“The love of one woman” A poem by Franchot Ballinger

 
 

      “The love of one woman
            W.S. Merwin


         
        How can there be such singularity?
        All around us are multiplications,
        Exponential effusions of professions,
        Of declaration, of protestation, of procreation.
        All the lavish universe refuses a center,
        Denies a focus—galaxy, nebula, black hole,
        All teeming and sucking and wildly flung,
        All’s akimbo, flailing, flying,
        Even the million seeds of the white pine
        Like stars carried promiscuously afar.
         
        But look—she who is a wealth of caresses,
        Well-spring of kisses, creates with me a center,
        A holdfast root to flower…as if
        We were the only and last of our kind:
        Precious and prayerful, all stem and stalk,
        Leaf and flavor, bloom and blossom;
        Seed and husk, juice of fruit and pulp.
        Sunk in guttering light and
        Darkening sweep of cosmos,
        Of our days, our lives, there is only
        This one love–avant-garde acceptance,
        Cool conspicuousness (if puzzling principle),
        Remarkable reaping.

         
         
        In retirement after nearly 40 years teaching English at the University of Cincinnati, Franchot Ballinger has continued volunteering with the Cincinnati Nature Center in various capacities and is also a spiritual care volunteer with Hospice of Cincinnati. His poems have appeared in numerous poetry journals in print and on-line.
         
         
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Parkinson’s Lament. A Poem by Leland Jamieson

 

For G.K.J. (In her voice.)
 
What is this thing called Parkinson’s Disease?
The sickness robs me of my body’s grace,
and worse, it robs me of my mind’s trapeze
for agile thought. No longer do I ace
the mental tests I used to love to face.
Double vision’s dogged the play of my eyes —
so long, so much, I cry, “Is this life’s Prize?”
 
Reading — strong prizing bar to deeper thought
lifting the eyes above the self to see
what lies beyond the daily diddly-squat
of eating, sleeping, bathing, poops and pee —
is gone. Slow living death my apogee?
Can’t draw. Can’t paint. P.D.’s a heart-deep thorn.
I think it better were I never born.

 
 

Leland Jamieson
 
Leland Jamieson lives and writes in Monroe Township, New Jersey, USA. He has three collections of poetry — 21ST CENTURY BREAD (2007), IN VITRO (2009), — plus a handbook for self-taught poets-to-be and teachers-to-be, HOW TO RHYME YOUR WAY TO ‘METAPHOR POEMS’ (2012) also check out his latest book Sooner: A Crown of Sonnets & New Post-9/11 Poems.
 
 
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In Mornings. A Poem by Ananya S Guha

 

In mornings there is explosion
a certain humming, a certain resistance
to the sun or thunder
cars, frantic have rollicking time
school kids think that morning is cessation
but, soon there will be shadows
and lingering dust
dogs’ tails will wag
mornings are premeditated action
a liitle discernment
and mornings will take to paths
unscented.
 
In morning
she takes position near
the bus stand, vegetables she sells
may or may not ( sell)
but mornings are arcades of hope
and in this city, mornings have the luminous
mornings have smell of flowers
mornings are creepy mirages of another day.
In Mornings.

 
 
 
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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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From Agassiz Peak. A Poem by David Chorlton

    photo Roberta Chortlon


 
 
From eleven thousand feet the shadows
cast by clouds rock
back and forth as they float down
through volcanic light
to the forests where they break
apart between the pines
and disappear into late summer grass.
 
Windgusts at that altitude
slide from a raptor’s wing
and dissolve in thin air
while the view from the treeline
runs sky-wide and frost-bright
to the point where Earth and rain
pale into each other.
 
A misplaced glance
would slip back a thousand years
to be swallowed by lava
and leave no foothold
on the crater’s edge.
 
Prairies tumble, edge over edge,
while forests tighten their grip
against winter, which begins
its descent from the first
aspen leaf to turn yellow.
 

