Three Poems: Jayant Kashyap


I am like an old draft of an older
poem on a page; one that has gathered dust in
layers, over days and that marks ageing

in terms of a paper, after which it hardly
flitters below fans. Something that emphasises the
process of ageing — bones that once found

comfort in motion become uncomfortable with
a touch of wind; the lines so stagnated that
even the chest hardly appears heaving.

On a table by the window, the page is half-
exposed to sunlight sometimes, and the colour
withers from there; oxidation yellows

the paper. What foxes will fox, let it.
There’s no stopping something on the verge
of it.

On a Mughal Painting

A year before everything that now happens happened, it was
quite easy ending up in a museum with a million
antiquaries limiting the expanses of vision — I ended up
in one too. It was a long way from home and I had
nowhere to go; so I went there, stood looking at an
almost withered out Mughal painting. One in which making
out the king and the queen from their faces would be
tough, so I focused more on the white boxes in the

painting where the pastel (or paint — I couldn’t decide
whether from the other side of the glass) — was scrubbed
to remove some part rather than to hide; something that
evidenced the art of radicalisation in India. I remembered a
line from a contemporary poet: my inner world and outer
world are sometimes at odds; I though how true some odd
lines could be — the painting depicts a different world. People
look at it in a different world. The boundaries have
remained the same.

On Ways

anemone acts a shelter,
sounds a robber: any-money;
there’s a way of the world

a line I read sometime —
probably decades — ago: faces
are deceptive — a way of

the world               advocate
depression some day, and
people don’t wonder if you

die in uncertain circumstances
— absence of evidence becomes
the evidence of absence — a



1.) Mughal painting — a particular style of South Asian painting, generally confined to miniatures either as book illustrations or as single works to be kept in albums. (Source: Wikipedia)
2.) Lisa Stice’s linemy inner world and outer world are sometimes at odds — comes from an interview she gave to The Aiming Circle.

Author Bio: Jayant Kashyap has quite a few of his poems  earlier  in publications widely,such as The Ekphrastic Review, StepAway and Rigorous magazines; his debut chapbook comes later this year by Clare Songbirds Publishing House. He’s also the founding editor of India-based ‘Bold + Italic’ e-magazine. Find him at

Two Poems: Mushayathoni Bridget Nwovhe

Never Meant To Stay

Our destination is a place
Far greater than we reckon
Some journeys infant
Some journeys senile

For life is nothing but a ride
A speed in the emotional roller coaster
Some hills are high for us to bear
When the journey ends, everyone claims a life everlasting

Life is a lopping race
A slopping lane
Never meant to stay at a point
It is merely a pulse to another pulse

There are parts to touch
Goals to claim
Dreams to fulfill
Still, we are visitors.


Seed of pain
Bringing forth harvest
A heart crippled
Leaping in pain
Of yesterday’s torture
They are trying to sweeten the fruits
Looking ahead to the next mile
But a past seeded in sorrow cannot bring honey
Unless we return to the source
Uproot all its evils
Tears of gratitude over there
Crippling to see!

Tears always stalk life
And fears make it a cripple.


Mushayathoni Bridget Nwovhe is a medical student, who also is reading political sciences part timely.

She is an author of note, orator, poet, editor and publisher at Yoanda Khano publishing, a publishing company she is founder and director of.
She is also a member of Young African Leaders Initiative network (YALI), an organisation that seeks to promote youth participation in development of their nations..
She goes to speak in prison, 2 times in a year under a theme, ” Being a beacon of hope where there is no hope”.

In 2017, she published her poetry collection titled, ‘Calendar’s Time’.

Her Short story, ” There must be a flaw in my blood” is published on Fundza.

One Poem: Peter Kasuba

I See Your Tears
I see your tears
I feel your burden
The big lamp stuck on your throat?
Its stuck on mine to
I want to cry like you are
But I can’t, am not used to this type of thing
See, nobody has ever cried for me
So when you cry, I become silent
I understand sorry isn’t always enough
But its all I can say
You her correct, am wrong
But the wrong I do am used to it, its hard for me to change
I appreciate you love me
I love that you think you can change me
But I know what I am now
I understand how I became this
Because of that I have to let you go.
Find the happiness nobody can give you but yourself
Find the love you deserve, not the kind I give you.

