Duane Vorhees reviews Jacques Fleury’s collection You Are Enough: The Journey To Accepting Your Authentic Self

Silhouetted figure leaping off into the unknown with hand and leg raised. Bushes and tree in the foreground, mountains ahead. Book is green and yellow with black text and title.
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self

Jacques Fleury marches in the long parade headed by drum major Walt Whitman. But many observers from the street are still uncertain of the spectacle. One of Whitman’s early literary friends and admirers, John Townsend Trowbridge, recalled that he found in the poet’s first (1855) edition of Leaves of Grass “much that impressed me as formless and needlessly offensive; and these faults were carried to extremes in the second and enlarged edition of 1856” and that much of the early criticism centered on “his unrhymed and unmeasured lines.” And Trowbridge also referred to Ralph Waldo Emerson’s remark on Whitman’s later work: “No more evidence of getting into form.” Whitman was ignored by the establishment for most of his writing career, and when noticed he was reviled and ridiculed, but his work was the beginning of what is known as free verse.

While free verse has become the dominant form of contemporary American poetry, and has largely shucked its socially “offensive” character, it still has many detractors among those who relish what Whitman called the “ballad style,” with its emphasis on rhythm and rhyme. Although he also indulges in rap-style rhyming, Fleury reflects on this dichotomy between acceptable and unconstrained poetry (imposed by “an all-white order” with its “long history” of imposing its “cultural values and / Socio-political power” in his free verse poem, “Random Musings about Submission,” in which he reflects on the rejection of one of his poems by a nameless publication, “Thank you for your submission. But your work is not a good fit for our publication.” In response, Fleury launches into a racially-charged defense of his identity as a non-binary non-WASP poet, writing as “an ignoble omnivorous muskrat.” After tracing his poetic heritage back to the epics of Gilgamesh, Beowulf, and Roland, he demands an “all-inclusive literary faction / Where ALL postulatory voices are worthy of publication” and he vows to continue to submit but NEVER to their behest for submission!!!”

In “Who Am I?” Fleury further defines his identity as a “multilayered entity … / a building block of heterogenity.” (He briefly adopts an effective set of off-rhyme couplets, “I am a malady / I am a remedy / I am a rainbow / I am a shadow”), while in another poem, “Possible Causes and Effects of Cited High Blood Pressure,” he itemizes standard medical data (family history of heart disease, poor dietary and sleep habits) and adds racism to the list. However, despite the bitterness expressed in much of his work, he also notes, in “The Only Way to See the Stars…,” that such seeing is “through the darkness.” 

So Fleury’s free verse is free enough to incorporate occasional diversions into “ballad style” renderings. But, again according to Trowbridge, even Whitman’s own pioneering “writings became … more consciously literary in their aim.” Or, as Emerson remarked, in a different context, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” 

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming , Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious  publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.

Duane Vorhees is an American poet in Thailand. He is the author of THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES, HEAVEN, GIFT: GOD RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS, MEMORIES ARE LINKED LIKE OASES, A CONSIDERABLE SHARE OF FELICITY, and THE WOMB AND THE BRAIN. Born in Farmersville, Ohio, USA, he graduated from Bowling Green State University with a doctorate in American Culture Studies. He has taught at Seoul National University, Korea University, and the Asian Division of the University of Maryland University College (now the University of Maryland Global Campus).

Poetry from Wazed Abdullah

Young South Asian boy with short black hair and a light blue collared shirt.
Wazed Abdullah

My green country in Monsoon’s lap

Monsoon clouds gather, dark and deep,

Rivers swell, their secrets to keep.

Paddy fields dance in the pouring rain,

Life awakens, free from pain.

Children splash in puddles wide,

Nature’s bounty, a vibrant tide.

In every drop, a story flows,

Bangladesh breathes as the monsoon grows.

Wazed Abdullah is a student in grade nine at Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

Poetry from Ilhomova Mohichehra

Love to family

My love to my family,

To my brother, sister, mother.

