Problem I, O, I am I, And there is nothing less. In the distance, Mathematicians scream. Experiencing Metaphysical Reality on a Thursday Night I once saw Aristotle Ascending the billowing folds Of the cumulonimbus, Both draped in creamsicle orange And pristine sulfur yellow, Immersed in Southern sunshine, But when I grabbed a ladder And set it against the heavens For him to get down safely And maybe catch a bus, He leaned down and asked “But do you know why?” Bio: E. M. Foster (also known as Emma Foster) is a writer and poet from Florida. Her work appears in Aurora Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, Antiheroin Chic, Your Daily Poem, and others. Her microchap Isosceles Triangles (2021) was published by Origami Poems Project. You can find more of her writing and other posts at https://fosteryourwriting.com/
Neither in swamp of clouds or snarl of torrents Nor in overbearing sky or unassuming land And not in hail of the sun or blaze of dovelike rain A song that silences sing Colors that paleness holds to bring Like a shadow under a fallen leaf I lay soft, as an unanswered prayer There till I'm blown invisible as whispers to the consonant winds Wolfpack Contributor: Sarika Jaswani 5 poems by Sarika Jaswani 2 poems by Sarika Jaswani /ArtInCrochet
Bio: Anneka Chambers (she/her) is a Black British Born Londoner. She is a Poet & Social Justice advocate, currently campaigning for the rights of the Windrush Generation in the UK. Anneka’s poetry can be found in South Bank Poetry Magazine, Isa Magazine, Brave Voices and Dwelling Literary amongst forthcoming publications. Insta: @22poetrystreet Twitter: @annekachambers
with Pasithea Chan:
Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?
Pasithea: My first experience in writing came out of grief and disbelief when my country’s prime minister Mr Rafic Harriri was assassinated. At that time I was in second year law school. I remember being in class when recording my civil law lecture when the window frame fell over and around me after the glass bursted from the power of the explosion. I remember running out of class to the open to looking up to the sky with rubble dropping into my eyes and my hair with the smell of burnt flesh and fire. It took me two weeks to process the shock and writing was my only release. Later, came travel for work in the Arab Gulf countries and the far East. After meeting my maternal side of the family who are Pinay-Hispanic, and enjoying exploring the Philippines, I found inspiration in the colorful cultural dances and the exotic beauty of the place. Combined with my love for schools of art esp open impressionism, I began to write religiously as a way to take a break from legal and academic writing.
Q2: Who are some of your biggest influences today?
Pasithea: From the contemporary writers? No one but from the old times Gibran Khalil Gibran, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Rumi, Ibn Arabi, and Al-Motannabi. I like the power of rebellion for social justice, the clarity of mysticism and asceticism. For me intellectualism and impressionism are key to carrying a writer from a paper unto the hearts of his readers. A writer is someone who can mentally imprint on you.
Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing/art? Have any travels away from home influenced work/describe?
Pasithea: I grew up(if you consider mental and physical aspect) between Lebanon, Philippines, and Turkey(dad was Turkish Lebanese). Almost every place I’ve been to added to my plume’s quiver. For example Singapore added modernism, Bahrain easy going tones, Turkey intricacy etc. Sometimes a thing as simple as a pattern on a persian carpet being weaved right in front of you makes long to draw what you see in writing. When I write, I always choose open spaces especially when I travel. I choose spots where I can get to be in the background of the local rhythm where I can observe people and listen to life’s melody flow amongst the people I am learning about.
Q4: What do you consider the most meaningful work you’ve done creatively so far?
Pasithea: I used to think it’s just my #didactic poems but after realizing my love for history and mythology, I believe it’s my historical fiction pieces which I weave into them contemporary political current events. I mention Elissar’s Star Sapphire, Cedar’s Box, Cedars’ Morrighan Crow, and Elissar’s Tears.
Q5: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer/poet/artist?
Pasithea: In 2019, when the Lebanese revolution happened, I felt it was a place for artists and a time to show one’s true heart by inspiring my people to be better. I wrote Truth’s Volcano a double lingo Acrostic. It was a poem half in Arabic and acrostic and half in english also Acrostic.
