I’m blessed with eyes that look inwards, that see the departed and joys to come, that sifts the beauty that’s foiled with smog, that keeps a gallery of lakes and fjords.
I’m blessed with ears that vie with shells for capacity to echo the wanton waves, to resonate to the whistles of roaming whales, to capture the breaths of slumbering pearls.
My nostrils dilate to the hidden scent that stone exudes and inanimate gems, that stars transmute to ethereal winds, that words transfuse with the warmth of a friend.
My skin vibrates to the water-drop’s silk to the velvet of petals, to the lace of trees, to the fluff of clouds that seep into veins, to the texture of flames that penetrates.
Interlocking
My mind interlocks with that of the tree of a thousand rings and thirty-three, with that of a falcon who grieves at night for having kidnapped the sacred trout.
My fingers interlock with those of the wind who shrieks the pain that dwells within, with those of a lingering, pensive cloud who contemplates the cerulean skies.
My teeth interlock with those of thorns who have impaled all types of scorn, with those of a squirrel who loves to crack the nuts of wisdom on aprons of grass.
My eyes interlock with the halos of stars an agglomeration of cosmic lights, with the rays of Helios when he departs the spheres of the earth in his orange ark.
Solemnity
An Englishman’s home is his fort, a law established by Sir Edward Coke to emphasize the sanctuary of one’s abode. The assimilation to a castle had struck a chord – when I was only thirteen years old – in someone whose house was like a port accommodating galleys, ships, and boats.
There were always visitors around to probe the deepest abyss of inmost thoughts, prying, interrupting, and disrupting discourse.
I always sought the furthest room when the kitchen congested with drink and food, with preparations for a banquet that would conform to the social etiquette of being a host.
The bustle and babel created discord. The aromas of strangers who chattered and fumed would linger for hours on eves and morns.
There were always people around the house, neighbours, relatives, acquaintances and bores, fingering the solemnity of my private world with greasy fingers that relish the sauce.
Heritage
Before me lies a kingdom, submerged in the ugliest form of camouflage. The castle is a mill and the mill has ash and every nearby stone is draped with trash.
I walk the narrow lanes, each roofed with an arch. It feels like roaming the heart of an ark. I look for traces of submerged stonework amongst a vineyard of pots and pans.
The din of transactions is maddening my mind. There’s no way of silencing the gaping mouth that craves for profit from the merchandise that usurped the throne of scripts and chants.
On the top of a hill, a temple perches whose walls had withstood all types of archers, whose star was erased from stone by scratches, but whose winding stairs attest to its heritage.
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
Thinking now Of the barbaric rites Of our young days, Fraternity rush at Chapel Hill, A kind of ritual mutilation: Invited, I suppose, because I’d been to Boarding school, but quickly turned away, Not at all like them, tailored heirs of Planters, silver flasks, Harris Tweed sports coats at football games, Kinston, Goldsboro, Rocky Mount, The place that would have me— Frame house without Ionic columns— Refuge for northern boys Come south to school. A year later I was the brother who escorted Two or three baffled freshmen to the porch To explain we had not gotten To know them well enough. I am ashamed of that And much else besides. Have only been back two or three times since. Once a young man found our picture From fifty years before. Is this you, he asked. I had to say it was. I still keep up with two or three of them; With one, a neighbour now at Golden Pines, I share a glass of port And rue the passage of time.
Knowledge
People come to the cottage now To help us with different things, Fix the computer, cut down trees, Cost of being seventy-two. The computer guy brings no special tools, No Allen wrench with which to probe The hard drive’s dark insides, Except for which I might leave My brain to science, Only keystrokes, clicks of the mouse, Things some do for themselves.
The cottage next door is for sale, Realtor’s sign incongruous on our dirt road. My parents’ friends, also long gone, Left it to four children who have reached That tired, timed impasse of heirs: Those who would keep it can’t afford to And vice versa. So there are grandchildren Who will not know These New Hampshire woods, this pond.
Still I would protect them and us From the dead white pine By the turtle rock— I remember the storm that took its life, Years ago, Lightning running up and down the bark In a silver-black night. The woodsman, of course, does have special tools— Bobcat, chainsaw. More than that, he knows Exactly where the tree will fall.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
In many ways, I never learn. Coaxing dead bruises. Corking my skin.
