COMMUTE. A Poem by Juanita Rey

 
An alarm clock rings on the side-table.
My head rings in harmony.
 
The cat jumps upon
my curled-up body,
tears my dream to shreds.
 
I flick on the radio for company.
The station plays a song
I’ve heard a thousand times before.
The thousandth and one time
knows no better.
 
I pour coffee into
the unwashed cup
I retrieve from the sink.
 
Yesterday’s stains
meet today’s fresh blend –
that’s always the way.
Like a new start
that knows how all the old ones ended.
 
I dress, bundle up until
I’m bear shape and size,
head out for the freezing bus stop.
That feral cat of a temperature
still finds a way to scratch at me.
 
It’s another day just like any other.
I haven’t it within me
to make it any different.
 
For the life I’ve planned
is like a car stalled out in the driveway.
 
Here comes the bus.
 
 
 

 
 
Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has lived in the USA for the last five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Opiate Journal, Petrichor Machine and Porter Gulch Review.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual 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)

Withdrawment & Poems by Sanjeev Sethi

(i)
 
Withdrawment
 
Campaigning without connections
is an exemplary pursuit.
To one sans options
this is senseless.
Ideas chassé on the semi-sprung
of choice. I go with inner sequences.
 
To be in sync with similar beats
is the right swing.
Silence draws in contagion
of concepts
some worthy of chase.
In the hush-hush I unearth handles.
 
(ii)
 
Iciness
 
Backer is harpy, recipient always ravenous.
Different show different setup.
 
Like a forsaken sloop led by Pharos
your vowels fuel a balefire to intent.
 
Emptiness scans more meaning than there is:
like a literary egghead evaluating belles-lettres.
 
Boozed up you withdraw from our bull session.
This tells me your endearments are an evasion.
 
On her podcast, the diva inquires of her spouse:
hex to bring back spice? His comeback: role play.
 
(iii)
 
Aberrance
  
Every ply is elbow-grease: when
even an earworm is inert, when I
wish to lam out I garner I hold no
eye-catching selfies.
 
Sacred they will be skewed I seldom
click any. I’m my worst ambassador.
An unlawful being is as unsmudged as
his solicitor. Close-ups soil some of us.
 
(iv)
 
Blackball
 
One may have envied it
had you laid out less:
your sojourns and the whole shebang.
Happiness fulfills inner chinks.
Mailing close-ups suggests other motives.
Is it an end run?
Slainte for something
more special
is a flawed premise.
Lapses are latent.
Errors are acceptable
so are fender-benders.
Manipulating emotions
for a payoff:
a thumbs down.
 
 

 
Sanjeev Sethi is published in over 25 countries. He has more than 1200 poems printed or posted in venues around the world. Wrappings in Bespoke, is Winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux organized by the Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. It’s his fourth book. It will be issued in 2020. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual 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)

Poem by EVA MARÍA CHINCHILLA on a homage supplement published in “Cuadernos del Matemático” Nº 56-58, dedicated to Leonard Cohen,Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arróspide

          We are the lesser who will never be able to write
          a good love poem than those of us who will never
          be able to write a love poem in time.

 
 
I love your temperature. That’s what I love,
not you
 

Gentle, gallant, it keeps the milky warmth of a blade of wheat
offering itself at dawn
breaking earlier than myself, heralding
— from its delta-
 
the descent of dreams
 
I love your eyes. For their sea, for their fairy
for their
id
 
and whilst each time i shatter the image of blue cliches
you invade that which has no colour, each time leaving it within
that which i’ll never
discover
 
not you
 
I love your caligraphy. Remains of eternity, my inheritance
that you pretend as yet yours
 
voice that sweetly swathes me
and tungsten. Impossible firefly, there
I love your caligraphy because it cleanses each time the wound of having thought i knew you
 
