Bluebirds in Late WinterSurprising blue spirits descend transforming snow-covered fences. They search the snow for pieces of Spring to pull from sleepy ground. They carve spaces in the sky for her to enter. Flashes of red tuck under as Waxwings alight, all stern and masked They pluck berries Shift and bounce and disperse, Leaving the bluebirds To sing of Spring. Hoppy-Toads in the SummerHoppy-toads grow fat tucked behind cool gray stones and fragments of brick. A yellow bucket nestles there, waiting. Determined, I take up my bucket The white plastic handle Digging into my arm. I set out. I lift each rock carefully Disturbing the grass Unveiling worm and cricket. I search for them In the cool, dark places. The edge of the driveway No stone unturned But to no avail. I set my eyes on the Row of bricks beside our house. Finally, a fat one leaps But I am fast. I scoop him up and Plop! He squats into The corner of my bucket. Hoppy-toads like friends, I think, and search for him A mate. A companion. The third brick hides her. Plop! Into the bucket she goes. SaltI smell salt. Like the salt left in seashell stomachs that dries and sours in the back of your car. (Its dreams drying up in the absence of the sea...) I know the sea will heal me, shove new dreams new thoughts new truths into my pores, slam them into my eyes and ears until all I know is clarity, sweet sweet oblivion to anything else. Swallow me whole! Faeries need not fly forever, I am tired. HorizonThere is something
unquestionably strange about the horizon, always changing colors, shifting its edges. Someone is always On the other side Pulling it away. If I am lucky the lily pads will Welcome my soft steps, The waters will yield to my weight, The flowers will float aside And I will grab your fingers Before you vanish into the onward Bending of night. I wonder of a ball of fire… An orb so great No darkness could consume it, Yet your belly swallows it whole every eve.
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A 74 year old granddad with a love for the simple life and the written word. Father of two kids and adoring husband to Jennifer. THE LETTERMary McDonald stands in her garden and stares at the stars in the sky’s She thinks of her husband who’s serving in Flanders as teardrops well up in her eyes She’s holding a rose that has started to whither remembering their wedding day It’s only four weeks that they bequeathed their vows, now he’s fighting a war far away Billy McDonald lays in the trenches and thinks of his beautiful bride Then kisses her letter he reads every hour, imagining her there by his side He can still smell her perfume and feel her embraces when he held her just one month ago Recalling his promise that he’d always love her and forever be her lifelong beau A shout from the Captain resounds through the trenches; the order is passed down the line Heartbeats start racing as emotions unravel as fears of the moment untwine This fresh faced young soldier that worked as a mill hand now waits with his pals by his side In less than one hour he’d return from perdition where most of his buddies had died The dark winter night air gives Mary a chill as she stands all alone in the cold She has no way of knowing that Billy lies weeping as his thoughts of the battle unfold He takes out the letter he’s writing to Mary and kisses the words that he’d penned It was found in his pocket, still words left unwritten. A letter he never would send There’s an unopened letter that stands on the sideboard with a solitary withering rose The words it contains have never been read; its contents were never disclosed Now Mary wears black as she stands in her garden and stares at the heavens above And thinks of her Billy now sleeping forever, her one and her only true love Mary McDonald stares in the mirror at a face that is ashen and gray Her anguish reflecting the one she has lost in a land that seems so far away She was just seventeen when she stood at the altar and married the love of her life And now she’s his widow, no longer his bride, no longer his lover, and wife. Billy McDonald was only eighteen when he left everything he held dear He gave his own life that others might live in a world without trouble and fear Mary remarried and had her own children, a boy and a girl she named Ruth She called her son Billy, well that’s what I’ve heard and I’m sure they were telling the truth THE LETTER MARY NEVER READ It is my pitiful duty to inform you that Corporal William McDonald was killed in action on 24th December 1917 in France. He who this scroll commemorates was numbered among those who at the call of King and Country, left all that was dear to them, endured hardness, faced danger and finally passed out of the sight of men by the path of duty and self-sacrifice, giving up their own lives, that others might live in freedom. Let those who come after, see to it that his name be not forgotten No 190545 Lance Corporal William McDonald 10th Battalion Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry killed in action, France, Flanders 24th December 1917. THOUGHTS OF HOMECome talk with me and walk with me through natures golden veil Let’s stroll beside the silver stream and drink cold nature’s ale We’ll smell the fallen autumn leaves beside the wooded glade Forgetting ranks with bayonets drawn in battle-lines arrayed Come listen to the meadow lark, rejoice its clarion call I’ll disregard the cannon fire or watch while comrades fall We’ll walk beneath a star lit sky, together hand in hand Dismissive of machine gun fire that awaits in No Man’s Land No more the deathly silence while waiting to advance Only thoughts of joyous times when you taught me how to dance I feel my arms around your waist as I waltzed you round the room Now smells of cordite fill the air, replacing your perfume Anguished thoughts flow back and forth, can nought erase my sorrow To give this day without regret, so you may live tomorrow Will heaven’s light shine down on me and spare me from my foe Or will I walk in deaths dark veil, my halcyon days forgo Far across the village green I hear the church bells toll Rejoicing autumns bounteous fruits, replenished is my soul Alas for me no glowing coals from hearth with comfy chair Supplanted now with dreadfulness of horror and despair The air is filled with putrid gas, no smell of summer here Though memories of my English rose, I visualise so clear Tonight, I sleep in netherworld amongst my comrades’ bones Laid in the arms of Morpheus, I dream with ‘thoughts of home’ Foreword |
