Wooden Mary meets Veronica Franco at Venice Marco Polo Airport. A Poem by Marie Marshall.

 
 
 

Somewhere in that departure lounge I know as my dreams,
a long, bizarre night that seems to contain oblique sunlight
 
– yes, and in the club lounge shived off by Vaseline glass
and by a whispering door, almost ordered with
Scandinavian furniture and black leather, long-away
framed posters of sixties chic, poseurs picked for
their mohair hipsterness and their armcandy chicks –
 
Veronica Franco’s ghost comes to me, a Versace dress, black,
Gucci shoes and matching clutchbag more Italian than the Italians,
more Venetian than the Venetians, still standing out from
the upholstery which is damned for its pretentions, her glory
piled like Audrey Hepburn’s, her neck with its unrecognizable scent
in a double-worship of pearls, the conversation of her prim, sheer legs,
her gloves, her slender Rolex worn like it was a Contessa’s heirloom,
and when she sits her lower hem is inch-perfect at her knees, her wrist
bent to make a show of checking the timepiece,
and now comes her almost-plaintive
Why do you call me?

Because I love you,
I say, and that’s the truth, or at least it’s mine;
smart-alecks tell you there’s not one truth, but unique truths
for each of us, filtered like dirty water through a bed of sand
and appearing a pure, cold spring to slake our egos; mine, though,
to me, is as clear as anything that ever bent a stick, and so it stings,
chokes when she replies
So you always say

So you always say, and I allow it, she says, I have even kissed you as deep
as the heave-ho man’s lead that sounds the sea-bottom, I have been as close,
as near, as true, as long, as loving, as intimate as any lover, Wooden Mary;
I have been your all-night and your good-night at times, and your good-times,

she says; I have been, she says, tracing her glove-fingers from
her pearl hawser to valley the cloth in the centre of her figure,
taking my eyes with them across her geography,
mother to your infant hunger.

She says more, volumes more, and though each word is
an ad hoc prison shank opening bloody mouths in me, I smile
to hear them because they are the words of my scripture, and
in the midst of them she breaks – she does! she does! – and puts
a hand on mine and rests her forehead on my shoulder, weary,
overdone with denial; she crosses her legs, so casual in defeat,
and says one phrase more
Why do you make me haunt you?

That’s the whole of it. Others don’t walk, we walk in ourselves,
we clothe our own ghosts.

Her flight is called, Los Angeles or Seoul; I walk her to the door
and watch the deliberation of her elegant heels progress
into the sunlight, until she is only a flicker.

 
Marie Marshall

Marie Marshall is an Anglo-Scottish author, poet and editor. Her first collection of poems, Naked in the Sea, was published in 2010 and reviewed in Sonnetto Poesia that same year, and her second collection, I am not a fish, in 2013. Since 2005 she has published over two hundred poems, mainly in magazines and anthologies, but the most extraordinary places in which a poem of hers has appeared include on the wall of a café in Wales, and etched into an African drum at the New Orleans Museum of Art. Her first novel, Lupa, was published in 2012. She is well-known in Scotland for her macabre short stories. Her web site can be found at mairibheag.com. Of writing poetry and sonnets she says, “I did not start writing until 2004, so I am very much a twenty-first century writer. I write anything, any kind of poetry that I feel the urge to tackle ― sonnets included.”

 
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1. Poem Trees | Dream Resume. A Poem by Prabhu Iyer

 
 
He lives in his farm house by the hills, his
quiet life of contentment, seeking, creating, 
discovering; Oh he’s a scientist, and 
he grafts his poem trees; Beautiful plumes do 
they grow for flowers, which fly out eastward
every morning; Well now he does, the sweet
fruit of these: eat poems to live? Silencing
those who asked him once; Oh and some of his 
plants can talk: beyond our hearing, ultrasound. 
Don’t we carry venoms of hatred in
metal tubes crossing our hearts, conveying
darkness across seas? These poem trees, talking,
can see through. And tell, when some leaks, causing 
fires, and deaths in a school or train station. 
Quiet life of contentment, seeking, creating,
discovering; Living in his farm house 
by the hills. Find his work at http://dreamtube.stream

 
Notes: Dream resume is a surrealist technique where the protagonist’s ‘achievements’ in the lucid-reality world of dreams are revealed, mixing elements of the real with the surreal. The word construction ‘poem trees’ is due to Sheri Lynn Pritchett, @poemtrees

 
PI_Portrait_Oct10
 
Educated in India and England, Prabhu Iyer writes contemporary rhythm poetry. He counts the classical Romantics and Mystics among his influences. Among modern poets Neruda and Tagore are his favourites for their haunting and inspirational lyrical verse. Prabhu has also explored the meaning of modern art movements such as surrealism and cubism and their role in anchoring the society through his art-poetry. Currently he is based out of Chennai, India, where he has a day job as an academic scientist.
 
