:::
ISSN 2059-4992
NEW ::: POETRY is a non-prot international magazines network and community with next attributes: shindyindie scheme (indie production with easy-going help from others, mostly geniuses) | Focus on classical &
neoterric poetry, translations, premiers, new genres and experiments | No politics, religion, sexual content | No
actual budget | No sponsors | No advertisment | No academic establishment & the old boy network | Ready to
print-on-demand (POD-friendly) | Quarterly (slowsome one), Weekly+ and special editions include sci-art and
children's magazines | ":::" is a combination of two colons ":" with three ellipses "..."; it's like a portal to the
future and a road to it. P.S. The cover art "Goddess of time" is made by Rina Ivanova from concept by SLD.
TABLE OF CONTESTS
TOP-SPOT | CONVOYCE | ARIA'S ARA: ARIA LIGI | P: 4-19
EPICANTHROPE: STANISLAV LAUK-DUBITSKY (SLD) | P: 22-34
SAYVORY: I. WRIGHT | P: 35-36
NEWP!* | P: 38-45 | ALPHAFALL* | P: 47-50
PHOETRY BOOKMARKS* | P: 20, 37, 46, 51, 71, 76
UNDER COMMAS | POEMS BY EDITORS:
KEVIN KIELY | P: 53-57
RINA IVANOVA | P: 58-60
ROMAIN TROJANI | P: 61-63
ALESSANDRA BONOMELLI | P: 64-66
MARGARITA PUSHKINA | P: 67-68
SUZANNE AKKERHUIS | P: 69
MARIA SANTOS VILLARREAL | P: 70
EDITORIAL STAFF
Stan Lauk-Dubitsky [SLD] Founder / Publisher / Chief Senior
Editor / Author
ADVERSETISMENT | WETDRYVAC | P: 92
CHILDREN OF CHILE | TEASER FROM SPANISH EDITION:
DIEGO ALEGRIA | P: 94
ANDRES MORALES | P: 95-96
CAMILA FADDA | P: 97
VICTOR LOBOS | P: 98-99
Dear Reader,
What you hold in your hand is the work of many, across continents, wires
and seas. It is our impassioned aim that through poetry, prose and the
sharing of ideas that we may make a mark upon humanity suusing it
with light and an indefatigable desire to better humankind.
Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau stated: We need poets to
change the world. Though some may naysay this, and claim that poetry
is just distilled language only useful for greeting cards and wooing, it
must be remembered that throughout history, and prior to this
technological age, poetry was not only lauded for its ability to allure and
soothe, but as a rallying cry; its thunderous tocsin, the clapper echoing
violently through marketplaces announcing and proclaiming for the
masses of the day the political injustices which impacted them. This is
poetry at its nest hour, it is what it was crafted for. One need only to
look to Iran where Fatemah Ekhteari and Medhi Mousavi, two Iranian
poets, were imprisoned for poems they wrote challenging the status
quo. If poetry were merely meaningless drivel, the powers that be would
not be threatened thus.
Similarly, a US spoken word performance on the Queen Latifah show by
BE, RM, and ZA, three teenagers who are members of the Get Legit
organization entitled Somewhere in America, on the Queen Latifah
Show, declaimed regarding censorship in education, and the pressures
on young women within society both peer and the undercurrent of
sexual objectication which permeates all cultures.
This is the imperative of NEW ::: POETRY, to bring voices together from
around the world, through poetry, and in a loud voice, around the issues
that aect us all. Therefore we can declare to all the detractors that
poetry is not a happenstance, it is not a frivolity: it is the fuel that lights
the engines of change.
Foreword by editorial sta.
RIMG SPEC.
Rhyme: ::/:::
Rhythm: horizontal, mixed
semi-universal style
RIMG SPEC.
Rhyme: ::/::: Rhythm: chaotic,
semi-universal style
RIMG SPEC.
Rhyme: ::/:::
Rhythm: mixed
(chaotic + horizontal,
separate styles)
RIMG SPEC.
Rhyme: ::/:::
Rhythm: horizontal,
separate styles
10
11
citsitra yllaicepse dna hceeps fo modeerf dnefed dluow I fo modeerf dnefed dluow I
sraey hcihw scipot ynam os era erehT .hceeps fo modeerf y l l a i c e p s e d n a h c e e p s
si sihT .yadot regnol on era taht oobat neeb evah dluow oga .hceeps fo modeerf citsitra
eb ylerem ton lliw taht yaw a hcus ni etirw ot yrt I .ssergorp scipot ynam os era erehT
yeht fI .kniht dna pots ot redaer eht esuac lliw tub ,lauxes evah dluow oga sraey hcihw
I neht ,rednop dna esuap ot evah dna enim fo meop a daer on era taht oobat neeb
,yas dna ti daer ot elpoep tnaw tnod I .drohc a tih evah I wonk s i s i h T . y a d o t r e g n o l
ton si eciN .ecin saw tahT ,esrow rO .ytterp saw taht ho ni etirw ot yrt I .ssergorp
dna kniht ot redaer eht egnellahc ot tnaw I .etirw I tahw ton lliw taht yaw a hcus
neve evah ton thgim yeht taht yaw a ni sgniht ees ebyam lliw tub ,lauxes eb ylerem
,taht yb dedneo era eb taht srewop eht fI .erofeb deredisnoc pots ot redaer eht esuac
yeht rehtehw ,level emos no snaem niaga tahT .ti eb os ,neht a daer yeht fI .kniht dna
evah I snaem taht ,em oT .meht dehcaer ti ,ton ro ti timda ot evah dna enim fo meop
a eticni sey ot si tsr tub ,snoitnetni ynam evah I .boj ym enod I neht ,rednop dna esuap
hcihw eno tub evitagen ro evitisop ylirassecen toN .noitcaer I .drohc a tih evah I wonk
ot ytiliba eht dda dluow I siht ot nI .thguoht peed sticile ti daer ot elpoep tnaw tnod
dna evitcepsrep evitanretla na morf sgniht ees dna noitseuq .ytterp saw taht ho ,yas dna
secnereid htaenrednu woh ees ebyam ot ,dne eht ni neht .ecin saw tahT ,esrow rO
I .etirw I tahw ton si eciN
eht egnellahc ot tnaw
ebyam dna kniht ot redaer
yeht taht yaw a ni sgniht ees
neve evah ton thgim
eht fI .erofeb deredisnoc
dedneo era eb taht srewop
tahT .ti eb os ,neht ,taht yb
,level emos no snaem niaga
What inspired you to become a poet? Are you proud of your choice?
I would have to say my early love of music and singing. As a small child, I used to get up
early in the morning and sing to my parakeet. I would make up songs, and just sing. When we are children we have the freedom to
play, making up stories, and weaving a thread that is all our own. Children create stories and poetry naturally. Unfortunately as we
age, creativity dissipates. However, if as an adult you can retain that child within, that sense of play with words or images that you
had; that is where true art comes from, whether it is poetry, painting, sculpting or any art form.
