The moon is a damp alloy curdling
with a blue snarl. Chilling ministries
speed hearts on October nights,
your sleeping face hammered with moon.
A simple walk is all of my duende’s
deep song. I will trek the Liberty Taxes,
abandoned storefronts and dark arcades,
easy noir mosques, sober gas stations.
Brittle fangs grow in vacant craters,
a stinking smog seals an astronaut’s
scream. Night’s natal gnosis rings
in dormant dilation, woolly syllables
ring in the cicadas’ splitting aural assault,
a discordia’s assonantal, atomic ablation.
An ill choir doubles: You can stay here
when things get warm. You will only hold God’s
hand to chew it off. A knee bends in the desert,
coptic scripts of lunar foil nicked with rotting stars.
And where are you? You of retail revolt,
misshapen hubris, pragmatic puppetry.
A simple waltz of eloped faces, Slenderman elisions
and discarded industrial beer cans
are all of my days and nights.
I’m sick of hearing about your condition.
In a forest’s blue rot, fireflies will eat
on the body of your poor person,
You’ll struggle in the dark, and only be found
as something witchy.
John Thomas Allen likes the slow unfurling of meditative poetry which is almost too much poetry to be poetry–Wallace Stevens, James Wright, and the early surrealists.
Spiritual Advance
Purple Heart
for Freedom's Stance admits
choices I've drawn from
the Well of
Endless Light ,
Where Being is Laid
in the presence of
GOOD
Knowing all is Well.
i try not to think
did you ever think
the rain would end
did you ever think
love had an expiration
date
did you ever think
your dreams wouldn't
come true
did you ever think
your demons were
better than mine
did you ever think
this love would mean
more to someone
else
did you ever think
death was a good
conversation starter
did you ever think
how fast flowers
die
did you ever think
i was going to love
you this much
did you ever think
you would as well
did you ever think
we were suicide
lovers meant to
find each other
on the same
fucking cliff
only to jump
before anyone
could say no
------------------------------------------------------------------
supposedly still winter
it is around 60 degrees
today, supposedly still
winter
these are the days that
tease us just enough to
get everyone fucking
sick
a little collusion between
mother nature and the
fucking medical industry
two days from now it will
snow and then we'll all be
running to the pharmacies
to get our pills
rinse and repeat
death is quickest opt out
i can think of
----------------------------------------------------------------
yellow and blue for freedom
watching the bombing
right before i try to go
to sleep probably isn't
the best way to sleep
peacefully
but it does paint the
dreams in these vivid
colors
red for blood
black for death
yellow and blue
for freedom
there's always
a madman worried
about his legacy
more than the citizens
of his country or the
country he's trying
to destroy
and i know everyone
is worried about
world-war three
i'm more worried
about what happens
if freedom loses
---------------------------------------------------------------
like her life depended on it
remember when she said
she would love you forever
that every day without you
would ache more and more
as she got older
remember how she would
kiss you like her life depended
on it
how the sex was more amazing
each and every time
how you used to laugh on the
front porch of the farm while
talking about marriage, children,
what a future could possibly
look like
and then remember this is the
shit you wanted a relationship
to look like
reality is a cruel bitch
-----------------------------------------------------------
if we are alive
i had a doctor
tell me once
that pain is
often the only
way we can
tell if we are
alive or not
and as the
pinched nerves
provide the
waves of pain
for me to ride,
i guess this is
what the fuck
she was talking
about
yet another
fucking thing
i won't miss
when i'm dead
Translation from the French by Michael SteffenIn a Nutshell
What is this foam in the mouth of the West since the invasion of Ukraine by Russia? Nearly everywhere around the world we’re writing Russian culture off.
Who has the authority to issue this order unjust as it is reprehensible? No need to cite examples. Everybody knows what’s going on here. I’m ashamed of these gravediggers
who confuse Chekhov with Kalashnikov. Like that’s going to help save the Ukrainian people bravely facing bombs, missiles and torture. Are we going to throw Dostoyevsky in jail without a fair trial and have him executed? Trash Pushkin and
Pasternak? They are also dictators who aim to erase artists by assassinating their thoughts. This is not Democracy and Liberty. Culture is international, it doesn’t have borders.
