‘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.
‘Please Hear What I’m Not Saying’, published by Fly on The Wall Poetry, is a stunning and unique collection of poems about mental illness.
The
book is divided into sections, the idea being that the sections grow
with positivity, and that by the end of the book, you will be able to
see the light at the end of the tunnel. The sections are untitled,
and the reader is invited to name them.
I wasn’t sure how I would react to this collection. How would it make me feel? Would I enjoy it reading it? Mental illness can be a difficult subject, and as this collection shows, it affects us all in different ways. The poems cover a wide range of topics including; depression, anxiety, self-harm and suicide.
If I had read the poems individually, and at different times, the collection may not have had such an impact on me. But brought together and presented this way, I found the anthology powerful, inspirational and at times quite emotional. I can guarantee that there will be at least one poem included in this collection which every single reader can relate to.
It’s
a strong and beautiful book. Thoughtfully and courageously edited by
Isabelle Kenyon. The more I read, the more I appreciated the poets
who contributed their words, emotions and bravery.
The
opening poem ‘Battle’ by Bethany Gordon, highlights the unwanted
struggle, and is a poignant introduction for this collection ‘Mental
illness / is a battle I never agreed to fight.’
There are so many outstanding poems, to mention only a few seems to do an injustice to the others which I can’t fit into a single review. I enjoyed the strong imagery which runs throughout the anthology, and I found Angela Topping’s poem ‘Deferment’, about bereavement and personal belongings, particularly effective. ‘Grief is a cruel handbag – / its catch snaps shut like jaws.’ The poem makes us question how we deal with grief, and if we opened that bag what we might find. ‘…It cannot be thrown away. / Best hide it in the bottom of the wardrobe / an unexploded bomb.’
‘Black
Rot’ by Andrew Barnes describes the onset and ongoing fight with
depression. ‘She throws her arm around my shoulder, / pins me down
until action weeps from me, / creeps back in the morning to stop me
rising. // Depression is a friendly face, / she takes her time with
me, / lets me shuffle on.’
‘On
the Shelf’ by Jacqueline Pemberton is about escaping unhealthy
thoughts and relationships. Emphasising finding inner courage and
strength. ‘And I knew he’d got it wrong, / He was the damaged
one / Made small with spite, / He wasn’t worth the fight.’
Some of these poems, by their very nature and subject, are a challenging read. However, you will also find some that they are inspirational, courageous and many have important messages about mental illness and societies’ reaction to it.
‘Blue
Square with White ‘F’ in the Middle’ by Jade Moore is one of my
favourites from this collection and details the impact and addiction
to social media. The language used is direct and unapologetic,
powerful and effective. The poem cleverly recognises our love hate
relationship with social media, our desire to belong and our fear of
failure. ‘There’s a button with the whole world on its face /
and I click it and wonder if I’ve stopped the human race.’
I’m
glad I read this collection. It was thought-provoking and inspiring.
Proceeds from the sale of ‘Please Hear What I’m Not Saying’ go to UK Mental Health Charity Mind.
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.
A blue-winged thought navigated round my fingertip, then cast its anchor at the foot of the lethargic quill that in my hand had stood for hours so transfixed.
The ink that in stagnant wells had congealed began to ripple with Osirian zeal irrigating with words my yawning sheets.
With aquamarine, azure, and Egyptian blue my consonants and vowels were imbued, genetic hues.
Congruity
I’ve never wanted to be a politician, a social worker, or a shrink, a saviour in the miraculous sense, a superwoman, a clairvoyant, or Merlin. But my students keep on asking me: How can we make the future a better thing? So with my propensity to philosophize, I answer: start with foetuses, how they are impregnated, because the semen of love is the foundation of a healthy citizen. Annul social contracts that have infested marriages, then build a mother who is devoid of prejudice. She does not only suckle babies white fluids. Her every pore exudes her beliefs and feelings, to be imbibed by her infants.
Make religion an affair of the heart, the inner light within. Erase it from documents. Stop segregating school-pupils each according to inherited creeds, to abolish sectarianism.
When hunger and pestilence stalk continents, why spend trillions on ships to navigate galaxies! Why enthuse the public with enmities against potential adversaries, the Aliens, as if civil and international wars are not enough distraction.
They claim they have abolished racism, discrimination at work, of gender, of skin. I suggest they start with the family and establishments, the nuclei of favouritism.
Prune and preen your media missions, your visual images, the sounds which kill from a distance, make it a tool of pacification and not of perennial division.
