Synchronized Chaos April 2021: Escape Room

Wishing everyone who celebrates a very happy Easter and Passover and beginning of spring, or fall if you’re in the Southern Hemisphere.

First, a special shout-out to the Yiddish Theater Ensemble (Berkeley, CA) for the invitation to view a Vimeo video production of Sholem Asch’s 1906 play God of Vengeance, directed by Bruce Bierman, translated to English by Caraid O’Brien. We announced this play in last month’s issue and it represents a creative triumph of translation of live theater to the virtual environment. Everything between the actors and actresses, from a slap to a kiss, was cleverly conveyed through highly coordinated gesturing from within tiny Zoom boxes. Whether you see this play, concerning a socially questionable Jewish family determined to marry their daughter off well, as a tragedy or a tale of the daughter’s empowerment, you will likely agree that the Ensemble carried it off with passion and energy.

This month Synchronized Chaos’ contributors explore themes of escape and presence. How do we escape, or try to escape, the world around us, and when and how do we choose to stay present and experience and learn from situations we face?

Nondescript shadowy male figure running against a blue and black background carrying a briefcase in his right hand.
Public domain image from Gerd Altmann

Mark Blickley, in an ekphrastic poem inspired by Belgian photographer Inge Dumoulin’s image, comments satirically on the artistry of a man who has ducked his head under a table.

In the same spirit, John Robbins’ piece explicates why someone slips away from the world into the bar for cocktails. Stephanie Johnson reminisces about lunches and wine shared among expatriate women in Turkey, in an enclave they created for themselves away from the local culture.

Dan Flore also writes of disconnection: how our minds, and varying mental states, can separate us from each other. Even when we’re physically near each other, we’re not always on the same wavelength.

Brick building with white stone bricks and a gray painted door. A spiral concrete staircase with a railing extends out of the door as a fire escape.
Public domain image from Karen Arnold

In a different vein, Canadian poet Allison Grayhurst’s pieces embrace the merging of individual identities into the partnership of marriage. Rather than escaping into one’s own space, her speakers join with others at an intimate level and choose to embrace the uncertainty, risk, and joy that can bring.

In his poem, Christopher Bernard mourns the loss of someone he deeply loved with an ironic, poignant image; while John Culp illustrates the process of change and personal transformation, something that can happen when we choose to stay present and hear the lessons life has for us.

Sonia Das writes of childhood, home, and memories, while Alan Catlin presents a stream-of-consciousness look at cultural nostalgia and musings on the fragility of life. Dave Douglas celebrates the joy of playing and connecting with a little autistic girl in a piece he submitted for Autism Awareness Month in April.

J.K. Durick’s pieces also probe the effects of time: our memories, what we put away over the years and what (and who) we bring out again to remember. Drifting down memory lane can be an escape, but choosing to remember can be a way to be present in your life, deciding what’s important.

Arched opening in a brick wall opens to a view of a large body of water with clouds and a sunrise/sunset in the background. A green island looms in the distance.
Public domain image from Flash Alexander

In other pieces, Allison Grayhurst illustrates people healing from loss. South African writer Abigail George’s impressionistic essay also processes a loss: the speaker mourns and struggles to understand the end of a relationship she had with an older male writer. As part of this, she reflects on her life journey, relationships and writing and what she brings to her personal and artistic lives.

J.J. Campbell also points to themes of loss and loneliness as his middle-aged speakers reflect on their lives. Yet he finds space to mention what he enjoys as well: friendship, caring, and the joy of artistry for its own sake.

Michael Johnson presents various characters in persona poems who are unafraid to be themselves, including a Native American woman proud of her heritage and a girl comfortable in her own skin and ready to have fun.

Mark Blickley presents a rather unique character who helps a boy cope with his father’s impending death and his mother’s misplaced anger. Kahlil Crawford also writes of mortality, commenting through a single image on what we can leave behind us when we depart.

Bangladeshi poet Mahbub brings us short pieces from speakers hoping to escape their lives, or who find themselves unable to get away from their realities. Nigerian poet Daniel Ezeokeke’s speaker turns to history and academic study as an escape from the trauma of war and violence.

Nigerian writer Chimezie Ihekuna warns in his screenplay about the psychological dangers of developing an obsession with horror and violence as entertainment. Bruce Mundhenke speculates on the mysteries and hidden dangers of Internet technology, also an obsession and escape for many, in a piece evoking the Trojan War.

