This four session virtual workshop will provide poets and writers of all levels, genres, and backgrounds with the tools to write from their experiences with atrocity, the traumas produced by atrocity, and the healing (personally, communally, nationally) your words can make of it. Featuring Ellen Bass, Jacqueline Osherow, Joy Ladin, Geoffrey Philp, Jehanne Dubrow, among others. Moderated by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum. Four consecutive weekly sessions (January 7, 14, 21, 28 ).
Each session includes content from the forthcoming book The Wounded Line: A Guide to Writing Poems of Trauma (“ethical concerns and helpful craft elements for writing poems [and other writing] that engage with trauma”) presented by the author Jehanne Dubrow, and session related writing prompts and open review of selected flash fiction, poems, etc. as submitted by attendees. Each registrant receives New Voices: Contemporary Writers Confronting the Holocaust suggested readings from which coordinate with the workshop series. Session recordings will be made available to registrants unable to attend specific sessions upon request. Registration fee includes all four sessions. Limited registration closes December 30. Presented by the New Voices Project, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization. newvoicesproject.org and you may sign up for the workshop here.
Now for our issue’s theme, Plumbing the Depths. We look into the varied aspects, not always visible at first glance, of people’s interior and social lives, human societies, the natural world, and our artwork, history, and culture.
Chuck Taylor’s story reminds us about the complex layers of each person’s life, that we are more than our most obnoxious moments. Paul Tristram explores everyday human feelings and interactions in his “street poetry,” claiming them as a worthy literary subject.
Gabriel Kang speaks to the important issue of men’s mental health by illustrating men’s struggles passed down through generations. David Sapp delves into Middle American family life in the 1970s through a cascade of shifting perspectives.
Daniel De Culla laments relationships inside and outside of the church which are exploitative rather than nurturing.
Ivan Pozzoni brings a comically psychoanalytic perspective to digital and analog aspects of modern life. Mykyta Ryzhykh illuminates the internal and external destruction of total war with a landscape suffering from PTSD. Alexander Kabishev evokes the displacement of civilians during wartime in his continuing epic of the siege of Leningrad. Muheez Olawale’s dramatic tale of escape and survival highlights the tragedy of human trafficking and the slave trade. Nicolas Gunter evokes the hopelessness of a person displaced and oppressed within a cruel climate.
Daniel De Culla’s fragmented near-death dream vision excoriates the political and economic power structures of the modern Western world. Noah Berlatsky illustrates the grotesque nature of hate and vitriol through his consciously repulsive imagery. Patricia Doyne excoriates the rising tide of racist and anti-immigrant sentiment in the U.S. Jake Cosmos Aller lambastes the political climate of the United States. Howard Debs preserves the words of and speculates along with the hosts of The View, wondering about Trump’s recent victory. Christopher Bernard suggests that America’s unique mix of cultural values and priorities helped to produce a leader akin to Trump. Bruce Roberts registers disgust at Trump’s voice, attitude, and behavior.
Turgunov Jonpolat describes how he stopped his peers from bullying him by reminding them that they were not all that important in life. Ivanov Reyez crafts vignettes of people determined to live and thrive despite the small and larger cruelties of the world around them.
Nuraini Mohamed Usman’s tale of enemies-to-lovers takes place within a secondary school. Ahmad Al-Khatat describes two broken people finding and healing each other in an unexpected love story. Mesfakus Salahin offers his gentle love to someone for whom he cares very much. Lan Qyqualla poetically immortalizes his late wife Lora in his mythical verse. Taylor Dibbert conveys continuing grief over the loss of a beloved canine companion. Kodirova Barchinoy Shavkatovna mourns the loss of her grandfather’s kind and poetic soul. Faizullayeva Gulasal reflects on how her love and respect for her parents helped her get through sheltering in place during the Covid-19 pandemic. Cameron Carter describes a love that inspires him to become a better version of himself.
Harinder Lamba presents a love story between a couple, their baby, and the Earth as they help our planet navigate climate change.
Michael Robinson leans on the poetic voice of Rumi to describe his spiritual intimacy with Jesus. Brian Barbeito evokes the mystical feeling that can come with staring into the deep daytime or nighttime sky as Sayani Mukherjee offers up a sensuous take on fallen leaves.
Sidnei Rosa da Silva gently chronicles a ladybug’s climb up a sand dune as Muslima Murodova relates the tender tale of a beautiful but short-lived butterfly.
Kylian Cubilla Gomez zooms in on bits of nature and culture from unusual angles, cultivating a sense of childlike wonder. Isabel Gomez de Diego’s work accomplishes something similar with scenes of cultivated nature: sheep on a hillside and seaside lookouts. Raquel Barbeito also gets up and close with nature, sketching outdoor scenes as well as a closeup of a person’s eye.
Duane Vorhees’ poetic speakers merge with nature in their own way in his descriptions of passion and indigestion.
