THE POET – Featured Poetry – August, 2022
Featured Poetry – AUGUST, 2022
LOVE WAS NEVER ENOUGH
By Biman Roy (USA/INDIA)
Hums of friendly laughter adorned the morning.
When I sat by your side,
you snuggled—
even in April, the cruellest month.
The beige of the bridge on the opposite side
was hurting my eyes.
I handed a river to you
and you returned with a century of toil
at the pulpit of surrender.
➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ châm biếm: Đàn ông ngoại tình, kẻ nịnh hót, tiểu nhân
Love was never enough,
but patience sat at the door
like a bald, bare stone—
only and lonely.
END
Biman Roy is an India born American poet. Widely published, he is a psychiatrist by profession, and has been writing poetry for more than three decades.
MY LIFE
By Michael Lee Johnson (USA)
My life began with a skeleton
with a smile and bubbling eyes
in my garden of dandelions.
Everything else fell off the edge,
a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half.
When young, I pressed
against my mother’s breast,
but youthful memories fell short.
I tried at 8 to kiss my father,
but he was a welder, fox hunter,
coon hunter, and voyeuristic man.
My young life was a mixture
of black, white, dark dreams,
and mellow yellow sun bright hopes.
Rewind, sunshine was a stranger
in dandelion fields,
shadows in my eyes.
I grabbed my injured legs
leap forward into the future.
I’m now a vitamin C boy
it keeps me immured
from catching colds or Covid-19.
Everything now still leaks, in parts,
but I press forward.
END
Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries. He has several published poetry books and 264 YouTube poetry videos, and has been nominated for 4 Pushcart Prize awards and 6 Best of the Net.
YouTube: @poetrymanusa
W: www.illinoispoets.org
➡️ Xem thêm: Những cách xả xui khi đánh bài hiệu quả, dễ thực hiện nhất. Dân chơi cờ bạc chuyên nghiệp đang đen nên thử ngay.
THE SLEEPERS
By Tim Taylor (ENGLAND)
TV off, the last ablutions done.
Toothpaste foam and late-night flushings
froth together in the drain.
And, one by one, fingers turn on the darkness,
bodies fold themselves in feather-down,
minds fumble for their off-switch,
curtain eyelids close.
You’d think, after so many years,
they would be good at it.
But in the big room, switches broken,
she and he both see-saw to and fro
from bills and deadlines
to bizarre uneasy dreams, take turns
to snore each other out of sleep.
Across the landing, though, the novices
could show them how it’s done.
The bodies still, the minds away
riding on unicorns or spaceships
as growing brains are seething
with connections, hothousing memories.
They will return to something better than before.
END
➡️ Xem thêm: 88+ Bài thơ về cô giáo chủ nhiệm hay, hài hước nhất
Tim Taylor has published two novels and around 80 poems in a magazines, journals and poetry websites, and in a number of anthologies worldwide.
W: www.tetaylor.co.uk
W: www.timwordsblog.wordpress.com
FB:@timtaylornovels
THE CHIAROSCURO MAN
By Vasti Carrion (USA)
I.
I love,
The grazing greying hairs
In your beard
against the black
backdrop of youthful hairs,
You seem caught
In the cusp of two worlds,
Youth and Old Age
These two different continents
right next to each other,
Neither letting you go—
A Battle of Ages.
II
How does this growing age
Feel on your shoulder?
Much too heavy?
As we get older,
We get lighter
Or so the grey hairs
written on the blackboard of
your beard
whispered to me
One day.
END
Vasti Carrion has had her work published in a number of journals. She uses words and poetry to help her through the difficult times.
BREMEMBERING MASSILLON
By Joseph Buehler (USA)
One night in the late fifties
I was walking back to my father’s home
in Massillon, Ohio in the wintertime.
I was probably eighteen and I didn’t own a car yet.
Where was I coming from?
I don’t remember.
Why do I remember this walk?
I don’t know.
(There were young men and young girls at the
party; I think the handsome young blond man was there.)
