Tanka
with familiarity I trace
the curves of my Serbian name...
it’s only in other languages
I fail to recognize
myself
all my meals
in airport lounges
these past three days
try as I might, I can’t make
these crackers taste like roast beef
he pops the bubble wrap
as I try to work
this colleague of mine
whose eyes are creased
whose hands are five
three weeks of
pent-up frustration
and misgivings
finally, the joy of telling him
everything
approaching midnight
unable to sleep
reverberating through my head:
he loves me, he loves me
in sonnets he loves me
telling my woes to a friend
he interrupts with a stroke
on my cheek, and the question,
Who told you
© Aurora Antonovic
Aurora Antonovic is a Canadian editor, writer, and visual artist whose work has appeared over four thousand times in publications spanning twelve countries and five continents. She is a recent Pushcart Prize nominee, and haiga editor of Simply Haiku. She is also editor of A Little Archive of Poetry, a publication that seeks to promote the love of verse in all forms. Aurora recently illustrated Marie Lecrivain's chapbook, The Painter, available through Lummox Press -- http://www.lummoxpress.com/newlp.htm
Echoes From A Flake White Remembrance
Her face buckles;
A shadow on much of the left.
Salt breeze,
Drift of dark pool,
Sea and linn answer
A hint, something unusual.
Squally currents, cloud,
A few streaks of geese.
With an essence deep-rooted
In old-grained rock
She casts loving arms.
A child
Screaming
“Cousin Bette,
Cousin Bette.”
Edgar, The Unchased
He fittingly occupied the segmental vault
Where his musclemen were sack-hopped in sequence,
Immune from the curious behind stout stone slabs.
Duke to the Prince of Roxburgh
He entertained the wall-clinked Page
With a bowerbird’s plume
And was thought by the Queen’s marms to be
Gayer than the King’s candle.
*
Late. The portcullis refulgent with fur;
Black rats streaked silver in moonlight –
Wind-chill hissing through a rag-fringed porch,
The trickle of spasmodic saturations, deforming
Where wax spires run
And fluky wicks erase in the whim of fire.
*
He’d ardour for the guards, fervour for the footmen,
He teased the rumps of stop-off ambassadors,
Sweet-talked the flanks of larder porters
And bumped them all to sleep at night.
Edward Cotton
I see you clearly for a moment
Thirteen ghosts of you in movement
Vanishing down the street
As the dancing mice in the gutters
…Fade.
Will I see you again?
Ask Lady Luck playing gin.
The bells chime
Now it’s time to win.
Alone at home
The pearl of a candle
Absorbs light
Lacing the neck of the camp
The very velvet evening
Which reminds me of your tears.
Will I see you again?
I ask, throwing numbered stones
Onto a map of the flattened earth.
In flight, I see a shoe
Poised on a kerb
Will I see you again?
Into darkness
Castle ruins black in the moonlight
Rise like a mystery
Falling into the sky
And a curl of hair unravels
Becoming a curl of fog
Will I see you again?
Egypt
An out of line
Cloud-dripped Delta
Is zigzaggery.
We spark – delivered
To a secretless sphinx.
Elastoplast
(after Elegiacs by Jeremy Reed)
Again we’re ponderable;
Pale faces keep a stone’s throw to shore.
A coot ink-wobbles
Breaking a groove
Turn, turn
To oil-ribbed water.
A muster of hoverfly.
A puttering summer dawn
In a second wind,
Squatting on a barrel chair
You log jammed the moment.
Bare-arsed now
In the millpond
We douche too-late off.
We fish for hidden-self portraits
Pearly in shallows
Squiggling us together.
Electro-Convulsive Therapy
Her fadeout’s a motor-driven click
Needling flinchings…
…Uma flapped, frothed at the absolute
Of not-being, nowise.
A second split.
Rattlebrained she ticktacktocks
To fuzzy miracles – oozings
On a stand-aghast-at brink
With how-I-got-here sparks.
© Christopher Barnes
in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
WHILE IT LASTS
I like the silence
While it lasts. Mind you,
I have no choice.
I would like control.
But I’m not in control.
It is something
I am working on.
Who is the voice?
What are its plans?
I’d slash my wrists
To find the silence.
But I’m so paranoid
And I believe the voice
Would wrap me up in ace bandages.
I believe it would keep me alive.
I scream
And I scream,
But the voice won’t leave.
