I listen close, knotting thread through my fingers, focus on the disruntled cock of your head: “you’re fidgeting again”, shrug the shiver of wanting to hold comfort in my grasp but fuel thirst for scrutiny.
Tremor of hand, you analyse to alienate me until– I feel my limbs disconnect and fall heavy weighted by your speared pupils: a broken woman picks, picks, picks away at the fleshy upturned belly of a young girl, soft skin–with time she will grow the armour to fight this woman.
Florence tourist
Quiltwork faces collide we witness, feel stomach swelling toasting, square stuffed with selfie sticks – there a man lies supine painting film her slow-motion street dance, flashing backdrop of cathedral. Brash voices shoot code new language of Google maps hands navigate bars to golden doors future worship flicker on Facebook as night pales to calls distinctly English we wonder where locals hide from storming feet.
Isabelle Kenyon is northern poet and the author of Digging Holes To Another Continent (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). She is the editor of Fly on the Wall Press. Her poems have been published in poetry anthologies by Indigo Dreams Publishing, Verve Poetry Press, and Hedgehog Poetry Press. Her book reviews, articles and blog posts have been published in various places such as Neon Books, Authors Publish, Harness magazine and Five Oaks Press.
Attention: This manifesto has in itself a magical power and it can finally refute the communist manifesto (1847/48) and its successors in the form of communist states.
It burns a peaceful campfire!
I am part of the pink eternity. I enchant the poetic stars. I dream with ghosts of melancholy. I am a magician of dawn. My wing is called Apollo. I’m so enchanted, so dreamy. I am a sky dreamer. I am shrouded in the most beautiful enthusiasm. My dream enchants the beautiful world. There is a magic dream in my wings. My wings can do magic. I like my dreams. My dream is hotter than feeling. Philosophical thoughts are waiting for me. Philosophical sparks shimmer at me. My philosophy is infinity. I am in love with the infinity of politics. I like a druidic fire. I want to become a druid priest. Modern druids beautify my existence. An eternal spark rests in my poetries. I am spiritualized thanks to poetry. In politics you can be poetic. I never quarrel with muses. I fly in pairs like muses. My wings would need starry rays. With beautiful sounds fulfilling my dream of melancholy. Poetic moments enrich my soul. There is an Osiris chalice in my soul. My friend Loreley is a philosopher like me. In tender tears my magic life takes place. I sometimes quarrel with tears of finiteness. I would build a school for Druids. The imagination unfolds in the moon. I adore Osiris forever. My friend Osiris likes the original beauty. In my chalice there is Osiris’ soul. I fly to the land of Osiris. I write a legend to the Osiris. I drink a dew of eternity. In the dew, I can refresh my soul like muses. I warm myself in a gentle dew. I cool my wings in the magic dew. In the dew falls my little shooting star. Ambrosia is eternal for my sake. In Ambrosia I feel infinitely beautiful magic. I love to perpetuate this Ambrosia. An idea about the Ambrosia is waiting for me. My tender thought must be enchanted by Ambrosia. I, sitting, wait for spiritualized moments. I sit there as if I were a musical angel. I philosophise as if an angelic muse had touched me. In the wind, my moment becomes like a star-shaped existence. This touch reflects my eternity. The tender poetry becomes my temple. In the most beautiful stamp of feeling I belong to you. I can love all the fantasies of the dawn. I’ll show you my freedom of mindlessness. I like to collect coloured shooting stars of the angels.
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
there was a tender muse-like moment of charm, such an Apollonian tear when the cute bee set down on a noble rose in the kind calyx of the bloom, full dreamy splendour
the gentle sun smiled, at that time, at it fairy-like oh, a sweet morning gracefulness of rays, the owl stayed with the courage that is in the habit of flying into an ancient forest homewards
there was endlessly angelic-beautiful early spring a tender March like a breath with pleasant smell of hummingbirds and in bright nightly moonlight which is fulfilled in splendour of butterfly the ghosts of open fields are dreaming incredible with the gleaming time of fantasy
dreams about the morning star and this steeped in legend Venus boasted about the dreamy bee with marvellous native glow because it experienced something very old such a butterfly-like feeling as if it had been infinite fledged as the heavenly she-daydreamer
that bee wanted to relish only the dew take a few drops of an eternal water to itself easy drinking and its wings dipping
yes the rose was knowing in a gorgeous dream of the primeval delight
as soon as the insect looked in the mild kind dew it saw there an enchanting minute small mirror
through the mirror the bee observed the dreamful nature the hidden spring mermaid from an other time as trace of ontology
that was the boundless wonderful eagle-like eternity what a melancholic land of spring dream-magic!
