REVISTĂ INTERNATIONALĂ DE CULTURĂ

Transcription

1 cuib-nest-nido REVISTĂ INTERNATIONALĂ DE CULTURĂ Jeffrey Side, Ami Kaye, Ken Trimble, Marie Lecrivain, K. Scott Smith, Hisham M. Nazer, Nalini Priyadarshni, David McLean, Bhisma Upreti, Curtis Whitecarroll, Pd Lietz, Reena Prasad, Nitin Soni, Jim Creston, Ganapathy Subramanian, Eric Nelson Manley Shelman, Bryan Roth, Talpalaru Mihaita, Teo Cabel, Dorina Neculce, Oliviu Craznic, Victoria Milescu,Camelia Ionita, Petru Solonaru, Parghie Cosmin, Daniela Voicu, Ira Joel Haber

2 interviu Interview with Jeffrey Side This interview was conducted by Ami Kaye editor of Pirene s Fountain journal and was first published in that journal in March 2009 Ami Kaye: Mr. Side, it is a pleasure to have you with us for this interview. We are especially interested in hearing some insights from the other side of the fence! Please tell us about your work as a poet and as an editor. Jeffrey Side: Thanks for inviting me. I m honoured you asked. I like to write that s heavily connotative, so that readers can make their own minds up about what a particular image or phrase means. I don t like that tells you everything, or spells things out for you. I think this is because I came to from having a love of song. Song is largely connotative. Because I didn t read any at the time, I was quite naïve about it, and assumed that it would be as connotative as song was. It was quite a disappointment to find out that this wasn t the case. But in my naiveté, I didn t realise that the sort of I was reading wasn t really representative of in general. It was only when I discovered older, the sort written by William Blake or Thomas Wyatt, that I saw that could be as good as song. This is because the older the poem, the closer it is to the song or ballad tradition. As you know, song predates or rather songs became poems once they were written down and read privately. After examining the older, I saw that it was its tendency to generalise and avoid descriptive elements that made it song-like. Poetry up until around the time of William Wordsworth tended to generalise, after Wordsworth (and largely because of his influence) became more novelistic and descriptive. The editing came about only because I wanted to promote the sort of that used generalisation (which made it closest to the song tradition) and which was being ignored by mainstream because of this. So I started The Argotist Online, to act as a platform for such. The name for the site was taken from a journal I deputy edited from : The Argotist. This had national sales in the UK, being sold through Blackwell s bookshop chain. It had in it but it was mainly an arts review with articles and interviews on a range of art topics. Our big coup was getting an interview with Nobel Laureate Joseph Brodsky. I also edited an issue of an undergraduate journal called Off-the-Cuff while I was at Liverpool University. Ami Kaye: What qualifications do you think are necessary to become a literary editor? What type of decisions and responsibilities does an editor face? Jeffrey Side: I think the main qualification you have to have is enthusiasm based on a reason why you re doing it. In my case, the reason for The Argotist Online was to promote a certain sort of I felt was being underrepresented. Other editors will have other reasons. But you have to have a motivation; otherwise you ll lose interest. Regarding what types of decisions and responsibilities you face, I suppose that depends on the nature of the journal or on-line journal. Because The Argotist Online is aimed at people who are mainly sympathetic to non-mainstream poetics, I tend to choose articles, interviewees and that would interest them. But I m also aware that people can t be pigeonholed and so there s a lot of content on the site that would appeal to a broader audience, such as the series of song writing interviews with singer/song writers. The main responsibility outside of deciding what to publish is making sure that once you decide what to publish it gets published. I don t like to let people down, so if I ask them for an article or to be interviewed I make sure that it goes ahead and appears on the site. 2

3 interviu Ami Kaye: What is the difference between a print and online journal, if any, in your opinion? Jeffrey Side: The most noticeable difference is that with an on-line journal you don t have to do a print run, find a distribution network, find retail outlets and find the funding for all of this. All you have to do (in my case at least) is find a web host and make sure you exchange links with lots of similar sites. Also, an on-line journal is always present and accessible in a way a print journal isn t. By that I mean that surfers are always, every second, coming across an on-line journal by accident, whereas once a print journal has been sold and bought, and is in someone s home, there s less chance for that publication to be discovered by thousands of people simultaneously. Ami Kaye: Many poets wonder why their submitted work was not accepted, when clearly, some of the work chosen, in their opinion, was not superior to theirs. What insights can you share about the selection process of a magazine? Jeffrey Side: I suppose many poems are rejected simply because they re not the sort that the journal they re sent to publishes. This is why it s important for poets to read the journal s submission guidelines. The majority of poems I ve rejected have fallen into this category. But given this, selection is always a matter of personal preference, and evokes different responses in different people. I can only select poems I like, even if others would disagree. To use a cliché: There s no accounting for personal taste. Ami Kaye: What can you tell poets whose work is rejected? What advice can you give to submitting poets who are just starting out? Jeffrey Side: The only advice I can give is to say to them that they should read the submission guidelines of every journal they submit to. Another thing they should think about when they re starting to write is to decide early on what style they ll concentrates on, be it formalist, experimental, open form etc. This is important because most journals have a preference for one style or another, and the poet new to submitting has a better chance of their work being accepted if they bear this in mind. Ami Kaye: Tell us a bit about your reviewing process, Mr. Side. What are the different components that go into writing a good review of a poem or book of? Jeffrey Side: For me, there are three useful components for writing a good review. The first is to do a close reading. A close reading allows for an evaluation of the different elements of a poem s design, such as its formal properties, imagery, metaphor, simile etc. The second is to examine the ways in which a poem is effective or ineffective in using language to convey plural meanings. For me, this is the yardstick for all criticism. The third is to have some grasp of the history and evolution of because this prevents writing about a poem as if it existed independently of an aesthetic and intellectual context. Ami Kaye: Do you think it is a good idea for a journal to have a guest editor every so often? Jeffrey Side: Yes. I see no reason why not. If a journal wants to devote an issue to a certain theme or topic then a guest editor knowledgeable in that area would be a good idea. Ami Kaye: Thank you for your time with this interview. One final question. How do you balance writing your own with the demands of running your magazine? Do you find you have less time to submit your own work and even less time to write? How can you circumvent those difficulties so you can keep your own work going? vi wish I could give an answer that would be interesting to your readers, but the truth is I haven t written any new poems for some time now. I ve a backlog of poems (and notes for ideas for poems) to draw on if need be, though. I suppose I ve expressed all that I feel needs to be expressed by me poetically in this backlog and what has been published. I feel this is particularly the case with my long poem Carrier of the Seed, which I finished writing in

4 KEN TRIMBLE My name is Kenneth Trimble. I am near enough to sixty years old. I ve lived in rooming houses, flea pits and holy sites. I live under a mountain. Been a big drinker, gambler, non- paid up member of the Australian Left. Sometimes decadent, sometimes holy travelled to the holy of holies India a number of times. I was in the Soviet Union a year before the fall of the Berlin Wall. My work is seen on the following sites I have two books with a third to be published in April all by Little fox Press. Clouds on Hanover Street/ Shores of American Memory, and the soon to be launched The Barking Mad Poems. I have an e/chapbook called Drinking Wine under the Moon by These days I write like have a fever. I write because I have to. The Ripped Sky I don t write to please, or squeeze you, No, not now. Now I just write I remember.. I held your warm red guts in my hands With blood dripping Onto the black road. Your eye said, do you love me? Oh yes, I said as I held you close, Before the bullet smashed your brain. Now I write on ghost gums, wild leaves, And the ripped sky. I mean, there you are conversing with Rumi And Rilke, even Bukowski gets a go. Now when I try it all I get, is a mute, Nodding his head in the night. What s with you man, I know your there, Because when I blink in the dark I see sparkles of light. But man, you just want to play hardball Leading me down a mine Covered in shit. Before the bullet smashed your brain. Now I write on ghost gums, wild leaves, And the ripped sky. Hello Dark Night I wish God, you would stop playing games. Stop with this silent, childish, stuff. I know you can talk. I ve seen you speak in poems. Whispers I ve been pushing that barrow uphill for a long time now, And still I m at the bottom of the heap. Heap to heap, layers of words, fall onto white pages, Then erased, then written, then erased. Transformational, regurgitational ecstatic, intergalactic Shit from here to Mars. 4

