Category: Poetry

Two Poems by Peter J. King

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

1914

“In September 1914, a man had to stand five feet eight to get into the army. A month later, so great was the need for recruits, the minimum height requirement was lowered to five foot five; in November, after the losses sustained in the First Battle of Ypres, it was lowered again, to five foot three.” (Catherine Bailey, The Secret Rooms, p.248)

August
When war broke out I was too short;
they shook their heads
showed me the door.
I sat at home and fretted that
I wasn’t five foot eight.

October
As thousands died, they changed their minds;
I tried again —
but still too short
I cycled home and fretted that
I wasn’t five foot five.

November
But things were bad along the Front;
third time’s a charm,
they shook my hand,
and I embarked in khaki drab,
a manly five foot three.

December
I fell for good at Plugstreet Wood1 —
our guns or theirs,
I wasn’t sure;
my legs were shattered by a shell,
and struggling for one last breath
amid the sounds and smells of hell
I fretted that I’d meet my death
too short once more.

1. Ploegsteert Wood was part of the Ypres salient; it later became a rest and recuperation centre.

first published in Oxford Magazine 374, 2016



1917: Zero Sum

(In the latter stages of WWI, across Europe governments ordered the melting down of church bells and organ pipes for munitions.)

To keep the chill cacophony of Ragnarok
reverberating in the frigid moonlight
riming dugouts, trenches, sentries,
and the troops who twitch in cold, uneasy bunks,
across the fields and forests, villages and towns,
the homes of which the sleeping soldiers dream,
the bells fall silent.




Peter J. King was born and brought up in Boston, Lincolnshire. He was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s, returning to poetry in 2013. Since then his work (including translations from modern Greek [with Andrea Christofidou] and German poetry, short fiction, and paintings) has been widely published in magazines and anthologies. His currently available collections are Adding Colours to the Chameleon (Wisdom’s Bottom Press) and All What Larkin (Albion Beatnik Press). https://wisdomsbottompress.wordpress.com/

“5am Departure” by Noreen Hennessy

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 3 Comments
“And I couldn’t escape the waking dream.” –Simon Armitage

Clouds billowing, gathering strength
in a sky ready to
split lightning
spill smoke from its mouth
a creased cheek crushing a pillow
buried there in numb bliss
legs entwined swaddled in sheets warmed
by their bodies’ devotion
to this cradle of comfort they share
holding them as they succumb to
the quiet communion of their dreams
a belly curved into a cave of heat
Lips released open
breathing out the last sigh
of sleep

footsteps
In a half-moon lit hallway
quick purposeful as a cat’s
dirt ash soot flies at the window
angry unforgiving
entitled
burrows inside
arrives on the window sill
in the heel of a sneaker
amidst last night’s bath
towels still damp
on the floor
with dropped toys
clothes scattered
beginning to smolder
the muffled cry of the baby
the quickness of his mother’s eyes
searching the air
streaked with smoke
her lips forming the question
to which she already knows the answer
Fire

the scent and muscle of
outstretched arms
skin upon skin
seen now in
scraps of daylight
the heaviness of her
child’s sleeping head drooping
against her wildly beating heart
her blood spiked with panic
then resolve
a world enclosed
in her arms
her lips touch his brow his lips
this small body still
pressed to her belly’s warmth
coupled together
strapped to her ribs

Ribbons of rain
flecked with fire
drench the window
as it opens
to cinders of sycamore leaves
flaming needles of white pine
whistling by furiously singing like
the notes of a cello’s strings
ascending
pulling mother and child
out onto the wind
to ride its strength
and set them
ablaze

Beyond the fire’s turbulence
Beyond their shared tears
as the sheer curtain burns in their memory.




Noreen Hennessy is new to poetry. She has given readings of her writing at Beyond Baroque Literary Foundation and at the 92nd St Y. Recently, one of her poems has been published online by Literary North.  She has been studying poetry in community workshops this past year at UVM and Dartmouth College. She lives in southern Vermont with her husband and son.

“She Spun by Me in Swirling Skirts” by Alena Casey

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

She spun by me in swirling skirts,
Her hair swung loose and long;
The air breathed music—how my heartstrings
Tingled with our song!

But nary a glance she dropped for me,
Nor passed my palm a note
With words regretful or sincere.
With nothing, she me smote.

