Everyone remembers the forest leads to ruin the world needs space to be related to nature
Even though we are unmarried hope still lies in the sheath of fate woven into threads of colour
Powerful axe swing the tree falls and the fruit from it causing global warming due to human negligence
It is important that someone warms up while humanity suffers glaciers are also melting accordingly, nature does not tolerate carelessness
Lots of floods and tears in baby fat which every day he just wants real play and fun
Glaciers when they melt general unrest is created because panic reigns in people and the world
So let’s take care of the trees because every day is special and let’s protect nature she is everything to us
NEMOJTE SJECI DRVECA
Svi se sjecaju šume vodi u propast svijetu je potreban prostor biti u vezi sa prirodom
Iako smo neoženjeni nada i dalje leži u korica sudbine utkana u niti u boji
Snažan zamah sjekirom drvo pada i plod sa njega izaziva globalno zagrevanje zbog ljudskog nemara
Bitno je da se neko zagreje dok covecanstvo pati gleceri se takode tope shodno tome, priroda ne podnosi nemar
Puno poplava i suza u bebinoj masti koja svaki dan samo želi prava igra i zabava
Gleceri kada se tope stvara se opšti nemir jer vlada panika u ljudima i svijetu
Pa hajde da se pobrinemo za drvece jer svaki dan je poseban i cuvajmo prirodu ona nam je sve
Maid Corbic, from Tuzla, is 24 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that is repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world. He is the world number 44 poet and 5 in the Balkans. He has over 10K of successes on Facebook.
Your reflection is gone. Mine is all that’s left in these waters.
Your voice isn’t here either. The woods are full of bird song, a rustle or two in the brushes, but nothing human.
In the house, you’re merely missing.
But here, in the forest, you’re never coming back.
The grander the scale, the greater your absence.
Her Seventieth
If lives grew vertical, she’d be at
the highest point. The burning candles
would celebrate this milestone as if she were Hillary and Norgay
conquering Everest. But a life’s ascent
is as brief as a prayer, slopes downward for a time
before dipping precariously. So she looks up
at the years lived already and down at those to come.
She’s less Sir Edmund and Tenzing
and more Florence Hillary and Maureen Norgay.
Those two both have trouble going up and down stairs.
He’s the Champion of the World
He’s shy they say but I believe that’s just focus. He ran a great race today. His new book is in the stores and garnering rave reviews. And what of his concerto. Or the flex of his upper-arm muscles. And to think, a CEO at his age. A leader in touch-downs, a mountain climber par excellence.
He’s never been married. But the task at hand is a wife. Run, write, compose, work out, rise to the top of the business world, then catch the ball in fluid motion, while pegging your way up Everest. What’s not to love.
He gets anxious when he stops like this. What if the world goes on without him? The price for dalliance is living like the rest of us. Marge is just about to introduce him to her daughter Sarah. He nervously shakes hands. Their eyes lock. He’s doomed to lose his titles.
Sitting by the Pool, Watching the Swimmer
Twilight sets in but she’s still doing laps of the pool. What was once smooth and blue is now vague and shadowy. She’s pulling herself through water, kicking her feet like flippers to double down on her intent. Every afternoon, it’s thirty times up and back, which is about a hundred swims in my reckoning but just the one long marathon to her. She conquers something that, to my mind, is not in need of conquering. But, then again, she writes no poetry. And nor does she see the need. She’s streamlined, perfectly built for gliding through water. I’m romantic, contemplative, easily distracted from the real world. I’d likely drown if I applied this elsewhere.
A Year of Solitude
Who said it would be okay? And I will know it when the time comes? And where it lands it will stick? And maybe it is here already?
Was it the sound of her footsteps? Or waves lapping the shore? Or the creaking of these floors? Or the fluttering green leaves of my backyard oasis?
Meanwhile, there’s all this stuff I’ve been writing, the pen, the paper, the overhead lamp, the desk, the coffee, in hope that the work, once completed, will be an answer to all or any of these questions.
