Vulnerable
-----------------------------
Half the Moon
through
Broken
Roof
I'll flap my arms
where lips won't Do
And rest my thoughts
where Wings once flew
Half the Moon
the
Owl can
See
feathers Warm
No
tethers
Worn
Wisdom is more
FREE
Snow
Pierced by Small Hooves
Lord's Grace to find
Transition
Where Cold & Light
Meet.
Half a Moon
Half a Moon
The Life
and the Spirit
make Whole.
♡
Ekphrastic work from Mark Blickley and Sonia Gil
Text by M.A. Blickley Licking the Wound Laying naked in this bed on my back, I tilt my head and I look down with so much pain in my face. This is the third time today my boyfriend has gone down on me. Shouldn’t a girl be happy? I would be, but this is how he apologizes for the blunt fist to the face he gives when he loses his temper. I tell myself every day I need to leave. Just get my shit and leave. But I don’t. I let temptation win every time as soon as his tongue strokes me slowly up and down until the abuse feels distant. I look down at him in between my legs, my natural fluids moistening his face. I am in such heartbreak and awe over how the man I love can deliver such pain and pleasure. It’s insane. I stare at him. He looks up at me and whispers, “I love you baby.” I search his eyes until I can find the apology for the black eye and the blood from my nose that stained the satin sheets we just purchased. My moans grow louder and drown out thoughts of me leaving until I hear my mother’s voice echo inside my head pleading, repeating, “Don’t you ever let a man hit you the way Daddy hits me.” I have fallen in love with a man who one day will take my life and I continue to do nothing but look at him as we lay in this bed of lies, the same bed I retreat to after he beats me until I’m numb and then licks me until I can feel again. Today something is different. Something is very, very off. I can feel his darting tongue actually trace individual letters inside of me that turn into words that form a full sentence that rises up through my body and explodes out my throat, “You are not my suicide note!” His mouth jerks back and he jumps off the bed. For the first time ever, I can see he is afraid. And I am not. It must be true that the third time is a charm because I am going to save myself and leave this cowardly son of a bitch. I wish my mother were alive so I could thank her.
In Cemento Veritas: Visual Art from Mario Loprete
Mario Loprete, Catanzaro 1968 Graduate at Accademia of Belle Arti, Catanzaro (ITALY). Painting for me is my first love. An important, pure love. Creating a painting, starting from the spasmodic research of a concept with which I want to transmit my message this is the foundation of painting for me. The sculpture is my lover, my artistic betrayal to the painting that voluptuous and sensual lover that inspires different emotions which strike prohibited chords. This new series of concrete sculptures has been giving me more personal and professional satisfaction recently. How was it born? It was the result of an important investigation of my own work. I was looking for that special something I felt was missing. Looking back at my work over the past ten years, I understood that there was a certain semantic and semiotic logic “spoken” by my images, but the right support to valorize their message was not there. The reinforced cement, the concrete, was created two thousand years ago by the Romans. It tells a millennia-old story, one full of amphitheaters, bridges and roads that have conquered the ancient and modern world. Now, concrete is a synonym of modernity. Everywhere you go, you find a concrete wall: there’s the modern man in there. From Sydney to Vancouver, Oslo to Pretoria, this reinforced cement is present, and it is this presence which supports writers and enables them to express themselves. The artistic question was an obvious one for me: if man brought art on the streets in order to make it accessible to everyone, why not bring the urban to galleries and museums? With respect to my painting process, when a painting has completely dried off, I brush it with a particular substance that not only manages to unite every color and shade, but also gives my artwork the shininess and lucidity of a poster (like the ones we’ve all had hanging on our walls). For my concrete sculptures, I use my personal clothing. Through my artistic process in which I use plaster, resin and cement, I transform these articles of clothing into artworks to hang. The intended effect is that my DNA and my memory remain inside the concrete, so that the person who looks at these sculptures is transformed into a type of postmodern archeologist, studying my work as urban artefacts. I like to think that those who look at my sculptures created in 2020 will be able to perceive the anguish, the vulnerability, the fear that each of us has felt in front of a planetary problem that was Covid-19 ... under a layer of cement there are my clothes with which I lived this nefarious period. Clothes that survived Covid-19, very similar to what survived after the 2,000-year-old catastrophic eruption of Pompeii, capable of recounting man's inability to face the tragedy of broken lives and destroyed economies.
