Trapped in the Blinding Contrails a star has jetted down the sky, drowning me in its blinding contrails, my legs flail in their search for footholds, but they sky holds none. weathered scrolls with evanescent words map my cavernous world, ruling out the life my heart considers a cocoon. i seem to be lost on this winding path, despite the plethora of hands pushing me forward. being myself isn’t an option when my life is a totality of my predecessors’. my struggles in the contrails are measured by perfectionist eyes. let me out of the sky, find me somewhere beneath the earth. i wish to be a lone ‘one’ and not just a product of one and one, i wish not my life to be thrown into the mausoleum of my predecessors’. and while I stay adrift in the skies tonight, i try not to drown my successor in the blinding contrails i leave behind. What Father Calls Language I come from a corner of the world where you have to clip the wings of your words with scissors so they don’t fly from your throat into your audience’s brain through the wrong hole. Father says I don’t have to move my lips before the words ooze into my listener’s brain because language isn’t what I speak or write, it is that which revolves in my head. unsaid. unheard. When it Climaxes… my eyes widen, the cornea stretches, the brown pupils growing rounder and larger, multiplying the proximity between the eyelids. my lungs call for air but air seems to stop moving at the vestibules of my nose. the airs on every part of me arise like soldiers responding to the call of duty. my right hand, despite being shackled by my wristwatch, flails freely in the air, the popcorn in the captivity of its fingers roll backwards, finding the way out, while the left one grasping the popcorn cup remains immobile in the air. my legs are caged in my canvas shoes, rooted to a spot like the iroko. a piece of popcorn awaiting its fate -- to be crunched to death by the ruthless molars and drowned in the sea of saliva that flows down my belly -- drops back into the cup, followed by a drop of saliva that my tongue catches mid-air. my eyes dart left & right, front & back, searching through the myriad of faces that swarm around me, for whoever might have seen me drool. but none! everyone else suffers this fate. my eyes fly back to the huge wall before me where the pictures move, move & move again. that’s a huge plot twist, i must confess. When Love Beckons follow with your head and not your heart, cause the heart is a fool that makes too many mistakes that put your poor head in trouble, and let it resound through the chambers of your ventricle that love is but blind, so keep your eyes open, as you traverse the realm of love, so you don’t crash into the disaster that shatters your heart.
Poetry from Maurizio Brancaleoni
Maurizio Brancaleoni is a writer and translator.
His poems / haiku / short stories / pastiches have appeared in several journals and collections.
He manages “Leisure Spot“, a bilingual blog where he posts literary gems, reviews and translations.
“Uno o l’altro verso tante direzioni comunque”, the original Italian version of the poem published here, won second place in a literary contest on “the new places of contemporaneity” in 2015 and was published on the website of the poetry zine “Versante Ripido” (“Steep Versant”).
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
I Suck Love The spring walks around me The flowers spread fragrance The birds adorn each other The gentle breeze changes time The mountain sings the song of love The fountain touches the gypsy girl The river kisses the waves of the sea The memories take place in the flute The cowboy tends the sound of whisperings The moon dances in the eyes of dream The stars fly here and there I suck love from the cup of Nature And what is about you?
