Dear Alexander, you are a very creative person – a poet and an artist! Tell us, who do you see yourself more? A poet or an artist?

Answer

I would not like to separate these two concepts. Being both a poet and an artist means thinking, connecting thoughts together, giving them a complete look and striving to present your work to the public. And being a poet or an artist, an architect, a designer or a musician is more about the forms and tools of presenting your thoughts.

For me, literary and artistic methods of work are familiar and convenient to the same extent. Some images are easier to present in the format of a poem, some in the format of a picture, in addition, there are visual people, there are audial. In my opinion, the information capacity (the main part) of poetic and artistic works is comparable.

I continue to explore this issue and right now, within the framework of our new working project “choism”, I strive to study and present the possibilities of both literature and fine art to the same extent.

You have recently created a new project called “Hyperpoem”. What prompted you to create this project?

Answer

This was and still is one of our most ambitious and time-consuming projects. It all started with a small publication on social networks, in which we asked the authors to write one quatrain each in order to collect them later into one work. The effect was amazing! Dozens of authors from different countries responded to this invitation. Then I realized that the project is relevant, interesting and useful for modern poets, of whom there are millions in the world!

But what purpose could be offered to them to continue the project and turn it into something more? A world record! It was a very solid and attractive overall goal, which gave the project clarity and symbolism, and the theme of “International Friendship” only further revealed the potential of both the entire Hyperpoem and each poet in particular.

What does poetry mean to you?

Answer

For me, poetry is a modern tool for the representation of thought. Of course, poetry itself and its role have changed a lot since the 18th and 19th centuries, and in the 21st century we must look for new ways to serve it for the benefit of humanity. In my opinion, Hyperpoem can serve as a good example, it is not a banal festival, creative evening or competition, but something new in nature – a socio-poetic phenomenon! Perhaps this is just what the literature of the 21st century can and should give us.

Tell us more about Hyperpoem. How many countries are participating?

Answer

Now poets from such countries as Albania, Algeria, Argentina, Armenia, Australia, Austria, Azerbaijan, Bangladesh, Belarus, Benin, Bhutan, Brazil, Bolivia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Cape Verde, Canada, Chile, China, Croatia, Czech Republic, Colombia, Cuba, Egypt, England, Ecuador, France, Georgia, Germany, Ghana, Greece, Guatemala, Haiti, India, Indonesia, Ivory Coast, Israel, Italy, Jamaica, Japan, Kazakhstan, Kenya, Kyrgyzstan, Latvia, Lebanon, Libya, Liberia, Macedonia, Malta, Malawi, Mauritius, Mayotte, Malaysia, Mexico, Montenegro, Morocco, Moldova, Myanmar, New Zealand, Nepal, Nigeria, Norway, Paraguay, Pakistan, Philippines, Portugal, Poland, Romania, Russia, Serbia, Singapore, Slovenia, South Africa, Spain, Saudi Arabia, South Korea, Slovakia, Sweden, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Turkey, Tanzania, Trinidad and Tobago, Tunisia, USA, Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Uganda, Venezuela, Vietnam, Zimbabwe.

And these are only those participants who clearly indicated their countries, but some of them moved to live in others!

This is a world record project. What does it mean to you?

Answer

For me, the world record is, on the one hand, the stage of execution and implementation of the first stage of work on the project; on the other hand, it is the public recognition of our Hyperpoem. Already, according to a number of indicators, Hyperpoem is a unique phenomenon not only for the world of literature, but also for the history of mankind as a whole!

Do you think you are making your dreams come true?

Answer

Perhaps, yes… Hyperpoem was also a dream, but I shared it with hundreds and even thousands of poets around the world and our common dream became a reality!

How many months have you been working on this project?

Answer

We have been working on the project for almost two years. It was quite a busy stage of life, full of many related projects, interesting acquaintances, experiments, etc.

I want to note that our team does not plan to stop there, we will continue to work on the development of Hyperpoem in an updated format, because potentially it will be able to accept thousands more authors and actively live and develop for many years!

