Monthly Archives: July 2016

Mike Absalom

3rd Vol, No2  (August  2016)

The poems are illustrated by the paintings that directly inspired by poet’s thoughts.

Chanting of the of Orchids,

chanting of orchard

Painting of Mike Absalom

Attracted by the Chanting of the of Orchids
Attracted by the chanting of the orchids Brighid comes, tiptoeing lightly, in little zigs and zags, emerging chastely from the Beyont.
She leaves no mark on either cotton grass or asphodel.
She is seeking a summer birthing.
“This is the wrong bog”, mutters Buachalán.
“Here you have less chance of giving birth than a spayed cat in a bog hole”. Buachalán carries poison in his pocket.
But then so do Foxglove and Buttercup,
and countless other sly yet-to-be-busted lilies of the field
who have been moonlighting for eons deep inside the longest of grasses, brewing their deadly delicious drams of moonshine
for our undiscovered delectation and delight! He might have been right, so. In spite of this I have brought a bottle for the Holy Water.
I watch from my hidden garden.
It is an artificial place, more like a hunter’s hide than a consecrated temple, and generally I keep it secret, corked up like a genie in my bottle.
But it pleases me to be naked here before the day.
I am unencumbered, a bare spider’s web in the morning dew.
Waiting among the orchids. Waiting for Brighid.
Nakedness makes my inward journey simple.
I move like an airline traveller sans baggage,
Easier to get there. Easier to come back.
With a ration of peace, I eavesdrop on passing bogeens and all the stray gods of the garden.
I am a hungry voyeur hidden among the flowers.

Attracted by the chanting of the of orchids, Brighid comes, tripping lightly, and with a sleight of hand too fast to follow conceals Herself inside a thistle pagoda
and is gone without giving any answer.
I remain naked in my hide.
Each day, here in this garden, I return and watch the thistle pagoda
like a cat watching a mouse hole. The cats watch with me,
purring unpleasantly between their teeth. Sitting with them
I learn the unclean secrets of tigers and the language of the Green Man.
Each day the thistle pagoda rises a little higher It is geodesic wonder. It is fractal fantabulous.
Brighid is in there somewhere. Each day too I rise a little higher. Or delve a little deeper.
It is hard to say which direction is which in this waving orchestra of grass. How many different kinds of grass are there in this Mayo field?
And how many languages do they speak? And how many flowers are there here?
And how many silent songs to make me weep? Attracted by the chanting of the of orchids,
I notice now Brighid is here.


“Crime Scene”

mike crime scene

Painting of Mike Absalom

When I walked past your window last night
a blizzard of starlight fell upon me.
Although I am no forensic scientist,
I knew something had touched me
and afterwards in the cold light of the moon
I examined myself and saw that there remained
icy fingerprints all along my body, whispering silently.
I am no expert, but they sounded quite like yours.
That is when I first came to realise, after the fact,
That I must be a crime scene.

Is there a statute of limitations on crimes of indifference?

Don’t you talk to me about loneliness!
You are a seeded sphere of life tumbling on the breath of the solar wind.
But don’t talk to me about loneliness.
I am only a single seed blowing in that unimaginable void.

A half memory wavers on the path I am walking
like the moonlit tracks of a snail
on a forgotten veranda.
I shall be careful in future where I put my feet.
But don’t talk to me about loneliness.

There is, by the way, no statute of limitations.
Not for these crimes.

“If you had been here tonight” 

mike if you had been here tonoght

Painting of Mike Absalom

 If you had been here tonight I would have said
-Sit by the fire with me!
Listen to the burning turf weaving poetry
out of the dry stalks of the long lost bog!
And we could take a swig or two of the water of life,
Jameson’s perhaps or Bushmill’s or Paddy’s,
and watch prehistory turning to ashes
right before our eyes.

But you are not here tonight
and it is unwise to step outside
on the sharp January night that’s in it.
There is no saying whom you might meet.
Here the souls of the dead are everywhere.
They had sooner leave their own shadows
than leave their own stories behind.
The gary-gowlan is out there in his jack-a-lantern boots,
standing guard with his pitchfork at their graves.

If you had been here tonight I would have said
-Sit by the fire with me!
Listen to the hissing turf coals keening those old lost stories.
We can watch prehistory turning to ash before our eyes.

But that night you were not here.

Up where the forestry has levelled walls
and jacked out the keystones of old cottages
and thrown them about as if at a stoning
there is a darkness that even the moon can’t reach.

The night you were not here I stepped outside
and looked up into my own darkness.
The unimaginable past fell around me as starlight.

“Wet the Tea!” 