The silence doesn't seem to
Last.
THE QUEEN OF SPIRITUALITY
Why are they treating me
this way?
I'm the queen of
spirituality.
They don't deserve to breath
my air,
let alone force
me to stay in this place.
I want to go back to my
old home.
They can't evict me. I'm
a queen.
Royal blood runs through me.
Don't you
think it's a crime to
declare me insane?
You have to advocate
for me.
You need to help me
get out.
OUR NIGHTS
Our nights
dart in
and out
as if on whims.
We spend
our nights
out of
our minds and stoned.
Sounds of
crickets,
engines,
and barking dogs
fill the soundtracks
of our nights.
Our nights
mow down
days, weeks,
whole calendars,
erase our youth
in one blink.
THE INTERVIEW
I'm not going to court.
You tell them
there's nothing wrong with me.
I can take care
of my own damned self.
I'm going to go back
to my mansion.
My driver will come for me.
Don't bother me.
Worry about yourself.
Don't talk to me of doctors
or nurses.
I have no use for them
or their pills of
death and destruction.
There are no roaches in
my kitchen.
Who said such a foolish
thing? My house is
clean just like my mind.
© Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
West Covina, CA (USA)
value meal
we are lured in the
domesticity of strangeness.
reality flakes our skin
of thought everyday.
the burning truth is
scrappy and scary but
we eat with silent dissatisfaction.
there's nothing much for
us now but leftovers to
feed our crumbling mind.
there's nothing much to
do now but hear every
crunch of pain cringing
between our teeth, to
smell the aroma of
bitterness in breaths.
we find ourselves full
but never had enough.
© Debbie Karol G. Butay
the how of toast
(and other things)
It pops out of the toaster
with an off-key DING,
lift it gingerly with
fingertips scorching,
Deliver and drop
on delicate china,
Scrape idly with a silver knife
making little mounds of
burnt,
black,
bitter
crumbs cling to the white tablecloth.
Fill out its charred pores,
conceal its cooling surface
with a field of sweet yellow margarine
smoothed out evenly.
Drift into a pretense
of languid eating
and check a sigh
for something else
grown cold.
on editing
As did Abraham, long ago,
when he laid his Isaac
upon the altar of his God.
So do I place my offspring
on the butcher’s block
for yet another round
of literary infanticide.
Cheerfully
do I kill my children.
April Haiku
I
red tricycle sits
still in the heat of summer,
glistening with oil.
II
sounds of the suburbs:
Frank Sinatra crooning and
smoked, dried fish frying.
III
An ambulance wails
in its thin decrescendo:
unsure soprano.
IV
Black wheels in puddles.
In the shade of a car lies
a flea-bitten dog.
V
The children doze off
in the laps of their yayas,
lulled by noontime soaps.
VI
Shrewd capitalist
in the blazing summer heat:
PALAMIG FOR SALE.
(Poems previously published in twiddling thumbs, an indie ebook)
© Lynette B. Carpio
Lynette B. Carpio is a graduate student in the last leg of her masters program; former instructor at the University of the Philippines Los Baños; scribbler of poems, short stories and random babble; melancholic with slight choleric tendencies; frequent blogger at http://maeve.eggdrop.ph
Buong Taon
Ito na nga ba ang ikinababahala ko
Kung tatawagan kita sa bisperas
At natapos na ang ilang minutong usapan
Na kahit magputukan na sa bakuran
Kung ibaba mo na ang linya
Hindi rin naman madurugtungan
Paminsan-minsan kong kaligayahan.
Kanina pa namang tanghali
Habang sinisindihan ko ang kwitis
Iginuguhit ko na sa usok
Ang iyong mga labi.
Parang sasabog ang aking dibdib
Sa tuwing aking aalalahanin
Kung ito’y nakatikom o nakangiti.
Parang magkasalikop na unan
Payapang-payapang nakaumang
Nais na nais kong hagkan,
At doon ako mahihimbing
Malalim hanggang kalawakan.
Hindi ko naman mapigilan
Kung ika’y sakaling mapanaginipan
Lalo’t ngayon ang taon ay namamaalam
Para akong namamalimos
Nang mumunti mong lambing
Kahit sa malay ko lamang.
At masarap mang isipin
Na ilang minuto kitang kapiling
Bago sumapit ang hatinggabi.
