A spacious walk in
With built in shelves
And interesting places to hide
I didn’t realize I had so many shoes
Color coordinated clothes
Perfectly aligned on velvet hangers
You can tell so much about a person
The way they fold their clothes
Tell tale signs of intimacy
Rolled up in a draw
Evidence of a once lush life
Hidden in the green of envy
A garden of weeds
Oxygen with just enough poison
Taking over the landscape
No flowers of consolation
Just black smoke inside
A tin box ready to explode
Have I left enough trills in the music
Did I change the sheets
That witnessed submission
Can you feel my authentic bliss
That I once loved you
Judy started playing piano at the age of three, and studied at the Julliard School Of Music in New York City, her native city.
She became a jazz pianist and continues to play jazz. Now residing in Florida, she started writing poetry three years ago, and has been published in the Moonlight Dreamers Of The Yellow Haze anthology, Thepoetcommunity, Whispersinthewind, Indiana Voice Journal. Poetry runs deep in her veins along with Music.
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Jazz. A Poem by Joan McNerney
the kitchen sits
in fruit soup…
steamed apricot
mango shadow
down thru spinning
smoke into hot light
blink beat
body ends dangle
lead eye skin cement
high on tongue
night pasted among
buildings Styrofoam clouds
moon hung beneath billboard
rolling pass wet
rocked streets
soul tramp
diamond panhandlers watch
paper birds slices of
the daily news drift in air
comes cool ether
whispers up door
climbing dusty corridor
tree windows lapping lisp
door slams again noise again
then none void nothing syncopates
noise again door slams tree bare frozen
caught in the image of 7 candles
within 7 candles flames of air
7 light bulbs growing out of each other
7 silver circles coined from 7 silver rings
clear as blazing sheets
of glass yet
vague as dust
an ice cube on wood table
in front of crushed velvet
-
melt
poured
peeled
when this sky now boiling with
stars is strapped black
in pinched air thru sucked mind
swimming pass spaced time
will be one silent
note up.
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Poet and Geek recognized her work as their best poem of 2013. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses and she has three e-book titles.
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Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
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Hostages. A Poem by Ananya S Guha
Had it not been
a hell of a night
I would not know
how chandeliers
had broken
and the gig we did
broke into dawn
till all the people
in the room started
reading those old
books, which memories
had kept stored in rusted
trunks. One started reciting
the others with immaculate
looks read steadfastly.
Silence. Silence was the watch dog.
The reading continued late till
the day. Gunshots woke them up.
They were told they were hostages
but they continued to read.
A war is on ( they were told)
The chandeliers splintered
books strewn,
death hyphenated, they
continued to read.
Soon dogs started barking
the coffins were ready.
The clock ticked
death is a neighbour.
Ananya S Guha has been born and brought up in Shillong, India and works in India’s National Open University, the Indira Gandhi National Open University. His poems in English have been published world wide. He also writes for newspapers and magazines/ web zines on matters ranging from society and politics to education. He holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. He edits the poetry column of The Thumb Print Magazine, and has published seven collections of poetry.
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Idealist. A Poem by Cornelia Păun Heinzel
Editors Note: Translated from Romanian by the author herself, as far as the editor knows.
