everyday
Three Poems by KJP Garcia
Three Poems
by
KJP Garcia
Stop By
Did you ring the doorbell?
This house is your house –
so to speak.
Open so long as you let yourself be heard.
But locks must be engaged, shutters closed
–there are some
that do harm –
Villains are not simply storylines, costumes, secret identities, powers
but will and win if not on guard
Feel free to come by, as (is) possible, you’ve come by before so unknown
So entrance was removed.
Time, this, as always will be different.
Afford
If on verge then do well to continue
Ceiling leaks, drops break in.
Mattress steals space from living.
And this teetering persists?
Make a go of it
– rest doesn’t go well
Fall, jump, get pushed
-expire-
afford a balance to repair’s value.
Which Side
Which side of the Hudson is for Verlaine
And which for Rimbaud after the break-up?
Not world enough / strong enough
to open petals
lay out
lyricism
illuminations
the way New York
can
with all the best pharmaceutical grade . . .
And two rivers and upstate to run to and Jersey
ready to back pocket
the written
on train out of here
to calm down.
So, Seine, which side is for Warhol and which for Basquiat
When done / decorated enough
to have back what is held close /
unwanted?
Poetic Statement: Experience is a plurality of convergences, interruptions, digressions, departures. These occurrences are the fragments which create larger memories and the narratives one attempts to convey to others. The closer one comes to examining the past, the more one notices how the present constantly interferes. The narratives one creates from the keepsakes of yesterday are shattered and forged again with new data – sensations, perceptions, insights, exemptions, the heard-words, the read-words, the thought-words, the dream-words, the images and ideas of having been inserted into a life of disturbances.
Bio: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education, ROBOT and Yawning on the Sands.
The Metropolitan of Wallace Street by Arthur Turfa
The Metropolitan of Wallace Street
by
Arthur Turfa
A few Baltic households remained,
Interspersed throughout the barrio:
Bodegas and the Roberto Clemente Center
Between churches built by Russians,
Swedes, and Lithuanians two generations ago.
Re-gentrification rolled slowly from the west
Around the Art Museum, heading
Block by block toward North Broad,
Adding another ingredient to the mix.
In the 1600 block of Wallace Street
Gold-blazoned letters and Slavic cross
Announced the Holy Resurrection Cathedral
Inside the red-brick row house next to the
Vacant lot and music-blaring bodega.
From what once was a living room
The Divine Liturgy was served weekly to
Family and anyone who wandered in.
Metropolitan Trevor, Archbishop of Wallace Street
And renegade non-canonical Orthodox
Held forth with bargain-basement vestments,
A button-festooned miter and minimalistic icons
Late evening, humid or frigid, he walked
The nearby streets, consoling the
Derelict and drugged,
Pressing five dollar bills into hands,
Offering brief words of consolation,
A shooting star over a desperate earth.
During daylight standing with
Those who tried to temper abuse and
Ravages of urban living and
Herding the far-flung cats of
His nebulous jurisdiction.
On my last visit, again pleading with me to
Follow his course in any way I chose,
Standing with him at the altar for
The first and last time
Presiding over a dwindling flock on
A sweltering August morning.
When newsletters and notes no longer to
The Land of Enchantment came
I called to learn why, never expecting to
Hear how cancer short-circuited
Career and family to oblivion.
Halfway-reconciled to all he loved,
And to the God whose light nonetheless
Shone through the fully-human
Yet touched by the divine,
Metropolitan of Wallace Street
Asked for a cigar and soon
Passed from one life to the next.
Bio: Arthur Turfa lives in the South Carolina Midlands, but his poetry contains influences of his native Pennsylvania, California, Germany (where he has also lived), as well as other places. His first book of poetry. “Times and Places, Reflected”, will be released in the Spring of 2015 by eLectio Publishing. Published in theMunyori Literary Journal and South Carolina English Teacher, he also maintains a personal blog, Some Poetry at aturfa.blogspot.com, and is an Owner at Words on Fire on Google+
Poetic Statement: Essentially I think Wordsworth had it right, although I do not always find long-lasting tranquility. Something or someone grabs a hold of me, and lingers until I recapture the moment, the glimpse, or the time from my life. My poetry attempts to include the reader into what I experienced, rather than telling the reader all about it or me. At times I strive for a sense of closure, at others I want to preserve something (more as a Symbolist than an Imagist). Whom do I read; Eliot, Auden, Rilke (in the original), Frost, Updike, Shakespeare, Bukowski, and others.Language that sings is more important that language that rhymes.
Two Poems by Vimeesh Maniyur
Two Poems
by
Vimeesh Maniyur
Lip
Long back
He was called for making Thajmahal
A good, dirty man with talents
He Went.
One day he saw the Emperor
Heard an unknown toungue
May be he was the first in kerala
Who heard that…
It is stone not a white sun
There were no friends
In work they spoke one
They were one lettered humans
kept stone like his letters
That day he spoke to the king
In dream… in his stone realm..
