Some Music Beethoven gets second billing on this one, It’s his complete concertos and sonatas, but The pianist gets top billing and his picture On the album cover, after all he sat there At his piano for fourteen hours and thirteen Minutes for this final draft, this final take, Plus how many hours practicing, rehearsing To get Ludwig’s intentions just right, like this. Imagine a world measured in sonatas, timed Out in movements in different keys, here we Are in the middle of it, Beethoven’s take on It, begin at eight in the morning, play it on Through the day, background allegro, adagio, Prestissimo and rondo as we do are daily bit, Some laundry, some dishes, some quick clean Up, before we give it a once over to be sure We did it all, and in the background we have Our pianist playing – till, what would it be, ten Thirteen PM? It’s not hard to picture him now Getting up from his hours of work, the complete Sonatas and concertos done, he closes the keyboard In a rather dramatic fashion, then he probably Watches the late news on TV, and finally, to sum up His day, he goes off to bed – like the rest of us. Canadian Geese They must not get stopped at the border the way the rest of us would be, it’s been closed for months now, Canada on one side, the US on the other, pandemics can do that to friends, but they fly over us all in their ragged V-shaped formations and squawk their complaints in neither French or English, complaints, I’m sure, they have made for centuries of migration, following the seasons like this. They stop along the way, a field nearby can hold hundreds, thousands it seems when they get restless, begin to form up their wedges to set out again, it’s as if they are choosing up sides or maybe just choosing what leader to follow; they know each other, never seem to fight, except when they get squawking which sounds like arguing, perhaps arguing about navigation or leadership or where to stop at the end of another day. These are just geese, noisy communal beings following what nature has set out for them, Canada one day, then heading south, borderless, relentless, a reminder how things should always be. Novel Life The hero of the book I’m reading is wandering the streets of Marrakesh with great ease, even names the streets and areas as if we plan to visit and use him as our trusty guide on our next trip to Marrakesh. For him there’s no language issues in Marrakesh, everyone speaks English or at least the people he talks to do, no one seems to speak Arabic or Berber, which according to Wikipedia are the two languages normally spoken by people in Morocco, but our hero, world traveler and spy extraordinaire cuts through the things that would stumble us, drops a dirham or two getting things done, sips drinks with beautiful women in the best hotel bars. TripAdvisor doesn’t list the place he’s staying, but it must have been selected because of its atmosphere and guest diversity, the beautiful blonde, the rugged Russian spy and our guy, who no one supposed to know is a spy guy too, MI6 or is it 7, I always confuse the two, but he’s undercover as all good spies must be. But in the end the plot and its outcome are simple and predictable, heroes in the books I read win in the end, but I don’t read them for that – it’s the place, for a few hours I get to wander the streets of Marrakesh, spending lots of dirhams, speaking English and a bit of broken Berber to beautiful women and other spies that are in some exotic hotel bar. J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His latest writing project is writing a poem a day during what seems like this endless pandemic – it’s in the two hundreds now. His recent poems have appeared in Literary Yard, Black Coffee Review, New Feathers Anthology, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, and Highland Park Poetry.
Poetry from Moustafa Dandoush
“Sugar” Green sugar, fascinated me since first eye-match, Transformed everything lean into chubby, Seemed Honeyed more than the heavenly honey, Bees always fight 'cause- It’s rarely found. Sugar diamond lights More than sun-moon together, Green rainbow is cheerful More than festival lights, Green medicine heals every patient with its taste. God, the one who created, So shall we keep thinking! How attractive, stunning, and super it is? “You're a puzzle!” I Podría merecer algo mejor, pero solo a ti quiero. Ik verdien might misschien beter, maar ik wil alleen jou. Je mérite deserve peut-être mieux, mais c'est seulement toi que je veux. म_ बेहतर लायक हो better, सकता _ं, ले_कन यह केवल आप चाहते ह_। Daha iyisini hak edebilirim, but ama sadece senin istediğim sensin. Talvez eu mereça melhor, mas é só It's você que eu quero. 我也许应该得到更好的，但是我只 only 想要你。 B'fhéidir go mbeinn níos fearr, ach níl uait you ach. 私はより良いに値するかもしれませんが、それは私が望むあなた I だけです。 Potrei meritare di meglio, ma è solo tu che voglio want.
Poetry from Mahbub
The Bubbling Words
I can’t say any word to please your heart
I know I always stagger on the sandy land
My river dries up
The boat touches its bottom
In this vague consequence
I only bubble
Feel like joyous at your jolly face
Glows with an excitement
It’s my mother’s lap walks me forward
I hobble and bubble
It’s my mother’s hand rising high
Charms the world I laugh and cry.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11/11/2019
The Hungry Falcon
The hungry falcon is just waiting
Waiting for the little body
The little dying baby dashing down on the ground
Only after some moment the bird will satisfy its belly
The torn dry leaves scattered around
None but the falcon stands by
O hunger, who are you?
The world is bursting out
Pathos drops into our soul
We enjoy our days
So many ways
The dying baby is going to close its eyes
Lying on the ground
The hungry falcon is just waiting.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
11/11/2019
The Horseshoes
Who likes to spend the time all for the shoes?
