Sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you, I wouldn't know those soft touches That i felt through the spring of your clutches I wouldn't run a mile Just to see your beautiful smile I wouldn't know that warmth That I felt in your arms I wouldn't know the heaven of bliss That I found in your tender kiss I wouldn't know the taste of the care That I found in the blossom of your air sometimes I imagine what if I hadn't met you _ -Mamta Verma
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
The Dragons of Paris (Upon reading Fashionable Nonsense: Postmodern Intellectuals’ Abuse of Science, by Alan Sokal and Jean Bricmont) By Christopher Bernard Once upon a time, in the glamorous, notorious City of Lights that lies across the sinuous Seine like a seductive odalisque of reason and sensuality, beauty, style, good taste, and sense, there appeared a foul and toxic fog, a smoke that belched and bound the town in mental night. The citizens wandered, stunned and blind and crying out in random shouts in words no one could understand: “Le petit a! Jouissance! Différance! Pastout! Afemme! Séméiotiké!” that filled the air all over France from caves deep down in old Lutéce (“Mudville,” once called, now called again), where the Dragons of Paris disbursed, in smog, dank volumes of mephitic breath. The Dragons’ names put terror in the hearts of all good citizens: Lacan le Gros, Foucault le Mal, grinning Baudrillard le Bouffon, Kristeva la Sorciére, Jacques Derrida l’Indécidable, Gilles Deleuze, la Porte Sublime du Dindon de la Charabia, and more, with a host of dragonettes pursuing the work of their dark masters cooking in their dens a glorious madness of chopped dictionaries and tossed charlatanry, spiced with cynicism, that sickened two generations of impressionable, clueless, half-educated youth, most of them – hélas! – American. One day two knights rode from the west – Sir Alan and Sir Jean by name, “Follow the Science!” writ on one shield, “Physics to the Rescue!” upon the other – and bravely stormed the fetid caves whose floors and walls were lined with texts with dragon sweat and guano thick, unreadable, yet cruelly read by generations of undergrads and graduate students until they squealed, “There is no truth, there is no Real, no good not always already a weapon, Big Other, subject, sexual relation (sorry, mom, dad! I never really happened!), no meaning not infinitely deferred, no science, objectivity, facts (“no facts but only interpretations,” as unholiest St. Fritz of Nietzsche said); ‘Il n’y a rien hors de texte!’; no world, nothing whatsoever beyond the Word!” (because, if they didn’t, they wouldn’t get a degree (in English) so they could teach in a nice, respectable university, and maybe someday get tenure – but then, my friends, they wouldn’t even get that – poor dears! – in the end). With a thousand bold strokes, Sir Jean and Sir Alan pierced the hides of the Parisian dragons (“Mathematical gaffes! Scientific misunderstanding! Bad logic, worse grammar, bad French and worse English! Logical dead ends! Arithmetical nonsense! Hang it, just meaningless gibberish!”) and out of the holes in those green slippery skins hot air hissed away in a gale o’er the Seine, and the dragons – the two Jacques, the one Julie, Jean, Gilles, Michel, and a crowd of others – shrieking death cries, flew about in a panic as they shrank like a frantic mob of balloons, gnashing and frothing and hopelessly flying from darkness to darkness – one felt sorry for them, almost – till they shriveled down to what they had been all along: a few inches of thin rubber, with mouths agape, and nothing whatever inside them but air. Sir Alan and Sir Jean, armor dented and scarred, swords flecked with balloons punctured, and smeared with ink, exited the caverns out to the light and the acclaim of a grateful city. “At last!” rose the cry on all sides, “We can again see the sun! We can breathe! We are freed from the impenetrable night that threatened to destroy us – above all, our minds!” The two knights, bloodied, exhausted, but victorious, took their modest bows. “You are really too kind!” Then glanced at each other: it wouldn’t do now to tell these people they were partly to blame for nursing the dragons with their own folly: spare the critic and spoil the intellectual. Don’t get them in the crib, and give them a fight? When (if!) they grow up, they’ll give you a bite! At the banquet that followed, they had stories to tell: close calls with the enemies of thought and light, genuine creation, and piety for the human: intellectual pretentiousness in a shotgun wedding with despotic professional intimidation fueled, on the one hand, by status anxiety and, on the other, by narcissistic delight. Unhappily, they had not gotten all the dragons in the end: one sly dragonette from the Balkans fled, escaping to Slovenia, his innocent home, where he remains, cooking his oracles for the next set of gullible college students, if there are any left! _____ "Christopher Bernard’s most recent book of poems, The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, won a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award for Excellence and was named one of Kirkus Reviews’ “Top 100 Indie Boks of 2021.”
