The farmhouse auction Citadels shot golden while farmyards purchased long summer nights orchids watched. Their patience fell into arms that gave what needed— prize blooms candescent the silo’s hover. The scene paled in memory now, there’s shock when death of one announces; it avows boons doors had shouted to youth gathered for deep appraisal when their childhood was wonder marked love shared with nights that followed. Each our yes from out them— a sequence years form of if failed undertakings dreamed in the past stand us envisioned for glorious futures cleft presence abandons. Night visions The heavy land coils under bond of peace. Its reach affords proved love’s ground dying gives way to in hollers firmament cheats. Those passing shots comb the rage planets succumb of as ours barely alone feels confidence treason bothers along owned nights agape at stars their shower with dreams this holy lounge, trimmed fields doctored. A holding innocence The clock tames their racked world with justice reluctant. It forgets the passions that rummage in their veins as they seem an ounce of heaven harrowing that tic-toc feeling desire ascends with when youth climb to extend the cut-life that wants its reign pulled over the eyes of what remanded— lines pressed by Time and the martyrdom upheld with so that shock blames each the vaulting defendant.
Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated from Mandarin to English by Yuanbing Zhang
The Key of Heaven If your soul wakes up and see golden heaven At this moment, the fragrant honey makes you suddenly realize “Emptiness in Non-emptiness& Being in Non-being” Even in black forest of the hell, you still hold the key of heaven And the lightning of your mantras makes the python spit out those gems of time, and those golden books of jade version from the gods in prehistoric. 8.14.2017 天国之钥 如果你灵魂醒来看到金色的天堂 这一刹那的芳馨之蜜让你顿悟了空空之妙 即使在地狱的黑色森林也依然手握天国之钥 而你的咒语之闪电让巨蟒吐出那时光的宝石那史前诸神的玉版金书 2017.8.14 Cherish: The Memory of the Heaven Today I would like to thank the world that looks like the hell. It makes the fire that cherish the memory of the Heaven burning inside me; it reminds me of the precious fruit of the sweet golden tree. Those palaces and towers swirling music from outer space, those giants whose bodies are limpid and happy, those oceans are blue cocktails, those rivers are the nectar of the soul; However those mountains float in the sky like clouds, layer upon layer. None of stone has no transparent smile. The wind pass through the body and sings mysterious words. None of flowers will wither, as if old sun is both eternal and young. 8.26.2020 怀念天堂 今天 我想感谢这地狱的人间 它让我体内燃起怀念天堂的火焰 让我回忆起甜蜜的黄金之树的宝石之果 那飘洒着天外乐曲的宫殿楼阁 那身体空明而欢喜的巨人 那海洋是蓝色的鸡尾酒 那河流是灵魂的琼浆 而那山岳如云朵般飘浮 在层层叠叠的天际 没有一块石头没有透明的笑容 风穿过身体吟唱 神秘的词语 没有一朵花会凋谢 仿佛古老的太阳 永恒而年轻 2020.8.26 Don't Forget The Other You Don't forget the other you, those numerous you who either in the body or outer space, those sweet smiles and the diamond flowers that never withers, make boundless years on earth turn into a snippet of bird song. Yes, that's crows of Phoenix from heaven. Those sweet lightnings hit you, let you suddenly wake up and see Gold Heaven is with you. And your body is golden body of giants, make all time to become sweet. 6.10.2019 不要忘了那另一个你 不要忘了那另一个你 那在身体里在天外的众多的你 那甜蜜的笑容永不凋谢的钻石之花 让你在尘世的漫漫岁月化成一声鸟鸣 是的，那是天国鸾凤的啼鸣 那甜蜜的闪电击中了你 让你恍然醒来 看见黄金的天国与你同在 而你的身体是巨人的黄金之体 让一切时光变得甜美 2019.6.10 Bio:Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com.
