Photography from Daniel de Culla
Poetry from Precious Moses
Echoes I dreamed a dream in my dead sleep, But I dreamt not of my weightless limping cry. I dreamed of hope, on their palms they balanced the scenery, scenery of a better tomorrow. I hear many voices, Like its said a madman hears. I hear trees talking, Like its said a medicine man hears. Maybe am a medicine man, hearing, taking saps. For the voices are luring me to walk where springs and fountain unite in solitude. In the damp half light, dream wakes and the voices fade, now they become shadows that cling unto each other, but kiss the air only, only beneath the moonlight, where the waters tide blows them under. Fear squats at the feets of the faithful , And the sharp cries cut keen as knives. The souls of men are stepped in stupor, And pain shudder shoulders, even to the bones. The drunkard drink of the spell of beguilness And tonight men eagerly drink from the bottle of greed. But turn now brothers, turn upon your side Where we will settle to the sleep of the innocent. ©®Precious Moses Country:Nigeria
Poetry from Bruce McRae
A Big Thank You
I would like to thank the bluebird
for introducing me to the concept of evil.
Also, a note of gratitude to that cat-thief
in Copenhagen for relieving me of my worldly bounty
(you know who you are).
Some of these pauses were first published
in the Giant Book of the Head.
Without the assistance of spectres
this line would never have seen the light of day.
And I want to take this opportunity
to mention the red-assed sprites
cavorting in my mind, and to also thank them
for their unquestioning support,
as well as the bent angels, their advice
being given freely, whether called upon or likewise.
Lastly, a big nod and wink to the blind horse,
for which none of this would have been,
or should have been, made possible.
Carrying On In The Same Manner
Nobody remembers how the universe ended.
Some aren’t even aware that it did.
“Imagine Creation’s Big Bang, but in reverse,”
suggested a prominent physicist,
time scattering like shattered molecules.
Time a monster with a lamb in its mouth.
Earth shaking like a ride at a fairground.
“Carry on as if nothing has happened,”
the constable talking in his sleep instructed.
“Things are in the saddle and they ride mankind,”
Emerson obliquely commented from the garde de robe,
unaware he’d been dead for many decades,
the cosmos reverting to its standard darkness.
Double Feature
An empty cinema, a few last shattered dreams going about
the business of expiring. You can practically hear the stars
in dialogue. You can sense the disbelief, suspended from
a spider’s web-strand ever since the advent of the talkies.
On the ‘silver screen’ is a fine powdering of laughter and
ashes. In the back row are two apparitions locked in a kiss,
quite oblivious to the Age of Reason.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. The winner of the 2020 Libretto prize and author of four poetry collections and seven chapbooks, his poems have been performed and broadcast globally.
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
After Reading a Play by Aeschylus Torn by the god between the rocks of the Aegean and the high wave of the Caucasus, she falls on the black glass of the stage – Io, beloved of Zeus, driven across the world, maddened by jealous Hera; turned, grotesquely, into a cow. Prophecy lies: there is no end to the voice of her suffering. The god’s love is the storm of the ten thousand eyes of Argus. He is blind as the sun in its munificence moving across the air exalted after pleasure. Humankind is a child of water made of stone. Their pain is darkness and silence. The mouth of a hero who knows everything and nothing buzzes with gadflies and ashes. Yet the woman’s cry is the daughter of generations. It reaches us, gnarled in a distant wind. It echoes long in the canyons of time. It does not allow forgetfulness or peace in suffering traced in a poet’s words wrought of gossamer and iron. _____ Christopher Bernard’s book The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews. His two children’s books, the first stories in the Otherwise series – If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . (serialized in Synchronized Chaos under the title “The Ghost Trolley”) and The Judgment Of Biestia – will be published in November 2023.
