sleeping rough on his lips salty taste... dewdrops dusk chorus-- peeking through neighbor's fence setting sun hospital visit on her meal menu "Happy Birthday" sleep walking... in the microwave her mobile phone
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Eddie Heaton
my health matters too down in the hard black earth before the shadow-gifted body- shaming shrieks with future rank refused among the fresh night blossoms on a cork-popped psyche stashed by means you guessed were taken back on board you eat what’s yours and listen for today is just the ticket for a hunt through city streets you seem to recollect a flock of bats you made some conversation with the sith you welcomed sharp incursions of the mob her mouth’s the thing you seemed to say was viscous there was flowing under glass was then bizarre in vain so let his head fall back on bones and set aside more surface bursts the searching worse the land was hot she nursed him to his smooth and privileged form then edged his syncopated back a corpulent in ball and chains they wrapped him up in veneration and in pink to table and to then compare with all the fuck- ups on our screens a teenage fantasy for sale a part of that a piece of his the warmth and then the getting-good it’s morning if it’s bright enough the house anxieties that led to fill the plague graves early on are like a growing list of foods their scatterings were surely doomed and sometimes tampered with in sheds we spoke lovingly of roe deliverance through a glancing-off of riddles in one untidy corner of the mind delusions widely disapproved of as yet others are reluctant to placate themselves at all and almost perish with their pleadings and denial and you might even get tugged off when once the tired poetry arrives with stomach botch the wilder sort and if there is a god or not you stumble through your stratagems hallucinating forest fires and now she’s troubled by her arms again and only so much scribbling through the pain can halt this placid streak if that’s allowed to gift you motivation but it’s not like that at all it’s milk two sugars then the mescaline arrives and long-term prisoners are forced to stream some aspects of that vicious night with pushing motions of their blood-stained hands while pools of septic effluence gush out from washed-up dreams so short on fatherly affection yet again but this time on the railway banks or rolling down the river tyne with bark from ripped-up holy trees while glancing round at comic-book type treatments line by line or understanding great cathedrals in the season of the wight the un- remembered and the meaningless shape up the artist in you rides the london eye partly political keep them squaddies on their metal by the by no longer visible like beasts persuaded through your efforts down against the rusted factory gates while dipping bending showing all the glowing stacks of burnt remains of shamed officials on bell-bottom nights without the magic mountain camp with boots that shine like bathroom taps or crawled neck residue that thrashed was where it started then was torn the thing that’s feared the most was taken from a point on stolen braille maps by the river’s scent a three-lane highway out of nowhere on a mountain bike or steaming thick and creamy cabbage by the light above a patch on posh boy’s vast inherited estates that’s got to be extruded from a space that’s partly labelled by the past and having spent the morning playing human chess in tunnels or a maze it crawls a london boy by chance unorthodox supplies a big old grub to catch the only interspecies still at large perhaps the bloodied swimming pool has given up its secret to those corresponding principles at last and with an excess of its like to read a telepathic slow-descending self-erasing spine and side-lined masks a crudely nauseating metronomic tick within its zone beyond the pale with wish- fulfillment at its core while washing out the tupperware in fits who knows where morning is before the shrivels week by week still hating thatcher as they weed their beds those nervous tits have been out there in charge of landscape-format glass-based art events an installation of suspended things that much was visible along the curved beak’s nesting lost in limbo and was long-suspected by his friends of putting tories in the ground without permission be widespread he states the high mind's ornament deserves the block and matter of the hours it is suggested that the bold take notes on unscratched holograms with common praise in some hard past was smoking rocks and shooting up on city streets with skipping ropes and spinning plates while those of us who did refuse still wonder when and why our hormone levels peaked
Eddie Heaton studied innovative and experimental poetry under the tutelage of post-modern poet and educator Keith Jebb, achieving a first-class honours degree. He also won the 2021 Carcanet Award for Creative Writing. His work has been published in Blackbox Manifold, Otoliths, Lothlorien, Focus and Fold Editions
Twitter: @edwardHeaton9
Poetry from Sunil Saroa
Clowns. All of my life, I have lived among stones. These stones are not everywhere. For me, They are people around me In the shape of stones. They can’t be understood, Perhaps I don’t want to! Or I’m addicted to this life. May be I’m colour blind; I can’t see reality Of being human Among stones. It’s a difficult journey To find a cure. Difficult to find love. I have to ask myself, “Is there hope?” I believe there is—but where is it? Is it among clowns?