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
consumed with death they say i talk about death too much that all this doom is not good for my soul that makes me laugh my life has been consumed with death since i was four years old imagine understanding the concept fully before ever going to kindergarten don't get me wrong i love love love women, especially the ones that love me i would do anything to be consumed by that but i am not a lucky soul i know my number will be pulled soon enough i don't have the money to live like tomorrow doesn't exist if that changes, oh boy i might finally know what life is like living by the seat of your pants ---------------------------------------------------------------- cigarettes and cheap booze fell asleep last night to nina simone singing in my ear calling me a white devil and making me laugh under the piano in some bar in paris cigarettes and cheap booze in the air longing for the days twenty years before i was born only for the music though i have no use for the caveman thoughts in humans give me some chaos of jazz and my animal feels the only comfort it finds possible ------------------------------------------------------------- in early march three dead after a tornado hits indian lake in early march imagine that a bunch of idiots that don't believe in climate change get hit by a massive tornado, but not in the summer my empathy is getting harder to find -------------------------------------------------------------- across from the bathroom sitting across from the bathroom in the waiting room here at the hospital if i was a junkie or if i was in rehab for being one i can imagine this could be quite the test for me, i'm just hoping i don't have the need to take a shit the waiting room is getting crowded ------------------------------------------------------------- for a rainy night the old songs of leonard cohen certainly set the mood for a rainy night she had the longest legs you had ever seen on a woman fishnets, she must have read the poems she would dangle her foot up against my knee, hitting it playfully from time to time i whispered in her ear, as seductively as i could, that if she kept this up, she was going to get in trouble right then, her husband called her name from the kitchen i laughed she came back and handed me a glass of scotch, whispered in my ear that she wasn't wearing any panties i licked my lips and took a sip, playfully placed my hand on her thigh and started to slowly investigate she was telling the truth i put that finger in my mouth and told her she tasted like the morning dew we slipped out into another room and started to kiss her husband found us right before all the good shit started to happen he asked me to leave before he found the shotgun i took the scotch with me J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Black Coffee Review, The Asylum Floor, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Essay from Michael Robinson
Forty Days of Sadness Psalm 16:1-3 1 Keep me safe, my God, for in you I take refuge. 2 I say to the LORD, “You are my Lord; apart from you I have no good thing.” During the past forty days, I experienced the loss of a friend, and not for the first time. I knew of children in my community whom we had lost at an early age. Jesus was my friend, and I talked and prayed, knowing he was there for me. In my early childhood, I had come to know Jesus. We talked, and in my innocent child's spirit, Jesus was alive. During Lent all was going to change. He was to be taken to the Cross to die. I was an altar boy during that period. I witnessed Christ's suffering and death at the Stations of the Cross. His death was real to me at that time. My friends who had passed didn't come back to me. Serving each Station of the Cross Friday night for forty days brought sadness within me. I knew how this was going to end. Jesus was marched to Calvary to die. Each Friday during that time was a reliving of his suffering on his way to the Cross leading up to the black Friday when he died. The whole forty days were darkness for me, not just during the Friday evening service but throughout the week. I spent time in the church praying as the candle flames flickered. There was a realization that my friend Jesus wasn't there to share my life. Easter Sunday was so far away without my true friend Jesus. I knew Jesus was real because there was always a feeling of comfort when I talked with Him and felt him beside me. My foster Mother talked about how Jesus was alive to her. I, too, felt that Jesus was alive. She was convinced of Jesus' presence. Those good Fridays were indeed challenging because we remembered the end of Jesus' life. I knew that on Easter I would get new clothes to wear to church for the celebration of Jesus' return. Come Easter Sunday there was a feeling of having my friend come back to me. On Easter, when I talked and prayed, it brought me great comfort and peace.
Essay from Ruxzara Adiliqizi
XƏTRINNT OF MY LOVE
Let me bend my love into your love,
Let it not be based on the pleasure of my love,
Let me give up on love, let me not hear,
Don't let it be based on the pleasure of my love!
Take away the ovary of my heart,
Your capacity is abundant, remember me,
Let it snow, rain, shine in the sun,
Don't let it be based on the pleasure of my love!
You are my hearth of hope, my trust,
O poet to my life, I know the feeling,
Everyday the wind blows into my soul,
Don't let it be based on the pleasure of my love!
Let me close your eyes, let me look at you,
From the demand, you become bored, you become embroidered,
My dear, let me be your blessing for life,
Don't let it be based on the pleasure of my love!
