The Global Federation of Leadership and High Intelligence, based in Mexico, is creating a Mother’s Day poetry anthology and invites submissions. They are also hosting a video contest for creative work with paper fibers.

Poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.

Also, the Educational Bookshop in Jerusalem, a store that has the mission of peaceful dialogue and education, invites readers to donate new or gently used books (all genres) that have been meaningful to them, with a note enclosed for future readers about why the books were meaningful. (The books don’t have to be about peace or social justice or the Mideast, although they can be). Please send books here. US-based Interlink Publishing has also started a GoFundMe for the store.

We’re also having a presence at the Hayward Lit Hop festival this year, and we encourage everyone to attend this free, all-ages event! Many local writers will share their work and we will also host an open mic.

This month’s theme is Journeying Inward.

Lidia Popa seeks her true self, believing in the value of her quest. Samira Abdullahi acknowledges her scant resources and the obstacles before her, yet bravely forges ahead towards her life’s goals. Xavier Womack expresses determination to stay free of a relationship that has turned controlling and toxic.

Maurizio Brancaleoni crafts bilingual English/Italian introspective vignettes. Philip Butera reflects on noticing different types of flowers throughout his life, paralleling his different moods. Christina Chin of Malaysia and Paul Callus of Malta collaborate on haiku resplendent with action and sensory detail about the minutiae of human life, highlighting how even smaller thoughts matter.

Charitha Jammala’s mystical poetry probes the depths of the human mind and soul, celebrating our inner essence and integrity. In elegant poetry, Haroon Rashid reminds us to look inward to find joy and peace rather than expecting it from the outside world. Alex S. Johnson revels in the dreamscape of human consciousness in his expansive poem.

Beatriz Saavedra Gastelum probes the power of dreaming to explore human consciousness in Alfonso Reyes’ writing. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam collaborate on haiku capturing the delicacy and deliciousness of creative tension and human spiritual journeys. Fatima Anisa Ibrahim depicts the peace she finds upon sleeping, waking, and beginning a new day.

Stephen Jarrell Williams’ poetic cycle drums up a sense of urgency, evoking human mortality and spiritual quests. Peter Cherches speaks of time and memory, incidents that make us, small puny humans as we are, question all that we remember. Mykyta Ryzhykh renders the dissolution of language and identity through creative poems. Alaina Hammond probes the effect of present experiences to shift memory and identity in her drama, set at an art opening. J.K. Durick’s poems also address identity in a way, pointing out human experiences we face individually, yet share with many around the world.

Philip Butera’s lengthy poem explores existence, seduction, and morality through a lens of mutable personal identity and the archetypes of Greek mythology. Two literary critics, Dr. Selvin Vedamanickam and Grock, explore the struggle of individual people in a world that seems indifferent in Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s epic poem Geet: The Unsung Song of Eternity.

Bhagirath Choudhary’s piece honors and includes the feminine as well as the masculine in what it means to be human, and divine. Jacques Fleury, a Black man from Haiti, asserts his belonging to the universal human family regardless of racial distinctions.

Patrick Sweeney writes disconnected short pieces with an element of whimsy that explore our curiosities and obsessions. Duane Vorhees’ poetry revels in earthy sensuality and explores questions of personal identity, reality, and fantasy.

Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ images focus on fun and imagination in his images of children’s toys. Ochilova Ozoda Zufar shares a children’s story about travel, friendship, and new experiences. Abigail George reflects on her life’s trajectory, how circumstances made her the mother of words rather than human children.

Elan Barnehama’s short story places us back in our early twenties, when many of us were still making major life decisions. Still, many people past that age express similar sentiments. Tagrid Bou Merhi affirms the drive towards personal and artistic freedom. Anna Keiko reflects on how she has followed the call of poetry in her life. Chad Norman’s brash poetry celebrates the freedom to do and say and love as he wishes in his native Canada.

Doug Hawley relates his experiences in the natural vastness of mountainous and lesser-known eastern Oregon. Maja Herman Sekulic’s speakers lay exposed in the city, under the weight of human emotion as much as the heat of the sun and the relentlessness of the rain.

J.J. Campbell conveys regret, despair, and the lingering effects of a broken past. Mark Young’s poetry presents with wry humor dreams pursued and derailed. Susie Gharib’s work reflects the anxiety and discomfort of the human condition and her desire to find and choose peace. John Dorsey’s speakers seek various forms of comfort and stability.

