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I ALWAYS SEEM TO WATCH YOU FROM AFAR

On evening where sheets of rooks whirl
like cyclones of flapping ash,
through the dark afternoon window
where I see the shell of a blue star.
I watch you from afar

time beating like an impatient monster in motion,
our day became fitted hours of paid banality,
yet I always seem to watch you leave but never
arrive.

When I heard the wind carry its voice
from cordial gutter to napkin fields of snow,
where horses ran in triangles of untouched lavender
did I see an image of you walking away.

If I could stop time and its deathly ruin
and pause just an hour in your arms
I would see the true wonderment in love
its necessities and beauty in flourishing threads of time.

Yet I always seem to watch you from afar
either leaving or sleeping beside me deep in dream,
passing me in the hallway at night
like a familiar stranger on a returning train.

*

NOTES ON MEETING MY YOUNGER SELF

I watched him without interruption
my naïve and arrogant imitator,
a lying master to all assumptions
you see that boy I’m now his narrator.
I saw smudged swans drift in a river
with familiar figures I’d almost forgot,
wanting to question them before time withers
and fading seconds of youth stop.
Yet these cobbled streets held my memory
like a dark star holds the canvas to our sky,
when once best friends became the enemy
the boy started to look through a man’s eyes.

© Matthew J. Duggan
photo©Stratos Fountoulis

*

bio
Matthew J. Duggan has published in many poetry magazines such as Dwang 2, Seventh Quarry, Carillon, Monkey Kettle, Littoral press, Chimera, Magpie’s Nest, The Ugly Tree, Connections, Square (On a CD ), M:/P Mag, Krax, and many more.

Behead me for I am a fool
in love with the red dance
of your lithe shadow,
torture me for I am an idiot
dressed in the rags of hope,
stone me for the anguished
emptiness I cry out in,
as you pass deliberately dagger
eyed and gimlet mouthed by the
open door of your home.

I would be beaten and flayed than
never know your smile, fall in
dung and be refused ablution
than never hear your singing voice
in my kitchen.

At night, visions of you haunt my
dreams, your tapered fingers
reaching for mine as I stumble beneath the
cold starless sky.
You lead me gently to your hearth fires,
offer tea , treat me as an honoured
guest and in my heaving bosom thankful
tears drown me in famished desire.

Then I awake and even this is torn,
even this silken kiss of skin snatched
from my aspiring and I awaken to the
black truth once more. I am bereft of even
this self-deceit, this contemptuous trickery
of my maddened mind and feel the loneliness
of the moon kissed lunatic.

Send them my cold distant love, send your
father and brothers, send them with sticks
flails and whips to beat me from your door,
your pure modesty demands it , your family’s
good name insists that your love must be
denied. Send them and not your snatched
backward glances.
End my living in this hell.

I’m sick of this charade, this theatre of
puppets living my life as if I have no curiosity,
where turning over a rock to find reason crawling
there is like dropping a wet fart in an elevator
full of Imams.

I am sick of having some big fat invisible hand up
my pained backside and it moving my tongue
with its index of revealed truths, I’m tired of it closing
my eyes making me recite the Victory march to oblivion
like an upturned porcelain doll hopping
to the sound of the Ottoman kettle drums.

Damn it I am nauseous with the taste of my
own sense of shame, as it washes around my
throat like an invented wine made of crushed
bones and silicon. I cannot go on playing this
game for special children of; “see it now forget
it.”

I cleaned my hands five times today plus three
to eat. I closed the doors and locked them four
times as I bent to sound of big Bird croaking in
his nest. But by my beard and my toenails I can’t
switch off the gas any more than I have already and
the scruples are ringing like bells in my blocked ears.

Please.

If I hear you say once more – keep walking, keep
talking that hedge witch wisdom of the forest – then
I swear I’m gonna bite my own fingers off during lent
and send you the doctors bill.

“Hush now child”, just will not do anymore.
Nor will “Hold your questions”, because over the
rainbow there’s a sweet little gift where you
can pull your blue jeans on and go riding with
David Dundas and Cat Stevens as a lithe young
man once again growing his third set of teeth.

It’s time old man to get this straight – culture is not enough.
of a reason to keep believing these scary stories. I’m playing
no more games of donkey, chasing Nassrudin’s celestial carrots
anymore. I’m cutting the barbed wire of faith wrapped
around my heart. I am demolishing the Berlin wall in my mind
shooting the Ceausescu’s, in my brain because this is the spring
time of my soul.

© Theodoros Ellinas
Photo by Nasiakapa.com 

bio
Theodoros Ellinas, was born in 1957 in Camden London to a couple from Cyprus who moved there in the 50’s. He grew up in Liverpool and moved to Cyprus for three years in 1967. He attended Leeds University where he studied drama and presentation, He declares that: My main influences are my historical and cultural background, existential philosophy, the nature of language and relationships. My most abiding and respected writers are Kurt Vonnegut, Hermann Hesse and Osho. Politically I lean to the left and having been a victim during my youth of the Greek Junta during my education I am also fascinated by the acquisition of prejudices and their effect on life choices. 

