Poetry from Abigail George

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Man, with the gun
    I’ve never loved out of guilt. Don’t care
what people say or think about me. Don’t care that I live on an island.
Let’s start with what makes me happy
before I get to the unhappiness. This
is the location of the bones. They’re
found below. Underground this body
of flesh. The garden marks the road out.
Despair always created a tight feeling
in my chest. Showed a vision a Rilke
in my hands. Pictures of an unsmiling
Rilke. I’ve imagined Rilke in Austria,
France, Russia. As a pupil at a military
academy. The writer, the poet unleashed.
Rilke as the husband, the lover, the
father. For me, it was an exercise. Thinking
could he invent when inventing was
needed, dig, make repairs to. I think of seawalls, modern catastrophes, the
maths and science of distance, of
    paradise, of what lies ahead, the stigma
of substance abuse and illness. Taking
care of elderly parents, pride and ego,
insecurity and finding the motivation to write daily. This is
the age of women, so they say. Equality.
Men must stand up for the women.
Women have the vote but we must also have human rights.
People feel free to make comments
about my life. They’re like doves to
me, little earthquakes in the blood but
I keep them in the distance like the
journalists that have come to the house.
I keep them away like I keep my family away.
I think to myself that painters were kind to Mary. Jesus’ mother never
looked more beautiful or holy. I’m attentive in conversation with aunts and uncles.
I pay attention. Look closely at the mouths
of women. Their exquisite lips that enchant.
The men in my family are largely silent.
They only want to teach me. Lecture me.
In prayer, I am on my knees. When I ask
for forgiveness, I beg. When I love, there
are parts of my identity that simply fade away.
Decay is a hymn. Kissing is a hymn. Drowning is a
hymn. The asphalt jungle in which I
find myself in. It sucks the life out of me.
So, instead of hating, I cook rice. Eat
honey. Swim. Think of intimacy. Think that depression
is romantic. That it is all part of the process of becoming a writer. Thinking,
death to squalor. Death to poverty. Death to the man with the gun.

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Poetry from Luna Acorcha

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A Few Years Later
And then it turns into I love it.
I love you, but I am sorry.
He is like a young girl.
But honestly, she is a bitch.

 

Although I am unaware
that I am aware,
I am conscious
of your consciousness
and the feeling of
apple juice
warmed on an aluminum free
pot
making me feel
again of that time in which I was awakened
too early to recall
and too late to be rowed away
in the mug painted with
Mars, Venus, and Jupiter.
Mom, I really love that mug
and I am glad we still have it.
And mom I like talking to you.

 

I like this difference we have though,
it keeps us going. You get me?
Like, I want to know what thoughts of yours
will follow the thoughts of mine
that I proposed should hover
in this stretch.
Because it is expected-
a time for you to just know.
And Mom? When did you stop making me breakfast?

 

There are things I should do,
but, you know, I do not want to.
And I have no clue why
“Why,” has become a demand.

 

Now I need to ask you for a response
for someone else
because I am certainly uncertain of myself.
Friend, we do await on street
that has gathered blossoms in the gutter
for the attraction.
We remain unsure as to why
you invite us onto the velvet chair
of your front door stoop
and we become quite puzzled
when you ask again for clarification.
This illogical reassurance has
become most assuring.

Poetry from Yusuf BM

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YusufBMphoto
Man with Life
Helter Skelter
Morning man’s labour
Skirts and trousers on the street
Walking, running and talking
Yearning for their daily home festival.
Helter Skelter
Morning man’s mathematics
Addition, multiplication and subtraction
Equal to
Living life must strive.
Helter Skelter
Morning man’s petition
Hands and Beads hanging in air
Sacred books in man’s front
Kneeling, Yapping and Begging
For rainfall to shower his dry land.
Helter Skelter
Afternoon and Night man’s thought
Rhetorical Questions
And smooth riddles
Masking, Painting and clothing
Man with scary hues
“Who next will the world disown?”
©Yusuf BM

Author’s Biography

  Yusuf BM is a Nigerian teen author and a photographer. He’s the author of Brittle Songs  (Book of Poetry), he writes short stories, poems, essays and literary reports. He is a member of the Hilltop Creative Art Foundation (HCAF).

Cristina Deptula interviews physicist and fashion designer Kitty Yeung

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Meet KtY - a creative technologist and hardware prototyper focused on programmable clothing, computational textiles and wearable devices. As a former journalist, I had the privilege of interviewing her for Synchronized Chaos Magazine about her work combining fashion with electronics.

CD: You mention that you're a Renaissance woman, with knowledge of and interest in different fields. What sorts of combinations of areas of interest do you think stimulate the interest of today's Renaissance people? Where do you see fruitful collaborations among different lines of research, where these different areas inform each other?

 
KtY: Renaissance masters pursued many intellectual avenues. They developed culturally, socially and politically through their endeavors in art, music, literature, science, history, etc., and people in different fields inspired each other. Today, although the society has changed drastically, the same types of intellectual pursuit are still there. Through technology, many of the fields can further collaborate and advance together. Those could be tech-enhanced performances, digital arts, online communications, faster and broader distribution of knowledge. Those could also be advanced scientific research that influences other industries such as medicine, agriculture, transportation, garment, real estate, hospitality, etc., which impact people’s everyday lives. Today’s renaissance people still look at how their work benefits the wider society and intellectually influences humanity. 




















CD: How do people feel about wearing computational textiles, programmable clothing and other such innovations? Does technology in our clothes seem fascinating or invasive or some mixture of both? (Personally I see many more avenues for personal expression and consider it exciting!)




























