Himadri Lahiri is former Professor, Department of English and Culture Studies, University of Burdwan, West Bengal. Currently, he is Professor of English at the School of Humanities, Netaji Subhas Open University, Kolkata. He has written extensively on Diaspora Studies, Postcolonial Studies and Indian English Literature. His latest publication is Diaspora Theory and Transnationalism (Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan, 2019).  Contemporary Indian English Poetry and Drama (Newcastle on Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2019), co-edited by him, has also been published recently. He writes book reviews for newspapers and academic journals. Contact: hlahiri@gmail.com

Special Collection: Creativity in the Time of the Pandemic 2020>>

The Stranded

The last bus has left the city.
It’s lockdown now.
Why then are you waiting there
with the teeming multitude
from all corners of my country?

A new phrase perhaps – perhaps you didn’t understand.
Or you might have missed the Word
that thundered overhead – loud and clear:
Clear out, clear off!
The annus horribilis on the prowl
and no victory in sight –
On earth, in the sky or on the waters!

Laxmi the maid
who noticed last December
a strange pigmentation in the sky
and dreamt of locusts in the field
is stuck up in the metropolis.

And the last bus has left the city.

Before We Go to Sleep

The locks on the door rattle in restless wind
blowing across the Himalayas.
Inside the gated space
the sane acts insane.
Someone swats at flies invisible,
one crawls on all fours on the muddy floor,
some try how not to act patriots,
one, mad as a hatter, even climbs a podium
from there to announce:
Physician, heal thyself!

Now that we are all shut up
Locked indeed in our own sanatoriums
With no hope of parole
We can hear stomping feet outside!

Who indeed are the ones who stomp outside with heavy boots?
Who beats his own trumpet and threaten retaliation?
The panacea must arrive from the land of herbs and spices!
Who are the ones to announce modifications
and clang metals and burst crackers
to drive away the evil?

Now that we’re inside,
is it growing gloomy?
With a little bit of yoga or some tidbits
we try resistance.

Some of us sleepwalk in dim daylight!

We imagine peacocks in full arrogance in open roads and isolated buildings.
In fading daylight we hear songs of dolphins from distant waters –
are they not singing to us?
Can we then dream of dancing in the sun, hand in hand?
Can we really dream of purged egos and uncontaminated minds
before we go to sleep, finally?

Published on April 18, 2020. © Author. 

Cyril Dabydeen’s work has appeared in over 60 literary mags and anthologies, including Poetry (Chicago), Prairie Schooner (US), The Critical Quarterly (UK), Canadian Literature, and the Oxford, Penguin and Heinemann Books of Caribbean Verse and Fiction. Published 20 books of prose and poetry—the latest being God’s Spider (Peepal Tree Press, UK)  He is a former Poet Laureate of Ottawa (1984-87). He has taught Creative Writing at the University of Ottawa for many years. He is of indentured Indian heritage born in Guyana, S. America. Contact: cdabydeen@ncf.ca

Special Collection: Creativity in the Time of the Pandemic 2020>>

A Life Of Crows
Whoever we may have become
watching the crows circling
the house and making
loud cawing noises.
A caterwaul, believe me, sounds
for whoever else is listening,
as my neighbour said it’s only
about those dying.
He would take his dog outside
and look out for everyone—
what the crows know best,
birds’ ways no less, or it’s about
something else as ethologists
like Konrad Lorenz couldn’t tell.
Words left unsaid—
about my neighbour, Manuel,
long gone, broken by illness—
crows looking over now.

HEART & LUNGS

The air we breathe is what the lungs
know about, what the ancient Greeks
or the Pharaohs contemplated best
more than Harvey of blood circulation.
Oh the heart and knowing what else
the rib cage tells us about, a distinct
rhythm only I will contend with,
like Odysseus, or some other
I’ve considered less about at
odd moments in distant places,
the imagination indeed, or being
Homer again with mythology.
Ithaca I will aim for, returning
home where I consider brain cells
and start humming to myself
about the liver, kidneys, spleen;
and veins, arteries, aorta, the alveoli,
bronchial tubes as I breathe harder
making sure I’m one step closer
to my own creative self, I know,
but resorting to valves; and those
who will come after with gadgets,
a doctor’s tools yet hanging around
the neck I will again dwell upon
in my own way with a mighty
heave, not unlike real drama
played out on stage, bloodlust
being tragedy from the start.

