Get Out of the Water Jellyfish float like lungs in the sea and lungs float like jellyfish in a different sea. Everything is breathing with life and ick. That is the kind of pantheism we are talking about. Every beach is on the edge of another beach and you can walk there on the jellyfish. They pulse with the transparency of borders. Our lungs yearn to mate and evolve in the jellylike sea. We will never stop evolving. The jellyfish are going to kick your ass, God with their universal love that stings.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Slava Konoval
By order of the commissar The war with Russia has been going on for almost 10 years, there are battles big and small the land suffers from raids, the hands of bloody deeds – those cursed Muscovites. The Ukrainians fight for their land, their serving in an army style, on the graves flags and various flowers, nothing will awaken patriotism in the gray mass. War as a sacred duty, everyone will pick up a machine gun, once by order of the commissioner the Military Commissariat will call all to the front. Lightning courted Grom Faded, tarnished, blackened, where the sun parted from the sky thunderstruck and it brightened, and the wind follows the steppe. Demonstrating the power of muscles Thunder, he noticed the female gender, hit the neighbor's house, the owner goes to patch the antenna. Blue-haired Lightning laughs, attract’s Thunder by eyes, Grom’s heart is beating wildly kisses are not wasted in a coma. Thunder approaches the Lightning, he doesn't know how to start a conversation he doubts his strength, love is life, and words are half of it. Taking the king forward with his feet Taking the king forward with his feet the boyars wanted to do this the last time, military headquarters in Rostov met with the first ray. Among the rebels, in Panama hat the Bald Leader drags his feet, collection of prison customs he has a reliable rear. The Bald called after him and to the weapons, looters, prisoners, murderers, thousands of rapists, folk bloodsuckers. Columns of criminality army were went to Voronezh Roshvardiski's defense units crushed and demolished. The Wagnerites shot down 8 birds on the road, set fire to the oil depot and trucks, Prigozhin longs for Moscow, using the weapon of the Ptura’s air systems. The «descendant of Pugachev» was walking, taking the capital Moscow, he lacked courage, the Leader of the rebels should tell the truth to himself and to people
Vyacheslav Konoval is a Ukrainian poet whose work is devoted to the most pressing social problems of our time, such as poverty, ecology, relations between the people and the government, and war.
His poems have appeared in many magazines, including Anarchy Anthology Archive, International Poetry Anthology, Literary Waves Publishing, Sparks of Kaliopa, Reach of the Song 2022, Diogenes for Culture Journal, «Scars of my heart from the war», «Poetry for Ukraine», «Rhyming», «La page Blanche», «Impacted», «Military Review», «The Lit», «Allegro», «Innisfree poetry journal», «Antunes Galaxy Poetry», «Ekscentrika», «Mere Inkling», «EgoPhobia», «Fulcrum», «Omnibus», «Lothlorien Poetry Journal», Revista Literaria «Taller Igitur», «Tarot Poetry Journal», «Tiny Seed Literature Journal», «Best American Poetry Blog», «Quilled Ink Review», «Chronograph Poetry Journal», the Appalachian Journal «Dark Horse», «Agape», «Mascara Literary Review», «Gray Sparrow», «ArLJo», «Ekstasis», «The Bloom Litarery Journal», «Novus Litarery Journal», «Lyrical Somerville», «Charleston Poets», «Briefly Zine», «Varied Spirit», «Taos Poetry Journal», «The Skinny Poetry Journal», «Academy of the Heart and Mind» Journal, «ARIEL CHART» International Literary Journal, «Poesia Ultracontemporanea», «New Ulster 124», «Revista Cronopio», «Gotic Nature», «WordCityLit», «TSaunders Pubs», «London Grip New Poetry», «Mill Valley Literary Review», «Zeitglass», «The Coin», «Coal Literary Journal», Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal.
Vyacheslav’s poems were translated into Spanish, French, Scottish, Italian, and Polish languages.
His poems also have been read at meetings of various poetry groups, including Newman Poetry Group, Never Talk Innocence, Voicing Art Poetry Reading for Ukraine, Worcester County Poetry, Brussels Writer’s Circle, and Poets Anonymous May Middle-Met, Brett Show by Andrea, the Manx Bard group, Allinghman Art Festival, Versopolis Poetry Expo 2023, poetry readings «Poetry of Struggle and Solidarity», «Poetic Voices», Coal Literary Journal’s Eve, presentation at Albert van Abbehuis Fling.
Vyacheslav’s poems were presented at War Art Project.
He is a member of the Federation of Scottish Writers.
Poetry from Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa
Upon My Journey
Let not my silent steps resonate
With the sounds that strikes make
Upon the huge cold metal bell
That mourns the loneliness of hell
Let not crisp paper bills abound
In red envelope with gold seal round
For the greed of thieves shall hound
My shell before it joins the ground
Let not the flickers of candlelight
Illuminate my farewell so bright
Lies and deceits hide my plight
Incantations that blind with fright
Upon my journey secretly depart
Shed no tears as my soul will start
Travel beyond, our path trails apart
Born alone, I leave you my heart.
Time is Irrelevant
To bloom after the sun has risen
To wither before the sun can set
A glory that never even have seen
The beauty of sunrise nor sunset
So little time for flower to have fame
Time is irrelevant, worth is the same.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites.
She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry. Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers herself as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.
Poetry from Duane Vorhees
THIS STREET
This warm wide street
murders the infant ice.
It carries benefit and debt
from Perdition to Paradise.
It’s walked by gamblers and planners,
sharers of a barrel
or a quarrel.
Perceived to be staid
by beseechers and besiegers
looking for worship or a war,
by flatterers, benefactors,
prophets, and the perfidious–
it’s radical and erratic,
as wild as a wave.
PHASES
1
The horned owl would hunt at night.
