Cathartic Eclipse. A Video Poem by Anca Mihaela

 

 
 
Please note after this particular you tube video poem by Anca
there follows a series of her excellently crafted film work in
which further of her video poems feature, but the typescript only
to this particular video poem Cathartic Eclipse is shown below.
Editor’s Note.

 
 
I witnessed the death of the universe…
Tumbling, crushing, spinning
in the maddening chaos
of the spiral Time!
 
Eternity… ceased to exist,
Time… was no more,
my soul ripped asunder
the stars… show no more!
 
Pleading internally
I succumb my farewells,
emptied my concavities,
ashes of solitude reminded me
of quixotic moments
dismissed involuntarily
 
you were oblivious to my presence
gazing emptily a brimming space,
surreality became my twisted fate
and no transition left for immortality!
 
My world is hushed
And I crave for volumes of light
in this glaring darkness of hope
succumbing throes
of cacophonous silence
cocooned in webs of deceit
awaiting the promised resurrection.
 
In these nights of forgetfulness
my poetry still bleeds inside me
in this realm there is an aeonic distance
between my Soul… and your Heart!…

 
 
Anca
 
 
“Anca-Mihaela Bruma strives to continuously challenge and change the world we live in by means of art, and it is by breaking away from old traditions that she invigorates the art world in pursuit of a new emotional intellect. It is central to her own belief that it is her duty to empower, motivate, inspire, educate and heal. The awakening of the latent gifts we all perhaps unknowingly possess is also central to her quest.
 
In an astute and complex combination of art forms, Anca enhances the essence of poetry, bringing it to another level, creating a higher, more aesthetic literary culture where creativity and logic abide in harmony. This, she succeeds in doing through the symphonic audio-visualizations which have become her distinctive trademark, where visual is visionary, mystical weds mathematical, and lyrical flirts with musical.
 
Although Anca rebelled against formal education as a child, she could not rebel against the artist that was burgeoning within. From an early age she was able to intuitively perceive transformation in all things, and thus she started to nurture an impulsive desire to be somehow part of this transformation. Later, this urge would lead to her pursuing a rigorous program of independent study which would include literature, philosophy, art, and history.
 
It is her belief that through ART she can transform and enhance human consciousness.
 
Anca seeks to restore poetry to public culture by engaging the imagination of her ‘reader-listeners’ in a way that encourages them to use critical analysis of the experiential, performative, and creative vectors which run through her visual poetry.
 
She endeavors to enrich human consciousness or, at the very least, protect intrinsic values from depredation. Where art would at times seem to create opposition to the natural forces of time and morality, Anca helps us make sense of, even come to terms with the oblivion stretching before us.

 
( by James Cairns, Anca’s co-editor, literary advocate ad translator of her poems)
 
 

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The Mole. A Poem by Ananya S Guha

I hate to say it
but the mole on my nose
is only an architecture of disdain
pure contempt for Grecian looks
and ultra
violets have broken into unmusical
songs, I have a hand for blasphemy
for those in exile ( in oblivion)
but the mole gives intrepid warmth
to a less than humane heart
a heart that mocks at love
and sees in body lust
philanderer of hope, testimony
coming back to the mole, the nose itches
in radical protest against human faces
of dignity.revolt then, you reprobates
crush the sinner’s dying plea of resurrection.
the mole looks blacker, wilder and the body
warms.

 
 
DSC_0018
 
 
Ananya S Guha has been born and brought up in Shillong, India and works in India’s National Open University, the Indira Gandhi National Open University. His poems in English have been published world wide. He also writes for newspapers and magazines/ web zines on matters ranging from society and politics to education. He holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. He edits the poetry column of The Thumb Print Magazine, and has published seven collections of poetry.
 
 
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Japanese Spirit. A Poem by Tatjana Debeljački

 Forest Spirit is the master of woods and beasts, the shepherd whose stock
 consists of deer, roes and rabbits, which are looked after by wolves or lynxes.
 His cheeks are blue, his eyes are green, and his beard is long and green.
 Sometimes he covers himself with furs, and some of the legends depict him
 as wearing a mask and having horns. His left shoe is always on his right foot,
 he buckles his sheepskin on the wrong side. He does not have a shadow, his
 blood is blue. He is looking at something else. I don’t know what. Maybe soul?
 His look is blunt and his pupils are small. I kissed him in the neck, exactly the
 place where the Adam’s Apple is.
  
 * * *
  
                          If you were living just across and if I were a tree
                          In that yard,
                          I’d delight you with fruit,
                          I’ll be watered with your glimpse,
                          just look at me in ardor,
I’d bear the sweetest fruit for  YOU.

