poems

ALTPOETICS MAY 2015

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Two Poems by Vimeesh Maniyur

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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.

The Parisians by AJ Kaufmann

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The Parisians

A Chapbook 

by AJ Kaufmann

Bio: I am a Polish poet and songwriter. I have been around the small-press poetry scene since 2008. “Siva in Rags” is my most recognized piece of work when it comes to English-language poetry, I think. I have been published in the USA (Kendra Steiner Editions mostly) and UK. My work has been also translated into Bulgarian, and I recorded and released 2 solo albums with self-penned songs. I also have a band.
Here are some links, where information about me can be found.

Three Poems by Jessica Chickering

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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.

 

Two Poems by Glen Armstrong

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Two Poems

By

Glen Armstrong

World’s Fair 9

This jumper is close to that number

This laugh is close to that throat

 

Select visitors are invited to go

Behind the bridge

 

The yacht’s naked body

Elegant no longer hidden

 

Others discuss terrorism

Their clothes almost screaming

With short-term power

o

These students see the jumper

 

Not unlike the elegant yacht

They attract a wide range

Of nature and elevation

 

They freeze in yoga

Pants / positions / swing-the-statue

Postures

o

This is an amazing thing

A husky laugh

A magazine

o

The jumper sees the students

Any other person would have

 

Been frozen in the speculative voltage

And thus have overemphasized

 

Their interest in the supernatural.

 

Midsummer 5

 

Nature has its vein of gold

Cheese its bleu network

 

This feeling will never survive

Without a secret hiding place

 

The bee has its hive

Mind its subconscious

Face its subcutaneous tissue

 

On has its off

The cough drop box

Its odd bearded brothers

 

Cod its liver oil

Hat its tin foil

 

Lonely alchemists hide

In the alley

The only place

 

Their ongoing research on hiding

Makes sense

 

South of here

 

There is work being done in the canebrake

On the afternoon shadows

Cast by silos

 

Expose any aperture

And that other world

Starts whispering.

 

Also click here to read A Brief History of Meat at Sparks of Consciousness 

 

Bio: Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He also edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His work has appeared in Poetry NorthwestConduit and Cloudbank.

Aesthetic Statement: There’s a certain finality to a story that I can never quite achieve. Narrative seems so damn sure of itself, and that’s most likely why I lean toward the lyrical. The fragmented and broken still hums. It still resonates with the blow that destroyed it. Certain grammatical units remind me of my birthplace, Pontiac, Michigan, where there are scraps in the streets too abandoned and too interesting to waste time rebuilding.

 

Three Poems by Arthur Turfa

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Three Poems 

by

Arthur Turfa

 

Weekends at Woolworth’s

For $18.49 a week

I got to spend my Weekends at Woolworth’s:

Sundays not included because of the

Blue laws in and around Philadelphia.

 

Friday nights and all day on Saturday

To avoid a conflict with a school night

And ruin my grades, or so the folks said.

Actually I would have had the choices

Anyway of Penn State, Temple, or Nam.

 

Mr. Fox, the cool assistant manager,

Told us about his tour of duty there

As we waited for customers to come

And check out so they could beat the traffic.

Heading both ways along Germantown Pike.

 

Miss Fogg, her frosted blond wig attempting

To disguise her five decades on this earth

Handed out our pay envelopes with cash

And told us where we were supposed to work.

 

Fridays on the upper level, two men

Regularly bought lots of plastic flowers.

Saturdays spent on the lower level

Talking with Linda from the Ancilla

Domini Academy wondering

If Vatican II would help me date her

And learning men’s wear from suave Mr. Knox.

 

Friends would stop by sometimes or I would see

Them during my hour-long meal break as

I passed on the 10% lunch counter discount

To head to Sal’s Steaks and Wee Three Records

Who had much cooler albums anyway.

 

A few weeks after the Mall fire

Water damage closed the lower level

And the upper level became crowded,

A real shambles for the next couple months.