Q6: Favorite activities to relax?
Pasithea: I love to do gardening, travel, make perfumes, cook, listen to music, and take long walks.
Q7: Any recent or forthcoming projects you’d like to promote?
Pasithea: Currently I am a contributor here on feversoftgemind and uglywriters. I haven’t been pushing a lot of work since I am finishing my master’s graduation thesis in business law.
Q8: One of your favorite lines from writing or favorite art pieces?
Pasithea: I like Kagaya's digital art pieces and Thomas Cole's series of portraits called "Course of an Empire" from the Hudson River School of painting. As well as Leonid Afremov.
Arcadian Empire A brush carved on the Hudson River honed romanticism on its bristles. Dipped in ideal rustic beauty; paints a paradise lost in an industrial revolution. Glorified in emotional trees standing freely to defy norms of enlightenment and aristocrats. With clear skies and vast greens Thomas expresses beauty’s notions. A fresh morning in spring or summer shifts a river further down as a crag and boulder witness a peak fork from a distance beyond. Much of the wilderness disappears into settled lands. Plowed fields peer with lawns unto newly built boats, shepherds herding sheep, and dancing settlers. His individualism shows as an old man sketches geometrical problems with sticks. On a bluff by the river a megalithic temple hides beneath sacrificial fumes. Ideally this fits pre-urban Greece. The Arcadian Empire signifies humanity and nature at peace. A notion portrayed in activities that relate safety for nature and its inhabitants As far as poems I love Francis William Bourdillon's: "The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one:
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
Q9: Who has helped you most with writing? Pasithea: Believe it or not, sometimes you meet people online via websites like allpoetry who teach you technique through contests and prompts. Her name was Sylvia. She ran several contests and taught me from shadow sonnets to cinquains, to constanza, to rondeau, you name it. Bio: Pasithea is an impressionist poet who dabbles in art and poetry. She enjoys writing about life and her experiences from different perspectives. She believes in art in poetry as in exploring art to emphasize its role in juicing creativity out of a quill. She enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy and psychology. Combined with varied styles and topics, her motto will always be: poetry is a passionate expression kindled by an impression unlimited by public conviction. To catch more of her work follow her on Instagram @pasitheachan or twitter @pasitheachan and on Ello @ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera where you can find more of her historical fiction and mythological or cultural short stories. New Poems from Pasithea Chan Poetry by Pasithea Chan : “Surreal Assurance”
art by Geoffrey Wren (c)
(Passing Through) (for L. Cohen)
Crossing laneway between old colonial buildings,
remember reading about L. Cohen discussion of discipline
in his family before (leaving) his shoes neatly beneath the bed,
lined in rows the Westmount childhood house of his
Blossoms on the Plateau
scatter towards St. Laurent.
At a café, grab a late coffee, Mile End.
– Elated. Artwork to hang at Gallery ___ of
new punk energy competing with empty lots.
A poet encountered Cohen right near here chaotically sprawled
on a bench, static hat, shins crossed,
My father knew clothing, my father knew hats.
In every secret life,
Danceclatter spirit memories,
Reanimated, the dead no longer leave
Gather under pelican shaped eaves
Refugees – taking leave, returning quickly as they arrive–
By harbour, ships, disembarking planes
At official hearings destinies decided by immigration board
on appeal. O, Canada — We who betray everything
Searching landscapes beyond mythic voice,
first languages, anthologized wards
of mothertongue, come alive
to holy gathering, catchments of double-rainbows
above camera shop,
on The Main, to St. Catherine’s Street,
gauntlet to throw down bargaining for life
the Ascending of the
at the gated freight elevators
in a cessation of rain, orchestral loft curtains
and a cacophony of rattling glass
in choreographic time,
threaded hum of industrial needles, machines,
for fancy fabric, the manufacture of
ghost suits in factories.