Nondescript clip art white male figure in a business suit runs from his shadow, which has grown and morphed into a menacing creature with teeth and claws.
Public domain image from Mohamed Mahmoud Hassan

Samara Hayley Steele uses the Free Britney Spears movement as a cultural touchstone in an essay where she hopes that ‘celebrity culture’ will become more than a mindless diversion. Perhaps the increased awareness of some social issues that we gain through watching celebrities’ lives will inspire us to liberate non-famous people as well.

Chinese poet Hongri Yuan and translator Manu Mangattu continue to craft poems illuminating a celestial world in which some may wish to escape.

Chris Butler tackles real world issues through surreal poetry: humans’ rapacious fingerprint on our planet, melting glaciers, rising seas.

Australian poet Nathan Anderson transmutes the language of his poetry into a jumbled concoction to convey the mindless monotony of oppression and the futility of assuming the world operates according to simple manufacturers’ instructions.

White or Latino man with short brown hair (real image of a person) with chains around his neck and hands underwater. Part of an escape stunt game.
Public domain image from Ron Sanderson

Other writers play with words and language to express mood rather than literal meaning. Mark Young’s poetry sounds resolute in its opacity and J.D. Nelson’s lines flow together in a poetic rhythm. Jack Galmitz showcases a ‘gallery’ of ordinary folks in plain language, to show that writing can be intriguing without being incomprehensible.

Chimezie Ihekuna contributes a piece of bold determination. He will not escape difficult situations or surrender to them, but will persevere in the face of any obstacle.

Synchronized Chaos Magazine is happy to have persevered throughout the time of Covid-19 with you. We are always flattered by the number and diversity of submissions we receive and encourage readers to leave comments for the writers and artists.

Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated by Manu Mangattu

Middle aged Chinese man in a tan jacket and black pants and a scarf standing on a city sidewalk in front of some trees and a tall red sculpture
Poet Hongri Yuan

Five Poems

By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri

Translated by Manu Mangattu

The City of Stars

White and blue night.

A Crystal smile.

Black is a pawn

Devoured by red lips of lightning.

There appears a song in the sky

It sprinkles down with rain and dew

There is a colossal ship in the sky

Twinkling like the City of the Stars.

星辰之城  

白色与蓝色的夜

水晶的笑容

黑夜是一枚棋子

被闪电的红唇吃掉

天上传来了歌声

洒下金色的雨露

天际一艘巨轮

闪烁如星辰之城

The Soul Tripod

More splendorous than the whole world

Is veiled in my chest, the gilded key to heaven.

The blue ocean and the silver kingdom in my head do dwell

As the different flowers, the same beauty garnishes them all.

A simple civilization where everyone is a giant

Each stone for them is a gem or gold

Neither darkness nor death could ruin their words

Hence a tripod of the soul they fashioned

To conceive the making of the sun and the time of the soul.

灵魂之鼎

天堂的黄金钥匙藏在我的胸膛

比整个世界更加宏伟真实

而我的头颅里有甜蜜的蓝海洋白银的王国

每一个人都同样美尽管如不同的花朵

那是一个简单的文明个个都是巨人

他们把每一块石头都称作宝石或黄金

甚至在他们的词语里没有黑夜与死亡

于是他们制造了一种生产太阳与时光的灵魂之鼎

Bright Star – Sweet Song

I do know that heaven is in my frame, in my front

Yet I still covet the covert far-off kingdom of aliens

Longing forever to hear the soulful song of the stone.

My footsteps, when I tread on the earth

Shall accompany the throb of the years

Every leaf is a word

Every flower is a poem

Every big tree has an old soul

And all could hear the sweet song of the stars.

星空璀璨的甜蜜之歌

我知道天堂在我体内或者眼前

可我依然想看到遥远外星的神秘之国

我甚至想听到石头的灵魂之曲

当我在大地上行走

脚步会伴奏着岁月的脉搏

每一片树叶都是一个词语

每一朵花都是一首诗

每一棵大树有古老的灵魂

他们听得懂星空璀璨的甜蜜之歌

The Smiling King

Two moons once chirped in my window –

A blue moon and a red moon.

They enticed a large number of stars

The legion of angels from the Kingdom of Heaven.