Poetry from Lorraine Caputo
THE AZTEC EAGLE El Águila Azteca – Mexico City to Nuevo Laredo 27 January 1997 South of Tula we finally begin to escape the clutches of Mexico City’s smog The mountains are clearer winter gold speckled with dull green brush & cactuses A red-tailed hawk perches atop a budding tree Canyons sculpt the leached sandstone where dry arroyos wind like rattlesnakes We slow for a stretch where a train has derailed Metal power lines lay twisted The ages lava rocks, pale soil are charred Our locomotive hums as we pass by the workers repairing that other pair of tracks Broad-leafed nopales play patty-cake in the climbing sun ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ La Guega, Querétaro is where our train meets the Juarez-bound train continuing on its north-bound journey & we wait here listening to a barrel-chested man sing He rests the accordion on his paunch It waves like the sea between his broad, longer-fingered hands ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ At Escobedo, a woman stands on the platform twisting on tiptoes looking for her husband who’s inside this crowded train car She at last finds him & waves I’ll return soon he calls to her through the open window leaning over seats She nods & wipes away a tear with the edge of their infant daughter’s blanket Call, she yells putting thumb to mouth little finger to ear She smiles fighting painful tears The wife stoops to their toddler & whispers in her ear Then lifting her onto the other hip they wave good-bye to father She turns away with the children to stand beneath the overhang of the station roof Again she wipes a tear turning a bit from her husband’s view As the train pulls away, she smiles We’ll be fine, love & I see her tears shadow her face ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ In a field dozens of men & women sow seeds Down a dirt path a woman balances a bundle of long-cut reeds atop her head ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I stand in the vestibule watching three locomotives pull of a long string of cargo cars They click by just feet away Our brakes hiss as we stop Like an old-time movie frames clumsily flowing from one to another I can see the village on the other side of that passing train ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The sky is lightening with the coming of another morning overcast & dull Leaves dance in an approaching storm White stone crumbles off the eroding mountains outside Monterrey The sierra further north is fuzzed by fog - VOYAGING FROM VERACRUZ The rising sun goldens the open wooden doors of the station. In front is parked the old black & silver Engine Nº 9 with its coal car. The tarnished-brown station bell awaits to be clanged. Across the street, in the port, a large ship berths at a pier. Standing idle to one side, a leading crane flexes. Through this white & ochre cavern echoes the flight of two lost pigeons. On the other side of the gates separating lobby from tracks, a man sweeps the tiled platform with a wide push broom. People bound for Xalapa & Mexico City line up at Gate 5. Plastic tote bags, handles tied with a bit of string – large boxes carefully wrapped around & around with rope – small knapsacks all lie at feet. A mother holds her new-born child, covering its head with a thin flannel blanket. Next to her, on a duffel bag, sits her chubby-faced son. He stuffs a stick of gum into his mouth & another. His slightly slanted eyes squint at the pack in his hands. He stands up & offers a piece to his mother, then to abuelita. His tuft of black hair bobs as he chomps his gum. The boy walks away, pulling his sleeves over his hands & prances around the station. We are told to move to Gate Nº 4. Boxes & packs are shifted to the orders of the guard. & the young boy pulls his gum out of his mouth with plump fingers. El Jarocho arrives a half-hour late from Mexico City, amidst the blare of its locomotive’s horn. From its long line of cars – 2nd class, 1st class, sleeper & dining cars, its passengers rush towards the lobby. The young guard holds his automatic rifle off his right shoulder. His black pants are tucked into shiny black military boots, neatly laced. He commands us to form a single line, a single line. For the love of God, form a single line, I said. His hand rubs the stock. Suddenly he finds the gate opening out of his control, from the other side. He calls for our steady stream to have tickets in hand. The man before me shifts his box to one shoulder as he is stopped for his. Hurriedly I dig mine out of my pocket & the guard allows me to pass. People run the half-length of platform to where our cars await on Track Nº 5. They wobble under the weight of heavy bags & boxes, laughing at the insanity of the rush. & even I find myself picking up my gait to the closer car. Sunlight dodges the platform roofs & finds its way into my window open to the morning. In the engineless passenger cars on Track Nº 4, I see a man weeping the length, followed by another swaying a mop. On the other side of us clangs the bell of El Jarocho’s locomotive dieseling alone into the railyards, abandoning its red-striped blue cars. & on the platform between, a young cat ochre & white sits alone. - GHOST TRAIN (Santa Cruz to Yacuiba, Bolivia) I. Late afternoon I float on this train’s requiem Brush scrapes the sides of the car & occasionally reaches through my open window to quickly tap my shoulder II. From the vestibule steps I watch the twilight countryside blur by & listen to the swooshing of wheels But soon I must leave Death has taken a seat next to me in a toothless man chewing coca leaves III. In my hazed sleep ghostly history whorls in the dust of our journey Río Grande clatters by & the guerrilleros with Che Guevara watch my shadow head bob in rhythm of this train Spider-web curtains drape from electrical poles to the thick vegetation IV. In the new dawn a white calf bounds into an emerald forest powdered by our passage Within the billowing storm we raise the spirits of a hundred thousand soldiers still roam this bloodied soil of the Chaco V. We are nearing the end of our journey The bright seven-a.m. sun glints off a blue- graved cemetery nestled atop a hill
Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose poetry appear in over 250 journals on six continents, and 18 collections – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, with works in the anthologies Drive: Women’s True Stories from the Open Road (Seal Press, 2002) and V!VA List Latin America (Viva Travel Guides, 2007), as well as articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. 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 facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
Poetry from Jack Galmitz
there I was looking out the window across the courtyard at a woman at the window where I lived in her gaze in her faces and in a tiny space like dust settling on a table **** a giant work a monument to all the junk piled on the earth and one
Short story from Robert Thomas
A Tale of Two Restaurants
It was the best of meals it was the worst of meals, it was the age of
facts, it was the age of misinformation, it was the era of the big lie,
yet the era of political correctness, it was the blight of Covid, it was
the hope of Pfizer. We had nothing ahead of us, except an open
road, for good or for evil, a road of superlative boredom through the
central valley of California. Heading up the Grapevine we
approached the off-ramp to Lebec, a small community nestled in the
arid hills of Tejon pass. I reserved a night at the local Holiday Inn to
break up the tedious drive to San Diego from the San Francisco Bay
Area. The arid hills were scorched black along one side of the Frazier
Mountains. Some months earlier a fire blazed its way across the
landscape narrowly missing the business district next to Highway
five.
The hills were sparsely scatter with homes of various
construction, many of which looked pieced together from material
bought at a Home Depot outlet. Here and there sat trailers set upon
cinder block foundations, while others were left sitting on their
wheels, unhitched from their vehicles. Rusted old cars and pickups
lay dead in front of some residences, like some yokel yard art. An
aura of rural poverty permeated the area. A poverty gleaned from the
empty IRAs and meager union benefits of retired blue collar folk. The
inn sat just off the highway next to several commercial buildings.
Across the way, a large gravel lot held several semis, some with
trailers attached. The place was obviously a truck stop used by a
number of long haulers.
The spitting image of Colonel Armstrong Custer greeted us at the
front desk. He sported long golden hair with a curling handlebar
mustache, and wore a western style shirt complete with a bolo tie.
Before going to our room, I asked about places to eat. He thought for
a moment while twisting his stash with his tobacco stained fingers,
and indicated that eating establishments were sparse, but that there
was a Chinese restaurant and a Mexican restaurant just up the road a piece.
After unpacking, we walked to the Mexican Restaurant we had
passed on our way to the inn. The restaurant, Los Pinos, sat alone
on a large gravel lot with no landscaping around it other than a couple
of ragged evergreens flanking the wooden entry. The front wooden
steps were shrouded by a torn green canvass canopy. Several picnic
tables took up a number of parking spaces in the crumbling asphalt
lot next the building, a nod to outside dining during the Covid
pandemic. The interior was simply decorated with a few tourist
posters of Mexico hanging on the walls of painted wood paneling.
Smears of film left from poorly rinsed rags smudged their surface.
Plastic faux Tiffany style lamps hung from the ceiling, as well as a
couple of drooping diseased succulents in green plastic pots.
Seating consisted of scratched and stained lacquered wooden tables
and chairs, and several booths with worn green vinyl covered seats.
My wife and I settled into a small booth, and perused the
surroundings as we waited for the waitress of come by. We surmised
the place was pretty functional, and wondered about the quality of
the food. Although, some pretty good Mexican eats sometimes come
out of the kitchens of local dives. We kept our fingers crossed.
The waitress, a tall woman in her 40s, dressed in a well worn, and
food stained print dress, greeted us, and handed us a couple of
plastic coated menus. She was about to leave when we asked if we
might have something to drink before we ordered. She turned back
toward us, and noted that the beverages were on the back of the
menu. Along with the traditional assortment of beers, which looked
as if it was initially listed with no changes since 1960, the wine list
consisted of only a couple of cheap brands. My wife stated that she
wanted the chardonnay, to which the waitress replied, “The red or the
white.” Being that we were consummate wine drinkers with a number
of Napa Valley Winery memberships, we were both taken aback by
her request. My wife, holding back a smirk, immediately said, “The
white.” I opted for a Negro Modelo.
