RESIDENT
POET
NEON
RAINBOW
Illusions work better than
untruthitudes
Stalactitic images of hopessence cave-in
Dripping listless ennui spiking justifiction
Chillaxed frosty icicles boregasmic
thaw
Uprooted nightmares soiled straggly
transplants
Purple heart pitted juicy plums
Withered prunes wrathful sun-dried raisins
Early hoarfrost twisted clinging
vines
Dreamy fertile oasis windswept
mirage
Shifting quicksand burial mound dunes
Nacreous pearly shells forced open
Exposing sextraordinary unpolished
Einstone gems
Pristine illusions original pure
silica
Uncorrupted by abrasive spinning wheels
Multi-faceted quartziferous splinters forefinger implants
Broken halfhearted promises tweezers
pinched
Stained glass inherent mixed
pigments
Baking transparency onto ultraviolent surface
Brittle fragtagments pieced back together
Patchwork mosaic jagged edges smoothed
White light containing all colors
Apparently only prism can divide
Unity seeking traces of perfection
Overblown minute flaws
unbelievabubbles burst
Charles Frederickson
(Thailand)
FEATURED POET
FIRST
POSTCARD FROM IRAQ
I have yet to see
the Tigris River up close.
It lies just beyond
the concrete barriers
to the east.
Once beautiful,
it was a trade route
where spices were bartered for,
fruit was freely given
in exchange for a smile
or a fresh hello.
During my evening stroll
when I'm feeling restless
and thinking of home,
the mystery of its past
gently pulls me in,
just as you do,
drowning me in questions;
the answers buried in mudbanks.
SECOND POSTCARD FROM IRAQ
The moon above Baghdad
floats lazily atop a veil
of smoky-grey clouds. Pigeons
sitting on the streetlamps
blend in effortlessly,
shaking another day
of black dust
from their feathers.
They have no desire to fly
in any direction
or converse with a stoic moon.
Natives to the dirty sand,
both have seen the color of death,
both wish they were colorblind.
THIRD POSTCARD FROM IRAQ
Another night of interrupted
sleep. Helicopters hover above
my dreams like giant dragonflies
searching for their prey.
A collision of olive green
on sand colored skin.
The intrusive rumble of their
buzzing echoes throughout my body,
sending shockwaves of fear
that bounce against the walls
and intrude the private spaces
of my mind. Each room transformed
into a pile of rubble.
FOURTH POSTCARD FROM IRAQ
The heat of worry
burns my skin at times.
Walking along the palace road,
the monotony of perspiration
overcomes me.
On my desk,
ylang ylang, in a plastic bottle,
is a reprieve from the threat
loitering outside,
waiting to molest me
with breath of the reaper.
Scent of a tropical flower
may camouflage my worries
for a brief time,
but the underlying odor of death
follows me like a shadow.
Sandy Hiss
FEATURED POET
ILLUSIONS AT ELEVEN
After
Wallace Stevens
My house has been haunted
by elephants
of any color,
ring,
stripe, or any size
or pumpkins
of any face
or carriage,
but my feet have groaned
under the ponderousness of an attic
mind
depressed by skyscraper apes and
shells to shark
the cabin boy in an aging sailing
ship
too terrified to listen
to
the waves
upon the shore.
BEATING THE ODDS
After Tom Stoppard
A coin flipped
between heads
and tails
between us
is a rough augur:
one of us loses
while one of us wins
for keeps
when we flip it
even as we flip it again
with the opposite result –
every time
certainly
the world we paint so black
and white cuts –
as if luck
has nothing to do with us,
But spin it
like a top,
a magic lantern
projecting one side only
upon our persistence
of vision,
and we know
no defeat
or victory
one over another
for we too
shall have one
side only.
James Penha
(Indonesia)
FEATURED POET
Shadows
Whole beings encased in skin,
all organs either pumping, digesting
excreting, cleansing
working genetic magic
allowing us to sleep without
the fear of failure.
We make and move about
our daily business
time limitless and infinite,
immortal bodies full of toil.
