PPP Ezine Poetrypoeticspleasure; Volume 2; Issue 9; October 2018

Poet of the Month: Linda M. Crate

The Writer by Eric Robert Nolan

Empty Star by Gopal Lahiri

Moon Nostalgia by Eliza Segiet

Please? By Wayne Russell

Desert of love by Meekha Singh

Pumpkin by Neil Ellman

The Devil is Fine by Sudeep Adhiari

Dry Tears by Daginne Aignend

I am in a Print by Hiroshige by John Grey

Having Mercy on Injustice by Ndaba Sibanda

 

ppp9

 

Poet of the Month: Linda M. Crate

 

constellation of my name

 

there are songs sang for kings and queens, but not you and i; so i have found a magic deeper than their meaningless existence—once you find your voice and reclaim it from all those who say it doesn’t matter you feel the true weakness of others because they become ugly to quiet you, but i will not silence myself again; once was enough—sewn so deep in the stars of my wounds, i forgot i was part of the constellations, but when i remembered to shine again i lit up the night so brightly that i knew i could not stay quiet again; and some will tell you that i speak too loudly or too proudly but they do not know me fully just as i will never fully know them so take their judgments with a grain of salt—people are people, they will say what they want to say, but i am who i am; and i will not let the monsters that broke and break me to make me into a monster and i will be who i am without being abashed—for there is no shame sewn into the constellation of my name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

love isn’t to be earned

 

everything was always about you: your pain, your eyelashes, how you were a good man; but you never had time or affection to dedicate to me only offense at anything i did—you never took into account why or how i came to be, only what happened; instead of trying to figure it out, you would get annoyed and offended at everything—one of my exes joked that you would punish me for breathing, if my mother let you, i don’t doubt the reality of that statement; you were mean, and you were cruel; and i don’t care about your misery because of all the hell you gave me—i have and always love you as i refuse to become the nightmares that have brought me to my knees, but don’t expect me to say that the past is in the past because i am not past the pain; and i am still trying to piece back together my ego after years of insecurities, doubts, and self-loathing—love is nothing you’re supposed to earn, but i still tied; but i don’t think you could respect me even if i were dead so i’ve stopped trying—i care, i love you, but i don’t expect you’ll ever feel the same about me.

 

 

don’t spread the magic thin

 

 

don’t spread the magic thin

 

the sun

 

bathed me in the midas touch

 

even my eyes

 

turned to gold

 

everything around me

 

danced and shimmered in the light

 

even shadow

 

did not seem so ominous

 

in this gaze

 

of pure pirouetting light

 

savoring me

 

with a soft embrace,

 

and i felt if i was caught in the web

 

of this moment forever;

 

i wouldn’t mind

 

being felled by this spider because

 

the warmth and the magic were near me

 

majestic crows flitted and flew

 

by singing their song—

 

i felt a perfect peace

 

that i wish i could’ve spread over more moments,

but i have come to learn to appreciate

 

the calm tranquility of the wood when and where i can;

 

perhaps if i had it all the time it would spread

 

the magic thin.

 

 

 

 

 

get out of my dreams

 

 

get out of my dreams

 

you are the nightmare

 

sucker punching me

 

awake in tears or fury,

 

and i have but one humble request:

 

GET OUT OF MY DREAMS!

 

there’s a time and place for everything,

 

but i don’t need everyone who has hurt me

 

to haunt in the recesses of my brain;

 

my heart remembers

 

everything—

 

i don’t need your hand stretching

 

across the fruited plains of my dreams

 

turning the fruit rotten

 

it’s bad enough you stole years of my youth away

 

riddled me with insecurities and doubts

 

that steal across my mind sometimes today

 

you took away my past, but you won’t take away

 

my future, too;

 

i refuse to give it to you—

 

get out of my dreams

 

my dreams will be mine, and my truth will be spoken;

 

and nothing you say or do will stop me

 

from shining and becoming the woman i am meant to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

gift of the future

 

 

gift of the future

 

beneath the gilded psalm

 

of dreams

 

i uncover pieces of me

 

you never stole away

 

nor will i ever

 

let you

 

take from me

 

you took enough as it is:

 

my mother, my childhood, my family;

 

leaving me bereft of anyone

 

i was left to my

 

own devices—

 

you didn’t like that i could be comfortable

 

in my own dreaming skin

 

without you,

 

and i’ll admit it was painful and lonely at first;

 

but i’ve since learned

 

it is better to be alone than lone in a crowded room—

 

so go ahead and judge me

 

you’ve never known me and never will,

 

i was given years of hell and misery so you’ll only

 

be left to wither in the wings of the past;

 

as i put it behind me

 

the sun will kiss you into shadow as i gaze into

 

my present, the gift of the future.

