Ezra Pound was a hateful clown. That’s the poem. Fuck that guy.
Poetry from Kristy Raines
WHEN I SAW YOU When I Saw You… Your face.. took the place of the moon. Be gentle and don't place me in darkness when I approach. Sprinkle the stars on the path that lights my way to you. Lead me to you! Your eyes... became the desert Where I now wander, and where the night breeze keeps me company until I find your footsteps that lead me to where you wait. Wait for me! Your lips... were the place where our love began Do not keep them from me They are the wellspring of your sweet elixir from which I will be sustained, and the place where the sweet sound of your poems are kept until they are whispered softly in my ear Never keep them from me! Your chest... hid the the doorway to your heart where every emotion of love and gentle touch emerges for me on and where my hand rests over the beat. Open your door for me and then quickly lock it behind me so that no one else can ever enter Throw away the key! Your Arms.. held me and are comforting to me They are strong and warm my body They wrap around me like a vine pulling me closer to the firmness of your being They feel familiar around me Pull me closer! Your hands... felt warm like the sun They touch me lightly, like the soft feather of a dove making me tremble deep inside with each caress At times, they grasp me like a torrent storm gripping me as tight as handcuffs around my wrists leaving me breathless and crying out for more Never let me go! Your flame.. ignites my sweet dreams at night which woke the passion inside of me that faded, Your flame gave light to my soul It's the fire that keeps my heart throbbing for your touch and a heat inside that can never be extinguished by any other Satisfy the yearning inside of me! Biography Meet Poet, Writer, Author and Human Rights Advocate, Kristy Raines, born in Oakland, California, USA. Before becoming a poet and writer, Kristy worked as a Legal Assistance Secretary for the Naval Legal Service Office at The Naval Reserve Readiness Command in San Francisco, California. She then later retired from the medical field as a Medical Technician and Office Manager where she worked with and assisted many physicians from different countries and specialties. Kristy has several books not yet published. One book of epistolary poems is finished and waiting to launch with a prominent poet from India called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West". She also has two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", and her autobiography called, “My Very Anomalous Life” that she is working on, and has received many literary awards for her unique style and passionate verses of poetry and short stories.
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
Four Haiku he walks home wearing his black graduation gown pics of pink flowers — baroque music plays for the marble queen pothos between dog & wolf — moon thru the window or ceiling light’s reflection? YouTube before bed — would you call this stuff rainy snow or snowy rain? wet April Fools’ Day — bio/graf J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
Poetry from Saad Ali
The Regntiden1 for Lloyd A. Jacobs, Ejaz Rahim & Leonidas Efthmiou after Rain (Regn) by Edvard Munch (Norway), 1902 C.E. I The Bookshelf // I assemble the newly procured bookshelf and place the wooden statues of The Zulu Warriors— my father had brought back with him from Kenya in the Summer of ’96 C.E.— on either side of the five-shelved rack, as if The Valkyries at the Valgrind to Valhalla. I place the books horizontally on the wooden planks, not vertically—since, the weight of the words can also force the spine of the book to bend. * The weight of the words of some books is also (in)famous for forcing the minds-of-wo/men to bend & mend! And I ponder: if the weight of the words of my books will also succeed in serving such a purpose? II East & West // I literally use the compass to figure out the exact eastern-end and the western-end of my room, and place the 4’ tall wooden lamp— a present I had received from my ex-girlfriend in the Summer of ’14 C.E.— in the Eastern Corner. [Perhaps,] it’s the effect of the sweet intoxication from the aroma of the freshly rain-bathed soil that forces me to take the proverb, the sun rises in the East and sets in the West, literally! And I place the stone incense burner (with an uncovered opening to the compartment inside for hosting a miniature candle)— procured from The Body Shop— atop the lid of the lamp to symbolise the Stella/Sol.2 III The Vahana //3 I think of pulling my vahana – Toyota Aqua (Hybrid) 1500 cc (procured via a local car dealer in the Summer of ’17 C.E.) – out of the porch and letting her also bathe and breathe in the mint-fresh rain. * This early, early ante meridiem cata-doxa4 is a call for Celebration ‘n Change: the (in)famous Indian Monsoon is early in the Summer of ’22 C.E. Both the man & the beast will be observing the Thanksgiving early, too— since the sunrays, like the uninvited guests, had the dramas-of-life rather shackled, lately. ______________ 1. Regntiden (Norwegian): The Rains. 2. Sol (Roman Mythology): The Sun God. 3. Vahana (Hindu Mythology): The Ride of a God/Goddess. 4. Cata-Doxa (Greek idiom): (Raining) Cats and Dogs.
