Seeking world peace and personal peace through poetry
Teetering Toward Sattva My friend’s mother would tell him, I created you and I can destroy you, as though, like Parvati with Ganesh, she had literally made him from a mixture of earth and her perspiration, brought him to life with her breath. Śaivasampradāyaḥ believe Shiva is the creator, preserver, and destroyer of the cosmos. Does that mean mothers are his avatāra and children their miniature multiverses? I wouldn’t know. I’m not a mother. Mine may have been a god to me when I was little (it’s likely she was) but I remember her as my universe. One I destroyed over and over with the choices I made, huddled and weeping and bereft, my days-old sweat a blend of scotch and cigarettes and dirt from the alleys where I crouched for decades. Now those years have passed and so has she. Neither creator nor destroyer, she preserved her dreams for/in me and I live them with her hands, callused, dry-darkened at the knuckles, soft, cool. They wash away the grime so I can live for today. So I can live for us both. So I can live. Anteyesti to Anay Your body burns as your mother weeps her son into a letter. I read it, edges fluttering in the summer wind like wings, like the ashes we scatter in the canyon’s river. She asks why you wanted to melt into memory, fleeting desert snow beneath the sun of our hot grief. And in that brutal light, she begs for rain to swoop down and flood her cracked earth. (… As We Know It) Reset: Kritayuga Begins Again When the apocalypse comes what becomes of the astronaut who floats in the space station and sees the sun as it really is – a silvery white flare, incandescent as fireworks arching over our greening blue Earth?
Kalpita Pathak is an autistic poet, novelist, and advocate with a passion for research and sensory-rich details. Her work tends to explore the perseverance of hope in a sometimes despairing world, with a little dark humor and magic added to the mix. She received the James Michener Fellowship for her MFA in creative writing and has taught at both the college level and in school programs for kids from three to eighteen. She has recently been published in Mediterranean Poetry.
1] The Rain-Wet Rats She bathed in cold fire which softly sterilized Her fitful thoughts circling constantly Back to what gets lost, what set free, Gently startled, but not at all surprised. The cold front rattles in with peevish rain Concealed by darkness in the morning chill But nudging at the mind as hostile specters will, Cold drops rattling like a fatal chain. Can she be easy regulating the fates Of two dozen dirty peasants with staring eyes And rusty pitchforks, furious at lies, Shrieking in the rain outside her gates? Is risk or safety the best choice to make? The rain outside keeps rattling like a snake. The rafters of civilization broke that day, And all the rain-wet rats nimbly raced Away like greyhounds, all order displaced, And she ducked aside to hide out of the way. Thunder crashed, as it were, and she Smiled secretly and thought of my face Aping consternation ludicrously. 2] Symbolist Gunslinger Purges His Vocabulary Lovely ladies, decked with smiles and flowers, Dissolve all war and ugliness generously, Gently repudiating suspicion, hostility, Disarming all the cowboys’ macho powers. Let sunshine warm where desert heat once dried. Let kindness soothe the pain of outraged minds And cool the excessive heat that burns and blinds. Let understanding leave rough men satisfied. For this is a magic, a witchcraft you yield, Medea, Medusa, Miranda, Antigone, Criseyde, Duessa, at times ferociously, And Judith, and the fair witch I once met Upon the meads, whose ring I wear within My blood-curdled heart, and will wear when Chariots descend to collect my fatal debt. Lovely ladies, let the world spin away Its grief, let conflict fire our blessed sunlight, Let the right simplicity be ours today, And the right words bless our witless dreams tonight. 3] Jukebox Catullus Hums and Strums I can’t stop playing Banquo’s ghost, And blood runs everywhere each time I twitch, And somewhere my corpse is bleeding in a ditch, And you’re still indifferent to who loves you most Despite this commitment, this dramatic dedication Here on these boards where happy endings hide From murdered noblemen with broken hearts inside And no luck in erotic conversation. May I venture an aside, though I should leave the stage? Let no ghost be dishonored, or his staring eyes Will plunder your heart in midnight surprise. Enough. The mad Queen calms the murderer’s rage. The curtain never falls for the players in this trade; We wait to spring the traps the poet made. 4] The Right Reply for Second-Hand Fear “Now time’s Andromeda on this rock rude…” --Hopkins A delicate matter prevented her revenge: Madame Alving was, at that time, at least, (Delicious pause) Andromeda waiting for the beast, Long-legged bait a gate to unhinge, A passage of a champion of the stage, Sic semper tyrannis the cry of the day, Cooing doves flapping wings to fly away, And the old monster’s dilapidated rage, Bursts forth though in need of upholstery, Roaring his regrettably wheezy roar To remind us what monsters are onstage for, And everyone fake-quakes, all but she, For she smiles somewhat palely with that fire in her eyes, And waves a hand defensively without fear, For she knows who and what is scary here And what is God’s truth and what the Devil’s lies. That steady fire grows, its intensity stays, However much your maudlin monster weighs.