The Word-Shields
Your steps recede into the uncharted leas, I hearken to the retreating echoes in a state of disbelief. How dare you leave? The man who looked death in the eye has disappeared.
You thought I use hyperbole in speech but wait till you view with the second sight granted to the deceased my grief water every vein that steaks your grave until new blood seeps into your dissolving heart, my tears.
Wait till you see your eyes bloom into fleur-de-lis to float on the surface of every word I out-breathe, endowing the shields of my words with heraldic miens.
Apart From
Apart from Sir Sean Connery, the sage and the antiquarian Nicholas Cage what would be your perfect catch? The Roger Moore of The Persuaders, or the Kevin Costner of Dances With Wolves? A Scottish, Sinclairean, or wolf-dancing match!
Apart from Auden’s Funeral Blues and the bards’ of the Yorkshire moors, with what type of verse do you converse? With Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, or with Wilde’s The Ballad of Reading Gaol ? The hyperbolic, stoical, or penitent strain!
Apart from the wall-breaking Pink Floyd’s and the sensuous sinuousness of Depeche Modem to what type of music are you attuned? To the Arthurian leitmotifs of erudite Era, or the expansive vistas of Massive Attack? A psychedelic, erotic, or transfiguring bent!
Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Blotter, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, Down in the Dirt, WestWard Quarterly, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways 4, A New Ulster, The Moon Magazine, the Mojave River Review, The Opiate, Always Dodging the Rain, Coldnoon, and Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine.
(The cover photo shows one of Kevin Morris’s clocks with him in the background, close to a window).
The Writer’s Pen
You accuse me of hiding in my ivory tower. I answer that I have no power, Other than my pen Which, when It scratches, Sometimes catches The truth of the matter,
That is the opening of the title poem and it is a perfect introduction to the collection. Kevin casts a sharp eye at the modern world while drawing heavily on the rhyming style of previous centuries; that opening poem continues,
The wise well Know that those who go Down that path Oft produce great art.
When I say that Kevin casts a sharp eye over the world in which we live, mine and Kevin’s paths crossed a long time ago. We were students at Swansea University at the same time. I was sighted and he was, and still is, blind. I remember seeing him and his guide dog at the Junior Common Room bar, though never thought to go speak to him … and now here we are and I too have lost my sight, so it is a delight to be a blind person reviewing a blind person’s poetry, utilising our sharp eyes!
In the wood’s dark heart, The breeze Whispers in the trees Words that I cannot comprehend. May God send Me peace And this breeze Never cease.
Kevin’s poems, frequently a single stanza or two, hark back to the days when poets celebrated the countryside and revelled in the sights, sounds and scents of the great outdoors. Blind people do not, contrary to many people’s assumptions, have superpower senses; but we learn to pay more attention to the ones we encounter or whose absence we notice. The poem, Wisteria, exemplifies this for me:
Wisteria
Wandering around Hampton Court In late May, a thought, Prompted by Wisteria hanging on a wall. A few purple flowers, their scent Already spent And ready to fall, Did to me call.
There are myriad examples of how the world sounds, from a bird singing in a tree (Autumn Bird) the sounds of clocks (The Hands Are Almost at Half-Past, and This Ticking Clock Calms), all of which are one after another, ending with the hum of a fridge.
The fridge’s hum And the clock’s tick tock For the most part run Unnoticed, as background Sound Until they One day Stop.
This collection of succinct poems can metaphorically lift the blindfold from a reader’s eyes and point out the things that maybe had stopped being noticed because of the domineering sense of sight. It is an accessible and delightful read.