Sewing love into hems. Yearning for a reviving touch. The walking wounded in nature’s glory.
A love that bruises
Welts in line with flinching An exit beleaguered by blind adulation As harpies hang from dying trees Frothing at the mouth with maudlin song Dropping their dread like breadcrumbs Haranguing me to flee
You are not bullet proof
Let me sing to your ribcage Blessing your breath Soothing you with love, quietly I am your goddess With mettle, love forged its way We in these wastelands Our secret Brigadoon At last, I am feeling alive in a love so robust My organs riot Your order and will pull me closer Nothing can save me from you A guest inked on your skin Hunting for my final resting place
Love’s loss
shirking responsibility bathing in foolish want lounging in dreams eyes blazing in unison a sighing universal walking to walk breathing to breathe waking to each new dawn with little surprise in store holding onto fragments of hope in respect of the promise made we keep living to love with fingers now talons scratching at skin digging to feel something other than nothing you made the nothing something we grew closer as love knocked us sideways stoking the hearts of us flooding our bodies with joy love in a country made for two we sealed it and ran you with my sadness above you me with your mouth on mine breathing quick to save time
Remind me when I forget
Remind me that you love me Even when I blaze through Singed at the seams Untouchable Remind me that you love me I forget
Rebirth
I’ve made so many mistakes Given myself to the lost Hoping to find home Suffered the wrath of the cruel Left in pieces of grief I want a rebirth I want a riot of butterflies To take me back Back to that air heavy with colour Muted sounds comforting Nights steeped in the wonder Of my mother’s belly Back to the beginning Naked in a church font Blessed in morning light Mouths whispering promises to protect me A baby up in arms Demanding only love
Transgression
I do not want your attention. The shouts of heraldry are misplaced as I squint at the sun. I hide in the dark. Waiting for empty pavements to exist. Do you know how it feels to stalk the earth in vain. To watch the rain and want to be the raindrops? The only joy is knowing I’m not alone in my exclusion. I am part of a pack. A misunderstood teeming line of souls. One day, we will have favour. We shall have glory. You and yours will bow. Holding your wicked tongue. Your unclenched fist signalling hope.
I am an unfinished opus
I am an unfinished opus. A work of art in waiting. Life composes me. The seasons work in tandem.
Rain dampens wrath. Cold brings hiatus. Sun warms the binding. Adding essential strength.
Anne-Marie Silbiger is an Irish poet living in London Twitter
Butterball! Fatso! Lardass! The enduring names my Catholic school chums unaffectionately called me on the plague-ground at St. Mary’s Grade School in the fifties. Who could blame them? My wads of flab embodied everything they feared
they would become if they let themselves go. I weighed 164 lbs. in sixth grade and wore jeans marketed as “Husky.” No matter that these excessive pounds journeyed my way during months of hospitalization and bedrest prescribed
by doctors for my “possible” case of Rheumatic Fever. Hours watching Howdy Doody and other couch attractions combined with mounds of Twinkies, chicken a la king, donuts, M&Ms, Fritos, Baby Ruths, Milky Ways, guzzled down with Coca-Cola, Ovaltine, Pepsi, and
You-Hoos, anesthetized my swollen ankles, stiff limbs, murmuring heart, and broken spirit. I wasn’t like the other boys, but I had been. At four years old, in home movies, I was skinny and running after life. Then my ankles swelled, my body stiffened,
and my mouth opened to the processed wonders of the fifties—capitalism’s cold war harvest. I lost the weight when my father died in 1964. Turns out, grief is a terrific diet regime. Still my body held other treats in store for me.
At 14 my face and forehead were so riddled with acne that Bud, owner of the Snack Shack on Pershing Boulevard, where I ate golden hash browns tickled with butter, loudly asked in front of all his customers at the counter,
“DO YOU HAVE A SKIN DISEASE?”
I turned to the Halcyon Plan: washed my face three times a day with Halcyon Oatmeal Soap (how those soapy oat-crisps scraped across my pustules and made them bleed!), smeared stinging Halcyon Lotion (really hyped-up
rubbing alcohol) over my sores twice-a-day, and took Halcyon Pills (candy coated sugar tabs) twice-a-day, all to be like those other boys: athletic, smooth-skinned, attractive to the girls. At 15 my face resembled an unbaked pepperoni pizza.
