Tag: Contemporary poems

  • Four Poems by Duane Anderson

    Four Poems by Duane Anderson

     

     

    Let’s Bleed

    He walked into the room
    and said “Let’s bleed.”
    It was his time,
    the right building, the right room,
    right day, right time.
    I took his name and information

    and sent on his way, to those
    who would make his words turn true.
    Let’s bleed, after all, it was a blood drive.
    Yes, go ahead and bleed,
    but I would not be joining him.
    I would wait for another time,

    when it too was my time to donate again.
    As he left, he said “Good night,”
    when it was still early morning,
    a good night that too would have to wait
    until much later when night had
    finally poked its head into the room.


     

    The A+ Team

    I finally made it as a member on the A+Team,
    not something I was trying out for,
    or anything I desired to put on my resume,

    but made my way up to the top rung,
    where now I was requested by name
    to work at certain events, wondering if they

    would they provide us with special uniforms?
    The elite squad of volunteers,
    a secret squad known only but to a few.

    The A-Team name had already been used,
    so it was assigned as the A+Team, one cut above.
    Was I a Hannibal, a Face, a B.A. or a Murdock?

    It was nice being part of a special team,
    but then, there was also a downside,
    that of getting more phone calls and emails

    to volunteer for events, something I never
    minded sharing this opportunity with others.
    Pick a number from a hat,

    the number one, always showing up,
    the only number in the hat.
    I win again, I think?


     

    The Case for Wearing No Make-up

    If I would have known I was
    going to be interviewed on television
    at the holiday blood drive,

    I might have shaved and
    wore different clothes that morning,
    Was the camera angle wrong as I looked

    at the interviewer instead of at the camera?
    I would say yes, it was pointed at me,
    but they were the experts,

    and no one told me where I should look.
    I only wished that the interview hadn’t taken place,
    but someone twisted my arm, and I gave in,

    something a telemarketer would be in awe of,
    an easy mark.
    Now, left sitting with the interviewer,

    the cameraman standing in front
    for a live morning broadcast,
    followed with a taped interview shown on

    the evening news. Take it or leave it,
    a comedy or horror performance,
    left for your own interpretation


     

    Pep Rally

    Dozens of workers left their offices and
    headed to the elevator, getting off on the
    first floor as if they were being herded like
    steers on a cattle drive, but no one was being

    corralled into the lobby to check in with me
    for the blood drive that was being held.
    Each one kept on walking, passing me by
    as if I didn’t exist, more than likely going to

    a meeting in another area on the floor.
    I kept hoping there was a possibility they were
    attending a pep rally where cheer leaders
    performed their best cheers attempting

    to convince a few additional people to
    join in on the blood drive, but as they came
    out from their meeting, each one headed back
    to their desk. No one came over to see me,

    not even to say hello. I guess wearing
    a clown costume wasn’t quite the right
    attention getter, and the only one who
    looked like a fool, was me.


    To read more poems by Duane Anderson, click:

    https://www.modernliterature.org/poems-by-duane-anderson-4/ 

    https://www.modernliterature.org/poems-by-duane-anderson-3/ 

    https://www.modernliterature.org/poems-by-duane-anderson-2/ 

    About the Author

    Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE.  He has had poems published in Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the author of  ‘On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk,’  ‘The Blood Drives: One Pint Down,’ and ‘Conquer the Mountains.’

  • Poems by Mini Babu

    Poems by Mini Babu

     

    Open Fists

    Of the couple of languages
    That I have perfected –
    one is – “open fists.”
    I go around opening and clenching
    my fists –
    people seem grateful finding
    my fists open.
    Once in a while they even attempt
    unfolding my clenched fists,
    I fend to worsen their rage,
    and afterward loosen to allow in air;
    however, air mattered little to them.

    How, they had made too low an estimate
    of open fists and freedom.


     

    Pilgrimage

    At one time, every drop of water
    competent to flow, thirst for
    a glimpse of an ocean,
    having been fed on tales of
    ocean ecstasies,
    but, not one,
    not one in the family line of water,
    not even a keen ancestor
    have had a vision of an ocean,
    their patriarch,
    even if,
    at one time,
    a drop of water is granted
    an oceanic view in all
    oceanic supremacy,
    that will describe the termination
    of their clan.

    All the same,
    every drop of water,
    prides itself in its oceanic bloodline
    uninformed that a single cell
    holds a body in itself.


     

    My Language in Love is “Not Speaking”

    My language in love is “not speaking,”
    and definitely not spill a word
    when in love
    detecting to the full that
    a spoken word can weaken
    the profile of love.

    Days are spent non-descript:
    sitting across for a cup of tea;
    close together lost in thought;
    again, at the beach, shedding looks
    as far as eyes could grab,
    and walk back, hand in hand
    “not speaking.”

    When in love, a smile is not just
    a curve of lips
    because my language of love
    is “not speaking.”

    Years back, my friend’s mother
    dropped her heart in words
    at her husband’s death :
    “so much has been left unsaid.”
    I did not return
    to disclose that
    my language in love is “not speaking.”


     

    I Journey in a Room

    I journey in a room
    adequate to shape a poet’s breath.
    Its walls regulate visions
    I desire for,
    hazy skies, reticent oceans,
    artful forests, extraordinarily
    pure deserts, mountain sentries –
    they muse at will on my walls.

    On specific days I draw the walls
    and you see me through,
    while I put up,
    disgraced by transparency . . .
    other days, the walls are drawn
    and not a neighbour’s breath
    trespass unnoted
    and these days you can
    foretell strategies connived
    behind a shut door.

    All the same,
    the space is haunted,
    you rap an obscure
    door for entry . . .
    And this demanded, a long long time,
    to drive in the truth of having
    fashioned my own room and
    that I journey in a room.


     

    Be Raw to the Self 

    Be raw to the self
    while writing poetry,
    however, permit the depluming
    to be unhurried,
    nearly innocent,
    with less hurt,
    as a bird that pecks gently,
    refrain threshing grains from husks,
    both are crucial in poetry,
    let the depluming be pillow-soft
    as Othello to Desdemona.

    Nonetheless, poetry is a ringmaster,
    it will oblige you to outdo,
    and you, the circus monkey,
    groom the self to pull off gently,
    leaving behind blood for another poem.

    I have wasted my beauty
    depluming myself in poetry.


     

    About the Author

     

    Dr. Mini Babu was working as an Associate Professor of English at the Dept. of Collegiate Education, Govt. of Kerala and currently is working at BJM Govt. College, Kollam. Her poems have featured in anthologies, journals and magazines. Her collections of poems are Kaleidoscope (2020) and Shorelines (2021). Her co-edited collection of poems is Meraki (2021).