Neil Ellman is a poet from New Jersey. He has published more than 1,350 poems in print and online journals, anthologies and twelve chapbooks throughout the world. He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net. I Want to Spend the Rest of My Life Everywhere, with Everyone, One to One, Always, Forever, Now (after the construction by Damien Hirst,) In the imperfect symmetry between our lives I want it to be forever now a child at one with everywhere the center of the universe all times, all places, all at once in brotherhood with stars and trees in concert with the music of the sea and sky I want to be as face-to-face with destiny as heaven is to earth now and forever in our time now forever now in this moment of our lives. In Lovely Blueness (after the painting by Sam Francis) I walk in the loveliness of your blue in the blueness of your love I cry blue tears, hear nothing but the blueness of your voice the way hydrangeas bloom and glaciers crawl on azure hands I know how lovely you can be when blueness is your eyes and all around you blue unfolds the blueness of your light reflected in your soul. The Three Earthquakes (after the painting by Max Ernst) One came after the other then another three shocks in succession from the shiver of a blade of grass on a windless day to the fall of the towers at Ilium and New York dynasties crumbling after their time had come. Earth shook flesh trembled rivers of blood overflowed their banks three times a fissure opened to swallow the future and the past three times the air filled with debris. A fourth would never come they said the ground would never shake again never the end of days-- and then the aftershock. Monument (after the painting by Hedda Sterne) No monument for me. No memorial. No statue please, no triumphal arch. No cenotaph or obelisk. No cartouche with my name inscribed as a falcon-god. No Abbey-grave for passersby to tread upon. Let the pigeons light on someone else’s tomb and the steeple-choughs defecate on another’s bust. Form no constellation in my shape and leave me to the slag of history where I belong. Please, not even a plaque where I was born.
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Travis Gouré is a young writer living in Atlanta. His work has appeared in Menacing Hedge literary journal and The Sacred Cow magazine. He has interned as a poetry editor for Deep South Magazine, and as a contributor for Rush Hour Daily news. He is currently a student at Kennesaw State University, where he studies English. tu étais mienne une fois could you trust? but I cannot promise should in the end I have been your adversary what heartlessness sometimes performed by men would not also make wreckage of you when I have never loved another like heroin I have never loved another at all but without measure I believe it and without void and dance and light we do not claim flesh lip nail but we may seize wild flower shaking strings of bone or heart for you were mine once you were mine yes, yes for a time camille I do lament for raging fears that shut my teeth and tore apart like petals all the words inside my mouth which called you storm and shadow and blood or any place missing light I cannot return to someplace that you are not and if in violent infatuation this perfect noise inside is pose and meek endearments just then I’ll go there along with it when it burns out of the fold tu étais mienne une fois but I was cold sweeping I’m imagining us one day with your body wrapped quietly around mine descending some stairs with the first dead animal we ever had there between our shivering chests as we are singing as we are carrying it to be buried in the cold yard and it’s really, especially, remarkably pretty that dull sunlight which comes through fogs on dust through the window bearing us as we sadly fold down a wooden staircase into the muted, ghostly peace of touching tragedy with you I’m still thinking I’ll have you there even as I turn once more to leave you for a year? who knows sweeping once more the absurd and silent aimlessness from the tiles my dear I cannot make my skin remember what it meant to love the natural decadence of being my god of violent nothing has carried this to you I am, if nothing else sorry for telling you the stories which kept you tagging along so fucking sorry not unlike before the gates of god. some do I no longer try to decipher the rhythm of my dying – I turn my palms out to winter kneel – in place of the hydrangea blackened by our little flame the secret of everything was in the autumn that came and went with you while I in the theater ran a game of shadows seasons long over wet carpet and wood I would have been unperturbed by god itself if my room was darkened in its wingspan the wiry angels of summer on the streetcorner kissing purchasing glances they know me better than I know myself for to be found out is to disappear and then to be for the very first time anything at all by divine theft they take your stones and it is bitter like the ache of waking from a century’s sleep to a plainer world than the one you left but you are better for it you taste, pray, kiss differently you