i remember when i told my mother i was molested as a child
she started to cry
it would be years until i realized she was crying because it happened to her as well, as a child
that made me wonder if deep down she wanted the cycle to continue
i never bought this bullshit that parents want their children to have better lives than them
it goes against every fibre of human psychology i have ever learned
i’m not asking for a medal for getting into my forties and not having any children
i’m simply saying perhaps i should get a better tax credit for ending a cycle of abuse
if the woman would have been white
and here’s another story of a black woman missing for over twenty years
none of the white television anchors are willing to say the truth
if the woman would have been white, the family would have had some sense of closure by now
the anchors want you to believe hope still exists
no wonder i stopped watching the evening news
a few miles downstream
i once went swimming at midnight in the river
i was alone and i desperately wanted to die
just my luck, i was able to get a few miles downstream just by floating
i went under and stopped holding my breath
apparently, the journey is not over yet
although, i do help clean the river each year
i’ll always blame the litter for not allowing me to go deeper and finish this life off
the last sucker on this planet
my best friend blames me for her cancer
i cry at night sometimes when i think how unable i am to help
but then again
i refuse to be the last sucker on this planet
the days of needing to dance naked on the freeway are drawing to a close
even the losers get to have a damn convention
happiness in slavery
it always catches me off guard when i see a beautiful black woman with a white guy wearing a confederate flag t-shirt
i’m guessing two more clueless souls that bought the lies about state’s rights
or perhaps they believe they found happiness in slavery
or considering the size difference between the two
i’m guessing the racist likes being dominated by the nubian queen
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)
The poet laureate didn’t wear a helmet
though she knew she should
but she had to admit: she was vain
She liked the way her long grey-blonde curls
flew out behind her
and she liked the way it felt,
like freedom
though she recognized that as trite
While she was distracted
by words cascading in her head
she crashed into a garbage truck
flew over the handlebars
and her delicate skull impacted
the unyielding steel
She went unconscious
woke up to see a man hovering above her
concern on his handsome face
This must be the man of my dreams, she thought
and this time, wasn’t in good enough shape
to recognize it as a cliché
Metaphors broke apart
and senselessly recombined
The swinging elegance of her brain
devolved into literary machinery
on auto-pilot
She’d always taken the road less travelled and had always profited from it but now dazed and confused in a hospital bed surrounded by local admirers middle-aged women whose faces seemed distorted almost alien she wished she had worn a helmet
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, 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.
Bad enough that he left me for another man, but I’m told the blighter is still gorgeous. Slim, dark-haired (no doubt with a touch of grey at the temples), with that winning smile, almost bashful, but certain of himself.
And
I am not. Gorgeous. I look a good deal like my mother, who in her day
looked like the dowager queen. Queen Mary. They had a lot in common.
They liked their little tot of gin at the end of the day. They liked
dogs. They wore rather outrageous hats. My mother didn’t ride,
though I’m not sure the old queen did either. The queen herself,
today’s queen, did, as a girl. No longer. I never rode.
So I’m obliged to see him for the first time in twenty-two years. Melinda was two when he left, Priscilla four. Left me high and dry with a pair of pre-school children. Didn’t care.
I
just realized, he said. When I met Henry. I was sandbagged.
Instantly. Something that has never happened to me before.
Not
with me, you’re saying.
He had the grace to colour a little. I fear not, he said. Out you go, I said.
We
were schooled to pull up our socks and do whatever we had to do.
Duty. Whatever was expected. That was what made it hard to deal with.
He was refusing to do what was expected. There he was, a golden boy
at Chase, and he threw it all over to go follow his dick.
Sorry.
I try not to use improper language. But I also try to speak honestly.
Oh,
it’s a good deal easier now than it was then. We were the talk of
the club, I’m sure. I made sure I got the club membership, along
with everything else I could. I never rode, but I had tennis lessons
early and often. I’m moderately good. I’m always in the running
for the club singles championship. I have won sometimes. Even though
I don’t cover the court as easily as I once did, my game enables me
to play on a high level.
In
all respects I’m a competent woman. Except in retaining a man, and
I don’t consider that my fault. I’ve had a spectacular success in
selling real estate. Something about the English accent dazzles
Yanks. My clients trust me, and the sellers are inclined to cave in
to whatever terms I propose.
I’ve
made sure word gets back to him. As I said, I haven’t seen him
since that last court date. But the girls have. He hasn’t been too
insistent. Clearly his love life is far more important than his
progeny. But I have insisted. You need to know him, even though he
has done this to us. He’s your father. You need to know who your
father is. And what, I suppose. Although it was some years before
they realized what.
But
now I have to see him. I asked Priscilla, Is your father coming? She
looked down before she answered, Yes. No need to be dodgy about it, I
said. I’ve always said he’s your father. It’s right that you
invited him. She looked up, relieved. Have you asked him to give you
away? She glared rather angrily at me, shook her head. Give me away?
What right has he to give me away? I’m not a possession of his. I’m
scarcely a daughter of his, for god’s sake.
Well.
And is his friend coming?
Husband,
she said. He and Henry got married when it got to be legal in
Massachusetts.
I
exhaled at length. You should have told me.
I
didn’t know until now. When I invited him. He asked whether his
husband was invited. I said of course. I said, any invitation
always includes one’s spouse.
Good,
I said. Thank god he didn’t invite me to that wedding. Did
he invite you and Melinda?
Not
me, of course. Or I would have known about it. I don’t know about
Melinda. I don’t think so.