Painting of Mike Absalom

How is my outside today?
In a pink dressing gown I step out.
The sun snaps shut like a Venetian blind!
The first drops of rain whistle past me like grape shot!
Who have I offended today?
I curse the garden nymphs.
Who are these activist women?
Wet the tea!!

The thunder claps twice, applauding ominously.
Rumbles of discontent run through the bean rows,
and a flicker of red gnome caps bolting.
Who have I offended today?
White light flickers behind the black forestry horizon.
Broom sticks rattle in the pottery.
Wet the tea!

I laugh out loud, feeling the wind in my face.
My dressing gown blows up with a cackle
and I flash forked lightning for the neighbours.
I’m bright as Bacchus today,
prancing down the slabs
breathing life from an oxygen bottle.

On the compost heap green umbrella leaves
creep like caterpillars over the steaming mound
and the nasturtium flowers they engender
grin at me with orange faces
like painted bridesmaids at a traveller wedding.
Wet the tea!
Who shall I offend today?
I’m ready!



“I Feel Sad of Turf”

mike ''i feel sad of turf

Painting of Mike Absalom

 There are watermen
rising, holding themselves together,
shimmering like water spouts of wet gauze
on the fringe of the forestry.
And water women in dripping cauls
flopping wetly through the sodden marls
next the dry the esker where the sand creeps through.
And water cattle,
snorting steamy steam as they avoid the suck of the bog-turbaries.
And waterweed and moss rolls like a tidal wave
across the whole wet world.

Rain! Banging on the roof!
Can ye stop yer mewling!
It’s like a handful of cats asking for yet another hand-out.
I can’t go out!
You told me to exercise.
I’ll stretch my accordion like a chest expander.
If I can’t stretch you anymore!
The rain falls.
And waterweed and moss rolls like a tidal wave
across the whole wet world.

I feel sad of turf!
The whole sun’s been trapped inside
for longer than I can count.
A million years!
A million billion years!
A million billion trillion years!
Ever since time began!
It’s still trying to get out!
Arrah! You should be an auld diamond by now.
A little heat and although I’d never warm like a sunny day,
at least under your hand I’d glow a little .

I’m an old squat,
empty and draughty and bent!
Anyone can sleep here!
But don’t set me on fire!
I’m made of wood and would be,
not of stone.

Mike Absalom, an Irish poet, painter and print- maker, was born in mkDevon in 1940. His mother was Irish. His father was Welsh. Educated in Quebec, Sweden, Iran and England, he majored in Oriental Studies (Arabic and Farsi) at Oxford and Gothenburg Universities before embarking on a career as a singer/songwriter during the 1960s and 70s. From 1980 to 2000 he lectured on satire, using his own verse as a template and worked as a harpist, fiddler, children’s entertainer and puppeteer across Canada and in the USA and South America. He returned to Ireland in 2002 to paint and write poetry. (

Rob Harle

The Mystic Fire

mystic fire

Painting of Subhasis Das

In the crucible of the turning world

the alchemist’s furnace smoulders,

salt, sulphur and mercury fume

pluming like clouds across an endless sky.

A voice booms:

“View the foundations well that here are layd:
This is the seat that the eternall mind
For universall monarchy designd.” (1)

The gold of fools is ever tempting

though this is not the gold the furnace yields,

the ‘stone’ alone transforms vile greed and hate,

the gold of fools feeds this rapacious gluttony

enslaving all who seek the glitter.
The serpent eats its body whole

clearing ash and dross away,

as the Phoenix rises from the mystic fire,

soaring higher, ever higher.

The cycle of eternal mind

spiral-spinning, turning, pulsing

forever rising and descending

draws us inward

to find our place within the flame.


(1) From Hermetick Raptures by Torrescissa (Alchemical Poetry 1575 – 1700 ed. R.M. Schuler. pp. 584)


Belongil Morning

The silvery sea reflects unknowable shapes

the pre-dawn-dark eerie and confusing,

she strolls undaunted over wet sand

foaming ripples cooling her mind.


The first orange rays glisten across the sea

kissing the crumbling sand dunes

dissolving those strange sea ghosts,

a warm peace and calm descend.


She drops to her knees on the white sand

marvelling at the singular solitude

unthinkable in her native Europe,

a pilgrim on the global route to Byron.


A morning meditation  in the arms of nature,

the wave’s gentle crashing sooth a busy mind,

the lack of city noise calms a modern mind,

she drifts into the deceptive spirit of The Bay.


Blood curdling screams resonate inside her head,

cries of anguish pulsate against her temples,

her heart is racing, thumping hard

as she falls helplessly into an unchartered time-warp.


