***** all my darkness waxing moon *** same shit different day cicadas **** in the name of the lord wolfsbane *** mayflies— my fantasy of someone else *** orchid seeds the dig of his nails into my waist
Lori A Minor (she/they) is a queer, neurodivergent poet and activist. Recipient of more than 15 haikai awards, they are proud to be included in A New Resonance 12 and to have given presentations at Haiku North America (2019, 2021). Lori’s sixth book, Hot Girl Haiku, is now available.
The Dragons of Paris (Upon reading Fashionable Nonsense: Postmodern Intellectuals’ Abuse of Science, by Alan Sokal and Jean Bricmont) By Christopher Bernard Once upon a time, in the glamorous, notorious City of Lights that lies across the sinuous Seine like a seductive odalisque of reason and sensuality, beauty, style, good taste, and sense, there appeared a foul and toxic fog, a smoke that belched and bound the town in mental night. The citizens wandered, stunned and blind and crying out in random shouts in words no one could understand: “Le petit a! Jouissance! Différance! Pastout! Afemme! Séméiotiké!” that filled the air all over France from caves deep down in old Lutéce (“Mudville,” once called, now called again), where the Dragons of Paris disbursed, in smog, dank volumes of mephitic breath. The Dragons’ names put terror in the hearts of all good citizens: Lacan le Gros, Foucault le Mal, grinning Baudrillard le Bouffon, Kristeva la Sorciére, Jacques Derrida l’Indécidable, Gilles Deleuze, la Porte Sublime du Dindon de la Charabia, and more, with a host of dragonettes pursuing the work of their dark masters cooking in their dens a glorious madness of chopped dictionaries and tossed charlatanry, spiced with cynicism, that sickened two generations of impressionable, clueless, half-educated youth, most of them – hélas! – American. One day two knights rode from the west – Sir Alan and Sir Jean by name, “Follow the Science!” writ on one shield, “Physics to the Rescue!” upon the other – and bravely stormed the fetid caves whose floors and walls were lined with texts with dragon sweat and guano thick, unreadable, yet cruelly read by generations of undergrads and graduate students until they squealed, “There is no truth, there is no Real, no good not always already a weapon, Big Other, subject, sexual relation (sorry, mom, dad! I never really happened!), no meaning not infinitely deferred, no science, objectivity, facts (“no facts but only interpretations,” as unholiest St. Fritz of Nietzsche said); ‘Il n’y a rien hors de texte!’; no world, nothing whatsoever beyond the Word!” (because, if they didn’t, they wouldn’t get a degree (in English) so they could teach in a nice, respectable university, and maybe someday get tenure – but then, my friends, they wouldn’t even get that – poor dears! – in the end). With a thousand bold strokes, Sir Jean and Sir Alan pierced the hides of the Parisian dragons (“Mathematical gaffes! Scientific misunderstanding! Bad logic, worse grammar, bad French and worse English! Logical dead ends! Arithmetical nonsense! Hang it, just meaningless gibberish!”) and out of the holes in those green slippery skins hot air hissed away in a gale o’er the Seine, and the dragons – the two Jacques, the one Julie, Jean, Gilles, Michel, and a crowd of others – shrieking death cries, flew about in a panic as they shrank like a frantic mob of balloons, gnashing and frothing and hopelessly flying from darkness to darkness – one felt sorry for them, almost – till they shriveled down to what they had been all along: a few inches of thin rubber, with mouths agape, and nothing whatever inside them but air. Sir Alan and Sir Jean, armor dented and scarred, swords flecked with balloons punctured, and smeared with ink, exited the caverns out to the light and the acclaim of a grateful city. “At last!” rose the cry on all sides, “We can again see the sun! We can breathe! We are freed from the impenetrable night that threatened to destroy us – above all, our minds!” The two knights, bloodied, exhausted, but victorious, took their modest bows. “You are really too kind!” Then glanced at each other: it wouldn’t do now to tell these people they were partly to blame for nursing the dragons with their own folly: spare the critic and spoil the intellectual. Don’t get them in the crib, and give them a fight? When (if!) they grow up, they’ll give you a bite! At the banquet that followed, they had stories to tell: close calls with the enemies of thought and light, genuine creation, and piety for the human: intellectual pretentiousness in a shotgun wedding with despotic professional intimidation fueled, on the one hand, by status anxiety and, on the other, by narcissistic delight. Unhappily, they had not gotten all the dragons in the end: one sly dragonette from the Balkans fled, escaping to Slovenia, his innocent home, where he remains, cooking his oracles for the next set of gullible college students, if there are any left! _____ "Christopher Bernard’s most recent book of poems, The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, won a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award for Excellence and was named one of Kirkus Reviews’ “Top 100 Indie Boks of 2021.”
