Cameo In Deed – A Metric Poem by Sochukwu Ivye

Poet: Sochukwu Ivye
 
Bio: Sochukwu Ivye is a linguistic stylistician, a rhythmist and a distinctive metrist. A final-year student of English Language and Literature, he is particularly interested in English Language (as opposed to English Literature) topics. His work, The Great Cold, an epic poem, is the longest metrical poem by an African. Sochukwu hails from Isseke, an ancient Igbo town in Eastern Nigeria.
 
 
Editor’s remark: this work makes for a very long read, strictly for the connoisseurs.
 
 
 
Books in deed define your pet name for you

I well brook them for their station quite true

Do you make one thing of such depictions?

I see but made-up scenes lived like fictions

A well penned note, a far-famed actor’s role

or a gemstone, books outline, not your soul

My soul shall not rest boneless for its child,

your pet name, led and captured in the wild

Even if moments with you calmed me more

they left me, each time, with a heart of sore

Now, I should not learn why on our first day

my poor spirit caught cold under your sway

I could have seen what was in store for me,

but blindfolded, my eyes were not thus free

My mind is fraught with memories unclean,

like a frenzied boy’s eyes caught at a scene

I write to sweep my breast of your pictures,

and breathe thus freshly, eluding strictures

I should let all these saunter past my grasp

but they would dwell in me till my last gasp

As one of those all-youthful twilights came,

with mates, I sat and eased on all the same

The abrupt wind which threw in your figure

might have not longed to assess my vigour

I had found most of the street’s best ladies

I knew most but could win none or maybes

A call came; my heart and eyes led my legs,

and I went for you, although to some dregs

It did seem that I had made one cute move,

but if hours, days and years, after did prove

I heard none else, but listened for your ‘yes’

I was the leopard; you seemed as harmless

I led the thought that I had seen some gold

and beat the past, but there was the untold

There were times my feet even cried in pain

They had to take me to you, though, in vain

The first years nursed me like a newly born

Who would evoke the tales of the lovelorn?

Nothing felt frightful about how hearts halt

But, O heartache! Into wounds, you rub salt

Signs cried out to me; my senses sat numb

Omens played in my eyes; I just grew dumb

What would destroy my soul arose on time

You took no time to divulge this love-crime

How to meet your heart turned to my worry

If some thoughts met my mind, I was sorry

My warmth with you was a style of worship

To lure mates, the female display courtship

Everybody will say, “Some date themselves”

Well, who spare any hearts on any shelves?

My poise was fate-doomed: I left other girls

but because you dressed like a lot of pearls

I saw you when, at some girls else, I looked

in that all my care and lust you had hooked

My long search for the one came to an end,

but would fetch a verse I had never penned

A certain affaire caught our breaths to fare,

but no man who saw tomorrow would dare

I had to walk through some muddy love life

believing that such would win one the wife

You toyed with my rest and sullied my face,

thus that I could not lead myself with grace

Civil linguists say: no schwa, no triphthong

To merit a four-faced, what was my wrong?

My mates kept us and adorned your image,

because they were hopeful of our marriage

Friends at work, school and on the internet

did honour my Miss World and her vignette

All who wished me ill did not want you well

They won, to have met my right woman fell

You did cradle their traps to bring me down

How would I see but roam, about, a clown?

Whose only lover stabs them from behind?

Indulge me, how do they like the cut, blind?

One overreached oneself if one’s ship sank

as did mine, a short distance past the bank

I had once more begun to thrive, it seemed:

all my vows to you I could score redeemed

You well noticed how and lauded my nerve

but the base of your mind laid your reserve

To tag me new, my past knew less passion

but this foul-souled lust lent a new fashion

Your plots I did foil with some selfless acts

May I applaud your grins that read impacts

If you confessed your doubts about dating

you found me hungry for your love, waiting

I served kind judgement in will and in deed,

but saw not when I would bewail my breed

You did have my skin to breed some itches

and my waking brow to wear more stitches

I hoped that my silence smelt of most men

To your requests, my deeds echoed: Amen

You were well at it while you called me dad,

your longing and rightfully yours. How sad!

