—————-

Apologia to the angry mob of futureless youths

We are the immortal goodbyes the  gods said to each other

Aeons ago at the gloaming hours of broken covenants

Every word is now a forging of newfound courage, or hope

Behind gray clouds that quiver on the breast of crestfallen dew

Do not bind us now to the oaths of our failed bloodlines

We may fail yet again with tired maxims, axioms hiding

In the palimpsest of hardworking mediocre metaphors

—————–

At a bullet train station in Fujian

Ten years ago around this time of year 

The weather was biting like a lover gone bitter

The fellow Chinese teacher said something about winter wind in China

Which can typically lick human faces off with frost bite

That there’s no way to know pain from shame 

Because the cold is an anaesthesia

So we could be walking around like zombies 

With nice-smelling coiffed hair

Empty eye sockets staring back at people

I didn’t know if he was only trying to shock or humor

A newcomer with excess baggage to boot.

When the train arrived, the wind howled harder

Stepping inside I caught myself in the glass door

Not a zombie yet, whatsoever, thank God

Just a Bukowskian traveler with frozen lake eyes

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr., is a native of Siquijor Island in Central Visayas, Philippines. He was last based in Fujian, China as a second-language teacher after over a decade stint as a Corporate Communications Officer in the Middle East. Some forthcoming online and in print, most of his poems and stories have been published by literary magazines and journals, including The Philippines Graphic, The Philippine Free Press, The Philippine Star, and the Philippine Studies: Historical and Ethnographic Viewpoints Vol. 53 , among others. He has published three poetry books since 2010. and currently Editor-At-Large for The Syzygy Poetry Journal. 

Golden child,

On the dark red of the earth

Mark your tracks

In weakness and Uncertainty.

Barren roads, disturbed and Flooded

Of the vile nature of the one Who has decided to steal Everything from you

Of whom in his ignorance The I AM was believed.

Golden children,

May your shine never fade

Access to believe, to dream, To grow

To have clean air and Electrifying food.

May the rain caress your feet

Multiply bonanzas

Let the rain irrigate you Hope

To build your story and build.

I apologize

For the damage done to the earth

On behalf of my parents, my grandparents,

The ancestors, who by doing nothing, we did everything

I ask your forgiveness for those who

They watered the crop with blood

That today reaches your Mouth as the only food.

There’s no way to erase the past

I don’t mean to

there is no coupon that exchanges life

if there is, I don’t have it…

what I have is hope and will

I want to share with you and inherit your resistance and resilience

Invite you not to give up even in the biggest fires

Invite you to dance life

Every time you can.

What I can do and do is give you my voice

for the calling

share my passion for this life,

Activate awareness and decision

impact transformative leadership

and fight hard in the face of uncertainty.

Let us consistently stop the actions that lead us to this deterioration and devastation.

The tension at the maximum limit found a home,

the earth catches fire, little will freezes us,

natural imbalance is our reality

we have to write, paint and dance

the world we deserve to have

as long as the oxygen reaches.

Nocturne No. 93 

Li Po wrote something like this:


‘This river town could be in a painting . . .’ 

And here in the West, I think: so could Guernica.

 — J.T. Whitehead

 *

Nocturne No. 94 

Buson wrote something like this:


‘No inshore whales are in my sight, & Night falls on the seas.’ 

& here I thought it was the fishing industry. 

 — J.T. Whitehead

*

Nocturne No. 95 

Buson wrote something like this: ‘Utter aloneness: 

this is another great pleasure in an Autumnal dusk . . .’ 

Fine. But I would still miss my lover.

 — J.T. Whitehead

*

Nocturne No. 96 

I feel some small joy knowing when I see the Moon


that the Sun, like a smiling blond baby, kisses the graves


of those Haiku Masters. Small, like an egg, an atom, or a gem. 

— J.T. Whitehead

Mirrors Of Winter

Under a dark moon

on an empty road I run

past my frozen breath.

Thinking of her in 

delicate  nightwear

cheaply bought yet

worth a revealing 

fortune when she wore it.

Were we anything more

than a blur of circumstance?

