Gone if come quick
Gone if come quick
death-bound not leased
life itself shocked
in repeating
energy forms
present in our
sinuous room
trite flesh repaints
too pretended
‘neath up-ends of
convulsants groomed
each night by way
of visitors
their breath not yet
but his here re-
membered to loom
and hang over
wait releasing
its gain of chance
not to happen,
left intending
some next visit
a round to please
with help a bed
soft undressing.
Hard-bound out-takes
Hard-bound out-takes
cherish the score
six cards their worth
can knock to shame
of what gets us
pity at the last
and grieve, forgive
if take, put-back.
But side-steps verve,
hold what hands flood
to up-shot nods
of truce down one
when got back wired
if secret pleads
the case that’s tried
of cards their yield.
Here are some sad ones got nerve
Here are some sad ones got nerve
and with no rules get smart of,
steel a love yet-born-made-fun
to sprawl upon new ground a-
bove the heart’s intent, surface
of dreams their truths tidbits what
un-dead reams if rolled out-live
mem’ries each pleat back their moves
showing in bright dread what we
feed of, maggots on broke scenes
incumbent mind pangs, taking
for sore truths unreasoned and
yet hard-proved while we dance-out
our naked bests empires hold.
Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as Blaze VOX, Experiential-Experimental-Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Strukturriss, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.
A Metonymy for life!
Luminescent sobriquets,
nuances and innuendos,
Oleander dreams,
a morsel of left over words
decoding syntax and semantics!
Taxonomy of hysteria,
transfered epithets,
shifted proxemics
blurring the gap between space and dimension.
Peeping from behind translucent ballads
are hurrine rhymes
trying to carve a niche
within a heartfelt epistle.
Noctilucent clouds on summer skies.
Splurged with meta communication midst graphic metaphors.
Dangling dreams from distant corridors on sordid noons.
table fan,
Ma's flowing hair,
fish bones on aluminium plates,
the smell of egg curry in my fingers.
Baba's sweaty shirt smelling of his toils.
Thamma's broken wooden chair!
Spring evenings
and an ivory reticence
wrapped within an empiricist sheet!
A metonymy for life
climbing down the spiral staircase of remembrance,
wearing a galvanized smile!
Debarati Sen
Bio:
Works in Presidency University Kolkata as a Junior Assistant. Her debut poetry book called 'Blurred Musings' has recently been published. Recipient of the Tagore Award 2022 and the Sylvia Plath Women's Literary Award, Debarati finds emancipation in her poetry! She has also been the winner of the International Poetry Writing competition held by the Elite Book Awards in November 2021. She has also grabbed the third position in the National Poetry Writing Month 2022 contest hosted by the Elite Book Awards. Debarati features in the Council Year Book launched on the occasion of Women's Day 2022 by Literoma in association with the Public Safety and Security Council of Bengal. She has also been declared as an Empalled Author in the International Author's Conclave held by Literoma in December 2021. She is one among the top ten poets of the Women;'s Day poetry contest organised by Delhi Poetry Slam. She has co-authored more than 15 anthologies and is recently compiling her first anthology as a compiler with the Quill House Publishers. Her poems have found shelter in prestigious websites like The Antonym, The Yugen Quest Review, The Kolkata Arts, Lapis Lazuli, The Das Literarisch, to name a few.
My motherland!
My country, you are so beautiful,
You are charming,
You are spectacular
There is no equal in beauty,
You are a paradise.
You are the only one in the country.
There is no word for your description,
You are the most unique country.
We love you dearly,
We are faithful to you.
We will introduce your dear name to the world.