ISTURUM, MY OWN COUNTRY, WHERE I WAS BORN
Yad, I have no eyes on Özzgən's soil,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
O I who turn back and forth in the land,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
I don't want grapes, hazelnuts, pomegranate vineyards,
The heart desires the sky plateau, the mountain of shish,
The land to which I speak, my shadow falls,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
Flowers would grow on my lawn,
There the nightingale sang more loudly,
My thighs would kiss my lips,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
Əsən mehi shallow pull telimə,
Its origins are sometimes different,
Waterfalls rose into my slice,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
At the end of the article, we would flee to the pasture,
We had learned to bala-yaga, to ski,
The tulip gave color to the cheeks,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
I was a mother, my mother was there too,
My will was sensitive to my eyes,
My prince would wash my feet,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
I was valuable in my hand, and in myself,
That's why I said "homeland",
Wherever I look, the sign is in my eye,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
Quickly turn away, let the son go to longing,
My heart is in need of attention, compassion,
I'm sorry, what's your name, fame,
I want my own homeland where I was born.
CARRYING THIS SPIRIT
WE ARE NOT COLLAPSING A NATION
Envər Pasha of our Turan army,
Look at the power of his love,
His love is across the seas, over the mountains,
This spirituality is only Turkish!
He gave great importance to the nation and the country,
Joined in jihad, escaped from the flames,
“Transformation as a victorious commander,
Or let me be a martyr!” - choose your slogan!
Time colliding in the room,
The letter he wrote to Nacibé Sultan,
Even though the sultan's heart was saddened at that moment,
It has become a source of pride for a lifetime!
“I love you, my praises
Raise me with my job!”- he wrote,
“Write the names of the villages in history,
Martyrdom is a mark!” - wrote...
“To protect our country from the enemy,
Mustafa Kamala, possible help,
The day that should be from him,
“One dimension, my sons!”
The one that comes to life before your eyes,
He kissed her gentle fingers and left...
The one that makes hearts happy when you remember it,
He entrusted tomorrow to God...
A mill carrying this spirit has collapsed,
And your truth guides, the path they follow!
It precipitates the oil, but it does not absorb much of it,
As long as there is one mill and two states!
He joined the Turan party,
Now what kind of Pasha has arrived?
The great men of Great Turkestan,
Come on, Victory, our heads are high!
Rüxsarə Adilqızı (Həsənova) – Çəmbərək (Krasnoselo) rayon of Qərbi Azərbaijan, born in Qaraqaya, the secondary school in the Çaykənd city of the same region, in 1987, the current Baku State University.
She graduated from a faculty of science and started his labor activities. She received her doctorate of biological sciences in 1996, and her degree as an academic in 2005, and currently works as an assistant professor at BDU's Faculty of Ecology and Natural Sciences. 100 provinces of BDU (1919-2019) were deemed worthy of the Jubilee Medal of the Republic of Azerbaijan, in the name of the "Giant of the XXI Century".
Member of the Azerbaijanis Writing Union, she is the author of the poetry books "Roads lead me to the land" (2012), "My beloved homeland award" (2021), "44 days that write history" (2021), "Mirror of my heart" (2023), in her poetry anthologies, She was featured in literary and literary magazines and was awarded with the "Qızıl Qələm" Media Award Laureate Diploma and the "Union of Turkish Peoples" medal of the "Çukurova International VII Turkish World Poetry and Music" festival.
She has a family, two sons and two daughters.
Poetry from Mark Young
Some Postwoman Poems Today the post- woman brought me the riddle of the Sphinx. I walked out to get it; but on the way back tripped on the packing tape which had come unwrapped in transit & had to crawl like a baby the rest of the way. The ankle wasn't broken, just sprained; but I'm using a walking stick to get around for the next few days. Feeling fine otherwise. Now what was that question again? * Today the post- woman brought me a satellite navigation system with Bob Dylan doing the voice- overs. Worked fine until we hit Highway 61. Then it stopped giving directions & started asking me "where do I want the killings done?" * Today the post- woman brought me a sacrificial pig. Looks as if lamb, like most red meat these days, is too expen- sive to be used as anything more than metaphor. * Today the post- woman brought me the shade of Dylan Thomas who stood in the hallway & kept on farting. Now I know what was meant by that "when I was a windy boy" thing even though he got the tense wrong. * Today the post- woman brought me a bridge. I'm waiting for my ship to come in so I can open it.