A Big Thank You


I would like to thank the bluebird
for introducing me to the concept of evil.
Also, a note of gratitude to that cat-thief 
in Copenhagen for relieving me of my worldly bounty
(you know who you are).
Some of these pauses were first published
in the Giant Book of the Head.
Without the assistance of spectres
this line would never have seen the light of day.
And I want to take this opportunity 
to mention the red-assed sprites
cavorting in my mind, and to also thank them
for their unquestioning support,
as well as the bent angels, their advice 
being given freely, whether called upon or likewise.
Lastly, a big nod and wink to the blind horse,
for which none of this would have been,
or should have been, made possible.




    Carrying On In The Same Manner


Nobody remembers how the universe ended.
Some aren’t even aware that it did.

“Imagine Creation’s Big Bang, but in reverse,”
suggested a prominent physicist,
time scattering like shattered molecules.
Time a monster with a lamb in its mouth.
Earth shaking like a ride at a fairground.

“Carry on as if nothing has happened,”
the constable talking in his sleep instructed.
“Things are in the saddle and they ride mankind,”
Emerson obliquely commented from the garde de robe,
unaware he’d been dead for many decades,
the cosmos reverting to its standard darkness.

 

                           Double Feature


An empty cinema, a few last shattered dreams going about 
the business of expiring. You can practically hear the stars 
in dialogue. You can sense the disbelief, suspended from 
a spider’s web-strand ever since the advent of the talkies. 
On the ‘silver screen’ is a fine powdering of laughter and 
ashes. In the back row are two apparitions locked in a kiss, 
quite oblivious to the Age of Reason. 

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. The winner of the 2020 Libretto prize and author of four poetry collections and seven chapbooks, his poems have been performed and broadcast globally.

Atavistic memories

I riffle underneath the image of a child counting 5 on her palms,
I want to exhale the alternative of a dark desire.
In the telescope-
I see the stars in dark_black shades up-down.
My desire is to clutch you in my arms and watch the white board with images of relics,
Elicpse of reaching heaven.

Am in the 5th
& I still wander in the shadows of dark paintings,
I see images of waking wounds with a girl standing on her feet.

I was told in the 7th heaven,
The eclipse-relics of every song that begins with letters""
Morphs into the image of a black girl surrounded by white skins with tattoos of heaven.



Michelle Adegboro is 14yrs old, a poet, short story writer and essayist. She is a lover of art who believes she can make waves and an impact in the world through her voice, words and works. She is a member of hcaf Abuja.

THE ARTIST DESPAIRS IN HIS FAILINGS

He attempts to paint
a still-life, but finds life
keeps moving,
fruit rotting,
flowers fading,
limbs blurring.

He discovers himself
better able to stay still,
imagining the paint 
on the canvas,
the brush stroking
the image into being,
the finished picture
better than anything
he could have ever painted,

and yet, false
for all that,

false.



THESE FLOWERS OF STONE, AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE

A flower of stone grew
from the seed
I found in a dream
of a land I didn't recognise
and yet still somehow knew.

It had no colour,
this flower of stone, but grey, 
no green nor red, orange 
or white, simply grey,
faded and dirty,
like a cheaply designed
and poorly realised building
left to time and decay.

It was still beautiful, though,
in the way such seemingly
abandoned things can be.
It could still steal
your attention for minutes
as you studied it,
tentatively touched its form
to see if it was real
and not some illusion
carried over from a wish made
but forgotten even as
it was spoken.

It lasted one winter,
this flower of stone,
before the cracks
began to appear,
tiny tears
in its stem
that passed up
to its petals,

then the summer wind came
and blew it to dust,
each particle
scattered wide,
growing into new stone flowers,
until half the world was covered,

the cycle continuing on,
spreading them farther
and farther, until, 
for a season or two,
nowhere on this earth
was without one.

The evolution of survival
strengthened them
through each generation,
these multiple flowers of stone,
until they were able to last
all seasons long, the sweeping eye
unable to find a place
where one did not grow.





REAP/SOW

Our world crumbles 
around us, or 
more to the point,
reaches the end
of the collapse,
begun lifetimes ago,

and when we are called
to explain, we simply say
we didn't know,
we had our eyes closed
this whole time, our fingers
in our ears, like children refusing
to see or be seen, refusing
to hear, children suddenly
made adults 
refusing to collect
what we owe. 

