Battle of the Bans

I grew up in an age & a country where banning books was commonplace. Authors – Henry Miller & William S. Burroughs. Titles – Lolita & Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I seem to remember that Ulysses was not long off the list; & there is a marvellous story, which I’ve never checked in to preferring to keep the memory intact, that Barchester Towers & Doctor Thorne were banned for almost a century because they appeared under the author’s name of A. Trollope.

Not that I’m against banning things. I marched calling for an end to nuclear proliferation – ban the bomb. I marched in support of outlawing racial discrimination. I believe commercial whaling is wrong, that industry should have an incredibly strict set of environmental guidelines. I believe capital punishment is totally wrong, & have written earlier of how its legality in New Zealand depended on which political party was in power until a conservative Attorney General broke with his party & said it should be outlawed forever if it could be (re)introduced on a political whim. (& a little later, I remember reading an essay by Camus – Reflections on the Guillotine? – where Camus describes his father, who was a strong advocate of the death penalty, attending a public execution & coming home totally opposed to the State taking lives.)

But never books, or movies or records, no matter how distasteful & offensive they might be.

I have seen nationalists like Ho Chi Minh & Fidel Castro basically forced into the Communist Bloc because their leftwing views were unpalatable during the Cold War. I have seen the Russians crush a revolution in Hungary, & felt it quite strongly because of the protests outside the Russian Embassy which was directly across the street from where we lived. I thought JFK was the hope of the world & mourned his death. I was shattered when later Martin Luther King & RFK were also assassinated. Mandela – happy birthday, Nelson – was a figurehead in prison for most of my life & I remember weeping with joy the day he was released.

I am ambivalent about nuclear power.

The coming of Nixon fucked the world. L. blames most of the current troubles on “my generation” – the beats, the hippies, free love, lotsa drugs, lack of censorship. There’s some truth in it, but for a different reason. I do not believe we went far enough! Not quite sure what I mean by that; but I feel that at some point we decided we’d done enough, got sidetracked or comfortable or aged, & stopped pushing. Stepped back to revel in our small achievements. Got steamrolled.

I am anti-terrorism where the innocent are killed or maimed yet I am pro-Palestine, feeling their cause is just & they’ve always had a rotten deal. Where do you draw the line? I think the U.S. & its allies are reaping what they sowed – the seeds of Bush’s arrogance; Le monde, c’est moi – in Iraq & Afghanistan though again it is the innocent who suffer. At least in the Cold War there were sides. Now, with just one megapower, there is no-one else to turn to, no-one to stand up & get in the way.

I have seen in an earlier time in N.Z. laws enacted which gave the police the power to raid houses if “they suspected drugs were there”. Up until the time someone blew the whistle, this power was used probably 50 times & only once for drugs. I watch the new anti-terrorism laws in many countries with horror. The presumption of guilt instead of innocence, & such gobbledygook! We can’t tell you what you’ve been detained about, & because of this you can’t tell us what we want to know because we don’t know what we want to know & you don’t know what we want to know & don’t know what you know or don’t know. & & &…..

I see that the trial against the last Australian in Camp Delta at Guantanamo is to go ahead, even though it has been proved there is no chance of a fair trial.

& why this rant, this scattershot diatribe? Because on the news today the Australian Government is talking about banning, outlawing, charging Islamic bookshops because they might be stocking ‘dangerous books.’

The thought police are breaking open my head.

2005

Desired Pain

When he told me to give happiness
Then I wanted-
Please, give me pain;
Make a fuss
hard as like as Sidr.

Like as an uprooted tree
with the cry of landless loneliness. 
Give me sorrow;
Like as fluffy mud 
in the emptiness of cultivated land-
Primitive tale which is filled with
glaireous wild smell.

Feeling happiness is meaningless game ;
Retouch  of past Rafkhata.
Presented cagey happiness is blanket wrap of mourning-
So which you will give me later
Or else I wanted it before. 



Aklima Ankhi, poet, storyteller and translator from Cox's Bazar, Bangladesh. Born in Mymensingh, Bangladesh. She has a published poetry named "Guptokothar Shobdochabi" written in Bangla.She is a post graduate in English Literature. As a profession she is a Lecturer in English. 

ANOTHER SPRING NIGHT IN FARMERSVILLE, OHIO

The sun is a gong hung low across the sky,
windswept.earthdirty.sunwhipped: farmers wait inside their bones
for the horizon to rise and beat the daylights out of the sun
and call them from their long dungrows for a night.

Your chastity's a song sung slow through long nights
on muffled virginals: muting babies wailing to be born:
golden arrows, a thong-strung bow        the dream night.
The night is calling: strong, gung-ho -- black hawk in flight.

(Tonight? When one earthtired husbandman works me in his hands
& periods this dry chaste day, waters these furrows hungry from famine?

But no.
             Just one more wrongtongued crow in flight.)