Uzomah Ugwu is a emerging poet and writer, that still hand writes everything including prose and essays. She is a political, social and cultural activist. Her core focus is on human rights, mental health, animal rights and rights of LBGTQ persons.Her work has been featured in Prelude Magazine and Tuck Magazine and Wild Word and is forthcoming in the Angel City review, Voice of Eve. She is the Contributing/Poetry Editor for A Tired Heroine magazine. |
“late on arrival”
The way she stumbled over her letters
It felt like she was falling downstairs made of mountains
Unaware we had hung onto every cliff of her words
Her sentences blurred between spaces
Where delusion and reality
could never really meet and form into a complete thought
Out in the open with the doctors
hoping we could reach her where the medicines didn’t
We found that we came for her only to find
she had departed long before we arrived
and in a way, the doctors and nurses couldn’t describe
Now rocking in her chair the glare from her glossy eyes
appeared to make some type of contact
with a vision that had a mission that was only known to her
If only she could sit still long enough
maybe she would see it, for all of us to see
Chapped lips with a long distance droll
oozing out of them made her words slide
down sentences unsure as to where they went,
hair not even slightly brushed like her teeth
this sight of a woman once so well kept
made it even harder for us to keep our mind right
not knowing what to feel angry upset or just depressed
sitting still where time rushed by us
where we were tortured by life’s lie
that everything was going to be alright
Alerted that our time was up we left her in her chair
Grinning than sobbing, celebrating holidays
than even howling in her own world
that left us all out of it and nowhere near seeing her
other than what was just in front of us
which was an illness filled with blissful despair
It felt like she was falling downstairs made of mountains
Unaware we had hung onto every cliff of her words
Her sentences blurred between spaces
Where delusion and reality
could never really meet and form into a complete thought
Out in the open with the doctors
hoping we could reach her where the medicines didn’t
We found that we came for her only to find
she had departed long before we arrived
and in a way, the doctors and nurses couldn’t describe
Now rocking in her chair the glare from her glossy eyes
appeared to make some type of contact
with a vision that had a mission that was only known to her
If only she could sit still long enough
maybe she would see it, for all of us to see
Chapped lips with a long distance droll
oozing out of them made her words slide
down sentences unsure as to where they went,
hair not even slightly brushed like her teeth
this sight of a woman once so well kept
made it even harder for us to keep our mind right
not knowing what to feel angry upset or just depressed
sitting still where time rushed by us
where we were tortured by life’s lie
that everything was going to be alright
Alerted that our time was up we left her in her chair
Grinning than sobbing, celebrating holidays
than even howling in her own world
that left us all out of it and nowhere near seeing her
other than what was just in front of us
which was an illness filled with blissful despair
Vitamins, freshness, health.
devouring carrots,
sweet
as red fruit
with potatoes, broccoli
and a couple of glasses
of wine. I boil them
until they are soft
and eat them
hunched over
with my fingers,
taking them in,
whole mouthfuls at a time.
my girlfriend
is a kitchen
musician;
prepares symphonies
with the roaring wok and oil -
chicken spins
waltz-pacing, spices
scatter
and sweet potatoes
roast hard
in buttery sauce
like a brass trumpet. I like it;
there's food sometimes
you want to eat,
but alone
I'm not interested
in anything
but whistling.
at home
my meals are a tune
hummed by a man
hammering wood
with his mind on something - not caring much
for flavour, I aim at true simplicity;
vitamins, freshness, health,
all out of the earth.
and being able to leave the room
and not worry
as the pot
boils over.
sweet
as red fruit
with potatoes, broccoli
and a couple of glasses
of wine. I boil them
until they are soft
and eat them
hunched over
with my fingers,
taking them in,
whole mouthfuls at a time.
my girlfriend
is a kitchen
musician;
prepares symphonies
with the roaring wok and oil -
chicken spins
waltz-pacing, spices
scatter
and sweet potatoes
roast hard
in buttery sauce
like a brass trumpet. I like it;
there's food sometimes
you want to eat,
but alone
I'm not interested
in anything
but whistling.
at home
my meals are a tune
hummed by a man
hammering wood
with his mind on something - not caring much
for flavour, I aim at true simplicity;
vitamins, freshness, health,
all out of the earth.
and being able to leave the room
and not worry
as the pot
boils over.
Adultery.
