I Walk a Wooded Path After Hearing of a Poet's Death

 

"What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?"

 

-- Wallace Stevens, "Sunday Morning"

 

 

Who sought most to puzzle out through words

what he couldn't yet know

 

Who taught poetry in a big city, wrote poetry

only about things outside it

 

Georgia's lyrical Jim Fowler who wrote of many creatures

that crawl the earth

 

So I walk at twilight with the scampering raccoons

hoping to see a possum

 

Gently lift away a palmetto frond to which a spider

has woven its web

 

Press a pinecone's bracts letting an angry witch

of pain pierce my thumb

 

Think poet's laurels, crown of thorns, find a yeoman's

polytheism in the night-sound of crickets

 

See the purled fabrics of Spanish moss as figures

of life's many shadows

 

Seek the large turkey vulture feather I've eyed

on the ground by the trail for days

 

Touch my forehead, think of the remembered legacies

of many great poets

 

Socrates said philosophers should not fear the unknown

of death

 

I imagine one poet's joyful yawp -- the stars offering up

their secrets -- who groused over its mystery

  

(In memory of David Bottoms, 1949-2023)


Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, December 2023).  David Bottoms was Poet Laureate of the State of Georgia from 2000 to 2012.

HANAMI
 
At night, 
I touch my eyelids with my cheekbones, 
with my touches I try to sharpen the features of your face, 
but with my fingers I only create flickering white butterflies. 
Still, I manage to take you by the hand. 

Suddenly, while we are running at the foot of the mountain, 
I stumble clumsily on the veins of the trees, 
I fall with you and so we break your mask one by one. 

Love, our chest needs vastness so that we can constantly observe the cherry blossoms, 
I'm telling you while we lie down... 
and the souls of one's ancestors, from the treetops, stare into our deep eyes. 

I am afraid of dawns full of this immersion in pain, 
which seems kind of callous to me: 
are we going to be that hungry after all 
and only harsh rubble and the wind will be able to 
to feed 
our relentless loneliness.

Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia. Winner of several international awards for poetry, including: Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020. Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021. Fra Martin Nedić Award, 2022.

She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.

Sometimes when we are in trouble, when our pain is crushing our heart, we want to feel relieved by telling someone about it.

Because a human being is born with feelings of anxiety, fear, and sadness in his heart. But we do not think that the people who are listening to us have bigger problems than yours, that is, your speech is almost not interesting to them.

Most of them don’t want to hear you, but most of them are happy that you are a pain. It’s a bitter truth.

Let’s not tell our pain to those who suffer like us, but to Allah, the Healer of all hearts. After all, He sent these pains so that my servant would come closer to me, so that he could be relieved by telling me his pain, so what are we going to do by knocking on the wrong doors?

As long as we say yes, it is not necessary to stand in queues for the reception of our Doctor, if we raise our hands together to the sky, He will hear us and answer us…

M’INNAMORAI
Le sue onde un dì osservai
e fra pagine inattese
il mio cuore ritrovai.
All’istante le inspirai
e con molta deferenza
un verso mi colpì:
il mio animo blandì.
Senza inganno mi rapì
quel silenzio senza eguali
da una lacrima sbocciato
e del canto suo innevato
dell’Amor m’innamorai

I FELL IN LOVE
One day I observed its waves
and between unexpected pages
I found my heart again.
I instantly breathed them in
and with much deference
a verse struck me:
my soul coaxed.
Without deception he kidnapped me
that silence without equal
from a tear blossomed
and its snow-covered song
I fell in love with love
***
SIGNOR UCCELLO
Ribelle e traditore
ermetico il suo sguardo
innocuo,
dai mortali maledetto,
fuggitivi al suo segnale.
Di angoscia e pestilenza
degli amori intollerante
a notte fonda, nel gran gelo
è il Signor dell’Arizona.
Fra egiziani e persiani
è la luna della morte
vagando con un’ascia
sino al mar della Nigeria
in cerca d’accoglienza, senza fiato
sottoforma di un Apache.
Ciondoli e tamburi
onorano il Gran Capo
fra danze e lunghi versi
benedice i suoi seguaci,
i poeti della notte