In 2012 Prabhu collected over 50 of his poems and self-published them on Amazon Kindle:http://amzn.com/e/B008F8M0JS More recently, his 2014 entry made it to the long list from among over 5000 entrants to the annual international poetry contest conducted by the UK-based publishing house, Erbacce Press. Some of Prabhu’s poems are at http://hellopoetry.com/-prabhu-iyer/. His major current projects include a further volume of poetry, his first fictional novella and a planned series of translations of lyrics from Indian film music.
 

Editor’s Note for further information see Interview with Prabhu Iyer at this site
 

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Word. A Poem by Frederick Pollack

 
Initially the inscription
was thought to be ideograms,
then letters, then some intermediate stage,
insofar as that progression
could be assumed, here. All admired
the whimsical beauty
of the forms, their discipline,
the paradoxical impression
of urgency. Computers
would soon enough resolve
the question and the larger mystery;
but some researchers
 
perversely wished
the issue could be left
to imagination, their sense
of what had been said.
They questioned if the matrix were, in fact,
cliff, or had once been a wall,
say of a palace. They felt,
given the strangeness, that it hardly mattered
if the obstacles were grit, heat, earthly
distances, or vacuum, cumbersome
suits, hundreds of light years and the problems
of work in vacuum and with so much past.
They wondered if the inscription
had been written by no one
but was itself life carving
itself, and whether they
were both the message and its addressee.

 
 
 
Fred Pollok
 
 
Author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS, both published by Story Line Press. A collection of shorter poems, A POVERTY OF WORDS, forthcoming in 2015 from Prolific Press. Has appeared in Hudson Review, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Die Gazette (Munich), The Fish Anthology (Ireland), Representations, Magma (UK), Iota (UK), Bateau, Fulcrum, etc. Online, poems have appeared in Big Bridge, Hamilton Stone Review, Diagram, BlazeVox, The New Hampshire Review, Mudlark, Occupoetry, Faircloth Review, Triggerfish, etc. Adjunct professor creative writing George Washington University.
 
 
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Kavre. A Poem by Bhuwan Thapaliya

 
In Kavre,
near the village, ‘Baluwa’,
I heard
the chatter
of young kids
not yet corroded
by the parade of the broken bricks
and the uprooted
roadside metal railings
in the streets of Kathmandu,
as they played
marbles on the buffalo fields.
It was a poem
I’d forgotten.
It was a jingle
not yet crushed
by the voracious jaws
of the bull dozers.
It brought back
in a rush
the Nepal
I’d known:
the rhythm of children
playing in streets
free of the racket,
and danger, of passing trucks.
In Kavre
near the village, ‘Baluwa’,
I heard the song
of life against life.
I sat on the porch
of the old hut
and through
the arched gateway
watched the
wisps of steam float upward
from wiry ferns
to kiss
the cuckoo
birds nest .
 
•From Bhuwan’s second poetry collection, “ Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected.”
 
Bhuwanthapaliya picture

Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist, and is the author of four poetry collections. Thapaliya’s books include the recently released Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publication, New Delhi), and Our Nepal, Our Pride (Cyberwit.net). Poetry by Thapaliya has been included in The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry and Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry, as well as in literary journals such as Urhalpool, MahMag, Kritya, FOLLY, The Vallance Review, Nuvein Magazine, Foundling Review, Poetry Life and Times, Poets Against the War, Voices in Wartime, Taj Mahal Review, and more.
 

Author
Amazon.com/Our Nepal Pride Bhuwan Thapaliya
 
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Enigmatic Winds. A Poem by Sonnet Mondal

 
  
Enigmatic winds
curl up into fragments of breezes
drilling into the death of winter
embracing the hologram of breathing sand.
  
River beds,
as they embark
upon the edges of southern winds
and Conifers scream their complaints from the north,
focus of life desolately oscillates
as a beacon  from light houses
with paws of the carrier Griffin
proceeding in the shades,
improvising posthumous caveats
popping up as robot heads of night guards.
  
