Category Archives: World poetry

Mike Absalom

4th Vol, No1  (April 2017)

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

“Croissants and Language on the Tongue

Painting by Mike Absalom

I am sat in the Troubadour garden beneath rusty lilacs.
After the death and resurrection of the dandelions
a first autumn breeze came nosing in and swept the seeds away into another dimension.
This breeze now lingers and eavesdrops on the café conversation.
I can hardly blame it, for there are poets a plenty here,
seeding the space left by the departing piss-a-beds
and replacing the vacuum-pack chatter of the long gone swallows
with their own Morse code, both literary and pheremonal.
The coffee smells good here too! And it is!
The breeze is in no hurry, for every zephyr needs a little cash-and-carry gossip to trade with the African birds.

That breeze had slipped through the lilacs on uneasy reconnaissance,
and now, beneath the buzz of café conversation I can hear it probing the dead leaves under the bushes, scrabbling about like an old man’s hands round a young woman’s waist.
An hourglass, in whatever incarnation, always incites different kinds of desperation.
Around the marble tabletops and beneath the rustic decorations
of superannuated farm implements and broken bits of iron we sit
like a funeral committee discussing the preparations for a spectacular burial.
That of language, most probably.

With a mouthful of buttered croissant my neighbour starts to speak to me.
Smiling a smile of arch obscurity and spitting small flakes of pastry like a tropical plant disgorging seeds he says: “the bulimic day creeps full bellied over the horizon and vomits out of sight!”
I think his management of both tongue and vocabulary in the same mouth is masterly!
Not to be outdone I reply: “within this limpet pool called time, clinging to the present moment, I drink my coffee, going nowhere.”
Across the table his wife tries to smile as she slowly withers
like a plum alone in a fruit bowl when the family has gone on holiday.

Aah! 1968 was a good year for me!

 

 

”Wurra Wurra: The Night of the Long Brooms” 

Painting by Mike Absalom

In the press there are days folded like clean linen
waiting for the dirt.
Inside the press a clock keeps ticking
and they say it is only a matter of time.

Broomsticks I saw first.
Glowing like iron rods under a blacksmith’s bellows,
red as the geraniums in my window alcove
they moved towards me out of the darkness.

And then three women, naked and wild as the storm driven wind in the chimney’s breast,
Stepping in on this Night of the Dead and of all the Holy Saints stealthily,
rag-haired, broom-clad, besom-handed, bucket-swinging, brush-proud.

From the black shadows they drove the ciarógs and the clocks
and the millipedes and the wood lice and the silverfish
and the daddy long legs and the black spiders,
herding them silently out of this sad and dusty bachelor gaff
and off its surface of unswept regret.

For this is the echoless hole of entropy that a connubial extraction leaves behind.

Since our separation it has been mine.

Broomsticks I saw first.
Glowing like iron rods under a blacksmith’s bellows,
red as the geraniums in my window alcove
they moved towards me out of the darkness.

In the press there are days folded like clean linen
waiting for the dirt.
In the closet a clock keeps ticking
and they say it is only a matter of time.

Broomsticks I saw first.
Glowing like iron rods under a blacksmith’s bellows,
red as the geraniums in my window alcove
they moved towards me out of the darkness.

 

 

“I am Depression – Give me a Drink”! 

Painting by Mike Absalom

The dried up geranium in a terracotta pot on the windowsill
mutters when I come into the room late at night.
I suspect it is some kind of curse.
Perhaps because I have given it no water for a month.
I didn’t sing to it either.
I am away often, occupying myself with matters crucial to my sanity.
I do not expect a geranium to understand this.
This one has many incarnations to go
before it can even think of being a rose,
let alone an evolved and sentient plant. I think.
Although I am not too au fait with karmic hierarchies.

As I watch I see it grows a little.
I am sure that that slight movement could have been growth!
Although it might have been a quiet sigh.
It is hard to tell with a plant so over-cultivated it has never known seed.
This poor dear was raised from a cutting.
As a shoot it was certainly underprivileged in the root department!
But it should have got over that by now.
I notice that it has started to move like a crab,
sidling sideways towards the floral curtain. That is not a good sign.

Still I know there is very little satisfaction around for geraniums these days, particularly not for pink ones.
And certainly not for brown dried up wizened ones
that look like a jar full of fortune teller’s old yarrow stalks.

