Three Poems
By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri
Translated by Manu Mangattu
 
The Song of the Universe – Thy Song
 
Sweet soul,
Let thy breath be sweet
Let thine eyes shine as the stars
Reflect about what thou shalt see!
Thou shalt forget the words
The song of the universe is thy song
The peace of the universe is thy peace
If thou shall speak
It is almost like God
Let there be light! And there was light.
 
宇宙的歌声是你的歌声
 
甜美的灵魂
让你的呼吸甜美
让你的眼晴多如星辰
想想吧  那时你将看到什么
你将忘了词语
宇宙的歌声是你的歌声
宇宙的宁静是你的宁静
如果你说话
那就如同上帝
要有光  于是就有了光
 
On Angel Wings Heaven-Bound
 
Pluck out a star from the night sky above
And let it sing to you within your cranium
It shall bring to you the interplanetary song.
Let thine eyes reach the edge of the Milky Way
The earth is just a small stone;
Yesterday is just a butterfly.
When the angel wings conduct you to the Kingdom of Heaven
Ah! That sweet lightning will indeed make you forget the world.
 
当天使的翅翼驮来了天国
 
摘一颗星辰在夜空之上
让它在你的头颅里歌唱
它将带给你星际的乐曲
让你的目光抵达  末来的银河之城
地球只是一枚小小的石头
昨日只是一只蝴蝶
当天使的翅翼驮来了天国
哦  那甜蜜的闪电让你把世界遗忘
 
Home Sweet Home beyond Milky Way
 
Nestled in the wings of night
After the pearl gem sets in heaven
I climb to the roof of the earth
To gaze at the star.
Gazing at the star,
To witness the coming century, the city of the giant
Blossom like a silver Garden.
The Music from that mysterious Galaxy
Soothes my soul like the rain.
In the light, let my form alight
Back to my home, beyond the Milky Way.
2015.9.9
 
银河之外的家园
 
黑夜的翅翼
镶嵌了天堂的珍珠宝石
我在地球的屋顶之上
向星际凝望
仿佛看见未来世纪的巨城
绽放如白银的花园
 
 
来自神秘星系的乐曲
是一阵阵灵魂的甘雨
让我的身体乘光而行
回到了那银河之外的家园
 
Bio: Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, The City of Gold , Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been more widely published in the UK, USA ,India ,New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria.
 
Phone:+86 15263747339 ZIP cod 272100  Email:3112362909@qq.com
Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China

Into the Wild by Mike Honeycutt

Into The Wild is one man’s journey travelling all over the world big game hunting. Mr. Honeycutt includes many photos of his travels. It is an interesting book for the person who enjoys big game hunting. I personally do not believe in hunting. However, for those who do and enjoy it would be a perfect quick read.

Mike Honeycutt’s Into the Wild is available here.

Deborah Kerner is a poet and a painter living in Ojai, California. Her poems have recently appeared in Bluepepper, Mad Swirl, Rabid Oak and Ariel Chart.


Synthetic in the Skin
 

stripped so that 
even in intervals nothing remains
somewhere in a terrain sucked dry
taking a train with windows like fluttering eyes
much of the world slides by without
intention. time is nowhere lost in seconds
passing the edges of restless habitation
people squatting shitting and fearless
close to the anonymity of train tracks
traveling offline and by the sweep of fields
passing disintegrating remnants of shattered 
structures gray like misaligned cultural leftovers
buildings fading in the offhanded rose orange light 
of raging fires jumping unraveling highways. the train is
smoking over bridges encountering
succulent forests glued on stamped listless deserts
stripped beyond the fringe 
of dystopian recognition. skins absorb unevaluated 
toxicity 
we are left in a walking zone where
wolves take over
forgotten 
remote
forbidden
old ladies pass 
through tattered fences
the barriers
home is where
the skin is

in this now moment called synthetic 
determined by
the ironies of language
humans
walk the floating 
earth
not knowing
where they are



Night Dweller


my feet are cold
my heart somewhere 
feeling. it insists it is feeling
moon sharp a white sharp disk
thrown in the night sky 
night falls quickly
on my head uncovered 
and filled with dread
will I lie here frozen losing sleep
in the late night’s chill?
night dwelling awakens
just as the sun first then the moon falls 
behind western mountains silhouette
and shadows dense
light becomes memory
as pure darkness envelops
stirring the noir nocturnal atmospheric 
molecular field of nothingness 
cave-like ink-jet black
phantoms loom across a wall
the night’s yearnings
burnings
achings
limbs 
thrown about uncertain
half-dreams
as the sun travels
the other side of earth
sleep beckons me yet thwarted 
by dawn’s shaking anticipation 
and far off stars fading
the night existence prevails
sleepless becomes me. in the next moment  
the rosy tip of fractured dawn light
appears begins to enforce a day
night dweller exists waits 
until the shiver of night ignites its will 
to stay alive. I caught in the middle
of its hardwired game



