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Difference in War (In English)

When, I was so calm and silent,
You invited me, in land of love-war,
By blowing mature love conch.

Love-war was getting, when its par,
You got to go, so far and far.

How much is difference there?
In-between, other war and love-war.

Alike, pain arises in heart so far.
When, opponent wins in other war,
And opponent escapes in love-war.

poem by R.A. Chaudhary
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Let Me Play Football

Let me run on the field
Of a crowded football stadium,
The ball is sticky to my leg,
Let the opponent’s defenders to come.

Let me head the ball with full force,
When my team player does a corner kick,
I want to place the ball in opponent’s net,
That’s an honour more than climbing Everest’s pick.

Let my team’s footballers hug me,
When I score a world class goal,
And I shall preserve my supporters’ celebration
Forever in my golden soul.

poem by Biswajit Ganguly
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Sherrie

While the masses, like auburn-eyed cattle
were engrossed in their meaningless prattle.
An opponent stood tall
with much spunk, all in all
and her spark then ignited the battle.

It was soon about matching our wits.
There were insults and other mean bits.
But when peace came at dawn
she would no longer yawn
but describe her formidable tits.

I am sorry to mention that word.
Just pretend you had really not heard
he who says that our chests
are the equal to breasts
is a very much ignorant nerd.

So I thank my opponent of old
who resides just like me in the fold.

[...] Read more

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Hyperbolist

He wishes to rush,
Back to a place he says he distrusts.
A place he has been,
Defending his maverick ways.
A place he campaigns against...
And promises if elected,
He would change...
The minds of those dismayed.

And yet he brings his 'movement' to a halt!
Refusing to debate,
His opponent with such deceiving bait.
And exposed he is...
As one of those he secretly cheers!

There is a crisis he claims needs his attention.
A crisis he has allowed.
And this he does not mention.
He has missed more votes that affects common folks.
His political aims are for personal gain.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Maradona, Maradona, Maradona…

This poem is dedicated to worldwide football fans.

Your left foot had the power
Of a great painter’s brush,
You made the football
To talk to your
Body’s changing moves.
Defenders all over the world
Tried to scare you, tackle you, fowl you,
Could they snatch your external body part,
A football?
You moved like a white lighting
In the dark cloud of opponent's defense;
Other strikers saw opponent's goal post,
You aimed to shoot there,
There was one word that fed you
In your entire football career –
Goal, goal, goal.
Not only Argentine fans
But football lovers worldwide

[...] Read more

poem by Biswajit Ganguly
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An Adaption to Personality

How to best beat an opponent,
At their own game you had not intended to play?
I don't know about you.
But I would approach 'that' this way:

You must descend from heights secretly achieved.
Slowly this is done.
With the assistance of a full Moon and twinkling stars.
Wait for a clear night to come.

And glowing behind your majestic descent...
Employ the use of magnificent hues.
Brilliant in assorted colors.
And glowing softly upon their eyes.

And as you are witnessed to land upon the Earth,
Floating upon your own internal energy externalized...
Call each one of those who slandered you viciously,
By first and last name.
Let everyone realize you are familiar,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Zeke Snirer, poetry critic

Zeke Snirer.
he’s young. ish.
he’s got something to offer the world:
he’s the best judge of poetry. ever.
this is his sincere opinion.
so he’s obliged to tell you. often.
in case you missed it.

he’ll take on any other poet.
invited or not.
especially celebrated ones.
he’ll even interrupt their own poetry readings
tell them how bad they are
and offer to read his own poems
to prove to the audience
what poetry should be.

he’ll grade Shakespeare’s sonnets
and tell you the very few
which are nearly as good as his own -

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Planting Corn

To say that I am out of touch,
Is preposterous.

It is said I am a proponent,
Of the strategies applied
By the current administration.
I am appalled by those allegations,
Wholeheartedly.

My family and I are aware of the needs,
Of the common people.
Annually my wife and I take it upon ourselves,
To ensure each one of our servants
Is given a turkey each Thanksgiving without fail.
They are pleased and happy.
We witness their smiling faces.
We are 'there'.
We see this!

In fact,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Man Who Mistook His Mistress For A Violin

The man who mistook his mistress for a violin
is the subject of a book by J. M. Coetzee.
Mistaking music for a mistress is a sin
more serious that to eat bread without saying motsi.

When sex becomes a contest in which you subject
erotic will to your opponent who’s a wench,
don’t treat her like a piece of bread and don’t object
if she declares she is not ready yet to bensch.

Motsi is the Hebrew name of a piece of bread a Jew may not eat before saying a blessing, hamotsi lehem min ha’arets, meaning “He who brings forth bread from the earth.” Bensch means “bless, ” and in the context of eating bread it refers to the blessing that in Hebrew is called birkat hamazon, meaning “the blessing for food.” Coetzee’s description of himself as “the man who mistook his mistress for a violin” is clearly an allusion to Oliver Sacks’s story of the man with visual agnosia who mistook his wife for a hat.

