GAS Featured Poet: Lily Swarn

 International Beat Poet Laureate India 2023 -2024 and Caesar Vallejo award for literary excellence by  UHE, Lily Swarn, internationally acclaimed, multilingual poet, author, columnist, gold medalist, university colour holder, radio show host, Peace and Humanity Ambassador, writes different genres. History On My Plate won her the Best Author Award. Rippling Moonbeams got Chandigarh Sahitya Akademi award for Best Book of the year. The Divine Dialect of Flowers is nominated for the Panorama Golden Book Award.

She has over 70 international and national awards .

Lily’s poetry has been translated into 21 languages. She has authored eight  books, including A Trellis of Ecstasy, Lilies of the Valley, The Gypsy Trail, Yeh Na Thi Hamaari Qismat, A Passionate Affair with Trees, The Divine Dialect of Flowers .

Lily’s work has been published in numerous anthologies as well as   European and international  magazines. She is often invited to participate in global conferences.

Sometimes 

Sometimes the light has to struggle to emerge from the tangled web of darkness 

Sometimes your aura pushes its way through the claustrophobic queue of tear streaked orphans 

Sometimes I light the rusted lantern of kerosene smelling life 

Sometimes the sunny dandelion has to force its way out from the crack in the sidewalk 

Sometimes the ice cold air from the  upper Himalayas decides to turn benevolent 

Sometimes I know you are around by the way the moon beckons me with hushed gestures 

Primal Me

Uncoil the primal me 

and emerge 

The superior me 

Unshackled by primal fears 

Unadorned by man made hopes 

Mechanical  love swung out of 

Concrete buildings on tarred roads 

Primal pain moaned and yelped 

Screamed and yelled 

Unabashedly 

Primal me 

unashamed of my body 

Its voluptuous contours 

Its raging needs 

Its anguished hormones 

Striding like Venus incarnate 

Encompassing love and desire 

In one fertile leap of prosperity 

Primal anger unfurling high on

The mountains of want 

Released from hollow corners 

In simmering waters 

Unleashing the river of life 

To meander at will to its Creator 

Primal sounds beckoning me 

Loud like the beats of the Nagaada 

That called the troops to war 

Reddening the blood in my stream 

Crimson mouthfuls sucking out 

The violet venom corroding my insides

Primal like the roots  of the Banyan tree 

Fondling  the earth reverentially 

Emerging stronger with its humility 

Lustily uttering the name that hovers 

Shakily just beneath my plump lips 

Shorn of artifice 

Bereft of guile 

Primal me in my holy sunshine 

Naked emotion hanging to dry 

On virgin beaches in ethereal skies 

Shaken , buzzed , hissed , hummed 

The primal sound whistled in the 

Universe 

Beyond gender it's cosmic energy 

Going around the earth and reaching me 

Loud and clear for whatever is released will come back to me 

Primal throbbing pulsating me 

Primal me 

Spinning On Hate 

The world seems to be falling apart 

Spinning deliriously on hate and bigotry 

The centre explodes with the piercing pain of shrapnel 

Frightened earth darkened with congealed blood 

Of a million corpses flung around by mindless war 

Grief oozes out of shameful clouds watching from above 

Vacant eyed orphans search for dead parents 

In alien refugee camps with strange faces 

Smoke spirals choke kindness and love 

Sinister viruses sap out the life force 

As a beseeching universe gets trampled 

With more intruding satellites 

Snooping into homes and hearts 

GAS Featured Poet: Amy Christine Matus

        Amy Christine Matus is a writer from Milwaukee, WI where she was 

honored by The National Beat Poetry Foundation to be recognized as Beat Poet Laureate 2020-2022.

 She is passionate about the cathartic and connective spirit of art and engages in creative events, literary festivals, and collaborative projects both within her community. Amy also is passionate about traveling to participate in those farther away. She was a featured poet in CT at BeatFest in 2008, in Toledo, OH of the same year at Collingwood Arts Center, and most recently traveled to Kentucky to participate in an arts and literary festival in the summer of 2023.

She plans to continue joining other artists and forming a community while 

also highlighting the importance of the arts and staying connected and vocal. Her poetry and other writings has been published by New Generation Beat Publications, Good Japan Press, Rolling Thunder Press and other independent publishers. Amy also enjoys playing piano, singing and spending time in nature with her family and their dog, Hope.