(and the treasure of the hidden note in the third stanza, when id
shipwrecks
where we read
because it cleanses each time the wound of having thought i knew you
 
to read again now
 
because it gently opens the wound whether i knew
how to love
despite not knowing
 
I love your caligraphy because it lets me recognise you
a balm which you prepare for me, it says
 
to recognise has been to know
 
so
 
there exists the possibility that i have
you, that´s what your caligraphy says, it says my
my love for you
that i have not yet known,
 
it extends before my eyes and on my skin bares – a code so familiar as to be indeciph–
sunsets and a bond of views without other qualification than their
certainty
 
this breeze that rustles my skin, carouses my blood, tempers
and forgives me
me, you, me
 
 
 
 

          Somos menos quienes nunca lograremos escribir
          un buen poema de amor que quienes nunca
          lograremos escribir a tiempo un poema de amor

 
 
Amo tu temperatura. Es lo que amo,
y no a ti
 
Suave, donosa, guarda el calor lácteo de la espiga. Se entrega de madrugada, antes
que yo amanece y anuncia
–desde su delta—
 
la bajada de los sueños
 
Amo tus ojos. Por su mar, por su hada
por su
id
 
y mientras yo destrozo cada vez la pantalla de los tópicos
del azul, invades lo que no tiene color, lo dejas dentro cada vez jamás
encontraré
 
no a ti
 
Amo tu caligrafía. Restos de eternidad, herencia mía
que simulas tuya aún
 
voz de tela que me arropa
y wolframio. Luciérnaga imposible, ahí
 
amo tu caligrafía, porque desinfecta, cada vez, la herida de haber creído conocerte
 
(y la nota del tesoro escondido de la tercera estrofa, cuando naufrague
id
donde hemos leído
porque desinfecta, cada vez, la herida de haber creído conocerte
para ahora leer
 
porque abre con suavidad la herida de si supe amar
lo que conocía
a pesar de no sabr que lo
 
amo tu caligrafía porque me deja reconocerte
un bálsamo que tú preparas para mí, dice
 
reconocer ha sido conocer
 
entonces
 
existe la posibilidad de que te haya
a ti eso dice tu caligrafía, dice mi
te amo a ti
que yo no he sabido saber,
 
extiende ante mis ojos y en mi piel expone –en un código tan familiar como indesci—
amaneceres y miradas en unidad, sin otro calificativo que el de
 
indudables
 
esa brisa se extiende por mi piel, navega por mi sangre, me templa
y me perdona
 
a mí, a ti, a mí
 
 
 
 
 
 
Eva Chinchilla, evachin. Poet. Author of Años Abisinios (2011), Verbo rea (2003), and a third poetry book currently in production. Participant in anthologies such as La noche y sus etcéteras. 24 voces alrededor de San Juan de la Cruz (2017), Hilanderas (2006) o Estruendomudo (2003). She is also a board member of poetry magazine Nayagua, which is a publication by the José Hierro Poetry Foundation, where she was a teacher from 2007 to 2016. Member of the Genialogías Association and the 8que80 collective of female poets; co-editor of Diminutos Salvamentos poetry collection. She walks along the haiku and flamenco lyrics paths. A philologist (hispanist), with a degree free master in continuous training and questioning. Born in Madrid (1971).
 
 
Eva Chinchilla, evachin. Poeta. Autora de Años abisinios (2011), Verbo rea (2003), y un tercer poemario en prensa; incluida en antologías como La noche y sus etcéteras. 24 voces alrededor de San Juan dela Cruz (2017), Hilanderas (2006) o Estruendomudo (2003). Forma parte del consejo de la revista de poesía Nayagua, que se edita desde la Fundación Centro de Poesía José Hierro de Getafe, donde fue profesora desde 2007 hasta 2016. Integrante de la Asociación Genialogías y el colectivo 8que80 de mujeres poetas; coeditora de la colección diminutos salvamentos; andariega del camino del haiku y de las letrillas flamencas. Filóloga (hispanista), con master sin titulación en formación y cuestionamiento continuos. Nació en Madrid (1971).
 