Poetry and prose from Jean Eureka
“Let’s dream big and make reality bigger than our dreams, let’s dream together in a humanity immersed in art, science and culture.”
Floating lightness By JEAN EUREKA
Floating lightness, sign materiality
opposite confrontation, unfolded metaphors,
in pacts of stone.
Mythical experience, inherited revelation
light synthesis, sublimation, imaginary.
Whole in quarters, Cloudy in media,
Asleep in thirds, Initiation and ephemeral body,
Wake up.
Alter ego neon, Eternal essence
Induction of the teacher, In silver gardens
time center, inert return, life, sacrifice, resolution
Tlàloc quartz, children, gods, droughts, Abyssal hike.
Resurrection of allegories
Luminous tremors
Idyllic awakenings
Brief review
In decaying inductions
Parasomatic, extracorporeal
Pact accepted,
On mother moons.
Swing bridges
Irreversible destiny.
Here and now
Tomorrow, never, always.
seductive lightness.
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Drought
By Jean Eureka
The prairie became desert, it was the decisions, the ones that are made, the ones that are forgotten, it was the wars, the pain and the greed. Of green cloaks, now marked cracks. The meadow became deserted, it was the indecisions, the ones that are released, the memories, it was the half peace, the false joy, the feigned detachment. Of blue cloaks, deep cracks. The lush meadow became desert, the sky no longer watered the cloaks, fearful of hypocrisy.
And despite everything, I can still see the light through the cracks.
Betrayal irreversible, death irreversible. Your impact, my impact, our impact ... let's not look to blame if there is no time for solutions.
Does it matter? Did it matter?
Earth resists, humanity ... awake!
The prairie became desert ... arid, hot, and inhospitable.
And we are still here.
Biocorta: The DHC. Architect Jeanette E. Tiburcio, known as Jean Eureka, is a proud Veracruzana. Living in the state of Querétaro for two decades, and the descendant of a great artistic, educational, historical and cultural legacy, she is known in the world as the Mexican Pandora's Box for her fascination with poetry. She is also known for supporting spoken word, for teaching architecture, the arts, mathematics, and science. Also, for promoting youth of all ages, architects and teachers. She began her career with a masters' degree in Innovation and Research, as well as in Neurolinguistics and Accelerated Learning. She has 30 years of experience teaching mathematics in basic education, high school and college, and has more than 150 awards for her activism, awarded in more than 50 countries for her social contributions, cultural, educational, artistic and peace achievements. She has 11 honorary doctorate degrees awarded by different universities on four continents. She is Life President of Mil Mentes por Mexico, Cabina 11 Cadena Global, Eureka, Accelerated Mathematical Learning and the International Rector of the Mexican University of Entrepreneurship. She is also the International Rector of the Children's University, a recent member of the World Academy of Thought, and an honorary member of Teaching Colleges in America. She is the Founding President of Sustainable Reaction working on the SDGs 2030, and the National Executive President for Mexico of the Main Research Institute of India in its general offices for Mexico. She is a member of different peace groups in the world working to forge a better human condition, where ideas are promoted in harmonious freedom of collaboration among nations based on understanding and promotion of universal values and respect to achieve justice and freedom of thought. In 2022 she was named Honorary President of the Hispanic World Union of Writers, which was founded 30 years ago and has a presence in 140 countries. She has two solo books and has participated in 22 international anthologies. She is the Founder of Las Olas del Arte Magazine in Belgium and of Trezz Magazine in Mexico and is the editor of Literature magazine in China.