How many participants are involved in Hyperpoem?

Answer

In total, about 1,700 participants were noted in the Hyperpoem. I would like to note that it would not have been possible to achieve such a result without the active participation of our co-organizers: Dr. Joseph Spence, Kieu Bich Hau, Lou Fu (Hsu, Shih-Ting), Desa Dautovic, Miloš B. Ivetić, Marija Jotić, Eva Petropoulou-Lianou, Sadovskaya Lyudmila, Isilda Nunes, Stefania Danilova, Daria Galvas and special thanks to the ukiyoto publishing house, who invited hundreds of poets to participate in the project!

TORCHES

​Cascades in the clouds overflow;

the wind is fire burning the rain.

The rain, in turn, ignites, lighting the torches—

torches that extinguish heartbeats,

heartbeats that are no longer for me.

​Your torches burned my skin;

they did so with such intensity that they reached my heart.

They scorched it so deeply that, upon your departure,

only weeping embers remained.

​The crystals of my soul shattered the valleys of my skin;

your love was dying in my heart,

while in the future, hope began to bloom.

ALTAR

​Today I remember the altar where I left tears and disappointments;

in that space, I abandoned the bitter moments caused by you.

That altar where, despite my pain, I had to let you go.

My forced heart suffered for you; fragile and innocent, it yearned for you.

​Blessed altar where I finally buried my memories and yours,

moments we once called “happiness.”

The joy I long for now dwells in a new temple,

where your shadow can no longer harm me.

​After anointing myself with courage, I healed the scars of my soul.

My heart reacted, covering itself in hope;

and without remorse, it closed the door on you,

sending you, forever, to the altar of oblivion.

THE PATH

​The paths become eternal beneath each step,

despite the thorny stones that bite the trail.

There are also beautiful flowers for which to be grateful.

Many times, the storms lash against us,

but the winds lull us, appeasing the pain;

and abruptly, our wings expand in search of the sun.

​Perhaps we will lose our way a thousand times more,

at times, the march may even seem difficult.

Even so, the horizon awaits us, ready to be conquered.

The goal, sometimes, is drawn in blurred lines,

but with resolve and persistence, we shall reach it.

​We will arrive with smiles and with tears

for the fellow travelers that time left behind.

​Colombia

Laskiaf Amortegui

BIOGRAPHY: LASKIAF AMORTEGUI

Laskiaf Amortegui is a prominent Colombian poet, narrative writer, radio broadcaster, editor, and voice-over artist for poetry and book trailers. With a career that transcends borders, she is the co-author of several international anthologies and the author of the book “Alas del Alma: Los Milagros” (focused on energy leveling and healing), as well as the successful novel “La jaula de las mariposas”. This novel, which tells the story of five women and their environment, has positioned itself as one of the best-selling works in its genre on Amazon and was awarded the prestigious Honorary Diploma “Arina Gold – 2025” in Russia.

A winner of multiple international awards for voice, narrative, and poetic career, her writings have been translated and published worldwide. She represented Colombia as a jury member for the Asian Literary Contest and was honored as Poet of the Year 2025 by Sefrou Cultural Magazine and Snippets International Magazine (Morocco).

She is currently preparing the launch of her upcoming projects: the novel “Roja” and the poetry collection “Letras inconexas”.

Find her on social media:

Facebook: Laskiaf Amortegui

Instagram: @Laskiaf_escritora

Respecto a los poemas:

