The Orange-bellied Himalayan Squirrel
How charming - it makes the world spell-bound
O Himalayan Squirrel, Red-bellied Squirrel
How you do all the things charming
How you do all the things shining to the eyes
How you do all the things, sitting on the branches of the silk cotton tree
How you bring out the cotton from the cotton fruit
How you gather all in a certain place
How your brain acts on how to beautify the other side
I know you don't, all meanings of the cause, but you do
How your brain is fixed on how to make the nest warm
How all together the cotton matches the long line catkins of the land
How it shines with its red belly in the morning sun
On the branches the sunny morning opens the door
The heart that never felt such a wonder
The love and beauty, no greed for power and pelf
A resort to live forever
What the eyes experience here, will ever come to an end?
O sacred Orange- bellied Squirrel
I see you and the heart always dances
The heart throbs for the new passion something for love and sex
We need the figure of the belly as red as the sign 'Love'.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
05/12//2020
The Pheasant-tailed Jacana
The doves, the kingfishers and so many colorful birds
Flying and calling over head in the silent resilient place
Charms the hilly atmosphere around the lake
Smile over the breeze, wiggling the lotus petals and leafs
As though I am going to rise from a deep deadly sleep
Drinking the water of Lethe in Hades
How the world of love made by the two
The male and the female pheasant jacana
How they live on in this watery leaves
How they come close to each other
How the female lays the eggs and fly to the other
Leaving her mate behind she must have her desire fulfilled
Infatuated by again builds her love palace with
Lays her eggs as before in every case
How the male hatches the eggs and breeds the chicks!
Of hatching and fostering the chicks
What a wonder a sense of love and faith to each other!
And responsibly set from above!
To every each other - father, mother, sister, brother, lover and beloved
From one corner of the world to the other we always wander for something new
A doorway to the novelty of thought and light
O breeding male pheasant Jacana,
What you leave behind for us?
I think and observe the responsibility for the new generation.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
06/12//2020
Sculpture Fight
Now the whole world is threatened in fear of corona
A rush of flame burnt all over
What's going on outside?
Indulging on or falsifying the commons
The party against the government
An excitement among the audience in Jalsa (Gathering at night for Islamic speech before the audience))
Not that people like to hear but nothing to do without listening
As they are sitting before the speaker
The argument against establishing the sculptor the speaker breaks the silence of the night
Shouts as loud as he can for not to establish any more in the country
The great man for whom our heads bow down in respect and honor
That person people recognize him as 'The father of Nation'
He is our great leader Bangabandhu Shiekh Mujibur Rahman
Violating the rules of maintaining the social distance
A group of people come out with a procession
Without knowing what the sculptor meant for
A seduction for holding the country instable
Some miscreants broke one of the Bangabandhu's sculptors in Kusthia
While people are dying and being affected daily
In every second corona swings around
Can't shake our hands; kiss on face, advance for lips into lips
Love flows on heart to heart only spiritually
Doctors and nurses have no time for rest
Day and night on duty for cares and treatment
Creates a remorseful condition of earth
Some are counting their profit
Some are repenting on loss
O heart, O diversified heart here you cry and cry
There you rejoice on falsifying or forging fortification
Dying in one side line after line
The fight we see head to head, hand to hand on the other.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/12//2020
Playing Hide and Seek
You play hide and seek
In the world -Love and Trick
I know the intrigue, a wonderful battle field
My journey over the mountains and hills
Through the oceans and the trees
You play hide and seek
I know but dive so deep
No cause why you play this game
No claim why I die and feel sick
I know I love to die
A touch of pain and joy
I like to rest on it, my sweet retention
O my sweet dear, my loving sky
On the ground in the starry lit I lie down
You cuddle and fondle on
I feel like maddened in excitement
Feel fresh as morning light
You play this hide and seek
Overflowing joy the whole night - kissing and missing in plight.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
08/12//2020
In the Abyss of Forgetfulness
Light turns into darkness
Darkness is now more lovable than anything else
Light appears to be dark cloud
We fall into this play of light and dark
Nothing comes out of this ghostly dangerous but heavenly saint
O lament, hidden in the light
Charming in darkness
Love regenerates in the abyss of forgetfulness
People humble and fumble
O danger lies in the bushes, the poisonous snakes.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
08/12//2020
Welcome, readers, to October’s issue of Synchronized Chaos. Each of this month’s submissions comes from a place of considered perspective. Whether through the craft or the subject matter, these authors show they have taken some time to reflect on what they have to say.
John Hicks’ descriptive narrative poetry reflects on the dislocation of Vietnam War service through a soldier reading a newspaper on his day off. In his second piece we ride with his speaker on a crowded bus with various local people to visit a Thai temple. Robert Thomas contributes a rich tale of watching the centuries-old Palio horse race among different neighborhoods of Siena, complete with characters, history, and local color.
