Already Departed
In the cold room we stepped
Into the smell of warmed polish
Well rubbed into the grain
It was just as before
Maturity did not grow new
Eyes or smother truth with
The trades material magic
The silent music that creeped
Out of the walls blended like magic
Those sensible open-curtains
That always draws attention from
Saddened pity to empty dullness
Swallowing lumps that pierce
Tears at the thought
Of entering the next room
While gripping ones own fists
Until white with surrounding
Tear-shaped red marks
How the moments of being
Alone with nothing less
Than two bodies without company
Is it love, respect, pity
Or just extreme curiosity
That draws us here?
Felino Soriano
According To Darkness, Silence Dons A Halo
The spinning enjoyment
of dusk's communal culture,
whose language of content
spreads its contagious
calmness
through the winding metaphorical
maze of regard for existence,
the triangular connection
of movements,
spaced between
etching fragrant gifts toward a purpose
of its own meaningful motive.
As in the movements
of monarch butterflies,
their orange wings with
adorning black-white ornamental
displays of
transferable sections of moving,
circular light.
Antecedently
to dawn's open mouth,
darkness in the safe idiom hides below
the highest halo,
golden hanging light
not yet born before the pushing of
the orange slant,
its genesis causes separation,
shedding myriad of variant
colors to escape into
mesmerizing mannerisms.
The spinning enjoyment
of dusk's communal culture,
whose language of content
spreads its contagious
calmness
through the winding metaphorical
maze of regard for existence,
the triangular connection
of movements,
spaced between
etching fragrant gifts toward a purpose
of its own meaningful motive.
As in the movements
of monarch butterflies,
their orange wings with
adorning black-white ornamental
displays of
transferable sections of moving,
circular light.
Antecedently
to dawn's open mouth,
darkness in the safe idiom hides below
the highest halo,
golden hanging light
not yet born before the pushing of
the orange slant,
its genesis causes separation,
shedding myriad of variant
colors to escape into
mesmerizing mannerisms.
Gerry Mattia
Yuppie Dragons And Paper Mountains
Climb mountains!
Slay Dragons!
That's what I did
When I was a kid
Now it's too much
All this grownup stuff
Amalgamations
Corporations
Business-like murder
under the guise of merger
Micro-second chattel battles
waged on computer panels
Flash before my eyes
In a plate glass high-rise
Now all my mountains are made of paper, and
all my dragons wear ties
Climb mountains!
Slay Dragons!
That's what I did
When I was a kid
Now it's too much
All this grownup stuff
Amalgamations
Corporations
Business-like murder
under the guise of merger
Micro-second chattel battles
waged on computer panels
Flash before my eyes
In a plate glass high-rise
Now all my mountains are made of paper, and
all my dragons wear ties
Bernard Alain
Quiet Tower On The Hill
a bronze
horse
rears
in a susurrus
of
familiar
maples
where
stone giants
sleep beneath
the
mossy patina
of
copper clad
hats
I can
hear
carillons
of autumn
past
crisp as
leafy
zephyrs
dancing
a bronze
horse
rears
in a susurrus
of
familiar
maples
where
stone giants
sleep beneath
the
mossy patina
of
copper clad
hats
I can
hear
carillons
of autumn
past
crisp as
leafy
zephyrs
dancing
Alexander Chang
That Beauty
The world boasts an ever changing face of garden
Plants fall in and fall out of favours
Set trends come and diminished fashions forgotten
Preferences confuse taste with choices of colours
Like an ever altering cinemascope
In this mindscape of flux
Some mysterious favourites remain a thin hope
An instant release attracts keen emotion influx
Amidst the numerous stars, moon may stand aloof
To dwarf the crown Queen of roses’ simmering fun
But when evening primrose invites for hard proof
I dream only the daughter of light with fragrance of sun
That beauty conquers with confidence and insight
That beauty also makes night an easy delight
The world boasts an ever changing face of garden
Plants fall in and fall out of favours
Set trends come and diminished fashions forgotten
Preferences confuse taste with choices of colours
Like an ever altering cinemascope
In this mindscape of flux
Some mysterious favourites remain a thin hope
An instant release attracts keen emotion influx
Amidst the numerous stars, moon may stand aloof
To dwarf the crown Queen of roses’ simmering fun
But when evening primrose invites for hard proof
I dream only the daughter of light with fragrance of sun
That beauty conquers with confidence and insight
That beauty also makes night an easy delight
Thom Woodruff (World Poet)
Some Things More Important Than Poetry
Life,and people-work and family
Commitments made to be honored-
Births,deaths,funerals,pain-
Witnessing at the passing of others
Periods of necessary silences
Times when all poems blow away
Times when one must be lost -
in a crowd or alone/on Internet or phone
Times when to shop is of utmost importance!