I’m still listening to Rachmaninov, Shostakovich, some days over and over. I’m still reading Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetaeva, often with tears in my eyes.
I say No to the Thought-Police! Long live Russian culture!
Denis Emorine (original)
нет !
Quelle folie s’empare de l’Occident depuis l’invasion de l’Ukraine par la Russie ? Partout dans le monde ou presque , on excommunie la culture russe et ses représentants ! Qui a lancé un mot d’ordre aussi injuste que méprisable ? Je ne donnerai pas d’ exemples : tout le monde les connaît. J’ai honte pour ces fossoyeurs qui confondent Tchekhov et la kalachnikov ! Qu’ espèrent-ils ainsi ? Sauver le peuple ukrainien qui affronte les bombes et autres missiles , les massacres et les viols avec courage ? Faut-il emprisonner Dostoïevski avant de le juger puis de l’ exécuter ? Jeter aux ordures Pouchkine ou Pasternak ? Ce sont les dictateurs qui s’en prennent aux artistes en assassinant la pensée ! Pas les pays libres et démocratiques ! La culture est internationale, elle n’a pas de frontières !
J’ écoute toujours Rachmaninov, Chostakovitch parfois plusieurs fois par jour ; je lis toujours Anna Akhmatova ou Marina Tsvetaïeva souvent les larmes aux yeux…
Non à la dictature de la pensée quelle qu’elle soit ! Vive la culture russe !
Denis EMORINE
Translation from the French by Natacha Rostova
НЕТ!
Что за сумасшествие охватило Запад , когда Россия ввела войска на территорию Украины? Везде или почти везде в мире выкидывают русскую культуру и ее представителей!
Кто отдал такой как
несправедливый, так и презираемый приказ?
Не хочу приводить тому примеры, их все знают и так.
Мне стыдно за этих могильщиков, которые не видят разницы между именами Чехов и Калашников
На что они рассчитывают? Спасти украинский народ, который смело противостоит бомбежкам, ракетам, массовым убийствам, изнасилованиям?
Нужно ли посадить Достоевского в тюрьму до суда и следствия, а потом его казнить? Выбросить Пушкина и Пастернака на помойку?
Диктаторы, убивая мысль, ведут наступление на представителей культуры.
Не только свободные и демократические страны!
Культура интернациональна, у нее нет границ!
Я люблю слушать Рахманинова, Шостаковича, иногда слушаю их несколько раз в день, всегда читаю Анну Ахматову или Марину Цветаеву, часто со слезами на глазах…
Нет диктатуре мысли, в любой форме!
Да здравствует русская культура!
Денис Еморин
Rebirth of a Soul
Life had been empty when my faith was lacking.
Years of seeking something that was empty within.
Faith came to me earlier this season of Jesus’s death.
Daily praying to be saved from a world which held nothing.
Listening to the gospels there was no recognition of death.
Yet, death had me in a vice on me daily without ceasing.
My emptiness repeated each year and tears continued to flow.
Kneeling at the altar alone and crying alone praying for a life.
Finding that empty place within me without salvation coming.
Meaning meant life was a vacuum of suffering and pain.
Jesus hanging with nails in his hands had meaning for me.
It was a day in which a quietness blanketed me the first time.
Walking with a wooden cross on his shoulders alone.
It had meaning to walk to his death to suffer with meaning
Sitting there in an empty church alone changed that day.
Instead, it was an understanding of what death meant,
There was no flashing of lights or angels singing.
It was a recognition that my life meant something.
My life was given to me by God’s love for me to live.
Somehow it all meant something to me that he died.
Not for my sins but rather to save me from emptiness.
God had given me my life and my life had meaning.
Diego Maradona, A Wonder of the World
Diego Maradona, a name of charisma, the famous football player of the world
Today and tomorrow will ever flow on - to you, to me and for all
Whenever the ball touches his feet, the rhythmic passing can't but charm
Though the striker all the time circled round by four or five opposite players
Ran so swift with the ball to the goal post in an instant leaving behind all
And the whole stadium fascinated with the sound 'Goal' ---- in the blink of an eye
Technique of passing with the ball always made the audience spell-bound
Even his throwing by the hand to the goal once judged as 'The God's hand'
What a striker! What a magician!
In the field of The World Cup Football
What a magic playing! How charismatic in dealing with the ball!