✍ Shakhzoda Kodirova
Good and rewarding work
For many years, a small stream flowing from the side of the river made Cain's heart ache. Because once upon a time, clean and clear water flowed from this ditch, people used it to quench their thirst and rejuvenate their gardens. No one would throw garbage in the ditch, and whoever saw the dumped garbage would clean it immediately. Unfortunately, by this time there was no "trace" left of the clear water in the ditch. The younger generation did not listen to the words of their old ancestors, but instead of reducing the waste in the ditch, contributed to its increase. Despite the fact that he was over 80 years old, Mahmud himself was the head and wanted to do a hashar to clean the river, so he called young teenagers, strong men from house to house, and asked for help from the neighborhood. Unfortunately, many did not have the patience to clean the river, which was full of garbage. And it didn't work either.
Finally, Grandpa Mahmud thoughtfully went to his old companions. Gathering them together, he got everyone’s opinion on the matter. The old men agreed and decided to clean the river themselves. Not many people know how good it is to clean a ditch, and those who do know do so without breaking the bank. Is there no one willing to clean this small ditch that has been flowing for years ?! If they need to irrigate their gardens, they are ready immediately. but to clean up ... Well, let's clean up as much as we can, said Mahmud looking at his comrades angrily. So the old men got to work. Ketmon in hand, belt at waist. Seeing this zeal in the elders, some honest people came and joined them. Some were embarrassed and apologized to Mahmud.
The neighborhood gathered the workers again, this time they were full of enthusiasm. Volunteers also came and began to join. The work is "hot". Neighboring women were busy cooking for the hard-working hashers. Thanks to 3 days of hard work, the river was completely free of waste. Grandpa Mahmud joined the ranks of veterans for his efforts to clean the river. When he addressed the villagers, he said, "The most important thing, you know, is that you and I have a great reward. Cleaning the canal is the best and most rewarding thing to do".
Flower garden 🌸
I went to Gulzor today,
I saw a lot of flowers.
They were more beautiful than each other,
And the smell was fragrant.
It charms person
The fragrance of every flower.
It attracts, when you smell it.
I really like,
These fragrant beautiful flowers.
It lifts your spirits,
Friends, look at this.
Rose, basil, tulip
Colors are red, green
I sweat from them,
I make many bouquets.
✍ Shakhzoda Kodirova
The world 🌎
What a world it is,
Both transient and deceptive.
What a world this is,
After all.
No man can live in this world,
For a thousand years.
No one can remain in such a world,
Eternally.
So my friends,
Let's do a lot of good.
Let us not be deceived by The way of Satan.
Let us not sink into sin.
Without thinking of the Hereafter.
Let us do good as much
As we can.
We know that in this world,
Tests are not rare.
We will defeat them,
If we have a little patience.
The world, the world is the end,
Never complain friends.
Do not despair and torment yourself
And let's do good !!!
✍️Shakhzoda Kodirova
Shakhzoda Kodirova is 15 year-old aspiring poet from Navoi, Uzbekistan. From a young age she was fond of literature age of seven she began to read books and study oriental literature. Her poems and stories have been published many magazines and newspepers, including Uzbekistan and Germany.
"The End Again"
(Trilogy)
"Depopulated"
Desolate the land of cities
buildings like decapitated statues
streets covered in chucks of ruin
slump shouldered we wandered for months
finding the rims of the far mountains
forests covering where we hid
our quiet settlement
of the depopulated
survivors thankful and now unhurried
accepting weak walls and roofs of tree
rain and ponds and a lake of sweet water
faraway from the sea full of past pollutants
our children now no longer afraid
they play and sing and we listen
trying to forget the long ago explosions
my wife tenderly touching
scars on my back
loving me at night
darkness still
memories of the dying
and what we could have done.
"The Wind"
My brothers often visit
trying to give me a constant of cheer
telling me where they've been
and what they've seen
assuring me the sea recovering
stench of death disappearing
schools of fish returning
without sores that never heal
my brothers have found and married
young wives with unblistered skin
boats rebuilt and sails tall in the wind
many new islands blossoming
some seeing a gondola balloon
with people waving above the clouds
wind cleansing past the horizon
world freeing flowers again.