Eating,drinking,sleeping,dreaming
Whole lives when nothing particularly happens!
Gaps between-travelling.Growing into rituals-Reading,listening,absorbing
Praying,meditating,waiting
Every participle participant particle
Every authenticated distancing mechanism
Poetry must wait
at the intersection of thoughts and feelings
and feed upon the scraps again.
Life,and people-work and family
Commitments made to be honored-
Births,deaths,funerals,pain-
Witnessing at the passing of others
Periods of necessary silences
Times when all poems blow away
Times when one must be lost -
in a crowd or alone/on Internet or phone
Times when to shop is of utmost importance!
Eating,drinking,sleeping,dreaming
Whole lives when nothing particularly happens!
Gaps between-travelling.Growing into rituals-Reading,listening,absorbing
Praying,meditating,waiting
Every participle participant particle
Every authenticated distancing mechanism
Poetry must wait
at the intersection of thoughts and feelings
and feed upon the scraps again.
Lisl Steiner
Why did I love
and now hate
Photojournalism?
Always looking back
at old snapshots,
obsolete,
deja vu,
caduco,
Alter hut.
no more
the big strugle
is there,
always standing
in front of
soon-to-be-shot so-called heroes
one is caught
in a ring, not unlike
Prostitution
Which most of
the press is
more and more
becoming back to
Stanley and Livingston
when it took
2 months
for the news
to filter
out of Africa.
and now hate
Photojournalism?
Always looking back
at old snapshots,
obsolete,
deja vu,
caduco,
Alter hut.
no more
the big strugle
is there,
always standing
in front of
soon-to-be-shot so-called heroes
one is caught
in a ring, not unlike
Prostitution
Which most of
the press is
more and more
becoming back to
Stanley and Livingston
when it took
2 months
for the news
to filter
out of Africa.
Jan Theuninck
Yperite
late at night
a mist
fills the valley.
without knowing
it suffocates
like a dark power.
on the fields
our dead bodies
and under the grass
a brown soil
late at night
a mist
fills the valley.
without knowing
it suffocates
like a dark power.
on the fields
our dead bodies
and under the grass
a brown soil
© Ekphrastic poetry (poem + painting) by Jan Theuninck
Nilanshu Kumar Agarwal
Memory Is Being Blurred
Memory is being blurred.
Images are getting dim.
I shall forget everything oneday.
Everything,everything,everything.
I don't want to.
But,I'll.
New life has so many challenges.
Daily new adventures.
Daily new behavioural patterns.
The present putting the glorious past behind.
Bad coin drives the good coin out of use.
New patterns,new associates.
Responsibility destroying emotion.
I am weeping.
I want to come back.
But how?
I can't. I can't. I can't.
Memory is being blurred.
Images are getting dim.
I shall forget everything oneday.
Everything,everything,everything.
I don't want to.
But,I'll.
New life has so many challenges.
Daily new adventures.
Daily new behavioural patterns.
The present putting the glorious past behind.
Bad coin drives the good coin out of use.
New patterns,new associates.
Responsibility destroying emotion.
I am weeping.
I want to come back.
But how?
I can't. I can't. I can't.
Oluseyi Adewale Adekoya
An Extra Death
For every breath is an extra death
For every spice of life taken is another spicy death given
For every celebration begat an unborn mourning
For every brighter morning lies a darken moaning
What joyful tears fall in my shadow of fears?
When does my trailer of labour and stress
Eventually bore unclaimed bountiful years
Why does untold relief come in her brighter colour of deceit?
That our unborn years would embarrass us trouble free
For every birthday that is here
Our deathbeds are near
How joyful how sad
Whether fat, thin or black
White, bad, thirtyfive or ninety five
Our every breath sucks our extra life
Vanity just vanity, ignore not this pathetic tale
Like you ignore you nagging husband or wife.
For every breath is an extra death
For every spice of life taken is another spicy death given
For every celebration begat an unborn mourning
For every brighter morning lies a darken moaning
What joyful tears fall in my shadow of fears?