My groping heart did head for your kindred

Could it meet them in one year or hundred?

My nightmares unmasked overhanging ills,

but you dismissed them as offensive chills

To your dream men I took you, like a bridge

Who misreads you cannot repulse a midge

Except behind closed eyes, I was not yours

Until you felt hurt, past me shut your doors

You felt faceless to show me to your peers;

quick eyes saw: I was the prey all the years

I came out thus strongly despite your plots

to confess the fact: we must brave our lots

Do I miss your hugs I once scored faithful?

Or, your burning brow I did weigh graceful?

Now, for my blindness that still beheld love,

I must watch to tell the hawk from the dove

Now that yours of all lives is led four-faced,

who would still run into your likes in haste?

The eyes that see you have known a Judas

and must give heed to a snake in the grass

Knowledge is might but I loathe this lesson

Yet through you, my inner might did lessen

How you could sift nothing but rip my trust,

and ask to have it again, struck me trussed

I did pledge my trust, and met all my words;

your still small voice did fly away with birds

You had not come to plant or mend fences,

but to steal my heart and numb my senses

That ours was unknown to your confidants

blew me as my encounters with your aunts

We had struck as one, but you posed alone

scratching for wooers, moving on your own

We named our unborn, having built a home

An abode solely of steel, glass and chrome

Who builds a home and for a lifetime plans,

with a woman who does refuse her hands?

Fate struck me moneyless to clear my eyes

I saw one yet nailed downwardly crosswise

I was the one. Who could have believed all?

You did not stand me but fashioned my fall

To have dug my pit and feigned innocence,

you did shear me in deed of my sixth sense

I sought your face while I missed my wallet

If you feigned love, amounts left my pocket

Think that my ageing parent laid her health,

so that you would be with me, all by stealth

She peddled things to get me some money

You kept all and more. Were taps so runny?

If mom’s and my head abandoned your heft

you well did in deed not deem them so deft

My good mother, the marrow for my bones;

she dared all, just to build up my hormones

My eyes and mind were tried by some devil

I could not strive through but, weakly, revel

In your chasteness, the acts you titled fuss

you observed with your boys but denied us

You relished to hear but truths but well lied

You extolled me as meek but fed your pride

Your yes was but yes and your no sheer no

because your heart was a rock in the snow

I did most days bear guilts, could you ever?

All bent knees were mine, as you felt clever

The venom you fed me became some soup

Breaking out of us could not feign a swoop

I incurred more ache when you feigned pity

and shook at your plots sticking thus gritty

When I had smelt myself trapped in a maze

time past time failed me to defeat my craze

You were almost done with your fell intents

when you could pay no heed to my laments

I saw no hope as your heart failed to shake

I held my heart soft and faint for more ache

I watched us turn to walkway souls, quickly

All my labour forthwith crushed, thus sickly

I had marked the last of my love times past

but had yet to vanquish the spells you cast

Of the most foul-souled, the most silent are

If I was ruined, who would breed a memoir?

You chose Janus’ month to cast me to rout

but my God of doorways could lead me out

Could ceasing one’s life taste like a refuge?

The practice yet finds me as then and huge

I should gulp some drinks and submit inert

but something struck my dying deeply hurt

I saw my mother’s book of days half closed

In front of my heart, her face in tears posed

The dead parts of me made out of my form;

they stuck in wait for my breath to conform

Nothing else held the rest of me but mom’s

Her rheum of distress fell like barrel bombs

Had my landlord’s daughter not run to help,

who anywhere would take heed of my yelp?

Chika had but sought to succour my plight;

the whole of me, her nearness would ignite

I did predict that she would seize your seat;

having smelt your place, she called it a feat

Once again, my soul did meet one so loose

but she found me in your filth thus profuse

She would fall for a soul with no such work

and not when she had known many a quirk

She thought that I should not let you away;

I knew that she would see better, someday

She copied your looks and copied your gait

Not for her use; she is mirthful, but straight

How much more anguish did I have to feel?