Sunil Saroa is a short-story writer, a poet, and an essayist from Panjab, India. His works have been published by Livewire.in. and Tell Me Your Story.biz. Currently, he’s a fiction and poetry reader for Longleaf Review, Florida, USA. He likes to read all the time and write his works while sitting on a balcony early in the morning.His name on official documents is Sunil Kumar.
Poetry from William Hartwick
Why Me? I have Tourette’s syndrome and bipolar disorder yes blessed with them both And once I was even arrested under oath One is neurological no one can explain The other is caused by the unnecessary pain Normal basic an average are words of dismay I’m here to share with you there is another way No need to judge another for how they make you feel Take a look in the mirror and see what is real Love is truly the answer thank you God above Even Sigmund Freud said hard work and love As we open up our backpacks and take one thing out You can always put it back in if you have a doubt Life is not easy no manual given at birth Yet 8 billion humans exist together on earth There is no one like you nor anyone like me Put one foot in front of the other and soon you shall see That God above has never let us down It’s time to hold hands again my friends in each and every town Trauma It happened at birth a coma for me, for others I'm not sure The fact of the matter is, there is no cure It comes in many avenues, from physical to the mind There is no defining it, no particular kind Some have it for a lifetime, some right away If we don't deal with, forever it will stay Exposure to so many has really made me ache Accepting my own trauma has really made me wake The pain is deeper than I ever thought it could be As I open my heart to others they can clearly see How much I am hurting over this recent tragic loss Not only losing my wife but dealing with a horrible boss What I am realizing is that I am not alone Coming together with complete strangers and seeing how they have grown Gives me inspiration way beyond belief Never did I imagine there could be so much relief I thought I was alone suffering this awful pain Thinking I was crazy, literally going insane Listening to their stories as they share their lives with me Has surely made me realize that I can plainly see That trauma is a creature that comes in many ways I am thankful for this experience and cherish all my days As I wake each morning wondering what the day will bring And listen to birds outside my window sing I can't help but think and hope that each day brings a smile To everyone's lives that's here on earth for only a little while I pray to God each night as I lay my head down to rest That ALL our trauma lives will turn out for the best My trauma is forever, but my heart is now stronger For human bond and love of life will last even longer Tourette's and Bipolar Disorder, Yes, Both Hey, Darin and Marcy, I finally found out I have Tourette's, holy shit! "You can have them all little sons of bitches and get away with it!" In Tau Kappa Epsilon, my fraternal name was "Twitch." A term of endearment, a nickname I will never ditch Living thirty-five years of my life, always wondering why I would go from complete laughter to a sudden tearful cry Teased my entire childhood mainly by those we "trust" Adults were the worst of all; high school was a fucking bust Called a son of a bitch by Dale Thomas and literally kicked out of class And Jeff Nynehouse, "I can't handle you on the bus," what a fucking ass My label given to me has long been misled Even those who have this "gift" have been misled Medication was prescribed; what a fiasco that became It is not okay for medical professionals to cause "US" to go insane The only neurological disorder known to those prescribing drugs Sorry, Dr. Narus, LOVE is the answer; please start prescribing "hugs" "I want some of what you're on, can I have some SHIT?" "I have Tourette's, you want some of IT?" My final straw came when I was arrested and thrown in jail "DUI other than alcohol," just try and make bail Before you judge those of us who suffer from this pain Think to yourself, "What do I have to gain?" We all have a disability; just take a look in the mirror "Can I walk on water?" or do I just have a fear? How to accept others, no matter the twitch, the glasses, or the creed Thank God for those who can understand why I choose to smoke weed It is the only true relief I have ever had other than LOVE "Footprints in the Sand," my friends; thank you, God above So often people walk away or simply want to ignore Maybe Tourette's will go away, we won't have to deal with "THEM" anymore To all of you that have this "gift," the one that makes me, ME Don't ever let them put you in the "box," live and be free I am proud of my life each and every day Of course, there are times I think, make IT go away" So when you are passing judgment or "choosing" to discriminate You are one of "THEM," you are causing the HATE!
This poem is from William Hartwick’s book The Invisible Backpack. which is available for order.
The Invisible Backpack is a labor of love created from a life-long struggle to come to terms with who the author is and accept himself as he was meant to be. We are all born with an invisible backpack on our backs. It is where we put all the hurts of life. When we are young and courageously climbing the stairs of life, it is extremely light, and we really don’t know it’s there. As we get older, it gets heavier with whatever pain, grief, or trauma we experience. Unfortunately, we resist taking these feelings out of our backpacks and let go of them. Some of us hold onto them so tightly, we forget to make room for the things that lighten our load…forgiveness, acceptance, tolerance, and love. For if we can put these items in our backpacks, it will cancel out all of the negative things we’ve been holding onto, and our life journeys will become much lighter.