Author Bio: Peter Kasuba is a Zambian budding poet who lives and writes from Zambian

Gone With The Mist

By Wayne K. Pindu

It was dark or maybe not, bright instead. I’m lost in a time lapse as I try to grasp the vision before my iris, my eyelid’s applause comes to a halt; I can’t blink, I can’t even contain what I see.

Footsteps gingerly get birthed as I tip toe to the door before me, though there not being a sign of a person outside it, I  hear my name being called out so I open it.

There it is the library of legacies , books with our names written on them! I reach out to the book having my name and as I flip the pages my misdeeds take flight, suddenly the fallen angels of my past take to the skies reminding me of all I should have done before I died.

The first few chapters admonish me that I should have stayed on the right path. However I was just a teen chasing demons; mere fleeting comforts, hopelessly led astray! The pages are stained with my parents tears, and their prayers after watching their child turn into a nightmare.

The book goes on about my father’s abuse, showing me our beautiful “house-of-cards” crumble into the grave of forgotten fairy tales. How then do I look up to my father with believing eyes, that when he says he loves me I should trust it is the truth?

The angel before me keeps reading the graffiti of sin sprayed all over the pages, ghost written by the skeletons of righteousness dusting in my closet, it’s like a Halloween biography!

My love life was a wreck, I took the rocket of puberty became infatuation’s astronaut searching for an answer in the soul tie solar system.

T.V said it was safe, a few pills get the mood right, now she’s 9 month’s pregnant and I’m six years away from being a man. So I hold her hand as I lead our child to the abortion gallows, her tears all over the book and its pages dripping profusely with my guilt soaked in maddening wails of our child wondering why I pushed her mother to take her life.

I know that this is judgement day but is there no rewind button? But how I wish I could be taken back to the past so that I can make it better.

The book comes to the end, and pages of my last moments come to life. Mum is in my room with a bible in her hands telling me it’s time to repent but I’m naive, still lusting over the apples of sin Lucifer is passing to Eve. Unrepentant I tell myself I need to breathe, so I step out of the room.

Now it’s just me and this castle, the hangover knight marching to wherever a cheap high is waiting.
What happened next? It all happened fast. As I stepped onto the road, all I heard were tires screeching and broken glass flying into my face. And That was it.

So ask yourself what the legacy in the book of your name is, and what remembrance you would want to leave.
Will people remember your corruption yet bury you with half- baked praise?
Will your adultery speak louder than the relationship you had with the church?

The death I speak of is where all the roads of life lead. So what will be there to read about your name, mere history or a story worthwhile?

Author Bio: Wayne K. Pindu also known as, Nemesis, is a poet, script writer, and novelist. Writing with an aim to have God’s name glorified, and to inspire the younger generation to invest their gifts into God’s kingdom.
Nemesis is a name that refers to him being an enemy of things of the flesh. He lives and writes from Zambia.

Four Poems: Anna Banasiak


I’m leaving my body
the costumes are borrowed
from the changing room of life
my face belongs to a foreign person
for the moment
someone’s invisible hand
removes my life
as a used prop
I’m leaving
to start playing
in the new mask.

The Dancer

a drop of water
unique in cosmos
in the changing river of time
passing like a single life
I’m only a shadow
dancing in the emptiness.

The Art Of Flying

stops the essence of existence
ducks immersed in silence
fly free like flames
they dive
stagger sacred circles
my soul
spreads its wings
flying between two worlds
happy upon a moment
brightened by a light
approaches infinity.


I’m looking at people
lost in the rushing universe
I’m only a drop of time
in a gust of eternity
I’m searching for the truth
in the music of things
wandering in the world
like a blind bird. 

Author Bio: Anna Banasiak is a poet and occupational therapist. Her poems have been published in New York, London, Surrey, Australia, Canada, India, Africa, Japan, China, Israel. She is a winner of poetry competitions in Berlin, London and Bratislava.

