CARNAVAL’S MORN

I am awakened by an explosion & a faint flash of orange light.

& the successive blast of rocket after rocket shakes these four-a.m. streets.

Gunpowder smoke drifts down the main avenue towards the pier.

Nearby, at a makeshift stall, men sit drinking beers.

They yell in English at this foreign lady up on the hotel balcony of termite-gnawed wood.

She ignores them.

A weak shaft of light shines out from her room.

The stall owner sprawls in her chair.

Her blue dress stretches across splayed knees.

Her closed-eye head rests on an upturned hand.

Cumbias flow from a jam box, gentle wash of waves behind them.

After the last reverberation of the last rocket fades, a marimba begins playing up in that central park.

~      ~     ~

Several hours later, morning dusk washes over the gulf, the islands, the shoreline.

The rose-colored full moon fades.

On the corner of the pier avenue & Calle Marina, a person lies stretched in a hammock strung under a palm-thatched porch, unawakened, unmoved by the loud voices of those men who are still drinking.

A couple hurries down that long pier to where others await a panga for the mainland.

Soon one leaves riding deep in the leaden water.

The buzz of the outboard motor fades with its distance.

Twittering birdsong fills the sparse-scattered trees.

The distant landscapes clear.

CROSSING THE ISTHMUS

I.

We escape the banana plantations

            & enter mountains

Stilted homes of

            cane slat, palm thatch

                        nestle into the folds of

The land carpeted with

            bamboo, ficus, palms &

                        flamboyant flame-colored flowers

In this sear noon sun

            clothes hang on lines

Wending       now  & again

            glimpsing below a plain &

                        Bahía Almirante

Near San Agustín a cemetery

            of nameless same white headstones

                        deeply carved with numbers

Then on the heights

            above that bay &

                        its islands

II.

Into the cordillera

            that is the spine

                        of this country

Serpentining

            a river serpentines

                        through the jungle

Serpentining

            past small cattle ranches

A mother & her children

            walk under a large umbrella

Serpentining        serpentining higher

            these mountains

                        the trees tower

Deep valleys in patched

            shadow & sunlight

Broad ríos meander

            a swift roadside waterfall tumbles

The air is cooler

            clouds descend on peaks

III.

& dimly on the horizon

            sabanas stretch to

a lacey coast

wending       wending

            down into warmer air

Away from the clouds

            towards the

                        Pacific Ocean

FROM SHORE TO SHORE

When we leave the south side of Isla Santa Cruz, the light rain still falls.

And into the highlands, the misting fog heavy. The scent of escalesia and lichen-draped palo santo is so faint – like a fading watercolor in this garúa.

To the twin craters of this island’s volcano, heading north. Here, the sky is sun-cleared, sun-dried. The landscape a bit more sere, less green – but much greener than when I came three months ago.  And on this side, the earth is free from the hand of man. We are ascending, drying. Then, descending to Canal de Itabaca which separates this isla from the island to the north.

Outside this bus window, I watch for the gentle giant, the Galápagos tortoise, who – at times – wander to this highway, watching the humans come, the humans go in their metal shells.

That channel is now visible, a broad blue ribbon draping the northern coast / shore. To the west the Daphnes, Mayor and Menor, dot the sea. On the distant horizon is a large, hazed island, perhaps Santiago.

And on the shore of that canal, I watch small dory fish swim this way, that way, above larger, blue-bellied fish. Across the turquoise water, several frigatebirds soar above the rough, red-lava cliffs streaked with guano. A great blue heron wades along on the shore green-laced with mangrove.

---

Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks.

Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at:

www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com. 

This month’s issue unearths the different layers of our life experiences. Pieces explore the influence of the past on our lives, our memories and heritage, and the legacies we leave for those who will come after us.

Boqiyev Sherkhan Ubaydullo outlines the history of Turkish trade on the Silk Road.

Maja Milojkovic poetizes nostalgia, the passion and grief of letting go of vividly rendered experiences: playing the violin and sharing a large family home. Steven Hill writes of personal grief at the loss of a friend and deep, sweeping thoughts about cultural memory of Nazi brutality and then on the vast complex weight of human history.