Screenplay from Chimezie Ihekuna
Title: Twists of Life
Adapted from a book by Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)
Screenwriter: Robert Sacchi
Rev Michael Xhosa’s ‘Saved By His Grace’ sermon becomes a It narrates twists in the ordeals of people all around the world. Ranging from personal to professional, educational to business, political to ministerial endeavours, it explores the situations of individuals whose plights fall under them.
Genre: Short
For reviews, production consideration and other publicity, please contact us through the email addresses below:
– rsacchi@rsacchi.20m.com
Synopsis/Details:
Twists of Life is a five-chapter work that portrays “situational twists” – when those who sow good seeds in the world end up reaping a harvest of grief! Reflecting that the world, since its emergence, had had great affinity towards stories, this work includes a matrix of stories that appeal to all peoples of the world because of their specificity. Asians, Americans, Europeans, Africans, the Arabs and so forth have their stories mirrored in the literary work Twists of Life.
Chapter One, “The Graced Fellow,” paints a story of a crime-turned-love situation involving a group of armed bandits known as the Notorious Circle. They operate in Lagos, Abuja and the Port-Harcourt areas of Nigeria. Killing industrialists, merchants, politicians, robbing and raping young women epitomize their activities. From the Republic of South Africa, Morocco, Cameroon, the Central African Republic, Liberia, and Nigeria, and all currently residing in Nigeria, the seven-man gang became a household name through the nineties there. Coming from wealthy backgrounds, except for Bode, who had struggled, they all had their fill of ill-gotten success until the long hands of the law caught up with them. But something happened to Bode…
“The Other Side of Education”, Chapter Two, describes the twists in the fates of Ken and Spencer, educated at Kent High School, London. Ken was known as a “misfortune to mankind.” Spencer had all going his way-intelligence and influence. However, Ken would realize that earning “Fs” in class would not necessarily mean being a failure in life. This would be his motivation throughout his travels till he finally settled in his home, Canterbury, New Zealand, after he made it in the oil industry. Spencer, on the other hand, had a rosy life in England, his home country, until the financial crisis took a toll on him. This situation created a twist – brought Spencer to his back-in-High-School second-fiddle feelings toward “nobody” Ken after many years, but then another development comes up.
“The Woman In Politics,” Chapter Three, depicts the political tussle between Rodriguez and Gloria of the Peoples’ Party and Empowerment Party, respectively. Through politically motivated manoeuvres at the expense of her rival Rodriguez, who was winning the popular vote, Gloria became the first-elected female president of Brazil. The plot turned in favour of Gloria when she was quoted as saying: “…A man has his will but a woman will always have her way…But fate turned towards Rodriguez again soon, in Lisbon, Portugal and Madrid.
Chapter Four, “The Evil Genius,” narrates a story of how Park Sung, a Korean-America preacher, intended to set a record as the first man to embark on a successful world religious tour. With the P.A.G.A.N movement he set up when he was twenty-one, he had gathered knowledge about trickery and hypnosis and had studied world geography at a certain price…to DEAL with his uncle and master, Jin. For over the next thirty years of his life, he would achieve his agenda until there was a total twist in his blueprinted plan!
Chapter Five, “The Ugly Decision,” tells the story of a man, David. Growing up under the watchful eyes of his parents, Canadian disciplinarians, he promised to live a responsible life. However, as he grew older, he became a shadow of what he promised. Promiscuity took a hold of him. Due to that, David could not settle down in marriage the way his parents had at a young age. In fact, during his teen years, he vowed never to have anything to do with the promiscuous Eunice, but something happened between them years later…
“The Learning Authoress” is the last chapter’s title. It narrates years of rejection by several publishers for Greco-Roman American Alice’s work “The Twists of Life.” As time went on in her search for a publisher, one thing led to another and life brought her into personal contact with Skyline Publishers-the first publisher that rejected her work outright! She became a household name throughout California.