My palace then appeared in the clouds

A huge transparent palace in diamond

The king that smiled to me thence was none

But myself, whom I had long forgotten.

含笑的王者

两只月亮在窗外鸣叫

一只蓝月亮  一只红月亮

它们引来了众多的星星

这是一群天国的使者

我的王宫在云端出现

金色透明  巨大的钻石之宫

那个向我含笑的王者

是我久已遗忘的自己

The City of the Soul

Those ancient timeworn words I love –

The Stone of the erstwhile dated soul.

More than the crown or the jewels

They make my days bright and charming.

With the light that I have

I put them to smelt in Jinding

So that I have countless stars

To plait my City of the Soul.

灵魂之城

我爱那些古老的词语

那些古老的灵魂之石

胜过了王冠上的宝石明珠

让我的日子明亮迷人

我用金鼎把它们熔炼

用属于我的日月之光

于是我拥有了无数颗星辰

编织一座座灵魂之城

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, Acumen, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, Fine Lines, 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.

 About the Translator

South Asian middle aged man with brown hair and a small beard. Blue collared shirt.

Manu Mangattu is an English Professor, poet, editor, director and rank-holder. He has published 7 books, 73 research articles and 36 conference papers apart from 14 edited volumes with ISBN. He serves as chief editor/editor for various international journals. He has done UGC funded projects and a SWAYAM-MOOC course (Rs 15 lakhs). Besides translations from Chinese and Sanskrit, he writes poetry in English as well as in Indian languages. He was named “Comrade to Poetry China” in 2016. A visiting faculty at various universities and a quintessential bohemian-vagabond, he conducts poetry readings, workshops and lectures when inspired. After an apprenticeship in Shakespeare under Dr Stephen Greenblatt, he currently guides 23 research scholars and mentors NET English aspirants.

Poetry from Chimezie Ihekuna

Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben) Young Black man in a collared shirt and jeans resting his head on his hand. He's standing outside a building under an overhang.
Chimezie Ihekuna

I stand tall

To avoid a fall

On Life’s Mall

I exercise my all


Taking a look at my feet

I am tempted give in to my de-feat

But I have to rise to my feet

Which is a great feat 

As I take a walk

To work my talk

Being steady over time

reflects in my Success Clock

The very reason I rock!


Standing Tall :  a Must

Poetry from Alan Catlin

                        213-

“Love’s boat has smashed against the daily

grind.” Mayakovksy. Not the TV show.

The suicide note. Not Fantasy Island.

Russian Roulette. Did you used to watch

those TV shows. Do you watch them now.

Why. Explain. The Deer Hunter. Christopher

Walken with a pistol in a gambling den.

Not a Clue card. A scene. From the movie.

Back in the VA. Stateside. A  hospital tray

table full of cash winnings.  You can only

win at Russian Roulette a finite number of

times. As final as the game of Life.

                        214-

Stillicide. A continual dripping of water.

A hard rain’s a gonna fall. In the still of

the night. A bend in the river. Guerillas or

gorillas.  Word crimes. Mine. Yours. Ours.

Misread the phrase: Legal Suicide this way.

Should be: Legal studio this way.  Not a

Stillicide. Water. Torture. Chinese. Like

checkers. With a Cap. Nixon’s dog. State

secrets found in a pumpkin patch. Not water

rights. Highly classified stuff. Water rights

were what Chinatown was all about.

Whittaker Chambers. Or Alger Hiss. Both.

                        217-

You only live twice. No live and let

die. Nancy Sinatra. Not Linda McCartney.

Not Stella either. Her boots were made

for walking. Naked in Playboy.  Or was

that Joan Collins. Not for the Interview.

Not for Andy Warhol either. He didn’t

like girls. That way. Though he lived

with his mom. Until she died. Don’t say

Norman Bates. Andy lived twice. Being

shot and dead on the table. And revived.

Then a routine procedure and he died.

Go figure.

                        218-

Contribute. To the Gregory Corso Memorial

Bocce Tournament. All major. Accepted.

It’s too late. To fall in love with Sharon Tate.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Happy endings.

To tragic stories. That defined a generation.

Not the Vampire Killers. Though she was in it.

R rating in some iterations.  Brief nudity. Violence.

Stupidity. As disappointing as a broken toy

in a Cracker Jacks box.

                        219-

Twitch and Shout. The affliction.