I'd bang them out,
wine-drunk and excited,
and send them off
to magazines. I had
a list;
ones which liked me
and ones I liked
and I'd fire
unedited
like a shotgun
scaring birds. each one
I'd submit
5 times
to different places. then I'd wait
for any
to come back.
in general
it started with rejections;
someone would say
they didn't like a poem
so I'd open the laptop file
and straighten its teeth a little,
patch up wounds and blacken its hair
like a dealer with a tired racehorse.
and send it again, somewhere else. it was pleasing
to do this
with my evenings - this mild commission
of poetic adultery.
eventually
one would be accepted
sometimes, but since at any time
five versions
were floating, often
it wasn't the most recent. then they'd print it,
happy with the words I'd replaced
and I'd smile
and hope the other versions
were bad enough
that no-one else would want them.
a note for any editors
considering this poem:
the exceptions, of course,
were the ones
I sent to you.
wine-drunk and excited,
and send them off
to magazines. I had
a list;
ones which liked me
and ones I liked
and I'd fire
unedited
like a shotgun
scaring birds. each one
I'd submit
5 times
to different places. then I'd wait
for any
to come back.
in general
it started with rejections;
someone would say
they didn't like a poem
so I'd open the laptop file
and straighten its teeth a little,
patch up wounds and blacken its hair
like a dealer with a tired racehorse.
and send it again, somewhere else. it was pleasing
to do this
with my evenings - this mild commission
of poetic adultery.
eventually
one would be accepted
sometimes, but since at any time
five versions
were floating, often
it wasn't the most recent. then they'd print it,
happy with the words I'd replaced
and I'd smile
and hope the other versions
were bad enough
that no-one else would want them.
a note for any editors
considering this poem:
the exceptions, of course,
were the ones
I sent to you.
Dublin:
very poetic
for a certain kind of poetry.
and very walkable:
you can take stroll
if you want to
on the same streets as Joyce did
and see pretty much
the same thing;
town
gone stagnant
beyond the addition
of a plastic line to the shopsigns
and electric wires
running to grumble. but there's this pressure here
and everywhere
a dusty grey of bookshops – the broken pottery
in your grandmothers house
almost impossible to endure.
Americans are lucky - when they walk around
the towns they have,
all they have to get them down
are politics.
for a certain kind of poetry.
and very walkable:
you can take stroll
if you want to
on the same streets as Joyce did
and see pretty much
the same thing;
town
gone stagnant
beyond the addition
of a plastic line to the shopsigns
and electric wires
running to grumble. but there's this pressure here
and everywhere
a dusty grey of bookshops – the broken pottery
in your grandmothers house
almost impossible to endure.
Americans are lucky - when they walk around
the towns they have,
all they have to get them down
are politics.
The eviction.
they could have charged more
so close to downtown
but they didn't,
and I always paid my rent - a worthwhile
investment
on their part. once
they sent me a message
to say the keys had been changed
and new ones
had been dropped under
my doorway. this guy
across the hall
had been evicted, apparently,
and they were worried
he'd try to get
back in. unfortunate - he was the only one who knew me
and when I knocked
after work
on someone else's window
to ask if I could get upstairs
to my new keys
they thought I might
be him. I called the landlord
and waited in an alley - he was there too,
wanting to talk to her. we traded cigarettes
and shared
a half-bottle of wine
and he told me it was all
a misunderstanding. I was worried
he might confront her
and I'd have to step in -
but he didn't. just followed us up the stairs,
asking if he could collect his oranges
and some shirts
he'd left behind.
so close to downtown
but they didn't,
and I always paid my rent - a worthwhile
investment
on their part. once
they sent me a message
to say the keys had been changed
and new ones
had been dropped under
my doorway. this guy
across the hall
had been evicted, apparently,
and they were worried
he'd try to get
back in. unfortunate - he was the only one who knew me
and when I knocked
after work
on someone else's window
to ask if I could get upstairs
to my new keys
they thought I might
be him. I called the landlord
and waited in an alley - he was there too,
wanting to talk to her. we traded cigarettes
and shared
a half-bottle of wine
and he told me it was all
a misunderstanding. I was worried
he might confront her
and I'd have to step in -
but he didn't. just followed us up the stairs,
asking if he could collect his oranges
and some shirts
he'd left behind.
The inventor
laying tracks
to the bathroom from my bed.
I'm sick
of getting up in the night
to piss - this new
pneumatic system
should solve
most of my problems. it didn't though.
weeds grow
in every garden; you can hardly bar the wind
from handing over seeds.
I lie on my side
and slash into a cylinder, but then
I find I also want
a glass of water. also,
my girlfriend
left me
for someone who smells better
and I think
I'm developing
a cold.
to the bathroom from my bed.
I'm sick
of getting up in the night
to piss - this new
pneumatic system
should solve
most of my problems. it didn't though.
weeds grow
in every garden; you can hardly bar the wind
from handing over seeds.