watch, fine with being watched satisfied in mystery’s always being unfinished and you meet eyes with the intention of the blind to raise the dead for no benefit of its beauty but for them . . . good god to love like that I can only imagine some do fright the pears the lilies the joggers the trees the sun they ask my intention and I swallow hard for I have yet to wake from bed so what brutish jest would break the eyelid now sits in the offing, cringing and sweaty, with a face like a rotted orange I try to keep it that way but the selfsame chorus impresses again as always the inevitable that I will awaken to the same candle fire I left the night before and hoped would die before the sun’s own furnace pronounced us all to work the walls the wires the leaf the staircase the bricks they ask my intention and I simper I don’t know what it means to be or in being, am implicit is something disregarded, impotent a disaster. . . the divine have all been muted a disaster the plains of linen in your room gone hard with sweat what is built today soon will be artifact and so I will be a stone inside a stone carried off by rain or eagle and let alone For Scott I know loving, even if it is done in solitude is not a lonely business but god damn it never stops the tendency for breaking glass to find a neck these are the last of the dread-worn days these are the passive the pulled another yes, another as always as a stone tilting from the fringes reaching up from weeds fucked up turned in as always I know jesus, I know how it feels. . . tragedy is a good fuck and wretchedly elegant in laying you down I know I know I know I know that life is a chapel’s promise or worse I know the pale stains of your past laugh back whenever you try I know to love without requisition is the nearest of god to this old earth we’ve got but god damn it just never stops the tendency for breaking glass to find a neck Mbizo Chirasha is a Creative Communities Expert, Opinion maker/ Contributing Writer/Columnist{World Pulse/www.worldpulse.com/mbizo chirasha,Bulawayo 24 news.com/www.bulawayo24.com/mbizochirasha}, Blogging Publisher/Writer/Editor, an internationally acclaimed Performance poet, Creative /Literary Projects Specialist, Mbizo Chirasha is the Resident Coordinator of 100 Thousand Poets for Change-Global in Zimbabwe. He is also the Advisory Council Member of ShunguNaMutitima International Film Festival in Zambia, an Advocate of Girl Child Voices and Literacy Development .He is the Founder and Projects Curator of a multiple Community, Literary, and Grassroots Projects including Girl Child Creativity Project, Girl Child Voices Fiesta, Urban Colleges Writers Prize, and Young Writers Caravan. Mbizo Chirasha has worked with NGOS and other institutions as an Interventionist [using creative arts as models of community education, information dissemination and dialogue].The interventions include HIV/AIDS Branding Project [Social Family Health Namibia 2009 - 2010], HIV/AIDs Nutrition Project [Catholic Relief Services 2006] , Arts for Drought Mitigation[Swedish Cooperative Centre2006] He is widely published in more than Hundred Journals, Magazines, and Anthologies around the world. He Co-edited Silent Voices Tribute to Achebe Poetry Anthology , Nigeria and the Breaking Silence Poetry anthology,Ghana.His Poetry collections include Good Morning President ,Diaspora Publishers , 2011 , United Kingdom and Whispering Woes of Ganges and Zambezi,Cyberwit Press ,India ,2010. He was the Poet-in-Residence from 2001-2004 for the Iranian embassy/UN Dialogue among Civilizations Project; Focal Poet for the United Nations Information Centre from 2001-2008; Convener/Event Consultant This Africa Poetry Night 2004 - 2006; Official Performance Poet Zimbabwe International Travel Expo in 2007; Poet in Residence of the International Conference of African Culture and Development/ ICACD 2009; and Official Poet Sadc Poetry Festival, Namibia 2009.In 2010 Chirasha was invited as an Official Poet in Residence of ISOLA Conference in Kenya. In 2003 Mbizo Chirasha was a Special Young Literary Arts Delegate of Zimbabwe International Book Fair to the Goteborg International Book Fair in Sweden. He performed at Sida/African Pavilion, Nordic African Institute and Swedish Writers Union. In 2006 was invited to be the only Poet /Artist in Residence at Atelier Art School in Alexandra Egypt. In 2009 was a Special participating Delegate representing Zebra Publishing House at the UNESCO Photo –Novel Writing Project in Tanzania, Mbizo Chirasha also work as a Performing Poet for Educational, Diplomatic, International, National, Media and Cooperate organizations .He also works as a Proof Reader/Editor , Poet /Writer in Residences for Institutions , Media Relations Strategist for projects, GirlChildVoices /Talent Advocate, Literacy Development Activist and Creative/Literary Projects Advisor/Specialist. Credentials Member - Zimbabwe Writers Association Member- Creative Writing Group Zimbabwe Member of the Jury- International Images Film Festival Resident Coordinator- 100 Thousand Poets for Change Global Contributor – Stellenbosch University Literary Project/Slip net Member /Contributor- World Pulse Graduate- Chitaqua Reading Project/US Embassy ,Certified social media practitioner-Young Nation/ US Embassy, Prize winner Aids out of Africa Project- United States, Founder- Creative/Literary and Girl child Projects Producer/Curator- Girl child Voices Fiesta Member/Mentor- Writers International Zimbabwe, Mentor- Zim talent Hunt, Former Volunteer Poet in Residence- United States Embassy, Harare. Forty years after dawn We burnt drums and exiled the drummers Still holding cows for other villagers to milk Undergarments of the banks stink like garbage Forty years after dawn State plans still dressed in torn overalls of the parliament Bullet speak louder than ballot Forty years after dawn we discovered no totem of truth And flowers of freedom never bloom Forty years after dawn Blood smells more toxic than pesticides in the lungs of the cities and nostrils of the villages Diary of the Povo Another whistle from election fervent fathers Another ululation from slogan drugged mothers In chimoio we roasted bullets like mealie cobs for breakfast In nyadzonia we boiled grenades like cassava for lunch meals In magagao we munched parcel bombs like tropical fruit In gorongoza, we learnt totems of war and syndromes of propaganda Today, our ears are deaf with sediments of slogans We are the povo Stomachs belong to the state Kalanda , we are raised through the smoke and stink of dumping sites, In dusty broken streets of dingy shanties Chilling culture of poverty whipping our backs and slapping our scarred faces Kalanda , we passed through rough fingers of the state Purity of sisters corrupted by bowls of spaghetti in district light cafes Kalanda, their smiles plant want than wheat on our doorsteps Exiled pauper Patriot of home in the squalor of my exile Pauper who brewed the revolution and never drink from the gourd of freedom In this exile, power is the game of bullet than the ballot We built water tanks but we still buy water Peasants have no cassava to feed babies but helicopters to fly them to propaganda stations Dream of Rain This is the land that fed our dreams Wind suffocated in the yellow smoke of wheat Our fields’ crimson red and clouds gray with millet sheaves Pans hissing with oil baking bread Gleaming thighs of our days sweating under the rain season sun that bloomed, The flamboyant flowers Weeds of hunger already been exiled Guyana Raised through the bowls of sweat in millet acres Through the forests of bullets shells and wounded earth Guyana is not the mist of forgotten and tired centuries It is the petal whose scent perfumed the stink of revolutions Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. ADAM Adam, oh, we all like Adam sits a’chair staring at computer screen waiting to be interrupted straightbacked and stiff, as if there’s back trouble, it’s only from being in the orchestra pit of the librarian’s chair. “Whazzup?” he asks, a quick smile lighting up his cheeks like an apple best eaten slowly. MAN IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA A far-off lens portrays a man running down the stairs, outdoor stairs in southern California, arms swinging at his sides, as if he has practiced for years, each leg bending at the knee and thigh and ankle, going faster, faster, faster, and I shout Instant Replay but the screen has turned black. THE CREPE MYRTLE IS LATE FOR THE BALL A southern belle, forced by her owner to bloom up here, she caught a cold, and stood lifeless in the front yard. She twisted her infected branches and looked up at the sky. Are ya done with me? she asked. I've lived here five years dancing in place to the Nutcracker Suite. Cold showers from the hose bathed her withered limbs, like Whitman did the dying. More cold showers up and down her once famously beautiful body, the ballerina. She was tough, she was resilient, she refused to die. Her beauty's returned the Belle of Cowbell Road. THE MAN AT THE STARBUCKS How can anyone stand so straight? How can anyone have hair like that? White, all white, with a tiny ponytail peacock-proud to ornament the man in line. Tall, he bent toward the aproned barista. I’ll have Decaf, he said. Here was a man who would sleep well at night. I’ll make a fresh cup, said she. And I heard all, my head turning as I waited for my pumpkin spice latte, which I could barely pronounce. Later, at table, I sat at a distance my curiosity aroused like a calico cat sniffing round the cake plate Whatever was he reading, as his white head dipped deep into the paperback book. A man who would rouse the stars to dream about. WAITING IN LINE The line wasn’t long. I forgot that I don’t have to be busy every minute so I stopped reading the book I would buy. Real life is more important than any history book you’ll buy for your son’s fortieth. A woman with gleaming white hair, the color of the noonday sun, was leaning over, laughing. Good thing I have insomnia, she said. There’s a million cable channels and nothing is…. Yeah yeah. As I read in bed last night, All the Light You Cannot See, the Gloaming White was somewhere in the area, reading herself to sleep, as Dr Amen, Patrick Stoner, and Patti Paige sang