(Peg-leg) Frida

“They thought I was a surrealist
but I wasn’t. I painted my own reality.”

Self-Portrait in a Velvet Dress
With Necklace
With hair loose
With monkeys
With necklace of thorns
On the borderline between Mexico and U.S.
Portrait of Luther Burbank as hybrid: half man, half tree
Henry Ford Hospital or The Flying Bed: The Miscarriage
My birth
I suckle
Memory 
or the Heart
The Two Fridas with Cropped Hair
The Dream
or the Bed
Self-Portrait with Braid
Thinking about Death
Me and My Parents
Thinking of Diego
The Broken Column
Without Hope
The Wounded Deer
Nucleus of Creation
Flower of Life
The Last Embrace of the Universe
Marxism Will Give Health to the Sick
Death is a Friend
	
 
Remedio Varo: The Mexican Years: Reversed

Phenomenon of Weightlessness
Still Life Reviving
Spiral Transit
The Arid Path
Vegetable Architecture
Vegetarian Vampires
Phenomenon
Unsubmissive Plant
Embroidering the Earth’s Mantle
Woman Leaving the Psychoanalyst
To Be Reborn
Ascension to Mount Analogue
Disturbing Prescence
Mimesis
Encounter
Hairy Locomotion
(for a) Cancer Ward (the mural)
Farewell
Celestial Pablum
Creation of Birds
Vegetable Cathedral
Magical Flight
Star Catcher
Magical Flight
Star Catcher
Three Destinies
Discovering
Useless Science (The Alchemist)
Solar Music
Weaving of Time and Space
 
Extreme Art Material: Memorial Art Gallery (2006)

Particulate Matter (smog) on porcelain plate with gold enamel
Garden hose, nylon cable ties and steel
Carrot Wheel: carrots
Plaster, pigment, shipping tags and SUV exhaust
The Ruin: U.S. five-dollar bill erased
Colors in Water: Superior: recycled metal zippers
Found Portraits from the Cambodian Killing Fields of Tuoi Sleng
Small Island: Smoke on silver plated tray
Natatorium Cactus: Swimming pool cover and cable ties
Untitled: Pencil shavings
Treasure Map: found drug bags and thread (Philadelphia)
Metamorphosis: Human hair and glue
Allergy Series: Polyurethane and dog hair, Polyurethane and 
contents of vacuum bag
Untitled: Polyurethane and toilet paper, polyurethane and
	Cigarette butts, epoxy, and dryer lint
Topographic Solution: Fish skins, fishing line, pigment, and steel
Geography of Thought: Pennies and wire
I Wonder: Orange peel and waxed linen thread
Eggshells mixed with resin
Peach pits mixed with resin
Twister: Bones, glue, sealants, glass, and silver
Untitled: Hair and glue on canvas
Untitled: Duck Sauce packets
Untitled: Blood, gold leaf, resin, and clay on board
After Vermeer: 4,669 spools of thread, clear vinyl tubing, aluminum
	hanging apparatus, 4-inch clear acrylic sphere and steel stand
There’s No Comfort in the Truth: Recycled cassette tape
Gravity’s Rainbow: Paper collage, pills, hemp leaves, acrylic and
	resin on wood

 
Eccentric Lives and Peculiar Notions Scrambled

Charles and Marjory Johnson, Lancaster, CA, the last stubborn,
	flat earth doctrine defenders
Describing the community that dwelt within the earth
Miss Bevan as Nesta Webster author of spine-chilling accounts
	Of hidden forces beneath the surface of history
The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story Never Told
Path  of the Pole: Cataclysmic Poles Shifting Alters Geology
Mind Control =World Control
The Bridge to Infinity
Liquid Conspiracy: Truth behind the acronyms: JFK, LSD,
	CIA, Area 51, and UFO’s
The Man Who Got Letters from Statues
Stones of the Temple of the Dragon erected by Welsh Druid
	revivalists
Lost Continents and Hollow Earth
Other Findings of Revisionist Geographer
Extraterrestrial Archaeology
Worlds in Collision
Occult Ether Physics
People with Holes in Their Heads
The Lost Teaching of Atlantic
Atlantis the Antediluvian World
Architects of the Underworld
Men and Gods in Mongolia
Photographs of “flying saucers around the mother ship”
The Ant-gravity Handbook
NASA, Nazis, and JFK
The Harmonic Conquest of Space
The Purpose, Intent and Overview of Extraterrestrial Visitations
Somewhere in the Night
The Fallen Sky
The Bomb that Fell on America

