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THE BITTER TASTE OF INK















These highlighted poems embody the bitterness, magnanimity or warmth of ink, symbolizing the absorption of negative/positive, dark/light thoughts and emotions while transitioning by using contrasting imagery and conveying the dualities. Inspired from the book, "Drinking Ink", by Persian Author Mehran Hashemi. The first two poems were chosen as the overall "best entries" and who both received Mehran's book. Out of the remaining twenty-four participants, eight poets were chosen to be featured, alongside.


 

"BITTER TASTE OF INK"


It's like whirlin' winds, that wander

Oh, like, a tempest, tornado winds

like heat o' a blarin' sun mid skies

ragin' seas, waves, that undulate.


Mornin' dew, droplets 'pon foliage a fragrance, that lingers ever long

It is vast havens, a soul that soars

It's a majestic sage oak, oh strong


Pearlettes o' rain that o' gently pelt

thunder, lightnin' that crash, so roar

it's the ground beneath that moves

feet, relentless, walk, ripple 'n core


The silver lune at night that shines crystalline stars envelop o' bright

The shadows that lurk and so follow darkness that encompasses night Rage of anger, or passion's desire

Gentle voice echoes, oh resonates

falls doucley 'pon, a gentle caress

heaviness, warmth o' rests weighs


Sapidity 'pon awaitin' lips & tongue

A kaleidoscope of flavor and of taste

that playfully dance, blotted notes

depths of insides, that o' permeate...


© MENA SISTO Canada


 

"FUGACIOUS TRAILS OF INK"


The nib drags slow, scraping like dry leaves,

Ink spreads thick as molasses, bitter to taste

The air smells of old books and burnt wood,

Shadows curl in the margins of smoke.


I feel the weight of each word sinking,

The paper rough, soft as winter skin

Fingers stained, I peregrinate through lines,

Roaming in black rivers that cool and burn.


Light flickers - soft gold beneath heavy ink,

Its warmth transient, swallowed by the dark

The taste or iron lingers, sharp on the tongue,

Like blood drawn from an old, forgotten wound.


The room hums with the scent of rain,

As ink drips, spreading slowly across the page

I hear the soft sigh of parchment bending,

Beneath the weight of thoughts long buried.


Each stroke is a whisper in the stillness,

A breath of cold air cutting through heat

I trace the lines, feeling them lift -

An ephemeral breeze slipping through clenched fists.


My eyes blur, the ink shines like wet stone,

Fugacious moments lost in the night's chill,

I trek between light and shadow,

Tasting both sweetness and ash on my lips.


The page fills, ink curving like a final breath,

I write, absorbing the bitter, the bright,

The dark lines twisting like tendrils of fog -

Savoring the light that dares to fight.



© CONCETTA PIPIA

US


 

"THE BITTER TASTE OF INK"


I sprinkle scribble ink of my nib to craft crumbly, letters on paper

Beads of letters knit together into words

Syllables perform standing in queue.


The crafty crew whisper, shout, smile, giggle,

telling tales of voyages of age;

Frowned faces when little grumpy, weep softly for the sob stories.


Metaphors sing flute on the wind waves,

Similes bake the pumpkin sun and lemony moon.

They cook sweet salad of childhood

and chuckle at bubbly babies' gestures.


'Poems read out purple pages of life.'


© RAFIYA SAYEED

Jammu/Kashmir, India


 

"LIKE A DRINKING INK FLOWING THROUGH A NIB"


Delving into the inkblot of love tests

Some signs would appear on the deep shallow.

Where tristesse and pleasure hang together

Breaks amid bitter and sweet would follow.


Feeling bad hidden beneath a tracing smile

Has been the sugary taste of love and hate,

Empowering the feeling of loneliness:

Absorbing joy and living second-rate.


Yet, as hate seems palpable and fugacious,

Love always triumphs over abhorrence.

Two contrasting things have been long infused

With warmth and coldness after endurance.


Dualities discern a faint emotion

Like drinking ink flowing through a nib.

And amid the controversial feelings,

The oft-said love and hate journey ad lib.



© WALID BOUREGHDA

Algeria


 

"THE OARLESS BOAT"


Words fail, thoughts flounder on the beach

Like waves, unable to sustain the weight

The mast of the boat, beyond the reach

Of imagination, propels the mind for a fight

With the wind, which sweeps as it sways

In delirium, the boat of life, in queer ways.