It was hilly; we lived five or six blocks
back from the highway
in a desirable section of town.
All the streets were filled with houses—
some dark, some lighted—but I’m making this up now—
I’m just imagining they were dark and lighted because
they must have been at that time of night.
What time was it exactly as I neared my father’s house?
How late was it? I have no idea. What difference does it
make now?
I only remember mostly the cold long walk along the busy
car-filled major highway and then turning off to the snow
filled streets that finally led to my father’s house.
END
➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ 8/3 tặng đồng nghiệp, mẹ, sếp, cô giáo,…
Joseph Buehler has published over 100 poems in over 40 literary magazines.
HARD MEN
By Anne Marie Corrigan (CANADA / REPUBLIC OF IRELAND)
I’ve known some hard men,
Ones born with “tough”
Pre-etched on the ticker tape of their DNA.
Came into the world with their dukes up,
Biceps flexed, already bruised,
No quarter taken, none given,
Split lips, calloused fists, cauliflower ears,
No fears, no tears,
Smokers, one-swallow pint-gulpers.
Like Foxy Jack, with teeth to spare,
Just as well, had half knocked out with a hurling stick
During a game of clash of the ash.
That stick – weapon of sport, club of war,
He wielded on pitch and battleground
Hero, hooligan, saint.
Like, Handsome Paul, giver of scrum pox
And crabs.
Unlike a crab, he was soft on the outside, hard on the inside.
Who, with those rugby cleats
Would kick a man when he was down
With a lazy violence, saw beauty in cruelty,
Bastard.
Like, Skinny Sam, hard on the outside,
Soft on the inside.
Fierce boy, thug poet,
Dotted with cigarette burns on his narrow thighs.
He, like the others,
Donkey carrier of an inescapable reckoning,
Encumbering burdens of all the scrappers
That came before him.
And then came My Canadian Man,
Soft within, soft without,
Gentle hands for holding, open and free,
Pen holder,
Nervous as we drove around the old sod,
Kilkenny, Kilrush, Kildare.
“That one’s just called ‘Kill,’” he bleated,
Expecting those hard men to emerge with gnarly knuckles exposed,
Thirsty for selective slaughter.
His.
END
Anne Marie Corrigan is a writer and editor, with a Masters in Italian Literature and a Masters in Journalism. Her work has been published internationally.
W: www.annemariecorrigan.com
HOME, THROUGH THE MUTED SCREEN
By Ana M. Fores-Tamayo (CUBA / USA)
Home?
My black bear dog sleeping all day long
Nestled in a corner of the kitchen,
yellow
Against the green leaves of potted plants,
Overgrown as window shades
To hide the heat of summer
Or glare of winter’s day.
Or is home a memory of days
With siblings running on the beach of waterfronts,
On boardwalks laughing, eating cotton candy,
Talking of our daily conquests?
Heat radiates through windows,
Warmth fills the sun drained dusty day.
The laughter of my daughter’s eyes
glitters miles away through computer graphics.
Glaring pictograms,
even as warm and fuzzy rays
Wrestle my despondent doldrums,
tussling the muted screen that wrangles fuddled images.
Yet suddenly, her singsong voice, her vale,
Her voluptuous vapor bantering
Force me to forget my mundane life,
and she comes alive, splendour in that little box,
electronics transforming my being into completion
at the sound and chatter of her song.
END
➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ 20/10 tặng mẹ hay nhất
Ana M. Fores-Tamayo advocates for marginalized refugee families from Mexico and Central America. She has had her work published in many anthologies and journals, both in the USA and internationally, online and in-print.