AH! NIGHTS

Ah! Nights you were a harem
and I the unmade Bedouin too long in the thirst.
Past the black eunuch of the night
I would steal to your tent,
unarmed save the single arrow in my quiver.
I'd draw sensuously back your damascene veil
and let fly my shaft
deep into your bulls eye arabesque--

Or: you were queen of the hive
and I a drone among the honeys
getting a buzz on and doing my job
plunging among the dusky clover
trying to pollinate the skies
to flower the night with stars.
To lose my only stinger would be to die--

Or else: you were madonna
awaiting your Jealous Commanding God,
The Spawner Of The Cosmos,
Beam Of Light Made Flesh To Hold You In Your Place
(while you shook in rapture for the coming of your Lord,
i a small choirboy would steal into your unguarded churchyard
and send a solitary firework into the cathedral's secret hole
and hope it explodes high up in those beribbèd vaults
and surprise celibate fathers from their sleep).

 
EITHER ALZHEIMER'S OR THE LIGHTNING BLAST

Whizzdizzyingly
cruising The Moment,
arrowing past all awareness:
highway,enginewhiine,steeringwheeltrafficWorldsmuginnnngg past
while we, preoccupied, reprise Creation,
absorb Eternity and Logos, Eden/Gethsemane, Genesis-Apocalypse
and the Night the Night,
the private bleeding into the general,
and Ouruniverse proxying for ego.
Glorious cosmic fusion in an infinite minute.
      (or so it briefly eternally seems in our infini-tiny microverse)

The ends of love
are but two

:your V8 plunges from the surface
and, crucified like a butterfly in time,
helpless consciousness heightened,
you hover in slowmotion witness
to the juggernaut earth's decay
just as your metal-again grille
begins to embrace solidity

or: doomed foresight eludes
as you rearend that lightless
semi-tr


MY WIFE

My wife is the flag
placed on climbers' highest crags.
 My wife is the mirror
who patrols my appearance
and makes sure all is fit
and I'm vetted to grace the public.
She's the armorer
who's forged our love and honor.
My wife is the ear
who grants the pre-clearance
for my poems' weight and wit
so they're ready to face the critics.
My wife is that fire
to kindle and quell desire.


WHAT I DID LEARN

My mansard roof -- its shingles 
lost so very long ago. 
In Lhasa at Your temple, 
at that brave school in Lisbon, 
I studied my imago. 
My music group's hit singles 
stopped so many songs ago.
I've learned my shakes and wrinkles
but still I wait for wisdom.

You learn to feel love in hate.

Their blades may pierce you,

twist and mangle themselves

into pretty words,

hollow promises,

but bloodstains still peek through clothes

and claw up your throat.

They watch you swallow,

pretend the rings and slashes

on your skin are illusions,

and they leave you frigid, numb,

laughing at yourself

soaked in red and pink.

You copy empty smiles

and plaster them on your face,

a splintered mirror

forcing shards together

into cracking smiles.

You learn to find love in hate,

as a broken toy,

longing for playmates

to give you value.

Shall We Try Again?

The ache in my heart, I’m sure, is more painful

than yours since we have been apart.

Though I try to ignore the torture and emotion,

my heart is in pain so much of the time.

My face is wet from the tears I cry silently.

I have always prided myself for being so strong.

Crying is foreign to me because I refuse to be weak,

but you, for some reason can bring me to my knees.

And yes, I do try to hide it, but not very well.

Now that my smile is small, it hides nothing.

Everyone can tell that deep down I am drowning

along with you, and there is no glory in that.

No, love can’t be the same, but maybe it can be made stronger..

So, I put down my pride and say with all that is in me

as I stand before you with no shame and tell you,

“I am still in love with you!”. And in my vulnerable state say,

“I don’t want to hide anymore behind this fake smile.”

“Forgive my pride and stubbornness, but my heart has suffered

much in life and it is hard to show vulnerability.”

Before I turn and walk away, I will ask you once only and then no more…

“Shall we try again?”

Hope Restored

When we met, you were in a painful state

Someone before me had stolen the joy within you

You thought she was “the one”

But she crushed you, instead

You lost everything, including yourself

She never cherished your being

In your darkest hour, she left you

I found you broken; with a sobbing and painful soul

You were in need of a pure love

It took a long time for you to let down your walls

You began to trust me, then you smiled at me one day

I never pushed you or demanded anything from you

Our friendship grew and you became my best friend

I saw joy in your life again

I rejoiced with every smile

From friendship grew love..

A pure love that expects nothing in return but a smile;

The unconditional love and respect that you deserved

All I ever wanted was to see hope restored in your life

But I ended up with far more.

Autumn With You

Autumn has always been my favorite time of year

It’s relaxing sitting in the sun along with you, Dear

The days are now more quiet like a silent bereaving

The end of a scorching Summer is readily leaving

Taking walks hand in hand, watching our neighbors raking

as the aroma of cinnamon bring memories of baking

I welcome the deep colors that amaze my eyes

as we sit on our porch and take in the trees and blue skies

Limbs slightly blow in the breeze as a few leaves fare

creating a sense of peace within me like a whispering prayer

The sky is so clear, bright stars I can see

I lean back against you with your arms around me

As we watch another sunset from our porch swing tonight

I am thankful being with you in the Autumn Moonlight.

