Category: Poetry

Categories
Poetry

 For William Wordsworth

By Stuart McFarlane

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) by Benjamin Haydon  (1786–1846)
From Public Domain 
ETERNAL SPIRIT OF THE LAKES 

O, Wordsworth, Eternal Spirit of the lakes,
a mysterious feeling in me awakes.
I wonder what it truly means just to be;
your presence insinuates itself in me.
In the motion of water, trees and flowers
I can, somehow, sense your elusive powers.
They swoop and swirl; they engulf my troubled mind;
like a racing rivulet, it seems, they wind
down into my body, course all through my blood;
ultimately there surges a rising flood,
flowing ever faster; faster still, until
I feel I am subsumed by your constant will.
A lone star glows in a sky as black as coal;
deep night cannot contain your immortal soul;
nor the light of a thousand suns ever dim
the fire of your spirit that burns from within.
Your aura consigns paler thought into shade;
still shining bright; shall your glory ever fade?
      
THE MARMALADE ( With apologies to W W)

I wandered lonely as a cloud
that floats on high o'er hill and glade
when, all at once, I saw a crowd
eating toast and golden marmalade.
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
conjoined in convivial ease.

Earth has not anything to show more fair.
(it seems I've heard that line before somewhere!).
O, to witness such a glorious feast!
I can savour the memory, at least.
Yet must I suppress my fabled ability
to recollect emotions in tranquility.

For oft, when, on my couch, I lie
in a restless or in peckish mood,
when my stomach growls I must try
not to think of all that lovely food.
From one small thought another's made,
and spreads; just like the marmalade.

Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.                                                                                                                    

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Categories
Poetry

A Silly Moon Poem by George Freek

From Public Domain
A SILLY MOON POEM

Fall is as cold as the moon.
In nature’s way, clouds
say snow is coming.
Monks, seeking comfort,
mutter incantations
in their self-absorbed occupations,
but in their trance,
they ignore the signs
in the sky. I watch the moon
as it begins to die.
I wonder where
does heaven lie?
Monks pray for signs.
Drunk, I sing to the moon.
Like an unhappy monk,
I get the same reply.

George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

From Public Domain 
OCEAN DREAM  

I am an early riser.
This morning I could not
get up. I was in an ocean
dream. The fish talked to me.
I was delighted to hear them
speak. I thought the ocean
dream was real. The alarm
clock must have been in
the ocean dream as well.

KNOWING NOTHING

Here I contemplate
knowing nothing.
There is my plan laid
out. It is a dismal

plan. Out in the town
I paint on walls, wooden
and brick ones, and
metal doors. Humming
a song, I paint question
marks and rain drops.
It’s nothing artistic
like a flower in a vase,
a yellow rose shining.


FATIGUED

Fatigued,
I dream so deep,
I become ashes in an urn.

I am below the earth, above the clouds.

In a dream,
a woman sleeps
with me and next to me.
A river flows outside our window.

Birds sing
baleful songs.

I feel my broken teeth 
with my tongue --
there is no fixing them
or anything else.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California, works in Los Angeles, and was born in Mexico. His poetry and illustrations have appeared in Black Petals, Borderless Journal, Blue Collar Review, KendraSteiner Editions, and Unlikely Stores. His latest poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press.

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Categories
Poetry

Survivors will be Prosecuted by Rhys Hughes

Photo Courtesy: Rhys Hughes
Danger!
Survivors will be prosecuted.
Don’t try to refute
the assertion.
It’s certain they will be. And
sent to jail
if they fail to be run down by
a train: it seems
insane to you, no doubt, but I
will shout
the message from the rooftops
if necessary:
Survivors will be prosecuted!

What is a survivor after all? A
tennis ball
that has been returned over the
net of life
in the court of strife. We are all
playing the
same game for negligible gain,
served badly,
sadly bouncing,
enduring our trajectory quietly,
almost alone,
while others unseen, unknown,
make a racquet.

But that has nothing to do with
trains, does it?
When players are in training in
hope of gaining
victory, they don’t train on rails.
The wheels they
spin are psychological only and
on a whim they
glide to their desired destination
without any fuss,
frictionless fictions: if you don’t
like my depiction
of their methods, please evict me.

