PPP Ezine PoetrypoeticspleasureEzine Volume 4; Issue 8; August 2020

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Language Bridge Fridge by David Flynn

The Trinity by Thomas M McDade

A Dangerous Journey by Edilson Afonso Ferreira

Earth Poem by Shola Balogun

The Unrealized Dreams of the night by Edward Lee

Spoons by C L Bledsoe

I am trying to find out by Jayanta Bhaumik

Our Dreams No Longer Dance Across the Sky by Ndaba Sibanda

The Strangeness of Poetry by Jennifer Bradpiece

Silence of Dialogue by Eliza Segiet

Parents are Gold by Ferris E Jones

You Have Me and I Have You by Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein

 

 

 

Language Bridge Fridge by David Flynn

 

 

I love language.
Language loves me.
We float on a sea of words:
Sciatica, formaldehyde, miasma,
The, a, with, in spite of.
I-you connect with words but not touch, not face, not smell, not voice,
and certainly not taste.
Words.
Hiya.
Howztricks?
What do you think is the purpose of the universe?
Does it have a purpose?
Whatz the afterlife like,
tunnel to light,
Great-Aunt Charlotte coming to lead me on,
fading senses then dark then no consciousness then bugs eating our body, then skeleton
for awhile?
You-me, we are the same in a billion ways,
different in a billion ways.
We both have zillions of microbes in our gut to digest our food.
We both speak English,
and not Urdu,
or shrieks, usually,
or body language,
or chemical deposits,
or ultrasound beeps,
or tears, usually.
Are you crying?
Can’t see you.
Am I grinning diabolically?
Can’t see me.

What we do have is words and grammar.
Ain’t no nother type of communication,
here at least.
Ads, now there’s another English.
And English.  There are many Englishes:
legal English, business English, hip hop English, rural Mississippi English,
Bronx English, India English, Cockney, Elizabethan, Old, Japanglish,
Blah blahblah.

Freak, semidemiquaver, rip rap, romcom, fabulosity.
Choose your own words, the ones that just pop into your mind right now.
Go:

Can’t hear you.

So I’ll just blabber on myself for a bit.
Blabber, gibber, –ber.

In the fridge.
Save.  

 

David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN. His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher. He has five degrees and is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist with a recent grant in Indonesia. His literary publications total more than 230. Among the eight writing residencies he has been awarded are five at the Wurlitzer Foundation in Taos, NM, and stays in Ireland and Israel. He spent a year in Japan as a member of the Japan Exchange and Teaching program. He currently lives in Nashville, TN.

 

 

 

The Trinity by Thomas M McDade

 

 

A cap and tweed coated, wiry gent boards the train

nose bleeding, hand over a blackened eye he holds

out an empty coffee cup to catch contributions

no words accompany phlegmy volleys of “Ahem”   

smiling as coins drop, he tilts and bobbles thanks

A gum-chewing troubadour strums an electric guitar

that’s the tint of the panhandler’s blot, a tad shinier

a Yank in a yachting lid and a mismatched suit

pumps his cane as if once the song and dance kind

is the pretty, pixie-headed arm jewelry a stowaway?

 

She looks more mistress than daughter or wife

her breathy accent conjures a quaint crepe shop

close your eyes and poof: breathe Left Bank air

as they dawdle along navigating the crosswalks

the crowded sidewalks she’s nearly carrying him

 

Leaning against a wall by a fragrant flower stall

she holds a lacy handkerchief to his allergy flow

his boating cap drops top first attracting a medley

of coins and himself, mistress, wife or daughter

slide warily down to share laughs bawdy or not

 

Thomas M. McDade is a 73 year-old resident of Fredericksburg, VA. He is a graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT. McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran.

A Dangerous Journey by Edilson Afonso Ferreira

 

 

Sometimes I venture to make a risky journey.

I go to the past, long ago, distant and perilous.

The road I take has been built entirely by me,   

in very hard a way no one at least dreams of.

Rough a path and full of so many deviations,

that even me, well used to, I go so timorous.  

Now, I see that there were no other choices,

for only this way would lead me where I am.  

Where and what I must be ever since I was.

In this visit, I see friends, lovers, enemies,

grandfathers and cousins, see also myself.

Then, undoubted alive, they talk to me,

ask for news and soon we are laughing,  

like old comrades absent for so long. 

On leaving, one or other intend to follow me,

but I don’t feel confident and go home alone. 