Subalit sa aking paggising
Buong taon mo’y kailanman,
Magaan na magaan kong tatanggapin
Hinding-hindi magiging akin.
* kay mahal na tinanggap ko ng hindi sa akin.
© Ravelth B. Castro
http://www.tabulas.com/~Katha_milagrosa/
Naglalakbay ang alipatong pilas nang nagbabagang puso...
Huling Kaway sa Taong Pinagsaluhan
Iika-ika ang mga segundo
na nagpupumilit humubog sa minuto,
sa bawat minutong bagamat lumpasay
nagtatapang-tapangan sa pagtagpi
ng isang nagpapaka-pagong na oras,
samantalang ang dalawampu't apat na huli'y
nagkakandarapa upang maalpasan
ang hinihingal na taon.
Sa wakas,
natuldukan ang yugtong ipinangako
na sana'y di magwawakas,
di ko rin mawawaan
kung paano naabot
yaong dulo ng panahong
tila walang hanggan.
Iginapang ko ang taong nakaraan,
'yun ang katotohanan
sapagkat sa bawat piraso nito,
nais kong ika'y tuluyang makalimutan.
Kumpisal ng Mandaraya
Inaamin ko,
isa ako sa maraming nangodigo
ngunit ang totoo,
di ako gaya nila
na nais lamang mangibang bansa
upang kumita ng malaking halaga,
o maisalba ang aandap-andap na pamilya,
di ako nandaya
dahil nais kong mapag-aral
ang aming bunso,
ang natitirang pag-asa.
Isa akong guro
subalit ayos lang
kung hindi ako makapagturo
maaari ko namang gawin ito
sa anak ng aking magiging amo,
mabuti na ang pagna-nars
kahit papaano
alam kong alagaan ang sarili ko.
Oo, ako ay nagopya
'yun ang totoo.
Di ka ba naman nagbigay ng balita
kahit isang sulat wala
hahanapin lang naman kita
sa Amerika,
may masama ba?
© Zig Carlo M. Dulay
http://zigcarlo.blogdrive.com
Rose Quartz
Batong
nababato,
kulay-rosas.
Ibilad sa sinag,
nagkarga ng lakas
sa kabilugan ng buwan.
Banaag,
mapanglaw
dito sa kuweba.
Hinahon ay idulot.
Iwaksi sama ng loob.
Iuli ugmaan at pag-ibig.
Basal,
paraluman,
mamumulat ka!
Hindi tatantanan.
Sa sanlibutan ihatid
dasal kong pumipintig.
Pagkukulang
ba'y sa simula
o sa huli?
Maaari kaya
ituwid natin
ang mali?
Maaari kaya
magsimula
tayo muli?
© Dennis Espada
http://iyolo.blogspot.com
Dennis was brought up and educated in Laguna, Philippines where he consume at least one ballpen per month. For him, literary writing is a chance to speak openly and uninhibitedly. He is a freelance writer and journalist.
Windchill -35º F.
The wind,
the blowing wind,
stilleto-sharp,
piercing the vitals and letting
flow the life-force
into the very ether.
Today In Baghdad
Another car bomb explodes,
fifty-six killed
in another country made safe
for democracy;
a country where democracy
has always been
an unknown word.
TOWER
There were twelve of us,
but Jim took the sniper’s
first bullet; it was as if
a giant, invisible hand
knocked him on his back.
His legs kicked
a couple of times before
his disgust for fighting and killing
left him forever.
The sniper,
hiding up in that goddamn
church’s bell tower, kept us
pinned down for over an hour, then
Pete got careless and took
a bullet in the shoulder. As he
slowly bled to death, I heard him
repeating over and over,
“The quick and the dead,
the quick and the dead.”
Finally,
air support arrived;
took out the tower and
the sniper with it.
Before I could even light
a cigarette, the words
“Move out!”
were heard.
Ten of us got up and headed for
the next tower.
(First published in Tryst, September/December 2004)
NATURE JUNKY
I return to the woods,
as a drunk to his bottle,
as an addict to his fix,
and lose myself
in a world of my own making;
a world
just as valid
and just as comforting
as the drunk’s stupor
or the addict’s dream;
and one day,
reality just might shift enough
so I’ll never
have to leave the woods again.