 
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David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in Manchester, England, and lived for several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in 1978. Arizona’s landscapes and wildlife have become increasingly important to him and a significant part of his poetry. His Selected Poems from FutureCycle Press appeared in 2014. The shadow side of Vienna provides the core of The Taste of Fog, a work of fiction published by Rain Mountain Press. http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com/
 
 
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The God of Biomechanics Won’t Let You In Heaven, Roy. A Poem by Amparo Arrospide

Roy, Aubrey Beardsly
The God Of Biomechanics Won’t Let You In Heaven, Roy

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on
fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the
darkness at Tan Hauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time
like tears in rain. Time to die.

//and so Roy breathed out his ghost

Nothing particularly interesting about ourselves.
Nothing particularly interesting about this here and now.
Nothing particularly interesting around the solar system //globular clusters
of meaning not centered here, no place significantly different

Then all of a sudden
When data corruption is the only generator of modern Physics
Not being significantly different to be discovered
                        By the scientific community

Not only where you are is not any more special than any other
But indeed whom you are is not any more special than whom you are not.

From the mediocrity principle // it follows
That no intelligent beings are particularly more beings than any other
Or more intelligent // life, it follows, 
Centers around conditional line of clusters
Through the evolution of any given universe
                        A process that can only happen at certain times!

See? The God Of Biomechanics Won’t Let You In Heaven, Roy
 
* Italics. Tears in Rain Monologue. Blade Runner(1982)
 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
 
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish writer and translator. She has published four poetry collections Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines, such as Cuadernos del Matemático, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, Linden Lane Magazine, Espéculo, Piedra del Molino, Nayagua. She has received awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, when it was a monthly webzine 2008-10, and coordinated in the Spanish sonnets section for the international anthology The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (ed. Richard Vallance, 2014).

 
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The Australian Ibis (Sister to the Sacred Ibis) A Poem by Ian Irvine Hobson

 
 
Australain Ibis (Thoth)
 
I – The Evening Dinner
 
An Australian ibis – sister to Thoth’s sacred ibis
(now extinct in Egypt) – is nesting near the dam
at the bottom of our land. She hatched three chicks
but only two survive. It’s swampy down there,
due to the summer of inundations – we imagine she
feeds her young on yabbies, frogs and large insects.
 
Maybe there are two birds – she seems larger in the
evenings. My son believes they change parental shifts
at dawn and dusk. I like to imagine they write in their
down-time: poems, plays, essays, novels … Their black
bills hint at great things: beyond wading the shallows,
feeding snails to their young and antiseptic preening.
 
II – Factoid
 
Ibises (scribes) are ‘pests’ in today’s new Australia
of fast money, climate change denial and government
sanctioned human rights abuses. In eastern seaboard
cities, colonies of birds – escapees from inland drought –
clamour for pastries and fish-food in parks beside
suburban lakes. They number in the thousands.
 
III – The Community of Scribes
 
At dusk last night I tried to observe the change
of shift – I crept slowly, noiselessly to a spot behind
a large gum-tree and waited. The ibis was undisturbed
– she/he waded in the shallows concentrating, no doubt,
on some doomed creature slithering about in the rich
spring mud. The chicks, hopefully, safe in their nest.
 
Time stood still – we could have been in ancient
Egypt, perhaps on a minor tributary of the Nile –
poised between night and day, sunset and moon-
glow … white-black bird with amazing concentration!
Such a domestic scene: a parent sourcing the evening
meal. And then I heard it: a disturbance in the air, a
 
communal flapping of wings, above me, above the tree-line –
how many birds? They circled in a gigantic V, necks out-
stretched, powerful unhurried wing flaps – lumbering
organic cargo planes – and the moon as their back-
drop. Until one of them descended, smoothly – the
predicted mate? – before executing a deft water landing.
 
As one bird arrived the other departed – they rubbed bills
in the handover. Soon enough she (or he) was soaring
beneath the papyrus heavens – in formation with cadres
from some secret avian writers’ group. Free, by night
to pursue the challenges of scribing (and interpreting)
the hieroglyphic enigmas of past, present and future.
 