PAEAN

My vessel, your vessel,
speaking in tongues,
my face close to yours

bending forward,
thighs uncorrupted,
feet splayed out

my voice in your ears,
this moment only–
lips pasted together

laughter I hear again,
with more praise,
a tryst starting over

heaving in, time’s
foreshadowing—
the night’s reckoning

what’s yet to come,
beckoning to you–
hands linked together

more than I care to tell
about being who we are,
with everlasting love

PRISM

This is a crepuscular time,
dark shades in between,
sun being harnessed–
the formidable heat
in the display of green,
ochre, mystery once again.

Looking around, insides
turned out, vermilion hues;
a body pouring out
this moment when all else
is happening–

Eyes, hands & feet,
further blinking,
somersaulting shadows

And with our salted
brows, the body turning–
a sulphurous sun in
my midst, beating down
from the mirageous
sea of sky.

Sobia Kiran is a Ph.D. Humanities student at York University, Toronto, Canada. She loves reading, writing and expressing herself in writing poetry, stories and essays. She has published research articles in several journals.

More info about her publications: https://lcwu.academia.edu/SKiran.

Contact: sobiakiran@yahoo.com

Special Collection: Creativity in the Time of the Pandemic 2020>>

The Last Party

What a joy it was!
Having a party with friends
Celebrating the union
Spending nights out
Treats in the hotels
Camping in the parks
Touring the city
New York…
The city bustling with life
What a fun it was!
Little did he know
The slight fever
The mild cough
Would get so rough
Within a week
He couldn’t breathe
Ventilators couldn’t help
Two other friends also suffered
The painful disease…
No longer able to meet
Or
To see one another
Last moments spent alone
Yearning for the loved ones
Till ecstasy of sleep
Changed into death

Daddy! Wake Up

Bold and Brave
In the face of virus
That knows no cure
He fought for life…
Life of others
Those who suffered
Helpless, breathless
Gasping for life
He was on the frontline
Attending his patients
Day and night
Tireless, restless
He could not go home
His daughter would call
“Daddy! I miss you”
“Daddy! Come home”
Working on the frontline
He fought with the knowledge
Of immanent death…
Sooner or later
He would be a martyr
Like many of his colleagues
Who loved and served
but
Became ill and suffered
He could not go home
He suffered silently and alone
Talking with his loved ones
On the phone
Soon this changed
He could not talk on phone
He was on machines
Breathless, speechless
Video call could show a silent face
His daughter begged
His daughter pleaded
“Daddy! Wake up
Daddy! Wake up”

March Break

We planned for long
To visit France
To visit its museums
To enjoy its galleries
To relish its cuisine
To see the Eiffel Tower
We enjoyed our flight
We loved our stay
Every moment
Exhilarating and exuberating
Suddenly!
Things began to change
We had to rush back
In the immanent lockdown
Nothing was the same…
Happiness changed into fear
Vacation into isolation
Social distancing and quarantine
Until the world would get vaccine
The roads got empty
The malls got closed
Dinner parties postponed
Conferences cancelled
Jobs started from home
Education went online
Meetings became virtual
Relations became visual
Everything changed
Formal or casual
In new mode of life

Frank G. Karioris (he/they/him/them) is a writer and educator based in Pittsburgh whose writing addresses issues of friendship, masculinity, and gender. They are Visiting Lecturer at the University of Pittsburgh. Their academic work has appeared, amongst others, in the Journal of Gender Studies, Journal of Men’s Studies, and Culture Unbound. Their poetic work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, Collective Unrest, Maudlin House, Sooth Swarm Journal, and Crêpe & Penn amongst others. They are a regular contributor to Headline Poetry & Press.