David Kopaska-Merkel’s time travel story raises the possibility of being stuck in the past. Jim Meirose’s surrealist wordplay centers on a ghost, while Taylor Dibbert references the uncomfortable digital “footprint” of a relationship that ended badly.

In a more positive vein, Mesfakus Salahin offers up a romantic glimpse of the moon, a traditional poetic subject. Hongri Yuan’s poems, translated from Mandarin to English by Yuanbing Zhang, evoke the mystical traditions of ancient Chinese scholarly poetics. Mahbub Alam waxes poetic about oneness with nature, falling in love amid the flowers and growing strong like trees. Elmaya Jabbarova contributes a paean to a more celestial, ethereal love.

Don McLellan describes a group of very individual and quirky seniors who form a neighborhood walking club that creates new memories. Farangiz Safarova speaks to the love and connection between a grandfather and his grandchildren and his dreams for their futures. Zarina Abdulina, who assists children with disabilities, encourages volunteering purely for the sake of helping others.

John Culp’s poem addresses what we create and leave behind for future generations. Laura Stamps’ pieces reflect a profound longing to pass love on to others, children or small dogs. Yahuza Uzman recollects children’s varied emotions as a sick mother teeters on the edge of survival.

Oona Haskovec ‘s poetic speaker turns to the past to save herself, clinging to the ideas of existentialist poetry to keep her from taking her own life, because of the effects of her death on others: blood would “spatter them” as well.

Francesco Favetta’s pieces celebrate the love of a mother for her children, the love between brothers, and hope and poetry and faith in a world torn by war.

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poetry spans life, death, seasons, nature, war, and peace. Azemina Krehic draws on poppy fields for a metaphor about healing pain by facing its reality and connecting with others.

Channie Greenberg evokes a panoply of human emotions and experiences through arrangements of colored dots. Edward Supranowicz plays with brilliant and muted color and light to reflect feelings and sensations.

JD Nelson sends up random words and grammatical constructions, short bursts of thought reflecting fragmented consciousness. Mark Young weaves phrases of disparate sentences together to create new textures of sound and thought. Graciela Noemi Villaverde writes of the liminal space between sleeping and waking.

Some contributors focus on the heavy weight of histories that can pull us down, particularly when those shadows extend into the present day. J.J. Campbell wonders how to find pleasure in a fading and broken world, while Victor Obukata and Muhammed Sinan decry social injustice, power imbalances, and the tragedy of poverty. Tuyet Van Do’s poems concern ways people manipulate nature and society.

Pat Doyne offers a mocking farewell to departing Fox News host Tucker Carlson while Noah Berlatsky sends up a poem that reflects the experience of doom-scrolling, composed of surrealist images amidst language from today’s headlines.

Santiago Burdon evokes the weight of millennia of tradition in a humorous piece where the Pope steals his grandfather’s ring.

Ammanda Moore illustrates how purity culture heightens the pain of a woman being examined for reproductive cancer. Linda Gunther’s piece shows the cumulative effects of sexual assaults on women’s self-concepts and feelings of safety.

Sandro Piedrahita probes the ethical dilemmas and compromises people make in the name of revolution. Robiul Awal Esa contributes a meditation on divine justice and mercy.

Other writers take pride in the positive aspects of their personal or societal heritage.

Murodova Muslima Kadyrovna glories in the beauty of the Uzbek flag and the promise of her country’s founding ideals.

Daniel de Culla presents a unique take on his home country of Spain: photographs of cats, water, and flies, earthy bits of nature.

Still other writers’ pieces reflect or suggest new ideas, forward movement into the future.

Aminova Oghilay illuminates the beauty of spring flowers, and Sayani Mukherjee contributes a piece on lilies with some intriguing language.

Wazed Abdullah celebrates the joy and privilege of learning.

Lauren McBride invents a new kind of poetry, saturne binary poems, a reworking of the lanturne structured to mimic the rings of Saturn.