A short time later, the waitress brought a glass of wine and a bottle of
beer with a lime wedge stuck into the top. I guessed that the local
custom was to chug it directly from the bottle. Nevertheless, I asked
for a glass. She gave me a look as if I were asking her to do
something out of the ordinary. She later brought me a cold glass for
my beer, along with some corn chips and a small bowl of salsa.
Scanning the menu, we recognized a variety of familiar Mexican
dishes including Taquitos, flautas, chimichangas and tacos. We had
to flag down the waitress, who seemed to forget we existed. We
placed our orders and quietly waited for the food to arrive. Within
about 20 to 30 minutes, the waitress brought out food. It was served
in a styrofoam box. Our utensils were small plastic forks and knives
sheathed in plastic. Aside from the rather basic nature of the service,
the food was okay, and we enjoyed the meal.
As we ate, a heavy set man in work shirt and jeans sat at a table next
to us. He gave us a nod of recognition, opening a gap of congeniality
between us. He shared that he frequented the restaurant on many of
his truck hauls between San Francisco and Los Angeles. We
commented on the rather expedient serving ware used by the
restaurant, to which he smiled, and revealed that this was typical of
the place, dispelling any notion we had that it was an altruistic health
concern on the part of the owner. Following dinner, we headed back
to the inn for a good night’s rest.
The evening after our arrival in San Diego, my brother and sister-inlaw took us to Adelaide restaurant at L’Auberge Del Mar. We
approached the restaurant along a curving cobbled driveway,
culminating in a round cul-de-sac laid out before the front entry to the
restaurant/hotel. We were immediately greeted by a valet, who
opened the doors to our sedan, and assisted us out of our seats. My
brother-in-law David, gave the valet the keys, as we walked beneath
the high pointed and wood beam archway towards the front glass
doors. Our car was quickly whisked away to some secure parking
area to await our return. Approaching the doors, a young gentleman
reached from behind it, and cleared the way for our arrival. We let
him know we had reservations for dinner. He pointed us to the
hostess’ dais across the room. We were a bit early, but hoped we
might get a seat at that moment. The hostess, an attractive,
impeccably made up woman, wearing a slender black, short sleeve
midi, told us that we would have to wait a few minutes, as all the
tables were taken, but one would be available soon.
The four of us headed to the bar just off to the left to grab a drink as
we waited. Looking about, the restaurant had an aura of casual
luxury. The decor was modern chic, with walls of ecru, accented by
light colored exotic wood. Professional photos of local seascape
scenes were hung on the walls, highlighted by soft lights attached to
the upper frames. The staff, dressed in casual evening attire, flitted
quickly back and forth, eager to please their customers. After a few
sips of my delicious Negrone, the hostess came to us, and asked us
to follow her to our table. Once seated, she handed us our menus,
noting that our waiter, Ken, would soon arrive to take our orders. We
sat outside, just beyond the eave of the building. We had a view out
over the hotel pool and outdoor lounge area. In the distance,
between two trees flanking the deck, the Pacific Ocean spread out to
the horizon. A few clouds hovered, beginning to turn orange-pink as
the sun was about to set. Beautiful people occupied the tables
around us. Handsome men with touches of grey sat across from
younger women with exposed shoulders, and seductive cleavage.
Obviously, the place was a weekend stopover for fleeting romantic
trysts.
A short time later, our waiter arrived. He introduced himself, and
asked if we wanted drinks before dinner. The beverage menu held an
array of cocktails, beers and wine for us to choose from. After a long
pause, Ken offered to give us his recommendations. However, we
finally decided on our drinks. Knowing my wife’s preference for white
wine, and Pinot Grigio in particular, I ordered her a wine from the
Veneto in Italy. As for myself, I asked for a Brandy, indicating that
after I decided on my meal, I would order a wine. Upon the drinks
arrival, crystal stemware caressed the brandy and wine in their
appropriate bowls.
The food menu offered a selection of raw and warm plates, as well as salads for starters. Raw bites ranged from Baja oysters to beef
tartare, while delicacies from the warm menu included, but was not
limited to crispy octopus and sprouted lentil cakes. Italian Burrata
and achiote roasted carrots were included on the salad menu. Main
courses consisted of several meat and fish dishes such as grilled 45
day aged rib eye, or Black Cod.