Εν αρχή ην ο Λόγος, και ο Λόγος ην προς τον Θεόν, και Θεός ην ο Λόγος

Google it!
‘Cause it’s a poem about Words
Or a Word.
Grab a Merriam
Grab anything you have!
Or you may simple ignore the sources
And divine the meaning instead!
You will find, what you shall know already!

In the music, in the murder
In the euphoria, in the eulogy
In the grand and in the grain,
There are words.
Everything is words in disguise.
The woman you see in the street,
For the mathematical dysfunction of moments,
Or for a prophetic pattern in numbers,
Is only a beautiful ‘word’,
Or perhaps only a melodious echo and equation in the mind
Of the word ‘beautiful’,
That solves all the perplexities of so simple a sensation
So simple that it’s almost unexpected.
The sudden encounter has no meaning
Only the face is meaningful, ‘cause it’s a word
And you have just rehearsed your vocabulary
And have turned ‘one word wise’.
Or the dog you see in the alley
And suddenly feel like fleeing away from it,
Is a word, or maybe two words (but words!)-
‘Teeth’ and ‘bark’. You feel like a cat.
‘Fear’- the word, is your puffy tail,
And ‘run’ is your action of folly.
Whatever, the trees are also full of them,
And a tree is one word, a verbose of leafy alphabets.
It sheds letters in autumn days,
And the poets merely pick them up
And press them inside the leaves of books.
Also the buildings, we live inside words,
And if you climb the storeys quietly you will see
The bricks have piled up into a different story
From the one you just left, or the one you will leave.
It’s up to you whether you like wandering or not,
But if you are unwilling to read the bricks
The corners, the stairs, the skylights and the shadows,
Probably you will have a favourite word,
Or only a bunch of them.
Probably you will say the same thing in all the seminars!
Like this, this world is the draft of an epic written by a fine poet.
That’s why if you simply rephrase a story
Which alone is not that bad,
Work on it a bit, galvanize, equate,
You may even come up with a conclusive story of your own
And call it your own epic!
You may even decipher all the encrypted stories
Some written in crumbled papers thrown away in the streets
Or in the basket- the vestibule for the unwanted.
And if you are so good at it, in rephrasing
And, well, in masterful plagiarizing,
If you have read a lot of these words in disguise
With the details- all the alphabets and then the stories,
Who knows, you may even find the poet,
Who hides behind these words,
Who too is a word,
Was a word in the beginning.
And some say- will be just a word in the end!

*

In the beginning of the end of light
It was quite a prosaic and dull encounter:
In the three-wheeler me revising the synopsis of the day
(Not remembering the beginning, neither the complication
Nor the denouement, not even where I was and why I was
There where I was then!)
Planning a plain dinner with boiled rice and fish
And after that a porn perhaps, or a movie
Or some episodes from the sitcom I watch for fun
And after that some light snacks I feast upon for fun
And after that some yawns- prelude to no sleep
And after that a dose of dream, injected forcefully
Into the rebellious Insomnia. (for fun?)
It wasn’t in my plan, not for that moment it was meant.
My plan was simple, unpoetic, without any songlike ceremony
And my entire forgotten day wasn’t supposed to lead to that!
(I wasn’t ready for anything but for some idle fun!
That I deserved for saving the world by doing nothing!)
I was just looking at things without seeing anything
And then, some of a sudden, an image
Acted upon itself quietly, but obviously in some artistic frenzy;
Appeared at my brief appearance at that spot
Out from some empty corner of the street.
It was bizarre, absolutely odd and quite a view:
Sitting under some lonely lamp-post
A painter, long-haired and shabby,
By artfully scratching his paper with a pen
Was trying to squeeze some fun out of a skinny beggar
Whose tiny figure lied completely shrouded in some black.
One can easily tell from the way the bum slept
That the shroud wasn’t unfriendly to the chill of the night. . .

The three-wheels of the wheeler
Didn’t stop to enjoy the show
And so was I back to my revision.
But then, like in some less divine apostasy
I even forgot what I couldn’t remember!
And in mind travelled back some five or ten seconds
To sit behind the painter who sat behind an idea,
To watch him watching the bum carefully
And dig a dark story out from his ink.
Just for a few unwatched seconds
The feeling filled me with a lost joy,
Moistened my dried well of poetic passion
And then again became what it was prosaically before-
Just a bizarre image acting upon itself to become
An image for an idle eye.
Then why, why the beggar’s black shroud
Transforming into the night
Is shrouding me tonight now in some dark chill?
Why questions are seeking answers through me
“What beauty did he seek in the otherwise ugly sleeping man?
Where’s the climactic calamity
That gives birth to the silent darkness?”

I had some plans for fun
But with their premature death
And now me sitting before an idea
How can I endure looking at nothing and seeing only that-
The wheels, the beggar and the painter
And seek beauty there to witness
The birthnight of an unwanted poem?

