Poetry from Austin Kuebler : New Metropolis

photo from pixabay

New Metropolis

This is from Austin’s upcoming collection “Notes to Margaret and Songs for Marguerite”

I have to resurrect dissatisfaction
And peace that comes with the push
Without a crown.

I am looking at the replays but not the game
I am sorting through the budgets but focused on the cash
Even though it has been burned before it was made.

I am restless, not distracted,
Running heavy, used to the heartbeat hard,
Bruised high, no time to heal, no recovery
But a move to break out…one day
Believing the chips I throw will count,
Will still amount to the shift a generation away.

I see it Margaret
I see your gang, color blind
And somewhat kind
But can you all make the moves to de-rig, unwind, re-wire and move the old along?

How will you keep the fever balanced and laugh under duress?

I, I am just coming out of it and will mount the resistance line soon, spring high and be dissatisfied
My troubles may dissolve-or not-
My waiting will be over
My contribution will be sound.

I can see it now and I have some time
When the doubt at city’s dawn has been lifted,
the mist has sifted through the open iron gates and risen
The streets will be cleared for peace in the morning sun

The New Metropolis.

You will be walking in a smart camel overcoat, with no caffeine of course,
Persisting. 

Bio: Austin is a songsmith, musician, writer, poet, coach, manager.

Book Reviews from Spriha Kant: “Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: Love Poems and Poetric Prose” by Gabriela Marie Milton

Review of Gabriela Marie Milton’s Poetry Book 
“Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: Love Poems and Poetic Prose” by “Spriha Kant”

https://www.amazon.com/Woman-Splendor-Sorrow-Poems-Poetic/dp/1737296500

The beautifully gracious and wise poetess Gabriela Marie Milton needs no introduction so obviously, there is no room for any doubt that this book is mesmerizingly beautiful and has deeply heartfelt vibes. This book is a cradle of two clusters— Love Poems and Poetic Prose. 
A fragment of words from the poetry “Henrhyd Falls (Annwn)” of the Welsh poet “Matthew MC Smith” contained in his poetry book “The Keeper of Aeons” is fit to evince the beauty with which this book shimmers and this shimmer has a thrust to mesmerize its readers:

“glint in glacier-ruins 
  where minnows flicker 
  in golden shallows”

The poetess has used personifications, similes, and metaphors in both poetries and poetic prose in different expressions.
 
She has adorned her few poetries and poetic prose with personifications, similes, and metaphors like a bride with jewel ornaments. Displaying a few jewel ornaments below:

“your voice moves stones in a lonely graveyard 
  to bury the tears I cry”

“Shadows tremble on the silence of the tombs like 
  virgins under the touch of their first lover.”

“A pink conch tolls the waves announcing the homecoming of   
  the chrysanthemums”

“stars rise over old memories of purple seas 
  like cherry buds”

“when cotton candy sunsets sing 
  I’ll deliver myself 
  in the arms of Morpheus 
  forever 
  and ever”

“During the nights 
  in which the moon is glossy and crisp like the crust 
  of a country bread, the woman’s body gives birth to 
  mountain chains and fragrant valleys.”

“I know he loved me. Yet his mind was too pedestrian 
  to understand.”

In the poetic prose “Of Wounds,” the poetess has personified the feelings of humans from a pessimistic angle. Through this personification, she pointed to human vices and the extremities of the adversities pushing humans towards vices. The words she used for pointing to the extremities of the adversities are like melting furnaces for kind hearts.
Quoting below the stanzas consisting of the personification of feelings of humans by the poetess:


“The Envy wears red lipstick and high heels. She 
  dances naked on a wooden table. At every turn, 
  she spreads poisonous confetti in the air, and she 
  lowers her eyes. I try to decipher the meaning of her 
  gestures. I cannot.”

“The Greed, with her childbearing hips, indulges 
  herself with poor souls who live at the margins of 
  the city. The children are hungry, and the mother is 
  long exhausted. The beds are cold, and the moonlight 
  enters the rooms through broken windows.”

Contrary to the pessimistic angle of the personified feelings of humans, the poetess has also shed a light on an optimistic angle. Showing below the optimistic face:

“Love and sacrifice are the consummation of all acts 
  that lead to the warm meal that one hands to an old 
  man who dwells in the streets during cold winters. 
  They are the sum of all unknowns. They are the 
  fingers that draw the light of stars in the darkest of
  the skies.”