the mermaid with the harp was a young poet of muses that youth forsooth with a thousand warm lights of hearts
the bee dreamed like an Apollonian rider through the March into April
meanwhile the soul of the bee became tender willing to a starry flight as well as worth the ambrosia
the while in rosy calyx and mermaid´s observation have enchanted forever the dream of the eternity
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Curlew, A New Ulster, Straylight Magazine, Down in the Dirt, The Ink Pantry, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, the Avalon Literary Review, The Opiate, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, WestWard Quarterly, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, The Blotter, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways, The Moon Magazine, the Mojave River Review, Always Dodging the Rain, and Coldnoon.
The Apparition
The rain seeps into my brain. The swishing of car-wheels entails mud-stains on pants, in veins. I strive to grasp the shredded clouds with dripping hands, in vain.
The trees, heeding my gaze, now sway with contrived grace, disguising their strain, for the fog that stalks my pace has begun to draw a face.
The leaves grimace. A candle-flame is displaced. A dog stops howling, disgraced as a hand on my shoulders pats then strays down to my hand that has grown quite weightless.
My fingers interlock with boneless flakes. A torrent of glows seeps into my frame as of bygone days when we frequented this very same lane to evade the hailstones of the human race.
Anchor {For Berjouhi}
Her face may be blurred by the mist of fifty years but my childhood shores still boast the marvellous gifts she once bequeathed, the aeroplane magically flying above our heads, the tortuous roads for sliding match-box cars in blues and reds, Andersen’s tin soldier miraculously resurrected from the belly of the fish, a doll, my height, with ebony lashes and gorgeous plaits, a Christmas-ball with ballerinas of silver flakes, and Joan d’ Arc on a Templar’s steed.
Her presence must have borne the vehement passion the very ancient monasteries of Anatolia evoke, she must have carried in her genes some ancestral trait of the early Christian martyrs who readily died for the King of Kings, a Gregorian gift.
I felt anchored in her lap and securely snug at the altar of her eyes, on which burned candles whose stature remained intact despite flames and flickers which refused to weep while diffusing their innumerable halos of light.
Amends
How can we make amends to lost friends when every single utterance has been rendered impotent? How can we redress the grievances of forests’ inmates whose habitats have been effaced? How can we rectify the gaping holes in heritage walls, the crumbling leaves of historic lore? How can we mitigate the bile of wounded pride? How can we reconcile a face with a smile?
Atonement is not an invisible force that embalms the mind with a remedial dose. It is a genuine feeling of remorse which to serious action it takes recourse. It is an act of healing rift that goes beyond verbal craft. It is an effort to repair damage, to rebuild, replant, retrieve and salvage.
A Student’s Reminiscences
Townhead, George Square, and Cathedral Street, I tightly close my eyes on these Glaswegian spheres, then distill them into cooling tears. It’s true I was friendless and without means, but at least I roamed those amicable domains unmolested.
The front window of W.H. Smith was my sanctuary in times of distress. I walked the isles in search of books I was certain I could not purchase, instead inhaled the fragrance of print, regaled my eyes with the gloss of tints of Penguin, Macmillan and university presses, and was not found wanting in taste for preferring books to a hookah’s blaze.
And the monster who resided in the dark blue lake had imparted its subterranean grace to my slender frame, for the ripples that caressed its bashful face still carry the fragments of Columba’s gaze.