On the Beaches in Bulgaria: 2016 C.E. for Cameron, Monika & Aleksandra after Children Playing On The Beach by Mary S. Cassatt (USA), 1884 C.E. I Today — Solis-roasted Sand2; Solis-burnt Sea2. It makes you appreciate e=mc2 in a rather strange, strange way. Or maybe it’s the beer (?) Under the gaze of the Thirsty Solis, a pint of Heineken barely manages to stay cool for > 300 seconds. II “… And pile it up more around the chest, belly & limbs. … But spare the face! You know I’m rather proud of my Persian Face!” He asks me to help him cover his body with the sunbaked sandy beach. “Don’t turn this into a burial rehearsal now!” I mock his idea of the sand-therapy. ~ The Scene / Act reminds me of the street hawkers from back home— roasting the corn-on-the-cobs & chickpeas in the salty-sea shore-sand on their mobile-stalls. III “We won’t let you drown. Trust Us!” Monika & Aleksandra make a support with their arms and teach me how to make my body float on the water. “When I was 9, I had drowned in The Indus River on a picnic day-out,” I stutter as I raise my legs & let the buoyancy take charge. IV Today — I’ve been rather unfaithful to myself: I violated the vow of Literary-Celibacy i.e. I broke the promise-to-self to not to indulge in any poetry & poems.
Cigarette-Smoke Halos for Family & Friends after The Muse Inspiring The Poet (La Muse Inspirant le Poete) by Henri Rousseau (France), 1909 C.E. I Mercury/Steel Cigarette-Smoke Halos for all my dreams. Why shalt I feel intimidated by an Israfel?* II Of late – poems are frequenting me like an Ottoman Emperor frequents his favourite mistresses in the harems. III Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a Socrates, a Constantine, a Rumi, a Ghalib, but without any fast acolytes. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a line without any alphabet and commas and apostrophes and periods. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m an epic that can’t be bound by any spiral or saddle-stitched spines. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a thumb, a forefinger, a middle finger on a hand that can’t seem to be able to strangle the wind. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a medallion, an untied knot on an Eshfahan, a Kashan, a Farahan kilim. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a verse, a couplet, a ghazal, a sonnet, but without any regards in her chest. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a curse, a prayer on a broken mother’s lips, who lost a youngling to some war. Sometimes – I feel like/as if I’m a Man —with a Free Will— but only as free as his idioms and narratives. ______________ *Israfel: One of the Four Archangels in the Islamic Theology. The named Angel is assigned with the duty of making the announcement for the arrival of Youm al Qiyama (The Judgement Day). Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up and educated in the United Kingdom and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is a bilingual poet-philosopher and literary translator. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrastic poetry and micro/flash fictions into Urdu: Lorette C. Luzajic: Selected Ekphrases: Translated into Urdu (2023). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. He has had poems published in The Mackinaw and Synchronized Chaos. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. He has had ekphrases showcased at an Art Exhibition, Bleeding Borders, curated at the Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. He has had poems featured in two anthologies of poetry—Poetry is a Mountain (2019) and This Uncommon Place (2019)—by Kevin Watt (ed.). Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector, et alia. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.saadalipoetry.com; www.facebook.com/owlofpines.