R. W. Haynes, Professor of English at Texas A&M International University, has published poetry in many journals in the United States and in other countries. As an academic scholar, he specializes in British Renaissance literature, and he has also taught extensively in such areas as medieval thought, Southern literature, classical poetry, and writing. Since 1992, he has offered regular graduate and undergraduate courses in Shakespeare, as well as seminars in Ibsen, Chaucer, Spenser, rhetoric, and other topics. In 2004, Haynes met Texas playwright/screenwriter Horton Foote and has since become a leading scholar of that author’s remarkable oeuvre, publishing a book on Foote’s plays in 2010 and editing a collection of essays on his works in 2016. Haynes also writes plays and fiction. In 2016, he received the SCMLA Poetry Award ($500) at the South Central Modern Language Association Conference In 2019, two collections of his poetry were published, Laredo Light (Cyberwit) and Let the Whales Escape (Finishing Line Press).
Living with the Elephant I guess the fog has little cat feet sometimes, but around here it dances with the wind, wild and fierce, especially at dawn. Howling across the ocean, up the hill, gusting my robe against me, sloshing coffee into my face as I try for a sip. I guess aging is gradual sometimes, but around here it’s a tempest, arising suddenly, wild and fierce and relentless. Wrenching my days apart into a before that can never be found again -- and a very different now. I guess one could fight it sometimes, hair color, face cream, supplements and potions, exercises, affirmations, denial. I guess one could simply accept it sometimes, but around here arthritis has swept in on elephant feet, fierce and relentless, and no pill, no potion, no affirmation, no meditation, can sweep it out again. I guess one could handle things gracefully and sometimes I do, but around here there are other times, too, when everything seems to hurt and I want to stay under a quilt for whatever part of forever I get to see. And then again, there are yet other times, sometimes, the majesty of the ocean at first light, the sweetness of love found late, my hand sliding into his. New buds on the camellia, rain on the roof, deer in the yard, granddaughter’s smile, or a nothing-special-time in the exquisiteness of the now. And I find that sometimes, increasingly often, I welcome it all: the cat’s feet and the elephant, things wild and fierce, quiet moments and raging ones, lines on my softening face, creaky joints and aching bones, wind in my hair, full heart, fog over the ocean at dawn. (This poem was originally published in Multiplicity Magazine)
Bio: Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late 60’s who is finding her voice as a poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 20 miles south of San Francisco.
Publication history: Her poetry has been published in Multiplicity Magazine, The MockingOwl Roost, The Vita Brevis Press Poetry Anthology, Last Leaves Literary Magazine, Flora Fiction, fws: a journal of literature and art, and Open Door Magazine, and will appear in upcoming issues of Passager Journal and The Fresh Words Magazine Anthology: Contemporary Poems 2022.
:x.
but it's not just that.
permanence and impermanence.
lasting legacy of what and for how long?
stability defined as: x
the leaning tower of pisa rights.
perception is reality.
and people leap to their deaths in the virtual world.
but where is the line? and more importantly, who drew it?
i kant do that.
and our collective reality mimics meatloaf,
minimizing magnified metamega for milieu,
because what is it all worth/about/settled for/done for/answered by anyways?
*
webster's
goblin mode, 2022.
ok then...
fragments of my metaverse.
blaming my ennui on my gravity disorder.
starseedblahblahblah.
i'm genetically predisposed to lighter climes.
it's my woo-niverse.
and the typing cat fervently, feverishly paws out:
the weight of it all, unbearable.
*
fischschuessel
enjoy the fragmented figments.
flashes of light.
flashbulbs of fame.
reasoning, that recognition fails, fleets, flounders, flops, flippantly flying
from rear-end fenders.
and when does the wordplay stop?
einhalten an alles.
und alle einsteigen.
zack. sagt die stutzstaffel.
protection from what?!
*
Jessica Skyfield is currently a teacher. She has been a scientist, a mother, will always be a student, and worn other hats, too. Her poems seek to bring light to our struggle with our awareness of our humanity: the juxtaposition of the smallness of ourselves when viewed universally and yet the large impact each of our individual actions can have.
