Death is a white man with alabaster skin,
pretty blonde hair,
and eyes grey as a monsoon sky.
I met him just last week
In a dream where old friends became strangers
and god was nowhere to be found.
Death was a man
and there was no fire, no streets paved in gold,
nothing waiting for me-
just a polite gentleman with a black Cadillac
ready to take me on my last ride.
He opened the door to the back and led me in,
whispering secrets I could not comprehend and
answering the questions that were running amuck in my mind.
Then he closed my coffin shut and all I knew was darkness.
There I lay,
as I felt the car move at blinding speeds on a curved road
much like the ones back home.
I wondered why my last ride was so miserable,
But then I heard him say it was for the best.
It was better for me to feel and not see
The life I passed by.
So that when we reached,
my heart would be free
to turn to dust and
return to nothingness.
For suddenly I remembered all the people I loved
And all ones I hated
And in that moment, I did not care anymore.
I became free.
Free to approach annihilation.
Free to die.
You see, Love is strange. But, death is stranger.(more…)
Am I a dilapidated structure that looks like a castle on the outside?
A mirage in a wet desert of unclean dreams and forbidden conversation?
Or am I real like your breathing on my neck, gentle nudges towards the sad, narrow path?
Tell me, who I am. (more…)
Because he loved me the least and he hurt me the most.
Because somewhere I got tired of still waters.
I fell for tsunami waves, crashing on my shore
destroying every little piece of me. I hated him in the beginning.
I hated him in the end, but somewhere in between
I fell in love with the idea that the roar in his waters was meant for me.
He screamed and cried, and I cried too. And somewhere there
I began to see the words and melody that formed on my lips. It was
magic. But the painful kind. (more…)
Red hood cars with metal rims were prepared
to whisk away that indignant girl who votes for the hand,
and Baboo ready to spring on those
half-wit photographers who had no credentials to their name.
There is no value for framed certificates in this land of street credit.
Motor cycles burn. Lathis charged.
I have always loved creativity and it’s something that stirs my heart. I also love submitting my work to people, journals, magazines, etc. simply because it is always nice if they accept and you get a platform to showcase a bit of who you are in your work. That is why I have decided to open a Submissions page on my blog because I feel that featuring other writers on my site will not only give them a platform but also create an atmosphere of even more creativity and even better poetry.
I don’t have millions of followers to show your poetry to but I do have quite a wide readership that includes people from all around the world. It’s amazing when I get messages from people from countries I’d never expect. It is really wonderful to see people who take poetry seriously.
So please do send in any poems that you might want to have on my blog.
All rights will remain with the author and should you want to have it removed from the site at any later stage, I will gladly comply. This is not an official publication but just a chance to be featured on a creative forum. (more…)
It’s ironic and almost hilarious that I once sent some poems to a literary magazine and assumed that I was rejected and not published without actually checking the magazine. I went through Thumb Print magazine just now to find that I was actually published in it. Special thanks to Dr Ananya S Guha for his kind words and for giving me a platform to showcase my creativity. It melts my heart that I am noticed, even if it is in the slightest way. It gives me hope that dreams do come through and one day, it’ll be even more than this.
POETRY EDITOR ANANYA GUHA’s NOTE:
Bethamehi Joy Syiem’s poems delight for their honest, ineffable utterances. This is poetry of the heart. Ancestry, relationship, history and love are the promontories of her poetry. There is a narrative power in her poetry, story within a story. She is not overtly didactic, the moral question is in limbo, it is left to the reader to discover it. The first poem interprets ‘blood’ variously- remarkable for a person of her age. Here is a very young poet confronted by the vastness of life. Her technique has finesse, she comprehends the craft remarkably well.
Click on the link below to check out the website for Thumb Print Magazine