Four Haiku he walks home wearing his black graduation gown pics of pink flowers — baroque music plays for the marble queen pothos between dog & wolf — moon thru the window or ceiling light’s reflection? YouTube before bed — would you call this stuff rainy snow or snowy rain? wet April Fools’ Day — bio/graf J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
Monthly Archives: May 2024
Poetry from Saad Ali
The Regntiden1 for Lloyd A. Jacobs, Ejaz Rahim & Leonidas Efthmiou after Rain (Regn) by Edvard Munch (Norway), 1902 C.E. I The Bookshelf // I assemble the newly procured bookshelf and place the wooden statues of The Zulu Warriors— my father had brought back with him from Kenya in the Summer of ’96 C.E.— on either side of the five-shelved rack, as if The Valkyries at the Valgrind to Valhalla. I place the books horizontally on the wooden planks, not vertically—since, the weight of the words can also force the spine of the book to bend. * The weight of the words of some books is also (in)famous for forcing the minds-of-wo/men to bend & mend! And I ponder: if the weight of the words of my books will also succeed in serving such a purpose? II East & West // I literally use the compass to figure out the exact eastern-end and the western-end of my room, and place the 4’ tall wooden lamp— a present I had received from my ex-girlfriend in the Summer of ’14 C.E.— in the Eastern Corner. [Perhaps,] it’s the effect of the sweet intoxication from the aroma of the freshly rain-bathed soil that forces me to take the proverb, the sun rises in the East and sets in the West, literally! And I place the stone incense burner (with an uncovered opening to the compartment inside for hosting a miniature candle)— procured from The Body Shop— atop the lid of the lamp to symbolise the Stella/Sol.2 III The Vahana //3 I think of pulling my vahana – Toyota Aqua (Hybrid) 1500 cc (procured via a local car dealer in the Summer of ’17 C.E.) – out of the porch and letting her also bathe and breathe in the mint-fresh rain. * This early, early ante meridiem cata-doxa4 is a call for Celebration ‘n Change: the (in)famous Indian Monsoon is early in the Summer of ’22 C.E. Both the man & the beast will be observing the Thanksgiving early, too— since the sunrays, like the uninvited guests, had the dramas-of-life rather shackled, lately. ______________ 1. Regntiden (Norwegian): The Rains. 2. Sol (Roman Mythology): The Sun God. 3. Vahana (Hindu Mythology): The Ride of a God/Goddess. 4. Cata-Doxa (Greek idiom): (Raining) Cats and Dogs.
On the Beaches in Bulgaria: 2016 C.E. for Cameron, Monika & Aleksandra after Children Playing On The Beach by Mary S. Cassatt (USA), 1884 C.E. I Today — Solis-roasted Sand2; Solis-burnt Sea2. It makes you appreciate e=mc2 in a rather strange, strange way. Or maybe it’s the beer (?) Under the gaze of the Thirsty Solis, a pint of Heineken barely manages to stay cool for > 300 seconds. II “… And pile it up more around the chest, belly & limbs. … But spare the face! You know I’m rather proud of my Persian Face!” He asks me to help him cover his body with the sunbaked sandy beach. “Don’t turn this into a burial rehearsal now!” I mock his idea of the sand-therapy. ~ The Scene / Act reminds me of the street hawkers from back home— roasting the corn-on-the-cobs & chickpeas in the salty-sea shore-sand on their mobile-stalls. III “We won’t let you drown. Trust Us!” Monika & Aleksandra make a support with their arms and teach me how to make my body float on the water. “When I was 9, I had drowned in The Indus River on a picnic day-out,” I stutter as I raise my legs & let the buoyancy take charge. IV Today — I’ve been rather unfaithful to myself: I violated the vow of Literary-Celibacy i.e. I broke the promise-to-self to not to indulge in any poetry & poems.