©Hisham M Nazer 
Photo: Creative Commons

bio
Hisham M Nazer is a trilingual poet. A T. S. Eliot scholar, currently working on a dissertation on T. S. Eliot and Dante, supervised by the department of English, University of Rajshahi. A prolific writer, published in several national magazines and international anthologies. He is an essayist too, a spiritual speaker and a teacher of philosophy. Worked as a sub-editor for two literary magazines- Shasshwatiki (Bengali, Bangladesh) and The Browsing Corner (Multi-lingual e-zine, India).

Daylight dies
into dusk
into night
much more quickly
when it’s
needed.

Poor souls have similarly
fading
hope and batteries to light
up the night, fighting the
ever-growing fear
that
their angel will forever
be that age.
Rage, vacant panic boils,
cracks into
one solitary cry,
anguished prayer
disguised as
a wail.

Torch illuminates blades
upon blades, as
she, on her knees,
curses the days she
took
for granted and,
to herself, her palms,
the stars and beyond,
she swears
that she will never
rest again.

I read my horoscope today.
And, as ever, took it with a salt-pinch.

Read about the moons and
the end of the month, hoping it would come true,

but forgot all about
it once I’d

turned the page.

On the train,
I rolled through
the town that might have been.

The sky was calm
and hurt,
as it only reminded me of opportunities missed.

The sun,
a low bulb,
was bearable to look at
and I had to tell myself that,
if I’d chosen this town,
it wouldn’t always be this lovely.

I always thought of telling
the town that might have been
how close it actually was to being,
but never thought it would do any good
to either of us.

In its station,
I almost expect the town to be there,
on the platform,
waiting for me,
ready to pull me from the train
and into its arms.
But, it never is.

The town that might have been exists
in a parallel universe.
I only pass through.
I can never stay.

*
©Anthony Arnott
photo by © Stratos Fountoulis, «Coffee varieties» Edmonton, Canada, 2012

Bio
Anthony Arnott lives in Jarrow, South Tyneside, and works as an English teacher. In April 2013, his collection, The Genius who drank all the milk, was released. This was the follow-up to his August 2011 debut, Behind Barcodes, both of which were published by erbacce-press. For two years, he was a Poetry Editor for The Black Market Review.
He has also had work published in Peggy’s Blue Skylight, First Edition Magazine, Question Mark, The Journal, Streetcake Magazine, Why Vandalism? Journal, Broken Wine, Mud Hutter Express, The Delinquent, Turbulence Magazine, Fade Poetry, Camel Saloon, The Tower Journal, Message in a Bottle Magazine, Bareback, Bad Robot, Asinine Poetry, The Artistic Muse, Black Magnolias Literary Journal, Astronaut Magazine, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Inclement and Century 121, as well as in anthologies such as The Strand Book of International Poets 2010, Liquid Gold and Sculpted Anthology.
A keen reader, Anthony has read in support of Jerome Rothenberg and has had fifty-word stories published in 50 to 1 and Postcard Shorts.

Why do we call this planet Earth
when it is the vast waters that gave him the colour
no matter where you look a tide
will answer the moon call
a breeze will caress the seagull wing
a blade of sand will sting a thirsty eye

Where else but at the shore we will meet
the horizon line uniting sky and ocean vastness
a kiss in the infinite mirrors
a taste of no boundaries
a fear that the next tide
will slap and crumble all your certainties

When if not in the middle of storm
God becomes a dry shirt
a farewell tear
a letter never to be mailed
a list of sons abandoned at the shore

Again calm waters, little joyful waves
enormous blue wearing a sky
breeze to comb my curly hair
Ocean, the moon lover, you,
hung my star in your tide!

*

I don’t seem to remember
how many times we’ve been to the medieval city
I don’t seem to remember
how many guitars we listen soaked in alcohol stench
how many victims we’ve made with our burst in laughter
walking on the summery, medieval streets
climbing the stairs to nowhere, to the uphill tombs
sleeping on grass under a sky
showing no interest to our debauchery
beer, more beer, more laughter
long nights with strangers met a year ago
suddenly friends for a lifetime under a street lamp
we talk till the dawn itself had fallen asleep
till I don’t seem to remember
how many times the clock from the tower stroke
the midnight over my chevaliers’ story…
Do not dare…

*

I will have more rights than you
the air must land on my lungs first
the land must caress my feet with its dust….
my dust, to be fully understood… first
you….you with your height equally to the worm’s
you’ll stick your destiny to my boots’ sole
and let me tell you
I will totally enjoy crushing entire nations into my jaws
Do not dare ask me why
Do not dare cry
Do not dare shade this land
Eat your tear cause you lost
You’ve just become my compost
Always
stay put when I cross the street,
The river that once flooded your grains
it is now tamed to ruin your roots 
your land no longer exist
therefore
Do not dare ask me why
Do not dare cry
Do not dare shade this land
Eat your tear cause you lost
You’ve just become my compost.

*
©Iulia Gherghei
Photo by Stratos Fountoulis, 2013


Iulia Gherghei, an amateur poet from Romania, graduated from University of Bucharest, Technology of information. She published her poems mostly on facebook and in the anthologies edited by Brian Wrixon, Barry Mowles, Mutiu Olawuyi! In 2012 she published her first book » Prisoners of Cinema Paradiso» at blurb.com, edited by Brian Wrixon.