5 I m sure Donovan wrote that, and look what happened To him, another barrow pusher destroyed By a little tramp in a London room. There are millions of us, who have not taken enough LSD, Or prayed, or been holy enough. We are the whispers in your hair. My soul a Brett Whitley painting. My penis a fireman s delight. My arse a shining hole of wonder Where every country has come and gone. Come to think of it, I m seriously insane. The Wanderers Old Men We are the old men of Yarraville. Listen man, a junkie never goes on holidays. We were the best and the worst. Life was one bad trip, a screwball existence When Marx meant Karl, instead of Groucho. We danced under Cuban numbers, And played soccer on a sunset-sundown beach. We were nobody drinking life down the tube, My friend singing Lou Reed on the wild side Before got its teeth into My battered worn arse. Standing under Water I was standing in the shower, thinking. In fact, I do all my thinking Standing under water. It came to me like a cheap light bulb That I entertain the whole universe Inside this flabby beaten body. I am it, all of it. When I wash my teeth, well what s Left of them, I ingest every river and sea. My eyes are the Pleiades in hangover. My face is a roadmap of the moon. My nose is a garbage dump of every City shanty town. A flower shining in light. My throat is the Great Escape of Steve McQueen. My heart is the beat of the beats. The bop of the bop. The nameless wanders this land, Lonely figures in the night. Some speak Farsi, some speak Urdu. Some dance in the light. Some cry in the rivers. Some dream in the sky. Some get locked up Some say they re illegals, And when their time Is done and dusted, they become Citizens like you and me. They look the same, They have two legs, Two arms, one head, One mouth to breathe, One soul to love, One heart to feel This bittered Land. Poem for Muddy I was a howling wolf, howling at her door. She made moves like a wildcat, Slinky and dangerous with eyes to kill, And the moon was heard moaning, And the earth, well it just trembled, Till dawn. 5

6 Marie Lecrivain Marie Lecrivain is a writer, editor, and photographer who resides in Los Angeles. She is the editor/publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in various online/print journals, including Cuib Nest Nido, Haibun Today, Heavy Hands Ink, Illumen, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and others. Her short story collection, Bitchess (copyright 2011 Sybaritic Press), is available through The Tears of Mrs. Lazlo The tears of Mrs. Lazlo flow freely, like the spring at Lourdes for the Marian masses, the ubiquitous morning dew extolled by greeting card poets, and shine like a beacon through a foggy Moroccan evening to unite a guy named Rick and a gentleman named Victor in willing complicity. The tears of Mrs. Lazlo inspire the sound of of sentimental piano tunes, and the high price of French lace. Her tears are spurious and annoying as they wash away the credibility of a freedom fighter and leave behind a sigil in the shape of a starlet. Across the divide of 71 years, my jealousy consumes me. My tears used to flow freely over a 1,000 adolescent misunderstandings. Yet, my own tears 6 never garnered me the love of two great men, or a place in cinematic history. My sorrow drips into a stagnant pool within myself that, on occasion will threaten to drown me on those nights I rewrite my history to support my delusion. copyright 2012 marie lecrivain Photo copyright 2013 Marie Lecrivain

7 An Elliptical Tale Brought to You by The Occupy Movement (11/11 11/12) What can stop the determined heart and resolved will of a man? - Frankenstein/Mary Shelly A year ago, I watched Man rise up like Atlas, enraged by the weight of oppression and toss the orb we call home into the Void, where it spun and wobbled, newly-freed from dogma and care, as it searched for an axis of reason where there was none. A few brave inhabitants finally awakened and, wild-eyed and purposeful, ran the gauntlet of authority with the shamanic magic of inertia (the secret ingredient of alchemy) as the rest of the world laughed and recorded with their mobile devices Photo copyright 2013 Marie Lecrivain what they thought was an ongoing series of ad hoc Shakespearean theatre. I heard the first faint strains of that famous symphony, Revolution #11 in Z Minor, a necessary and subversive bolero whose micro-cords gently played upon silver strings within the hearts of those who dare to live outside the confines of a meat cage, a clarion call to take back their dignity - so easily traded for an iphone or an Xbox - an inborn gift to silence the reptilian part of the brain, which, in turn, extends the need for freedom to the stars and beyond in the form of outstretched hands 7 vvthat will never be struck down by a faceless drown armed with the bell, book and pepper spray. A year ago, I saw hope bloom in the eyes of many who had none, fed by the blood of righteous anger at those who d promised to be their protectors, a small hoard of 21st century black brothers disguised in three piece suits who d striped away hard-won gains of the everyman, and called it, commerce. Over the next 11 months, the Word spread like wildfire; to take the Pledge to Occupy - once and for all

8 the space without and within, to flow through the chaos, and I watched, with gladness, many I did not know move out of the darkness and, into the Light... until, today, that is... where I watch, via the Internet, the qlippothic gods emerge from the shadows and cast spells over those same souls to fall back asleep and dream of needful things as their bodies transform into a pack of wild dogs to fight over a handful of ipads in the arena of Walmart like so many table scraps... and wonder, what happened to the glorious dream of freedom realized when, on the periphery a few brave warriors appear armed with the wisdom of change ready to do battle on behalf of their fallen kin, this war will never be over! copyright 2012 marie lecrivain In the Dreamtime This dream, always the same, as now, my head struck off between the third and fifth vertebrae, falling into my aluminum Ikea wastebasket, always to the thumb-beats of billions of text messages streaming through the visions of a million peoples jacked into the hive-mind of global socialization. I feel the breath leave my body, grateful to be cut off from the peer pressure of a generation who s never known what it s like to be truly alone my head gathers speed to meet bottom of my destiny with a satisfying thunk, the clarion call of freedom from addictive intrusion the Information Age has thrust upon me, my eyes wide open to the image of my severed head growing bigger in the aluminum field as I prepare to... Awake, my dream interrupted by the insistent beep of a text from a friend who wants to know why I neglected to like, his last post, a reminder to come back to the fold... to come back... to come... copyright 2013 marie lecrivain 8

9 K. Scott Smith Plucked From Dreams 1)Bursts of Sun, the constant meeting of horizons- Plucked from dreams and planted. Each whim was granted, where the dizzy heights commanded all to throw themselves into the sea. 2)March appears in triumphant splendor Ten Thousand colors wide. Once, the river did give wise council and compose odes to the night- Trading your wits for surprises making and keeping balances that once would have driven you mad. 3)To come of age again and again. The art of releasing and of becoming, of rebellion and self rule exiles return baring borrowed(barbarous) gifts 4) Sure of lust and certain bounds and bindings, Cruel critics, wanton publishers, keeping score, losing count. Free agent. Gaining ground and losing ground. 5) Tiny secret lives lived in the rain Strong winds we give names to. Sturdy keepers of Courage, of Honor and Virtue. The last book and a new pen, looks up through long disheveled hair, that hangs over his long brow. The wind and the rum and the summer rains swept across an open plain, as wide as his heart. 6)The increasing of days- February lurches, 9 a condemned man allowed to live one more day, a few hours more. 7) I feel as thin as a sheet hung on a metal wire, a fool to trust even gravity... Men of Science- Show yourselves! Do not hide behind numbers. I have come to challenge you, I call you out! Fools and poets dream and die in drunken streets, with poems and wine upon their lips. 8)I hold in my hands a book 100 years old. Plutarch, Herodotus, Cesar, Sir Thomas Moore, The beautiful collections of flowering words, set down in fine and regal print. The conclusions of and age. 9)A fountain bursts up towards the sky Winged creature gather in loose patters. I will construct wings of words, of will, and of seemingly well made, and well meaning gestures. Bold face truths that will recede, and can, in time, become lies. 10) A strange weeks end looking back I saw ancient Troy and a hundred thousand threads passing as jest, forever failing each test. Everything carries oblivion at arms length every transient fervor given to rains only to be summoned again. The virtue of certain vices, and strange devices hung like thieves for all to see where once Golden flowers sang.

10 Hisham M. Nazer Hisham M. Nazer is a trilingual poet, who writes in English, Bangla and Hindi as well. Currently working on a M.A. dissertation on T. S. Eliot and Dante, supervised by the department of English, University of Rajshahi. A prolific writer, published in several national magazines and international anthologies. Apart from writing fiction and, he is an essayist too, a spiritual speaker and a teacher of philosophy. Himself an occasional painter and sketcher, he loves painting and photography. Worked as a sub-editor for two literary magazines- Shasshwatiki (Bengali) and The Browsing Corner (Multi-lingual e-zine). For years now he has been studying and teaching Western and Eastern philosophies. 67: Mushroom and Macaron Hisham M Nazer 14th September, 2012 Rubbed skin, rubber pink, yellow and patched: Spots of pox, And box of books beneath the puffy pillow Sixty Seven room, with cheap champagne Some mushroom and macaron This no living grave but a black burnt cauldron Cooking us with histories And a few volumes of poems And mysteries of our requiems. The graves sleep downstairs Under the elevator that writes fates with number plates Beneath layers of mushroom and macaron. Up in this Six and Seven I sleep elevated Yet naked, when she fakes orgasm I lie, tired, I lie Pricking her navel to inhale The orgasm of her first cry. And she glues her blank eyes with the ceiling And woos and weaves a dream Behind the spinning fan, 10 I keep pricking her sticky navel and think Until the sticky smell rises up to the brink of a poem: What might the odour bring, And what the city? In this red room, blinded, With her besides dreaming All I inhale is horribility And all I hear is- silent screaming! One by one I tear the pages of the poems And tear out my despair and see A moment s mirth turned into a blurry pain Into a flying lone origami. (Published in A Poet s View of Being, edited by Brian Wrixon) The Blasphemous Furniture Hisham M Nazer 7th December, 2012 A room full of furniture No longer existent As time penetrates into the room Making us the fish who Know not where the ocean is