Each poem is a love poem with an ambiance of its own like chocolate with different flavors. 

The poetess in her poetry “The Ides of October” added the flavour of the love of a mother by showing beautifully and in-depth how a woman reaches the seventh sky on giving birth to a baby. Replaying below one of the scenes containing a dialogue spoken by the poetess on the behalf of every mother:

“When I see cocoons of the larvae, I think silk as 
  soft as the hair of the child.”

The poetess in some of her poetries has added a philosophical flavour. In one such poem “You and I,” the poetess wrapped a new cover printed with her words around the fundamental nature of existence. Showing the cover below:

“a baby star looks down 
  impermanence of flesh”

In some of the love poetries, the poetess has added a gloomy flavour by including melancholy, hopelessness, helplessness, loneliness, regret, suffering, and tragedy in personal life and by also concealing the portion of the world submerged in the murky sea beneath the layers both through her few words and/or stanzas. 
These represent the sensitivity, compassion, and awareness the poetess has.
Quoting below a few words and stanzas representing the sensitivity, compassion, and awareness of the poetess: 

“I am neither a gift 
  nor something you can keep 
  I am the syllable forgotten on your lip”

“Eyes become the locus where the desert and the sea 
  meet.”

“I return to find the pardon of the sands 
  to kiss your dust left on your mother’s hand”

“your tired feet have walked the desert 
  thorns and thistles scarred your skin 
  squirming in a mire 
  enraged by liars 
  your nights of passions 
  felt like the apocalypse”

“Your face grows washerwoman skin.”

“kerf cuts your words left in my heart”

“I am as insignificant as a drop of blood floating 
  through the arteries of night. 
  Lost at sea the loneliness of sandcastles.”

“Roberto’s guitar sells cheap dreams by the sea 
  young girls are ready for harvest like flowers of lust”

“For three thousand years, sung by the poets of this 
  land, 
  the naked shoulder of the mountain reigned in 
  stillness.”

“you, my adulterated love 
  I light your fire 
  blindfolded I seek a buyer 
  for all my sins 
  for this September blood that I resold 
  and for the girl who once was me”

The poetess has added sensual flavour in some of her poems. She has picturized the sensuality beautifully, however, the expression differs in each sensual poem. Showing below the whole scene picturized in one of the sensual-flavoured poetries “Love Numbers”:

“We laid in the grass, shadows of poppies playing on 
  our faces with the same rhythmicity of the waves 
  on tranquil days.  
  At times we could feel the pulse of the new grains.
  The line of my décolleté – as you used to say – nothing 
  else but the demarcation between inexorable 
  sins and the blushing tones of the sunsets.”  
  
The poetess has recited a few of the prose in the form of a leaf with very few tiny dews. The leaf is the story and the dew is a tiny tinge of surrealism. 
Showing a few words from one of the dewy leaves “Autumn Reflections” below: 

“You waited for me at the end of the road. I felt your 
  hungry fingers unbuttoning my raincoat. 

 The children approached. Their little voices 
 pinched my brain like needles. Their thin bodies reflected 
 in your blue eyes.   

I asked:  

 Can you see the children? 

 What children? 

 The children dressed in white. They are in your eyes. Why can’t   
 you see them? 

 Your fingers continued to unbutton my raincoat. 

 Lord, I must have been born on the day of children 
 who cannot be seen and cannot be heard. 

 I choked.”

There are a few tiny glints of woman empowerment in this book though but the poetess transmogrified into a tigress in the poetries “On Women’s Writings” and “Feminine Submissiveness.” She in her transmogrified form stripped the critical issues of feminism and woman empowerment nude through her daggering words echoing as bellows and roars from her spirit, influential to ignite the fire in her feminine readers’ hearts to not let any of their glass ceilings go without smashes. 

Apart from all the previously mentioned peculiarities, this book has a lot more in it.

This book does not need any recommendation from anyone as the words in this book are fully presentable in themselves.  