A piece for my dad too,

My way is a sidewalk.

I honor my father,

I respect my mother.

My brother and sister,

Of course I care.

Abdurrahman, Umida,

He respects me.

With kind words to me,

He tasted honey from his tongue.

Daddy loves me

He caresses and hugs.

what i say will do

What can I say?

My mother is kind,

Every word has magic.

My mother is my only one

The whole world is one piece.

My sister is surprised

My brother is a wrestler.

Inspiration cries to me,

A propeller in my head.

My family is my happiness

My throne in the world.

“Family is the holy place”

The words madhim-ku.

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a teacher of the 8th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

Poetry from Lan Qyqualla (one of several)

Headshot of a clean shaven white man with brown hair and brown eyes.

RAIN IN MY EYES

The rainbow appeared

behind the lines of rain,

the worries and troubles of stis,

carved verses

where the west burned,

in the braided flower,

we put a wreath.

You can’t see the rainbow

it didn’t rain a little,

in my eyes…!

AUTUMN LOVE IN PRISTINA

We met in the fall,

in the amphitheater you tweet…

the streets of Pristina,

in the cold night,

shoot me like a mountain fairy.

the stars were aligned

that summer evening in your tear,

we were both lost in the untouched oasis

and the lips stopped at the sounds FlokArtë.

Why did we travel, tell me why

in the cold winter and snow,

the beaming sun gave us a gift,

you ray of sunshine lit me siashra.

Why did we run to the meadows, why

in the early spring fragrance of love

we pray to the flowers of the green field,

embraced we felt exotic intoxication.

THE POET’S MUSE

The poet,

They give the words a meadow color

evoke memories in torn maps

does not believe in the miracles of the Mountain Fairies

of the world forgives love!

The poet cooks the word

in the magic of poetry,

in the chain the verses of the verses

stigmatizes renegades

with the measure of memory

in the arboreal fireplace.

Poet, in verse

the storm and the sun in the sun bring,

the figures are planted with love,

under the word

it bakes a world

that you don’t know

fused into crystal…

on the poetic harp you compress it.

The poet dreams

Aphrodite in the light of the lantern,

and he engraves the stalagmites in the cave

in the poetry book

AFTER CENTURIES

After centuries we will get drunk

On the salty altar

we will remember your escape in the spring,

the colors will change,

there will be neither red, nor black, nor green

it will be only blue;

there will be no age, only death

 neither school, nor court, nor work,

the whole thing will be like a game…

there will be sea in overtime

life will develop there in the depths,

ships will sail without gas

my dear

The air will be polluted

and the oxygen will be rarefied,

rain will not fall, nor snow, nor typhoon

there won’t be, everything will be the same

in ruins of centuries,

abandoned houses that people are looking for,

fierce wars will be fought

they will cry: bread, air and palaces

with your absence,

that day will come after a few centuries,

where you and I will eat in glass dishes

and we will knit the verses

on the silk fabric,

they will be fed to the spotted birds

and drunk, that day will come very soon,

my love…

these verses will be: proof of a love.

Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu,  Spanish, and Korean.

Poetry from Mark Young

Antelope Field

There are antelope
in the field down
the road. Okay, 
well maybe not
antelope, but nyala
or oryx. & maybe
it’s not a field
but a patch of
garden which in
reality is too small
for the eland &
in reality is not
even a garden but
a window box in
which the cat sits
soaking up the sun. 
& since I don’t have
a window or a cat
it’s quite possible 
that this scene
from the wilds is
nothing more than a
screensaver that
comes on after
I’ve been away from
the PC for at least
three minutes. Which
I haven’t been, I’ve
been sitting here
all the time. So maybe,
just maybe, it all
comes down to
a plasma rectangle
that is framed by
tool- & scroll-bars
but is otherwise
entirely white except
for the two words 
floating at the top.
Field. Antelope.



Putsch

He picked
up whatever 
thoughts
were upper- 
most in 
his mind at 
the time 

ran with them
for a while

& then 
discarded them
as if they were the 
children of 
a past regime.


