We were on the beach, and then we weren‘t.

There is nothing more to say.

It is empty, seen from above.

In a Capsule of Close-up Infinity

When we look at one another,

and only our bodies are between us,

our tenderness is surgery of a star.

The whale before the horizon is serenely

and solemnly breathing.

And who are we?

The wild stones, in love with the sand,

with curls and quaint beauty,

they breathe too.

And I am breathing with them, mouth to mouth.

Leaves, my kings, your bright is dark,

and your dark is bright.

You are in the sky.

The stars are coming.

Time is racing asphalt.

Leaning on the window’s shutter, eyes closed,

I was inhaling deeply from the bunch of sage you’d hung up there.

“I am having sex with the Earth”, I told you.

“How so?”, you asked.

“Here, like that, with the scent – it enters me, and I give myself.”

Soaring is the hyacinth,

a crown of itself,

a crowning of the own,

and an I above the crown.

The permutations of love were taking place in a sunlit space.

Spring was maturing into summer,

death was evolving, it now involved planets and roots.

It was a circle.

Somewhere in it, I overflowed –

my eyes had mirrored themselves in the deep of yours.

Gray flecked, with lights.

Margarita Serafimova was shortlisted for the Montreal Poetry Prize 2017, Summer Literary Seminars 2018 and 2019, and Hammond House Prize 2018; long-listed for the Christopher Smart (Eyewear Publishing) Prize 2019, Erbacce Press Poetry Prize 2018 and Red Wheelbarrow 2018 Prize, and nominated for Best of the Net 2018. She has three collections in Bulgarian. Her work appears in Agenda Poetry, London Grip, Waxwing, Trafika Europe, Landfill, A-Minor, Poetry South, Great Weather for Media, Orbis, Nixes Mate, StepAway, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Leveler, Mookychick, HeadStuff, Minor Literatures, Writing Disorder, Birds We Piled Loosely, Chronogram, Noble/ Gas, Origins, The Journal, miller’s pond, Obra/ Artifact, Arteidolia/ Swifts&Slows, Memoir Mixtapes, glitterMOB, TAYO, Guttural, Punch, Tuck, Ginosko, etc. Visit: https://www.facebook.com/MargaritaISerafimova/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel.

One Night in the Shadow of Bliss

III 

Michael Robinson (right)and fellow contributor Joan Beebe

Lace bra and underpants covered her body, as she stood, in front of the mirror, her eyes were strong. Her pupils opened wide filling with moist tears. Her memories returned to the night when the moon was full when the stars were bright in the night skies, she saw a glimmer of life. The smell of sweetness remained in the air while there was darkness reflecting from her heart. She wanted to leave those thoughts behind and accept warmth of a man’s touch. It was more than his touch, it was her life she began to remember her past which was painful. The following morning her emotions would be raw. However, for now it would be safe to be a woman in love, to feel the sensations of womanhood. She would forget the painful past for those hours with him.

The gentleness between them was electrifying with foreplay. Holding her close to his body, kissing her from the top of body gently, and quietly moving his fingers across her lips. She laid there with her eyes closed enjoying the moment. He touched her breast with his fingers playing with her pierced nipples between his fingers. She knew what would be next because they had always made love with his lips replacing his fingers on the left nipple. The earring in her navel made his touch even more exciting to her.  

She began to moan, breathing deeply. Her skin was smooth, and his tongue covered her stomach the movement of his lips and tongue made her cry as she had several orgasms. She was in a state of total surrender to his every touch. Knowing that her pierced clitoris would be next. Her pubic hair was soft from the wetness of his tongue. He didn’t mind kissing her vagina. He loved the fluid of her body mixed with his saliva leaving a tart taste. It was always like this when they had intercourse. He would wrap his arms around her midsection holding her tight enough that the sweat between them united.  

She loved being this close to someone that made love feel love for herself in this manner. Certain that he would always be gentle and sensitive to her sexuality. It was not being fucked like with the others. It wasn’t that kind of relationship between them. He wanted to satisfy her to make her feel love and connected to him. He wanted her to feel like she and he was more than a one-night stand and each time he was determined to express his desire to be the only man she would ever want to be with. She loved him so she gave herself to him without hesitation.

Touching his eyelids slightly with her manicured red fingernails with her open palm she closed his eyes. Her lips were soft and full. She touched his nipples with her lips biting the hardened nipples of his. He would shake with excitement, as she moves down his body, slowly with intense she made him moan. She gentle climbed on top of him and for what was a moment of ecstasy both had an orgasm together. A quiet moan which gave her gratification knowing he was fulfilled by her.