Brought on by trays of

drinks served and emptied

truncated clips of film repeating.

I run past the park of rusty

locked gates, abandoned

as any hope we had at the end.

New tears freeze scarlet

cheeks to a savage burn.

Insane to run when its eight 

degrees at 1 am, but I must

move forward I tell myself.

Until finally home to wonder

in an endless hall of mirrors

cracked in the reflected  truth

of all my past mistakes.

Colder Than The Coffee

After

A brief dalliance

a few days

lasting too long…

We meet

a second & final time.

She said her coffees

getting cold

before adding-

say what you must

no louder than a whisper

I have friends here &

It won’t change anything.

But she doesn’t let

me speak…

There was no going

beyond us being

a footnote with 

every inch a lie.

Undone by words

over politics

calling her mad king

a fascist fool, undid us.

Despite sex I thought splendid.

At this outdoor

cafe with a fine view

of the beach she continues

to talk. Calls me politically

immature and  leftist crazy

while I think of the sex.

This is pointless I say

as she shifts to the border

to illegals and Ice.

.

I look up

almost certain

yesterday’s clouds 

have vanished.

Replaced by impostors

formless as our future

that lasted two evenings.

Undone by the truths of naked polemics

that unlike our bodies-refused to meet.

Winter Frost

It takes half

lost innocent hours

after midnight

but the city

quiets some…

When I go for late walks

my tall shadow’s

lack of jewels and my clothes

many hands past second

on most days, keep

predators a broken

two step dance

multiplied

away.

But tonight

I see a face

grim as an ambulance

time betrayed, just

as late for the

dance with

fortune, slowly

step out of shadows.

Outline of a knife

I see, begin to run.

He tries but can’t

touch my hours

in the gym.

I leave him in the dust

like life has and

keep running past

the exits where

stop signs lie

you’re getting anywhere.

I keep running

In  a cold sweat

this worst of 

a fierce winter

can’t stop.

Closer To Distance

This failure of closeness you claim we have

issues of displacement that all manifest

when you say commitment or likewise words.

That infer or swallow whole both our paths 

divergent in chaos yet somehow blessed

to last and linger past all truths left blurred.

But I’m at a loss when you ask out loud

if we’re adults or sharing its pretense 

not to answer questions, time will address.

Marriage or children, a house, or allow

ourselves a plan to dare the consequence

of a joined future sacred vows may bless.

I’m 40 you say, no longer a kid 

I nod, say nothing that you won’t forgive.

Rp Verlaine lives in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He taught in New York Public schools for many years. His first volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames& Drinking was published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales, Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of three e-books titled Lies From The Autobiography vol 1-3 were published from2018 to 2020.  His most recent book, Imagined Indecencies, was published in February of 2022A new volume will be published in spring of 2026.

The greatest blessing to find,

Is a heart both true and kind,

A magnanimous spirit, vast and deep,

Where empathy and compassion softly sleep. 

And with this heart, a mind that will not bend,

A tenacious spirit, until the very end,

Where storms of doubt and trials we may face,

Will keep us steadfast in our rightful place. 

A spirit strong will not yield,

Across life’s vast unfolding field,

Where hearts entwine, compassion’s touch,

Woven through a hopeful aurora. 

With an unyielding mind, so strong and true,

Through every challenge, rise above, it’s up to you,

With spirits high, beneath an ever-watchful sky,

Push your existence to the heart’s bright aura, nearby. 

In realms where fortune’s whispers softly gleam,

That brightens the soul, and shadows fleeting moments teem,

As clear as morning’s light, a guiding star,

To banish endless nights, no matter how far. 

And seal your life, seal your fate,

With love and strength, forever bound,

In blessings deep, and joy profound.

Amina Kasim Muhammad is a Nigerian writer, poet, with a passion for writing and values her pen and book. She found herself by the way stories could transport her to different worlds and the way ideas could be shaped and shared through writing. She’s a member of Minna Literary Society (MLS). She’s on Instagram as Meena Kasim.