I bend down and tell it-Forget the floral curtain! It is an illusion!
And there is no reason for depression!
It is something that has soaked in from elsewhere,
perhaps from the old stones the house is made of,
or maybe it was mixed into the wet plaster centuries ago
and it has leaked out into you.
Or from strangers, sidling up, taking you by osmosis, seeping into you,
rotting you with other people’s misery. This is not yours. It’s just vrittis!
Stand up and shake it off! Look through it!
It is mud splattered by passers by! Or even your own family perhaps!
You only own it by association, this unease.
I’m sure that made it feel better.
I fetched a bottle of schnapps and emptied it into the pot.

 

 

“A Finely Chewed Ear”

Painting by Mike Absalom

Keeping a love affair moving
Is like playing a difficult melody on a saw:
It needs a huge amount of muscle
Matched with a finely tuned ear.

Cursing the wet sycamore leaves on the road,
I slip and slide miserably back home.
Your words have bitten me like a mouthful of iron teeth!
Lust can teach a lover very quickly
That there is not much difference
Between the Breath of the Morning
And Morning Breath.

 

Mike Absalom, an Irish poet, painter and print- maker, was born in Devon 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. (www.mikeabsalom.com)

Wayne Hislop

 

The Hour Glass

Mainak’s photography

They once lived in a house of refined glass

Tormented by a slurring wind

That kissed and spat and smashed

Harsh, bitter, and pursuing it

Showed its toll.

 

As the glass received chips,

Then shattered, it long reformed

To sand; there was no sparkle of life

Not a movement or a ripple,

The dance ceased.

 

A battle was once fought here –

No winner or loser

But now

There was no more distress.

 

In this sand, that once

resembled a stain of glass

that captured a ray of light

on a reflection of a more composed time

Now forgotten.

 

 

The Predators

Mainak’s photography

Her presence was sculpted

in his mind’s black, dark cold.

Sick thoughts start to disperse,

that fuels the others,

like regiments carrying lanterns

lighting her every move.

 

She plays musical notes

that she knows not,

an unseen flute entwined

with infectious scents

egos fuelled by distracted glances

 

They seek out the note

that takes their crazed, crazed

Grand Canyon brush-stroke thoughts,

painting the night

in Lucifer’s gallery’s were angels

freeze in portraits long lost

to the one’s

that were once blessed.

 

Wayne Hislop has been published in many Anthology’s of poetry and journals with one poem being used in a University in Ireland and a other in a Library at Scared Hearts Collage India. Wayne is Dyslexic and has had reading and writing problems most of his adult life.

Steffen Horstmann

Blue Thunderhead    III

Desert winds whisper sutras in Dari today.

Sikh mystics chant mantras in Domari today.

 

The shadows of panthers emerge from a forest,

Dissolving in mist rising from the Chari today.

 

The voices of Furies persist in gales raving

At the abandoned temple of Circe today.

 

In Kashgar’s glistening mirages

Figs ripen to a tint of dark honey today.

 

Whirling leaves have become notes of music

Breezes hum at the graves of the Shoshone today.

 

Inca doves singing in the olive groves

Emulate the voice of Calliope today.

 

“From night till night and now … As easily as song–”

Wailing shells thrash trenches at Gallipoli today.

 

Djinns inhabit catacombs echoing

Scriptures sages chant in Sivandi today.

 

Vishnu levitates above the Sarasvati today.

Whirlwinds thrash temples in Amravati today.

 

Falcons rise from the tombs of the Anasazi today.

Winds polish relics in the ruins of Ghazi today.

 

 

 

Shadow of the Djinn

Raindrops fall like pearls

Around its shadow.

 

A band of silver light swirls

Around its shadow.

 

The shaitan’s voice whirls

Around its shadow.

 

Darkness a cloak the wind hurls

Around its shadow.

 

A speck of gold dust whirls

Around its shadow.

 

White sand streams in whorls

Around its shadow.

 

[As starfish emit gold auras in deep sea caves]

As starfish emit gold auras in deep sea caves,

Schools of krill glisten in translucent waves.

 

Pink locusts ravage millet crops in the Sahel

When Harmattan winds stream in radiant waves.

 

Salt dunes glint in coastal wastes where the sky

Is a sea surging with clouds shaped like waves.

 

Silver fig trees inhabit mirages on plains

Patrolled by the militias of warring enclaves.