Poetry from Mahbub
The Yellow Bed In this world of hymn I had been so many times in the past But not like that I have got my sense today so colorful and new Just entering into the bed of the yellow flowers I was taken aback at the buzzing so loud As it calls, spreads around the bed like the slogan of the young Halting a moment I tried to understand What is that? Is it here or from other side I would like to pay heed to for some more time O my surprise! Almost on every flower the bees are circling and buzzing Rising up and low busy in sucking honey and hissing Like the lover maddened in love with the beloved Never before I heard this bewitchment, such a commotion of love Forgetting all other sites the wings on the air How swarming the bees on the soft yellow flowers in the winter sunlight! Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 26/12//2020 Memory The ship has just left the harbor The mountain is taking a large shape from one corner to other The round circle slowly turns into the U-shape before the eyes Advancing beat by beat The mountain appears to be smaller in size The ship runs some more - far from away It glows only the green and gradually it entered into the world of water What a wonder sight turnng into insight! As like as my mother goes away before my eyes What it left behind? More powerful than it appeared to be. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 26/12//2020 The Eternal Soul Soul never dies though day by day body collapses Soul is a cognition taking rest in a certain place after death Body slips away to the grave but soul flies higher A long sleep that sweet dreams may enlighten the eyes I believe death is not a journey to darkness It can't breach the relation that we have had in between us A journey to the eternity and light everyone is bound to taste Our love, responsibility, sympathy, care, duty to God move the soul to laugher and peace The soul that comes out from the sleeping peace of heaven on the doom's day The soul that regenerates the young deathless charming body In the endless peace of heaven the soul must rejoice then with bright face We are all on that ongoing process to enter into that eternal world. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 27/12//2020 An Outlook We Promised To make my mind calm and cheery I sometimes go out in touch of nature in soft wind or in the stormy rainy weather Nature teaches us how to flow, how to live well breathing fresh air We can have different taste and flavor in the moonlit night Or at the sunny moments of the day when we sit under the shade of the banyan tree The sky is always open at day and night We face the challenges of how to live and strife The misty winter morning, the silent long and large headed mountains, The crashing waves, the sunset at the evening, the sunrise in the morning, The soft blowing wind, the flying wings of the birds, the roaring and preying in the forest Even the dead leaf falling from the tree get mixed with the soil Sing the song of immortality fulfilling the demand we promised. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 28/12//2020 The Little Bright Flowers The little bright flowers kindle my heart As like as your soft voice glints my face Into the flowers I can fully see your love-laden flashy smile The butterfly flying around reminds me Your blissful note of expressions The sight of the flowers moving and straining I can live and die; a source of delight It's like the stars twinkling at night Like the moon eliminating sadness I look over this fascination again and again And make out the brilliance of love in between the flowers and you, my beloved. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 29-12-2020
Visual art from Mark Young
Poetry from Pesach Rotem
A Prickly Pair by Pesach Rotem The world is cruel and harsh and cold And we yearn for warmth—my love and I— A pair of porcupines We approach and embrace And she jabs me And I prick her And we flee, bleeding, back into the safety of the pain-free cold. Carey, Get Out Your Cane by Pesach Rotem When I was fifteen years old, Joni Mitchell came out with a new album called “Blue” that had a song called “Carey” that went “Oh, you’re a mean old daddy but I like you” and when I heard that song I resolved, right then and there, that someday I would have a girlfriend— I’m talking now about a real girlfriend, not an imaginary girlfriend— that someday I would have a real girlfriend and that someday I would be a mean old daddy. I had my first real girlfriend the summer after my junior year of high school. We were counselors in a camp. She said, “I think you’re cute” and I said, “Thank you very much, “my grandmother also thinks I’m cute” but she never said, “Oh, you’re a mean old daddy but I like you.” Time went on and I went to university and I graduated and I went out into the world. I thought about becoming a professional motorcycle racer but then I decided, for various reasons, to become a