La Fenetre de Paris announces a submission opportunity for poets. Poetry anthology Water: The Source of Life seeks submissions

Contributor Taylor Dibbert seeks reviewers for his new poetry book On the Rocks. Please email us at synchchaos@gmail.com if you’re interested.

Also, we will stop accepting submissions for November’s first issue on October 25th. You may still submit after that date, but your work will go into our second issue for the month.

Now, for this month’s second issue, Learning From History.

Sayani Mukherjee muses on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire.

Kelly Moyer’s film, created together with Hunter Sauvage and starring Robert P. Moyer and Annie, draws on ancient myth to understand the United States’ modern political situation. Abigail George analyzes the strengths and weaknesses of certain leadership styles illustrated by Donald Trump and several African leaders. Patricia Doyne speaks to the hubris of American political leadership. Andrew Brindle and Christina Chin’s tan-rengas explore society’s injustices and contradictions.

Ivan Pozzoni’s poetry declares his speaker’s independence of mind as an artist and offers critiques of government funds’ being taken from ordinary taxpayers to bail out large banks. Bill Tope’s short story celebrates the power of understanding and empathy for people at all social levels. Poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews poet Til Kumari Sharma about the importance of gender equality, humanity and empathy, and living with solid morals. Til Kumari Sharma reviews Brenda Mohammed’s poetry collection Break the Silence, about ending drug addiction, domestic violence, and human trafficking. Nordona Norqulova describes strategies world governments use to combat terrorism. Til Kumari Sharma also expresses her hope for a world where women, children, and everyone is treated with respect.

Patrick Sweeney’s one-line senryus decenter the author as head of the universe. Mark Young contributes a fresh set of altered geographies. Baskin Cooper describes encounters slightly mysterious and askance. Christopher Bernard describes the frenzied, ghostly glamour of Cal Performances’ recent production of Red Carpet.

Brian Barbeito reflects on the wonder and spiritual curiosity he finds in natural landscapes. Su Yun’s collection of poetry from Chinese elementary school students reflects care for and admiration of the natural world and also a sense of whimsy and curiosity. Stephen Jarrell Williams’ short poems depict an escape from overcrowded cities back into nature. Vaxabdjonova Zarnigor discusses the chemical composition of chia seeds and their nutritional value. Nidia Garcia celebrates the natural environment and urges people to plant trees. Madina Abdisalomova reminds us that environmental care and stewardship is everyone’s responsibility.

Mahbub Alam extols the beauty of morning and nature in his Bangladeshi home. Jonathan Butcher’s poetry explores the different rooms in which we make our lives and the stories they could tell about us. J.T. Whitehead shows how external cleaning can parallel interior personal development. Srijani Dutta discusses her personal spiritual journey in prayer to the divine of at least a few faiths.

Alexandros Stamatoulakis announces his new novel The Lonely Warrior: In the Wings of the Condor, about a man discovering himself in the midst of a tumultuous modern environment. Chris Butler’s wry poetry explores long-lasting, but hopefully not implacable, truisms of the human condition. Ana Glendza speaks to the fear and insecurities that come with being human. Kavi Nielsen speaks to the experience of loneliness and rejection.

Noah Berlatsky satirizes faux-human tech support and our efforts to understand our whole world through technology. Timothee Bordenave outlines innovative ways to improve electricity transmission as Abdurofiyeva Taxmina Avazovna discusses treatments for cataracts.

Zarifaxon O’rinboyeva’s short story presents a woman overcoming poverty and grief to become a physician. Doug Hawley reflects on the ups and downs of summer jobs. Turdiyeva Guloyim’s poetic essay shares a complex emotional tapestry of childhood village memories. Rahmataliyeva Aidakhon highlights the importance of grasping folktales to understanding Uzbek heritage and culture. Madina Azamjon highlights the literary importance of Hamid Olimjon’s writing and how he drew on Uzbek folk culture for inspiration. Gulsanam Qurbonova extols the linguistic and cultural education she has received at her university. Ermatova Dilorom Bakhodirjonova explains the intertwined nature of Uzbek language and culture and the need to preserve both.

