Poetry — Dr Pragya Suman
Surrealism, prose poetry, and free verse , avant garde are her favorite genres.
Recently she won the Gideon poetry award for her debut book Lost Mother .
Her second poetry book was published recently by Ukiyoto Publishing, Canada.
Dr Pragya Suman is Editor in Chief, Arc Magazine, India.
Her social media account is following
Twitter : @DrPragyaSuman7
Facebook : Pragya.Suman.50
A PINK POSTMODERNIST CREPT IN PALE PRAGUE
The jarring justice of the man; Kafka penned in melancholy.
Journey circled in hundred years
As sanitary was at the door
Vermin crippled in segments
For judgment,
slithered...!
My neighbour was senile, lurching gait; Rummaged the files
Cunning spoon of clerks engulfed
Coins. Mischievous officer told
“let burry in darkest hole”
For a official pension he trialed
thousand Kafka’s corner.
One day he dripped his head in kerosine oil around circle of crowd
Match box was going to strike
A self immolation aloud.
Paper rushed to his door
Drama and judgment
are conjoined twins of democracy.
White whisker of the pensioner is now twisted up.
I Seeeeeeeeee
A PINK POSTMODERNIST CREPT IN PALE PRAGUE
Talks on Bier
Bilateral talks on bier opens
An invisible window
A pound of mine oozes out--
You know–
Words are frisky bubble
In a silent playground.
Cold Coffee.
The blotchy beam of stagnant sun
on running chariot,
filtered in my netted window
descended in cup of cold coffee.
I caught the silhouette --
broken bangles on rectangular bier
and the vermillion box of the mother
stumbled, beside the pyre.
An Iron Lady—My Grandmother was a milk seller.
a great bargainer, sold milk for stories.
stored them in the mud huts.
I stole stories while she was sleeping.
A noon napper—
left behind a brook of viscus stories in melted marrow,
dining still in throat.
One day I thought to cut off
my unending throat,
but the chiseled scalpel
concocted in cold coffee.
It’s still regurgitating
belching, though I bolted down,
hundred years ago—
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