Did you learn poetry by yourself or did you study it during your college years?
I learned through trial and error, and reading. When I was younger, I read a lot of poetry, and experimented with dierent styles.
That is how you nd your voice. In high school I read poets such as: Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, Yeats, Tennyson, Burns and
Byron. Later, when I was in college, I did take a short story class, and a poetry class, but my major was not poetry. College is a great
time for not only focusing on your core classes, but trying new things, new avenues of creativity and nding out just what your
passion is.
What is the most important thing you have learned about poetry?
And what do you feel when you write or read poems?
There are quite a few things, so to pare it back I would need to make a list. If in terms of what I have learned concerning writing
poetry, I would have to say that there is always more to learn. Writing is a process and as such it is constantly evolving. If as a
writer you become so inured that you never alter anything, then you dont evolve. You become stagnant. On the other hand, if you
can step back from it, and are able to take stock, hone it, and ne tool it, then you may have something worthwhile at the end. Of
course, this is dependent on you as a writer, being willing to be self-critical, which is never an easy thing. One may ask, how does
one deal with a barrage of rejection slips, emails etc You contend with it, by becoming a little numb to it and then realizing that it
is in fact, not you, but them. If you can nd the support of an editor or publisher, then that will make all the dierence; discovering
that person though is paramount to any meaningful success. Now, if you are talking about poetry as a whole, and what is the most
important thing in that regard, then I would have to say that poetry can be more than just pretty verse upon a page and it should
be. Poetry has the potential to be a great tool to reach the masses. During the 15th Century and up until the 20th, it was just that.
It was highly regarded and esteemed. To be a poet was a greatly revered vocation and one which was not entered into blithely.
What has lowered it is in fact a degradation of education, respect for education, and with that the insidious commercialism that
has seeped into our culture and which has marked poetry with the stamp of being a mere triviality. This lowering of the muse, and
summarily education and language on the whole, has depressed real verse and given rise to a poetry which is anything but grand
or consequential. The question then becomes, how do we take it back? How do we infuse it with life, meaning and the veneration
which once hung around the poets pate like a coronal wreathe? We do so by lauding great works of the past, schooling ourselves
on the likes of Shakespeare, Petrarch, Homer, Arisoto, Dante, Milton, Byron and then, using them as examples to craft our own. We
can pen exemplary poetry which has merit and is diused with the issues of our times, if we do just that. By taking up our pens in
this great cause we can return verse to its rightful place as something which is respected and honored, while at the same time
rallying for the rights and causes that impact humanity. This is the great cry of poetry.
Answering the second question, it depends on what I am reading or writing. Is the poem sad? Is it insightful? Its not so
much about what you feel; its about how you take it in. Once you have read something, what do you do with that knowledge? Do
you say, that was interesting and move on? Or do you take it in and think about it? Do you use the information to gain further
knowledge? Does it in some way eect and thus alter a previously held notion? In this way, are you a passive reader or an active
one? The active reader lets the text involve them. There have been few modern poems that have deeply aected me. I nd that
very sad, but the truth is that most of what I read these days does not cause me to pause and reect. There are a few poems that
have impacted me and which I can relate to. Sylvia Plaths poem Daddy was the rst poem I read which I connected with a very
core level. That is because if you are a survivor of child abuse, it hits you very strongly. It really packs a punch, and even beyond
that, her description of her father as this authoritarian gure, is one which many young women (and men) can identify with. While
it can be seen as a confessional poem, it has the ability to reach across time and into the inner psyche of our lives. That is a
powerful poem. There are others too though, Mandelstams poem, gorgeous poem which starts: I want to serve you on an equal
footing with others; with dry lips. The word does not slake my parched mouth and without you again, the dense air is empty. And
Nerudas exquisite Body of Woman which in its fulsomeness reveres with such tenderness that it is more than a love poem, but
an ode to all women.
13
If you had to choose between: form, content and technique in a poem which is quintessential?
Thats a tough one. I think form is KEY. You need form, because its your foundation. You need content, because otherwise what are
you saying? And to whom are you saying it? Technique rather goes with form, because you need technique so that you can create
form. I think though form is rst, because without it, you have nothing. It would be like building a house with no bolsters. The
house would fall down. So, you can have the best content, and great technique, but with no form you have a mess. Form gives a
poem richness and structure so it can stand on its own. I have read poems that zip along the page with no form at all, and reading
them is like trying to decipher the fuzzy white screen on a television when the station has turned o. You get nothing. You are lost.
This is why form is not only nice to look at, it is essential.
Since the use of words and vocabulary often seems to be unapproachable and might scare newcomers away. What
does your daily schedule look like when you're planning to write and which emotion inspires your writing the most?
Its pretty simple. I made a goal for myself to write every single day. Even if I have a busy day, I still write. My daily schedule though is
a little backward sounding but I write in the evening and then type it in, every morning. When I put it in, I edit as I go. The nice thing
about writing at night is if I am unhappy with it, I sleep on it, so that when I come back to it in the morning I am fresher. And I dont
think there is any one emotion. Its important not to get stuck in particular style such as being a poet who only writes love poems, or
only writes nature poems. Thats like playing the same record, or eating the same food day after day. UGH. I want to give the reader
variety. Therefore, I have poems which are humorous, sad, nature oriented, political, ethereal, satirical, etc. If you stick to a certain
genre then what happens is you get typecast as a poet who only writes one thing. There should be much more than that. Now some
poets get known for their love poems, but if you read more of them, then generally you nd they write about a wide array of
subjects. That is when you know you are a well-rounded writer. The other part of that is that if you do this, then your ability to reach
more people increases because there is more of a chance that somewhere along the line, something you say will move them and
thats what its all about.
Oh, gosh everything!!! The softness of color, especially in the shading which the high masters called chiaroscuro, their willingness to
play with ideas and to nd within what they created, what essentially was already there. Michaelangelo said that when he found the
piece of Travertine marble that eventually became the statue of David, that it was already there, he just revealed it. WOW. The
Renaissance was a time of great expansion, creativity and openness. Even in Italy, there were places where in fact men who were
gay, did not have to hide who they were. They could just be. Can you imagine that? Poetry was lauded and revered, and then you
had such divine artists as Raphael, Bellini, Giorgione, Titian, Da Vinci, to name a few. I think though what captures me most though
was the underlying reverence and need to be creative, to take chances, while at the same time the public, respected and revered
great art. What time to live!
14
Do you think our society has an overrated knowledge and love for poetry? Maybe poetry is slowly losing its value?
No. In fact I think poetry is underrated, at least real poetry. If you go to any bookstore, the poetry section, if it is there, is really,
really small, and then what passes for poetry today is usually not. It is either Hallmark or so overly owery that it means nothing.
About losing value - I hope not. One needs to look at our world and realize that with all the chaos going on around us, poetry, and
what it can accomplish, is needed now more than ever. I can read Shelleys The Mask of Anarchy which was written about the
Peterloo Massacre of 1819 and still relate to it, because what it is talking about is more salient than ever. We need more of that
kind of writing; if it can be used as a medium to heighten understanding, it is of inestimable value.