Which suicide chart had I more to conceal?

For your foulness, what other grants had I?

Was there something else I did have to try?

Except you feigned them expecting returns

you had no care, but cast my balm to burns

I thought to myself that I had less strength,

if I could keep a sweetheart at arm’s length

I wondered what could render me thus foul

and shorn of wits, but now at myself scowl

I considered how tides would flow and ebb

Drowned in ill hopes, I was caught in a web

How you robbed me of my faith and reason

but filled your boys’ would rout any treason

It shook me while your voice within lay stiff

You must have killed her to enjoy your skiff

If I outlive these days, meet some soul else,

but like her less, shall we say our farewells?

While I pray that the well esteemed forgives

I fear that my scared soul beyond now lives

The leopard now mourns his meeting a linx

I could not see myself pull through this jinx

May all who follow closely mark your mode

and how you wrecked my spirits and abode

All that learn from the price that I have paid

shall meet the oncoming days, better made

I have loved. All who come after may watch

He that may wear love, my case is a swatch

Should I grow feeble and slump at this crux

all must deny more blood such state of flux

If anything slits my soul, some shame does

And through the space, I see but a dim fuzz

I howl in deed to think on these things ours

but placate my spent spirit, bearing flowers

How you could hurt and soothe like Cassio,

Shakespeare knew not the name as Cameo

Of your foul likes, our era should be cleared

to keep many from the collapse well feared

Your followers would with you be punished,

if they kept not from your path all-banished

Reap your will, get fat and gain all the world

From vivid eyes, bear your intent well furled

Win your admired and let his heart no crack

but then, may our days at no time turn back

May your breed never again know my heart,

whilst I bunch up my fragments flung apart.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Horizontal Vision & Poems by Christopher Barnes

(i.)

Horizontal Vision
 
…barrows to-and-froed.
Hagglers impressed, lurking.
I corner nosegay oils,
you earmark…
 
     *
 …tilt steamer
on disengaged hob
10-15 minutes.  Baste…
 
     *
 …check-up.  Paramedic eurekas
-       something woefully awry –
deduces tip-off…
 
     *
 …metro expired at Wallsend,
bus green-lighted
an hour to cloud-gather,
you’d never essentially…
 
(ii.)

Earth
 
…peachy-keen upbeat guitar 
seesawed your hips.  Taffrail clover,
dribble…
 
     *
 …rattle all footloose.  Chip walnuts.
Grease loaf tin…
 
     *
 …ventured into Bronx Flea Market,
bisected dummy
cornered into a pin-stripe…
 
     *
 …lick-and-promise miasma
Overhauled drained instincts.
Only traffic faded…
 
(iii.)

Fixations
 
…in rag-order
knee-highs yodelled,
single-filing my alley.
No cur whined…
 
     *
 …kibble, tooling rutty blade
of mincer.  Dissolve ½ oz…
 
     *
 …Pegasus’ foals vamoosed,
so the knight…
 
     *
 …we quick-timed hours.
An invisible…
 
(iv.)

Not Quite June
 
…gabby-guts rooks
air-cleared your nickname.
Evening shade diffracted urgency…
 
     *
 …groundwork panade.  Turn out
as for béchamel, stargaze an hour…
 
     *
 …wolfed my quill.”
“What shall I do?”
“Take advantage of a crayon…”

     *
 …rule-breaking headaches spared,
though we blethered all…

 
By Christopher Barnes
  
 
 

 
 
In 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology ‘Titles Are Bitches’. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle’s famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partook in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
 
On Saturday 16Th August 2003 I read at the Edinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
 
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty’s Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University, including a film piece by the artist Predrag Pajdic in which I read my poem On Brenkley St. The event was funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bio-science Centre at Newcastle’s Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children’s literature building.
 
REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called ‘A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot’ for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem… On September 4 2010, I read at the Callander Poetry Weekend hosted by Poetry Scotland. I have also written Art Criticism for Peel and Combustus Magazines. I was involved in The Creative Engagement In Research Programme Research Constellation exhibitions of writing and photography which showed in London (march 13 2012) and Edinburgh (July 4 2013)
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

 
 
 
 

Learning Curve. 3 Poems by Gary Beck

‘Learning Curve’ is an unpublished collection concerned with the decline of Western civilization: Gary Beck


(i.)

Urban Reaches

Alone in a great city
strangers pass,
intent on jobs, crime,
shopping, terror.
I know not what.
They all look remote,
don’t say ‘good morning’,
don’t meet my gaze,
except the hostiles,
when I quickly look away.
I cannot tell
who is good, kind, normal,
smart enough to build a future.
Temporarily marooned
in a vast enclosure
I do not know what to do
to establish an identity.

(ii.)

Homeless VIII

They robbed my cans
for the second time
in a week.
I hustled my ass off
getting those cans
and got nothing for it.
At least they didn’t beat me.
Maybe I’ll get me a knife
and cut them good
if they try to rob me again.

(iii.)

Conflict

Armies march in many lands.
Rebels attack in many lands.
Conflicts simmer across the globe,
	boil over,
	  erupt
in deadly violence,
destroying lives,
     property,
     eradicating
aspirations for stability,
      disallowing
      normal pursuits,
	education,
      home building,
      raising children,
	hoping
tomorrow will be better
than the savagery today.

 


 

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 26 poetry collections, 10 novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 1 collection of one-act plays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order, Contusions and Desperate Seeker (Winter Goose Publishing. Forthcoming: Learning Curve and Ignition Point). Earth Links, Too Harsh For Pastels, Severance, Redemption Value and Fractional Disorder (Cyberwit Publishing). His novels include a series ‘Stand to Arms, Marines’: Call to Valor, Crumbling Ramparts and Raise High the Walls (Gnome on Pig Productions) and Extreme Change (Winter Goose Publishing). Wavelength (Cyberwit Publishing). His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing) and Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). The Republic of Dreams and other essays (Gnome on Pig Productions). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume 1 (Cyberwit Publishing. Forthcoming: Plays of Aristophanes translated, then directed by Gary Beck). Gary lives in New York City. https://www.facebook.com/AuthorGaryBeck
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

 

NOTHING REMAINS (AS IT’S SEEN) Haibun by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

HAIBUN is a prosimetric literary form originating in Japan. Haibun is a terse, relatively short prose poem in the Haikai style, usually including both lightly humorous and more serious elements. A Haibun can be the narrative of an epiphany, and usually ends with a Haiku or Haikus. richard lloyd cederberg
 

 
NOTHING REMAINS (AS IT’S SEEN)
.
See the moons reflection on the pond, in the bucket of water, in the droplet that has grown heavy at the leaf tip. The reflection does not get wet, nor is the surface of the water broken. The mind reflects on this reflection as the moon follows its nightly arc. The reflection changes, the process ends, and then begins anew.
.
As all mortal eyes
Capture only what’s fleeting,
So words do as well,
In ways inexplicable
Nothing remains (as it’s seen)
.
My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle. They pass like a shadow at evening. A vigorous western wind blows dead leaves east where they gather against walls, stairs, and prickly pear cactus. A brisk eastern wind blows dead leaves west where they gather against chain link fences, trees, and along the shoreline. Life’s panoply of arrival and decay.
.
only my dreams can
wander these arid deserts
where no thoughts exist
.
For we are only
of yesterday, and know naught,
because these days on
Earth are only a shadow,
an unyielding paradox
.
As all mortal eyes
capture only what’s fleeting,
so words do as well,
in ways inexplicable
nothing remains (as it’s seen)

