People on the roads and in the gardens People on the roads and in the gardens. Sunny bunnies eyes, hands, sounds of whispers of people, plants, wind. Sheaves. State institutions. And in every way so rich. Fresh buns, honey, clean water, hot morning coffee, cold morning dew, evening clean air, morning bells of hemingways, evening prayers and excitement: suddenly someone will hear, suddenly someone is still in heaven. The abundance of grass, the variety of fire, the rain, the light, the mud of the roads, the nonsense of the neighbors, the flights of birds, the scent of flowers, the black circles under the eyes and the minibuses1* are not adapted to happiness. - I don't know what to do now ... - the woman despaired. - Everything will change tomorrow! - her husband's hope. - When I grow up, I will not become an adult? - whether it is hope or despair of the child. Hotel room for one person. The address of the former. Lover's phone. Despair. Tears of silence. Little boy with a toy in his hand and hope in his heart. Kindergarten with painted wallpaper. Kindergarten is like a garden. Eyes, like beetles, and want to fly, like Exupery. The mother finally comes to the nursery after a long working day and takes the child home. The guard nods disapprovingly. The mother pretends not to notice. The country pretends not to notice. The guard finally falls asleep quietly on the post. The robbers finally wake up calmly and take up their criminal post. Taxi again ... Apology of good and mythology of evil. Three dots. Question mark. Two for punctuation. Four for content. Three2* for the essay. The teacher puts his hand over the journal with grades and for a moment... A woman sings an aria of a virgin at the opera house, as if she were in fact a virgin. And the night club, which is not so far from here, is about to close due to someone's vandalism and - law enforcement officers, and above them - someone else and - someone else, according to the hierarchy. A cup of tears, drunk with a trembling grandfather's eye. Firecrackers under the window. The final stop - the cottage. Curves. Hands, their intersection. Plexus of bodies. Animal bodies. Kitten, bunny, piglet, puppy, duckling, baby. Well, just grace! And still - forcemeat in the city market. Umbrella instead of blue sky, grayness instead of self. Abyuz underfoot, comet tails, space rockets. Movies after ten in the evening, when the younger sister finally went to bed. Sometimes she's really mad. The afterlife of my grandmother's village. Chocolate Santa Claus, who remained in the refrigerator from the New Year holidays and miraculously survived. The face of untruth. The face of the grass. Walt Whitman, Charlie Chaplain, Uncle Misha from a kiosk on the next street. Bookshelf of the spirit. Perfume associations. A birthday present, and a huge cake (and cousin's complaints about low wages). Burning. Giants. Giant mountains. Giant people. Mountain people. And somewhere nearby - stone ceilings of misunderstandings, Easter eggs of complaints, easels of cries, dwarfs of humiliation - as soon as it is tolerated. "New songs are always reminiscent of ...". Key: "Delete message". Stars above your head, a dream of space, grass, roadsides, a smile on your face - and we are on the way to a fairy tale, but it's time to grow up. In short, it is impossible to convey this feeling of a home that no longer exists ... This is a reprint from "minor literatures" * 1. Here in the sense «Marshrutka» (Ukrainian: маршру́тка) or routed taxicab, is a form of public transportation such as share taxi which originated in the USSR and is still present in Russia and other countries of CIS, in Baltic states, Ukraine, Armenia, Georgia, Turkmenistan as well as in the territories outside of ex-USSR, such as Bulgaria. The role of the modern marshrutka is theoretically similar to the share taxi, which uses minibuses in some other countries. The first marshrutka was introduced in Moscow, Russia, in 1938. * 2. Unsatisfactory score with 12-point school system of Ukraine.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Eva Petropoulou Lianou
A precious man The nights and the days come and go without a smile The days are so big without a smile The nights are a waiting for a call or a message It is so expensive this time away from your eyes. You are my precious pearl.. A diamond hide in the mud.. Waiting the time to hug you and kiss you. You are my treasure hidden from the sun Waiting the day I meet you again.. Waiting your look.. Waiting your lips.. You are my precious pearl hidden in the oyster deep in the sea. You are my precious man. You, the face I did not see for years You, You are the most amazing human being But i cannot touch You, The beauty is hiding in small pieces in your body and mind... You, I can explain why But i know my what... You, That one day you crossed my path Forces