I lie on my side
and slash into a cylinder, but then
I find I also want
a glass of water. also,
my girlfriend
left me
for someone who smells better
and I think
I'm developing
a cold.
The writer from anywhere and everywhere when ponders on the question ' who am I?',receives some response in a lyric by the Assamese singer Bhupen Hazarika ....
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
Flowers nipped in the bud
There was a garden
Some called it 'Kashmir'
Others ' Garden of Eden' !
Plenty of flowers flourished
The gardner carefully nourished
The place shone with beauty
Colors sparkled in the air aplenty
Visitors came and enjoyed
The flowers felt overjoyed
One day, two visitors from opposite sides
Entered to claim the land of ' mines' !
They clashed with each other
And trampled many a budding flower
While they surrendered the place
To their big corporates with grace
Flowers yelled ' we want freedom' !
But their voices choked and were left to serfdom
Some called it 'Kashmir'
Others ' Garden of Eden' !
Plenty of flowers flourished
The gardner carefully nourished
The place shone with beauty
Colors sparkled in the air aplenty
Visitors came and enjoyed
The flowers felt overjoyed
One day, two visitors from opposite sides
Entered to claim the land of ' mines' !
They clashed with each other
And trampled many a budding flower
While they surrendered the place
To their big corporates with grace
Flowers yelled ' we want freedom' !
But their voices choked and were left to serfdom
THE CAMERA’S SIDE OF THE STORY
According to the photo album,
their marriage was all
cruise ship railings,
cheap souvenirs from Caribbean ports,
the main grandstand at a NASCAR race,
an unknown beach,
some kind of fairground
where pigs were being judged.
Nothing here of the arguments,
the drifting apart, the divorce.
When the bad stuff happened,
they just weren’t posing.
their marriage was all
cruise ship railings,
cheap souvenirs from Caribbean ports,
the main grandstand at a NASCAR race,
an unknown beach,
some kind of fairground
where pigs were being judged.
Nothing here of the arguments,
the drifting apart, the divorce.
When the bad stuff happened,
they just weren’t posing.
CHOICES MADE
The woman picks out
a slinky black dress
with tight-fitting waist,
sequins that sparkle in
the department-store light.
My wife invests her paycheck
in something far plainer,
more practical.
One shops for the wear and tear
of the office,
the other for a feline saunter
into a club or restaurant.
I want, so much, to see my wife
in an outfit that clinging,
that overtly sensual,
once in a while.
But she makes her purchase
and we leave together.
This is also what I want.
a slinky black dress
with tight-fitting waist,
sequins that sparkle in
the department-store light.
My wife invests her paycheck
in something far plainer,
more practical.
One shops for the wear and tear
of the office,
the other for a feline saunter
into a club or restaurant.
I want, so much, to see my wife
in an outfit that clinging,
that overtly sensual,
once in a while.
But she makes her purchase
and we leave together.
This is also what I want.
OBITS AND ME
Rachel swallowed a bottle of blue pills
and the dark swallowed Rachel.
Cam was found, discovered,
unearthed – take your pick of verbs –
but everyone knew it was Cam on that bed
except Cam.
Kate’s end was more romantic,
at least to some people.
She floated to the lake surface
like a painting by Millais –
the most precious Kate
in anyone’s memory
though Kate’s own memory
was absent Kate.
They were all people I knew
and who knew me.
And now I’m stuck
with all the knowing.
and the dark swallowed Rachel.
Cam was found, discovered,
unearthed – take your pick of verbs –
but everyone knew it was Cam on that bed
except Cam.
Kate’s end was more romantic,
at least to some people.
She floated to the lake surface
like a painting by Millais –
the most precious Kate
in anyone’s memory
though Kate’s own memory
was absent Kate.
They were all people I knew
and who knew me.
And now I’m stuck
with all the knowing.
THE OLD BLUESMAN
He calls himself a jive cracker.
The pissing dogs don’t care.
He likes his hootch.
And he’s a one for stepping out of line.
The women flirt with him.
They call it intrigue.
But they’d do better to serve him up
some of that crawfish bisque.
The bookies are into him.
Their ‘gimme gimme’ is like the breeze.
And he don’t sing so much
as flap like a farmhouse door.
His guitar is old
but the strings still come together
like old war buddies,
approximate a tune.
He sits on his veranda,
on some Carolina ridge,
in sunset the color of a pitcher of beer,
cracking open the blues
with his gargle of a throat.
Cypress wind don’t stop blowing.
The moon just can’t contain itself.
It wants to pick him up and carry him.
The pissing dogs don’t care.
He likes his hootch.
And he’s a one for stepping out of line.
The women flirt with him.
They call it intrigue.
But they’d do better to serve him up
some of that crawfish bisque.
The bookies are into him.
Their ‘gimme gimme’ is like the breeze.
And he don’t sing so much
as flap like a farmhouse door.
His guitar is old
but the strings still come together
like old war buddies,
approximate a tune.
