Essay from Z.I. Mahmud

Black and white photo of a middle aged white man with reading glasses in a suit and tie sitting in front of a BBC microphone.

Forster was a story teller of diminuendos and anticlimaxes, as pointed out by Katherine Mansfield in the lines, “Forster never gets any further than warming the teapot.”


EM Forster highlights the radiant grandeur and majestic wonder of the Greek literature that tends to be both aesthetic and ethical and imitative in the mimetic of both individual and social realities which blends a combination of beauty and depth, wit and wisdom, gaiety and insight, speculation and ecstasy, carnality and spirit.

EM Forster’s crucial crux of characterization and incidents are touchstones in the arrangement of plots as sequences of events in their time sequence bereft of spatiotemporality, periodization or historicity. In fact, Aspects of the Novel, is the critical examination of the eclectic literary critic in the immersive objectivity and sympathy of
the narratives’ dramatis persona and the narrative multiplicities featuring those timeless classic masterpieces or avant gardes that encompasses and engenders architectural unity and preordained form.

The self confessed literary critic expostulate nineteenth century romanticism, aestheticism, symbolism, impressionism in the humanistic and liberal attitudes in the late world war I and the aftermath of the early world war II decades. Forster asserts the significances of a central theme or idea in the literature as evidenced in the passage: “When a book is written round a central idea, it gains unity that is denied to its more discursive brethren, and this
Norwegian novel stands out among its English contemporaries much as a man that has something to say stands out in a crowd of chatterers. Its characters are sketches, and the plot does not exist, but the central theme gripped by the author, grips the reader and leaves a profound impression behind.”


EM Forster critiques Sir Walter Scott as idiosyncratic and wayward more than order because of moral and commercial tastes contrarieties in the 1980s art for an art’s sake movement. On the contrary, Virginia Woolf, triumphs from the distortion effects of aestheticism owing to her comical sense and creative zest. Poetry is enchanted garden much more like the spiritual armory in the words of Mathew Arnold as eternal engravings in the creator, spectator
and readers alike, resonating Shelley’s commentary, “beautiful idealisms of moral excellence.”


Emily Dickinson’s poetic verses and musical lyrics in the prose works contrasts with Austenean realists fiction in the literary imaginative landscapes of the readers’ mindscapes and the momentary transformative external environment of the appreciative individual. Forster was also undoubtedly thinking of Dickinson when he viewed Dickinson as one who loved the Ariel world of the spiritual repose and aesthetic emotion but cannot remain in it because Caliban had to be tamed, Antonio reformed and Prospero restored to his rule. ‘A true novelist observes the realities and describes them dispassionately.”

In ‘Anonymity’ Forster expresses that literature not only lectures the outward and rational but also the subconscious, the reality that lies within the center of the individual personality. In this sense, social and political realities should be lesser important than the aesthetic effectiveness. Forster deplored the fascist Nazi censorship since the epoch resulted in ‘uniformity’, ‘monotony’ and ‘spiritual death’.

Nonetheless, Forster tells us of the literary tradition to be the borderline between history and literature in the Aspects of the Novel. To him, the best critic will have spent much time exploring that territory in order to augment his knowledge of literature. Leo Tolstoy’s novels are an omnibus of complex plot intricacies and characters of psychological complexities that for subtlety were ambiguous
because of inconsistencies and violation of the probability to Forster.

Fantasy is the featured as alternative to realism in fiction and upholds resemblances to the symbolic alternatives to desires and identities———-metonymic for orgasmic terms such as choking or thrilling readers even to this degree of maturity in accord with obscenities, oddities and queerness. Fantasy is a doubled natured and gendered beast expression some of the alternative interpretations to realities in the vein of supernaturalism and mysticism that can take the androgynous guise.