 
The Many Lives of Lee Miller (abridged)

As model
Nude studies as a full developed teenager by her father
Work as a fashion designer
Controversial Model for first Kotex Ad
Solarized by Man Ray
Her Work as a Photographer
As a subject of Surrealists
As a Surrealist
Man Ray’s Nude Bent Forward was Lee
The shadow pattern on her torso by Man Ray
Breakfasting in bed reading with Tanja Ramm beneath a wall 
	hanging by Cocteau
The lips for Man Ray’s iconic The Lovers
Portrait Photographer of Gertrude Lawerence
Josephy Cornell superimposed with ne of his many objects
Sel-Portrait as Fashionista
Married in Egypt shooting frame from the top of Great Pyramid
Her Portrait of Space inspiration for Magritte’s, La Baiser
The Picasso Abstract Portrait of Lee
Literally charming snakes in Egypt 1938
Her suggestive (erect) Cock Rock (formation)
Duty calls as a War Correspondent in Europe
Glum Glory in her uniform off to document the war
Posed at the entrance of an Air raid shelter with mask, eye shield 
	and air raid danger warning whistle
A “non-conformist chapel” as rubble
Bombed out, “Bridge of Sighs” London
Shattered roof of University College reflected in pool of rainwater
Henry Moore in a suit sketching in Holborn underground station
	While Londoners huddle beneath blankets trying to sleep
Emergency field surgery, Normandy
Lee in uniform in Picasso’s liberated studio, Paris
Colette, Aged 71, embroidering in her apartment
Moroccan troops outfitted for winter in snow, Alsace
Dead soldier, “There is a good German. He is dead!”
Suicide daughter of Burgermeister, Leipzig reclining on a couch
Statues covered by camouflaged nets make a landscape like a 
	Painting by Yves Tanguy, Germany 1945
Among the first to enter the camps: Dachau dead, 1945
Lee bathing in Hitler’s bathtub, Munich 1945
Lee dressed as Marcel Duchamp’s Mona Lisa at a party c)1954
After she died her son found trunks of her work stored in the attic,
He had no idea she had been a photographer

RAIN IN MY EYES

The rainbow appeared

behind the lines of rain,

the worries and troubles of stis,

carved verses

where the west burned,

in the braided flower,

we put a wreath.

You can’t see the rainbow

it didn’t rain a little,

in my eyes…!

AUTUMN LOVE IN PRISTINA

We met in the fall,

in the amphitheater you tweet…

the streets of Pristina,

in the cold night,

shoot me like a mountain fairy.

the stars were aligned

that summer evening in your tear,

we were both lost in the untouched oasis

and the lips stopped at the sounds FlokArtë.

Why did we travel, tell me why

in the cold winter and snow,

the beaming sun gave us a gift,

you ray of sunshine lit me siashra.

Why did we run to the meadows, why

in the early spring fragrance of love

we pray to the flowers of the green field,

embraced we felt exotic intoxication.

THE POET’S MUSE

The poet,

They give the words a meadow color

evoke memories in torn maps

does not believe in the miracles of the Mountain Fairies

of the world forgives love!

The poet cooks the word

in the magic of poetry,

in the chain the verses of the verses

stigmatizes renegades

with the measure of memory

in the arboreal fireplace.

Poet, in verse

the storm and the sun in the sun bring,

the figures are planted with love,

under the word

it bakes a world

that you don’t know

fused into crystal…

on the poetic harp you compress it.

The poet dreams

Aphrodite in the light of the lantern,

and he engraves the stalagmites in the cave

in the poetry book

AFTER CENTURIES

After centuries we will get drunk

On the salty altar

we will remember your escape in the spring,

the colors will change,

there will be neither red, nor black, nor green

it will be only blue;

there will be no age, only death

 neither school, nor court, nor work,

the whole thing will be like a game…

there will be sea in overtime

life will develop there in the depths,

ships will sail without gas

my dear

The air will be polluted

and the oxygen will be rarefied,

rain will not fall, nor snow, nor typhoon

there won’t be, everything will be the same

in ruins of centuries,

abandoned houses that people are looking for,

fierce wars will be fought

they will cry: bread, air and palaces

with your absence,

that day will come after a few centuries,

where you and I will eat in glass dishes

and we will knit the verses

on the silk fabric,

they will be fed to the spotted birds

and drunk, that day will come very soon,

my love…

these verses will be: proof of a love.

Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu,  Spanish, and Korean.

Haiku by Maurizio Brancaleoni


bagno all'alba:
la scia del sole tra alluce e illice

bathing at dawn —
the sun glitter between hallux and index toe

*

mattino calmo:
un mosaico d'impronte di piccioni

quiet morning —
a mosaic of pigeon footprints

*

luna calante:
vespe e formiche su carcassa di pane

waning moon —
wasps and ants on bread carcass

*

mattina presto:
cammino nei solchi del SUV sulla sabbia

early morning —
I walk in the ruts of the SUV on the sand

*

rough sea —
the cat's lapping
in the plant saucer

mare agitato:
il lappare del gatto
nel sottovaso

*

luna di tre dì:
il pomfo della puntura interrotta

three-day moon —
wheal of the interrupted puncture

*

mare calmo di mattina:
le zampe rosse dei piccioni

calm morning sea —
red feet of the pigeons

*

malato al sole:
le zampe fredde della mosca

ill in the sun —
cold feet of the fly

*

cirrocumuli:
la chiave dell'auto
fa da cotton fioc

cirrocumuli —
the car key
serves as a cotton swab

*

ascelle al vento:
l'insetto non riesce
a rigirarsi

armpits to the wind —
the bug can't
flip back over

*

dopo il mare
anche sporche le mani
sembran pulite

after the seaside
even if dirty
hands feel clean

*

restless wasps —
the lonely old man
from person to person

vespe irrequiete:
il vecchio solo
di persona in persona

*

ora di pranzo:
condizionatore di
sopravvivenza

lunch time —
survival
conditioner

*

notte d'estate:
centro zanzare
mentre il sonno mi elude

summer night —
I hit mosquitoes squarely
while sleep eludes me

*

mese d'agosto:
anche le case rosse
si spelleranno?

August —
will even the red houses
start to peel?

*

niente acqua per
le labbra secche:
lamiere lucenti

no water for
dry lips —
shining floor plates

*

vento in spiaggia:
una mano sul cell
l’altra sull’ombrellone

wind at the seaside —
one hand on the phone
the other on the beach umbrella

*

Pronto soccorso:
la zanzara bruna
non trova l'orecchio

Emergency Room —
the brown mosquito
can't find the ear

*

bocca sdentata:
alcune case senza
tenda da sole

gap-toothed mouth  —
some houses have
no awning

*

vespa vasaia:
una solitudine tranquilla

potter wasp —
a tranquil solitude

*

nascondendosi
nell'orto il gatto
svicola indisturbato

hiding
in the garden the cat
sneaks away undisturbed

*

primi rovesci:
sotto la giacca a vento
la canottiera

first downpours —
under the windbreaker
a tank top


Maurizio Brancaleoni lives near Rome, Italy.

He holds a master's degree in Language and Translation Studies from Sapienza University. His haiku and senryu have appeared in Dadakuku, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Under The Bashō, Horror Senryu Journal, Cold Moon Journal, Scarlet Dragonfly, Memorie di una geisha, Rakuen, Haiku Corner, Pure Haiku, Five Fleas, Shadow Pond Journal, Haikuniverse, Asahi Haikuist, Plum Tree Tavern and Wales Haiku Journal. In 2023 one of his micropoems was nominated for a Touchstone Award, while a horror ku originally featured in the Halloween-themed issue of Scarlet Dragonfly was re-published in this year's Dwarf Stars anthology. 

Maurizio manages “Leisure Spot", a bilingual blog where he posts interviews, reviews and translations: https://leisurespotblog.blogspot.com/p/interviste-e-recensioni-interviews-and.html

In India when a daughter gets married they need to wear a red veil and red bindi on her forehead. It’s a symbol of married women. Also I would like to add that in India we call our mother Maa. Whether it is India or any other country, mother and daughter emotion is same.

THE QUEST

I’m in my autumn my child,

Your father’s departure made my life hollow.

My heart weeps when I recall him.

Now, I am stacked with responsibilities.

My eyes are craving to see you in a red veil.

My lifelong wish to see,

The vibrant red colour on your forehead.

My child, I searched a lot

But the suitable boy is in a remote, untouched land.

Is it my fault that I gave you birth ?

