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SOLO SYMBIOTIC POETRY
MARY MIRACULOUS
Johnny Baranski
described as half bleached white and charcoal black she's called "Atomic Bombed Maria." her remains were found amid the ruins of Urakami Catholic Cathedral in Nagasaki, Japan after the city was flattened by the nuclear weapon dubbed "fat man" on August 9th, 1945; that is, only the statue's head, it being all that was still intact. weep not for her, however, for her hollow wooden visage is no specter of death. instead its muted voice joins those around the world calling for disarmament. believers say whatever is asked for through her shall be granted.
disfigured by the BOMB
the Virgin's likeness too
a Hibakusha*
* The surviving victims of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki are called hibakusha -a Japanese word that literally translates to "explosion-affected people.”
HAIBUN 22
Shirl Cahayom
the years had flown away, faster than my heartbeats that wanted to get out of my chest every time i saw you passing by. gone were the years that we spent together. we were young. we were happy. we were full of life.
where are you now kuya romy? i would like to think that whatever you wished for had turned into beautiful realities.i would like to think that you found the real happiness in life. i would like to still think of you as the man i first fell in love with. my first love. my lost love.
what is the loneliness
that cripples my whole being
compared to the beauty of the dawn
that still rises
each coming morning ?
HAIBUN 23
Shirl Cahayom
when we parted, i thought i would die. i couldn’t sleep. i couldn’t eat. loneliness was written at the depth of my big black eyes. the love songs that we used to sing together were nothing but sad melodies that haunt me in the night. you were my
reason for living. but i could not chain myself to a lifetime of sorrow. from the ashes, i picked up the shattered pieces of my life and built it anew. God in his goodness and in his mercy carried me like a child and showed me the rebirth of a glorious day.
deep in slumber
the homeless woman
with summer flower on her hair
Haibun 24
Shirl Cahayom
for four long years, i was a desert dweller.i spent four years of my young life in riyadh,saudi arabia. the desert, my friend. the desert. long stretch of yellow
sand...baren and without meaning.it was four years of loneliness.at dusk, i usually go to the garden to watch the sunset.it is a big ball of orange fire hanging in the sky but there is always a big black streak in the midle of the dying sun.
the depth of your gaze
hides pain and loneliness
do you know
that the sorrow in my heart
is deeper than your gaze ?
A MAN ALONE
-excerpt-
Gerard J. Conforti
It’s going to be a long day. the heat in my is already unbearable. There isn’t a cool breeze in this summer morning. I can smell the honeysuckle vines clinging to the building in the humidity.
About an hour ago the rain poured down and wet the dripping tree leaves. For a while there was a cool breeze coming in my windows but now the air is hanging heavy again.
I rise from my bed soaking wet from the previous night. I’ve been having panic attacks almost every night for a long time now, and still feel anxious about going outdoors. I decide to take a shower to cool down, but I know that I will sweat in the heat again.
There is no air-conditioner in the window and the curtains are drawn open and there is an odor in the room from the wet sheets on the bed.
shadows of tree leaves morning sun on the curtains
I go into the bathroom again to take my morning meds from the cabinet. I swallow them down with water and go back into my bedroom. I don’t feel like eating anything. I’m disgusted with the summer day and hot it’s going to be later in the evening when the sunlight sets beyond the sea.
waking up the silence in my ears
As the day progresses, I go downstairs and sit on the steps of the building. From there I can view Snug Harbor. Only a woman’s hand in mine. This I wish for the most. My palms are sweaty and wet from the languid air.
I go upstairs again and unlock the door and then lock it behind me. The only sound is the click from the lock. I cannot hear my footsteps on the thick carpet of the room. Even the walls are silent in the apartment. The flowery pictures on the walls are even depressive. They are the cheap stuff someone got to dress up the walls and are not attractive.
I turn the radio on to break the silence surrounding me. It is going to be a long night.
autumn winds tree leaves swirl on the street
Haiga by Werner Reichhold
TO SAINT JOHN
Ruth Holzer
We’re on the road south from Moncton, following the course of the Saint John River. Flat marsh extends on both sides. At Hillsborough we stop and spend a few hours exploring the wetlands. The old dike system still protects low-lying fields from flooding. Chunks of gypsum shine on the ground like abandoned treasure. A volunteer at the visitor center tells us where we can find a bald eagle’s nest: a few miles away, on a large branch to the left near the top of a pine tree in the exact center of Riverview Cemetery.
the cry of eaglets—
one will kill
the other
A little farther along the coast, the river empties into the rough curve of Chignecto Bay.