of love or passion touched me Without reason... I am looking the east You are looking the west Miracles happens every day You, A passion I can live in a privately moment Love I give Love will never be understood You, In an another space of galaxy You, My ideal My secret Garden You, The moments I never had You The distance between two countries A bridge i will try to build to reach you Good night poem What a caterpillar maybe call the end A butterfly call it the beginning of a beautiful journey... The stars are so far but we can see the lights And feel their heat As i am thinking of you Days and nights are together No distance Only sun Only Moon And for once they are together In this beautiful sky Thinking of you The days Think about you My heart My body My soul Wake up And Dance in a circle Imagine u are here Imagine u are close to me Imagine our life starts This is my wish My prayer As you are my hope My inspiration In those long years of loneliness... ❤️💐💐💐 Love poem Your smile... I dream a future with you I dream a blue sky Sunset to a an island I dream a white house And have a view to the sea I dream a future close to you.. And i get a bad dream Sleeping alone Feeling weak But in my heart i am not alone because i feel your heart beat I feel your breath EVA Petropoulou Lianou Multi Awarded Author children literary Official candidate for Nobel Peace prize Greece
Poetry from Grzegorz Wroblewski
THE SUN AND MAMMOTHS The sun was shining three days ago. Today it is raining and people in Copenhagen are drinking Spanish wine. A thousand years ago, the sun was shining and mammoths lived on Earth. I never ate mammoth meat, but I drank Spanish wine often. Cortes once conquered Mexico. The sun is needed for corn to grow. Just like rain. Mr. Jensen carefully observes the sky and the stars. Old Sputniks fall into the oceans. (You need to sleep at least six hours…) This is a beautiful poem, isn't it? CARP Roses and tulips are a favorite topic of poets. Or mysterious cats. And of course, love after the sunset. Teleportation to Venus is also very popular. My uncle never wrote poetry. He drank vodka every day and told me about fights in dirty restaurants. He was always authentic. They killed him once at a pond. There were carp in this pond, which we ate every Christmas. WELLS Life is (incredibly) interesting sometimes. Potatoes can be eaten with mushroom sauce. Friends & lovers are smiling traitors. That's why we have great literature. In case of war, there are basements and concrete shelters. I've never seen an angel. However, the devils hid in black wells. Not bad. It is shock-free, i.e. neutral. Grzegorz Wróblewski was born in 1962 in Gdańsk and grew up in Warsaw. Since 1985 he has been living in Copenhagen. English translations of his work are available in Our Flying Objects (trans. Joel Leonard Katz, Rod Mengham, Malcolm Sinclair, Adam Zdrodowski, Equipage, 2007), A Marzipan Factory (trans. Adam Zdrodowski, Otoliths, 2010), Kopenhaga (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Zephyr Press, 2013), Let's Go Back to the Mainland (trans. Agnieszka Pokojska, Červená Barva Press, 2014), Zero Visibility (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Phoneme Media, 2017), Dear Beloved Humans (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Lavender/Dialogos Books, 2023), I Really Like Lovers of Poetry (trans. Grzegorz Wróblewski & Marcus Silcock Slease, Červená Barva Press, 2024), Tatami in Kyoto (Literary Waves Publishing, 2024). Asemic writing book Shanty Town (Post-Asemic Press, 2022).
Poetry from Sushant Thapa
We and Our Game A game I play Is your cheerful clappings. Happiness I treasure Is your smile. My childhood art Is your first craft. We are one Holding hands Before we cross the roads. Rose carpet decorates The steps that climb The difficulty hill, full of spirit. We exchanged letters And our handwritings matched. Your city, Is my tunnel to suburb vacation. We cross ways like arrows And take a target shot of life. The game we play Isn't a whistling wind But the rope mesh of ladder Of this nascent paradise That we are still building Despite all the odds. Sushant Thapa (born on 26th February, 1993) is an award-winning poet from Biratnagar, Nepal who holds Master’s degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, India. He has published five books of English poetry, namely: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Published in New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (UK, 2021), Minutes of Merit (Kolkata, 2021), Love’s Cradle (New York, USA and Senegal, Africa, 2023) and Spontaneity: A New Name of Rhyme (New Delhi, 2023). His sixth book is ready, and about to go to the press. Sushant works as a lecturer of English in Biratnagar, Nepal. He is also the assistant editor of Himalaya Diary, an online portal published from Kathmandu.