You always tell me: you are incredibly idealistic
when you love all people equally, trees and flowers, animals,
without concealing them with the cloak of inequality,
when you are admiring what it is worthy of praises,
without the worm of jealousy eating you whole,
when you do not harm anybody
and the waves of evil do not immerse you,
when you understand every being,
even if you, in this, are enigmatic,
when you help anyone from the kindness of your heart
without expecting something in return,
when you consider money to have no value
and the wisps of greed never daze you,
when you always forgive
without the boulder of vengeance shattering you in pieces,
when you introduce yourself to people the way you truly are,
without performing on the stage of life as a perfect actor,
when you truly are faithful
without the arrows of evil, greed and deception piercing you…
Cornelia Păun Heinzel is an Romanian writer, journalist, member of International Press, Professor Ph.D. in Robotics with the scientific title of Doctor of Industrial Robots 1998, the Bucharest Polytechnic University, Master in Educational Management and Evaluation, Faculty of Psychology, University of Bucharest, in 2002, Master in Teaching Subjects Philological Faculty of Letters, University of Bucharest, licensed of Philology, Romanian Language and Literature – French Language and Literature, Faculty of Letters, University of Brasov, Diplomat mechanical engineer, specializing in Technology of Machine Construction, Faculty of TCM, Brasov University in higher education and research, a field in which she has worked until today and electrical engineering, specializing in Transport, Polytechnic University of Bucharest. In 2007-2013 she trained experts of the Ministry of Education in Educational Management. She completed three graduate courses and in 2012-2013 received a grant to Germany, MUNCHEN GOETHE INSTITUTE in the area of specialization – MULTIMEDIA FüRERSCHEIN DaF- Das Internet als Quelle FÜR Materialien und Projekte . She has published six books and over 200 articles – published in Romania and abroad. Anthologie Multilingua. Cornelia Heinzel
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Whiskey & Popcorn. A Poem by James Dennis Casey 1V.
We live in a void
Crossed between hell and
The digital world
Television screen faces
Closed caption thoughts
Our rulers have antennas
In place of horns
Everything is on fire
Crashing and burning
But all we can see
Is what we’re fed
The underbelly reality
Is far worse than it seems
Things they don’t show us
Terrible and unforgiving
Driven down
Hidden behind coding
Pretty 1’s & 0’s
It’s all in the way
You look at it
I guess
Ignorance is bliss
After all
I just hope
There’s plenty of
Whiskey & popcorn
For the season finale
©James Dennis Casey IV
A self proclaimed “Madman Philosopher,” James D. Casey IV is a published author of two poetry books: ‘Metaphorically Esoteric’ & ‘Dark Days Inside the Light While Drunk on Wine.’ Mr. Casey’s writings have been published in Triadæ Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, Words on Fire, Pink Litter, In Between Hangovers, Poetry Breakfast, Spill Words Press, The Micropoets Society, Poetry Life & Times, Realistic Poetry International, Beatnik Cowboy, and he has upcoming publications in Leaves of Ink. He has also been published in two poetry anthologies: “Pirate Poetry” by Writing Knights Press, and “Where the Mind Dwells” by Eber & Wein. You can find links to his books, social network profiles, and other projects on his website at http://louisianakingcasey.w ixsite.com/big-skull-poetry.
Rev.James Dennis Casey IV Ordained Dudeist Priest at Dudeism. the Church of the Latter-Day Dude
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Rivers of Blood. Video Poem. Tony Martin Woods
Tony Martin-Woods started to write poetry in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada (Transforming with Poetry), an online publication of political poetry that he edits. Tony is a political and artistic activist who explores the digital component of our lives as a means to support critical human empowerment. He is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his non-literary name. He writes in English and Spanish and has published his first volume of poetry Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess) 2016.
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Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
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Poems from Laura Giordani translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Language is the territory of the common, of the community. Through my writing I try to make visible not only what is not so due to our sensory handicap, but what has been made invisible: small daily holocausts, omissions, our most intimate violence.
Poetic language contains the seed of insubordination, of becoming disobedient to a way of looking at the world and naming it; politics is the place where we situate ourselves to articulate as speakers, enlightened, subaltern, omniscient, decentered, etc.
It does not matter if we do it about a bird, a milk tooth or an intimate event. In my opinion, the political load of a poem is not dependent on certain topics, but on the insistence that invites us to breathe in a system that otherwise suffocates us, to resist so that we don’t let our eyelids drop in resignation.
Editor’s Note: extract from an interview with Laura Giordani. http://www.tendencias21.net/ Laura-Giordani-La-poesia- contiene-la-semilla-de-la- insumision_a13660.html
————————–
(i.)