Christopher Bernard reviews the Kronos Quartet at Zellerbach Hall
The Ghosts of Space and Time
Kronos Quartet and Wu Man (pipa)
Zellerbach Hall
Berkeley
After a winter of bomb cyclones and atmospheric rivers, the Kronos Quartet – the legendary San Francisco ensemble that reinvented the string quartet for our time – gave one of its most satisfying concerts in memory on a blissfully rainless first of April at Zellerbach Hall in Berkeley as part of Cal Performances. April Fool’s Day and the feast of Hilaria were soon forgotten in a concert that sent at least one person in the audience home wrapped in the mystery of other times and places.
It’s only fair to say that not all of the quartet’s many and various experiments in making the string quartet “relevant” come off. And sometimes my faith in new music has been tested. But tonight there were fewer distractions than revelations, all of the latter involving, and often led by, the quartet’s collaborator, Wu Man, a winsome, deeply gifted musician who makes difficulty seem as easy as dreaming.
Wu Man, it’s fair, if paradoxical, to say, is the world’s most renowned performer on an instrument almost nobody knows – the pipa. This lute-like instrument from China, with a long, thick neck and a pear-shaped belly, has a history going back two millennia. Both strummed and plucked, it added delicious bite and spice to the woody rosin and catgut of the western strings. Two of the concert’s revelations were composed Wu Man, working with American composer Danny Clay to transpose her musical inspirations into legible scores.
Glimpses of Muquam Chebiyat is adapted from the traditional Uyghur Muqam Chebiyat, which Wu Man discovered through the musicians Sanubar Tursun and Abdullah Majnun, members of this persecuted minority in China.
Awareness of the oppression of the Uyghur population makes the music even more poignant, but the political dimension is by no means needed to focus one’s attention. A soft and intensely lyrical melody, played with profound sensitivity by the quartet’s remarkable violist Hank Dutt, sets the tone for the first half of the piece and is passed and varied delicately between the five instruments. The second half is a dance, curiously in the classic western three-quarter’s meter, charged with the sharp plucking of the gleeful pipa.
Wu Man’s second piece was titled Two Chinese Paintings. The first short movement, called “Ancient Echo,” is graced with delicate arpeggios based on a pipa scale from ninth century China. The second is a variation of “Joy Song” (Huanlege) from a classic collection called “Silk and Bamboo” – a clattering, happy piece that, making few concessions to western scales and harmonies, drew out the most compelling, and totally unpredictable, joys.
The concert’s greatest revelation was saved for the second half, though perhaps I shouldn’t call it a revelation for myself, because I first heard it, with the same instrumentalists, many years ago in San Francisco, in a concert about which I now can say definitively that I will never forget it. And yet, seeing and hearing it again was, if anything, a new revelation – of the ghosts of time and space, which seemed almost to vanish as I felt as though I were reliving the remarkable experience I had then.
The piece was one of the earliest works presented to American audiences by a composer who has become, if not a household name, at least a name to conjure with in contemporary music: Tan Dun, winner of too many awards to mention, and a leading conductor as well as composer. For me, Ghost Opera is one of the unquestionable masterpieces of contemporary music – a work of profoundly satisfying audacity.
The work is fully, yet economically, produced, on a stage that is almost completely dark, for string quartet, pipa, water, stones, paper (including a long swooping drape-like scroll, brightly lit, like the broken piece of a Chinese ideogram), metallic instruments including Chinese cymbals, watergongs, and a large pendent gong, and Chinse vocalizations from the instrumentalists, like wailing cries of the dead, the living, and the unborn.
There is no story as such, except for a set of variations, begun on David Harrington’s haunting violin, of a melody from Bach that is rendered both malleable and ghostlike as it winds through a gamut of transformations based on both western and Chinese scales, harmonies, and rhythms as it passes from player to player.
The stage is, as mentioned, almost entirely dark throughout, with pools of light above large glass bowls of water, where the water is performed in rituals of the cleansing of hands, and elsewhere lighting individual players, later in groups, then returning to individuals as they disperse and disband back into darkness and silence, “under the rule of Heaven.”
A tall narrow, translucent scrim stands in front of a riser, where, first, the cellist (a fine Paul Wiancko) is shown in dramatic shadow cast by a brilliant light at the back of the stage, and, later, where Wu Man stands, like a ghost just visible as she performs, sometimes responding to, sometimes leading, the more-earthbound quartet.