"Just Like the Old Days"
The old man walked into our new village
claiming nothing changes
men fighting again
over land and women and beliefs
shaking his head with tears
beard matted like his hair
prepare yourselves he warned
they've repaired their guns
bullets reclaimed from the ruins
helmets and knives and brass knuckles
with a maniac in charge
speaking smooth words dripping with poison
promising the power of hell
in his back pocket
the old man laughed and spit
looking at my wife and kids and peaceful land
you should tell the others
chaos is coming again
returning with twisted faces
eyeing every direction
where you dream and live
but this time
maybe you will pray
a little more and mean it.
The Padma Bridge
The moon has risen in the dreamy sky of us
From Mawa to Janjira you dreamt of
Linking the two parts over the river Padma
25 June 2022, the plan got established
It blazed the light on the dark river
Long waited love came to light
Joining the south and western part of the country to Dhaka city
Facing the challenge we once had for freedom in 1971
Our great leader Bangobandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman handled the leadership
His fittest daughter Sheikh Hasina, our prime minister
Just proved how brave she is in her heart and fruitful her merit!
The Padma Bridge provided us all to live in connection
Mitigating the needs from one part of the river to everywhere in speed.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
28/06//2022
Fire
Fire is in, fire is out
The heart is firing for sex
On the other it's firing in love
Look! the bodies are firing in the container depot fire at Chattogram
In some distance the body is fired on suicide
The sun-burnt eyes are firing in terror
On the other some are firing in anger or pain
Some are firing for the absence of the lovers or beloveds
The garments factories are firing with bodies of the workers
Plastic warehouses containing hazardous chemicals
At Nimtota of Chawkbazar in Old Dhaka fired hundreds of lives
Some are firing with the neighbors to win the fight
Some are smiling with fire
Over the glory of entering into world unknown
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
28/06//2022
self-portrait in tar
and words aren’t actions,
and prayer is as
meaningless as regret
the temperature is a nervous
stutter between rain and snow
the town is a vast expanse of
empty parking lots, of
grey shot through with crushed
plastic and dead leaves
i have wasted my life
i am afraid of growing old and
dying in front of my children
i am afraid of
growing old and dying
in the end we are only
something
subtracted from nothing
the drowning years
it’s always the same stupid shit,
always these self-inflicted wounds
his 15 year-old girlfriend pregnant, the
asshole from the barfight in a
coma and not expected to live but
brenda laughs, says why not
dead-end job at the minimart and her
boyfriend doing six months in county, and he
says his stepfather has a place down
in north carolina
tells her he’s had a crush on her
since middle school, and she
asks if it’s gonna be a boy or a girl
and he says he doesn’t want to know
doesn’t really give a shit
one way or the other,
and she nods
tells him she needs to
leave a note for her sister
needs to feed the dog
small, ordinary acts to help her
feel like she’s
moving into the future
the forest of the profane
early autumn frost in the
shadows of sunlit buildings, all
blue sky and junkie dreams
man walking past you says he’s
got god in his veins
says there are other
versions of hell that have nothing to
do with faith, and his smile
is filled with blood
this town is where i live
but it’s not my home
this idea of judas as scapegoat
needs to be reconsidered
despair is a sickness
not a weapon
but it will always be used by
tyrants to beat you down
will you suffer the first blow or
will you burn down the castle?
will you set the gospel aside
and hear the truth instead?
all choices come to an end when
the dog you fail to praise
decides to take your tongue
as his own
skeleton afternoon
this is the man with no eyes who
tells me he pities my blindness
this is the party to celebrate
the death of the deathless kingdom
i fuck his wife in the back seat of
someone else’s car or
he seduces my daughter before
they both disappear
a stalemate
a gun for every starving child
so they can all grow up safe
even here in this cramped and
sullen space between
disposable gods
we are all someone’s enemy
notes on ideology
good times in the suicide
factory down on your hands and knees
swallow the cock or swallow
the barrel, and
how many choices do you really need?
