Done with a liaison. A Poem by Aparna Pathak

 
Remember how much you liked
every word I wrote on your screen,
interpreted in your own way.
Research was focused
on vulnerable valency.
I sat answering all the queries
benefitting you to find techniques
to get me involved.
 
Your thesis didn’t take long to finish
and you then wanted to start afresh.
Some relationships end like experiments.
Nothing is required once your page ends with,
‘hence proved’.

 
 
aparnaiit

Bio:
Aparna Pathak belongs to Delhi, India. Graduate in English (Honors) and post graduate in public relations , her poems have been published in more than 30 print anthologies, online publications and also various literaty magazines like twice in “Reflections”, and Negative Suck, Rolling Thunder Press, and blue Cygnus. One of her poem has been awarded the commendation of ” Highly Commended ” in the Poem of the Year Category of the Destiny Poets’ International Community of Poets ICOP Awards 2012. Her own book of poetry, “silent flute ” was published in January 2014.

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You’ll Thank Me Later. A Poem by Ron Olsen

 
 
Trust me
It’s for your own good
You’ll thank me later
You need only turn to face yourself
 
Wealth speaks to poverty
Centurions to slaves
Lords to peasants
Bourgeoisie to the Proletariat
 
No healthcare costs
No harassment issues
No sick time
No vacation required
No request for family leave
No retirement plan
No bereavement leave
No union fights
No confusion
No complaints
No liability
No people
 
Just machines
 
Quantifiable
Reliable
Inorganic
Cost effective
Profitable
Without complaint
Personality without soul
Intellect without compassion
All needs fulfilled
All care eliminated
Life without humanity
 
Trust me
It’s for your own good

 
©2015 – Ron Olsen/all rights reserved
 
walden pond 005
 
Ron Olsen is a Peabody and Emmy award winning journalist based in Southern California. He is recently retired from the Tribune Company, where he was stationed at the Los Angeles Times, working with the newspaper’s writers and editors to adapt newspaper stories for KTLA-TV. He is the author of more than one-thousand essays and an occasional poem. His essays have been published by several local papers in the Los Angeles area. He began writing poetry just recently. He says he loves the craft of saying more with fewer words, with each word playing a significant role in the piece. “I am sometimes struck by my poetry”
he says.”I’ll look at what I’ve written and wonder where it came from-some wellspring that’s beyond my understanding. What a strange and wonderful process.”

 
 
A more complete bio can be found here –
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_Olsen
http://workingreporter.com/wordpress/a-question-of-priorities/
or at his blog at
http://workingreporter.com/wordpress or his Facebook page at
https://www.facebook.com/workingreporter?ref=bookmarks

 
 
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After the Dead. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
 
Are my dreams of the dead
dreams of purgatory
battered, wounded as they are?
 
Where I live now!
 
The mad struggle of the dead
in the vacuous corridors of time.
 
Really, they’ve gone
they don’t return, except as myths
to reinvent time.
 
Our time of broken dreams
 
‘creatures of tradition moulding a nature
that weeps not for us for the wounds
it heals, impervious
after it nurtured us into existence’
 
Blind Tiresias had warned.
 
As if we had a choice in this paradox
as if we could escape
the blunder which created us
 
the cosmic joke, where time
will destroy even the world
for time to be reborn.
 
In this dream world, where I
only seem to wake
to this small dance of words
a dance of phantoms with their shadows
where this poem shapes its becoming.

 
 
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
 
 
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[the betrayal of a tree] A Poem by Yuan Changming

You long to be a Douglas fir
Tall, straight, almost immortal
But you stand like a Peking willow
Prone to cankers, full of twisted twigs

Worse still, you are not so resistant
As the authentic willow that can bend gracefully
Shake off all its unwanted leaves in autumn
When there is a wind blowing even from nowhere

No matter how much sunshine you receive
During the summer, you have nothing but scars
To show off against winter storms
The scars that you can never shake off

IMG_1851(1)

[bio info]:: Yuan Changming, 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of 5 chapbooks, is the most widely published poetry author who speaks Mandarin but writes English: since mid-2005, he has had poetry appearing in Best Canadian Poetry, Best New Poems Online, London Magazine, Threepenny Review and 1069 others across 36 countries. With a PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver.

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http://yuanspoetry.blogspot.ca/

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Charter for Peace | Anthem. A Poem by Prabhu Iyer

1. Prologue
 
Splash words across: images on canvas. 
Before Abraham was, I am:
the cubist of poets. Mangled and tangled;
Here thoughts emerge, in reverent perspective. 
How many, the dimensions? Monotone 
in my unidimensions. Filter. Baritone. 
Coffee-brown is the best colour around.
 
2. Love
 
Here we sit by two-arms distance. To north, 
to south. Facing opposing poles. 
There is an attraction.
 
Here are images from the industrial world 
gone post-industrial. Broken commodes.
Outsource your misery here. The sky can afford
a hole from on here. As long as 
there’s none in my shoe.
Sometimes, I roll over in waves.
Sometimes, you wave over.
Questions still hidden in the corners.
 
3. Peace
 
All that’s passed remains flickering
green like the wireless router
silently at nights: recover, play it over.
Flush it all up. Splash it all around. Cubism.
Art nouveau. Portmanteau. Now fruck the world.
Neon shades rippling through the smoke,
laughter like that of an empty skull:
smoke the pipe, brother, 
spread the peace around.  2013, stupid. 
Idealism died in ‘67. And many times since. 
Repeats always a farce.
 
4. Spirit
 
Only one man died for the poor. 
Who else called the dead to life?
All other stories are about barons and hedgehats:
while the millions were ground over
to oil the world. While they roiled the world.
How the poor die under the heels
of those that claim to love that man?
 
Agree? Take the throne. Disagree? Drone.
 
Yes, we can, brother, we can defeat this
corruption, bloody. Brother, 
be not corrupt. 
 
5. Prospect
 
A sigh of disapproval, soft in sleep.
I come and lie, back to your back,
waiting for love to seep over.
 
Yes, we can, brother, we can overcome 
bigotry vile. Brother, 
say not, mine, the only way ever.
 
Happy lovers day. Shout out aloud,
peans more to the meek women’s rights. 
Forget not, there’s some in your sights.
 
Two arms’ distance is about the right in the day.
There are two faces seen in this bubble,
formed at the mouth of the tube.
 
Peace to the world, every morning after.
Every little home by home.

 
 
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: Ten Years of Moons and Mists 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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Silver Lining Haiku by Virginie Colline

Virginie Colline Haiku La Corde
La corde sensible, René Magritte
 
 
a cloud for breakfast
in my hand a pearl of dew
against the sultry day

 
 
Originally published in Spinozablue, 2012.
 
 
Virginie Colline lives and writes in Paris. Her poems have appeared in The Mainichi, Frogpond, Prune Juice, Frostwriting, Prick of the Spindle, Seltzer, Overpass Books, BRICKrhetoric, Yes, Poetry, Dagda Publishing, Silver Birch Press and StepAway Magazine, among others.