Several Poems by Fatemeh Babaei

Tea Lights, Candles, Light, Tea Candles
1 Parents

Lighting candles they are
Burning in the flames of love
Giving fire to the newborn light
Asking it to become flaring in its life

Embracing willingly, it ignites
Not knowing this way would be hard
But with the presence of candles in its side
It knows that this would be light.

2 Far Side of the Moon

I’m like the Moon to your Sun
Rotating on the axis, while
Orbiting the Earth my bond,
Knowing you are the only one,
Who can see my both sides,
Resting with my pilgrimage on
Whilst all can see the near side
Showing you my far side
The side which is far from others,
But the nearest to you, God!

3 Magpies

Two little magpie made a nest
In front of my window’s rest
With the blues in their wings
Made me believe in world peace.

4 Songbird

Songbird, O Songbird on the tree!
Would you see me singing for free?
For what is just left for me is singing,
Need you to hear what I’ve been feeling
Imprisoned in home and being told
Stay in home, O stay in home!

5 Grandma

For the last time, before she left me
She braided my hair, my Grandma I mean,
Softened my hair with the aged hands of hers
Braided in a way that I thought I was a Queen
She gave me the light, confidence, and spirit
That I’ll be clung to, for as long as I live.

6 Butterfly

I wish I could be a butterfly
One day in the morning of July

I wish I could fly over his ears
To be able to hear what he hears

I wish I did not have to die
Just after one day of fly

I wish I did not want to
Be reborn from the first time.

7 Kissing Clouds

Two clouds, wandering in the sky
Then there is lightning which makes them cry
Out of fear, they jump into eachother’s hand
Being face to face there is no other chance,
But to kiss so gently as one may figure
That they were lovers before in heaven
They both kiss one another’s lips
That you can’t tell which one is which.

Bio: She is Fatemeh Babaei, 22 years old from Iran. She has B. A. in English literature and has always loved English as her second language that she began to write poems. 

A Poetry Showcase for Alan Garrigan

Game Of Thrones, Ireland, Trees, Hedges

photo from pixabay

Vita et Morte

(After Fred Herko)

“Look around at the azaleas making fuchsia star bursts” 
Anna Quindlen

A royal rhododendron
The hand of the clock
Holds Alfred Jarry
On his cycle Clément,
I wrote this

A sheltered construct of will
A dogfight
Pauline or Socratic,
Until somebody answers
questions from
The tiniest screams,
Of existence

Believe the mad dove:
Conditions and circumstances shift:

Gramsci, Marcuse and Jean Genet



In black vase
deeply spouted
Following all:


Spiritus Veritas

(After Arthur Rimbaud)Myths are public dreams; dreams are private myth” -Joseph Campbell-

He was the res idiotica
Beyond the mythic-literal
Call him an Abednego
Refer to his revolutionary embodiment

There’ll never be another
Whoever he was: mos maiorum
Savonarola, Marat, Bakunin
Still burning like a lake of fire

What we always wanted
The recollection of his image
Rivers of subterfuge
Eudaimonia: his clear ocean

Implicate this man in particular
Impossible to describe him
Enantiodromia: His want of spectacle
His thought can shatter and transform

When he appeared like Cerberus
None of us wanted to be there
Bringing the pain on himself
His bleeding element forever an eye

Now darker than the deepest sea
Beyond the simulacra,
We look to the continuity
To resurrect his singing ghost


(For Nadezhda Tolokonnikova)

“The criminals of the vision are a totally different matter”
Pier Paolo Pasolini

In Countless stars
Sonorous and mystical
everywhere a voice

A soundscape silhouette
A flash of guns
From the pitch black


The realisation of truth
Beyond the recognition
Of capital ghosts


(For Timothy Morton)

“Do not weep; do not wax indignant. Understand” -Baruch Spinoza

I feel a great

But often effaced

symbolization of death,

an ecstatic moment of release

An experience unclouded

By great personal fears

An insignia that colours

The great shadow of the psyche

In spirit, son and father

Through creation and destruction

Two cleansing forces,

A truth to evoke rising visions

All this representational courage

Can be traced back

To one primordial image

One figure of truth

One world

One voice,

One distance

One Breath

Pandemic Blues

(For Yusuf Komunyakaa)

'Covid has magnified every existing inequality' – Melinda Gates

Did you hear
Or did they
shut your ears
Another poor man down

A victim of authority
Who was not a priority
Couldn’t order the rupture
When the Corona came

What a vision
Took his humble living
It was given away
When Corona came

Inequality made him
Racism broke him
His poverty spoke
They cut the rope

When Corona came
When Corona came
There was no way to choose
When Corona came

Did you hear
about the man
who lost it 
during the pandemic?