 

 

 

 

Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press – June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon – January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), and splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018).

The Writer by Eric Robert Nolan

 

At night he dreamt of birds, thou­sands of them,

impris­oned in his house.

 

Ravens screamed in the attic.

Spar­rows pan­icked in the hall.

He sat at his desk.   A Jay pecked

Fran­ti­cally at his shirt sleeve.

 

The base­ment door revealed

Tor­rents of finches, erupt­ing in the dark

A loud gray storm

Of beaks and tiny claws.

 

Seag­ulls suf­fered in the cup­boards.

Para­keets in the rafters, trapped,

Raged in Etruscan.

 

He crossed the room.

Owls

Moaned under the floorboards.

 

Twelve red car­di­nals

Lined his kitchen shelves –

A dis­cor­dant jury.

 

Pea­cocks plead in the oven.

In a jar of sugar

Tit­mice strug­gled for air.

 

At his desk were

Pho­tographs, let­ters

Pens and a half dead Marten.

 

He reached for his old brown afghan but felt

Bone and feather

The heav­ing brown breast

Of a starv­ing eagle.

 

Some­times the scratch

Of pen against paper brought

Respite from birdsong:

 

Two less wings against the silence

One less voice in that

Trou­bled aviary.

 

A par­rot perched

On his paper stacks.

“Remorse,” it offered fee­bly.

“Regret,” he answered back.

 

 

Eric’s poetry and short stories have been featured by publications throughout the United States, Canada, Britain and Australia.  These include Quail Bell Magazine, Dagda Publishing, Every Day Poets, Every Day Fiction, Illumen, Under The Bed, Dead Beats Literary Blog, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Dead Snakes, UFO Gigolo, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, The Bright Light Cafe, Aphelion, Tales of the Zombie War, Haikuniverse, The Bees Are Dead, Poems-for-All, Poetry Pacific, The International War Veterans’ Poetry Archive, and elsewhere. His poems and short stories were also included in five anthologies: Dagda Publishing’s “Threads” in 2013, Dagda Publishing’s “All Hail the New Flesh” in 2014, and Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine’s 2016 Anthology, 2017 Anthology and 2018 Anthology.  Eric’s science fiction/horror story, “At the End of the World, My Daughter Wept Metal,” was nominated for the Sundress Publications 2018 Best of the Net Anthology.

 

 

Empty Star by Gopal Lahiri

 

 

Behind the long granite steps

 

The mellow sun is fading, slowly,

 

Clutching a bucket of clouds,

 

 

 

The lights go out one by one

 

in the narrow, dark alley.

 

Leaving the courtyard open to the sky.

 

 

 

Shadows are carpeted as if with water hyacinths

 

No light on the corner of the room

 

Except for the lit brass lamp,

 

 

 

A lonesome bird lurks under the guava tree

 

and then settles over the parapet

 

ready to listen to the sound of his sleep.

 

 

 

The luminous moon light is leaning

 

over the glass windows, along with

 

the fragrances of flower floating in,

 

 

 

The evening is waiting for the twin planets

 

Glistening with sweat, which might perhaps

 

Tanned their bodies from the sun,

 

 

 

In the blue light of night stifling with pain

 

Empty stars are falling in silence and

 

Empty life in the pure silver of darkness.

 

 

 

Gopal Lahiri was born and grew up in Kolkata, India. He is a bilingual poet, writer, editor, critic and translator and published in Bengali and English language. He has had seven collections of poems in Bengali and eight collections in English and jointly edited one anthology of poems. His translation work from English to Bengali of the short stories of Israel ‘Not Just Sweet and Honey’, published by National Book Trust is widely acclaimed. His poetry is also published across various anthologies as well as in eminent journals of India and abroad. He is the recipient of the Poet of the Year Award in Destiny Poets, UK, 2016. He can be reached at glahiri@gmail.com and gopallahiri.blogspot.com

 

 

 

Moon Nostalgia by Eliza Segiet

 

 

The blue sky

spoke with a brush.

Painted stars said,

it’s already evening.