Cigarette-Smoke Halos for Family & Friends after The Muse Inspiring The Poet (La Muse Inspirant le Poete) by Henri Rousseau (France), 1909 C.E. I Mercury/Steel Cigarette-Smoke Halos for all my dreams. Why shalt I feel intimidated by an Israfel?* II Of late – poems are frequenting me like an Ottoman Emperor frequents his favourite mistresses in the harems. III Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a Socrates, a Constantine, a Rumi, a Ghalib, but without any fast acolytes. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a line without any alphabet and commas and apostrophes and periods. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m an epic that can’t be bound by any spiral or saddle-stitched spines. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a thumb, a forefinger, a middle finger on a hand that can’t seem to be able to strangle the wind. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a medallion, an untied knot on an Eshfahan, a Kashan, a Farahan kilim. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a verse, a couplet, a ghazal, a sonnet, but without any regards in her chest. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a curse, a prayer on a broken mother’s lips, who lost a youngling to some war. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a Man —with a Free Will— but only as free as his idioms and narratives. ______________ *Israfel: One of the Four Archangels in the Islamic Theology. The named Angel is assigned with the duty of making the announcement for the arrival of Youm al Qiyama (The Judgement Day). Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up and educated in the United Kingdom and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is a bilingual poet-philosopher and literary translator. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrastic poetry and micro/flash fictions into Urdu: Lorette C. Luzajic: Selected Ekphrases: Translated into Urdu (2023). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. He has had poems published in The Mackinaw and Synchronized Chaos. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. He has had ekphrases showcased at an Art Exhibition, Bleeding Borders, curated at the Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. He has had poems featured in two anthologies of poetry—Poetry is a Mountain (2019) and This Uncommon Place (2019)—by Kevin Watt (ed.). Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector, et alia. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.saadalipoetry.com; www.facebook.com/owlofpines.
Poetry from Sandip Saha
Heaven on the earth I remember those golden days thirty minutes past nine evening the sun was still in the west sky yet to touch the horizon our dinner was over it was time to go to bed but my eyes were not blinking lest I miss the beauty of nature I did not sleep much that night at three o’clock early morning the sun already rose illuminated surroundings as well as my mind no traffic at all in the roads below our hotel night survived only for a few hours. Standing on the shore of the Atlantic covered in thick woolen wares as pricking cold piercing to skin we went to see the sunset, in panoramic view of my camera I caught the sun in between cliffs partly submerged in the ocean, its roar appeared to be loud laugh of joy our coach was running in snow fall both sides of the road were flooded not by water but with ice it was dawn, the red sun threw its first ray of light to the peaks of hills white, it was only white everywhere my mind found heaven on the earth. I saw you When I saw you last time you had one squirrel that came running from the bush jumped up on your palm swallowed three almonds ran away back to the jungle your fondness of birds was as profound as ever couple of them were sitting on your head so colorful and lively it was a pleasure to look as I left, you took up a book on your lap sitting on a door step on a trimmed green lawn with a cup of coffee you got lost in it the smiling roses and marigolds were soaked in dew on the lawn the golden sun just reached from the morning horizon making them pleasant bees came on them buzzing the cowboy left home to graze his cattle herd long way to go for meadows over hills calm and quiet he took his lunch box as at dusk only he will return. I want to dissolve my mind Every moment of my life is dying drowning in the ocean of the past the stories that are composed become history forever. My mind and body are floating in the flowing river of time they are destined to die one day or the other. My Self is observing sitting on the bank it will do so till the show is over. Whatever once started is going to finish body will perish mind mourning melancholy. Body suffers sadness till it dies mind carries the grief forward from one body to the other. How to slain the mind is the job in hand let it dissolve in the Self abolishing painful existence. I met God Meeting God is a