 
 
 
 
 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual 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)

I Think My Cat Pi Chi. Poem. Excerpt from Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems by Robin Ouzman Hislop


 
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm


i think my cat pi chi is dying he's very neurotic not his usual self  
anymore     weak   scruffy   following me closely   look at his  
eyes      he knows    when a cat dies     nobody takes him 
out       it's always been hard   seeing death around
so   tell me it gets worse   we're gonna sit it out
because   you choose me   purr a bit   stack it
it's catastrophic    my little wild sniffer
would you like to sky rocket
into the abyss of death with me
float in outer space amidst the dead stars
knowing   there were forever galaxies beyond 
reach    beyond this miniscule bubble we call life
there  where  there's only the wilderness of the dead
shall we blow   as some stray bacteria on a magnet comet
to implode   as if on a planet's barren plain   to rise to flourish
again in the frenzy of the stadium where they buy & sell the moment
where Samson pulls down the walls   where Goliath topples and cities turn 
to salt    gladiatorial epic scenarios    lunacy of the bloodbath    the aftermath
a scared dancer in clown's mascara    darts to & fro   disappears lost    we sit 
in the audience    sweat our fate betrayed    the mockery of doom    i cross 
the bridge    but not the sea    walk down the avenue     under the screen 
where   highways stagger their junk   where the last card played is fake 
&  the 2nd coming's a dystopian banality groping a theme to go soap 
then the music   children from the valley of the blind   craving the 
nourishment of adulation   when you get your eyes cleaned out    
there's no call of the wild    only a wild call    the naked gaze

 

 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual 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)

War. A Poem by Ken Allan Dronsfield

The Hell where our youth

and laughter were taken away.

 Leaving us the monsters that

 don’t just sleep under your bed;

 now they’re hiding in your head.

 
 
 

 
 
 
Biography:
 
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a 65 year old disabled veteran, prize winning poet and author from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. A proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has three poetry collections to date; ‘The Cellaring’, ‘A Taint of Pity’, and, ‘Zephyr’s Whisper’. Ken does not have an MFA or Creative Writing classes BUT, he once road his dirt bike on woodland trails from southern New Hampshire into Canada. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net, 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his family and cats Willa and Yumpy.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, 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)

Poems by Enrique Darriba translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide

(i)
 
Primitive the day when words go miss
without ideas or a single inexpressible
idea to look is to look to settle silhouettes
dancing a small vestige of volume
perfectly contrasted with the fluorescent
rectangular board at the back it ´s the
air that sways light bulbs a small help
however from the black mattress a few
minutes ago my blank head a few
glances ago and it’s already late if the loud
speakers let me open the door if the
spotlights the stones of the façade permit
me a jumble of light and shadow
a thick blob a little sticky turning
when the witch’s stick stirs the blob
in the cauldron stirring and stirring
 
 
(i)
 
 
el día que falten las palabras primitivo
sin ideas o una sola idea inexpresable
mirar es mirar instalarse siluetas que
danzan un pequeño vestigio de volumen
perfectamente contrastadas con el
panel fluorescente rectangular del fondo
es el aire el que cimbrea las bombillas
una pequeña ayuda sin embargo del
colchón negro desde hace unos minutos
mi cabeza en blanco desde hace unas
miradas y ya es tarde si me permiten
los altavoces abrir la puerta si me dejan
los focos las piedras de la fachada amasijo
de luz y sombra espeso un tanto pegajoso
giratorio cuando el palo de la bruja
da vueltas en el pote
al amasijo vueltas y vueltas
 
 
(ii)
 
 
my head remains happily empty
placidity of the cavity the wind at
ease in the interior cavern I cannot
perceive traces clues voices getting
weaker wasting to rise on the tracks
of the torrent train of wheat initiating
incursions in the air right after the
horizon sways confusion of the wheat
of the air the train that passes incisi-
vely through the gust the Boston
strangler sits at my side his cheekbones
his mouth protrude his evil super-
ciliary bones are curved with the light he
places his hands on a folder his suit
his black suit buttons up very high
the strangler has two fierce eyes that
wander from one side to the other of
his spectacles the train vanishes and
the clarity leaves a volume of moment-
ary zenithal hope
whether to order a pair of rimmed spectacles!
 