Poetry from Tali Cohen Shabtai
I have to know the wage of text For a poet, silence is an acceptable, even flattering response, claimed Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette. Another claimed that the calm that is the history of silence is the poet's revenge. Look, I walk around with a quill between my teeth Some people have their sensory hearing absorbed into in the most unexpected organs, and some will qualify in silence, accordingly I have to know the wage of text — Surely, the initial reaction in humans in their early lives is the voice, after which everything else is a charade. I am new They don’t know Where I came from I must connect the- leg With the waist And the pelvis to the spine That’s the way when items Are separated from bodies And an artificial Lens is implanted In the - eye. Who said it’s possible to move Organs Away from their Place? Who said?
Tali Cohen Shabtai, born in Jerusalem, Israel, is a highly-esteemed international poet with works translated into many languages.
She has authored three bilingual volumes of poetry, “Purple Diluted in a Black’s Thick”(2007), “Protest” (2012) and “Nine Years From You”(2018). A fourth volume is forthcoming in 2022.
Tali began writing poetry at the age of six. She lived for many years in Oslo, Norway, and the U.S.A. and her poems express both the spiritual and physical freedom paradox of exile. Her cosmopolitan vision is obvious in her writings.
Tali is known in her country as a prominent poet with a unique narrative. As one commentator wrote: “She doesn’t give herself easily, but is subject to her own rules.”
Poetry from Oona Haskovec
toast on the kitchen floor the feeling that sulks in my bone marrow and weighs me down melts into the air pockets of day old sourdough. i didn't know that wanting to die was meltable. i hoped it wasn't now all i am left with is drips of oil and soot i never tracked in on my heel. patches of raw feeling still keep their opaque huddling figures but now it just looks like i have plain toast with molding clumps. the crust is too hard for my crying jaws. i leave it on the cutting board. a staler slice resides in the toaster that i have grown up with so i get crumbs under my nails pulling it out. fresher emotions that give the illusion of being gentle and friendly are spread across the surface with the cchhh of butter knife on bread i don’t close the feelings container because it's a pain in the ass and i always cut my fingertips just enough to feel the texture difference but not enough to hurt i leave a smear of suicidality in the deli container. of course its not enough for a whole slice of toast but thats too bad for whoever next finds themselves foolish enough to crave toast. toast is dumb. it takes the gentleness out of the fresh-baked bread and prods at over-chewed gums. i only find myself seasoning a second toast because it's there and i need something to do. i pull out a fresh plate and everything for my pretty little crunchy mean bread. so many favors i've done. i smeared my feelings out and stared them down like a single poppyseed on a fucking sesame bagel. i also have mixed feelings about sesame seeds. i’ll eat something that i didn't even know had sesame seeds but for some reason i always wrestle with the tiny little flavor between my teeth for hours before i taste it. sesame seeds are also dumb. my stupid little toast is face down on the floor now and i'm not going to pick it up.