to me in the distance. UNBEARABLY BREAKABLE Spider skittered around the slippery porcelain sink with its bits of spinach and peanuts the journey of his life, trying to get free before more cold water came pouring down the spout. A shroud covered his head, with quivering posterior he injected his venom to no avail, and was thrown down a high place, tumbling tumbling, eight legs a-tremble, no web to carry him down. Suddenly. Nothing. MIDNIGHT SWIM She and he were seen from the window swimming. The still moon lit up each naked body. Look at that slim white arm curling from the water, up, then splash, slender as a ribbon. He was nearby, the hair on his arms flattened down like fleece, bubbles spitting from his mouth. The watcher goes back to bed, listening to their splashes – they sound like celebratory ducks – as He and She embrace like majesties, then head for the locker room on shore. Ndaba Sibanda`s work has been featured in several publications including The Piker Press, Bricolage, The Dying Goose, Whispering Prairie Press, Saraba Jim, Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine ,The Metric, Unlikely Stories and Silver Birch Press. Of Policies And Capacities this economy has whiskey how can it be so drunk and risky? the poor say the prognosis is easy for this rich nation has a terrible leprosy which kicks out citizens of the country at times to places very far and wintry to become wandering birds without feathers or troubled refugees and unsung beggars termites and maggots of corruption and governance constitute its destruction police please arrest someone willy-nilly for intoxicating this economy silly policies please be competitive for the businesspeople are restive the national currency disappeared it could no longer stand being speared there is need for industrial production as much as there is noise about indigenisation no direct investment as the economy is very weak the country`s prospects of economic recovery are bleak a show of lack of confidence in the leadership and its policies returns on investment against declining mental and physical capacities A Deep Engagement Why do you laze in bed instead of going out and making big money? Dude, your name is Judge, he responds in a voice that worries the questioner It is a steady voice filled with greater honesty than hostility He explains that money is not a soul’s everything but a means to something He says alone in his room he gobbles poetry that engages with his deepest truths and joys Malleable Prospect let us reminisce and romance let us rekindle those fires of yesteryear of heart and heat let us boldly board a recollection bus of positive events of past actions let us live ‘n love in the present no matter how different because it is all we can correct and curve into our future One Too Many Losses what has come over them? they have disregarded the sanctity of life you say maybe by virtue of misjudgment? what has blinded them? they have authored an orgy of uncertainties and murders who are they are policing by planting seeds of mistrust? are these umpteen miscarriages of justice blind to the fact that prejudice breeds nothing else but jaundice? The Leopard Man`s Fate the man riding an abused leopard feared that if ever he fell down the animal would chew him up so he clung on and on to it he was weary and desperate he knew the leopard was tired it ate depravation and beatings he feared being disinherited but the moment of truth was always approaching and reproaching him to repent and leave the poor animal alone he okayed himself he clung on and on until sleepiness and tiredness teamed up to a thud! Errant Cat Upon catching the cat out Madly mewing and lapping On the stolen milk in an exotic jar Do you lunge for the misguided cat? Is there a catharsis in strangling it wildly? Would you lose your mind and sleep over it? House Number 12 Foot Street With the informer`s tiny paper In hand she wondered whether It was a good idea to prove it all She recalled the adage that says: If one climbs up some mountain In search of baboons one should Not be shell-shocked to see them She walked along the winding path As if she had accepted its bends and gall When she arrived at House Number 12 FS She stormed into the kitchen and then bedroom There he was ...having some little delicious breakfast It galled her to see that the snatcher was below her class Lost for words…a fearless fire consumed her heart and head Bring Back Our History And Heritage You have muddied the waters of Our glorious history and heritage Where shall we hide our long tails? Our nakedness is now a public feast I live, write, and attend high school in New York City. I lived in Oxford, England for a brief time before returning to the Big Apple. I could think before I could walk and write before I could talk, and haven't put the pen down since. I put my thoughts and feelings down in words on paper because some things just can't be conventionally explained. Fog You are surrounded by the fog the moment you open your eyes in the morning. The cloud that has swallowed you, making your limbs heavy, keeping your head underwater. The frost barricading the outside