[Qué te hicieron caballito, que las manos de tu amo
se hundan en tu carne abierta
hasta que llore polvo de ladrillo,
hasta que la fusta con que te azotaba
caiga con él de rodillas.
Con manos imantadas
Hundir los dedos en la tierra negrísima de la infancia, Cuando las yemas ardan, escarbar con manos imantadas por una ternura abandonada junto a los restos: el desguace nuestro.
Botones sueltos, fotografías de familia: los esposos en un muelle con cuatro hijos y dos baúles, un viejo de ojos claros junto a su silla de enea, escarpines de lana amarilleando sin término, el ajuar con las mismas iniciales de aquel ataúd chiquito y blanco.
Un mechoncito rubio en la mano, único consuelo.
Mujeres pariendo en camas de hierro, niños amamantados por cabras.
[veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda
lu lupu si mangiau la picuredda
oi ninì
ninna vò fa1
A la infancia a través de las manos, palpar el fondo de los cajones para conocer el revés nuestro, las costuras de un relato siempre en hilachas.
Ella se fue y algo se rompió dentro
[algo sordo, como llorando.
Escondimos las rodillas lastimadas por el pavimento.
Llegaron como una peste las palabras y las llevamos a la boca creyendo en su alimento.
Los contornos adquirieron relieve, los pétalos del corazón fueron cayendo –uno a uno—como en aquel juego.
Sobrevino la sintaxis, la separación, el desastre.
[La guardiana del tacto]
1. Nota: Canción de cuna siciliana. Oh, ven, sueño, de la montañita / El lobo se comió a la ovejita / Oh, el niño /Quiere dormir.
(i.)
[What did they do you little horse that the hands of your master
should sink into your opened flesh
until it weeps brick dust
until the whip with which he lashes you
falls with him to his knees.
With magnetised hands
To sink our fingers into the blackest earth of childhood, when fingertips burn, hands magnetised by a discarded tenderness that dig searching the remains – our scrap.
Loose buttons, family photographs: spouses on the quayside with four children, two trunks, an old man with clear eyes next to his wicker chair, woollen stockings forever fading, the trousseau with the same initials as that little white coffin, a little lock of blonde hair held in the hand their only consolation.
Women giving birth in iron beds, children suckled by goats.
[veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda
lu lupu si mangiau la picurredda
oi nini
ninna vó fa*
Childhood reached through our hands feeling the bottom of drawers
knowing our underside, the seams of a story always in rags.
She left and something broke inside.
[something deaf, as if weeping
We hid our knees scraped on the pavement.
Words came like a disease, we put them in our mouths believing in their nourishment.
Outlines became distinct, one by one, as in that childhood game, the petals of innocence fell.
Then syntax, separation, disaster.
[The Guardian of Touch]
* Sicilian Lullaby. Oh come, sleep, from the little mountain/The wolf ate the little lamb/Oh, the child/Wants to sleep.
(ii.)
Con guantes de goma anaranjada ella ahogaba los cachorros recién nacidos en el fuentón de lata: no son puros, seguro que fueron los perros de Moroni – sentenciaba y aguantando la respiración hundía a los perritos todavía ciegos, buscando el calor de la collie que aullaba junto a la puerta. Anegaba sus pulmones en el fondo hasta que flotaran y los metía en una bolsa de nylon que cerraba con nudos bien apretados. Luego se sacaba los guantes color naranja y con esas mismas manos cortaba el pan y trenzaba el pelo de mi amiga Alejandra.
[Todavía me persigue el llanto de aquella perra,
el frío mortal del lavadero.
Mi amiga creció, tuvo hijos, otra casa. Su madre siguió baldeando con desvelo la vereda cada mañana, ahogando – primavera tras primavera—perros sin raza.
[Extraño país]
(ii.)
With orange rubber gloves, she, my friend’s mother, drowned the new born pups, in a tin basin.
These are mongrels, sure from old Morini’s, she judged, as she held her breath to drown the still blind puppies as they searched the warmth of the collie, who howled beside the laundry door.