Brian Barbeito reflects on the life and death of his beloved dog, Tessa. Taro Hokkyo’s short poems speak to grief and loss, ending on a note of regrowth.

David Sapp speaks to the lingering psychological impact of physical and mental loss during the American Civil War. Dennis Vannatta’s essay explores the wartime inspirations for some of Chopin’s music and compares that with his own Vietnam experience.

Fadwa Attia reviews Mohamed Sobhi’s new play “Fares Reveals the Hidden” which explores identity, homeland, and belonging. Dr. Kang Byeong-Cheol speaks to loneliness, nostalgia, and empathy.

Atabayeva Gulshan examines loneliness through the lens of Chekhov’s writings. RP Verlaine’s work posits speakers surrounded by maelstroms of feeling, unable to do more than watch. Dr. Kareem Abdullah reviews poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s work on the power of human emotion and the power of the individual to transcend it.

Nigar Nurulla Khalilova implores deities, and her fellow humans, for compassion towards struggling people. Eva Petropoulou Lianou misses human kindness and simple pleasantries of life.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde speaks to the physical coziness of true and long-term love. Isaac Aju writes of first love between a generous young man and a strong young woman who doesn’t feel conventionally feminine. Makhmasalayeva Jasmina Makhmashukurovna encourages love and respect for the wisdom of parents.

Poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou reminds us to be kind and show common courtesy. Greek poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews Chinese poet Yongbo Ma about writing as a spiritual practice to seek goodness in a harsh world. Elmaya Jabbarova highlights the power of the poet to engage with the senses and cast a vision for the world. Eva Petropoulou interviews Egyptian writer Ahmed Farooq Baidoon about his hopes and dreams for the human literary imagination to guide and transform our world, and also Venezuelan poet Mariela Cordero, who celebrates the evolution of literature and the unnoticed acts of kindness around us daily.

Sayani Mukherjee rests within a Romantic poet’s verdant natural dreamscape. Bekmirzayeva Aziza’s tale reminds us not to forget as we grow up that we can find happiness through simple pleasures and days in nature. Maja Milojkovic reminds us to care for the planet, asking us some hard questions in the process. Writer and literary critic Z.I. Mahmud compares Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in its critique of humanity’s quest to micromanage and control nature.

Idris Sheikh looks to the awakening and rebirth of Nigeria from poverty and violence. Joseph Ogbonna mourns the Ottoman Empire’s genocide of the Armenian people. Marjona Bahodirova’s story illustrates the pain and loss many women in Central Asia endure, due to class prejudice and intimate partner violence. Bill Tope’s short story explores the evolution of a formerly open-minded person into a bigot and the long-lasting harm that does to his family and ultimately, himself. Taylor Dibbert recollects an encounter with an aggressive and clueless neighbor as Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s collaborative short story humorously addresses social misunderstandings accentuated by our society’s prejudices. Patricia Doyne’s poem laments political aggression, power grabs, and the rise of autocracy as Daniel De Culla laments the political danger posed to democracies by a culture of brash ignorance.

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva explores the impact of literature on the lives of characters in Markus Zusak’s novel The Book Thief. Even though books cannot save them from the Nazis, they consider literature worth the risk of their lives. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa calls on humanity to seek knowledge and cultural advancement in the pursuit of peace.

Tarane Turan Rahimli speaks to the burgeoning literary scene and cultural heritage of her native Azerbaijan. Alex Johnson’s poem celebrates the enduring literary legacy of Patti Smith and William S. Burroughs and the Beat generation. Malika Abdusamat suggests possibilities for the role of artificial intelligence in language learning. Grock outlines the work and career of Indian poet Dr. Jernail S. Anand and considers his originality and suitability for a Nobel prize.

Christopher Bernard reviews Cal Performances’ production of William Kentridge’s The Great Yes, The Great No, praising the vibrant stagecraft while questioning the value of celebrating the absurd in a time of real political absurdity. Chimezie Ihekuna observes that the world’s ways have become upside-down, strange, and unusual.

Dr. Andrejana Dvornic, in a presentation at the Belgrade Book Festival, explores themes of love, longing, and loneliness in the works of Umid Najjari. Teacher Liu Xingli sends in poetry from the elementary school students of the Xiaohe Poetry Society in China’s Hunan Province, which explores themes of nature and society, love and compassion, and heroism and sacrifice.