of your window only further enforces the effect. The cloud doesn't break even as she knocks gently and enters your room. She's speaking, you know, though the words sound wrong, as if she's speaking from underneath a pile of laundry, muffling her words before they can reach your ears. You know what she's telling you, though; she is taking you out to lunch and you need to get ready. You agree, because that is what you're used to doing. You dress in a dream, wash your face in the sink. Instinctively you pick up the newspaper lying on the kitchen table and peruse the contents of it, Flipping page after page and scraping your eyes over the paper without really reading it. You're ready within the hour, certainly, though you can't remember a thing. It's as if your memory has been wrapped in cotton wool, As if an opaque white fog has rolled down over you. There is no cripplingly cold black void, No blast of oblivion. Just… cloud. And cloud was fine. Fine. You can't feel her hand at your back when you walk. You know it's there, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You aren't sure why. Why is it there? Does she think you'll slip and fall? The ground isn't that icy. Why does she keep looking at you like that? Her eyes are too curious. She must have found her glasses eventually because she’s wearing them now. Were they under her bed like last time? Or maybe she left them on top of the cupboard. You shift away from her subtly, pulling your coat tighter around yourself, even though it isn't as cold as you had anticipated. There's so much she wants to ask you, and you know that, But you're glad she doesn't. You're glad she decides to walk with that casual swing to her step with her eyes straight ahead. She noticed you. And you feel guilty. As much as you hate it, you can't bring yourself to apologise. The simple words, ‘I’m sorry’ won't come to you at all, despite the way you usually say it so often. You don't want to speak at all, not really, because you feel you shouldn’t. It would be wrong to say anything. You ought just to be quiet. It is alarming, the way the fog is following you. You thought you could keep one step ahead of it, Keep yourself in the sunlight for a little while longer, But it is proving to be incredibly difficult to keep up your pace. You shake those thoughts from your head, Just as you'd been taught, And shoot a lopsided and pleasantly bright grin in her direction. You order food even though you aren't hungry. The food tastes bland, even so; it's hot and seasoned to perfection (she really shouldn't have taken you out somewhere so nice. What was she thinking wasting good money on someone like yourself?) but it still tastes like wet paper as you eat it - bland yet withstanding just enough flavor for it to be nauseatingly unappetizing. Your eyes are restless, Flicking from object to object, Person to person. You notice tiny things, Such as the color of that man's scarf, Or what toy that baby has in its hand. How many crows are sitting preening themselves in one of the almond trees, How many times do the shop bell tinkle in a minute. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The pendant of her necklace resting on the breast of her cardigan. It's a funny thing, really. You aren't angry and you aren't upset. You are indifferent to most things at times like these. You are untouchable. You don't touch the ground when you walk, so when you stomp your boots on the mat outside your door, It is a shock to see ice peel off of the soles. You can't feel the clothes on your body, So if she hadn't been there to remind you to change them, you probably wouldn't have. You don't feel dirty, so if the shower wasn't on the way to your bedroom, you would have certainly forgotten to clean yourself as well. You'd learned your lesson in that respect, at least. Nothing is touching you. You don't feel it. It's as though you are suspended in water. Senseless. It is... Unnerving, To describe it placatingly. But you're used to it. She sends you off to pick out a movie while she makes some tea. You pick out the sappiest, corniest film you can find. It's a ploy to make yourself cry, Hopefully, To strike some feeling back into your body Before you dissolve into nothing. Your breath rises quick and rapid in your throat as you pick out the movie, Frantically looking for something to make you feel something, Anything. The tea is scalding and it burns your tongue. You like how it burns your mouth, despite knowing that it will hurt tomorrow morning. You hear every word of the film, Note every action in excruciating detail, And finally relief floods every fiber of your body When you feel tears prick at your eyes and overwhelming sadness tug at your heart at the movie's climax. She is also dabbing at her eyes with a tissue already, But you are smiling, more to yourself than the film, as tears stream down your face. You're going to be okay. You're going to be just fine. Magic When I was eight years old, my father told me that I was a mistake. Neither he nor my mother had wanted children to begin with. But then I came along. A surprise, said my mother. A mistake, said my father. How