Do you think that poetry should be introduced in primary school to make little kids understand the power and the
beauty of it? And do you think writing poetry is for everyone?
YES! And they need to introduce classical verse, and at the same time make it fun. Let kids play with it, and nd their own voice.
But No. That would be silly. I think anyone can appreciate poetry, but not everyone can write it. It is a craft, and as such needs to
be valued and respected much as one would a symphony or a portrait exhibited in the Louvre. Great poetry is like that, for it is
eternal crossing time and generational divides.
The world is slowly turning more grey, no opinion seems to be absolute, everything can be relative depending on how
you see the matter, experience and describe it. In this world, where does your morality lie as an artist who has to bring
her perception of good and evil, right and wrong to the world?
I think morality comes from your inner core. How were you raised? What are your belief systems? Where are your boundaries?
Most people know for instance that stealing, is wrong, yet, do they have that inner sense of self, that compass that will stop them
from making a mistake? Crossing the line? Even if you were raised by hooligans, or lived on the streets, it doesnt matter, if you
have strength within, you know. Its in how you live your life. This does not mean being gullible, it means having a sense of balance.
I would not for instance read someones work, and give them bad advice just to thwart their eorts as a writer, because I feel
threatened or if someone sent me a poem, change a few words and call it mine. That is plagiarism and its not only illegal its
morally unethical. The question is, in this world in which society has this free for all on the net with artwork can you pull yourself
back, retain your integrity and still make an impact? Artists who are honest, morally and ethically are, after all is said and done,
viewed with higher esteem.
As we know your writings can sometimes be seen as provoking, whether it's sexual or thought. If there is a chance that
censorship will be the norm, when a conservative party starts ruling the country, how hard are you willing to protect
your freedom of speech? And what is your intention with your poetry? To provoke what exactly?
I would defend freedom of speech and especially artistic freedom of speech. There are so many topics which years ago would
have been taboo that are no longer today. This is progress. I try to write in such a way that will not merely be sexual, but will cause
the reader to stop and think. If they read a poem of mine and have to pause and ponder, then I know I have hit a chord. I dont
want people to read it and say, oh that was pretty. Or worse, That was nice. Nice is not what I write. I want to challenge the
reader to think and maybe see things in a way that they might not have even considered before. If the powers that be are
oended by that, then, so be it. That again means on some level, whether they admit it or not, it reached them. To me, that means
I have done my job. I have many intentions, but rst is to yes incite a reaction. Not necessarily positive or negative but one which
elicits deep thought. In to this I would add the ability to question and see things from an alternative perspective and then in the
end, to maybe see how underneath dierences there are commonalities that link us all.
15
Blake and Shelley were ghters of freedom, equality and justice. Does their attitude reect your position in society?
YES! Those are two great examples and I would add to them, Leigh Hunt, (the owner, Editor and Publisher of The Examiner)
because he really put his money where his mouth was in terms of not only criticizing the government, but actually having the
chutzpa to publish satirical essays, poems and columns on the King of England, George IV and then being tried for sedition and
libel three times, and nally being sentenced on the fourth time to two years in Kings Bench prison. He was courageous. Hunt
spoke out not only on the Kings immorality, he was a gambler, womanizer and corpulent as whale due to constantly over
indulging on food, but Hunt spoke out on the immoral and abusive treatment of the soldiers in the military. There was this one
soldier who refused to be ogged. He was then ogged 200 times. He only made it to 100 lashes before he died. Hunt in speaking
out on these abuses was so loved that he would get fan letters in prison from the mothers of soldiers saying that he had saved
their sons lives. WOW. Blake, spoke out on child prostitution and child labor before anyone took the cause on, and Shelley, would
go out into the streets and give soup and blankets to the poor. He lived according to his ideals, which meant he emphasized : love,
compassion, and equity. He was adamantly opposed to slavery, so much so that he refused to have sugar in his home because he
knew it was picked by black slaves and he took in a homeless girl, adopted her and raised her with Mary. I think the sad part is that
both Shelley and Blake would be deeply disturbed at how little society has changed in terms of reaching these goals (and having
their actions reect these ideals).
How do you see poetry during the modern age where everything needs to have a pragmatic purpose rather than
a personal one, like pleasure, enrichment of the soul/intellect?
I see it as evolving. In the beginning poetry was more about music and creating a mythos between and for cultures which passed
on through time. (i.e. the tribal songs, ceremonies and prayers to gods) then it morphed into long and grand epics, esp if you read
the Greek or Italian works by writers as Petrarch, Dante or Ariosto. Poetry was hip and cool for a long, long time. It was how young
men wooed women, or men wooed men; it was a means of creating art, love and even political descent. Then during the
16th-19th century you had the greats, Shakespeare, Milton, Burns, Cowper, Chatterton, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley,
Browning, both Robert and Elizabeth, Dickinson, and with that the shepherd, Leigh Hunt who was himself a publisher and poet
and who found new talent, such as Keats and Shelley, and really helped to bolster their star. Most people when you mention
Byron, Keats or Shelley think of love poetry, but in fact, they were political crusaders in a time of violence and oppression. You
have to remember that this was the time of the French Revolution and so many Englishmen and women hoped for reform as a
result for England. Its imperative to understand this, because out of the blood and ashes came great, profound verse the likes of
which has yet to be seen again. Then we come to the sixties, and what we got was Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Auden, etc, who with this
freedom call of anti-war, and free love decided to dismantle poetry from its foundations, strip it from the roots, and recreate it
without any girders at all. That is free verse. While free verse has its place, it is not in the same league as classical. It is much, much
more akin to prose. So much of what is written out there sounds more like a Hallmark card, than a poem, or is so intensely
personal that unless you have a map for it, you have no idea what is being said. I dont think you should need instructions (like the
ones used to construct furniture from IKEA) to understand a poem. While footnotes (and I do use them) can be helpful, they
should only be aides; the poem itself should be able to stand on its own, so that any person reading it will retain some sense of
value.
Could you try describing yourself with most minimal amount of words to capture your essence? Because when I think
of Aria, I think of forest, poetry, romanticism, white, old books, freedom. Am I correct?
Yes, but it also means silvery, Aria was a nymph in Greek Mythology who had a child with Apollo and it was also the name of the
Capitol of Afghanistan for a long time. I have had a lot of Persian friends think I am Afghani which of course would be silly, because
I am this petit woman with blond hair. HA! I like your thought though. And I see my essence as very, very, very old (soul-wise) and
yet always evolving and changing. In terms of a metaphor rather like liquid silver, or mercury just reforming and adapting as time
goes on. I dont feel a day is complete unless I learn something new. Thats part of it. The other part is that no matter how much I
share with others, or learn from others, I think there is always more to me, and more to you, that I can learn and know. I nd that
endlessly wonderful and fascinating.