Federico Wardal honors the legacy of actor Marcello Mastroianni. Texas Fontanella sends up some vibrant, avant-garde music. Cristina Deptula reviews the anthology White on White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus, edited by Alex S. Johnson with a foreword from Poppy S. Brite.

Vernon Frazer plays with splashy words and images. Rizal Tanjung situates the paintings of Anna Keiko in the developing history of world art. Scott Holstad probes Husserl’s philosophical understanding of phenomena and being.

Norman J. Olson evokes the wonderment and curiosity we can experience when we look at art and history. Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photography honors the Spanish heritage of faith and craft. Erkin Vahidov reflects on Uzbekistan’s proud cultural heritage. Toxirova Ruxshona highlights advances in modern world modern medicine in her piece on diagnostics and treatment for a variety of skin diseases.

Bangladeshi writer Mahbub Alam expresses his respect and humility before God in his Ramadan poem. Jake Sheff draws on mythology and history as he memorializes his family members and other figures from the past. Nilufar Anvarova’s poem tells the story of an elder encouraging modern people to remember the past.

Dr. Lalit Mohan Sharma reviews Dr. Jernail Anand Singh’s epic work “From Siege to Salvation,” comparing the battles of the Mahabharata with the siege of Troy and affirming commonalities of our human experience. Cristina Deptula interviews Nigerian poet Uchechukwu Onyedikam about transcending cultural barriers through his international haiku collaborations.

We hope that this issue will draw you out to peek at the world from different cultural and generational vantage points, then pull you inward to consider the value and wonder of your own thoughts and psyche.

Walking in the realm of Poetry and Art,

lonely am I

Bound by Poetry and Art,

I submit to their call, unconditional.

Leaving my job behind, Poetry I pursue,

Wealth I cast aside,

My soul a gentle wind, invisible,

Drifting through the night’s tide.

My heart stirs without reason,

Beats faster, again and again.

What causes this unrest,

I cannot discern.

Some nights, sleep eludes me,

Sometimes.

Dreaming of strange people and places.

Yet the meaning remains shrouded in mist.

My stomach hurts right after writing the title. I’ve avoided this grief as it’s so real that it begins to hurt physically. But somewhere Tessa knows how I feel. She was my dog, but also my friend. We spent years walking the forests, its verdant valleys and then sunny summits, also surveying streams and more open, pastoral places. And we went in all seasons, unafraid and confident. 

In time, the old girl slowed down a bit, and many of her whiskers had turned grey. I watched her and she watched me, maybe knowing that time had begun to call her to a further, unknown destiny. But we carried on. One day she became sick, and got better for a while, but then became ill again. The vet said she had cancer. She had thrown up and eliminated a lot of blood, and was in pain. The more humane action at that point was to put her down, to let her go, and that’s what occurred. I was there with her the whole time and held her, assured her. 

I think I helped her in those last moments and that they were with as little pain as possible. But what or where is this assurance afterwards against grief for myself? It is for me like a light rain coat or thin sweater in minus 20 degree Celsius winter weather. 

Therefore, it’s no assurance or insurance whatsoever. 

I am caught in the storm.  

And, as the storm brags its vexatious winds, bullying, and as those winds blow cold snow upon my already troubled countenance, a demeanour of frustration and withdrawal and plain stupid pain, I try and think of better days…

It was warm when I retrieved her from a small northern rescue outfit. An old woman and man, obviously good souls, ran the shelter which consisted of a large fenced area in back of their property. They relied on donations for almost everything and had an agreement with vets in training somewhere to perform necessary operations to prevent the dogs from being taken by breeders. They were the n the middle of an almost God forsaken climate of mosquitoes though, for there was a series of bogs or swamps close by that allowed many more mosquitoes to breed than a regular summer place even rural. 

That’s why Tessa always not only disliked mosquitoes like anyone or any animal would, she absolutely abhorred them and it was noticeable if one or a fly even went near her. 

I’d asked to go in the cage where dogs were barking, especially Tessa. The old caretaker, grey hair disheveled, clothing torn through age and hard work, and unrepaired in places, had said, ‘If you want. Go ahead. Nobody has asked to do that before.’ I went in and Tessa barked at me nonstop. But I could see she was not an aggressive soul but rather a scared soul. 