The Sob of the Masses In day and Night Even if It rains Cats and Dogs Even if The weather has Changed The Masses weep though wars and starvations bedeviling the townlets Oh ! Oh ! Oh! Oh! This is a dime a dozen Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Day by day Their daughters are being raped Jewels or not They pedestrianize to China and wail million times before they could get a drop of water It is the last Straw Of the masses Forwhy Their Godfathers pay no attention to their Woods Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Let us pray to get rid of these Lest We face the Music God Forbid !
The Threatenable Nation Though Poem is not Easy But I Should not be a lazy Oh ! My Country my Country ! Insecurity threatens Our Unity ! Places have been vandalized And We have been massacred Why Threatenable Nation? It's a Nation Without Motion... Why do they always loot the properties of Government Without any development ? No peace in Cities Nor Hamlets But Alas unutilised Talents Oh! My Country My Country ! Insecurity threatens Our Unity In this Country Inadequate Water Supply Inadequate Power Supply All became norms Prosperities are Very rare While Unemployments are rampants Oh ! My Arewa My Arewa ! Yeah ! it's My Province And We lack peace It's indeed time For Us to raise Our Voices Let's Wake up let's wake up! Manna don't fall From heaven And, With no pain no gain Yeah ! There's Kidnapping, raping And genociding it's really not kidding Open defecation and deforestation I'm afraid! They are not Once in a blue moon All this in my father Land In Countries We are third World This Country it's befitting To be called the Threatenable Nation Oh ! My Country My Country Insecurity threatens Our Unity Let the Message be Clear This Country is Nigeria We Shouldn't be in voiceless But in vocalness Oh ! God tackle all Our Obstacles
A Tearful Country
A Large Country,
But less than blue Ivory,
With no blooming tertiaries
rather a blunt Resources.
We Vote Our Leaders
Later We turned to ladders
While we Weep
They sip the elite drink
And left us to our thirst
Oh! Where Is everyone's talent?
Have they lost their craft
Oh! Where Is Our Government?
Let us Save her Beforehand from drought
Else
We would Cry a river.
Short Bio
Yusuf Salisu Muhammad was born on Saturday morning 15/3/2003 in Katsina state, Nigeria, He received His earliest Education at police Children School, Katsina state, Nigeria, then proceeded to Saldefi International School Where he earned a Secondary School living certificate also in Katsina state, Nigeria. He is currently Studying B.A History, at Umaru Musa Yar'adua University, Katsina State, Nigeria. Some of his poems were published at Susa Africa, Hausawa, and Voice Of Northern Nigeria. He started writing poems at 17.
