It has been raining off & on over the last few days, occasionally quite heavily, as the bottom edge of the monsoon trough passes across northern Australia. Even now the clouds off to the inland are acquiring that gray glassiness that might indicate another storm is about to arrive. But it's also been reasonably warm, & the mosquitoes are out in plague proportions. Disturb them & your arm, within seconds, resembles one of those commercials for insect repellants, where some dickhead sticks his arm into a glass case that is swarming with the little beasties. I keep thinking of Ross River virus, Q fever, some other thing that brought crows crashing down out of the skies that I saw last week on a documentary that Brad Pitt narrated. Which, at the same time, was also killing people without explanation, but nobody made the correlation with the crows, especially not the Centre for Disease Control because they're so far up themselves that testing animals is beneath them. Let me just point out in passing that it was a veterinarian who first posited the relationship between kuru, a disorder that was discovered amongst the Fore people of New Guinea, & scrapie, a disease that affected sheep & goats. & let me just say that it was only veterinarians who protested against the British Board of Agriculture loosening its regulations on what could be fed to animals. & let me finish my aside by saying guess where bovine spongiform encephalopathy, shortened to BSE, popularly known as mad cow disease, came from. Feeding cows infected animal parts. Oh? Not that I'm putting that forward as something to be found in my garden. I'm the only mad cow around, freaking out about the mosquitoes, doing strange dances as I attempt to swat them. No crows are falling from the sky, but with that raucous caw they have, I don't think I'd mind. midnight rambling I have a jukebox inside me. Sometimes it lets me play what I want, but most of the time it determines the selection. The music is mainly from the mid-fifties to the mid-seventies, for me 15 to 35 years of age. A bit of bebop & blues & Bach from before that time, a few ballads from after. Things I grew up with, or found by going back to the roots of what I'd heard. Things that later fitted in with what I'd heard before. Some of it I have chosen. Some of it has chosen me. I tend to have an emotional attachment to my choices. Songs that make me weep or feel joy, that I probably early heard at some particular time & gathered up & kept the environment as well. I get the same sensation in my gut from particular Bach & Aretha Franklin & Miles Davis pieces. Much of Motown fits in there. Plus a whole lot of single songs – Winter in America, Time after Time, Darling be home soon, 7 Seconds, Heroes. The ones that have chosen me are varied. The jukebox's favourite is Milestones. I'll be somewhere, anywhere, & suddenly that staccato Da da da da, da da da da, da da da da Daaaaaa will come blasting out, causing me to veer off the road or slop my drink or drop whatever it is I'm holding. There are a few that are shared between active & passive – transitive & intransitive? – choice. The jukebox has a soft spot for Dylan which I don't always have. Occasionally we separate the song as if it were a disputed territory. Sometimes we both agree. Round Midnight was playing inside my head in the early hours of yesterday. I went to bed, & when I woke up was confronted with the snowplough of Milestones clearing all before it. Then the jukebox paused, said "You want midnight songs? Let me give you one." I felt a slight frisson, thought Wilson Pickett & thought it inappropriate. But was pleasantly surprised when the jukebox started into The bridge at midnight trembles, the country doctor rambles, bankers' nieces seek perfection, expecting all the gifts that wise men bring. It is one of the songs we share with no dispute. So, in a duet, we wandered off into the afternoon singing The wind howls like a hammer, the night blows cold & rainy, my love she's like some raven at my window with a broken wing. (2005)
Essay from Bakhora Bakhtiyorova
Stupid Elevators That morning without you again... does it have to be bright?" says my lightless gaze. I come to the window with my forehead straining... it's as if the world from the upper floor falls under your feet. If only dreams would fall like this under my feet, I would immediately take you, the most elegant wish among them, and hold it in my arms. I sat on the windowsill and rested my head on the frame, observing the world. When I fall asleep, I still miss you. The morning is breaking, the swallows are so lonely, huh? He flew deep. Calling the roosters, as if we are the wakers of the clear morning, as if we are bringing the sun... Heh, you're just like my naive gullible swallows... In fact, you don't know about the rains.. Just like my faith... Morning thoughts... Hot coffee likes to give my sad thoughts a little light... Its aroma is comforting... it's so bitter... coffee without sugar. Just like my grief. It's bitter and it doesn't need false comforting sugar. However, just as sugar cannot suppress the taste and aroma of coffee, so my simple consolations cannot suppress my sorrows.
Poetry from Tohm Bakelas
“social worker’s lament” drunk chasing herons, i pause to reflect—old friends, open roads, less thoughts “coldblooded prophets” speeding home i pass a turtle holding the universe inside its shell “distracted by everything” an egret glides overhead— my watch is at home, i wish for autumn “they know no laws” sparrows refuse adhering to red traffic signals they keep flying “gravity sucks” black ivory wings beat through a cloudy blue sky— i am just a man
Poetry from Emmanuel Umeji
Weeping as a Mutilation of Fear
Today, every face in my community bears tears like a mutilation
All ears of our land are worn out by the
acerbic headlines whistling out from our radio.