Though went away very soon from his earth
Can we say he is no more in the field of The World Cup Football?
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
05/01//2021
The Tough Loving Cup
The heat caused deaths by corona
More violent than the heat causing deaths by gratuitous violence
From this different guise of destruction
People hang on the fate for mutual submission
Of course, we can't blame our predecessors for this
The skin disease of white and black
For what is happening today or happened in the past
In this garrulous world suffocated by the smoky, enigmatic form of work
Like the car in a dizzying speed or guarding the buildings like a Dobermann
Where is the loving cup?
Can we sip in the Holy Grail?
Though the curling smoke mounts high in the morning, evening or midnight cup
The woods are burning; the land submerged by
Everyday every moment in the light, shade or dark.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
05/01//2021
The Flapping Bird
The bird is flapping standing still over head
Like the plane before landing on the ground
Jerking the body and the people inside
This is the sky the bird flies free
Take rest on its feather and fly again
Is it watching my black-haired head or something other for a particular thing?
Different species of birds possesses different ways of flying
Compared to body, strength or taste
According to God's will
But all fly free to the own
That acts on the human brain and search for the new
In this evening when the sun is just going to set with its round red charm
Reflecting on the mind in bond of love
The bird snatched me away to the wonder of the nature's diversity
I fly over where the bird can't.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/01//2021
The Sign of Love
Let the sky be open
From the hazy and crazy mood of the universe
Let the passion be for beauty
From the morning to the evening
Let the moon kiss on
From all sorts of pain and suffering
Let love be for each other free from any danger
From one corner of the earth to the other
The sun shines on flowers
Blooming the smile of all faces
Let tyranny and oppression be stopped
Singing all in harmony the sweet note of birds
Let peace cuddle on everybody irrespective of cast, color or creed
Removing the snake tamed in the palace causing so many deaths
Let shake hands to each other and embrace to die for each other
Can you see the sign of love hung on the wall? - The heart!
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/01//2021
The Old Home
Life cries on the bend of the river
The flow of the river halts, when life falters
A great relationship we find in between life and river
Streaming from an unknown power
Rivers dry up- sand and sand -the bottom and the surface
Life walks -life burns, life dives in quicksand
The sandy river turns into a hot spot
The green leafy trees fade away
Life from on to the other
Life appears to be a skull, a living dead on the flowing blood
Why do the sons and daughters leave the parents?
Why is the blood cut off from its blood's stream?
Why power and pelf lead the rational being to the path of blindness
Forgetting the nourishment and the caress in childhood?
The old in no way walk to The Old Home
A woman lying on bed paralyzed and senseless
Roaring in pain for bed sore in the back
The old coming here were unknown to each other before
So close now and very near and dear to each other
From the long journey of life, all seem to be a love bird singing altogether
Or like the weathered green glittering in the sun after the rain
Rolling water into my eyes
Life is like the flying rain with its different means and ways disappears very soon
How diversified to take a single breath cultivating the land in different field!
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
10/01//2021
Climate sensitivity is a term used by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) to describe to what extent rising levels of greenhouse gases affect the Earth’s temperature. Specifically, it describes how much warmer the planet will get if the amount of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere doubles.
In this issue, contributors grapple with the effects of our actions on our climates: ecological, political, social, and personal.
Note: If you’d like to make a difference for the Earth by planting trees, you may visit One Tree Planted for information on how to replenish natural forests around the world. One dollar plants one tree! Also, if you’re an artist who creates work inspired by ecology and nature, you can include your work as part of Earth Day’s campaign to showcase Artists for the Earth.
Several writers from the B Street Writing Group in Hayward, CA address ecological climate change in a collection of pieces which they will perform at the Sun Gallery at Hayward’s first annual Lit Hop, Saturday April 30th.
Leticia Garcia Bradford wonders whether her individual actions are making enough of a difference for the environment. Linda Hibbard speaks on climate through the POV of a melting snowman. Gloria Lopez and Tess Tyler outline the effects of environmental change on humans as well as the rest of the ecosystem.
Patricia Doyne’s work crashes into our consciousness, illustrating storms as an effect of our changing planet. Lisbeth Garcia-Lopez brings a poignant tale of flowers destroyed by pollution. Al Murdach depicts a green statue of Jesus and its potential significance, including stewardship for creation.