Mukhammadjonova Ugiloy celebrates her school and the sports and student leadership education she received there. Choriyeva Oynur outlines benefits of integrating technology into education. Abdirashidova Ozoda outlines the importance of encouraging and fostering creativity for preschool students. Nilufar Mo’ydinova discusses ways to encourage second language acquisition at an early age.

Anila Bukhari’s poetry celebrates the creative spirit surviving amid poverty and oppression. Taro Hokkyo’s prose poem details his protagonist’s escape from emotional and spiritual darkness to rise to the heights of creativity. Alan Catlin’s barman odyssey explores the roots of creative inspiration.

Emran Emon speaks to the recent Nobel Prize award for world literature and the value of writing. Abdusalimova Zukhraxon outlines strategies for teaching the Uzbek language to foreign students. Abdusaidova Jasmina Quvondiqovna shares some of her art and expresses her pride in her native Uzbekistan. Jumanazarova Munojot Elmurod qizi suggests ways to help young children learn to tell time. Qurbonova Madinaxon discusses the importance of games and play in children’s education. Hayotkhon Shermatova outlines issues with Uzbekistan’s educational system and how to address them. Azamova Kumushoy illustrates the importance of teaching language students how to analyze literary texts.

Duane Vorhees revels in erotic sensuality and the learnedness of ancient history. Perwaiz Shaharyar’s poem, translated to English and Italian by Maria Miraglia, celebrates the beauty of the positive aspects of many cultures’ concept of the feminine.

Ismoilova Gulmira celebrates the strength, thoughtfulness, creativity and resilience of Uzbek girls and young women. Abduqahhorova Gulhayo’s poem takes joy in the grace and kindness of young Uzbek girls. Svetlana Rostova finds beauty in everything, even ugliness, loss, and death.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde praises the creative insight of her dance teacher. Saparov Akbar outlines his personal quests and passions and his desire to educate himself and elevate his life. Mesfakus Salahin’s poetry celebrates the artistic inspiration that can come from romantic love.

J.J. Campbell details his middle-aged, disillusioned quest for love or maybe just a little break from reality. Donia Sahib speaks to spiritual and earthly love. Teresa Nocetti’s poem urges a loved one to invite her into their life. Eva Petropoulou Lianou shares a tale of lovers in search for one another.

Graciela Irene Rossetti’s poetry revels in tender gentleness. Mirta Liliana Ramirez expresses the pain of being shamed for who she is. Rezauddin Stalin speaks to partings and farewells. Umida Hamroyeva expresses her love and longing for a departed person.

Ahmed Miqdad speaks of the forgotten sufferings of ordinary people in Gaza. Fiza Amir’s poetry evokes the many personal losses and griefs of wartime. Jacques Fleury reviews Joy Behar’s play My First Ex-Husband, which explores marital and relationship issues in a way that is relatable for many people, married or single.

Mykyta Ryzhykh presents a protagonist who explores alternatives and then revels in his ordinary humanity. H. Mar. shares the joy of day-to-day human companionship.

We hope this issue provides artistic, emotional, and intellectual companionship to you as you peruse the various contributions.

The Eternal Eyes of Lord

2022

The Essence of Prayer

Part I

What should I do

           (Now)

Lock it up in me

Or scatter it around the meadow?

A crow can touch it-

The wheels can break it-

The sun can burn it-

Ughgh!

Sometimes, it is foam like-

Fire-

Water-

Sand-

What is it?

It is the spirit. It is the same spirit that withdraws the spirit of “What if.”

It is the same spirit that embraces the spirit of uncertainty.

It is the same spirit that dances with the tunes of by-gone days.

Same, same, same- Everywhere

Like some god-sent sailors

Finding nothing except

Their fragmented, repented souls

Rippling images on mirror-

Water as mirror.

Like the atheists overlooking

The signs given to them by Jesus, the Lord

And celebrating life

With no peaceful prayer;

It fails to follow  the patterns

Of light projected onto

The ship, water

From the lighthouse-

Lighthouse as God’s hands.

Who is it?

