Rules for War Photographers

Recognize what the war is,

and where, then patiently wait for

the photograph to happen

Be objective and never

interfere

Even when the baby is

drowning

when the village is

burning

when the women are on their

hands and knees praying, begging

you to stop

where the girl is running with

her back on fire

Do not become the subject yourself

even when captured by

the enemy

Especially when captured by

the enemy

To not take these pictures

so we will never know what

you have known,

to see what you have seen

these pictures are too terrible

for words

Violate all these rules

whenever possible

The Crime Scene

after Stan Rice

All the faces in the ill-lit street

are wearing masks like equity

actors off-stage in guerilla theater,

a strange interlude with police cars,

emergency flashers, real murder

weapons and riddled bodies 

emboldened by death, their heads

covered by rags, a black plague

mask for disease prevention in

a rat-infested tin pan alley awaiting

a visitation of wisemen from another

vision drawn with white chalk and 

defined by yellow caution tapes,

Caucasian chalk circles drawn

on stained concrete for filling in 

the spaces with blood evidence and

severed finger prints; the muffled

hooves of a mounted police cordon

nearby indicate the pale horses,

pale riders, have arrived.

Found Photo, “The Garden of Earthly Delights” in the Background 

The talk here is

not of Spain

nor of the Civil

War

Not of Picasso

bleeding,

a failing century’s

grief

but of the harm

men do to other

men

the held-breath

silence of just-

before-the-end

and what

comes after

Mayakovsky at 3 AM

Eyes closed, stuffed head in

a noose, broken arms

wrenched aside useless as

foam, the smoke of many

cigarettes in glass ashtrays

on the littered, low table,

dealt playing cards folded

into hands, played tricks

amidst litter: empty clear 

bottles, overturned shot glasses,

spent cartridges, dueling pistols,

barrels still crossed on the wall

above the torso of a bald, 

black veiled woman, painted 

eyes half-open, false lips

the color of dried blood.

Enola Gay, the result: details 

Three wisemen with gas masks,

their asbestos suits alight; dis-

colored babies, the egg heads and

the deformed; body parts of the afflicted

blue and exploding; peace bridge

over a river, running red as ink, collapsing,

a conveyance, a memorial no more;

railroad trestles melting, steel matchsticks

pliable as plastic; graveyard markers

reduced from stone to ash; altars

for the ancients and the newly dead

wiped away; great beasts rising from

the human muck, primordial, simian,

their eyes white as heat lightning,

as atomic mushrooms after the fire

storm, after the manumission of these

wandering souls; the black impressions,

shadows frozen in flight.

Portrait of the Artist, Photo of a Mock Turner in the Background

Brought back to life, his eyes

have seen it all on both sides

of the bar, the swarthy demons,

the headless huntsmen, range

riders on white buffalo shooting

the dead warriors when artificial

respiration won’t do what jesus

did, making a mockery out of 

mortality by raising Lazarus three

days gone, decayed and festering,

an incomplete new man cursed with

vision once the white scabs of his

eyes have been removed, once new

uncanny visions of resurrected pain

have been felt; the risen elk on steep

promontory wait amid the unearthly

swirl of colored mists, the creator’s

face suggests what cannot be said,

“nothing I can say will make it better.”

+



Falling faster 
      than skies can 

Just to find ground.

The stable beginning 
     where particles meet 
        to find a rhythm 
     As Love rests my
        Heart safely 

Told a thousand truths
    each different without 
   source   until I touch 
  Harmonious Light with 
    direction.
      Myself I AM

    Best upon
       needless to 
          say.

  .............................................


A morning script 
    by John Edward Culp
      April 6, 2026
   All Rights Reserved 


+
 

Asked How Spring Should Be Used

       I sleep beside an old film
where long-forgotten names come and go.
Sleep folds away the faces I miss,
soaked through with the tears of flowers.

In the place where past words were set loose,
unshed cries are tangled, unable to be locked away.

When I dip an old brush,
droplets open a path.
A breath touches that distant landscape —
in the place where hidden flowers bloom alone,
there is the heart of the sea.
Flowers blooming underwater
sway yellow with a trembling grief.

Some springs must gather courage
just to be used —

they must be wept through.
Hands that had sunk
heave up what they could not hold;
eyes whose depths cannot be known
even after sorrow has drained away.
Days we once embraced
lie arranged in quiet rows.

Spring returns carrying the word I’m sorry.
On the anniversary we meet again,
rolled up inside our unfinished speech.
I’m sorry
for leaving you behind.