Bios (Gabriela Marie Milton and Spriha Kant):

Gabriela Marie Milton:

Gabriela Marie Milton is the #1 Amazon bestselling poet and an internationally published author. She is a 2022 Pushcart Prize nominee, the author of the #1 best-selling poetry collection Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: | Love Poems and Poetic Prose (Vita Brevis Press, 2021), and the author of Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings (Vita Brevis Press, 2020). She is also the editor of the #1 Amazon bestselling anthology Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (Experiments in Fiction, 2022).
Her poetry and short prose have appeared in various magazines and anthologies. Under the pen name Gabriela M, she was awarded 2019 Author of the Year at Spillwords Press (NYC). Her piece “If I say I love you” was nominated for 2020 Spillwords Press Publication of the Year (Poetic). 

On July 6, 2021, she was featured in New York Glamour Magazine. Her interview can be read at the following link:

https://nyglamour.net/keep-going-greatness-always-encounters-resistance-gabriela-marie-milton

Spriha Kant:

Spriha Kant is a poetess and a book reviewer.

Her poetry The Seashell was published online at Imaginary Land Stories for the first time.

The poetries of Spriha have been published in four anthologies till now:

Sing, Do The Birds of Spring

A Whisper Of Your Love

Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan

Bare Bones Writing Issue 1: Fevers of the mind

Spriha has done six book reviews till now:

The Keeper of Aeons by Matthew MC Smith

Nature Speaks of Love and Sorrow by Jeff Flesch

Washed Away: A Collection of Fragments by Shiksha Dheda

Spaces by Clive Gresswell

Silence From the Shadows by Stuart Matthews

Breathe by Helen Laycock

Spriha has collaborated on the poetry The Doorsteps Series with David L O’ Nan.

Spriha has been a part of the two events celebrating the launches of the books till now:

Nature Speaks of Love and Sorrow by Jeff Flesch 

As FolkTaleTeller by Paul Brookes

Her poetic quote “An orphic wind storm blew away a sand dune that heaped all our love memories upon one another.” has been published as the epigraph in the book Magkasintahan Volume VI By Poets and Writers from the Philippines under Ukiyoto Publishing in the year 2022. 

Spriha has been featured in the two interviews till now:

Quick-9 Interview on feversofthemind.com 

#BrokenAsides with Spriha Kant on the brokenspine.co.uk

Spriha has been featured in Creative Achievements in 2022 on thewombwellrainbow.com.

The links to the features of Spriha Kant are:

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/09/13/a-fevers-of-the-mind-quick-9-interview-with-poetess-spriha-kant/

https://thebrokenspine.co.uk/2022/12/07/brokenasides-with-spriha-kant/

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2022/12/27/celebrateyourcreativeachievementsof2022-calling-all-poets-short-prose-writers-artworkers-between-26-31st-december-i-want-to-celebrate-your-creativity-over-the-last-year-please-email-me-a-list-plus/













8 Jack Kerouac inspired haiku by Jackie Chou

my pretty name
on your lips–
dawn birdsong

traversing
my poem on the screen–
a cockroach!

dawnlight–
two in the care home
yelling together

the poem’s ending
also its beginning–
enso circle

living the dream–
the suburban house cat
squinting 

daydreaming 
in an attic room–
think outside the box

the bird
who flew in last night 
dead by the coke machine 

a pink tree
that's not sakura–
only pinker 



Bio Note: I write free verses, rhyming poems, and Japanese short form poetry, some of which saw the light of day in journals like Alien Buddha Zine, Spillwords, and Cajun Mutt Press, Fevers of the Mind Press. I am also a Jeopardy fan.

Jack Kerouac inspired poetry by James Schwartz

“I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”

– Jack Kerouac 

"Walking With the Ancestors in Detroit" 

I find myself in love
With my lost lineage 
Before my ancestors 
Rebelled from
The Church
Marking us 
As Anabaptist heretics 
The statuary smashed
Generations of conformity 
Against the present
Predecessors of a
Polluted body
Donning buttoned costumes 
Banning bicycles 
Shunning family 
Welcoming tourists 
Unrecognizable 
To our forefathers.


I find myself walking down 
John R past midnight 
To the gas station 
On 6 Mile  
The street is deserted 
Only a lone sex worker 
Huddled in winter shadows 
& her coat 
First snow of the season 
I give her $5 
& tell her to go eat
Stepping over
A dead rat
A syringe 
A wig
A broken bottle
Unrecognizable 
In my hoodie.

Bio: James Schwartz is a poet, slam performer and author of various collections including "The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay & Amish in America" (available on Kindle 2011), PUnatic (Writing Knights Press, 2019) & Motor City Mix (Alien Buddha Press 2022). On twitter James can be found under @queeraspoetry for a follow.