Biography

Kristy Ann Raines, born April 9, born in California, in the United States, is a poet/writer/author, who is very versatile in her writing and internationally acclaimed.

From fantasy and love, to serious subjects such as, domestic violence, and human rights. Her passion is writing children’s books, short stories and romantic poetry. Kristy has earned many awards and has five book that she is working on. One will be published soon.

The Love Castle

Life is so beautiful, you are mine
You laugh out, the morning sun smiles on
You touch me and I survive in the morning breeze
The waves of the ocean run through in the veins
I become forgetful
The building stands on before us
The world can see the beauty of The Taj Mahal at Agra
The love castle - the eternal love story.
 
Chapainawabganj,  Bangladesh
28 October, 2023


In the Autumn Morning

How sweet the morning breeze!
In this autumn morning
No firefighting, no dismal display
Over the natural sight
The birds chirping near me
The sweet scent of the roses
The grass flowers on the bushes
All smile on at my bare foot walk by the way
By the river side and lake
I walk on and the autumn beauty welcomes me 
The soft blowing of the catkins waving on the heart
The colorful butterflies and 
The open sky round circle birds over head
Celebrating the bright morning
In my turning home feeling nostalgic to be with the childhood age
How wonderful the lambs and ducks on the ground and lake!

Chapainawabganj,  Bangladesh
31 October, 2023


Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of writings such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in  Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home abroad.   His English writings have been being published in an International Online Magazine - Synchronized Chaos from America for seven years. He is a father of two daughters. He is living with his family at Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 

***
prison instead of help
coexistence instead of love
unnecessary reform
one coffee and hotel room per person
there are many ways to show your dislike

Reprint by Crank



***
mom sews a vagina for her daughter like a red rag for tears
mom wants soldiers to give flowers to her daughters

the cemetery is silent about flowers

daughter collects khaki and throws it into the toilet
daughter screams that she does not need such flowers

graves are silent about the dead

Reprint by Rat's Ass Review


***
this poem 
will not be written 
by anyone because the author 
will go to the supermarket for vodka
 
and never come back

Reprint by Tipton poetry journal



***
the leaves don't resent it when you step on them
the bones barely crunch when you do 
people barely crunch on such occasions.
death is like a land mine doesn't resent it when you step on it 

Reprint by Tipton poetry journal



***
what does the right pike of a suicide exposed to the wind say?
what happens to the frostbitten left cheek?

mother's biblical face turns silky as son pulls out graveyard surprise box from under his bed



***
internet people live the longest

a dog that died ten years ago still puts 
likes on social media 
instead of its killed dog owner



***
while God is sleeping, the children press all sorts of buttons on his smartphone 
and do not understand what this leads to
angels drink living water meanwhile and get drunk

what is the name of the little boy who will never become Jesus Christ?



***
Dynastic hands of the dead
No one will teach palms to cry

Money can't be earned аnd neither can respect
Money and respect can only be stolen from talent



***
What can poetry be talking 
about in the 21st century besides blood?

The ruins warm the bodies 
of the future dead



***
death allows itself to be late in the form of rain that washes away all the moles from the body
no one allows you to return to childhood with a cheek turned up for a blow
meanwhile the window is slammed shut wide open
meanwhile the birds sew up the sky tightly
time turns into sand from which we built a house
house is grass house is glass
religion trauma of cold speech
torn tongue crunching leaves underfoot
the breathless unborn god underfoot
and above the heads of the airy sky which is no more



***
the little wolf cub is looking for wolf jesus but can't find him
animals are too humane to crucify each other
animals are just physically hungry




***
Jesus received the resurrection 
certificate from the hands of the centurion

the dove sat on the arm of the tree 
and silently watched



***
there is no more home
ruins play the stones of a scream

There's no more peace because 
someone skipped a history lesson 
on Hiroshima at school


***
as soon as 
і wake up from sleep
і frantically begin to suck 
the dick 
of my rifle 
as if there was no war



Essay

The Ditch

Man is something thrown into the ditch of world history. One day some guy went to get some alcohol at some store and ended up in the hospital. Judging from the pics on instagram, I would have liked this guy, and he also has nice long finger nails. Only I still don't know for sure if he's gay or if he just dresses so provocatively that he gets attacked by scumbags on the streets.

Once a famous poet went to get alcohol in one of the few stores and disappeared. These were the days of Soviet terror. I never understood what wrong this poet had done. 

One day a Jew was walking near the palace (probably looking for where to buy alcohol). The guards came up to him and grabbed him. And then, on Nero's orders, the unfortunate Jew was crucified. Why this happened is unclear to me. Perhaps after such an incident Christianity was born.

That's why I don't drink alcohol and use courier delivery as a rule. I also think it is important to note that I want to dye my hair ashy.