The Edwardian epoch heralded the familiarity and popularity of fantasy fiction from folklores and folktales and folk fables or fantasy tales inhabited by satyrs and nymphs of the magical woods. Fantasy and prophecy are together diametrically polaroids of alternative interpretations to realities. In this sense, fantasy and prophecy are illuminators and intensifiers of the material world, sedulously dusted by the hands of common sense, manipulated by the beam light in the more vividness than mediocrity and domesticity by the fantasist and the prophet. For instance, Tristram Shandy and Moby Dick are diametric axis of fantasy and prophecy. Northrope Frye claims that “fictions in the last generation or so has turned increasing from realism to fantasy, partly because fantasy is the normal technique for the modern fiction writers who do not believe in the permanence or continuity of the societies they belong to.”

Poetry from Texas Fontanella

I Drink I’m In Love

I drink I’m in love, and it makes me kind of nervous to say so

Said she fell from Earth, but I think she must have hocked her halo

know I’m love, but it makes me kind of nervous to say so

Say she fell from Earth, but I think she gonna escape though

Said she’d be a CEO but she finds the pay low

Darkest alley and still she makes the stage glow

mesmerise with shadows like Plato

grab the times and mould them like Play doh  

Collective offence the opposite of NATO

Whenever lock eyes, after, there’s a rainbow

This one’s hard, and all of the lanes close

And she’s still spent a week in those same clothes

Drink I’m love, but it makes me kind of nervous to say so

Said she fell from Earth, but I think she mustve hocked her halo

know I’m in love, and it makes me kind of nervous to say so

Said she’d be a CEO, but she finds the pay low

Air around her slithering like Draco, on the Facebook blocks like JLo  

Walking on stilts when she’s told to lay low

Not much point when you know the chain’s close

Still look twice when you see the rain’s falling slower

And the shadows are coming out to make us all supper

And after, shake our heads into each other’s

See what everyone got going’s cheap nothing

But on this tale, I just keep munch

-kin

I drink I’m in love, and it makes me kind of nervous to say so

Said she fell from Earth, but she Facebook blocks just like she JLo

Don’t know, I’m in love, and it makes me kind of nervous to say so

Said she’d be a CEO,

                                   but I think someone just hocked her halo…

Poetry from Doug Holder

Archie Bunker opines about Pellegrino Water

​**Archie Bunker was a character in the 1970s TV show, "All in the Family." It was a satire about a white working-class man-who was an unapologetic racist

This ain't your Polish meathead Poland Springs
this is what comes from what you call
Virgin Springs.--
hey—nobody gets laid there
they are happy just drinking water
may Jesus strike me dead!
It's like seltzer
but it is not made by the hebes --
them people make it like a sucker punch
christians make sure there is no
 bitch slap
of dem bubbles
here-- there are 
no troubles...
She is long, lean and green
a tall glass of water
a regular queen
hey!
you know
what I mean?

Co-President of the New England Poetry Club

Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene   http://dougholder.blogspot.com
Ibbetson Street Press  http://www.ibbetsonpress.com
Poet to Poet/Writer to Writer  http://www.poettopoetwritertowriter.blogspot.com

Doug Holder CV http://www.dougholderresume.blogspot.com

Doug Holder's Columns in The Somerville Times

https://www.thesomervilletimes.com/?s=%22Doug+Holder%22&x=0&y=0
Doug Holder's collection at the Internet Archive   https://archive.org/details/@dougholder


Poetry from Emina Delilovic-Kevric

Light skinned woman with long blonde hair and a sweater with green, blue, and black pattern sitting and reading outside in the snow.
Emina Delilovic-Kevric
House

I painted the house white this morning
Into a silky fluttering vision of life
Joyful, with giant hands
I leave pieces of white
Where did all the living birds from my home go?
Maybe into black grass with flashes of futility
Where will the spirits of life fly that have no name?
They make me love to hug you invisible,
But present, in the dark night
Who longs forever to stay scared?