wonderful experience for which many devotees hanker after considering it the highest goal of life. God has been met by different people in many different means and ways most of them by bhakti yoga. They want to meet It as the beloved the endless ocean of love in which they like to dissolve themselves. Some get It as the divine mother or the father who is the savior Yashoda got It as son and so on. Experiencing the immense power of God is also meeting It, not as the lovable but as the most unconquerable entity. I went against the God vehemently for many unfortunate ills It causes to us abused It left and right spurring venom. I was about to leave for Japan with my wife paid huge amount of money to the tour operator but two days before the journey I got typhoid. It attacked me with Its deadly weapons typhoid was accompanied by asthma cough, severe dysentery, arthritis. Over and above that my brain was invades by gas I could not lift my head lost control on myself soiled my bed passing stool and vomiting. It was so severe that I felt I may die it was deep at night, my wife was also helpless that day I bowed to It seeing Its supreme power. Preposterous politics Now a days there are rushes among politicians to fall at the feet of poor people of lower cast. Some greats men described this as worship it seems, according to them, presence of God is more in poor unprivileged public than riches. Ha, ha, ha, these pretentious politically motivated unscrupulous actions are nothing to do with love. One elderly woman made a lavatory in her house for that the prime minister of a country bows down touches her feet. What a ridiculous action to appease! Another chief minister of a state appeases a poor man on whom one upper cast rowdy guy peed in public by brings him to felicitate with garland, washes his feet, puts the washed water on own’s forehead as though the man who hardly can meet his both ends will be benefited. Democracy has developed devotion to downtrodden, do you know why? Because of vote bank politics. Politicians can spit and lick the same for votes TV channels have become a dumping ground of debris of societal actions to irritate the senses of viewers. Sandip Saha (India) won two awards from India and one from USA, published six poetry collections. He also published 152 poems in 47 journals including The Gateway Review, 300 Days of Sun, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Brushfire Literature & Arts, Sheepshead Review, In Parentheses in six countries- India, USA, UK, Australia, Romania and Mauritius.
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Permanent Lover Let me walk around you I shall be the sky above your head And give you the shade of love I shall be the ground under your feet And make your way comfortable I shall be the air of dream And give you a dreamland. Let me walk with you And hold your hand I shall be your eternal companion Leading you from hell to heaven We shall fly to our destination together All the butterflies will carry us The flowers will adorn us. Let me walk with your soul And carry it in my heart I shall follow your footprints Remembering the shadow of the spring The fountain will whisper with the sea The hills will guard your memories And the rivers will dance to well come us. Let me walk in your memories Without you I am alone Like an empty vessel of time The moon is like a barren field Where nobody can plough love I hear the sound of dream It seems that you are always in my heart. Let me walk with you And paint the colour of art Life is an endless Gallery Where everything is transitory But nothing is meaningless and lost Give me a soft permission To be a permanent lover.
Artwork from Mark Young
Poetry from Alan Catlin
After Reading Charles Burchfield’s Journal #1 Last fading light after sunset at meadows end. Wildflowers lose their color anticipating an encroachment of trees. Nighthawks ravage the venous skin of leaves clustered between the thatched tents of pupae evolving into cabbage moths and insects that might be black like flies. Once roused these predacious swarm becoming an infectious, stinging mass, virulent as diseases spread by poison gas. Walking here we are on the cusp of something new but we don’t know what it is. Nascent moon shadows well-worn path; solitary man walking hears nothing moving. Court Artist Jane Rosenberg’s Portrait of an Ex-President of the United States Asleep in a New York City Courtroom During Jury Selection for His Criminal Trial Slouching in his chair, bracketed by legal counsels, the massive bulk of him in weirdly tailored suit, unnaturally orange tinted make-up creating an unhealthy face, an imitation tan. There his thin, blow dried, artificially blonde hair, teased to cover a large bald spot, a caricature at rest, slack jawed and jowly, swollen pouches of excess fat, frown lined forehead, unruly eyebrows vaguely satanic looking, so much of him, looking aged, beaten, too tired to go on, almost