When it was time to travel home she lay in the van just in the middle a bit behind me and stopped barking. Looking up at me I could see her saying to the universe at that time something akin to, ‘Oh. He is the one. He has come to rescue me and bring me to a forever home. He is not a threat and I can relax a bit now.’

Not bad Tessa. That day I took you out of the humid mosquito infested world and we left with air conditioning and a water bowl you’d not have share. 

In life she could never completely relax, for God knows what trauma or abandonment Tessa endured in the beginning of this life. But for her, she came a long way through the years and was comfortable as possible. 

They say not to use cliches, but who are they exactly at the end of the day and what do they know? Other than a spelling mistake or some real structural error, I was never too concerned with what some stranger, or school of thought, had to say.

Everyone is an expert, aren’t they?

Tessa had a good run, maybe a great run all things considered. 

I did the best I could, each and every day. 

And, most importantly, Tessa is in a better place now. 

As for the grief, my stomach still hurts, and though it’s uncomfortable I’m not afraid. 

——

changed his mind

still chasing your

dead father’s love

dig him up, see

if he has changed

his mind

embrace depravity

and understand this

is the new bottom

there’s this old black

soul that likes to tease

me

she shows me some leg

when she’s feeling sexy

i ask her nicely to take

her high heel and dig it

into my chest as she

hikes up her skirt and

does whatever she

pleases

she usually laughs

explains that at her

age she would have

to remove the diaper

i kiss her hand and

explain to her that i

don’t mind anything

simply looking to

be broken in two

she gave me the

number of a guy

down on third

oh, the twists

and turns

———————————————————————-

to ever repair

snow on the first

day of spring

somewhere the world

is on fire and no one

gives a shit

only personal tragedies

register on the soul

anymore

beaten, blinded

broken into too

many pieces to

ever repair

live long enough

and every hero

will disappoint

you

somewhere your dead

father starts to laugh

another endless night

of wondering how to

sleep while in pain

there surely must be

a pill for this

wash it down

with vodka

water from the

old country

but this was

made in texas

exactly

—————————————————————

one too many rainbows

sometimes i imagine

my shadow holding

a gun

where did he get

that thing

i suppose i have chased

one too many rainbows

now, in the twilight of

democracy, still thinking

hope exists

she’s disguised as misery

an easy whore that can’t

get any work

baffling

sometimes i imagine

my shadow holding

a gun

sometimes, an AR-15

he likely knows that

the first shot probably

won’t kill me

————————————————————————

saw something different

kissing under the blood moon

rekindling a flame that just

won’t die out

she haunts my dreams

all these years

raise a glass and pretend

that any of this matters

living in this hell is sacrifice

enough

these are the nights you

dream about all the women

that got away

and here you are with the one

that saw something different

she tastes like a better tomorrow

of course, we’ll cross that

bridge when we get there

tonight is for the lovers

the dreamers

the sad fucks that deserve

a little moment of happiness

there isn’t much else left

in this world

————————————————————————

never fall in love with me

i always tend to fall

in love with the ones

leaving soon

the ones already

married

the ones that will

never fall in love

with me

i have tried to break

this habit as i have

grown older

i should have thought

of that long before i

gave up on people

i suppose

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Beatnik Cowboy, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Disturb the Universe Magazine. You can catch him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

1. Please share your thoughts about the future of literature..

 It gives me the greatest honor to share and partake my own passion for literature, that ornament that embellishes our livelihood throughout lifetime, I am smitten by rendition and erudition of books in all life spheres, to build up a cultural cauldron inside my mind, to dissolve in the amalgam of civilizations and conception of the other, I am not that fond of traveling abroad, for fear of nostalgia to swathes of my endeared heartfelt homeland, rather I consider reading is the solution to unravel the riddle and decipher the intricacies of the others’ thoughts, attitudes and expectations.

It mirrors their torchlight guidance for the generations who are in dire need of your imagination and enlightenment to recognize who they really are, to perceive to what extent they reached out in their conceptualizing the core and crux of what is going on in the literary and scientific arenas.

• When u start writing?

I do start since the prim of my youth, as a curious onlooker youngling in pursuance of language exposure, I listen a lot to the radio transmissions, like BBC news, or VOA coverage, I wrote down what I was hearing with the help of pronunciation skills I gained, the process by which I acquired spontaneity and fluency in English, fundaments in some other languages, didactic methodological errands to tackle my subject matter helped me a lot, throughout planning to – do lists in English, to your amazement, I tried to find out equivalent in my Arabic Fus7a the mother tongue, regarding idiomatic structure, interjection and syntax.