11 And transforms what was Into what it has been, By stirring the images And letting them dissolve into Our gabbing consciousness Until the en-soi and the pour-soi Pour each other completely into each other And into many, indiscriminately, Until all that are distinct turn into A shadow of one single shadow Suspended in the air In the name of perception For the sake of saving a day Or not to be called an abnormal Perceiving not the abnormalities of this world And after gnawing everything Time penetrates into our sinews- Slowly drugging and dragging us To those identical lanes Flooded with the lights of Identical lamps, around similar faces Only different with different names For the sake of a name yet to be made And call it- inheritance, Making us The furniture of this world So full of furniture New and never new, With them wedded the was But as time dies and resurrects No longer existent For the Name that is above all Beyond any perception, Therefore equally nothing Because anything that cannot dissolve, Anything that cannot stir and be free By the presence of its stirring dullness Is just a fiction, a word or at best A meaningful impossibility. (Published in Shwibly: a Magazine of the Arts, edited by Alex S. Johson) 11

12 Nalini Priyadarshni Nalini Priyadarshni is a freelance writer, editor, poet, and amateur photographer who draw her lessons and inspiration from the world that surrounds her. She lives in India with her husband and two feisty kids and likes to travel and work out. Her poems have appeared on The Destiny Poets, Open City 360, Open Road Review, efiction India besides anthologies like Puppet on a String, Angels vs Demons, The Love Collection, Words on the Winds of Change, The Survivor s Guide to Bedlam and On The Words of Love, A Poets View of Being, I Am Woman Vol. 2, and Inklinks. Forthcoming anthologies include I Am Poet, In Our Own Words and With Love. For more on Nalini, logon to Doors Lovers & Strangers Dragging at my feet are doors galore Some never opened Some relocked and Key tossed down the throat With a vodka shot All lovers are strangers once, caught in vortex of time Walking same roads, drinking coffee from roadside cafés Riding buses, buying books, strolling on promenade Dancing nights away with a bunch of friends Rusted locks tempt me with promises Confusing lust with love, desire with passion Of treasures lost Destinies misplaced Turns I missed Choices never mine to make In a sea of strangers, how lovers find their lost half? My guess is as good as yours Is it an instinct or a primeval code Imbedded in minds and souls Doors rankle with every step Endure onslaught of countless lifetimes. Grow heavier by minute Bogging me down with What isn t but should have been Or could have been Love can be baffling as it is exasperating Long before it begins to feel any good It is like a thirst that won t go away no matter what Or how much you drink Freedom is what I seek From gnawing pustules Heart tethered to gathering storm ready to burst any moment Of yesterdays and tomorrows To rise and soar Unshackled, Unbridled, Unaffected Hazarding broken heart, shattered dreams, disillusionment 12 Some strangers step out of matrix Open their hearts to love and hurt

13 Willingly burn at stake to strip off all trappings And become lovers they always meant to be Every Woman I am more than I think I am I am more than I see when I look into the mirror I am more than I have heard about myself I am more than I could imagine I would ever be There was a time when I wanted everything But nothing made me happy Dreams started to wither away chocked by the weeds of regrets So I sat down very still beside the river of life looking in the swirling waters trying to find what I really wanted Life is a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces have fallen away They can be put back together I gather them... snatches of songs forgotten passages of poems faded photographs and old journals memories gathering dust at the back of my mind I am afraid to take a chance but I will do it anyway I have done things that did not turn out well But I am getting better and better Its time to move on To do different things differently... Cacophony of desires no longer violate the solitude of mind I almost know what I want But I must be patient enough to get it. 13

14 David McLean David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since He lives there with his dog and cats. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length collections: CADAVER S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010). His first novel HENRIETTA REMEMBERS is coming in During 2013 a seventh chapbook SHOUTING AT GHOSTS is forthcoming from Grey Book Press. More information about McLean can be found at his blog accordingly there is time, accordingly, measured by minutes and the tiny wait of one puppy and his little sister memory there is time accordingly and places it is worth to be no licking night comes like a single puppy licking a bone or his owner and memory is important - full of portable devils and all of the dubious fragments, sententious nothing we do not regret, night comes like an army of one puppy, memories are to forget the unknowable bone the bone is unknowable until it lies open under the cursory tusk of that impregnable boar who is made of flesh and the irrevocable, secrets we have found scattered like the rust that swords have been, the dust that men have been the stone bone that supports the muddy land, it is unknowable and forever, the bone that understands canine laundry they wash my clothes with tiny tongues for some unfathomable reason, a faint possibility that there are ghosts there, in the haunted fabric, like the ghosts that run through curtains if you are reckless enough to hang them over windows like happy corpses fabricated from memories and gods becoming at daybreak, puppies wash my dirt with tiny tongues because only ghosts have time enough to waste they were forever they seemed to be a tremulous eternity, these walking corpses hollowed out by cruelty and memory, as if a sadistic sculptor had deigned to touch them once god was forgotten, as if morality depended on makers and the threat of heaven; they seemed to be evident eternity, these wicked victims, gray skeletons and fragile fetuses of hurt become sudden lonely ghosts, their hunger our torture, the tiniest evil disease crawling back at us from history and loveless, an insistent want to touch: they seemed to be tremendous eternity and nothing much; they had suffered though so we thought this enough, memories and roses and dust 14

15 Bhisma Upreti (Borned in Jhapa, Nepal, Bhisma Upreti has published 6 books of and 6 books of essays. His works have been translated into English, Korean, Japanese, German, Serbian and Hindi and have appeared in Grey Sparrow, The Enghusiast, Orchestra, PEN Point, Our Voices, Indo-Asian Literature and other Nepali Literary Journals and magazines. He is the recipient of First prize in National Poetry Festival organized by Nepal Academy of Literature. Upreti got his Masters degree in Economics from the University of Southampton, UK. Upreti lives in Kathmandu with his family and works at Central Bank of Nepal). Desires Colours all that come with Red, rosy, white, purple and yellow Have gone to these flowers. Should some flow of meanings Carrying spectacles of life Be spilled once over the people Who are entering darkness Black like coal Carrying with them The sadness with faded colours, In great haste Scorching in fret and hunger! I have a desire to see A transformed face Of the world Translated from Nepali by Abhi Subedi Before the Sunset Now I realize Life is so beautiful! Spent the whole age Hustling bustling Blaming and chiding others Falling and uprooting the trees Turning love s clean pond murky With vanity dark Spent the whole age in ire, anger and jealousy. Now, looking back From this hillock Everything seems dazzling in beauty Nature, colours, the sun and the moon Birds and the shadows Flowers, men and women and dreams All so beautiful. From this hillock I see my age flowing like water. Regrets and only regrets Realizing life s beauty When it is about to extinct. Translated by Dr. Hari Sharma. 15

16 Sea I Could it be? On my return from the shore of the sea I brought with me a sea encaged in my camera. And that I do have a sea here, with me, I grew content, and reveled. Back home to my surprise I found all I have is just a shadow of the sea! the waves, the music of the waves crashed over the rocks, its soul, sea-soul, it has all been left behind, there in the sea. How could a lifeless shadow be a sea? Even that shadow I pulled out from that photo and sent it hurling back to the blue sea! Sea II I was hurrying along to meet the sea, But the sea stopped me and said I have seen a sea inside man, Have you seen it too? I looked into my heart, (where I found a sea) And for the first time I realized that a sea exists in man sea of salty tears, sea of unfathomable sorrow and bitterness. I abandoned my wish to see the sea. 16

17 Curtis Whitecarroll Curtis Whitecarroll is a Poet, industrial worker, visual artist and sometimes actor living in Portland Oregon. He has been published in many various different magazines, but feels his greatest accomplishment is founding Stone Soup Reading Series a twice a month invited reading series. For Punk Rock Girl I ache for her, the eyes that paint me in Spanish knowledge we talk movies we talk habits we have had, then comes the brief break in conversation, too comfortable for me, and the background music lingers on in long caravans, reminding us of our dark natures Punk Rockers always better preserved than poets I will waste away, you unchanged I will stare at your lovely face while the tides of the ether take me distant 26th Birthday it is that time again, the season of the Scorpio, so I again contemplate getting older, and the joys of birthdays it almost makes it worth it, I remember turning 26 of course, I remember you my memory hand reaches back almost hoping to grasp you in reality but you re gone, gone maybe the ugliest year ever but you were so beautiful the eyes that burnt, the eyes that froze one of my favorite discoveries through, you understood better than anyone that time what my was about it can sound painful and negative, but always, no matter whose voice is about creating the cartography of the world in which we are caught and as you said the mind we have is the world we are stuck in although you were smoking pot when you said it, and your world rocked with migraine earthquake everyday of your life since you were four, and I just wanted to cradle you, make your skull a calmer place for your world there was always a calmness from which I took from you the movies we watched David Lynch marathons, Woody Allen marathons some obscure french films all I wanted was to walk into a movie with you, with the potential of a happy ending but I could work just as well with a birthday just with you Donnie Darko, which I had never seen, you told me

