Longing– December 2023

This month’s theme is inspired by the yearning to memories, humans and places which we experience emotionally and struggle perhaps expression them.

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness. 

I hope there you have cushions to make jumps;
long, tensioned draperies to clutch with paw;
for gamboling, soft, formable clay-lumps
and leathern slipshoes to busily gnaw.
Do you often look at Mother and me
and bethink how you wheedled her for fish;
how in her absence entered furtively
and overturned the cover of the dish?
The Sun, perhaps there, is more shimmery;
come iridescent patchworks after rain;
and woodlets mirandous and timbery;
no bliss to chase; no warfare against pain.
When you were here, you had a houseful of toys;
you'd tousle every spoon, bowl and platter;
but that for us was sweet musical noise;
and now the silence maddens like a clatter.
Happy I am- from earth's durance you're freed;
no longer for manumission you'll crave;
Man wants for himself grace but sows his greed
and bewails thereafter till calls his grave.
To stay there, I know your ambitionis,
for none would want the world's fugacious worth.
Could you plea Heaven's potentate for me
so he takes me too and keeps us in mirth?

Piano Keys

O' ask not, for whom the Piano keys,
will play in weakness of your vacuity.
Ask not if decent airs from migrant seas,
would yearn for a new estuary.

Ask not of roads, if bright sunlight will quail;
ask not if grass 'round the paling, will live for years;
ask not if weary nights will peace avail
after I have battled Love's erumpent tears.

I will not tread upon a luring mont,
though motley petals, it'll towards me throw.
I will not fill my chalice from a font
despite its sparkle, promises to grow.

But in the long-haul, if my Piano's notes,
entunes a little and to your heart does play;
then ask its composition, long ago for you I wrote-
Despite the grief, how did the spirit stay?

Dirge in the Seasons 

The Eolian wind comes and showers,
upon my home's trees and flowers;
from beds of the sea and blows of the cay,
when the Sun in June is stinging deep,
and local meres, retain to keep,
to my dismay.

When freshet of the Monsoon time,
usurps the pleasant mood of clime,
and seeing so, unsprightly lie,
the byways and the twitchels clogged,
and roots of Joy in me are flogged;
you come from Sky.

And when in frost, the air of chill,
patrolling o'er the upland hill,
does bring me fever's drabby thorn,
and doddering I, within its flu,
whilst sighing you to my rescue,
I see you in the morn.

It's only in the bloom of spring,
the parklands wear the Tulips' ring,
and o'er its field, the plovers glide,
but still, no merry, does come near,
for you, my heart, keeps lying here-
unoccupied.

Birthday Wishes

Heart's pulse- agog, will wait from yesterday morning—
'old friends will clap, meep-horns will flap'
then shades of aglow red above the corn
will turn to eve and nighttide will be born.

At Eleven, the ticking hands will say—
'old friends will clap; meep-horns will flap'
candles afire will brighten the way
and leaves will embellish the door's display.

When Twelve is seen, but heard is not a sound—
'old friends didn't clap; meep-horns didn't flap';
all visions expected are not around
but few empty tumblers and an open ground.

A Letter

A letter in my bag from my childhood years;
a letter I received a long time ago;
does bring into the eye old thoughts and tears
and of this certain truth to show:

That love of youth is the strongest be
and brightest like the Summer skies;
purest as Zion's sanctity,
spectrums of utopian dyes.

No segregator can part
like a soul from itself disjoins not;
whose strength, a man, carries in his heart
and in silence, he's with old love's thoughts.

Then Present seems vapid, heart seeks the past:
first years of love; first lovely years;
but a letter to me is all at last,
with her image and the words and full of tears.

In Dream’s Kingdom 

With ease, the heart would simply say
of you who's absent from my sight,
gone to a staith, so far away,
to visit in my dreams tonight.

Then that shall mend my lost love's pain
where once, new life had awoken,
and fill my park with flowers again,
rebuild the walls now broken.

But in Dream's kingdom, I cannot
like Wake's, my desires exercise,
they come not as when willed or sought
nor are in the power of my eyes.

My Door

My Door is strong. I know him-
fly from him no sare flakes;
decay could never low him;
Yet why does my dear Door ache?
It aches for the spent foretime:
My Lucia, when she,
to his doorcase chime
would come and peer for me.