He sits on his veranda,
on some Carolina ridge,
in sunset the color of a pitcher of beer,
cracking open the blues
with his gargle of a throat.
Cypress wind don’t stop blowing.
The moon just can’t contain itself.
It wants to pick him up and carry him.
WOMAN ON THE BEACH
Lost and your eyes are puzzled,
already falling through houses
painted different colors,
too weak to emphasize their sameness,
though you burst in periodic explosions
crouched on a yellow rind of beach,
shy like a filly when I sit beside you
and, without a sound, brush the
thoughts away from your brow,
let your teeth show bright in your
satin-tanned face, return to life
with face like just-finished sculpture,
a window left open at the whim of circumstance,
I can tell a blonde from a mirage,
you fear the frailty, a darkness
where only your eyes are visible,
those of a frightened adolescent,
trying to remember where you live.
already falling through houses
painted different colors,
too weak to emphasize their sameness,
though you burst in periodic explosions
crouched on a yellow rind of beach,
shy like a filly when I sit beside you
and, without a sound, brush the
thoughts away from your brow,
let your teeth show bright in your
satin-tanned face, return to life
with face like just-finished sculpture,
a window left open at the whim of circumstance,
I can tell a blonde from a mirage,
you fear the frailty, a darkness
where only your eyes are visible,
those of a frightened adolescent,
trying to remember where you live.
Munthasir would rather you read the works instead.
Remain.
Dull haze of the
woods, covered paths
and leaves lay still
asleep as I had
been.
Bright beams scatter
blue across the
creeping weirwoods
quiet, as I wished to
be.
Strange noises from the
roots led me to
pieces of the
troubled remains, dead as I would
be.
True soul gazed, lifeless
had met the rhythm
of none, to want a start
fresh as I too could
be
Words remained at the
mouths of two, both
wanted more of
the other, I had
hoped.
Swalloed by soil, a
grave forgotten and
life remained the
same, as I, we
are.
woods, covered paths
and leaves lay still
asleep as I had
been.
Bright beams scatter
blue across the
creeping weirwoods
quiet, as I wished to
be.
Strange noises from the
roots led me to
pieces of the
troubled remains, dead as I would
be.
True soul gazed, lifeless
had met the rhythm
of none, to want a start
fresh as I too could
be
Words remained at the
mouths of two, both
wanted more of
the other, I had
hoped.
Swalloed by soil, a
grave forgotten and
life remained the
same, as I, we
are.
We Are.
The nature of us
is to nurture
spirits of the alive.
We all seek life
and love; for death
the most peaceful.
is to nurture
spirits of the alive.
We all seek life
and love; for death
the most peaceful.
Plan.
I’ll have to buy a thick rope.
I am not with hope.
Fix and hang,
how easy to let go.
Im going off
the edge,
try and say
something to stay on my ledge.
Tears roll down.
A puddle I can,
swim about and drown
I want to say those aren’t for you,
but rather I wish they were.
I can’t see myself.
An image of me,
seems so bleak, I turn
I sigh and I cry
another down the eye.
I sigh, this is silicon
Almost stretch, my time.
I keep placing another finger,
unconsciously, I stay.
Threads fray,
so does the way.
Say,
Do you still love me? Did you ever?
Why does it feel so easy to let go?
Why do I sit alone in the dark and feel nothing at all? all I do is feel the warmth leave, roll down my face.
Want a hopeful dream,
want one to seem
real
heal.
A change, can seek
in you, I see.
Lost in side
try, hide
A heartbeat there is
So loud and profound
Will I be found?
I lay alone, the sound
drenched, drowned.
I am not with hope.
Fix and hang,
how easy to let go.
Im going off
the edge,
try and say
something to stay on my ledge.
Tears roll down.
A puddle I can,
swim about and drown
I want to say those aren’t for you,
but rather I wish they were.
I can’t see myself.
An image of me,
seems so bleak, I turn
I sigh and I cry
another down the eye.
I sigh, this is silicon
Almost stretch, my time.
I keep placing another finger,
unconsciously, I stay.
Threads fray,
so does the way.
Say,
Do you still love me? Did you ever?
Why does it feel so easy to let go?
Why do I sit alone in the dark and feel nothing at all? all I do is feel the warmth leave, roll down my face.
Want a hopeful dream,
want one to seem
real
heal.
A change, can seek
in you, I see.
Lost in side
try, hide
A heartbeat there is
So loud and profound
Will I be found?
I lay alone, the sound
drenched, drowned.
Thoughts Can Consume.
I’m just staring
at the dark.
With myself and
my tears.
Nothing keeps me
company, not the cotton,
not the walls. Quiet
literally nothing at all.
Time is haunting,
maybe talking
words of which I
can’t quite make but it points.
I’m trying,
I’m trying,
no I’m just
crying.
To be so out of place,
do you feel lack?
Can you sit back
and just let go?
I want to, but
there is you.