Whale’s blood drips over her eyelids,

shrieks of splintering trees pierce her ears,

howling anguish of slaughtered indigenous spirits chill her bones

muffling the screeching death-cries of cattle and pigs.


The invisible time-warp portal closes,

sparkling blood-red reflects in the calm sea,

peaceful solitude returns

her bewildered mind returns to Bay Central.


Her morning meditation agitates her deeply

as she pushes frantically down the crowded concrete,

clear to Bundjalung Elders The Bay holds deep secrets,

hidden beneath the ‘New Age’ crass commercial gloss.


A transubstantiation transforms whale meat into Vegan bread,

preservation, conservation replaces ‘Big Scrub’ destruction,

the Light House may be coming full-circle

as the energy of the new Cosmic Dance heals The Bay?


NB: Belongil is a beach at Byron Bay, the most easterly point of Australia. Now a haven for back-packers & home for New Age healers, writers, artists & musicians it recently was a place of slaughter – trees, animals, whales and Indigenous Australians!



The Scream

The old crone screams

her voice as jagged as broken glass

face as callous as dry leather

inflicting her anger

her self-hatred

her self-centred obsession

on the peaceful shoppers.


The target of her tirade

sits stunned and bemused

a calm peaceful lady,

passers-by shuffle awkwardly

their day tarnished with vile distress.


The crone strides away

her invective still stewing,

eating her inside like acid.

She returns, the screaming starts again



tinged with the hatred of self contempt.


My coffee arrives seductively

the fragrance a joy to the senses,

by rote the waitress recites:

“Have a nice day!”

The crone has gone

the air is clearing

peace descends on the cafe

just another day in Nimbin village.



White Birds and Epsilons

The white birds silhouette the sky once more

each Spring a reassuring Nimbin return,

soaring to and fro from their secret cave

deep below the sacred rocks.


The philosophers no longer stir

the old graves serene,

troubled searching souls are now at peace

every searing question silenced

drowned out by the silent roar of smart phones.


The dumbed-down shuffle forth

heads bowed in techno-obedience

texting within a solipsistic nightmare,

techno-bondage with invisible constraints

from which there is no possible escape.


Huxley’s Epsilons shuffle in single file

each connected to mind-control-central.

Dame gorgon Google the keeper of all information

has become the dominatrix of perception,

the whore of spiritual disintegration.


New shiny micro-towers litter the verdant hills

terrifying the old guard with invisible rays,

enraging even wise old Nyimbunji. (1)

Thousands upon thousands of Epsilons drifting,

shuffling past the peeling painted facades,

none shift their gaze from the smart phone screen.

Oblivious to the blueness of the pure sky dome above,

Oblivious to the wise white birds soaring,

Oblivious to the answers they carry.


(1) – Bundjalung – “little spirit man with great supernatural powers, he is powerful, wise, generous and kind.”


Digital Visitation


Mainak Bagchi’s photography

The Madonna materialises

pulsing out of the digital vortex,
the eternal mother of all
dismayed – down cast eyes
fall upon the disaster before her
aching with a deep sadness –  unmistakeable.
The digital matrix is silent
forever becoming
changing states, on-off
processing potentials
climbing in a spiral of complexity
towards an unknowable future.
Always busy we Epsilons,
the subjects of her observations,
arrogantly oblivious to her concern
mindlessly fall into the future,
uncritically embracing every techno-gadget
mercilessly hawked by capitalist opportunists,
sold with false promises of progress
devoid of wisdom
a pathway back to the primeval swamp.
The Mamata despairs – retreats,
disappearing into the silence
realising too late
we no longer smell the roses.

Rob Harle is a writer, editor, artist and reviewer – born in Sydney14346_1512791502310716_3171114166924106398_n Australia, August 1948.Writing work includes poetry, short fiction stories, academic essays, and reviews of scholarly books, journals and papers. His work is published in journals, anthologies, online reviews, books and he has two volumes of his own poetry published – Scratches & Deeper Wounds (1996) and Mechanisms of Desire (2012). Recent poetry has been published in: Rupkatha Journal (Kolkata); Nimbin Good Times (Nimbin);  Beyond The Rainbow (Nimbin); Poetic Connections  AnthologyIndo-Australian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry; Rhyme With Reason Anthology); Asian Signature; Muse India; Voices Across The Ocean Anthology); Episteme Journal); Indo-Australian Anthology of Short Fiction. LIRJELL Journal; Homeward Bound Anthology; Voices Across Generations Anthology. World Poetry Yearbook. (2014);Temptations (2016); Taj Mahal Review.

His past art practice was sculpture, then digital-computer art both for the web and print. His giclée images have been exhibited widely and featured both in, and as the covers, of various literary journals and anthologies. 