There is much imaginative use of space both onstage and off – for instance, in the first of the five seamless movements, the violist performs in the audience in response to solo violinist and pipa player at different corners of the stage like distant stars in a moonless night.
Tan Dun has stated that his inspiration for the piece was the “ghost operas” of China, a 4,000-year-old tradition in which the living, the dead and the unborn speak to each other across the boundaries of time and space.
The result was, again, an experience, both dramatic and musical, of unique intensity and beauty and of a profundity that lies at the far end of words – though Tan Dun uses, along with Bach’s music, the words of Shakespeare (famous lines from The Tempest: “We are such stuff / As dreams are made on. . . .”) – words that seemed almost unnecessarily specific, as the work as a whole both expresses them and contests them: if those works speak true, not even a ghost will survive – and yet we have just seen their power.
The concert began with a rousing work by the inventor of minimalism in music, Terry Riley: the first movement of The Cusp of Magic, where David Harrington plays a peyote rattle and second violinist John Sherpa plays pedal bass drum while grinding grandly away at his fiddle, and Wu Man keeps everyone sharp with her pipa. The piece was performed against a background of electronic music and sound sampling compiled by David Dvorin.
The first half of the program ended with the one piece in which Wu Man did not perform: Steve Reich’s Different Trains, a piece I felt overstayed its welcome and has not aged well, though the original concept was of interest.
The enthusiastic audience was provided a delightful encore after Tan Dun’s transcendent achievement: an arrangement for the evening’s ad-hoc quintet of Rahul Dev Burman’s Mehbooba Mehbooba (Beloved, O Beloved).
The audience left for home with the strange but striking sense of being deeply moved – and yet feeling very merry indeed.
_____
Christopher Bernard is a co-editor and founder of Caveat Lector. He is also a novelist, poet and critic as well as essayist. His books include the novels A Spy in the Ruins, Voyage to a Phantom City, and Meditations on Love and Catastrophe at The Liars’ Café, and the poetry collections Chien Lunatique, The Rose Shipwreck, and the award-winning The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, as well as collections of short fiction In the American Night and Dangerous Stories for Boys.
Poetry from Mahbub Alam
The World's Agencies The world is divided into different agencies In these areas there happen so many incidents, accidents Planned or unplanned The cat's-paw tinges bloodying with the sharp nails The staffers think staring ----- How the role-play of a cinema's villain! I am the sufferer who is snatched away Threatening with the arms all the way And the passers-by only watch Having nothing to say nor a step for protection We are living in such an unsafe zone We are here, where we think over --------! Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 14 March, 2023 The Sea Cafe Hello, let's have our snacks altogether The unknown has invited us Let's shook hands and enjoy the coffee break Now the time is to rise in the midst of the sun and the moon We have already reached our long pathway goal to our journey Holding tight the hands not to leave each other Live together, walk together, work together and sleep together Forgotten! Let's make a dancing stage --- We all get lost among ourselves in the world of forgetfulness- The Sea Cafe. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 17 March, 2023
Synch Chaos April 2023: Wandering the Wilderness of the Soul
First of all, we invite all of you to come out to our next literary gathering, the second annual Lit Hop in Hayward, CA.
All are welcome to attend this multi-venue literary event on Saturday April 22nd, starting at 2pm in Heritage Plaza across from the library. As it’s also Earth Day, we will begin with a group of poet laureates from the East Bay giving environmentally themed readings and then move to a selection of different downtown venues before re-congregating for the afterparty at the Sun Gallery. Several Synchronized Chaos contributors will read from their work.
This month, Synchronized Chaos’ contributing writers and artists map the inner journeys many of us embark on as creators or simply as human beings.
Christopher Bernard reviews William Kentridge’s Sibyl at UC Berkeley’s Zellerbach Hall, a production evoking humanity’s continual search for answers we may never find. Jaylan Salah interviews Jim Frohna about Apple TV’s show Shrinking, which confronts mental illness in a unique way by showing a character’s search for truth and his life’s purpose. Maja Milojkovic renders internal journeys between people and within oneself through esoteric and painterly metaphors. Graciela Noemi Villaverde expresses the inner passion and turmoil of someone in the depths of romantic attraction through her dreamscape poetry.
Robiul Awal Esa celebrates his country of Bangladesh by reflecting on its founder’s creative work of statecraft. Wazed Abdullah also honors his Bangladeshi homeland by singing of its natural and human history.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal reflects on where our minds wander when we stare out our windows. Jerome Berglund observes everyday objects – scoreboards, prickly pear cacti, chia planters – in ways that are unique and uncanny. Noah Berlatsky finds enlightenment in a single moment: a computer chatting from an algorithm with no biological past, a tiny house with no room for hoarded objects from the past, a sailing ship, and a spiritual meditation on the present moment.