That linguistic inclination granted me tools and opened up large scale horizons to address the other, the process reached its zenith alongside with the gigantic leap of the know how, technological platforms, I jumped into platforms and mobile apps dealing in learning languages, there are so many to imitate the inventory contents and speak with the other. Since then, I planned a pathway to work on translation as a bonfire or a kindled flame to light up minds and allure other to the benefits of linguistics, as I volunteer to do so, awaiting to reap the fruits and my words instilled and inscribed in the scroll of universal history of literature like the notable role models in prose and verse.

• The Good and the Bad.

• Who is winning in nowadays?

That is a philosophical question, compelling me to the inner self of mankind, good and evil deeds created and innate inside of us, instinctively we might be susceptible to both pathways, but the mighty hand of good and righteous so doing is the vanquisher at last, goodness is like the lofty sun light, a heavenly revelation, but all humans err, and have shortcomings and deficiencies engendered, that abomination and obscene inclination dimmed the lovely hearts, that may delude us and made us into an abyss of the hell. There are wise proverbs admonishing us all—do good and cast it into the seas, do as you would be done by. Therefore, emanating from that mundane truth, we must uphold the slogan or motto of good and faithfulness rather than malfide and diabolical intrigues.

• How many books have you written

And where can we find your books?

My printed out paper literary output was not that superfluous, I wrote about 10 short stories long time ago, but some of which were printed, in fact, 3 of which named: a human being.. But?.. The altars of imagination.. Snippets tinged with the savory of one’sself.. So many published electronically on Facebook prose symposia such as:the Golden Forum of short story, the Arab conference magazine platform.. Poetic anthologies are my passion, I wrote rhymed and free verse, my first diwan named : give me some sake, my poetic quill?..’ Hanaiki ‘Published and printed, but alot of poems scattered through websites and platforms, I also translate from other foreignlanguages into the Arabic.

Novels and novella play an important part of significance, the Adventurous novel ‘Nabhan and Dannan Alhazhaian’ – Nabhah and the Cask of Bewilderness, published this year, along with a translated novella— what’s after? Both Arabic and English versions of mine. For me, I dreamt to publish an encyclopedia encompassing most of luminaries around the globe with entire congregational literary genre masterpieces I have translated for them, still that dream awaiting a sponsor to make into the light. Translation is all in all undulating waves of outrageous sea of knowledge, full of untold sunken pearls in need to shine. A plea to all literary avant-garde laureates in all fields—give a keen eye on the translators, supposedly, I am one of them. Also, I am doing great in the sphere of literary criticism, you can follow my studies for the Arab writers through Arab symposium for contemporary criticism, and magazine like Amarjy, Damietta, blue world magazine, Nokhba, and other Greek, Romanian and Albanian podiums.

Anyone can search on my name through Google search engine in Arabic and English: Ahmed Farooq Baidoon أحمد فاروق بيضون.

• What will be the future?

The future is promising, throughout unprecedented microcosm of consensus of literate, authors, playwrights, novelists, poets and poetesses, along with the evolutionary literary new genres, like haiku, tanka, haibun, micro-fiction, micro novella, I wish the future of literature created a venue that shall simplify meeting of the notable acculutred from the entire global territories, to stand united as upholders of word beauty and firmaments, they build up mind apart from undermining mental calibers of the generation by trivial bandwagon of fallacies and violence. We all call upon peace, welfare and serenade, to populate the Earth, to be worthy living and let the children of the world sing the song of unity and unanimous psalms of  love. I dreamt that I could hear  the sparrows chirping again.

• ..A wish for 2025

I wish it will be the turning point for a fruitful future, that’s all,

If only I could see the sunlight without imbued clouds,

If only I could see festivity world-wide without a droplet of tear or bereavement,

Let-alone a world of grudge-free and cherished with tempestuous sentiments.

Be it a dream in impelling need to come true or still the apparition of hatred looms?