I should, I will,
I might, a mind of
me in solitude of
a thought.
Not dark, for
it seems so stark.
I’m going to
let go.
at the dark.
With myself and
my tears.
Nothing keeps me
company, not the cotton,
not the walls. Quiet
literally nothing at all.
Time is haunting,
maybe talking
words of which I
can’t quite make but it points.
I’m trying,
I’m trying,
no I’m just
crying.
To be so out of place,
do you feel lack?
Can you sit back
and just let go?
I want to, but
there is you.
I should, I will,
I might, a mind of
me in solitude of
a thought.
Not dark, for
it seems so stark.
I’m going to
let go.
Wicked
Maybe I'm not wicked. Maybe no one
is.
Maybe I am just an embroidered
mess of thread, dyed and knotted and tangled
into ever-spooling spirals.
Someone
must see a glimmer of art (haphazard
though it might be), a rushing of stoppered
brilliance ready to be gathered and combed.
Maybe we're tapestries in the making,
ragged, undone, sometimes coming apart,
yet still beautiful in our stark rawness,
suspended in crude state but still breathing,
still bold, still fighting, still worthy, still art---
Maybe I'm wicked.
Maybe the world is.
is.
Maybe I am just an embroidered
mess of thread, dyed and knotted and tangled
into ever-spooling spirals.
Someone
must see a glimmer of art (haphazard
though it might be), a rushing of stoppered
brilliance ready to be gathered and combed.
Maybe we're tapestries in the making,
ragged, undone, sometimes coming apart,
yet still beautiful in our stark rawness,
suspended in crude state but still breathing,
still bold, still fighting, still worthy, still art---
Maybe I'm wicked.
Maybe the world is.
The Heart of You
Let me hold all of you,
not just the sun-spots scrawled across your back
and the stray hairs curling beneath your earlobes,
but also the emptiness you felt
when your grandmother died
and suddenly death became not just a syllable in the dictionary
but a yawning pool with no bottom.
Let me hold all of you,
stripped not just of the suit you wore to the office,
but also the father who told you to man up
when you cried after falling off your bike for the first time.
Don't just lean against me with stoic limbs
as the world crashes around your walls;
Let me hold your scars,
your anxious thoughts,
the terror that nothing will ever be enough,
the shadows that crawl into your dreams at night.
Let me love not just the man you think you should be,
impervious to emotion,
indestructible tower of unquivering strength,
Let me love the heart of you.
not just the sun-spots scrawled across your back
and the stray hairs curling beneath your earlobes,
but also the emptiness you felt
when your grandmother died
and suddenly death became not just a syllable in the dictionary
but a yawning pool with no bottom.
Let me hold all of you,
stripped not just of the suit you wore to the office,
but also the father who told you to man up
when you cried after falling off your bike for the first time.
Don't just lean against me with stoic limbs
as the world crashes around your walls;
Let me hold your scars,
your anxious thoughts,
the terror that nothing will ever be enough,
the shadows that crawl into your dreams at night.
Let me love not just the man you think you should be,
impervious to emotion,
indestructible tower of unquivering strength,
Let me love the heart of you.
Collision Course
Meet me in the bitter limits
where love is on the brink of collapse
where our bodies are weary and our souls are weaker still
and the universe has fallen off its tracks.
Hold me as the world is dying
as we spin off our axis
as we ricochet between destiny and desire
shroud our final moments in a kiss.
Stefan Markovski is a contemporary Macedonian writer, poet, screenwriter and philosopher. Born in the town of Gevgelija (01. 12. 1990), he’s completed primary and secondary education in his hometown, graduating on both the Department of Comparative Literature, Faculty of Philology and the Institute of Philosophy of Ss. Cyril and Methodius State University of Skopje. He’s obtained a MA in Screenwriting at the Faculty of Dramatic Arts (FDU) in Skopje with a feature film script titled “My Name Is Freedom” and theoretical explication of the potentials of the hybrid crime-drama genre within the future of Macedonian cinematography. Markovski’s writing career and contribution to modern Macedonian literature has granted him literary prizes and honors in Macedonia, including the “Macedonian Literary Avant-garde” for a book of short stories, “Petre M. Andreevski” Prize for novel, “Beli Mugri” for a poetry book, “Krste Chachanski” for a book of short stories, The “7-th November Award” of Gevgelija municipality, “Knjizevno pero” of Croatian Writers’ Association (HKD), prize of UNESCO for Macedonian writers up to 30 years of age etc. Mentioned in anthologies of modern Macedonian literature, participating in festivals around the country and abroad, some of Markovski’s works have been published in over 20 languages. He’s taken part in the Other Words literary residency in San Sebastian in 2018. Markovski is a member of Macedonian Writers’ Association, the Macedonian center of the International Theatre Institute, the European poetry platform “Versopolis” and other international associations. He’s the chief editor of the oldest Macedonian literary magazine – Sovremenost as well as the poetry collections of the project Metric caravan. |
Following the white griffin’s trail
In a body of demigod beast imperial shadows of chthonic forces douse
kingdoms united into the singularity of all beings
become golden ruins under steel-feathered wings
in an incense smoke sighs are clothed
through which gods send answers
when you pass through tunnels of glass hope
virgin blood supplies your cells.