When does my trailer of labour and stress
Eventually bore unclaimed bountiful years
Why does untold relief come in her brighter colour of deceit?
That our unborn years would embarrass us trouble free
For every birthday that is here
Our deathbeds are near
How joyful how sad
Whether fat, thin or black
White, bad, thirtyfive or ninety five
Our every breath sucks our extra life
Vanity just vanity, ignore not this pathetic tale
Like you ignore you nagging husband or wife.
Pedro Fuentes
Penmanship Blues
As we consider all we've lost and all we've gained
we must recall the cost and pay the debt
to whom it had concerned, to whom we owe
to those whose soul was earned, and those who stole
we know those who convene and dream of life
the same as those with fizzled days and burning nights
we ask ourselves, tonight a sonnet? perhaps a verse
as life proceeds, tonight a blessing? perhaps a curse
we all agree
what it may be
it's certainly
avoiding lies
it's what we hear when voices lie
it's what to do when tongues are tied
and quickly we propel to dark
even if small, we'll leave a mark
we will proceed to write down life
even if just by scraps of light.
As we consider all we've lost and all we've gained
we must recall the cost and pay the debt
to whom it had concerned, to whom we owe
to those whose soul was earned, and those who stole
we know those who convene and dream of life
the same as those with fizzled days and burning nights
we ask ourselves, tonight a sonnet? perhaps a verse
as life proceeds, tonight a blessing? perhaps a curse
we all agree
what it may be
it's certainly
avoiding lies
it's what we hear when voices lie
it's what to do when tongues are tied
and quickly we propel to dark
even if small, we'll leave a mark
we will proceed to write down life
even if just by scraps of light.
Jamal Juma
The Anchor's Song
I am the anchor
No one touches the depths as I do.
Only the waves and water moss
know the beauty of my fall.
I don't reveal my secrets
except to the drowned
I don't say goodbye
except to the migrating fish.
I chose the sea
that my echo would not be lost
as I hit the bottom.
I chose the sea
that I may not forget the water
as I head for the ground
I chose the sea
to camouflage my tears with water
that no one may see them.
I'm the anchor
falling freely in countries with no name
sea shells and oysters only
are my friends
and everything hard wrapped in light
I was born like you were born
from steel, dust, and gold
I will die like you will die
but the ground will not forget me easily
not as long as it is filled with all these scratches
that my traversal creates.
Translated by Nathalie Khankan
Jamal Jumá: Member of World Poets Society (W.P.S.).
Bio: An Iraqi poet, born in Baghdad and received his academic education in Copenhagen, where he has lived since 1984. He has edited and published numerous manuscripts of Erotica, including The Perfumed Garden and A Promenade of the Hearts, and The Forbidden Texts. This infuriated some religious and political establishments around the Arab World, resulting in the confiscation and banning of these books in Arab countries.
He has published collections of poetry, including Book of the Book (1990), A Handshake in the Dark (1995), and Diary of a Sleepwalker (1998). He has been translated into Danish, English, Swedish, French, German, Persian, Turkish, Tamil and other languages.
I am the anchor
No one touches the depths as I do.
Only the waves and water moss
know the beauty of my fall.
I don't reveal my secrets
except to the drowned
I don't say goodbye
except to the migrating fish.
I chose the sea
that my echo would not be lost
as I hit the bottom.
I chose the sea
that I may not forget the water
as I head for the ground
I chose the sea
to camouflage my tears with water
that no one may see them.
I'm the anchor
falling freely in countries with no name
sea shells and oysters only
are my friends
and everything hard wrapped in light
I was born like you were born
from steel, dust, and gold
I will die like you will die
but the ground will not forget me easily
not as long as it is filled with all these scratches
that my traversal creates.
Translated by Nathalie Khankan
Jamal Jumá: Member of World Poets Society (W.P.S.).
Bio: An Iraqi poet, born in Baghdad and received his academic education in Copenhagen, where he has lived since 1984. He has edited and published numerous manuscripts of Erotica, including The Perfumed Garden and A Promenade of the Hearts, and The Forbidden Texts. This infuriated some religious and political establishments around the Arab World, resulting in the confiscation and banning of these books in Arab countries.
He has published collections of poetry, including Book of the Book (1990), A Handshake in the Dark (1995), and Diary of a Sleepwalker (1998). He has been translated into Danish, English, Swedish, French, German, Persian, Turkish, Tamil and other languages.
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