#1 Poem Title: "Kweeju" (Abandon Child) I am kweeju, Born with a black skin, Abandoned by a woman and raised by a hunter Bright, Brilliant, articulate strong and bold; I’m filled with hatred, Skillful enough to attack my enemies. I am kweeju, Often the target is sorrow My future is not confined to charity Give me the gift of a lifetime, Give me a dream, A door of opportunity; I will thrive. I am Kweeju Do not hide my fault Show me my wrong I am like any other, Teach me to dream, And I will become one. I am Kweeju I am the son; son of the soil, Rich in texture and content, Full of potential for a better tomorrow, Lack of motherly discipline and character, But filled with hard work, Teach me to think like the star within me I am Kweeju. #2 Poem Title: Weeping/Moaning We were four in numbers, When we heard the sound of death’s call, Calling our mother under cover, We were shocked and rolled like an ocean, A mighty man of nature, one who gives and takes, But time was not appropriate. Weeping has turned to our morning meal, An early dream has come to an end. She was our sleeves, woman full of thoughts and emotions, One who lighten our world, One who gives us hope for the future has passed on. She left tears in our eyes, Memories in our hearts, Searching for remedy, And finding none. Weeping/moaning Mother is gone, I could hear the voice of a new mother calling from the other side, The little one with such an instigating look. My blood boiled to hear the voice of my younger sister crying, The tears rained down her cheek as a sign of misery. The tree has waved its branches, and the dry leaves have fallen. We work more and play less, The one who holds the dream of an entire family has crashed, Clear waters ran through that fertile land, By the light of dawn, We called it home, We shared a dream, But now it’s gone. We could not change, Or bring back the days, But feel her presence around, And we weep all day. Who Is A Woman? The backbone to a man in time of difficulties; One who lighten the affairs of the family, And the attention she gives, Seeking the treasure of satisfaction, A light in the night of man's trouble. The bridge of every man's dream, The apple in the eyes, The representation of man's life. Who is a woman One that is quiet, millions of things are running through her mind as she stares at you, she is wondering why she loves you so much, despite being taken for granted. She stands by you like a solid rock. Never hurt and taken for granted. Who is a woman Mother to our future leaders One who has the unique character like salt, But her presence is never remembered, Her absence makes all the things tasteless. But, Her smile and commitment, Make a man realize a woman's worth. Author Bio Jelvin Stephen Gibson remains the name. He was born in Montserrado County, precisely ELWA Hospital, on Friday, 8th August 1995, as the first son of four children. Father's name is Stephen T. Gibson, and mother's name is Etta B. Sulonkpala (late), while his stepmother's name is Benetta Jones Gibson. He is from Bong County by origin. He holds certifications in Acting for Stage, Acting for Radio, Artist Management, and Acting for Camera. He is a classroom Teacher; he holds an Associate Degree in Education (AA) (Language Arts) from the Licosess Mobile Teacher Training College. He looks forward to having a B.Sc as soon as possible. His hobbies are writing, reading, teaching, and caring for others. Because of his writing, he gained popularity in the Liberian Movie Industry. He wrote and starred in the movie "Greed" and also wrote the script of the story "Kweeju" (Abandon Child), which was a zone project. His father is his inspiration. He always gives him some direction to face something, gives him the story ahead, and is always optimistic about realizing his dreams. He always says that he is the best and that his family is his spirit.
Sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you, I wouldn't know those soft touches That i felt through the spring of your clutches I wouldn't run a mile Just to see your beautiful smile I wouldn't know that warmth That I felt in your arms I wouldn't know the heaven of bliss That I found in your tender kiss I wouldn't know the taste of the care That I found in the blossom of your air sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you _ -Mamta Verma