Outside, the whole land is becoming a sea of corpse
In here, fear has a large apartment in our bodies than blood.
In this home we cannot home
For we are preys chased by wild raiders
Yesterday, the raiders strike in at midday,
and left with my father’s blood on their knife.
Yesterday, a holocaust ate up my uncles barn of grains and hays
and at the time the day became grey,
another mutilation of fear and tears outshone from our faces.
Nags of gunshots are chirps of birds,
A tragic song we perceive on steady basis.
Perhaps my father’s God said that the day
violence chews the serenity of our land,
we should know we are approaching the butt of life
and so we pray this day not for the end of violence,
but for the kickstart of apocalypse.
Poetry from Laszlo Aranyi
Bring dynamite and a crane
Blow it up start all over again...
(Tobacco Road)
Obligation
His fly is open.
His cock is a two-forked tongue of the bell.
Meanwhile, he sharpens a boning knife.
The famulus is skinning the foil off a book.
Now the poet is the boss. (Hanging on a hook.)
Mr. Blockhead and Miss Witless complete
the selection committee.
After the explosions comes the living revolution
paralyzed into barrenness
(It destroys things unnoticed.)
The hissing, decaying wreckage of our world:
a billion barricades on the river Otter Tail.
The poet would call the literates of Honeyland
hiding in the swamps,
but they are blind,
deaf and
mute.
(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)
Bring dynamite and a crane
Blow it up start all over again...
(Tobacco Road)
Obligation
Slicc nyitva.
A pöcs kétágú harangnyelv.
Közben csontozókést köszörül.
A famulus könyvfólia-bőrt nyúz.
A költő most kápó. (Kampón függ.) Gyöpinger úr és
Ostobenkó kisasszony kiegészíti
a választmányt.
A robbanások után jön az élő,
meddővé vénült csend forradalma.
(Észrevétlenül pusztít.)
Világunk sziszegve málló roncs-maradványai:
milliárd torlasz a Vidrafarok-folyón.
A lírikus szólítaná Mézföld mocsarkba bújt
írástudóit,
de vak,
süket,
némult mind…
Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)
Goetia
Legless centipede. On all four.
A bloated abdomen split like a gangrenous log.
(A fissure in a blinded mirror of ice) A shriveled faced pirate with dangling balls
is the late prey of our civilization.
The deck is a lifeless quicky,
where the flayflints of our freedom feast,
with their saliva dripping,
the laughing Grim Reaper dances like a living shred of meat on the festive table.
"Go on, leave the wheel, turn into a bottlenose dolphin yourself!"
Behold, the hominid,
and his ubiquitous sidekick,
this is what we deserve,
some hideous beast, it's holy true. "No, to the trough,
my friends, but up for puking!"
Then one day you'll awake in your grave, and touched by the one returning before us, "Come, leave it to the maggots," and points at the wobbling,
filmy moon-palm above us -
“you will now move into his body…"
Freedom is simply as follows: the condemned man can choose the method of his execution. And we telling lies stating that this ever-decaying terminal stage is progress. Three-pronged wand, cudgel, bell, shrunken head of a man,
sickle, wax rigidity after bloodsucking, catatonic delirium.
Fingerprints of our doings on cosmic flypaper.
The Earth purged of humanity, and the boisterous oceans are continue writing their history without us…
(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)
Goetia
Épkézláb százlábú. Négykézláb.
˙qálzéʞʎƃéN
Üszkös fahasábként hasadó, felfúvódott has.
(Hasadás megvakult jégtükrön…) Aszott pofájú, lógó tökű kalóz
kései zsákmánya civilizációnk.
Élettelenné vált tákolmány a fedélzet,
szabadságunk uzsorásai ott lakmároznak,
nyáluk csordul,
élő húscafatként táncra perdül a röhögő Kaszás az ünnepi asztalon.
„Menj csak, hagyd a kormányt, változz pléhcsőrű delfinné te is!”
Íme, az emberszabású,
valamint a mindenütt megbúvó kísérője,
amely,
amit érdemlünk,
valami undorító szörny, az szentigaz. „No, vályúhoz,
cimborák, okádásig!”
Egyszer aztán föleszmélsz a sírban, s megérint az előttünk visszatérő: „jöjj, hagyd a férgeknek, - s a fölöttünk imbolygó,
hártyás hold-tenyérre mutat -
mostantól az ő testébe költözöl…”
A szabadság mindössze ennyi: a halálraítélt választhat a kivégzési módok közül. S fejlődőnek hazudjuk ezt a folyamatosan hanyatló végstádiumot. Háromhegyű pálca, dorong, harang, zsugorított
emberfő, sarló, vérívás utáni viaszmerevség, kataton révület.