18 it was one of the best movies ever I told you I love Mexican food great, my food stamps just came in I can make it a party and sitting in the dark, listening to Nick Cave and Ryan Adams, eye to eye, best party yet the next night, I would be at a party where I break open a pinata full of sex toys, I pick up the vibrator ask a friend to give this to you while I am visiting my mother just for that shade of pink that would rush over your face, but he wouldn t do it and years after it ended, I learned you died and god forgive me for a slight sense of relief because I had seen you fade to gray in so much pain, it almost became a tangible sea one besides yourself could drown in, and I always think of the sea when I think of you small town California girl, from Monterrey, where all the beat-nicks went to dry out, by the sea and I had been there a year before I met you watched the ocean and its seeming calmness then if you pay attention the rage underneath i imagine some part of you went back there finding a comfort in chaos that you were always able to do, that I was never able to understand, I imagine your spirit sometimes possessing seaweed and driftwood and shells, making a vessel to crawl against the tide and wash ashore, if only to look at the coastline Describing IT I am going through it again but describing it would be like describing heroin addiction and group sex to the Amish but it sits here wanting to fall from my mouth or my fingers, like there are holes in my skin and the confession of many is both blood and ink something like that, I suppose, but more like fire that you can sense but only through instinct because it is hiding its heat,and stays tucked away in shadows with shadows growing thicker and a sense that jaws are closing around me I can deal with it,being swallowed whole just don t let the teeth touch me I can t be cut anymore and then you fall backwards in time to the young world, really old and festering farm apocalypse but young in the jar of a child mind speckled with country music and the occasional kindness of animals the only natural kindness there, though there was plenty of civility and of course the animals all became meat, and people told me I was such a kind boy, but every night there were beatings and death threats or things that were worse, and maybe I was kind, destined to become meat but I just hobbled with bruises and my venom swallowed back to a place called civility, best until I could escape the sagebrush and I just want the world to end, but not the way the Christians want I want no rewards for anyone, should have stuck to making rewards while there was breath in your lungs, and I feel this, I would ruin an after life, too this is just trying to pretend I was born this morning, as awkward as being old young and all this, the impossible to make conversation of, fills my glass and so that I am not anymore of an outcast I drink it, like my own blood is all the nutrition I get is the abstraction of sense, so it fits here, aren t you glad I never talk to you? 18

19 Pd Lietz Pd Lietz lives in rural Manitoba Canada. Her award winning photography, art and writing have appeared in numerous publications such as, Sunrise From Blue Thunder, Naugatuck River Review issues Summer 2011 & Winter 2013, MaINtENaNT: Journal of Contemporary DADA Writing and Art, 4, 5 and 6, Visions, Verses and Voices and on Phantom Billsticker Posters NZ placed throughout the world, to name but a few. You Paused you paused a moment then walked away your gait familiar sun froze stale in the empty room I shivered I whispered wait the porch door slammed curtains fluttered moonbeams weakly seek shelter of the shadows even the owl fell silent pleasure of your phantom kisses placed here and here, the music of your hand a simple seduction, waltzes, tangos and jives sand warm from the sun, raw and gritty like us I thirst to sup the wine from your lips, to make them swollen revelling in the pleasure of your tongue, a slow gyration how can one be lost in the moment when it is the only place I prefer to be, my senses never more aware wave upon wave the shoreline never the same Devil Came Dancing I Claim This Peace paying heed to the cascading waves I claimed this peace upon the shore and laid upon your memory vulnerable and open I tasted the ebb and flow birthed your rhythm, achingly I listened to you lay note after note upon this bar of sand I felt one with this droplet of sound, this riff incessant ocean hurled her waves upon the shore thrashing foam and inlets, a baptism of sorts wet clothes clung, oh god the awful clinging I and they discarded, a need to be naked the devil came dancing in the wan of the moon shadows no place to hide in his egoistical pride he demanded the lead and dawn was betrayed mourning sun flailed in red storm clouds heavy laid on the floor and nature sidled away from the painful measure that was her past musicians cried as realms collided instruments pitched to the floor 19

20 clash and flash too much to bear a chord was struck by an underlying current and this cocky devil magnificent in his extreme self-preoccupation kicked up saw dust within his wake the blind dog whined as evil preened we feigned ignorance while he laughed to our credit we erased his name from the superfluous dance cards but a trace of smudge darken the column imprinting we had indeed a thought with dancers grace we fell hard from the embrace of humanity swayed in darkness to the drone of his drum drunk in his laughter, naked in our truth we had no face, no voice to call our own we too wondered when a code known as morse echoed along the wires what hath G/d wrought? unwavering we continued to tap our toes as wallflowers tend to do.. In This Loop balancing on the rim striving to be grounded through these nanoseconds of time emotions astray in this loop that I find so intriguing, it flows uninterrupted this music of the spheres within my heart regular vibrations contained within each measure, the variations are endless tis that which makes me come back for more as wind plays amongst leaves the sequence beats within the chambers of space dancing within the pulsation, it has no choice I see down along the music, sharps, flats everything in sync, as close to nature as one can be in music itself the bass is heavy and it draws me deep within its lowest pitch safe, secure within the womb of symphonies yet to be born the membrane of life soon taunts the drumming within my ears I journey over the bridge and yet again topple into the movements which we call the licks and lyrics of life Your Name kerosene lantern hisses your name shadowy figure tries to smother the flame I need no reminder of the essence of you your scent lingers and mingles with dusks wet dew wrapped in memory and closed like a cocoon I refuse to open, safe my thoughts armoured within cannot believe love can be laid and discarded so thin why poets of lore penned this distress but adds to the din emotions are dolorously tossed to darkest depths then swept and borne on crosswinds high again and yet again we do bear this obscene pain bewildered I sit with my head bowed low buckled in unresponsive darkness I listen to the kerosene lantern hiss your name 20

21 Reena Prasad Reena Prasad is a poet from India, now based in Sharjah. She has several poems published in English anthology collections (Change, Indus Valley, Love in Verses, Musings a Mosaic, eight anthologies by Barry Mowles and Friends and 8 of Brian Wrixon s anthologies, also in online journals: Carty s Poetry Journal, Indian Ruminations, Indian Review and in online magazines such as Youth Ki Awaaz. Angle Journal carries 2 of her poems in the coming Spring/summer issue. Her poems have found place among the winning entries in contests by Writer s Cafe, Ekphrasis India and Poets Corner. She writes at at her blog, Butterflies of Time. Missing link This time around, I was prepared and waited till the sky within darkened into the deepest black then set out with a candle flame to search for a missing heart Ripped in two, it hung from a thorn yet no blood stained the forest floor no hyena wandered near Now I knew why the darkness came every time the shutters fell But knowing never helps at all to stem the tide of pain. The meeting place A cold wind blows in icy silence White reigns supreme The happily homeless roam alone none have a destiny to fulfil Some sit on the edges of glaciers listening to the birth of rivers Newly freed ones lie on snow erasing the memories of warmth Old hands revel in the brief stint of freedom before the die is cast and the call comes to re-enter the cages They float feeding upon the absence of thought carrying no trace of their ancestry A quiet garden of souls leaving imperceptibly to become wails entering hurriedly to escape from more wails. Worship Worship for the future devout The prodigal plastic barbie pictures of bigots excavated mud pots violent souvenirs kitchen sinks driftwood from oceans unsold books rejected manuscripts vomit of the disgusted earth Remnants of lost prisons wandering insanity human chains masquerading as divine bracelets glass marbles buried by little fingers A little doll lies under rocks its owner lost to the sea to resurface in a new impuissant world walking on moon and stars yet looking to the sky and sea for bonus divine intervention Build a hallowed pedestal if you will and make an orphaned toy a god. 21

22 Nitin Soni Nitin Soni is a freelancer, Senior Writer with Project Dharma and poet. He has studied Literature from Delhi University. His poems are written appealing to a global audience, centring on themes such as racism, colour, abortion, plight of women etc. He was born in darkness, and since then, he has consistently been in pursuit of his real identity in this identity-seeking world. His poetic works have been published in a literary magazine called Rambler, a publication launched every year by ZHC College, Delhi University. Beneath the Surface Lie Down a Demon I m a Girl, Not a Curse! Punch me I have a heart Beneath the surface lie down a demon Above skies he tries to hide his sins In the middle, jolts visible evils Change, apostles attempt surrounding Where live those humans? Hit me I am not the last Blow me I will light up again Throw me out I will not complain Weeps masters; why not? Demon eyes on archangels Worshiped immortals rub eyes Evil was from him Demon climbed from underneath Where I find me, my palace? Everything s mine Archangels are of kinship Isn t she creating them? Fires the motherhood, Same did occur to me, Adoring me is your religion Hitting me is your passion Blowing me is your tradition However, do not kill me I might be a reason of your creation Now, has it found her? Not again; Swabs tears from checks many shadows, The wall s burdened with shadows, Me likes, however, can t paint the wall again Who s the weapon to wipe off tears? Beneath the surface lie down a demon, In the middle, demon meets his own shadow Why am I burning? Why nobody can see? Are they disregarding me? As I am a girl 22