 

Jasmine incense coils from stone lanterns

As sages summon rain with timbrels & claves.

 

Kafra’s fortresses collapsed on the tombs

Of gilded mummies in a labyrinth of caves.

 

The Corinthian sun throbs like a heart,

Evaporating blue mists flowing from caves.

 

Thunder hushed the massacre of the Ma’dan,

With dust still uneasy on their hurried graves.

 

Petrified anemones adorn stone coffins

In the burial chambers of Coptic naves.

 

Where Marian Apparitions Appear

Where crystals are shattered by a djinn’s shriek.

Where from scriptured vases oracles speak.

 

Where a phoenix’s shadow inhabits

The white smoke of smouldering teak.

 

Where in webbed catacombs sibyls

Recite Homer in Latin & Greek.

 

Where circling falcons form vortexes

In sapphire skies jet streams streak.

 

Where orchards swarm with butterflies

That migrated from Martinique.

 

Where Marian apparitions appear

At secret shrines sages seek.

 

 

The Crowned Knot of Fire

“All manner of thing shall be well

When the tongues of flame are in-folded

Into the crowned knot of fire

And the fire and the rose are one.”

̶ T.S. Eliot

 

 

Chords floating from strings

Of an Orphic lyre.

 

Moths with flaming wings

Swarming a coastal pyre.

 

White diamonds studding

A Byzantine spire.

 

Saffron clouds shredded

By a whirling gyre.

 

Blue light streaming

From a Persian sapphire.

 

A rose forming within

The crowned knot of fire.

 

As Agha Shahid Ali’s student, Steffen Horstmann  studied the history of the ghazal form and began writing his own ghazals in English. Horstmann’s poems and book reviews have appeared in publications throughout the world, including Baltimore ReviewFree State ReviewIstanbul Literary ReviewLouisiana LiteratureOyezReview, Texas Poetry Journal and Tiferet. His book of English ghazals Jalsaghar was published in 2016.

 

Amir Sarem

Nowruz (new day,The first day of the Year)

Each day is eternal new day everywhere on earth with you
Northern hemisphere southern hemisphere across the equator
Any moment any point is always the starting
Mm mm of this planet is endless wonders
All of the earth is remembrance everything is your notice
My eyes bright always upbeat
The most bitter pain transient the sky full of stars
I never laugh away from you
Lights are all gone
Everything strained
And infinitely sad world
To eyes visions to accesses
Away from you
I never laugh .

Noon at the station
When you arrive Left newspaper Was on the bench in the shade New-rise sun in the sky Visions were sliding in full of people street At there the same time Left newspaper is yet in the shadows The sun new rise that you arrive You arrived I looked at the ground that you came You arrive and new-rise sun The sun was just rising Maybe you Maybe.

 

Oblivion rhythm
Going people years hours Looking for their names and delusions Name delusion life delusion victory delusion And love delusion and pain delusion delusion of their me’s I have not lost my self I lost my name With think to you to human to the world To change at any moment From pre-tail to this tail the world has become another world This word has become another thing Everything becomes everything else In the impermanent time each word has become else Nameless Without any following and address I float in a vacuum From pre-tail to this tail Me has become another me.

 

 

Amir Sarem a poet from  Iran.

Kapardeli Eftichia

LIVES IN LOVE

Adorn the life with love
the great destiny
eyes trapped in future
God of love
guard

Growing at all times
those who love conspire
and heart weight without crashing, keep
and does not buckle, flower defoliation
and blooms

Lives were in confident heavens
free with God similar
submerged, omnipotent
of old
prison …
and when the day conquer
nonstop blooming

It stars pieces primitive
without interpretation, invisible
love works.

 

Spring gentle rain

Through the thin shadow
the small cloud
a sudden peaceful, humble
spring gentle rain
irrigates the soil

 

From music and
frantic dance
the most
small forgotten
grass awakening
are delivered, thirstily

 

In this hugging the
full of smells
Sun lowers
smiling again winner
the calcined stones
the rain thousands of kisses
he had left.

 

New Era

Bare to the invitation
wolves the
friends at the erosion
and the falling
give birth vanishing desires
with subjection patterns
in seduction games

In fossil tree
of courtyard that
painted children in
flash of lightning
and at calcined wind
the Eagle’s Nest built

I wake up from the dance secret
of rain the erotic body of the earth
New Era

In winter light
in the city of your eyes
wings colorful pinned
butterfly of your dreams.