Tree Woman


I saw a woman
talking to a tree yesterday
we were filling up
at a nearby gas station
a busy road a time
of day when everyone
is returning home summer’s 
streaming late afternoon gold light 

she was animated gesticulating wildly
the tree alert listening
it bent towards her
surely it knew
her primeval voice springing
from the pool of the blazing Dryads
the tree nymphs shy 
though they were known to be

turning as I sat back in the car
thinking of her in the distance behind me
before I closed the door
she was there beside me like lightning

pale blue sharp penetrating eyes
a colorful bandana wrapped her head
she asked me for a dollar
wearing cut blue jean shorts
a thin top covering her falling breasts
her tanned mid torso and navel exposed
muscular athletic strong legs she 
was earnest

I looked into her myth-bound eyes  
what could I see but 
the long line of forgotten women
the turbulent days the trajectory
of our long collective sisterhood existences 
travesty of neglect shunned and restrained
fiercely awaiting freedom

beyond the restraints of our current 
earthbound cultures
I saw it in the urgency of her desperation

"Anti" Chris Butler is an illiterate poet howling from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. His 11th book of poems, "DOOMER", has been published and released by Ethel. He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal.

Why Do the Bees Dream?  
  
Why do the bees dream,  
and not only sleep alone  
when the late day chills   
their exoskeletal shell?  
  
Why do the bees dream  
with restless legs   
pollinating colonies   
where their nesters are   
cradled in hexagonal combs,  
formed into homes    
of regurgitated honey?   
   
Why do the bees dream  
when their royalty   
is an engorged queen,   
conquering the flower   
with armies forced    
to feed the budding   
baby bee population?  
  
Why do the bees dream  
of low flying drones   
snorting pheromones,   
as their radar to drop   
a stinger cruise missile   
onto the nose of an   
incoming brown bear?  
  
Why do the bees dream  
when they’re smoked into   
peaceful unconsciousness  
like poppy Buddhists?  
  
  
Iceberg  
  
The rabbit, ensnared on a frozen artic block,  
set adrift to the blue skies and azure seas,  
begins burrowing a hole, incredulous in its   
desperate search for the safety of   
a warm, underground home, slowly   
slipping further down into the indigo deep,   
until breaking through into the endless   
dark abyss, silencing its death rattle   
by drowning.   
  
  
The Way Back Home  
  
The way back home  
isn’t on a cold road  
still shining with yesterday’s rain,  
when you’ve nowhere to go,  
alone,   
watching the tinted break lights  
cover you in a crimson costume,  
passing by your shivering thumb,  
for a hitchhike  
that will never come.  
  
My childhood bat cave basement  
was just a half finished rec room,   
with all the walls stripped nude   
of posters with bunnies in bikinis,  
all toys donated to salivating armies   
of dumpster divers’ deep sea expeditions.  
  
But within an hour of   
saying and waving goodbye,  
to leave my very first fortress   
with castle walls and moats  
for dirty pothole roads.     
  
The only way back home,  
into a warm bed with   
fabric softened clean sheets  
smelling of lavender detergent,  
awakened by that distant taste   
from the kitchen of flavors   
that momma used to make,  
  
was to walk into that road  
so the next driving passerby  
would hit and run. 
 
 
When insomnia has taken complete control of your restless legs and racing thoughts… 
 
you know it’s far too late 
when after constant commercials 
for bootleg erectile dysfunction pills 
and cures for balding heads, 
all of which feature the incentives of 
female models frolicking on sandy beaches, 
and you reach the end of the broadcasting day, 
watching a 4th of July fireworks spectacular 
in tandem with the national anthem.  
 

 
Trigger 
 
From today moving forward, 
Webster’s Dictionary,  
the grammar police  
and the unfree speech Nazis 
will begin deleting  
words from the dictionary, 
instead of adding new 
mouth sounds from  
the new Old English, 
 
in order to prevent 
our peers’ pressure 
from pulling 
my fingering 
of the world’s 
trigger.  
  

