Artwork from Fabio Sassi
Synchronized Chaos Mid-April 2022: To Know We’re Alive
All are welcome to attend the Hayward Lit Hop, a multi-venue literary reading at 3pm Saturday April 30th, coinciding with and continuing after Hayward’s first youth poet laureate award ceremony. Several Synchronized Chaos contributors will read from their work.
Welcome, readers, to Synchronized Chaos’ second April issue, To Know We’re Alive. This issue explores ‘signs of life’ of many kinds, creative and emotional and intellectual as well as physical.
Michael Robinson relates his faith journey and in honor of this weekend’s Easter celebration of resurrection and new life. John Culp asserts his spiritual wellness and his choice to stand with what’s good. Stephen Jarrell Williams shares gentle odes to love, writing, and the next
John Thomas Allen leads us through a semi-urban nocturnal trek amid the cicadas and beer cans and metallic moonlight. Dan Raphael ponders existence and observation from a distance in a variety of domestic and ordinary settings.
Mahbub discusses lively characters: birds in flight, soccer player Diego Maradona, people of the world embracing in peace. He pleads for people to come together in harmony and also to show special care for those in need, such as the frail and lonely elderly.
Denis Emorine celebrates the rich heritage of Russian culture and urges us not to equate all of it with Putin’s contemporary aggression. Chimezie Ihekuna celebrates the dedication and honor of a soldier who has chosen to put service to their country above their own desires.
J.J. Campbell brings us our monthly theme, mentioning how pain is often a medical clue that a person is still with us. His work explores heartbreak, disillusionment, and the vague unease of watching news of a distant war.
Howie Good sends up vignettes of trauma observed from a distance, of how the passage of time, space, and culture renders inhumanity mundane. Brian Fugett renders trauma half a world away into a symphonic metaphor, pondering what it means to bee the audience to events that kill children.
Gabriel T. Saah paints a pastel photo of a gentle village beachside love, along with the drama of driving in the rain. Santiago Burdon also depicts love, at nighttime, in a hypnotic sentence replete with moonlight, street lamps, and scented magnolia blossoms.
Yusuf Salisu Muhammad celebrates his love for his mother in a piece full of visceral images: food, the home, and his body. Gerald Onyebuchi renders love through Biblical psalm imagery, adding a historical, cultural, and spiritual dimension to his romantic yearnings.
Please enjoy and find comfort and inspiration in this month’s issue.
Poetry from Stephen Jarrell
Broken Poets Alone in a locked room window bars rusted unmade bed against the wall dripping faucet in the dimly lit bathroom someone slamming a door down the hall a thumping from the ceiling forgetting yesterday with the outside wind nighttime shadows already closing in sitting in the corner on the only chair beside a tiny desk handmade wood an open notebook filled with words lines of poetry endless in thoughts they laughed at you when you were a kid wrinkles on your forehead and closed mouth only a few poets are known by name but you are blessed and will never change. Never Forgetting In this quiet night soft on your back remembering the past horizons caressing sighs oceans away but waves coming near rhythmic with her beside you sand and salt smooth beach laughter and tears never forgetting the touch of her tender hand with you all those years. Her Last Words Heaven so near to us, we can touch it.