Sarvinoz Quramboyeva highlights the beauty of Uzbekistan and its people’s optimism. Nilufar Anvarova celebrates the beauty of her Uzbek village and the kindness of its people while Ilhomova Mohichehra highlights the goodness of Uzbeks. Mansurova Sarvinoz Hassan, an Uzbek writer, relates her educational and professional accomplishments and thanks those who have supported her.
Zafarbek Jakbaraliyev outlines the language and distribution of the world’s Turkic-speaking peoples. Irodaxon Ibragimova relates the history of the Bekobod area of Uzbekistan. Sarvinoz Tuliyeva elucidates the history and importance of Uzbekistan’s Shaikhontohur Ensemble. Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna highlights the elegance and history of the Uzbek language as Farangiz Abduvohidova explores proverbs in Uzbekistan’s culture and Shamsiyeva Gavhar celebrates the beauty and rich history of the Uzbek language and its integral role in Uzbek culture. Maftuna Rustamova praises the wisdom of the Uzbek constitution.
Z.I. Mahmud draws out themes of nationalism and civilization vs wild nature in his analysis of Ted Hughes’ poetic works. Ari Nystrom-Rice illuminates the sheer force of nature, rainwater crashing into the sea. Kass evokes images of nature and plant life overtaking cities. Olivia Brody revels in melding with the beach, merging with wind and sand and ice plants.
Niginabonu Amirova blusters about the power of wind to transform a day and a landscape. Federico Wardal celebrates the lush landscapes and many talents of emerging Egyptian painter Nour Kassem. Nathan Anderson highlights the pure blunt force of Rus Khomutoff’s new poetry collection Kaos Karma as John Dorsey celebrates the soft and tender melodies of jazz. Jacques Fleury’s poetic mishmash twists and turns syntax around into a kerfluffle.
Joshua Martin weaves biological and mechanical images into his elaborate syntax-adventurous poetry. Mark Young’s “geographies” adjust, alter, and repurpose images and style elements. Texas Fontanella also probes the edges of conscious thought with his stream-of-consciousness text-message dialogues.
Also through a stream-of-consciousness form, Abigail George recollects personal struggles and a lost love in a poetic and descriptive essay. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa shares her own journey through poetry, towards balancing compassion for self with that for others. Bill Tope’s short story calls attention to the silent suffering of many with misophonia, sound sensitivity, through its depiction of a person’s quest for outer and inner peace.
J.J. Campbell speculates through vignettes from his own life on our place in the world, among time, history, and other creatures, and whether we are learning and growing as time passes.
Mahbub Alam compares the cycles of life to stops along a train route, as our world continually moves and changes. Through the tale of good clothes hung up and set aside, Faleeha Hassan reminds us not to save our entire lives for some amorphous special occasion.
Richard Stimac comments on the rhythms of life and human experience through the metaphor of Argentinian tango as Sara Goyceli Serifova rejoices in the look and feel of a long-awaited hopeful night.
We hope this issue will help plumb the depths behind the surface of the headlines and wring some hope from the sodden fabric of the world.
On Monday, we all resumed school and everyone promised to study well. On that week, we all wrote our first test which was to test the seriousness of a student when they have gone away for holidays. Like water in a basket, the first, second, and third weeks came and passed. On the fourth week, a new student was enrolled in our class, a female student.
We have a classmate called Ummul Khayr who acted as if she knew the girl before. They were classmates in the formal school she attended.
On Tuesday morning, the new student introduced herself to the whole class. She was friendly but a bit proud.
Fatima was the kind that felt proud of herself in the classroom which I hated. So I spoke to her rudely about her arrogance but it led to a serious odium between me and her in the classroom. Fatima and I never spoke to each other in a good manner but we were always being rude to each other. We always had to fight in the classroom every single day since the day we had a misunderstanding with each other.
The first term went by without counseling with each other but we would always find new abusive words to stab each other with. The second term came again and went by but still battling also the third term. We were given a holiday for the end of the school year which makes me think about the issues. I asked myself: Should I stop this rubbish fight? or what will I do?
After the resumption of SS2, I tried my best possible ways to dodge the girl problem but all went in vain till the day I slapped her but still regretted my actions.
The first term passed by and we resumed as “not friends not enemies” and I really enjoyed myself like that. The second term was so special to me because I met the love of my life. In the middle of second term, the school embarked on a excursion to “BILKI BAB”. On that day, I just don’t believe myself when I realized that “NURAINI AND FATIMA” were chatting and smiling with each other.
I have a classmate called Salihu who saw us talking to each other. He announced it to the whole class member and wrote on a paper that “Nuraini and Fatima have started playing love”. some of my friends told me that is there a wish and Salihu said he had a dream about it before.