richard lloyd cederberg
6/2020
 

 
Author Biography

RICHARD was born in Chicago Illinois. He is the progeny of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants. Richard began his journey into the arts at age six. For twelve years he played classical trumpet. Then… the wonderful incursion of British music influenced him to put down the trumpet and take-up acoustic and electric guitar. Richard began writing songs and lyrics and poetic construct. He performed in 17 professional bands. He played clubs, halls, cabarets, and concerts in Europe, Canada, across the USA, Alaska, and even Whitehorse in the Yukon Territories. Richard’s band SECRETS was one of the top four Pop-Jazz bands in San Diego for 5 years. In 1995 Richard was privileged to design and build his own Midi-centered Recording Studio ~ TAYLOR & GRACE ~ where he worked until 2002. During that time, he composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions. Only two CD’s were compiled: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Richard retired from music in 2003…. RICHARD’S POETRY uses various inspirations: nature, history, relationships (past and present), parlance, alliteration, metaphor, characterization, spirituality, faith, eschatology, and art. He relishes the challenge of poetic stylization: Rhythmical, Poetic/Prose, Triolets, Syllable formats, Story-Poems, Freeform, Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, and Acrostic. Richard has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.
.
PUBLISHED BOOKS: The MONUMENTAL JOURNEY SERIES integrates adventure, mystery, and historical fiction. Journey on the schooner Heimdall with Dr. Gabriel Proudmore, John, Helga, Betsy, Garrett, Captain Olaf Amundsen, Rorek Amundsen, Anders (the Norse) Vildarsen, and Rolf the Wolfhound…
1. A MONUMENTAL JOURNEY…
2. IN SEARCH OF THE FIRST TRIBE…
3. THE UNDERGROUND RIVER…
4. BEYOND UNDERSTANDING…
5. BETWEEN THE CRACKS… a spinoff from the MJ Series…
.
NEW BOOKS being written or compiled:
A NEW RACE OF HuMAN’S… an eschatological drama. Follow the lives of Grant Callarman (the Christian), Peter Pegarian (the plagiarist/conman), Haddon Hathaway (the Humanist), and Professor Wilmington Jonah (the doubting intellect) as they experience the traumatizing global translation of the saints, Daniels 70th Week, and the Millennium, where they all are destined to meet once again.
UNDER SILENT BRIDGES… a diversified collection of Richard’s poetic invention, short-stories, essays, and MEC’s photography.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Only to meet Yuyu (A Poem in pandemic for my mentor, Mr. Yuyutsu Sharma) Bhuwan Thapaliya

Mr. Yuyutsu Sharma

 
Only to meet Yuyu
(A Poem in pandemic for my mentor, Mr. Yuyutsu Sharma)
Bhuwan Thapaliya
  
There’s no one to talk to
in the buzzing streets of Kathmandu,
everything has frozen in this town;
no calm even in the mannequin eyes standing
erect in the fancy boutiques along
the termite eaten streets of the city.
 
Swirling dust and choking fumes infuse
with the breath of pallid roadside trees.
The landscape changes as the rain falls
and the leaves smile again.
Isolated raindrops, expelled lovers
 before their first kiss lie
along the twigs of the branches
 — round, sparkling globules
— undulating without descent.
 
And then everything changes again
when the leaves falls, everything changes.
Once they touch the ground
they turn into ciphers
the sublime truths of life
beneath their layers.
  
The barriers people create between nature
and windows, walls, doors,
are not really barriers  in Kathmandu
for you can talk with all.  And you can
never be bored, you just have to sit
and look at the people passing by
and there’s so much  to say.
 
Gazing deep into Buddha’s serpent eyes,
one feels like being in a Time Machine. 
But sometimes, there is silence,
utter silence of a sadhu’s stare
into the infinity in Kathmandu,
silence of old mansions
where only  a caretaker kills time.
And the civilians of the nation disappear
like the water  sprouts  of the valley
choking my soul  to the core .
  
There is not a person that I can talk to
in the rustic streets  of Kathmandu.
I am as forlorn and lonely as a man snoozing
on an unused railway tracks
in some old Indian town.
  