Nijinski reminisces

Exuberance
is in an eye
much more

beholden
to the magic
of the mo-

ment than to 
the pattern
of the dance.




Inside knowledge

Or:
knowing where
the bodies are
buried. 

Or:
knowing when
the berries are
bodied.


On Journeys

The shape of the journey
has something to do
with color. A small part
but important. The color
has to do with the shape
of those things you are
looking for. Also important,
not so small. The taste lies

on your tongue. Sound is
restricted by allowing one
album to come along with
you. Either earphone music 
or that playlist in your mind
cycling through an endless loop.

Poetry from Donna Dallas

Call Me Well Again

I’ve survived another you

saliva infectious 

dreary and shopworn

I tear through the streets wildly 

search for 

someone’s discarded shred of home 

soft sheets 

a fireplace perhaps

light operatic music 

it’s just a fantasy

non-existent

any minute your truck will come barreling through

my thoughts of salvation

I’ll get by on a lower dosage 

of you

We’ll cut it down to three days a week 

I’ll end up stalking you

grip the light post 

to climb the rim of the dumpster 

try to peer in 

your window 

You’re agitated now 

I’m so low I’m a slinking

belly scraping beggar 

no real reason I’m lingering outside 

in thirty-five degrees 

wearing a denim jacket 

you shuffle me to the truck

I’m edging away 

from two failed marriages 

put it all on them 

but it was me me me 

When I’m well again

I’ll come calling

fresh as babies’ skin

holding a tray of Starbucks

While I Wait for my Lover 

The buzz and hum of New York City

fills the air 

I tuck into a restaurant for cover 

small

Italian 

quiet 

The couple at the table next to me

sort through sonogram prints

I feel a pang of jealousy at 

the little fetus forming in this woman’s 

belly

My lover 

late – and certainly not mine alone 

has no interest in children 

For his sake 

I forego this 

I cannot help but stare 

longingly into the abyss of those 

black and whites 

that little heart 

tiny head

this embryo I turn my body 

away from 

for martyrdom 

yet it’s the thing that calls to me

from some primal part of

my makeup 

I’m on the edge now

sacrificing the eggs 

I feel bouncing around 

in my uterus 

for some blind pact 

that later seals the deal

of which we will be much 

happier 

together 

without kids 

While I Wait for my Lover (Cont.)

The woman feels my eyes 

says it’s a boy

smiles uncontrollably 

I worm around in my seat

the couple finally gone

I am left alone

and this is how it will be

as I decided I’ve passed that exit 

many many highways before 

I’ll just wait for my lover to show up 

and order us scotch on the rocks 

for the long pull of loneliness 

has begun to root 

What Will Your Mother Say

When she finds your corpse

with foam bubbling

down your chin

eyes sunk deep 

in your sockets

black spreading around

your lids and mouth

the needle still stuck

frozen

You

in your aloneness

You 

in your dying

As your mother cracks open

lays across you

the spoon now cold

your spirit beats against the window 

pleads

with God

to let you

back in

To see her in a pile 

of grief and longing 

so deep

your soul evaporates

into the pain

What will she tell

your siblings

the school

the bus driver

the crossing guard

it was an accident

always is

Wait for the autopsy

to understand

what went wrong

deep in the gully of absent parenting 

divorce

boyfriend fondlers

What Will Your Mother Say (Cont.)

booze

cigs

marijuana

heroine

here……..

