Yearning The crickets sing accompanied by their sonorous violins, I wonder where you will be... See that the moon flirts with them, and who will you smile with? The fireflies illuminate the recital, and your face does not appear. In my thoughts you fade like the moon. The cocuyos dance happily to the beat of the cello, He smiled, they dissipate me to solitude, while I lose myself in the bonfire that my cigarette lit. Colombia
HOW NOT TO DEFINE A COUNTRY after Mubarak Sàid I inhale the stench of isale eko - the dirt of mile three park. How does the boy learn to speak seven languages that can hide the lingua franca of joy? How does he rehearse the dictum of pain? How does he master the syllables in grief? How does he converse in sorrow? How does he achieve fluency in anxiety? He questions his existence like a man seeking reality in a tabula raza. He tells the tale of a girl caught in the peril of a nation that gives adulation to the antonym of goodness. This girl sheds Antarctica into her dress; It is how she fights wickedness. How do I gather the casualties in my heart, delete the record and start again? We are taught to understand that to die is to live to revolt is to fault to complain is to end in pain to hope is to hang on a rope. The skylarks fly quickly, I watch their steps, their posture; how trickily they become lords of the air. How they deceive us to let them roam the sky, now see them own it, see them seize the sky. See them leave fragments of the sky for the grass, For the grass who let their tongue get wet from political fore-play that is well played - The grass that is gardened yet dies. I remember that a poet should not fret I give heed to the voices from the root - They speak of How the truth is a tongue that has lost its language to the colonization of deceit. How my country is a testament of Golgotha with barrage of bodies torn apart into fleshy crumbs. How is my land a metonym of distress? We ask 'how' until we don't know how to define the complexity. We ask how until our voices become an orchestra screaming; 'eli eli lama sabachtani' How not to define a country is to say the sun sets at noon - To say wahala is a facade. Look at him defining a country in metaphors when he is the metaphor for a wailing parrot caged in a place where good plays the role of evil. He sees the country as the synonym of hell & It is written in the book of abnormality; That the parrot will wail on the way to damnation & not find rest. Yet in the dome of gods, there is peace for the wicked.
JOEL OYELEKE studies Literature in English at Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, Osun state. He is a published poet, literary enthusiast, God addict, poetry reader for Arting Arena Magazine and curator of Poetry Village, OAU. Author of THE THEM IN ME (Direwords, 2022). Co-author of LET ME GRIEVE (Arting Arena Magazine, 2023). Joel won the Arting Arena Poetry Prize in 2022.
Asides writing, he loves to teach, talk and play football.
Across The Rift We constantly try to go across the rift If only we get accepted by the hand Our land is green but still we leave Moving over to find greener pasture If there were no airplanes Some would go across on bare feet To a place the mind paints as good Risking the quotidian lives in a desert. Sabrid Jahan Mahin is a student of grade 9 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Rainy Story That envelope has arrived The news came about the release of Monsoon Mail dry earth melting with juicy touch of water. Monsoon season is busy now thousands of drops are falling reckless cloudy sky is scary with thunder. The wind blows like a river wetting the ground swaying drops dancing on the dance table of mud. Monsoon is tying the waist now jumping against the hot heat in the hot sun Hold on, rain and shine. Monsoon dropped on the swaying leaves under the stagnant water, the vortex is moving Swallowed all the cottage gardens young crops Millions of tears are mixed in the turbid current. The house of love and happiness is floating, sidewalks and bridges Houses and neighborhoods along the river where are you? may this monsoon stay for ever...
Blood Honey (originally published at Fugitives & Futurists) Pulled into breath, lingering and damp under nostrils’ slow b u r n, wet tips of tongues melt, dart, and slide into syrupy tangles, furious with hot spit and exhales, sweet as red pomegranate. Your little gasps (my little deaths) fire cutting teeth and hungry lips, drawing us in, spitting us out— blood honey in a syringe— into the heavenly hell of this hypodermic love—the sugar in my veins. Blue Light (originally published at Terror House Magazine) Against an old Chevrolet on Maudlin Street, I smoke a cigarette—hard—chuckling at the hisses and howls of alley cats beneath the butcher shop’s broken neon sign. They flick their tails and prowl about, pestering fellas headed home to cold wives and cold dinners, straight from the misery of their long evening shifts. Persistent, with purrs and claws—smooth as cream— they graze oily pant legs (and thighs) for want of a rub…or two. Flicking my smoke at the sidewalk—a cherry-fire explosion drawing the glow of hungry eyes—a young, new one to the corner catches my eye, preening her strawberry-yellow hair, distracted by night shadows that stretch and duck in the periphery. Lighting another smoke, I call her over with a “Psst”, motioning with my hand, as tracers from a flaming tip pull heads from her pounce in unison, to and fro. Cautiously, she turns to me, as the sign overhead begins to flicker blue, casting a harsh pallor upon angled faces with its undead light. Motioning, again, she slowly heads my way—eyes shining and features soft. “What’s tonight’s special?”, I ask, as she pulls the cigarette from my newly shaken fingers and takes a drag. Letting out a long sigh, she blows a steady stream of spite—sweet—into my face, and jabs, “A pound of flesh with a side of soul. Hungry?”, looking as if she’d heard that line one too many times. “Nah,” I answered (a burn taking over my cheeks), “not tonight.” Then