Archives for posts with tag: time

Lost-n-found: A watch
By Sunil Sharma

Lost-n-found has got its
Own charm. Like a Bollywood flick, its own appeal and logic.
A kid brother first lost in a carnival — and then found as an adult. That is
Life — -plain boring; for some, a bit dramatic and strange.
This watch!
Gifted by a friend, when I was turning gray on temples, not in mind.
It was a small memento of a love hardly found these days
In a culture on a transactional mode.
Lost it one morning and searched in every nook and corner
Of my suburban Mumbai apartment but, as happens in such situations,
You fail to see the old specs on your nose, while raising hell on a Sunday humid morn!
So, dear readers, it happened, I searched every corner, cleaning the cobwebs
Here-there and cursing.
No watch! Whenever I met my friend, I would cover
My wrists with sleeves on hot days but
The good ol’friend won’t mind the charade.
Then, last month, cleaning the innards of the crowded cupboard, I found the watch –sitting there pretty in a box, amid other objects, a box daily seen, yet unseen!
And I shouted Eureka!
And uncovered my wrists
Again in the remainder days of the coastal summer
For my delighted office friend.

IMAGE: Drawing of astronomical clock by Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem celebrates the joys and pain of losing and recovering little objects that constitute our mundane world.


Mumbai-based, Sunil Sharma writes prose and poetry, apart from doing literary journalism and freelancing. A senior academic, he has been published in some of the leading international journals and anthologies. Sunil has published three collections of poetry, one collection of short fiction, and one novel and has co-edited five books of poetry, short fiction, and literary criticism. He is the recipient of the UK-based Destiny Poets’ inaugural Poet of the Year award, 2012.  Another notable achievement is that his select poems were published in the prestigious UN project  Happiness: The Delight-Tree (2015). He edits English section of the monthly Setu, a bilingual journal from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

by Jocelyn Mosman

The clock strikes midnight;
sunrise marks a new day:
a new attempt to make the world right,
another morning to waste away.

The clock strikes noon;
the sun reaches its lofty climax:
aged wisdom approaches too soon,
another afternoon heat does tax.

The clock strikes nine;
the sun sets on hazy skies:
age wrinkles the face of time,
guilt jabs with angry lies.

The clock strikes midnight, I confessed,
as two days, old and new, are laid to rest.

IMAGE: “Japanese Bridge and Water Lillies” by Claude Monet (1899). Clock available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jocelyn Mosman is a student at Mount Holyoke College, majoring in English and Politics. She is an active member of the Northampton Poetry group, the Poetry Society of Texas, and the founder of the West Texas Poets. She has been published in various anthologies and magazines, including Drunk Monkeys, Decanto, and Cum Laude Weekly. She has also published her own poetry book, Soul Music, and her second book, Soul Painting, arrived on July 1, 2014.

Author photo by Nadine’s Photography.

by Subhankar Das

May came quietly
or quite early this year.
My young friend
who gifted me an art calendar
must also have thought that too.
I put it up on the wall
in front of my desk
and suddenly realized
4 months of my life just vanished
doing nothing.

As if I would have
moved a mountain
if I knew.

IMAGE: 2014 Claude Monet Calendar, available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Subhankar Das is a poet, film producer, bookstore owner, and publisher of Bangla experimental material. He produced six short films that have been honored at international film festivals, and has translated the works Allen Ginsberg and Charles Bukowski into Bangla.

by Sasha Dugdale

Every morning since the time changed
I have woken to the dawn chorus
And even before it sounded, I dreamed of it
Loud, unbelievably loud, shameless, raucous

And once I rose and twitched the curtains apart
Expecting the birds to be pressing in fright
Against the pane like passengers
But the garden was empty and it was night

Not a slither of light at the horizon
Still the birds were bawling through the mists
Terrible, invisible
A million small evangelists

How they sing: as if each had pecked up a smoldering coal
Their throats singed and swollen with song
In dissonance as befits the dark world
Where only travelers and the sleepless belong

 SOURCE: Poetry (May 2011)

IMAGE: “Moonbirds,” drawing by J. Ferwerda. Prints available at


 ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Poet, playwright, and translator Sasha Dugdale was born in Sussex, England. She has worked as a consultant for theater companies in addition to writing her own plays. From 1995 to 2000, she worked for the British Council in Russia. She is author of the poetry collections The Estate (2007), Notebook (2003), and Red House (2011) and has translated Russian poetry and drama, including Anton Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard.

by Jim Harrison

Back in the blue chair in front of the green studio

another year has passed, or so they say, but calendars lie.

They’re a kind of cosmic business machine like

their cousin clocks but break down at inopportune times.

Fifty years ago I learned to jump off the calendar

but I kept getting drawn back on for reasons

of greed and my imperishable stupidity.

Of late I’ve escaped those fatal squares

with their razor-sharp numbers for longer and longer.

I had to become the moving water I already am,

falling back into the human shape in order

not to frighten my children, grandchildren, dogs and friends.

Our old cat doesn’t care. He laps the water where my face used to be.
“Calendars” appears iin Jim Harrison’s collection In Search of Small Gods (Copper Canyon Press, 2006), available at

PHOTO: “Cat in birdbath” by Jim Vansant. Prints available at

by Stephen Dunn

It was the hour of simply nothing,

not a single desire in my western heart,

and no ancient system

of breathing and postures,

no big idea justifying what I felt.

There was even an absence of despair.


“Anything goes,” I said to myself.

All the clocks were high. Above them,

hundreds of stars flickering if, if, if.

Everywhere in the universe, it seemed,

some next thing was gathering itself.

I started to feel something,
but it was nothing more than a moment

passing into another, or was it less

eloquent than that, purely muscular,

some meaningless twitch?

I’d let someone else make it rhyme.

STEPHEN DUNN (born 1939) has written fifteen collections of poetry, including Different Hours (where “Zero Hour” appears), winner of the 2001 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. A recipient of the Academy Award in Literature fro the American Academy of Arts and Letters, he has also received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, Guggenheim Foundation, and Rockefeller Foundation.

Photo: “Cloud Water Circle” by Gail Walks Across, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


“Morning brings back the heroic ages. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.”  From Walden, Or Life in the Woods by HENRY DAVID THOREAU

Photo: “Walden Pond, Beautiful Day” by machris, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED