Synchronized Chaos January 2018: Through a Glass, Darkly

Nick Turpin - Metropolitan Museum of Art photo series - life through stained glass windows

Nick Turpin – Metropolitan Museum of Art photo series – life through stained glass windows

 

Welcome, readers, to the new calendar year. For many of us, in the Northern hemisphere, this is winter, a time of dark, murky beginnings, which fits with this month’s theme, Through a Glass, Darkly.

The Biblical verse refers to our limited knowledge about matters beyond current human comprehension, to being aware when we don’t fully understand something.

Contributions this month address various aspects of life beyond our immediate grasp.

John Chisoba Vincent’s poetry, strident against injustice in his home country, also includes a poetic search for solace, comfort and protection. J.J. Campbell explores with dark, morbid humor the gap between the glorious life to which the speaker aspires and his actual life, where he’s hung over, alone, and stuffed with too many chicken wings. Mahbub creates poems where speakers reach beyond themselves, considering lost or unattainable loves and natural life that will outlast them after death.  Luna Acorcha’s speaker looks at someone from the outside with great admiration.

Heroism, as shown by the protagonists in the books Elizabeth Hughes reviews in her monthly Book Periscope, involves courage, perseverance and dedication on behalf of some distant goal. The children in Juna Jinsei’s The Essence of Neverland, a sequel to Peter Pan, chosen for character traits they add to the cause, help to patch up the fantasy kingdom after Peter’s death. The inadvertent adventurer in Gary Helzer’s Where Losers Live, Heroes Die, the boxer Jack Dempsey, memorialized in Thomas Brennan’s Million Dollar Man, and the stuffed rabbit Bun Bun, whose stalwart patience gets rewarded when her four-year-old human eventually finds her, all strive to achieve goals.

Lola Noir’s poems are more concrete, as she illustrates the seasons through tactile sensations of clothing and temperature. However, she also touches on experiences beyond the immediate, particularly in her poem ‘Sad Girl,’ where a lonely person from a rough background identifies with different social movements while living her individual life. She’s specifically rendered enough to be an individual character, yet, especially since she’s unnamed and addressed in lower case, universal enough to represent many people.

Nostalgia can also pull us beyond our present surroundings, as we see in Lauren Ainslie’s poem, at once a lament about growing up and a fanciful piece about the impetuous energy of childhood. Kaia Hobson’s pieces also address similar themes, with their more traditional evocations of childhood and the joy found in indulging in favorite activities.

Christopher Bernard also contributes a modern nativity, which we published before Christmas but now link here.

Please enjoy reaching for the light of meaning through this issue. We hope that the submissions bring warmth to cheer your winter months.

Photo by Janus Link - galaxy nebula background

Photo by Janus Link – galaxy nebula background

 

Poetry from Luna Acorcha

You Know What She’s About

 

The curve of the mouth

comes loose with her

and she talks like she’s from Texas.

That little painting looks

all cute beside her.

It’s from Texas or something.

You know, I’m not real sure where

I’m coming from

when I say this,

But she makes me think of the south.

And that’s all about Amanda

and Jose.

Jose and Amanda are all about the south.

And she talks like she has

a really big crush on

him, but I totally get it,

it’s hard to resist

he got a real good tan from

Texas.

And it’s cool to talk about the south.

Something warm, she knows.

She’s got the perfect lines.

She’s real cool.

But like whatever.

And she doesn’t really need these

people,

she’s cool without them.

She’s cooler than you.

 

 

Poetry from Kaia Hobson

i am okay

 

i was okay with running

till my little dimpled legs give out

and my feet burn

and the rug spins

and ben’s screeches drown out my giggles

 

i was okay with taking it slow

squeezing my mother’s thumb

till it turns a deep royal blue

only the tightest of grips could allow

 

i was okay with staying inside

and flipping page after page

till even my neck hurt

because i could never take this slow

 

i was okay with drowning

almost

but devoted to the thrill

the boundaries

the doors, open

like i was

 

and i want to stay like this

bundled up warm in these blankets

of why i am

but the warmth is fading

and i want it back

Poetry from Lola Noir

Winter jumper

 

One of the best things I like about Winter is being able to wear my Winter jumper.

It’s big enough to wear as a dress and the sleeves easily cover my hands.

It’s vintage with Nordic patterns knitted in high quality wool.

 

His hand dives underneath my Winter jumper.

 

“Doesn’t it tickle?” he asks.

 

I contemplate his question.

 

“No, if anything it tingles like a multitude of needles brushing swiftly against skin. It’s a joyful irritation — a constant reminder that my body is still here and receptive to sensation.”

 

“Masochist”, I think to myself.

 

When I don’t wear a bralet the wool burns my nipples.

I often don’t wear a bralet underneath my Winter jumper.

Continue reading

Poetry from Lauren Ainslie

Wild Children

I

We were all one before.

No mother

no father

just brother and sister.

We were the Wild Children

who climbed on back steps from balconies

and snatched at butterflies.

 

II

Too young to understand she and I

did not notice our brothers were drifting apart.

Did not notice that laughs now had weight

and clothes were no longer passed around like currency.

Age was unreal to us

but to them age mattered—

one was older than the other.

 

III

We are not the Wild Children anymore.

Instead wild sisters.

Older brothers left ice cream and trees for darkened smiles.

That family is only remembered when

we lightly touch hands and remember in whispers,

pretending the butterflies are above our heads instead of in our eyes

and we nod because we only ever knew the goodness of it.

 

Poetry from John Chizoba Vincent

AND LIBYA SAW OUR WEAKNESSES
and my CNN opened on a breaking news on a dark street in Libya, about Nigerians chained to be sold as slaves.
the television slide and roved over,
their tears shattered and their blood spoke of pains on the blazing ground.
the newscaster hid her face,
the screen went on chaos,
the remote ceased as their tears quaked the entire earth.
from people’ basket of wailing, my heart shrieked and three cities were built:
graveyard, hell and death.
This was the totality of manslaughter,
a trade made by Africans against Africans.
they made their souls like an old nest,
torturing their brothers as if night and day are not the same to a blind man.
another ship has capsized in my body and my eyes is yet to find fins.
I have to die for these men!
I will hold down Libya for this blood!
I will decorate their cities with skulls and cracking cackling ghosts.
I will spread black demons on their grounded farmland.
I will break the bones of your infants,
Make their youths desolate to the world.
I will curse their old men and women,
Their rivers  shall be blood like Egypt.
Not in this season will my brothers wail like this and my government is silent!
Libya! Libya!!  When I shall start my dirge, your home shall be my starting point.
I have written my national diplomacy,
the world has seen my woes howled,
I have consulted the embassies of the UN
remember, butter is not made for monkeys!
when those blood shall start singing an elegy, none of your ears shall stand.
the last time I visited Libyan cemetery,
Nigerian dusts was what I saw.
if you see my mother looking out for me through the window,  tell her I have gone to Libya for my countrymen.
I am not a streamline to be wasted,
I will like to see if there are survivors,
I will like to see my people even their dust because I will take them back home
If my government is silent, i won’t be!
these are men that have children,
these are women that need husbands,
these are youths, our pride, to run our memories, to sip our memories, to occupy those bed back home.
Libya! Libya!  Where are my seeds seized on your border of sin and destruction?
leave me to a piano, I will play a note of your cruelty and music of sadness!
Bite your own tongue and see how painful it is to engage in a war.
and these weaknesses of my people you won’t see in me,  I shall stand like Okonkwo to kill and make life to those who wants to live!
I will anoint your head with sore palmwine that forsake fermentation.
those blood  you wasted are the sap of ancestral trees.
till then,  if see my father looking out for me,  tell him that I have Libya on my palms, our weaknesses  they saw yesterday is not cowardice but strategies and passport to reach the world.
it is a martyrdom, making me to wax stronger.
we walk our sagging lips
through a street of walls and emptiness
we hold our hopes and they fall like sands creating cascaded dreams like a rainbow in the sky.
  Nigeria is blood not water!

Continue reading

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

 

in over a decade
 
trouble seems to
find me no matter
how many times
i try to change
my disposition
evil women like
to give me the
look
but in today’s
culture i have
no damn clue
what that look
means anymore
i still find myself
listening to basslines
in songs even though
i haven’t played in
over a decade
in my mind, i’m
smoking a cigarette
while chatting with
joan jett
reality is a state
of affairs not fit
for the words it
would require
———————————————————-
chicken wings and beer
 
it’s having to take
a shit and you’re
three miles from
home
and there’s traffic
you’ve learned
over the years
that any sudden
movements mean
you are buying
new clothes
and in the worst
case scenario
a new vehicle
the sprint doesn’t
need to happen
until the toilet
is in sight
one of these days
you’ll remember
the pitfalls of
spicy food for
lunch
——————————————————————-
a beacon of hope for the world
 
two in the morning
scribbling down
words
pretending my pain
is a beacon of hope
for the world
pretending i never
have the urge to
kill or love
this war inside my
head is rather tiring
these days
i once asked my
doctor for enough
pain pills to kill
me
he laughed and
complimented my
sense of humor
no one seems to
understand i haven’t
told a joke in over
a decade
another empty bottle
of rum for the pile
one of these days
i’ll find oblivion
———————————————————————-
to the cruel world
 
try explaining to the cruel
world that a poet doesn’t
need to worry about money
or fame
the only thing that matters
are the words and the people
willing to publish them
that doesn’t pay the bills
ask not want not
you and your bullshit
philosophy shit again
how will we ever provide
for the children
or get a better home
or find a better school
district
you try to explain that all
these things have already
been decided on this long
strange trip
you just simply have to
be willing to take the ride
fast forward twenty years
and your children hate you
more than you ever believed
was possible
perhaps a solid job wasn’t
that bad a choice in hindsight
these padded walls beg to
differ
————————————————————
into fruition
 
life is a scam
much like religion
or weight loss pills
it’s nothing more
than the placebo
effect
and i hear all
these motivational
speakers tell me
that i need to think
it and believe it
into fruition
i never
got to six
feet tall
and i never
have fucked
a supermodel
just more bullshit
to sell some books