Poetry from Michelle Adegboro
Atavistic memories I riffle underneath the image of a child counting 5 on her palms, I want to exhale the alternative of a dark desire. In the telescope- I see the stars in dark_black shades up-down. My desire is to clutch you in my arms and watch the white board with images of relics, Elicpse of reaching heaven. Am in the 5th & I still wander in the shadows of dark paintings, I see images of waking wounds with a girl standing on her feet. I was told in the 7th heaven, The eclipse-relics of every song that begins with letters"" Morphs into the image of a black girl surrounded by white skins with tattoos of heaven. Michelle Adegboro is 14yrs old, a poet, short story writer and essayist. She is a lover of art who believes she can make waves and an impact in the world through her voice, words and works. She is a member of hcaf Abuja.
Poetry from Edward Lee
THE ARTIST DESPAIRS IN HIS FAILINGS He attempts to paint a still-life, but finds life keeps moving, fruit rotting, flowers fading, limbs blurring. He discovers himself better able to stay still, imagining the paint on the canvas, the brush stroking the image into being, the finished picture better than anything he could have ever painted, and yet, false for all that, false. THESE FLOWERS OF STONE, AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE A flower of stone grew from the seed I found in a dream of a land I didn't recognise and yet still somehow knew. It had no colour, this flower of stone, but grey, no green nor red, orange or white, simply grey, faded and dirty, like a cheaply designed and poorly realised building left to time and decay. It was still beautiful, though, in the way such seemingly abandoned things can be. It could still steal your attention for minutes as you studied it, tentatively touched its form to see if it was real and not some illusion carried over from a wish made but forgotten even as it was spoken. It lasted one winter, this flower of stone, before the cracks began to appear, tiny tears in its stem that passed up to its petals, then the summer wind came and blew it to dust, each particle scattered wide, growing into new stone flowers, until half the world was covered, the cycle continuing on, spreading them farther and farther, until, for a season or two, nowhere on this earth was without one. The evolution of survival strengthened them through each generation, these multiple flowers of stone, until they were able to last all seasons long, the sweeping eye unable to find a place where one did not grow. REAP/SOW Our world crumbles around us, or more to the point, reaches the end of the collapse, begun lifetimes ago, and when we are called to explain, we simply say we didn't know, we had our eyes closed this whole time, our fingers in our ears, like children refusing to see or be seen, refusing to hear, children suddenly made adults refusing to collect what we owe.
Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, The Madness Of Qwerty, A Foetal Heart and Bones Speaking With Hard Tongues.
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com
Poetry from Ahmad Al-Khatat
SWEET CRIES & WHISKEY Ten hours exactly after work, your eyes smile through my inner tears. With my silence, I write a poem inside of me: "You're worth it and you matter." We are surrounded by glowing stars, creating a new chapter on forever love. We talk about every memory, sweet cries & whiskey, as if it is an obligation to pleasure the cosmos. Nobody is ahead of us or behind our grief. The moon engraves our feelings into the hearts of stars. I will live by burying my tears and making you smile. Your thoughts are like a mother's prayers for her child. With my love for you, I'm not afraid of death. The lust of being body to flesh, it numbs me for your bare breast. Don't let people know how much I adore you. Thirty-four years old and still can't express my joyful dreams when I see a wooden chair, rusty hanging cords & a knife with blood stains. Waiting for me to finish my cigarette and my poem. 25/09/2023 BHP A Moment To Breathe With every breath I take, I want you by my side. Or is this your love I am breathing? Even though I don't deserve a moment to breathe. Why do some friends judge us as Two burning cigarettes in an ashtray, or cheap liquor and generic cigarettes? Last night, my favorite liquor sang my sorrows loudly. Oh woman, I love you like a sad alcoholic. I'm depressed like nicotine to my drinking alcohol. This is my first time digging a grave for the bodies of my childhood, since this war has taken their lives. Inside of me, there are aches, regrets, and open wounds. Between you and me, there is a love flavored with honey. Take me to your destination, I will be your retired sailor. Where we can breathe in the fragrance of fruit trees and exhale the tobacco.