Formal studies include Comparative Religion, Philosophy, Literature and Psychotherapy – his thesis concerned Freud’s notion of the subconscious and its relationship with Surrealist poetry.

Rob’s main concern has been to explore and document the radical changes technology is bringing about. He coined the term technoMetamorphosis to describe this. This past concern is now moving towards helping to restore our abandoned metaphysical and spiritual modes of being through literature especially poetry.

He is currently a member of: Leonardo Book Review Panel. Manuscript reviewer for Leonardo Journal. Advising Editor for the Journal of Trans-technology Research, (UK); Advisory Editor for Phenomenal Literature, (India); Member of Editorial Board for:  Episteme Journal, (Bharat College, India); International Journal on Multicultural Literature(India); LIRJELL, (Lingayas University, India); Ars Artium (India); Iris (India); Daath Voyage (India).
Full Publications, Reviews and selected writings are available from:

Artwork from:

Geosi Gyasi


the day ends before the night
begins to crawl into the aged
knees of a lonely grandma
the moon that watches over
the night menstruates profusely
over a spate of twelve sorrowful
hours; her red shot eyes shoots
deep into the crust of the earth
too soon the heart pants for breath
as dawn breaks into the moist helpless
clouds & the moon buried
into a temporal handmade
coffin awaiting judgement
in her wardrobe, grandma
left a dark secret
tightly knotted at the tip
of her GTP cloth.
mother’s nursing hands
caressed her body into
the root of a fallen Odum
tree. in London, the seed
she planted 40 years ago
received the news
without a heart:
when auntie Broni
demanded of a death
certificate before she
would send money
for her funeral.
the coffin refused
to enter the belly
of the earth until
the cloth was unknotted:
a tiny feminine effigy showed up
forthwith——a certain gust of wind
blew across the cemetery
’til the abusuapanin 
poured into the ground
three bottles of schnapps
to pacify the ancestors.




Mother naked her store

to secure a spot for me

at the university to study

the economics of life

the bookish professors

bestowed upon my head

on the graduation day

a third class of the class

of 2010. Under the shed

of a cloudy congregation,

tears dripping off the ground

from the thwarted eyes

of mother. she punitively

punches the air, for the

mood the moody clouds

shed on our heads

she bemoans:

this same day 10 years

ago, when father threw

her out of his house.



The tears

That flowed from

Your eyes has

Reached the

Deep valleys

Of my heart

I remember,

The years gone by

You wrapped a

Wet towel around

My sick body

Till the sun and earth

Merged to wipe out

Your overflowing tears

I grew out of the void

Papa left you with

The remaining darkening

Days, I shall invite

The sun into your tomb

And you shall become

A thing of the light.

Geosi Gyasi is a book blogger, reader, writer, and interviewer. HisGEOSI GYASI work has appeared or forthcoming in Visual Verse, Verse-Virtual, Piker Press, Misty Review, Silver Birch PRESS, Linden Avenue, Expound, Tuck Magazine and elsewhere. He is the author of the forthcoming book, “Geosi Interviews Fifty Writers Worldwide” (2016) from Lamar University Press Books in Texas, U.S. He is the winner of the 2015 Ake/Air France Prize for Prose. He blogs at

Luz María López



Mainak Bagchi’s photography

roots set deep within
mother earth’s soul
sweetly becoming
eternal reverie
they echo frantic calls
and the blooming magnolia
flakes purple and pink hues
palpitations cover the soil
lucid dream enchantment
a new song strokes the heart
of the expectant soil
tantalizing all senses
so lovers under the canopy
render to inborn passion
kiss their lips
turning all illusion
into ephemeral


as the colors of
lucid dreams
swaying away emotions
a slow-tempo ballet
flowing above reality
for deep in the throb
of every given kiss
a spell got written
and while it rants
between truth and wish
it plunges
getting swallowed
by oceanic waves
their torment
so they forget
that love also

Millenarian Chants

a sorceress
spreads its wings

a timeless
cosmic ritual

millenarian chants
enlighten the soul

wisdom and lust render
their ultimate divination



The Air Between Us
look at me, dear,
today is the third day
the time to walk over the clouds
and I opened my eyes
seeking beyond reasons
the path that my heart
is calling for
you know magic is a spark of light
one never fully understand its mysteries
but do wisely feel sentient clamors
grasping the breath
premonitions they are
rushing through the veins
how can I ignore them
if its voice is telling to follow
on its steps?
so here I am
walking over the clouds
all the way to your


Poetry in Blue

 weaving lanterns

sowing moons in their windows

fish and dragonflies stories

night birds

seven millenarian chants

swaying in precious silence

sheltering these smiles

because it is the time now

the conceived time!

when the existence sighs

in such a gentle breeze

opening the path

that wells up from the depths

of all mysteries


on the far side of the sea

the infinite breath of God

keeps tying us

in divine balance

a universe without

dead times.

