Orange shades sliced,
your visage in evening light;
Dotted red, the forehead;
Chandelier-ring, square-cut
ruby, on ear either; streaks
silken, in hair flowing over
cheeks by the wind;
Ripples in the pond at night:
your dimpled smile, broken
as in a dented mirror.
Lost from the front, lost
from behind; doubt rising,
like incense, ladder-like
the rib cage in x-ray vision;
Broken pots, moss-filled,
collecting the last rain,
bits of moon in the puddle
skinny-dipping after.
Totem pole, towering
light house, Zeus-thunder
zipping past the sky, my
Babel ego. Zorro moments.
Ripping apart space and time.
Educated in India and England, Prabhu Iyer writes contemporary rhythm poetry. He counts the classical Romantics and Mystics among his influences. Among modern poets Neruda and Tagore are his favourites for their haunting and inspirational lyrical verse. Prabhu has also explored the meaning of modern art movements such as surrealism and cubism and their role in anchoring the society through his art-poetry. Currently he is based out of Chennai, India, where he has a day job as an academic scientist.
In 2012 Prabhu collected over 50 of his poems and self-published them on Amazon Kindle: Ten Years of Moons and Mists More recently, his 2014 entry made it to the long list from among over 5000 entrants to the annual international poetry contest conducted by the UK-based publishing house, Erbacce Press. Some of Prabhu’s poems are at http://hellopoetry.com/-prabhu-iyer/ His major current projects include a further volume of poetry, his first fictional novella and a planned series of translations of lyrics from Indian film music.
Editor’s Note: for further information see Interview with Prabhu Iyer at this site
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Month: March 2015
of death and honey. A Poem by E. Darcy Trie
mother
i thought your death
easy
your voice rising
like unmolested bamboo
18 centimeters a day
towards a friday god
eager to pluck you
for his september buffet
and though you protested
through the log of lungs
the brick of ribs
that the wooden tips of your fingers
would not burn
within an autumn night
you were so gentle
in your surrender
that your cries
would not disturb
a sleeping buddha
and here
i tremble
that i will lack your grace
my last hour
gritted and gnarled
robed in rage and stinking
of sour lament
yet again
unworthy of being called
your daughter
o guanyin pusa:
embrace me
with your thousand arms
and pour your porcelain mercy
over me
may my end be of
her same lattice of pearls
white callouses of courage
rattling within the heart of a lotus
the saga of my final sigh rising
past the calm incense of our tongue
the cool smoke of teeth
until it is sweeter
than the echo of honey
on the breath of
a hummingbird
Darcy was born in Taipei, Taiwan in 1975, E. Darcy Trie is a Scorpio, Rabbit and matriculated in Little Rock, Arkansas at the age of two. She graduated at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville with a B.A. in Psychology along with Minors in Drama and Asian Studies. Sensing that achieving her Masters would drive her to drink, she wisely opted to tour Asia in her early twenties (thanks to a grant provided by Bank Of Daddy), and in the year 2000, found herself in the heart of Beijing, China where she began writing due to the fact that crocheting was far too complicated and because the voices in her head would not shut up.
By 2004, she had completed two romances, one historical and one modern, and after viewing all nine seasons of the X-Files and three seasons of C.S.I, finished the first two series of the Snow novels and is currently writing the third installment. During this time, she has also had several pieces of her poetry published in various online poetry magazines.
Her passions and hobbies includes writing, reading (anything put out by Neil Gaiman), Disney movies, all divination tools such as Tarot, I-Ching, Runes and is an enthusiastic, although albeit amateur, astrologist/paranormal investigator. She is 5’10, weighs whatever she wrote on her driver’s license, owns a lot of black hoodies and is addicted to It’s A Grind’s Passion Fruit tea.
She is fluent in English, Mandarin Chinese, some French and once took a Zero Hour in Greek in high school. She hates mornings, coconuts, wire bras, and sincerely hopes that this is bio is long enough to fill up an entire page (doubled-space of course).
Ms. Trie currently lives in Las Vegas, NV because she adores $2.99 buffets, Paigow Poker, and that lovely 116 degree August weather. She dreams of writing best-selling novels that will delight and thrill her future fans and because she is tired of being a productive citizen and wants to go back to being a mooching hermit.
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Waiting for Its Turn. A Poem by Scott Thomas Outlar
It might be dirty, bloody and wounded,
but at least its honest
at the end of the day
after working in the graveyard
to bury all the bones
that the others so quickly forget.
It might be scarred, numb and broken,
but at least it sleeps soundly
for a few hours after midnight
once the dirt is piled back
atop the six foot hole
that the worms will soon be swarming.
It might never have a lover,
it might never smile at a sunset,
it might never taste of passion,
but at least it gets the job done
no matter the conditions,
doing what no one else is willing,
it’s only reward the ash and dust.
Scott Thomas Outlar lives a simple life in the suburbs, spending the days flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River, marveling at the intricacies of life’s existential nature, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Siren, Section 8, Midnight Lane Boutique, Dead Snakes, Mad Swirl, and Dissident Voice. His debut chapbook “A Black Wave Cometh” is forthcoming from Dink Press. More of Scott’s writing can be found at 17numa.wordpress.com.
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A Poem is a Useless Thing. A Poem by Ian Irvine (Hobson)
A poem is a fragile thing like a life — so ephemeral, so moved by the random laws of the cosmos the elements, gravity ... A poem is a useless thing, like a wasted life — all its meaning in the living, the rending, the interpreting. Begins and ends with the blinkers of the observer. A poem is but a small fragment of a larger thing, obscured in the making (like tonight’s mountain moon) by clouds and drizzle. Writing a poem may seem pointless Who will read it? Who will understand it? It disperses to the elements even in the writing even in the sounding We do it regardless — a gesture in search of a purpose.
Ian Irvine is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer:
His work has featured in many Australian and international publications, including Fire (UK) ‘Anthology of 20th Century and Contemporary Poets,’ (2008) which contained the work of poets from over 60 nations. His work has also appeared in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies, and he is the author of three books and co-editor of many more (including Scintillae 2012, an anthology of work by over 50 Victorian and international writers and poets). He currently teaches writing and literature at Bendigo TAFE and Victoria University (Melbourne) and lives with fellow writer Sue King-Smith and their children on a 5 acre block near Bendigo, Australia.
Links related to his work are as follows:
http://authorsden.com/ianirvine
http://www.scribd.com/IanHobson
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