They tarnish our race.

‘Unity in Diversity’ is confined to papers.

They criticize on your shadowy tone,

Your knowledge is your gem,

And they ridicule it too.

Murky world, disgrace your devotion towards me

A devoted son is an honour,

Then why not a devoted daughter?

I begged at every door,

To search a suitable boy for you,

Sad folks always gave false hope.

Me too wish to nurture my grandchild,

Who will sit on my lap,

And I will wrap her tight.

With her, I will revive my childhood.

I asked to God:

Why a dummy smile people,

Enjoying an ecstatic life.

We have wisdom to be simple,

And thus our hearts are distorted every time.

Waiting for the new dawn,

In every verse there are some,

Unspoken silence.

(Answer To Mother…….)

MOSAIC of EMOTIONS

Be good, do good and receive good,

The age old phrase.

In this broken mixed-up world,

Do we always receive fruit ?

I am a scapegoat in the hands of time.

I longed to pass marital bliss.

A hand who will hold my hand,

A soul- soothing warm hug and worries disappear.

I pine for his presence.

Me too wish the paradise of motherhood,

That feeling when I will hold you in my arms, my child,

And embrace you in my chest.

I will play with you like a toddler,

Till we burst out with laughter .

Those precious moments when your grandma will sing a lullaby for you.

I am longing to see.

I hate mirror Maa,

Every time it reminds me of single shaming.

The lines on your forehead write the tales of an agonized mind.

I curse myself Maa to see you in pain,

And knowing the reason is me.

I know you are aching to see the luminous red vermillion on my forehead,

Will it fulfill in this birth?

The voyage for a suitable match is just an illusion.

They abandon me to see my worship towards you .

Pity mother with only daughter in the family.

In her declining years should I leave her all alone?

Can a groom do the same?

Our society is rooted in orthodox ideology,

Which need to be structured.

(Is it so difficult to give her a little space in son -in -law’s nest?)

Deepika Singh is an Indian native from Margherita, Assam. She holds an M.A. and a B.Ed. degree, by profession, a teacher. Her writings are a reflection of the everyday experiences she has. She thinks the correct words have the power to transform our culture. Her works were featured in various publications, including Sipay Journal, The Poet Magazine, Womensweb, Journal of Macedonia Scientific Society, Poetry Zine Magazine, Archer Magazine, etc. Additionally, her writings were translated into Hebrew, Chinese, Macedonian, Spanish, Serbian, Tajik, and Turkish. She also recited poetry on Kent’s BBC Radio.

A Whole Afternoon of Terror  

Before dusk arrives, skeletal horses

loom outside the darkness, lingering off the road.

I encounter ghosts in the mirror,

the wind sniffs beneath fallen leaves, through a door-crack,

scenting the faint glow of flesh revealed.

Axes, slingshots, cleavers all line the window sill painted blue,

even my stiff six-year-old elbows bear the grain of wood.

The yard’s pale wooden gate is locked, the door to the cottage too,

I stare at every tremble of the wooden gate

and the passing sound of the whistling poplar trees.

Mother hasn’t returned yet, I don’t know how many years

how many winters have passed, I hear the door handle softly turning,

the quiet voices of family members, and the slow movement of a golden lamp.

But I can’t wake up, can’t bolt that door wrapped in a sack.

A Near-Forgotten Craft 

Destruction is space, allowing new horrors to emerge

yellowed pages can no longer be turned

invisible ghosts make you cough incessantly

the painted landscape keeps shrinking

until real places become indistinguishable:

a century-old iron bridge as dark as a bagpipe

now creaks like a knee by the water’s edge.

Punish life by writing everything down

let the sunset hover forever in a still cave.

As long as this book is opened once

everyone will be resurrected, the precise machinery of hell

will start again, with wild winds, hail, and flames

with the asphalt stiffening their joints, the suffering of others continues

unbeknown to anyone.

Reliant on the reader’s sympathy and testimony

time continues like dashed lines in the snow.

Snow falls, falling forever,

yet never falling on the bent heads of pedestrians

always walking in the same place, never avoiding a snowfall.

Few believe in these kinds of games anymore.

Perhaps it’s just a harmless game

which offers us the image of time

like a watchmaker with weak eyesight in his workshop,

where metal parts and various-sized gears reflect the dusk light

through the carved glass revolving door, candlelight, flickers

at the door, an unidentified white horse appears

snorting with contempt, carrying the decay of generations.