Poetry from Debarati Sen
Retrograding I sat by the backwaters of my imagination and gazed at the stars melting in the mouth of the sky. Her smile bright like a glazed ceramic Illuminated the dark alleys of my soul. The admonishing silence raving through the crevices of the moon disintegrated the night's monochrome into pieces. The wind blew it away to distant planets. My attempt to pour the sea into the bell jar fell flat, the brine water overflowed drenching my mouth that parched with fever. The cuckoo's distant farewell song pierced my ears It is time to return now to the orb of nothingness. I tried to tie her words with the windchime Tinkering with the winds from Bosnia. The colors of summer inundated the city. Its fragrance perched on my shoulders. Far away is an abyss that cannot be crossed this evening. The roaring wind mimicked my inner turmoil. The paranoia sprouted like grass. The earth's rotation rattled on my nerves. My head felt dizzy with every solstice. I tried hard to pour life out of an aluminum kettle but it spilled from the sides and messed up my life's filigree. The spectrum of rainbow signaled the dawn's arrival. Another ordinary day was about to take its course. I folded the sides of the night sky and kept it safely inside my lavender purse till we meet again on the horizon's other end! Regards Debarati Sen Bio A published poet and a regular columnist in Youth Ki Awaz and Literoma. Freelancer at the International NGO JPS Medaid. Winner of the International Poetry Writing competition 2021 organized by the Elite Awards. Published debut poetry book 'Blurred Musings' in January 2022. I have contributed to more than 15 anthologies. Works as a Junior Assistant in Presidency University Kolkata.
Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated by Yuanbing Zhang
Three Poems Written by Yuan Hongri Translated by Yuanbing Zhang I Was Originally The God of the Gods I shall change seawater into honey， smelt the stone into the gold， the bitter is namely sweet， the sun is born from the womb of the night. Oh, my God！No matter what if you are really the God Oh, the devil! No matter how many tricks you have today, I am neither living nor dying I want to put you all into the golden tripod of time. I am originally outside of the earth I will leave one day although I have forgotten many years but I woke up finally today From a little drop of water the world came into being It was originally a tear of mine I was originally the God of the Gods . 4.30.2011 我本是上帝的上帝 我要把海水酿成蜜 把石头熔炼成金 这苦涩就是香甜 这太阳从黑夜的子宫诞生 上帝啊 无论你是不是真的上帝 魔鬼啊 无论你还有多少伎俩 今天 我不生也不死 我要把你们统统装进时光的金鼎 我本在这个尘世之外 有一天还将归去 尽管我遗忘了许多年 可今天终于醒来 这小小的一滴水 诞生了这个天地 它本是我的一颗泪珠 我本是上帝的上帝 2011.4.30 The World Is in a Box The world is in a box the little timeworn world the countries of Lilliput the President of the king's prime minister those kings, premiers and presidents those dwarfs in the scroll of time’s picture They do not believe the additional sun both like a diamond and like gold make you warm in winter make you cool in summer Neither have they seen the sweet ocean nor have they known heaven outside time forgotten those gods who like mountains are the ones the former ancients owned 9.1.2012 世界在一只盒子里 世界在一只盒子里 这个小小陈旧的世界 一座座小人国 那些国王 首相 总统 那些时光画卷里的侏儒 他们不相信另外的太阳 既像钻石 又像黄金 在冬天时让你温暖 在夏天时让你凉爽 他们没见过甜蜜的海洋 也不知时光之外的天国 忘了那些山岳般的众神 是古老的曾经的自己 2012.9.1 The King of The Diamonds The sun was rising in my breast I woke up finally said goodbye to the night's nightmare the world was lit up by me this is actually the real me There is no longer day and night there are no longer newborns and death I got myself back before there was no earth and heaven I have existed from the beginning The world is just my works： a picture, a poem a symphony. Give me a stone I will turn it into the king of the diamonds. 9.3.2012 钻石之王 太阳在我胸膛里升起 我终于醒来 告别黑夜的梦魇 世界被我照亮 这才是真实的我 不再有白昼与黑夜 不再有新生与死亡 我找回了自已 在没有天地之前 我就早已经存在 世界只是我的作品 一幅画 一首诗 一部交响曲 给我一枚石头 我让它变成钻石之王 2012.9.3 Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Its content is to show the solemnity, sacredness and greatness of human soul through the exploration of soul. Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com.
