I’m a soldier who has lined his face to the cold wall of the trench
My bullets are words …
Place your eyes on mine!
We all are wounded in this war.
We’re all exiled in our land…
Place your eyes on mine!
Your eyes are like Bermuda Triangle
The gone never come back …
If you’re asked, respond:
The poet never came back!
***
The snow
The nights that I miss
Your voice is like a song that Lord recites
Comes like snow to my morning.
Silently…
White …
***
Tragic Poem
A piece of me has stayed far away
Under the rain
Those are gone from me, don’t have a “return” ticket
The storm is the nightmare of the trees on old nights
The fingerprint of a woman is shivering in the fancy of windows
A prisoner with hands like an elm leaf
Whose voice as light
In the name of the freedom
She may write this poem on the wall of his cell
May give birth by the voice of pigeons instead of the sun this spring
Instead of the bullet wound of the girl in this war
May shot this poem into her heart …
“May”s are birds of pain in the sky of wishes
Fly … fly … and disappear.
The past of my hands are Greek Gods
Has been forgotten
Buried in the cemetery of history
My eyes were buried in your far beautifulness
Bury me with my loneliness in autumn colors
It’s autumn …
Leaves are bulletin of elections
The trees elect the death
***
The cemetery of letter
I kissed the darkness of the night …
I entered into the sun pages of the morning.
My hands bear the greenness of leaves,
Spring is my hands …
Looked into the world to find my eyes.
The legs of men pain,
Scarf blows on the head of the woman,
The scarf
Blows like the flag of the country,
Blows …
The hands are opened to the poem in my mind,
Catches the skirt of twilight,
The opened hands for the poem in my mind are shackled,
Drowned in the sweat
It’s a long time, the mirrors don’t show the poets
Poets have been buried in the cemetery of letters
Here, the sun sets down with the time of women
Here, the wind blows from darkness
***
The love beast
Nothing remained for trust
Nothing remained for waiting
The last train left empty
The people of memories didn’t catch the train …
This season passed very hard
Like a year without spring
Nothing remained for cheering glasses
No kneed to rest our heads …
The color of my voice is autumn
Falls from the boughs of love
The lips are closed …
The window is covered by steam …
The beast of my love lives in a glass
Breaks by a word
I can die by a word …
Umid Najjari was born on 15th of April 1989 in Tabriz (Iran). After graduating from Islamic Azad University of Tabriz in 2016, he entered Baku Aurasia University to continue his studies in Philology in Republic of Azerbaijan. “The land of the birds” and “Beyond the walls” are among his published works in addition to some translations. His poems have been published in USA, Canada, Spain, Italy, India, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Iraq, Kazakhstan, Georgia, Chile and Iranian media. He was awarded the International LIFFT festival diploma in 2019. He achieved “IWA Bogdani” Award in 2021. He was awarded the “Mihai Eminescu” Award in 2022. He was awarded the International Prize “Medal Alexandre The Great” in 2022. He is Vice-President of the BOGDANI international writers’ association, with headquarters in Brussels and Pristina. and Turkic World Young Authors Association.
Dwa lemury na drzewie… Rozumiemy, rozumiemy. Podłoże psychosomatyczne, czyli zespół wyjątkowo niespokojnych paznokci.
A swoją drogą, czy ma pan jeszcze widzenia? Gdzie pan właściwie był, jak pana wśród nas przez tydzień nie było?
Jak to gdzie? Odebrał sobie życie i po powrocie pije, stał się oszczędny i unika filetów z atlantyckiego dorsza. A jednak smażenie!
Proszę podawać trzy tabletki na dobę. (Dwa lemury na drzewie…) I ma nagle negatywny stosunek do służby wojskowej.
W takim razie cztery. Trzy po posiłkach, a czwartą jak znowu zacznie sikać po żywopłotach. Jeśli już raz odebrał sobie życie, nie pozwólmy mu teraz żyć.
Anna Keiko, a distinguished poetess and essayist from Shanghai, China, has made a profound impact on contemporary literature. A graduate of Shanghai East China University with a Bachelor’s degree in Law, she has achieved global recognition for her poetry, which has been translated into more than 30 languages and published in over 500 journals, magazines, and media outlets across 40 countries. Keiko is the founder and chief editor of the ACC Shanghai Huifeng Literature Association and serves as a Chinese representative and director of the International Cultural Foundation Ithaca. Her affiliations extend to Immagine & Poesia in Italy and the Canadian-Cuban Literary Union, reflecting her commitment to fostering cross-cultural literary exchanges.
Her poetic oeuvre spans six collections, including “Lonely in the Blood and Absurd Language”, showcasing her exploration of human emotions, environmental concerns, and existential themes. Her innovative style and evocative imagery have earned her numerous accolades, such as the 30th International Poetry Award in Italy and the World Peace Ambassador Certificate in 2024. Notably, she was the first Chinese recipient of the Cross-Cultural Exchange Medal for Significant Contribution to World Poetry, awarded in the United States in 2023.