On our way back to school after the excursion, the bus was full with the story of the new Romeo and Juliet. We continue like that until the speech and prize giving day of my school. The school gave one month holiday that distracted our relationship. So as a newbie poet I wrote a poem and placed it on my cupboard.
Fatimah You are like a weapon that budged the gap between me and odium You are the bridge that bridges my ribs to build a household of love in my heart You are halal theft who took my heart without permission You are a kind kidnapper that kidnapped my feelings and emotions You curtained my heart so that nobody has access to it again Let me tell you, Fatimah My heart is your palace Where you can do anything you like inside, Twerk yourself as fun My heart is a palace that the kingdom In it never ends but you are only the queen forever.
We resumed SS3 in which I became shy of her. So I wanted her to first speak to me but no response.
NOW I bought a chocolate and wrapped it in a lovers’ package gift container, I dressed up in a very ironed suit and walked to the front of the classroom. I brought out the gift and started writing with three colors of markers on the whiteboard.
A hyperstructure of surreal evocation: a review of Kaos Karma by Rus Khomutoff
Kaos Karma, the latest chapbook release from Rus Khomutoff, has remarkable weight for such a slim volume. Coming in at a mere nine pages, the book, were it not a digital only release, would feel delicate in the hand, something only barely able to delay its inevitable collapse. This feeling is soon swept away once you pull back its figurative cover and begin to read. What is found within is a poetry that is anything but delicate. It is a poetry wrought with energy and power. A poetry that does not relent and does not care for the easily overwhelmed senses. Perhaps it is a blessing that it is so short.
Kaos Karma does not bring the reader gently into its message. From the opening page, read as a solid block of full caps text, the reader is almost overwhelmed by the concrete, almost monolithic structure of the work. Its appearance seems almost intended to intimidate the reader. There are no soft hands to guide you as you read on, you are hit again and again by these unrelenting blocks of language. These almost endless sentences are like surreal billboards and indeed I would very much like to see some of this work as billboards. A wakeup from the endless detritus of the advertising world. A hyperstructure of surreal evocation.
The language of the book carries a heavy taste of surrealism, those dreamlike and visionary sentences that burn and strike the mind. ‘HEAR THE SECRET SUN SPEAK BLOOD LABYRINTH BLOOD FREED FROM THE WEIGHT OF ALL TIME ALL THE DARK REBIRTHS ARE MINE’ is but one example. Though this heavy language is broken up at times with a kind of new-age esotericism, ‘NOSTALGIA IS A DRUG’, ‘BE ALL THINGS IN ALL TIME’, the self-help for the burnt out searchers on the edge of an insane whirling mountain. Guidance from Khomutoff to where? And when? Who knows? This combination of the abstract and concrete in the language give the effect of the reader being brought back into a recognisable and understandable world, though only for a moment. Once the surreal language reengages the reader is sent back off into the vortices of mental propulsion.
And there is a purpose here, though it is obscure. The writing is taking you somewhere, like a guidebook, like the great Bardo Thodol, the Tibetan book of the dead. ‘ALAS THE CHILD WHO LIVES IN A MYTHICAL, PARADISICAL TIME RENEWING THE WORLD.’ But unlike that holy ancient text which reaches in to take the reader through the labyrinth of illusion through to a clarity of consciousness, through to the other side, Kaos Karma does not state which of its threads is illusion and which reality. Perhaps there is neither in Khomutoff’s cosmology, or perhaps both in a swirling miasma of meaning and nonsense. It is up to the reader to decide.
While only a brief taste, it is a taste so full and potent the reader will find themselves at the other end of Kaos Karma with the heady feeling of both clarity and confusion. This is an artwork both highly idiosyncratic and universal all at once. I have spoken often of the idea of the third text, a text that exists only through the combination of the mind of the reader and the work they are reading. A text that exists entirely unique and which is conjured by strange and powerful, but obscure language. Kaos Karma is such a work. The reader is all the better for having experienced it.
Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. He is a member of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter/X/Bluesky @NJApoetry.
“You were born from the Rays of God’s Majesty when the stars were in their perfect place.”
~RUMI
God I return to you in the lights of a star…shining bright with the light of love. Love from the beginning I return without darkness for I have seen the wonders of my soul. The hidden treasure of your spark within me. The world has not covered my soul in sin or emptiness leaving me without you in my heart. Your truth that speaks in me in the wee hours of the morning as the world sleeps forever more. I find my soul among the stars circling the outer rim of Saturn’s moon. I’m that star to the right of your heart. O God never to become dim for you created me to shine forever more.
“When you lose all sense of self the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish…” ~RUMI
Where can I go O God where you do not exist? I have not traveled far enough to not feel your Holy presence within my soul. Delightful thoughts about the beginning of time together. Reaching for the clouds, as I lay in the fields of joy wishing to see the skies once more. Before the clouds cover the moon and the sun fades into the distinct mountains of Vermont. Once we had a conversation, as I sat on the porch wondering about my life. It was a conversation about my beginning without end. My heart listened intently as you spoke of salvation and redemption. Christ the messiah came alive within me. No more doubt nor sin to confuse my aching soul. For I had received the communion of life with these three words: You are forgiven.