Luz María López from Puerto Rico. She is Continental Director luzWorld Festival of Poetry (WFP). As well as she is activist of Poetic Front in Defense of Women’s Rights (WM). Winner of Pentasi B “Universal InspirationalPoet” Award 2016

Ojo Taiye


I will never forget you, Ovie

Ovie, I will never forget you

Ovie, I am full of regret for you, my night, my sun…

It is spring time:

the rum that sets my memory ablaze

I have rediscover your name

Name that was hidden so long under the pain of separation

And your tears like a flame piercing the shadows

Has revealed my undying Philo beyond the snow of yesterday

Ovie, I will declaim your name to the thousand stars above

the swaying palms rustling in the high night breeze

I will pronounce to them your love

Love that I cannot forget

Love that are maps to heaven

Maps to happiness

Love that are soft dreams in blue sky:

Sanctum from my fears

Love that are talk-drums,

Piano’s, lulling babes to sleep

Love that forges smiles

Into sweet memories

Never, never, ever

Should I forget you, Ovie?

Your images sit comfortably in my mirror

Reeling off secret haunts

Nights lost in long grass

Ovie, I will never forget you



Cold water

in sweet memoirs of the past

when the light of a darkling sky

is all I could ever see:

blurry images

of a billow future

basking in the foray

of unfinished tutorials

when submitable became

the heaven were prayers

are incensed to

waiting for answers

in future tense

were the supposed reply

isn’t like cold water

to a famished soul

with embolden alphabets

that garbs leprosy colony

in such despondent state

you still despair

the agony of quitting

believing the quill

could pay your bills

and buy the joy tomorrow offers

after a burnt out night

an emissary

from the borders of another home

an African post man

gives you a souvenir

from a thankful heart

that loves the imageries

in your mirror

how beautiful and soothing your

message of hope was

the soulful sermon

you preach

written in white and black

on the canvas in human raiment

of the sweeping tides

of a patriarchal society

that makes others less

the golden baton

of love that spreads in your punctuations

and the in between pats on the shoulders of

poser questions

the linearity of your courage

to bend the bureaucratic nature of

dilapidated structures

sprawling around as democrats

living of our bounties



Eternal truths

 home is not a portion of earth

Neither is it country dawn

nor city light

home is the fate beyond the sun

beyond feelings and time

a sanctum for lambs

a burning belly for dogs

a fatality for both wisdom and foolishness

thither – finally, when this noose is


Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool toOjo Taiye hide his frustration with the society. I’m a twenty- three-year-old microbiology graduate from Tansian University. I love books and Anime in that order. Taiye, has some of his muddled thoughts published and forthcoming in a few e-magazine such as Kalahari Review, Tuck magazine, Lunaris Review, Elsewhere, whispersinthewind33 and so on.

Abdulrahman M Abu-yaman

I’ll learn Japanese,
write a haiku: “bright golden…
…moon beams gleams of rims”

might learn
to beautify my
Fibonacci’s poetry style

I’d learn Arabic mother tongue poetry
speaking of the Ghazal sing-song poetry,

Spread across continents and nations global
with its sound melody of gong poetry

Adopted in Persian, Indian literatures
with strict rhymes and meters for strong poetry

Many have criticized its rigidity
and labelling it as a wrong poetry

Nevertheless, I, Rajab promise not to
cease to crave for it as my long poetry



Once again, my comrades
and camaraderies refer to me
as a Korean-Nigerian. For one reason,
my tongue has surrogated “thank you” with
“gomawo” whenever I articulate my gratitude.
And for another, my elder sisters and uncles
usually wear flabbergasting countenances
whenever I call them “noona” and “ahjussi”
respectively. For they know me to be a
Korean movie wizard, and are quite sure
I harken those those words into
my cerebrum while watching.

My cinema chart has been more of
Korean than any other. Admiring
the mercurialism of thespian Lee Min Ho,
for his hopeless romantic role in “Boys over
flowers” as GU Jun Pyo, his dexterous
swordsmanship in “Faith” series as Wol Da Chi,
and for his dual identity played in “City Hunter”
as Lee Yoon-Sung.

As a student of fashion, I marvel at
the silky-sleeky Hanbok traditional attire
worn by noble high-borns; at the same time,
admiring the cotton-fabric dress of the
common low-borns. Not forgetting
the translucent black hat they put on
to complement.

