Darrell Herbert has poetry featured in the likes of the "Best Teen Writing of 2014," by Hannah Jones, NotMyPresident Anthology, Writers- Black Artists Connected Blog, A Shared Format 4 Poets, Yellow Chair Review, Poetic Treasures Magazine, Section 8 Magazine, Blacktopia: Black Utopia Society Blog, Works in Progress, Woman of P.O.W.E.R. blog, Media Blast Press, Madness Muse Magazine, cocktailmolly, New York Rising Blog, thisis50.com, Supastars Magazine, downsouthhiphop.com, Beat Yard Magazine, All Black Entertainment Magazine, Southeast Hip-Hop Magazine, Poets & Writers Magazine, Tuck Magazine, Wild Sound Festival Review, Dwartonline, Zoomoozophone Review, as well as in HangTime Magazine and The Lemonade Stand Magazine. TERRIBLE (HUMAN) I am tired of being told to let go of my past I did that But I sit back and watch and see history repeating itself all too easily I been at war with myself about this, someone really betrayed me, time has passed, but the heart doesn't forget I've wanted and thought of revenge, but most of the time I just want to forget it Let God read this Isolation is a tool, loneliness is a weapon Does she have a heart, or is she simply just too heartless? She's nothing more than an addiction that you have to detox From your mind, body, and heart I'd rather be hated for what I say than to be loved for my silence Her writings contains observations on the subject of love She may not be important to you, but she is to me The world is a dark place However, no one holds the light And if you don't see my message, see your way out Cantus Firmus So empty, so phantom empty I am the dog, you hold the leash I am the slave, you are the master I am the graduate, you are the degree No, a revolver has a drum that revolves In the throats of love, I was weak, no match for her But, the goodbye was sad, strangely unforgiven I understood that society had no room for me, and I had no room for society, I never have To go to the dreamy like society, to the nocturnal side Was like changing sides in a war It's like the blind leading the blind
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My name is Afzal Nusker. I live in Kolkata, India. Inclination towards literature and arts is there in me since childhood. I enjoy writing poems and hope to publish my poetry books soon. Some of my poems have been published in anthologies by Lost Tower Publications. Horrors of extinction I did see the buoyant bubbles of bliss fizzing out of my charming muse's smile. A bubbly butterfly that she is, was fluttering and whirling around me with verve. She was so excited to explore the beauty of nature and capture some thrilling moments as remembrance for me to string those rosy memories into pretty festoons of verses and rhymes. But alas, she went and came back with an ashen face and harsh rock-hard facts; when hit by those... causes insufferable pain. With angst, I deliver this grievous message about the horrors of extinction inflicted upon Mother Earth by the very superlative breed of hers with ravenous greed they feed on everything to suffice their need to succeed. An empire of dreams they want to built on grave of ailing nature. Enchanting hues of dawn and dusk are overshadowed by hazy clouds of smoke that smothers each breath. Economic growth thriving on combustion of fossil fuels. Always caring to reap more than they sow, countless trees are brutally chopped and their trace effaced in the name of luxurious development. Where once they stood with their crowns held high in the sky and welcoming arms extended for shelter and shade to so many birds and animals are now replaced by concrete towers and skyscrapers. Bravo, such a triumph for axes, chainsaws and bulldozers! Succulent fruits and vegetables sweetened with saccharin and their skin rubbed with wax for sheen. Plumper they are because of hormone injections. Soil fertilized by corporate compost and irrigated with water that is not crystal anymore. Every drop is infused with wasted toxic chemicals and surges the stench of disposed garbage that begets monstrous diseases. Even the depths of the oceans are not safe as marine creatures are dying and lying on the shore line. Cheers to the sewage that adds to the quality of water! A paradise that provided us life is pleading for mercy, to be saved from the hell fire that we are stoking. Do we really wish to be the curse for such a blessing? M. A. ISTVAN JR., although a university professor, actually makes most of his money now as a method translator of AAVE. In light of his extreme efforts to ensure sincere and emotionally expressive translation, Jet Magazine has in fact dubbed him the Daniel-Day-Lewis of his craft. For instance, he might sip Tempranillo from a Burgundy glass when translating to Standard English and swig Boone’s Farms from a brown-bagged bottle when translating the other way. Visit his page at https://txstate.academia.edu/MichaelIstvanJr. Twenty-Three Angles on Wonder 1 Insecurity about being too inexperienced for her-- and yet did you ever wonder if she, in her life now, looks no longer for those men (but for one like you)? 