23 Jim Creston Jim Creston is a contemporary poet residing in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Jim touches on different themes in his poems including confessional, political, religious, and recent events. Summer Days Mom used to spend a lot of the day on the phone while dad was at work. She would hold two fingers to her lips and mimic smoking a cigarette. That was our cue to get in line, and run through the home looking for her pack. While she was inside, my sister and I would sometimes go swing, or ride big-wheels on the porch, listening to some really bad songs. Mom usually kept the radio tuned to the local country station. A poor family, with a radio-intercom and speaker in the wall of the porch. At age five I stood in the living room. having a bad day, and threw the bible to the floor. My aunt told me I shouldn t do that. But I knew something wasn t right about that book. At age 18, I found god, and he told me that he loved me. He was the only one besides my girlfriend that spilled their heart. Later I realized that Jesus could not write the alphabet, and the reason god only freed was to enslave. One afternoon mom slapped the face of our cousin because she attempted to kidnap my sister. At least that was mom s story. My cousin told her mother, and our aunt showed up at the door saying she wanted us to return her husband s gun. But we knew she was going to whip mom, and mom knew it too. Mom told us not to unlock the door. Our aunt pleaded with us to open the door saying she just wanted the gun. I don t remember if there was 911 back then, but no one made any calls. Curious about the fascination of frogs, I had the opportunity to see a live museum exhibit 23

24 when I was high. The colors ran through them as they sat on the twigs. Years later I saw them on a shower curtain standing with their hands on their waist, and some leaping one another. In the low dark Minnesota swamps they bellow in a hurry, and loud as a whistle on each ear, and the deer crossed the road in front of our cars, and the ski-jump looked like the Seattle needle, waiting for its winter gown. Mama wanted cigarettes and tea, dishes washed, and her Pekingese taken out for a shit. She never took well to criticism, and I had finger prints on my face to prove it. She used to threaten to pack our clothes and put them on the porch. I would have been warm, for she put us is in long sleeve shirts during the hot Carolina Julys. We used to sweat on our neighbor s crabapple tree, and they knew mama was crazy. Her dog once ate its on shit, to avoid being beaten. The dog and all of us were kind of alike, always eating it for mama. Apple Dew We rested the Sunday picnic cloth upon the stubby grass. The heat at times reminded me of my days in the south, when there was no wind, and humidity so thick it hung on eyelashes. Pesky, portly gnats, circled my forehead and landed on my neck. With the occasional slap, I got two or three. Without thinking, I rolled in to the fresh cut grass for a few moments which itched the back of my sweaty neck. We were in our sixth game of cards, both our foreheads beading with perspiration, but hers with the look of sugar drops which I imagined tasting between my kisses. Again I held the winning suit, but this time I took the cards and sprinkled the hearts off from them in to her hand, saying, I love you. Let s go home. I want to lay you on the bed and kiss you all over. She said, First let me shower. I stroked her hair perching it behind her tiny ear, and softly whispered, Please don t. 24

25 Ganapathy Subramanian Sivagangai, India EPIPHANY Memories linger haunting me Many slumbering till now Suddenly awakened by a call That set off a chain reaction. The delicate touch and the soft voice Warbling away. I melt in a rare soothing mood. We sing over phone. Distance is no hindrance. Cannot be when two kindred souls commune, can it be? Absence in a way is better. It enables me to conjure fabulous images. Stair-case goings on. Mellifluous voice pouring out Melodious songs. Now and then joining, mostly listening Transported to a fairy land forlorn And transfixed in an ecstatic vacuum Standing still time. Darkness forming shadows. Silhouetted. Eyes closed.. Music is not mundane, is it? Ghazals galore. Gazing into empty space We lose ourselves in reverie. Ma gets us some munch. Benediction! Beatitude! Blessings! Melody rules the roost. Remembrance of things past. Time regained in a supreme moment of EPIPHANY! 25

26 Eric Nelson Manley Shelman U.S.A. Three Abc poems Aaron blessed Cthulhu, Dazhbog, Emer, fiercely ghastly horrendously initiating Jehovah Kali, Loki, Minerva Norns objectively proposing Quetzalcoatl resurrecting Set, Thor, Usnisa, Wawki, Xolotl, Yahweh, Zeus. Aristocrats bitterly cursed donkeys, elephants, frankly greedily, hatefully inseminating justified kindles loving manipulation noting oppositions presumptions questioning rulers superiority towards untouchables withstanding xylophones yanking zaps. Aphrodite bedazzled Catullus delightfully ecstatically frazzled gaudily haughtily infatuating jacking kinky lustful nuances obsessively practicing quavering rituals seductively taunting ubiquitously wanking xenerotica yanking zazzle. 26

27 Bryan Roth Bryan Roth is a writer, poet, editor, manuscript consultant, and teacher. His prose has been published internationally; his poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, The Flying Island, Fringe, Paradigm, Southern Indiana Review, and other publications. He has two chapbooks forthcoming in 2014, What You re Up Against and 14 Up. He is also working on a full-length collection, Building the Day. He has won awards for his, his editing, and his writing, including a journalism award from the Society of Professional Journalists. He is also the founder and editor-in-chief of a new press, RED C Press, which will begin publishing in As an undergraduate at Indiana University, Bryan studied with Lynda Hull, Roger Mitchell, David Wojahn, and others, and has studied with many noted poets in post-graduate workshops, including Stephen Dobyns, Lynn Emanuel, Edward Hirsch, Andrew Hudgins, Sherod Santos, and Pulitzer Prize-winners (and poets laureate) Mona Van Duyn and Charles Simic. ESKIMOS The only time I saw Eskimos my mother told me not to look, as they trudged across the bridge over the Cheena River in their dirty mukluks and government surplus parkas, in the middle of the morning, in downtown Fairbanks. It was early April, almost time for Spring Break-Up, when the river would crack itself open and lurch back into life. Bryan Roth THE REAL PEOPLE We hunted tuttu and the agvik under the Midnight Sun from Kaktovik to Kotzebue, set our summer tupiqs on the banks of the frigid waters of the Anaktuvik, built our qargi by the sea before the first winter moon. We ate maktak there and waited, through the month-long night, to celebrate nalukatak. All this before the great empire of the Romans ever existed, before the Vikings sailed to Greenland and named them Skraelings, before Columbus was born, before Ferdinand and Isabella s Spain was free of the Moors, we were here. Before the Chrysanthemum Emperor s soldiers came, before the ICBMs, we, the Real People, were here. The Real People had little enough: A parka and a pair of mukluks each; a fishing boat and a spear for the umialik. A sewing kit for each of his wives. Our igloos melted in the spring thaw, our tents deteriorated in the tundra. We built no monuments, even in death. All that we left to mark our passing are the things we carried the things we couldn t take with us what, finally, we all leave behind. Bryan Roth 27

28 romanian literature TALPALARU MIHĂIŢĂ GOLUL GOL mângâiat de obraji cuprinși cu palme flămânde scheletice plânsete cariate se aud de sub lume scurse dintr-un sarcofag sedate lacrimi de piatră amorţesc pleoapa zorilor în reflexii dintr-un ochi de şarpe adormit de milenii sâsâit-răsărit prin sevă în frunze palide blestemebolnave de parkinson, umbre diforme dansează nebune sub felinarul lunii-secure înflorite pe ramuri putrede din boboci amnezici durere bronzată rătăcită prin noapte fără busolă în căutarea sudului alb coboară plutind într-o luntre găurită, de fantomele şoarecilor subnutriţi găzduiţi temporar pe trunchiul fără viaţă atât cât îți sunt că-ți sunt pentru un timp te-am cuprins sub cer între buze avide de noi sub o poartă clădită din vise ascunsă de hoți să nu îmi fii furată petală de floare rară înflorită doar o dată aș fi murit pe loc fără regret să zidesc din moartea mea o nouă zi a ta suflet senin să te iubesc, când îmi erai eu îți eram, ne eram doar unul dincolo de orizont printr-o fereastră te priveam plângeam lăsând literele însărcinate să nască cuvinte ieri să le auzi tu azi să îmi revină pe buzele crestate de lacrimi reci sorbite neatinse de priviri furișate cu șoapte din haremuri de cleopatre uitarea acoperă ocrotind năpasta de frig schimonosite amintiri îngraşă ţărâna jelanie striveşte clipe pierdute pe drumuri între soare şi lună împrăştiat cu fiecare zi sunt mai departe de mine privind lumina şi întunericul făcând dragoste zâmbesc gol MYRENA iubește-mă să te iubesc, să te iubesc iubindu-mă nici azi și ieri suntem doi călătoriclandestini urcați în speranțe nevăzute de nimeni ne vom povesti: scrisă mâine în ochi și citită de stele amintirea sărutului lăsat liber în vânt 28 plutind în doruri îmbrăcați când vom sfârși am să sfârșesc într-o iubire să sfârșești NE-DESFĂCUT şoaptă şi gând orbi-prăbuşiţi peste cărarea ucisă am înviat-o cu trupurile noastre nenăscute urmându-ne calea levitând recunoscută cu buricele degetelor ne ascultăm îmi eşti ce nu aşteptam umbră peste zi şi felinar prin noapte îţi sunt ce nu îndrăzneai să-ţi fiu când ai rostit neauzită s-a dus luat de vânt în tine săpând în gândul nerostit de noi am dezvelit iubirea