Poetry from Sandip Saha
Heaven on the earth I remember those golden days thirty minutes past nine evening the sun was still in the west sky yet to touch the horizon our dinner was over it was time to go to bed but my eyes were not blinking lest I miss the beauty of nature I did not sleep much that night at three o’clock early morning the sun already rose illuminated surroundings as well as my mind no traffic at all in the roads below our hotel night survived only for a few hours. Standing on the shore of the Atlantic covered in thick woolen wares as pricking cold piercing to skin we went to see the sunset, in panoramic view of my camera I caught the sun in between cliffs partly submerged in the ocean, its roar appeared to be loud laugh of joy our coach was running in snow fall both sides of the road were flooded not by water but with ice it was dawn, the red sun threw its first ray of light to the peaks of hills white, it was only white everywhere my mind found heaven on the earth. I saw you When I saw you last time you had one squirrel that came running from the bush jumped up on your palm swallowed three almonds ran away back to the jungle your fondness of birds was as profound as ever couple of them were sitting on your head so colorful and lively it was a pleasure to look as I left, you took up a book on your lap sitting on a door step on a trimmed green lawn with a cup of coffee you got lost in it the smiling roses and marigolds were soaked in dew on the lawn the golden sun just reached from the morning horizon making them pleasant bees came on them buzzing the cowboy left home to graze his cattle herd long way to go for meadows over hills calm and quiet he took his lunch box as at dusk only he will return. I want to dissolve my mind Every moment of my life is dying drowning in the ocean of the past the stories that are composed become history forever. My mind and body are floating in the flowing river of time they are destined to die one day or the other. My Self is observing sitting on the bank it will do so till the show is over. Whatever once started is going to finish body will perish mind mourning melancholy. Body suffers sadness till it dies mind carries the grief forward from one body to the other. How to slain the mind is the job in hand let it dissolve in the Self abolishing painful existence. I met God Meeting God is a wonderful experience for which many devotees hanker after considering it the highest goal of life. God has been met by different people in many different means and ways most of them by bhakti yoga. They want to meet It as the beloved the endless ocean of love in which they like to dissolve themselves. Some get It as the divine mother or the father who is the savior Yashoda got It as son and so on. Experiencing the immense power of God is also meeting It, not as the lovable but as the most unconquerable entity. I went against the God vehemently for many unfortunate ills It causes to us abused It left and right spurring venom. I was about to leave for Japan with my wife paid huge amount of money to the tour operator but two days before the journey I got typhoid. It attacked me with Its deadly weapons typhoid was accompanied by asthma cough, severe dysentery, arthritis. Over and above that my brain was invades by gas I could not lift my head lost control on myself soiled my bed passing stool and vomiting. It was so severe that I felt I may die it was deep at night, my wife was also helpless that day I bowed to It seeing Its supreme power. Preposterous politics Now a days there are rushes among politicians to fall at the feet of poor people of lower cast. Some greats men described this as worship it seems, according to them, presence of God is more in poor unprivileged public than riches. Ha, ha, ha, these pretentious politically motivated unscrupulous actions are nothing to do with love. One elderly woman made a lavatory in her house for that the prime minister of a country bows down touches her feet. What a ridiculous action to appease! Another chief minister of a state appeases a poor man on whom one upper cast rowdy guy peed in public by brings him to felicitate with garland, washes his feet, puts the washed water on own’s forehead as though the man who hardly can meet his both ends will be benefited. Democracy has developed devotion to downtrodden, do you know why? Because of vote bank politics. Politicians can spit and lick the same for votes TV channels have become a dumping ground of debris of societal actions to irritate the senses of viewers. Sandip Saha (India) won two awards from India and one from USA, published six poetry collections. He also published 152 poems in 47 journals including The Gateway Review, 300 Days of Sun, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Brushfire Literature & Arts, Sheepshead Review, In Parentheses in six countries- India, USA, UK, Australia, Romania and Mauritius.
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Permanent Lover Let me walk around you I shall be the sky above your head And give you the shade of love I shall be the ground under your feet And make your way comfortable I shall be the air of dream And give you a dreamland. Let me walk with you And hold your hand I shall be your eternal companion Leading you from hell to heaven We shall fly to our destination together All the butterflies will carry us The flowers will adorn us. Let me walk with your soul And carry it in my heart I shall follow your footprints Remembering the shadow of the spring The fountain will whisper with the sea The hills will guard your memories And the rivers will dance to well come us. Let me walk in your memories Without you I am alone Like an empty vessel of time The moon is like a barren field Where nobody can plough love I hear the sound of dream It seems that you are always in my heart. Let me walk with you And paint the colour of art Life is an endless Gallery Where everything is transitory But nothing is meaningless and lost Give me a soft permission To be a permanent lover.
Artwork from Mark Young
