eye sockets filled with rain:
world and time are the same—
we trespass each
hence our punishments
for each
are the same
if our bodies had souls, they would spit, chew, break bread, beckon sheep in for the night, swim, sleep, rest, do everything the body would do if we were not trespassing it too.
Brooks Lindberg lives in the Pacific Northwest. His poems appear frequently in The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, and elsewhere.
VO THI NHU MAI – A QUIET FLAME AMONG FELLOW ARTISTS
At the recent literary gathering, Vo Thi Nhu Mai made her debut appearance, not with loud declarations, but with a quiet presence that left a warm impression. As a first-time participant, she spent much of the time observing and absorbing the atmosphere around her. Though she spoke little, her attentiveness and gentle smile spoke volumes.
During the program, while others were caught in the bustle of performances and interactions, Võ Thị Như Mai moved gracefully between people, offering small yet thoughtful gestures. One such act stood out: she personally handed each participant a small card with their name written on it, a simple but touching effort to acknowledge and welcome everyone. It was a beautiful moment of connection, reminding us that care and presence can sometimes be more powerful than words.
Her demeanour was soft-spoken, but her actions carried sincerity. Many noted her warm energy, quietly friendly, respectful, and keen to understand the nuances of the gathering. In a space often vibrant with creative voices, Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s quiet kindness was like a calm note in a symphony, and her presence undoubtedly enriched the experience for all who were there.
The literary festival itself was a rich and colourful celebration of poetic voices from around the world. Held in a welcoming space filled with music, laughter, and multilingual readings, it brought together poets, translators, musicians, and friends of literature to share work, ideas, and cross-cultural conversations. Each segment of the program was crafted with care, blending each cultural literature with international voices, allowing a beautiful dialogue of language and soul.
Vo Thi Nhu Mai, though initially quiet, contributed meaningfully to this shared space. She took to the microphone and read her original poem “The Song of Life” in both Vietnamese and English, offering the audience a sincere glimpse into her poetic world. Her delivery was gentle yet confident, her words soaring with listeners across language boundaries. It was a moment of quiet power, her voice steady, her poem luminous.
In another generous act of cultural exchange, Võ Thị Như Mai also read a poem titled “Enjoy” by Greek poet Eva Lianou Petropoulou, further knitting the threads of international friendship. Her choice to present not only her own work but also honour another poet reflected the very spirit of the gathering: connection through words, across cultures, in mutual respect. For a first-time participant, Võ Thị Như Mai left a lasting impression, not just with her poems, but with her grace.
THE SONG OF LIFE
Poet: Vo Thi Nhu Mai
From: Western Australia
If we knew spring would never return
To strum its notes along our wandering path
If we knew the journey would drift afar
If eternity called with a sudden breath
If we knew beauty could never be touched
Nor seen through deep brown eyes
If we knew those blue clouds in the heights
Were but a rain falling down with passion
If we knew life would bring grace and blessing
Or a simple lesson in a night of getting lost
If we knew our hearts could be fragile
If we knew sorrow could sing a tender lullaby
If we knew foamy waves carrying silent love
If we knew sunlight shining on brief blooms
If we knew presence is just a passing moment
The moment a rosebud resting upon our lips
If we knew the song of life itself
Could be a pain that healing never finds
If we knew joy in every word we write
An afternoon translates a lifetime into poetry
Enjoy!
From: Greece
As a child
I discover the city lights
Buildings without trees
Water without fishes
The magic city I born
Was a fake town
No masters
No angels
As a child
I sing a lullaby
Every second
My life become a miracle
Hope to get a rainbow
Wait to travel with a unicorn
As Theseus make the world around
For a love
For a word that nobody understand
Filotimo
Mother
Mother, who puts me to sleep,
The moonlight,
The darkness disappears after receiving the caress of mother’s hand.
I listen to the story of mother’s face,
In the land of the princess,
I get lost in the dream,
In that unknown land.
Mother, who is the smile on my face,
The happiness that makes my mind forget,
When I get mother near me,
There is no more sorrow.
Mother, who is full of my love
The bright green sheet,
I was born in my mother’s lap
All my love.
Mother is the language of my mouth
Mother is my land
Holding mother’s gentle hand
I walk with the happiness of my heart
If Love Is Folly…
“If love is folly, I’m your fool. Give him
your pity, not your hate,”
he said upon the Junebug’s shell.
The ring of fire rounds the house.
Prevarication’s not your vice: you speak
black truth to summer’s eye.
You are not always loved for this. The
wanton greensward pecks the grass.
Perhaps a throw of rug would toss the air
with whiskers, spiders, mice.
A dodehexahedron stands immaculate on
green fields of ice.
I cannot say. I cannot know. For I am
mad for you, you know.
I break to justice, loss, and fate.
I litter pillows with my tears,
am lost in the forest of the years,
and no birds listen to my name.
And yet I have of wisdom won these few
aspersions to its rule.
Have you a right to happiness in this
one life you only know?
There is no other where but here;
the trick is catching fireflies before
they cinder to the skies.
Be kind to the thing that you call “me,”
you will be kind to humanity.
We are lost in the labyrinth
of time and space; infinity
is eternity’s other face.
Power, wealth and fame are phantoms,
and love is a beautiful illusion.
The distant battles end in war,
and there is the mouth of the cave. I feel
the thread that will save me from
the Minotaur.
_____
Christopher Bernard’s book The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews.
Born today
From an idea that suddenly flashed
Among the cherry blossoms, the enchanting spring arrived with the rosy rain of the first kiss to welcome the new life generated today before the poetic triumph in the city cradle of wisdom and creativity.
The open lips to bud color of cherries golden impassioned cherries yearn to join the instant to crown the fleeting moment.
Challenge and play have merged into one to highlight, in the final touch, the eternal skin incarnate on which to write our prayer of love as a hymn sung while hearts dance to the alternating rhythm of sweet melodious notes that reach Paradise.
I will be born with you, raising my goblets to toast
timid and smiling eyes
as we say congratulations
So be for now and always.
Uchechukwu Onyedikam (italic) Christina Chin (plain) harp-lute a run of melody widening the baby lulled to sleep watching two shadows behind the stacked wood pile newborn puppies the soul entwined with Gángan the rhythm of pounding prophecies harmonic phrasing of a dialect unfamiliar jargons scripted in my prescription slips twilight corner all the memories in the shade skylight glimmers the illipe nut canopy
Orchard of Knives
In the orchard of knives,
the trees whisper your name.
Mouths full of rotten fruit
cackle at the blistered moon.
And you walk through, barefoot,
picking the sharpest blade
to slice out the loneliness
rooted in your throat.
Funeral Shoes
I bought
a pair of funeral
shoes today.
Black leather,
stiff as a scream.
The assistant
smiled
like a woman
flogging coffins.
Thought about
returning them.
Didn’t.
I’ll wear them
everywhere.
To the bar.
To the fights.
To the last
slow dance
on earth.
You never know
when the ground
will open up.
And it’s best
to be ready.