SAN GIUSTO


Trieste, march 2019.

He put his arm around my shoulders and led me through the small door to Bottega del Nonno

- La Veglia di Finnegan, se ne hai una?

Then we walked along one of the narrow streets towards the castle of San Giusto.
He was holding a book in his right hand all the time, his veins were swollen,
And he would hold my forearm with his left when we were climbing.
I felt so safe, as if the Lord had placed all the power in his hands.
(Actually, this could be a poem about his hands.
How I loved his hands!)

"I am forever trapped, walking along the river, always returning to the castle..." – he quoted.

   - That life until now was a sketch drawn with a graphite pencil, the fragments of which we will
     be able to erase, and what is inside us are colors. Let's start painting!

I looked for a moment at the sidewalks where the weeds had grown, and then at his big eyes where
the darkness had grown.
The wind opened around us,
The guards fell asleep long ago,
The walls grew like giants,
Distant history played with our depths,
And it seemed insignificant to us
Compared to this one that is just starting.


Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia.
Winner of several international awards for poetry, including:
Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,
„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020.
Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021.
„Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022.

She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.

Borders


The mother leans against the sad wet strings
We last a long time-holding time in a transparent suitcase
For handles that pierce the skin, bones, blood flow and go away all at the same time
I am not good at this designing at all
I speak to the body I'm dragging along the blank paper
The body they call my mother
A quiet black dress filled with the burst of distant stars
I can't do anything in creative expression classes
As a representative figure of absolute human evil
I draw wires around my mother, around me, around the house
Around the tongue that can't help me anymore
To make something out of swallowed pain
I will never be able to bring back the dead, nor measure your graves
Where does your grave end and mine begin?
Behind the camp there is still an endless field of wires
Hands that outgrow it are just a myth
Souls are always in love with floating
How many times have you tried to teach her to speak?
They will ask the mother, and I will wait
Drawing line by line
Begging her to hug me
Begging her to go back home

YOU WHO CREATE UNREST!


You who are the servant of darkness,
hide behind wealth, power, and lies
but I'm immune to it.
You can't take away my right to freedom,
my life belongs to God,
you can't ruin my poem,
woven from prayerful thoughts
sung in praise of all poets
which breathe in the rhythm of peace for the whole planet.
We are poets like flowers,
we sprout from tiny seeds, carried by the wind, rooted in the ground.
Watered with water from rainy clouds sun-breastfeed.
Our common strength is
in the beauty of thought,
about equality
about satiety
in the absence of war.
We build heavenly gardens from letters
and send clear messages to everyone.
Do not be afraid people, let the peace of God reign!
You, who are hidden, will not stop causing people unrest
and various diseases, but I will not stop, I will defeat you with a poem.
Verses have the power to melt all hard hearts, to forget what evil is,
when in the prayer song for forgiveness, they find their peace.



LOVE

Insects are attracted to the street light at night, so the heart that is open to the love of this world, the closer to the source of the street light dies because of the desire to unite with something that is doomed to die.




Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement, "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard," is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies, and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali, and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle." 
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro,and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.

The World's Agencies

The world is divided into different agencies
In these areas there happen so many incidents, accidents
Planned or unplanned
The cat's-paw tinges bloodying with the sharp nails
The staffers think staring -----
How the role-play of a cinema's villain!
I am the sufferer who is snatched away
Threatening with the arms all the way
And the passers-by only watch 
Having nothing to say nor a step for protection
We are living in such an unsafe zone
We are here, where we think over --------!

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
14 March, 2023


The Sea Cafe

Hello, let's have our snacks altogether
The unknown has invited us 
Let's shook hands and enjoy the coffee break
Now the time is to rise in the midst of the sun and the moon
We have already reached our long pathway goal to our journey
Holding tight the hands not to leave each other 
Live together, walk together, work together and sleep together
Forgotten!
Let's make a dancing stage ---
We all get lost among ourselves in the world of forgetfulness- The Sea Cafe.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
17 March, 2023

Why Me?


