"Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt,
and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen."
Leonardo da Vinci
A thick tar
flows through my veins
steaming and reeking.
like a wet, sticky frog.
Your New Year's wishes
each word is
My Sweet Heart,
your tongue is too froggy
so it pulls me long
in a mossy moment
A thick slush comes
out of me
and drenches you
a hungry earth-worm
- Bhargab Chatterjee
editor's note: We couldn't stand to see if they smoke, after. Too froggy, indeed! - mh
There’s no electricity in Kathmandu city
Sitting with the woman who cleans monasteries
Silver-throated by embers
Endowed from that cackling stove
The rain is of a poet's dream
Dashing at the window sill
She sits still
Tongue knotted, inquisitive
I walked along these hills
Lit by quarter moon
Dark stars and the wind is chaos
Caked with wet dust
I arrived here
For milk tea refuge
Native café we share in
No dialect pertaining to comprehension
As men chuckle, conspicuous
Women fry eggs, coy and curious
I, silent, sip this tea
She takes her peek at me
I speak erroneously
They love it
- Sunya Chavi
editor's note: A typical day in this poet's neighborhood. We love it, too! - mh
Youth is not immortal,
though a heart can remain young.
One July morning
I called her beautiful and meant it.
She thought I was silly.
I thought I was brave.
I was longing for acceptance.
My heart was weighing a ton.
I was far from Don Juan.
She was the woman of my dreams,
the most beautiful creature.
I wanted to shout it out.
She made me face reality.
She brought me down to earth.
She beat sense into my heart.
I live with a curse ever since.
I continue my journey.
I still believe she is beautiful.
- Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
(1 poem added 03.08.14)
editor's note: This beholder is the best Don Juan; a true believer. - mh
bought California King Bed
for my husband-to-be
implying that I
should try the mattress
the screwing sound
knowingly I am
the Immaculate Magdalene
she slipped in between
a piece of snow cheese cloth
hoping to spot
blood from broken hymen
fertile and spy-ce
my soul then
to be judged
by the Book of Revelation
I am the first to vanish.
- Deborah Wong
editor's note: Who can blame a doting dame for testing the merch before purch? - mh
Here it is
Still wet with tears
From uncounted years
Under a sorrow stained pillow
Hanging limp like the willow
outside the glass
In a scream filled room
I left it for dead
Tired of its incessant wants
Fed up with its dreaming
But its continuous thumping
Thump, thump, thump...
Its harassing bumping
Bump, bump, bump...
Led me back here
I will be clear
It's not you I fear
Or for whom I've shed tears
It's my heart
And what it can do to me
So, I've picked it up
And dusted it off
And locked it away
The damn thing is still beating
editor's note: This sign of life is reason enough to stay in the game; tears, fears and all. - mh
We live in such a dangerous world, a place
where survival of the fittest wags the dog,
where wolves howl just outside the door,
circle, close in, where plotters plot, gunners
gun, bombers bomb, where addicts are
desperately seeking a fix, and fixers can’t fix
a thing. Read the papers, watch the news un-
fold across the various screens that filter it all,
advise us, warn us, threaten; drive down Main
Street at rush hour and feel the hostile nature
of us all, gestures, horns and screeching brakes,
the things we can almost hear them yelling as
as we pass, locked in, a pistol in the glove box,
always ready to protect what is ours from
anyone who crosses us, cuts us off, flips us
the bird; this is as it should be, treacherous,
hazardous, precarious, perilous, watch the sun
rising up and falling, beating down on us all day,
watch the crows attack the birdfeeder, push
and shove their way in, watch the neighbor’s
pit bull pee on your irises, watch your neighbor’s
leaves blow on your newly raked lawn, watch
them closing in, then go get the shotgun they
didn’t get, load up, stand by the front door and
wait for someone to knock and then let them know
just how dangerous this part of the world can be.
- J.K. Durick
(1 poem added 03.05.14)
editor's note: We want the freedom to defend ourselves; while someone else wants to tell us what to defend against. - mh
The Modern New Testament
In this modern era what have the children
of Abraham been up to? New acts
of his apostles, new Messiahs come
to save, new ways of being Martyred.
Should the first book be called "Pogram",
a tidy word hiding a lot of pain
in the sorting of the wheat from the chaff?
Perhaps the second should be called
"Forced Exile", native peoples driven
from ancient homelands; even today,
in the Amazon Forests, in Palestine.
Drones, like Archangels, provide
Pillars of Fire by night and
Pillars of Smoke by day. Driving
the distraught and desperate from their homes.
And what of Yahweh? He's suited
and tied, clean shaven, speaking in tongues
in broadcasts to the narrow mindset,
prepared to lie to save his world.
- Patrick J. Dorrian
editor's note: With this new Gospel come new true believers, fervent as Paul and Silas ever were. Acolytes, beware! - mh