(First published in The Sidewalk's End, August 2004)
WRITER’S BLOCK
Sing me, sweet Muse,
a song
of liquid moondust
to carry me away,
as a leaf is carried away
on the current of the stream,
to that magic place
where poems are kept
and I’ll learn one,
just one,
to sing and sing
until the door is open and
all the words
flow through my pen
once more.
(First published in Poetic Voices, May 2004)
© C. W. Hawes
C W Hawes is a human services worker who divides his time between Minneapolis, Minnesota and rural northeast Iowa. His muses are Whitman, Millay, Basho, Issa, the Imagists, Takuboku, and Rumi. He holds a bachelor’s degree in history and political science and a Masters of Divinity degree. His work has appeared in Carnelian, Lynx, Simply Haiku, Lilliput Review, Amaze, Makata, and The Ghazal Page, among others.
FROSTI-ROSE-WOMAN
Pilit kong hinagod
at giniling ang aking
nauumid na balakang
sa tugtog na bumabayo
na sa bawat paghipo at
pagpilipit ng aking
nanginginig na katawan
sa nakakasilaw na tubo
ay sabay din and pagtulo
ng mainit na laway
ng mesa at selya
at ang masigabong palakpakan
ng mga basyo ng serbesa
na tila nasa gitna ng perya
Kahit entablado ay sumusuka na
at ang plaka ay hilong-hilo na
hala bira! tuloy ang indayog
basta't may sumusuksuk pa ng pera
sa bikini at bra na tila pitaka
upang pag-uwi sa bahay
ay mayroong maihanda
sa pagsapit ng Noche Buena
na isang supot na putobombong
at kutsinta ng maipabatid
sa mga kapitbahay na
dumalaw rin sa bahay si sinta.
© Anthony Pabon
ANG KULAY NG PAG-IBIG AY ANG KULAY NG LANGIT
Bughaw ang kulay ng pag-ibig.
Parang kalangitan sa gitna ng tag-araw
na pinapalamutian ng sinag at ulap,
at paminsan-minsang bahaghari
kapag gusto nitong magmalaki.
Minsan ang langit ay kumukulimlim,
nagngangalit at humahagulhol—
sumasama ang kaniyang loob.
Subalit laging mahahawi ang lungkot at galit.
Dahil likas sa langit ang kagandahan
Ito ay mapagbigay. Walang pagdadamot
na binabahiginan ng kaniyang kariktan
ang nananalaming karagatan,
at walang pag-iimbot na kinakandong
ang luntiang kabundukuan at sabik na baybayin.
HILING
Binabalot daw ng usok ng kandila
ang mga usal at inililipad pataas.
Kaya magtitirik bago manalangin.
Umaalingawngaw sa bato at marmol
ang mga hinaing hangga’t
sa pandinig ng langit makarating.
Kaya ulit-ulitin ang hilingin.
Paano kaya ako maririnig sa gitgitan?
Samut-saring tao at dalangin
ang nagsisiksikan sa simbahan.
Ang palibot ay nalulunod sa ingay
ng mga hikbi at bulong.
Mapapalad daw silang aba,
silang mahihirap, silang kinukutya…
Anong orasyon ang para sa akin
ng ako di’y palarin?
Ako’y hindi aba o mahirap.
Parang ayoko na makisali tuloy.
Turuan niyo po akong manalangin.
BATANG AMA
Hindi ako marunong magpalit ng lampin;
Kahit magtimpla ng gatas.
Hindi nga ako mahilig sa bata.
Tinuruan mo ako.
Nangangawit ang aking mga braso
Tuwing kita’y pinaghehele.
Mali ‘ata ang aking pagkarga.
Pero nakatutulog ka naman.
Pasensiya’t mumurahin
Ang mga damit at laruan.
Nakakahiyang manghingi lagi kay Lola.
Siya na nga ang iyong yaya.
Kahawig kita noong ako di’y sanggol pa.
Sana lang paglaki mo’t maging mama,
kuwento mo’y maging iba.
© Raymund P. Reyes
I am a 29-year old EFL (English as Foreign Language) teacher here in Yanbu Industrial College, Yanbu, Saudi Arabia.
The Tongue Of Tulips
Allow me to come and kiss you
With the force of wonder
And allow me to swim up
Thought the shards of thunder
And also let me
Search the seven seas
So I may kiss the tongue of tulips
Eternity shines in shimmering shares
Of absolutely delicious grapes and pears
Tantalizing the ornery sun spouts
Licking steak of iron claws
Solacing near the suns tears
Making rudeness a dark sedan
Singing well into the night
Well so far past the life
Three Hospital Muses
Eula, Gertha, and Vickie
Are really and undoubtedly
The three muses of health
Each roams the hospital
Where they work
As volunteer or good friends
Friends of the hospital
Patients of nurses.