But in the shadows of our tissue, grow
clumps of cells, hopped up
hyper, pushing at the limits
of the space inside these sacks
we call ourselves,
strange amorphous shades
on diagnostic plates
backlit for specialists
to determine, yes,
that blockage is a tumor,
we’ll cut it out, radiate, chemo.
yes, we think, we got it all,
we think.
Previously published in Running Down the Wind,
a collection of poetry, 2007.
Utopia
This peace we seek,
a psychic ebb and flow
pumping fluids through
this captured space
is all we have,
a calm of chemicals
in tune or out of tune
so on the knife-edge
of despair, so on the threshold
of elation, a moment’s trigger
a rush of wind
the pale perfection of the moon
cold, distant, pulling
at the blood, drawing
water to its call.
This peace, this state
at birth or death
lies within us
not without
all action, things we see
mere reflections of ourselves
ripples not really there
made up in their importance
their force to bend
our will to mood.
"Close to the Road" previously published in collection,
Going to the Well, 2004 ISBN
0-9736568-0-8
David Fraser
(Canada)
FEATURED POET
ILLUSIONS
Noiseless wrinkles
on our forehead,
the frontiers of history,
shed oblique glances
at Homer’s verses.
Illusions
full of guilt
redeem
wounded whispers
that become echoes
in lighted caves
of the fools and the innocent.
THE “DON’TS” AND THE “ZEROS”
The night
that strangled
the endless moments
I had wished
to live,
passed by
without my lighting up
the candle
I had longed
to warm up
all the “don’ts”
and “zeros”.
Dimitris P. Kraniotis
(Greece)
GUEST POET
CECELIA
IN THE NEW WORLD
Great-grandma Cecelia was told
the New World would be all roses
and streets of gold.
Alone with six children,
one a babe in arms,
all dressed in new clothes
bought with pennies scraped
together,
she followed her husband till
Amerika,
54 dollars from Gothenburg to St.
Paul.
In the long heat of the sea passage,
Cecelia gave her baby
something she had never tasted.
And when, in the hell of Castle
Garden,
the baby died, for the rest of her
life
she blamed the ship’s ice water.
Here, in the Promised Land, she
learned
her Andrew toiled to pave the
streets
with brick. And, days after her
arrival, scrubbing
other people’s floors, dragging
Molly and little Ida with her, gone
from all
she loved at home and speaking no
English,
she let her tears fall like heart’s
blood
into the scrub pail.
Later, there was the boarding house
and water to haul and heat in the
boilers.
Quarrymen’s heavy crusted clothes
to scrub by hand. Room and board,
a day for a dollar.
Of three more children borne,
two were buried, Anna Helen the only
child of the New World to survive.
In widowhood, hair pulled tight,
stolid in her long black dress,
in old age with no money,
Cecelia earned her keep by doing
all the baking in Ida’s comfortable
house.
There ladies from the Swedish church
brought birthday flowers,
left dollar bills on a little plate
to keep her in peppermints.
There at last, she had roses,
filling all the parlor
where they laid her.
WATER
Newborn, our first instinct is to
grab
and hold on. Afraid of falling,
we arch and stiffen, guard
the precious half-formed spine.
All our lives we clench fists in
primal self
protection, hunch to ward off
dissolution
inside the body armor, a nautilus
constructing an elaborate shell.
All our lives in vestigial survival
instinct
we cling to the mother’s belly hair,
the lover’s breath on the hot
throat:
Oh, do not abandon me or I dissolve.
But we are mostly water, every
organ,
every cell, even the intractable
brain, its convoluted echoing
dreams of the sea,
and we must let ourselves be
water and fall like sleep
into the stillness.
Nancy Paddock
(U.S.A.)
GUEST POET
WITH BARE HANDS
In the still of the night
When the stars sleep
In their orbs
And the moon has run her course
Camels cough
Softly
At the desert
And the suppliant
Stands
At the seas of time
Bowed under shame
To press
Forehead to the ground
“Mercy”
And the camels growl further
Ruminating.