Three Poems: Abigail George

When The Philosopher Came Into My Life
(For the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

You don’t know my moth sorrows. The

Challenges of finding love. She only
Telephones to speak to mother. All
Her life she’s been searching for love.
She wants to be in the family way. It
Doesn’t matter to her if it is a son or a
Daughter. She’s searching for everything.
For happiness. For the supernatural in
Everything. And so, what do you see
When you see me. She can eat her dinner
In a fancy restaurant if she wants. Over
The years I’ve learned the discipline
That comes with the terrifying quiet. I’ve
Lost myself in Merchant Ivory films.
The spiritual warfare of art. The deep bonds
Of family. In the mornings I think of
The breakfasts I had as a small child.
Food and coffee. Toast and muesli with yogurt.
She came into my life with her winter
Aura. Her sun in my face. Wildflowers
All around me. The smell of her perfume.
Love is as ancient as rain. The prophets.

You don’t know anything about the smoke
In my lungs. My mother was this perfect
Courageous being. I want to listen to her
Laughing eyes for the rest of my life.
There was a sane life, an insane life, and
A reality that was both a curse and a gift.
I’ve been burdened my entire life by some
Some past regret. Some past indiscretion.

Nobody remembers Majdanek.  They
Remember the word holocaust. Auschwitz.
The concentration camps. Noah had a rapid
Fire journey into the unknown high seas.
This, this is my soul. She’s coming home
For the long weekend. We’re all outside in
The backyard in our own worlds. I don’t
Want to go inside yet. I haven’t had enough
Sun. I think of her face. A face I’ve come to
Know so well. I think of the future lines on
My sister’s face. I think of her loving man,
Woman and child. Daughter or son. Sons and
Daughters. Transformed by fire, by tigers,
By golden flame. I think of her future soul.
It is the wise woman that has the prophetic
Voice, and I think to myself that if she

Promises me the manifesto of her heart,
I will tell her all my Plathian-secrets. She’s
Done the impossible. She’s free. She’s free.
I think of ceremonial bodies. Governing
Bodies. The earthly plane, heaven, paradise,
The careful shattering of all-consequence
When love comes to an end. I think of the
Harvest-time of the kingdom of blood that
Flows through my veins, the root of cell
And platelet that hides itself away. Most of
All I think of the third eye. How we’re all
Connected. Mankind. Soul to soul to the
Subtle qualities of spirituality and I think of how
I want nothing in this world to harm her.

Just Looking For A Place To Rest My Head
(For the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

I remember being asked about the two-faced
Dilemma of the light of the day. What it felt like.
I remembered the rain, thought of the abandoned
Journeys of my life, driftwood, ocean, river as
It flows into ocean. When I think of you I think
Of walls of stone now. The tribal song of humanity.
The crashing waves of the roaring sea. You’re folly,
My atlas. My comforting progress. The little town
Where I live now lapping, licking salt at the wings of my soul
And I managed loss brick-by-brick. Thinking of the
Subtleties of romantic love. Standing at the water’s
Edge making observation after observation half-
Frozen by the day. The chill in the air. Once I was
Obsessed with you held back by nothing but a
Thread of sanity. I swim to reach you. Only to reach
You. My personal space is awash with heat, eddies
Of dust and whirlpools of stars. I’m imprisoned by
Something that I cannot put into words yet. Abandoned
By your hands I am slowly going mad. Part despair. Part
The Thursday afternoon that I found myself writing
This poem. I like you. I like you just the way you are.
To the drowned throne room slowly going mad in
Sickness and in health. This is a love story. Part
Solitude. Part loneliness. Let me go back. I keep forgetting
That this is a love story. You with the sad eyes,
I’m only brave for you. You make me feel safe.
She listens to cool music. I prefer classical music.
Opera. Mozart. Bach. She knows more about the
World than I do. Pick madness if you must. In my
House nothing else matters. I move through the
Air floating from lunatic to socialite. I sleep alone.
I have no lovers. I wake up when the birds sing.
I remember your blue shirt. I remember your blue jeans.
Once you were perfect, love but I do not exist in your
Field of dreams anymore, lover. These days I lose
Myself in museums and art, books, music, the radio,
Watching documentaries. I think of you by my side.
Those good days. I’m sure of one thing. My proper
English. That death will come for all of us. I think
Of writing into the energy of the night, the silent and
Holy and sacred and lonely night that is forever holding
Me hostage. You’re part of the greater good again
For now. The sharks in the early, early, early morning.