My philosophical being craves for
metaphysical axioms in Korean Philosophy
of life. Example: “Sincerity can only be fulfilled
by ones self and the path walked alone.”
Another is ” Some are born knowing
the way, some know it by learning and
others struggle to know it, nonetheless,
the knowledge is the same.”

Having said it all,
I hereby declare myself as
a Korean-Nigerian without birth
certificate or naturalization, but
hopefully, a recognition from the Korean
Embassy. Please do not say No! For that
will make me to “aigoo!”

Gomawo: Korean word for “thank you”
Noona: older sister in Korean
Ahjussi: used to refer to uncle in this context but generally for a Mister.
Hanbok: Korean traditional attire
Aigoo: an exclamation for sad expression or dissapontment in this context.
What’s the hullaballoo about the superiority complex?
Or should I rather say the inferiority complex?

When exploring the circles of knowledge in academia
I ask once again, why the hullabaloo?

When Biology has made us related
By virtue of being sons of Adam and daughters of Eve

When Geography has made us neighbors
By our locations and borders of settlements

When History has made us friends
By the wars we fought together and experiences and stories we shared

When Economics has made us partners
By the market demand and supply of commodities

When Government has made us united
By coming together as one under a sovereign nation

When Agriculture has sustained our living
By the healthy nutrition we derive from our bumper harvests

When Physics has catapulted us to the jet age
By the science and technological break-throughs

When Chemistry has served as a major catalyst in the circles of medicine
By giving us quality drugs and sound health

When Mathematics has made us quantifiable
By applying the divisions, multiplications, additions and subtractions

When English language serves as our common denominator
By enabling us to speak in one voice as a lingual franca

At this point I dare say ‘’ole ola” in Spanish
Meaning “we are one’’ in English
Dear Partner,
For disconnecting your affection
From our electrifying love circuit
For no reasonable explanation,
Please return back all the smiles
And laughters I plastered on your face
That transmuted your surrows
To merriments when all odds were
Against you.
I need you to return the amazing
Feeling you felt deep down in your left
Chest, when I articulated those
Three magical words
That transformed your mood
From gloomy to ecstatic.
Thank you.



Thy hearts let it be shield
From bullets disguised as cupids
In motion swift to the piercing
By maidens pulchritudinous in physique
For love she claims to profess
But targets the gold in the mine

Thy hearts let it sealed
From voices of sneaking whisperers
Resonating verbs of temptations
By detractors and calumniators
For friendship they claim to offer
But shatters thy flower that booms

Thy heart let it be cleansed
From the cancer of vengeance
Flushing out vindictiveness
Installed by questionable brethren
For fraternity they claim to be
But engulf thy hearts with darkens

Thy hearts let it be manifest
To the language called love,
Opened to the tribe of tolerance
And belong to the dialect named empathy
Networking these triplets in synchronization
Only then, thy hearts shall embrace true peace!

Abdulrahman M Abu-yaman is a Nigerian Poet by nature, an Abdulrahman M Abu-yamanEconomist by profession from IBB University Lapai, and a fashion designer by vocation. He participated at the Abuja Literary Society Poetry Slam 2016. He follows sporting especially football (Team Chelsea FC) and the NBA (Team San Antonio Spurs). His works have appeared and forthcoming in Kalahari Reviews, Tuck Magazine, London grip, Black Boy Review and Lunaris Reviews.

Ehi’zogie Iyeomoan

My Eternal

for Soo-mi

Every dawn that wears the colour of the sun

a flower blooms and blossoms

whether there be dewdrops

or lack of it

At noon the sky is a multicoloured butterfly

of an unbroken smile, constant

there be storms or showers

or lack of it

At dusk—at night a satellite stays glued to the heavens

whether there be twinkling stars,

a luminous moon

or lack of it

And you 1 nae yeoja are all of these:

tripartite magic of: a blooming flower, a multicoloured butterfly and a satellite star

your beauty constant as the sky, your smile unbroken—evergreen,

you bloom and blossom eternal as the heavens

[1] Korean words translated ‘my woman’ in English.