Bio: Alan is an MA student from Ireland (UCD) and have been previously published in some small publication magazines. Alan likes avant-garde and conceptual text. Philosophical poetry is an area of particular interest to him. Alan has written a 20,000 word thesis on poetry. Alan particularly enjoys ecopoetry also. 

A Poetry Showcase for Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

Yellow Crocus Flower Opening and Wilting in Time Lapse on a Black  Background by Sagrata
Wild Cleansing

I lie in warm places on prickled turf,
stare up into cyan skies, drift and gather wool.
I swim in cool streams, bob in currents, 
surf downstream. I discover waterfalls,
take fresh showers, bathe in ponds 

and rinse smeared grease 
from my mind’s grimed pane. 

By the River Tyne

Mist drizzles low light grey.
Her cable-stitched, black beanie
absorbs damp from the cold air,
and from her curly, silvered hair.

She’s walked five miles, briskly –

intent on keeping warm. Her gloved hands
touch rough-barked trunks of bare trees.
Her eyes follow waterfowl and other creatures.
Her feet take her familiar path without question. 

She rambles each day, with few surprises
and great pleasure, wandering in all weathers. 
Her trips keep hope alive, in Covid times:
help her lose herself, mentally meandering.

Splash! Splash! Splash! 

Startled she swivels, boots grating on gravel.
A swimmer, today … surely no one would.
She stares, a dark mound rises, disappears.
Is this someone on the edge, who’s had enough...

She holds her breath, hears asthmatic wheezing: sees
another rush of spray, another brash and reckless Splash!
A honk, a prima-donna roll, a reel around in circles.

Then all is still. She bends her head. Blessed.

A cyclist passes on the dual track, Guess what, 
she shouts at his back, I’ve seen a seal, today. 
He nods, and rides away to somewhere else.


          Your face shines through glass,
            dazzles my eyes. Still waiting
                for lockdown to end.
              Time difference synced:
      spare words pulse love’s overflow.
            Transatlantic voices crack.
              Birthday party plans.
     Mama, will Granny come round?
      Mama, is she cross with me?
     Your brave doorstep smiles:
 your stoic words say you’re fine,
    your lips tremble otherwise.
          Music makes her cry.
   Memories of hugs and smiles –
      ghosts echo absent comfort.
       Long allotment days 
   return with nesting swallows.
Gardeners drink distanced toasts.


Ancient Sisters

Your pearl-cast eyes look outwards 
into dark glass, no-one looks back.
Your flared skirts fray, stray threads 
spool away. Your thin-soled shoes,
tread on snowy pavements, seep ice
into your veins. Your tor’shell comb
claws and scrapes your hairless scalp

lined with raised scars from falls. 
Your hand trembles, finds mine. 
You kindle my love, find my warmth. 
Your mind regains my lost focus 
in the long-shared space between us.

Yellow Crocus

Last March a yellow crocus caught my eye,
and balmy winds sprung dreams of summer days.
I didn’t snap its beauty on my phone,
I believed better blooms would follow.
By Easter, old tiles had blown off my roof,
grim clouds smudged sun’s rays clean out of my mind.

I thought I’d use lockdown to clear my mind,
create new furnishings soft on the eye.
On grey days, water found holes in my roof
and my intentions proved hard to follow.
Yellow crocus yearnings mocked many days,
I wished I had an image on my phone

I wasted time, doom-scrolling on my phone,
until despondency silted my mind.
Concentration fled, no lead to follow,
distracted by whatever snatched my eye.
Yellow crocus’s absence grimed my days
and dust settled, blown through my hole-strewn roof.

