Proverbs and Poetry from Faroq Faisal 1. Dying with disgust is very painful 2. Every day I look at myself in the mirror - I see how much is left for the end of humanity. Tears of Inside The body of my love inside the teardrops accumulated in the corners of the eyes. Decayed body - leaves fall in the fall. Pandemic and decrepitude are the bewilderment of creation, the moth's body is fragrant night. That night is not the deep wound of the moon's belly, but the glory of the sun. It's just the wee worm's deep kiss inside the point, the wound inside the wound - the eternal sky beyond. Velvety body killer youthful Madhavi (a flower name) Madhavi's tears are not the point - the tears inside the point.
Poetry from Maid Corbic
PRAGUE, CENTER OF THE WORLD I was happy in Prague. Because I drank the best spirits Meet a historical fact Yes, Prague is a country of existence Where people are very happy I was a tourist one day. But I felt like it every day. I am their resident. Because they are really good people. Historical battles are shown Where people with swords fought For the history of his country In all this, it is as if I find myself Because the meaning of life is my existence. Love was born in that wonderful time. When no one cared, it wasn't Prague is the centre of the world for me. Because I feel free in it. The reason for life is now more persistent Because the Czech Republic is the land of peace and happiness COLD WEATHERS Winter has come In a white coat There's a man standing That was me. And I looked around Austria is a country of cold Rich in Mozart balls Eight euros and much more I was amazed by the garden At Schoburn Castle And everything is as if they are in a dream. More than ever especially Because I'm so happy Why I meet people at night Culture and Art I appreciate everything about them Because they are people Similar menu Cold but beautiful Because the meaning of life is To look forward to a new day Coming to me Austria is my dream To experience it again Because love is very clear When I have what I want!
Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 22 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that is repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan.
Poetry from David Topper
Seascape with Gulls: My Father’s Last Painting An Ekphrasis by David R. Topper Look, they are not your usual strokes. Not the stringent way you controlled your brush all those years from Art School to an evening hobby to this Seascape that water these waves those gulls. A lifetime drawing & sketching mostly painting, mainly oils with details, details, details – your forte. You liked it when someone said “Oh, it looks so real, like a photograph.” But, of course, you worked from magazines National Geographic, Life, calendars, too. Look again, they are your strokes. Someone said “Looks like a watercolor.” Look closer, the opaque white with traces of a brush’s bristles in oil paint with extra linseed oil in very thin layers. The same way you made your sandwiches thinly spreading the peanut butter & jelly. A vestige of growing up during The Depression, part of being frugal. No, not frugal, cheap … or tightfisted, as they said then. Look, really, they are not your strokes. Too broad, too loose, too vague too imprecise, too open, too unfinished too expressive for your temper – not your usual rigidity. Aah, the onset of dementia, after those other strokes released & relaxed your brain’s severe part, loosening the grip on your hand, bringing this Seascape into being. And, at the same time, as dementia shut down another part of your brain, all desire to paint vanished, leaving Seascape with Gulls – your first and last unfettered work – as the very best artistic expression in your life.
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
Throne By Christopher Bernard “Queen Elizabeth II: Britain’s longest reigning monarch dies aged 96” “World on brink of five ‘disastrous’ climate tipping points, study finds” —Two headlines from September 8, 2022 The rock you rolled to the top of the tender hill, The ship you winged into the regal bay, The sun you alchemied in a whispering still, The heel you drove into stone as into clay, The moon in your thimble, meteor in your dream, School round your dubious, bloody history Curling toward the sun, a scruffy team; A knight in darkness fighting faithfully The dragon wrapped inside his thrusting mind Alarmed, frightened, cunning, clever, strong. Out of nothing designed and yet designed To trap a cosmos in a wind of wrong On a day when fire eats his meat and bread, His future closes like a fist, and a queen is dead. _____ Christopher Bernard’s collection of poems, The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award for Literary Excellence and was named one of the “Top Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews.
Poetry from Oona Haskovec
time travelers you took our picture from a car window. i know because i saw the door frame on the edge of the photograph. neither of us saw you take it, but i know it exists because someone in the future is admiring the yellowing picture paper that smells of antique stores and soap. why had we stopped to stand in the middle of the highway? not sure who are you? i wont bother guessing because you care either way. you stopped time in march. the MAR on the side told me so. what year? anyone's guess. all i know is that she is looking at me and i am looking at the blue or the grey or the beige.
Poetry from Chloe Schoenfeld
Maniacal Drama Extremism to its extreme The iliad twice over Yet missing more than A hundred thousand soldiers There's a killer on the loose The new pennywise The curtains haven't closed yet This story isn’t near its end Quiet panic Tension is high Cross your fingers and Pray there's no encore No more- Chekhov's gun is on the wall “La forza del destino” Graffitied on the bathroom stall The spotlight’s gone dark The lead is dead We pity the poor soul Who found the queen’s head The show must go on Sanity is hanging on by just a thread Everything’s gone wrong And the stage is half set We’re only in act three Nobody knows where the prop manager went Iago is carrying the head of Marie Antoinette Exit stage left Keep your eye on the apron- The hit list is too long Suspicion is high Biases are burning Don’t blink It’s all a lie Romeo is dead now So is Snow White Mufasa has fallen Spock said goodbye And Rose couldn’t save Her poor young lover’s life The audience is cheering It all looked so authentic News reports nineteen civilians have gone missing
Poetry from Celeste Alisse
Through a crack in the wall, I see nothing. I hear a faint swirl of mutters and creaks and nothing. I sense a fear, From me or the crack in the wall? From me. Eye to the hole, I stare and stare, But nothing is nothing is nothing. I see nothing, I hear nothing, I sense nothing. Yet when I am far from the crack in the wall, I see it, I hear it, I sense it. The crack in the wall is made up of nothing, Yet it makes me feel the most of everything. I am it. Which makes me nothing.