I suspect that past is jealous of its deeds

and always hides how has woven them. 

I think it must be visited as few times

as one is capable of.

 

 

EdilsonAfonso Ferreira is a Brazilian poet. He is 75 year-old, writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Largely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2016. His first Poetry Collection – Lonely Sailor – has been launched in London, November 2018, with one hundred poems. Read more of his work at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

 

 

 

Earth Poem by Shola Balogun

 

Wine for your thoughts.

 

Raft of corn seeds,

Whispers in the attic,

The locked eyes in the helve,

The treading of the sole of the foot

In the winepress. You heard tell

That trampling tongues

Birth Belial roots

In the dark pool of rushes?

 

Child, meddle not with the shadows.

Stones tasted wine in time past.

 

 

Shola Balogun, poet,playwright and filmmaker has been featured as a guest writer and contributor,especially in the areas of poetry, post colonial studies and dramatic criticism to various magazines,anthologies and journals. He studied Theatre Arts at the University of Ibadan. Balogun lives in Lagos,Nigeria.

 

 

 

 

 The Unrealized Dreams of the night by Edward Lee

 

In the centre of the night
there was a crescent of light
which was not the moon
nor some distant and dying star;

something was about to begin,
something previously unknown,
with no one 
to witness
in these hours when time
exists outside of existence,
only lazily destined to hear, after,
its echo as it faded from sound
into a crescent of light, 
the remains of possibilities 
and wishes unmade.

  

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll.  His debut poetry collection “Playing PoohsticksOnHa’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

 

 

Spoons by C L Bledsoe

 

 

 

A fuzzy-headed daisy, shocking the humus

of my little life, the eye is drawn and can’t

help but delight in your color.

 

I set down the corpse of my long-dead world,

to better see you tumble across the living

room. Your wrists are thinner

 

than my hopes. I hope you never understand

any of this. Just know that when you wake,

it’s enough, and when you sleep,

 

the quiet holds its breath so as not to disturb. 

You say, “I don’t want to learn right now!”

When I try to tell you stories

 

of the dead, though living. Later, you settle

into the back seat and say, “Tell me a story

about the time Aunt Cookie

 

dug a pool in the yard with spoons.” I dodge

potholes, interjecting plot points with curses

and tell a story about the woods

 

I used to cry in. You deserve more than the dying

world I’ve given you. But it’s all we have.

Let’s make a new one.          

 

CL Bledsoe’s latest poetry collection is Trashcans in Love. His latest short story collection is The Shower Fixture Played the Blues. His latest novel is The Funny Thing About… Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter and blogs, with Michael Gushue, at https://medium.com/@howtoeven

 

 

 

I am trying to find out by Jayanta Bhaumik  

 

  

I am still in the search  

I’m journeying into tears of the stone

its depth, my bias so strong

something tries always to tell me,

from the course of its hard heaven,

that I’m nice between all right and wrong

I can be the absurd of the being

my imagination is an expanding

war between fire and its flame

like a combined wave of

deep sleep and regular insomnia

the fair odd of the auburn flower

Come, you pluck it from

the fine blade of understanding

here goes another expressway made of moments,

and I write you this travelogue with love –  

I’m still in the search of

the navel of time

 

Jayanta Bhaumik is currently based in Kolkata, India. Basically from the field of Metaphysics and Astrology (a Research Member of American Federation of Astrologers Inc.), he finds Poetry as his world of Quest. He finds a period in Singapore and other south-east Asian countries every year for his professional assignments. His works can be found in the recent issues of Poetry Super Highway, Zombie Logic Review, Merak Magazine, The Pangolin Review, Pif Magazine, Better Than Starbucks. He is on Facebook and Twitter @BhaumikJayanta.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our Dreams No Longer Dance Across the Sky by Ndaba Sibanda

 

 

You cannot be too high

I’m speaking directly to you Sky

You need to change for the better

Climate Change, right now, I`m bitter!

  

Sing me a song of a river that will dance with belief

Sing me a song that will bustle with a sea of relief 

And extinguish our miseries of dryness and drought

Our beasts are dying, our crops wilting, where is delight?

Sing me a song of a sky that won`t be too high for a downpour     

Our land now is bereft of grain, but sing of a rain that will soon pour 

Our dear landscape has become a playground for a merciless heatwave

Climate Change, you`re cruel & crude, a furnace that hasn’t come to save 

Your palms are unappealing, unpolished, unprecedented and unpredictable  

Sheep perish without a baa and clang, clang you ring your bell that is terrible!      