Have you ever felt like killing someone? I think most have, maybe four or five times in a lifetime. My number’s higher, maybe twelve times a year. I don’t consider myself a sociopath or psychopath. I don’t know the difference. Is there a difference?
In 2005 I was on an elevator in the Prudential Building, glad to be out of the cold of late February, on my way up to the thirty-seventh floor. The elevator was empty except fore me. It glided silently up at a good clip. I was thinking about how much it would cost to heat this entire building in one Chicago day. Maybe more than I made in one year. The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and a young man got on board. He was skinny, dressed all in black, and his hair was dyed green.
The young man rode the elevator to the seventh floor. When we got there he stepped half way out, leaned his left arm on the door and gave me a big smile. Then he hit all the buttons on the elevator going up to the top by running his fingers across the panel. That meant the elevator doors would open and shut on every floor till I got to the thirty-seventh.
Anger flared through every muscle of my body. I rose up on my toes and slapped the now closed door with open palms. The anger management class had not prepared me for such a sudden show of hostility from a young stranger. When it came to the young, my anger made few distinctions. They seemed egotistical and took their comfortable world for granted. They had no respect for those who had sacrificed to serve their country.
I felt in my left inside suit pocket for the piano wire I’d had since my tour in the Vietnam in 1970. I kept it because Chicago is no longer a safe city. Even in the loop area, this close to Lake Michigan, a person might attempt a robbery. Now I felt immediately that I was justified in killing that smiling green gutter snake.
My plan was to come up behind the guy and strangle him with the wire quietly and quickly. Before that green dude got off the elevator, he was probably seeing as fat and out of shape. No threat to him. Just an old man.
I got off two floors above where green dude got off on the nineteenth floor, took different elevator down to his floor. I walked all the quiet hallways but I could not find him. I opened all the doors on the floor and looked in. Mostly they were law offices. No sign of green hair.
How can anybody be so stupid as to dye their hair green? Must be a lonely, attention-seeking dude. A narcissist. Pathetic. No women will ever love him. Leave green to the trees and plants.
I forgot my job interview on the 37th floor and went back down to the lobby to wait for the green guy. His hair was pasty like a green avocado, only shiny. I waited an hour, trying to look busy on my cell phone, but he never came down. Could the bozo actually have an office in this place? Maybe he had a company that sold hair color for men.
I decided to walk around the area near the lake and then over where the big department stores were, hoping I’d catch sight of him on the street. After an hour I gave up in the cold and ducked into a bar on Wabash to warm up. I was ordering a beer when I look down the long bar I see that the second bartender has green hair and wears black.
“That’s an unusual hair style,” I say to the guy standing next to me at the bar.
“That’s Pete,” the guy responds. “His father owns this place, or did. He died two weeks ago.”
“Well, I guess somebody has to run this dump,” I mumble.
“Yeah, I think the family has to sort it out. Does it go to Pete or to the brother of his dad? His uncle helped run it. The dad died at fifty-five and left no will.”
“I’m not a lawyer,” I add. “I used to sell cars. It seems right this place should go to the son.”
“That’s what the regulars think. We remember Pete when he was a kid pushing a toy truck between the tables.”
“I didn’t play with toy trucks. I had toy tanks, soldiers and fighter jets. My dad was killed in World War 2 at nineteen when I was two. My parents were from Alabama and got married at sixteen. I don’t remember much of my dad.”
“Hey Pete, come down here. This guy’s a lawyer.”
“I said I was not a lawyer.”
“Pete, this guy can help.”
“Great, tell him he gets free beers.”
“Pete, I’m sorry,” I say. “Your friend here got it wrong. I’m no lawyer but don’t mind a few free beers.”
“You look familiar. Haven’t we met? Didn’t I see you earlier?”
“No, I just pulled into town. I live in Wheaton over an hour away.”
“Sorry about the mix-up. Things are always noisy in my bar.”
“No problem.”
“What do you think of my hair? Odd, huh? My customers here can now always spot me.”
“It’s a bit odd by Wheaton standards.”
“I did it for Saint Patrick’s coming up. I thought I’d do more this year than green beer. It’ll give folks a laugh. We can all use some cheering up.”
Green Hair goes to get me a beer on tap. As he walks back toward me with the mug of beer I study his face. Is this the guy from the elevator? He’s the only green hair guy I’ve seen all day.
“Sorry about your loss,” I say. ‘Your dad left you something wonderful, and thanks for the beer.”
“You’re welcome,” the green-haired bartender says. He gives a quick smile as he walks away to help another customer.