She flooded their lungs in the bottom until they floated putting them into a nylon bag that she tied in the tightest of knots.
Afterwards, she took off those orange rubber gloves and with the same hands cut bread and braided my friend Alejandra’s hair.
[Now the howl still haunts me
deadly cold in the wash place.
My friend grew up, had children, another house. Her mother continued every morning to thoroughly wash the pavement down drowning spring after spring mixed breeds.
[ Strange Country]
(iii.)
El sobretodo azul que pusiste
sobre los hombros de la muchacha aquella
volvía empapada del interrogatorio
temblando
la mojaban la picaneaban*
cada noche
la dejaban junto a tu colchón
con un llanto parecido al de un cachorro
ese gesto a pesar del miedo
a pesar del miedo te sacaste el sobretodo azul
para abrigarla
no poder dejar de darle ese casi todo
en medio del sobretodo espanto
la dignidad puede resistir
azul
en apenas dos metros de tela
y en esos centímetros que tu mano
sorteó en la oscuridad hasta sus hombros
sobre todo
[El sobretodo azul]
(iii.)
The blue overcoat you put on over the shoulders of the girl soaked from interrogation shaking watered tortured with the picana1 each night they´d left her next to your mattress with a puppylike whimper that gesture despite the fear over all the fear you took off your blue overcoat to warm her unable to resist giving over all over all the horror in its midst dignity can stand blue in just two meters of cloth those centimeters your hand covered in the dark over her shoulders over all else.
[The blue overcoat]
1 The “picana” is a wand or prod that delivers a high voltage but low current electric shock to a torture victim.
Laura Giordani (1964, Córdoba, Argentina)
Because of the Argentine military dictatorship, in the late 1970s she went into exile with her family in Spain, where she has lived almost half her life.
She studied Psychology, Fine Arts and English language.
She participates in writers´meetings and gives poetic recitals in Argentina and Spain.
She has written the following poetry collections: Apurando la copa (2001), Celebración del brote (2003), Cartografía de lo blando (2005), Noche sin clausura (2006), Sudestada (2009), Materia oscura (2010) and Antes de desaparecer (2016).
Her poems have been included in several anthologies, she has also collaborated in journals from Argentina, Brazil, Germany and Spain.
The following link reviews her latest work Antes de desaparecer ( Before disappearing) from which the above poems are extracts http://www.tendencias21.net/Antes-de-desaparecer–de-Laura-Giordani-una-manera-de-ampararse_a32021.html
Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by Aquillrelle.com and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..
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The Lucy-Ann. A Poem by Andy Hubbard
She was a fishing smack
Of maybe forty feet
Somehow foundered and come to rest
In our little harbor.
The crew just walked away,
There were no harbor police in those days.
She just sat there, listing over
A little more every month.
We boys scrambled aboard
Against our parents’ strict orders
Whenever we could escape surveillance.
We were looking for treasure
Or guns, or cigarettes,
Or naked women, sprawled and helpless.
The best we ever found
Was a couple of hunting knives
And some black-and-white mens’ magazines
That didn’t show as much as we could see
Sneaking past big sister’s bathroom.
In retrospect it was kind of a waste
But at the time it was stranglingly exciting.
The thrill of the chase,
Of the unknown,
Of the infinitely possible.
It never recedes. Never.
Are you free tonight?
Andrew Hubbard was born and raised in a coastal Maine fishing village. He earned degrees in English and Creative Writing from Dartmouth College and Columbia University, respectively.
For most of his career he has worked as Director of Training for major financial institutions, creating and delivering Sales, Management, and Technical training for user groups of up to 4,000.
He has had four prose books published, and his fifth book, a collection of poetry, was published in 2014 by Interactive Press.
He is a casual student of cooking and wine, a former martial arts instructor and competitive weight lifter, a collector of edged weapons, and a licensed handgun instructor. He lives in rural Indiana with his family, two Siberian Huskies, and a demon cat.
See Andy Hubbard’s new book at http://ipoz.biz/portfolio-single/the-divining-rod/
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