Jaylan Salah interviews Egyptian film director Amir Ramses on his passion for artistic representation. With an attention to detail that some may call ‘bossiness,’ he illustrates the harshness of societal judgement, the power of residual memories, and the everyday journeys of characters unlike himself, including women and Jews.
Some contributors go beyond meaning to craft language itself like a cinematic work, creating an atmosphere and sensibility with words.
Napkin miscellanea
Following a footnote
abridged to engross
Japanese standard
spellings
gravediggers translate
promotional resources
as autumnal studies
useless links condense
their informative
relations.
humbled razor sharp
Zen winter coat symmetric PVC pipe
head a flowerpot
earlobe an extension cord
fleeing flea circus attitude
adjustment cucumber cart
telephone bra strap app
scratching iron shackle papal
smeared lips volcanic ash
pile style smile cesspool
HorroR escape hot RoD
stone cold malfunction sprain
backend that burps & slides
so close to bearing shed
farther than a ski slope swirl
salamander can of shoefly pie
leagues before JULES VERNE
marathon a con a palm
swan that sprays to play
/
/ /
/ / / /
/
and no other than another
bundled cut & razor shaped
well-versed & terse & tenses
a parody of electronic hearse
screwing lightbulbs from exterior
Reside where danger lies
Geysers originate artificial weaponry
on the imaginary look of future
temporarily shares dimension
shamed Greco-German empiricism
mainly a latter gift
aiming inheritance
into the discourse of
irredeemable anthropology
specters pave the epochs
blind emancipation backwards
dwell on media theory legacies
enveloping essential non-endeavors
conflating forbidden w/ jealousy
preserving diffuse critique
the center of the every day
Pragmatic convolutions
hotbed of MONARCHY
the human wart blasted
feathering itinerant quarrels
& unleashed furious press
from their rejected ramparts
came sighed relief
hunted by runaway laity
but one CRITIC presses play
while another MOUTHPIECE repeats
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press, 2021) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in Coven, Spontaneous Poetics, Ygdrasil, Expat, Selcouth Station. RASPUTIN, Train, Fugitives & Futurists, Otoliths, M58, Punk Noir Magazine, Beir Bua, and Scud among others. joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
Three Poems
By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri
Translated by Yuanbing Zhang
Another Me From The Heavens
If blue is namely white and black is namely red
and gold is transparent as crystal
and light makes the soul smile forgetting the sun moon and stars
and you were filled with wisdom, drunk for thousands of years
and back to the prehistoric giant city
and that giant is just like another me from the heavens
by the lotus throne in the golden palace.
天上的另一个自己
如若蓝即是白而黑即是红
而黄金透明若水晶而光芒令灵魂微笑忘了日月星辰
而汝醍醐灌顶一醉千年而回到了史前之巨城
而那金殿之莲花宝座上的巨人宛然天上的另一个自己
The Azure Sea
Tonight I thought of the platinum city above in distant space
Where there is no day and night and the giants are interstellar travellers by spaceship
Their words have the dignity of God and create the holy Kingdoms
So that the pictures of the soul in the maze of memory lasts a billion years
Standing by the azure sea near the great palace with swirling sweet music in the city of the gold
3.4.2017
蔚蔚之海
今夜我想起那遥远太空之上的白金巨城
那儿没有昼夜巨人们乘坐飞船在星际航行
他们的词语拥有上帝的尊严而创造圣洁的王国
亿万年的时光是一幅幅灵魂的画卷在记忆的迷宫
黄金之城橚矗那飘洒蜜甜乐曲的巨人殿宇之蔚蔚之海
2017.3.4
The Bath of The Cool Breeze
Prehistoric words of the gods are waking up in my body
The platinum city from a strange planet is as if in a fantasy on the blue coast
The giant men and women who walk by the light do not know trouble or sorrow
There where the temple of the gods is in their heads, whose light is like wine flowing in the blood
And the music of the stars sways gently around them, which is like the bath of the cool breeze on the earth
The huge ship of stars which they have ridden can arrive at the other side of time
To let you get a glimpse yourself yesterday in the future and in the divine light of fragrance
12.23.2016
淸风之沐
史前的诸神之词语正在我体内醒来
那陌生星球上的白金之城在蓝色海岸上恍如梦境
那乘光而行的巨人男女不知道烦恼或忧伤
他们的头颅里有诸神的圣殿光芒如酒在血液里流淌
而星辰的乐曲在身边拂荡犹如地球之上的淸风之沐
他们乘坐的星际巨舰可以抵达时间的彼岸
让你一睹昨日未来之你神性之芬郁之光
2016.12.23
Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.
Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com.
Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China Yuanbing Zhang
Phone:+86 15263747339 Email:3112362909@qq.com
Jean, dansant
It was a temp-
oral regression
from which
he returned
singing La
Marseillaise
between mouth-
fuls of an egg &
lettuce sand-
wich. Arch-
ival footage
shows there
were times
when he had
all four feet
off the ground.
Later
the Holy Roman
Empire would
come to be regarded
as the first
successful franchise.
Initially, however, it
didn't seem to have
a hope of making it
until Emperor Constantine
finally paid attention
to the local cuisine
& replaced the
basic communion wafer
with bite-sized pide.
Working on a capsicum farm
Way before television, up & down
the main street on a Saturday night.
Olive oil heated in a large sauce-
pan, a high energy production.
Unanimously well received. Great
feedback for a never say die team.
"The intention is to allow people
to stay living in their own homes,"
Carol explained. "We're hoping
those people who want to become
train drivers will wear white on
the night − lots of lace, no denim.
"It's so rewarding to see them once
they step out of their comfort zone."
Out & About
When last heard of she was
said to be running a clinic &
outreach program for theo-
dolites made redundant by
an uptake of GPS devices. No-
one can pinpoint its location.
Now
that the voices
in my head have
deserted me,
who is there
left to talk to?
This poet, Michael Robinson, writes from his heart, there is no doubt….when reading his poetry, you truly feel the emotions as if they hop off the paper…. A truly gifted poet whose life journey has been difficult, but has made him a true example of how someone can beat the odds and shine as a shining star in the art of poetry….a truly amazing poet….
Lorraine DeMauro, Artist….
You may order a copy of Michael Robinson’s book From Chains to Freedom directly from Michael, at MJROBINSON@rollins.edu
Family
When you graduated, no one
hired draft bait. You lived at home.
Waited for the hungry nation’s letter.
Collected in October. Bus
full of strangers. One, his pockets
full of candy. Another, cigarettes.
No one shared. Guy behind you
was reading Psychology Today.
Now, after four months of training,
you’re trying to use every minute
of this twelve-hour pass slipping
through your fingers. Last freedom
before new orders. Fog cold.
Can’t pull your collar close enough.
Head-down walking. The light without edges.
Can’t see the city through suffocating gray.
No idea how far from the Greyhound depot.
Looking for a place that won’t shun a soldier.
To be among civilians a few hours. But
you’ve wandered into a warehouse district.
The Draft, a law for world war—now part
of the country’s character—has sent you
to learn automatic weapons and explosives;
to build strength to march with heavy packs;
equipment, and ammunition; to carry
an injured comrade out of harm’s way;
to dress wounds; to dig for shelter in the dirt.
It’s taken you for your country’s hardest work.
At the bus depot you bought a San FranciscoChronicle.
First newspaper in four months, now limp in the fog.
Training’s over for your platoon. No longer strangers
uncertain about each other or the Army.
Comrades waiting for orders:
Vietnam on everyone’s mind.
Among steel and concrete buildings, a single light
caved in mist above a store front’s faded letters,
EAT.
Looks like a place out of Jack London. A place
for bearded men in pea jackets, wool caps, heavy boots.
And cheap enough for a $100-a-month Army private.
Brass door handle’s wet, cold. Thumb the latch. Push.
Almost empty. Air heavy with grease.
Cook, with stained apron and tattooed arms,
has spread the classifieds on a table.
Doesn’t look up. Radiator clicks by the door;
coffee urn grumbles. Murmured slap of cards
from the far end of the counter. Her uniform
is faded pink; hair in a bun, pencil stuck in it.
You’re too late for breakfast, she declares.
We got pie and coffee.
Take the seat by the register.
The cup is heavy china; kind that holds blistering heat.
Slip your fingers around it; one through the handle.
She returns to the game. Takes her cards
from her apron pocket. Other players
are pink-faced—gray hair slicked back on one,
fluffy gray ring above the other’s ears.
Black industrial shoes with gym socks.
Their backs toward me.
Students are protesting. San Francisco wants to build the world’s tallest building. Nixon has a plan. Crossword, horoscope,
Goren on Bridge, Ask Abby, sports, want ads.
Pages of another world.
Pay for the coffee. Leave the paper.
Fog’s unchanged. Pull your neck
into your collar. Back to the bus depot.
Back to your platoon. Back to wait for orders.
Unspoken: You’ll be split up.
Singing in the Dark
Few things weight your heart
like men’s voices lifting
in the relief of camp songs,
songs that echo back
from a grove of trees
taller than their sound.
Nothing is more terrible
than men’s voices lifting
to branches leaning down,
keeping to themselves
what lies ahead.