Poetry from Mahbub
Diego Maradona, A Wonder of the World Diego Maradona, a name of charisma, the famous football player of the world Today and tomorrow will ever flow on - to you, to me and for all Whenever the ball touches his feet, the rhythmic passing can't but charm Though the striker all the time circled round by four or five opposite players Ran so swift with the ball to the goal post in an instant leaving behind all And the whole stadium fascinated with the sound 'Goal' ---- in the blink of an eye Technique of passing with the ball always made the audience spell-bound Even his throwing by the hand to the goal once judged as 'The God's hand' What a striker! What a magician! In the field of The World Cup Football What a magic playing! How charismatic in dealing with the ball! Though went away very soon from his earth Can we say he is no more in the field of The World Cup Football? Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 05/01//2021 The Tough Loving Cup The heat caused deaths by corona More violent than the heat causing deaths by gratuitous violence From this different guise of destruction People hang on the fate for mutual submission Of course, we can't blame our predecessors for this The skin disease of white and black For what is happening today or happened in the past In this garrulous world suffocated by the smoky, enigmatic form of work Like the car in a dizzying speed or guarding the buildings like a Dobermann Where is the loving cup? Can we sip in the Holy Grail? Though the curling smoke mounts high in the morning, evening or midnight cup The woods are burning; the land submerged by Everyday every moment in the light, shade or dark. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 05/01//2021 The Flapping Bird The bird is flapping standing still over head Like the plane before landing on the ground Jerking the body and the people inside This is the sky the bird flies free Take rest on its feather and fly again Is it watching my black-haired head or something other for a particular thing? Different species of birds possesses different ways of flying Compared to body, strength or taste According to God's will But all fly free to the own That acts on the human brain and search for the new In this evening when the sun is just going to set with its round red charm Reflecting on the mind in bond of love The bird snatched me away to the wonder of the nature's diversity I fly over where the bird can't. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 07/01//2021 The Sign of Love Let the sky be open From the hazy and crazy mood of the universe Let the passion be for beauty From the morning to the evening Let the moon kiss on From all sorts of pain and suffering Let love be for each other free from any danger From one corner of the earth to the other The sun shines on flowers Blooming the smile of all faces Let tyranny and oppression be stopped Singing all in harmony the sweet note of birds Let peace cuddle on everybody irrespective of cast, color or creed Removing the snake tamed in the palace causing so many deaths Let shake hands to each other and embrace to die for each other Can you see the sign of love hung on the wall? - The heart! Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 07/01//2021 The Old Home Life cries on the bend of the river The flow of the river halts, when life falters A great relationship we find in between life and river Streaming from an unknown power Rivers dry up- sand and sand -the bottom and the surface Life walks -life burns, life dives in quicksand The sandy river turns into a hot spot The green leafy trees fade away Life from on to the other Life appears to be a skull, a living dead on the flowing blood Why do the sons and daughters leave the parents? Why is the blood cut off from its blood's stream? Why power and pelf lead the rational being to the path of blindness Forgetting the nourishment and the caress in childhood? The old in no way walk to The Old Home A woman lying on bed paralyzed and senseless Roaring in pain for bed sore in the back The old coming here were unknown to each other before So close now and very near and dear to each other From the long journey of life, all seem to be a love bird singing altogether Or like the weathered green glittering in the sun after the rain Rolling water into my eyes Life is like the flying rain with its different means and ways disappears very soon How diversified to take a single breath cultivating the land in different field! Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 10/01//2021
Poetry from Michael Robinson
Rebirth of a Soul Life had been empty when my faith was lacking. Years of seeking something that was empty within. Faith came to me earlier this season of Jesus’s death. Daily praying to be saved from a world which held nothing. Listening to the gospels there was no recognition of death. Yet, death had me in a vice on me daily without ceasing. My emptiness repeated each year and tears continued to flow. Kneeling at the altar alone and crying alone praying for a life. Finding that empty place within me without salvation coming. Meaning meant life was a vacuum of suffering and pain. Jesus hanging with nails in his hands had meaning for me. It was a day in which a quietness blanketed me the first time. Walking with a wooden cross on his shoulders alone. It had meaning to walk to his death to suffer with meaning Sitting there in an empty church alone changed that day. Instead, it was an understanding of what death meant, There was no flashing of lights or angels singing. It was a recognition that my life meant something. My life was given to me by God’s love for me to live. Somehow it all meant something to me that he died. Not for my sins but rather to save me from emptiness. God had given me my life and my life had meaning.