봄을 어떻게 사용하느냐고  물었다
           

               연명지

머리맡에 오래된 이름이 드나드는
낡은 필름을 두고 잔다
그리운 얼굴이 접혀 있는 잠은  꽃들의 눈물로 흥건하고

지나간 말을 부려놓은  곳에
잠그지 못한 울음들이 엉켜 있다

오래된 붓을 담그면 물방울들이 길을 연다
그 아득한 풍경에 닿아 있는  숨
혼자 숨어 핀 꽃들의 자리에 바다의 심장이 있다
물속에 핀 꽃들이 노랗게 울렁거린다

어떤 봄은 용기를 내서 울어야  사용 할 수 있다

가라앉은 손들이 울컥 게워놓은
슬픔마저 빠져나간 깊이를 알 수 없는 눈빛들
껴안았던 날들이 가지런히 놓여 있다

미안하다라는 말이 돌아오는 봄
기일에 만난 우리들 말 속으로 말아 올려지는
두고 와서 미안해





Mother’s Empty Room

      By Yeon Myung Ji

When blood bloomed from her children’s fingers,
Mother would grind cuttlefish bone to dust
And cover our wounds.

In her final years, she was a map of tender pressure points;
She placed a heavy boulder atop the eyelids of life.
Leaving us—who once played beneath the shelter of her bones—
She let go of the hands she held until the end,
Taking not a single one with her as she went alone.

A certain someone, who wrote that we should rejoice
In having something left to leave behind,
Shed the tears of a bird.
And her children, sinners before their mother,
Stifled their tears, pressing them deep down.
They hid them in haste
So no one could ever find them.

Those who have buried a loved one in their hearts
Know how to unlock and bolt the gates of grief.
Though there is no scripture on how to mourn well,
Lips that met for the first time wailed out loud.
In three days, every trace of Mother
Was summoned away by the wind.
The woman who, in life, stayed only in her room,
Now hides within the fringe tree branches, within the breeze.

If blood should ever seep from her children’s fingers,
She seems ready to appear, clutching a piece of cuttlefish bone.
Even in death, she is Mother;
With that very word, “Mother,” she still cradles us.

엄마의 빈 방

      Yeon Myung Ji

엄마는 새끼들 손가락에서 피가 나면
갑오징어 뼈를 갈아 상처를 덮어주었다.

늘그막의 엄마는 온통 압통점이어서
생의 눈꺼풀 위 묵직한 바위 하나 올려놓았다.
당신의 뼈 아래에서 놀던 우리를 남겨두고
마지막으로 잡았던 손들
하나도 데려가지 않고 혼자 갔다.

무언가 두고 갈 것이 있다는 걸
기뻐하라는 글을 남긴 어떤 이는
새의 눈물을 흘렸고
어미 앞에 죄인인 새끼들은 눈물을 꾹꾹 숨겼다.
누구도 눈물을 찾지 못하도록
바삐 숨겼다
누군가를 가슴에 묻어본 사람들은
눈물을 열고 잠그는 방법을 안다.

잘 울어야 한다는 교리가 있는 것도 아닌데
처음 본 입술은 깔깔 울었다.
엄마의 흔적은 사흘 만에
바람으로 불려갔고
살아서는 방에만 있던 엄마는
이팝나무 가지에, 바람 속에 숨어 있다.

새끼들 손가락에 피가 나면
얼른 오징어 뼈를 들고 나타날 것만 같은
엄마는, 죽어서도 엄마
그 엄마라는 말로 여전히 우리를 다독인다



 

Profile

Poet Yeon Myeong-ji began her literary career in 2013 with the poetry collection 『Gashibi』, published in the Minerva Poetry Series.

Her published works include the poetry collections 『Sitting Like an Apple』 and 『Where would the House of the  Sorry’ be? 』 the e-poetry collection 『Seventeen Marco Polos,』 and the travel essay 『Step by Step, Walking the Camino.』

She has received the Tolstoy Literary Award, the Homi Literary Award, the Cheongsong Gaekju Literary Award, and the Aviation Literary Award. In 2025, she was awarded the Bronze Prize in Poetry at the Literature Asia Awards.

Her poems have been translated and published in local languages in India, Pakistan, Kosovo, Italy, Egypt, the United States, and Belgium.

Originally published in the Gorko Gazette.

Le Penseur

Stan sat before the old television set, unmoving. He was just dimly aware that his torso and limbs were arranged in the same posture as Rodin’s “The Thinker,” only in flesh tones instead of the bronze of the sculpture. While Le Penseur had for more than a century captivated observers with its monumental reflection of profound introspection, Stan knew only that he was stoned on peach-flavored vodka and ersatz Nyquil. Like the statue, Stan was totally nude.

It had been a long night. Leaving his sleeping wife alone in the middle of the night to grab a beer and catch some professional wrestling on the tube, he had gotten wildly drunk and stayed that way into the morning. He worked hard as a bricklayer and only cut loose one night a week. He didn’t frequent the bars anymore, and usually held himself together enough to accompany Bree to church on Sunday morning.