2 Wondering, some days, whose life this is. 3 Wondering whether the kid is going on and on simply because he is a kid, or because he senses our need for the distraction of his voice. 4 Looking back and forth, from object to seer’s face, trying to intersect the thread of wonder. 5 Wondering whether marital affairs disappear from the record after a certain length of time. 6 Armageddon on the horizon, the God-teen wonders whether she should practice going without TV and cookies or enjoy them while the last. 7 Passing things down being such a primal joy, no wonder the insane lengths gone by parents of those who accept only the host culture. 8 Wondering whether it would seem prudish to drop-cloth the place in plastic and have gift bags of lube for each orgy member. 9 Stutterers wondering whether they are so shy because they stutter or that they stutter because they are so shy. 10 Stealing the offerings to the gods all these years, you start to wonder whether you might be a god. 11 When our delight in something grows past a point, is there much wonder why delight withers in those around us? 12 Alone and wondering if anyone is thinking of you right now. 13 How much of our advances in knowledge is born less from wonder than from a wickedness in seeing people stripped of naïve beliefs? 14 What do we let slip (into the) past with all our time wondering how we let things—weekends, vacations—slip past? 15 Spring cleaning wonder at how you could have been the child in the photo. 16 Wondering whether the family priest was contributing to your son’s confusion as he tried to ease yours: “He’ll grow out of it.” 17 Unable to reach around himself so far, the mom wonders who—which friend-- helped tape the bomb to her son’s chest? 18 Mothers wondering, not whether you had a good time, but whether you were the prettiest at the party. 19 Wondering how to get the beloved out of your house, not knowing what to do or say next. 20 Watching the one next to you sleep wondering how such a face might one day break your heart. 21 Wondering whether you were liked because of your race or in spite of it. 22 Is that regular mode of life following a great victory a chance to reflect and reenergize, or one to wonder why you did not simply kill yourself in the climax? 23 Wondering why you have lived so long. Townhouse Community Jobsite Legs hang from the back door, the deck yet to be built. Salami sandwich warm with summer, mayo clear. Skin and clothes and air one in dampness. Speckled hands open Dostoyevsky on a painter’s lunch break. Declawing the Poet Why do we so widely tolerate the poetry that is purposely obscure, weird and inane for its own sake, when we hate poetry so much? Why do we keep around the poetry that is intentionally incomprehensible when we are at war with the art, a war now simply to prevent its support and efficacy? We need such poetry—cryptic and private, untranslatable and inaccessible—for our identity as enemy of poetry. Unworthy of study, it is the Jew for the antisemite. It reminds us why we hate poetry. Shelves stay stocked so that our disgust and our mocking never dies. The obscurantists paint themselves as radicals, the most committed to the fight, failing to see that they are the chief fuel of their enemy. Of course, they need their enemy too. That, plus the formula always enticing for the indolent-- the more incomprehensible the more profound-- is perhaps what keeps them going. But their role is more than providing fuel for their enemy. It is also to ensure that they themselves remain disempowered. For to glorify the obscure is to glorify flabbiness of mind. And what is best for us? That our enemies stay declawed, especially when they do not need us to do the clipping. Some phenomena, the obscurantist might say, are not so clear, and the expressions about them reflect that. This sounds like a good comeback. It seems reasonable to say that it is best for language to match the phenomena it describes. But you can be clear, succinct, and organized when describing how the phenomena is so rich in complication that rendering it in language will always leave something behind. And you can be clear, succinct, organized when describing what you do end up describing of that phenomena. Fancy polysyllables, forced deviations from ordinary speak, can be avoided. Repeated Play 1 Once I was the little boy lunging to hug my father as he growled and contorted low in a demonic pose. Now I wait around the corner for my son, squatting hunched with claws up, baring teeth in my monster breathing. 