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, The Madness Of Qwerty, A Foetal Heart and Bones Speaking With Hard Tongues. 

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.

His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

SWEET CRIES & WHISKEY


Ten hours exactly after work, 
your eyes smile through my inner tears. 
With my silence, I write a poem inside of 
me: "You're worth it and you matter."

We are surrounded by glowing stars, 
creating a new chapter on forever love. 
We talk about every memory, sweet cries & whiskey, 
as if it is an obligation to pleasure the cosmos.

Nobody is ahead of us or behind our grief. 
The moon engraves our feelings into the hearts of stars. 
I will live by burying my tears and making you smile. 
Your thoughts are like a mother's prayers for her child.

With my love for you, I'm not afraid of death. 
The lust of being body to flesh, 
it numbs me for your bare breast. 
Don't let people know how much I adore you.

Thirty-four years old and still can't express 
my joyful dreams when I see a wooden chair, 
rusty hanging cords & a knife with blood stains. 
Waiting for me to finish my cigarette and my poem.

25/09/2023

BHP

A Moment To Breathe 

With every breath I take, 
I want you by my side.
Or is this your love I am breathing?
Even though I don't deserve a moment to breathe.

Why do some friends judge us as
Two burning cigarettes in an ashtray,
or cheap liquor and generic cigarettes?
Last night, my favorite liquor sang my sorrows loudly.

Oh woman, I love you like a sad alcoholic.
I'm depressed like nicotine to my drinking alcohol.
This is my first time digging a grave for the bodies 
of my childhood, since this war has taken their lives.

Inside of me, there are aches, regrets, and open wounds.
Between you and me, there is a love flavored with honey.
Take me to your destination, I will be your retired sailor.
Where we can breathe in the fragrance of fruit trees and exhale the tobacco.

1. SILENT STRUGGLES
My childhood unfolded.
A tale of misery within an adventure never told. 
Verbal arrows aimed, and with each pronouncements a savage onslaught. 

The word "depression" was a sinful joke in my household and remains an abomination never to be spoken about.
I was called "weird" and "strange" because I never spoke at public gatherings.
people said I was possessed by powers unknown or I was just acting up.How cruel. 

Mental torments weighs down my fragile back.
Within the walls of home, a battleground of strife and animosity.
Broken plates, cups and souls became the order of the day.
parents' love turned bitter, a tempests dreadful roar.
The wounded witness I was, violated in every way possible and amidst this tumult, academic pressure grew. What a fate. 

My pen bleeds but in the darkness I found my guiding star.
Through the ink-stained pages of my journal, I discovered a sanctuary where my thoughts could flow freely, unburdening my troubled mind.
Each word became a lifeline, a means to navigate the stormy seas of my life.

2. INTERWOVEN ECHOES
I seek my reflection in voice and personas.
A face hidden within the depths of connection.
I listen closely, in each word and tone. 
In your words, I search for my own rhyme.
A mirror of my soul in the sands of time.
I look deeper and I see, it's not just in you but also in me.
Are we all mirrors reflecting the light?
In the tapestry of voices day and night.
In your essence and in mine, intertwined we became. 
A kaleidoscope of selves forever undone.
In the voices of others we discover our art.

Biography
My name is Hannah Aipoh. I am 17 years of age, I am a Nigerian poet with a flair for writing.

City Smell

Dimly lit under the street lamps in an old alley at midnight, a nostalgia wells up. A perceptible city smell tickles the nostrils in humidity fuelled singed heat. Yeah, the lamps bestow light on the strays lying down on empty alleys—clean, and silent as the rains wash away any debris otherwise invisible to the naked eye, slants through the midnight street lamp—dark, heavy, and blue. To an ever-wakening and heightened sensory perception, a city sleeps, unhinged like exposed skeletons.

The city smells, however, another smell pushing through the winds and more pervasive, makes breathing hard; terrified barks and human squeals tear up the skies.The rains are gone now but smoke burns rise in the atmosphere, buckets drop cling-clang on the ground in haste; sirens of fire trucks, and a few explosive sounds. The strays stop barking. Squeals are quiet too. The burning dissipates. Silence descends; the city smell crawls back, buried into the ground.