 
 
Tatjana Debeljački,
 
 
Tatjana Debeljački, born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia – UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia – HDS Serbia, HUSCG – Montenegro and HDPR, Croatia. A member of Writers’ Association Poeta, Belgrade since 2008, member of Croatian Writers’ Association- HKD Croatia since 2009 and a member of Poetry Society ‘Antun Ivanošić’ Osijek since 2011, and a member of “World Haiku Association“ – 2011, Japan. Union of Yugoslav Writers in Homeland and Immigration – Belgrade, Literary Club Yesenin Belgrade. Member of Writers’ Club “Miroslav – Mika Antić” – Inđija 2013, Writers’ Association “Branko Miljković“ – Niš 2014, and a member of Japan Universal Poets Association (JUNPA). 2013. “Poetic Bridge: AMA-HASHI (天橋) Up to now, she has published four collections of poetry: “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS “, published by ART – Užice in 1996; collection of poems “YOURS“, published by Narodna knjiga Belgrade in 2003; collection of haiku poetry “VOLCANO”, published by Lotos from Valjevo in 2004. A CD book “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS” published by ART in 2005, bilingual SR-EN with music, AH-EH-IH-OH-UH, published by Poeta, Belgrade in 2008.”HIŠA IZ STEKLA” was translated into Slovenian and published by Banatski kulturni centar – Malo Miloševo, in 2013 and also into English, “A House Made of Glass” published by »Hammer & Anvil Books» – American, in2013. Her poetry and haiku have been translated into several languages.
 
 
 
 
 
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In Bed. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop.

 

The homestead El Caserio i Bizkerre lodged upon the wall

      has a large gable’s end symmetry, slightly

skew whiff in the canvass that encompasses it. I wonder if

      she’s painted herself from within to without

 
 

Where she stands now, a cut out dark silhouette, on a patch

      before the facade of splotches, daubs of windows

doors, heraldry shields, terraces, hatches. Two doors, right side

      sharp, left a blur but can i enter, what will i see

 
 

      She knows she’s concealed from me?

what will i find, dusty jars, a winding stairway, creaking

      floorboards, a chest of drawers, which i will open

to secret treasures, but no, i am without with her dark silhouette.
 
 

      What is that luminous blob suspended above

her head by almost invisible silvery strands of arms embedding it?

      All in the foreground, the sharp, the blur, paths

to each door, blotches of rockery, smudged plants, dollops
 
 
Of green lawn. Overhead, a red angle roof, in the sharp, crows

      swarm in a blue sky, where it blurs, branches

stretch to entangle, notch the gable corner in weird distortion.

      Beside this painting is another, a naked Madonna

 
 

A faceless oval she kneels, arms clasped behind her sleek black

      parted hair, her armpits bared to reveal the taut

of her breasts, her curves in orange & gold dust.

      Is it she who waits behind these doors?

 
 

      When night falls the sea is a distant death

is The Bed that is a Tree hewn from the stump

      of an olive tree, drilled as a bed

post, as a mould for the rest, around which the chamber
 
 

      Was built, waiting for us to enter?

She is more beautiful than her painter & we know it

      but perhaps if we enter together

the splashes of paint will be softer than our creaking bones.

 
 
* In Bed. Italics. The Bed that is a Tree. Kim Lansky. Italics. The Odyssy. Book xxxiiv.

 
robin2705

 
Robin Ouzman Hislop, born UK, a reader in philosophy & religions, has travelled extensively throughout his lifetime but now lives in semi- retirement as a TEFL teacher and translator in Spain & the UK.
 
Robin was editor of the 12 year running on-line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. In 2013 he joined with Dave Jackson as co-editor at Artvilla.com, where he presently edits Poetry Life & Times, Artvilla.com, Motherbird.com.
 
He’s been previously published in a variety of international magazines, later publications including Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N. Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes (thepoeticbond.com) and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (a recently published international Anthology of Sonnets). His last publication is a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk available at all main online tributaries

 

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Game Ball. A Poem by Miriam C. Jacobs

Above Hukte Ajaw’s court where the air stinks
of rotting flesh and rubber, darkest night of the year,
the sky is potent with cold.
Our astronomers fix the time of sacrifice,
time for the judge’s sharp whistles, the slam
as the ball, stuffed with the brains of the dead,
ricochets against sloping stone.
Once through the ring is all there is.
You’ve practiced your whole life for this loser’s joke –
costumed, absurdly masked, belt packed
with home-spun rags. Childless, you ape pregnancy,
waddling wide-legged, teasing your tongue
in the scent of sausages and fried maize, challenging
to laughter the chit-chat of families with no son or daughter
in the center, prattle of people with nothing,
in this moment, to lose. The regent is planted
on his dais, legs firm and upright like two pillars.
His flags wilt on the arms behind him
in the only world that matters, the only world
you know. And when his minions have cut
your heart from your body, the steam of it rising
in the mythic air as they pass it from mouth to mouth,
when your skull has rolled down the chiseled steps,
the crowd cheered and scuttled to their dim hovels, turned on television,
the forest stretches its vines to cover those who loved you,
who carved your name on a rock.

 
 
Jacobs recent head
 
 
MIRIAM C. JACOBS is a alumnus of the University of Chicago and teaches college writing, literature and humanities. Jacobs is the editor of Eyedrum Periodically, the art/literature journal of Eyedrum Art & Music Gallery, Atlanta. Her poetry has appeared in Jewish Literary Journal, The East Coast Literary Review, Record Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Bluestem: the Art and Literary Journal of Eastern Illinois University, The King’s English, and Oklahoma Today, among other publications. Her chapbook of poetry, The Naked Prince, was published by Fort!/Da? Books in September 2013.
 