I turned and walked away down Maudlin Street, wishing I knew her name, loving her. Medicine (originally published at Dumpster Fire Press) You are my medicine when things are fever-pitched fucked-up shit dismantled glitched. When calm disperses like cigarette smoke in fan blades, overhead— tarring popcorn ceilings and textured walls with burns and invisible drops of carcinogenic rain. What better salve for the poundings in my chest— palpitations consternations vascularizations reformations indemnifications of a life, juxtaposed, away from those eyes that mouth that touch of skin, yours, the sedation of cool breath on hot forehead and the combing of fingertips through currents of sweat-matted hair— this world I know. You are my medicine. Neon Gods (originally published at Cephalorpress) Sacred footsteps of pilgrims and street PrOphETS atop piss-stained lottery tickets and dirty hypodermics— like rose petals, strewn under maidens’ tender feet— pave the way to playing card Meccas beyond doors to salvation/damnation, below fiery eyes that cut the night (and souls) in two with gazes and blinks (but never sleep). Quite the price to pay to cross these fickle streams that run sacrificial red with self-severings of thigh bone and fat, savory-sweet and spiced with lotus wine— offerings in want of burning on conjured stages and electric alters for Vanity’s spectacle. How divine the honied stench of auto-vivisections (splayed out for all to see), making followers and the blue birds in flight forget appetites and tastes for eyes (for eyes) and teeth (for teeth)— for the sake of ounces (of fame) for pounds (of flesh)— like cold Lethe and her gentle lapping, smooth, of jagged rocks upon Hell’s bitter shores. Let us pray (for emergence from this opiate haze and a quick flip of the switch). Amen. Discoloration (originally published at Cajun Mutt Press) Hopscotch squares and street flowers, drawn with sidewalk chalk, ‘round castles that sit upon sun-dried patches of brown cloud, stretch across concrete slabs like ghosts of crime scenes pulled from tabloid headlines of an old Daily Post. White with electric pinks, blues, and yellows etch hopeful prognostications (like blades) on crumbling slates, amidst the stink of fermenting cigarette butts and backwash from broken beer bottles— a chill before the storm. How long before the next hard rain that washes away the stuff of dreams in Technicolor runoff for parched gutters, leaving the street, again, to cry lifeless tears, splattering upon stoops and stone-cold petals, that turn brown in the sun?
SOUNDS OF MIRTH My heart dances with the whispering winds Swirling, twirling and fluttering its wings I enjoy gleefully the soft breeze caressing Listen to the melodies sweetly resonating The blue oceanic sky welcomes all days The glorious sun is shining its crimson rays Puffy clouds billowing above high The eagles are soaring and taking flight As I strolled leisurely in the magnificent park Beautiful landscapes captured my heart The essence of flowers embalms me The songs of the birds serenade me Not far away, I hear the waterfall gushing As I move closer, the crystal water is enticing Drops of water kiss me and splashing The cool atmosphere is refreshing Sounds of mirth fascinate me with pleasure I relish the peaceful moment in leisure Silently, enjoy to the music of nature Reverberate the soul and free from pressure. YOUR GLANCES I read the message in your sparkling eyes clearly Your piercing glances penetrate my heart deeply I want to feel your warmth and embrace you tightly In wondrous moment, I'll never let you go easily You light the spark and my bonfire heart is flickering You have touched my soul like an epitome of spring You mean everything to me and so much more I have found my love, you're what I have been looking for I love you profoundly, no words could ever define You have inflamed the feelings in this heart of mine You have made each day so wonderful, I'll always remember Your intoxicating fragrance drenched me all over Your beguiling eyes drowned me with ocean of love every time Let's spend the rest of our lives the whole lifetime Let the rhythms of our hearts play the music We will sing our love song with romantic lyric Your alluring beauty creates ripples in my heart every day You kindle the passion of flame and makes me sway Your ecstatic elegance stirs my mind blissfully Rapturous love of my soul belongs to you only. Eminent Author/Poetess Ms Lilian Woo hails from Malaysia and is the author of the book 'The Pearl Wonder'. She has received numerous international awards for her soulful writing. She is a Chief Administrator with Motivational Strips, Editor for Writers Tribune, and Chief Representative for the World Nations Writers' Union (WNWU). She has been appointed as the National President in Union Hispanomundial De Escritores (UHE) 2020 for Malaysia and also nominated and entitled H.E. Ambassador General of National Peace Unison ( India), International 2019.
Energy Energy, the name of my friend An excellent room to live in the soul How exciting! I live and die The taste of the fruit I enjoy every morning Or like the rose I frequently run and lost in fragrance By kissing and hugging connected in the magic bond Always infatuated by No more suiting than this mystic drug. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 27 July, 2023 Sheikh Russel in Memory It was 15 August night, 1975 Darkness and panic seized around Here and there blood was rolling on Stained on the wall and floor In the 32 Number House at Dhanmodi 10-year-old Russel cried out in fear "Take me to my mother" Russel sobbed on "We are taking you to your mother" The assassins fired him bullets soon The little boy, the innocent cry The lovely flower face fell down to death It was raining then Today the rain pours in every Bangalees' heart The sound of bullet still rebounds ---------- The people of Bangladesh stand up with a vow "Amar Sonar Bangla, Ami Tomai Valobasi" I love you through all. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 12 August, 2023