 
(ii)
 
 
mi cabeza permanece felizmente
vacía la placidez de la oquedad el viento a
sus anchas en el interior cavernario no puedo
percibir rastros indicios voces que pierden
fuerza consunción alzarme sobre las vías
del tren raudal de trigo iniciando incursiones
en el aire justo después cimbrea el horizonte
confusión del trigo del aire el tren que pasa
incisivo por la ráfaga el estrangulador de
boston se sienta a mi lado le sobresalen los
pómulos la boca aviesos los superciliares se
curvan con la luz posa las manos sobre una
carpeta muy arriba le cierra el traje negro el
estrangulador tiene dos ojos fieros que pasean de
un lado a otro de sus gafas desaparece el tren
y la claridad deja un volumen cenital esperanza
momentánea ¡si encargar unas gafas con barrotes!
 
 
 
 

 
 
Enrique Darriba (Madrid, 1965) began as a plastic artist, although he soon oriented his artistic work towards literature. He is the author of the poetry book Geometría básica (Varasek Ediciones, 2017) and the novel Los buenos tiempos (Legados Ediciones, 2019).
 
Enrique Darriba (Madrid, 1965) empezó como artista plástico, aunque pronto derivó su quehacer artístico hacia la literatura. Es autor del libro de poemas Geometría básica (Varasek Ediciones, 2017) y de la novela Los buenos tiempos (Legados Ediciones, 2019).
 

 
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines.
She has received numerous awards. Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, 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)

Research on the notion of freedom by Alex Z. Salinas

On a summer morning,
I waited outside a county prison
to conduct research on the notion of freedom.
A short, bald man exited
the building, I assumed, a free man.
Turned out he was free indeed because I asked him.
“Sir,” I said, “were you just released?”
“Yeah,” answered the little man, “and who the hell wants to know?”
“Nobody,” I said, “just some guy who wants to know what it’s like
to be free.”
He chuckled, then scratched his stubbled chin.
“Is somebody picking you up?” I asked.
“No,” he answered.
“Wherever you go then,” I said, “won’t your legs tire out?
You aren’t used to walking long distance.”
The man looked at me with raccoon eyes, smiled,
then scratched his stubbled chin.
“You know how I got in there, boy?” he said. “With these legs here.
They never failed me ‘cept the once, and once is all they ever
gonna fail me.”
 
“But where will you go? Where will you stay?”
He squinted.
“Don’t worry about my legs, boy,” he said,
“or where I’m gonna take ‘em.
Instead, worry ‘bout this here mouth,
‘bout the words I’m gonna say, and how I’m gonna say ‘em
to people like you.”
 
II.
 
When the man approached a fork in the road half a mile down from the prison,
he turned left.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to scratch his stubbled chin,
he turned left.
He turned as if he’d turned that direction a hundred times.
 
III.
 
Upon release,
some men turn left,
while the rest go the other way.
 
 

 
 
Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of WARBLES, his debut full-length poetry collection by Hekate Publishing. He serves as poetry editor for the San Antonio Review and holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, 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)

Birthday Poem for Sylvie Garnham Born November 9th 1941 by Bruce Hodder

If you knocked now, 23 years later,

what would I tell you over tea and biscuits?

I’d show you my book of poems, blushing, proud,

and my degree certificate. You missed them both.

I’d reminisce. I’d remind you of the fun we had.

I’d tell you I’ve learned to love trash telly since.

I’ve even read a few detective novels.

I’d tell you I have found real love at last;

she has seen me at my worst and still accepts me.

I’d say I think you’d love her; she’s my perfect match

and I’m happy, though not quite a grinning fool

with my illness. We’d have speak of that as well.

I wouldn’t have to tell you that your loss

was like an arm hacked off that never truly healed.

I wouldn’t have to say it. You would know.

Every hesitation, every facial tic I made

would tell you what my words concealed.
 
 

 
Bruce Hodder has had his poems appear in Crossroads, Medusa’s Kitchen, Best Poetry, The Rye Whisky Review and Duane’s Poet Tree, among others. This year he also published his collection The Journey Home with Whiskey City Press. He lives with his wife Michelle in Northampton, England.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, 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)