My body smells bad It keeps me from finding a partner but without a partner I don’t feel the need for hygiene
I have a feeling of deep resistance to taking my clothes off and stepping into the enslaved rain of a tiled telephone booth
Rain inside a building designed to keep rain out is unnatural If I lived next door to a waterfall my life would be different
There are places like that in the Upper Peninsula a 3/2 with attached garage and adjoining waterfall but I don’t live anywhere near there
I couldn’t afford a house in those neighborhoods They wouldn’t let me use food stamps there They wouldn’t let me talk to their children
Children give me a sense of possibility but they wrinkle their noses at me and whisper to each other
I can hear them I have very good hearing I hear things others can’t
I took a creative writing class and wrote an autobiographical sketch though I claimed it wasn’t
I claimed it was about someone who had shit stains in the seam of his jeans
The teacher said it was a detail that had the power of veracity
I insisted on smoking in the classroom All the other students were against me They all washed behind their ears with ivory soap took naps when they were told and wore helmets when they rode their bikes
The Dean came and kicked me out I could tell he was afraid of me I could tell he was disgusted by my smell
If I had a girlfriend I’d be careful about my hygiene I’d spray my feet with athlete’s foot spray I’d go to the drug store and shoplift cans
I’d shave my face and watch the whiskers flee down the drain I’d use bay rum by the half-gallon
I’d put it on my clean-shaven face and the back of my neck
If I had a partner I’d feel a need for hygiene because there’d be a real woman I’d want to please and not offend
but until then my body smells repugnant, and there’s nothing I can do about it
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. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
On the interstate Vacant property Unsold for twelve years: Once a gentlemen’s club, Topless waitresses, Who knows what else; Later a stand-alone church (That’s my term—they called it A Worship Centre), God’s sense of fair play, Pastor charismatic but unschooled, Divorce counselling, Choir accompanied by bass guitar. Seller motivated, Will renovate for new owner. Builders of big boxes Wait in the wings.
THE SHADE OAK
Our friend’s husband, now deceased, Had suggested cutting down The oak at the water’s edge. Would improve our view of the mountain, He thought, but we prefer Shelter from the high Hazy sun of July, The private rise and fall of inner tubes On the waves of passing boats, Hidden from jet skiers. Each year I trim back dead branches; Our grandchildren grasp the stubs Like subway straps. We watch from the porch When a fisherman’s line Gets snarled in leaves Weighed down by a predawn rain. We did not like Wilbur all that much, To tell the truth. We did not cut down the tree And would not, even if the state allowed, Content to float in the shade And picture the mountain From memory.
WEDDING SONG
Soft light through Spanish moss, White chapel on a sea island: We have gathered over many miles and years, Her law school friends, his cousins from Kent. His precious little girl bears flowers. The organist quietly plays Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Then, with boldness, Jeremiah Clarke, Melodies that tell of the tenacity of love, How it can sometimes get delayed, How it will come back again, How love persists, prevails.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladderspublished 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 the pink and white golden words
Of the day outside the garden of gods
Is the hometown of thy soul.
Far before the world was born
The prehistoric giants in gold Engraved the epic of times to be born To tell thee, from outer skies the city of the giant Will once again come to the coast of time
时间的海岸
粉红色 白色 金色的词语 来自天外的诸神的花园 那儿是你灵魂的故乡 这世界还没有诞生之前
史前的巨人在黄金之上 镌刻一部未来的史诗 告诉你天外的巨人之城 将再次来到时间的海岸
The Prehistoric Giants
I live in the very eyes of the stone I am the light of the light, The core of the universe. Out of water and fire I emerge Yes, churning water, turning fire. There was a time, in black and white, when The space of the galaxy was resplendent with colours. The world is a book of dreams The city of the future is above the clouds. The prehistoric giants thence I saw They are solemn as mountains Living in the city of gold, transparent in body, Synchronous with the sun and the moon and the stars.
Original words – A picture of the heart and the spirit A breeze blowing through the silent music That which grows in the palm of your hand The sun, the moon and the stars singing in form God’s bosom, the ups and downs of the earth The river is fragrant sweet nectar of life. Original words are stars in the night sky Shining bright and light upon the soul. Plaiting along the bridge of light Can arrive at the Temple of the Gods.
When the dainty of dawn lights up your body You shall see the golden country in stone. The Giant is walking in the sky His hand holds aloft a Diamond City. In the garden outside the sky The other one robed in transparent gold; He’s smiling at you. And behind him, is a huge palace.
When I walk the City I shall hold it in my hand. Blowing a breath to make it transparent. So I saw it in the future: The Gem edifice, a flash of the giant. The stars cling to their bodies As if from another universe So I know that the sea will be sweet And the earth will be noble as gold.
Hongri
Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested
particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City,
Gold City, Golden Paradise, Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has
been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada and
Nigeria.
‘How nice you sing’ The clever fox told To see a crow with a piece of meat In his mouth to hold.
‘How sweet is your voice?’ He again said ‘Sweeter than the cuckoo’ ‘Lovely to hear’ he added
And he pleaded ‘Sing a song dear crow’ As the crow’s heart melted And he tried to sing The meat fell down below.
The Little Sony
Sony was the girl Small and nice, She could not be quiet for a while And denied all she did with a clever smile, While kids played with the ball Sony was found on the ice.
