my imagination
suffers from excess
yesterday in a dream
I said that I sleep
I ordered personalized matchboxes
I saw the sea
in a plate from soup
I heard how a baton
conducts the conductor
I saw a breast
****** by a child
I uncovered a naked surgeon
on my operating table
and I recognized the voice of ******
among those gassed in auschwitz

by Volker W. Degener translated from the German by Adam A. Zych with Andrzej  Diniejko
from The Auschwitz Poems an anthology edited by Adam A. Zych

Let there be keys without locks
Let there be dictionaries without words
Let there be homes without doors

Let there be silence
When we speak of love
Let there be grace in our walk
So that our poems will not ashamed of the craft

Let there be matchboxes without sticks
Because our children need them empty
To preserve their childhood memories

Let there be a metaphor in a worker’s sweat
Because dewdrops alone can not carry poem on her shoulder

Let there be a marriage (illegitimate though)
Between a gun and a flower
Because lonely streets look bad
And a caged bird is always sad

Let there be a reward to roots
Because you look beautiful with flower in your hair
Let there be a reward to cloud
Because we all need to wash our hands, before prayer

Let there be anger in our hand and peace in our head
Let there be a blunt knife in our pocket
Just in case…

Let there be nakedness between all of us
So we can look into each other’s eyes
And say: “Our daughters are safe in each other’s garden”
Let there be nakedness between all of us
So when we make love
“We make love to our beloved one only”

Let there be no history
Because we exchange hugs and kisses in present
Let there be no geography
Because contours of love are powerful enough
To define our boundaries
Let there be no mathematics also
Because nature never counts her blessings

And let there be a finite infinity in our life
And enough strength in our legs
So our walk to horizon would not stumble
And we fall like an autumn leaf.

You're soaking and you're strung out
but your sleeping bag's been wrung out and
it's wrapped up in a damp rag that you carry in your rucksack

you turn your back on Strutton Ground and you strut off into London' town
like some mad demented peacock, but you're off to rock the Casbah with your crazy words or wisdom which you gleaned from empty matchboxes so very long ago.

The coffee opens early for the bird that scratches daily for a meagre bit of warmth to feed the soul.

and by St Pauls, the ***** of grasping pawnbrokers are gleaming in the frosty air
'pop the weasel ' goes in there quite frequently
you see the emptiness of picture frames in streets you recognise, no names,
because no one would remember them among the worn out suited gentlemen that you became but then it doesn't really matter anymore.

the evening strolls in awkwardly,
but maybe that's just how I see it and
it could be elegantly
I don't know.

and we're back to Strutton Ground not far from Scotland Yard
the new one, the old one's not too far from here and near Trafalgar Square, but you got moved along from there too many times, too many moons and wines ago.

you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it.
i’ve only done it
once or twice. last night
i awoke from a dream
in which you were playing johnny cash
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
and ‘every day is one day less.’
we were staying in an airbnb
and the room reeked of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i was thinking about how you told me
you didn’t have as many freckles
as you wished you did
as i peeled the sticker
from the front of the book.
tell me you have enough
to pay for what you want in life
and tell me you’re not an addict
cause you’ve only done it
once or twice
and let me tell you about mountain lions
and how the chlorine in the swimming baths
used to taste like cider and cough syrup
like ginger ale and painkillers
that dissolve on your tongue
before you swallow them down.
i whisper to you that my mother
used to lick matchboxes
(speak louder, love, come on)
before her daddy left her too
not because he didn’t love her
but because it hurt too much
to love her in the way
only he could understand.
last night i awoke from a dream
in which we filled our suitcases
with shampoo and sugar packets
and i recited the final lines
of my favourite shakespeare play
as you sat up on the windowsill
and lit yourself a cigarette
and said: don’t look at me like that.
you know i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i’m staring at you from the carpet
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before.
i used to say that some cynics die
and that i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
cause i’ve only done it once or twice
and i’ve only told you
a thousand times
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
when i thought about what i’d done to her
and what i’d tried to do
to myself.
last night i awoke from a nightmare
in which the walls were
bleeding red
and then the trees had broken arms
and i got my ankles caught
in the mud
and i’ve been crying more
than i know i should
because i hate the way it burns
but god, i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
so let me tell you about mountain lions
and people who no longer think of me
and who will never think
about me again
and how that’s the kind of thing
that reeks of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and ‘i never think about love, you know
i never think about—’
how some cynics die
but they often die so young
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and ‘every day is one day less’
and every breath
is one breath less
and that’s what tastes like chlorine
and that’s what tastes
like cough syrup
when you haven’t even
got a cough
but you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it
and i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i wanted to tell you
in the way i always do
(pieces of paper between my teeth)
that my prayers are just nicotine
and the man hasn’t touched a cig
for as long as my parents
haven’t each other
but that’s just gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
like you don’t need as many freckles
or as many mountain lions.
i’m staring at you through the phone screen
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before
because last night
i awoke from a dream
and i didn’t remember a thing.

my net worth is three sheets
of crumpled paper and
an empty shot glass.
i am not pretending to be
anything refined, sophisticated,
worth your time.  

i’ve ruined the best things in my life
without even realizing it, absence the
only clue; there was no bother to tell me.
i am left with flaws but i am not sure
what they are because I’m too
much of a liability to be told.

there are empty matchboxes strewn
all upon my cluttered mattress
with holes burnt into it.
i have a tin lunch box full of
dead lighters; six years worth.
i never throw them away.
my bad habits exist in
every flameless flick.

will you increase my net worth
by leaving a pack of Marlboros in
my mailbox? i might not be deserving
of an explanation, but it would be
a nice peace offering. if you add
a lighter to the mix, i’ll make sure
the amethyst fades and you
no longer dream of me.