He gazed bleakly at the TV, saw on the fuzzy screen only the pointless Sunday morning discussion programs. Stan moved his right elbow from his left knee and bent to retrieve his flask of generic vodka. He then snatched from the TV table the large, trapezoid-shaped bottle of generic cold meds. Decanting the green, gloppy liquid into a small plastic cup, he tossed it back like a shot of tequila. Next he unscrewed the vodka and took a bracing hit. The hair on his arms stood on end.

“I’m ready,” he said aloud, “for a Sunday without football.”

Keys rattled in the locket and through the front door walked Bree. She dropped her purse and a grocery bag on the parson’s table beside the entrance. She stared at her husband and offered up, “Shit-faced again, lover?”

“Is that what you learned at Sunday school today?” asked Stan, promptly falling off the sofa and bonking his head on the edge of the TV. 

As he lay there, dazed, Bree sashayed through the living room, took up a vase, removed the fresh-cut flowers and poured the water on her husband’s head. Stan sprang to life at once.

Stan shook himself like a dog. “What’s for lunch?” he slurred.

“Hash.  Don’t get up; I’ll serve you where you are.”

“Thanks, ‘hon.”

Bree brings him something ugly in a bowl.”

“Hey Bree, that’s the dog’s food dish.”

“Of course it is, I gave you dog food.”

“Bree, I can only take so much. You know I can leave you at any time.”

“Promises, promises. The checkout guy at the grocery lets me know, every time I shop, that he’s available. Good hair, nice teeth and a body that looks like a Greek statue. You really want to make threats?”

“You think you are so hot! Want to know what the secretaries for the union say about me?”

“Sure, I could use a good laugh.”

“They say I have great penmanship.”

They blink at the other for a moment, and then Bree hides her mouth with her hand and starts to giggle. Stan joins her. Soon they are laughing uproariously.

“Hey Bree, help your drunk old man up so we can watch something on TV.”

“OK, but after that I’ve got to put away groceries.”

Later they leave the TV on but ignore it while making out like a couple of teenagers. The ice cream melts in the bag on the table.

THE CHARITABLE HAND 

Life is like a festival of ‘basant’

At which,

Young kids fly kites

And don’t mind using the china twine

Which has a high killer potential.

Govt announcements apart,

Who bothers about life,

That too of others,

When their own joy 

Is at stake? 

While having a post-dinner stroll

We came across a pigeon

Trying hard to fly

But caught in a twine

Which did not oblige. 

We caught the pigeon

And to our horror,

The twine had got round

And round and round

Its body, and clipped its wings.

The pigeon now was scared

The poor thing didn’t know for what

He had been trapped.

Would this hand wrench its neck

And boil it the next moment.

Ohh! The poor thing was 

In the hands of mercy.

We brought a pair of scissors

And started cutting the twine

It was badly wrapped around its wings.

At last the twine was cut,

But it had impaired his wings,

And when we left it free,

It could only move,

And failed to fly. 

We brought it home,

And offered it all it liked to eat.

It is still in our balcony,

But still not able to fly

But it knows what is care and safety.

The story held a lesson for me.

The twine represents the little misses

That we make, 

Which then wrap around our neck

And our wings, and halt our flight.

Rather, they cut our wings sometimes

And we are made vulnerable 

To the vultures,

A moment with a cat 

Was enough to do it in.

Desires, passions, unfilled dreams

Keep us trapped like this twine

And impair our freedom,

Rather put our very life in danger.

Christ is not born in every manger.

On Ri Hossain: A Synthesis of Materialism and Surrealism

In the discourse of blending materialistic and surrealist thoughts in poetry, Ri Hossain (known professionally as Iqbal Hossain) stands as a distinctive modern voice. His poetry captures the harsh realities of contemporary urban life while simultaneously employing surreal imagery and timeless traditions to transcend those very realities.

The Materialist Lens: Reflection of Reality
In Ri Hossain’s work, we observe the reflection of contemporary unrest, mechanization, and global crises. As an entrepreneur and a busy professional, he has witnessed the rugged facets of society firsthand, which manifests in his writing as ‘objective truth.’ His poems frequently depict the struggles of the common man and the erosion of moral values. His choice of words is often modern and direct—a key characteristic of materialist philosophy.

The Surrealist Dimension: Beyond the Visible
However, he does not limit himself to objective descriptions. His poetry often crosses the boundaries of the visible world to create a mysterious realm of the subconscious. He utilizes imagery that transports the reader away from reality toward a transcendental sensation. Many critics identify this as ‘Modern Sufism’ or ‘Surreal Spirituality.’ In many of his poems, words do not merely convey literal meanings but create a surrealistic atmosphere where the past, present, and future merge into one.

