PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 2; Issue 1; January 2018

Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda

The Swing by Renee’ Drummond-Brown

In My Memories by Nandini Srivastava

Refugees by James G. Piatt

The Fractal Maze by Sudip Adhikari

Sonnet VI : Sonnets by Aminul Islam

You Must Have Heard Me by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Five AM by Jake Cosmos Aller

Dry Tears by Daginne Aignend

I am in a Print by Hiroshige by John Grey

About the Poets


Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda



I hear A Nearness   


I listen

I listen to the silence of her storms

I listen to its close remoteness


I listen

I listen to the loudness of her whispers

I listen to its near aloofness


I listen

I hear a heart heaving for some healing

However I hear without a hearing aid


I listen

I hear a song sung in silences and storms

However its remoteness is near and dear







New Phenomena 



Official for what? The only happiness I seem to get from your ministry

Is an outburst of laughter. Some people watching us are unhappy!


They say either that ministry should be called psychiatry

Or a nullity.  I know you are saying less stress to our uncles,


Our dear sisters, our cousins.  Who says poverty

Or indeed stupidity runs deep in our lineage?


Happy we are in Africa! In our state…

Happiness has finally been invented!


Who said we cannot be the first?

Our taxpayers cannot be sad!!



On Bumping Into Her 


She told me about it. The story of guests

who rent cars or a bunch of bunk beds.


I didn’t know what a backpacker hotel

was. She told me she was a backpacker.


No wonder she had her little supplies,

her personal belongings. Her things.


At one time I know she stuttered:

I didn’t catch some words she uttered.


Did she belong to who? I didn’t get it?

Did she talk of her things or her thighs?



Then there was a lesson on travelling,

travelling on budgeted accommodation.


On a backpack being smaller

than a rucksack, on getting  a pack.


I said ok: sackpack ,backsack,

or knapsack or whatever. Bye!





That is Where My Umbilical Cord Is


Today you stand tall in defiance of all the challenges

Right in the southern ­western part of the country


Just like in the year 1893 when a Union Flag was raised

As the huts of King Lobengula’s capital were up in flames


Did Dr Leander Starr Jameson not congratulate himself

For scoring a British South Africa Company`s victory?


In the first place why did King Lobengula say: “I’m he who is”

“Persecuted and rejected” if his ascension had been bloodless?

These days some young folk affectionately call you Skies

I prefer to call you Ntuthuziyathunqa or Ntuthu in short


A nickname which speaks volumes

About you being an industrial hub


Or so you used to be a habitation

Where industrial smoke abounded


Bulawayo my majestic city

Bulawayo what a stunning city


Bulawayo rich in cultural history

Were you not the commercial capital?


A great gateway to Southern Africa?

Were you not our transport nucleus?


For you provided rail links between

Botswana and South Africa and Zambia


They can do or say whatever they want

But Bulawayo you are my umbilical cord


You are my pride and in my heart forever

Bulawayo City of Kings and Queens


Located within the vicinity of the Matobo Hills

And the Victoria Falls and the Hwange National Park


The Swing by Renee’ Drummond-Brown


His mansion has

oak stairs. A southern

flare. The ghost of my past also

resides here.


The sounds of torture echoes like

plantation shutters swinging em’

to N’ fro.

As I polish his silverware. The floors

crack. The walls

speak; who lives here? Certainly

not me!


THAT dirt driveway houses

my DNA. The open door is locked. I enter

from the back to cook

his menus plus

add me some fat-back. My minds

on that auction block. Those slave ships. Moses

parting THAT Red Sea for me. Gotta’ get back

to work; cause, I don’t wanna’ swing. No!

Not on this day.  No! Not me. All

my clean windows see


infamous SHOW tree. Reminding us


that swings plea. To make sure

you hang-em’ on high for

Massa’s sake and the picture-perfect imagery. I’m jus’

a passer by; til’ my turn to swing. Until then,

I’ll jus’ keep on telling; while keeping it clean.



Dedicated to: Self Preservation is the law of the land


A B.A.D. poem



In My Memories by Nandini Srivastava


Shall I tuck you or let you fly in the wind?

Fly like an insane kite

Shall I stop you or let you swim in the river?

Swim like a naughty shellfish

Shall I find you or let you be in my memories?

To be like an unforgettable dream in my life.



Refugees by James G. Piatt



Shattered bits of terror like rusted razor edged tears, pierce hope in the minds of war weary souls, knives of fear splinter hope, leaving only an aching grayness: Weary women with covered heads, tired old men with shaggy beards, sobbing children hungry and afraid, all trudging through rocks and burning sand hoping to escape from chaos and death to a safe refuge in a foreign land. The cold seeps through tents and bones, but they still pray during special hours each day, hoping for an answer in the icy winds of the dark night, while obscure politicians form committees to decide, which poor souls will be sent back to their war torn nations to die. Where is mercy?


The Fractal Maze by Sudip Adhikari



The splattered fuzz converges

like a chiaroscuro, to tell the stories

of becoming and noise.

I am lost in a fractal maze,

but I don’t regret.


We think we are too small

to be the infinity, too frail to dwell

in the folds of a dreamscape.

we think we are the limited hues

of color, caught within the

perimeter of a white canvass.


I keep zooming into myself

and all I can find is me.

I am everywhere. I am the only one

I am the God, whom no religion teaches.