The man of palaces didnt get his stone-lip
Beheaded that kingdom
Never cameback.
Saw his rustic speech in its silence
True, It is fear not whiteness
The white geometry
As always
I looked into my android
There came a white geometry
Here and there roads
Here and there malls
Here and there talkies,
Hospitals, banks, A T M,
Railway station, hotels, pubs,
Café, bars, bus stand…..
Nothing but a white – haunted piece
Of barren world.
Where is this one, the road?
Hospital? Schools? army camp? Small teashops?
Loitering goats and many more….
Are they too big to map?
I looked again
Where I am?
Bio: is an established bi-lingual poet, novelist and translator from kerala, in India. He has two volumes of poetry and a children’s novel in his credit. He has also penned stories and dramas. He has bagged for many prestigious awards such as Culcutta Malayali Samajam Endownment, Madras Kerala Samajam, Muttathu Varkki Katha Puraskaram etc. for young writers in kerala.
Song Texts by Cécile Félix
Song Texts
by
Cécile Félix
Numb
dive into my iris
arises the numb disease
let it fall in space
on time
words
shewed swords
only what she learned and not what she feels-
let her fall- let her fall-
in
love
in
what
where
when we came for/from
and now it arises
Eva
it is right it is wrong
it is black it is white
it is here, now it’s gone
it is right, it is right
it’s ugly and it shows
is it bad?
now it moves me!
it is all so close
it is melancholy for joy
and it’s fast
slow
down
to earth
up to the skies to the skies
Oh!Oh OhOh…
pinguin people
I wish I was pure
So I’m spoiled
I wish I was queen
wish I was, wish I was
I
am
co
rrupted
I am?
I wish I was lovely
and I only pretend
I wish I was lovely Oh Oh!
Here I am
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only in my dreams, If only in my dreams
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only, if only, Oh my! if only I!
Wish I was a child I could cry I could cry
I Wish I was a child
Bio: Name is Cécile Félix- I play and write my own songs under the Name BoB.
Was born in Bordeaux, France in 66.
Live in Hamburg, Germany since 1995.
I’ve been playing in a few bands before I started my solo project, with names like Spunge Paper, kill the Body and the head will die, les idiots.
I wrote my first poem at 11, my first song at 20.
I’ve always been drawing and started to paint a few years ago.
Poetic Statement: The point is to create,to find a way out of the blue and sometimes into the black..
I like to use accidents in creation, see myself as a tool versus a master.
I practice the same in my life if I can. Not trying to change the world, but my vision of it, when it hurts…because: 7milliards people = 7milliards different views about what peace should look like.
Three Poems by Jessica Chickering
Three Poems
by
Jessica Chickering
Again & Again
I know your body like I my own, every muscle, tendon, freckle, atom, and before you are near
me I feel you everywhere like the wind, all encompassing.
I knew the sound of your voice before you spoke,
and in the moment our eyes met I knew that I loved you
and could not stop myself from being with you,
and could not stop my hand from reaching for yours,
and could not stop lips from finding yours,
and could not stop myself from knowing you,
as I have always and will always know you, because we are one in this moment.
The moonlight streams though exposing every ounce of your flesh like a gift.
You have been waiting and I have been waiting to find ourselves here, intertwined by a lust old
as time, animalistic and humble.
There are no words, only the beauty of the feeling of my tongue on your tongue as I explore
you again and again, (ever undiscovered and discovered and longing).
You are tuned to me, your hands make music on my body and every note that we discover
makes the birds cry out in jealousy,
And until the earth ceases to spin, and the tide ceases to rise, and the birds cease their cries, until that day we will not be apart.
For as long as I breathe, you must breathe, and as long as your heart beats, my heart must beat.
Blue Raincoat Roadside
Lighthouse limelight shines,
Cedar chest lunchbox
and weathervane wine.
Knife chopping onions,
pink watermelon
shudders in the know.
The porch boards bend and
creak under the weight
of her unleaving.
My face is her face.
Hush – when I am old,
sideways and troubled
I will absorb home,
searching my memories
for a glimpse of that light.
Tasty
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
brush, touch, taste
Cheiloprocilitic at your feet
resuscitate, breath, heat
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
pucker, suck, bite
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
lick, swoon, punch
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
Brief bio: My name is Jessica Chickering. I live in Denver, Colorado. I am 34 years. Getting old is both awesome and terrible. I hate people who say cliché things about aging. I write, (say something self-effacing about my writing followed by something redeeming). I graduated from the University of Colorado – Denver with a BA in writing and an emphasis in poetry – I pay the bills doing something that utilizes little of the talents I crafted. I have cat named Girl Kitty, I call her GK for short. I am happy to be alive.
Poetic Statement: Poetry is amazing and undervalued. This is true for so many things I find important and worthy in the world as it stands at this moment. I long for a place where I feel more at home. I feel at home in poetry.