I hardly ever go out now.
I am fed up with the squalor of urban life
where everyone is not what they seem to be.
I should have stayed back
at the banks of the river Sunkoshi
that festoons my village
chewing the pebbles
of my pristine dreams.
  
These days, I leave my home
only to meet Yuyu, chat up nonstop over
endless cups of masala tea
at Shreejana’s  While Lotus Book Shop,
watching the poems turn into
colorful serpents and climb the  murky trees 
enveloped in grey mist.
  
I leave my home only to meet Yuyu
and share a joke or two,
listen to his sharp one liners.
anecdotes of his travels from
the shores of his dreams
and laugh aloud 
celebrating full- blooded flame
lighted in honor of his vagabond Muse.
 
His words little by little entrap you,
 enwrap your soul in their singing silence,
at the end of the day feeding my shriveled soul.
 
And often as we wave goodbye,
he delves deep into a silent 
that soon turns into a river of endless vigor.
  
Poem dangles from
the edge of his serene mouth. 
And a dreamy prose
dances over his misty eyelashes.
 
And the silence
an ode to the Kathmandu Valley.
If one dare to pay heed.
 
Bhuwan Thapaliya & Mr. Yuyutsu Sharma

 
Nepalese poet, Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist, and is the author of four poetry collections and currently he is working on his fresh poetry collection, The Marching Millions. Thapaliya’s books include, Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publication, New Delhi), Our Nepal, Our Pride , Verses from the Himalayas and Rhythm of the Heart. (Cyberwit.net)Poetry by Thapaliya has been included in The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry, The Strand Book of International Poets 2010, 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, VOICES (Education Project), Longfellow Literary Project, Countercurrents etc.
 
Author
Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected
https://www.amazon.com/Safa-Tempo-Poems-New-Selected-Bhuwan-Thapaliya
 
Our Nepal, Our Pride
https://www.amazon.com/Our-Nepal-Pride-Bhuwan-Thapaliya
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

OCD Dinner Date & Poems by Stephen J Golds

(i.)
 
Pure
 
Standing under the downpour
of a cold shower trying to scrub away this
dull movement that spreads within me darkly.
Even the water is disgusted by my failures,
abandoning me for the moist escape of the plug hole.
 
 
(ii.)
Dental Care
 
Flossing my teeth, I noticed her toothbrush
still there in the mug on the sink.
I picked it up,
feeling the bristles rough underneath
the flesh of my thumb &
dropped it in the trash
knowing she’d never use it again.
 
 
(iii.)
It’s Time to Go Home
 
There’s a rent dodging fool
called Love in my heart with a
loaded .38 in his fist &
a bullet-riddled target in sight but
the last train is at the final station.
The lights snap off one by one,
I can’t remember where I left my coat.
 
 
(iv.)
OCD Dinner Date
 
I notice the finger smudges on the surface of the table.
Listening to the buzzing fan circulating the dusty air.
A water stain a smirk on a fork.
Someone on a table across the way snorts and sniffs.
I’ve lost my appetite but will grin through dinner
until the check comes, go home and shower.
 
 

 
 
Stephen J. Golds was born in London, U.K, but has lived in Japan for most of his adult life. He enjoys spending time with his daughters, reading books, traveling, boxing and listening to old Soul LPs. His novel Say Goodbye When I’m Gone will be released by Red Dog Press in October 2020 and another novel Glamour Girl Gone will be released by Close to The Bone Press January 2021
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

The Color of a Snuffed Flame & Poems by Ryan J. Davidson

 
(i.)
 
Freedom of Fences
 

Dear _____, I lust her—though
she cannot know. It’s a painful thing—
a tightness of the chest. I keep having to stop
myself from ending each email
with “love, R”. But appearances
being what they are—I end with “best”,
but I know what I mean—so there’s that.
 
(ii.)
 