how many lives are you planning on
screwing up other than your own?
goddamn kids gotta grow up
sooner or later, i guess
can’t be sucking at their
mother’s tit forever
they need to know they’re useless
need to know how much blood is
required to solve each problem, and
maybe you have to smack them around
a little to drive your point home
maybe a house gets burned to the ground,
maybe a car gets stolen or some
fifteen year-old girl from the
trailer park out at the edge of town
gets knocked up, but this shit
happens every day
you fuck or you get fucked
you walk or you crawl
a lifetime of meaningless rules and
blown chances, and then
you die
and the story ends the
body is found,
but how do we get there?
same goddamn way
every time
14 yr old girl sits on her bed,
curtains pulled,
father’s gun,
instructions on her laptop screen
knowledge is power,
right?
puts the muzzle to her head and
pulls the trigger, and so
turn the music up a
little louder
send flowers
bring shovels
a lot of bodies left to be
buried before this
part of the story ends
halcyon
tired of being so fucking
old, and tired of all
the goddamn years i wasted
tired of being on
the wrong coast
or not being able
to forget your face
of everything i write
sounding
like a suicide note
Bodhisattva Projecting
Orgone
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
tempest
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
the spring has (rung (in the dietary removing (a cause and
not a grown thing (left-most removing (rightmost rightmost
rightmost (lapping at the silk (an order and order an order (
faster through the thread and colour (reacted in synthetic (
a hammer guide (a metal armament (less speaking and more
spoken (****************(outside in the distance (cold
cold cold (foundational without sighting (the spring on the
tongue (99999999999999999999999999999999999999999
9999999999999999999999999 (alphabetical conniption (
less tragic than the one before (_________________(outside
and out of order (stupefaction to the modal interview (a clap
and the thunder has arrived (god and god and god (0000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
00000000000000 (000000000000000000000000 (00000000
0000000 (except you are the same (a static and a deep hum (
found connection (found extraction (found reduction (growing
growing (growing (growing (sight gone (sight come (asterisks
against the climbing side (northern facing (eastern facing (.....
...................(it's good to be back (modular and entrapment (
floor design (wall hanging (get out of the town (sweet sweet (
tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetttttttttttttttttttttttttt (tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttttttttttttt (ah)))))))))))))))))))))))))
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))
Orgone
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
tempest
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
=====LESS=====
Carry (over_under) Carry
velocity speaking after tone removed and impulsed through the cataleptic normalised without synthetic movements and interrogation as scientific impulse drivers conscript and writhe in torpor now removed and collated into breakage and anticipation cast out and found without the forming and selective tired flashes of liability
this = skull
magnetic in the skyfall betterment longitudinal as ascetic entertainments re-modify entrapments known to fakir tempestuous and lotus shunting a speed so formal not antiseptic and renowned in thought and name so juxtaposed
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++
+++++++++
++++++
++++
++
+
solution breathes itself to life with transcendental
longing at magnetic height and muscle complexity
as selfsame as the honorifics embellishing through
mud brick anti-natal concluding only wake and
enterprising
Oratory Illumination (fracture)
illegitimate [phone as rung]
promulgated over this +
a shell to crack and take
abandonment so well
[phone ringing]
[phone ringing]
[phone ringing]
this colour comes in articulation writing sound through
causations known and unknown a crown atop the head
and breakneck pace
+running+
+running+
+running+
[the bell [phone]] has...
Oyster as Baptismal
explain
(explanation)
explain
(explanation)
+
+
+
vulnerable to this reciting
notation is the key
vouchsafed as
vouchsafed as
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
now the number is...
(,,,,,)
Bio: Nathan Anderson is a poet from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of Mexico Honey, The Mountain + The Cave and Deconstruction of a Symptom. His work has appeared in BlazeVox, Otoliths, Selcouth Station and elsewhere. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter @NJApoetry.