Emina Đelilović-Kevrić (Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina) After studying the b/h/s (bosnian/croatian/serbian) language and literature at the Philoshopical Faculty in Zenica she got her master's degree on the subject „Memory construction in the South Slavic interlinear community: typical models of the war camp experience in literature“. She is the author of the poetry collection „ This time without history“ and the short stories collection „ Erased lives“. Her collection of poems „ My son and I“ is awarded by the Publishing Foundation of Bosnia and Herzegovina in 2021. In 2022 she won the second place in the international literature competition „ Isnam Taljić“. She is the winner of the second award for the best short story of the regional literature competition „Zija Dizdarević“ 2022, and she won the first place on international literature competition „Nastavi priču“. 2023. she won a third place on international poetry competition „Ossi di Seppia“ Italy.


Short story from Muhammed Aamir

# Invader In The Woods

The diner illuminated to neon lights effect, in pitch black night with tiny strobes of stars twinkling. Isolated with pine trees at a stretch of distance, that led into the woods.

The stranger sat next to the window, remained ominously quiet. His hands together, underneath the table. Fidgeting. His breath unsettled. His eyes disturbed. A hint of dark melancholic flashed intermittently as he glanced towards his hands. His thoughts seemed bloated by weight.

The younger waitress working at the diner, approached him with a warm smile. Her dark eyes, twinkled with gentleness and welcoming.

Before any word left her lips, she sensed an unease of air surrounded the man in a breath.

That gentleness in her eyes dissipated to concern and curiosity.

Her eyes, registered irregular breathing. His disturbed eyes troubled her the most as he slowly set his eyes on her and stared. He knew who she was, and couldn’t come to forget her face.

“I raped you back in high school…” He whispered, as his eyes lowered with remorse.

She inhaled. Making sense of the words that left his mouth. Her eyes shifted with dreadful realisation. Her brows twitched, her mouth opened little. She couldn’t bring to her mind his face, if ever she had met him before. But the fact that she had been raped when she was a teenager, conjured up.

She leaned a little closer, that is when she glanced towards his fidgeting hands, hidden away underneath the table.

She noticed something, the sight of which caused her eyes to dilate. Widened with surprise. She drew away only slightly. And then her body was as if hponotised by temporary paralysis. The shock of it kept her feet glued to the ground.

She held her breath as the stranger pulled out the object fidgeting in his hands and aimed it at her, without setting his eyes on her. Her eyes grew teary with glint.

His finger still deciding as it intermittently rested and removed off the trigger of a revolver.

His hands were trembling.

If any sudden sound expect silence interrupted him now, he’d act by panic and pull the trigger, from reflex.

The old man, who owned the diner, turned and noticed the waitress remain stood. Suspicion flashed in his eyes. She turned her head slightly to her right, her eye rolled as she registered the old man. He noticed her dark eyes shone with glint.

Then his eyes lowered slowly and set at the startling sight of the revolver.

Her eyes returned to the man pointing the revolver at her.

The old man’s hand tried to reach for his shotgun, but watched as the stranger’s finger rested over the trigger, slowly leaned back. The stranger turned towards him and throw a hostile stare, brows arched intimidatingly, as if sensed this intention.

The old man returned his hand away from the shotgun.

Raised his hands in surrender.

Any further attempt would most likely jeopardise the young girl’s life. And yet, his emotions underneath the surface of his skin, bristled with tension. His breath gradually grew unsettled. He couldn’t simply watch helplessly if something terrifying happened in front of his eyes.

The old man tried to reason by psychological means for the stranger to question his actions.

“She’s done no wrong to anyone…” His voice quivered as he spoke slowly for the words to settle in.

“She testified…” The stranger whispered, without setting his eyes at the old man.

The old man’s brows twitched.

Curiosity, trepidation and disbelief flashed in his wide eyes.

Before he could investigate, interrogate what the stranger meant by this, his eyes shifted and setted onto the waitress.

She raised her trembling hand at him.

Indirectly, signaled for him to speak no more. Then returned her hand by her side. Whether she cried or pleaded, a look of fatalism, darkened her glinting eyes.

The sight of her teary eyes left the old man’s heart heavy.

His stomach churned.

Even if he tried to reach for his shotgun or approach the stranger, anything could happen in a split second. The consequences of either which, would be irreplaceably catastrophic.