He was the one man she gives herself totally and he knew it by the way she made him feel and respond to her gentleness. The street lights pierced through the closed curtains reflecting the soft powder blue color of the them. She saw his reflection as she stood with glazed eyes watching him. Her brown eyes did not reflect life but rather despair. She quietly put on her red skin-tight dress. Lying on the dresser was an envelope with payment for the night encounter. The light in the corridor was a shock to her eyes. Her red heels were lost in the thickness of the carpet in the hallway. She returned to the corner in which she worked and waited for her next customer knowing she was loved in a world of pain. 

Author Vijay Nair

Organized Crime

The very essence of organized crime is,

To constitute nothing less than

A gang war against any society

Yes, Communism is an organized crime!

It is the dirty side of a bootless ideology

In India, it is an abortive whorehouse

Provinces in, putas and ponces are

Proselytized mouth pieces

Of this uncivilized band

Marred agriculture everywhere

Environment who degraded?

Wrecked all industries but

Ferried refugees, narcotics,

Ruined communal harmony by

Endorsed terrorism,

Disesteemed work culture with

Crocodile tears of unemployment

They use to take from others

Without wilful, voluntary consent

But, with the crown and title

The outset of force to grip life is murder,

To lay hold of liberty is slavery,

And to seize property is theft

Intellectual property theft is one of many

Organized crime they constitute

From the very beginning

Organized crime on top creates

Individual violence at the bottom

Beware, all the faced off comrades

Amassed vexation drives

Any civilized animal to go crazy one day!!!

©-Vijay P Nair -2019    

Author Denis Emorine

I beg your pardon Carmen

for crying more and more

remembering your pain

after his death.

22 y.o.

You were so young Carmen

and so pretty

I definitely love you Carmen

but you are dead

while I try to stay alive

with your ghosts

they  are mine now

forever and ever

till my death

but you are not guilty

please believe me

I would like to remain your

little boy

nestled in your arms

like a born kitten

covered in blood

your blood

*

Carmen

I am your motherless child

give me your sorrow one more time

Please try again

I (just?) want to be strong for you

only for you Carmen

don’t look at my face now

never

I want to be stronger

even if I am a weak person

as you probably know

Carmen

Carmen

give me your sorrow

nothing else

I beg you

on bended knee

*

 Beloved Carmen

life is  a black hole

without you

I would like to hear your voice again

closer to me

and your blow on my cheeks

and on my lips

I would like to forget your name

and my pain

I have loved you for a long time

in vain

today

I can’t reach you any more

with my tenderness

Beloved Carmen

the piano is dead

gone

definitely gone

*

Too often

the sky is grey inside me

closer to my heart

beating too fast

I was born on a windy day

the snow was falling in high flakes

inside my head

I always have a headache

thinking of the past

Time goes by

life is a clepsydra

*

Carmen

Thinking of you

is so difficult

but I can’t forget you

Facing your grave

makes me cry

Give me your arms again!

I don’t want to be a wise man

just follow your steps

right till the end

*I wish I were dead

could you understand

but

I don’t want to upset you

What to do?

*

Carmen

my sweet fairy

I remember your words in English

my mother’s tongue

the  music of my childhood

that I both hate and love

Sometimes I should love

to lose the French tongue

keeping  you closer to me

but this is an illusion

It’s so hard loving you now

crossing the beyond

*

Living with you

was a fairy tale sometimes

Now

I can’t reach you

my arms are too weak

and  evanescent

is your shadow

*

Carmen

so difficult

to find the rights words

to remember you

even in French

Doors are double-locked

Sweet Lady

I need your arms

to live a little bit

please don’t abandon me!

*

Words

only words

that’s all

Words

only words

nothing else

but

believe me

silence is better

silence

and your smile forever

*

 I would like

to have

a heart of gold

or

preferably

I would have liked

to have one

but it’s too late

I am now living

with  fear

with

…

fear

*

 Carmen

how deep

was your pain

how deep

is mine

thinking of you

Carmen

you are my love

but

you are dead

d

e

a

d

….

*

 Give me your arms again

to fight against death

your death

*

Carmen

sweet Carmen

give me your Cross again

I know it’s useless

but who cares?

this is a pact between

you and me

Sometimes

I feel misunderstood

since you’ve been gone

*

February, 28, 2018

Today

I’m 62 y.o.

Nothing else

White  my hair

and my heart

I try to live as well

oh yes

I would like

to be stronger

with death in my sights

*

 Hold me tight

sweet Lady

my life

is hanging into the balance

I’m always complaining

since you are dead

I am unable to

put one  foot in front of the other

my life sways

and sways

*

I stay

your dreamy boy

at least I try

in memory of you

but

it’s over

life fled

*

Carmen

What could I add to my pain?

I have nothing to say

I’m unable to shout

neither in French

nor in English

Sadness has no language

you probably know

Give me your own words

to fight again!

*

 I’m shivering

because I’m  coward

I beg your pardon

Mother

Is it enough?

Obviously not

I was expecting you

Maman

*

 Sweet Maman

my love remains the same

but

this is a song of death

how could I express

my pain?

