Born in 1983 Amit Parmessur is one of the editors of poetry magazine The Rainbow Rose . His poems have appeared in around 100 literary magazines, such as: Ann Arbor Review , Burnt Bridge , Black-Listed Magazine , Calliope Nerve , Damazine , Front Porch Review , Nefarious Ballerina , Poetry Bulawayo , Primalzine , Scythe , The Houston Literary Review , Zouch Magazine and many others. He is nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Award and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius. In 2007 his poetry collection The Words I Loved was published locally. His book on blog entitled Lord Shiva & Other Poems was published in July 2011 by The Camel Saloon .

Four Poems (January 20, 2012. Issue 34.)

It's You Mother Mary

I feel so lonesome on the campus,
like a candle among condescending suns;
my thirsty eyes seeing only one figure.

Through the library's TV-like window
I discern a tree trunk
resembling a devoted woman,
holding endless branches and leaves
displaying and relishing security,
oblivious to the woman's perpetual pain.
It's You, Mother Mary.

Waiting for my friend each dewy morning
I see that massive rock,
with vivid cornflowers leaning
against it, near the elegant bus stop;
it's like a flawless woman.
It's You, Mother Mary.

When I spend the evening under the bridge
admiring the fragile swans transport their
blissful bodies across the river
I feel a motherly presence
in the rhythmic ripples, as the harmonious
water turns into a gilt-edged frame
for Your beautiful, brave face.

I know too well,
mothers are experts,
perfect experts in lying about their miseries.

And at night, along
the ceiling there is always
that silent workaholic carrying a
cute baby in her tireless arms.
My friend once told me that my
ceiling is a canvas paying homage to slavery.
I know
it's You Mother Mary.

I won't tell my foolish friend
I always keep the light on to
feel Your Holy Light, Holy Support
and Holy Silence.

Where I Find Love

I find my love from
the dust on the windowsills,

from the blackened flowers
in a garden
behind my favorite bench.

If this vast sky can see itself
in a puddle,
why cannot I see
my beloved in the sky?

The human tongue is
never tired to spell love.

I find my love from
the whispers of holy silence.

If you play with love fire
jets out and
burns the whole stable.

Drawing scars on
dead love stories is useless.

The cops won't arrive
and arrest you
for changing your name
one morning
because of love.

I find my love from
a tireless, tiny river

flowing over unknown lands.

Maharashtra Magic

Solemn bindi beaming with new oomph,
pondering how to spend the holy day—
On her lips are legends that
may resurrect a whole dead civilization.
Her flowing, fragrant hair
might instruct cascades how to commit
suicide safely down the loftiest cliff.
Her hourglass figure is timeless.
O Lord Ganesha, thank you
for adorning this purple doll
in that impeccable kashti, in
which she has captured peaceful,
friendly waves of Krishna River .
Bright bangles are poised to melt
into circles of pious passion— sure,
every wind will reload its perfume
by blowing on her whiteness while
her prayers will shine like the
conspiracy of a thousand peacocks.
Queenly expressions—
stately, hand on hip,
she can paralyze the eyes of kings,
her feet flinging dew into fiery rings,
towards an intimidated sun.
She, a living tapestry of cultures
breathing in her green heart.
The oval mirror that has tasted
the feast of her beauty
is the most priceless magical eye,
showing me how she neither
has form nor is without form.

A Dying Filly

Your wild eyes fixed on the sand,
you dance for the mild moon
hanging just above the horizon.
One leg holding the bullet
that intoxicates you, the rhythm
in the other three
matching the terror in your
tail, digging into the warm sand.
The moon feels
you are her dying rival
amidst the scent of the pine trees.
I feel you are a dancing angel,
taming the stray devil
even in her last moments.
Nostalgia is in the wind
blowing at your undulating hair
and you seem so alive,
graceful, smiling filly.
Your eyes can't lie
and even buried flowers will
always get up from sleep
when I'll think of your muscles,
rippling in passion
towards the hills of adventures.
Your tail
like a snake ready to sting,
you've made me dance,
in pain, with death
in your once majestic eyes.