Special Collection: Creativity in the Time of the Pandemic 2020>>

Finding joy during the pandemic

Bacon in the oven,
& biscuits by a sister & friend
& gravy made on the stove.

If I told you this
as a way of shining light
on the sharing of love,

think more of those
actions you have done
to be together as

couples, as family,
as kin born outside of blood
but made in life.

Day 6: A woman across the alley

Standing on the small back balcony,
            overlooking in the distance the Sears,
a woman across the alley & up her back patio
            is wearing a face mask & blue plastic gloves.

She stands in her white bathroom, putting
            a bag of something into a bin
before              heading
            back inside briefly,
leaving the door fully             open.

Walking down, to take out the boxes
to the recycling can, in blue,
            the deck for the apartment below
is littered with
            cut chunks of hazel hair.

This, they must think, is the way to find
a cure, a moment outside of the times
                                                we were together.

Aubade for my students in a pandemic

Each morning I wake up
& each morning I have another
email from students with their
stories of difficulty & pain.

Each morning I send them
my positive thoughts & tell
them that they are right &
valid in the disquiet & grief.

Each morning I tell them
to try & take time to relax,
whatever that might look
like for them in these days.

Each morning I see it, getting
worse with more dead & ill,
& fear taking over greater parts
of each of our consciousness.

Each morning I wake next
to someone I care about & worry
what will happen to them, us,
in the coming days, weeks, months.

Each morning I try to put these
worries to the back of my head,
to let them float away quietly
so that I may send my students words
of kindness, gentleness, & support.

Each morning I know they are
worse off than before & I have less ability
to sooth or help them through what will
pock their lives, today & tomorrow.

Pieces elegiac, pt 3

Compress those
            touches

into yourself.

            *
Touch sky’s
            lightning

to keep yourself.

            *
Oh bodies,
            they are more difficult

than we know.

            *
Sand fallen
                                    & fallow
the shore is further afield

            *
Excitement over joy
                        to be spilled

on tables & over coffee,

            *
A pinhole eye,

            spiral phonograph

plays on.

 
Watching her paint // joy

Hold it in your hands,
   those blues & whites that
overshadow the
  midnight sky out the window.

Touch it with your
            fingers where rain
kisses ground
     & bricks meet mortar.

Those black & white
photos of Picasso
            which seemed so
out of place
     hold my mind now with
depth & wonder
          & I wonder what worlds
you are opening.

A old ceramic white
water jug
            now streaked
with a small crack
    holds all the brushes face down
waiting to return to canvas.

Published on April 18, 2020. © Author.

Born in 1973 in the Paris suburbs, Jean-Frédéric Chevallier is a good example of what globalisation, or, better said, mondialisation can do when it works happily, that is on the left side: philosopher, theatre director and video artist, owner of three Bachelors degrees, two M. Phil and one double PhD, Chevallier was briefly lecturer at Sorbonne Nouvelle University in France and, at a longer length, professor at National University of Mexico. He is living in India since 2008, where he co-heads the tribal organisation Trimukhi Platform (dedicated to produce contemporary art forms and original thought) and the Franco-Indian magazine Fabrique de l’art. With more than 40 dance-theatre-video performances to his credit so far, he has published the essays Approche et de définition d’un tragique du 20ème siècle (ANRT, 2002), El Teatro hoy: una tipologia posible (Paso de Gato, 2011) and Deleuze et le théâtre: rompre avec la représentation (Les Solitaires Intempestifs, 2015) as well as the movie Drowning Princess (DVD L’Harmattan, 2009). More information: http://trimukhiplatform.org. Contact: jfc@trimukhiplatform.org

Special Collection: Creativity in the Time of the Pandemic 2020>>

At the Beginning of Spring War Was Over

1.
Weather was good.
We no longer knew why.
Maybe we never knew it.
The stars were twinkling without being seen.
Rarely it was raining.
We were dying of nothing.
We were no longer thinking.

