STOPPING ON ONE’S WAY

WAY

Murdered Man in Uniform

Crawling Man

NOTE: The composite imagery used to conjure an impression of the stage is intended only as a suggestion of what each play should look like during a performance.  Not all of the details described in the stage notes are precisely or realistically reproduced by the images accompanying the plays.  These images are meant to provide a visual blueprint or shorthand for the stage and the action. 

Stopping On One’s Ways—Stage Image

STOPPING ON ONE’S WAY

              While curtain is closed, there is very loud machine gun fire together with a man’s screams.

            The machine gun noise and the screaming should last approximately thirty-seconds.  They should both be uncomfortably loud.

            Immediately after the screaming stops, the curtain opens to reveal the man’s corpse.  It is positioned at the left wing, as close as possible to the edge of the stage (an ideal stage for this piece would be one where wings/curtain edge and end of stage are close together).  The head is concealed behind the curtain, remaining offstage.  The man is dressed in some kind of obscure official or military uniform; nothing that can be easily recognized.

            A painted backdrop, depicting an expanse of desert, fills the back of the stage.  At the center of this scene is a passenger car in flames.  A curved and clearly paved road leads from the car (which should occupy the mid-ground of the backdrop) to the stage floor (i.e., the foreground or bottom of the backdrop).  The stage is also dressed as a desert scene but there is no physical or visual connection between the road extending through the backdrop scene and the on-stage desert set.  It must be clear that this “road” is terminated by the bottom of the backdrop and remains pictorially disconnected from the stage.

            The backdrop is flooded by harsh white spotlights.  The front of the stage, the entire line of vision begun by the corpse, is kept in relief: not total shadow but enough dimness to compare distinctly with the rest of the stage.  A soft white spotlight (haze as opposed to harshness), in a beam no larger than a silver dollar, blinks on and off (in intervals of five seconds), illuminating the feet of the body.  The spotlight begins blinking only after the curtain is fully parted.

            Fifteen seconds after the blinking of the light (i.e., after it has blinked four times), a man enters from the upper right wing.  He is on his hands and knees, crawling very slowly and moaning softly as he moves.  His clothing is burnt and scorched, hanging from his body in shreds.  After advancing several feet in this fashion, his moans become louder and more agonized, and he speaks the following words (his head remains lowered, thus he speaks facing the ground, so it must be clear that he is speaking to himself):

                                         CRAWLING MAN

                     My wife!  My children and my wife!  My wife and my

                        children are dead!  Are cut up!  Are dead and cut up! 

                        O this grief!  My grief and my body and their bodies! 

                        I know!  I know their bodies and this grief! They are

                        gone!  The flesh is ripped!  Gone!  Ripped! Grief!

                        No Wife!  Suzy dead!  Yes!  Johnny dead!  Yes!  Dead!

                        Yes!  Dead!  Yes!

          He stops speaking and resumes moaning, softly, as before.  Fifteen seconds after the moaning begins, he painfully and slowly raises his head, in great surprise notices the corpse, stops moaning, and with unexpected exhilaration and agility, hurriedly crawls towards the body, stopping just in front of the feet.

                                         CRAWLING MAN

                     Sir!  O Sir!  I am assured that you will listen! I can

                        assure myself that you will listen to my grief!  I am

                        assured that I finally can express my grief!  O Sir! 

                        Sir!  I will tell my story!  You must listen!  All of

                        us: myself, my wife, and my children, we were

                        going on vacation, we were going to be happy, on

                        our vacation, on our vacation in the mountains,

                        we were going to enjoy ourselves!  We placed our

                        bodies in the car, as we had done hundreds of times!

                     There was nothing unusual about that!  The car

                        brought us to so many beautiful places, so many

                        miles, so much beauty!  O Sir, you should have

                        seen the beauty!  I drove continuously for two straight

                        days when it started to rain and the wind blew

                        and the road became indistinct but I continued to

                        drive because we had placed our bodies in the

                        car as always in order to travel many miles

                        and see beauty and enjoy ourselves on vacation

                        in the mountains!  On the third night, a bus came

                        racing towards us!  It collided with the car!  Sir!

                        I could not avert the catastrophe!  That you must

                        understand!  I could not avert the catastrophe!