A griffin pierces far into the heavens
in search for
a magnificent day for a perfect melancholy.
Everyone knows
few believe
that the blank in each whiteness
holds the most colorful rainbow sewed up in a full stop
the well in which the souls drown
suggests an illusion of all destinies
buried into a tunnel with one exit
where the celestial blueness reflects off the lonely trains’ glass.
Asian winds blow statues of flesh
before showing you the way to the only truth - downward
all the definitions of joy and wisdom are carrying explosive
waiting for its moment
in front of faces yet to blush.
The rain is rage of myriad of mirrors and swords
they guard the innocence of the land pieces between us
and the magic of the air with taste of white birds
black hounds chase the moon at dusk
and, hiding behind the mountains,
bark with a lion’s roar
then the night sculpts new tunnels of hope from itself
hope undefiled as an intact wine bottle
pointing the way.
kingdoms united into the singularity of all beings
become golden ruins under steel-feathered wings
in an incense smoke sighs are clothed
through which gods send answers
when you pass through tunnels of glass hope
virgin blood supplies your cells.
A griffin pierces far into the heavens
in search for
a magnificent day for a perfect melancholy.
Everyone knows
few believe
that the blank in each whiteness
holds the most colorful rainbow sewed up in a full stop
the well in which the souls drown
suggests an illusion of all destinies
buried into a tunnel with one exit
where the celestial blueness reflects off the lonely trains’ glass.
Asian winds blow statues of flesh
before showing you the way to the only truth - downward
all the definitions of joy and wisdom are carrying explosive
waiting for its moment
in front of faces yet to blush.
The rain is rage of myriad of mirrors and swords
they guard the innocence of the land pieces between us
and the magic of the air with taste of white birds
black hounds chase the moon at dusk
and, hiding behind the mountains,
bark with a lion’s roar
then the night sculpts new tunnels of hope from itself
hope undefiled as an intact wine bottle
pointing the way.
Blossomlane
April comes slowly
calmly, gently, powerfully
getting into time
when the only arabesques
are question marks inverted like golden sixes
drawn onto the glassy morning fog
which tells the eyes where crimson rivers flow
that each herb of the greenery
competes for a more dazzling view of the Sun
that’s a path through it
to the mountain from which white doves carry
a cry in unopened envelopes
which resemble a flat plate sealed
with a myrrh blossom and a scent of a dawnworld.
calmly, gently, powerfully
getting into time
when the only arabesques
are question marks inverted like golden sixes
drawn onto the glassy morning fog
which tells the eyes where crimson rivers flow
that each herb of the greenery
competes for a more dazzling view of the Sun
that’s a path through it
to the mountain from which white doves carry
a cry in unopened envelopes
which resemble a flat plate sealed
with a myrrh blossom and a scent of a dawnworld.
Metaphysics of Love
Under an iridescent rainbow of spices
shipwrecking through the air
under the eaves of Andromeda
awaits a portal
whose path is through the flesh of
the newly arrived in the country
that no one tries to conquer.
The guards in the sky
agree that your angel
tastes like rose
someone’s falling wings
are sending their regards
to the planet that eats its
unconceived children
impatiently waiting her deathtouch
or your nose
and your fingers
pining for holy spices,
god's dusts.
shipwrecking through the air
under the eaves of Andromeda
awaits a portal
whose path is through the flesh of
the newly arrived in the country
that no one tries to conquer.
The guards in the sky
agree that your angel
tastes like rose
someone’s falling wings
are sending their regards
to the planet that eats its
unconceived children
impatiently waiting her deathtouch
or your nose
and your fingers
pining for holy spices,
god's dusts.
Get up again
Get up again
at night
collect the hate made out of lead and steel
and pour it into the stars;
before you lie down
drink the double blueness as if it’s a cure
yet it surrounds your island
when unextinguished specters dream of the Spark
when the sound is but a mere shadow of resting silences
get up again
and let the Thought of this
and every world run through your veins
a ragged tent made of stitched reveries
hides the warmth of the air
The holy mountain is a broken stalk of this planet
drowned in its oceans
the way up and the abyss down are the very same point
but you, try and find the spring in between
and get up again
breathe out the blue pain and name it healing
every tear that waters the fields
sowed with human dust
get up again, soar to the sky
clouds with different colors await new anthem
a golden dream shall rise
through the night’s precipice
the black shadows of the cosmos will shine out a flare
from the eyes of the radiant phoenix
pointed at an unknown hero
who’s just stepped out of the new bibles.
at night
collect the hate made out of lead and steel
and pour it into the stars;
before you lie down
drink the double blueness as if it’s a cure
yet it surrounds your island
when unextinguished specters dream of the Spark
when the sound is but a mere shadow of resting silences
get up again
and let the Thought of this
and every world run through your veins
a ragged tent made of stitched reveries
hides the warmth of the air
The holy mountain is a broken stalk of this planet
drowned in its oceans
the way up and the abyss down are the very same point
but you, try and find the spring in between
and get up again
breathe out the blue pain and name it healing
every tear that waters the fields
sowed with human dust
get up again, soar to the sky
clouds with different colors await new anthem
a golden dream shall rise
through the night’s precipice
the black shadows of the cosmos will shine out a flare
from the eyes of the radiant phoenix
pointed at an unknown hero
who’s just stepped out of the new bibles.