Carmen

I want to forget your name

because I’m facing the past

but

whatever happens

I can’t

I can’t… 

Day is over

night is over

and

the world is closed

* 

Où es-tu Carmen

où te caches-tu?

Il y a si longtemps

que je suis à ta recherche

Il y a eu trop de sang dans ta vie

et trop  de douleur aussi

tu ne m’entends pas hurler

depuis que tu es morte

je ne retrouve plus

le chemin de ta tombe

je suis démembré

I don’t want to play hide and seek anymore

I miss you sweet Lady

*

Denis Emorine  is a French writer. He was born in 1956 in Paris. He has an emotional attachment to English because his mother was an English teacher. He is of Russian ancestry on his father’s side. Writing, for Emorine, is a way of harnessing time in its incessant flight. Themes that re-occur throughout his writing include the Doppelgänger, lost or shattered identity, and mythical Venice (a place that truly fascinates him). He also has a great interest for Eastern Europe.

His theatrical output has been staged in France, Canada (Quebec)  and Russia. Many of his books (short stories, plays, poetry) have been published in Greece, Hungary, Romania, South Africa, and the United States.

His first novel La mort en berne , 5 Sens éditions, was published in Switzerland, in 2017.

An English translation Death at Half-Mast is forhcoming in the USA https://www.experimentalfiction.com/

In 2015, Denis Emorine was awarded the Naji Naaman Literary Prize Lebanon (honor prize for complete work)

For more informations, go on his website  http://denis.emorine.free.fr/ul/english/accueil.htm

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: Magdalena Garcia’s The Madness Inside My Head

 Magdalena Garcia is complex. Her new collection The Madness Inside my Head celebrates romantic love and raw sensuality while confronting us with the domestic violence and cruelty she has endured. She’s got determination to live and to care for her children, whom she makes a definite priority and refers to as ‘kings and queens.’ For their sake, and her own, she speaks out about child abuse and intimate violence, about looking to men hoping for the care and love she never found from her father as a child.

As many people may ask, ‘why didn’t she just leave?’ she replies, tellingly, in a poem: ‘bad love was better than no love at all.’

She encourages and patiently waits for loved ones to get help with their substance abuse problems and criticizes the damage she sees drug and alcohol abuse doing to those around her. Yet she acknowledges that she herself has struggled with an addiction – sex. Perhaps this shared experience is a source of compassion for her, helps her to love those around her who are addicted while still hoping that they get the help they need to change their behaviors.  

Also, a poem in the ‘Bad’ section suggests that she herself has not always been entirely honest with everyone in her dating life, and she can now own up to that without hiding it. That is courage – that she’s no longer afraid, not of the brutal men who have hurt her, or of being alone, or even of owning up to her own past. She can now revel in beauty and strength, her own, and that of her mixed Puerto Rican-Black heritage.

The Madness Inside My Head is conversational, with punctuation and varying sentence lengths. Garcia’s writing expands to reveals the depth of her pain and solitude when she’s got nothing but uncomfortable time to think, and bursts forth in staccato exclamations to highlight the urgency of her survival instinct during immediate danger. At other times, particularly in the first section, her rich, flowing language revels in passion and pride. She now knows the difference between an abusive situation and a mutually consensual, caring relationship, and has the resources to be able to choose the latter with joy.

There’s a trajectory towards hope in Garcia’s story: she leaves, or throws out, the men who harm her, realizes ‘there’s therapy in her future’ and becomes okay with that, sets up a safe and caring home for herself and her children, and gets the medical help she needs to live a healthier life. Yet, not every poem reflects that movement towards hope. At times, several poems in a row convey nothing but fear, rage, and graphic images of violence. This is realistic in that there are moments in life when we feel hopeless, and Garcia lets us sit with that.

And, Garcia honors the struggle of her fellow domestic violence survivors by refusing to allow her story to seem a simple and straightforward path towards healing. It’s not always so easy to ‘just leave,’ and she isn’t putting out a step by step guide for everyone, because that doesn’t exist. The book isn’t organized as a chronological memoir, but rather in sections: the good, the bad, and the ugly.  So, rather than leaving on a note of definite, prescriptive, expected triumph, we see the hope at the beginning, which draws us into the story and makes the book more approachable. Then the book reveals the life Garcia has survived, making her joy and pride all the more compelling.

The collection ends, as indicated, with the ugliest, most brutal parts of her story, leaving readers uneasy in a way that echoes the lived experience of many survivors. Overcoming domestic violence isn’t always a linear journey, but can involve making many attempts to finally end a recurring cycle of mistreatment.

I recommend this collection for all adults, not just survivors of abuse, but those who wish to deepen their empathy for those who have survived challenges of all sorts. Magdalena Garcia has a rich, thoughtful, and strong voice and is capable of deft writing on a wide range of moods and themes, and I would love to see more from her.

The Madness Inside my Head can be ordered here.