Nightly, I stargazed – used gaps in my roof
to capture yellow flowerings on my phone.
Astral blossoms, crocus ghosts, softened days.
Gentled, I reassembled my sad mind –
started to notice, wipe tears from my eyes,
reached out, touched, saw loving kindness follow

Our old maps are now useless to follow,
I must hone new skills, learn to mend my roof.
Resilience requires a steady eye,
I’ll record my progressions on my phone
and limit news-scrolling that wounds my mind. 
Yellow crocus’s inspire hope these days.

Fierce times have coursed through this last year’s long days,
now another spring will burst and follow.
Yellow crocus’s grow, light up my mind.
Soon I’ll mix with friends beneath my good roof,
we’ll leave Zoom behind, arrange dates by phone,
value fine treats nature gifts to our eyes.

Flowering days with a watertight roof,
support hope to follow. Pics on my phone,
nudge my mind, but never replace my eyes.

Bio: Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle, UK, 2017]
Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies and is a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee. She is developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator and believes everyone’s voice counts.

A Poetry Showcase for Claire Hughes

orange and yellow fire illustration

photo by Marek Piwnicki (unsplash)

my first kiss was

a train hopped trip down a graffitti track towards the silver moon discs of Selfridges; into the dusty darkness of New Street station; up the escalators to the Pallasades, down the Maccy’s Ramp, passed the Odeon, passed Bully’s Backside, into the glass house of the Bullring and down the lift to Clinton’s Cards on the ground floor; 
	my aunty saw me
back against the glass, knocking teeth with a pale face, thick lipped lad from Tipton who I’d never met before;
	my aunty saw me
but she didn’t wave, didn’t call my name, didn’t make me twist and turn out of a monumental moment; she walked on, joined the queue for Nandos 
and called my mom. 

The Turn of Day

I stand at the bedroom window,
watch the clouds
darken, as if they are soaking
up an ink spill;

	watch the sun 
retreat		 fear sodden;

	watch the rain
fall and scatter		slow at first
then the sky splits and spits water
out like bullets.

	My land	the Earth
buckles under the strain,
bleeds brown mulch,
the flood	an open wound.

	I watch
as my flock are carried off,
one by one,
to a distant dream.

	I watch 
the harvest fall
into the mouth of the gods

	And I watch
the tyrannical hand of nature
reclaim what is hers.

	I watch 
my life melt into the overgrown river
and wonder how to swim.


I hear the sing song tale
of the blackbird and I heed
it’s warning

she approaches

small, hooded woman
shrouded in black,
marches her skeletal
frame through wild
free meadows

searches for a bloom

I stand
stock still, hoping
her white bone touch
will only graze
but it doesn’t

her grip tightens

around my spine and I am plucked
from happiness

my breath is forced
from its cage, dew
drop tears forced
from my eyes
	open palms can’t catch	
			a flood

she devours each petal

lets them curdle 
in the pit of her stomach

bare and broken
she carries me to her lair where 
I am tossed with the black feathered birds
and ash

her rasping breath blows

a tornado, twisting me into
a smog that will settle
in my mind for however long

she sees fit

A Thief in the Night

Rain sweeps in,
blows out the lamplight - 

a thief in the night takes a chance
runs free
           black bellied and cold
it runs through the streets
swells and spews
through doors 
eats its fill of concrete and cobbles

and life
falls into the pits
of its belly

it sits
a swamp at the ankles
of houses.

Bio: Claire Hughes is a Birmingham born writer now living in Staffordshire. She achieved her MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University and has had her poetry featured in online magazines such as; One Hand Clapping, 192 and The Babel Tower Notice Board. She has also been featured in anthologies by Dream Well Publishing and The Mum Poem Press and her debut pamphlet, Oblivion, will be published by Clayhanger press in the coming weeks. As well as writing poetry, Claire works in prose and has been longlisted for the Primadonna Prize.

Links to 6 poems of mine (David L O’Nan) on Lothlorien Poetry Journal

Thank you to Strider Marcus Jones for posting these.