W: www.refugeesupport.net
Twitter: @anamfores
Instagram: @anamfores
ON EDGE OF A CLIFF
By Mathews Mhango (MALAWI)
Am walking in this maze trying to find my way out
All I see are blockages, no passage am feeling panic
Wish someone could come drag me out from this edge
Wish it could be you, but you are just standing on the side and look
It seems you care not, but you promised to be there
For good or for worse, now this is the worse
I don’t have the power to drag myself
Out of this mess, my knees are jerking
All I need is your hand, around me trouble is lurking
Fear of what’s on the dark pit, maybe it’s the fiery dragon
In this vacuum fear envelops me and am left alone
The valley of the death that’s what am walking in
My heart is bleeding, all around I see the dark angels
You are standing aside to see me fall
But what’s your gain then? if i fall from this
All around me it’s dark, can’t see the way
Wish I could feel that tap on my shoulder to led me away
Afraid to close my eyes when night falls
Fear I might not see the light of the day to come
When I fall asleep it’s all nightmares, wake me up
The feeling is atrocious, this dream is wrecking my brain
I then realize It’s not a dream anymore, am on the edge right now
END
➡️ Xem thêm: Thơ 20-11 ngắn về cô
Mathews Mhango is an Internal Auditor by profession working in public sector. He write poems on many different issues, some of which have been published locally.
FB: @Mateyu poems
ON THE TYPEWRITER IN MY MIND
Mariana Mcdonald (USA)
On the typewriter in my mind,
the one I write on in traffic
or while cleaning up the kitchen,
the one whose return button
brings me back to you,
I have written you countless poems,
my baby daughter.
On the typewriter in my mind,
the one plugged into my heart
that runs on the current of my spirit,
I go through reams exploring you,
your tiny hands the theme of décimas,
your smile the muse of full free verse.
On the typewriter in my mind
you are an infinite volume,
a never-ending anthology,
you who fill my breast
with sweetness
and feed me life.
If these many leaves
so written
turn to air
as I lift you in my arms
in illiterate laughter,
no worry:
the poem of my love surrounds you.
END
Mariana Mcdonald trained with Al Gore in 2019, and joined the international Climate Reality Leadership Corps. She is a poet, writer, scientist, and activist. Her work has appeared in numerous publications worldwide.
IS THE MOON SLIDING FROM MY HAND?
By Tandra Mishra (INDIA)
Why does the moon appear sometimes so closer?
Would it like something to whisper in the ear?
Why does it come sometimes in big way?
Does it have many stories to express and to display?
Last night it came to my window corner.
The whole night we stayed together.
Half-lying I was on my bed.
And the moon, on its bedsheet, starry and off white, was full awake.
Tilting its head, many facts the moon discloses.
In the calm quite nights it is alone I guess.
To find a company it quite relaxes.
Holding the pillow of clouds the nights it passes.
That cold night, the bright light kept me warm.
Without any conditions and without any term.
How giggles were the talks, never-ending,
Turning the silence into a hall of vibrant wedding!
Oh! From where the birds start twittering?
Who made conspiracy to break our bonding?
Why they not letting me in that realm?
Oh! knocking at my window pane, it’s the dawn at the helm.
Oh! Is the moon sliding from my hand?
Is my commune going to an end?
Let not the meet, the moments, go pass by.
Let the vividness confine in my cage, with a view to intensify.
END
Tandra Mishra is a bilingual (Bengali/ English) writer, poet, blogger and essayist. She completed her graduation in English with honours, with a post graduation in English Literature.
FB: @tandra.mishra.58
POSITIONING QUILTS
By L.B. Sedlacek (USA)
Walking distance measured by hand
to fist. The height of the fingers
from palm to air languishes
in green rubber gloves.
Aren’t those intended for dishes?
She never says, just keeps planting.
The rain pours over everything.
She waters the flowers anyway
and wipes her hands on the quilt
in the hallway. Its squares
are patches on a merit badge sash.
You should be proud to have
accomplished so much so young
at your age the adults say with gusto.
The gloves come off and the
delicate balance of knife and
trapeze, of blanching and
frying up soap begins in rhythm
to stranger’s voices bellowing from
the TV, kids sneaking candy
from the cabinets, the slam of
hardback books on the coffee table.