The way I found love

There are many ways to find love; in the dark, in the light

she comes rain in sun, sun in rain

mine came a hurricane stealing what

I am yet to know

she came a masc. rogue holding a gun above the head of

my living ghost thundering: part the red sea under your printed skirt

i want to see and read ‘the revelation’ of those bright things

you’ve hidden in the dark as encryptions from god

and then he slides a banana into the zero of my innocence

my nostrils sniffing spirits of mixed perfumes

my tongue tasting those sour juices his rod had picked

from the many strange women whose parted seas

are now familiar with this scripture of fire whose scribbles

the back of my torso now await as it lies in state

my dry eyes a flooded garden holding the only ixora left

awaiting an august sun and a song of redemption


 A moment a tree

            for Soo-Mi

If I could plant a tree for

each moment  without you

and if each moment is a decade

sprouting—growing in my thoughts

then I’ll be a forest thick and

green with memories of you

should I miss you and your sun

more than just a single day


Mama’s gone electronic

Mama entered papa’s big boots
a day after papa came back home from work

before closing hours
with an unusual brown envelope and a long face

mama shook her head, a smile and a scowl stilled on her face

like the starch in papa’s white caftan
and said: honey welcome home
you fought a just course

[1]m.k.o, now in prison, would be proud of you

and the other comrades, now in prison too

who also drank a cup of his wine of agony

in the broken camaraderie of true democracy

so mama became the man
shielding us from troubles
and the woman
looking after our now lacking tables with

the little profits of her fish stall stationed under a

damaged transformer which spat fire like dragons

now that too many customers
queue for her smoked fish
she has built a new stall in town—

a mobile shop with wifi
where with one click
africa and the rest of the world
sniff smoked fish
through the noses of mobile devices


[1] m.k.o – initials and popular alias for Moshood Kashimawo O. Abiola, winner of the ill-fated 1993 Nigeria presidential election later annulled by the Ibrahim Badamosi Babangida’s military administration. He died years later in illegal detention by the Military government controlled by the General Sanni Abacha.

 [2] m.k.o – initials and popular alias for Moshood Kashimawo O. Abiola, winner of the ill-fated 1993 Nigeria presidential election later annulled by the Ibrahim Badamosi Babangida’s military administration. He died years later in illegal detention by the Military government controlled by the General Sanni Abacha.



Like northern roads

There is no end to this road

where i think it ends, it bends in ellipsis

and blends into another

with new openings – new beginnings

new offerings at its vanishing point

and i am wondering if

people are like these northern roads and

the [1]dogonyaro trees by their sides their arms

embracing saharan sandstorms – strangers

with magnetising love, hugging them

first in parts, and then in full

as though they were old time friends visiting for sallah

but dreams & thoughts are like bubbles

they often burst too quickly.


[1] Hausa word for Neem tree, popularly grown in the Sahel-Saharan region of Northern Nigeria


Ehi’zogie Iyeomoan is a graduate of Economics who loves to read Ehi'zogie Iyeomoan.and travel and sometimes write. He is an Open Society Initiative for West Africa poetry Fellow and a Castello Di Duino poetry Scholar. His poetry have received awards from the Korean Cultural Centre, Nigeria and the University of Trieste, Italy, where one of his poems recently picked the UNESCO sponsored Castello Di Duino poetry prize, 2016. He is currently working a second poetry collection ‘a spring of endless songs’ and scouting for a comfortable writer’s space (residency) to complete same.


Carl Scharwath


You are the genesis of today

The cancers of a desperate heart

etched in the loss of hope.


Vision doubled, fractured

fragments give warning

Blood rushes in a sojourn


Following the Daughters of Zion

adorned in self-alienation

to a future world, without history.



Chloroformed words

Rambling and meaningless

Drip black from the page.



and rusting in the nebulae of grammar.

Laboring in the

womb of creativity.

Aborted before obscurity.




The sun cambered

through the haze

upon a lonely sentinel.

Speechless propaganda,

begotten sexless rapture,

as the days

begin and end

with the phantasm

of uninvited ghosts.



The passion shall escape

While the past,

Flickering hungry

Is Bleached invisible.


You gaze at

The unfeigned light

Walking out determined

From the world.


Knowing how it feels

To be broken

And have a black hole

On your time-line.


A Poem Never Read

My words

Composed and forgotten.

Created like

A dewdrop

That vanishes

In the primordial



Evolving into

The loudest silence

Never heard.

Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 80+ magazines selectingcarl his poetry, short stories, essays or art photography. He won the National Poetry Contest award for Writers One Flight Up. His first poetry book is ‘Journey To Become Forgotten’ (Kind of a Hurricane Press). Carl is a dedicated runner (“that’s where his art ideas spring from”).

Dmitry Garanin


With my money and my devotion
I was building my family house..
Unemployment, bankruptcy, foreclosure..
Where do I go with my spouse?

I tried to live my life in compliance.
Went my affirmative way..
Drug abuse, molestation, gun violence:
Why do they keep me at bay?

I was working out to improve my health.
To be fit for my job and my life..
Diabetes, blood pressure, obesity:
Would you care for me if I’d die?

In the park how delightful are roses!
They’re decorating my day..
Alzheimer’s, osteoporosis..
I’m on the way..