I feel jealous that I wasn't there to grow up with you, in the rain. The matchboxes I used to play doll house burst yesterday night and it rained my entire face, wet pillows weeping over my loss. You haven't seen those match boxes but did you feel the rain under the city?

Where have you been , my lover erratic wind ,

When i shone through the moans

of a thousand unhappy souls .

Glistened on the seas which murmured with the bees ,

tempting you to rise , take me by surprise ,

praying when the last bell tolls .



Shameless hunger of mine , above all sins and divine ,

kept my eyes open , to linger on every word spoken

in the stillness of the dark .

I surrendered every light i borrowed from the night ,

mirrored on the hope , to let the poets *****

in the dullness , a silver spark .



So far stand i , you cannot hear me cry ,

So stretch my hands not , the laws have you forgot ,

which defines us to look forever gay .

Plead them to love , even when the red clouds me above ,

overlooks with sullen pity , on damp matchboxes you call city ,

gray with the recall of the day .



Every search ends futile , no Ganges no Nile ,

to let flow my pains , or to drench in the rains ,

You stole , left me deprived .

Still i would smile , from many million a mile,

Carry me , my scent , to the skies where i descent,

And remember once and now , in a lonely corner i survived .

Many a times, when I am alone
I just find myself thinking of the fun
Collecting pouring water, drenching in the rain
Sailing my paper boats in the small drain
Catching in matchboxes frogs from puddles of water,
And throwing them on young and old with giggles and smiles

Smearing the silver, golden color on my friends
Of the butterflies that we picked in the sunny garden
Feasting on dollops of homemade icecreams and chuskies (ice lollies)
Listening to stories of kings n demons by granny

How could I forget hat fight with parents
To stay awake all night during summer or winter break
To watch uncountable movies on the rented video recorder
Or to read Agatha Christie, Enid Blyton in just one sitting

There was a different story all the time
for each of my tantrums and fantasies alike
And a unique reason for enjoying every season

Oh! How I wish I could have a time machine
To take me back to my childhood innocence
I really miss being a little kid O my Lord!
With no stress, worries or care in the world...!!!

© Neeloo 'NeelPari'

Being rich gives you the luxury of wanting to have nothing.
Being poor creates the misery of wanting things that you sometimes don’t even need.
Being wise makes you doubt the simplest thing
While ignorance, ironically, brushes off any kind of mystery and critical thinking is dismissed

It is funny how we tend to live peacefully in a plethora of paradoxes
While most of us believe that most things are elementary
Who can explain why we can open and close a door in detail?
Ask me to clarify how a moving bike keeps balance and I would probably fail
I want to learn everything, ignite my curiosity without the need of matchboxes
But I wouldn’t have enough space in my narrow and selective memory

I remember being human without really knowing what it means
I remember being a person, who sometimes wants to forget about his feelings
I am in the middle of a limitless quest for sense and clarity
Hoping that one day I will understand why I need to “be”

Curiosity is the starting point of every and each discovery
Regardless of the field, regardless the genius minds behind it
Without questions, no answers bringing us countless benefits
The Moon would just be a boomerang regularly turning into a frisbee
Hanged up high in the sky, seemingly rough and dry
We would be fooled by a round street light, just like a fly
Bumping our head repeatedly on a clean window
Illustrating the fact that sometimes ignorance can hinder forward movement
When a movement can open our eyes to an underlying element
To eventually help out a neighboring fellow

Being right is often seen as an absolute
Omitting the fact that Einstein taught us that everything is relative
Falling head first on the ground would probably hurt before a bump would protrude
Falling head first on the lake refreshes the body and mind in a way that’s effective
In fact, both go forward but one is injured and the other enjoying
One has to heal while the other is playing

Writing can be a way to escape
Writing can be a way to explain
Writing can be a way to entertain
Writing can be a way to shape
The views of a body of people
In a society where individuals sometimes fortunately answer to the call
For a common rather than an individual goal

In order for our dream to become reality
We have to forget that it is a dream and start to think of it as a necessity
Before thinking about the steps needed to be taken
One by one until life on Earth slightly resembles the one imagined in heaven.

Raised on a diet of bible verses,
beatings and curses -
he grew like a rose from the concrete;
feeding on prose, poems and paintings
on pages
of disheveled dogeared diaries.

His days spent playing ball
in hopeless broken glass
grass-less parks;
filled with litter and rabid dogs
across foul festering fields
on the stench-ridden outskirts,
the wrong side of the tracks,
set him up for a back-footed existence.

Washing ***** dishes;
racking,
stacking and packing piles of plates
for wages paid in copper coins,
unable to foil his life of turmoil.
A plethora of poorly punctuated
pauper poems,
written in faded ink on train tickets,
unfolded matchboxes
and scraps of old paper advertisements -
offered no food for his thoughts
nor crumbs for the rumbles of hunger.
Lines stuffed fat with substance
never fed the mouth
that spoke them into existence.

Pawning his tattered and torn everything
outside railway stations
to ragged homeless roommates
for bartered paper-plate morsels
rescued from floors and trashcans.
With his empty bag and nothing to sell
he returns to his cardboard cell,
the darkest corner of his hunger hazed hell.  

Blinded by starvation fed desperation,
he grabbed an apple
from a fruit and vegetable
market-stationed wheelbarrow
only to end up thrown into jail,
mixed with murderers and rapists
                there's no climbing out
of this felon-shaped hole
as his downhill life;
till death,
remains in
free-fall.

If not burned

Hellas is burning the Athens is surrounded by invading fires
no modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
Greece is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
it doesn’t concern us, should it?
Further afield, people have too much water the drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber are matchboxes
for the rich to feels the heat, but does it make them kinder.
Of course, it has nothing to do with us, we who live in a place
where the breeze from the north Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may
Come when Afghanistan is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.