Pages of an expedition
crumble beneath old pirate-ships
(roaming in a nomadic famine struck by avarice)
fall in and spread again
upon the cushion of rootless waters
led by enigmatic winds
in unfolded folds of untold tales.
 
 
Sonnet Mondal2
 
 
Sonnet Mondal is an Indian poet of the twenty first century generation and has authored eight collections of poetry. He was featured as one of the Famous Five of Bengali youths by India Today magazine in 2010 and has edited & written forewords of several books of Indian poets. His works have appeared in several international literary publications including The Sheepshead Review (University of Wisconsin, Green Bay), The Penguin Review (Youngstown State University), Two Thirds North (Stockholm University), Fox Chase Review, The Stremez (Supported by The Ministry of Culture, Macedonia), California State Poetry Quarterly (California State Poetry Society), Nth Position, Dark Matter Journal(University of Houston-Downtown) and Friction Magazine (New Castle University & New Castle Centre of Literary Arts) to name a few.
 
He has been Writer of The Month at the Spark Magazine in June 2012, was featured as an achiever in The Herald of India in 2010 & featured in E-view points in Rockfordkingsley ltd. in 2012 and was a featured poet at Tea with George at Desperanto Publication Ltd. (now defunct).
 
His works have been translated in Macedonian, Italian, Albanian, Urdu, Arabic, Hindi, Telugu and Bengali.
 
He is the Editor in Chief of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review and Editorial Board member of Multilingual Magazine Levure littéraire based in Paris, France. Details of his works can be found at www.sonnetmondal.com

 
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For Olga. A Poem by Blanca Andreu. Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide.

 
This work comprises in an excerpt from the anthology on contemporary Spanish female poets entitled Las Diosas Blancas. Madrid, 1985. Copyright Ed. Ramon Buenaventura. Hiperion. This is an original and unpublished English version of the original poem written in Spanish. Translators Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide would like to thank Casa del Traductor, in Tarazona and the British Literary Translation Association, East Anglia University Campus.
 
From this Spanish anthology –compiled by the well-known scholar and translator Mr. Ramón Buenaventura, whom we contacted earlier– a few selected authors were chosen for our joint translation work: Amalia Iglesias: Te buscare para decirte (I Will Find You To Tell You) , Ana Rossetti: Triunfo de Artemis sobre Volupta (Triumph Of Artemis Over Volupta) and Isolda (Isolda) , Blanca Andreu: Para Olga (For Olga) , Isla Correyero: Los Pajaros (Small Birds), Amparo Amoros: Midas (Midas) and Criaturas del gozo (Creatures Of Joy) , Rosalia Vallejo: Horno en llamarada (A Furnace In Flames) , Maria del Carmen Pallares: Sisargas (Sisargas), Margarita Arroyo: Era el mar lejos del mar ( It Was Sea Away From Sea).
 
We would like to thank Mr. Ramón Buenaventura and the above name poets, in advance, and let them rest assured that their work is protected by a legal Creative Commons Licence, by virtue of which the above named translators are willing to provide excerpts from their original translation work, provided that readers agree to use it under the terms of such licence. We strongly recommend reading the entire work and the poets’, who have continued evolving during these decades.

 
For Olga
 
Child of the delicately gilt tresses,
child of the virgin stork’s obsession
with tufts of damask plumes
which scattered death,
of the mad stork with gilt
wings of strychnine
which flew off leaving you a corporeal perfume,
a fragrant scent, gilt and crude dreams.
Child who obeyed the apostle owl,
the worried look of royal eyes
with puerile drawings of Selene and the rest.
Child of the non extant concert,
child of the cruel sonatinas and malevolent books of Tom Wolfe,
or the laces of witches to bandage the wounds of hurt deer,
vulnerable deer fleeting amidst such places
as mystic knolls.
Pluperfect child, child who we never were,
tell it now,
tell it now, you, now that it is so late,
the purple saliva of the mare,
the shame of the colt as it lay down arousing spume at your feet.
 
Abandoned recite the words of long ago,
shadow of Juan Ramón: “solitude, I am true to you.”
Scornful recite the words of long ago,
but not that courtly verse,
do not speak of queens as white as a lily,
snows and burning Joan
interwoven with melancholy
of dearest Villon,
speak clear verbs where one can drink of the sadder liquid,
jars of sea and relief, now that it is already so late,
raise your tiny voice, execute an echo and sing:
 
Tell life I remember her,
I remember her.
Surely you got lost in a forest giving birth to this small death,
the trajectory of an arrested comet,
who nobody saved,
young volcano of bones and burst nova,
a completed bird, of eye lid and a thought wave,
which no book sea wakes,
no book of verse on the golden sun rays of Italy,
no book of lava
comes to an end because of me.
 