It is the humans,

The souls-

Who gather rage, hatred, and lie

Like a heap of garbage

Turning

(Unconsciously)

Into the bad- mouth, foul- scented beings.

It is the humans, the same humans-

Who look at the time

The same cruel time-

The same forgiving time-

The same loving time-

Holding its soul

Within its palms

With youth and

With mercy-

Some gibberish words come out from

Mumbling lips, crooked bodies,

Beating heart-

Those same words create the echo

Of some meanings-

Thus, a prayer is born.

All the lost souls

Like soldiers, sailors, farmers

Look at the sky

Only to listen to those same sound-

Sound of their echoing souls

Sound of prayer

And they find

Themselves in the land

Of songs.

Songs of destinies-

Songs of dawns-

Songs of divinities-

The same song that is written as the lines of fate

Is becoming the prayer-song

For the scribblers

Named as unseen forces-

The Goddesses and the Gods.

08.01.2025 

Part II

Once, I crossed a lake-

Beside it, I saw a

Chain of   grotesque,      Gloomy Faces;

Multitudes of pain Run through      

Swollen Limbs,

I shed off tears

And it was vanished into oblivion.

Part III

O my Muhammad, O my Lord Jesus, 

Fill my heart with spiritual Thirst.

O my Virgin Mary, O my Grace,

Shower thy Blessings and Revive these Damned cells.

2019

Fear

Some words in my throat

That I want to swallow

Want to vomit

Keep stagnant

I do not know

The reason.

My current state is dwindling like waves

Waves of sea

Sea of uncertainty and fear

Navigating life between dilemma and faith.

Sometimes,

In life

You feel you have to be saved by Jesus

And

In these cases,

You can only be saved by God, the Almighty.

You know you fear a lot;

You know you cannot handle pressure

As it fractures your bones

And makes your soft soul bruised;

Bloody, wounded

You have become

It is just fear- 

Alas! Everyone wants to be saved.

To Sylvia Plath: A prose poem 

Today, I owe you a great treat,

It is not a sonnet, 

Not a parody evoking laughter,

Not an epic 

Demonstrating your journey from body to spirit,

Or spirit to body,

Not an ode to unveil your woes.

It is a chamber of secrets, a drawer of emotions;

People rush to the pornographic clips to derive pleasure,

I rush towards you,

 And find a piece of solace

In you.

The name that moves its wings around my neck

Coming back from dead past,

Is none other than Plath.

Today, I owe you something

To your butchered soul,

To your ruined peace,

I will offer you green ashes, red debris

Made out of women bodies

Those bodies faced electrocution, marital rape, sharp attacks, agonized anguish,

Bagful of dirt under their dripping Eyes, quarrel for Vegetables

And utensils

And unkind dowry, child birth, menopause, loneliness and death;

You wrote for them, for me, 

And for those unnamed Plath(s),

Caged in their rooms

kept hidden under their door-carpets, sealed in the bell jars,

Jars of bad mouth

And sold to the markets.

Your words carry voices

A sound of determinism as well as of instability

 Paradoxical antithesis, surreal aroma

Of your poem 

Painted my race’s trauma,

You never held pen between your fingers,

The pen became the weapon,

And continued your writing therapy,

 It reminds me of 

Lowell and Anne Sexton.

Today, I owe you a gift, a magical pot

That will remove the blemish, blemish between you and

Ted’s Bond,

The bond between Hughes and Hawks,

All I remember is

The way you suffered

The way you ended the life.

I am haunted by the passing sadness,

From staring at the starry sky

To the empty playgrounds-

From the lonely crow

To all the insects slightly emitting out 

A mellow sound,

I notice all, 

I kept a brush in my pocket ,

The words that I chew are the Words that 

I owe you, my Plath.

I remember

How vulnerable your Soul was

At the time of separation,

How brutal that man was!

How you craved for love 

And feared for losing your cherry lips and hairs 

And beauteous colours and gloss.

Smokes curling up from the oven 

While cooking up a bowl 

Of noodles,

I think of your burning head,

I am sitting on my room along with your poems

To know your body and soul.

2019