Cape Enrage –
up at the lighthouse
too windy to fight
A CERTAIN ROAD IN GEORGIA
Gary LeBel
This road has many names. Each small town between Augusta and Athens takes it as their namesake, but to me it’s still one road, the heart and soul of a state. In mile after mile of meadowlands, glade, and forest, in breezes oozing with honeysuckle, its shoulders brim with wildflowers, clover and thistle: they rush the edge of the tar as if to spread some rumor mourning doves had whispered. Soon after climbing the off-ramp from the interstate, the road begins:
I.
Windswept
along with grasses
chestnut manes
‘Henry’s gone, left this mornin’. Gone to fight them Yanks in Virginny. I wish’d I could go with ‘im! Papaw says I’s too young. Jes’ give me a rifle an’ you’ll see what I’ll do—I’ll win that damn war my own self…’
An eighth of a mile east of town, mossy stones lean here and there under the bluish shade of a century oak; grass grows high between them. As morning breezes brush the limbs, its shadows deepen the letters of a family’s many names.
II.
‘Fields was so hot t’day, Mama, Papa done fell down. I coon’t do nothin’ wid ol’ Grainger standin’ dere. I ain’t never seen him fall right down in a heap like dat, Mama. Grainger tole Enoch and Obidiah to hep him up and git workin’ or else. Papa say not to tell ya. What we gonna do fer ‘im t’morra, Mama, what we gonna do?
through streaming tears
a fiddler’s reel
from the big house
Across the road lie the remains of the old plantation’s fields, wild and deserted, swallowed by the slow, verdant creep of disappearance. A small red shack lays a stone’s throw from the big house: it’s freshly painted, and lavishly restored as if it were to be sealed under a bell jar, a curio for the bland indifferent eyes of the future to rest a moment before passing on to the next artifact of human cruelty.
III.
‘That was nice, Darlin’, music from Heaven. Was it Chopin or Mozart? I heard it from the garden, sweet as robins in April it was. I do declare, Dorothy, what luck that Sheridan had in finding the likes of you.’
‘It was Ravel, Father, and John Henry Sheridan didn’t find me, you introduced us, remember? But I’m telling you plain as day that I won’t have anything to do with him, not now, not ever. He’s ‘bout as lively as a scarecrow. A union between us is not now and never will be possible.’
over the evening fields
a shout a door slamming shut
a coo
IV.
The road turns to the left abruptly; tall, flat-roofed storefronts rise up crowding the narrow main street of a small town. All the padlocked shops are a deluge of rubble: tin logos, broken chairs and sagging shelves lie dead-still behind their dusty picture windows. Small brick bungalows, with curtains drawn, lay suckling at the quiet on the teats of noon; not a person stirs. Front yards explode with azaleas shrouding porches and parlor windows in occasional breeze-turned kaleidoscopes of white and scarlet and magenta…
‘You’ve got to see it through, the whole argument. The world isn’t as you see it or want it to be, Mama. You can’t let your religion and what you believe be the standard for the rest of us because everyone carries their own in here, inside them, and one’s just as good as another: I am what I am, mother, what I have always been; I’m sorry I’m not what you wanted, but I’m still your daughter. You have a choice to make: either you accept Lily as you would a husband or I’ll never come back here again—I’ll be at the station if you change your mind. It leaves at 4:15.’
where do they lead
and where have they led…
and back again
these rusty tracks?
V.
‘I cain’t go with you, Charlie. I jus ’cain’t.’
‘Honey, you got to; the whole town’ll be there.’
‘Our boy…’
‘They said…he was very brave, a hero. Two of his buddies will go home to their families ‘cause of Jess.’
‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I just don’t want to remember him that way. I want to see him coming up from the pond with his fishing pole and a string a bluegills dangling from his belt, a big devil-may-care grin on his face, not what the army’s bringing us.’
‘Honey, he had to go; it was his duty.’
‘I’m sorry to say this, Charlie, but I think some hawks enjoy killing whether they are hungry or not.’
What do you mean by that, Maggie?
By a mailbox painted with stars and stripes, a tumbledown swing-set beyond the driveway, the wounded hulk of a giant oak leans out over the road, split down the middle by lightning, charred and bereft of leaves except for a sprig or two on the highest limbs…
between thunderclaps
sparrow singing
on a wire
VI.