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PETAL TALE |
| POETS' SECT
What is your opinion of confessional poetry in that all modern poets seem to be confessional?
I am not a huge fan of this genre at all. For one, because it feels to me like so much vomit on the page. Secondly, if you only write
confessional poetry then that does not take a lot of imagination and of course once you have confessed all your crap in poetry, then
what do you have to write about? Thirdly, a lot of this is so specic to the writers experience, that unless you know that person
personally, you may not understand what they are saying. Good poetry should not need a guide post, or map to understand it. Even
if you use footnotes, which I do, they should only be to tell the reader the meaning of a word, or maybe shine light on context which
may be unfamiliar, but the feeling that emanates from the piece should be there without the writer needing to extrapolate.
You must have inuences even in Harold Blooms's phrase 'anxiety of inuence' but do you feel that poetry is never
written in a vacuum and denitely inuenced by other work or is there any poet who can claim total lack of inuence?
We all learn from each other, if we are honest. At the same time, imagination is the foundation of poetry. It cannot be written in a
vacuum because that would assume that one is so intractable that they are never inuenced by any outside sources. Since we are
all part of this world, then, it is only logical that just by being in it, we aect one another. It is useful to have someone to bounce
ideas o of, if they are knowledgeable about what you are trying to do, and supportive, it can be of great benet. It really depends
on who you are conversing with. If they are not empathetic, then it can do more harm than good. On the other hand, if they never
give you any advice but only gush over your work then it will be a waste of time. So, it really depends on what you want out of the
relationship and what the dynamic within it is. (Some friendships have been strained by using friends as sounding boards
therefore, it might be better to ask the advice of someone you are not especially close to). For myself, I dont really turn to anyone
as a muse or guide. I read and I listen to my inner voice. I dont believe in looking to others for your creative source, because that
makes you dependent. I would never want to be that way. Otherwise, if said person left, or died then where would you be?
During the time you have been an editor, what have you learned about the mistakes poets are making today?
17
Thats an interesting albeit dicult question to answer, as in I do not in my spare time contemplate how many errors there are and
if there is a common thread. That being said, the most frequent mistakes are an overabundance of adjectives. This is a clue that the
writer is either trying excessively hard to impress by adding in as many descriptors as possible, or that they simply have no idea
what they are doing. They are in eect throwing words on the page. What do you have after that? Nothing; after that the other one
is a writer who has not found their voice yet, so they either switch pronouns in the middle of the work or their piece has no single
theme. This leaves the reader lost. Where are you going? And what are you trying to say? Another one, is the overuse of the lower
case 'i which unless you are E.E. Cummings, looks pretentious or like you are stuck in elementary school. My advice is be a grown
up. This is the same as adults who write their is with the dot as a bubble, smiley face or worse a heart. Its cute when you are in
fth grade, but after that, it just looks absurd. I dont want to sound dogmatic here, but use correct grammar, and format. Write
with purpose, otherwise, why do it at all?
If there is anything you could tell an insecure aspiring writer, what would it be? What would you say to encourage new
talents?Any tips to get inspiration owing?
First of all read, read anything you can, If you do nothing else. It does not have to be poetry, but read. The best teachers are books.
The other thing is experience life. Get out there and be active. Meet people, all kinds of people and listen to their voices. There are
so many dierent people, and with so many dierent stories of their own. The more you listen to others, the more you increase
your inner reservoir of knowledge. And of course go to museums, libraries, bookstores, concerts and immerse yourself in art.
Expose yourself to art, and take chances. The more you are open to new ideas the more you will discover. If you look at the great
works of the Renaissance, and you read how the masters made the frescos or statues in Rome, then you will learn even more. It is
not just about seeing a painting and saying, Thats nice, but asking yourself what was the artist trying to convey? And what
materials and modes of craftsmanship did they employ to make it? I learn through reading others works, through practice and
through academia. Its not necessary to take classes in poetry to be a poet. One can be technically masterful at creating a sonnet
for instance but if the poem itself is devoid of feeling, then you end up with nothing
You need to have both form and conviction otherwise the end result is vapidity. Next, be patient, because Shakespeare was not a
poet or playwright when he was two. So, be patient and allow yourself to make mistakes and to write crap. You have to keep
moving forward and keep trying. Also, dont beat yourself up if it doesnt sound right. Even crap can be benecial because without
it, you dont learn. I had this poem a while ago that I wrote. I hated it. I knew what I wanted to say, but it came out all wrong. So, I
put it aside and came back to it later. I had to rewrite the entire thing, and gain new perspective by taking time away from it. Allow
yourself to make mistakes and forgive yourself. This is an art, its not about throwing words on the page and calling it art. Then,
remember that to be a writer, you need to feel that pull within yourself that says I am doing this because I have to, not for money,
or glory, but because the desire beats within like a drum. If you can nd that then everything will follow.
Do you think it is worth it to rewrite poems that you had written a long time ago, or should they remain unchanged? I
think it is extremely helpful to go back, reread what you have written not just with the aim of possibly editing but to
see how you have progressed as a writer, to take stock if you will.
I did this a few years ago, because I had not written anything in a very long time, and wanted to return to poetry. There had been a
lot of personal tumult and so I was unable to write at all. After things had calmed down though, I went back and decided I would
look at all of my old work. I have this suitcase full of all my writing: poetry, journals, etc. I think there are about 200-300 poems in it.
I wanted to see just where I was, and if I could still do this thing called poetry. Had I changed? Out of all of it, I kept about seven
poems and out of those I rewrote maybe two. It is also an interesting thing to do, because its kind of like looking at yourself from a
new vantage point. I was astounded for instance that so much of it was just not me anymore. I couldnt relate to it. I had no idea
who this person was who wrote this stu. That is why, in terms of really assessing yourself as a writer, I think it is an invaluable
tool. The other plus to doing that, is that it challenges you to be honest with yourself. Can you say truthfully, this is junk? And do
you have the strength to say, you know this is not me anymore, and I am throwing it out? Now, I did not throw out any of my work,
I kept it. I did that purposefully, to remind myself of how far I have come. I think that is important. The bottom line though, is
forcing yourself as an artist to be honest, be humble and work relentlessly at whatever you are doing, be it poetry, music etc, so
that in the end it will reect your highest aim.
INTERVIEWERS: KEVIN KIELY (2,3), SARAH RAHIMI (5), ASHLIE ALLEN (1,4,5), ROMAIN
TROJANI (6), RITA FORDE (5)
18
19
It seems as if the world all around us is collapsing into a fen of racism, terrorism and
underneath it all a current of xenophobia driven by fear. This is the poison within our
societal well. Yet, in Mr. Hasties newest tome, Threads, he reaches into our fears, and
nds, beneath it all that beauteous rills of hope. He asks us to be better, to strive for
that, which is exalted, the great goodness within all humanity. This is not done in the
guise of Priestcraft or demagoguery, but instead it is executed with subtlety and poetry.