To be nailed in the hoof of a horse
Beaten and trodden rubbing out the skin
Bleeding and throbbing
Struggling with the forswears
Nothing smiles over
Heart, always cries for what?
Rivers continue to dry up
Birds migrate to the others
Heaven burns with fires
Devils take over the charge
Satan rules the earth
After being pastured the day long
Just reaching the nest all my pigeons, hens and cocks die
Can we see the bleeding humanity?
The horseshoes can’t last too long.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
14/11/2019
The Overwhelming Night
The night appears too long
It moves me more often than not
The soft wind was blowing
The clear moon was shinning
Feeling so glad
Twinkling the stars on my face
The silence of the night spoke to me hissing
Like an angel
Instantly it started to feel the heart scared and trembling
Nothing to see as eyes closed not to play hide and seek
Sleeping eyes feeling joy in fear
In the shinning moonlit long with my grandfather
In the abyss of silence I felt the overwhelming night to the bone.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
14/11/2019
The Heart Speaks before
The eyes of the hyenas
Devour me every moment
My rolling stake
This muddy heart always swings in
You can see on the face
But I feel like touchy
When you move on telling
‘O soft hearted dear,
You are so loving
I can see the light spreading over.’
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
14/11/2019
Poetry from Coco Kiju
Is it only me???
It’s been a decade now,
Since we last saw each other.
But it still hurts me to know,
That you’ve moved on with another.
I still remember our times together,
When we talked about ‘happily ever after’.
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder,
Is it only me, or do you also still remember?
Every other night, I look at your picture,
And reach for my phone to dial your number.
But if I really called, would it be a bother?
Is it only me, or do you also still suffer?
I still listen to the same songs,
That you used to sing only for me.
I try my best to stay strong.
Is it only me, or do you also still think of me?
It’s so damn crazy, how I never knew,
That I could never move on to someone new.
It’s sad that you’ll never know how I long for you,
Is it only me, or do you wanna come back to me too?
Surakshya Kiju, a.k.a. Coco, is a 23-years-old girl who is passionate about writing. She is a blogger at Poems From Heart, where she pours her heart out, laying bare her emotions as she portrays the world through her eyes. Her poems—which range from rhymes to sonnets—have been published in literary magazines like Cambridge Hall Poetry Journal. Each day, she strives for self-improvement, even as she inspires others through her own poetry. Please check out her blog at : www.poemsfromheartcom.wordpress.com
Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope
The Only Book A Kid Needs To Read About the Coronavirus Ever by Dr. S. G. Jack
This is a very informative book about this horrible virus that is so dangerous and became a pandemic. It is written so that children will be able to understand it and I believe it could be informative for teens and adults as well. It explains why the virus is so dangerous, how easy it is to spread and why wearing masks and social distancing is so important. It explains how it spreads and why there are not that many treatments for it. It also explains why doctors and scientists are learning about it along with everyone else. Since the virus is now becoming worse with many, many more new cases, I believe that every family should read this regardless of whether or not you have small children.
S.G. Nair’s book is available here.
What If? by Paula Hayes
What If? by Paula Hayes may only be 45 pages long, however, it has a very strong and deep message. This story may be fiction but could be very believable. It is the story of a woman named Paula, who is getting her coffee one morning when she looks over at the park. She makes eye contact with a man who is conversing with another. When they make eye contact, it is though he looks deep into her soul. She tells her husband about this man she only knows as Jesse.
For awhile he believes her. As days go on, more civil unrest breaks out, as though it is a war between good and evil. Jesse continues to spread the message of peace and love. This book has a very powerful message. It would be a great book to read in this time of unrest and hatred. The message just might enlighten the reader. It really touched me deeply.
Paula Hayes’ What If is available here from Indie Bound. It’s published by The Writer Central.
Poetry from Patricia Doyne
ACCEPTABLE LOSSES
Kellyanne, queen of alternative facts—
Won’t miss her.
Kaleigh, who promised, “I won’t lie to you.”
Won’t miss her.
Betsy DeVos—what she did all day
with schools on-line it’s hard to say,
but she never liked public schools anyway.
Won’t miss her.
Old toad Barr, the president’s pawn—
Won’t miss him.
Said executive power stretches on and on.
Won’t miss him.
And grim Steven Miller, the border king,
said, “Kidnap the kids who cry and cling,
and cage them. Asylum just isn’t our thing.”
Won’t miss him.
Jared Kushner, the son-in-law—
Won’t miss him.
The COVID team and the Middle East
won’t miss him.
Rudy G., who went to court
alleging, “Fraud! Recount! Abort!”
Long on talk. On evidence, short.
Won’t miss him.
Cohen, Flynn, and Manafort—
Won’t miss them.
Pappadpolis, Gates and Stone—
Won’t miss them.
The wall that Congress refused to fund,
tweets that screeched from sun to sun,
conspiracies from Rush and Sean—
Won’t miss them.
The president with his orange face—
Won’t miss him.