As you lay hardened

frothing

a slow last milky tear oozing

She still wants you

she begs 

to glue you 

for a day – just one day

even if it’s your druggy lean against the wall

eyes open to a slit

turtle movements 

slurred speech

if just that…than the hell of this 

to speak of you

now

in your deadness

Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh

warning

a storm warning

the butterflies in my stomach

announced the summer plan to intercept


continuous distance
hair fell on hair
the sky turns red as if it knows
everything in advance
my hair fell for
the first time on your comb
which you will never use again

Basement

Human is the basement of the toilet room

Tenement maze of history and stories


No animal in the world has ever died for its cage before

No animal has invented aerial bombs


To first Octobers number 


Suck my death

an unborn kitten is knocking at the church of a torn belly

the future flows like sperm from the wall of the gateway

my dead lover gets stuck in my throat where his cock used to hide during blowjob

I dream of having my throat fucked by a nuclear bomb

I dream in my dreams that instead of a strap-on a hydrogen bomb will stick out of my ass

I know that god will not pour anything into my balls during a handjob

mosquitoes and military pilots meanwhile fly towards the scent of blood

not a single military man gave me flowers

only somewhere in the dark a muscular sergeant said: hey fag suck my dick like before death

what if the ammunition depot where I'm already being fucked by a group of soldiers will explode from the fact that I'm so hot and sexy

suddenly I will destroy the army and piss all the military factories with my blood

suddenly I really will be fucked in a minute by the last soldier in the history of mankind

in the meantime they fuck me in all the cracks and call me a fag

I wonder if the soldiers have wives

I wonder how many lovers smeared the mouths of soldiers' wives with sperm

I wonder how many soldiers kissed their wives on the lips after that

I wonder how many nuclear bombs are produced in secrecy

I would like to grow longer hair and dye it blonde

the truth is hidden in the details of my anus

god fuck us all with your voice

we are tired of the silence of the red buttons

after which a nuclear explosion will follow


after fucking a new nuclear bomb will be born in me [?]


Brown town

In the heart of earthy hues,

Brown town,

A needle threads life's tapestry,

Brown town,

A need, a yearning palpable.

People encircle, form clay figures,

Silent echoes of existence,

Seated, molded by time's unseen hands.

Within, dwell stories untold,

Brown town,

Clay figures poised in quiet contemplation,

Sculpted reflections of shared moments.



my lover asked

my lover asked me when i first saw porn

it would be better if he asked something simpler, like how many times we quarrel with my husband

(sometimes it seems to me that love is too abstract a word for our painfully non-abstract world)

my lover finally pissed me off when he started talking about the non-binary nature of human nature

- I call you bitch to suck and not destroy our homosexual intimacy with the philosophy, fag, - I said to my lover while he turned into a statue

my lover is a beautiful antique statue but alas the statues don't have blood

my professional skills as a bloodsucker are now in question

my lover its: not reacted to my bites and slaps for a day

it seems to me that he sailed away into the cast-iron tunnel of the night

it seems to me that my lover dreams of flowers in ball gowns and without graves

death knocked on the back of the room and asked: whose house is this?

and this ruined house is now a ruin

the anti-missile installation of the heart has failed

the night in the eyes of my dead dead man will no longer dissolve

even explosions won't wake my lover

red sky like a bud revealed death

god's assistant pressed the wrong button again

аll in vain


We

Free

Freends

Friends

French fries

With self burger


We distance

We running

Running away from each other



vegetable garden

my body is a vegetable garden in which nothing grows

we're all hungry without the smell of fresh meat and cum

generals fuck tomorrow's dead for free saving on prostitutes

sun umbrellas and winter sleighs are in vain


sho(r)t (hi)story
I want the last nuclear bomb to explode inside my ass
the sun warms the cold body of my lover shot by dawn
the trenches are screaming but no historian
will tell about our buried feelings in the future
the stones are screaming but only the wind drowning in the river
will tell about our buried lovers

No title
the station of tears breaks out and thirst falls from the inside of the heart
let's go to my house, drink my blood, burst my capillaries, tear my ass, tear out my tonsils
meanwhile god's deputy keeps pushing the wrong buttons

onlyfa
the steak burned inside my stomach
the gun kills me but nothing will come out of my vagina
we drink only sperm
my eggs and balls strive for your grape nipple
still life of the world during the continuous noise of a siren
we drink only tears

one cocku
you drink the silence of my moan
and I feel uneasy about spring
which hasn’t come either

part-time
part-time job
being naked in the pristine ruins of houses