But now, there’s me on one side, the unknown on the other. There’s what I know now and the mystery of what I will become.
I’m home. It’s quiet. Outside ploughs the soil with rain. Dark clouds match it with headlights. Blue curtains keep me separated. Creation is the perfect foil to this weather. And so is holding out for the next thought that comes to mind. Too bad, they’re getting harder and harder to think.
Yet what I hunger for doesn’t change. That much life has taught me. And, with each lesson, it gets worse. For I’m all alone and marking my own papers.
The Usual
I often wonder where I would be without the predictability, so much more common than randomness, as every scene feels like the one I always come across whether it’s children playing in the park or a sale sign in a furniture store window.
Your “good morning” is like reading the same page of as book that I read yesterday and the day before. And the taste of every vegetable on the tongue never varies whether it’s boring spinach or crunchy and invigorating raw carrots.
Yes, people fall from cliffs. Or they win lotteries. They’re shot in a case of mistaken identity. Or they’re spotted by an agent, turned into a movie star.
But mostly everyone who enters a room leaves that room unchanged. Each footstep is a continuation and a preview of footsteps to come. The words we say, we’ve spoken before. The face in the mirror is unsurprised by the face looking into it.
With so much sameness to back me up, I feel secure when odd things happen. Like when I pause for a moment when a car nearly hits me. I can return to where it doesn’t.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Yes, some of us will never leave the lane, smell of urine, bound by bricks with smeared bloody handprints. We will run behind your vehicle leaving the place, watch it go holding the last lamppost, and if we meet again you have run a circle, you belong to the ones who fail to don the art of leaving. We shall nod, two circles that should not have formed the Venn Diagram. My child will tug my hand, and you will become another poster of a missing person torn away by happenstance.
Hold Your Breath To See If You Are Alive
The late descent of the drop of rain startles the beetle. One whole day has dried away, and still leaf has been holding the last spell. Sometimes you hold your breath as long as you can. For no reason. When you exhale no gale stirs up the yard. The junked out coaches shiver as if a new fixture is scheduled for them.
The Dilemma After The Game Night
Last night your team lost to your team, and you cannot celebrate because it is unsafe.
Your new country now smells of stale beers, and its streets paved with plastic thin aluminium reflect the sudden sun, and wring out a groan.
Your old country echoes stale cheers, and breakfast conversation keeps the alive. People discuss which players will leave and join the country where you pretend to mourn.
Golden Prohibition
My hand on your thigh and yours on mine draw a sign we have seen on every prohibition.
No parking here. I know. No swimming. No loud noise. No littering.
Perhaps ours end a long fight. Perhaps open a tired conversation that will birth shattered mirrors. Tonight, oh tonight, they’re ‘No War’. We hold each other ‘s thumbs and let the rest of our fingers wing into deep azure.
Kushal Poddar is the author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ and ‘How To Burn Memories Using a Pocket Torch’ has nine books to his credit. He is a journalist, father of a four-year-old, illustrator, and an editor. His works have been translated into twelve languages and published across the globe.
You can find more of Kushal’s work here on Ink Pantry.
I pushed the glass door it swung open guy at the reception greeted in a flourish “Welcome Ma’am! Could you wait a moment?” I expressed dissatisfaction “You confirmed the appointment at eleven. So, why are you making me wait?” I shouted To assuage my feelings he offered a cup of green tea I accepted. Worked Soothed nerves frayed
Ten…twenty…thirty minutes went by angst inside kept rising like bile was he testing my patience? Casting off all niceties sprung up and demanded refund of the fees paid That made him sit up like Jack in the box all attentive
“You see Ma’am we are short staffed. Some haven’t turned up. Please bear with us. Someone will soon give you a hair cut”.
Just then the power went out plunging the salon in dark Somewhere a chair scrapped Someone screamed “bloddy hell! you nicked my neck”.