In soft zigzagging waves, the high grass flows like breakers. Between a farmhouse and the forest’s unbroken line, a dog is standing. From time to time it lifts its nose up into the wind as if to smell what the clouds are bringing…
‘That’s a nice story, Kate. I can see you’ve worked hard on it. It has a nice twist at the end, and plenty to chew on later. Have you ever thought about sending it in somewhere, you know, to a magazine or other, that specializes in stories, and might just put it into print, with your name on it?’
‘Nah, who’d want to read it anyway, let alone buy it?’
‘Only ‘bout half the world, Sugar, the half that reads, that is. Here, speaking of twists, have some of this face-twistin’ lemonade, darlin’, then we’ll look on the net and see if we can’t find a good home for this first little pup in yo’ litter.’
She drums for those
who will not dance
VII.
‘Who’d Frank leave his place to, Charlene?’
‘Nobody knows. His will hasn’t been read. Lawyer Thoms is waiting for his brother Samuel to get in from Cairo, or Rome or Paris or wherever it is he lives.’
‘Lord, he must have money.’
‘Oodles of it.’
‘Where’d he make it?’
‘They always had it, I guess.’
‘They left Frank out of the picture, didn’t they?
‘He didn’t want in.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Why it’s common knowledge, dear.’
‘Not to me. I never liked him much, I’ll say that.’
‘You didn’t know him, that’s all.’
‘And you did?’
‘Oh, yes.
‘You, Charlene? You?’
‘Hazel, dear, if we’re all done with our jibber-jabbering, I’ve got errands to run.’
Tulip poplars shade the dirt driveway. A tall thin sapling grows up out of a hole in the sagging roof. A flood of vine pours out over the eaves in an avalanche of kudzu. The chimney, built simply out of stream stones, stands straight and plumb, but leaning away from it, the house has other plans for a long, slow, helpless surrender to the wild blackberry patch beside it.
wildflowers:
an open I
each one
VIII.
‘Poverty
and then
the college town
with all its brickwork,
oaks & stone, its plaques
& statues,
flawless green.
Down its sleepy lanes
magnolia breezes
blow ringlets scarlet, black
or brown
down shoulders no less fine and round
than Ilion’s foreign queen:
O weft of beauty, weave us
on thy privileged loom
for a half mile out of town
the head-hung, stumbling skip
of poverty’s
sure to resume.’
‘Is that how you see our town, Mr. Rollins?’
‘It’s just an observation, Professor, while I was driving to class one day last week.’
‘Your assignment was to write an ode to Athens, our namesake city, in Sapphics, if you can handle it.’
‘There were too many syllables, sir, for my taste. I didn’t want to be verbose…or needlessly mellifluous.’
‘Verbose? Mellifluous? I should fail you, you know, and I would if I knew your father wouldn’t try to have my tenure revoked.’
‘He won’t care, believe me; he hates poetry. If it doesn’t enhance his portfolio, or he needs it to sweet-talk some coed into bed, it doesn’t exist for him.’
‘Is this what you want to write about then, to slight the very place that nurtures you, and makes your life as easy as a Bourbon prince?’
“…εγω δε κην οτ—τω τις εραται.”
‘Playing games now, Mr. Rollins?’
‘You mentioned Sappho, Sir, so there she is. Do you know it?’
‘Of course I know it: “…I say it is what one loves.” Don’t take me for a plumber. Do the assignment over as outlined, in Sapphics as I requested. Ten points off for being late, and take this monstrosity with you.’
“…και ταν επ’ οςςοις’ ομπεταςον…”
‘My eyes are fully opened, Mr. Rollins, but are yours? Incidentally you forgot the ‘χαριν’, grace, intentionally I suppose.’
‘If the sandal fits.’
‘What’s that, Mr. Rollins?’
satin sheets
another stab
at meaning
IX.
Now the fields go streaming by, small towns and huddled houses, and haunts the crow knows all too well, where nobody cooks or laughs, or lopes ‘with Cupid dancing’,
where cracked and swollen clapboards keep their permanent night a secret,
past country stores, the tombs of wasps,
the mirrors’ mausoleum—
beyond Iris’ gift of creek and lake
the voices fade, the tires sing—
almost home to familiar skies
my fiction recoiling
retracts its lies.
This road has many names.