Encounter with a Cat on Midnight Streets

You lay sprawled in the centre of the street, eyes half-open.

Poor little thing, what happened to you?

Your gaze seems to ask me, what is life?

I had just returned from a meeting discussing the meaning of life,

drunk on wine because life is so beautiful,

though the discussion was dull, led by zombies.

I never expected to meet you like this,

“Death” lying on the path I, “Life,” must take.

As if questioning me, unknown death, how to understand life.

The midnight street suddenly falls silent, and I hesitate for a moment,

thinking to find a branch to move your flattened body to the roadside,

where passing cars will crush it repeatedly,

until your emaciated pain is swept away by the sun’s custodian,

or it becomes a golden beehive, dripping with blood honey.

But in the end, I did nothing, exchanging a meaningful gaze with you.

I turn away, like a soul leaving its shell.

“Here”

“Here” is a signpost, not really here,  

the earth beneath your feet is a vertical, transparent void,  

you can only recognize here by its “non-existence”.  

You’re familiar with these signs, a street, a road,the house behind houses,  

a date, a name, the sound of poplar leaves brushing each other,  

and songs from the last century playing on a radio hanging from a branch.  

You can no longer make out their lyrics,  

as if they’ve been encrypted at the far end of time,  

that’s fine—no words to smudge this perfect balm,  

no other you, old, young, or in between,  

walking out of this maze of “here”,

to watch a sunset elsewhere,  

or see another autumn rain falling in another realm,  

another of you, nose buried in a colour-blurred map,  

collar wore the wrong way round, searching for a “here” you’ve been before.

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, Since 1986 He has published over eighty original works and translations. He is a professor in the Faculty of Arts and Literature, Nanjing University of Science and Technology. His studies center around Chinese and Western modern poetics, post-modern literature, and eco-criticism. His translations from English include works by Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, W.C.Williams, John Ashbery, Henry James, Herman Melville, May Sarton and others. 

Progress Toward Victory

I wrote a lot of poems in my 20s.

They were all bad.

Everyone said they were bad.

The keyboard stank like sweat and rotten fruit.

There was a great outcry among the editors.

So I gave up

And then 20 years later I tried again.

And my poems were better!

Everyone said they were better.

Among the editors there was a great sigh of ambivalence.

I will quit for another 20 years.

When I come back my poems will be truly great.

The keyboard will smell of roses and triumph.

The editors will scuttle around my feet like beetles.

I will go to my grave like an apotheosis of Pulitzers.

And on my headstone I will write with my luminous hand,

“That’ll show ‘em.”

Roman Holiday                                                                                

I dreamed and found you young again somehow transported across the Atlantic, past Gibraltar then Corsica, over the waves of the Mediterranean. I arrived quite dashing in a light linen suit and polished Italian shoes, in a little white sportscar, over ancient brick streets and through Di Chirico piazzas and skewed Zeffirelli perspectives at your flat in Rome set curiously in the forum at the edge of the Palatine Hill. I took you in my arms, circled your waist, and my palm found the small of your back.

You twirled for me, flipping the hem of your dress, a black and white print in tiny cubist abstractions. We danced spinning through your bright rooms with the high ceilings like a chiesa expecting Raphael above our heads – an Assumption or an Ascension. You’d arranged vases of flowers, and the tables and chairs were strewn with opened books, chipped china, and the remains of bread and the dregs of wine from the night before. The windows were tall and opened wide, curtains drifting in the breeze, and allowed the shouts and cheers of scruffy boys kicking a soccer ball outside. And there was a jumpy, comedic Italian tune playing from the phonograph – the kind of music that makes you want to whirl around the kitchen with your mother or gambol with your little sister balanced on your shoes.

So pretty and poised, you were Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday after she got her hair cut short, raced Gregory Peck on a Vespa, and stuck her hand in the Mouth of Truth. Giddy, we laughed and ached and wept, immediately in love again. Your bedroom walls and the quaint watercolors you bought of the Pantheon, Colosseum, Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, and that little temple of Portunus near the Tiber – the very ruins around us seemed to laugh too, happy for us. But when I leaned in to kiss you, our lips refused to touch, to meet as willing participants in a prelude to desire. I heard, “Remember, you’re married.” Instantly I returned flying back across the ocean in my little white convertible to that other bliss I’d live after waking. And that was all. That was enough.