Lonely River 

**********

A poetry that sang in the heart long ago 

The love still echoes 

The only change I see is that which is constant 

They came and left my courtyard 

Lonely, I was, so I am today 

But something changed within me 

A huge shift, perhaps, that had changed my perspective 

From where I see today without expecting outcomes 

I walk alone, detached 

They believed they have isolated me 

And I thank them for being generous 

I grew in silence; isolation was never a curse 

It’s a blessing for me, 

my flow holds my courage 

Completely unshakable, defining my spirit 

Unique and indomitable 

Ethereal Song 

I fight with the time 

that lied so many times 

Whispering another lie each time 

Though it appeared so real like a mirage 

But my camel refused to give up 

My youth never demanded a flawless skin 

A skin destined within its flawlessness 

There gleamed my eternal spring 

And there sang the migratory birds together 

The gates of past were closed forever 

Welcome to vibrance of every season 

They sang the most sonorous notes 

Lifting my reborn spirit 

Its never too late, give it a try 

Tomorrow it will definitely be a sunrise 

Immortality of the Spider

The ebony body of the widow is centered

along the axis of her vermilion hourglass.

Her venom, more toxic than powdered cinnabar.

She beguiles the diminutive unwary male

with her lithesome legs and a promising

opportunity to recapitulate phylogeny.

Overcome with an instinctive lust

to manifest his genetic mark for eternity

he acquiesces and mates the madame of macabre.

Showing his cards

as she gazes on the abyss

with a smile that’s not so much cruel

as organized.

Her darkness sourced from space code

from a forum of scattered spice dressed as stars

from a column of writhing forms

shooting up a lattice

dressed as Time’s ribbons. 

His genetic code will propitiate perpetually,

even with the end of endless space

and the freezing of a frozen time.

He will be cannibalized, but she will

have always been, and she will always be.

No beginning no end, just an end-less

cycle of existing—and his genetic code

will go on, and on, and on for infinity.

Daniel G. Snethen grew up on a farm & ranch in south-central South Dakota. Here, he gained a great appreciation for all living things. Snethen holds an M.S. degree in Zoology and his B.A. in biological education.  Dan has spent the past thirty years teaching science, coaching oral interpretation of literature and directing plays on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation at Little Wound School in Kyle, SD.  Snethen directed the romantic comedy Mallard’s Road, which can be streamed on Tubi. Daniel writes poetry and short-story fiction. Among his pets, past and present, are kangaroo rats, desert wood rats, scorpions, rattlesnakes, ferrets, tarantulas, hawks and of course dogs. His favorite piece of literature is Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. Snethen has had many an odd encounter: including being sprayed by skunks, being stung by a scorpion and bitten by a pocket gopher. Daniel claims there should be no taboos when it comes to writing and the best writing comes from experience. Write what you know, even when writing fiction—infuse it with partial truths and the reader will be able to suspend disbelief. Snethen is the current vice-president of the South Dakota State Poetry Society and one of the former editors of their biannual poetry journal Pasque Petals.

Dubbed “The Baudelaire of our time” by John Shirley, primary screenwriter of THE CROW (1994), Alex S Johnson aka Kandy Fontaine has served as a secretary to the stars, collaborated with Tom Sullivan (New York Times bestselling author of IF YOU COULD SEE WHAT I HEAR), been platformed by R.U. Sirius (Mondo 2000 magazine featuring William S Burroughs), archived at The Widener Library (Harvard University) as well as being a Special Guest with Pickles (Alea Celeste Williams) on the Maggiore On Bowie Show. He has published under Nocturnicorn Books work by Caitlin R Kiernan, Kari Lee Krome, Poppy Z Brite, Jarboe, David J Haskins, Carmilla Voiez, Cristina Deptula, Anna Taborska and Lasara Firefox Allen and has read alongside icons such as Ellyn Maybe, Danielle Willis, Richard Modiano, K.R. Morrison, Marc Olmsted, Tricia Warden and Iris Berry. His hundreds of short stories, essays, poems, and articles have also garnered rave reviews from the likes of World Fantasy Award finalist Anna Tambour (“A poet even when writing prose”), Lambda Literary Award-winning author Jan Steckel (“a master of the pathetic fallacy”), and Hannah Breschard, cult author, journalist and David Bowie collaborator, who saluted him as “a legend.” Johnson runs Nocturnicorn Books from his home in Carmichael, California. 

MAGNETIC NEGAPOSITIVITY

Come to me, my healer, my killer,

and bring with you silently my sleep.