"Fajr Ali" was a well-known name in the field of children's literature. Fajr Ali's stories were published in almost every children's magazine. Readers of all ages, young and old, eagerly awaited Fajr Ali's stories. And Fajr Ali believed that all this was the perfection of his "magic pen" which was given to Fajr as a gift by his class teacher Miss Nusrat. Fajr still remembers the words of his teacher when he gave the "magic pen": "Dear Fajr, with the power of this pen you will rule the hearts. With its magic, your words will enchant people." Then it really happened that when Fajr Ali wrote the first story with this pen, it was well received, and then as soon as he saw it, Fajr Ali's stories became popular among the young and old. Fajr Ali attributed every success story to the magic pen. Every word that came out of Fajr Ali's pen enchanted the readers. But then suddenly the stories of Fajr Ali stopped being published. One month, two months and three months had passed. No story of Fajr Ali was published. How can it be published? When Fajr Ali had not written any story in those three months. Apart from the stories, an episode-wise novel was also being published in the children's magazine Roshan, the last episode of which was to be published three months ago, but Fajr Ali had not yet written the last episode of the novel. Readers as well as editors were very upset by this situation. .. .. .. .. ... Fajr Ali was holding his head in front of a pile of papers when suddenly the door of his room opened, Fajr Ali looked up, Fajr's father was at the door, "Abu Ji, you?" Fajr said looking at his father. "Son, now you tell me your problem, why haven't you written anything in the last three months?" Ali Sahib said while sitting on the chair. "Abu Ji, I will never be able to write again." Fajr Ali said wiping his moist eyes. "Why, son, what happened?" Ali Sahib asked anxiously. "Actually, my 'magic pen' is lost, because of which I used to write, now I can't write with any other pen, as soon as I start writing something on the paper, my pen doesn't move, it seems like all my words are lost like a magic pen. " Fajr Ali told his father the real reason. "Oh my dear daughter, your pen was not a magical pen, but the real magic is in you, in your thoughts. That pen was just a simple pen, but it was important that it was a gift from the teacher." Well done, now shake off the illusion that your pen was enchanted, recognize the magic inside you, believe in your ability, grab this new pen and start writing with the confidence that you will write your words with each pen. I can do magic," Ali Sahib explained to Fajr Ali. .. .. .. .. ... The last episode of Fajr Ali's series of novels had been published in the children's magazine "Roshan." It turned out that everything she wrote was due to a magic pen. Today Fajr Ali had identified himself.
Three Poems Written by Yuan Hongri Translated by Yuanbing Zhang I Was Originally The God of the Gods I shall change seawater into honey， smelt the stone into the gold， the bitter is namely sweet， the sun is born from the womb of the night. Oh, my God！No matter what if you are really the God Oh, the devil! No matter how many tricks you have today, I am neither living nor dying I want to put you all into the golden tripod of time. I am originally outside of the earth I will leave one day although I have forgotten many years but I woke up finally today From a little drop of water the world came into being It was originally a tear of mine I was originally the God of the Gods . 4.30.2011 我本是上帝的上帝 我要把海水酿成蜜 把石头熔炼成金 这苦涩就是香甜 这太阳从黑夜的子宫诞生 上帝啊 无论你是不是真的上帝 魔鬼啊 无论你还有多少伎俩 今天 我不生也不死 我要把你们统统装进时光的金鼎 我本在这个尘世之外 有一天还将归去 尽管我遗忘了许多年 可今天终于醒来 这小小的一滴水 诞生了这个天地 它本是我的一颗泪珠 我本是上帝的上帝 2011.4.30 The World Is in a Box The world is in a box the little timeworn world the countries of Lilliput the President of the king's prime minister those kings, premiers and presidents those dwarfs in the scroll of time’s picture They do not believe the additional sun both like a diamond and like gold make you warm in winter make you cool in summer Neither have they seen the sweet ocean nor have they known heaven outside time forgotten those gods who like mountains are the ones the former ancients owned 9.1.2012 世界在一只盒子里 世界在一只盒子里 这个小小陈旧的世界 一座座小人国 那些国王 首相 总统 那些时光画卷里的侏儒 他们不相信另外的太阳 既像钻石 又像黄金 在冬天时让你温暖 在夏天时让你凉爽 他们没见过甜蜜的海洋 也不知时光之外的天国 忘了那些山岳般的众神 是古老的曾经的自己 2012.9.1 The King of The Diamonds The sun was rising in my breast I woke up finally said goodbye to the night's nightmare the world was lit up by me this is actually the real me There is no longer day and night there are no longer newborns and death I got myself back before there was no earth and heaven I have existed from the beginning The world is just my works： a picture, a poem a symphony. Give me a stone I will turn it into the king of the diamonds. 9.3.2012 钻石之王 太阳在我胸膛里升起 我终于醒来 告别黑夜的梦魇 世界被我照亮 这才是真实的我 不再有白昼与黑夜 不再有新生与死亡 我找回了自已 在没有天地之前 我就早已经存在 世界只是我的作品 一幅画 一首诗 一部交响曲 给我一枚石头 我让它变成钻石之王 2012.9.3 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. Its content is to show the solemnity, sacredness and greatness of human soul through the exploration of soul. 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.