Dr. Kapardeli Eftichia has a Doctorate from ARTS AND CULTURE WORLD ACADEMY.Born in Athens and live in Patras.She writes poetry, stories, short stories, xai-kou , essays, novels.

Brandon Marlon

Upcountry

Inland wayfarers halt at a ramshackle bivouac

off the beaten track by the vermeil light

of sunup for last-minute victuals

as they ready to surmount hurdles,

their eyes aloft toward the summit distant

and neutral to their quest, at best.

 

They espy just ahead amid cacti

the bleached bones of carcasses

picked clean by vulturous scavengers,

beneficiaries of time and chance.

 

Smoke from breakfast fires spirals

yonder into the plain, masking chaparral

and startling patterned rattlers

from their cozy dens onto the warmth

of earth cracked and peeling.

 

Equipped to ascend, the living know

well how impartial wilderness remains

toward civilization’s refugees

who place themselves at the mercy

of forces amoral and untamed;

yet life ever seeks other life,

undaunted by the pitfalls and perils

nested amid nature wild and inviting.

 

Meridian

Some nights stay up till dawn, lost in fugues

of yesteryear; here, of halcyon days and nights

on spacious plains where humped herds

grazed and stampeded, thundering earth

with a rumble echoing through ages,

resounding in the songs and crafts of tribes

carnivorous yet respectful, careful to satisfy

survival’s exigencies, not sport’s excesses,

natives fated to be slain, outthrust from

or corralled within clannish lands overrun

by herds of another kind, droves of long-lost kin

pushing piecemeal seaward unto destiny.

 

Vernal longings distract the nostalgic,

yet the wise recognize, in the wake of scorched earth,

chaparral; amid ghosts, offspring in the flesh.

 

Elders know dolor should receive hospitality,

never tenure. They gaze and glean how yonder

stars burn clearly all through the night,

as must all to view dawn’s new light.

 

Tropics

Ships furrow the waters out at sea

while civilization’s refugees

anneal on the beach,

their pestering cares a world away.

 

By the quay a lone stevedore ignores

heat and thirst, dragging hawsers

along the towpath to moor crafts

gently yet securely, his funicular expertise

accrued over many seasons in austral regions.

 

Below the surface, migrating turtles pause

to munch on seagrass meadows

rich in essential nutrients

while lemon sharks chase rays

through the mangrove’s red roots

growing in tidal shores and deluged

twice daily with saltwater.

 

Aloft the torrid orb parches

equally, the clime’s merciless overlord

punishing by its very presence,

conferring both favor and wrath,

defiantly resisting twilight till

the decisor nightfall settles the struggle.

 

 

The Great Synagogue of Constanta

Amid the forsaken sanctuary grows a tree

green and lanky, tilting with the wind

ever since the roof partially collapsed.

Standing sentinel is the yellow fleurette

Star of David overseeing the amassed debris

below, a congeries of chipped cement,

smashed stained glass, plaster, and wood beams,

ruins overgrown with shrubs, carpeted with dirt.

Arched colonnades uplifted by blue pillars

attest to the Moorish Revival design

of a halidom once admired by Ashkenazim

from near and far keen on the sublime;

now only mean dogs frequent the detritus,

foraging for kosher remnants of another sort.

Where now there lies a rubble heap

once stood a palace aglow with worship;

where filth now strews the floor

once stood congregants before the upraised scroll,

devotees enthroning on their praise the Most High.

The building is the body but the assembly

is the soul; bereft of its sacred entrails,

the desacralized shell succumbs to the elements,

a bittersweet vestige verging on demise,

its hallowed scenes enshrined in memory.

 

Statesman’s Memorial

The deceased, inert in the flag-draped coffin atop a bier

overhears the laudation from a choir of admirers

come from near and far to pay final respects

in a solemn assembly of mourners.

 

Outpourings of grief, gratitude, and melody mingle

under the vast canopy shading from desert sun

ministers, dignitaries, and grandees

keen to preview what their own funerals might resemble.

 

The honor guard stands now at attention, now at ease,

as protocol officers direct proceedings,

rabbis mutter prayers, and the cantor’s voice

chaperones the soul heavenward unto angels.

 

Harmonious diapason cedes to sober monody

as attendees rise and watch uniformed pallbearers

shoulder mortal remains and escort them to their

resting place to be inhumed and covered with sand.