I watched it from an egg,
blinked
and couldn’t find its flight.
Worried that it went extinct,
unable to sleep, I mourned
until I found, faint, its horns.
2
Fishes glimmer in the nets
spread across the deep.
Trapped, they surrender to death
in their cold, dark, and cramped keep.
But, oh! What schools they inspired;
when stars spawned, no one higher.
3
The orange on the sky tree
is burnished like polished brass
trumpeting Eternity’s
emergence from a dark past.
How sweetly that orange glows
all today and tomorrow.
ROSES OR LOTUS, LINE AND POLE
My self lives with several selves
that confront, ignore, cooperate.
Sometimes the Army of Roses quelled
rivals with promises of passion.
The Lotus Ashram would dominate
through its acceptance of inaction.
Or I’d be the weathered bosun’s mate
on discovery from Line to Pole.
I oscillated from soul to soul.
I joined that Army but deserted
when I learned passion had gone awol.
Alas, when romance eluded me
I tried the Ashram to forget it.
I got to Bali and Moosonee
but then got strapped to mast, unshirted.
Now content, selves meld with line and pole.
BESTIALITY
White teeth
I mourn–
they’re shorn
like sheep–
and bones
grown limp
like shrimp
and prawns.
My thumb,
adrift,
a skiff
of chum;
my tongue,
threatened
vegan
dugong.
The knees
wobble
and stall
like bees,
and toes
crackle,
rattle
like crows.
The heart
quivers,
shivers–
tense hart.
A MAN’S MOTIVATION, EXCUSE, AND RULE
An idea, an acre,
an ounce, an inch of skin–
a man’s motivation
for mayhem may be quite thin.
By fiat, by fire, by fist,
by bullet, or by blade–
a man’s excuse and rule
can be tradition or trade,
opportunity or lust,
inspiration, or luck.
A try will lose, will triumph
through cowardice, through pluck.
Poetry from Mark Murphy
Reality from Imagination No more waiting for the apple to fall, though the branches bend low to the ground, as if ready to yield to wind and gravity. No forward motion in the suspension of disbelief. Only retreat into defeat after defeat. Weathers i This is the weather the crocodile adores When the tropic sun bakes the midday mud And two million termites dislodge two tons of sod ii This is the weather the wildebeest abhors When the tropic sun scorches the savannah crossing And lioness and cobra hold court in the curly leaf and weeping love grass iii This is the weather the crocodile adores When the tropic sun bakes the midday mud And two million poets surrender two million hearts Open the door to the autumn gales. Above average temperatures. Precipitation anomalies. Dry fuel moisture alignments. Wild fires scorching the High Sierra. Sacramento. San Jose. Salinos. Open the door to the brown and cream Laguna Mountains skipper (whose mottled wings have not been seen these twenty years past) near the mountain that carries its name. Open the door to philosophy. Poetry. Descriptions of the natural world. Aesthetisation. Politicisation. Pesticide poisoning. Loss of habitat. Open the door to the scholiast underlining Pound’s personification of Jefferson e Mussolini, in the latticed shelves of Langson Library. Open the door to anaesthetisation. Patronage. Personal interest. War. Perhaps then, we might see, how nature ends in art, and art in nature. As the age of digital reproduction redacts both. Accelerating towards the sale of the century. After the Dreaming Did the Gundungurra people see the coming of the British colonialists into their world, the chicken pox, small pox, influenza and measles, or were they taken by surprise as they fled for their lives? Did the Dharawal people see the events of the Appin Massacre where men, women and children were forced by armed men on horseback over the cliffs to their deaths at Cataract Gorge? And what of the other massacres veiled in secrecy, the Black War in Van Diemen's Land, the Waterloo Creek Massacre, and 'the war of extirpation' at Gwydir River? Should we, if we could, still mention the cultural war against our distant cousins, the bloody history of dispersal and dispossession, the ongoing exploitation and maltreatment, every European massacre and genocide? Should we don the black arm-band and cry into our cups at the back of the lecture theatre, or, might we join ourselves to the disquisition and call it like it is: The Great Australian Silence? Dead Dog Paradox Was the dead dog man's best friend? Did the dog deserve to be set on fire? Did the dog deserve to be beaten with an iron bar? Did the dog deserve to be hanged in the street? Who set the trap to cut the dog in half? What was the dog’s name? Why was the dog skinned alive? Had the dog played ball in the park? Had the dog gone AWOL ? Had the dog run amok in the town square? Who threw the first stone? Who wielded the knife? Who shouted the orders? Was the dead dog man’s best friend?
Mark A. Murphy has published poems in 18 countries. When he isn’t writing, he spends his time editing online poetry journal, POETiCA REViEW www.poeticareview.co.uk
Poetry from Aklima Ankhi
The Quilt of Clay
(Dedicated to my parents)
Believe me, Earth
I have come here only to love you.
Sit down on the cooling mate of confidence.
I fan you slowly for calm down.
Broken nose by the kick has the power of moving air.
Great soul beat is in the ribs.
Piercing thorn on legs can walk shedding blood.
Although eyes acts blindly has a little eyesight.
There is no distaste in outspoken tongue.
Earth, how much reassurance of competency
you need to love you!
Believe me earth, I have come here to love you only.
Illiterate wood craftsman who is irresistible lover from whom has taken the first lesson of love.
His beloved has taken knit stitch artistic flower of love with her generous skillful hands.
Earth, believe me or not
In my life lessons, have learned to love you.
Aklima Ankhi, poet, storyteller and translator from Cox’sbazar, Bangladesh. Born in Mymensingh, Bangladesh. She has a published collection of poetry named “Guptokothar Shobdochabi” written in Bangla. She is a postgraduate in English Literature. As a profession, she is a Lecturer in English.
Art from Channie Greenberg