In the occurrence of a near-death experience, claimed that your life flashed before your eyes, the image of her mother flashed in the waitress’s mind. Her eyes grew to a brim, blinking in denial, struggling to comprehend her current position it still seemed.

Awkward silence filled the spaces between the distance that separated them.

Anxiety lingered in the air.

A tear trickled down her cheek, and with her trembling hand, she wiped it away. Her throat had grown excruciatingly heavy.

The stranger blinked with both eyes. As if awoken from hypnosis, a mental cloud of haze had cleared.

His brows knitted together as his eyes slowly settled at the revolver. Questioning it’s presence.

He registered that the intention to stretch out his gun and take aim at the waitress, wasn’t actually his own.

His eyes flashed a state of confusion as they climbed up like taking steps on a ladder, acknowledging the waitress stood with temporarily paralysis in front of the pointed end of the revolver.

His pupils widened with some sense of sudden realisation.

Absorbing her presence and her current state of emotion.

His confused eyes leveled with hers.

Her twinkling eyes made contact with his, and she sensed something had changed in an instant. Unpredictably. Even the old man sensed this too but any sudden actions especially at his standing distance, seemed futile.

But the revolver continued to point at her.

The stranger returned his troubled eyes back at the gun, he intended to remove it away from her now.

But his hand began to tremble. Refusing to obey his true intention.

Perspiration released through the surface of his skin made his grip around the revolver wet.

His face bristled with tension as he tried harder, but something had invaded his hand that held the revolver. He could feel it as it had grown stiff like a rock.

Numb and cold.

With a magnetic-like pull.

The waitress’s brows arched and her lips parted with curiosity. She studied his bristled face, and registered a startling response that evidently separated his intentions from his actions.

They seemed to not coordinate as one.

He slapped his palm against the glass next to him, fingers spaced out, as he tried to brace himself. Trepidation traveled through his body like a pandemic.

His finger over the trigger remained jammed yet continued to push back towards him.

As he predicted with his eyes that the probability that he would pull the trigger, without his consent, he swiftly swiped the revolver at the glass with such extreme effort.

The revolver went off.

The waitress jumped at the explosive, deafening sound of it.

An instant pang of panic shot through the old man, as he blinked flinchingly.

The only bullet that sat in the chamber.

The stranger quickly dropped the revolver onto the table in front, away from him. He had managed to save her life, miraculously.

But the bullet which had discharged, hasn’t pierced through the glass.

It seemed to touch against the glass but remained suspended in thin air, like some kind of a magic trick.

Mind control mojo.

The waitress and the old man had carefully registered the bullet afloat like a space satellite, as their eyes had shifted away from the stranger, and were set onto this surreal moment.

The stranger stared unflinchingly as the bullet stopped levitating and dropped away.

He diverted away from the bullet, and refocused his attention onto the surface of the glass, checking for even a subtle splinter.

Not even the tiniest of scratch was found.

But his eyes widened with alert as he noticed something present pass the glass, outside a stretch of distance. Stood outside further into the woods, near the pine trees, as a lamppost illuminated with fluorescence like the organs of a butterfly over this figure, only for it to grow dim.

The stranger jumped back with jolt, as his heart jumped with pang of fright.

The waitress’s lips parted with dread.

The old man’s dreadful eyes widened to a bulge.

The invader stood with a human-like shell but an entity with such supernaturally intimidating presence. You couldn’t make out its tenebrous face, lips, eyes and nose, except it’s head seemed similar to a beehive. The startlingly frightening sight of a cluster of bees flew around its head like orbiting satellites, attracted to it like a honeycomb.

But it—the invader—seemed to be watching them. It’s head pointed at there direction.

The humming sounds that the bees made, which at such distance would fall mute, now were heard with such sinisterly unsettling undertones. As if it came from within the diner.

As they watched incredulously with trepidation, two strobes of yellow light beamed onto the invader’s face, as if these were it’s eyes.

These strobes of light began to whirl like a flashing beacon.

Dilating and undilating as a set of pupils. Communicating, telepathically. 