Cast me out
of this poem: eject me from the
locomotive
with a shovel or a shove. I know
how to handle
the uneasy teasings of exile. This
won’t be the
first time I have been shunned by
my own words,
shunted aside, ruthlessly booted.
Nonetheless I
remain determined enough to cry
beyond the sky:

Survivors will be prosecuted! Yes,
it’s inevitable.
If you don’t want to face the judge
then cease to
exist. I insist that’s the only way of
avoiding jail:
only by failing to breathe and move
can you prove
your immunity from blame. It’s the
most serious
game anyone ever lost or won. Even
the sun sinks
at the end of days, a blushing hush.

And it looks like the head of a flaring
stick blooming
into a quick universe of its very own,
the tip of one
of those wooden lengths used to light
the pipes of
gentlemen in days gone by. Game, set
and match!
The sun has set, the game has met its
match, plots
hatch, but who’s to say it’s the same
sun that rises
every day? Arguably it’s a fresh one.

In the same way that a ghost is a new
human, risen on
the horizon of the cycle of life. And by
the way, what a
fabulous cycle that is! So many gears
to help the tears
pour down the cheeks of years, months
and weeks. The
saddle is uncomfortable, true enough,
and the ride is
rough along an unpaved path, but just
consider the lilies
in the fields as you trundle past them.

Enough of these comparisons please!
I have drifted
away from the main issue, which is that
survivors will
be prosecuted, without mercy, tersely
sentenced to a
dull paragraph of turgid prose. Even if
they scraped
off their noses with a near miss, they’ll
be jailed. No
transgressors shall be forgiven anything
and why should
they? The rules are clear, nearly clichés.

Destiny can’t steer
away if you don’t give it a chance. A
glancing blow will
let you know the truth of the situation.
The signals at
this station are uncompromising: best
not to devise
an escape from fate. Danger! You’ll be
prosecuted while
rooted to the spot. How many warned
you? A lot. No
point dissembling at this juncture: train
wheels never puncture.

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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Categories
Poetry

Imagine by Miriam Bassuk

Miriam Bassuk 
IMAGINE
With a nod to John Lennon

Imagine a land 
of milk and honey,
a destination, where manna
rains down to nourish us all.

In that space, greed and hunger
have no room. Trust
reigns. Even fear disappears.

We no longer startle
at loud sounds
or imagine shotguns
mowing down 
innocent bystanders.

There’s no standing army.
Penguins walk freely 
in the Falklands,
where once men 
were afraid to tread
because of land mines. 

We lock eyes, find glimmers
of smiles, trust our leaders.
We break bread with strangers
because there aren’t any.

Miriam Bassuk is inspired by her daily walks — the teeming life of eagles, herons, and the occasional sighting of Orcas that thrive in the Puget Sound. She has been published in The Journal of Sacred Feminine Wisdom, Raven Chronicles, PoetsWest Literary Journal, and 3 Elements Review. She was one of the featured poets in the digital portion of the WA 129 project sponsored by the Washington State poet laureate.

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Categories
Poetry

For Dylan Thomas by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

John, Augustus Edwin; Dylan Thomas (1914-1953); Amgueddfa Cymru – National Museum Wales; From Public Domain 
I Can See Pink And White Mice (for Dylan Thomas)

The milkman’s habit of leaving his bottles behind was worrisome, reminded some of Starkweather; the weather’s stark, the distrait wind.  All manner of throttled spectres splintering off to catch the light.  And the visions of the magi had all become household names: bruised apple, poster wall, salt shaker…I can see pink and white mice sure as creeping mountains, blubberous fantasia of silty sea bed’s quilt,  careening gulls in apocryphal death-mount:  show me the tension that builds in each sinew, dance the structure of things away from gleeful horns, so that the words come upon you like a stranger in dark alleys: it is how things go together, sliding, reeling, unconstrained as a busy wood shop.  Warring crabs in twisted pincer, the general’s best men sent to the front to dig through the dirt of slugs.  Turning the soil into a belly of nervousness, of rolling thunder.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. 