MR BIRD
Rebel and traitor
his gaze hermetic
harmless,
cursed by mortals,
fugitives at his signal.
Of anguish and pestilence
of intolerant loves
late at night, in the great cold
he is the Lord of Arizona.
Between Egyptians and Persians
it is the moon of death
wandering with an axe
up to the Nigerian Sea
looking for welcome, breathless
in the form of an Apache.
Pendants and drums
they honor the Great Chief
between dances and long verses
blesses his followers,
the poets of the night

Still

Sally she is beautiful and sad
she is always unforgettable
a thousand colors in the sky
she looks like a night breeze
the world keeps making noise
Sally just blooms quietly
she loves the sky full of stars
and will be full of tears when looking at it
sunny days she would stand on the beach
looking out of sight
rainy days she would stand in front of the window 
hair hanging on her left shoulder
no one ever heard her talk about it
where do those sorrows come from
a night breeze blows under the moon
and she sighed softly
 

Lost Things

like a paper boat
that is what we’ve lost
thought I was not worth it
today I want to cry for all that
all the desires that have never been obtained
all the heartbreaking partings
all the time of drinking pain alone
now I’m crying for you 
the lost things won't come back
drifting far away with yesterday
I'm still sad when thinking of it
maybe this is what it looks like
like a paper boat
that’s what we lost
not because I'm not worth it
but because they are not you
 

One after Another

it’s all history scattered over the place 
picking it up carefully and looking at it it is full of misery 
never any tranquility underneath here
everyone is born with a burden 
when the sun comes out we will offer everything 
and not think about tomorrow when the barn is full
here we have never learned to dream
sticking on the ground for many thousand years
keep your mouth shut when you open the door
after closing the door the gongs and drums may shake the sky
eat every grain of rice in a dirty bowl
put down the bowl and wipe your mouth and forget the past
you and I are just ants
the wind is blown away like dust
whoever cares about whose face
trying to live is the only way

Roy Gu is Professor of English at Shanghai International Studies University, China. He has published poems and short stories in both English and Chinese. He has translated several books, including Love by Toni Morrison. He is also a singer-songwriter and has released folk music albums.

Virgo, Prose Poems for Tara 


Like the Ascent of the Sun (once there was just the salted sea and you and yes me) 


the northern morns’ mourn like death of life, a silent lamentation if possible. crisp and unwavering darkness and Saturn rules the universe. but, once there was the southern seas, salted of course, and the breezes, a chorus of angels, kissed us and protected us and gave us secret gnosis and mystical insights hardly imagined. and the idea of the tides receded like the tides themselves and we appeared on northern shores again, - oh no! but between the winter lands and the summer lands there was something else, a sign and signal, that waited in your eyes, or rather in a quiet subtle sparkle of light there. this is what to concentrate on, maybe it is your soul. like the right holy scripture, like green chakra, like the special found rain-washed river stone, like the ascent of the sun. 


sky and earth

the long sky, wide also, infinite in fact, and down here opaque for the mist and fog. mysterious. grey. a dream. the silhouettes of certain birds seen out of the corner of the eye, quick, fast, darting, agile, gnostic, full of strength and wisdom. then gone back into the firmament beyond the tree line, the hidden worlds. and the earth. what of it? rain makes long snake-like shapes in the precious and precarious snow. everything melting. fields. loams. tree farms. wooden fences. beige. brown. sometimes stones water washed, hundreds. fallen trees for old summer and winter storms. strange mushrooms watch the worlds out there. step and step. the structure of peculiar shrubs or wildflowers that froze in mid-growth as if waiting for something. the talk of the little streams loquacious. ravine. woodland. do you remember spring, summer, or fall, like old dreams? curving path take me and us under the evergreens that wait and are still, quiet, non-boastful and meditative. verdant. chaparral in the sudden winter wind. 