Komm, Du (“Come, You”) by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation by Michael R. Burch This was Rilke’s last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed in the arms of his doctor on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive. Come, you—the last one I acknowledge; return— incurable pain searing this physical mesh. As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh. This wood that long resisted your embrace now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage— uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré. Completely free, no longer future’s pawn, I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain, certain I’d never return—my heart’s reserves gone— to become death’s nameless victim, purged by flame. Now all I ever was must be denied. I left my memories of my past elsewhere. That life—my former life—remains outside. Inside, I’m lost. Nobody knows me here. Komm du Komm du, du letzter, den ich anerkenne, heilloser Schmerz im leiblichen Geweb: wie ich im Geiste brannte, sieh, ich brenne in dir; das Holz hat lange widerstrebt, der Flamme, die du loderst, zuzustimmen, nun aber nähr’ ich dich und brenn in dir. Mein hiesig Mildsein wird in deinem Grimmen ein Grimm der Hölle nicht von hier. Ganz rein, ganz planlos frei von Zukunft stieg ich auf des Leidens wirren Scheiterhaufen, so sicher nirgend Künftiges zu kaufen um dieses Herz, darin der Vorrat schwieg. Bin ich es noch, der da unkenntlich brennt? Erinnerungen reiß ich nicht herein. O Leben, Leben: Draußensein. Und ich in Lohe. Niemand der mich kennt. Liebes-Lied (“Love Song”) by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch How can I withhold my soul so that it doesn’t touch yours? How can I lift mine gently to higher things, alone? Oh, I would gladly find something lost in the dark in that inert space that fails to resonate until you vibrate. There everything that moves us, draws us together like a bow enticing two taut strings to sing together with a simultaneous voice. Whose instrument are we becoming together? Whose, the hands that excite us? Ah, sweet song! Liebes-Lied Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, daß sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen? Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendwas Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen. Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich, nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich, der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht. Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt? Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand? O süßes Lied. Das Lied des Bettlers (“The Beggar’s Song”) by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I live outside your gates, exposed to the rain, exposed to the sun; sometimes I’ll cradle my right ear in my right palm; then when I speak my voice sounds strange, alien ... I'm unsure whose voice I’m hearing: mine or yours. I implore a trifle; the poets cry for more. Sometimes I cover both eyes and my face disappears; there it lies heavy in my hands looking peaceful, unafraid, so that no one would ever think I have no place to lay my head. Das Lied des Bettlers Ich gehe immer von Tor zu Tor, verregnet und verbrannt; auf einmal leg ich mein rechtes Ohr in meine rechte Hand. Dann kommt mir meine Stimme vor, als hätt ich sie nie gekannt. Dann weiß ich nicht sicher, wer da schreit, ich oder irgendwer. Ich schreie um eine Kleinigkeit. Die Dichter schrein um mehr. Und endlich mach ich noch mein Gesicht mit beiden Augen zu; wie's dann in der Hand liegt mit seinem Gewicht sieht es fast aus wie Ruh. Damit sie nicht meinen ich hätte nicht, wohin ich mein Haupt tu.
BERTOLT BRECHT Die Bücherverbrennung (“The Burning of the Books”) by Bertolt Brecht loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When the Regime commanded the unlawful books to be burned, teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires. Then a banished writer, one of the best, scanning the list of excommunicated texts, became enraged: he’d been excluded! He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath, to write fiery letters to the incompetents in power — Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen — Haven’t I always reported the truth? Now here you are, treating me like a liar! Burn me! Die Bücherverbrennung Als das Regime befahl, Bücher mit schädlichem Wissen Öffentlich zu verbrennen, und allenthalben Ochsen gezwungen wurden, Karren mit Büchern Zu den Scheiterhaufen zu ziehen, entdeckte Ein verjagter Dichter, einer der besten, die Liste der Verbrannten studierend, entsetzt, daß seine Bücher vergessen waren. Er eilte zum Schreibtisch Zornbeflügelt, und schrieb einen Brief an die Machthaber. Verbrennt mich! schrieb er mit fliegender Feder, verbrennt mich! Tut mir das nicht an! Laßt mich nicht übrig! Habe ich nicht Immer die Wahrheit berichtet in meinen Büchern? Und jetzt Werd ich von euch wie ein Lügner behandelt! Ich befehle euch: Verbrennt mich! Der Abschied (“The Parting”) by Bertolt Brecht loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We embrace; my fingers trace rich cloth while yours encounter only moth- eaten fabric. A quick hug: you were invited to the gay soiree while the minions of the "law" relentlessly pursue me. We talk about the weather and our eternal friendship's magic. Anything else would be too bitter, too tragic. Der Abschied Wir umarmen uns. Ich fasse reichen Stoff Du fassest armen. Die Umarmung ist schnell Du gehst zu einem Mahl Hinter mir sind die Schergen. Wir sprechen vom Wetter und von unserer Dauernden Freundschaft. Alles andere Wäre zu bitter Die Maske des Bösen (“The Mask of Evil”) by Bertolt Brecht loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A Japanese woodcarving hangs on my wall— the mask of an ancient demon, limned with golden lacquer. Not unsympathetically, I observe the forehead’s bulging veins, the tremendous strain such malevolence requires. Die Maske des Bösen An meiner Wand hängt ein japanisches Holzwerk Maske eines bösen Dämons, bemalt mit Goldlack. Mitfühlend sehe ich / Die geschwollenen Stirnadern, andeutend Wie anstrengend es ist, böse zu sein.