Old time, ah! merry; old time, ah! sweet—
joydom was in the knocks,
when from the stairs he heard her feet--
would stunt all hearts and clocks;
would agog muchly be my eyes,
for full a-greeting that she came;
I opened the Door-- a great surprise!
near his bright doorframe.

My Door's still strong. I trust him-
though now he greets not her light heels;
sorrow and pain now rust him,
fly all the flakes with brazen squeals.
With each footstep now ascents fast,
my Door frenzies, a-baiting me;
but that is someone else who passed;
not Lucia, awaiting me.

An Introspection 

When ere with the dawning morn,
Suf's bridal service will be held,
then why shall I keep a downcast heart
while she would so happily part?

Then happiest I ought to be,
for Suf, to in bride's vestment see;
for, does sooth love not reflect the lover
and in all occasions, parallel her?

Then why shall I invite the sword
to stab me and have love implored?
And why shall I depression heed
though her parting will my bosom bleed?

Longing– December 2023

This month’s theme is inspired by the yearning to memories, humans and places which we experience emotionally and struggle perhaps expression them.

R.S. is a denizen of India who writes Poetry to find harmony in life. She graduated with Honours in English and loves to read and write poetry. She rises early to feel inspired with the morning star and create new rhymes.

What care I of the maples or
The evergreen cedar,
For I know thy heart, which will
(as the wind that can never stand still)
Wander off to lands afar?

For who could bind the ocean wave
Amidst that many a fable drown
And nature, alas! without a frown,
Spectator be of the lovers' grave?

Thou may'st keep me in thy heart
But will thy remembering me for years,
Lighten my heart and purge my tears
And make my sorrow thus depart?

Doubt I, not your love to be true
And live I may when thou art gone
But dost thou think a leaf forlorn
Weathering the storm could ever renew?

Echoes of Departure

The swallows fly south when harsh winds blow
But I stay here, with nowhere to go;
Wish I could also wind borne be,
Or like driftwood floating towards the sea.


The vacant boughs of willows mourn
How brief was love your sojourn;
The sun leaps and drowns in the west
While this sorrow lingers in my chest.

Like wisps of smoke, my days dissipate
As on winter's harp notes lie in wait
For spring to melt the frosted strings
So the strains may soar upon love's wings.

As the lights flicker in the darkening sky
I pine and ponder, heave a sigh,
Why is parting long and love so brief,
Dwelling forever in skyscrapers of grief?

A Solitary Spring’s Melody

The Tulip tree has grown new leaves,
Springtime has kissed its boughs;
Snow has forfeited the slumbering lakes
As rift in clouds gold ray allows.

The moon as a pendant now resplendent,
The winds murmur and saunter by;
The misty nights hasten and flee
As tiny boats on the ocean ply.

All of nature sprightly and joyous,
Birdsongs reverb of the thrush and lark;
Spring has adorned each nook and crevice
Except my heart is vacant and stark.

Too Late! (After Richard Harris Barham’s poem)

Too late! though flowerets around me grow,
And the wind whistles thru' yew and pine;
All the hills are smeared white with snow,
But thy hand is not pressed in mine.

Too late! The clouds their trumpets blow
And the yonder hills turn green;
The merry lambs frolic to and fro,
But thou art no longer seen.

Sky-pressed the fabled north star gleams,
While my weary heart doth wait;
But from a bough afar the lone Robin screams
'Too late! Too late! Too late!'

Longing– December 2023

This month’s theme is inspired by the yearning to memories, humans and places which we experience emotionally and struggle perhaps expression them.

Dear August,

I am writing this letter to you in the hope of reliving my past. It is the warmest of summer days when my nostalgia ripples and crashes in song intervals; me, indulging song after song, chasing after a different emotion. I am sitting by the ocean so as one of its swells washes away my blue – ink –. Blueness mixed with the water’s depth, slowly swallowing my existence in its cold embrace, and I suddenly feel alive with each drop of the wave.

I am writing this letter because home is a fragment in time. A flashing moment when the vastness of the world didn’t scare you, the endless possibilities were wrapped around your fingertips, and you were their puppeteer. It is all the smiles you gave and received, the brush of another person’s cloth on your thigh, the fragrance of jasmine filling your lungs, the run through the night to catch the last bus, the heartful laugh of your friends, moments so tender, a blurry line between dream and real life.