Notes:
- “…εγω δε κην οτ—τω τις εραταi” and “…και ταν επ’ οςςοις’ ομπεταςον χαριν” are from Sappho as translated by Anne Carson from her book IF NOT, WINTER. Vintage Books, NY. 2002
- ‘with Cupid dancing’ is from Catullus as translated by Humphrey Clucas in the book Catullus:A Poet in the Rome of Julius Caesar by Aubrey Burl. Carroll & Graf, NY. 2004
Haiga by Werner Reichhold
RAZORBLADE
Werner Reichhold
About the razorblade
hair-fine scraped departure
blood-mixed
then the shirt rinsed white
dried in the garden
on a rough line
in shadowy black
the cry of starlings’
finery gossip and brrrr
the flock buzzes to the worms
in the grass of four
and twenty hours
inattentive themselves
to be dew-wetted – no she doesn’t
want similar to other girls
squinting into videos
where the guy before a mirror
smoothly shaved
blows his curls as an offer
to the co-worker on the screen
car-rental, 8 am online: no, she says, 24 yrs old, tattooed under powdered cheeks, I will not again become an enthusiast at a click.
Won’t pawn either frills nor cry
nor gossip. Offer no lascivious squirming for five lines at a virtual meeting – without
scent on grass the leash bitten through pointer points
Von der Rasierklinge
haarfein geschabte Abschiede
blutvermischt
das Hemd glaubhaft weißgespült
gartengetrocknet
auf rauher Leine
in schattenhaftem Schwarz
Aufschrei der Stare
Flügelputz Klatsch und brrrrrr
der Schwarm schwirrt zu Würmern
im Gras der vier
und zwanzig Stunden
unaufmerksam sich windenden
Taufeuchten – nein sie will nicht
ähnlich anderer Mädchen
in Videos schielen
wo der Kerl vorm Spiegel
glattrasiert
Locken föhnt zum Angebot
für die Mitarbeiterin am Schirm
Auto-Verleih, 8 Uhr früh online: nein, sagt sie, 24, tätowiert unter gepuderter Wange, werde nicht wieder Schwärmerin auf click.
Verpfände weder Putz noch Schrei noch Klatsch. Biete keine lüstern gewundenen fünf Zeilen zu virtuellem Treff - ohne
Witterung am Gras die Leine durchgebissen Pointer steht
SEQUENCES
OLD CROW AND I
Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
old conifer
split by lightning
two crows bicker
hot breeze
through the skylite..
raucous crows
in the oak above
this flat tire
crow being crow
oh snitty crows,
was my brief presence
really so troublesome?
tell me where you live,
old crow, so I can poop
on your front porch
crows above
the new Zen garden
drop their blessings
new home
same old
crow sounds
old crow and I
cawing, laughing as we
meet once again
HARD TIMES
- with a nod to Ruth Yarrow -
Johnny Baranski
hard times
for a homeless man to live in
no new boxes
in summer moonlight
more street hookers than tricks
hard times
hard times
beggar at the freeway on-ramp
rain or shine
dumpster diver
in a three piece suit
hard times
hard times
going-out-of-business sale
few shoppers
army recruiters fill
another empty storefront
hard times
hard times
even the scarecrow
picked clean
only nuke missiles
siloed in the wheat field
hard times
hard times, easy times
my poems are very
affordable
for food
i will write you a haiku
hard times
WARKU
ayaz daryl nielsen
familiar weapon
another khaki sunrise –
familiar weapon
young conscript
trading his weapon for
a one-way ticket
corn popping
haggard veteran
twitches
snowstorm -
homeless veterans gather
around a bottle
among the homeless –
so many
service medals
THE JOURNEY
Donna Everhart
hitchhiker
the shift of sunshine
from shoulder to shoulder
wind through
the wildflowers-
I’m just passing through too
late night storm
the sea of my soul tosses
back and forth
sorrow of night
nothing to hold onto
the vine trembles
winter’s hush
birds on the rooftop
of a forgotten church
rear-view this road goes on without me
SUMMER LINKS
Ramona Linke
dewy morning … barefoot by the riverside
tiger lilies -
she looks at the pale stripe
on her wedding finger
-
Morgentau … barfuß am Fluss entlang
Tigerlilien - -
sie betrachtet den hellen Streifen
an ihrem Ringfinger
---
hot summer night; childhood dreams fizzle out in the sky
brief crossing ...