Lying and cheating to win this race—
Won’t miss him.
I’m sorry his dad was a nasty guy,
but in a pandemic, he could at least try
to safeguard the people and unify—
Won’t miss him.
Copyright 11/2020 Patricia Doyne
TRUMPED IN 2020
D is for deplorables who deify him.
O is for the hair he overcombs.
N’s for NRA, his favorite lobby.
A’s for absentee, those jerks who mail in votes.
L’s for loans, four million dollars owed soon.
D—dig in your heels, refuse to go.
Put them all together, they spell:
Don, the Dictator-wannabee…
Just sue the bums! The courts may dump your foe.
T’s for tweets and trolling all opponents.
R’s for racist. Yes, his record’s clear.
U is for unfair. All votes got counted!
M’s for media hoax, fake news, and alt-right smears.
P is for pandemic, growing daily.
E is for election. Dude, you lost!
D makes TRUMPED! The Dems win. You’re the loser!
But still he screams to get their ballots tossed.
Copyright 11.2020 Patricia Doyne
Short story from Denis Emorine, translated from French by Michael Steffen
By Denis Emorine
Translated from the French by Michael T. Steffen
She is coming for me
For Jayant Dupkar
The room was full of people. A light stirring arose. The writer gazed absently before
himself. He was tired of being consulted like some oracle, when he had nothing to say. Stifled,
he regretted having come. He felt like a goldfish in a bowl. The first question startled him :
‘What are your thoughts about this epidemic that’s ravaging the world ?’
He shrugged his shoulders a little and didn’t respond. The question was repeated. The
writer kept silent. There were murmurs of disapproval among the gathering. Just now his
attention was drawn to a woman who looked at him attentively. Her eyes were of a blue that
reminded him of his mother’s eyes. Could it have been she who had brought her to him ? No,
probably not, but she was literally devouring him with her look.
More questions were asked of him. In particular these questions : ‘What is your latest
book about ?’ ‘Why have you called it, She is coming for me ?’
How much time had gone by ? It seemed to him the room was emptying little by little. He
couldn’t really care less.
Now the woman with blue eyes got up and headed toward him. Her stare at him was
insisting. They were alone now. Everybody had left. The writer arose mechanically. She took his
hand. He felt a kind of electrical pulse. He was struck by this stranger’s resemblance to his
mother. He was under the impression he was turning back into a little boy. ‘You’ve been waiting
for me for so long,’ she whispered to him with a tender smile.
The stranger guided him gently toward the exit. Nothing else mattered. Once they were
outside, he so wanted her to take him in her arms. And this she did.
He wondered where she was taking him. His mother had been dead for some ten years. In
his sixties now, the writer thought about her at times and wondered why the day ever came that
left him an orphan.
The woman with blue eyes looked at him again.
He couldn’t even feel himself dying.
Denis EMORINE
À celle qui viendra
À Jayant Dhupkar
La salle était pleine de monde. Un léger brouhaha s’éleva.L’écrivain regardait fixement devant lui, l’air absent. Il en avait assez qu’on le consulte comme un oracle alors qu’il n’avait rien à dire. Oppressé, il regretta d’être venu.Il se sentait comme un poisson rouge dans un bocal. La première question le fit sursauter :
« Que pensez-vous de cette épidémie qui s’abat sur le monde ?
Il haussa un peu les épaules et ne répondit pas. On répéta la question. L’écrivain garda le silence. Il y eut quelques murmures de désapprobation dans l’assistance. À ce moment-là, son attention fut attirée par une femme qui le regardait avec attention. Elle avait les yeux d’un bleu qui lui rappela ceux de sa mère. Était-ce elle qui l’avait sollicité ? Non, probablement pas,mais elle le dévorait littéralement du regard.
D’autres questions lui parvinrent. Notamment celles-ci : «De quoi parle votre dernier livre?Pourquoi ce titre: “À celle qui viendra”? »
Combien de temps avait passé ? Il lui sembla que la salle se vidait peu à peu. Ce qui le laissa indifférent.
À ce moment-là, la femme aux yeux bleus se leva en se dirigeant vers lui. Elle le fixait avec insistance.Ils étaient seuls à présent. Tout le monde était parti. L’écrivain se mit debout machinalement. Elle lui prit la main. Il ressentit une espèce de décharge électrique. La ressemblance de l’inconnue avec sa mère le frappa. il avait l’impression de redevenir un petit garçon. « Tu m’attendais depuis si longtemps….»,lui murmura-elle en effleurant sa joue. L’inconnue le guidait doucement vers la sortie. Plus rien n’avait d’importance. Une fois dehors,il eut très envie qu’elle le prenne dans ses bras ; ce qu’elle fit, d’ailleurs.
Il se demanda où elle l’emmenait. Sa mère était morte depuis une bonne dizaine d’années… À plus de soixante ans, l’écrivain y pensait parfois en se demandant pourquoi, un jour, il faut devenir orphelin.
La femme aux yeux bleus le regarda à nouveau.
Il ne sentit pas la mort arriver.