The server was very attentive, checking in every so often to make
sure we were fully satisfied. Once ordered, the main courses came
within a reasonable time, served on white stoneware plates edged in
dark brown trim. Utensils consisted of polished stainless steel. We
spent the evening in leisurely dining, and casual conversation, as we
watched the green flash of sun set in the distance. For dessert, I
shared La Vina Cheesecake, accompanied by a cup of double
espresso.
After paying the bill, and leaving a gracious tip, we slowly sauntered
out to the entry. Recognizing us, the valet grabbed the keys from the
rack beneath the podium, and let us know he would be right back
with our car. Within a short time the white sedan arrived before us.
David tipped the valet before entering the drivers seat. We circled
around the center flower plot of the cul-de-sac, and headed back to
San Diego with full bellies and sated taste buds. It was a far, far
better thing that we did this night, than we did the night before.
Poetry from Sandeep Kumar Mishra
My Father My father never wasted time in taking his kids in his lap or playing with them, he was busy in breaking mirrors, hitting the doors or his head against a wall or slapping his children or abusing everyone when helplessness trapped him in the web of poverty, illness and unfulfilled desires Orthodox and religionist in him taught us all superstitions, and made him a sage devoid of social life, and me, almost an atheist, He taught us good values without letting us in his room We had seen him write poems, We were not part of his universe, The world may be familiar with his work, but we haven't read his books as we have developed immunity to it, As a good teacher, he changed many schools and as an honest person, he rarely attended any social gatherings He didn't tell us our history or geography, Oblivious of siblings, locked in a closed family circle, ignorant of our community, we live at the borders of our social circle now When I see any kid, I wish to be with my father, Talk, learn and serve him but still I lack a bond, I haven't seen him for long time and never feel a need or pain of it He is counting his time, his legacy some published books and unpublished manuscripts lying in a store almirah, The long gap between us stops me to take those few steps, It seems a long journey Upbringing and luck shapes our life, my father was child of his misfortune and I am the child of my father Do I Belong Here? I hold the soil from my roots in my hand I have carried with me here in this country every day, As I lay my impregnable longing against room's wall, I hear my helplessness like weeping at dawn, As my soul wrinkles with the motherland, I parted with my parents, wife and kids in the country of skin No one leaves home unless your home is a floating nest on the river Nile of industrial waste, You find yourself among the mining crocs or drought alligators, When you swim across the seven seas of population put yourself in a boat of hope thinking the strange salty water is safer than the familiar sweet land, You have a shadow of blood in your veins but an empty belly and the anthem under your breath, the miles travelled means something more than a journey My heart is full of stories of my streets, I carry black scars from wars of white greed, Dust of my family carbonized in dry mushroom clouds, I carry parental house along the vertebra, pink dreams in my eyes When the night liquidates the day as a sinful cloud plasters its sun, everything seems shiny for me- Migraine flash in my left brain- Shiny open eyes when I fail to sleep- The shine of stones in my kidneys- Two shiny pearls on the cheeks- The word “motherland” over the galaxy of stars and the Moon behind the clouds called “migration” I don't know if I am an Australian or not? May be just a rudiment who is deposited in this area by a migratory trade river and thus left open in the “unwaged sun” and the “taxed rain” Australia welcomes hundreds of faith’s manacles, with closed eyes to what is happening in Germany and UK I live in the Sahara or floating on the Dead sea an expanse of concrete cities, a sea of neo-brotherhood without any emotions, a forbidding area lost in a desert of doubt, I was not allowed to attend the funeral of my mother last year They call it humanitarian visa processing based on fixed values Farewell my motherland, Farewell my ancestors, Farewell my dream of new life! I’ve transcribed all my dreams into poems, not into realities that reconcile my exile from home, stretched them into poetic lines, The streets where I grew up is punctuated