peacefully sleeping. His silence is merciful, a blessing. Sophie Calle’s True Stories: photos and essays One stolen shoe: left-red Nose before plastic surgery: a closeup Self-Portrait as topless striper with blonde wig Portrait: Real life artist model sketch defaced by razor cuts Burned bed in the street from three stories up (hers) Self-portrait with pig’s nose TV Guide page in grandmother’s house after she died Single die in jeweler’s ring case New Year’s Eve resolutions: No lying, no biting-the husband’s Las Vegas Drive Up Marriage hale-Open 24 Hours Fake white wedding marriage gathering with family and friends The breakup: the coffee cup, the breasts (hers) Red Wedding Dream on Roissy airport runway Dumped in August: two bird legs mounted on a stick The View of My Life-cows grazing as seen through a window Dead in a good mood-from her mother’s diary When my mother died, I bought a taxidermist she named Monique (after her mother) Death of the beloved cat: laid out in a coffin with a blanket My Mother, My Cat, My Father (gone) Caution sign: END Time Reordered: From the Table of Contents Of Jackie Craven’s Whish Under anesthesia I remember a moon Dawn dreams a new upending I’m speeding the Quantum Highway My misery sleeps through sunrise 3 A.M hovers on a balcony Half-Past Yesterday sleeps in my bed A clock lives inside my looking glass 2 A.M. blunders into the damp city 8 A.M. broods beneath a gray umbrella Half-past yesterday has abandoned me 3 A.M. hovers on a balcony Clocks can’t be trusted in the electric city 2 A.M. jolts awake in the dining car 63:13 raps at my door 63:13 lodges in my sister’s frontal lobe 5:15 paces hospital corridors Urgent care has no time for us As her steel frame expands, the Human Clock writhers and turns to smile Dawn dreams a new upending Half-Past Tomorrow slumbers in the rear of the freezer burned out by promiscuity: Byron’s life and letters excerpted The first gonorrhea I have not paid for A world of other harlotry The Trinity college (stuffed) bear I have quite given up concubinage A Turkish bath-that marble paradise of sherbert and sodomy I shall confine myself henceforth to the strictest adultery There was never a man who gave up so much to women We have been burning the bodies of Shelley and Williams on the sea-shore Cash is the sinew of war I was a fool to come here (Greece) but being here I mut see what is to be done Back! Out of my sight! Fiends, can I have peace, relief from this hell? Come; you damned set of butchers(his attending doctors); take away as much blood as you will: but have done with it
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
the little ants marching we are the losers the glue of society the little ants marching for hope even though destiny has other things in mind the lost souls holding on for something that resembles a life we dreamed about as children sometimes the sun doesn't even bother to shine -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- some people are i once thought i was in love with this beautiful older woman right up until she got me fired from my job and it's not that i'm unwilling to accept that some people are just fucking evil i only wonder why the fuck am i the one that has to experience all of them the witches have won again i suppose ------------------------------------------------------- just as damaged all the beautiful faces on those magazines i convince myself they are just as damaged as i am any chance meeting and the life long quest for the right one will be resolved and yes, i'm aware these delusions aren't healthy and are only going to lead to trouble boredom doesn't exactly keep the juices flowing these days ------------------------------------------------------------- does the madness ever end another day spent breathing another day watching this crazy fucking mess just burn do i break out the violin or join a protest and throw a rock does the madness ever end where is the laughter a joyous hug instead, everyone is buried in their phones plotting or masturbating out of hate i tell all the ones i love that i do love them every day i can mostly because it is a very simple act that can bring someone a moment of joy a smile a flutter of emotion something better than all the shit we wade through just to make it to a bed the ground or the concrete of a cell i can't imagine anyone calling this living ----------------------------------------------------------------- an interesting test of pain a ghost from my past has noticed i'm mentioning sex more in the poems any time that ghost wants to take the hint and pounce she is more than welcome lord knows two arthritic wrists make for an interesting test of pain as one is trying to climax before attempting to get some sleep each and every night glutton for punishment as always J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Black Coffee Review and The Asylum Floor. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)