• A phrase from your book

(I Am The Wandering Letter)

Behold—here I am the solitary letter,

Let go astray in a paginated paper,

My ink fountain has muttered its insomnia,

I wrote down words and battle myself in a race,

I stay up late at daytime and darkness loom at night,

Therein – could hear all shall carry and trace,

I call upon everyone before the glow of twilight,

How come could eyes blink-my ribs fed up with stress,

How come shall we caress those melancholic setbacks with laughter alright,

And, hide all what may choke of distress,

And, flout all contemptuous abomination and dismiss,

Oh! Let-alone that blackout and sleepless eyelids perplexed till late times,

And, all inflected upon us—such lethal crimes,

I shall lay aside all overwhelming screams into oblivion rhymes,

Behold – the stroke of pens, ripped papers of mine; be it echoless as I feel down,

That serves me right as crippled, knitting my eyebrow and frown,

Does the croak of toads prevail in the universe and trumpet?

Verily, the celestial skies manifested as my salvation refuge to glimpse in slumber,

From color to another, we shall stomp it,

Behold-homesick of days, in grey tug of conflicting starry curtains – please hide,

If only I could be back in shape, a free letter without clipping wings – open- eyed.

Marlowe, Marlow, and Marlowe

Preface

Being touched like a flame lit twice afire,

I ran to the illusions of three characters I knew well,

Marlowe, Marlow, and Marlowe.

Though they knew little of my faults, their intuition carried me to them.

Then, the wisdom of the future, heralded by naked angels, touched me.

We embraced each other, reflections mixing our roles,

never our ambitions for adventures.

Amid an absence of sanity and security,

we considered the uncertainty of time,

existence was now a plan

a playing field of absurdity.

Seduction

for pleasure, not honor.

Immediately, I searched for the remedies

that would unite the past with what was once the past

but is now

at the center of what can be imagined.

My feelings went astray as sensations courted all things moving forward,

forward in a circle.

How do I

define loyalty?

By

disgrace

and embarrassment?

The whereabouts of desires glistened

as I waded toward the underbelly of reality.

In the distance,

where logic cannot overcome fear

God, the Almighty,

yawned

as Hera flirted with him.

But his eyes were fixed

on

beautiful but dangerous

Aphrodite,

bathing nude opposite herself.

I became the difference between myself

and who the evil spirits thought I was.

With the world in turmoil, my mind sharpened,

effectively becoming a destructive weapon.

One – Christopher

Sailors, soldiers

and veterans without optimism

on warships

headed to those mountainous beliefs

a thought away from a fall.

Both

commitment and rage

gave a sense of camaraderie

to the blood-doused euphoria

of

redemption.

A word without meaning

to those without meaning.

After a war party

I undressed an ageless goddess in my bedroom

and smelled the aromas of comfortable past entrances.

The eager men and the women before me

now, just melancholy ghosts

reflecting their regrets from colored liquor bottles.

Impatient from our liberation from conformity,

uncomfortable with delusion,

but in harmony with the obvious,

I licked the sweat from her breasts

and legs and turning her gently around.

There are many impulses

but the foremost crime of humanity

is to waste hours

longing for a continuation of life.

I said

simply to Marlowe,

“I am passionate about my ambitions.”

His grin became Faust’s smile, “If she’s a goddess, shouldn’t you spread her legs wider?”

Exceptions more than expectations are forgiven

when unwanted expressions are spoken.

Devoid of boundaries,

I never considered any alternatives

to succumbing

once again.

As per usual

at the trial, I was found guilty

of loving

of living

and of loving and living with a lion’s roar

convicted by a jury with venom in their eyes.

In the nightclub next to the crematorium,

friends’ wives with the scars they bear from trysts

recalled times when we were thought to be

mythical models

with a hated impetuousness for life.

As the power drained,

the lights dimmed, and we gave an icy toast to the exultation

of man’s counterfeit concern for his fellow man.

Foxes and flies entered from the back door.

I heard drunken eagles swoop down on doves dressed in corsets,

their plumage more golden than cinnamon-red

and their nakedness

open to the pampered

but

never to the dreary day laborers

who thought themselves tortured martyrs.

I listened as those in lines of their own making

cried when the whips

struck their backs.

How repetitious,

their

self-serving stories

about the holiest of nights

in the most dank and dreary places

where death played with the horrors of existence

was little more

than a morsel of

marshmallow self-forgiveness.

Never be fooled

by the

pungent mistrust of thoughts

thinking about thoughts

and being

misled

by thoughts

unthought.

I left Marlow in the last booth of a

celebrated pub

with Diana, the Huntress

where I knew he would strangely

disappear.