is one expected to respond to such a thing? Especially at just eight years old, It put quite the weight on my little shoulders. An unwanted child. A mistake. A burden. Mind you, I did get two different answers, But they were similar enough, And I knew which one to believe. Believe the one spoken with a truth serum, A poison that ruins lives and tears people apart. The one you can’t control until it’s too late. The serum at the bottom of a bottle That doubles as a healing potion. It doesn’t heal you very permanently, Or very well, for that matter, And causes even a little pain more as it goes down your throat. But then it takes away all your pain, All your worries, Just like that. Just like magic. Alcohol seemed like magic to me, especially at such a young age. What else but magic could turn a man From a neatly-dressed, nicely polished and well-put-together businessman Into a monster With messy hair, red eyes, beer dripping from his chin onto an already-stained shirt, Turn clean knuckles swollen and raw, Turn clear, soft baby skin black and blue with anger and pain. Only magic could turn a good, if not slightly slurred mood Red with rage And a blast of anger The kickback of which was aimed directly at the unwanted daughter The mistake The burden. And, just like magic, the child shrank. She spoiled like an apple, becoming withered, bruised, and small; Disgusting to the outward eye. Because that’s what happens when you leave an apple out for too long. When you forget that it’s there, Or drop it too many times. That’s just how nature works But not human nature. Human nature is taking care of and loving your children and family. Feeling emotions like joy, sadness, love, empathy. Wanting love and loving others. It takes something very powerful to take that away… Something like magic. GHOSTS Even years later, The ghosts stay with me. There’s at least one over my shoulder at all times, Its presence made seen to no one but me. Its weight is great as it sits on my shoulders, Weighing me down. I carry the invisible weight alone, so that no one else knows it’s there. Sometimes the Ghost reaches down, And I can feel the hands sliding over my skin again. Sometimes the Ghosts crowd around me And I feel trapped, Helpless, Small. The Ghost isn’t real, of course, but it feels like It is. Its hands feel real and solid, as if It’s really touching me again. It whispers in my ear, Telling me of memories and planting the haunting images in my head. It leans over my bed while I sleep, Nightmares billowing from its lips like smoke That I breathe into my system Slowly breaking down my lungs, A cancer destroying me from the inside out. It is a pain deep inside That no one else can see, But I know it’s there, And so does the Ghost. The pain is unimaginable And that is why the Ghost gives it to me. Because It does not want the pain all to Itself. It wants to make me a Ghost just like It is. But I know now that the pain is not all my burden. Acknowledge the memories curling form the smoke And share them. They are so and so am I. That is not a curse. The more I accept the Ghost to be real, The less real it becomes. It becomes transparent Instead of solid So when it stands in front of those that I love It is no longer blocking them from my view No longer morphing their faces into those of the Ghosts. I reach out, through the heart of the Ghost And hold onto my loved ones. As I speak, I breathe out the smoke I’ve inhaled Along with the memories that the Ghost has confined to my mind, And I set them free. As they are freed, so am I. And the Ghost’s weight is lessened It is no longer so heavy, bearing me down as It sits on my shoulders And I feel lighter, Freer. Perhaps the Ghost will always be with me But everyone has their own Ghosts. Now I just look straight ahead instead of back at my own, Because now my Ghost is no longer invisible. I still know that It is there, and so does the Ghost, And so do my loved ones So that when my Ghost starts to feel heavy again They can help bear some of the weight And remind me That my Ghost is not all my responsibility So I can breathe out the smoke And watch As it rises up into the sky Until it is no longer in m view Or my life. Funeral Voices When the doorbell rings
At three in the morning, It’s never good news. Darkness, the heavy, peaceful air of nighttime. I was supposed to be asleep, Yet I lay restlessly in my bed. I heard three sharp knocks on the door; Hallow, strong, and well-practiced, Resonating through the tiny apartment. And, watching from around the corner of the hallway, I already knew. I knew from the way the police stood there, Awkward and unhappy. They clearly wanted to be there as much as I wanted them to. But I also knew from the tone of their voices. Funeral Voices. That was how I would come to describe them later. The sort of voices people use When they come to tell you that someone close to you Has died. He was only 18. My heart hurts when I remember him, But the alternative is forgetting. And that is the final kind of death; When nobody tells your story anymore. Tejasvi Saxena is a bilingual poet and writer, thinker and a photography enthusiast