 
 
 
 Story Title: Cheers To Forever
 Written By : Dennis Mann
  
  
 It's precisely those nights when you feel the beginning of a new life when your heart beats at an uncontrollable speed, when you never get tired of flashing your perfect white set of teeth to the random guest that attends your wedding solemnization.
  
 She descended the stairways as a sea of eyes stared at her, but her focus was only on the man whom she would be spending the rest of her life with. Her champagne sleeveless gown caressed the floors as she made her way down like a slow train that never wanted to reach its destination.
  
 Her man in a blue-black Tux was radiating sparkles of shimmering light under the magnificent chandelier. The point came when they had contact, and it seemed the two would never want to separate for a minute: their hands bound by love. They walked closely while smiling guests all dressed fashionably in white for the Night Party.
  
 Just six hours ago, the couple said a big yes to each other and wore a wedding band to signify their long-lasting bond. The newlywed husband couldn't stop smiling as he danced with his wife.
  
 "Kobie, I love you," Adelaide uttered, her eyes in deepest sincerity and her voice in complete innocence.
  
 "You are my royal lady, and I love you so much, dear," Kobie said as he revealed a gap-toothed smile.
  
 The happy guest rushed on the circular dance floor and moved their waist to the live band by Kwabena Kwabena, 'Royal lady.'
  
 Adelaide dropped the hands of the man she loves and joined Kwabena Kwabena closely. Kwabena Kwabena seized the opportunity to be an excellent performer as he played the trumpets to only one valid guest—the bride.
  
 But clearly, someone wasn't happy that everyone was in a merry mood. "Ermm, thank you, thank you." Funny Face said. "The night is very young, and there is still plenty of time to dance." He coughed in a joking way. "This is a fantabulous wedding of my main man, Kobie. Ekom adi y3 a kye."
  
 Everybody laughed.
  
 "Kobie has been a friend in those times I thought I had no friend. You know people believe since you are a celebrity, you have lots of friends and have no problems. They lie. They lie baad!"
  
 The guest laughed again.
  
 "Kobie has been there for me countless times. I can't start counting. I love you, bro." Funny Face turned back and gazed at Kobie. "This is no gay love."
  
 The men in the crowd roared from behind.
  
 "I love you with the love of a mother. Your new wife shall bring you peace-"
  
 The crowd cheered, Amen.
  
 "—And beautiful children."
  
 "Amen," chorused the guest.
  
 Adelaide, seated close to her husband, gazed at him for a second, and they both got close like a magnet drawing them together, and they kissed.
  
 Funny Face managed the party very well. He cracked everyone up. Kobie was glad to have listened to his wife to make Funny Face the master of the ceremony.
  
 A burgundy Range Rover Evoque parked outside at the entrance of Villagio Heights. Smokes exhumed from the double steel exhaust pipes. The giant oaken doors opened, and Kobie stepped out with his wife in both arms, wrapped like a child as he descended. He dropped her carefully and opened the car door, and helped her into the car.
  
 Kobie turned back and waived the increasing number of guests at the entrance. Kobie kicked start the accelerator, and the sports car hummed slowly away with a 'Just Married' tag at the number plate. The growing guest waved at them as they faded in the pitch dark night.
  
 The newlywed couple drove on the H1N1 road leading to the Tema motorway.
  
 "Honey, do you think we should go to Holy Trinity Spa tonight? Considering the journey, let's sleep tonight and start our honeymoon tomorrow?"
  
 "No, dear, I want us to get there tonight so we can rest and begin a wonderful life ahead of us from tomorrow."
  
 "Okay. Anything you say, dear. I know your eyes are lazy in the evening; that's why I'm saying that."
  
 "You have nothing to worry about, dear. We shall be fine."
  
 Soon, not long, as they just passed the motorway roundabout, a long truck skidded terribly and crashed the sports car. The car was crushed instantly to a corner. Kobie and Adelaide lay unconscious with blood spilling from their head.
  
 It was not clear if they survived.
  
  
  
 Dennis Mann - Author
 
 Email: authordennismann@gmail.com
 
 Instagram:
 https://www.instagram.com/persiux5
 
 Facebook :
 facebook.com/authordennismann
 
 Call/WhatsApp:
 +233247654113
  
 
  
 
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 Wide Reading Among Kids 
 
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 Email: widereadingamongkids@gmail.com
 
 Call/WhatsApp: +233247654113
 
 Website: widereadingamongkids.org

  
   

John Thomas Allen is 38, loves stained glass, and loves imagery for imagery's sake.  He also enjoys giving single dollar bills to crack addicts at real carnivals, igniting charity balls for people who don't work, and entertaining strange strangers online. He admires the work of Peter O Leary, Bernadatte Meyer, and Mina Loy.