 

 

 

.

Sibanda is the author of Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things, The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence, The Way Forward, Sometimes Seasons Come With Unseasonal Harvests, As If They Minded:The Loudness Of Whispers, This Cannot Be Happening :Speaking Truth To Power, The Dangers  Of Child Marriages:Billions Of Dollars Lost In Earnings And Human Capital, The Ndaba Jamela and Collections and Poetry Pharmacy.  Sibanda’s work has received Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. Some of his work has been translated into Serbian.

 

 

 

The Strangeness of Poetry by Jennifer Bradpiece

 

 

The deranged tingling of

broken air.

The weather that sneaks into

the veins.

The deferential tone

of a tongue-pressed night.

The diagnostic range

of a calculus equation illuminated

in a mercury filled

glass eye.

The speed at which

time cycles,

how the laundry

gets dizzy,

and the frying pan holds

what won’t be

washed away.

The TV is jealous.

The refrain is not

repeated once.

No foundation.

A hologram from

an 8-track.

A twelve-story window,

no glass.

 

Jennifer Bradpiece was born and raised in the multifaceted muse, Los Angeles, where she still resides. She tries to remain active in the Los Angeles writing and art scene. Jennifer has interned at Beyond Baroque and often collaborates with multi-media artists on projects. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and published in various anthologies, journals, and online zines, including RedactionsThe Common Ground Review, and The Bacopa Literary Review . She has poetry forthcoming in Breath & Shadows among others. Jennifer’s manuscript, Lullabies for End Times will be available in early 2020 by Moon Tide Press.

 

 

Silence of Dialogue by Eliza Segiet

 

 

With a sigh

you soothed my senses.

Sufficient were words,

those

unspoken.

Significant.

Strung like

beads.

 

The sighs soothed

the senses.

Silence of dialogue –

silence

that is spoken.

 

 

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.

Parents are Gold by Ferris E Jones

 

Lush the memories of nights tucked in

With days free and without sin.

Candid tears sit as your parents leave

With uncertainty you grieve.

They always came home with a small kiss

And once again, you exist.

Remember those tears, the love you hold

They will pass, then they’ll be gold.

 

Ferris E Jones is an award-winning, internationally published poet and screenwriter living in Puyallup Washington. His work has appeared in both print and online magazines, including as the featured poet for Creative Talents Unleashed. Other magazines include: Glo Mag, Piker Press, Se La Vie Writers Journal, Write on Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Degenerate Literature 17, Tuck Magazine, The Literary Hatchet, Warriors with Wings, In Between Hangovers, and many other literary publications. He is the recipient of two grants from the Nevada Arts Council and the Editor and Publisher of Nevada Poets 2009. Ferris has twice received honorable mention awards from Writers Digest annual screenwriting contest. Ferris is also the Author / Editor of seven collections of poetry. You can learn more about Ferris E. Jones by visiting www.inquisitionpoetry.com where each month he features the work of other poets. The goal of this site is to spread the word of poetry throughout the world.

 

 

You Have Me and I Have You by Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein

 

As rivers have fountains, fountains have their rivers

You are just mine, only mine just as I am your, only yours.

And you have me, only me and I have you and only you.

The flute has it’s player and the player has his flute,

Same as you are mine and I am yours.

No matter how you are,

How far away,

Why should I assume you are not near by.?

Why there should be a secret walls between us?

As pleasure has it’s pain, there is pleasure in the  midst of pain.

I will keep cherishing your love for light years,

I will sing the lyrics of our love song

And chant your name again, and again.

Paths have their travellers,

Travelers have their paths.

So do you and me.

You just belong only to me.

And I only to you.

Note :A melancholic lover’s note stating belonging  by far fetched imageries.

.

 

 

Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein is an aesthete from Dhaka, Bangladesh & MA holder in British&American Literature.Now a Free-lance writer. She writes weekly column for Different Truths Publications, India  featuring humanitarian to diverse issues. She has contributed to other news portals.  Her poems appeared in literary magazines. She has contributed to five Anthologies so far. She loves travelling and participates in recitals She seeks beauty from the blade of grass to twinkling stars. She Aestheticism and humanism  are the essence of her existence.She is the International Fellow 2020 of International Human Rights Arts Festival.  She can be reached at tts.hussein@gmail.com.

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