I have Tourette’s syndrome and bipolar disorder yes blessed with them both
And once I was even arrested under oath
One is neurological no one can explain
The other is caused by the unnecessary pain
Normal basic an average are words of dismay
I’m here to share with you there is another way
No need to judge another for how they make you feel
Take a look in the mirror and see what is real
Love is truly the answer thank you God above
Even Sigmund Freud said hard work and love
As we open up our backpacks and take one thing out
You can always put it back in if you have a doubt
Life is not easy no manual given at birth
Yet 8 billion humans exist together on earth
There is no one like you nor anyone like me
Put one foot in front of the other and soon you shall see
That God above has never let us down
It’s time to hold hands again my friends in each and every town


Trauma

It happened at birth a coma for
me, for others I'm not sure
The fact of the matter is, there is no cure
It comes in many avenues, from physical to the mind
There is no defining it, no particular kind
Some have it for a lifetime, some right away
If we don't deal with, forever it will stay
Exposure to so many has really made me ache
Accepting my own trauma has really made me wake
The pain is deeper than I ever thought it could be 
As I open my heart to others they can clearly see
How much I am hurting over this recent tragic loss
Not only losing my wife but
dealing with a horrible boss
What I am realizing is that I am not alone
Coming together with complete strangers
and seeing how they have grown
Gives me inspiration way beyond belief
Never did I imagine there could be so much relief
I thought I was alone suffering this awful pain
Thinking I was crazy, literally going insane
Listening to their stories as they
share their lives with me
Has surely made me realize that I can plainly see

That trauma is a creature that comes in many ways
I am thankful for this experience
and cherish all my days
As I wake each morning wondering
what the day will bring
And listen to birds outside my window sing
I can't help but think and hope that
each day brings a smile
To everyone's lives that's here on
earth for only a little while
I pray to God each night as I lay my head down to rest
That ALL our trauma lives will turn out for the best
My trauma is forever, but my heart is now stronger
For human bond and love of life will last even longer

 
Tourette's and Bipolar Disorder, Yes, Both

Hey, Darin and Marcy, I finally found
out I have Tourette's, holy shit! 
"You can have them all little sons of
bitches and get away with it!"
In Tau Kappa Epsilon, my fraternal 
name was "Twitch."
A term of endearment, a nickname I will never ditch
Living thirty-five years of my life, 
always wondering why
I would go from complete laughter
to a sudden tearful cry
Teased my entire childhood mainly by those we "trust"
Adults were the worst of all; high
school was a fucking bust
Called a son of a bitch by Dale Thomas
and literally kicked out of class
And Jeff Nynehouse, "I can't handle you
on the bus," what a fucking ass
My label given to me has long been misled
Even those who have this "gift" have been misled
Medication was prescribed; what a fiasco that became
It is not okay for medical professionals
to cause "US" to go insane

The only neurological disorder known
to those prescribing drugs
Sorry, Dr. Narus, LOVE is the answer;
please start prescribing "hugs"
"I want some of what you're on, 
can I have some SHIT?"
"I have Tourette's, you want some of IT?"
My final straw came when I was
arrested and thrown in jail
"DUI other than alcohol," just try and make bail
Before you judge those of us who suffer from this pain
Think to yourself, "What do I have to gain?" 
We all have a disability; just take a look in the mirror
"Can I walk on water?" or do I just have a fear? 
How to accept others, no matter the
twitch, the glasses, or the creed
Thank God for those who can understand
why I choose to smoke weed
It is the only true relief I have
ever had other than LOVE
"Footprints in the Sand," my friends;
thank you, God above
So often people walk away or simply want to ignore
Maybe Tourette's will go away, we won't
have to deal with "THEM" anymore
To all of you that have this "gift,"
the one that makes me, ME
Don't ever let them put you in the 
"box," live and be free

I am proud of my life each and every day
Of course, there are times I think, make IT go away" 
So when you are passing judgment
or "choosing" to discriminate
You are one of "THEM," you are causing the HATE!

This poem is from William Hartwick’s book The Invisible Backpack. which is available for order.

The Invisible Backpack is a labor of love created from a life-long struggle to come to terms with who the author is and accept himself as he was meant to be. We are all born with an invisible backpack on our backs. It is where we put all the hurts of life. When we are young and courageously climbing the stairs of life, it is extremely light, and we really don’t know it’s there. As we get older, it gets heavier with whatever pain, grief, or trauma we experience. Unfortunately, we resist taking these feelings out of our backpacks and let go of them. Some of us hold onto them so tightly, we forget to make room for the things that lighten our load…forgiveness, acceptance, tolerance, and love. For if we can put these items in our backpacks, it will cancel out all of the negative things we’ve been holding onto, and our life journeys will become much lighter.