You’ll never find a woman, I said aloud to my mirror image. You’ll be alone for the rest of your life. Accept it and forget it. And I did. I flushed the soap, pills, and lotion down the toilet. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror
for a year. When I was sixteen, I caught my reflection by mistake—maybe in a spoon or a lake. I was astounded. My face was as smooth as a newborn’s behind. Still, I wasn’t like the other boys. I could
play a mean set of drums and, despite what the nuns told me, I had a mind. The urge to conform, to be like those other guys, was something I gleefully abandoned to the nasty blemish of time.
St. Rose of Lima
She was an occasion of sin. Men would see her and their apostate gushers would fill holy water fonts from Pisco to Puno, Lisbon to Pucallpa. The entire male population of Peru teetered on the edge of Hades and she knew it. Her parents wanted her to marry, be merry, act like a normal girl, but Rose had different ideas. What about those poor backsliders enraptured by her silky dark hair and smooth olive skin? Because of her irresistible beauty so many souls sizzled, sputtered, bubbled-up
in Satan’s skillet that his stupendous spatula couldn’t handle all that spiritual bacon. To stop the drooling and dripping, Rose cut off her hair, slathered her face with hot peppers until it blistered, and placed a homemade crown of thorns on her head. But wait, that wasn’t enough to atone for the shameful venery caused by her gorgeousness. She was a master seamstress and regularly took a sewing needle and plunged it deep into her scalp, probably penetrating her brain. No wonder she had visions of the Devil. Since she was a saint-in-waiting she evidently
didn’t have to worry about infection. Guess pre-canonization was the 17th Century version of antibiotics. Well, maybe not, she died at 31. I only read three books at St. Mary’s Grade School: St. Rose of Lima, Blessed Martin de Porres, and the Lou Gehrig story. I wanted to give away all my clothes to the poor, like Blessed Martin, but my parents didn’t take to that idea, and I certainly wasn’t up for sticking a pin in my head (besides, I wasn’t, as far as I knew, an occasion of sin—but maybe perusal of some priestly diaries might prove otherwise). So, I chose baseball. I’m still a follower of St. Lou.
Launched in Light
1.
Every morning I open the blinds as if hoisting the main on a sailboat. Like wind, a nothing that propels vessels along waterways, light, another nothing I can’t hold, or touch, or taste, fills our bedroom— announces another day on our beleaguered but still green planet.
2.
People argue over light: a series of waves, a gaggle of particles, waves and particles. Its contrast with afternoon shadow heartbeats a room, pushes particles of my life into an open face discovery, sends waves of warmth through my biography.
3.
They say that night harbors mystery, but real mystery is launched in light. How does something not liquid pour onto a carpet, or spread into a room like a celestial mantilla? How does a huddle of vibrating molecules force a smile or an invisible wave inspire a song?
Requiem in Winter
The icing lake moves slowly pushed by northern Michigan winds, pallbearers to autumn’s corpse—
a sombre procession witnessed by bending spruces, birches, cedars and aspens; their sudden
frozen creakings, a brutal requiem with movements entitled Impermanence, Decay, Endurance.
The Mirror Stage
Identity didn’t exist in the 14th Century (i) Nobody wondered who they were— they knew: either they were peasants who spent their lives working for others, making babies, and waiting to die, or
they were the noble class who spent their time waging war, making babies, and waiting to die so they could pass on their possessions and reap their just reward in the next life.
So what is this carapace we crawl inside, carry wherever we go; this Self, invented by psychoanalysts, that we constantly cultivate and that gets in between ourselves and others all the time
but random images reflected to us by parents, siblings, teachers, friends— fellow travellers in this veil of years? Some of us wear fedoras and payot, others prune and preen in imitation of
their avatars in the pages of Vogue or GQ. Some wear t-shirts in winter, others gray government suits, blue shirts, red ties, ready for their television appearances. Some are captured in nearly invisible
bikinis, swim trunks, and flat stomachs cavorting with the terminally happy in places like Spice Island, Casa de Campo, and Belmond La Samanna. We are obsessed, in our confusing and divided times,
not so much with graven images of old, but with a modern excarnation: the Self reflecting on itself. Shipwrecked On Illusion Island we worship ourselves, our craven images, gravid with death and gravebound.