Name Stake

She 

no longer tries to 

convince herself that this 

is wedded bliss 

no longer hides bruises 

with pancake foundation 

she will not lie to herself 

or hide from him 

his Trophies 

At nineteen her mother had told her

she was lucky

to have found this man

Now, twelve years into her prize

Mother rarely calls -too busy living that UnLucky divorced life

on some fancy Florida beach 

She Cooks -makes sure the steak is rare to his liking

musing as he stabs the meat with 

cutting knife 

counts how many nights  she has stood by their bedside 

willing it sharp enough 

to slay sleeping dragons 

-Interrupted

  to pass the salt

He never apologizes 

does not bring flowers like those

of daytime dramas 

Instead 

he glares at the mess 

and she?

she cleans it up 

picks up shards of broken spirit 

split like toothpaste in their sink

She would never leave -the world not enough big 

    even in dreams 

She wears her apron -tight.

yet some solace

her fingers find daily 

as they open 

secret stash

of 

birth control pills 

There will be no sons

     to carry on his 

       NameSake 

            

Lower Case Cursive 

i am 

writing

madly calm 

pout pale 

lips sealed like the envelopes 

that are licked after filled

with

Cursive love letters

lyrics in screenplays of graffiti on acrylic 

so quiet i am

and small

shades of nude

a bleached daytime moon

watching the flies

gathering to pause

voyeuristic 

curious 

oh...our shadows 

and these walls!

on the Verge

     

a cat perched

~ cheetah confessions ~ no issues with metaphor ~ i will say pussy willow

and 

then

think sideways, honeymoon 

the hunt begins 

windowsill curious 

all cats we are on windowsills 

contemplating 

jumping 

  Off

how it will sound

when these stanzas hit the ground 

          

nine life revival 

and how they will

   Dance.

deliberate. in alleys

calico and free

graffiti made by the 

 Heart Beat

let it be Loud

pulse pace breathe speak beat box hopscotch 

handstands and 

peace 

signs flying with feet

i am throwing my words into the World 

for 

u n i to Verse

~ 

let’s see in Color

and feel 

as we think

then 

slow down, stand still

holy the  glory

our chests

close enough to throb 

a vibration

that is god

that is god

that is god

and thunder! come the lightning 

poetic Leo cat 

be on the verge

windowsill curious 

chase . stop. 

grace. 

screaming Grace.

Inappropriate Clothespin 

Then Everyone Was Shouting 

for us 

to look at the clothesline 

at the yellow dress that dared 

fly in the wind like a sunbeam 

and all of the women dripped with frowns 

pointing to the drab whites and off whites that hung

bulbs to berry 

from their wooden pins 

proper and quiet 

made of nothing but 

gravel and the scolding 

the children 

ran behind her garments surely their mothers would not look for them there 

they could pretend 

the dresses were wings to fly them far away from the endless rows of wrinkling foreheads and drying linen 

the young woman new to the block

with head held high 

walked to the row that was so scorned 

placing onto it a red dress

that hung like lust from her clothespin 

she placed it close to the yellow one

so they could hold cotton hands together 

and walked smirking to her doorway 

as the other mothers 

gathered up their children 

tssssk-ing like pigeons 

to prepare dinner for their husbands -yet- feathers to fancy 

perhaps tonight there will be peaches 

Brave and Sensual 

next to the stew pot 

GAS Featured Poet: Santosh Bakaya, Ph.D

Winner of International Reuel Award for literature for Oh Hark, 2014,  The Universal Inspirational Poet Award [ Pentasi B Friendship Poetry and Ghana Government, 2016,] Bharat Nirman Award for literary Excellence, 2017,  Setu Award, 2018,  [Pittsburgh, USA] for ‘ stellar contribution to world literature.’ Keshav Malik Award, 2019, for ‘staggeringly prolific and quality conscious oeuvre’.Chankaya Award  [Best Poet of the Year, 2022, Public Relations Council of India,], Eunice Dsouza Award 2023, for ‘rich and diverse contribution to poetry, literature and learning’, [Instituted  by WE Literary Community]  poet, biographer, novelist, essayist, TEDx speaker, creative writing mentor, Santosh Bakaya, Ph.D has been acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu [Vitasta, 2015], her poems have been translated into many languages, and short stories have won many awards, both national and international.Part of her column, Morning Meanderings in Learning and Creativity website, is now an e-book. 

She has penned twenty five books across different genres. 

 

Authorspress: 
Where are the Lilacs? [Poems, 2016]
Flights from my Terrace [Essays,2017 ]  
Under the Apple Boughs [Poems, 2017]  
A Skyful of Balloons [ Novella, 2018 ]  
Bring out the tall Tales [short stories with Avijit Sarkar, 2019 ] 
Oh Hark! [ Award winning long poem, 2022]
Songs of Belligerence [ Poems , 2020 ]
Runcible Spoons and Pea -Green Boats [Poems ,2021] 
What is the Meter of the Dictionary ? [Poems, 2022]
 A Sonetto for the Poetic World and You heard the Scream, didn’t you ? [With Dr. Ampat Koshy, 2022] The Fog, A Liquid Ditty Floats [2023] 

 Only in Darkness can you see the Stars [ Biography of Martin Luther King Jr, Vitasta , [2019] 

Collabortaive E- Books :
Two collaborative e- books : Vodka by the Volga [with Dr. Koshy, Blue Pencil, 2020]
From Prinsep Ghat to Peer Panjal [with Gopal Lahiri, Blue Pencil, 2021]  have been No # 1 Amazon bestsellers.