INSHA’ALLAH
If it be the Will of God
It will happen
If not
Then not
But to submit
In prostration
Forehead to the dust
Salaam
And wash nose, eyes and ears
Seven times in sand
Should the desert yield no water
For purification
Ilhamdulillah
Praise God
For what will be
Will be
So always praise
The way of submission
Islam
The seven sands of purification
The swaying caravan routes
Insha’allah
God willing
We will complete our journey
Ilhamdulillah
Praise God
We have.
Geoffrey Jackson
(Denmark)
GUEST POET
BORN FROM HIS DEAD FATHER’S ARM
“The trees are speaking on the far
shore
we’ll never get there in time…”
– Robert Adamson, Black Water
“Like the swan which drinks milk
only from milk-water
so should the substance of the world
be drunk.”
– Kanhupada, Raga Indratala
go-round swings he hangs the orange
sky collides with shadows / people
haunt the thinning trees the
punctured
eye & hair like lightning dust
or bubbles /
years (abandoned houses stars she
gives
her beaming light & tongue &
vital airs
eclipse his head a light or vapour
finds
her powdered breasts her lotus sword
&
studied skull a southern-fire
(delight or
wishing cow) & rubbed by sages
in the
night his faces unclean peel a
blackened
may: white-flock carpet heart &
rain –
‘the fine grey nature’ of earth in
mouth a
moonbeam’s grubby thread she sinks
in
rags & callow youngsters folded
back his
arms (the gallows bird the upward
moving
other self he steals & rides a
mouse through
time his face a rusty frying-pan or
pearly tusk
& hatched the waters gold / the
peacock sky
Paul Hardacre
(Australia/Thailand)
GUEST POET
AL FRESCO CAFÉ
Avoided by many passing eyes.
Is
as if people are saying, “There
Is no one in the space I
occupy.
What appears as a human being
Is a mirage in this
desert,
An illusion of an al
fresco café
Where
There
are no human beings.”
Sometimes, like Descartes, I doubt
if I exist,
Sometimes I doubt if I am actually
here in this al fresco café,
But
What restores my belief, my faith, that
I am here occupying a black iron
chair
Is
that some eyes, a few eyes, blue eyes,
Brown eyes, eyes of various colors,
Do look at me, look hard
At me,
Even stare.
These
people stare at me with an accusatory look,
As if accusing me of some desperate
act,
Some despicable crime,
Not
having a credit card,
Parking
in a handicap space,
Not
saying “Have a good day.”
These
accusatory looks
Make me feel I exist.
Duane Locke
(U.S.A.)
GUEST POET
BA VI
The clouds are always there
ringing three peaks
busy with lightning &
thunder grumbling—
the place clouds are born
to water the fields
and forests of Vietnam.
You must be light as air
to receive a tree frog’s blessing
then take the path to the cloud
pagoda
at the summit of Ba Vi
where a nun lives to tend the shrine
light incense sticks
and burn the ceremonial money
arrange flowers left by pilgrims
in offering to the clouds.
Quiet time, the forest watches over
her
she meditates clouds until night—
sleeps on a cane mat before the
sweet altar—
the clouds round Ba Vi swirl through
the pagoda
wrap her in glowing vapour
make images of her cloud dreams
and if the clouds dream
they dream of her.
Sunrise, she gathers the flowers
left by day-tripping pilgrims
and throws them to the clouds.
Kambah Pool
A bend in the river, water’s clouded
by green mud
Deep, really deep, good for proper
swimming.
These days only children see spirit
life
Work and play, see a world invisible
to adults
Clear and just, a solar system glows
every grain
Of sand and kids crush evil in one
hand,
Until growing up evil comes again.
The light dappling the water surface
Reveals some native spirits’ power
Derives from fireflies. Gumnut babies
Fuss and fight give a lesson how
funny
Is the futility of conflict. Children see
That crazy old spirit Pan left his
shadow
Hanging from a tree and reflection
Drinking at the river, the old
goat’s galloped
Way up mountain, leaps cliff to
cliff
Grazes on blackberries growing in
the scrub
Gazes over his Murrumbidgee domain.