(The fact is the oak, and truth the ax.

The wolf is the shepherd is the sheep.)

My love is gold, my soul is silver.

You are the banker. You are the thief.

REPRESSION: “LIVING IN AN UNDERGROUND DEN”

I’ve learned to bury my furies well.

My false rainbow smile

is concealing

my volcano style.

I wear my heaven to hide my hell.

My tornado’s ire

needs revealing

through some Plato’s fire

on my ceiling.

I must learn to unsilence my knell.

THE OLD FOLKS

Neutered and defutured,

even their pasts have vanished.

PASSING ANREN BY ROAD

Two boys crouch in a small boat,

barge poles and oars set aside.

No rain, but umbrellas out

so winds can push them ahead.

–after Yang Wanli

A SECOND DAY IN THAILAND: CHA AM

In the beginning you are a distant turquoise triangle incongruous against sand.

All around, some one has taken a straight edge across the sea and then folded up the sky to box in us homo saps.

Sentry trawlers crawl their stations along the cloudwall perimeter.

Closer in, thoughtless speedboats laugh across the waves, diesel waterbugs.

Skiers trudge behind, trying to play catch-up.

Birds pepper the sky..

And here and there bobbin heads pop up, as jellyfish nudists sprawl motionless tanning themselves along the surf.

A long-ago engineer built his clam dam to further contain this ocean, but now it is more breach than construct, debris among the former fish.

Mini Vesuvii dot the shoreline, cold openings to another, yet hidden, world.

Your neon triangle slowly sprouts bucket-crafted sandcastle appendages, as your shape begins delineation.

All along the beach, a patchwork of erratic crowd heaves. Can there really be a fractal that describes the geometry of herky-jerky humankind?

Tuxedoed canine trio scratches in harmony, sniffs for an 8 count, resumes its rhythmic bowing to metronome waves that gently assault bathers white, bathers red, bathers brown. Colors evolve like chameleons.

Children, even those with beards, sport in the mer. Mothers coddle eager sea urchins, while youths (and used-to-be youths too) ogle maidens who gleam and undulate in sunsparkle.

The clockwork dogs resume their symphony.

And then, of a sudden, your nippled battlements fully confront. I espy your sandy tourney field, your flying buttresses, your emblazoned portcullis smile. And marvel at the royal keep impossibly curtained behind that turquoise tapestry.

But my feet continue dutifully on their rounds: today they must lay down their permanent sign track, announcing to all posterity my once-existence. Ye seekers after truth and/or beauty.

Here indeed is the ever-changing unchanged, infinity in miniscule, eternal now, pastless while ancient, futuring into forever. This everybeach.

All cosmologies compress and store in islands of indelible sand. All philosophy unravels on this strand, expands beyond knowing. And is humbled proudly in the doing.

I finally achieve beach end and turn to survey my day’s work:  my ozymandias footprints already ruins.

And yet, the entire cosmos kaleidoscopes behind me out from your turquoise neon triangle, like the promiscuous eye of God.

“I charge.”-Willem Dafoe.

The strangest thing about Willem Dafoe’s career is not that he played Jesus Christ once. It’s that he played Jesus only once. A brief clerical malfunction in the casting universe, immediately corrected by returning him to his usual rotation of characters who look like they’ve been living on a steady diet of dust, nicotine, unresolved sexual tension and built up flatus.

Nothing from the Christ role appears to have adhered. No trace of grace. No residual compassion. Not even the faintest aftertaste of “love one another.”

When I asked him for an interview, the man who once overturned the moneychangers’ tables responded with the charm of a sun‑bleached parking citation:

“I charge.”

Three words. Dry as chalk. Delivered with the affect of someone who has spent his entire career speaking from the shadows of graffiti-scrawled industrial stairwells.