Ms Cunningham, Carr, and Carmevale
Sure take the grail
Of angry doctors and other patients
But never lost in the pail
They do shine with smiles thart do never stop
Their smiles do not stop
© G. David Schwartz
G. David Schwartz - the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue, and currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores.
Agony of A Buddhist Monk
The mountain is steep and everything in it gleams.
Sunlight penetrates across the spreading leaves.
Trees cloud the entire forest like a guard.
Tigers growl. Beast mate. Frogs shout.
I see them mate, doing wildly and passionately.
In the fashion they most like, envying me.
I would like to go out of this solitude.
Imitate the beasts, my eyes are glued.
I am imprisoned by the forest monster.
Chained me.
Chained me.
Tied me. Killing me.
I'll gather my strenghts. Force my way out.
Break the bondage. Destroy the chains.
Cry so loud. Pierce the monster's ears.
Escaping in summer like a morning breeze.
© Joseph Reylan B. Viray
Joseph Reylan B. Viray hails from Pampanga. He's teaching philosophy, literature, and humanities subjects at the Polytechnic University of the Philippines. He's interests include the following research topics: postmodernism, Lyotard's philosophy, Contemporary philosophy, novels of Sionil Jose and others.
Poems for Those Who Come to My Door Asking for Donations
Alzheimer’s Disease
(for Alzheimer Nederland)
How tediously
the puzzel
falls apart.
Piece by piece,
corner by corner,
whole rows
evaporate and are lost.
The ceiling
becomes the wall,
the fountain
returns to its youth.
Keys lock doors,
colours dissolve
in the darkroom
from which they came.
Thoughts unravel,
skeins of cobwebs
with no beginnings
and no ends.
And names
are the hardest
of all.
Cancer
(For the Kon. Wilhelmina Fonds voor de Nederlandse Kankerbestrijding,
or the Queen Wilhelmina Fund for the Fight Against Cancer in The Netherlands)
A slow death
creeps up my veins,
invades my bones,
steals into the sanctum
of my body.
There is a name
which men have given
this malady
but the namelessness
of its pain
is infinite and full,
unknowable and certain,
and as the black dust
takes root
and branches
into an infernal tree
clouds of sorrow
gather above me
as thick
as a nest of magots.
First published in “Another Morning”, a compilation of poetry by and for cancer victims by Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos, published by Lulu.com, 2006
Heart Disease
(For the Nederlandse Hartstichting, or the Dutch Heart Foundation)
To play hangman
without a tree;
to breathe in a vacuum
until the walls
shrink to the size
of a molecule;
to feel life pounding
frantically at the gates …
How many last breaths
before the last?
How many beats
per minute?
How long before I
can no longer keep pace
with the seasons?
Soon I may get
an extra shot at youth,
a plastic pump
with a built-in drum,
an uneven marriage
with a spouse
only a few days young.
© Ella Wagemakers, 2006
Memories
will she
remember me when
i have no more
to give, my shadow
standing in another?
a buddha,
this flower, refusing
to bow
how can i
forget the litheness
of your shadow
pressing through me?
autumn moon
still water . . .
tracing your smile
with a star
visit me tonight
on the edge of dawn
when dreams
are more than an
old man's fantasy
this moon . . .
so soon it slips
into darkness
slip with me
into a darkness wet
with dreams
dreamt long ago . . .
this winter moon!
the grass around
you, horse,
sprouting egrets
a good friend,
darkness, whispering
what i want
to hear in the
absence of echo
morning dew . . .
tracing the
moth's decent
the pearls in
this harbor clutching
dreams unspent
til now in casings
made of skin
santa claus . . .
a laborer planting
new rice
finding my
way in the darkness,
this blossom
moistened with
not enough now
one more time . . .
watching your smile
pass through the moon
i wake up
old, my bed sheet
a calendar
taunting me
from the shadows
clacking bamboo . . .
roosters spread the
horizon with blood
silly man!
he thinks the mirror's
another
poet pointing at
him with an onion
© Robert Wilson
No comments:
Post a Comment