WIDZENIA

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.

Sight

Two lemurs sat in a tree and chatted.

“We understand, we understand.

The subsoil is psychosomatic—

filled with a team of nervous nail-biters.”

“By-the-way, do you still have your sight?

Where were you? We didn’t see you

for a week.”

“How so?” He had taken his own life

and after reincarnating he drank heavily,

became unusually frugal, and avoided

eating filets of Atlantic cod

(even the fried ones).

A doctor advised him: “Please take three pills

each day.”

He returned to the tree; suddenly

developed a negative view

of military service;

so, the doctor upped it to four—

three after a meal and another

after urinating on the hedges.

“If he already killed himself once,

let’s not really let him have a life.”

NAD STAWEM

Psy zaczynają na siebie
polować.

Jak padnie ostatni,

nie będzie już kogo
jeść.

By the Pond

Dogs have begun hunting

each other.

When the last falls,

there won’t be anyone left

to eat.

NA DRUGIM PIĘTRZE

Mieszka mięso.

Ciepłe, tłuste
mięso.

Zwabimy je psiną
i wysuszymy

na haku.

On the Second Floor

lives a piece of meat—

warm, fatty

meat.

We’ll lure the doggies in

and dry them

on a hook. 

ŚWIEŻE MIĘSO

Jest lepsze 
od solonego.

Przyszłość 
nie ma smaku.

Fresh Meat

is better 

than cured meat.

The future holds no

flavor.

Please send books here with an enclosed note on how and why these titles were meaningful to you. Thank you very much.

Iyad Muna 
16 Mevo Hamatmeed

Mobile. 054.6500620
9459307

Jerusalem 
Israel

Anna Keiko (China)

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.

about the flesh made as a list

cruel overview creeping insights

breathless movements draining livid

fragility / or

                concepts under duress

                squeezing thematically

                tho straining whimsical

                bookends gracefully obscure [

, ‘remaining deadly & counterproductive’ /

         meaning discontinued at

                              BiRtH

    [‘who defects & who remains???’]

; punctuation facelift ragas bleeding aerial tributes

  as survival weaves ragged hazards into landscapes

  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

Expectations

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,

“Forgive-me-Father-for-I-have-sinned.” Regrettably,

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.

leaf-blowers

the area i live in ripped out much native growth and planted introduced plane trees /  i’m told they grow fast and the summer green shades and some think they are pleasing to look at / towards winter their leaves fall as other non-native leaves do and the roads and paths are covered / ankle deep and all over the place and then the leaf-blowers begin with their madness / and horrible it is that buzzing and whirring as obsessed leaf-haters blow their machinery / into piles and lines making me wonder is it only me who hates that noise / i wish they’d forget the leaves that have dropped and let them sit or exit with wind / and it brings up the issue of wouldn’t it make more sense to have native trees on our roads instead / trees that stay with their leaves all year and are suited to the four season climate / giving homes to many indigenous creatures including an array of insects and birds / i don’t get the leaf-blowing of leaves or the addiction to non-native trees / although i’d say whatever the trees growing leaf-blowers would still be using their blowers / i’m convinced leaf-blowers love blowing the leaves to create that terrible sound / all i can say is i don’t understand leaf-blowers or the leaf-blowing they love //

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen had a play run in Spain for 4 years. 

HER BARBWIRE LIPS: Why is my I not the same I as our I your I their I et ceteri? Let’s meet any whensday where my we invites our them to break bread with their them (us!) and Is together are. Iless weness incorporates theynessthyness till allness is. But beware: I begets they if we neglects me (ourusness minus myness), so any part of(or)part from Iness may well martyrize my we :HER WATEFALL EYES

HAIKU IN SONNET

Blots advertise coming austerity.

Cross farmers and their inner flatterers

spring back into kinetic energy.

Skies are, after all, false benefactors.

(Crows)

“Take careful stock of your remaining fruit,

dead orchards are abandoned and condemned.

Worms sap tunnels through sturdy apple faults.”

Home seems familiar. We don’t understand.

(to)

The ambitions stretched beyond my quarters,

nests of desires planted over mountains.

Young dreams imagined crisp, boundless borders.

Birds of hope winged themselves across oceans.

(call)

For all that wishful repast was ancient

food that I thought only mine and recent.

Blots cross spring skies: Crows

take dead worms home to the nests.

Young birds call for food.

GESTALT

to/get/her

my singularity

we reformed

to/get/her

A POEM INDEBTED TO A SERMON BY LUTHER

Banner and anthem. Flag and slogan.

Tattoos and a uniform.

Your circumcision and your tzitzit.

A tonsure and crucifix.

All the princes impose their standards

and propagate their watchwords

by which to their followers they’re known

and to which lord they belong.

FLIGHT OF FANTASY

The name’s Duane, a recovering romantic.

And this sonnet’s microcosmically me: intelligent

to an extent, yet unutterably inelegant.

The twisted yogapoetry falls far shy of the tantric.

But the doomed, pure gooneybird still tries liftoff,

flopping/jerking incongruous across your Canada Shield,

this tropical spirit beating its blunt clumsy appeal

against your ever-stubborn massif.

Frantic wings pump and flutter.

Their antics, doubtless, amuse: as awkward

as the balance between golden orator

and the motley’s drooling stutter.

The question, then: Can nature’s clownbird conquer the runway

and slide into sky’s butterandgoney?