I felt wet Buster was on my chest on his hind legs saliva dripping from his tongue trying best to wake me up with apologetic looks
had pooped on the carpet
Snigdha Agrawal, a septuagenarian, is a writer at heart, still learning the art. Raised in a cosmopolitan environment, she has imbibed the best of the East and the West. Educated in Loreto Institutions, under the tutelage of Irish Nuns, both at school and university level, her command over the English language is commendable. She is a versatile writer, writing in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues. An intrepid traveller, her travelogues can be accessed in her WordPress blog. She is a published author of four books of poetry and short stories. Her writings are widely published in online journals and anthologies. She lives in Bangalore (India).
Sometimes I fear memories. I don’t know why— I fear that they will take me Down shimmering halls where I don’t want to go, Down slates of eternal and composite angst and worry and regret and sorrow, Down impervious concrete tunnels of hardball unspoken thoughts and feelings, Down forgotten psychic highways and byways, Down regret-filled mosaics of images that I know form part of me and will never depart. Memories are rooms where you don’t want to go. The memories are too painful. They stir up too much. A memory. My grandmother had died. My father and I were walking to the funeral home. I was afraid. I wanted to hold his hand, but I didn’t. I thought of something. I had to express this Fear. I asked him what a dead body looked like. I asked him what Grandmother’s body would looked like. I had never seen a corpse Before, Except in movies. My grandmother’s dead body: What would it look like? We were walking to the funeral home. He looked down at me. His eyes narrowed into slits. He told me to just be quiet, please. Please be quiet While we were walking to the funeral home. Memories. They make me want to cry sometimes. Even though I was only thirteen years old. I remember the corpse well. My grandmother was dressed in one of her old-fashioned dresses, Dark blue with white polka dots. Her skin was the pigment of white—extreme white—radical white. Her skin was pale, serene. Her clear blue eyes, which were like the sea— Were closed. I was absolutely fascinated. I ignored my father. I was angry with him. It would take me a long time to get over the anger. As I stood before Grandmother’s corpse, I wanted to reach out and touch her, To bid her farewell. I was sad she was gone. She had listened. What more can one do? I came close to leaning over and touching her. But I did not. She resembled a statue with alabaster skin, And her face was marked by age-old wrinkles that spread Like the rivers on a map of Europe. There was something alive about her As she lay there dead. Her dead pale skin crawled over her inert body. Memories.
Christopher Johnson is a writer based in the Chicago area. He’s done a lot of different stuff in his life. He’s been a merchant seaman, a high school English teacher, a corporate communications writer, a textbook editor, an educational consultant, and a free-lance writer. He’s published short stories, articles, and essays in The Progressive, Snowy Egret, Earth Island Journal, Chicago Wilderness, American Forests, Chicago Life, Across the Margin, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Blue Lake Review, The Literary Yard, Scarlet Leaf Review, Spillwords Press, Fiction on the Web, Sweet Tree Review, and other journals and magazines. In 2006, the University of New Hampshire Press published his first book, This Grand and Magnificent Place: The Wilderness Heritage of the White Mountains. His second book, which he co-authored with a prominent New Hampshire forester named David Govatski, was Forests for the People: The Story of America’s Eastern National Forests, published by Island Press in 2013.
You can find more of Christopher’s work here on Ink Pantry.
We are calling for your soul for a benevolent autumnal source May the hoary times arrive full of sunny gloom endlessly dream!
with a fancy coming from tender sea we are conjuring you dreamer your mythical pearls
Come propitious birdies from Olympus-mountlet!
Recite my songs about the mellow dawn about brave honest hoplite-like treasure!
