Songs of Anisha
“The Young Poet,”
by Abigail George
The young poet often stands alone –
Unsuccessful at his first attempts for
Greatness, he is unique, doubtful, restless,
Stubborn and miserable when he fails – for him
Every single word has an unspeakable relevance.
On the brink of a lingering edginess,
He has a fluttering insecurity like
Butterflies in the pit of your stomach and
When he is at his worst, it is never fleeting,
Never considerate of his sensitivity, his
Demeanour, his rage, the blur
Of his world through his tears as he
Scribbles on the page.
“Home Alone, Traveler,”
by Kola Tubosun
The heavy hum-dum of numb dumbbells lazing on a dirty rug
does not rise above this state, nor do the electro-carts that tug
in whimpers at his idle mind. There stirs and falls in random beats,
like hearts half-baked in a searing whirlwind of summer heats,
doses of silence, filtered in cold, frittered in the evening eye.
“It will not be tonight when the world ends.” Only a cycle crawls by.
A new man peers across a ledge, pondering time, pondering faces;
and only a thicket of quiet responds, louder than a din of dank spaces.
It bobs, it weaves a yarn of times. It reeks of a kind of cold, sour breath,
of stories told again and again; a non-listening ear. A certain death.
It is silent here now, as memory plays roughly along the helm of choice,
heaving noise: “It will not be tonight when the world ends,” in a low lone voice.
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