                        You must understand that!  The car was swept

                        off the highway and rolled down the entire length

                        of a very steep hill!  But I was thrown through

                        the door and watched as the car rolled down the hill!  And I

                     was dazed as I watched the flames!  The flames! 

                        The flames!  My wife!  My children!  Their bodies

                        were in the car and consumed by flames!  In the

                        car and ripped by the shattered glass!  In the

                        car and endlessly bleeding as if their bodies were

                        hundreds of slowly squeezed tomatoes!  Yes! 

                        Yes!  I watched and my lips quivered and my

                        face contorted into a harlequin’s mad wild smile! 

                        Yes!  Yes!  My face!  My face!  I saw!  I saw! 

                        All the ripped burning flesh!  All the ripped burning flesh!

          He stops speaking but does not resume moaning, remaining silent instead, and continuing after fifteen seconds.

                                         CRAWLING MAN

                     I have seen no one for years.  I have been gone.

                        Away.  Crawling.  Away.  All concerned parties assumed

                         I was incinerated along with my family because the

                        mass of charred flesh could not be identified.

                        But I was not.  I have been crawling.  I have been

                        away.  I have been gone.  I have had a terrible

                        experience, don’t you think?  Yes, it was terrible for

                        me…for them…for me…for them…for me…for them…

                        for me…for them…

          He continues repeating these phrases, less and less intelligibly, until they become a murmur that slowly evolves into the soft moaning, as before.  Now moaning, he turns around and slowly crawls towards the upper right wing.  His movements are slower and more labored than during his entrance.  He reaches the wing and exits, although the moaning, now faint, is still audible.  Fifteen seconds after the CRAWLING MAN leaves the stage, the spotlight stops blinking, with the moaning still just barely audible.

            Curtain (with moaning at faintest level).

Cox’s Bazar

Cox’s Bazar is one of the biggest sea beaches.
This is a tourist place of Bangladesh.
We can see many types of birds,
In the beach.
That is a natural beauty of the beach.
In the morning,
The sun rays fall on the water of the sea.
Then the water shine like treasure.
When the sun rises and sets in the beach,
The entire beach makes yellowish.
There have many different types of stones,
That look like diamonds.
There has coral island,
That contains many colorful fishes.
This is the best place for tourist,
We can go there any time.
So, many foreign tourists come here,
To see its beauty.
The name Cox’s Bazar has been taken,
From the name of Hiram Cox.
Who was an officer,

Of British East India Company.
This is the longest sea beach of the world.
So, it is a great gift from the God.


Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

MY BOOK OF LIFE

O my soul mate, my book of life,
There are beautiful moments on every page,
Even though it's imaginary, my Endless novel,
The month comes again every year, my spring!
You're so far away, the longing never ends
I don't have enough, I don't have enough fame,
Why doesn't fate laugh at us,
Star of my luck, dear half!
Beloved of my eyes,
Come immerse me in your gaze
Relatives who fill the heart in his absence,
Destroy with your presence, my last hope!
Stay in the world for love, your enthusiasm,
Let's return the soul, the breath to the beloved,
The map of undying love,
Let's shoot for the first time, my promise - first!
The song of the soul, the voice of the heart,
The will of loving hearts,
A monument of divine love,
Let's create together, my dear architect!
Let's change the place of the Sun, the Moon,
Let's turn the direction of the flowing river,
Let's give a share to the forest from every tree,
Let's stand in pairs, I'll face the mountain alone!
Let's decorate a table with flowers - flowers,
With birds of prey, with white butterflies,
You are an artist with a dream, a loving heart,
I am "Shur", "Bastanigar", oh my faithful!

Elmaya Jabbarova.
27.06.2022.


Elmaya Jabbarova - was born in Azerbaijan. She is poet, writer, reciter, translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for
Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African's CAJ magazine, Bangladesh's Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.

CHERRY

I hide in you
like a stone in  
an overripe cherry.

I float in 
your fragrant juices,
Trembling
from the 
bird's greedy beak
that will
tear us
apart.

And,
I will not answer your
question:
Are fruits also doomed
to
loneliness?


Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia. Winner of several international awards for poetry, including: Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019, Mak Dizdar award, 2020. Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021. Fra Martin Nedić Award, 2022.

She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.