All glands and rankness, his shaggy
coat
Putrid with the smell of ewes,
wallabies,
Kangaroos, still a monster, he’ll
take
A bird bath later. Dirty musk fills the air
Like a native allergy, tea trees
blossom
As he passes, kangaroos lift their
heads
Breathe deep his scent and there are
dogs, too.
When the kids see Pan they go gulp
If dads could see him they’d beat
him to pulp.
You might not see but the musk stench
Wafts on the breeze. Currawongs
squawk
The inside-out salute, warble a tone
of pity
For the brute. The immigrant god
moves inland—
Raucous the cockatoo never shuts up.
S.K. Kelen
(Australia)
GUEST POET
LIBERTY
Now I lay bare, beneath your glassy
gaze
Trapped between nudity and
hypnotizing stare,
I looked back on memorable days
when I walked this earth with fear.
Away from your binding shackles I
fly,
Key in hand I flee the crush of
stamping feet.
Seeds of subjugation sown in me,
uproot and cast away, poisoned
manure.
Replace now, seeds of liberty,
Rejoice with dance the cure.
Revelations too dark in blinding
light,
Then, closing chapter and the
brooding night.
I read the glyphics on surrounding
walls,
The hero dies, the nation falls.
Fierce rage, apportion blame,
The sweet and sour sugarcane,
Put to sword who puts to shame.
As I lay clothed beneath your glassy
gaze,
You look as if I am not here.
I look toward better coming days
When I will tread this earth without
fear.
WORLD AT WAR
Looking out to a city
ravaged by industrial fires,
set ablaze with waste from far-flung
dumps, booking their urban flights
by chance of wind to all
destinations where life exists.
The river seems clear tonight.
I can see panting fish of fine
discoloration declaring
that beyond the clarity
lies something murky, deeper
than the fisherman’s will,
wider than the trawler’s net.
Perhaps there is still time to call
time on this war and retreat
from the white flag now sailing
at half-mast. Then we might
not mistake the children’s coughing
for laughter. And strong men might
temper the tightness of their
lungs, young women the measure
of the breathing and elders
the volume of their tears.
Oladipo Agboluaje
(Nigeria/U.K.)
GUEST POET
Borrowed Landscape
(Paddy Maguire’s Pub, near
Chinatown, Sydney)
The trees, that do not belong to me,
on the hill,
that does not belong to me. This is
my premise.
The people in a house that grew like
a mushroom.
But with shattering noise! Oh yes!
Look across
at us as if we have always existed –
just like this.
But indeed we have not. And will
not. No.
When I call on my airy familiars,
they come to me, more
insubstantial than they used to be,
but still. They come.
With – lightsome tread.
Through landscape. Sometimes
in the guise of an animal or bird. Sometimes… Sometimes…
…exactly what is it about this city
that I cannot
quite – quite – quite – dislike?
They are looking at me! The people!
As they
pass! I can’t grasp, even with
exhaustive intuition, Asian
postures, ways of being. I can read
the Australians,
some with an Asian cast of feature.
Some not.
A grandmother – I can tell that much
– a grandmother
trots past flat-footed, the baby
jogging on her back.
stealing the look of me. All saved
to file, on her hard drive
The woman in the beer garden in the
black hat … scribbling …
… scribbling. As she steals me, so I
steal her.
The man (with the broken mouth) has
gone. Up!
And left! Taken his chance, picked
his time.
So I would not notice him going.
Although
I notice him gone. He is gone out as
far as I
can imagine to the place where he
lives his life.
The place that intersects with this.
I am bold today.
I am imagining lives. Lives! Three
whiskeys down!
Writing a poem – as if it were
allowed! – thrumming with
the courage to impose – and claim –
what is always mine!
BEACHCOMBING
I coveted the pretty ornament. Like
a child
I wanted the sweet colours, the
crimps, the curls,
I wanted it for no reason, for no
good reason.
I was walking among the detritus
when the market closed.