2 The lunging hug and pouting are meant to knock the father from whatever force appears to have overtaken him. Mixed in there as well is hope to avoid prolonging the terror in some vain chase if, indeed, the father has been taken over. Fighting Temptation He tries to handle threats to his goodness, his virtue, by regarding such threats, such temptations, as confirmation of his virtue. And so he says to his heart, “Goodness is a comfortless state. These new temptations are flooding in not because my resolve is petering out. Virtue is a lodestone for temptation. Mine is so big that much is being drawn from quarters previously unknown.” The pride he shows in his achievement is not a boasting to others; it is not vanity.-- The will to stay good itself might be, though. The doctor said she would live in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair, crippled by pain. That was thirteen years ago. Instead, Mirissa D. Price is a 2019 DMD candidate at Harvard School of Dental Medicine, spreading pain-free smiles, writing through her nights, and, once again, walking through her days. As a Huffington Post blogger and emerging writer, Mirissa has publications in Yellow Chair Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, and more. Follow Mirissa’s writing at https://mirissaprice.wordpress.com/. Fondling a Lie But here’s the truth: I wonder if he feels the same insignificance. Being just a number among so many. Rapists. I wonder if he feels as obsolete. His crime doesn’t matter. His strength doesn’t matter. His power is nothing more than the other guy’s. Tagged with a metal clip around his collar, I wonder how many victims it took to get his two-week chip. And how many stories he’s told to cover the truth. I’ve told four. Pretending I know what it’s like to not feel a knife, to not hold a penis, to not live a lie. Pretending I even could tell you a bleeding semblance of the truth. And yet, I keep on pretending. I keep on just standing. In the dark center of Cheesman Park. I keep climbing back. Into the blue-grey sheets where he raped my mind. I keep going back down for more. Like a good victim won’t tell you – I never stop fondling a lie. Today, I Tell Myself Today I tell myself I will not hunt Pokémon like I am searching for terrorists in every dark alleyway and open park. I will not lose sight of the blossoming greenery in every news article I read. I will not give in to this state of mindless strolling through violence merely to capture a Doduo alongside a gunman and bomb. Though it’s hard, I’ll admit, to stop tapping and flicking at a virtual reality when the world is just less augmented without fiction, and less playful without games, when all I want is to go back to the days when I traded cards at the lunch table and didn’t know the word ‘terror,’ to the days when I thought of black and blue as a Luxray and not a conflict. Of cops against man, and man against racism. My parents say they don’t get how a group of twenty-somethings could really lose themselves to Pikachu and Poké Balls. But I look to the Germans and French. And the Brazilians and my neighbors. I look to the elections and authorities, the vigils and violence. And in my free-to-play reality, I get it. The drive to gather power for a team of Valor or Instinct or to get lost in the gym of Mystic. I get it. The search for stardust and candies to replace bombs in a battle. And in my hands, I feel it: my Avatar is always safe in the game. I stopped watching the news because every time I sat down with a pen and paper and a cup of Earl Gray I wanted to tell a story about dreams and hope. I wanted to paint a page cheerful, in rhymes set to iambic pentameter. I wanted to do more and write more and feel more than terror. I wanted to know more than grief. So I stopped writing and I stopped reading the papers or watching the news – as though not seeing the violence meant it didn’t exist, as though the chaos was all just imagined. And for a second, the noise – the sound of a heart that stopped beating, and the cry of a street stained in blood – ceased. For a second, not a gunshot went off nor a protester shouted. For a second I didn’t notice that the American flag outside my window had been at half mast for half a month, or that the news hadn’t actually changed except for the time, and the place of the story, except for the names and the faces of the people who died. For a second of peace, I had to make it all stop. Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Scarlet Leaf Review. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB). In 200 years creationistic thought may become extinct Think about this title for a moment, Creationism thinks a lot about humanity and very little about the planet, Science has made great breakthroughs over time, Religion still stays stuck with no change, We as humans are warlike toward each other, Bad guys get the girls and good people are often alone, Science has a lot to do with human behavior, It always has, I get tired of God and Jesus, I have never seen them and never will, The planet is massive in size, their presence will never change our world, Over time, science is what makes us what we are, From our sexualities to what kinds of food we enjoy, this is all about science, Again, this is a free world, and believe what you want, Just try to give science a chance, We don't live in imaginary kingdoms, like religion says we do, Earth is our home and this is how it is for humans, Take care and just think about how science will always contribute to our every day lives, Trust me, it makes life more meaningful and when we do pass on we can accept our fates a lot easier and greater. If religion is so powerful, how come we still have wars? Think about the title of this poem for a moment, We still have wars in this world, Where are God and Jesus to stop them? As time passes, the badness seems to win, I am not bashing religious people here, But wars seem to happen too often in our world, Pacifists are really few and far between, They exist, but their voices are not heard enough, Humans aren't wired to be good, Tension and ill will are really popular on our planet, I wish God could see these things, but I feel he doesn't really exist, At least not on planet Earth, the place where you and I live, Again, this is a free world for the most part, believe in what you want, However, our world is in constant tension, Goodness exists, but in small quantities, Try to be good, or try to pass this on to others, Religion is a choice not matter what you believe, Take care and follow a path of positivity, For positivity is good for us and the goals you have will may continue forward as the next day passes into tomorrow. Scott Laudati lives in Cranston, RI with his goldfish, Trish. He is the author of books Play The Devil (novel) and Hawaiian Shirts In The Electric Chair (poems). Visit him on instagram @scottlaudati The Twilights Last Gleaming it’s not funny i’m not hungry i wish i died before the 90’s came back but no one retires at the right time the fade is a slow burn and usually the ones who could’ve been good drop out first. they name baseball fields after them probably a scholarship but no one alive cares memories replaced too soon by the next draft and no ghosts hang like frames in these halls the dead don’t want any part of this shit either. no one is well. the fast clap of the audience was muted long ago. the people needed to eat and stole the generator the nypd shot at the black ones and the white working class didn’t like it this time. no one is well. they turn the lights on but the audience doesn’t laugh the twilight last gleamed on some other era when we didn’t have to hide from the dawn and everyone could still smile at the mirror Everyone Hates You everyone hates you. even if you haven’t figured it out yet dont worry you will. it’ll be the confirmation of your biggest fears. your father saw something better your readers thought there was promise. but they were wrong. anyone who has ever believed in anything is wrong. even after you put your grandfather in the ground after the speech about how you used to sail around the swamps of eastern maryland and put chicken in crab traps to see what kinds of turtles swam in for the flesh you’ll be wrong. about how he was your hero once. you were wrong. and then your aunt will find his diary and you’ll read that he was like everyone else. that he thought you were born with all the promise and yet you wasted it on a stupid major on the women you followed like a new gospel and all the forgotten words in your notebook that never amounted to a decent novel, that you would fall further than your privilege should’ve allowed. and you’ll think about your appetite and how it far exceed your talent. and you won’t fight back because you’ll know he was right. the dream is over pt. II it was so easy once. i never had to hunch over the keys to pull something out words just appeared and the second hand clicked as i lay on my back and put onto paper any good word that came through. like throwing darts at a wall like playing william tell and if you do this long enough no matter how bad it starts eventually you hit a bullseye. but they don’t come so easy now. you see, love lived here once in these keys on that paper in the dark corners of the classroom i faded in to as the stories rolled out from the weekend from the bleachers from the diners over cherry cokes and disco fries. the rain fell like blue yarn that fall and the sun never felt good either. i wrote you a poem about an umbrella i had whose stem was carved to a duck head. but it was homecoming weekend the game sold out and they raffled off a new bicycle at half-time while the sophomores took turns under the bleachers. the rain turned to ice on saturday. my priest sang a homily sunday. then it was monday again. i listened in homeroom while horrible lips smiled over the weekend. you took a vow of silence too bad they never did |
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