Christopher Bernard reviews poet Mary Mackey’s book Creativity: Where Poems Begin, which explores the sources of Mackey’s poetic inspirations. She seeks a “gentle path” to find creative insights without deranging her senses or relationships.

Garrett Schuelke dreams of his future summer travels. Chimezie Ihekuna extols the value of travel, what we can learn from seeing more of the world, changing up our mood and atmosphere.

Kahlil Crawford celebrates entrepreneur and business leader Dr. Kasthuri Henry. Don Bormon talks of the computer’s importance as an invention.

Leslie Lisbona reminisces about growing up and moving to a room of her own, independent but lonely at first without siblings at her side.

We hope this issue imbues readers with a spirit of hope and curiosity, taking comfort in or shedding the layers of past experience as needed. 

Flag of the country
The place of worship is golden soil,
A hot spring is a healing herb.
The motto he always used to say,
The flag of the Motherland is sacred

My flag flutters in the sky,
Uzbek pride is the national flag.
Reflecting four different meanings,
The flag of the Motherland is sacred.

Clear skies and blue waters,
The reflected blue color is blue color.
My grandfather's soul is happy enough,
The flag of the Motherland is sacred.

Red color is blood
Green is characteristic of nature.
White is a symbol of purity, peace,
The flag of the Motherland is sacred.

We are the future of this country.
Our stars of tomorrow.
Let us raise the flag of this country.
The flag of the Motherland is sacred.

---

Murodova Muslima Kadyrovna is a student in the 6th “A” grade of the 30th general school of Jondor district, Bukhara region, Uzbekistan.

We had always been apartment dwellers.  When my parents first arrived in this country, they lived on Amsterdam Avenue in the upper 90s, in a walk-up with other refugees as neighbors.  Then they found an apartment in Forest Hills. 

When I was born, my parents moved with my brother, sister, and me to a doorman building with a blue lobby in Kew Gardens.  This two-bedroom was all I knew.  My best friend, Claudia, lived down the hall, and Lucy, my babysitter, lived in an identical apartment below mine.  Claudia’s parents worked for the airlines, so she was alone a lot, a latchkey kid.  Lucy was the super of the building, and she was home all the time.  My mom didn’t work, but she went to Queens College and then graduate school. 

Mom played a game of tic-tac-toe with all the beds.  Many times we switched rooms and reconfigured furniture to try to make it work.  I stayed with my parents in their room till I was five. Then I shared a tiny bedroom with Debi, while Dorian slept on the couch or a vacated bed,

and my parents slept in their room.  Once my parents slept in the living room so Dorian could have his own room for a while. Often we had visitors from overseas, and Debi, Dorian and I had to sleep on cots in the living room. This was especially fun for me.

My dad enjoyed apartment life, overheated, with a handyman available at all times.  I liked being in a bustling household, sharing beds and being underfoot. 

My mom wanted space.  She’s the one who found the house.  She had gone to her cousin’s for a card game in Forest Hills. She told me that the card table was by the front window.  She looked

up to see a hand-painted “For Rent” sign on the porch of the house directly across the street.  She said she excused herself from the game and slipped into her mink coat.  She knocked on the door of the stucco house and talked to the owner. 

A few days later, my family visited the house.  It was old.  We went upstairs single file, whispering. “It’s so big,” Debi said. “I love it.”  I agreed that it was grand, with so much space. The backyard was big enough for me to do three cartwheels in a row on a diagonal. On the second floor, the bedrooms were all different, and we each called the one that we wanted.  Still, I didn’t believe it was really going to happen.

Suddenly, my dad was on board to move.  I never thought this would happen, ever. He was seated in an armchair in our apartment living room, and we were surrounding him.  My family was animated.  My world was starting to tilt. 

Wait, I said.  I don’t want to leave.

I’ll drive you to P.S. 99 every morning, said my father.

I’ll pick you up in the afternoon, said my mother.

Claudia can sleep over every weekend, said my father.

You can have your own room, said my mother.

We can get a dog, said my brother.