There's no sapidity in ink that has spilled,

Like a day sliding through the dark night

And the stars twinkle on the mast, chilled

With salty foam, enhancing the cool light

Of the sky, while the moon winks behind

Clouds, sparkling over waves, in the wind.


If you master the art of rowing, like a pro

Doors will open, in many fronts, like flowers.

Worried over faulty fateline? No oar to row!

This fugacious life is not meant for doubters.

The spilled ink will solidify into sapphires

Of wisdom, fulfilling all your earthly desires.



© KALUCHARAN SAHU

India


 

" THE TAPESTRY OF INK"


In twilight's realm where ink-stained thoughts align,

Fugacious shadows dance with ghostly grace.

A nib, with patience, scribes the bitter brine,

And sapidity of sorrow's dark embrace.


Palpable are the whispers of the night,

Where dreams peregrinate through realms unseen.

In pages worn by truths both harsh and light,

Where fleeting moments ink the space between.


In contrast's hands, the hues of dusk entwine,

With light's warm kiss, the coldest shades resign.

Each word a bridge from light to shadow's vine,

From bitterness to warmth's embracing line.


The story written, both the dark and bright,

A symphony of shadows and of light.



© OLAWALE TOBILOBA EMMANUEL

Nigeria


 

"UNTITLED"


One more drop

I have always felt that

if not for that drop

feeding my quill

I could never lay a hand

I could never have a will

to master that fugacious time.

I could never breathe in papers

and see the nib of my pen dancing

I could never listen to my grief song

trudging under the weight of uneven fate.

Resorting to my ink, to write and push the gate

I colour letters and listen to them.

I sigh; I tailor my verse

I bow to my lyrics

no matter whether it is early or late

One more drop so that my nib never goes dry

One more drop to scratch the sky

One more sigh

when grief is palpable

I rather say

The heart is capable of putting up with

all that pain in your eyes

when you bid goodbye

One more drop so that

One more sheet

fueled to my quill

A lane to my feet

so that I could get back

That pint of happiness

that peregrinates.



© SIHEM CHERIF

Tunisia


 

"POEM OF PAIN"


Tears ooze from the nib

As it drags across the parchment of the soul.

They pierce where the tip pricks

The stain radiates its crimson tinge

Smoldering whatever is beneath

In a slow persisting twinge

That seeps deeper finding its way

To be called heartache.


The nib carries on

Its journey of inking patterns

Stitching together wishful days

And uneasy nights, unmindful

Of the stains it leaves behind

Some radiating, some permeating

Some simply evaporating.


The radiating ones scar

The permeating ones haunt

And both point to evaporating ones

Every once in a while,

Smiling at each other.


They all turn into stories,

Songs and colors, too,

From shrieks, sobs, sighs.


Those days and nights

Heap up, interspersed

Gradually getting heavier

Thus forcing out a drop of

Seasoned ink of pain

Splattering it across

Many such sewed-up pages

Instantly

Distributing pain

To all those who stay behind.



© MOHAMMAD ZAHID

Anantnag, Jammu/Kashmir, India


 

"PEN'S UNIQUE ROLE"


So many times it has been tried

When the power of ink served as a guide

For a worthy cause, that's hard to face

And when poetry's roles easier to embrace.


The power of words and rhymes

Can do the impossible at times.

A palpable weapon for an impossible mission,

That all it takes is awakening and realization.


The truth hurts most often

And with its sharpness, can make a callous heart soften.

It can bring change or result in a wink

Once the target tasted the bitterness of the ink.


Thus, poetry can have that unique role

Of patching up or digging a deep hole.

It can also serve both ways

Waking up from a deep sleep or putting a stop to

An uncontrolled blaze!



© JOEY V. FERNANDEZ

Philippines


 

"SANDSTORM"


My hand was painted red

I rained bombs over your head

Pitch black night heard your scream

All days broke into smithereens


Dark days and moonless night

Dusty roads holding on the fight

Scarlet drop mixes the sane

Anguish and strife covered my land.


Shanties razed by fire

Nothing palpable to quench the ire

There's no place safe to go

Wondrin' why you have nothing to do.


No one lifted even the nib of a pen

To scribble my anguish and pain

I was not my brother's keeper

Help didn't come across the border.


Tonight I painted the night red

It's about death and the bloodshed

Reminding the world of the innocents

Buried across the abandoned pavements.



© FLOYD GALE CABUS

Philippines

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