Belonging is when you give your everything to make these fragments last longer. Longing is what I am doing now, standing in front of my past moments undressed, vulnerable, shimmering in the water.

I am writing this letter to climb at the top of the wave. Then wait for the drop.

Longing– December 2023

This month’s theme is inspired by the yearning to memories, humans and places which we experience emotionally and struggle perhaps expression them.

The geno***E in P***stine has been heartbreaking to see. to watch as thousands of homes and lives have been lost in the span of 5 weeks.

As we stand in solidarity and continue to advocate for an IMMEDIATE ceasefire, we are committed to using our platform to share the stories and educate others about the experiences of the P***stinian people.

Opening The Uncoiled to receive articles, essays, stories, poetry, and art surrounding the plight of the P***stinian people.

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.

An Ode to My Home 

Even the God of Boon cannot provide,
The ease of cool-lapped tiles which make our floor,
The cubbyhole where fatty pigeons hide,
The fecund soil that plentiful trees bore;
No less than a foreland is our lawn,
Or than high seas the purling runnel's flow,
This place is a music hall at foredawn,
When voleries their gleesome numbers blow,
The goodful air that forth glides in tree lawn,
When I am at day, I go for an ambulation.

The donative of sleep is my soft bed,
Of scenery, our little grassplot,
Wherefrom tid butterflies in blue and red,
Fly inside and sit 'pon the window slot;
Cold water from the borewell with sits loo,
The foregates open wide, sweet odor send,
Of a bubble flowers covered in dew,
The lanai where cheersome sunrays descend,
To where, does come the distant hillock's view,
As if a fairing given by a friend.

A joy as great as the scentful dishes,
That mother with her tender loafs does make,
Under her safeguarding life flourishes
And cavalier breathings that I take;
The loveable moment when I father's hair
Neaten, he simpers like a boykin gay,
Whose joyness is the affectionate care,
That assures me, of naught I should affray,
Such thoughts for me love's immersion prepare,
An hour spent in what seems like a day.

Michael J. Romano is a self-taught photo artist based in Philadelphia, PA. He developed a strong connection with nature early in life, and he now uses his art as a tool both to maintain his own spiritual connection with the natural world, and to inspire others to recognize the beauty and wonder of the outdoors. 

Short bio about Michael

“Beech Roots Grasping” is a double-exposure on 35mm film captured with a toy camera. It is a visual anthropomorphism of how beech trees connect underground. People’s roots are not just individual history – they are a shared history that connect us to our common ancestors. Beech roots are in parallel to this idea, as the communities that spawned from a common mother tree maintain their relationships through their roots and support each other through these pathways. 

Beech Roots Grasping

Follow him on Social Media

Michael J. Romano – 

Instagram @mmmromano

Website michaeljromano.smugmug.com

Roots – July 2023

This month’s theme is inspired by the importance of where we come from, the idea of home and family, and what makes us belong. Taking inspiration from this and applying it to every aspect of life imaginable, we encourage our artists / writers to explore the theme with creativity and freedom or interpretation.

I remember the newspaper boys, selling the papers in side road 

I remember my neighbors coming over for a full day laughs and games

I remember the smell of the french fries, and the roasted nuts from Hamad center, our coolest mall.

I remember everything.

my mom used to take us on day trips to the cultural foundation, to read books and spend time playing and looking at the paintings exhibited in the ground floor of the gallery area.

I remember the afternoon time, with bobby pins in my hair, playing chess and card games with sisters while watching the telenovelas in the afternoon. 

coming back from school at 3pm, running to the tv only to watch on repeat my favorite movies of all time.

Folklore novels were in our hands, raised as a western in an Arabic world. 

Struggling to connect with classmates, how can I explain my pure admiration to Johnny Depp to an audience who don’t know him.

Talking endlessly to my classmates on final exams about Medium and its fascinating stories.

Writing my homework while listening to the finest classical music, indulged with best written scenes in movies of the early 2000s.

Learnt from the greatest of their time, my sisters who taught me the best taste in music, films, and books. 