The moon, curled up like a cat,

was playing with imagination.

He did not dance,

it was the hand of the artist

that turned the clouds

into a soaring

moon nostalgia.

 

 

 

Eliza Segiet is Jagiellonian University graduate with a Master’s Degree in Philosophy. She completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Penal Fiscal and Economic Law, and Creative Writing at Jagiellonian University, as well as Film and Television Production in Łódź. She has published three poetry collections and two monodramas.

Please? By Wayne Russell

 

 

Reflective muse,

thoughts cast out,

a catalyst of eternity.

 

Loneliness ensues,

when the clouds lose

their hue.

 

Fading with thoughts

and with dreams, grow

old and leave no blemish,

|upon this mortal coil.

 

Ashes tossed down wind,

at the stroke of midnight,

intermingling with dreams.

 

A ravens caw caught in the

balance of moonbeams and

memories of you.

 

Riding the crest of waves,

knocking at the doors of

bedlam.

 

The impoverished voice cries

 

Set me free! Set me free! From

this one life! This one prison, I

am ready to venture on into the

echelon of the next realm.

 

 

Wayne Russell is a creative writer that was born and raised in Tampa, Florida. Wayne is the founder and former editor and chief of Degenerate Literature. Sadly, due to unforeseen circumstances and time restraints, DL closed in late 2017. Wayne’s poetry, short stories, and photography have been widely published both online and in print.

 

 

 

Desert of love by Meekha Singh

 

 

I pause amidst sandy storms on deserts laden in sorrow’s grey. I look unto a hazy mirage where your face shimmers in smiling curves. I would walk through a billion scorching grains of sand to reach out a listless hand to graze the illusions that form your smile. You fear I would walk away and yet here I stay trusting in a love with a heart that had long lost it’s gleam. You fear, whilst I, I love as I breathe. In and out, as organic as the lungs that take in air, my soul takes in invisible hopes and reluctant dreams. You fear, while I know love is pain and yet I know I would walk through the greys and the blacks to be bathed in your hues for the pause of a breath. It is you I love, in and out, as organic as the air we breathe.

 

 

Meekha Singh is an IT professional from Southern India. He has been writing poems for past few years and has been self-published in various poetic communities under the pen name Kali (short for Kaleidoscope).

 

Pumpkin by Neil Ellman

 

(after the painting by Yayoi Kusama)

 

 

If time had a shape

 

it  would be that of a pumpkin

 

round, ripe,

 

not flattened by the ground

 

and perfect in its way.

 

 

If space had shape

 

it would be a pumpkin’s as well

 

proud and indifferent

 

defiant to the knife

 

with vines extending

 

like tentacles of light.

 

 

If the universe had any shape

 

it could only wish

 

it were a pumpkin’s

 

and forever expand

 

through its eternal patch

 

of time and space.

 

 

Neil Ellman is a poet from New Jersey.  He has published more than 1,500 poems, 1,200 of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern art, in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.  He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.

The Devil is Fine by Sudeep Adhiari

 

The night is you. The darkness is yours

 

where is to find the difference,

 

when everything is just one?

 

 

 

It is strange, but the light comes

 

as the great divide, and I miss getting

 

monolithic with the entire world.

 

 

 

The monochrome of despair and dreams,

 

it is beautiful. And the black

 

painted by absence and moans.

 

 

 

Turn off the light. Now you can

 

find my pieces falling everywhere, there

 

are no photons to separate my skin from yours.

 

 

 

Let there be dark, the devil said. And the devil is fine.

 

 

Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal. His poems have 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.

 

 

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

 

 

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. She’s 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’. Her website is http://www.daginne.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 –

 

warm.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Having Mercy on Injustice by Ndaba Sibanda

 

Mhlophe heard the relative of the murdered victim

ask the peace-preaching relative of the murderer

“What qualifies you to pardon the murderer besides

your relationship to him and the associated benefits?”

 

Indeed the peace advocate had decided to unilaterally

forgive the murderer, to absolve him of the heinous crime

 

But how did you forgive someone who was unrepentant and unconcerned?

Did that action of forgiving honestly tie up with the tenets of justice and empathy?

 

 

 

 

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.

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2 thoughts on “PPP Ezine Poetrypoeticspleasure; Volume 2; Issue 9; October 2018

  1. Pingback: Publication notice: Poetry Poetics Pleasure Ezine features “The Writer” | Eric Robert Nolan, Author

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