29 romanian literature închisă într-un sarcofag de sub piramidă sărutându-ţi inima cuibărită plăpând în căuşul glasului oprit pe marginea albastrului răsuflând din greu la urcuş încercam să-ţi deschid inima virgin-neexplorată cu singura mână rămasă liberă din planare îngropaţi într-o flacară din adâncurile răsăritului priveam amândoi uimiţi în apus braţele noastre strânse ghem sub talpa zărilor se transformaseră în aripi cealaltă scria către lipsa ta rătăcită în mine căutându-mă din priviri vreau acasă îmi este dor te iubesc iubire scânceau sub pielea decojită de pe sărutul nud zvâcnetul lor ne îndemna să zburăm când genele tremurau de emoţia zborului FRICI SFÂŞIATE suntem cer şi pământ începutul infinitului sfârşit dincolo de el uniţi de iluzia orizontului atins când ne-am iubit DECESUL UITĂRII prin vena tăiată cu lama timpului mort îmi mutam picioarele ducându-mă în braţe agăţat de firul urzit din şoapta genelor sub sărut neîndrăznind zborul liber, m-am oprit învelit într-o picătură de sânge în prag de buză muşcată, fricos de prăbuşirea în gol suspendat între orele lipsă din calendarul întâlnirilor neonorate am furat secundele veacului căzute din alfabetul morse prins şi executat printr-o sinucidere: securea călăului zâmbăreţ sub trunchiul tic-tac-ului decapitându-mi tristeţea inconfortabilei cămăşi de forţă a timpului : circumcis de mine ma aruncat peste inima ta unde îmi aşezasem somnul încă nedormit palma sălbatecă nu exista deschisă îmblinzită, mângâia sufletul fugar de mine incapabil să respir prin epiderma plamânului găurit păsări migratoare ţipau după tineasmatic : încercam să scap din temniţa groazei că iubesc zdrobit de sărutul izvorului inexistent sub piatră într-un impuls am părăsit ocrotitoarea iluzie a ţărânei să gust plutirea dintr-un du-te-vino plin de regrete aduse de liniştea ochiului de uragan scăldat într-o ceaţă pe o creastă transpirată de munte lichid curgând spre vârf am murit prin deces programat involuntar să trăiesc în afara trupului risipit în stropi de ploaie pe marginea universului lasându-mi o urmă de privire să-mi călăuzească paşii întoarcerii în mine nemărginirea mijită dintre aripi închise de fluture îţi răsfira pletele nisipului auriu către cer închise într-o lacrimă ce plângea goală mângâindu-ţi buzele deschise de surâs feciorelnic alintate de soare într-o dimineaţă culcată pe sânul tău umed de roua sărutului perfectul cel mai imposibil imperfect să iubeasca te striga iubire 29

30 romanian literature TEO CABEL (Cabel Ștefan Teodor) Născut la 26 octombire Buzău Activitate literară: Volume: 1 Decembrie 2010 volumul Tablouri fără semnătură, Editura Lorilav. 24 Octombrie 2012 volumul Merg mai departe, Editura Editgraph Publicat în Jurnalul de Vrancea de poetul Liviu Ioan Stoiciu. În revista Contraatac a prof.dr. Adrian Botez, Adjud. În presa locală on line colaborează la News Buzău și Gazeta Buzoiană. Publicat în revista Literatură și artă Colaborări recente: Armonii Culturale, Confluențe românești, Prolitera. Premii:Premiul secțiunii Autori debutanți la Festivalul Primăvara Poeților, Biblioteca Județeană V.Voiculescu Buzău 2011 Premiul special al Editurii Rafet la Concursul Internațional de Creație Titel Constantinescu, Râmnicu Sărat 2012 Premiul I, la Festivalul de Creație și Interpretare, ediția I, Cuvinte Potrivite, secțiunea Creație pentru volumul Merg mai departe, Buzău. EVA PERECHEA LUI EV... A început cu tine timpul și, deasemenea, prima consoană. Tânguirea a fost în zadar, (zidul nemuririi dărâmat) nu ținea loc de cărămidă-n ruine Prima femeie ai fost Eva, prima mamă. * Ochi albaștri, cer senin, mare adâncă, verzi ca primăvara, negri ca perlele... Picături de lumină, același alambic, misterul. Fără tine orele aleargă vărgate ca zebrele, ziua este un drum prin mărăcini, noaptea, o plapumă de întuneric. Florile, grădini în piatră. Un nebun, răcnind pe coclauri, fiorul... estetic. Zâmbetul, un sloi retezat de raza soarelui. Dragostea? Cine a auzit de ea?! Nimic nu-i la locul său, Nici durerea nu este adevărată, fără tine Femeie, Iubită, Mamă! BULEVARDELE Tăceri neinvitate Mă priveau pe fereastră, Din perdeaua timpului Clipele, picături mari, Se rostogoleau, Zaruri cu numere şterse Umplând paharul nopţii Cu dâre albe, spumoase, De cometă. În ochii tăi Drumul meu era minat, În gând Aveai o mitralieră Cu senzori pentru paşii mei. Am luat buchetul de frezii Şi aruncam câte una. Minele săreau în aer, Cadavrele petalelor Detonau alte mine... Zâmbetul tău, A luminat camera Ca un steag alb. Bulevarde largi Mă aşteaptă în ochii tăi, Visele Sunt fără semafoare. 30

31 romanian literature OLIVIU CRÂZNIC Cronică literară realizată ``Trilogiei Gothice`` autoare Dorina Neculce Dorina Neculce: Un surâs de trei ori gothic Curentul gotic a apărut în a doua jumătate a secolului al XVIII-lea, odată cu reînvierea interesului pentru medievalism (unul dintre sensurile cuvântului englezesc gothic fiind chiar acela de medieval ). Supranaturalul, teroarea sau neobişnuitul, trecute cu mare atenţie prin filtrul literaturii moderne, au caracterizat de la începuturi şi până în zilele noastre un spectaculos traseu literar, permanent punctat de naşterea unor genii şi de publicarea unor capodopere care au rămas de-a lungul anilor (şi vor rămâne) repere esenţiale în cultura universală (dacă ar fi să amintim, în domeniul poetic, care ne interesează pentru acest articol, fie şi numai exemple precum Christabel de S.T. Coleridge ori La Belle Damme sans Merci de J. Keats). Goticul este totodată responsabil pentru naşterea a cel puţin două importante curente simbolismul şi romantismul, aşa cum înşişi fondatorii acestora admit, implicit sau chiar explicit, în scrierile lor; în literatura română, poezie de tip gotic, cu valenţe gotice sau tributară goticului scriu I.H. Rădulescu, G. Bacovia (a cărui operă îşi are punctul de plecare în scrierile lui E.A. Poe, ne avertizează G. Călinescu), romanticii macabri şi exotici ai aceluiaşi G. Călinescu: D. Bolintineanu, cu al său danse macabre poetic, şi byronianul C. Stamati, chiar Vasile Voiculescu, la rândul său mare admirator al lui E.A. Poe Pe acest tărâm al frumuseţii şi al umbrei se avântă cu mult curaj, dar şi cu mult talent Dorina Neculce, poet remarcabil şi vizionar, decis să abordeze un tip de literatură aproape uitat de scriitorii români contemporani (cu mici excepţii mai cu seamă în proză, dar şi în poezie, Ştefan Bolea cu al său volum de poeme intitulat Gothic fiind poate exemplul cel mai strălucit), dar nu şi de cititorii contemporani de la noi, în continuare avizi de concepte şi mistere de sorginte medievală (a se vedea succesul răsunător avut şi în România de romane-serie fantasy şi dark fantasy precum cele ale lui J.R.R. Tolkien, respectiv G.R.R. Martin, lumea creată de ultimul fiind comparată cu operele lui Shakespeare de către critica anglo-saxonă de specialitate). Trilogia poetică a Dorinei Neculce, Surâsul meu gothic (Surâsul meu gothic, Urme Vechi şi Zbor sihastru), publicată, într-o prezentare exemplară, la Ed. PIM (Iaşi, ) şi alunecând mai degrabă în simbolismul de inspiraţie gotică decât în goticul propriu-zis, păstrează însă esenţa fenomenului, imagistica medievală încărcată de semnificaţii, misterul, credinţa, religia, filosofia, întrebările, viaţa şi moartea, ideile şi peisajele aferente, asigurând o contrapondere încifrată prozei fantasy, care jonglează pe acelaşi traseu, al armurilor şi al furtunii, fără însă ca specia literară fantasy să înainteze atât de mult spre origini cum o fac proza şi, desigur, poezia gotică aşadar, dacă în fantasy găsim o amintire sau un vis, în gotic găsim o dureroasă şi extatică reînviere, fie şi temporară, a unor lumi ce au fost sau ce vor fi să vină (conceptul viitorului repetat în trecut ). Ilustraţiile extrem de izbutite care însoţesc volumele (ilustraţii realizate de Roxana Barbu, respectiv Alex Marinescu) completează o lume scrisă decadentă şi cutremurătoare care se destramă pictural în 31