Fountain Statue
 

When it was still years ago—
before I saw that girl
 
with a flower in her ear; before
that flower grew—
I missed a summer day.
My broken English stands better
 
than my unwhistling lips and tonight
I meet a German poet
I’ve never heard. He’s a park
 
statue I can touch and feel the shoulder curve of his
bronze rather than the fountain statues whose jagged edges—
or if they’re soft it’s only the mollification
of time and distance—I can only feel
with my eyes. The ones I walk in circles around
 
wishing to walk on water. I took a photo of the tin-can moon
electrified by lightning
to understand the part of me that’ll go to this meeting
in the name of—it rained in Munich today.
 
(iii.)
 
The Color of a Snuffed Flame
 

Woken by a trumpet sounding.
There are things
we’re meant to make, some
less definite than knots and a box. I watched
 
a Boeing 747—there was a girl
who taught me to do that—and thought
of the 369 lives in it and those
stories. This is too much; people have their minutes
which added together equal a life
and all the plots and coincidences that live therein.
 
The butterfly house in Vienna
was beautiful though hot, small
and expensive. Filled with kids
more interested in the fish,
parents who wished their kids
would look at the butterflies,
and one woman taking pictures
of a dead butterfly. Tomorrow I’m
 
going to a fair to win a stuffed animal.
 
 
 

 
 
Bio: Ryan J. Davidson’s first book, Under What Stars, was published in 2009 by Ampersand Books.​ His second collection, Statues Need Stories, was published in 2019 by CyberWit. He is Assistant Professor of Humanities and Comparative Inquiry at Habib University in Karachi, Pakistan.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

FOLLOWING THEIR LEAD (i never will) A Poem by Bradford Middleton

The world seems to have turned a corner and suddenly there
Is a glint at the end of this longest tunnel down which life has
Taken a turn. News came today that the stock market is back
Up meaning the rich are back to getting richer and with all the
Headlines here consumed on one bit of news, our PM is now in
ICU, the real story is ignored as figures in general society are
Finally falling.

 
Right now though no one in our media cares as they all talk of
His fighting bulldog spirit and how he’ll battle on through just
Like they saw him on the rugby fields of Eton more than forty
Years before. He’s super-fit I heard one tory hack-minister claim
Before the interviewer managed to ask about his body-mass
Equating a case of obesity but ‘oh no, he runs, he exercises every
Day and barely drinks’ he claimed.
 
So now out there people continue to teem around the streets
Carrying on with their lives as if everything is normal and then
There are those who’ve decided they want to do something
About it. David Icke announces the burgeoning 5G masts are
Responsible for all this horror and the next thing we know they
Are being destroyed and whilst I think his theories mad it does
Offer a question.
 
Where did this come from and why did it happen? Well, in
Years, maybe decades to come, the truth will doubtless come
Out and practically no one will notice as it’ll just be a footnote
In a history book by then but I can guarantee you one thing, it
Weren’t the 5G masts that caused this as to this mind it seems
More like an exercise in control, seeing just how far they could
Push us, telling us what to do and how to live this life that grew
Just a little out of control.
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
BIOGRAPHY
 
 
Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize at the age of nine. He then gave up writing poems for nearly twenty-five years and it wasn’t until he landed in Brighton, knowing no one and having no money, that he began again. Ten years later and he’s been lucky enough to have had a few chapbooks published including a new one from Analog Submission Press entitled ‘Flying through this Life like a Bottle Battling Gravity’, his debut from Crisis Chronicles Press (Ohio, USA) and his second effort for Holy & Intoxicated Press (Hastings, UK). He has read around the UK at various bars, venues and festivals and is always keen to get out and read to new crowds. His poetry has also been or will be published shortly in the Chiron Review, Zygote in my Coffee, Section 8, Razur Cuts, Paper & Ink, Grandma Moses ‘Poet to Notice’, Empty Mirror, Midnight Lane Gallery, Bareback Lit and is a Contributing Poet over at the wonderful Mad Swirl. If you like what you’ve read go send a friend request on facebook to bradfordmiddleton1.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)