from New Delhi, India. His areas of interest include Art, Culture, Nature, Music, Spirituality, Sociology, Books and Writing. His poetry has been published in Muse India, Visual Verse ( Germany / UK ), Duane's PoeTree, Indian Periodical, Dissident Voice ( US ) , Tuck Magazine ( Canada ) and is forthcoming in Spillwords ( Poland ). She She is formless A haphazard figure of disarray A frailty to be reckoned with So elusive to tenderness She’s not dainty like one at Tussauds, To mould as per fancy or shape in an urn She’s fluid that flows through interspersed gamut of roles She wishes to demystify the shrouded enigma of disillusions To declassify the compartmentalization of ideas and biases Gazing at worn out threads of environs So fragmented, tattered and faded She’s a deviant, a non conformist per se Conjectures proffer her as fatal phenomenon She’s rather a wild gush An air of emotiveness, a dust of murkier dawn Who evokes connotations of society and its whims She refuses to be a garnishing condiment For satiating the senses of constructionists Her effulgence couldn’t be diminished It rises in sparks and redeems through embers Whose ash glistens in dark recesses of conscience You inflict her body with bruise or scar She comes out, emanating with floral beatitude That blossoms from eternity of her being Her shadow will envelope for millennia to come Chivalry would dawn upon coiled labyrinths of ears As virtuosity lies in strength To be her, is to be a felicity of delight To not to be wedded by dogmas of prejudiced ideologies The ideas that languish in gaols of rust I look beyond, The primrose path is near her I could envisage her formless figure Clambering the spiral stairs She reaches beyond the realm of beauty and hideousness Of frames and of definitions To my mere gaze. Pristine Vulgarity The pristine vulgarity of life Which flows through each moment In whims of a harlot In angst of an unjust life Through inner eyes of civilization Or, in simplicity of savagery; Camouflaged by sensibilities And too timid for vulnerabilities… The savage man wanders In nakedness of purity Draping chivalry on his fragile frame Exhibiting his truth in its purest sense For,he could be a Buddha or Mohammad per se; Who found their truth within their imperfections Far beyond from realms of sophistry From clannish collections of mortal world Savagery could be immortal Blindfolded to cold gaze of civility For he who is vulgar, can find his truth; As it is pristine vulgarity, that flows through each moment. Simplicity Simplicity, A subliminal shadow That lurks on doors of a man A doer who seeks himself In naïve domains of life. Silence Silence is symphony of bare homes That flourishes in rhythm of longing Where, dust of space piles on clocks On books and pens and drawing curtains On mirror which myths the faces of smiles Of pain, of rapture, of calm, of delight All await to hear a sound A whisper, a talk or laugh resounds An empty chaos Where, absence floats The same one that longs to embrace, The silhouettes of its lost frames Such silence perturbs through lively tenors A whirring of wings Or, crackling leaves Chirping crickets Or, humming bees… Gracious visitors of such homes Who promise to wait for a life A dweller to play a music of soulful vibe. Desolation Of A Door On slope of a rock kept aside I saw desolation in remains of a door The splinters of which told a story Of broken wings and hope of a soul A pastoral man in his olden days Dreamt of owning a dwelling for self In grassy meadows of flowers and ferns In joyous rapture of rambling terrains In dense canopy of pines and cedars And, bubbling symphony of streams and lakes He imagined a roof on his aged head Of earthen potteries and a loaf of bread To keep him alive in thunderous gales And saving himself from homeless tales To call a home, which could be his To trace the fragments of forgotten bliss But stern are the cables of tyrant life The man collected some kind and courage But, rain washed his dreams afloat Dreams descended in cascades of silence And, slowly vain in troughs of grief A perennial agony of losing a Dream When pain wells up with surging waves And life’s glow dims In stilting wick of trodden lanes The scattered dreams and broken potteries Call the door, a hilarious farce A farce that lays in desolation now Desolation which grins on its own remains. DAVID SUBACCHI POET (david.subacchi@tiscali.co.uk) David Subacchi was born in Wales (UK) of Italian roots and has three published collections of poems. ‘First Cut’ (2012), ‘Hiding in Shadows’ (2014) and Not Really a Stranger (due in May 2016). His Blog is at http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi JUST FOR YOU (RIP Leonard Cohen) We all knew someone who was half crazy And understood very well That was one reason why We wanted to be with them, But you dared to say it So we looked up and nodded. And it sounded like you were playing The same kind of cut price guitar Our parents bought for us, The nylon strings we could not Make sound like The Doors, But you made them sing. Then in the evening of our lives You returned, successful, bemused, We felt good and