The wait is a parent to boiling
coffee made easy by dipping
a bag in hot water at
least 15 times. The gaps
are inevitable, making leaps
backwards as she watches them
swing on the play set. My
days were once filled with the
swoosh and the swish.
The gloves are laying on the
stove. She presses them
against her chest. It shrinks
and contracts in tiny short breaths.
His face leaps upon hers.
She twists her lips into a smile
and wraps herself inside the quilt,
the same one her Grandma gave her when
she was a little girl.
END
L.B. Sedlacek served as a Poetry Editor, published a free resource guide for poets, and has had poems and stories published in a variety of journals and zines.
W: www.lbsedlacek.com
Facebook: @lbsedlacekpoet
BASEMENT
By Jan Ball (USA)
Goodbye brick butcher where we put it on the bill,
I see that an elegant contemporary building was erected
on the first eleven years of my Chicago life
where our mother washed clothes in a wringer
washing machine in a cold cement basement.
My twin sister and I rode our second-hand tricycles
between the sheets hanging to dry, and sometimes,
the landlord, Bob, would open the door
connecting to the butcher and visit.
Then my mom told us to ride our bikes
under my dad’s socks and jockey shorts,
the shortest section of the drying wash,
so we wouldn’t get caught in anything playing
cops and robbers on our bikes but really
further away
from where
she was visiting with Bob.
END
Jan Ball has had 363 poems published in various journals internationally and in the USA, and has had three chapbooks, and a full-length poetry collection published.
REACHING
By Paul R. Davis (USA)
I look to touch
the face of God,
to reach my hand
beyond the farthest cloud.
The highest branch of evergreen
is a hopeful finger
that touches the finger of creation.
This is true religion,
faith with solid foundation,
unbreakable bonds,
spanning stardust creating galaxies.
We escape cruel gravity
with all our yearnings,
as arrows of songs our parents echoed.
Heaven is within our grasp
with each sun-bound eye.
The snow of winter melts into flowers,
our hands touch the face of God each day.
We reach for the faith beyond the clouds,
all hands uplifted.
END
Paul R. Davis worked as a faceless bureaucrat in an obscure Federal agency until he came to his senses and devoted his time to better pursuits.
IN THE BEWITCHED AVIARY
By Paweł Markiewicz (POLAND)
Sonnet according to Mr. Shakespeare.
Helots muse about moony Golden Fleece of the condor.
Drudges think of the dreamy eternal dew of the hen.
Philosophers ponder on winged fantasy of the crow.
Kings ruminate on a picturesque gold of the jay.
Priests contemplate the dreamed, soft, meek, weird* of the woodpecker.
Masters daydream about nice marvellous songs of the tern.
Soothsayers dream of fulfilled gold of the yellowhammer.
Knights philosophize about poetic dawn of the wren.
Hoplites fantasize about a red sky of the sparrow.
Athletes describe the most tender treasure-charm of the snipe.
Gods remember an enchanted, dear temple of the seagull.
Goddesses recall fairytale-like heroes of the kite.
Poets commemorate the elves-like heaven of the owl.
Bards reflect on most amazing dreamery of the rook.
*weird – archaic fate
END
Paweł Markiewicz is Polish poet poet living in Bielsk Podlaski. He writes sonnets, haiku and epic poetry.
UNACKNOWLEDGED
By Matt Marr (USA/CANADA)
parts of me, driving me
steering the boat, still afloat
the unknown essences that be
screaming out to be set free
anchoring me to the ground
waves smash against the crushing sound
the shrilling silence
of survivance
crashing harshly to the shore
never again who we were before
certainly of this we know
under this insufferable snow
over time societies bond
to which another poorly responds
and swallows them whole
a relentless toll
bury the bodies
erase the truth
identity tsunamis
miseducated youth
what they fail to understand
our ancestors still haunt the land
lost spirits hiding in the trees
of Mi’kma’ki Acadie
END
Matt Marr is an Actor, Writer, Choreographer and Professional Dance. With an Acadian mother and an English/Canadian father, this poem about the struggle of the Acadian psyche, living in a fate they did not decide for themselves.