FOLLOW ME

 I'm giving you a secret sign, follow the white rabbit. 
My shoulder tattoo says it all. 
Yes, I forgot, we are not in the movie The Matrix.
I want you to be my companion, 
but you don't know how to read the signs 
which is set by the Universe through numbers and in the child's speech. 
There is a celestial artist whose pen writes the signs of the horoscope. 
All this is as clear as the future in the palm of your hand, in answer to prayer. 
But instead of looking, you sleep and dream of me in a silk nightgown, 
and you don't understand that I'm warm on a hot night, 
and not to provoke your senses. 
I am giving you a path that is walked without material desires
and to head to the Himalayas where we will see with different eyes. 
We will dive into the mountain of snow, in whose interior there is a world of abundance. 
Close your eyes and follow me. I will take you, companion, 
when you learn that tattoos speak, 
when you recognize the signposts written with a pen of gold, 
we will not need a body made of earth. Follow me, 
I'll take you to the abundance of dreams brought to life. 
And once you step there you won't want to go back, but he wants it first. 


I AM YOUR MASK

In kindergarten you wanted to be a clown. 
I painted over your features 
and you were so adorable with a round red nose.. 
You are at a ball in your youth 
put a mask over his eyes yes poor girl 
she wouldn't recognize that you are the son of a rich man, 
It looked perfect on you because I can make you be what you want.
And in your passion you were afraid of illness 
and convinced you to be your protection of polyester cloth over the mouth and nose. 
Your ears started ringing, and no one saw the sad eyes 
because they have become dull. I, who was your servant 
and mask of life I humiliated you 
and you forgot to be free man.
I shout to myself: "I am your mask, get off my face and smile, captive man, because there is a way out!"
 

Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whomfrom an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". 
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro,and shealso is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.

The Difference We Make
September 2013

Empty air was hissing
as from a gold string fob sifted on marble.
Some things take another thing
to make sense for them.

When I reached down to pick it up, the name
chestnut echoed as a keepsake to imagine
luck for my pocket, carried with change.

We gathered at Memorial Church to listen
to readings of your poems. None of them
were set in churches, allowing you this further
chance to resist yet also embellish
a welcoming exile and attempt to naturalize you.

One of the professors related your meditation
on the pastor’s beret, your insight into the thing’s
aerodynamic shape and lightness, holding it
like a frisbee between thumb and finger,
mind’s-eyeing it flung into the congregation.

The poet’s vision could perform the necessary
desanctification of the sacred, to share
grace for our laughter, which the pastor
for heaven’s sake might thank the poet for.

With vaults to echo the skies, the altar for
your or my supper table and by metonymy of use
the fruits of the earth, the earth itself,
a church makes a kind of poem of the world—
with acoustics especially for song
and speech, middle-earth in its edification
of a mind waking to meaning, to prayer, or to a poem
to articulate our wonder, to advocate for us,
for our reconciliation, to forge the soul
or, say, shape us, to belong, in the difference we make.

For something slightly unusual we guessed
our way down Brattle to the garden at Longfellow’s.
Starlings and a crow pecked in the grass.



A russet squirrel gnawing an acorn motioned
for us to follow the path along the beds
with labels for end of summer’s crestfallen roses—

onto a trellised vine. Wanting thoughts looked.
Were those real, clustered in perfect cone-shapes?
They couldn’t—could they be ripe? It would be wrong

to lift a handful—as my hand reached for the grapes
to roll and crush their tartness on my tongue
thinking this appropriate for a trade

poet’s memory, a frisson’s object
to flesh out the reed music Seamus Heaney made
with prudence and propriety to contradict.

Michael Todd Steffen is the recipient of a Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship and an Ibbetson Street Press Poetry Award. His poems have appeared in journals including The Boston Globe, E-Verse Radio, The Lyric, The Dark Horse, and The Poetry Porch.

Of his second book, On Earth As It Is, now available from Cervena Barva Press, Joan Houlihan has noted Steffen’s intimate portraits, sense of history, surprising wit and the play of dark and light…the striking combination of the everyday and the transcendent.

1

fluffy goldfinches 

at the birdfeeder

spring snow flakes


a feather fluttering down

signals an intruder


Christina Chin/Kimberly Olmtak Gomes


2


spring rain 

fills the lily cups—

impassable stream


up to my knees

in a flooded street


Christina Chin/Kimberly Olmtak Gomes



3


sweet and plump

in the faded family photos

—aged envelopes


prying eyes search 

for a birth certificate


Christina Chin/Kimberly Olmtak Gomes