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Shine on Me. A Poem by Judy Moscowitz.

 
I’m a reactionary woman
Wearing it in my jiggle
Hidden in the cleavage of my past
Misunderstood flow
Not recognized as 925 Sterling
If you’d shine on me just a little
I would never have to lower my eyes
Shrink inside
I’d climb a high wire with perfect balance
If you’d shine on me just a little
I’d read all the classics
Becoming my own intellectual property
Play Stravinsky
Sing Nesum Dorma
If you’d shine on my just a little
I’d never need
A polishing cloth

 
 
mom photo
 
 
Judy started playing piano at the age of three, and studied at the Julliard School Of Music in New York City, her native city.
She became a jazz pianist and continues to play jazz. Now residing in Florida, she started writing poetry three years ago, and has been published in the Moonlight Dreamers Of The Yellow Haze anthology by Michael Lee Johnson, Thepoetcommunity, Whispersinthewind, Indiana Voice Journal. Poetry runs deep in her veins along with Music.

 
 
 
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POEM ON MY 33rd BIRTHDAY. A Poem by Robin Marchesi

 

      robin marchesi graphic

 
 

 

When you look back on the pages,

Of some half completed book,

When you contemplate,

Its twist and change,

And the age its teller took.

 

To unravel countless cases,

To weave a central theme,

To bewitch you with its reverie,

To sniff its inner dream

And to wrap you up in a wisdom

That you don’t quite understand.

 

It’s not a lot to read half a book

And contemplate its style.

For the story is half woven,

The tale has made its due,

Like a life that’s found a meaning

You know what you’re going through.

 

And you lean your head out forward,

To taste what you’ve to come,

But the words already written

Chapter verse and song.

 

And you’ve ploughed a furrow on your brow,

You’ve planted a seed that points a way,

For you’ve heard it now,

Spoken clear,

In that first half of living

Such an inner sense beginning.

 

When you look back on the pages

Of a half completed book

When you contemplate its twists and change

And the age its teller took.


 
 
 
 
Me
 
 
Robin Marchesi, born in 1951, began writing in his teens, much to the consternation of his mother, the sister of Eric Hobsbawm, the historian.

In 1992 Cosmic Books published his first book entitled “A B C Quest”.

In 1996 March Hare Press published “Kyoto Garden” and in 1999 “My Heart is As…”

ClockTowerBooks published his Poetic Novella, “A Small Journal of Heroin Addiction”, digitally, in 2000.

Charta Books published his latest work entitled “Poet of the Building Site”, about his time working with Barry Flanagan the Sculptor of Hares, in association with the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

He is presently working on an upcoming novel entitled “A Story Made of Stone.”

 
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Figuring it out still. A Poem by Goirick Brahmachari


 
1.
 
May be, you just wanted me to see some white horses 
flying over the silver mountain, on that fateful night, 
at old hill, when the moon was heavy
melting onto the yellow mustard, and those apple trees 
tasted white like corpse.
May be, you wanted me to accompany you to the seas 
for us, to get drowned, in sand, in liquids.
Or, may be, you just wanted to get high
to call upon the winds, and the winter
of these hills,
onto your fingers
at your will.
 
2.
 
I will wear
a blue, ribbed mask
over the dead sky
for you to hike
across the river
And gather stories,
monsters and pebbles,
on yak wool nights,
when the cold outside
cuts your skin
and the fire
tastes empty.
Yes, I will try
to sing to the river,
of rivers I have loved
for you to hike
on cold moon nights
as you kill your lovers
one by one
as the tide runs high.
 
3.
 
The day wears dusk all over its face and I try
to be at peace with a spooky mask
I wear,
to disappear, as the world around counts.
All I can hear now
is a burning sound
of this reality, we force ourselves
to believe in,
to justify this existence.
 
4.
 
Like flickering leaves of pines at dusk
I die out your imagination, your memory 
and sarcasm; I rejoice every death,
every word you utter to clean me out of your memory,
 
rejoice this destruction, your frail attempts at sanitising
your belief, as you write symphonies with your lies that
spread white wings of hate over our eyes
safely, with your cold, watery fingers.
 
Blood, you cannot staple,
for the beat cannot be stopped,
and the bridges, we agree to burn,
in songs you do not listen,
blindfolds us,
leaves us satisfied.
 
Let us breathe in
Let us breathe in
this death.
 
5.
 
Sleep
if you come now,
I will rest my body, my faith
rest my anger and the smirks
I face, as I learn and unlearn.
I have unlearned you all from my memory.
Now I learn from liquid notes that do not speak.
For sleep will concur our imagination without dreams.
Sleep
if you come now,
I will rest my lungs and my kidneys
I will rest my worries, my cravings
my ignorance, my visions of love and un-loving,
my solitude, my songs,
pain, rain, insane desires to eat up this existence.
Sleep
you must come now,
for my body aches
for my faith tumbles
my reason leaks through the drains
Sleep, will you show me a new day?
 
 
pic
 
 
Goirick Brahmachari lives in New Delhi, India. He hails from Silchar, Assam. His poems have appeared in various Indian and international magazines.

 
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