 

None speaks ill of the dead; at such an hour,

elision serves as dignified handmaiden of grace.

Only merits and service are mentioned;

only good intentions are recollected.

 

Let us warmly praise, and bless, and forgive

and ever bear witness to the good;

may our eyes espy virtues

and our mouths pronounce appreciation.

 

 

Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 135+ publications in 21 countries. www.brandonmarlon.com.

 

Len Cristobal

Of gods and ghosts

 In the city, the guns are gods

at night and fat ghosts in daylight,

the sun kneels on a dead-end street

thick with deep red mud drying

before two eyes, open and still,

gaping cold at golden badges.

Above are doves flapping like

windows left unshut in storm.

 

The news sheds skin, and lips

are leaves rustling back home,

wild dogs slaver at the mouth,

steeled for hunting beside the king,

whose crown is a round nest of blades

and tongues that spit on blindfolds

and scales of men who fish for hours

 

and the carefree lope along

but we know in life, we are fools,

in the garden of power, mere bugs,

in freedom, corpses with wings.

 

 

Wo-mangroves

 In a small village near Xuan Thuy National Park in Vietnam, Pham Thi Kim Phuong starts her day at 4:00 am, preparing food for the family and for the cattle. Before the sun rises, she bikes seven kilometres to the mudflats by the park’s mangroves. –Mangroves for the Future (MFF)

She stands like a queen

on the scrambling fingers

of a giant that grovels at his feet

and sees her tears merely

barren gobs of earth.

Her knotted ligneous parts

and jade thickets hamper

relentless tides, guarding

life in water, on land, and

under her til the flood ebbs

and the river settles.

Inside her is not granite

or the blue lace agate

but salt, the kind that

can nourish and numb.

Do not judge her when

the gold dime in the sky

boils her temper; be water

in her broad, emerald leaves.

Even serpents with scales

that suffocate us from afar

find solace in her breadth

the way turtles, snook,

worms, and sponges do.

 

Len Cristobal is a writer from the Philippines. Her writings have appeared in local newspapers and magazines and on international websites. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Broadcast Journalism and is working on a collection of essays, short stories, and poems

Michael O’Sullivan

The dissolution of beauty

There was a time when beauty

Ignited senses in creative ways

Then arousal replaced beauty,

Its short thrills scuppering engagement,

The suspended sentence of sleaze

Rounded up all my potential,

Impounded my versatility,

Until the shortest way through

Was the longest way home

And the long dark night of the soul

Seemed worthwhile for the shudder

In the loins before the leadean beauty

That hoisted the dark streets on

The residential freshly-mowed lawn

And the three-bed detachment,

Squatting down low to my optic

Fibres in spotlighted isolation.

Beauty is so deceiving

It barely acknowledges itself

Before it is upturned

Made to revolve around itself

Until it becomes a

Digital assistant,

The image and likeness

Of my tired, vacant eyes.

 

 

Working with my father

I wasted the day again

But realized it too late

About midnight

After reading Carver

Then I revived and wanted

To work on something.

I tried remembering the thought I had,

The one about working with my father

That morning,

Leaving his house in St Lukes together early

To carry the saw up to the skip of junk,

I wanted to saw the two old timber doors in half

And the old guttering.

The saw cut through the wet wood like

A knife through bread

My father looked on

Over my right shoulder

The morning was breaking

-Ah don’t be doing that

-Surely you don’t have to do that

But I was already half way through the door

And I was enjoying watching the teeth tear through,

The door from an old shed the previous owner

Had put up in the sixties or seventies,

Coated in tar with two pieces of wood

In a big X on its back for extra support.

I wondered what he’d make of me

Destroying the door he’d built one summer day in the sixties,

A man with a family.

I have no family,

Was this why I enjoyed the destruction?

I worked from both sides until only an inch was left uncut.

I turned the door over,

Leaned it against the concrete garden border

And came down on it with my foot.

It cracked in two.

My father ahead of me,

Eighty,

Carrying these half-doors down the hill to the skip,

-Thanks so much for the help Dad,

-Don’t be thanking me at all,

-I find this work relaxing

Later that night I thanked him again

His sigh

-Ah, this morning.