The Carnival Tarot

I was there the night the carnival tarot began
  In a glass mosque of magic satin 
flooded with fireflies 
     winding the meditation boxes 
   to a focus levels flooded without grounding 
        To a focus level split in the screaming   
        sonar whistles 
     dew drops of dim deja vu, 
         beads bodiless with worlds shed aflame
           echoes of billiard halls in their boozy spider glass 
           echoes of hobo clown gangs split in galleys  
               of long handed shadow  
           echoes of orchestrated lightning in black boxes 
           echoes of paint chips patterned after a decayed 
                  glass marquee in downtown LA
              The third eye all smoke  
                and thus frying the Om…
   now with the dowsing snakes hushed buzz. 
     The fleecing syncopation of All In All   
                            All At Once
    Before falling they’d seen ameythistine temples,
               rising tide of movie monsters eloped
                   from the moving pictures 
                   in the singular monstrosity of self possession
         gravity’s cells swallowing each free breath of even
                                 air.
      In the EVP library’s soundscape, the voices freed
      the dead’s sound bytes inside holofoil crypts.
       The pale swan arms, bonding afterlives, braille echoes on the No. 5
      pencil 
      She sang the Hours with carnie ministers, crowned ghosts.
        The icons were flooded out with sound mirrors the body 
                                        of a saw
      Refracting icons in the library’s reading room 
         Howling and nude in caged specters of lightning, 
               eyes smoked like a blue owl
                     a  dribbling decoy of light.

 
 
 
ODE TO MULES, CATBIRDS, INSECTS, AND GOD
  
  
 Interspecies friendships?
  
 They’re great, aren’t they?
  
 A bonding of pure affection
 sometimes unequaled in human civilization.
  
 A mule wearing a snorkel and goggles enters
 the high school convocation flopping rubber 
 flippers against the smooth terracotta tiles.
  
 You gotta love that!
  
 [Yeah]
  
                           *……*
  
 A catbird screeched high above a tulip poplar
 near the local middle school earlier today,  
 then warbled hieroglyphs before entering 
 our forsythia hedge and vaporizing  
 inside its prickly branches.
  
                     *……*……*
  
 I wonder if we pay enough attention to insects?
 We mostly complain about them, but they’re 
 preoccupied day in day out with whatever’s 
 required to evolve their DNA.
  
 Sounds a lot like us, eh?
  
 And what about lusty zebra mosquitos
 who just want to our be blood brothers?
  
 We shouldn’t overlook such things.
  
                    ◄   ◄…..►   ►
  
 What’s the last thing that goes
 through an existentialist’s mind

 when he smacks the windshield 
 at 90 miles an hour?
  
 That’s right, God.
  
  
  
  
  
  
   

 

 THE NIGHT JOE WATSON & I DOUBLE-
 DATED TWO BEAUTIES FROM THE 
 THRIFTWAY SUPERMARKET
  
  
 I told Joe, pick whomever, but I prefer 
 the Italian in a canary one-piece 
 with poppy white collar.
  
 So, he picked Meg.
  
 I liked Meg.
  
 I liked Meg a lot with her tamarind
 arms, bronze legs, & eyelashes like 
 dragonflies haunting my dreams, 
 but, alas, I was mesmerized 
 by the Italian Aphrodite broiled
 to perfection in a canary one-piece 
 with poppy white collar. 
  
 So, off the four of us cruised, two
 of us ending up below the spidery
 legs of the Lake Worth pier.
  
 That night kisses like wild bruises 
 migrated from lips to necks 
 to shoulders in the casual blink 
 of a full moon’s penumbra 
 tattooing hair, flesh, 
 monkey blood, & bones. 
  
 I told Joe, pick whomever, but I prefer 
 the Italian in a canary one-piece 
 with poppy white collar.
  
  
  
  

Alan Britt has been nominated for the 2021 International Janus Pannonius Prize awarded by the Hungarian Centre of PEN International for excellence in poetry from any part of the world. Previous nominated recipients include Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Charles Bernstein and Yves Bonnefoy. Alan was interviewed at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem. He has published 20 books of poetry and served as Art Agent for Andy Warhol Superstar, the late great Ultra Violet, while often reading poetry at her Chelsea, New York studio. A graduate of the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University he currently teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.