 

Fully expecting they would lay me off,

On Saturday night a petulant man

Fired me for the inability to remove

Slushy black scuff marks without use of solvent

From the speckled linoleum floor.

 

Trudging to my Dad’s station wagon as

The first one in the family to be fired,

In adolescent anger I told him.

Dad suggested that the manager

could go to hell; much relieved, I concurred.

Thus ended my last weekend at Woolworth’s.

  

Observation Point 13, Ft. Drum, New York

 

Tree stretching toward Canada

Wispy clouds hover in summer sky

Vacationer’s paradise unfolding

Except for the large orange circles

On a small, man-made hill

Surrounded by the rusted wrecks

Or yesterday’s automobiles.

 

Radio transmissions crackle

Over in the Fire Direction Center

As bratwurst and kielbasa sizzle

Over on several hibachis.

 

Fire Mission! All human activity stops

As the hundred-pound rounds

Slam into the circles from a distance

Of classified information.

The plates have already been passed,

And as an FM rock station plays “Tommy”

By The Who, the howitzers blast away

At a few more wrecks.

 

Every shot has been in the box

And everyone his happy.

Like if good on OP 13 as

Lunch continues and I regret

Having taken so long to enlist.

Had I known the Army could be

This good, I would have joined earlier!

 

People along the way

 

Going half-way across the country

Thousands of faces flash by

In rest areas, attractions, streets, businesses.

Some of them stand out

For one inexplicable reason or another.

 

Shuffling from their SUV,

A family heads to the Lone Star

Leaning at the Sabine River Rest Area

Standing in front of thick gray clouds

So they can take each other’s picture.

 

Far from Hessen, in the Hill Country

German cuisine is served in a frontier house.

For a moment her native language

Floats in the air amid the Texan drawls

As it used to not so long ago.

 

Praying silently in the cathedral

With arms stretched along the railing

Her daughter converses as well

Discretely, impatiently speaking

Into her I phone.

 

Couple of our approximate age

Unhappy at everything

She fusses at restaurant hostess

Then unleashes a torrent of spite

At his day-long negativity.

Later I intentionally walk by them

As he slowly eats while she

Sits clutching her elbows

Not even caring to look at him.

 

From several feet away from the fountain

Tawny-tressed girl and mother standing.

Daughter appears to want a drink but refuses an offer

As her mother expresses her thanks anyway.

Looking to the Edge by Mark Fleury

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Looking to the Edge

by

Mark Fleury

Looking to the edge

Of the dawn-tinged mountain

Tops’ cliffed flaming skyscape,

The ladder to the brow of the morning

Star leans against the wall between

The night and day of a new year.

I peak over the sky, blue as the part

Of a candle flame that entrances

A child in Easter Sunday’s Grace

Before what’s thanked for is consumed

For weight toward Earth’s center.

And I see it’s the same primordial pool

Of fire and flame and lust that does

Dervish whirls from a screen door

To a backyard. April is draining

Its pain of birth, thaw and rust

As though the hinges

Of soil opened to houses

In the enclosed bark of trees.

Bio: Mark Fleury lives in St. Paul, MN. He has recently had poems published in Vext Magazine, Altered Scale, Clockwise Cat, Counterexample Poetics, Medulla Review, ditch, UFO Gigolo and the Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology. Mark also has a poem forthcoming in the September inaugural issue of Of/ With. Mark has a new 2014 book of poetry entitled The Precious Surreal Door Opened, published by Medulla Review Publishing.

 

Poetics Statement: My writing invariably goes back to the basement apartment where I lived when I had a nervous breakdown over twenty years ago. The different parts of the apartment symbolize various parts of my psyche; for example, the door leading into the apartment is the location of the pineal gland in the center of my brain. And the window across the room, which is the title of one of my books: The 4D Window, is the sensorium screen where my worldly experiences, including poetry, take place. I consider myself to be a student of Charles Olson’s Projective Verse essay.