The coathangers were driftwood, the
defeated, lonely shoe
stranded by the tide, billowing
newspapers yards of airy kelp
as if the sea had taken the
city and retreated,
my esoteric and lonely game. And
there it is,
the enchanted shell, the pretty
thing. Mine.
Jennifer Compton
(New Zealand)
GUEST POET
TEARDROPS
when i cry, we laugh,
tears simmer like drops of
sparkling dew;
everybody asks:
who are you? are you?
then you reply –
“i am the permanent
friend of thine”
in happy sorrow
always saying ha… he… hi.
i am the vapor
of melting emotion
bursting sentiment,
liquefied steam
experiencing condensation
which evokes relaxation;
testing the extremes
in cold and hot,
black and white,
but i am always
a shareholder
in green and red
within range of vision eyesight.
i am immortal like truth,
observed in babies, young and old,
omnipresent like air
in hell, hill, mountain fold
till the graveyard
when hearts become
filled with anguish;
a nobody flowing upstream
joyous with grief,
sprinkling water from shower
baptising an orphan, abandoned,
as sympathetic as revival oxygen,
an eternal river seeking mental
escape.
Kumuda Ranjan Panda
(India)
GUEST POET
A MIRAGE OF TIGERS
Sunlight prowls through city soot
in crooked yellow-and-black
lines: a mirage of tigers slinking
between the steel and the sky and
the shadows,
but less savage, more humble
– even suicidal: sun swan-
dives from the upper floor, defiling
itself in
the garbage and rotting fruit and
the whores
like an eternal cat with more than
nine lives,
and creeping into rooms, where cold
tea kettles
are picked up by trembling old
hands; sunshine
stretches, yawns and flexes its
paws, warming
up this prey for the real hunter yet
to come.
R.S.V.P. TO ILLUSION
The sky is the sweetest invitation,
a graceful white palace that
crumbles
to clouds at the black kick of human
hopes.
Our yearning spirit indeed rolls on
like
a mighty army of marching bones,
crunching illusions, and stirring up
sand from which we build new
fortresses
to
hide our trembling dreams in.
Thomas White
(Australia/U.k.)
GUEST POET
ILLUMINATE
/I lit a thin green candle/
-- Leonard Cohen
I lit a thin green candle
and it grew alive in my hands
The candle became a cool
green flame between my hands
And in it appeared black letters
I knew I'd have to decipher
All that was waxen
dripped off my hands
Until only the cool green flame
was left between my hands
Johannes Beilharz
ODE IN D BLUE
This toneless ode
might be imagined
And might take on contour
slowly
Like a blue being
stepping out of the mists
And as the mists
dissipate
you might glimpse
some waves of the ocean
Blue came from.
You might hear a brash surf,
might feel yourself
drawn to Blue,
drawn to the ocean
Johannes
Beilharz
(Germany)
GUEST POET
SPRING AND AUTUMN
I whistle in lively tune on a spring morning.
In the whistle my small dream is contained lightly.
The dream expands more and more as I am whistling.
My heart, charmed with my own tune, becomes so merry.
A net's ready for trapping fish swimming swiftly.
Fish themselves with too great strength leap into the net.
Foolish! They themselves perish, entering the net.
In the spring river one sees such a tragedy.
An enchanting, columbine is now blossoming.
Men love this purple flower which beautifies spring.
Its stalk, vertical, is long unbecomingly;
So, feeling shy, it has dropt its head bashfully.
The autumn wind plays music of the world's sadness,
With the tender twigs of trees as instrument.
Dancing to the wind's music of great mournfulness,
The trees' leaves fall grievously on the ground ambient.
A new life secretly grows out of a dead tree.
I am a dead-tree mushroom, born in cool autumn.
Hopeful, pleasant future lies brightly before me.
I'll bravely live, enduring the wind of autumn.
I am a Japanese larch, kindred to pine trees.
Late in autumn my leaves turn yellow helplessly.
Grieving for my fallen leaves, I envy pine trees:
As they're evergreen, I shed regretfully.
Kazuyosi Ikeda
(Japan)