Instagram: @Mattmarr_
TOWER OF BONES
By Linda Imbler (USA)
A parade seen
from the perspective
above the clavicles of a king among men;
or lengthy fields of bluebonnets,
or guitarists on stage.
He counted train cars aloud to me as they passed.
Now as I stand at ground level
and watch his funeral procession go by,
I long to once more
climb that tower of bones,
to view the majesty
of this life’s moment
while perched atop my father’s shoulders.
END
Linda Imbler has published a number of poetry collections and her work can be seen in a large number of publications worldwide. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has four Best Of The Net nominations.
W: www.lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com
Instagram: @imblerpoet
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
By Maryam Imogen Ghouth (UNITED ARAB EMIRATES)
Like green hands blest,
they grow twig to seedling
in the dying hedge
of the depressed,
and with the sun at their backs,
cup the light on their shoulders
and convey it to strangers
on the edge,
yet
like a shadow that never leaves,
block the light from entering
their kindreds’ blue chests
with their fists and lust for incest.
END
Maryam Imogen Ghouth is of Saudi Arabian, Iranian, and British origin. She makes poetry films that explore psychological themes such as belonging, shame, and existential crises.
W: www.maryamghouth.com
Instagram: @maryamghouth
YouTube: @maryamghouth
SIX FEET UNDER
By Louis Faber (USA)
I remember the afternoon
was cold and damp, with a persistent
drizzle that escaped
the clustered umbrellas,
the sky a blanket slowly shedding
the water that soaked it
as it sat out on the clothesline.
I suspect you would have
liked it this way, everyone in attendance,
everyone shuffling their feet,
wanting to look skyward,
knowing they would see only
a dome of black umbrella domes.
I recited the necessary prayers,
kept a reasonable pacing
despite the looks of many urging
me to abridge the service, but
the rain didn’t care about their wishes
and I knew you wouldn’t
so I carried on to the conclusion.
As they lowered your coffin
into the puddled grave, I imagined
you laughing, knowing in the end
you had this day gotten the last one.
END
Louis Faber has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been published in magazines journals and poetry platforms worldwide.
W: www.anoldwriter.com
HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY SELMA FROM YOUR LITTLE BROTHER
By Sandy Schuman (USA)
In earnest I’ve tried to find rhymes
To recall endearing old times.
But try as I might
I have nothing in sight!
It must be because when I was a baby you dropped me on my head.
END
Sandy Schuman tells stories about songs and songwriters, personal adventures, historical sagas, folk tales and stories in the Jewish storytelling tradition, and plays his theme song on a Jew’s harp.
W: www.tothestory.com
W: www.tothestory.blogspot.com
LOOMING LOVE
By Judy Jones Brickner (USA)
I watched as he sponged her body, viewing her from my adult outpost.
Role reversal silently humbled them into submission of forgotten sweat.
Things remained unsaid as their river meandered, the rapids long forgotten.
Looming love lingered in the mist – the gist of what I finally understood!
There was something in their purpose I never saw before.
She once stood naked before him, beautiful arched eyebrows challenging,
black waves of hair spilling onto a middle-aged fire.
Individual shortcomings became a great divide.
I saw the shape of her loneliness.
Were there too many children or not enough money?
The small-town knife was too dull to kill and too blunt to numb.
Chatter became fodder became nagging became normal.
Love became fuelled and complicated, but palatable.
I felt her sadness, but also the turning of her heart.
Life no longer was about only having an 8th grade education,
or being a homemaker, or hiding tears because she never did
what she really wanted to do. Which was what?
Nature’s unimpeded blade carved a renewable kinship.
He met her expectations, she submitted to his love.
The sky stretched bare their imperfect life.
END
Judy Jones Brickner has found that the pandemic has provided the luxury of having all the time in the world to write poetry. Her work has been published in several local magazines.