(i) See Tuchman, Barbara, A Distant Mirror, New York: Random House, 1987
The Sea
Roar that makes the cosmos cower, waves that carry on their backs dolphins I aspire to become, undertow—invisible, sinister, evil, admirable—takes back what it gives only to give it again: treasure of sand and shore, seashells that echo its voice, green tangled locks of Aphrodite’s hair, Poseidon’s foamy champagne along its penumbra, aroma from below, destiny’s perfume— a mist that mimics infinity and captures eternity’s smile.
Charlie Brice is the author of Flashcuts Out of Chaos (2016), Mnemosyne’s Hand (2018), and An Accident of Blood(2019), all from WordTech Editions. His poetry has been nominated for the Best of Net anthology and twice for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Atlanta Review, The Sunlight Press, Chiron Review, Plainsongs, I-70 Review, Mudfish 12, The Paterson Literary Review,and elsewhere.
Image: Herbert James Draper, The Pearls of Aphrodite, 1907
Rotund Mrs. Goldstein, my boss asked me if I was taking drugs Of course I was
Drugs were like sex, which I wasn’t getting and ice cream, which I was getting a lot of serving myself from the ice cream tubs when she and her husband weren’t looking
Drugs and ice cream direct lines to pleasure
No, Mrs. G. I’m not taking drugs
Max, you give me denials like a drink machine gives cans of soda
I was taken aback by her use of metaphor and couldn’t match her eloquence my lies flat-footed
She gave me a skeptical look and stepped closer I’m only five foot four She was a broad wall in front of me I had the thought that I could step forward and kiss her aproned chest smelling of corned beef lean against her and pray as if I were at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
“Was your day OK?” It’s just you look away and I don’t bee line to your honey smooth forehead. I don’t see your worries – those collected in blemishes or bags or even uneven sags that I don’t see. You are not Exhibit A or B or even C to be looked at like a commodity. You are more, my eternal amour. You are my best sounding-board friend and the perfect true love; my lover in dreams and in each creamy rich chocolate waking hour and day. The only one with that timeless girl’s heart – like the laughter of bicycle rides – and that sunrise smile as you nurture other smiles around you. You wear it loosely, care-free as you ‘pay it forward’ or tightly tied back on those few fraught long days. Your happiest actions outshine all that is outward as they come from somewhere softly ageless and inside. So, let me now ask you, please. You are important to me, “Are you alright?” “Was your day OK?”
Mark Anthony Smith was born in Hull. He graduated from The Open University with a BSc (Hons) in Social Sciences. His writing has appeared in Spelk, Nymphs, Fevers of the Mind and others. In 2020, he is due to appear in Horror Anthologies published by Eerie River and Red Cape Publishing. ‘Hearts of the matter’ is available on Amazon.
residents oldish some younger than me most yoked to challenges – me blessedly free for now at least
I fretted to select poems didn’t want to swamp lovely folk with hard words dense works I couldn’t make them sad lost in miscomprehension
I did my normal thing – I’ll read unless I have a volunteer expecting no-one then
your quiet cracked voice said I will your wife stared at you soft through dementia’s mist alerted by your gentle confidence
and you read Frost’s A Time to Talk with your whole deep-timbred heart claimed its meaning read friendship’s rhythm in rich-seamed Geordie tones
Ceinwen lives near Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She has an MA in Creative Writing [Newcastle 2017]. She believes everyone’s voice counts.
Robert Demaree: At a workshop in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, in August 2017, Marilyn Nelson introduced us to poets we were not likely to know—poets from the Middle East, Native America, Gary, Indiana, poems that spoke of addiction, alienation, anger. Then she explained to us the “golden shovel” prompt or exercise, created by National Book Award winner Terrance Hayes. We were to write a poem in which the lines should end, consecutively, with words from a line by Gwendolyn Brooks, the first African American to win a Pulitzer in poetry and serve as Poet Laureate for the U.S. We were offered a choice of three lines by Brooks, and I selected “I shall create! If not a note, a hole” (from “Boy Breaking Glass”). I was able to follow the directions for one of the two stanzas below.