And there is death
that transforms itself into a history of serious sailors,
of that girl in underclothes which she hung
with the strings of the north wind’s harp
because on her tongue she had nuptial poison.
Surely I get lost lullabying litters of rare epitaphs,
child of gilt tresses,
I will tell life you remember her,
I will tell death you remember her,
that you remember their lines conjuring your shadow,
that you remember their customs and their character only,
their bitter laurel, their burning bush, their stray error and their
hordes of wounded.
 
I will tell life to remember you,
to remember me,
now,
until the disaster of my head,
until the disaster of my twenty years,
until the disaster, lammergeierian light.
 
 
Para Olga
 
Niña de greyes delicadamente doradas,
niña obsesión de la cigüeña virgen
con mechones de plumas de damasco
que salpicaban muerte,
de la cigüeña loca con alones
de estricnina dorada
que viajaba dejándote un corpóreo perfume,
un pulcro olor a lilas, ya dorados y rudos sueños.
Niña que obedeció al autillo apóstol
y a la mirada turbia de los ojos reales,
con pueriles dibujos de Selene y demás.
Niña de inexistente concierto,
niña de crueles sonatinas y malévolos libros de Tom Wolfe,
o de encajes de brujas para vendar las llagas de los corzos heridos,
de ciervos vulnerados asomados en los oteros místicos,
en los sitios así.
Niña pluscuamperfecta, niña que nunca fuimos,
dilo ahora,
dilo ahora tú, ahora que es tan tarde,
pronuncia el torvo adagio,
pronúnciame la lágrima,
la silueta morada de la yegua,
la del potro que se tendió a tus pies despertando la espuma.
 
Declama abandonada las palabras de antaño,
sombra de Juan Ramón: Soledad, te soy fiel.
Declama desdeñosa las palabras de antaño,
pero no aquella estrofa cortesana,
no hables de reinas blancas como un lirio,
nieves y Juana ardiendo,
y la melancolía entretejida
del querido Villon,
sino los verbos claros donde poder beber el líquido más triste,
jarros de mar y alivio, ahora que ya es tarde,
alza párvula voz y eco albacea y canta:
Dile a la vida que la recuerdo,
que la recuerdo.
 
Definitivamente se extravía en un bosque naciente esta muerte pequeña,
el brote del cometa detenido,
esto que nadie salva,
joven volcán de huesos y ráfaga novicia
hecha de pájaro y de párpado y de ola pensante
que ningún libro estela,
ningún libro estofado de oro solar de Italia,
ningún libro de lava
viene a sellar por mí.
 
Y así la muerte tantas veces escrita
se me vuelve radiante,
y puedo hablar
del deseo y del lacre rubio y ciego en los faros,
del cadáver quimera de la tripulación.
 
Y así la muerte
se convierte en historia
de aquella niña muda que se ahorcó
con las cuerdas boreales del arpa
porque tenía en la lengua un veneno nupcial.
Definitivamente me extravío acunando camadas de raros epitafios,
niña de grey dorada,
diré a la vida que la recuerdas,
diré a la muerte que la recuerdas,
que recuerdas sus líneas conjurando tu sombra,
que recuerdas sus hábitos y su carácter solo,
su laurel ácido, su profunda zarza, su descarado error y sus hordas dolidas,
mientras gatos efesios van llorando a mis pies,
mientras gatas perdidas plateadas
van cuajando su alcurnia en ciprés genealógico y en álamo,
diré a la vida que te recuerde,
que me recuerde,
ahora,
cuando me alzo con cuerdas capilares y bucles
hasta el desastre de mi cabeza,
hasta el desastre de mis veinte años,
hasta el desastre, luz quebrantahuesos.
 
“De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall”1980
 

AUTHOR: BLANCA ANDREU (1959)
Bibliography:
– De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall (awarded the 1980 Adonais International Poetry Prize) (Ediciones Rialp, Madrid, 1981).
– Báculo de Babel (awarded the Fernando Rielo International Poetry Prize) (Hiperión, Madrid, 1983).
– Elphistone (Visor Libros, Madrid, 1988)
– El sueño oscuro: (poesía reunida, 1980-1989) (Hiperión, Madrid, 1994).