Essay from Dennis Emorine
Translation from the French by Michael Steffen In a Nutshell What is this foam in the mouth of the West since the invasion of Ukraine by Russia? Nearly everywhere around the world we’re writing Russian culture off. Who has the authority to issue this order unjust as it is reprehensible? No need to cite examples. Everybody knows what’s going on here. I’m ashamed of these gravediggers who confuse Chekhov with Kalashnikov. Like that’s going to help save the Ukrainian people bravely facing bombs, missiles and torture. Are we going to throw Dostoyevsky in jail without a fair trial and have him executed? Trash Pushkin and Pasternak? They are also dictators who aim to erase artists by assassinating their thoughts. This is not Democracy and Liberty. Culture is international, it doesn’t have borders. I’m still listening to Rachmaninov, Shostakovich, some days over and over. I’m still reading Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetaeva, often with tears in my eyes. I say No to the Thought-Police! Long live Russian culture! Denis Emorine (original) нет ! Quelle folie s’empare de l’Occident depuis l’invasion de l’Ukraine par la Russie ? Partout dans le monde ou presque , on excommunie la culture russe et ses représentants ! Qui a lancé un mot d’ordre aussi injuste que méprisable ? Je ne donnerai pas d’ exemples : tout le monde les connaît. J’ai honte pour ces fossoyeurs qui confondent Tchekhov et la kalachnikov ! Qu’ espèrent-ils ainsi ? Sauver le peuple ukrainien qui affronte les bombes et autres missiles , les massacres et les viols avec courage ? Faut-il emprisonner Dostoïevski avant de le juger puis de l’ exécuter ? Jeter aux ordures Pouchkine ou Pasternak ? Ce sont les dictateurs qui s’en prennent aux artistes en assassinant la pensée ! Pas les pays libres et démocratiques ! La culture est internationale, elle n’a pas de frontières ! J’ écoute toujours Rachmaninov, Chostakovitch parfois plusieurs fois par jour ; je lis toujours Anna Akhmatova ou Marina Tsvetaïeva souvent les larmes aux yeux… Non à la dictature de la pensée quelle qu’elle soit ! Vive la culture russe ! Denis EMORINE Translation from the French by Natacha Rostova НЕТ! Что за сумасшествие охватило Запад , когда Россия ввела войска на территорию Украины? Везде или почти везде в мире выкидывают русскую культуру и ее представителей! Кто отдал такой как несправедливый, так и презираемый приказ? Не хочу приводить тому примеры, их все знают и так. Мне стыдно за этих могильщиков, которые не видят разницы между именами Чехов и Калашников На что они рассчитывают? Спасти украинский народ, который смело противостоит бомбежкам, ракетам, массовым убийствам, изнасилованиям? Нужно ли посадить Достоевского в тюрьму до суда и следствия, а потом его казнить? Выбросить Пушкина и Пастернака на помойку? Диктаторы, убивая мысль, ведут наступление на представителей культуры. Не только свободные и демократические страны! Культура интернациональна, у нее нет границ! Я люблю слушать Рахманинова, Шостаковича, иногда слушаю их несколько раз в день, всегда читаю Анну Ахматову или Марину Цветаеву, часто со слезами на глазах… Нет диктатуре мысли, в любой форме! Да здравствует русская культура! Денис Еморин
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
i try not to think did you ever think the rain would end did you ever think love had an expiration date did you ever think your dreams wouldn't come true did you ever think your demons were better than mine did you ever think this love would mean more to someone else did you ever think death was a good conversation starter did you ever think how fast flowers die did you ever think i was going to love you this much did you ever think you would as well did you ever think we were suicide lovers meant to find each other on the same fucking cliff only to jump before anyone could say no ------------------------------------------------------------------ supposedly still winter it is around 60 degrees today, supposedly still winter these are the days that tease us just enough to get everyone fucking sick a little collusion between mother nature and the fucking medical industry two days from now it will snow and then we'll all be running to the pharmacies to get our pills rinse and repeat death is quickest opt out i can think of ---------------------------------------------------------------- yellow and blue for freedom watching the bombing right before i try to go to sleep probably isn't the best way to sleep peacefully but it does paint the dreams in these vivid colors red for blood black for death yellow and blue for freedom there's always a madman worried about his legacy more than the citizens of his country or the country he's trying to destroy and i know everyone is worried about world-war three i'm more worried about what happens if freedom loses --------------------------------------------------------------- like her life depended on it remember when she said she would love you forever that every day without you would ache more and more as she got older remember how she would kiss you like her life depended on it how the sex was more amazing each and every time how you used to laugh on the front porch of the farm while talking about marriage, children, what a future could possibly look like and then remember this is the shit you wanted a relationship to look like reality is a cruel bitch ----------------------------------------------------------- if we are alive i had a doctor tell me once that pain is often the only way we can tell if we are alive or not and as the pinched nerves provide the waves of pain for me to ride, i guess this is what the fuck she was talking about yet another fucking thing i won't miss when i'm dead