my health matters too 

 

down in the hard black earth  

before the shadow-gifted body- 

shaming shrieks with future rank  

refused among the fresh night  

blossoms on a cork-popped psyche  

stashed by means you guessed  

were taken back on board you eat  

what’s yours and listen for today  

is just the ticket for a hunt through  

city streets you seem to recollect  

a flock of bats you made some  

conversation with the sith you  

welcomed sharp incursions  

of the mob her mouth’s the  

thing you seemed to say was  

viscous there was flowing under  

glass was then bizarre in vain  

so let his head fall back on  

bones and set aside more  

surface bursts the searching  

worse the land was hot she  

nursed him to his smooth  

and privileged form then  

edged his syncopated back  

a corpulent in ball and  

chains they wrapped him 

up in veneration and in  

pink to table and to then  

compare with all the fuck- 

ups on our screens a teenage  

fantasy for sale a part of that  

a piece of his the warmth and  

then the getting-good it’s  

morning if it’s bright enough   

the house anxieties that led  

to fill the plague graves early  

on are like a growing list of  

foods their scatterings were  

surely doomed and sometimes  

tampered with in sheds    

 

 

 we spoke lovingly of roe 

 

deliverance through a glancing-off of riddles  

in one untidy corner of the mind delusions   

widely disapproved of as yet others are  

reluctant to placate themselves at all and  

almost perish with their pleadings and denial  

and you might even get tugged off when once  

the tired poetry arrives with stomach botch  

the wilder sort and if there is a god or not  

you stumble through your stratagems  

hallucinating forest fires and now she’s  

troubled by her arms again and only so much  

scribbling through the pain can halt this placid  

streak if that’s allowed to gift you motivation  

but it’s not like that at all it’s milk two sugars  

then the mescaline arrives and long-term  

prisoners are forced to stream some aspects  

of that vicious night with pushing motions of  

their blood-stained hands while pools of septic  

effluence gush out from washed-up dreams  

so short on fatherly affection yet again but  

this time on the railway banks or rolling down  

the river tyne with bark from ripped-up holy  

trees while glancing round at comic-book type  

treatments line by line or understanding great  

cathedrals in the season of the wight the un- 

remembered and the meaningless shape up  

the artist in you rides the london eye       

 

 

 partly political 

 

keep them squaddies on their metal by the by 

no longer visible like beasts persuaded through  

your efforts down against the rusted factory  

gates while dipping bending showing all the  

glowing stacks of burnt remains of shamed  

officials on bell-bottom nights without the  

magic mountain camp with boots that shine  

like bathroom taps or crawled neck residue  

that thrashed was where it started then was  

torn the thing that’s feared the most was  

taken from a point on stolen braille maps by  

the river’s scent a three-lane highway out of  

nowhere on a mountain bike or steaming  

thick and creamy cabbage by the light above  

a patch on posh boy’s vast inherited estates  

that’s got to be extruded from a space that’s  

partly labelled by the past and having spent  

the morning playing human chess in tunnels  

or a maze it crawls a london boy by chance  

unorthodox supplies a big old grub to catch the  

only interspecies still at large perhaps the  

bloodied swimming pool has given up its secret  

to those corresponding principles at last and  

with an excess of its like to read a telepathic  

slow-descending self-erasing spine and side-lined  

masks a crudely nauseating  metronomic tick  

within its zone beyond the pale with wish- 

fulfillment at its core while washing out the  

tupperware in fits who knows where  

morning is before the shrivels week by  

week still hating thatcher as they weed their  

beds those nervous tits have been out there in  

charge of landscape-format glass-based art 

events an installation of suspended things that  

much was visible along the curved beak’s 

nesting lost in limbo and was long-suspected  

by his friends of putting tories in the ground 

without permission be widespread he states  

the high mind's ornament deserves the block  

and matter of the hours it is suggested that  

the bold take notes on unscratched holograms 

with common praise in some hard past was  

smoking rocks and shooting up on city streets  

with skipping ropes and spinning plates  

while those of us who did refuse still wonder  

when and why our hormone levels peaked 

Eddie Heaton studied innovative and experimental poetry under the tutelage of post-modern poet and educator Keith Jebb, achieving a first-class honours degree. He also won the 2021 Carcanet Award for Creative Writing. His work has been published in Blackbox Manifold, Otoliths, Lothlorien, Focus and Fold Editions

Twitter: @edwardHeaton9