How I wish those days come back for a moment, 

How I wish to recall every detail of those summer days that I call home,

When all you can think of is how can finish my homework, while watching Oprah’s show,

The Hills music intro still ringing on my eye while dining on the table, with tea breaks,

Henna Days, and Friday were for the tourist club.

I recall the late night playing under the white huge sculptures of the Fort.

The spicy sambosa from the small indian cafteria that we used to take every sunset for Ramadan iftar, 

I remember our neigbhours who we used to fight a lot and play a lot with them in front of the house, 

two boys had that black like night hair, the calm mature one and the naughty mischievous one.

Sarah and tahseer were the highlight of our preteens, they used to ring the bell to our home with their innocents looks asking to play in the hallway of Salam street.

Reading the comics while watching the children playing, was a momentary slip of truth revealed.

all that exchange of gifts and cuisines were so thoughtful and so sweet.

Reading twilight at the bus to school every morning, was the highlight of my mundane school days.

Listening to 2000s R &B on my IPOD on the way back from school, in that miniature bus that could barely fit all of school girls,

moments of teen giggles, and stories about teen boys and ice-cream after school breaks.

While me pouring my angst in a book, with my glasses barely visible behind the book,

Summer time and Little women book given to me as a gift from my English teacher, coming of age book turned to a series , 

and I realized that my first book crush was Laurie. 

Jo, Meg, Amy and Beth were us growing up as a young girls.

Remembering the first mall opening in the area, seeing a new generation with their hairstyles and parents rolling eyes on them.

Al Mariyah cinema, with dozen of beautiful aesthetic films to watch every weekend, 

I remember every corner of those streets, where we used to stand to take the bus every morning, the shady internet café ,

the printer house, and the stationary around the corner.

Eman and Amna are our soulmates who we experienced the wildness of youth.

When my sisters were experiencing the joy of life, they had all the love of life that offered them, they had the world on palm of their hands to conquer.

their trips were my world teen life, socializing at the wedding were as boring and foreign as visiting your cousins on the weekend. 

Language we never spoke, and traumas we never shared between us.

That’s Roots to me.

Roots – July 2023

This month’s theme is inspired by the importance of where we come from, the idea of home and family, and what makes us belong. Taking inspiration from this and applying it to every aspect of life imaginable, we encourage our artists / writers to explore the theme with creativity and freedom or interpretation.

He doesn’t care about the wind or the rain.

And the thunderstorm comes in the distance. There is time.

Open sails, with you the boat advances.

Look up the loose ends!

Hone your patience and strengthen your essence.

Calmness. You do not need to run over time.

Strong is the mast who is the pillar.

He holds the rocks and overcomes storms.

Marriage sealed with tiredness,

remembers fulfill the vows: Proceed!

When the sails ripping,

the mast breaks, and despair rises in the air,

the boat of life changes the direction

and clean the prow and adorns the bride.

Resigned yourself. Believes.

You will have new navigable seas.

A Poetry piece written by Cristina Maya Caetano

Dream with the color of their faces,

contoured bodies wrapped in sheets,

among by flowers and animals in disguise.

They say that nobody sees them. But everyone wants them.

Meeting them in the purity of a child.

In the image of a drawing.

On the bright glint between the sheets in the evening twilight.

in a stain forest, disguised as a refuge city.

They say they are happy.

I decide to risk a request, in the fragile air transmitted:

– Teach me to be human godmother fairy.

Give me the magic of your powder. I know it works miracles.

To improve the world and in joy walking.

At that time, like a veil falling on the earth,

you will leave to be transparent in the expanded world

in the discovery of all the fairies.

I believe … It is another my request.

A poetry written by Cristina Maya Caetano

Smells of salt air, and my feet felt hot sand.

Sounds of the breaking waves whisper in my ear.

Delights the voice. Bewitches me with gossip news.

You think I listen ….

Water! Saltwater, in my blood become.

My gray hair is covered with seaweeds,

and I’m wearing a long dress made of shells.

I startle me.

The waves celebrate noisily.

The fishes guiding me by inside the water.

And the mermaids recognize me in this body

White salt with smell of the sea.

TITLE  – BODY OF SALT. BODY OF SEA.
( CORPO DE SAL. CORPO DE MAR)
Oil on Canvas

Poetry and Artwork by Cristina Maya Caetano