Golden
Shovel Exercise
The participants all look alike this morning, and I Think of the syringes, which we shall Not know, even if we create Poems of pain and exclusion, even if We were to experience, as we have not, The chilling look and touch of a Security guard, his voice a strident note Of smug assumption, a Clue to the we-ness of this American hole.
Then I remember being pulled out of the line Returning from Canada, Luggage searched at random, they said, But we suspect for prescription drugs, Targeted for our years, A group not mentioned In this morning’s verse.
Chateau Frontenac
Looking back sixty years It seems so like them That my parents chose a place Called the Chateau Overlook, A modest auberge appropriate To a schoolmaster’s means And outlook on life. I remember the tour at The Plains of Abraham, and a man Lobbing a half-dollar U.S. over the Heads of the crowd, a tip for the guide. It fell in the mud at his feet; He paused for a moment, Then picked it up.
I went by myself to the Place d’Armes. Returning, I asked the concierge In my false, wooden French, “Où est ma mère?” “Oopstairs” was his reply.
Last summer our daughter and her son Drove to Québec. The Chateau Overlook is gone. Philip stepped into the lobby of The Chateau Frontenac, Something I had not done, And rode to the top floor Where he took a picture of The Plains of Abraham.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
the terrors of the night the worst imaginings of what might happen
war, rumours of war end of civilization nuclear war and other horrors ripped from the headlines
fade away into nothingness with the morning light and the love of my wife who is always by my side I regain my sight
and begin regaining my smile and my life
until the next nightmares consumes my dark imaginings
Dora the Intergalactic Explorer
Dora the intergalactic explorer Is travelling to the strangest planet of all the known worlds
she is traveling incognito with a video crew making a documentary
the planet earth is known as a planet of intelligent monkeys
not much is known about them as very few have ever been there
the inhabitants are described as blood thirsty insane creatures ruled by hidden sexual and political passions following incomprehensible religious dogmas following Gods that clearly do not exist
the inhabitants are just on the verge of developing intergalactic travel and the galactic empire is worried that they will be driven to try to conquer the rest of the universe
driven by their needs to impose their religious dogma everywhere in the world
the planet is divided into large tribal groups governed by corrupt elites corrupt businesses destroying the planet in pursuit of profit
and the locals are little more than wage slaves barely making a living addicted to alcohol, drugs gambling pornography and illicit sex
and their main land is ruled by a clearly delusional madman intent on poking a fight with all his alleged enemies
Dora assumed the appearance of a character from TV and will pose as a journalist trying to make sense of it all
but she was afraid that she if found out could face the worst consequence
her ship crash lands and she is outside the capital
of the non empire empire called the United State of America
Dora gets her crew together and walks into the city staring at all the strange sights as the monkeys go about their daily activities
she stops at a restaurant tries the coffee the chief drug of choice
and is instantly addicted wow no wonder these people are crazed
she tries the local booze and smiles perhaps she could become an intergalactic merchant introducing the world to the galaxy
her thought are interrupted as a mad man armed with weapons of war bursts in and starts shooting yelling at people
and she is shot dead the authorities are shocked
when they recover the body and realize that she is not a human as she reverts other original form
sort of a giant feline like creature two legs and arms and clearly from an advanced civilization given her gear
what was she doing no one knew as all the aliens died in the gun blaze
the world is shocked at what had happened and fearful that the aliens were coming to invade their world
the galactic senate decides to contain the humans declaring them a threat to the global civilization
and the humans vow to discover the secrets of interstellar travel and travel to her land
to enter into business arrangements and spread the one truth faith to the heathen space aliens
thus ended Dora’s excellent adventure in the crazed world at the edge of known civilization
Mocking Faces Staring at Me
Mocking faces hunting my dreams Hundreds of faces morphing into one after another
Faces I knew The dead and the living
women I knew friends I missed enemies I did not
One after another Marching in my room Staring at me
I tried to run They laughed
They said that there’s nowhere to escape my cosmic fate