Her smiles spilled on other folks,
Her words in other ears.
What whispers will she pass along
When I have disappeared?

Life dances—so she spins—it sweeps
Her on—I know not where.
I dance my own way, not still tangled
In this love, her hair.




Alena Casey is a wife, mother, and writer from Indiana. She is an avid reader, writer, and student of literature and poetry, and sometimes blogs about it at strivingafterink.wordpress.com.

Two Poems by Leslie Dianne

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Homes

How many places
have I loved?
a languid houseboat in Srinagar
a moto taxi in New Delhi
the duomo in Milano
a Beijing intersection cut into
bicycles, limousines and rickshaws
a corner in Suzhou
where a money change woman
whispered at me for my dollars
the molten ash mountain
leading to Mount Etna
and the fire always burning
its way to the clouds
because I was a quiet witness
to these places
they opened and
let me in
bared their secrets
and I carried them away
my memory stuffed
with their sights,
scents and sounds
my heart longing for
those places that
made me their daughter
and gave me a home



City of Lights

In Paris there is always
the temptation
to eat too much
the city offers me
the soft center
of the baguette
like birdsong exploding
on the tongue
the fat in the hundred layer
croissant capturing mornings
and jam in its folds
the eclairs exclaiming
their devotion to the
cream and offering it
like chimes echoing
through the mouth
other tourists go to the Seine
and the Louvre
I go to the chocolatier
and the patisserie
and eat my way
though the city
of lights




Leslie Dianne is a poet, novelist, screenwriter, playwright and performer whose work has been acclaimed internationally in places such as the Harrogate Fringe Festival in Great Britain, The International Arts Festival in Tuscany, Italy, and at La Mama in New York City. Her stage plays have been produced in NYC at The American Theater of Actors, The Raw Space, The Puerto Rican Traveling Theater, and The Lamb’s Theater.  She holds a BA in French Literature from CUNY and her poems have appeared in The Lake, Ghost City Review, The Literary Yard, About Place Journal, and Kairos and are forthcoming in Hawai’i Review. Her poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. 

Two Poems by George Freek

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A Poem About Time (after Liu Yong)

I’m endlessly waiting
to find the words
to express the arrival
of spring’s birds, or for
something that has not yet
come into being, something
which will amaze me.
The moon climbs the sky,
then suddenly dies,
and my thoughts are paralyzed.
I look for the moon
hidden in your eyes.
Life is a mystery to me,
so I wait, and as I wait
I watch a thousand leaves
grow on a hundred trees.
Meanwhile we grow older,
and the stars which
once were young
and full of desire, die,
and slowly sink to their knees.



At Dawn (after Lu Yu)

I dream I’m a butterfly.
I drift without troubles
from flower to flower,
to suck their sweet nectar.
I take no interest in the hour.
But a crack of thunder
wakes me like a blow,
which is followed by an
inundating shower.
The sky is leaden.
There’s no sun.
I’m unable to leave
my bleak, empty room.
We lose our sight, our teeth.
I watch my hair turn white.
Yes, we all grow old.
I thought when it came,
I would be strong.
I was wrong.




George Freek‘s poetry has appeared in numerous poetry journals and reviews, most recently The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, North of Oxford, Triggerfish, and Torrid Literature.

Two Poems by Russel G. Winick

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Familiarity

So often one sees people
Acting closer than they are.
Excess familiarity
At first just seems bizarre.

But people crave the closeness
That our modern times impede.
Which causes the exaggeration
Many seem to need.



Time-Saving Drivers

Drivers speeding recklessly,
Alarmingly behave.
You wonder what they’ll do with the
Few minutes that they save?




Russel G. Winick recently began writing poetry at nearly age 65, after concluding a long career as an attorney.  Langston Hughes’ work is his primary inspiration. Several dozen of Mr. Winick’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in over a dozen online and print venues.

“The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus

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Emma Lazarus (1849-1887)

Emma Lazarus (1849-1887), although a prolific writer for such a short life of 38 years, is best known for her sonnet, “The New Colossus,” some lines of which are inscribed on a bronze plaque which was installed on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty in 1903. While this poem wasn’t widely known in her lifetime, she was a recognized literary figure who was acquainted with many literary and political figures of the day. Ironically, “The New Colossus” later became so famous that it overshadowed her legacy as a whole. Read more about Emma Lazarus here.