The Bridge Between Two Worlds
Ri Hossain’s specialty lies in his ability to bridge these two streams. This synthesis operates on several levels:
* Universal Appeal: When his personal emotions (surreal) align with impersonal social truths (materialism), his poetry attains a universal dimension.
* Depth of Expression: By presenting life’s inconsistencies through a surrealist lens, he makes them far more poignant and profound than simple descriptions would allow.

Global Reach and Significance
His poems have been translated into various languages, including English, Spanish, and Albanian, proving that his integrated poetic style resonates with international audiences. He has successfully transformed ‘indigenous reality’ into a ‘surrealistic global language.’

Conclusion
Ri Hossain’s contribution to this trend of Bengali poetry is significant for several reasons. By utilizing Free Verse, he ensures the intellectual freedom necessary for surreal expression. Moving beyond conventional styles, he has carved out a unique niche by wrapping materialist social thought in a shroud of spiritual and surreal philosophy.

In short, Ri Hossain’s poetry does not merely speak of the earth; rather, it maps the surreal landscape of the subconscious mind and the universal soul rooted deep within that earth.

Beloved

You are the seasons that I am grateful to live. Your heart is a field of wildflowers; I explore in the spring. And you hand me the first yellow leaves of the forsythia, then when in bloom you brush my cheek with the white light of the Queen Ann’s lace. 

Beloved, when your arms open, they are my shelter from the rain that pummels the shed. In summer, after I sit in the sand, my heated body embraced by your cool ocean turquoise body. I float on my back, flip, and float again on my back. Your heart, a warm spoon to my mouth feeds me figs, mulberries, raspberries stirred in oats at morning when the sun rises. It’s the golden drizzle of honey I savor on my tongue as October winds scatter orange, and plum-colored leaves in the pond. Does your heart remember the silence of winter? I recall the way you turn up my palms to hold generous quiet snowflakes. Thank you beloved for chiming my heart with warmth of your eyes.  

Carrying The Cherry Blossoms 

Rosa steps on the six o’clock train traveling North alongside the river. Her window seat is perfect for her brown eyes that now belong to the ripples riding on the breeze, the occasional willow, and the mauve clouds crawling behind linked mountains. The train pauses at the Delmara Station picking up more passengers heading home after work. Rosa tucks a strand of curly hazelnut hair behind her ear and closes her eyes. Sounds of birds rush in as the doors close. She keeps her eyes shut when the stirring in her belly starts as if butterflies are taking off in a field of wildflowers. Her hands grip the handle of the small black suitcase in her lap, touching both sides of her thighs. In it, her daughter Clara’s favorite white silk dress, painted with pink blossoms on branches. When Clara was six years old, she walked barefoot under the cherry trees leaving her footprints on their roots. Look Mom, I’m helping them grow, she said, each time she circled them. At the picnic for her twenty-first birthday last year, Rosa recalls her glowing neckline in the sun.

The dress sitting at edge of her shoulders, sleeves at length of her mocha elbows. Rosa’s face and lips tremble with the image of Clara’s feet once again tip-toeing over roots. The train departs for her stop at Willow Kill. She reopens her eyes, the sky has an indigo hue, the half-moon has cast a silver shine on the river’s ripples. The train pulls into the station. Rosa’s heartbeat quickens like legs of horses galloping fast, kicking up dust behind them. Doors slide apart. She’s off the train before any other passengers push past her. Stepping onto the platform in the open moist air, an unexpected drizzle begins. Rosa’s face tingles. She walks down the stairs of the station hurrying to find a taxi. She looks up. Clouds shield the moon. A navy-blue Toyota pulls forward in front of her from the line of cars waiting for passengers. The driver leans across to the open window. Need a taxi? he asks. Rosa nods yes. Can I help you with your suitcase? I can put it in the trunk?  Rosa clutches the handle, No thanks, I need it by my side. The silk cherry blossom dress for Clara’s wake flashes in her mind.

Jerrice J Baptiste is an artist, poet, author of nine books. Her most recent book titled, Coral in The Diaspora published by Abode Press (August 2024). She’s been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize by The Poetry Distillery in 2026, Jerry Jazz Musician 2024 & Abode Press 2025, and as Best of The Net in 2022 by Blue Stem. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Mantis, Neologism Poetry Journal, The Write Launch, The Banyan Review, The Yale Review, The Lake, Artemis Journal and hundreds of others. Her watercolor drawings on paper have been accepted or forthcoming in Synchronized Chaos, Jerry Jazz Musician Magazine, MER, Saugerties Shout Out, Las Laguna Art Gallery exhibit in California, Spirit Fire Review. Jerrice has presented her art work at The Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, NY, in June 2025. She’s been featured twice as a solo artist in 2025 & 2026 in an art exhibit at The Mountaintop Library in Tannersville, NY. She facilitates poetry as a returning teaching artist at The Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, NY. Her poems & collaborative songwriting are featured on the Grammy nominated album-Many Hands: Family Music for Haiti.