The poem was in part inspired by Tim Parks’s review of J. M. Coetzee’s “Summertime: A Fiction, ” a novel that may or may not be autobiographical (“The Education of ‘John Coetzee, ’” NYR (February 11,2010) :
Following Boyhood (1997) and Youth (2002) , Summertime concludes J.M. Coetzee's autobiographical trilogy. It is a teasing and surprisingly funny book, at once as elaborately elusive and determinedly confessional as ever autobiography could be. If Boyhood and Youth were remarkable for Coetzee's use of the third person (the author declining to identify with his younger self) and the present tense (a narrative device more commonly associated with fiction than memoir) , Summertime takes both distancing and novelizing a step further. Despite our seeing Coetzee's name on the cover and hence assuming the author alive and well, we are soon asked to believe that he is now dead, the book being made up of five interviews conducted by an anonymous biographer who is speaking to people he presumes were important to the writer during the years 1972–1975.
Coetzee writes about the affair he has, possibly fact, possibly fiction, with a psychotherapist called Julia:
John, she says, was actually “a minor character” in a drama played out between herself and her husband. While the latter was traveling, the lovers enjoyed an “erotic entanglement” in the marital bed. Yet John was peripheral to her life; at the one moment when she was ready to leave her husband and he could have become a major player, he “took fright” and snuck out of the hotel where she was sleeping….Certainly there’s comedy to be had in the description of this willfully unassertive man partnering a woman who sees sex “as a contest, a variety of wrestling in which you do you best to subject your opponent to your erotic will.” “He was not in my league, ” Julia complains. When John tries to persuade her to moderate her lovemaking to fir the slow movement of a Schubert string quintet, the better to “re-experience” the sexual feelings of a bygone age, Julia shows him the door. “The man who mistook his mistress for a violin, ” she comments.

1/30/10

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Misaking A Mistress For A Violin

MISTAKING A MISTRESS FOR A VIOLIN

The man who mistook his mistress for a violin
is the subject of a book by J. M. Coetzee.
Mistaking music for a mistress is a sin
more serious than to eat bread without saying motsi.

When sex becomes a contest in which you subject
erotic will to your opponent, wife or wench,
don’t treat her like a piece of bread, and don’t object
if she declares she is not ready yet to bensch.

Motsi is the Hebrew name of a piece of bread a Jew may not eat before saying a blessing, hamotsi lehem min ha’arets, meaning “He who brings forth bread from the earth.” Bensch means “bless, ” and in the context of eating bread it refers to the blessing that in Hebrew is called birkat hamazon, meaning “the blessing for food.” Coetzee’s description of himself as “the man who mistook his mistress for a violin” is clearly an allusion to Oliver Sacks’s story of the man with visual agnosia who mistook his wife for a hat.

The poem was in part inspired by Tim Parks’s review of J. M. Coetzee’s “Summertime: A Fiction, ” a novel that may or may not be autobiographical (“The Education of ‘John Coetzee, ’” NYR (February 11,2010) :
Following Boyhood (1997) and Youth (2002) , Summertime concludes J.M. Coetzee's autobiographical trilogy. It is a teasing and surprisingly funny book, at once as elaborately elusive and determinedly confessional as ever autobiography could be. If Boyhood and Youth were remarkable for Coetzee's use of the third person (the author declining to identify with his younger self) and the present tense (a narrative device more commonly associated with fiction than memoir) , Summertime takes both distancing and novelizing a step further. Despite our seeing Coetzee's name on the cover and hence assuming the author alive and well, we are soon asked to believe that he is now dead, the book being made up of five interviews conducted by an anonymous biographer who is speaking to people he presumes were important to the writer during the years 1972–1975.
Coetzee writes about the affair he has, possibly fact, possibly fiction, with a psychotherapist called Julia:
John, she says, was actually “a minor character” in a drama played out between herself and her husband. While the latter was traveling, the lovers enjoyed an “erotic entanglement” in the marital bed. Yet John was peripheral to her life; at the one moment when she was ready to leave her husband and he could have become a major player, he “took fright” and snuck out of the hotel where she was sleeping….Certainly there’s comedy to be had in the description of this willfully unassertive man partnering a woman who sees sex “as a contest, a variety of wrestling in which you do you best to subject your opponent to your erotic will.” “He was not in my league, ” Julia complains. When John tries to persuade her to moderate her lovemaking to fir the slow movement of a Schubert string quintet, the better to “re-experience” the sexual feelings of a bygone age, Julia shows him the door. “The man who mistook his mistress for a violin, ” she comments.

[...] Read more

poem by Gershon Hepner
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