My time is coming prepare yourself the grim reaper has your name
and once he has your name your fate is sealed and you will soon join us
whether in heaven or hell is not for us to say
be warned though you will be judged and no one can escape their cosmic karmic fate
a wild man sits in a gilded cage
a wild man sits in a gilded cage a cage made out of chains of his wife’s love
a cage made out of chains of his wife’s love the wild man yearning to be free from his cage
the wild man yearning to be free from his cage wondering how and why he was now tamed
wondering how and why he was now tamed dreaming dark wild dreams of demented freedom
dreaming dark wild dreams of demented freedom the wild man looks about his prison cage
the wild man looks about his prison cage wondering whether he will ever be free
wondering whether he will ever be free a wild man sits in a gilded cage
2019 The Last Year of America’s Greatness
2019 was the last year of America when the proverbial chickens came home
when the proverbial chickens came home to strut about the decaying landscape
to strut about the decaying landscape as the world begins to burn and die
as the world begins to burn and die led by the mad great leader and his merry men
led by the mad great leader and his merry men the whole world lay in shock and awe
the whole world lay in shock and awe at the destruction of the America they knew
at the destruction of the America they knew when the proverbial chickens came home
John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and former Foreign Service officer having served 27 years with the U.S. State Department serving in over ten countries including Korea, Thailand, India, Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, St Lucia, St. Kitts and Nevis, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, and Spain. He has travelled to over 50 countries, and 49 out of 50 states. He speaks Korean, Thai, Spanish and studied Chinese, Hindi and Arabic.
What sort of plumage is my exuberant words, words whose foliage no Autumns could scourge, whose leaves still flutter in speech and verse with eloquence?
With what sort of rhythm the word bells resonates, a word that chimes with vespers and faith, with Edgar Allan Poe’s metallic tales, with Sir Betjeman’s Archibald and Hampstead plains, with St. Mungo’s grace!
What sort of thrills are embedded in wings, an ode to agility in fowls and fins, a vision of freedom in inward things and flights within!
What clusters of stars reside in smiles, a word whose luster with galaxies vies, a beam to de-shroud the downcast brows, to rob them of frowns!
Black Dice
He drove me to work slowly in his own senile style, a couple of black dice instantly caught my eye, dangling from the rearview mirror, a taxi-driver’s charm, with threes engraved in gleaming white and numbers one and four on half-hidden sides.
I am used to seeing beads, fresheners, and ornaments that some believe can distract the evil eye but dice was a novelty that enflamed my mind.
What if these numbers are an encrypted message from the sky! What if nothing is random in our complicated lives! I pondered over their significance like a bewildered child, then added the numbers up to figure some meaning out. Eleven, the outcome, is double one, the number I adored as a child, but the appearance of its twin at that stage in my life multiplied interpretations of what it could signify: the twin pillars of Solomon’s Temple, or a roofless gate to the other world! Perhaps parallel lives, but if so, what parallels mine!
Charlotte Mew, a Nemophilist
Who but Mew heard the grasses bashfully mate, the cry of an angel admonishing the butchery of trees, the agony of London’s ubiquitous planes in every massacre enjoined by the modern age, a sacrilege.
She evoked the spirits that dwelt in wood, the oak-housed elves, the consecrated yews, the venerable beeches, the beloved sycamores, a sentient, sacred world.
She dreaded the three-headed monster that inhabited Europe, machinery, democracy, and science with their torture tools, the axe, the rope, the amputating saw, that manufacture unhallowed roods.
Sacred
The Essenes once settled on the Mount of Sion, the sacred site the Templars were bound to woo, over which many races their disputes would brew, now a blood-stained metaphor for modern wars.
Edessa, the Syrian gem in the north, upon whose throne a Nazarene monarch had ruled, a Fisher King in the most purple of robes, had lost its hallowed crown of thorns.
The Nile whose ripples had Moses borne, in whose mirror Nefertiti and Cleopatra viewed the resurrection of Osiris from a sunken tomb, is now a battleground for water feuds.
And Notre Dame de-Paris, the grail of stone, who frowned upon Jacques de Molay’s doom, the immolation of a knight whose Order had bloomed, now stands disfigured and badly scorched.
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
