Thursday, February 23, 2017

Sirinya shoots

JD DeHart writes


They would hardly call me rustic, 
though my knuckles can bleed. 
They would hardly see my strength, 
though my face has stubble. 
I am a mixture of father and brother, 
a little mother thrown in, 
the well-lit room of my growing up 
and all the family warnings 
lighting my way, stone by stone. 
They would hardly call me rustic, 
though I have been stepping all 
this way, mostly blind, sometimes 
scrambling, uncertain, unsure, 
but in perpetual motion.
acrylic&colored pencils / paper Blindness -- Alexandra Levasseur


Ananya Chatterjee writes


The water table beneath  
Your sailboat eyes
Is rising to
dangerous heights.
You're looking away
Pretending to lick
the citrus sunset.
You're still not sure  
Of slipping through
the safety net.
Run off girl, while you still can.
Run off girl, we haven't kissed yet.


 Wineglass Wherry -- Gus Watson

Umid Ali writes

To sister M.

This woman’s eyes are bright, 
This woman’s worlds are numerous. 
This woman’s joys never ends, 
This woman’s heart is a way to the universe.

Fatigue is away from her, 
Her springs bloom many more.
In this woman’s rapture
You never see any dissatisfaction.

So joyous is this woman, 
Her happiness and felicity grow, 
In the warmth of her body
The autumn’s stagnation freezes.

Her dreams are also full of honor.
There is an imagination of spring. 
You don’t know, maybe right now, 
She is the happiest woman in the world.

--tr. Asror Allayarov from "The Gate Opened by Angels"

Image result for imagination of spring paintings
 Dreaming of Spring -- Christian Schloe