2.
You were frightened.
You waited.
Then you would have chosen to no longer be afraid in order to no longer wait.
You would have chosen to no longer be sad and frightened.
You would have chosen…
You left.
You all left.
Beyond the mountains of your fathers, beyond the desert, beyond the oceans…
You would have chosen to measure your difference, you would have chosen to no longer be responsible for the death of others, you no longer wanted to abandon others to their death…
You would have chosen to leave, not with the idea of not coming back, but with the necessity of escaping death through joy.
YOU WOULD HAVE FELT SUDDENLY AND SWEETLY THAT YOU NEED AND YOU HAVE, DEEP WITHIN YOU, TO LIVE IN LOVE, FOREVER.

Translation from the French into the Bengali: Sukla Bar Chevallier

The audio records of At the Beginning of Spring War Was Over were released on April 14, 2020 on https://soundcloud.com/trimukhiplatform/sets/poetry-tracks as part of #HomemadeJoy, an initiative by Trimukhi Platform to weave relationships through distance, from one home to another.

Deserted

See the film on Youtube: https://youtu.be/pJeVX236FDk

About DESERTED
Shot with Trimukhi Platform performers in a red stone quarry and amidst Mohua trees on the outskirts of Borotalpada village, West Bengal, India, DESERTED is the new video art film by Jean-Frédéric Chevallier. Originally planed as a video installation, the film is to be watched in loop. It has been released on Trimukhi Platform’s Youtube channel https://www.youtube.com/trimukhiplatform on March 22, 2020 as part of #HomemadeJoy

Credits
direction, text, cinematography, sound design and editing Jean-Frédéric Chevallier
performers Dhanajoy Hansda, Joba Hansda, Ramjit Hansda, Salkhan Hansda, Sukul Hansda, Surojmoni Hansda
production Sukla Bar Chevallier for Trimukhi Platform
recorded voice Ruchama Noorda
art advices Joseph Danan, Ruchama Noorda
video assistant and script Dhananjoy Hansda
sound assistant and electric set-up Sukul Hansda

Jan Gresil Kahambing is an Instructor of Philosophy and Museum Curator of Leyte Normal University, Philippines. He holds the following degrees: Master of Arts in Philosophy (summa cum laude) in 2019 at Holy Name University, Philippines, Bachelor in Sacred Theology (magna cum laude) in 2016, Licentiate in Philosophy and Bachelor in Classical Studies (Rector’s Award, magna cum laude) in 2013, and Bachelor in Philosophy (magna cum laude) in 2011 all at the University of Santo Tomas, Philippines. He was awarded Best in Poetry last 2012 at the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Santo Tomas. Some of his poems in print are as follows:

• The Faces of an End (The Owl, 2016)
• One Vanguard as Two (The Owl, 2015)
• The Dangers of Falling in Love (The Owl, 2015)
• These Emblems of Love (Benavides, 2014; republished, 2015)
• Thy Arced Evangel (Inter Nos Magazine, 2014)
• When in a Manger (Inter Nos Bulletin, 2014)

Special Collection: Creativity in the Time of the Pandemic 2020>>

Ode to a Thought

I thought about you today. As I did yesterday.
I guess I’m still going to think about you again tomorrow.
A day in the life of an abandoned over-thinker
Do I tell you? Nah, you don’t even care
My free trial was over anyway.
Tightrope-walking on Elm Street, you know.
Because you never sleep, quite the night Adarna,
luring men over your charms
but cannot lure your broken past.

You like it.
“I am an unreachable star in the dead of night,” you say
Men marvel over your brightness,
daunted while you remain secretly flattered,
flustered, feeding on their vibes of servitude and bewilderment.
And every night you keep on
haunting, coming and going

But no you’re no ghost, nor a trophy, nor a star.
It takes a little distance to realize that disappointment.

You’re just like anybody else.
Mediocre, average, and a mimic of all your favorite TV shows and books.

Memories gather in this background
No mountains, skies, and hues of majesty
only sheer abyss and vacuum
As if I am writing from Uranus and you from Pluto
Stars somehow spread our dust of words
brought them all together.
Interstellar with little and no interaction.
All I have are the specks before you left.