Her works, including “Octopus Bones” and other acclaimed poems, have resonated with readers worldwide, garnering invitations to prominent international poetry festivals and conferences. Her dedication to the arts extends beyond poetry, encompassing prose, essays, lyrics, and drama, underscoring her versatility as a writer. Nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2020, Anna Keiko continues to break barriers, bringing Chinese literature to the global stage.
mystically illegal while expanding and spilling and
running in hydroelectric momentum
] : : : : :
=gO mOvE,
TrIp / FLOW,
aiming topical hand sleeves
settling for retold deception
PiLLoWs =
= / / / /
NoR morphing diatribe
TroTs / / / / /
alternately, the bathtub correspondence machine
shifting the moon’s comedic counteroffer chores
wallowing functional floodgates that fade chronology =
But wither =
sElDoM effective
, a TooL
taken for an audience
shiver the shelf beheaded & degraded
who carried the basket, the situation lacking harmless potions
Dropp’d
\ = = bOlD = = / , praised mesmerism
, daubed, described as MusicaL dentures:
‘Nocturnal larynx
stunned through
complacent tubes’ / / / / / of
great distinguished cartography, persons named
with MorbId growth / vacant, scattered, frothy,
regenerated dreams:
MeTHoDs,
phobias, ,
hysteria, , ,
‘the SAME hat? ? ?’ / /
/ / :
; personality conflicts generalized /
suffice, un=
conscious,
freeLY associated & A
RaNgE oF
circumstances
CuRRenTlY
theoretical?
? ? ? ? Ultimately, latent,
a panorama, drowsy: sheer LiNkeD
applications; / ; /
; proximate,
pre-scientific / ‘blEEdInG
SEA-FOAM’
/ ! ! ! ! ! efforts are instructions,
frequently VeileD, heretofore,
thoroughly IM=
probable, / @@@ ^^^^^*, ‘That
Darn
Table
Salt!’*,
\ = occupied = swift hollering
DaDa BonBons / / / / / :
TransPaReNt realities, daily bathers,
LaTeNt conflicts [our disregard for entanglements] /
: pause to cOOk the dripping rebukes
until speech patterns erode
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is a member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books isolated version of nexus (Pere Ube), lung f,r,a,g,m,e,n,t,s before grazing *asterisk* (Moria Poetry), and Cubist Facelifts (C22 Press) . He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
I demand. I insist. However, my expectation is reasonable. The trillium shall bloom each spring and delight me with delicate, white trinities. They oblige, my devoted subjects.
I made Dad nervous as, I’m fairly certain, he smoked twice as much when I was around. He inhaled sharply, deeply, a generous contribution to his emphysema.
Even my wife once (charitably, only once) used the phrase, “walking on eggshells.” I’ll always harbor this even if she forgot expressing it. I’m sure, I hope, I must have relented.
Apparently, my expectations were far too high. I demanded. I insisted. I do recall my pleas, though not my intensity as such, as a nervous little boy, any child’s anxiety over uncertainty.
Now, at this age, all my sharp edges filed smooth, obviously, markedly wiser (one would expect), I’ve cultivated diplomacy, learned to compromise, entertained the value of silence.
And yet I remain lonely. Apparently, simply walking into a room, I continue to require far too much. I suppose I do expect some essential things to function still (without perfection).
I’d enjoy a few simple courtesies: please and thank you, how-do-you-do, pardon me. From old friends (and either of my sisters), a call, a letter, a lunch, just a bit of honesty will do. I vow to forgo the anticipation of integrity.
I expect (or rather hope, as anyone does) to be loved, at least valued. On occasion. As time permits. At your convenience.
Penance
Dolorosamente, I remain a penitent.
I crave absolution as I failed to reconcile an old sin,
deadly Superbia, its pages faded, brittle at the edges,
lost in a monastery crypt. The summer after dropping
out of art school, I sat on the sofa opposite Charlie,
the geology professor – the girl from painting class,
Mary Alice’s father, in their little suburban living room,
listening to their dear friend play an Impromptu,
a Franz Schubertiade. My only task was delight,
but I was a thoughtless young bumpkin, oblivious
to most etiquette, a yapping, blundering puppy,
blathering on, duro bruscamente, while her fingers
glided like water pouring over keys.
Through moderato, allegro vivace, andantino,
sharp scowls shut me up, a smack on my muzzle;
however, embarrassment didn’t take until years later.
There remain too many events for which I feel regret
(one or two may be labeled loathsome). For this particular
transgression, I thumbed my rosary with due obsession,
recited the Act of Contrition, elaborated in the confessional,
there’s no one left to recall or care a whit for insignificant
atonement (and who’d forgive me four decades ago).
Now, nearly every day, I listen attentively to Schubert,
this beauty my penance, my Dolcezza.
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