Poetry from the shepherd boy
The Spartans were today by vultures’ tone awakened the august chasms still nearby the autumn heart
light autumn wings I am immortalizing them delicately in the superbest vase as well as in picture on the wall
in a temple of a wisdom Athena’s in the isle the muser evokes miracles the helots dream very finely
the destines of perioikoi are slumbering in an ancient grotto unusual autumn-songs flying they become the philosophic hoard
the atomists find thereby the edenic afflatus in hawk’s eyes and in wings of the philosophic discharge
the natural philosophers are waking in the balmy homesickness the autumn loves all sophists it donates notebooks to Wise Men
a whiff of the eschatology the sceptics and stoics are going strutting arm in arm to the moony fire
to the purest best gleam an apotheosis – a worship become a sweaty salvation of heart from Plato full of the starry impact
in the distant cave there is an idyllic rainbow the freed caveman is drunken from an ambrosia
the troglodytes adjusted by little dew such a laurel freedom they delight in a poem in the shooting star that falls dawn
in the pond of the Becoming and Faith the meteorites down here orderly word of being for Aristotle more beautiful
he is being as a rambler led into the path of musing stars
Tyrtaeus’ lyre is musing about the experiential eudemonia
the morning daydream is picturesque Be awake and becharmed when the deduction with induction seem to be fraternized!
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.
After a background in Fine Art, Jim Conwell worked for over thirty-six years in the field of mental health as a psychoanalytical psychotherapist. He has had poems published in magazines in the UK, Ireland, Australia and North America and his work has been shortlisted for the Bridport Poetry Prize. He lives in London, England.
Conwell’s poems in Immigrant Journey (Dempsey & Windle 2024) cover difficult ground. The child of Irish immigrants, they concern his personal experience of the class system in England, attendance at a Catholic primary school and a ‘sink-hole’ (his words) Secondary Modern, his difficult relationship with a non-communicative father and his struggle to try to live a different life. In an extended Afterword which gives some background to the collection, Conwell says he was ‘part of the Counter-Culture’ that, ‘fuelled by hallucinogenic insight,’ thought they were ‘remaking the world.’ His father was furious with him. The feeling was mutual. ‘Our worlds simply didn’t touch. Except in conflict. I was thirty before my father and I began to seek to repair some of the damage we had wrought but then he died suddenly. I feel unbearable shame when I see myself as I think my father saw me and when I think how hopeless the relationship we made together was.’
Cast in the style of a memoir, these confessional poems inhabit bleak territory. If I were asked to find one word to describe the over-arching theme of this collection, it would be ‘dislocation.’ It begins with the uprooting from one’s homeland, the difficulty of fitting in with the class system and the conflict between Conwell and his father. In ‘Like a Fist’ Conwell gives us a flavour of his unflinching, plain-speaking style of writing:
My father was a tall man And I the child in his shadow. There was something dark about him Like a loaded fist. Or teeth scattering suddenly on lino With a mouth that tastes of blood.
There is a dislocation from Catholicism, a faith which Conwell describes as ‘demanding absolute adherence to rigid beliefs and practices; an unquestioned routine in rural Ireland but challenged by modern, urban life.’ In ‘Catechism’ ‘God is a sniper. / Always behind you…/ He might just decide, on the cusp / of any moment, to pick you off.’ In ‘Dislocations’ Conwell is ready to ‘live with the truth that life is a whole series of dislocations’ but then, not being able to live with that premise, he tells us that he tries to find connections between one thing and another but comes to the conclusion that the only connection is ‘grief and mourning’ neither of which are welcome at his door. As a noun ‘dislocation’ is viewed as a disturbance from a proper, original, or usual place or state. It is also a word that we use to describe an injury or disability caused when the normal position of a joint or other part of the body is disturbed. To Conwell, the whole of life seems to be out of joint, mentally, physically and spiritually.
Some of his finest poems are those which speak for others who find themselves, like him, heavy-laden. Here, to end with, is his poem titled ‘Incident in the Park’:
A woman is sitting on a park bench. And from the pram near her come the murderous and desperate screams of her baby.
Next to her sits the baby’s guardian angel. And he tells her no, she cannot leave the child there.
Someone will come shortly, she pleads. Someone who may know what to do. But the angel is unbending. If nothing else binds you, he says, then let it be guilt.
This is a powerful collection. Reading it is like being punched in the gut. Its honesty will leave you reeling.