Viselt dolgaink újjlenyomatai a kozmikus légypapíron. Nélkülünk is tovább írja történetét
az emberiségtől megtisztult Föld, s a háborgó óceán.
Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: „(szellem)válaszok”, „A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya”, „Kiterített rókabőr” His poems in English have appeared in over a hundred journals. New book about to be published, “Delirium &…The Seven Haiku” (Published By DEAD MAN’S PRESS INK ALBANY, NY 2023). He has been nominated several times for international awards. He is known for being a spiritualist medium and his work explores the relationship between magic and art.
I am marginalised in my own country!
Poetry from Kristy Raines
WHEN YOU SMILE BACK I am your companion, your lover and friend You are the heart that feels my every emotion My heartbeat, is the wellspring of your life You seek your home in my arms every night and in my hands I hold your tender heart We've both overcoming earlier difficulties and have grown in many ways together Only you truly know the beats of my heart whether I am happy or I am somber inside But oh, how easily you can find my smile And when you smile back.. there is no doubt that my pounding heart beats only for you. I NEVER KNEW DREAMS CAME TRUE Far away I may be in distance but in my heart you are so close What I thought was only in dreams has become reality in front of my eyes I will never grieve you with my pain Though I know you'd take it gladly Just keep me in your prayers at night The One above us will give me rest You ask me what is my reality I think you know by now But the words are like a wish I dare not say it out loud Or else it may not come true. Just know that no matter what happens in my heart you will always have a place Every time you think of me, I will appear And in sleep, no one can take you from me... MY CHILDREN... WALK BESIDE ME Walk quietly beside me along a shore that never ends Tell me your dreams and desires in life, tread lightly through the twists and bends Make me smile with your beautiful laughter Experience a distant land Visit me when you feel lonely and for a moment, hold my hand And my children, I promise you this.. I will always walk beside you when you reach a rocky trail I will encourage you to live your dream, even if you try and fail I will proudly cheer you on as you accomplish your every dream I will hold you up when you feel weak on me you still can lean Many say they will be there for you and many may not follow though But when life gets too hard at times I'll be there to walk with you Always help another in need put yourself in their place Cause one day you may be the one who needs to be shown grace. My children, I'll always love you. Life's an adventurous race to run Just give me a moment now and then before my days are done For one day you will walk my path, realizing that time does end You'll find yourself wishing you had more time on earth, but time.. it never lends... YOUR SILENCE SPEAKS FOR ITSELF We used to speak almost everyday Life got complicated and time went by Before I knew, it became years I know now that you didn't know why But I thought you would understand I needed time to heal inside without advice or reprimand never meaning to hurt your pride When you needed time I never failed to understand why I didn't hear from you To me our friendship always prevailed I'm sure thoughts of me now are few When I felt strong enough to talk again You returned my letters that now sit on a shelf… It was never my intention to shut you out, and now your silence speaks for itself. Now I am ready to let go...
Kristy Ann Raines is an American poet and author born on April 9, 1957, in Oakland California. Kristy has five books which will soon be published. One anthology with a prominent poet from India, Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai, will launch sometime around August 2023 and is called, “I Cross my Heart from East to West.” She has also written two fantasy books entitled, “Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings” and “Princess and The Lion”, an collection of poems in English,” Walking Without You”, a collection in French, “Little Rose Poetry”, and one in Arabic called, “Jasmine and Roses.” Kristy has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.
Poetry from Christabel Angel Douglas
Dear Past, I thank you for revealing life’s art, For letting me taste its every part, In pains, joys, words unkind or sweet, You shaped me whole, made me complete. Stronger now, forged by your embrace, Wounds and scars adorn with grace, Etched like art on canvas, body and soul, Each story they tell, making me whole. Those scars, in sorrow’s shadow born, Became my drive, my fires were sworn, You spurred me on, fanned my inner fire, Turning pain into purpose, soaring higher. For every tear, a clearer sight ahead, Each ache a milestone, towards goals I tread, Truly, you’re the gift that keeps giving still, Turning trials into strength, an iron will. Through trials akin to the inferno’s maw, Earthly challenges seem but straw, Betrayals and falsehoods left thorns to find, Yet deeper pain I’ve met, a crucible of the mind. Now I stand strong, a conqueror in grace, Thankful for the storm that shaped my pace, Thankful for a tempest of lessons and more, A past complex and layered, its wisdom I adore. Defined not solely by what’s already done, You’re a prologue, a journey, a rising sun, A force that propels me into the unknown, With lessons as my armor, confidence has grown. Past, I’m grateful for your steady hand, Guiding me through this intricate land, Now I step into Future, arms stretched wide, Prepared for an adventure, with hope as my guide.