terra Tara terrene, doncha know the earth is a virgo queen (of the long roads and the sun, or tractors and loams on the edge of the world)


the last of small towns in figurative and literal sunsets. the winter dusk waiting in some line of dusks to have its descent upon vast, vast, impossibly vast lands. also, to a discerning eye, a notification sign affixed to a pole or stick denoting the future conversion of the vast lands to business, residential, or other designations. but first the king winter moment of seconds and years,- roads like causeways and the old barns sometimes peaking up,- hill, flatland, on concrete forms. pastel blue. garden variety red. muted green and also grey. river, lake, estuary. many towns have the same street names. old church. little store. eatery. bus station. outskirts are factory, train tracks, old buildings for lease or sale but some just abandoned,- concrete ghosts and some paper or drape dances in the cold wind alone outside a single pane broken window. way back the tree line, evergreens, birches, other. the ancient sun still strong, slightly warming. feed corn fields. aren’t the dwellers of houses alone, lonesome, melancholic, ruefully ruled by Saturn even on an otherwise sunny Saturday? maybe. maybe not. blackbird. owl. hawk. water flows and other water is frozen. frozen and flow. flow and frozen. I watch the clouds. I look for a sign or marker perhaps metaphysical. I don’t know why. everything crisp and still and clean. the rains and snow have attached to millions of branches and stayed. a sudden gust and a sudden guest. the spirit of some thing that stretches beyond the length of the road, and that lives longer and stronger than the sun itself, and is larger than philosophy religion and all art forms, is watching.


the turquoise telegraph, or of watching the water whimsical


the island was immediately friendly and light, the inhabitants welcoming and joyful. an open aired bus traversed the market framed roads for a while and made for its destination the white sand coastline that married constantly a sea that was first turquoise and then further out, dark hued blue. 


how agile the small fish that swam through there like bits of colourful dream remnants and how atmospheric the myriad clouds that still allowed enough sun to gather upon the small gentle waves and the fine grain sand. sometimes birds could be heard chatting distantly about something and this conversation mingled w/three men softly sounding tin drums, pan drums. 


verdant palm leaves and indigenous shrubs, relaxed people and the noonday ease. the turtles are in the ocean and vessels roam,- motor boats, cruise ships, sailboats, yachts, and the world then is for long moments like a painting pastel and uplifting, meditative and contemplative. watch the turquoise water ripple just a little. can you see it? do you sense it’s mystery that has opened somewhat for you to read? and can the sea be read, discerned, known, like some story or poem, or like a kind letter home? 


the woman, the dreamer, the world 


one time I had a dream and I was beside you walking and you were smiling and at ease. we passed all the people and the people never knew anyone such as you. I do think there was a sea, and the wind in front and trees behind somehow sang songs of magic and visions and prayers. the palm leaves spoke w/the moon. you seemed happy and strong in spirit. slowly in the dream there was some problem and the world became gray and not multi-coloured. and the dream ceased. yet…but…still…nevertheless…one time I had a dream and we didn’t need literature or art or anything because we walked happily. we were our own music. for a moment anyhow. 


You Are the Sun 


there was the super flower blood moon and the nocturnal rains like bad dreams. but you are the sun. there was the world, oh my god and word, how miserable and low, petty and shallow. but you are the sun. there was the witching hour and grey dawn, w/the angel absent and the psychic discord of mean souls in the air. but you are the sun. there was the world frozen, the hopeful and inspiring wildflower of the pastoral field gone long ago, as if it never existed, and I told whoever I could about it’s beauty but nobody believed me at all. but you are the sun. there was dismay, discord, even death and no re-birth, just a thousand bad memories. yet you are the sun. there was the long lonesome sky even the birds gone far away, trading winter’s dark for summer day, and the wind vexatious, the towns unwelcoming and acrimonious, the cities saturnine and sinister. but you are the sun. all the major and minor arcana disappeared save for the Tower card. it painted itself upon the world everywhere. I went to the loam and stream, the sea and lake, the earthy valley and ridge and even to where fires tried to burn brightly. but there was nothing really, truth be known, and I could hardly see the earth. it was as if even day was night. because you are sun. because you are the light. 

