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)
FEATUREDPOET
FIRST
POSTCARD FROM IRAQ
I have yet to see
the Tigris Riverup 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
FEATUREDPOET
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 tothe 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)
FEATUREDPOET
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 alfresco 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 guiseof 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
cityand 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 tohide 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.