ON LOOKING AT SCHILLER’S SKULL by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Here in this charnel-house full of bleaching bones, like yesteryear’s fading souvenirs, I see the skulls arranged in strange ordered rows. Who knows whose owners might have beheaded peers, packed tightly here despite once repellent hate? Here weaponless, they stand, in this gentled state. These arms and hands, they once were so delicate! How articulately they moved! Ah me! What athletes once paced about on these padded feet? Still there’s no hope of rest for you, lost souls! Deprived of graves, forced here like slaves to occupy this overworld, unlamented ghouls! Now who’s to know who loved one orb here detained? Except for me; reader, hear my plea: I know the grandeur of the mind it contained! Yes, and I know the impulse true love would stir here, where I stand in this alien land surrounded by these husks, like a treasurer! Even in this cold, in this dust and mould I am startled by a strange, ancient reverie, ... as if this shrine to death could quicken me! One shape out of the past keeps calling me with its mystery! Still retaining its former angelic grace! And at that ecstatic sight, I am back at sea ... Swept by that current to where immortals race. O secret vessel, you gave Life its truth. It falls on me now to recall your expressive face. I turn away, abashed here by what I see: this mould was worth more than all the earth. Let me breathe fresh air and let my wild thoughts run free! What is there better in this dark Life than he who gives us a sense of man’s divinity, of his place in the universe? A man who’s both flesh and spirit—living verse!
Michael R. Burch is an American poet who lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Beth and two incredibly spoiled puppies. He has over 6,000 publications, including poems that have gone viral. His poems, translations, essays, articles, letters, epigrams, jokes and puns have been published by TIME, USA Today, BBC Radio 3, Writer’s Digest–The Year’s Best Writing and hundreds of literary journals. His poetry has been translated into 14 languages, taught in high schools and colleges, and set to music by 23 composers, including two potential operas if the money ever materializes. He also edits www.thehypertexts.com, has served as editor of international poetry and translations for Better Than Starbucks, is on the board of Borderless Journal, an international literary journal, and has judged a number of poetry contests over the years.
the fish i’m in horror watching him pull up the hooked fish on the end of the jetty where i am taking in the sunset and while i know i can’t do anything to save the fish from this accepted by most slaughter i look into the fisherman’s eyes and quietly say ‘that poor dying fish’ to which he shrugs but i get a sense by the look he gives the fish and me that just for moment hearing my words he completely falls into what i said and i suppose that counts for something re: the fish and the life it has lived on planet earth our shared home Mother Ganga i stand hold the rusty chain that stops bathing people being swept away and lower my body into the healing stream of Mother Ganga flowing fast into the plains of India from the Himalayas north and unexpectedly (for i am a sceptic until something is scientifically proven) i instantly feel my inner dirt being washed away and a renewal take place and i do know what i feel whether i believe it or not festering i have often wondered why we won’t return to those years through a conversation and put it to rest for good but we don’t bring it up and so it continues to sit festering like an unopened box of distress lurking by us each time we are together and it probably always will unless something changes between us again
Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.
THROUGH A FOG (After Su Tung Po) Wind rustles the leaves with rough fingers, then blows away. Silence is a muted scream. Clouds look at nothing when they pass by like men who no longer ask why. The moon, once so bright, is a dim light in that immense sea, while I search for things that are not to be. AFTER THE FALL (After Mei Yao Chen) Dying flowers lie like corpses with discolored heads. If my wife were here, She’d try to revive them, but she’s also dead. Night holds me in its arms, as if I were a child, abandoned in a desolate spot. Stars crawl across the sky like bugs wandering lost and blind, over an infinite rug, Life is unkind. Life will never be how it was, but I think the way it was was only in my mind WISDOM (After Tu Fu) I stare at my unmade bed. Outside, a chilling breeze rustles the dead leaves, as if they were feathers. The moon is a ball of lead. I gaze at distant stars, lost in the infinite sky, as if they had nowhere to abide. A torn shirt, hanging from a tree, waves in the breeze, like an abandoned flag, now a tattered rag. I feel the approaching cold. I watch traffic pass me by, as if I were a stone. I’ve learned what it means to become old.
George Freek’s poem “Written At Blue Lake” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His poem “Enigmatic Variations” was also recently nominated for Best of the Net. His collection “Melancholia” is published by Red Wolf Editions.