What is even the point
of talking to someone from a former planet?
You’d only tell me random things,
patronizing, casual, like all others.
Some are lies. Some are half-truths.
Some even recycled things from your recycled world,
photos of your bewitched image
– but an image nonetheless.

You’re dying, of course, from a virus of your own making
a void of nevermore, inciting nothing out of nothing
Your only recourse is to seek accolades
from those you trust and thrust.
You lie in the comfort of your own prison,
which is slowly growing and expanding
as you suck everyone around you in it.
All the while as you keep on
haunting, coming and going.
But no you’re no illusion, nor a prisoner, nor impassive with life.
It takes a closer look to realize that disappointment.

With the hopes and dreams of your favorite TV shows and books,
you have them too.
Like a true politician on TV,
you also rub shoulders and appear concerned to some,
representing the insignificant.
“I am with you in this”
“We have the same taste”
“You are more beautiful”
– seem like the mediocre
and average mimicry of human affairs.

There is brilliance in your synthesis,
modifications of evidential truths,
regurgitations of folk wisdom.
Seems like what an embodiment
of what an after-thought would be

You’re just like anybody else.
A fraud, a commoner, and a part of the bandwagon of indecisive fools.

The hypocrisy of your leadership reeks
of havoc in your bewitched image
You want to be ideal, or was it a “pure orb of consciousness”?
You fight for your kind, of course
You lead a battle with no assurance of winning
so you keep on
haunting, coming and going.

All roads lead to one,
but you roam in labyrinthine expansions,
as you maintain your prison,
schizophrenic, bipolar, solipsist
You look into other ways,
the roads that lead to paradise,
the land of the free, or a Victorian land
with free teas and ubiquitous watchmen
You struggle to detach from your place
a place where the sun also rises
Yes, the path to salvation, you yearn
But your indecisions only bring forth the best intensions
that lead to hell, of no eternal return

I keep overthinking about
what had happened to us
I thought about
how I could also blame myself
I was haunted
as you came and went on
I thought you were with me in this
I thought we had the same taste
I thought I was special to you
Turns out, I put myself in zugzwang

I didn’t realize what a waste of time it was,
investing in a wrong gamble
amidst the shortness of this life
this tightrope existence in a pandemic
It was a perfect game and jest,
played only by the most committed
of players and jesters

They say romance only lasts for 5 years
4 years for me was enough
A perfect quartet for four holy weeks
You had words I hadn’t known,
a Scrabble match set for me to fail.
Turns out I couldn’t play schadenfreude in one turn,
but you could.

But no you’re no player, nor regret, nor a wizard of immortal words.
It takes a closer look to realize that disappointment.

So I thank you for being kind
You had the pleasant niceties of an acquaintance.
You were always nice, unperturbed
until one disturbs your fragile “orb of consciousness”
or was it your messianic ego?

You are the duality of water.
The essence of a woman was it?
– saint and slut, smart and senseless?
You had the honesty of a dead person.
The double-edged sword to arty meta-narratives.
You had the humanity of a bored Lady Pegasus.
That was it.

You had the audacity
to call your men names and assign them characters
from your favorite TV shows and books.
I thought I could be N but I am not
I couldn’t even be J
But you were the alphabet
You were E, L, M, and B
Boorish on Elm Street

You were all these
Until you left
Until you were petrified into something else
Until you vanished
This is beyond disappointment

Fortune, of course, is a woman
Machiavelli was right
Fortunately, you couldn’t turn it around
This opportune time
When you couldn’t handle my naivety
So I’m sorry for not turning in
If you hadn’t shown me the fortune
I wouldn’t also turn myself in

Aside from the mediocre moments
of our sparse and veiled conversations
From a distant universe
Where I couldn’t sing “If these sheets were states”
And the barrel of tears I had already shed
which were not enough to say love in a time of corona
not enough to push my giddy heart
not enough to say some logical sense
These are my thoughts since the day you left

The same thoughts I had yesterday. The same thoughts I have today.
I hope I am not going to think about you again tomorrow.

Published on April 15, 2020. © Author.