Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Alan Inman writes


I am a product of good 
grooming, cuff links, neck tie, 
a book of manners walking 
around, without any place 
to put my good graces 
but on the folds of uncouth 
party conversations.

 Robert de Montesquiou -- Giovanni Boldini

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Tom Sterner multimediates

Flame X

Ananya Chatterjee writes

Would you?

You've seen how
in a candle stick
The wax never
abandons the wick
You ignite the wick
Yet, it is the wax
which dies..

All the wick does
is grow dark
with grief
and hard
with the sorrow
of permeated pain

If I were to be a wick
Fragile and fire-facing ..
Would you be
my scented paraffin?
Could ours be
a love like that...
Unfair yet forgiving?

Frau aus Wachs -- Lenn Cox

Vernon Mooers writes

Train From Taegu

The coach creeps across the plain
rolls through the fog and mountains
along the river and its boats
   sneaks toward the sea.
The printing blocks collect dust
on Haeinsa Temple shelves.
The stones of Katbawi
the Buddhist image of Yakayorae
rest in granite rock on Mount Chuwang.
On the platform a woman waits
A daughtered bundle of warmth
stirs in the wrap cloth of her back.
She waits for her man
   but he does not come this day
   nor yesterday.
The Pugok hot springs boil like a kettle
and spew from the rock their steamsulpher salts:
the tears of hell seep and weep
their way to the sea.
The woman feels the baby stir
hears a whimper, then a scream
cries loud enough
to drown out
the sound of the departing train.
She will come again tomorrow, when
the leaves fall in the mountains
and wait,
in cold November air.

Praying Mother and Child

Anca Mihaela Bruma writes

This Song of Me…

Whispers of my long forgotten song
arise in syllables, break into oblivions,
birds started singing from my ascetic hair,
my footstep lost its own penumbra…

I have reached
so many shores…
Just by thinking of you…
A drop of spring sings insides my mind!

Let me be impaired again of this azure,
curve the words and collide
your infinitudes with my existence,
no more to crave for my own ankles!

I gathered all your hours…
I gathered all your alabaster times…
Even my light has dug shelters under your eyelids…
My longingness smoothly flows behind your ear.

If you could just… be…
If I could just not… flee…

My temple hits your horizon,
naked grass whispers your heart beats
as time stopped its breath in rainbows,
inside you, late stars found its own retreat,
my knees grind no more of so much waiting…

Of so much light, it hurts the sky inside me!
This… twilight… does not belong to me!
Your distance is nearer to me, I know
and night between us is burning most lively
mastering all facets of this gained reality…

Your frosts bedazzle and also fire me up,
crushing my colloquy into five words.
Just your silence confided your yearning
while my face turned over a new leaf…

Pathos has wept over your left lip!
We embraced each other in a rhythm beat,
deciphering our own equanimities ,
so lofty wings can find their flights back
and your lips will not be made of wind…

How can I heal the other side of the world
with this insane song of ME?!?

It hurts
this sky inside me!
It hurts
this nearer distance of yours!
I do not know the antidote of my burning wings
nor the remedy of my anthem long forgotten.

Don’t come to me and say
You lost that song of ME!

Too much red in such a grey world
and I forgot to be reborn
thousands times more!..

Home With Nest In Hair -- Tilly Strauss

Dandung Prasetyo paints


Alisa Velaj writes


Mist, yes, mist blocks our sight,
Preventing us from watching
The landscape.
Lo! It disappeared.
The shores are so magnificent…
They should not have such,
Or we might have probably failed
To look at them properly at that time…

-- tr. Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

 Sierra Point in Mist against Granite Backdrop as Seen from the Top of Vernal Fall  -- Wingchee Poon

Dorin Popa writes

women pass through my neuroses

they quickly light a candle each
and in their uncertain light
the instant is then revired:
I am my brother once again!

hurriedly, they interlard my body
with possible deaths
: could I fly for good

out of my wild despair?

women pass.
then everything  relapses.

  The Angel of Advent -- Sulamith Wulfing

Monday, August 29, 2016

Angelica Fuse writes


a birdie
greets me 
in the morning,
Why the fuck are
you up so early?
he perches
on my finger
but there is no
and I hope I don't
lose my finger.

Hamadryada -- Bezt [ETAM CRU]