raised a glass, Wondered where those albums were, Winked at the kids, Googled the lyrics to remind us. This morning found us studying 'How Trump Won in Maps' When your news arrived, But tomorrow just for you We'll smile at each other Across our pillows. James D. Casey IV is a published author of two poetry books: 'Metaphorically Esoteric' & 'Dark Days Inside the Light While Drunk on Wine.' Mr. Casey's writings have also been featured on numerous websites, in online magazine publications, and published in two poetry anthology books: 'Pirate Poetry' by Writing Knight Website: http://louisianakingcasey.wixsite.com/big-skull-poetry Poetry Blog: http://jdcivskeletonsfrommycloset.blogspot.com/s Press, and 'Where the Mind Dwells' by Eber & Wein Publishing. Poetry Life & Times, Artvilla, and Realistic Poetry International all have him listed in their poet archives. James is a self proclaimed "bard & wordsmith, artist, free thinker, madman philosopher, feather spinner, cat lover, hat lover, owl enthusiast, and crystal collector" from the American South. "X-Ray Visions" Alien deception Watching over us On the silk road Savvy performers Indeed the stars are out Buffalo buzz About some kind of Future Something in our skies A staircase to A house of cards Fantastic lessons Adventures of a lifetime Learned On scientific parachutes Sarcastic needles Change your mind Under the influence It's closing time X-Ray visions Too wasted to perform The veil Amazing They Live Obey Running away From lava lamp workshops In stolen shades and Tattered boots Tell me something I don't already know Here Put these on ©James Dennis Casey IV Southeastern US "A.S.A.P." A festering latrine Of septic Money hungry Warmonger ideology Old pagan psychology Behind an eternal tapestry Portals in New thinning dreams Behind hazy mirrored Politics Sunday change brings the Red right hand Ready to push Its handle down The ugly side of Forgotten wars Spawning forlorn Lovers Independently happy Comfortably numb Young robots Dancing to a perfect End Yielding broken weapons With bruised knuckles Smiling faces and The weight of the World Upon weary shoulders Singing silent symphonies Screaming loudly about Bittersweet mindsets Just black market undertones That meander in one ear Out the other unheard An entire planet In need of a revolution The system is broken It needs to be flushed As Soon As Possible ©James Dennis Casey IV Southeastern US "Intently Sedated" Starless skies Producing numberless Edens Ghosts Dangerousely unseen When taunting the black kettle Goes wrong Hunger strike raids Burn villages to the ground Pinnacles fall To pieces Here Amongst old cherry wine Theories Intently sedated Gods In controversial Nightmares Above the fruited Plain They came here to forget Land of the Neverending Utopian facade Drunk on codeine blues Only to remember Everything ©James Dennis Casey IV Southeastern US "Bleed" Bleed out fears As the light code Brings morning dew And heathens Gone awol Cracking dawn Dance On rings of Saturn Suicide ashes Blown away In the diary of A consumer Balance & composure Magnatized amnesia All traits of Burn the witch Culture Settled glaciers Trying to crush the mighty Diamond dogs Fear not The freakshow Just Bleed ©James Dennis Casey IV Southeastern US Michela Zanarella is the author of poetry, fiction, and plays. Born in Cittadella, Michela lives and works in Rome, where she carries out her work in collaboration with various journals on the web. She has published ten books of poetry, and she has received several national and international awards. Her poetry has been translated into Spanish, Romanian, French, and Arabic. I Chain Myself to the Origins I chain myself to the origins of light, I undo a sunset, just as poetry touches me, with my lips I create the fate of a horizon that glorifies cemeteries filled with bones. I rest in the sudden vibration of a cloud, intersecting rivers of silence at the whimsical azure of a crowd of instants. Embodied in the exile of earth and water, I bind myself to the wind, I yield to the flames. To eyes permeated by the world surrounding the sun, I make myself eternal like Daphne. I make myself a forest of olive trees. *** August’s Glances You seek me in the glances of August, you throw your blue aboard the edges of my lips. You commit a pulse of muscles and light to eternity, you become electricity where the sweat smells of resin and sea. With your life you invade my life and with the retina call me love. *** Together Beyond Dream an elsewhere, a breathing in of clouds and eternity to nourish the spine, of vapors still intact, still ours. Together, beyond the outlines of the end, we will move winged across timelines, as discovering ourselves naked for the first time, nervous because of love, ready to unearth intimacy of waters, of the universe. The phalanxes will not vanish in flames, the greedy sweat of play will not die, we will consume the sky dripping in love on the sidewalks of destiny. Drenched by sensuality we too will exist where the infinite is absent. *** *Poems are translated in english by Leanne Hoppe |
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