A Poetry Showcase from Sarra Culleno

The Chant of Digging Roal originally appears on Wild Sound Festival Review

Ab-Zohr Sonnet originally published by CAAB Publishing as part of my book Bonds: A Short Story Collection

House Sparrow published by PopShot Magazine

Eidolon Tolling published by iambapoet


My spade knocks against rock while gardening,
a speck of promise from a surface scratch.
More than a stone; composed, profound, sparkling,
it could be dislodged using skills I match.
It gleams, it glitters tantilisingly,
requiring little attention from me,
with my small fingers deft enough to claw,
my nails just long enough to loosen more.
I imagine it now mounted in gold,
over my larynx and under my jaw,
to give my voice credence when I get old.

Blast booming din kills.
Cacophony shakes.
The earth’s core unstills.
Gravel and clay takes
my treasure. Earthquake’s
violent vibration
ends aspiration.


The running tap, might pour pounding froths of furor
over your divested protests, drown your clamour.
I cannot help but imagine your loud discord.
Yet, when I check in, you're sleeping sound, mi amor.
There's always your call-to-arms from another room.
Conjecture presumes your disinherited roar,
for fear your alarm may be sucked up by vacuum,
your tumult aches covered with crackling hiss of chores.
When hurly-burly bubbles from kettle rise up,
under din, your siren alerts. It's like sad cats.
If the rumble lasts too long for either of us,
I hallucinate pealing cries bringing me back
to small, smarting pangs of your dissonant phrases,
vibrating dispossession, under white noises.


I saw a strange thing 
in March before winter's blanket lifted.
Still to plume into weildy monochromes,
a House Sparrow of fledgling fluff, latte 
foams and breathy grey, too early ushered 
from the nest, to the garden, showed no joy
in the erratic company of his 
peers' combative play. No pleasure in the 
assaulting smack of snowballs to his skull.
I imagine, back at the nest, there's no
relief in the scalding bath which wizened, 
toughened hides insist is "fine". As siblings 
guzzle the nasal lava of fizzy 
pop, he watches on. No sugar rush. No
appetite to force down the greens on his 
plate. Too often rushed with no time to be. 
Too early ushered from the nest.
To protest the injustice, not enough notes yet.


450 BC in old Kangavar / of Achaemenid start, Sassanid end. / Persepolis’ traditions recalled are: / stone platforms from which two stairways ascend. / Gilded, renamed; Venus, River Ishtar, / Mary, Aphrodite, Anaitis. / Venerated divinity: Water. / Hellenistic in characteristics.

Life and herd increasing folds forced open. / Her milk’s flow to new-borns supressed for coins, / one breast censored, the other man-handled. / Toppled, gypsum-limestone turrets broken. / Skies beating blues. Grasses slice bone-bleached stone. / Ere, a stately gold place, she resided.

(The ruins of Anahita’s temple still stand in Kangavar, Iran, today) 

Wolfpack Contributor: Sarra Culleno 

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Sarra Culleno  

A Sarra Culleno Poetry Feature : poems, writings

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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