Did the street lineaments of longing shape
an arc to the sun in melodic time,
Word became difference
– without a promised pound of flesh —
each visioning, wisteria proposing
darker awakening. To bow and Curtsy. The
– Oars of the St. Lawrence remaining as if
Hallucinatory – at a farther reach –
persuasive designs for some new
disguise. In rupture rapture———— Graffitied, the needle in thread, the lacuna. Stitches of erasure, (by attendant lay kept at bay) a homonym in nominal space Ofidentity en/closures.
When You Carry the Flag of Surrender
We aim for song. Tilt to embrace. First embouchure, embrace of red, then blue, a burning white beneath the stair corrodes coruscating struts. You waited to come back too long, already threat gave you a name. Beneath eyelids, the mourning bruised fifth notes. Minor armies, advancing packs of card sharks, upon arrival, slight a flock of black birds, ravens, and your sister’s husband’s brutal conundrum commences. It’s a war against nature. We guessed wrong. Planning for a siege at a craps table along the loneliest strip where hummingbirds dance a devious fandango, on with nightclub nightmares. You lifted up with urgency, the urge, to surrender, to carry the flag of surrender. (And safely, the albatross of snow glides ascending beyond Blake, rising to the Gate of Hell Wings shorn with fire). The yellowing book, it’s pages. If you are tired enough, you will fall asleep, fall into the arms of a boulder, spreading the night moth’s wings around you. On the ocean, the burning partisan’s ship sinks behind another neon moon. Affair Between the odd and even I shall be a tailor, sewing pockets with a wretched hand. A corruption, failure of the terms of service. I gave them nothing, willingly, I gave them nothing, undue dress. A shaky signature, handshake under duress, erasing distressed seams. The Committee of Horsemen and their capital wives Flying to a ceremonial, under cloak, the war’s convoy’s coverings Blanket the skies with parachutes. I shall be the uninvited guest, these twisted hands trembling, winter branches at calico windows, draperies. Obscene broncho – of obstreperous lineage. Startling twilight of starlings. Sinking Hesperus. Rain 1. The plane goes down It goes down It makes the sun turn a pale green a pale green Packages of jealous nauseous waitresses That know no limits know no limits In the charnel house in the charnel house 2. Confusion of smoke Bodies alight by the fairgrounds All the kisses you can punch for a dollar twenty five don’t be shy step Right up 3. Bop bop bopping for the wormy wordy words worthy apple of the jaundice eye another round of Government Propaganda For the Shiny Happy People 4. Free line dances for the people By the acid river backside pouring out toxic sludge 5. Captains of Productive Industrial stewardship on sacred ground whose ground sacred check the grainy almanac in the gun-sites of the Military Industrial complex 6. We capture captions speak in thought balloons Sometimes arrogant overtalking even The gentlest Master slips outside benign speaking behind a billboard for mouth wash cattle in the fields, lowing 7. “It will rain soon,” Mommy says to her six year old in Khakis amidst the smoke beneath the chocking ruins -- rains down historical memory 8. Insects rub their tentacled principal legs together make the beat of some new music written by the Karaoke Moon 9. We can count all of the ways that what was once here no longer is. Using an app with magic markers we make asemic marks on photographic paper. Is there hope of change? Are we impassioned? Poisoned? What lies beyond belief is belief in our own ability to change out of clothing make the New Man look possible available fallible as Merchandise. 1985 (A Drum) A Leonard Cohen concert New York, Carnegie Hall, At performance end, more people than one might imagine prepare for Rapture. From handbags & from under winter coats they rush towards the stage. A price of admittance. Recognizable is ritual. My old friend, with whom I attend, I shall never see again, while, Field Commander Cohen, Working for the Yankee Dollar, Takes Manhattan. Graciously bowing, catching in light and furious, bouquets of cornflowers and roses. The clarion call, in spot lit time trumpet flowers opening up pollen in a thousand-handed balcony.
Twitter: @frede_kenter @icefloe_P
Poems 2, 3 & 4 are inspired by Cohen’s poetry book “The Energy of Slaves”