ONE, TWO, THREE
Patricia Furstenberg (SOUTH AFRICA)
Blue is the sky and the sun is one,
The puppies are many, born at dawn.
The wind blows gently as to wake none;
“Hush,” he whispers, “to dream-land they’ve gone.”
Blue is the sky and the moon is silver,
Puppies love sleep as much as their meals.
An owl hoots, “none ‘ outside, not even the fiddler.”
“Tic-toc,” chimes the clock, “time to share dreams.”
Grey is the sky, the clouds are many,
Red are the leaves, some brown and some yellow.
“Come, here, outside” sings wind, “follow me.”
A puppy barks, a frisky fellow.
The branches lay low, leaves tumble over,
One puppy starts follow, but none sees who.
They can’t stay apart. “Wait up,” barks another;
Where the road bends a third puppy comes too.
Blue turned the sky as the sun smiled wider.
“Follow me,” sings the wind as one pup joins along.
Then two pups, then three, their barks join in choir.
“Come with me,” hums the wind and three pups run along.
One puppy is white; chews a leaf, big and orange;
One puppy is grey, eager eyes, a busy wee;
The third has a stick, sprints behind, like a hero
And right ahead runs the wind, “follow me, follow me.”
Blue is the sky, peeking through naked branches.
Soft hums the wind as they run up the hill.
And they all halt; wind and one, two, three puppies:
Right at the top lays his kingdom, what a thrill!
Three kings stand tall, their eyes taking the view.
Below lays the valley, as far as life goes; who knew
They’ll be born to be kings? “I did,” smiled the wind.
Three pups stand tall; their fur blows like a mantle,
Their ears flow back, kings’ crowns on their heads.
“Such a wide kingdom, we’ll need lots of food when we travel.”
Their noses quiver, taking in the vast planes.
“I hope mom will come with,” barks one
And two more pups agree.
And wind?
Wind just smiles.
END
Growing up in Bucharest and brought up listening to the legends and folktales of Romania’s past, now based in SA, writer and poet Patricia Furstenberg has authored 18 books to date.
W: www.alluringcreations.co.za/wp/
FB: @patriciafurstenbergauthor
Instagram @patfurstenbergauthor
THE AWAKENING OF THE RATTLE
By Dr. Anna Ferriero (ITALY)
Hug me tight.
Keep my heart.
Kiss my soul.
bring me
where there is no time, and space we build.
Take me to the heart of Spring
where is it
even the night
he paints himself white
END
Originally from Naples, Dr. Anna Ferriero is an award-winning writer, poet and magazine editor.
FB: @anna.ferriero.7
JUST SOME PERSPECTIVES
By Gary Shulman, MS. Ed. (USA)
Funny how anyone who has know bias in life
Can spew hate filled words as sharp as a knife
Forget a long history replete with derision
And manifest cruelty in every decision
I see it today at every turn
It makes my vintage spirit angry and burn
To make others suffer for just being true
To their genuine selves in this red, white and blue
Well I have no solutions, No remedy nor cure
All I can do is open the door
To compassion, to inclusion
Be as peaceful as a dove
And direct all my energy
To kindness and love
END
Gary Shulman, MS. Ed, spent a lifetime supporting vulnerable families and children as Special Needs and Early Childhood Coordinator for the Brooklyn Children’s Museum.
W: www.garyshulman.jimdo.com
RUSSIAN BANK
By Adrienne Stevenson (CANADA)
On rainy days at the cottage
my grandmother would take out
two decks of cards, lay out the tableau
and motion me to a chair
opposite hers. She always played
the red cards, I the blue.
At eight, I misplayed often
she would delight in yelling “stop!”
while I puzzled over my errors; a game
could last all afternoon. Sometimes
we would break to watch horse races
or old black and white movies.
By fourteen, I knew all her tricks
could counter almost any move
and the cards appeared less often.
In later years, when my summers
found me elsewhere, she took to solitaire.
