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.
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, Somehow: 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 Responsory: Tsutsusi In black vase deeply spouted Following all: Azalea 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 Aequitas (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 Allegretto The realisation of truth Beyond the recognition Of capital ghosts Pneuma (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.
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. Longings 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. [Katauta] 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. @CeinwenHaydon
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. Thief 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 bulging unmoved 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.
Thank you to Strider Marcus Jones for posting these.