Black Iraqi Woman

Shortly before my father died, he whispered to me longingly: “Daughter, treasure this, because it authenticates your heritage to our kinsfolk!” When I accepted this object, I discovered it was a stone with inscriptions I did not understand and delicate, mysterious lines. He continued, “It is a keepsake from our great-great grandfather and can ultimately be traced back to Bilal, the Holy Prophet’s first muezzin, and his father, who was the king of Ethiopia.” I accepted this small heirloom, which I carried everywhere with me in my handbag.

The person who shared my life under the title of “husband,” however, threw it down the drain at our house, thinking—as he told me—that it was a fetish. From then till now I have endured successive exiles. So I wrote this poem to explain the secret of my skin color—given that I am a native of al-Najaf, Iraq—spiritually, mournfully, and poetically!

My father said: “You were born quite unexpectedly, Remote from Aksum, like a beauty spot for al-Najaf—‘the Virgin’s Cheek.’

Your one obsession has been writing, but the sea will run dry before you arrive at the meaning of meaning.”

He affirmed: “During a pressing famine,

I devoted myself to watching over every breath you took.

I would thrust my hand through the film of hope

To caress your spirit with bread.

You would burp, and

I would delightedly endure my hunger and fall asleep.

I could only find the strength to fib to your face and say I was happy.

2

I would feel devastated when you fidgeted,

Because you would always head toward me,

And I felt helpless.”

Aksum! They say you’re far away!

“No, it’s closer to you than your exile.”

“And now?”

“Don’t talk about ‘now’ while we’re living it.”

“The future depresses me. How can I proceed?”

How can the ear be deaf to the wailing from the streets?

Aksum, you have colored my skin. Al-Najaf has freshened my spirit.

She knows and does the opposite.

She knows that I inter only dirt above me, and

That I deny everything except spelling out words:

M: Mother, who went walking down the alley of no return.

F: Father, who hastened after her.

B: Brother, who never earned that title.

S: Sister who buttoned her breast to a loving tear, no matter how fake.

………………….There’s no one I care about!

The trees tremble some times, and we don’t ask why.

My life surrounds me the way prison walls surround suspects;

I am the victim of a building erected by a frightened man.

With its talons time scratches its tales on me,

And I transform them into a silent song

3

Or, occasionally, a psalm of sobs.

Father, do you believe that–the roots have been torn asunder?

Fantasies began to carry me from al-Najaf to Afyon

And from Afyon to nonexistence,

Yellow teeth stretching all the way.

“History’s not anything you’ve made,”

One American neighbor tells another.

He’s surprised to see me.

“Who are you?” he asks when he doesn’t believe his eyes.

Would he understand the truth of my origin if I told him I was born in al-Najaf

Or that Aksum has veiled my face?

I have walked and walked and walked.

I’m exhausted, Father.

Is your child mine?

Show yourself and return me to the purity of your loins.

Allow me to occupy the seventh vertebra of fantasy!

Don’t eject me into a time I don’t fit.

I need you.

I ask you:

Has my Lord forbidden me to be happy?

Am I forbidden to preserve

What I have left

And sit some warm evening

4

Averting my ear from a voice that doesn’t interest me?

Answer me, Father!

Or change the face of our garden

So it changes . . . .to what they believe!

She is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq. She received her master’s degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is a Pulitzer Prize Nominee for 2018, PushCaret Prize Nomination 2019 and a member of the International Writers and Artists Association.

Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020.

Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021)

One of the Women of Excellence selection committee members – 2023

Winner of Women in the Arts award 2023

Member of Who’s Who in America 2023

SAHITTO AWARD, JUDGING PANEL 2023

Cultural Ambassador – Iraq, USA

Email : d.fh88@yahoo.com