32 romanian literature simboluri ale unor minuni interne, creând o neagră viziune a mirificului ascuns în fiecare dintre noi, în fiecare element al vieţii şi al sfârşitului acesteia. Întreaga trilogie este dominată de arhaic, de referinţe biblice, de clasic (nu în sensul curentului literar, ci în acela al consacrării în timp), de utilizarea titlurilor şi expresiilor în limba latină, ca o reamintire a originilor, ca o nostalgie gotică, însăşi scrierea gothic, cu th în loc de t, amplificând sensul anglosaxon al noţiunii, sens pierdut în mare parte prin preluarea în limba română. Pentru că dincolo de curent literar, gothic -ul reprezintă un mod de gândire, o trăire, un mod de viaţă. Tocmai de aici rezidă dificultatea descifrării, a perceperii corecte în Dosarul Dorina Neculce : o cultură vastă îi este absolut necesară cititorului pentru înţelegere şi apreciere dar nu şi suficientă. Pentru a putea simţi cuvintele autoarei, este nevoie să fi experimentat, măcar o dată în viaţă, senzaţia de transpunere în faţa unor ruine, de transcen dere înaintea unei păduri cu copaci morţi, de regres temporal dar nu şi valoric, în momentul confruntării cu melancolia autumnală sau iernatică, cu o pierdere sau cu un câştig amar. Nihil nove Mantis religiosa pentagramă Trupuri uitate în zale când diademele se sting Umbletul meu pe urmele de şarpe noaptea strigoilor Trec duhuri împletite Lupul urlând În carnea noastră În apa morţii mele, iată doar câteva titluri pe cât de sugestive, pe atât de adecvate, desprinse la întâmplare din fresca poemelor Dorinei Neculce, frescă bizară şi măiastră, sumbră şi cuceritoare, ca o noapte cu îngeri şi lumini, o noapte în care poeta nesurâde, de trei ori, gothic. Surâsul meu gotic (din volumul,,surâsul meu gothic I,,) DORINA NECULCE pentru că mă iubeai așa putred ca o tornadă anxioasă am stins în tine sonata lumii și mi-am încrustat pe buze (cu pumnalul trupului întreg) semnul morții, apoi semnul vieții și al morţii şi iar semnul am început să mă vopsesc până am devenit metresa cuvintelor (perfectă) îți vorbeam despre manechinele uitate în cimitirul crucilor vii, prizoniere în vise întunecate.,,-îngerii nu vorbesc în șoaptă, mi-ai surâs telpatic,, şi mi-ai cioplit în chip aripi de piatră să îmi însemn poeme însângerate despre oamenii veseli cu obrazul ascuns în ceară și crucifixele înfipte-n gură încă îți mai vorbesc despre timpul când mă iubeai, așa, putred, cu fața întoarsă în cealaltă parte 32

33 romanian literature Victoria Milescu PARTEA NEVĂZUTĂ A GLORIEI Poemul ca un cal de rasă trece prin paradisuri pierdute sau recuperate instantaneu abandonându-şi autorul traversând golurile eternităţii se rostogoleşte printre dughenele răvăşite, prin pieţe regăsindu-se în filele arse jucându-se de-a primejdia secondat de câini vagabonzi are parte de partea nevăzută a gloriei uneori vântul îl buzunăreşte furându-i nimicurile care-i alcătuiesc măreţia. CONSPIRAŢII CELESTE Dar inelul se subţiază şiragul perlelor s-a tocit diamantul cerceilor nu mai sună la trecerea îngerului iarna şi-a pus pecetea definitiv pe sânul tău drept pe gura cianozată dimineaţa te trezesc chemări la nesupunere spargi ca din greşeală cupa cu vinul nobil şi vechi al sângelui izbucnind din venele crepusculare întinse ca ramurile unui copac aproape uscat în el au cântat păsări scumpe şi rare cerului mut şi surd ALIMENTAREA ILUZIILOR Ţin noaptea în palmă numărându-i bătăile inimii curând se va înălţa printre crengi ce zgârie orizontul dând stelele la o parte viaţa mă ţine în gheare nu ştiu dacă ceea ce o animă e binele ei sau preabinele meu într-o zi voi da drumul câinilor între duşmani duşmanilor printre câini de la o vreme, nu mă mai îmbolnăvesc nu mai îmbătrânesc nu mai condamn a durerilor lăcomie în drum spre măcelul promis ştergătoarele de parbriz împrăştie lacrimile MESERIA DE OM Nu ştiu ce e frumuseţea dar chipul tău îmi aminteşte de ea sub cerul suspendat de un fir de păianjen apărată sunt de fluturii în armură plătesc pentru norocul cel bun pentru norocul cel rău profesând meseria de om nu ştiu ce e adevărul, dar reinventez dezastrul adevărul se bate pentru noi noi ne batem pentru iluzii ploaia stinge adevărul din întunericul luminos nimic nu e mort din frumuseţea celor ce ne iau viaţa apropiind infinitul de chipul tău. ZIUA FULGERULUI Nu vine ploaia nu vine crivăţul nu vine norul cel de pucioasă nu vine fulgerul poemului zămislit din bezna alcătuirilor tale flămânde şi trecătoare nu vine molima tămăduitoare nu ştii dacă exişti cu adevărat dar ţi-ai da viaţa să fii nu eu scriu ci tu când treci cu gheare şi solzi într-o ţară unde poemele nu mai au nicio justificare o ţară unde aerul sătul de sine participă la propria-i otrăvire nu eu scriu ci tu şi moartea învăţată să tragă cortina să încuie uşile, să stingă lumina să-l trezească pe cel adormit în stal cu o pungă de gloanţe pe piept. 33

34 romanian literature CAMELIA IONITA prin gura dimineții mă salută Dumnezeu m-am ascuns hai-hui în cuib de ghindă, ca o rouă cardinală-n gardul de cicoare bat diminețile în ochi mătănii să aprindă amețite genele, în nebunia mea de floare piscurile poartă gustul sufletului meu salut cu steaguri de trifoi vijeliosul răsărit prin gura dimineții mă salută Dumnezeu în desfrâul ăsta de lumină, stând pitit în fereastra pleoapei cântă-o rândunică se cunună văile c-un orizont, c-un vis se sinucide negura și nopții îi e frică iar ziua-mbracă forme de păcat comis. cerește ar fura și ingerii de ar putea lumina zilei ferecată în căușul ierbii se sinucide cu falangele iubirii noaptea când în răul visului se îmbăiază cerbii / vcând pe trupul meu iți lepezi cerbii talpa zorilor hotarul zilei-l construiește și-o-mpodobește-n muguri albi de brad dansează prin maci lumina mânzește și Dumnezeu îi e complice și-i e camarad trăim absurd în zidurile noastre/o moarte nelegitimă prescriem între ele aceste ziduri dintre noi de câtă vreme nu se mai dărâmă nu se mai topesc cuvântu-i exilat în nescrise poeme iubirea are formă de plâns dumnezeiesc nu e nici un fel de milă nici o bunătate în zidurile care ne ascund pe noi de noi stau sentințe de fidelitate îngropate în mormintele necununatei cifre doi trăim absurd prin zidurile noastre o moarte nelegitimă prescriem între ele pontificăm duminicale suflete dezastre în liturghii de inimi frânte bucățele. bolnavi și rezemați de zidul nostru abia dacă mai știm ce-nseamnă zarea 34 în pleoape crește moartea de albastru și-n neculoare cununată stă culoarea suntem absurzii veacului ce vine în care de iubire nu se va mai ști chiar dacă numai virtual ne este bine n-avem noi timp să știm cum vom trăi nu-i zi să nu ucidem în câte fiecare un mac, o pasăre, un cerb, un gând crucificăm iubirea în zi de sărbătoare ciocan și cuie de la alții-mprumutând și ca o pasăre de-o aripă beteagă se-nchide sufletul în prăfuite ziduri din calendar duminica se-apleacă tămâie să jelească peste viduri. și movul s-a închis într-o culoare de zid, de cărămidă și de fum paliu iubirea sângerează și e sărbătoare și sângele iubirii scâncește auriu râd zidurile toate în recensământ lumina lăcrimează de atâta milă pentru crucificările iubirii pe pământ pentru risipa de noi, atât de infantilă/inutila nu e cutremur să se-arate sau să vină să zdruncine aceste ziduri din țâțâni purtăm pământului întreaga vină pitiți în ziduri/triburi virtuale de nebuni/ unul de zidul altuia atât de hapsâni deși îmbătrânim și murim la grămadă/ n-avem nici dreptul să ne ducem câte doi se prăbușesc cărările din glezne sub formă de potcoave și răscruci cade drumul frânt în nemiloase bezne crescute rotund în cuiburi de cuci peroanele și gările se sinucid golașe căci eu și trenul meu am deraiat se șterg din harta ochiului orașe spre care gândul prin revere a zburat. mai stau un număr de jelanii pe aici și-mi zic că este bine deși tremur e lumea toată dezbrăcată de tunici în câmpie se revoltă grâul în cutremur sinucigașă plânge umbra pe-o colină eu prea departe, ea nu mă așteaptă decenii înecate-n fruntea mea anină bătrânețea care râde peste lume beată să nu doară aș vrea această fără tăgadă mai rău ca viețile șuvoi curgând prin noi căci deși îmbătrânim și murim la grămadă n-avem nici dreptul să ne ducem câte doi