The memoir. The movie. God didn’t

give epileptics a fair shake. In the

cemetery where Al Jolson is buried.

Who’s your surrogate mama. A terry

cloth monkey instead of a flesh & blood

mother. Science or cruelty to animals.

There’s a lot at stake. Just ask Joan d’ Arc.

Apostles of the covenant. Apocrypha

or Dogma. A three dog night.

Poetry from John Culp

I Might Suppose That 
        ------------------------------------




          I might suppose that
Healing will not pass
    the faithless desire
        immediately
            without a transform
                 to encourage faith


A path mends the already known
    to Belief in the moment


                Wishing  -


the formless rides the moments
    Creations pulled to creations
         Lets grounding
             catch up with
                  just


         Being Yourself


               Wishing  -


When Cravings to see
    Say never Be


         A detour
              to offer


          Being Yourself


           
   the Simply
                Knowing


Lets the Wish Release
    Wishing falls to Bow
         Respectfully


          Being Yourself


found worthier
    than the first taste


      I might suppose that
Liking draws the unknown
    for the worthiness
        is Both
            forceless & infinite


Belongs
         Accepts
                  Wishing  -


Time is the Lens
    to see now better
        Releasing to comfort
            adrift to the future
              Letting
                 Be


    And here We are







Poetry from J.K. Durick

Prayer

Prayer remains a reflex

even after all these years

of silence – wishes ungranted,

questions unanswered

puzzles unsolved

a reflex, a response when one of those

moments strike

the sunshine on a cold morning

catches our eye, or

bad news from television, this front or that

a diagnoses we didn’t expect

a phone call in the middle of the night

the doorbell

someone asking for help you can’t give

then they ask you to pray

and you remember the words

string them together

a hiccup, a reflex

something you try to perform

in the silent theater of your life.

List of Deceased Classmates

First thing I thought of when I saw it was

my college yearbook off there somewhere

collecting dust in some box, on some shelf.

Yearbooks make sense at first, fresh faces

of classmates, some you recall, then others

you think you recognize from their pictures,

formal picture of each one, then activities,

clubs and teams. They goes on a shelf, then

disappears into the years. Everything ages

we know, everything we know ages, even

the classmates frozen in time in yearbooks

age, live lives after then, do great things or

little things, careers and families, the stuff

that fills obituaries or are hinted at in lists

like the one I got today, the list of deceased

classmates. The list seems long for a class

that was fairly small – I count forty-four

and know there’s more out there, or should

I say not out there, more names, more dates.

I should find my yearbook and look at faces

and names, all of us, before that list began

being compiled.


 An Ache

The pain in my right elbow this morning

reminds me,

puts a bit of emphasis on

the hold my body has over my mind,

how time has brought the two

to cross purposes.

My body says one thing, complains on and on

about this pain or that,

about a weakness in that or that

a shortage, a soreness, a stinging,

while my mind moves on, runs marathons

sprints, sets records and ambitions

does all the things it did back when even

my elbow didn’t ache and the physical part

kept up with what I was thinking.

But this morning I’m reminded of how

my mind rides around in a vehicle that’s

wearing out, piece by piece

is riding around in a body that hopes to 

at best, at least

limp across the finish line.

Poetry from Mark Young

still stands time

Is it a cheat to refer

to the second single

from the album Evaluate

the condition condition

if it gives you time to

take action to ensure

that your cows calve

in adequate body con-

dition &/or provides

early warning of

wellbore instability?

largely / a gathering / of central bankers

Imagine running a
business where allies
of the Shadows seek
revenge against
humanity. I have
a quirk about multi-
location Cloud
Attendance, especially

when the call to
arms is augmented
with global load
balancing. The
native name of
Armenia is Hayastan.

Bird photography

In many ways it seems 
like the national park that
time forgot. So, if you’re 

looking at being more 
mobile for a bash on the
unpredictable ground

there, then forgo sky-
high stilettos & put 
sandbags over the legs.

Why segregate?

Only 11% of the total a-

mount of waste in Metro

Manila is recycled. Shuai

chiao throws aren’t that

different to judo but

have come a long way

since the early alpha/beta

builds. She has never bought

a six-pack of beer in a grocery

store or developed a new

technique for measuring a

baby’s lung function after

birth. In a polycrystalline solid,

watch for fragbots coming off.