 
Blanca Andreu 2
 
Blanca Andreu (born 1959 A Coruña) is a Spanish poet. She grew up in Orihuela, where her family still resides, and attended El Colegio de Jesus-Maria de San Agustin, followed by studies in philology in Murcia. At age 20, she moved to Madrid without formally completing her education. Here, she met Francisco Umbral, who introduced her to the literati of the city.
 
In 1980, she was awarded the Premio Adonáis de Poesía for her work entitled, De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall. Her use of surrealism is considered the beginning of the Post-Modern Generation. Her later work has tried to shy away from the surrealist tendencies of her early pieces.[2]
 
In 1985, she married novelist Juan Benet. After he died in 1993, she returned to La Coruña where she now lives a semi-reclusive life.
 
Awards
 
1980: Premio Adonáis de Poesía
1981: Premio de Cuentos Gabriel Miró
1982: Premio Mundial de Poesía Mística, Fernando Rielo
1982: Premio Ícaro de Literatura
2001: Premio Internacional de Poesía Laureà Mela

 
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RUSHING TO THE METRO ALREADY A LITTLE LATE ON MY WAY TO BALLET I NEARLY SKID ON ACORNS, CATCH MYSELF. A Poem by Lyn Lifshin

Introduction:
 
Malala Yousafzai is a teenager from the town of Mingora in the Swat District of Pakistan’s Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province, where the Taliban banned girls from attending school. Known for her education and women’s rights activism, Malala, then fifteen, was shot in the head and neck by a Taliban gunman while returning home on a school bus on October 9, 2012. She survived. She has written an autobiography, I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban. In 2013, at sixteen, she became the youngest person ever nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. and this year she won it.

 
Malala
 
RUSHING TO THE METRO ALREADY A LITTLE LATE ON MY WAY TO BALLET I NEARLY SKID ON ACORNS, CATCH MYSELF
 
I think of Malala, maybe rushing, never
wanting to think her name means “grief
stricken,” as I’ve written a poem about
becoming what you’re called. Maybe
she was humming a song she heard once
on TV before the Taliban made it a crime.
Or she was watching leaves drift from the bus
or giggling with girl friends. Maybe
she was thinking of being a doctor and
coming back to treat young children
in her region, her swat. Or maybe she
was hoping to see a certain boy with
licorice eyes and a smile who always
made her giggle. No longer able to wear
school uniforms, told to wear plain
clothes, Malala wrote in her blog,
“Instead, I decided to wear my favorite
pink dress.” Maybe the last beautiful
thing she saw as the bullet entered her
mahogany curls until later she woke
up in the hospital’s cone of light.

 
 
GROLIER BOOK STORE, CAMBRIDGE MASS
 
 
Lyn Lifshin has published over 140 books and chapbooks and edited three anthologies of women’s writing including Tangled Vines that stayed in print 20 years. She has several books from Black Sparrow books. Her web site, www.lynlifshin.com shows the variety of her work from the equine books, The Licorice Daughter: My Year with Ruffian and Barbaro: Beyond Brokenness to recent books about dance: Ballroom, Knife Edge and Absinthe: The Tango Poems. Other new books include For the Roses, poems for Joni Mitchell, All The Poets Who Touched Me; A Girl goes Into The Woods; Malala, Tangled as the Alphabet: The Istanbul Poems. Also just out: Secretariat: The Red Freak, The Miracle; Malala and Luminous Women: Enheducanna, Scheherazade and Nefertiti. web site: www.lynlifshin.com
 
 
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I punk like for real. A Poem by Miriam C. Jacobs.

 
 
 
where them tights with the hole? this skirt

too toile. someone might think I effort,

tangle hair on purpose. no one even know

I wake up like six thirty bank account got money.

tuck it in before I get mistake.

your eyes, they tiny round and silver like eyes

one of those dolls people stick over the toilet paper way back

in the fifties before I was born you better believe

it. I seen those old, old movie. those hippie. them trailer-park

grandma face tape. I put my birt-tay right in my email.

mother fucker don’t tell me it’s semantics.

you got great big hair pony over your bald spot.

you camouflage, but I still recognize you, saggy

chin since you got marry, little soft

under arm. me, I stay single cinder-block bookcase

paint up myself, Goodwill cup, so much cooler than you.

we sit on the floor, make Kaballah and stuff.

my hip don’t hurt at all.

how about I wear little green dress linen always look wrinkle?

anyone can see I try (not), I care (not).

I forget what you even said when you came over

 
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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