It is present in such as lines as:
Nothing that sings so
Can ever evaporate,
Be excised,
Burnt out of your soul
ARIA'S ARA
He is speaking not only of the revivication of lost love, but of the echoes of the heart.
And indeed he nishes the poem by bringing us back and reminding us of the resilience
within humanity, to feel, to long and to love. At the denouement of the poem he writes:
We too can repair
Our cracks with gold
And glow again.
Crazed by life,
More beautiful than ever before
The themes of love, rejuvenation, sadness, the ability to mourn and then repair what
has been lost, are plangent within. In Here I am, he confronts dead on the fear that like
a viper sleeps within us all:
For isnt it true that,
Without fear,
We are capable of anything
Threads:
The poetry of Scott Hastie
Publisher: Centuria
ISBN-10: 099270930X
ISBN-13: 978-0992709303
Publication date: 13.2.2016
Yet he does not leave us hanging, but continues in a lovely stanza that not only captures
what he is saying but is poetic and metaphoric without being banal.
The smell of fresh rain,
Like gunpowder on the lawn,
Embellishes the day,
As the summer rips on
And so we press on with reading not because we must, but because like a symphony it
ebbs and swells, and within it the culmination sweeps us up with orgiastic verve. There
are treasures within this that are little slices of life, such as the lovely lines:
If we always knew for sure
What lay ahead
Would we still stir
Each and every morning?
For me, my warm,
Soft sheet, snuggled erections
Are daily optimism personied,
Transitory stiened dreams
Riven with hope
And it is hope which permeates throughout this, yet it is a hope measured with meter
that breathes, and has a strength of purpose. It is not so much the grinding through of
each day that matters, but the moments along the way. Do we share them with loved
ones, or huddle beneath our blankets, cowering in fear? Hastie asks us to take those
moments and walk with him, dance the verse of life and thought and rhyme.
:|:_.::.
20
poetry + photos
EPICANTHROPE
a special section for epic
poetry at all forms
EPIGRAPH
22
23
Bounce...bounce...bounce...
I saw the organ made by backbones of fallen poetry Titans
And the ogre made from glass, tears and ash
as organist with agony dash!
His ngers were playing a great mactation' tune!
But then all bonypipesturned to balloons
lled with airyfeces,
An organist was torn to pieces
To make a jazz bandof twisted rainbows land.
And... Ho-ho-ho!
I saw againthe restaurant' hall
Full of the same sta, soeerie!
Famished and over-weary
I asked the nearest waiter to nd me a pit for paters
and asecond had not elapsed
when I saw my table -perfect round cobweb
and a candle -re spiderwithsmoky chela
from a killer of pokey steps...
That waiter took my suit, hanged on aliving mannequin
With my childhood face and noose within...
I sat almost naked,ashamed and chill
With only oneg-leaf
a fail gift with cipher of life and ill.
Then the waiter gave me the following:
A broken clock-face as a plate,
With the title "Too late!",
the fork - dried leg of peafowl
With inkpot full of foul beams,
the knife - a petried quill of seams
And a lot of serviettesto write and serve
with tears or dew...
AfterwardsI asked for a menu
And voil!
It was being tattooedon my breast
with hidden vein-shaped prices
in talents and rises.
And possibility to pay
by credit card of your soul!
It was so...
32
DESERTS
Eyes-yes | Readers in bundles, for sale,
bobbleheaded, no noble or blessed, just dumb
and best;
AD / A.D. | Ocean of promotion by superoctopus with reposting epos and bubbles-bulbs
of blurb;
Antique-tock | Fantastic fang of the arc sharkbeast with black blood ink full of clock-work
bees;
PUBLISHING ON A LEASH
33
34
SAYVORY
bonus section
36
SAYVORY
bonus section
I. Wright
37
poetry + photos
NEWP! - the most unique section with new ways of art invented by magazine.
FUNDAMENTALS:
Visualization rule and technics for objects from the real world with well-known form. The only
rule is: you should use all letters of word in its visualization with mostly universal style / technics and with
straight links to its denition or related words to make your idea clear and solid. There are some technics:
1) Anchor + Choir: you can use one letter of word as an "anchor", highlighted important part of an object
with possible additional details or dierent style, and other letters as a "choir" - parts of an object linked
with each other by style and logic, for example body parts.
2) Anchor + Action*: one letter or syllable + all other letters based on actions linked with denition of
visualized word, for example: gun + aim, re, bullet. * Instead of action you can use related words linked
with results of the action (stove + food), tool of action (stove + re) or environment (stove + kitchen).
Visualization technics for abstract or complex objects: you can visualize it with freedom of expression.
1) Formula: turning letters to separate objects organized and linked in one meaningful formula. Signs
from math / physics are accepted. Alchemistry stylization is can be used too.
2) Carnival: combination of objects based on related words with masks - hidden meaning or riddles.
3) Jazz: just like in formula but without links between objects.
39
40
Line 1:
Hey,
night
samurai
Smiling face is a storyteller. "Hey" is like an archer who is shooting to make attention. Night is
represented as temple of Japanese night Goddess with moon as a hook, candles and stones.
"Samurai" is laying on the one side with swords and helmet (second "a"). The snake of his dreams
are serving the night.
41
Line 1:
unite
mind
and paradise
"Unite" is a formula u+n=e,
"and" is like a bridge with arcs.
"Mind" is a combination of
images: jaw vise + brains +
book + spade + pipe.
"Paradise" has heavens arcs
and door, angel and devil.
42
Line 3:
It's easy:
mind knife
"Easy" is a scene with samurai "y" who is uplifting three letters "e,a,s" on his
blade, two persons are pointing to him, amazed ("it's") . "Knife" has front
projection, hand ("k") and slit over the old scar ("e"). "Mind" is a mirrored
maze with code and fume-like chains and fetters.
43
Line 1:
highs'
aether sheath
44
Line 1:
that's why'
die with
care
45
Line 1:
don't
cut
beneath
46
poetry + photos
48
Made by SLD
49
Made by SLD
50
Made by SLD
51
poetry + photos
''Face of abyss"
The cast: Light, Shade, Plastic cap
Director: SLD. Operator: Nicon D90
UNDER COMMAS - special introductions of our editors with selected art stu.
53
:|:_.::.
3
They made ideal Media llers betwixt the Troubles
and full page adsa bunch of self-exiled,
non-artistic have-nots and talentless-never-hads
Rising on the sectarian tide,
implying they were speaking for
their people as they pumped up
their Plastic Paddy Parnassian
folkloric steeple
Parading dialect as a Hallmark: yet,
overtly reeking of political journalese fooling many with their coughs
and preambles and non-literature-tease
Nothing more than a crinkle suited hackademic phalanx
pulling strings through insider institutional
congregational readings
Keeping their bleary dreary eyes on the Guardian,
TLS and the BBC, London, Boston, New York,
the Irish Times and RT
special column
ISSUE :_:_.::.
