I recently submitted a poem to Robi, an online literary journal, by Bangladeshi Identity Project. As it says on its introduction page, this journal in intended for the Bengali diaspora by the Bengali diaspora. It’s for us Bengalis that belong there, in our native country, but call this place our home too. Despite speaking our foreign tongue, we keep our mother tongue close to our heart, interchanging words consistently, their meanings translucent. My poem was accepted and published. If you’d like to read the journal, please do. I chose to submit my poem, Immigrant.
Goodies by Jamie Martin @sunlanterns
The One and Only Ivan
” I think for awhile. It’s hard to put into words. Gorillas are not complainers. We’re dreamers, poets, philosophers, nap takers.”
– The One and Only Ivan
Finally, I took it upon myself to read this book. Despite it being a quick read, it was an emotional journey. The emotions itself were raw and powerful. They shook me. I cried for Julia. I felt Ivan’s rage as he beated his chest, over and over again. Inspired by a true story of a gorilla in captivity, this story explores the power of friendship, identity, and creativity.
Mood
Poem by Juansen Dizon
i overthink.
i over love.
i over feel.
i am the sea
or i am nothing.
An Ode
Wind,
Your serenade makes the leaves twirl about,
Twirling and twirling and twirling
As if their feet just can’t stop dancing,
The blades of grass running across the ground,
In mindful chatter,
As if time is of the essence.
Where are you all off to?
With outstretched arms, trees reach up to be caressed,
Their fingers barely clasping around your tresses,
Their brittle branches falling off here and there,
You move on.
You move on, your voice bellowing,
Brushing up against windows, tapping on wooded floors,
Knocking over garbage cans and garden swings,
Whipping up hair, hats, and people.
They barely stood a chance.
Is this finally the start of Spring?
Hardly. Snow is on its way.
Ignorance
people say that laughter is the best medicine but
why does it hurt so when you use it to push all our problems away
Release
The art of anger rests on expression
The art of breaking rests on how much you let yourself give in
I sometimes wish I could make a hole in the wall, smash everything within my peripheral vision
I’m a volcano, molten lava seeping out from my skin
But the art of release doesn’t mend what’s broken
National Poetry Month April 2018
And so begins the start of a celebration
although we should make everyday
a celebration,
I think
Something I Lost Between The Seats
It is early morning. I eat breakfast quickly, gather up all my stuff, and start getting ready. Before I leave, I hesitantly slip the new sharpened pencil in case I need it later. I drive to the train station, park, and walk over. I sit towards the back of the train, my head facing the opposite direction. I like sitting like that. Some people get dizzy because they can’t see where the train is going but I like the fact that I can see where the train is coming from. I don’t need to see where the train is taking me, I know the route by heart. I am sitting on the right side of the train where there’s two seats. I ride the whole hour looking at busy roadways and hurried people. Run, run, run. After the last check of tickets, And before I put in back in my wallet, I try to see how it sticks to the edge of the window as I’ve seen many people do it. Big Mistake! I should’ve been more careful. The ticket slips past my fingers and into the space between the the seat and the wall/body of the train. I tell the person beside me that my card dropped on the floor and if he could please get up. Awkwardly, in front of a train full of eyes, I crouch down to get my pass. It’s not there! Puzzled, I go back and try to look for it where I dropped it. I see it! It didn’t drop all the way. I try to reach for it, but I can’t. My pass is well within my sight; however my fingers fall too short to even touch its tip. That’s when I switch onto panic mode. My stop is 2 stations away, I have a class in 10 minutes I do not want to be late for, if (not to mention when) I don’t get this pass out right now I have to go further into the city and into unknown territory.
“Did you get it?”, asks the gentleman.
Exasperated, I tell him no.
“Let me try”, he says, then slips into my seat and proceeds to try to slide it out with his notepad.
No luck. The notepad is not thin enough. With one stop away, I desperately try again. Running out of ideas, I start to panic even more. I AM NOT about to leave my $54 weekly train pass stuck in between the seats. That’s when I think of it! With the gentleman looking on, I rummage into my book bag. Thank God I had decided to bring it with me today 😌. I swiftly take out the pencil and try to get the pass. Ugh! I still can’t get it! Like the notepad, the pencil is also thick; however, I succeed in pushing the train pass with the pencil’s tip. The pass, with that extra push, glides to the ground and I sigh in relief. I’m done for the day. Can I go home now? 😝😂.
I thanked the gentleman for helping me. Instead of sitting there like an awkward person, I went up the aisle waiting for the train to come to a stop at my station. I made it 😌
^^^This topic is collected from Elvis Duran and the Morning Show. I was listening to it today and it was a possible topic for the topic train by Greg. I have to both agree and disagree with Elvis on the fact the possible topics weren’t completely lame and you can get some pretty decent stories out of some of them. Anyway, thank you Greg for coming up with this topic. It’s very relatable and I’m sure a lot of people have gone through something similar. ^^^
“People on the outside think there’s something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that’s all there is to it.”
– Harlan Ellison