with electric poles, I have imagined myself surviving by transforming 2 flowers into the bread I have never eaten, I am a brown floret spring out of your mind from the womb of a black history birthed from white memory This is how it feels to live and move in two worlds at once. I came here to outlive the ghosts of martyrs, beyond the hatreds of nationalism, How the basic joys of being give us the kinder face of humanity But I am marginalized to the point of disappearance Barred as a shade of skin, a tone of speech, Kicked by the mighty, detested by the commoner Now I know humanity is Janus faced- Half devil-half human, White faced black truth I will not recommend it even to political foes or religious friends We Are Third World Self acclaimed first world labelled us as third world in their so called socioeconomic indexes and other “modernity is the real development” indices, because we don't do dinner parties but dream of a well fed day Our children study on the floor of old public school, Know the other world only by the greenery and figures hung on its pale walls, Wishing to run on the velvet grass instead of rag picking every morning, as children leave old toys, you have abandoned us Here a teenager recognises outline of a dark futuristic structure in a pattern of present dots of daily burdens, In the tragic repetitions of a homeland song, he dreams of a young entrepreneurship but a termite death hollows out his roots of endeavour You say to our men “Keep It In Your Pants!" and women, "Lock Your Knees!" but here sex is the only amusement, For a three minutes of relief we are ready to embrace this immorality, Although some taxable souls fashion to run charity, the poor wears tattered clothes, Rich wear them to look different, There is an agreement between the people sitting in the car and poor begging for some help Devalued lives full of shadows of slaves, as poverty live without evacuation, Caught in web of the foreign aid spiders, we prop up this capitalising protuberance and force feed the bourgeois class, Our propaganda has become just to see, sigh and cry Blindfolded by civil war, a source of political life and death, We fail to understand the kind of battlefield we are in and our weapons to deal withzzz always shouting for freedom of expression, Never tried to know the difference between our skin and our lips A divided country that sighs and cries for debt relief, Brainwashed by anti-propaganda, As leaders becoming millionaires every second and the people poorer every minute, The land filled with milk and honey, still cries "no money" Self styled media with fake morality, Aiming for PR and controversy interview a petty thought repeatedly to make it a philosophy, Their voice spreads pure venom in gentle dress, in the name of so called minority, Every news is labelled with religious stamp, They highlight the immoral as a face of nation, belittle the good-intentions Sex and violence is a new form of entertainment, Here big lawyers and corporations openly influence in the demo-crazy capitals to gain huge profits, Is this injustice with poverty and suffering not a clear indication of false thoughts that argue over a third world at this juncture? - Ashes of a Suicide As we played curse of tongues so long, I go alone on worn out routes with lonely societal road after so many accidents in pathways of daily burdens They injected “delusion of negation” in my identity veins, I although never had “flash flood of emotions”, I want to live even by eating char-grilled inner self Now a black hole, I decided to be one with this constellation of migraine, tablets, syringe, backache and insomnia that had emerged around I tied my wife's red “sari” around my disconnected neck, a reflection of my smiling daughter was in the mirrored almirah Devil instinct drown into the deep vastness of human frailty against earthly emotions, an inner tide hit me down unconscious How angry I was for not being among the dead? That kind of energy I needed to stay alive and I understood that An ocean emerges from the death of the river
Sandeep Kumar Mishra is a Bestseller author of poetry Collection “One Heart- Many Breaks-2020”, An outsider artist, a poet and a lecturer ,he is guest poetry editor at Indian Poetry Review .He has received “Indian Achievers Award-21”,IPR Annual Poetry Award-2020 and Literary Titan Book Award-2020.He was shortlisted for “2021 International Book Awards”, “Indies Today Book of the Year Award 2020” and “Joy Bale Boone Poetry Prize 2021” and “Oprelle Rise up Poetry Prize 2021”.He was also “The Story Mirror Author of the Year” nominee-2019.