Poetry from Duane Vorhees

KARMA, KISMET, PROVIDENCE


To insure the Kismet effect

casino fixers

load the dice and mark the cards:

They rig the game,

annihilate free will.


To achieve a Karma asset,

cosmic accountants

balance debits and credits

of moral worth,

a result called justice.


Gamblers evoke Providence,

invoking mercy

to cancel consequences

that casinos

and accountants require.


But statisticians exclude

Providence, Kismet,

Karma, and all free will too,

Their random world’s

an impersonal one.


THE TREASON OF THE ROSE


A rose is for pleasure

and not for tears, Sir.


No, Bud is not like a rose

though his hair is fiery red

and though his smell pleased my nose.

But he bore no thorns in rows

--a single, fatal, prick instead.


I know now rose’s treason.

Contrasting plant with leaving,

I chose my rose, believing

it would last the season.


So, no, a rose Bud is not.

A rose will stay in its place

or share a family pot,

but Bud forfeited his lot

and left me to deal with the blaze.


A rose is for pleasure

and not for tears, Sir.


THE WHEELS OF JUSTICE


The honorable judge,

a-robed like a hedgehog,

was squatted at the bench

like an endowed lodger.

And that machine of law

read out loud

the preprogrammed sentence

to the court’s turned-on crowd

and the robot condemned,

heads dependably bowed.

The automated guard

led him out.

Next trial was clockwork

as the line moved foreward

till production halted.

Wind-up judge came unplugged,

hedgehog needed a nudge

when it slept.


THE NEW MONTESQUIEU


The factions sort themselves

into the left, right, and centrist

via birthright, and interest,

and contents of bookshelves.


Politicos maintain

the stability of chaos

through civility and payoffs

to competing claimants.


DO THAT HORIZON DANCE


An intimate selfish sharing

of a present timeless instant

of transcendent fluidity.

Your brain and your breath are the key

to its rhythm and symmetry.

You rest and then again embrace

Horizon Dance!


Inanimate, Self-less, shearing,

the present, an endless instant

of transcendent solidity.

Your brain and breathing are the key.

Imprisoned impassivity

unmoves that everlasting last

Horizon Dance.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

Middle aged white man with a beard standing in a bedroom with posters on the walls
J.J. Campbell

the desire to even play the game
 

i'm failing at modern life

 

each day i step outside

of the house

 

the clothes, the language,

the gadgets, the desire

to even play the game

at all

 

it's all fucking foreign

to me

 

it's not even being a

stranger in a strange

land

 

it's like my body got

stuck on a planet without

my permission

 

and it's way too late to

do anything about it
------------------------------------------------------------------
hands on his hips
 

watching this old

guy struggle on

purpose so the

young, beautiful

physical therapist

has to help him

 

she has her hands

on his hips

 

and you can

probably imagine

the smile on the

old man's face
--------------------------------------------------------------
standing out in the rain
 

wet feet standing

out in the rain

 

apparently, these

waterproof shoes

are just name only

 

much like most

humans

 

they come up a

little short when

you need them

the most
--------------------------------------------------------------
enough is enough
 

the temptation of

oncoming traffic

 

had a buddy decide

this was the best way

to go, especially after

his wife of over twenty

years said enough was

enough

 

i'm not stuck in one

of those situations,

yet there have been

plenty of times i felt

like i was being

strangled by reality

 

sometimes you have

to get high enough

to create your own

fucking reality

 

now, when that one

fucking sucks your

options are pretty

clear for you

 

prolong or escape...
-----------------------------------------------------------
that inevitable never fucking ending hill
 

wisdom isn't a given

it has to be earned

 

tell that to these

spoon-fed fuckers

that want to run

the world

 

it is an endless

parade of clowns

that only want

what is best for

the given few

 

the masses are

just supposed to

die while climbing

that inevitable never

fucking ending hill

 

imagine true equality

 

the land of the free

 

and all that other pie

in the sky bullshit that

the supreme court will

eventually strike down

as it doesn't do enough

for the only people they

want to serve

 

rich white people

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Disturb the Universe Magazine and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

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