She ran up the stairs often And fell down below thrice, All was helpless to the naughty Sony She fed the cats her bread and honey, Only Mom cooled her down tutting twice.
No things unbroken the little Sony left All felt comfort while she slept Instead of toys, she played with mice, She was the little Sony, naughty but nice.
Moonshine and Matches Syncopated in smooth M-o-l-a-s-s-e-s Rhythms; a smoulder, a crack, A flicker that dances with the Intensity of evergreen sap on A rainy, September Sunday. Which is not at all blazing But still it somehow roars with Turpentine toxicity, tickling The pine-addled fancy of Lazy haze and cabin dreams.
Consumed in stillness, Hidden beneath a Kindled soul.
In deep sleep
a sudden rush
of wings
a swirl
of golden light
confused
with black
Heart hurts
Deep roots
ripped out
in one fell swoop
O Mother
I was in
you
were in
me
until that
rip
GO
in sleep
in dark
confusion
Go in one
fell
swoop
free
of body’s husk
brain’s dread
tangle
knotted you
severed
me
So much got lost
your laughter on the phone
your sturdy feet
on the path around the lake
the mischief in your eyes
harks back
to the last millennium
the time
between the wars
brief peace
you were a laughing girl
before
catastrophe
"WHERE IS SHE?"
I ask the persimmon tree You've harvested all
my fruit What else
do you want?
I ask the dead leaves
on the garden path
"Where did she go?" Listen
we crackle
under your feet dry
as bones long past
fall colors empty vessels
for the wind
I ask the mountain
"Where is my mother?" Here, says the rock Here, says the scrub oak
Here, says the cloud
shrouding the peak
with one fell swoop
crow caws
Wake up you fool
She's right behind you
pulling your wings down
lifting your head to the sky
Your mother is
your spine
BLOODY SHOW
In the dream I see
bright-red blood
a bloody show?
a miscarriage?
like the two you had
before me?
You are a lake
I'm trying to
walk around
The path goes boggy
the reeds threaten
to pull me in
You are breaking up
mother falling
into pieces of a child's
fell swoop
a child's lost
loop or perhaps
you are the sap of
Our mother tree
Our body of blood
Our body of water
Our body of laughter
Our body of roots
I WISH
I could tell you
about
the Women's March
Mother
Would you
get that
half-offended
half-delighted
look
when in fell swoops
in loops of language
I explain
pussy hats?
Naomi
Ruth Lowinsky is a Jungian analyst in private practice in Berkeley,
CA, and the Poetry and Fiction Editor of Psychological
Perspectives, which is published by the Los Angeles Jung
Institute.
Naomi’s
“Madelyn Dunham, Passing On” won first prize in the Obama
Millennium Contest. She has also won the Blue Light Poetry Chapbook
Contest. Her work has been widely published and has appeared, or is
forthcoming in Argestes, Backwards City Review, Barely South Review,
Blue Lake Review, Bogg, Cadillac Cicatrix, California Quarterly, The
Cape Rock, Caveat Lector, The Chaffin Journal, Circle Show, Compass
Rose, Comstock Review, Crack the Spine, Darkling, decomP, Diverse
Voices Quarterly, Dogwood Review, Drunk Monkeys, Earth’s Daughters,
Eclipse, ellipsis…literature and art, Emprise Review, Euphony,
Evening Street Review, Fourth River, Freshwater, Front Porch, G.W.
Review, Ginosko, Ibbetson Street Press, Into the Teeth of the Wind,
Jewish Women’s Literary Annual, Juked, Left Curve, Lindenwood
Review, Mantis, Meridian Anthology Of Contemporary Poetry, Minetta
Review, Monkeybicycle, Nassau Review, Origins Journal, The Penmen
Review, The Pinch, Poem, Prick of the Spindle, poetrymagazine.com,
Quiddity, Qwerty, Rattle, Reed Magazine, Runes, Sanskrit, Schuylkill
Valley Journal Of The Arts, Serving House Journal, Shark Reef, Ship
of Fools, Sierra Nevada Review, SLAB, Sliver of Stone, Soundings
East, South Dakota Review, Southern Humanities Review, The Spoon
River Poetry Review, Stand, Stickman Review, The Texas Review,
Tiger’s Eye Journal, Tightrope, Verdad, Visions International,
Weber Studies, Westview, Whistling Shade, West Trestle Review, Wild
Violet, Willow Review, and in the anthologies Child of My Child,
When the Muse Calls, and The Book of Now. Her fourth
poetry collection is called The Faust Woman Poems.