And
do you want anybody to give you away? Or is that concept so passé?
I’ve
thought about it. If anybody did, it should be you. But I don’t
know.
If
I have a choice, I think I’d rather not waddle down the aisle.
Mu-ther.
You do not waddle. Your posture is absolutely perfect. Enviable. She
paused. But you might think about trying a different hair style.
Something a bit more contemporary.
Yes
and lose forty pounds, shall I?
She
blushed a bit again. The hair style is doable, you know.
Damned
if I’m going to be one of those women who goes on a killing diet
for a month just to fit into some fashionable sort of garb for a
wedding. Or gussies herself up in some unsuitable way. Nobody looks
at the mother-in-law anyway.
Except
you know he will. Just to ask himself what he’s missed.
And
be damned glad. You know, darling, you’re too smart for your own
good.
Tears
started. Oh mum. I hope the same thing doesn’t happen to me!
I
was startled. You don’t think…? I took a big breath. But Brian is
such a hunk. Macho.
Yes,
but who would have thought Daddy…? Now her face crumpled and
the tears fell in plenty.
We
do not give in to emotion, ordinarily, so for a moment I hesitated.
Then I pulled her to me, awkwardly, I suppose, and let her cry. I
didn’t know what to say to her. At length I murmured a litany,
repeating, It’s all right, darling, really.
Twenty years dead, whatever existed between him and me. And this was the first time anyone has mourned it.
Marty’s fiction has been published, or is forthcoming, in the American Literary Review, Carbon Culture Review, Crack the Spine, Edison Literary Review, Evening Street Review, Fiction Fix, Glint Literary Journal, The Griffin, Halfway Down the Stairs, Hawaii Pacific Review, Inscape, The MacGuffin, The Madison Review, MARY: A Journal Of New Writing, Menda City Press, Minetta Review, Moon City Review, Old Red Kimono, Pennsylvania English, riverSedge, Phantasmagoria, Sanskrit, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and The Storyteller.
For almost 20 years Marty was a regular contributor to The Boston Globe, over 30 newspapers, magazines, some 1,600 articles, is author of two editions of A Guide to Public Art in Greater Boston, writes for Sculpture and Landscape Architecture magazines, and reviews fiction and nonfiction for the Internet Review of Books.
Makes your mouth water
if a toasted marshmallow
approaches your mouth,
or if a hot cup of tea
soothes your insides
on a freezing winter day,
or if the bliss of the breast
allows you to savor the moment
of each life-enhancing breath.
Taste buds may be the key
that opens the door to the taste
and scent of where you were
before you were born.
AM I DYING?
Just because
I’m green around the gills,
can’t get up from the floor
and every joint aches.
Just because
I can only see a fish-eyed view
of what’s real that no glasses
can correct.
Just because
my gut speaks ferociously
in a language all its own
with gurgles, and hisses
I’ve never heard before.
Just because
You sound so far away,
far away for much too long.
I pulsate
like a far-flung star.
NOT HERE ANYMORE
Yet I can still hear
my musical alarm
wake me up for work
Some day I’m going
to murder the bugler,
some day they’re going
to find him dead.
I see my white shirt
hanging on the door,
my empty shiny shoes
lined up on the floor.
I feel alive in a way
I’ve never felt before.
I must get out of bed,
but I’m not here anymore.
Where have I gone you ask?
You will be the first to know
just as soon as I find out.
TAKE IT EASY
because you’re not going anywhere,
you’re already there.
Whatever is, is.
Slow down, pace yourself
before you fall down.
Remember to breathe
when you have so many
things to worry about.
Gunslingers are eunuchs
who want to feel like men.
Learn to forgive them
for their ignorance,
but, always be ready
to hit the deck.
THE LOVE OF MY LIFE
is young and tender as a sweet peach tree.
With a lovely face and high cheek bones
there’s a glint of jade that sparkles her eyes.
She has a scent of lavender from her garden,
grown with her long slender fingers and toes
that resemble rare precious stones.
Her hour glass figure beneath thick black hair billows like dark clouds. Surrounded by flocks of birds she smiles the smile of a messenger from heaven.
Milton P. Ehrlich Ph.D. is an 87 year old psychologist and a veteran of the Korean War. He has published many poems in periodicals such as the London Grip, Arc Poetry Magazine, Descant Literary Magazine, Wisconsin Review, Taj Mahal Literary journal, Antigonish Review, Ottowa Arts Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Huffington Post, Christian Science Monitor, and the New York Times.