Two – Charles

The wedding ceremony was incidental.

Attendees formed a stairwell of disbelief.

An armistice of sorts

for those who thought

freedom

was a consequence of lethargic behavior.

My ashen date, a scholarly Norsewoman, Sigrid

believed

Orpheus should travel to Hades once more

but

this time with the Minotaur

to save Eurydice.

I was asked to come along

but I suggested Marlow,

a storyteller

who believed in reaching

for something incredible

and missing

was better than playing it safe.

Of actions unfathomable,

he considered it ludicrous

to invent tragedy

when it was blatantly a

portrayal of reality.

But he was sometimes found to tell lies to preserve

the perception of individuals as noble;

shielding the listeners from any disturbing truths.

Lying in bed

with a nymph,

high on the Oracle of Delphi’s appraisal that

wealth prolonged adolescence

I realized

if you dream,

if you wish

then make promises, the end becomes the beginning

and the promises become

an unquenchable serpent around your neck.

Faith is always in the distance, and though you are amazed

you are dwelling in lore,

prayers, like gratitude

get trampled.

The privileged passed, whined, and reflected on the enigma of monetary sorrows

as being the reason

Grendel’s mother went mad,

not the murder of her son.

With tears of surrealism,

I became what I was before I became what I could never be.

Passing the Asphodel Meadows,

Orpheus recited Hamlet’s soliloquy

to Hecate.

She stripped, and both dissolved into a myth of their own making.

The Minotaur

decided to kill Perseus before

he beheaded Medusa

and

Marlow approached Teiresias,

the blind prophet

and asked how to

return order

to a chaotic world.

He petted the vicious three-headed dog Cerberus

and smiled,

“Why?”

I realized despair had no wings.

Against the grain, against the turmoil, against the odds,

seeking the self-portrait behind the mirror,

I leap

through diamond-shaped crystals

that

irradiated irises

so, whatever there was to see

I would see

without penance or absolution.

A woman forever in a prism, bathing in infinite beauty,

dripped from shadows of memories I had forgotten.

Hearing church bells,

I ran to the line between life and death,

where Eurydice lovingly opened her arms

to hide me.

I glided into her

resting upon all the effeminate

virtues.

Horror and absurdity

abound

beyond the satyrs’ chorus

in the souls of the

ravenous.

I revealed myself

to Eurydice

as being

who I am

because there was no one to follow.

I exited,

without a kiss

landing uncomfortably

in the dark

where Marlow

began the story.

Three – Philip

Language is raped every day, and the rapist goes unpunished.

There are prisoners inside puzzles, trying to locate characters lost in scenes.

I see their disappearing trails through the maze.

Restless accusers scorn me for exploring

among the split tongues of war

and the fortune found in the asylums of women.

Craving that smell of feminine power that wafts from between their legs,

cubist women curl their hands around my neck.

Laughing at sanity,

I remain searching

where time and fate ride

that line of horizon and sea.

If I needed someone

she would be found here

where curiosity

tempts virginity.

Prophets say that tyrants triumph as meanings disappear from words.

Though the wind has no enemies,

it never rests.

The wind

and the seekers

of the wind

live in a world without

ultramarine and vermillion.

They question whether a life is worthwhile

without color

or ignorance.

I, though, have no quarrel with those who question

their crucifixion

without

hope or fear.

Relentless in my pursuit to find where I stand

I call Marlowe,

who always

 plays hunches in emotional landscapes.

Crafting experiences and perceptions

he tells me,

“Darkness only remembers pleasure’s smile.”

I follow him

down the paths of confusion and madness

until we set sail

for places without boundaries

where

convention is extinguished from conviction.

We watch as language is blundered, ravished, and tossed aside

to rot and die.

Marlowe,

who sees beyond the big sleep,

preaches that

you can never take back what you have heard.

Still, some find comfort in nevermore

disguised

as evermore.

But we adventurers, always on the fringe

of knowing

of finding

of believing

are strangers even to the ones we love.

We understand the violence of our own feelings

and see beyond

the visible appearance of the world.

Epilogue

Days later – not yet now,

but far from then.

I sit in a comfortable leather chair at the workplace

of

Marlowe, Marlow, and Marlowe.

While my mind is unraveling a myth,

an unrelenting myth

a beautiful woman

with straight, long red hair,

cold-piercing green eyes and black business attire

states smartly,

“The playwright, the narrator, and the detective

will see you now.”

