Three works attributed to John Kucera have been removed from our site because they were plagiarized from other poets and writers. We most sincerely apologize to those writers whose rights have been violated by the individual named John Kucera and condemn him for his plagiarism and lack of respect for the creative efforts of other people. Fictional Cafe will never tolerate plagiarism and will take down those who commit it. We invite those who have been wronged to submit work to Fictional Cafe, where you will be treated with all the respect we can muster.
From Abu Dhabai, perhaps the most beautiful city on earth, please welcome Jaya Abraham and five of her poems.
KENOPSIA*
There is nothing between
The moon and me,
My gloomy crescent
Clings to the skies tonight,
Adamant, like the red soil
Under my chipped nails,
My knuckles blue, clenched
In the day’s relentless move.
August daylight catches
The faded footprints
Of affections I watched
In the doorway.
The nightly crowds ebbed,
Like muffled sobs;
Doors click shut,
Melancholy night spreads, slow
Along the empty seats.
I sit fumbling for words,
Incandescent in writing,
Let us wait for the fairies, to decant
This smothering darkness, unspiced
Into my cup of silence.
* Kenopsia/ ken-op-sia: The sad feeling of a place that was full of noise and people but now abandoned and quiet.
**
NIGHT OF THE GODS
Each night,
Gods descend
From their high heavens,
Drink the life
Of the hapless humans,
Nudge them
One day closer to their graves;
A wrinkle here,
A creaking joint there
Endless chatter,
Life is wormed out,
They edge one more day
Closer to Death.
On the final day,
The Gods kiss their lips blue
And draw the life out;
One last push to the hollow shell,
They fall uprooted, straight,
Names given up,
Deep into their graves.
The Gods, they laugh
And leave forever.
**
CLOTHESLINE STORIES
There are
Words, never spoken,
Hanging out there
In the sun, on the clothesline
Dreaming of heaven
They float skyward
From dawn to dusk in vain.
Words never spoken linger
On the cutting board;
Diced and thrown
They make the best salad.
Filled in the oil lamps
They burn all night.
Words never spoken sparkle
On the sweater
That your daughter
Wears to school
Let them laugh
The kids’ laughter.
Adamant, they sit
On the window
Like dust that refuses to go.
Words never spoken melt;
They are my candies of peace
I chew them and smile,
Like popping cress, pods burst
They spread the stories
That I never told in the open.
**
SHE (50)
When she reaches fifty, in her
The past and the future merge, loveless,
Like a nest from which the birds vanished
Her heart rejects your old-smelling wineskins;
She starts running,
Like a homeless refugee,
In search of a new continent.
Her sky rains, of new stars,
She speaks a new language,
And, you stand astonished.
**
ON THE LONG ROAD
On the long road to heaven
If we met, what would you tell me?
Let us talk about the poppies,
Bristling in the sun
Laden heavy with memories
Of a childhood of laughter
The green fields where we chased
The parrots and the mayflies.
Or little secrets that laughed
Like the round pebbles we gathered
Down the little stream
That was fluid white in hope.
On the long road to heaven,
If we met, what would you tell me?
The days that the merry-go-round
Stood there, like a granny.
All the village, her grandchildren,
The love in the croaky song
Of a passerby, never retold.
The old open windows, hanging on
Like the scales, on the fish vendor’s table
The rough sea waves, frothy like you
Or silence, that sprouts in the grass
The only venomous snake we nurtured.
On the long road to heaven,
If we meet, let us dance and love
For there is no more fear left.
**
Jaya Anitha Abraham (Dr.) is from India and teaches of Economics and Statistics in Abu Dhabi University. She writes poetry as an expression of her response to the world around her and enjoys translating English poems. Her work has been published in various major online portals. In addition to writing poetry, she is also interested in green and mindful living.
Gopal Lahiri, a fine poet hailing from Mumbai, India, returns to our pages. In 2021, he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and remains one very prolific poet.
Leaving
Only one question mark hinges
the text into two halves.
A rotary mower without its blades
can’t level the strong words.
Commas are everywhere drawing
vulpine sketches between paint and brush.
The crescent moon beheads judgement
And put on a dense cloud mask.
The evening grass, wet with dew,
cannot converse in the language of shadows.
The lyrics are drawn by prayers; when it
rains, each pore of the rock is illumined.