KtY: This is indeed an exciting emerging area of study, because of all the possibilities new technologies can bring. Everyone can imagine a bright future when their clothes or accessories can constantly monitor their health, adjust to comfort, communicate, perhaps also cure diseases, or give more degrees of freedom for design and personal expression. However, there are many challenges that need to be addressed before that bright future is reachable. In order for people to accept such wearables, the items must not be invasive, shouldn’t make people change their normal behaviors, and be secure with the data they collect and transfer, and should protect privacy. 




Today’s technologies are not quite ready. Much effort has to be made to invent electronics that are small and flexible enough to be seamlessly embedded into textiles, new materials that can themselves be functional, batteries or other methods of energy supply that have more versatile form factors, long-distance wireless charging, computation and communication capabilities, and much more. There are also deficiencies and disconnects in the current traditional industries and ecosystems. I’ll discuss them in later questions. 












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Poetry from Joan Beebe

			
						

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LONGING


 


Why is there an unfulfilled longing that tortures our soul? 


Day and night it saddens our heart and we become wistful


And we dream.


We don’t understand this mystifying feeling.


The ache we feel seems to take hold of every part of our being —


we are overwhelmed by this persistent longing and become almost 


Helpless in this prison of mindless depression.


 Once we face the terrible results of this feeling that we are lost in a world of darkness,


We reach out to the healing rays of light and peace.


 We start our journey toward the sun.

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
Christopher Bernard’s Amor I Kaos: Fifth Installment

			
						

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Christopher Bernard’s Amor i Kaos: Fifth installment


 


I see the following:


The interior of a west coast café, with seismic support beams making a graceful right-angled triangle in the middle of the room.


Numerous café chairs, a dozen tables of various shapes and sizes, most of them occupied by leisurely eating and chatting lunchers (most are in couples, with a few small groups, and several loners seriously addressing their plates; there is a common table with several loners exaggeratedly ignoring each other behind their open lap tops); two iron railings lead up to the café’s glass door through a wall of glass looking out onto the street.


Passing cars, a truck, bus, males and females bustling, pacing, stalking by at businesslike gaits (mostly adults, a few adolescents, no children), two small, abandoned-looking trees across the street, the entrance to a parking garage with a sign flashing in red (“CAR COMING”), a cat sleeping on a backpack near the curb (no sign of the owner), three, no four, pigeons pecking in the gutter a few feet from the sleeping cat, the entrance to a 7-11, the aggressively hip windows of a Banana Republic, two narrow green doors in a wall, shut except for one that seems invitingly ajar, several open laptops, three smartphones being swiped or tapped by anxious-looking teenagers, three ballpoint pens held by two students and a tourist (the pen in my hand is the fourth), a V-neck sweater and two turtlenecks, two white quilt parkas, a business suit holding a briefcase in swift passage across the view, shadowy reflections across the street, sun, clouds, sky (just barely visible if I stretch forward and look up).


I smell: coffee, cloves, cinnamon, pastry custard, bread.


I feel: the press of corduroy against my legs. The squeeze of a vest against my torso. The rub against my wrist of my new watchband.


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Story from Joan Beebe

			
						

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The Christmas Magic of Santa’s House


 


I had a dream so real.  It seemed I was walking along a snowy path where the rays of the sun made the snow glisten like a precious jewel.  In the distance, I saw a gingerbread- like cottage with Christmas trees in the front and side of the cottage.  The snow sat on the green branches in a beautiful array making it a delight to one’s eyes.


As I approached the cottage, I could see very busy elves running here and running there with toys and mysterious packages in their arms.  Then the door opened and Santa himself beckoned me to come in.  Once inside, the glow of Christmas was evident all through the house.  There were several decorated Christmas trees in the spacious and beautiful living room.  Some new and old toys were placed on the mantle of the large brick fireplace, including a small wooden painted train, several troll figures, a baby doll in a little bed, miniature tea sets and a small iron red firetruck with a fireman at the wheel and a dog sitting proudly there


Though this charming cottage had the look and feel of times gone by, when Santa opened the door to the kitchen, I was amazed to see a very modern one.  In this large kitchen were several refrigerators, a freezer and two modern stoves.  A table sat in the middle of the kitchen upon which there were baking dishes, cookie sheets and some pots and pans.  Santa introduced me to Mrs. Santa Claus and she welcomed me with a beautiful smile, then handed me a fancy decorated Christmas cookie.  The kitchen was painted a soft white but all the appliances were almost a ruby red.  It was a busy place as elves were helping Mrs. Claus to bake dozens and dozens of Christmas cookies, cakes and pies.  In one corner, elves were decorating cookies, in another more elves were frosting the cakes with red and white frosting trimmed with green ivy around the edge of those cakes.  Other elves were rolling out pie crusts to await the filling of apple, blueberry, pumpkin and mince.


I was getting pretty tired after that cold walk in the snow so Mrs. Claus urged me to lie down and rest a while.  When I did, I fell fast asleep.  I woke up after some time and realized I was in my own bed but not all was a dream because it was Christmas morning and I knew breakfast would be waiting for me.  But first down the stairs I rushed to see if presents were left under our beautiful Christmas tree with the scent of pine drifting in the air.  Many brightly wrapped packages were there in colors of green, red and gold.  Santa had left me a shiny sled, a new pair of ice skates, and a pretty doll dressed in an 1880’s style ball gown with flowers in her raven black hair.


My dream made me happy but Christmas morning was even better, not just because of presents but a feeling of calm and peacefulness.  I would like to believe that most people had joy in their hearts with love and a wish that peace and good will be given to all mankind.