35 romanian literature PARGHIE COSMIN nu mai am tărie să conduc acest corp care mi s-a dat aşa că mi se alege în locul meu să fiu luat mutat într-un corp de hulub şi pus într-o cuşcă plină cu prădători. Poem real Sunt în mine Sunt în mine. Cresc în mine. Sunt o lobodă care creşte cu rădăcinile în sus şi cu vârful îndreptat spre gura pământului. visele mele le ştiu pereţi de carton şi poate că de aceea sunt frig şi suferinţă în acelaşi timp sunt tot ce-i mai rău sunt ceea ce nu-i trebuie nimăruia. Ieşirea. Da. Poarta care pare singura realitate reală e sus treapta care cred eu că mă poate urca nu există. Cum nu există iubire nici vindecare pentru sufletul meu ars. Jos (tot în mine) De ce cei morţi visează c-are în ziua a opta să învie pământul să-l moştenească? Cerul sărăcit ne este dat nouă celor vii la care visăm care ne este scară o viaţă. Ne naştem trăim cât trăim şi murim dezamăgiţi scara pe care ni s-au urcat toate speranţele tot norocul aflăm că nu duce la cer pasul care taie ca o lamă de bărbierit aerul se sprijină în gol cădem jos e smoală e sânge murdar cădem jos de fapt tot în noi trăim continuăm să trăim în noi frica groaza teroarea durerea tot ce ne poate ucide şi totuşi n-o face Paradă Sângele meu o bombă vulcanică când mi se urcă la cap un trăsnet. Sângele meu săgeată-n credinţă nu mai am înger păzitor nici dumnezeu care să mă tragă pe masă când eu alunec sub. Visele mele paradă ard în câte vreun loc important la câte o reprezentaţie. Visele mele sunt acum cenuşa bună la nimic ca restul. Îmi spun. Da. Îmi spun 35 Din pâclă vin toate le înţeleg nu le înţeleg. Lui nu-i pasă spe exemplu Lui nu-i pasă că sparg frica în dinţi ca alunele că pe sub coaste un accelerat face victime în tot corpul că în fundul privirii se sparg boabe de lacrimi cu durere Lui nu-i pasă şi nu-i pasă defel că întind o mână goală ca un abur subţire din gura mortului să cer ajutor. Da. Strig cât mă ţin plămânii ajutor. Caut cu amănuntul ajutor. Da. Asta caut. O cale de scăpare. O cărare îngustă care să mă scoate în afara vieţii şi a morţii. PETRU SOLONARU Vidul - Află: tot ce este, nu e aşadar!... El, Nimicul, scrie cele câte par, între sapienţă şi sotiză, foi... Cartea, mimă sieşi, stă închisă doar... Nimicia vastă, sub aici şi-acum, ţinta pribegeşte focului din scrum. Abur, goliciune, devorant absurd omul prinde în pumnii-şi din celest duium... - Cine-ar sta să-împartă fals de adevăr, fără-a fi prin pulberi numărat răspăr?... Peşteră, odaia-i, umbre tivuind, caznelor îl varsă pe-un edenic măr... Buni sau răi de-a valma râvna şi-au înfrânt sufletul în sine goanei după vânt... - Ce rămâne totuşi?... -Clipa!...Ne-a ales un acord Tăcerii, viu îndurământ...

36 romanian literature DANIELA VOICU Daniela Voicu is a Romanian poet, novelist and painter. Her poems have been published in Poeticdiversity Los Angeles, Three Rooms Press NY, Pirene s Fountain, Cuget Liber, Agero Stuttgart, New York Magazine, Curentul International, Revista Luceafarul, Pagini Romanesti in Noua Zeelanda and Pheonix Mission and more. In various anthologies, including Tears of Ink, The Poetry of War and Peace, Words on the Winds of Change, Just a Dream and Reflections on a Blue Planet etc. She has collections of poems published: Poems of Angels (2006), Blue in Vitro(2012), Surfing Silence(2012), Windows without dreams (E-book 2012), Sky Hands(2013). In 2009, she founded the international journal of culture and literature, Cuib Nest Nido; and in 2011 she founded the international festival of music and contemporary art, The Art to be Human in Switzerland. Since 2009, she has been a member of the Writers League of Romania. ( ENGL-RO) Disappointments Disappointments beat walls all over the world. They don t let happiness sing about eternity. We are the void between heaven and them. God saves us when we turn, counting us with even or odd numbers each of the 99th. Harps singing a samba song, and monkeys dancing naked in floats, announcing a better night. Our hands move what we love, and all depart, and we unify with the sea, being inedible goldfish for sharks Rain is not silent anymore, and the silence, after, breaks our eardrums. sky, moon, people, earth, all revolve around them. Tomorrow we will forgive ourselves. (disappointed) dezamăgiri 16 ian 2013 dezamăgiri bat peste tot în pereţii lumii nelăsând fericirea să cânte despre eternitate suntem vidul dintre cer şi,,ele,, ne mântuie Dumnezeu când ne vine rândul numărând par, sau impar la fiecare al 99-lea harpa cântă un cântec de samba maimuţe dansează dezbrăcate în carele alegorice se anunţă o noapte mai bună întindem mâinile spre ceea ce iubim şi totul se depărtează ne unificăm cu marea noi fiind peştii de aur necomestibili pentru rechini nu mai tace ploaia, iar liniştea de după ne sparge timpanele cerul, luna, oamenii şi pământul se învârt toţi în jurul lor mâine ne vom ierta... (dezamăgiţi) 36

37 art Ira Joel Haber Ira Joel Haber was born and lives in Brooklyn New York. He is a sculptor, painter, book dealer, photographer and teacher. His work has been seen in numerous group shows both in USA and Europe and he has had 9 one man shows including several retrospectives of his sculpture. His work is in the collections of The Whitney Museum Of American Art, New York University, The Guggenheim Museum, The Hirshhorn Museum & TheAlbright-Knox Art Gallery. His paintings, drawings and collages have been published in many on line and print magazines including Rock Heals, Otoliths, Winamop, Melancholia s Tremulous Dreadlocks, Barfing Frog, The Raving Dove, DeComp, Foliate Oak, Siren, Prose Toad, Triplopia, Thieves Jargon, Opium, Dirt, The Centrifugal Eye, The DMQ Review, Broadsided, Hotmetalpress, Double Dare Press, Events Quarterly, Unlikely Stories, Coupremine, Cerebration,Chick Flicks, Softblow, Eclectica Magazine, Backwards City Review, Right Hand Pointing, Ascent Aspirations Magazine, Brew City Magazine, Superstition Review, Fiction Attic, Mastodon Dentist, Blue Print Review, Ellipsis,The Indelible Kitchen, Cricket, Entelechy, So To Speak, Taj Mahal Review, The Fifteen Project, The Externalist, Why Vandalism, Mungbeing Magazine, Lamination Colony, Paradigm, Lily, Literary Fever, Glassfire Magaine, The Houston Literary Review, Lilies and Cannonballs, Wheelhouse Magazine, Terra Incognita, Qarrtsiluni, The Tusculum Review, Multidementional, 34th Parallel, Wood Coin, Sacramento Poetry, Art & Music, Anti-Poetry, Divine Dirt Quarterly, The Mom Egg, Disenthralled, Etcetera,Sea Stories, Bicycle Review,, Down In The Dirt, Psychic Meatloaf, Diverse Voices, Blue Lotus, Forge, The Front Porch Review, The Blotter, Breadcrumb Scabs, Guerilla Pamphlets, Imitation Fruit, Front Range, Convergence, Meat For Tea, Grey Sparrow Press, A Handful Of Dust, Ink Filled Page,The Journal Of Unlikely Entomology, Frequencies, Orion headless, Missive, Lit n Image, Media Virus, Spudgun, Bare Hands, Up The Staircase Quarterly, Maintenant 6, Glass Coin, Off The Rocks, Sliver of Stone, Blue Five Notebook, Map Literary, Literary Ophans, Pinyon Review, Decades Review, Monongahela Review,Amethyst Arsenic, Blue Five Notebook, Tenement Block Review & Cleaver Magazine. He has received three National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships, two Pollock-Krasner grants, the Adolph Gottlieb Foundation grant and, in 2010, he received a grant from Artists Fellowship Inc. Currently he teaches art at the United Federation of Teachers Retiree Program in Brooklyn 37

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44 DIRECTOR: DANIELA VOICU ( flamiyngo@yahoo.com) REDACTOR SEF: DANIELA LACATUS ( lacatus.daniel@gmail.com) REDACTOR ADJUNCT: IONEL JINGA ( artjinga@gmail.com) REDACTOR EXTERN: CAMELIA IONITA ( ELVETIA) TEHNOREDACTARE: IONEL JINGA (artjinga-freelance visual artist ) ISSN