill-omen

And retraced its steps .