..................................................................:::
58
:::
:|:_.::.
THE HOUSE
Thats you
so yond and sole,
but lifes
the same done story.
Look!
House dome
with a pipe so bold,
piebald,
one storey
Its pied and holed,
its skin is torn,
And meat from bricks
is out of holder!
Its garth - unmown,
no haw, so lorn
Its yours but nobodys,
no molder!
Its saved
and you are still untold!
Each year crumbs whitening
like moult
Youre guest, uncalled,
on a date with old
And past distending
from your shoulder.
THE HOUSE
TRANSLATOR: Stan Lauk-Dubitsky
EDITORS: Aria Ligi, Irina Fesenko.
61
:|:_.::.
ISSUE :_:_.::.
64
:|:_.::.
O enchanted epitaph
on the grave of the river,
languid evenings shing for stars
neath boundless nights
O the serene light
The sound of the crickets
The Breeze at twilight,
in the downpour of a storm
The delight of a warm embrace
sheltering in your Chest
moving slowly,
to the rhythm of your breast
I Remember being barefoot
running through grass
owers attening under skin
caressing and giving candidly being
Fireies moving
Bliss without borders
Leaves hunkering in their den
the aected crusade of the wind
O precious hand
the searched for phantom neath sheets
the smile in the dark accompanied by sleep
joyful mornings and the distance breached
The most beautiful of all images
Your Skin
by my side
a cornucopia so resounding
That past,
dear and unique,
deceptive and prophetic
this present of double res,
armed and belligerent~
ows like a stream along the mountain
memories of the day that Ive been
that I was
that I am
67
:|:_.:::
FRIDA:
Santa Madre Santisima!
Destroy this hell, this prison,
Give life to a child, for reason
Let my baby rush after my pictures,
Weave him the cradle from roots,
Crawling to the center of Earth. Look,
It mixes with bones of forefathers,
Known Mexico without Americans, others.
I will dance sandango
I am dancing sandango
Thou, Im condemned and mortal I dance.
Madre mia, Santisima!
I struggle for my independence
I struggle with snake,
repeating the eagles movements.
Let owers and birds admire their lives
Hello, Paul. Hello!
No connection!
Just hoot of wires I hear
Friedas voice let me not talk
with one of Beatles - Sir Paul
She is exulting, shes cursing all,
Time falling like plaster
from the ceiling above her bed-throne.
Thats all!
Live it's shooting till last Fridas cartridge
Till the last bullet of her, brave and stoned.
Sir McCartney is married again,
He sang Hey Jude with the whole of Wembley
Somewhere in Mexico the child was born.
Chica. I know:
:|:_.:::
Petals
The trees tell their story,
no one can hear
Sleepless nights
to whom it is still a fear
No noise but the laughter of the river
The crying of the rain and the leaves that shiver
Then a shining rose was born
Not a petal - not a thorn
Nothing in red - nor in green
The most sanguine I've ever seen
Mindless
Like owers to the blind, the ideas in their mind
They ow around vapor in the sky
Floating about, droplets on the side.
Words ow
Without reaching
Without preaching
Minds I want to see
Minds I need to be
Minds I fail I feel I fear to meet.
69
70
...
The more I try to get it out
The more it mows me under
The orbit of needles
deranges me with wonder
Is that the dead mother
The one that we are condemning?
They ask themselves, the Semites
Who are crucifying me
Thundering glint
Corneas burning re
Unpinning me
It starts
a nausea choir
The beatitude calls me
Through the underground tunnel
But the orbit of needles
Keeps torturing me thru the runnels...
71
poetry + photos
POINEER - mini-section for newcomers with rst but sure steps in poetry.
Strange elixirs
Raging lights
Burning lungs
Glasses raised to free nights
Stars in the sky
wind in our hair
Hands up high
Love together
Memories forever
Forget our cares
Brush away our fears
worries left behind
~Step out of line
It's here, it's here
we'll all go together
Year after year
Until one day we forget
Red cups become coee mugs
We trap ourselves in a cage
Throw away the keys
~ No time to rave
We forget long nights
We forget being together
We don't love
like we used to
The grains fall
We begin to crawl
Lost is our pride
Over the waterfall
No loving together
No freedom of the stars
It all ends at the beginning
It all begins at the start
Never forget
The ash of youth
Don't close your eyes
Or else we all lose
The most important things
Freedom and love
It's time to face the truth
We need more than one
Together is better
than being all alone
We're here until tomorrow
And the path that leads us home
73
NISHTHA PANDEY | IN |
''SEARCH FOR THE SHORE''
Heartstrings
Tiny
vessel
RYAN PELAEZ | US |
75
Ive decided: its the time.
I watch the black Vs glide
across the blue,
slicing through
each cotton cloud:
a Southward oensive met
with only vapour resistance.
For months Ive made
my dead legs walk,
leaden boots hauled
corpse-like through
the drowning mud.
Pot-shots at grey magpies,
one for sorrow, red blood blooming
from its esh, weighing down
bedraggled feathers till it falls
from the are-lled sky.
Bullets soar into ribcages,
kill the frantically beating hearts within.
Let it sag,
welcome the little piece of death,
enfold it to a feathered chest.
The birds die nameless, quiet, still.
jail my uttering thoughts of peace,
desecrate their twittering with misery
and human pain.
The copper tang within my mouth
lingers on my cracked-river lips.
Shrill screeching sounds above;
a bullet, a bomb, a blitz?
a baby bird, left in its orphan nest.
a single feathered form, bereft,
but summer is not made by swallows.
This Junes been formed by ares
and falling feet,
by metal hard and cold inside my st.
a warning squawk:
we it as one above the ground,
barbs tangling in our feathers,
mud drowning us, lling our tiny lungs.
They y at us, ready to tear
our pale esh.
Hammer, bird-tweet click.
I clutch death lovingly, raven-winged,
a vulture, parchment-taloned.
We golden hawks shot down,
.........migrating to our graves.
76
poetry + photos
''Wayfaring mother"
The cast: Light, Shades, Glass, Metal
Director: SLD. Operator: Nicon D90
\VOW* - is an oeuvre from women around the world speaking their truth
like a prayer to humanity | *voices of women
AMERICA'S BEAUTY
Closing your eyes, you hear a blue-eyed blonde
American born and raised
California Valley girl
One nation, "Oh my God!"
Where women are invisible
Without a body deemed pleasant for all.
You have no excuse
The sun's up there to lighten your hair
To darken your skin
"Why are you staying in?"
"Reading Sci-? Is that like Twilight?"
A mind full of worlds of fantasy
Where I went to escape this society
When other girls were in bikinis
I was in shorts down to my knees
Hiding thighs I felt ashamed by
Sucking in my belly and chin
Before I reached the age of ten
With numbers jumbling in my head
Given constant reminders
Of how dumb I was then
School meant stress
And tests
All those systems
Based on competition
Made my insides squeeze
Condence was something foreign
I could not achieve
Words like "ugly" and "stupid"
Inducing tear soaked knees
Or was my hazy brain and pain
From the lack of food
in my stomach those days
For years I continued to throw it away
While my girlfriends would eat and eat all day
The same amount was weight I'd gain
"You should go out for dance or swim!"