Their young, with luck, will soon be airborne –
for a global winter approaches, and
the sons and daughters of Thoth and
Sesheta are all that stands between
humanity and brutal, self-created chaos.

 
Image: ‘Thoth as Ibis’, by the author, 2015.
 
 
Ian Irvine Photo
 
About the Author
 
Ian Irvine (Hobson) is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer. His work has featured in publications as diverse as Humanitas (USA), The Antigonish Review (Canada), Tears in the Fence (UK), Linq (Australia) and Takahe (NZ), among many others. His work has also appeared in two Australian national poetry anthologies: Best Australian Poems 2005 (Black Ink Books) and Agenda: ‘Australian Edition’, 2005. He is the author of three books and co-editor of a number of literary journals – Scintillae 2012, The Animist ezine (7 editions, 1998-2001) and Painted Words (10 editions 2005-2014). He coordinates the Professional Writing and Editing program at Bendigo Kangan Institute (Bendigo & Melbourne, Australia) and has taught in the same program at Victoria University, St. Albans, Melbourne. He has also taught history and social theory at La Trobe University (Bendigo, Australia) and holds a PhD for his work on creative, normative and dysfunctional forms of morbid ennui. Web site: http://www.authorsden.com/ianirvine

 
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Ultima. A Poem by Dane Cobain.

 
Sometimes we all need a swift, sharp kick
to knock us from our pedestals –
I must admit that I am not the man
I once was a thief and now I am a murderer,
I quit smoking weed &
I quit smoking cigarettes &
I quit drinking beer &
I quit drinking caffeine &
I quit eating bread &
I quit eating cheese &
none of it made a blind bit of difference,
so now I’m eating and drinking what I like &
if I never smoke again then my lungs will thank me
even as my heart explodes.
 
Your life is your life &
my life is my life &
when the bastards try to tell you otherwise,
don’t let them get you down,
we’re all in this big, long find together &
casualties define a war, even if the
war is always pointless,
death is always around us on the roads &
in the graveyards we used to drink in &
at the front of our minds when we think about the future.
 
How can you bring a child in to this world
when the sun will swallow us all &
the expanding cosmos, unconscious, won’t stop to blink &
amitriptyline citalopram lithium &
valium take the edge off but do nothing
to alter the grim inevitability that surrounds us all?
 
That’s why I envy the men and women,
the sheep and the shepherds who watch TV &
who never even write their names &
who never see the wolf behind my eyelids.
 
Ladies & gentlemen,
silence please;
when the atmosphere collapses
we are released from the clasp of gravity
all oxygen violently sucked from our lungs
as the seas boil & return to barren nothingness,
as our master race breathes one last sigh and expires,
I will remember you like this,
a calm, silent breeze on a cool spring day.
 
 

Author Bio:
 
Dane Cobain (High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK) is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found working on his book review blog or developing his website, www.danecobain.com

 
 
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And Streets Lined with Gold. A Poem by Scott Thomas Outlar

 
The homeless poet

stood outside the bar

in the cold

talking to anyone

who would listen.
 
 
He held a stack of papers

in his hands

that he gave away

to anyone who showed

the slightest interest.
 
 
He said they were free,

but anyone with half a heart

would give him a buck or two,

or at least some coins,

just enough for a cup of coffee.
 
 
He was a guru

in his own peculiar way,

and his words

were laced with a type

of apocalyptic strangeness –

full of velvet angels

with dark chocolate wings

receding down from heaven

to punish the normal

and bring chaos to the meek.
 
 
He was all mixed up inside,

but that was his role to play,

and it was all perfect,

and it was all beautiful –

whether he found a bed,

or whether he died in the street,
 
 
it was all ok,

because the angels were coming either way.
 
 
Scott Thomas Outlar lives a simple life in the suburbs, spending the days flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River, marveling at the intricacies of life’s existential nature, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Siren, Section 8, Midnight Lane Boutique, Dead Snakes, Mad Swirl, and Dissident Voice. His debut chapbook “A Black Wave Cometh” is forthcoming from Dink Press. More of Scott’s writing can be found at 17numa.wordpress.com.
 
 
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