 

 

I wanted Cork

I wanted Cork to be my Wessex or Lake District,

My Cheapside or Yoknapatawpha country

But I couldn’t stop leaving

Long enough for to discover it

Behind my inflections,

Assertions, associations,

That loaded it with

Solid anger and desperate bewilderment

For leaving me behind,

Emotions too rigid for its

Shape-changing, meandering

Opinions and intonations,

Its steely-jawed, skinny-necked,

Self-inflated, irrational logic.

 

I was like the son living too long

With his mother

Rising her only to have her complain

So, they could come together later

Over an apology.

But Cork accepted no apology,

Only ever deflected it back,

Its muddy banks and seventeen bridges

Knowing well what Heraclitus

Meant when he wrote about running waters.

 

 

I keep building homes

I keep building homes

Only to have the homes

Fall down around me.

 

There are so many kinds of filth here,

So many I can’t tell the dirt from the filth,

The filth from the grubs, the grubs from the worms.

When I feel, something detaches from the side of a finger

Through a muddy kitchen glove

I’m thinking it’s of its own volition.

 

So many kinds of filth and decay

I had never thought so much was undone.

Stubborn paint scrapings, rotten wood splinters,

Passive mud, ruthless concrete chips,

Drenched deciduous leaves,

Woodlice, dead woodlice, old matted cobweb,

Chrysalis crypts, cocoon shells,

Spider skeletons, scurrying centipedes, evicted ants,

Migrant dust, scattered dust, skin-like saturated plastic,

Old rusted pipe, treacherous broken broom handles

Laced with woodlice crusts and cobweb,

Fungus scraped off a damp gable wall,

Old nails entrenched in masonry,

Stolid moss, cuttings from a dead tree,

Shards from a plastic watering can

Left out too many decades

in the undergrowth.

 

It’s a struggle to collect it all

Into the black bag for the baby skip

So, they can take it to the dump

Pack it down

Treat it

And break it down some more.

 

Dumping the remains of one man’s labour

A generation ago

On a day, he worked

To clear a space of junk

And build something new.

Michael O’Sullivan is a writer, critic and teacher based in Hong Kong. His poems have appeared in Asiancha, Desde Hong Kong: poets in conversation with Octavio Paz, and Quixotica: Poems East of la Mancha. He also writes stories, essays and creative criticism. His recent books include Academic barbarism, universities and inequality and Weakness: a literary and philosophical history.

Michael Mulvihill

WRITERS HEAD ON A STICK

They used to shoot the messenger,

But this horde wanted gore,

A torture and a killing from the days of yore,

A piece was writ that had too much grit,

It told truth,

Stung a few living demons that wanted blood,

And thus, was vowed there shall be blood,

Off went the writer’s hands thrown to starving dogs,

Plucked out of sockets went his pair of eyes,

Knee capped by a shotgun as a chainsaw started on,

When all was done, his body remains was fed to crocodiles in a zoo,

As this horde, this cult of death,

Raised their flag outside a mansion,

And placed the writers head on a stick,

A thick stick yes,

But none the less a stick,

The hurly burly was done,

What was achieved in this process?

 

 

The Full Truth

We had everything,

Now all we have is this planet that we steel and asset strip,

Inherited wrongs,

Breathing like a virus,

 

The modern law,

Justifying and rationalising the unethical,

Until the grip in its lecherous nature is growing like chicken weed on the arteries of your soul’s heart,

See the avarice roar,

See consumerism dwell in the midst of nothingness and meaninglessness,

 

Over exerting power,

And authority to,

Crime grows,

 

Mr. Mammon does not forbid a thing,

He does not forbid war,

As long as you can economically rationalize it.

He does not forbid exploitation,

Mr. Mammon is a pig,

He is proud,

He grunts when fully contented,

His enemies he regards as enemies to humanity,

Venial sins grow to mortal sins,

They create a chain reaction,

Adam and Eve

Or just ourselves.

 

 

Big Fictions-Schizophrenia

The time is now,

The story began months ago,

Now in,

Lacerated rational reasoning,

The I had been displaced over another I,

What a metamorphosis,

 

The skull is frightened by the eagle,

Space is cramped, and is divided,

Divided into miniscule pieces upon the façade of the body,

My ego is fragile, fragmented, foreclosed, split into pieces,

Reality seems to look like a red serpent and a deviant,

Distributed by further non-egos,

Ideas can be just lies and persecution,

Distributed by further non-entity, non-pieces of my ego,

A sterile wasteland,

Enjoin and con-join,

 

What is this exaltation?