Poetry from Tuyet Van Do
hazy sky below the sun halo a black trail sharing truths ... a poet labels me anti vax last working day a student shares her vaccine injuries weekend picnic at the local park I search for a blue sky
Prose poetry from Brian Barbeito
William Shakespeare Look What You’ve Gone and Done, or European Starling Birds and the Winter Morning Sky Born it was not the morning but the afternoon in actuality when all the Starlings did alight in the tree. it was however in the next morning that I remembered them and thought about them. they were still and to me, stoic for they didn’t really bother w/the wind or the world around them. the history of birds, their origin and migration routes; their interaction with rural landscapes and metropolitan areas, is as vast as the history of stamps, of books or of anything for that matter. but for me then, it was just a flock of birds in a tree. I didn’t know where they arrived from. I didn’t know what their ‘game’ was, or their ‘trick.’ I just knew that they blended in as if they were not there. nobody jumped from branch to branch. nobody talked. nobody else arrived and nobody left. hmm. real certainly,- they didn’t seem so, and more like a painting or dream; or perhaps a moment in a poem. nice, I thought. but I am a naive one and always have been so. I decided to read about them. someone had the idea of introducing every bird Shakespeare mentioned into North America. and it turned out that though they controlled some insect problems,- the Starlings were overly aggressive and caused many problems to things like crops and even infrastructure. I wondered about them, about the ones I had seen. maybe they were cold (I am a bleeding heart). later I glanced out there again. the Starlings had gone. only the branches remained,- vacant. and they weren’t talking either. and now the sky is born again. there used to be a Christian proselytizer that promoted his metaphysics by the lake to every manner of passerby. when the weather got bad, - cold, or a storm was coming, he would leave. it meant to me he was only an average devotee. a true captain is supposed to go down w/the ship so to speak. it is really the sky, for better or worse, that remains, not bird or person. the sky will one day whisper against reason and logic to some mystic, some seer, not, ,’Beware the Ides of March,’ but simply, ‘See. I tried to tell you. Stick with me. I am the forever kind.’
Poetry from Lewis LaCook
Harvest at night the brain loves to torment me talking to the one not here in my body I’m trying to crawl out of my body I’m coming to get you night draws a bow across the brain throat bores a hole into everything I say to you in my body you’re trying to crawl out of your body room piled to the ceiling with thread the brain loves to be tied up fireflies disappear in late August To do well tomorrow there won’t be any beautiful distance between you and the still lives of hours at least today the brain’s not watching far above your head a jet squeals as it splits the sky if you’ve got time to think about the sky and what harms it maybe you could walk farther away maybe you could stitch back together what’s left of the ground under your feet The day Pan died the day Pan died it sunshined then puckered up like I insulted her alright I’ll let you cut me the day Pan died wildflowers rioted in ditches foaming stalled white over deer bone grin when she smiles at us broken animals when we smile back with crowds of teeth I tried my best as a sullied tongue seeking what the pipes implied soft piles drifting we had to make everything with our hands even our hands The novitiate in sleep country we count stars behind our eyes dark engines that gasp and spark over our heads on a pinched afternoon I’m lazy with cloud-cover in the dark I pause at the screen door drenched in longing from the beat of crickets everything I will never be just out of reach what god could be trusted with the color blue that didn’t slip out of the woods what novitiate lilts in bourbon-bronze fumes on the hissing roads of sleep country we billow our gods made of the blood of dog days the willow sobs on my bare chest everything I’ve ever been runs down our legs waiting for you to fall out of the woods As a child, on interstate trips, Lewis LaCook thought the moon was following his family’s Econoline van. Upon reaching adulthood, he couldn’t tell whether the truth disappointed or relieved him, so he started writing things down. Some of these things looked like poems, and they may have appeared in journals like Anti-Heroin Chic, Lost And Found Times, Otoliths,Unlikely Stories,Whiskey Tit, Lotus-eater, Synchronized Chaos, Argotist Online Poetry, Medusa’s Kitchen, Reapthrill, Exist Otherwise and Slope, among others. In 2012 BlazeVOX published Beyond the Bother of Sunlight, a book-length collaboration with Sheila E. Murphy; previously, Anabasis published his book-length poem Cling. His collection My Kinship with the Lotus-eaters was published in 2022 by BlazeVOX.(http://wp.blazevox.org/product/my-kinship-with-the-lotus-eaters-by-lewis-lacook/) Lewis can often be found wandering the wilds of Western New York state with his wife Lindsay.