While finances require a drainage,
with my problems I am all right.
In the distribution of damage
I’m on the receiving side.

It’s a trick to avoid foreclosure.
Unemployment, blocked credit card..
Went to bank and tried to negoti-
..ate me raw as a healthy Swiss chard!

I’m not poor, still a bit underprivileged.
Challenged, screwed up, still I’m pro-life.
I’m committed to keeping my image
Positive in the strife.





You gave me a kiss per Skype
during my physics lecture
going to bed in Germany
in a shifted time zone.

I was doing my best
to explain to my students a fraction
just as your juicy kiss
resounded on its own.

My subject that was too dry
through this became animated.
Girls have given a sigh
scratching with their nails.

Standing before the class
I’m good, I am getting mated.
Human, beloved to all,
even if someone fails.


Having a heart attack
I was in distress and crouched
toward the pavement, as you
compassionately approached.

“Are you OK?” you asked
by my situation alerted.
I uttered: “No problem. I’m fine!”,
having my voice distorted.

I could be dying, indeed,
by an ambulance taken
but under no circumstance
my image could be forsaken.

If my weakness be seen,
if I become immobile
in need of a real help –
you’ll be the first to rob me!


As we went home after work,
it started snowing.
The evening traffic was in lock-
-step hardly flowing.

Still full of people, BX-12s
crept “Out of Service”.
It wasn’t going to be well,
we feared, as always,

for we had nowhere to hide
in snow, as hounds,
while limos wouldn’t give us a ride
on legal grounds.


Dmitry Garanin was born in Moscow in mid-50th and his youth fell dwithin the concluding stagnation period of the “developed socialism”. Dmitry graduated from the Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology in Dolgoprudny and worked as theoretical physicist. In 1992 emigrated to Germany and worked at different universities. Since 2005 professor at Physics Department of Lehman College of the City University of New York. Author of about 130 scientific papers. Fellow of the American Physical Society (2013).

Dmitry wrote poetry in Russian during 1978-84 and 1988-89 but hasn’t published and had no contacts with literary circles. In 2012 resumed writing poetry. Author of 13 books of poetry in Russian and one book of poetry in English. His first set of poems in English has been published in Asian Signature in 2014,

DmitryGaranin, USA, New York (alsoGermany, Baden-Baden),


Kapardeli Eftichia


 Oh! scents, Oh! innocent body

Light uranium

displaced whole soul

in this tender

sea of human moments

wind steals




In older homes

in large squares

in common usage

the end times

hidden worlds

Light secret clairvoyance

The heavens donation

a thousand eyes

a blue seduction




The silence in

streets tireless

the hiker wins

  And in rain


the ultimate time

concise relives



In tears of people the  promise

 the wheaten bread and caress

is made of pain and kindness



Each dawn name


Blessed is he where

do not forget ,he who touches hearts

venerable love and affection

born and Booming




 A beautiful little flower

roots stretching

small suns

joins in the dark


Tear the heart, you …….

the fingers of dawn

absolute beauty

equivalent ornament


Lily of the wind

to  lap

golden fire

secret passage of love


Oh! hon booming

the soul trembles, the gentle kiss

and I,

mature wise

and alone

remotely in love

Ah! how much I want to tell you

I never dared



Immaculate mistress

Crevasse in the rock
a slender stalk
tear of the Virgin
The soft smell
with spilled paint
dressed soul
first kiss
Immaculate mistress
The Rose Cowards
Gold and blonde’s
sun collecting


 sweet beauty

 In tranquil look

closes the circle

the sweet little village life

with ruby cheeks

with big eyes

shining like

Candles lit

hands eagerly

hair curly roses

sweet delight confusing

in the teeth of

in the sugary mouth

sweet beauty



Grow up
behind the Sun.
cold greedy flowers
the rhythm of winds
colorless delivered
Grow up
the persistence
a disobedient spark
burns over the years
the secret of wear
Grow up
hugs a protest
and people Flowers
that flourished Cuckold
a Red Moon
thirsty for truth
freedom to love
At night everything
be late
will lean to light
be free.

Dr. Kapardeli Eftichia has a Doctorate from ARTS AND CULTUREEFTICHIA KAPARDELII FEB NEW WORLD ACADEMY.Born in Athens and live in Patras.She writes poetry, stories, short stories, xai-kou , essays, novels.She studied journalism AKEM (Athenian training center), University of Cyprus in Greek culture.He has many awards in national competitions.

Is a member of the IWA (international writers) ,the world poets society. The official website is http://world-poets.blogspot. com and honored by the Indian Academy and made the drafting of Peace Anthology