www.sandeepkumarmishra.com
Fourth installment of Z.I. Mahmud’s thesis on Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield
Discussion related to the motivation and inspiration behind the foreshadowed novel David Copperfield Or The Purpose of Preferences and Study Of The Text Dickensian scholars and Dickensian studies would be adventuresome pursuit with the prospective narrative: David Copperfield. Fostering mainstream consciousness and dreaming socialist spiritual civilization parallels both traditional and modern critics radically. Glimpses of Victorian lifestyles, Dover countryside, Canterbury tales, lamp posts and carriage coaches of London streets, and Kent seashore cherish the readers with delight, ecstasy, glee, emotional or sentimental temperament for a life time awakening. In the valedictory note, it is essential to denote that reading David Copperfield’s imaginative characters in the fictional biography improves proficiency of creative faculties, strengthening cognitive function,germinating fruits of endeavor, resilience and endurance, awakening hearts and bosoms to grow and develop philanthropy, boosting humanitarian feelings and ennobling humane attitudes. Consulted Works Or References Or Further Reading & Bibliography David Copperfield’s Agnes Negotiating An Ideal by Adam Gregory Pence, A thesis presented for the BA degree with Honours in The Department of English University of Michigan, Spring 2000. Death And Inscriptions With Respect To David Copperfield, Great Expectations and Charles Dickens, Anna Foley’s thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Degree of the Master in Arts in English in the University of Canterbury, 2003. Charles Dickens’Great Expectations Penguin Classics Edition Review - A Moral Fable Appeasing Rhetoric With Laughter’s Appeal Introductory thesis statements Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations is indeed the masterpiece classic with the dignity or statute of luminary or phosphorescent best seller editions, cataloging as autobiographical genre in the literary fiction shelf. Notably, Penguin Classics Edition, globally have attracted the fancy of millions of readers or reviewers. 544 pages biographical literary fiction genre written or anthologized by Charlotte Mitchell of the UK Penguin Classics publication retail price makers sells the novel at UK pounds 5.99. Genesis of the Background Historically Great Expectations was authored by the Victorian novelist Charles Dickens incidentally after the periodical publication of David Copperfield somewhat between 1860 and 1861. Great Expectations’ somber psychological, moral and comic temperament paraphrases or allegorizes Victorian livelihood, cultural tradition and societal lifestyles; themes or subject matter of parents and children, power and powerlessness, aristocracy and genteelness, fantasies and reality, vanity and gratitude. Great Expectations’ Bildungsroman genre illustrates the process of self -discovery and maturation through experience different phases of life cycle as the protagonist moves through the Victorian Era with gas lamps lit night and daylight darkened by black clouds of smokestacks. Dickensian characterization has attained the wholesome attributes of human psyche and surpassed contemporaries (critical realists of the 1840s and 50s connoting William Makepeace Thackeray, the Bronte Sisters, George Elliot, Thomas Hardy and so on) so critics or reviewers have bequeathed Dickens with intelligent anecdotes of critical appreciations. The definition of distinguished Victorian gentleman has been idealized by Charles Dickens in the reformation, apprenticeship, education or moral improvisation, psychological culmination, Bildungsroman rumination of the hero or narrator Pip. Melodramatic exaggerations have been reflected in the comic or witty characters until realities fade away. “Haughty spirits” and “freakish eccentricities” of Miss Havisham especially pervaded even David Copperfield despite mastery or popularity. Philip Pirrip Pip, the heroic character or narrator protagonist, Miss Joe Gargery, the dictatorial disciplinarian motherly figure who uses the ironical menacing “tickler” to abuse Pip. Mr. Joe Gargery, the backsmith whose warmth and generosity shields Pip’s against adversaries amongst the countryside forge cottage of Kent and recreational Three Jolly Bargeman. In Kent’s seashore southeastern England, Dickens spent the first nine years of his childhood. Mr. Wopsle, the pontificating dramatic clerk of the parish braging thrown open to commoner, Uncle Pumblechook, Joe’s self-important relation who acts in concert with Mrs. Joe and Mr./Mrs. Hubble who despise children and they were wheelwrights (they are minor characters in the novel). Abel Magwitch, the lately benefactor and earlier gypsy convict or prisoner, Estella, the unrequited heroine, minor character Mr. Compeyson, the husbandly figure who materializes Miss Havisham’s heart or the second convict or escapee, Mrs. Wopsle, the aunt of Mr. Wopsle, educating elementary students at school in evenings. Miss Havisham, the haughty spirited dowager or mysterious spinster with opulent dwelling (ironically Satis House gilded and ornate crumbling ruins of a gothic mansion and cold winds blow at the rotting barrels of dilapidated brewery) with her adopted daughter, Miss Estella, the idealized vanity or ambition maiden whose name connote star in literary terms. Biddy, the resident store keeper beneath the school, teaching assistant