on the other side
a rainbow
-
heiße Sommernacht; Kinderträume versanden am Firmament
Kurze Überfahrt …
auf der anderen Seite
ein Regenbogen
AN IMMIGRANT IN THE PROMISED LAND
Chen-ou Liu
Eric has become
the main character
while Chen-ou
has a supporting one:
life in the promised land
in my mind
there is a room
where Chen-ou
lashes out with the f-word
while Eric argues politely
inside my heart
there are no empty chambers
for Chen-ou
has piled his memories
despite Eric’s protests
in my soul
(I suppose there is one)
Chen-ou wages
a tug-of-war with Eric
for being himself
living
under the white gaze
Chen-ou
and Eric look like twins
same color, different dialects
BEING-IN-THE-WORLD:
for Martin Heidegger
Chen-ou Liu
I wish
I were you
forever frozen
in glory
a smiling graduation photo
looking
in the mirror
a few lines on my forehead
are there any wrinkles
on my soul?
I’ve turned gray
like Van Winkle
rnot under
a shady tree
but inside
is any day
of being
above the ground and vertical
a good one?
sleeps evade me
we all
go six feet under
why struggle?
short day
into dark night
THE CROWN OF UNKNOWING
Ruth Holzer
I’m not
keeping anything
from you—
I know what happens
to old men
where in the world
is he if he’s no longer
in the night kitchen
with leftover lentil soup
waiting up for his daughters
when I recover
will I be able
to tell him
the remedy worked—
I will not
father gone
mother in a different world
you too
every day
demanding satisfaction
all the things
that have happened in the world
since he left it—
his life made more precious
by a crown of unknowing
moonless night—
I cross the wide highway
gripping
Dad’s green plastic flashlight
the feeble beam enough
SUMMERTIME
Laurence Stacey
pear trees
at the campus gate
blooming again
this love for all women
in sundresses
up all night
friends and I trade tanka
from a distance...
same old bullfrogs
in the creek bed
summer hailstorm –
just when I've learned
to move on
your electric green socks
in the bottom drawer
southern dusk
ripple
by ripple...
skipping stones race
into darkness
tilling
the summer garden
into softness
the frown
on grandma's face
Haiga by Emily Romano
BREAKING SILENCE
Sukrita Paul Kumer
Words fall
from her mouth
as rain
on deserts.
……..
After
storms and cyclones
in the heart
Words dropping
as stones.
……..
Words as frozen ice
stuck in the
throats
of lovers.
……..
Melting in thought
Floating in the mind
Words
Collecting in
unuttered sentences.
TRIAL BY LIFE
Sukrita Paul Kumar
Twenty years ago
in the operation theatre
of the hospital
Anesthesia awakened me
to you;
All at once, you emerged
from the pits of my being;
Like lightning rose
the voice of God
Blinding the face of darkness;
Green masks and cat eyes
Flashing their dangerous competence
Ready to terminate life
At its root,
I ran for your life
Salvaged you from
the murderous tools
of the doctor, that pursued me
And entered my dreams forever
I built a cocoon around you
Protecting you from evil spirits;
From the fetal state
to your adult being
Rearing you with
The pain of repentance;
The devil and God have
battled in me
We both burn
in the passion of your revenge
and remain suspended
Between life and death
As if on the operation table
Both of us
The centre of the universe
With green masks and cat eyes
All around us.
BLEDS / SCRAM*
Jane Reichhold
SON
SEA
FLAG
RANT
BOO
BAM
AIRC
RAFT
KIND
MAN
OF
TEN
KIN
NAP
PORT
FOLIO
SURE
PLEA
OUT
LET
AGE
GARB
BROAD
CAST
ABLE
NOT
MUSH
ROOM
SACK
KNAP
EX
IT
DRUM
HUM
MASS
ACRE
BACK
FEED
STUB
BORN
FIRM
CON
OURS
ELVES
*Richard Kostelanetz devised this method of scrambling the way one reads. He requests poems written with his dictionary of Bleds /Scram.
SINGLE POEMS
upon the fence posts -
work boots, hip waders and
one woman's slipper
Ayas daryl nielsen:
A DREAM SKETCHED
Dusan Colovic:
The end of the holiday
The last silhouettes landscape
In the house lullabies
Under a soft pillow of
A dream sketched.
for such a tiny spider what a web of big dreams
donna everhart
from.......one.......tombstone.......to.......another.......a blue jay
donna everhart
Decomposing in
the PC's memory
a frozen image
they try to trace logging in
the lady of charity
R.K.Singh
FISHING
R.K.Singh
With henna hue
the ascetic's matted hair
and net of words
fish innocent women
at the holy Ganges
the vine
withering a way
without notice
radhey shiam
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