Pride
On the plaza, the Marine Band
struck up the national anthem,
and in the awareness of a ten-year old,
you noticed the changed posture
of the man standing next to you;
how he pulled his feet together,
how he squared his shoulders,
and took the cigarette from his mouth;
how both sleeves ended
in stainless steel hooks.
Bus to the Weekend Market
Hot.
Sun off the concrete so intense,
I have to squint. Digs through
the bottom of my shoes.
No taxis on Sunday—so a bus.
Alone at the stop on Sukhumvit Road,
I’m moving with the shade splatter
under this flaming jacaranda.
Tomorrow, the young woman
with white blouse and blue sarong,
will set her baskets down in the shade,
lean her bamboo pole against the fence,
and roast banana slices on a brazier
for customers waiting for the bus.
She’ll wrap their breakfast
in fresh banana leaf before it arrives.
_______________
Still my first month in Bangkok. Today,
I’m going to the old part of the city.
Have heard of Sanam Luang,
the Weekend Market on the royal public grounds.
I want to see where the food comes in
from the countryside. I’ve heard
you can buy almost anything there:
brass woks, boars’ heads, horseshoe crabs,
and temple offerings—like small birds in cages,
or Siamese fighting fish in plastic bags
of canal water—small animals for making merit
by setting them free.
_______________
A bus at last!
As we pull away, I hand my coin
to the attendant in his khaki uniform.
Can’t be more than ten years old.
With a practiced gesture, he flips back
the hinged lid of the aluminum tube,
drops my fare into its compartment,
and tears my ticket from the tiny roll.
He stays close to me and,
looking up with a shy smile,
touches the top of his crew cut
with the flat of his hand, compares
to its level on my shirt—something
I did at that age. I smile back.
Ah, luck! A seat on the shady side
and an open window with breeze from
our movement. The young mother
in the seat ahead holds her baby up
to look over her shoulder at the farang.
A surprise of black hair spouts up through
a pink bow. I look down a moment,
then up; wiggling my eyebrows.
A giggling reward. Like all babies,
she can’t stop staring. I’m guessing
she’s going to visit grandparents.
They get off at Soi Nana Nua—
just before Ploenchit Road where
we begin heading west.
Near Erawan Shrine, I hear whispers
behind me in a dialect I don’t understand.
I pick out the word American.
A gray-haired woman leans forward
and raises her voice to get my attention.
Her hair is cut short, sarong folded
in the old style. I can’t make out
what she’s saying until she offers me
a kaffir leaf and a scoop from her jar
of betel nut paste. Her daughter,
in western dress and sunglasses, tugs
at her arm, an effort she pulls away from—
eyes bright above her betel-red mouth.
In a country that esteems its elderly,
she’s being generous with her attention.
Respectfully, I decline with a modest
lowering of my head, then a wink and
smile. Her laugh lines are for me.
We ignore daughter.
_______________
As we pass Emerald Buddha Temple,
people start gathering their belongings.
The attendant stands next to the driver
to look out the front. We pull over,
and everyone gets off. So I do, too.
The street stews with weaving vehicles. Taxis,
bicycles, samlors, small trucks, motor bikes and
scooters weave, beep, honk and puff exhaust.
Everyone seems to be unloading baskets or crates
or dropping someone off.
Sanam Luang itself is an uproar of tarps
in all shapes, colors and patterns—
all with their backs to me—obscuring
thirty grass-sparse acres of the royal public grounds.
I retreat to shade beneath the tamarind trees planted
by King Rama V.
How do I get into the Market? There seems
to be no entrance, and everyone’s too busy to ask.
As I watch, a woman with a basket of duck eggs
resting on her hip gets off the back of a motorbike,
and dodging through the traffic, disappears
behind a canopy. Staying under the trees,
I follow and find the opening where she entered.
______________
A path on the battered grass wanders vendor-to-vendor.
I turn left, dodging tent poles and tie-downs,
duck under tarps sagging with the weight of sun,
and stop at crowd around a table
where someone sells small birds
from a tall wire cage. A boy and his father
have made a selection and are watching
the vendor trying to catch it without losing
the others. The birds make small clicking sounds
as they flick perch to perch. Each grab
inspires laughter and encouragement
from surrounding children and adults.
Home has become far away,
New CarPattaya Beach, Thailand Hot Season
I parked my new car last night in a grove of royal jacaranda
for shade over our beach weekend. Tomorrow we’ll walk
to the water through coconut palms rustling in the sea breeze.
At noon, we’ll move into the shade for steamed rice in banana leaf cups,
and chicken satay roasted with a local curry sauce,
drink Amarit or Singha from a chipped-ice cooler.
This morning I find I’d parked in a photographer’s dream—
a theater setting of clustered orange trumpets,
regal fanfare deafening polished metallic blue.
But trees only talk with trees.
They whisper to each other
what pride cannot hear,
I’ve brought a painted toy into paradise.