marketing content writer instead. Later, as the twentieth century transitioned into the twenty-first, I myself transitioned from regular marketing content writer into online marketing content writer and I must say, at risk of immodesty, that I am a damn good one, but, alas, online marketing content does not a mean old daddy make. I am now sixty-six years old. I will never read The Odyssey in the original Greek. I will never pole vault fifteen feet. I will never argue a case before the United States Supreme Court. I will never see Machu Picchu. And I will never be a mean old daddy. Why an Apple? Hello, everybody. I am Pri Etz haDaat Tov v’Ra. You English speakers may call me The Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. I’m cool with that. I am a major character in Chapters Two and Three of your Book of Genesis along with my sidekick, the Tree of Life, who actually has a much smaller part but nevertheless became more famous just because he makes such a handy metaphor: the Torah is a Tree of Life, the Sefirot are a Tree of Life, et cetera, but I don’t care, I’m not jealous, I don’t even know why I brought it up. What I came here to talk about is: Why an apple? I never claimed to be an apple, that rosy-cheeked symbol of good health and good cheer, and yet Albrecht Dürer painted me as an apple. Hendrick Goltzius painted me as an apple. Titian painted me as an apple. Lucas Cranach the Elder painted me as an apple. And the folksingers are as bad as the painters. Just listen to Patrick Sky sing “Separation Blues” and you’ll know what I mean and why I keep on wondering: Why an apple? At first, I suspected that John Milton might be behind it but my investigation revealed that John Milton wasn’t even born until 1608 while Titian and them had already been painting apples back in the 1500s, so that’s an airtight alibi that lets John Milton off the hook but it leaves me wallowing in puzzlement as I continue to ponder that eternal question: Why an apple? “Paint It Black” Revisited by Pesach Rotem “Use the active voice.” William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White, The Elements of Style Last night I watched a movie called “Devil’s Advocate” on Netflix and at the end of the movie, as the credits rolled by, they played the Rolling Stones song “Paint It Black” and the subtitles on the screen said “I see a red door and I want it painted black” and I said, “That’s a mistake, it should be ‘I see a red door and I want to paint it black’” and my date said, “Are you sure?” and I said, “Of course. ‘I want it painted black’ is passive and the Rolling Stones weren’t passive guys so why would they sing passive lyrics?” and to prove my point I replayed the song but to my surprise it did sort of sound like “I want it painted black” and I said “uh-oh” and we played it a few more times and we listened very closely and we also looked at AZLyrics.com and a couple of other lyrics sites and they all said “I want it painted black” and I said, “Well, I guess I’ve been singing it wrong for 55 years” and my date smirked. I brooded for a while and then I became defiant. “But my way is better,” I proclaimed. “‘I want to paint it black’ means I feel a powerful urge to grab a bucket of paint in one hand and a paintbrush in the other and slosh my pain and my grief and my anguish all over that grotesquely cheerful red door and all over the whole cold cruel uncaring world while your way—‘I want it painted black’—means . . . what? I’m going to send a requisition to the Maintenance Department to have someone take care of this matter? Where’s the catharsis in that?” I was starting to feel angry at the Rolling Stones for failing to consult with me as they should have done before releasing the song in 1966. I would have told them to read their Strunk & White and use the active voice but No, the Rolling Stones are too high and mighty to ask for my advice so I decided to lodge a Statement of Protest but I wasn’t sure whom to lodge it with so I lodged it with the songwriters Mick Jagger and Keith Richards and I also lodged it with Bill Wyman and Charlie Watts as collaborating members of the Rolling Stones and with the Decca Record Company and with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and with Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain and with the Upper Galilee Chapter of the Voices Israel Group of Poets in English and I am well aware that you can’t always get what you want but I did at least get some measure of satisfaction.
Pesach Rotem was born and raised in New York and now lives in Yodfat, Israel. He received his B.A. from Princeton University and his J.D. from St. John’s University. His poems have been published in more than two dozen literary journals including Chiron Review, Permafrost, Voices Israel, and Synchronized Chaos. His poem “Professor Hofstadter’s Brain” was nominated for a Best of the Net award. He is a member of the Israel Association of Writers in English.