Things You Need To Know About Stardust
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

Open the door and you will find a kingdom

there. There are things that you need to
know about me. I have a conversation
inside my head about how some people
should not be parents but they are. But
they are. They fight in front of their children.
They watch the news or inappropriate
films. I look at my mother’s bent head
over her work. I am doing this for her
but she does not notice. Does not say
anything. I look at her bird nose and her
beak mouth and I have this urge to connect
with her but she does not want to connect
with me. I feel tribal towards her. She’s
an orphan in the world now. I dreamt about
my grandfather last night or was it last
week. I think of the pale fire of the sea

that resonates within me like thunder. Of
course, I have always wanted music in
my life. People are writing about modern
loss now. Living in loops. I look at my
mother’s bare neck. Her shoulder blades,
and I think to myself that I came from
that. I came from her intense psychologies.
There’s the upward push of her fingers
as she works. I would have put music on
or the radio but she said that she works
better in silence. She works barefoot like a
girl, and I think of her pressing into my
father’s back at night when they sleep together in the
same bed, and I think of how some people
should never have been parents and then

I think of mine. I think of the silence in their bedroom and

the last things they say to each other before
putting out the light and putting their heads
on the pillow. I wonder did my father
always make my mother feel safe. I don’t
know what that’s like. Believing in a man.
Believing that he can give you the world.
I think of the truth about loneliness. About
how it’s all stardust, moonlight and roses.
I think of the men who have been kind to
my mother in her life because she was a
beautiful woman and didn’t have to work
hard for attention from kind or unkind men.
The way that I have had to work hard for
it my entire life, and I wonder if my mother
has ever kissed my father’s neck like I kissed
the last man that I was ever in love with.

weekend post colour picture
Author Bio: Pushcart Prize nominated for her fiction Wash Away My Sins, AbigailGeorge is the author of Africa Where Art Thou, Feeding the Beasts, AllAbout My Mother, Winter in Johannesburg, Brother Wolf and Sister Wren,Sleeping Under the Kitchen Tables in Helenvale, and the novella TheScholarship Girl. She is the recipient of grants from the NationalArts Council in Johannesburg, the Centre for the Book in Cape Town, and ECPACC in East London.
She was educated in Port Elizabeth,Swaziland, and Johannesburg, and her writing has appeared in variousanthologies. She briefly studied film at the Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg.
She is a blogger, essayist, poet,short story writer and has just completed her first novel. She is a regular contributor to the webpages of, Bluepepper,ItchLitNet, Modern Diplomacy, Ovi Magazine: Finland’s English Online Magazine, Piker Press, Praxis Magazine, Sentinel Literary Quarterly,Tuck Magazine, and Vigil Pub Mag.
Her work has most recently appeared in Better than Starbucks, Daphne MagazineENTROPY, Off the Coast, Rumblefish, SUSAN, The Gravity of the Thing, and Williwaw Journal.

Three Poems: Ngozi Olivia Osuoha

There Is God

We all are imperfect
It is a clear subject
However, there is a simple fact
Which makes a huge impact,
Very undisputable; there is God.

Gravity cannot pull him down
Even when we all frown
Though life is full of fears,
And we are afraid of tears,
Yet unerasable; there is God.

Troubles bring us to our feet
There, anything, we can meet
Sometimes not that we are bad,
Not also that we are mad
But most believable; there is God.

I am a living witness
Despite my weakness
I know you have a testimony
That keeps this piece in harmony
Indelible; it remains; there is God.

Nigeria is moving forward
Never to be wayward
Incomprehensible, we are moving
Incredible, we are sowing
Concur, i still, there is God.

A Haunting Font

Having been burnt
With nothing to flaunt
We may not hunt,
But them, God must haunt
And surely taunt,
It shall be a brunt
With a huge runt,
It must be their stunt
And a great shunt;
Then they shall have bunt
With none to daunt
Nor help them confront
For sideways, back and front
The truth is blunt

The Change In Judas

Genesis of lamentations
Exodus in numbers,
Chronicles of revelations
Changeful acts of apostles,

Judas has betrayed
Jesus, refused to die.

No fish, no bread
No manna, no miracle
The multitude wails.

Hypocrites mourn
Betrayers hang,
Jesus rules.

Author Bio:
Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a Nigerian poet/writer, a graduate of Estate Management with experience in Banking and Broadcasting. She has published over one hundred poems in over ten countries. Her first two longest pieces of 355 and 560 verses, “The Transformation Train” and “Letter to My Unborn”, published in Kenya and Canada, are available on Amazon.