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Poetry Uncategorized

Lake Poems by George Freek

Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh( 1853-1890)

ENNUI AT WONDER LAKE 

Clouds like pillows
smother the moonlight,
in a false embrace.
Waves beat the shore,
like clenched fists
beating on a door
that refuses to open.
My thoughts are banal,
but I don’t feel capable
of anything more.
The stars are like fireworks,
as the cosmos
passes over my head
like an amazing circus.
But I’ve seen it all before.

AT DUSK NEAR THE LAKE 

The years are piling up
like snow on a roof,
but my hair gets thinner.
The moon seems trapped
like an insect
in the branches of a tree.
A dove beckons
to his mate.
But I don’t think
She wanted to wait. Birds
like human can be fickle. 
The dove abandons his tree,
and life moves on,
but he leaves his
message for me.
The woods are deep
and I’m still free.
What will be, will be.

George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Jennifer McCormack

Jennifer Mc Cormack
not all tides

it wasn’t for the want of trying
the left hand gave
the right took away
both clenched through the night
graceless aching joints reported
to another morning

the sky said welcome, anyway
through floundering years
a sea so capable of lashing out
carried lungs, ribs and
a heart that beats out of habit
just as it can so needlessly cradle 
the weathered wood of abandoned boats 
going nowhere

the water said
not all tides come twice a day
bide, breathe, bide
your nature is also to bind

Jennifer McCormack is a poet and artist based in Malmo, Sweden. She was born and educated in Glasgow, Scotland. Her work can be found in Ordkonst magazine, Amsterdam Review and New Writing Scotland, among others.

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Poetry

The Greatest Wealth

By Shamik Banerjee

THE GREATEST WEALTH*

Tonight, I'll bag up everything,
From spatula and stethoscope
To water pump and diamond ring!
The doc is filthy rich, I hope.

I'm in. Three shots of rum will ease
My mission. Damn! The house is great.
All packed! Dear doc, I wish you peace
(And sorry for your sorry fate).

How sweet the AC's icy air.
"Sleep is the greatest wealth," mom said.
So let me shun this earthly care
And take a blissful nap instead.

AC – Airconditioner
From Public Domain

*Written in response to an article from The Times Of India, Thief Breaks Into House In Lucknow, Dozes Off With AC On

Shamik Banerjee resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit and Modern Reformation — to name a few.

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Categories
Poetry

How (Not) to Peel an Orange

By Supriya Javalgekar

First, sit comfortably on a white sofa --
no, a darker colour simply won’t do.
It must be at the home of a friend,
who is hopelessly in love with said sofa.
 
Second, choose an orange, very carefully --
not green and tender, or dry and shrivelled
but just the right shade of middling,
you want to know in advance it is going to be squirty.
 
Next, hold it in your palms, close to your heart,
shun the use of crockery or cutlery.
Real ladies peel oranges in their laps!
Make sure you wear your daintiest top
and bandhani pants that can only be dry-cleaned.

Then, look the orange in the eye.
Trust that it will never hurt you.
forget the laws of gravity, or that action 
inevitably, has an equal and opposite reaction.
 
Now pry it open with both hands, 
mustering every force.
Watch the rinds split, seeds 
tear off at their core.
Watch citrus tears soar 
into in the air, slo-mo
landing on --
the white sofa,
the dainty top,
the dry-clean pants
and yes, your friend's face.
 
Still, eat the orange anyway.
It is very likely very tasty.
The damage is already done,
and you still need your Vitamin C.
 
Later, forgive the orange for the mischief.
It should have been more careful, yes.
Apologise on its behalf, of course!
Turn orange-faced in embarrassment,
blame your child-like zest for life,
blame your brain for running out of juice.
Offer a piece as a peace offering
and hope that things don’t turn sour.

Supriya Javalgekar is an author, researcher and creative facilitator from Mumbai.  Supriya draws upon story, theatre and art to cultivate nourishing spaces for self-exploration and dialogue. She currently lives in Amsterdam and is playing hard at improvised theatre. Discover more at www.supriyarakesh.com. 

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