Full of formtting uniforms I was made fun of in
:::
ELSBETH POE
US
78
In patriarchy
The Land of the Free
Has yet to mean equality
My country made it clear to me
Girls and boys don't start side by side.
Like my brother
I wanted a skateboard to ride
Not his face but his interests
Were how he was dened
While I was told
My mind was of a dierent size
:::
80
***
I whispered the three words into your ear
Daily reminders of our sweet secret sincere
A mystery which lifts us to a higher place
Our little heaven with ngers interlaced
Together the earth laid beneath our feet
We could kiss the sun and taste its heat
Our planet a tiny dot watched as we danced
The two girls who soared above the expanse
Now gravity restrains me and I'm grounded
Alone but for the wanting that surrounds
Your hand slipped away from my ngertips
Love vanished in a blur and I am myopic
I march in lockstep with this untiring haze
Hopeful to nd just one moment of grace
Which leads me free of this terrible storm
Returning me into the arms of who I adore
When I break free and my vision is renewed
I will sprint to you with my voice unmuted
To whisper once more our concealed refrain
And hold your hand looking down on the rain
ZOE FISHER
US
TREATMENT
|: "whispered": lips,
echo, chain of sounds,
+ "three" as Roman
n u m b e r s + " w o rd " :
book, balance, pieces /
"ear": ear-ring, sounds.
RIMG SPECS
Rhyme: :./:::
Rhythm: mixed,
universal style
Size: sentence
Theme: 1 page
:::
ROADS
No words we use to describe roads
describe their fundamental stillness.
Unlike the land which lies
roads stretch and wind and run
roads are noisy
busy
roads take us places
roads go somewhere.
Roads are active,
they carry us
and we rest into their movement.
But we are the travellers,
the road our tool,
just as trumpets dont sing
and tellies dont speak;
roads are the at graves of our activity.
Ghosted by our infatuation with
The Commute, our deication of exodus,
roads are our talismans,
activated by our imaginative propensity to personify,
like trumpets and televisions
clocks and corporations
like radios, mobile phones, power stations,
the internet and all other human drugs. Really
.if to travel is to dream
..then roads are sleep,
...silent, still and left behind.
:::
TREATMENT
|: time's sh and sandglass + cycle + eternal
battery / seasons + ghosts
of travelers + dead-ends
with dierent origin.
RIMG SPECS
Rhyme: ::/:::
Rhythm: horizontal,
universal style
Size: title
Theme: 1 page
81
82
:::
TREATMENT
|: "Insomnia": wakerife
body with a head like the
midnigh sun + always
open dry eye + two sharp
hooks of slavery / It's all
between continuum of
life.
RIMG SPECS
Rhyme: ::/::: |
Rhythm: horizontal with
division of word, universal
Size: title
Theme: 1 page
***
A week could be seven epochs and you
Felt parting lighter than a line of verse
Can a day's reunion erase any pleasing woe
Of a thousand years of divine phrase?
Not a trace shall live in your memory
Of our fortuitous encounter, my ephemeral tale
A spring breeze cannot be less memorable
Or engender a breath more frail
Yet how beautiful! If sorrow hasn't kept
A loss more beautiful than Beauty's self
When I'm old and grey and just slept
These words shall resurface back to myself
Then the world will leave me nothing further
Than to write poetry and love you more!
***
Within a dark room I lock myself
So as to hear well my own frail breath
I smell my body and feel the warmth
Of a strange intimacy, an innite self
Oh Darkness! My sacred master
Fold me into thy arms and shield
The gentle caress by wings of a mother
To hold her most timid and secret child
Despise you, they fear with insecurity
Escape you, they avoid with agility
How would they kneel for a tender surrender
For whom the night falls under
In my pure blindness, I praise thee
Only my mind's eye can see the comic Tragedy
RIMG
SPEC
:::
Rhyme: ::/:::
Rhythm: mixed, universal style
Size: phrase
Theme: 1 page
TREATMENT
|: "line": rain and
lighting from paper
clouds + "of": bomb +
"verse": a quill, hand,
eye, lines, roots, paper,
brains.
83
84
ILANA HALEY
US
:::
TREATMENT
|: "Desert" is a trap from
sun + moon + time... where
you can face the poisoned
end of your path.
RIMG SPECS
Rhyme: ::/:::
Rhythm: vertical,
universal style
Size: title
Theme: 1 page
85
LISA ALVARADO
US
CHOKE
:::
TREATMENT
|: "To die": claws of skies,
"spermatoZoo", eye, dead
body; "choke": two dead
heads, chains
RIMG SPECS
Rhyme: ::./:::
Rhythm: vertical,
universal style
Size: title
Theme: 1 page
ANGER
86
:::
KATELYN DURST
TREATMENT
|: "anger": person who
is suering from
headache and losing its
head and personality.
RIMG SPECS
Rhyme: ::/:::
Rhythm: horizontal,
universal style
Size: title
Theme: 1 page
87
US
TOKYO VIBRATION
Tokyo, techno reverberation,
skinny bodies in neon garments,
hair divided in three sections,
representing all their personalities
I do not like to dance
So I sit in a lavender chair,
hip crooked, eyes malicious
as I study everything I am not,
free, enthusiastic, sensuous
A woman grins at me,
her expression devilish
like she knows I am ashamed
that I do not want her
Maybe I do not desire anything
Maybe it's okay
if I observe the moods of others forever
and feel nothing
:::
TREATMENT
|: skate + ag / sun +
head-bant + (ing, yang +
percent sign) + neon light
+ power-on button + freak
on a monocycle / various
vibration devices.
RIMG SPECS
Rhyme: ::./:::
Rhythm: vertical,
universal style
Size: title |
Theme: 1 page
88
DAWN, 1:3
In the still, still early hours,
rocks along creeks and light scatters
In refracted air, on languid leaves and the boughs of trees
Adam and Eve held hands beside a river-creek
God touched them, with no suppositions
In the beginning there were Two of UsThe naked, senseless, mewling sounds,
reverberations against canals
Quickening darkness and robbing light
Now we are -Three- Eve walked with He
-and He with She
And there was the Holy Ghosts between
Them, spirits, transformation goddesses, Kama Sutra, Allah
Oh My God, I think about running
my hand against your stubble
Of horizon; lines in paintings and of the Good in You
What my last words will sound like, Craggy and half-formed,
Taken from your ribs and played like a lyre,
an honest, dusty tune
Against these streets.
ROBYN BELT
PREACHER MAN
Oh preacher man. Hey, preacher man
You dance before God just as fast as you can
Now home from the army back to old stains
Climbing to Paradise where nothing remains
Gone to the city looking for truth
No one, not even the blind comes out of the booth
You remember the way is lled with great pain
Yet you persist for lost refrain
LAURA BAILEY
89
BARBED FLOWER
_ BESIDES the Silent mirror,
Her hands swung up
Above her head
As she moved bras and bells. . .