Sonnet VI : Sonnets by Aminul Islam


The sonneteer pens sonnets immaculate

Readers go astounded at his calibre :

Engrossing rhyming scheme,dulcet metre

No prominence find we there inexistent

Critical acclamations formidably flood in

He wins awards national and international

Students around the globe study his sonnets

Many are also doing research on his work

His sonnets have sheerly been a trademark

Since they’re incontrovertibly pure sonnets

Many poets become his followers assiduous

They also earn renown sonneting like him


Thousands of people are still famished

No sonnet could even once them feast!

You Must Have Heard Me by Ryan Quinn Flanagan


skiing the alpine victory

vociferous as a pack of wildebeest

throwing magazines in the air

because the unchecked throne of gravity should

not go unchallenged

my hair parted down the middle

like a true centrist, flakes of dandruff

to announced an unplanned winter

lipstick scrawls over the bathroom mirror

as the throat of my voice belts out

the last dry dregs of Top 40 radio

the hair of my naked legs so numerous

with age that gurus working in teams

could not find me, but you must have heard me

just down the hall, schooling Wagner in spilt pantomime

another horse meat racket busted in the South of Spain

I wonder how many vegetarians are moonlighting

for Interpol, selling bottles of avocado shellac

to foodies with nails under the table

as I sit cross-legged on the floor

cooling down like a bowl of soup,

a spent fire extinguisher in my hands

so that I know the gulag Fascists

have won.




Five AM by Jake Cosmos Aller


In the midst

Of a dismal night

When all about me seem

Somehow affright


When my multitude of friends

Have fled into the ever deepening

Righteous night


Leaving me alone

To face the shitty sun


To race for the phone

And have some fun


Alas I have constipated diarrhea blues

The sky is puke green


My wallet has lost its last green

I have seen a dawning of the blues


I sing to express

My feelings

So somber and depressed


Some day

My world will exist

For now

All that is

Or seemed to be

Is merely a stoned dream

Of burning licorice trees



Dry Tears by Daginne Aignend


They say it will become less

the cramping pain

The suffering, apathy, a lead weight

on the chest, is this a heartache?

Not being able to get through

my daily routine, I sit and stare

I want to scream in grief

but my voice has fallen silent

I want to run and hide

but my body doesn’t respond anymore

Slowly I wither, excruciated by numbness,

as I drown in a pool of dry tears


I am in a Print by Hiroshige by John Grey



I am one of many snowflakes

suspended in mid-air.

This is good for me,

being singular and yet

in the good company of so many

of my kind.

Sure crystals of ice

suggest coldness.

I prefer magic, even beauty.


While some may wish to

blanket the earth,

I am free, forever falling.

Besides, light is always

on the lookout for me.

I can surprise you

with my glitter.


It may seem as if

I’m a lonely prisoner of the winter sky.

But the Inuit have fifty ways

of describing me.

And only one of describing love –



About the Poets


Ndaba Sibanda has contributed to the following anthologies: Its Time, Poems For Haiti- a South African anthology, Snippets ,Voices For Peace and Black Communion. He edited  Free Fall (2017). The recipient of a Starry Night ART School scholarship in 2015, Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing and Football of Fools. His work is featured in The New Shoots Anthology, The Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDaris and Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski, Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press and Seeing Beyond the Surface Volume II.


Renee’ B. Drummond is a renowned poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

Nandini Srivastava is 20 and was born and raised in Lakhimpur Kheri in Uttar Pradesh in India. She studies her Pharmacy and Computer Science in her home town and is an avid reader of English Literature. Her works have appeared in Tuck Magazine. Poetry is next to her heart to express the deeper feelings and poignant chronicle of life. Her frolicking mind longs to hang out with North Indian chat and pani poori. She is an emerging poet and short fiction writer and can be contacted at nandinisrivastava1997@gmail.com.

James G. Piatt has published 4 novels, “The Ideal Society,” (2012), “The Monk,” (2013),  “The Nostradamus Conspiracy,” (2015), and Archibald McDougle PI: An Archie McDougle Mystery (2017), 3 collections of poetry, “The Silent Pond,” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and “Light” (2016), and over 1,000 poems, 35 short stories, and 7 essays. His poems have been nominated for pushcart and best of web awards, and many were published in The Top 100 Poems of 2016, 2015, & 2014 Anthologies, and the 2017 Poet’s Showcase and Yearbook. His fourth collection of poetry will be released this year.


Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer  from Kathmandu, Nepal.   His poetry has appeared in more than eighty literary magazines, online/print. His recent publications were with  Beatnik Cowboys, Zombie Logic Review, The Bees Are Dead, Silver Birch Press and Eunoia Review. He digs beat poetry, punk rock, hip-hop, science and good beer.

Aminool Islam is a bilingual poet who weaves poetry in Bengali, his mother tongue, and English. He also weaves English sonnets. He did his M.A in English literature from National University,Bangladesh. He’s currently the sub-editor at a literary magazine named Neeharika.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Setu, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Jake Cosmos Aller has completed 10 volumes of poetry, three SF novels, and an unpublished collection of short stories.  After retirement he began submitting to various publishers and contests, and has been published in many literary magazines and online poetry sites such as “Poetry Soup”, “All Poetry”, “Moon Café”, “Duane’s Poetree”, “Eskimo Pie Net”, “Creativity Webzine”, “Writer’s Newsletter”, “Down in the Dirt”, and Facebook poetry sites.

Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess and photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her fun project website http://www.daginne.com, she’s also the co-editor of Degenerate Literature, a poetry, flash fiction, and arts E-zine. She has been published in several Poetry Review Magazines, in the bilingual anthology (English/Farsi), ‘Where Are You From?’ and in the Contemporary Poet’s Group anthology ‘Dandelion in a Vase of Roses’.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.


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