 

Now even the sky scrapers look like ants,

Migrating my body into a folly of administered enjoyment,

It is said what the alternatives should be,

A boundary, a yielding,

An un-damaged force,

That does not want the various split thoughts to unite into one force,

To make a unitized subjective sense.

 

.

Bloodshed, War shed, Asset Stripped (Ethnically Cleansed Areas of The Former Yugoslavia)

We drove through towns ripped apart by war,

My soul dived into the darkest ground that I have ever found,

For what I see leaves nothing to admire,

I cast aside hell,

Only to see hell,

Tears from my eyes pour,

For what should be an eternity

But to spite this,

Tears merely are a gentle flow,

Only the crackle and hiss of fire,

I flee fury,

Driving away,

Bit by bit,

Becoming safer and safer,

As territory, I pass remains devoured in the past and present,

Dark trembling thoughts encounter these realities,

If only for the time being I am not a warrior and I lose nothing of my soul,

Thoughts in this enclave of war are none too happy,

I close chapters of the present and hope that I can be blinded through this time I live,

The day goes on and all I know is to live in the past,

Every time becomes a luxury where normality exists and is known,

I carry on.

Michael Mulvihill hails from Dublin, Ireland

Akeredolu tpoe

WE ARE POETS!
I guess that’s what we do!
We look far away to horizon buried beneath
Closed hearts
We listen to the pump from tired pulmonary
And forge out songs from aching mouths
We teach news song and replace the old
With new notes from the piano of experience
We heal
We hear even from unspoken fears
We lead
We love with power so fierce
We pour out fledging realities
To feed souls
souls who must be pulled out from deep
Within the abyss
From within Hades bossom
We teach love even as amateurs
We breath in the blue rays of the traveling skies
hoping to drink from nature’s boundless seas
And leap up to embrace life
To forge new dances to her discordant tunes
As we made to escape
Like air from punctured balloon
From our food we also feed
Since were are mortal who often fail
Whose hearts also harbour just enough fear
Of yesterday’s fire
Whose smokes blurs the vision of tomorrow
Enough hurts
With impact so strong
Hearts wrench to stop like a metal under crank
Forgive! if Muse sometimes fails to sing through us
Since We also yearn for our own poets
From the lonely worker ploughing the field
To the tired trader calling out the reluntant buyer
from the single mother with untold worries
Of the prying eyes and running mouths of the jobless earth
To the student whose stories of failure out classes
Even Hannibal’s exploits
But with such matchless resolve as to uproot
Kilimanjaro from her majestic throne
Perhaps we had consumed all the healing Muse had to give
For oftentimes we yearn for that which we
we hope to draw hope from a look at the world
Atop Himalayas and soak in fresh breath
Under a lonely pine
And join in the song of the cockoo bird
To open our mouth and drink from the chilling dews
From a rose doting the meadows
And lend hand to a trapped deer as we traverse
Green lands under our blue skies
Hi love
We are poets
poets whose humanity manifest in his craft.

 A STREET HAWKER

That black tray that balances on her head
Is the sea from which she must fish
The blue purse tied around her fragile waist
Is the harpoon to wade off street sharks
The previous night
A bitter creditor had thrown tantrum at mama
She had called her hopeless
One whose porous bossom cannot keep a man
One whose fallopian tube retains so much fliud
A baby must come from every sport
So on this day she went with a rigour unmatched
From pillar to post like a troubadour
With special dexterity she leapt at every beckon
Rivalling even the minaret with her voice
The sorrow in the call
the melancholy
The fear of the war home
All made for a girl conceal behind shattered shells
A girl whose little head housed the dinner of a dozen
Whose pulmonary pumps out unwept sorrows
From Broken dreams and drab days filled with half sleeps on tired floors
The walls of the school want to hug her
To touch and teach her precocious soul
To light that little flame lurking in the depth of her heart
But since she must with reluctance embrace her tray
If  she must not frail
From lack of love and leading light

And since she did not know
The monster who poured the milk of her conception
He had left mama when all she was
Was a fragile little nymph

Akeredolu tpoe, obtained is bachelor’s degree in English language from AAUA. He works as English language instructor at St Gregory college ikare and writes poetry at night. His works have appeared in African writer, Indian periodical and are forthcoming in Antarctica journal and ink and sweats. He lives with is family in Ikare Akoko southwest Nigeria- the town of the twin mountain.