The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries she
With silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’

“Abnegation” by Iolanda Leotta

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The last bell tolls of the church,
not very far from my home,
echo, roar, the resonances
around the country hears, remind:
it’s time to pray.
But how many people
turn to the Creator to be blessed?

It’s midday, it’s almost lunch-time,
but who for a moment will remember
those who can’t feed?
The philanthropy, the charity,
if it exists yet,
few people want to pursue it–
simple souls ready to donate
without expecting love in return,
ready to die for a worthy cause,
without receiving glory and honor.
But what are awards and honors
If you’re a despicable person,
an impostor,
that using the cunning of the fox,
subjugates the lambs
for personal purpose?

Among the ashy doves that fly,
stands out one snow-white,
that often settles on the bell tower,
It symbolizes the utopian, futuristic,
“universal peace,” impossible to achieve.
There’s a need of mutual love,
but people die with selfishness, alienation,
bad mood.

It’s evening, the last bell tolls
announce the “Hail Mary.”
I think to the self-abnegation;
I see my mother’s tears
when she kneels to worship
“The Madonna of the Sea,”
sculpted by her son, on the garden wall.
It seems to say:
“Mother! I’ll never leave you,
How can I forget you and live on
you gave me life so many times?”




Iolanda Leotta was born in Italy. She holds a degree in Sciences of Linguistic Mediation. Recently, her poetry book L’esploratrice dei sentimenti e dei valori umani has been published in Italy, by Aletti editor. It was presented at the Federiciano International Poetry Festival, where the keynote speaker was Alessandro Quasimodo, theatrical director, actor, author, and son of the poet Salvatore Quasimodo, Nobel Prize for literature. Her poems may be found in many international literary anthologies. She attends the masterclasses with Francesco Gazzè, songwriter; Giuseppe Anastasi, singer and songwriter; Davide Rondoni, playwright; collaborates with Mogol, lyricist and record producer.

Two Poems by John Whitney Steele

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Drop 

In memory of B.K.S. Iyengar (12/14/1918-8/20/2014)

You’ve limbered up in backbends, lifted
into Upward Bow. You stand,
arc your spine, prepare to drop
back to the floor, land on your hands.

You stop. The ground is there, but you can’t see
quite where, and though you have been gifted
with strength and flexibility, you freeze,
afraid you’ll sprain your wrist, crack your skull.

Once BKS did Headstand on the edge
of the Grand Canyon. Not a show of courage
but steady mind, exuberance, a way
to wake up every cell, a celebration.

Standing on the edge you never know.
Something says it’s now or never. Go.


Posterity

She placed her palm on torchlit stone,
spit red ochre at her hand,
left her mark, her stenciled clone,
a work of art, Neanderthal,
a language we still understand.

The permafrost is melting now,
releasing long held secrets:
fifty-thousand-year-old wolf pups
perfectly preserved, reindeer
killed by anthrax, disinterred.

When human beings are no more
what will we have left behind?
What hope have I to leave a mark
some future race will find?




John Whitney Steele is a psychologist, yoga teacher, assistant editor of Think: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction and Essays, and graduate of the MFA Poetry Program at Western Colorado University, where he studied with Julie Kane, David Rothman, and Ernest Hilbert. His chapbook, The Stones Keep Watch, is to be published by Kelsay Books in 2021. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Blue Unicorn, The Lyric, The Orchards, and Road Not Taken. Born and raised in Toronto and Foot’s Bay, Ontario. John lives in Boulder, Colorado, and enjoys hiking in the mountains. Website: http://johnwhitneysteelepoet.com

Two Poems by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

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The Waist Is Larger than the Belt

The waist is larger than the belt–
For put them side by side–
The one the other will exceed
With ease–it cannot hide–

The foot is wider than the shoe–
For try them inch by inch–
The one the other won’t fit in–
Without a mighty pinch–

The mouth is greater than the will–
For test them both with cake–
The one the other will subdue–
As anodyne quells ache–


A Narrow Fellow in the Glass 

A narrow fellow in the glass
Is what I yearn to see–
But much I must forgo, alas
To make a slimmer me. 

No cookies, brownies, cake, or pie–
I may become unstrung.
The pleasure healthful foods supply
Is zero at the tongue.


Both poems originally appeared in The Emily Dickinson International Society Bulletin




Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had about 200 poems published in a wide range of places.