One day the history will measure the likeness,
the warm embrace of leaving.
**
Dreamless Sleep
Just one way I can immerse my face in
a dreamless sleep is by counting moments.
I revisit wooden verandah and pull out some
deep memories beneath the ivy plants.
My dream meanders; perhaps there’s a new
rising for far-flung destinations,
someone lights up my face with an oil lamp
shaking up my slow breathing.
The face-to-face encounter with the sublime
stretches on all sides, separate sighs from
rejoicing, lights from the shadows and finding
old letters below the windowsill.
I reach for the warmth of the night, now
fierce and demanding; a shawl and a cup
of coffee together go and a silver moon
flowing down the parapet swallows my dream.
**
Eerie Quiet
The whispers stop short, hold, are left hanging.
all those street lights are off;
have you opened the door?
The night is dense and dark,
the answer this time will not be a shout.
Inside the narrow living room
brick walls hung with abstract paintings
and light bulbs hooded
by vaguely laboratorial shades.
human skeletons on wooden spikes gather
darkness in the underground dungeon.
Coffee is still sparkling hot, the sugar crystals whitish.
At the far corner of the table the ashplant fades in,
dish towels and napkins bleed red
the soft palm you caress and grasp, that I can’t feel,
it’s only a cut near the throat. Are you really there?
**
Movement
At Rahim Ostagoar Lane, history
peels the layers, alleys narrowing
to a place where I can follow myself,
that something lies behind and discloses
the act of walking; I know,
even what they hide, tender and sacred,
come within my sorrowful limits
An evening is only the shadow and laughter here,
looking up at the windows
carrying childhood frames
within the stillness’s of the past
the beggar on the pavement sings
all the way through —
the darkness now prefers to move elsewhere.
**
Part of Myself
I follow the shores.
stop in my tracks, fall
simulating the end.
The boatman’s face is not for knowing
his smile, with the faintest touch
it breaks away into emotion, tears, dead cells
and fear through those fault lines
will descend until it vanishes.
I will have eyes that cannot heal,
the darkness that cannot cure.
From here
I keep groping back,
leave a part of myself behind.
Out of breath for days,
I think it means
looking for chances to make amends.
**
Abyssal Plane
It’s just me here and the deadening silence,
at times, is unbearable;
I bear it though, just like blood flowing
on the busy street.
Stars dance on the walls and I feel ocean currents
swelling beneath the pillow.
One of doorways steps into darkness,
into an abyssal plane.
How many times do I weep
under the false ceiling?
Night is like a pill in a tiny cup — swallow and
go to the land of dreams.
As it never finishes — and when it finishes,
There is nothing left to dream.
**
Dow Hill*
Tithan, the Lepcha boy smiles a lot more,
taking out the blank space inside me
and fills with finesse and elan.
Monasteries display frescoes and painted scrolls
in studied silence.
Old pine cones and needles litter the forest path
tall spikes of lily recall the departed souls
in the cemetery.
walking on the serpentine lanes
I see a rainbow-like umbrella, then tea bushes,
then mist and then nothing.
In Eagles Crag clouds coalesce and
lovers float whispers from the watch tower —
flowers are shading petals below,
the wooden houses wish to touch the sky above
if you can look that far,
the sun hasn’t come out in the open
I feel the smell of parting.
*Dow Hill is located in Darjeeling, West Bengal, India
**
Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 29 books published, including eight jointly edited books. His poetry and prose have been published in various anthologies globally. His poems are translated in 16 languages and published in 12 countries. He received the Setu Excellence award (Pittsburgh, PA US) for poetry in 2020, and was nominated by Fictional Café for the Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021. Recent Credit: Dreich, Cajun Mutt, Indian Literature, Dissident Voice, Setu, Converse, Soul Spaces, Amity and elsewhere.
And so we bring to a close Week Three of our tribute to poets for National Poetry Month -except for a special introduction to another poet in two days time. Wait! That’s not all! Be sure to check for a final introduction to meet one last Fictional Cafe poet. We won’t spoil the suspense by telling you who it is, so be sure to check in on April 21st to be introduced.
Next Wednesday we’ll publish the remaining three poets As always, we’d really appreciate hearing your Comments on these poets and their work.
“John Kucera” has been outed as a serial plagiarist, so your description of him as “poet and fabulist” is only half accurate.
The flower story was cute.