The night our dog gorged herself on boiled sweets and lost all interest in the scent of meat — chewing and chewing the aniseed flavoured candy papers into a ball and eying me with the glazed resoluteness of an addict
I saw myself when I didn’t write — too full and crushing the poems that found me into the street’s shadows even as their journeys were rising beneath my feet —
or else I stuffed them inside letting their verses sing in and out of my other thoughts — their sounds glowing — licking the space between meaning and feeling to thinner and thinner slivers
until I finally let them tumble away from me like beetles flicking through wet grass and into the throats of magnolias, useless and rolling in the stickiness of scent.
The night our dog gorged herself on boiled sweets and lost all interest in the scent of meat — chewing and chewing the aniseed flavoured candy papers into a ball and eying me with the glazed resoluteness of an addict
I saw myself when I didn’t write — too full and crushing the poems that found me into the street’s shadows even as their journeys were rising beneath my feet —
or else I stuffed them inside letting their verses sing in and out of my other thoughts — their sounds glowing — licking the space between meaning and feeling to thinner and thinner slivers
until I finally let them tumble away from me like beetles flicking through wet grass and into the throats of magnolias, useless and rolling in the stickiness of scent.
Jenny is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites. Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. You can read more of her poems at her website.
You can find more of Jenny’s work here on Ink Pantry.
She posts notices around town, throughout local papers, appeals for help in the investigation, promises a reward for any information leading to recovery, or apprehension of the party responsible for disappearance. Language civil, urgent, pleading. All couched in iambic pentameter. From the milling crowds, through blinds, across different sundry streets the whole of Olympus stares back at her pitifully, eyes grim with knowledge, mute to a person.
see something say nothing unwaxed floss lips’ crude stitching
Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His first full-length collections of poetry Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.
it’s tough – walking dublin with my wife now. every turn a memory; some other woman’s place. like the breaking of eggs open badly at breakfast and watching the yellow as it fries into white.
we get coffee one morning – I’ve had coffee before. I drink a lot of coffee – often on dates. or movies. ones I’ve seen and other ones which someone didn’t feel like watching. or parks. jesus, or parks.
her hands get cold – she doesn’t wear gloves and likes to put her hands in my pocket. I don’t think anyone’s done that. or wait – no; someone did. does it with someone else now. or not. doesn’t matter. we all move
and this is what comes out of traveling, seeing such unfamiliar things. everything becomes familiar. going to spain and getting a different mcdonalds. this burger a little like that one.
A pedestrian animal
sitting out Wednesday on a North Dublin balcony. watching pedestrians as they walk early quarantine.
it’s remarkable sitting; no-one ever looks up – not in the whole time that I’m watching. invisible, being here, sitting so high. you could be walking beneath falling pianos or under the most marvellous architecture. mankind, I’m afraid,
is a pedestrian animal. very ground level like dogs around corners. I watch all the movement, the steadiness of legs. the natural gait of the very best rowers. all minds on ahead, not around.
The courtyard
life given colour like blood in spat toothpaste. the windows around me all shining white squares as a lantern string hung through a garden for chinese new year. flitting thin skins across bonnets of cars, all gauze and hung willow- branch curtains; the occasional silhouette standing behind them. moving about, struggling with a blindcord.
London, Toronto
I do wonder sometimes what old loves are doing. it’s weakness – please pardon a taste for nostalgia.
sometimes worry I’ll see them in the street or in coffee shops, though of course most are elsewhere, and are beautiful as elsewhere always is. that is to say
not very beautiful. London, Toronto – warts on the lip of a landscape. I finish this poem, check errors and alter some language. go into the sitting room to talk to you. you are in there, beautiful as here.
Time before motion
time before motion and time after motion. this – each moment a wonderful moment. a car parked in neutral – the clutch like small rocks under pressures, waiting for ice to grow hot. a cat crouched at the edge of a countertop – coil spring and ball- legged intention. the language you find at beginnings of novels – the stretching of arms into poetry, before obligations and plot. like dreams. the leg, clicking down like machinery brought to motion. the bird on a fencepost and startled – the instant it falls on its wings.
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has nominated twelve times for Best of the Net, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022).