The Moon-dance Queen
Shadows on her shoulders
Eyes watching the Arab Zil,
And Zills Shakin;
Two tip toes right, two tip taps left
Leading wrist and hips like a cruel navy in a stormy sea,
Melting down like an ice cream as she moved her belly
Like a ag in the wind
and bended her knees and slowly sat down,
Eyes dagger behind the veil
Sea Serpent Rage, Callin,
Wearing a Nasal helmet! Shshshshshshsh
WHOSE Love Burned and Once destroyed
By Gods curse
Thunder and Lightning,
Now up to revenge,
Always to revenge,
the, Moon-dance Queen". . .
-No sin in watching her half nude body?
The Kaif Khalifah,
Besides the mirror;
In the front row
His wives wearing dark chador and burqa in the streets. . .
(Seal of the Lord Or Human disgrace?)
_ BEHIND the mirror,
FAR away from them
[In another chapter of a fake Jihad for Gods glory
(by Gods greatest foes), Called Khavarij]
An Afghan girlUNARMED-Under Chador and the dusted veil has shed tears,
AShamed of the "Life" Taken away from her by, the sword!
Smell BLOOD, Ruins of her house,
Kaif Khalifah*
Devouring the apple
KISSING "Her" shoulders
BESIDES the mirror,
Leading Daesh BEHIND
Has, CUT, the nose. . .
SHHRAZD ROSE
IRAN
(Mirror;)
Sperms Running FAST
And their Rage Hit the
Defenseless Barbed Flower's
NOse, Cut!
Isis wings, Coin belts, jewels*,
And, his Pants. . .
Barbed Flower. . .
"- I need a shelter to Helplessly cry,
Rescue me Lord,
ONCE upon a time
I tied my HEART to his SHOULDERS!
- I need a Shelter to Shamelessly Cry;
For "ONE" Night,
THY arms might, embrace;"
["Our Lord! Give us in this world that which is
good and in the Hereafter that which is good,
and save us from the torment of the Fire!]
"Khawarijs Jihad!"
Unarmed Flower's Neck
Laid to barbed,
Hearts in Barbed WireFence,
Sword on her throat,
Her NOSE,
CUT;
There will come a people from the east who recite the Quran
but it will not go beyond their throats. They will pass through
the religion just as an arrow pierces its target and they will not
return to it just as the arrow does not return to the bow.
Source: Sahih Bukhari 7123, Grade: Sahih
As a person who lives in a Muslim community and among
them, no matter what I believe in, I insist that Islam in its nature
is a peace seeking school as is Christianity and other religions
but ideologies have always been mistreated and Used by those
who wanted to take advantage from them.
I wanted to be a voice sending out the message that hatred, in
every outer cover and judgment in every form, is despicable
I have seen many people who judge Islam and judge or look
down on people in middle east as a second class oppressed
people.
Well, this is denitely not right and wise
people never regard borders, place of
birth or religion and more than that,
they never judge! and wise people ARE
everywhere. So let us educate each
other. I'm sorry for the Afghan girl but
I'm so proud of her that she chose to
speak up and my message to her is that,
nationality and religion are matters of a
simple accident (the place we are born)
but accidents place us in the situation to
stand out and evaluate our
consciousness and our spirit. Stand
strong and know that Deep down if we
believe in God and/or the true spirit and
greater reason for our being, we would
undoubtedly acknowledge that It is
faith, respect and empathy that
distinguish us. Let's be careful how We
treat people. Life is worth trying...
I tried to highlight the positive and
peaceful messages in Quran as far as I
know as an outsider. To express the
true pain and anger, I have avoided Any
self-censorship and that's the reason I
write most of my poems in English in
the rst place. I hope the readers do not
consider it as a disrespect and the true
humanistic message is understood
along with my respect to all religious
believers and religion, implied. . .
God bless,
February 2, 2016
:::
SECTION
THANK YOU
FOR READING!
94
Without stopping
the water resists
the weight of the sky
***
Every mask
drowns
at the bottom
of oneself
***
"Girl reading a letter
at an open window"
As your cheeks
dye of red colour
the apples of Paradise
brim over with delight
upon the tablecloth waves
"Night song"
At this instant
you must be opening
the book, or listening to
the creak of rewood
as the re dances.
But I am mistaken.
At this instant
-as every nightyou sing in the shade
of a city
that gleams.
Oooh... More!
NOCTURNE OF SANTIAGO
The sky falls to pieces in every city,
the same green or grey sky, the same sky
that covers with fears breaking locks,
spying, blowing down windows and walls,
opening each door without modesty, without pause.
The wind prevails and geometries breaks
strangely foreign to gures and shapes;
goes unabated through corners, clouds,
every square, sleepless, in its straight stealth.
No one is in the streets, neither in courtyards nor in parks,
no one pities the judgement of the night.
But the night annoys, disturbs, now holds sway
over the great avenues, the crossroads, the boulevards.
The sky has stripped shames and pleasures.
The wind doesnt comfort neither heal, nor give respite.
In every city it seems like death
has opened its black pit of sulphur and rage
and little is left then for the lone night
now taking over the sea, the rivers, the hill:
knife blade pulsating and sharp
in the restless memory of the empty city.
Just at midnight mued noises are heard
as if a thousand maggots crossed the garden
or all those rats, injured by hunger,
went out of their frozen holes of silence.
They are not the vermin neither the owls, nor the crows:
it feels like the quiet quivering of women in labour
or the song of those who go to the sacricial stone,
or the teeth grinding of a child in the battle.
It is the dweller, the citizen, the man
crawling slowly and restoring his breath
after kingdoms and dominions lost or already dead.
It is the owner, the master, the landlord,
the possessor of shapes, the skilled architect,
the only one who knows how to chase the night away,
how to scare away the wind, the sky, even the angels
falling by millons over the lthy streets.
The order thickens, lines itself up, it prevails now
and nothing is left outside the perfect circle.
The wind ceases slow until it becomes black.
The blueprint has arrived, the map of the exact
untangling jungles, spreading the air out:
The index that passes through the storm is back
and keeps the fear of the gods in its pride.
97
***
I climbed up the mountain
without moving forward
each step fell into the same path
of the back of this mathematical monster
and the labyrinth became a pretty trick
this is how I reached a top without height
I climbed the wrinkled geometry and arrived
nowhere and everywhere
98
DEGREES OF (IM)PERFECTION
One is Ulro
The box that does not open
The pure, abstract idea
Of how things should be
Reduced to their lowest common denominator.
* Ulro is the dreariest form of the fallen material world in poetic universe of William Blake.
** Village is the trademark of some very popular greeting postcards in Chile, characterized by a corny,
sentimental little rhyme often printed over the background of bucolic landscapes or glorious sunsets.