to Ms. Wopsle, her grandmom, minor dwarfian dramatist persona characters include those wedding feats relations jockeying for favour of Miss Havisham (They were Sarah Pocket, Georgiana, Camilla and Raymond). Sarah Pocket frequently visits Miss Havisham to assure herself of a generous bestowed endowment and she dislikes her brother Mathew Pocket. Dolge Orlick, the malignant labour whose torments the Joe household and the vengeful devilish antagonist. Jaggers, the lawyer of Abel Magwitch and Miss Havisham whose solicitation benefit inheritance funding and adoption lawsuits. Clara Barley, the fiancée of Herbert Pocket. Jaggers’ law clerk Wemmick was hard, cynical, obsessed and sarcastic. (Wemmick jovial or wry caretaker or caregive of aged parent and even Walworth manor. Miss Skiffins marries Wemmick). Bentley Drummle, the tout whom Estella engages into matrimonial alliance. Startop, the tutelage of Herbert’s academia and organizers of Magwitch’s escape. Last but not the least, minor personality Molly, the biological mother of Estella living in Jaggers’ shelter as disguised housekeeper. Cliffhanger denote the dramatic and exciting ending to an episode of a serial leaving readers or audience in suspense and intrigued or spellbound not to miss the next episode. Cliffhanger or a cliffhanger ending is a plot device in fiction which features a main character in a precarious or difficult dilemma confronted with a shocking revelation at the end of an episode of a serialized fiction. This incentivizes the audience to return to see how the characters resolve the dilemma. Symbolism (literary figurative trope to differentiate literally the object or action having multi layers of interpretation) or metaphorical imageries contrasting naturalism and realism in Dickens’ Great Expectations. “The sun was striking in at the great windows of the court, through the glittering drops of rain upon the glass, and it made a broad shaft of light between the two and-thirty and the judge.” Dickensian characterization enthralls and enlivens reader or critics with metaphors and personification alike symbolism and cliffhangers discusses earlier. Figurative or rhetorical devices: Metaphor is a figure of speech such a word or phrase symbolically allegorizing the aspects of characters to objects or actions which is not literally applicable. “Humbugs” and “toads” are recurrent metaphors in Dickensian characters’ description. At Satis House, the wedding feast invited guests the flatterer Sarah Pocket, Georgiana, Mrs. Camilla and Mr. Raymond are metaphorically “toads’’ and “humbugs” to the narrators’ psyche. “Humbugs” and “toads” symbolically allegorizes a branded individuals with peculiarities figuratively and literally they have the etymological or lexical inferences; humbug: artifice of a crooked fellow to adopting dishonesty and toad: a tailess amphibian with warty skin and stout bodily figure secreting poison. Personification, as a literary figurative speech, embodies or caricatures characterization with subtle abstraction. Miss Havisham, the haughty spinster and eccentric figure wearing of a wedding whitish bridal attire covering veil personifies “grave or burial dress” and “shroud” apparently. Moreover, the wedding feast banquet table infested with vermin and insects embodies of frosty fungus and mortifying decay. To the narrator’s voice, Miss Havisham hangs over the beam as if she is the resurrected image of living death hanging over the deathly gallows. In figurative language, antithesis is a rhetorical device or figure of speech referred to a person or a thing that is the direct opposite of someone or something. Wemmick’s personified non-identical twin images is a perfect epitome with contrasting Wemmick of Little Britain and Castle of Walworth. Visual imageries from the novel illustrate these exemplary quotes, “I saw that the lamps in the courts were blown out, and that the lamps on the bridges were shuddering, and that the coal fires in barges on the river were being carried away before the wind-like red-hot splashes in the rain.” Dickens loves feasts and scorns fasts as references from the narrative exemplify the Christmas Dinner scene. Oxford Academic Journal published critic Barbara Hardy argues that foods weren’t Dickens’ gluttony for gourmet rather they had been nothing but lovely ceremonies of sociability. Christmas dinner and the English geniality or gregariousness or bluffness of the pub setting weren’t sentimentalized as isolated institutions of goodwill. Good will connotes to the hospitality, amiable affinity, cheeriness, conviviality or chumminess which were ironically conventional curtailed hunger or poverty from the window. Barbara Hardy acclaims meals- beyond the giving, receiving, eating, and serving of food in her essays in criticism: Food in Great Expectations. “These values maybe summed up as good appetite without greed, hospitality without show, and ceremony without pride or condescension.” Furthermore, good housekeeping practice can be compared with the nourishing and well ordered meals. Play within a play occurs when Pip feels connected with the implication of guilt and vindictive proclamation. George Barnwell, a criminal in a play Wolspe reads who is sentenced to the gallows. “Deathly gallows” symbolic of Pip’s psychological distress traumatized at the news of parting with Estella. Estella, the fancy of Dickens deserted into forlorn since Estella went abroad.
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