This would have been unremarkable if I hadn’t spent years in the company of people whose cultural mass makes Dafoe’s filmography look like a series of public‑service announcements about dehydration. Lemmy offered me cigarettes on his hotel bed. Katherine MacGregor, not an interview subject but a personal friend, took me to Amadeus in her Mercedes and explained the film with the precision of a woman who had outlived several artistic epochs. Caroline Munro had lunch with me in London. Gitane DeMone shared a meal; Tairrie B. Murphy gave me a squeezy hug after a long interview at a Hollywood Starbucks. Ellyn Maybe once talked with me on Zoom for nearly ten hours without implying that the meter was running. Tom Sullivan, Iris Berry, Ellyn Maybe, Pleasant Gehman, Militia Vox, Valor Kand, Caitlín R. Kiernan, Amélie Frank, John Shirley—all of them managed to speak without attaching a price tag to the act of being alive.

None of them ever said, “I charge.” They had no need to.

Dafoe’s line didn’t offend me; then again, I am neither innocent nor naive. Of course he isn’t Jesus. He’s an actor who essayed that role once. At the same time, it amplified an extraordinary reality…everything before and after fits neatly into a narrow emotional climate: dimly lit, vaguely threatening, and fundamentally transactional.

At some point, the absurdity staged itself. I imagined a biblical marketplace, the kind with dust that has given up on kinetic movement.

Dafoe‑Jesus emerges, robes hanging like fabric that has never known water, eyes carrying the same parched intensity he brings to every role that isn’t Christ. He approaches with the solemnity of a man about to deliver a parable, then leans in and mutters, “You want an interview? That’ll cost you.” Salvation as a side hustle.

He adjusts his crown of thorns with the same energy as a man straightening a hat he found in a gutter and begins explaining that miracles incur overhead, that loaves and fishes do not multiply themselves, that the Sermon on the Mount comes with a mount fee.

The disciples stand behind him like dehydrated stagehands—Peter attempting authority, Judas calculating percentages, Thomas deciding whether to doubt the whole thing or request documentation.

I mention Lemmy, Betty White, Katherine MacGregor, Caroline Munro, Gitane, Tairrie, Ellyn’s ten‑hour conversation, the thousands I’ve been paid for my work. He listens without absorbing anything, then shrugs with the resignation of someone who has never portrayed a character capable of hydration. “I’m not them,” he says. “I’m working here.”

He produces a battered invoice tablet from somewhere in his robe—an object that looks like it has survived several droughts—and begins itemizing a charge for “spiritual consultation.” After a long pause, he pockets it again and says, “Fine. This one’s on the house. Don’t tell the Pharisees.”

Then he disappears into the crowd, back into the role he never stops playing: a man who looks like he’s about to ask if you’re finished with that cigarette.

The only miracle he performed was waiving his own fee. Those two words were the only free performance I was ever going to get, and they conveyed everything necessary.

Napoleon’s Russia (1812)

I kick-started the motherland campaign 

to block trade routes to ebullient Albion.

I intended their resources to drain,

without the swift assault of a legion.

With half a million troops, I sought to subdue 

this vast wintry land of Europe’s far east.

Its plains shrank in my conqueror’s eye view,

whilst my dreams dwarfed it to my subdued list.

With valiant troops, I annexed the Kremlin.

For a score and sixteen days I held sway

until the scorched earth kept my troops at bay,

as Cossacks took their heavy toll with shelling.

My dreaded myth was by attrition tried,

as freezing plains did my grand armee embalm.

I did retreat as my lofty dreams died

with troops my own ambition did disarm.

Joseph C Ogbonna is a prolific poet, a former high school teacher, and an amateur historian. Some of his works have been published by Synchronized Chaos, Spillwords Press, Micromance, PoetryXhunger, Waxpoetry Magazine, Ihram, Borderless, Orenuag Journal, North of Oxford, all your poems and stories magazines.

He also has two self-published volumes to his credit. His poems ‘Napoleon to Josephine and Josephine to Napoleon,’ were aired by the BBC Radio 3 to mark the bicentenary of the death of Napoleon Bonaparte.