Alfonso Reyes and Poetic Consciousness: Dreams as Revelation

Cesare Pavese stated, “We don’t remember days, we remember moments,” and Heidegger reminds us that “man acts as if he were the shaper and master of language, while language remains man’s master.” These two ideas can illuminate the work of Alfonso Reyes, a writer whose poetic exploration is not only an exercise in memory and conscience, but also a testament to the relationship between language, dreams, and revelation.

For Reyes, the habit of poetic consciousness is the meeting point between word and idea, between thought and feeling, between life and reason. His fascination with Greek tradition led him to understand poetry as the origin of human existence. In his view, reason and hope were not opposites, but complementary, as evidenced in Platonic philosophy. Reyes, in agreement with María Zambrano, seemed to understand that in classical Greece there was no sharp separation between thought and feeling, between poetry and reason, but rather both elements coexisted in vital harmony.

One of the most interesting aspects of Reyes’s poetry is his conception of dreams as a space of revelation. He understood them not as a simple escape or manifestation of the unconscious, but as a path to knowledge and poetic creation. Just as Heraclitus saw dreams as a place of absolute individuality, Reyes perceived them as a form of wakefulness, an intermediate state where language and image illuminate each other.

This vision is present in his poem “Pesadilla,” where dreams are not only a refuge, but a stage where fear and memory converse with history, with the dead, and with time. In these verses, Reyes shows us a world where spirits and memories blur, suggesting that dreams are also a form of truth, a way of reconstructing human experience through poetic imagery:

“Through those houses I visit in dreams,

confused galleries and halls,

staircases where fear wanders

and darkness rolls in tremors…”

The same experience can be had again and again in the dream of returning. Ideas follow one another over time in a vital and luminous way, making it almost impossible to reconstruct the remnants of thought without taking into account the energy to which it leads us, the desire to return to that dream, to those houses visited in dreams, since dreaming is not conceived in Reyes’s work as the simple wandering of the unconscious. This sensation, which causes the discourse of the encounter with existence in Reyes, is repeated until it provokes the desire for an eternal dream, which is both origin and consequence in a given moment.

His poetics is a constant journey toward the mystery of being, an attempt to reconcile vital cosmology with poetry. For him, writing is tracing a path that begins with intuition and emotion and leads to the light of understanding.

Awakening, dream, and vision are a provocation in the depths of time. Their timelessness is the original awakening and therefore the birth of Alfonso’s history, consciousness, and thought. In this angle of poetic vision, the antagonistic tendency established by the poetic image of the theorist, of the instant in subordination to the contextual world, and on the other hand, the influence of the same world, within the artistic system of Alfonso Reyes, who, beyond the mimetic relationship between reality and vision, dream and configuration, life and word, highlights the deference of real contexts as an incitement to creative activity.

This poetic awareness that Reyes develops between the extratextual and the textual, from external and internal perspectives, between the objective and the subjective in Rey’s literary invention, produces an artistic effect, which is developed throughout his own artistic feeling, in which the writer’s balance and personality play a relevant role, defining the objective and the impersonal from a new perspective that concerns his own expectations and from a particular point of view.

Reyes seeks to make his vital thought an astral, eternal, and uniform inclination. It is possible for him to transit in and through life, even in the manner of the stars, which is not proper to man. And Reyes certainly recognizes that this image has something of a frenzy, since it is an image of an empty time, without beginning or end, of an absolutized time; devoid of scope. Yet if space is described by creating it, then it is an effigy of life in its purest state, of life as an existence both chosen and free.

If Heidegger proclaimed that language is man’s teacher, in Reyes we find a concrete application of this idea. We can see in him that the poetic word not only names reality, but creates, expands, and transforms it. As in Plato, in Reyes, poetry is a way of knowing the world, a journey that seeks to wrest its hidden truth from existence.

His writing moves between intellectual rigor and imagination, between clarity and reverie. His verses and essays reflect a ceaseless search for meaning, a desire to transcend everyday experience to reach a broader dimension, where thought and poetry intertwine in an unquenchable radiance.

In Alfonso Reyes’s work, dreaming is not simply closing one’s eyes and escaping, but opening one’s mind and expanding one’s consciousness. It is searching in the depths of language for those sparks of truth that illuminate the world and restore our breath in the true dimension of what we have experienced.