Barbara Gaiardoni superimposes words onto closeups of plants to encourage people to think and contemplate our place within nature.
Philip Butera writes of his creative process, search for inspiration, and the loneliness of art-making. Scott Thomas Outlar’s poems also explore psychological questing, artistic creation, and his soul’s evolution. Jerry Durick writes of individual identity from three different perspectives. Ivan Jenson alludes with humor to how intimately intertwined technology has become to the processes of finding and creating ourselves.
Stephen Jarrell Williams sends up a post-apocalyptic fantasy sequence about holding onto one’s truth and identity in hopes of recreating a better world. Roodly Laurore speaks to finding hope in the midst of desolation and violence in Haiti.
David Woodward evokes through surrealist poetry the history of broken treaties and legal stratagems used to remove Indigenous people from their lands. Clive Gresswell peers into the underbelly of modern British society, unearthing poverty and decay. Faroq Faisal laments human greed and environmental destruction. Michael Ceraolo satirizes power relations of all sorts, political and professional.
Chimezie Ihekuna’s song lyrics relate how he remains open to the possible need to question everything he’s been taught. Henry Bladon’s humor probes the meaning of life and death and explores the limits of nihilism.
Nilufar Ruxillayeva reflects on how the path to happiness can be different for each person.
Mehreen Ahmed reminds us that our bodies and psyches need recharging as much as our devices. Mahbub Alam finds renewal through peaceful retreats to nature, imagining himself loved and encouraged within his sacred space. Don Bormon wishes he could bring happiness to the world like the sun as it returns at the end of winter.
Some people’s work looks into how we grow as we pass through different stages of life and common experiences.
Richard Simac’s story of male self-discovery and bonding during puberty echoes with references to the garden of Eden and the maturation of humanity.
Shelby Stephenson reviews Stephen E. Smith’s poetry collection Beguiled by the Frailties of those Who Precede Us, a book of poems addressing family relationships and the pain caused by prejudice and racism. Z.I. Mahmud examines Alexander Pope’s famous poem that satirizes his society’s expectations for high-class women.
Duane Vorhees speaks of physical and cultural evolution, how we are all inevitably shaped by our pasts. J.J. Campbell shares how he relives memories for comfort and excitement amid the slow passage of present-day time. Norman J. Olson, in a letter to a friend of his on the occasion of the passing of poet Steven Richmond, reflects on what it means to have had a lifetime of literary success.
John Grochalski illustrates the world-weariness of a returning traveler and points out how many people share that feeling looking at today’s American society.
Linda Gunther captures place and time while recollecting a high school romance, tied to her past while tiptoeing into adulthood.
Abigail George’s essay probes the journey of heartbreak, compounded by the sense that her past partner viewed their whole relationship as a mistake. We see how grief elongates time and heightens perceptions as the narrator processes strong emotions and seeks to reclaim herself, drawing on literature and history as touchstones.
Chris Butler explores another type of heartbreak in a different way, through a horror tale of a mother and daughter’s doomed search for connection. Az Emina Krehic writes of the slow fade of memories of a departed person, another source of grief.
Other contributors illumine care, connection and compassion for others as a pathway towards spiritual growth, how relating to others changes us.
Taylor Dibbert’s speaker devotes himself to care for a sick dog, while Mesfakus Salahin illuminates the gentle renewing power of love, and John Culp finds peace in the natural rhythm of a long-term relationship.
Cheryl Snell crafts moments of tenderness between fragile, mortal humans, as Ann Christine Tabaka celebrates love shining through a dark wilderness of broken souls and bodies.
Finally, some art and writing turns outside the human psyche to explore the world.
Russell Streur chronicles haiku poetry’s 1950’s cultural moment in the United States while questioning whether anyone could truly create authentic haiku in languages other than the traditional Japanese.
Mark Young’s poems consist of sentences that make sense individually and fit together structurally, if not content-wise. Michael Barbeito’s photographs are lush, complex renderings of scenes with several layers of detail. Maurizio Brancaleoni’s drawings focus on line, shape, shading and color.
Channie Greenberg’s natural and artistic representations of birds illustrate how beauty can be found in both nature and in human-crafted artwork. In the same way, Daniel De Culla juxtaposes images of dogs and statues, clowns and Santa Claus, the real and the crafted.
This issue encompasses a variety of human thoughts, quests, and journeys, and we hope it inspires you to ask and seek answers to your own questions.