Willawaw Journal Winter 2017 Issue 2

Hijra Clap

clap clap
just two claps
the unsexed figure
preying the Indian Railways passengers
demanding money
with a hoarse vile voice
that belongs to no man or woman

people pass ten-rupee notes
into the outstretched palms
in no time
the pattern moves on
clap clap
just two claps
to the next passengers

a beggar with a broom
sweeping the floor
bringing waste out of nowhere
getting a coin or two
from a passenger or two
notices the colourful notes
held out to the hijra

he looks at the hijra
with his longing eyes
longing for the notes
longing to be a hijra
but dares not unsex himself
for he loves his sex
or has no courage to do it

clap clap
just two claps
the unsexed figure moves on
hitching the saree that covered no sex
the blouse that covered no breast
chewing betel leaves
with a bloody mouth

Yumnam Oken Singh is serving as an Assistant Professor (English) in the College of Horticulture & Forestry, Central Agricultural University, India. An avid reader, he is interested in literature of all sorts and has translated a short story into English and published a few research works. For more details, visit his site: http://yumoken.wordpress.com/

The Mirror on the Handlebars

A circled image of the passed–
to see what is careening,

about to overtake, thinning
and thrushing the air,

the distance behind
flattened and tunneled

into a one-dimensional
disk that I can cover

with a palm. Ahead–sky-filled
clouds and a sun

above a road
to follow.

 

Sarah Dickenson Snyder has two poetry collections, The Human Contract and Notes from a Nomad. Recent work will appear or has been in The Comstock Review, Damfino Press, The Main Street Rag, Chautauqua Literary Magazine, RHINO, The Sewanee Review, Front Porch, and Whale Road Review. https://sarahdickensonsnyder.com/

 

 

Daybreak

Robins with their marmalade voices
Caucuses of crows
And mourning doves loving the morning sun–
Humming birds mighty in spite
of size chirp and hum as they fly.

Warblers warble and catbirds crumble
All the songs they every heard together
Sweet crumbs of song
tumble through rose-colored skies.

Then sleepy at evening a robin sings
Its sweet bedtime song.

But most of all
birds sing at sunrise.

 

Barbara Spring is a lake watcher, has served on many committees for the improvement of the Great Lakes and was a correspondent for the Grand Rapids Press. She taught in public schools and at Grand Valley State University. Spring wrote The Dynamic Great Lakes (available on Kindle) and also wrote three books of poetry. She enjoys painting with watercolors.

Paradise

There may not have been
research yet, but there was
the human ability to observe.
Collapsed into a garden. The
family, in retrospect, was not
happy at all, with its frequent
divorces, infrequent reunions,
and simple alcoholism. A
perimeter not erected but
emerged. Her mouth didn’t
open correctly, had what my
uncle called a hinge. He
leaped up then, pointed
across the table, and yelled
“That’s right, Heather, I am a
man, I do have a penis,” then
sat back down. As orange as
orange, at last. But what if
“getting out of your comfort
zone” is within your comfort
zone.

 

How He Took Up Painting

He was out on the avenue
hesitating before scenery, absorbing
its easiest pieces, sidewalk buckles,
gate styles of fences, shy barking dogs
circling him in play instead of pause.
Because the bus he was aiming to board was frequent
he moved toward a meadow in a neighborhood
emptied of traffic. There at its edge
he bent, as if shaping himself
to some seclusion a passerby would misinterpret.
The flowers around him in vigorous bloom,
the wooden fence on his side of the meadow,
a braver dog a block behind him
helped him outline the old obscurity,
assisted his aim at the first plush of color
toward the center of calm.
In a deeper sleep
his arm never rested under a cover.
His fist never punched the pillow
in a knowable nightmare.
By morning his fingers found
what the next day his mind grasped.
The brush is his as it dips and dips
touching on blue tips as it pauses
as he had, bending into intended solace.

 

R. S. Stewart is a native of Oregon where he still lives and writes plays as well as poems. His poetry has been published in many journals, including Canary; 2 Bridges Review; Poetry Salzburg Review; The Journal (UK); PIF Magazine; Serving House Journal; Ink, Sweat, & Tears (UK); Brittle Star (UK); and BlazeVOX.

At the River’s Edge

Just below Cedar Bridge, I listen to the river’s poetry
sing among the rocks and moss covered logs.
Over my shoulder, the moon stands on the bridge
like my mother looking down on me when I was a child
and she casts my shadow on the swirling current
so I can feel the river’s poetry dance in me.

 

Doug Stone lives in Albany, Oregon. His chapbook, In the Season of Distress and Clarity (Finishing Line Press) came out in 2017. His poems have appeared in numerous journals and in the anthology, A Ritual To Read Together: Poems in Conversation with William Stafford.