For fuck’s sake listen by Joan Hawkins

For fuck sake’s listen

Often when I tell someone 
my husband was 20 years
older than me
I can feel them 
reducing 
My life
to a cliché.

So let's get it out of the way
I was not his student.
Except in the sense that all
lovers are students
because the ones we love
teach us something about 
love and ourselves
that we didn't know
before.
Every man's semen
tastes different
And every sexual relationship
has its unique signature 
mode
of improvisational 
engagement,
that each lover has
to learn
But I got no grades or
promotions for taking
that particular class.
_________-

And he was not a father figure.
So put your Oedipal fantasies aside.
They're all mixed up with a whole
 bunch of other assumptions, anyway.
See my dad had a serious heart
attack right after I was born.
He was dying for most of my life
a frail man- not some handsome Byronic figure
that I wanted to take away from
Mom
and it's true=I adored him
But I certainly wasn't looking to
recreate that experience
-taking care of a dying man-
the morning I met Skip.
And you see Skip was not my father's age.
He was my brother's.
That's a whole other mythology.
So put that Daddy fixation story
back up on the shelf.
Our parents--
Skip's and mine- were roughly the 
same age.
We had more in common
than you can possibly imagine.
Children of Depression-era parents, 
we both hoarded string and bits of
aluminum foil
Like it could all dry up tomorrow
Knew a lot of the same songs,
called the frig
the icebox.

When I met Skip
I had a whole history 
of hurtful love affairs 
behind me
and I thought I was through
with love and trying to be 
someone else's
idea of Joan.
He was trailing the wreckage of
a bad marriage
also sick of trying to measure up
to someone else's dream.
We eyed each other-- there was
chemistry-
 but we were wary
as 2 boxers caught up in the ropes.


Our first date- two months later- 
we went to City Lights- 
drawn by inclination
to different parts of the store.
He stayed downstairs- foot propped up on
the table
smoking cigarettes,
reading a play by Lorca. 
I sat on the floor upstairs, coat fanning out
around me-- lost in a 19th century
novel.
"Doesn't sound like much of a date,"
my friend Allison said.
But she didn't understand
how energy could swirl around
that store-- bringing
zephyrs of smoke and 
total immersion from
one floor to another.
How sometimes you can touch
without much proximity at all.

On our second date, he drove out behind
Golden Gate Park
Stopped the car and said
there was a letter in the
glove compartment.
He sat and waited
while I read what 
he couldn't or wouldn't tell me
-that he was falling in love.
"So what do you want to do?" he asked
when I finished reading
-gruff as hell--
"Do I take you to lunch and we talk,
or do I take you home?"
I told him I was hungry and too broke
to buy my own meal.
And yes, Chinese would be fine.

We were together 37 years
up and down through good times
and bad
Always drawn to different stories,
he with his foot propped on the table 
me sitting on the floor, coat fanning out 
around me,
but always hell-bent on coming 
back together 
meeting on some mutual floor.
And talking-always talking-
nine to the dozens
about our singular 
obsessions.


This year is the 10th anniversary of his death
He stays so close, I can feel his breath sometimes.
And I still get those questions-
that look when people
ask how we met? how old was he?
 who introduced us?
That look that says they think
they know something.
They think they know something
about me.
Well they don't know shit.

So I wrote this poem to say
that when a woman tells you she
married an older man, loves an older man
don't assume she was-or is- a trophy wife,
or a student in the front row hanging on his
every word,
or an Oedipally addled young thing
looking for Daddy.
Listen 
to what the fuck 
she tells you
about her life. Listen 
for the love.

Oct 8, 2022

Bio: Joan Hawkins is a writer and spoken word performer, who focuses mainly on creative memoir.  Her  poetry and prose have appeared in Avalanches of Poetry, Fevers of the Mind, the Performing Arts Journal, Plath Profiles, and Sand.

Two poems are forthcoming in a special poetry issue of The Ryder Magazine. She and Kalynn Brower have co-edited an anthology called Trigger Warnings, which contains one of Joan’s stories; it’s currently under consideration by Indiana University Press. “My Writing Teacher”  comes from a manuscript in progress– School and Suicide.

Joan lives in Bloomington, IN with her cat Izzy Isou. She is currently the Chair of the Writers Guild at Bloomington.