My bare feet were deep in the tan shag rug. I didn’t want my world to change.  I wanted Lucy and Claudia in my building.  I wanted my school to be across the street. I didn’t want my own room.  I didn’t even want my own bed.  I only wanted to sleep with Debi in hers. My universe,

the way I had known it for all of my eleven years, would crumble if we moved. I tried to say something, but when I opened my mouth, a sob came out, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. 

We moved a few weeks later.

That night, we all went to bed in our separate rooms. 

Debi shouted, Goodnight, Les.

Can I sleep in your room? I said.

No, she said

Maybe tomorrow? I asked.

Maybe, she said.

And then it was too quiet, and it was the first time I was alone.  Goodnight, John Boy, I said.

My sister giggled.  I heard Dorian laughing, too. 

Debi said, Goodnight, Elizabeth!

Dorian said, Goodnight, Ma!

Goodnight, Daddy, I said.

Then my father joined in: Goodnight, Billy Bob.  More laughter because it was really Jim Bob.

Goodnight, everybody! Mom said.

I stretched and pressed my toes into the wooden frame of my water bed, the smile still on my face, and went to sleep in a room of my own.

                 THE  GREAT  REPLACEMENT
		
		“Fox News Media and Tucker Carlson have agreed to part ways.”  4/24/23

		Good-bye, Tucker. We’ll miss your giggle.
		Who else makes faces on prime-time TV
		while spewing rhetorical questions?
		Who else waxes indignant
		about Bud Light’s sales pitch,
		Dr. Seuss’ fantasies,
		Mr. Potato Head’s parts,
		or “Green M&Ms go woke”?

		Here are some of Tucker’s greatest hits:
		#1   George Floyd died of a drug overdose.
		(Blasted after the autopsy ruled homicide.)
		#2   COVID-19 vaccine—Maybe it “doesn’t work, 
		and they’re simply not telling us.”
		#3   During the 2020 election, there was
		“meaningful voter fraud in Georgia.”
		#4   Russian’s invasion of Ukraine is a “territorial dispute.”
		Why take Ukraine’s side? Has Russia “killed your dog?”
		Tucker pulls conspiracies out of hats,
		recasting news as “us” vs. “them.”  

		From O’Reilly, Tucker inherited his populist schtick. 
		Like O’Reilly, the populism is fake;
		stokes suspicion and fear in “common folks.” 
		But Tucker’s racism is genuine.
		He feeds viewers raw chunks of white nationalism.
		Talks about the “Great Replacement” theory,
		a plot to replace Patriots with immigrants
		who will vote to make America second-rate.

		He’s a Fox News entertainer, not a reporter.
		But is Tucker the character he plays on TV?
		His e-mails cast doubt—
		in private, says he loathes Trump,
		but bows and scrapes in public,
		flame-throws hot topics in a squeaky voice,
		his face scrunched-up with disbelief. 


		Tucker was Kevin McCarthy’s chosen one.
		Sole winner of the January 6 video footage,
		expected to document the party line.
		So he edited out door-bashing, 
		cop-smashing,
		office-crashing--
		what viewers of real news stations viewed
		with horror and dismay. 
		Tucker spliced snippet that showed tourists
		milling about peacefully.  Respectfully.
		See?  They’re trying to frame Proud Boys and Q-Anon.
		It’s them against us again.  

		But January 6 was ignited by Fox and friends. 
		Weeks and week of trash-talk—
		Dominion voting machines skewed election results,
		stole the election from #45.
		Fox hosts knew these claims were baseless,
		dished out conspiracy anyway, 
		night after night,
		to feed viewers’ outrage,
		and maintain ratings. 
		So Dominion sued.
		Fox had to pay big bucks:  $787 million.
		Someone’s head must roll!

		“We’ll be back Monday,” said Tucker--
		unaware of the sword of Damocles over his head.
		Fox took a page from its own script--
		adapted the “Great Replacement” theory.
		Replaced Tucker. 
		Good-bye, Tucker. I’m trying not to giggle. 

	
		Copyright 4/2023                 Patricia Doyne