A short history of а fireproof purity
Exhaustion is a time not passing,
be patient and leave, it could be that
you’ll taste natural paradises again,
you extinguish by a prayer mortals, hasting
to become rivers,
your eyes, never touched
are enough to the fields,
with or without water
to hatch them and offer to the red-shining skies
O, flames, evaporating heretical thoughts
painted into a body,
only you, you give birth to purity
identical
to that of a new flesh,
novum and spiritum novum tribuam in carnem
potest,
every birth is a new path to Thinking,
ora pro nobis,
every craftsman, saint and sage,
every bishop of exorcisms,
every celestial clown and every mage
builds white pain in Snow White’s snow,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
and the truths shall remain One.
This moment is but a dust
flew from history, launched towards the zenith,
your facial proportions have the entire Cosmos
as a companion choice,
a red night granule in the sand of the city
dives through the pupils to the mind, where you're wearing a star,
the bag is filled with freedom,
the wine and the lipstick are serene friends
of the dawn that’s smiling,
welcomed by embraced voices of bonfires,
with uncontrollable instinct
to meet.
be patient and leave, it could be that
you’ll taste natural paradises again,
you extinguish by a prayer mortals, hasting
to become rivers,
your eyes, never touched
are enough to the fields,
with or without water
to hatch them and offer to the red-shining skies
O, flames, evaporating heretical thoughts
painted into a body,
only you, you give birth to purity
identical
to that of a new flesh,
novum and spiritum novum tribuam in carnem
potest,
every birth is a new path to Thinking,
ora pro nobis,
every craftsman, saint and sage,
every bishop of exorcisms,
every celestial clown and every mage
builds white pain in Snow White’s snow,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
and the truths shall remain One.
This moment is but a dust
flew from history, launched towards the zenith,
your facial proportions have the entire Cosmos
as a companion choice,
a red night granule in the sand of the city
dives through the pupils to the mind, where you're wearing a star,
the bag is filled with freedom,
the wine and the lipstick are serene friends
of the dawn that’s smiling,
welcomed by embraced voices of bonfires,
with uncontrollable instinct
to meet.
Deborah Setiyawati is an Indonesian writer. She has been published numerous times internationally and is currently working on her first collection of poetry. She is also a dress designer, singer and advocate for women and children rights. Carl Scharwath has appeared globally with 150+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art photography.Two poetry books 'Journey To Become Forgotten' (Kind of a Hurricane Press).and 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv) have been published. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine, a dedicated runner and 2nd degree black- belt in Taekwondo. |
BEWITCHED
When the reeds parted
He caught a glimpse of her
There was the river goddess
From her eyes
He saw the sol aloft the horizon
Full moon –
In her smile
Drove away the darkest eve
Verdant buds break through –
Fertile soil
Amongst her legs
What like gazelle's
With her presence –
For now the winter is past
The rain is over and gone
Vernal equinox –
The beginning of spring
He caught a glimpse of her
There was the river goddess
From her eyes
He saw the sol aloft the horizon
Full moon –
In her smile
Drove away the darkest eve
Verdant buds break through –
Fertile soil
Amongst her legs
What like gazelle's
With her presence –
For now the winter is past
The rain is over and gone
Vernal equinox –
The beginning of spring
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BOBBY Z
CHRISTINA WARD
CHRISTINE LIWAG DIXON
COLEMAN BOMAR
DEBORAH SETIYAWATI & CARL SCHARWATH
DS MAOLALAI
ELLIE LIZALEK
EMILY JUKICH
ESHA MISHRA
ETHAN OWENS
ETHAN VILU
HARJEET SINGH
HONGRI YUAN
ISRAEL FRANCISCO HAROS LOPEZ
JIM BROSNAN
JIMMIE R. PENNINGTON
JOHN GREY
JONATHAN DOUGLAS DOWDLE
KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE'ST
K SHESHU BABU
LINNIE COLE
LOIS GREENE STONE
MICHAEL A. GRIFFITH
MUNTHASIR SHAM
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
PAT RAIA
RENEE DRUMMOND - BROWN
SID OATES
SIMON PERCHIK
STEFAN MARKOVSKI
SUSI BOCKS
TED MC CARTHY
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