Other collaborations: 
Mélange of Mavericks and Mutants[ With Ramendra Kumar, Blue Pencil, 2022]
For Better or Verse: Passion. Profundity. Politics [ With Ramendra Kumar and Ampat Koshy, AuthorsPress, 2023]
The Catnama [ With Dr. Sunil Sharma, Authorspress, 2023]  

 

1 Foul is Fair 

Hey, what was that explosion?
Was that a harsh splitting of wood?
Did a window pane shatter?
A lampshade clatter to the ground?
What did I see?
 Another window pane shattering!
Or was it just the night nattering?
Soliloquizing? Yak- yak – yak.
Maybe the rain pitter- pattering?
I saw glass fragments shooting through the air.
Foul was fair.  Foul was fair. 

 
Who was that master – blaster glaring at me? 
Baring tobacco -stained teeth, staring at me?
 Cracks of plaster sliced the wall.
 It was indeed so droll. I shuddered. 

The cracks reminded me of jagged edges of black lightning.
I saw something eerie slithering out of those cracks.
 Instinctively, I lashed out my right hand,
 the lamp on the side table spiraled off the table.
No fable this – but there was also a hiss…
Was the night done with yakking, and was now packing? 
Turning in?  Feeling sleepy? But, it all felt so creepy.
 Another bullet cracked the plaster.
 Faster – faster- Faster – flew the bullets, ricocheting off the wall.
 Bullets, blustering breeze and bombs! 
Foul had suddenly become fair.
 Life had become so unfair.

2 The Golden Oriole of Granny’s Memory

 I remember my grandmother
sitting so elegantly under a tree,
crowned by a shock of white hair
lost in the world she left behind.
Wistfully, she looked at the skeletal branches of the tree,
where the noisy parakeets doing somersaults
did not amuse her much. 

Her mind’s eye, saw only a golden oriole
perched on the pine tree back home, in Kashmir,
her ears riveted to the sounds of the splash- splash of oars,
 and the ripple of the waves in the River Jhelum.
She smiled half- a smile recalling the houseboat folks
waving out to her, with cheery greetings. 

But now for miles around,
she sees nothing but an expansive, arid desert.
She furtively wipes a tear from her wrinkled cheek,
and smiles a fake smile at what for her is a fake world. 

The Golden Oriole of her memory chirps on.  Unstopping.

3 The Haze

She looked dazedly at the man in front of her.
He looked familiar. Quite so.
“Every day I am losing more and more of myself.
 I want to grasp those precious chunks
before they completely vanish and hide in dinghy bunks.”
She mumbled looking at the man anew.
 Something clicked.
It was the spark in his eyes.
In that spark, there was something she knew.
 Tightly patting herself on both cheeks,
 she tried to remove the fuzziness from her mind.
The man looked familiar and kind. Quite so. 
He kept staring at her, looking grim.
 She kept looking and looking,
 wanting to capture that moment for eternity.
 And then she smiled a victorious smile.
She remembered their first hug outside her house,
and the way she had blushed.
 All of a sudden, a hush fell. A haze too.
 She stared glassily at the man who looked familiar and kind,
 when he asked her kindly,
“Do you remember our first rendezvous?”
 
She stared at him, wondering why the glass had become more opaque. 

4 The girl with the Haystack 

The ten-year-old girl with the haystack on her head,
looked this way and that, cautious her tread. 
Her eight-year-old younger brother followed her,
eyes darting toward the stalls selling fast food.

The girl kept looking back over her shoulder.

 "Can't you walk faster?’

The girl bellowed to her kid brother. He walked faster, 
running his tongue over his lips,
and his eyes over the fast food. 

Then putting her arm over her brother's shoulder,
the girl pretty burst into a ditty.
The twosome skipped onwards.

"Mother must be waiting for the wood."

Said the sister.

“Yes. I am hungry, I need food."Said the boy,
tending to a blister under his foot.

This scene quickly crept into my mind,
as I stood watching from the sidelines,
giving me immense food for thought.

5 The Man in his Easy Chair 

 The man sat in his easy chair, recalling the uneasy times-
the time he had been caged.
 The struggle, the strife, the frustration and the rage.
The gnashing of teeth, the wringing of hands,
the flowing of tears- and the stink.
The Overpowering stink! The filth and the contaminated air.
He ran his fingers thoughtfully over the arms of the chair.
 He still felt numb. Indignant.
But then he heard something. A tiny melodious trill.
Ah, it was a tiny robin which had swooped down on the window sill.
 It trilled with full throated- ease; gone was the man’s unease.
He shook away those memories,
and sat riveted to the robin’s song,
slowly forgetting that strangled existence. Those caged times.
No longer tense, he too lent his voice to the robin’s song.