Finally, with his trademark humor, Hayward’s poet laureate Bruce Roberts encourages us to pack our bikinis for Arctic sunbathing.
Other writers take a more personal and psychological approach to writing about landscapes of various kinds.
Loretta Siegel celebrates nature in a piece inviting someone to join her out “where the rabbits run,” while Michael Hough describes a walk out at night with his dog and the screech of owls in the air. Gabriel T. Saah’s speaker contemplates his deep love for his partner while walking along the beach at sunset. He draws on nature within himself, his own body, as well as outdoor scenery for imagery.
Sarika Jaswani highlights the solitude that gives her the space for creative thought, which she finds in rural, urban, and literary landscapes. Jelvin Gibson evokes the rich beauty of nature while mourning a lost love, and Mahbub waxes poetic on the delicate embrace of birdsong, sprouting grass, and pastureland.
Mamadee Kanneh probes the inner landscape of his moods, often as complex and out of his control as the weather. The sun, and its mythological connotations, illustrate Isabella Hansen’s speaker’s grief over the loss of her brother. Hazel Fry stares into the ocean and muses on evolution, ecology, fluidity, and femininity.
Geoff Sawers paints European urban landscapes with language evoking their complex, rich, and sometimes dark pasts. Do Toan Dien draws on the spiritual, natural, and architectural heritage of Vietnam in his bilingual poetry. Federico Wardal covers a talk from archaeologist Dr. Zahi Hawass on how researchers located Cleopatra’s tomb in a piece that celebrates ancient Egyptian culture.
Nadja Moore depicts various miscommunications: a humorous disconnect over dinner and a more poignant tale of a child ghost trying to get her family’s attention. Doug Hawley’s flash fiction explores through humor the dangers we face in the wild: age, declining health, animal and human predators.
Stephen House looks in on others with compassion – a man with mental challenges, animals bred and destined for slaughter – and also speculates on how we might bring different perspectives to the same circumstances.
Sheila Murphy probes human nature with a mix of short pieces and character sketches that explore both our fragility and our resilience. John Grey writes of the imperfect human experience: bumbling dancers, drinkers with bad breath, marital disillusionment after a flood. J.J. Campbell conveys the awkwardness, hope, and cynicism of love at midlife, while Emmanuel G.G. Yamba vows not to let death take him without a fight.
Ivan S. Fiske’s speaker draws upon various religious images to describe his profound connection with the person he loves. Michael Robinson presents calm odes to the spiritual nourishment found through instances of beauty in urban environments.
Christopher Bernard contributes a poetic piece on history and memory and speculates that becoming a poet might be a calling as much as a professional identity.
Still other writers play with mixed media and language.
Jerome Berglund pairs nighttime urban shots through a car window with haikus, while Heller Levinson fragments concepts, definitions and ultimately words into thought pieces. Mark Young’s first piece harks back to Ezra Pound’s style while his other poems reflect on political communication.
Other writers address the global sociopolitical climate.
Patricia Doyne mourns the invasion of Ukraine in a piece from the point of view of a little boy who loses his mother. Steven Croft addresses war in Ukraine as well as Iraq from a more panoramic perspective, while commenting on Bolivia’s economic growth.
Chimezie Ihekuna urges humanity to abandon war as a means to solve differences. Christopher Bernard depicts the Ukrainian tragedy through the trauma of a young refugee boy, while David Dephy’s work honors the beauty of Ukraine and issues strident calls for chaos to depart. Ike Boat shares his service as the master of ceremonies during a Christian university’s graduation in Ghana.
We hope that this issue adds a bit of inspiration to your day while challenging your heart and mind and imagination.
As a reminder, we encourage the readers and writers who enjoy our publication to write letters of support to be included in care packages to be delivered to refugees around the world by the nonprofit New Beginnings. Click here to write a letter online (anonymously if you wish) that will support and encourage a refugee family in their new home.
Also, PEN America campaigns on behalf of writers facing persecution for their nonviolent work. Click here to read and sign online petitions for different writers at risk. Also, the organization Free Women Writers is looking for volunteer editors for pieces they are collecting and publishing from women and girls in Afghanistan.