END
Adrienne Stevenson is a retired forensic scientist and Pushcart-nominated poet. She writes in many genres, and her poetry has appeared in more than 40 print and online journals and anthologies worldwide.
Twitter: @ajs4t
18 AND LEAVING
By Jane H. Fitzgerald (USA)
The cool night air releases me
and yet
I can not shake off
the heavy heat of the day
Part of me is gone
A passing, a timely event
So in tune, so right
and still so difficult
No more the child
No more the constant presence
The world is claiming him
piece by piece
God’s gift to me
to his family
to humanity
I never owned him
Yet I held him
for ever so long
And even though
I’ve always known
That motherhood time
is a season
It’s hard to accept
So very hard to accept
That he’s gone
END
Jane H. Fitzgerald is a retired middle-school history teacher who believes in experiential learning. She has written four books of poetry, earned a MA degree in Curriculum and Teaching, and taught English to adult Hispanic immigrants.
FB: @JanesPoetry
Amazon author’s page: @janefitzgeraldpoetry
EMPTY NEST
By Neelam Saxena Chandra (INDIA)
The nest shall soon be empty…
The straws and the twigs
With which the nest was build
The outer soft periphery
Which was covered with gild
Will soon be plated with void
Loneliness shall strike like a meteoroid …
The nest shall soon be empt y…
Abandoned shall feel the branches
The tree shall be deserted
The lane on which we walked together
Shall now seem secluded
Ruthless ice shall cover the trail
All efforts to strip it off fail …
The nest shall soon be empty …
The departure is miserable and yet
I smile spreading the splendid sunshine
For I know that for a fledgling to grow
And for it to touch the skyline
A mother has to outgrow her adoration
And let the child touch the horizon …
END
Neelam Saxena Chandra is an Engineering graduate. She has authored five novels, one novella, seven short story collections, 35 poetry collections and 14 children’s books.
W: www.neelamsaxenachandra.com
FB: @NeelamSaxenaPoet
Instagram: @neelamsaxenapoet
YouTube: @neelamsaxenapoet
CIVILIAN
D. R. James (USA)
A bad eye and flat feet like mine
always kept him home. He’d try
again, but the war in Europe,
the war in North Africa, the war
in the Pacific didn’t want him.
For fifty years I knew that eye,
its milky look of no surprise,
his stiff-legged gait, but never
such longing, such capacity for
passion beyond company quotas.
Until between their deaths my mother
told her stories: all the other boys
leaving for the service, the rationing
of coffee, sugar, meat, and gasoline,
the bond-raising big bands in Cleveland’s
glitzy ballrooms, the occasional V-mail
from her brother bivouacked in Belgium,
the telegram that said he was dead.
So just a modest wedding – It was
wartime, you know – a few days off
from the aircraft factory for the modest
honeymoon at Niagara, then back to
eighty-hour work weeks, overnight trains
to the plant in St. Louis, the beginning
of my father’s industrious silence.
First published in Passager 55 (Spring/Summer 2013)
END
D. R. James has spent 37 years teaching writing, literature, and peace studies. He is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and has published ten collections of poetry.
Instagram: @drjames1954
Amazon author page: @drjamesauthorpage
THE FLAVOURS OF LOVE
By Anna Banasiak (POLAND)
I’m your breath
lost at the desert of dreams
we’re waiting here together
we’ll search for the source
that will connect us
hungry
for love
END
Anna Banasiak is an award winning poet, literary critic and occupational therapist. She is the author of a large number of books, and her poems have been published worldwide.
FIRE AND WATER
By Victoria Milescu (ROMANIA)
When we clinked our glasses
at the feast in the night
I turned to you and said: you extinguish me
and I only ashes remain
blown by the wind
I am the fire
you are water
I am tall
you are great
our love not so old
is impossible and sublime and immortal
blown by the wind …
END
Victoria Milescu graduated the Faculty of Philology, University of Bucharest, and worked in education and the press. She writes poetry, literary chronicles and children’s literature, and has had a large number of books published.
FB: @milescu.victoria