Attention: This manifesto has in itself a magical power and it can finally refute the communist manifesto (1847/48) and its successors in the form of communist states.

It burns a peaceful campfire!

I am part of the pink eternity.
I enchant the poetic stars.
I dream with ghosts of melancholy.
I am a magician of dawn.
My wing is called Apollo.
I’m so enchanted, so dreamy.
I am a sky dreamer.
I am shrouded in the most beautiful enthusiasm.
My dream enchants the beautiful world.
There is a magic dream in my wings.
My wings can do magic.
I like my dreams.
My dream is hotter than feeling.
Philosophical thoughts are waiting for me.
Philosophical sparks shimmer at me.
My philosophy is infinity.
I am in love with the infinity of politics.
I like a druidic fire.
I want to become a druid priest.
Modern druids beautify my existence.
An eternal spark rests in my poetries.
I am spiritualized thanks to poetry.
In politics you can be poetic.
I never quarrel with muses.
I fly in pairs like muses.
My wings would need starry rays.
With beautiful sounds fulfilling my dream of melancholy.
Poetic moments enrich my soul.
There is an Osiris chalice in my soul.
My friend Loreley is a philosopher like me.
In tender tears my magic life takes place.
I sometimes quarrel with tears of finiteness.
I would build a school for Druids.
The imagination unfolds in the moon.
I adore Osiris forever.
My friend Osiris likes the original beauty.
In my chalice there is Osiris’ soul.
I fly to the land of Osiris.
I write a legend to the Osiris.
I drink a dew of eternity.
In the dew, I can refresh my soul like muses.
I warm myself in a gentle dew.
I cool my wings in the magic dew.
In the dew falls my little shooting star.
Ambrosia is eternal for my sake.
In Ambrosia I feel infinitely beautiful magic.
I love to perpetuate this Ambrosia.
An idea about the Ambrosia is waiting for me.
My tender thought must be enchanted by Ambrosia.
I, sitting, wait for spiritualized moments.
I sit there as if I were a musical angel.
I philosophise as if an angelic muse had touched me.
In the wind, my moment becomes like a star-shaped existence.
This touch reflects my eternity.
The tender poetry becomes my temple.
In the most beautiful stamp of feeling I belong to you.
I can love all the fantasies of the dawn.
I’ll show you my freedom of mindlessness.
I like to collect coloured shooting stars of the angels.

Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.

The bee in the calyx

there was a tender
muse-like moment of charm, such an Apollonian tear
when the cute bee set down on a noble rose
in the kind calyx of the bloom, full dreamy splendour

the gentle sun smiled, at that time, at it fairy-like
oh, a sweet morning gracefulness of rays,
the owl stayed with the courage that is in the habit
of flying into an ancient forest homewards

there was endlessly angelic-beautiful early spring
a tender March like a breath with pleasant smell of hummingbirds
and in bright nightly moonlight which is fulfilled in splendour of butterfly
the ghosts of open fields are dreaming incredible with the gleaming time of fantasy

dreams about the morning star and this steeped in legend Venus
boasted about the dreamy bee with marvellous native glow
because it experienced something very old such a butterfly-like feeling
as if it had been infinite fledged as the heavenly she-daydreamer

that bee wanted to relish only the dew
take a few drops of an eternal water to itself
easy drinking and its wings dipping

yes the rose was knowing in a gorgeous dream of the primeval delight

as soon as the insect looked in the mild kind dew
it saw there an enchanting minute small mirror

through the mirror the bee observed the dreamful nature
the hidden spring mermaid from an other time as trace of ontology

that was the boundless wonderful eagle-like eternity
what a melancholic land of spring dream-magic!

the mermaid with the harp was a young poet of muses
that youth forsooth with a thousand warm lights of hearts

the bee dreamed like an Apollonian rider
through the March into April

meanwhile the soul of the bee became tender
willing to a starry flight as well as worth the ambrosia

the while in rosy calyx and mermaid´s observation
have enchanted forever the dream of the eternity

Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.

Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde.
Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Curlew, A New Ulster,
Straylight Magazine, Down in the Dirt, The Ink Pantry, the
Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, the Avalon
Literary Review, The Opiate, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, WestWard
Quarterly, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, The
Blotter, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways, The Moon Magazine,
the Mojave River Review, Always Dodging the Rain, and Coldnoon.

The Apparition

The rain seeps into my brain.
The swishing of car-wheels entails mud-stains
on pants, in veins.
I strive to grasp
the shredded clouds
with dripping hands, in vain.

The trees, heeding my gaze,
now sway with contrived grace,
disguising their strain,
for the fog that stalks my pace
has begun to draw a face.

The leaves grimace.
A candle-flame is displaced.
A dog stops howling, disgraced
as a hand on my shoulders pats then strays
down to my hand that has grown quite weightless.

My fingers interlock with boneless flakes.
A torrent of glows seeps into my frame
as of bygone days
when we frequented this very same lane
to evade the hailstones of the human race.

Anchor
{For Berjouhi}

Her face may be blurred by the mist of fifty years
but my childhood shores still boast the marvellous gifts
she once bequeathed,
the aeroplane magically flying above our heads,
the tortuous roads for sliding match-box cars in blues and reds,
Andersen’s tin soldier miraculously resurrected from the belly of the fish,
a doll, my height, with ebony lashes and gorgeous plaits,
a Christmas-ball with ballerinas of silver flakes,
and Joan d’ Arc on a Templar’s steed.

Her presence must have borne the vehement passion
the very ancient monasteries of Anatolia evoke,
she must have carried in her genes some ancestral trait
of the early Christian martyrs who readily died
for the King of Kings,
a Gregorian gift.

I felt anchored in her lap
and securely snug at the altar of her eyes,
on which burned candles whose stature remained intact
despite flames and flickers which refused to weep
while diffusing their innumerable halos of light.

Amends

How can we make amends
to lost friends
when every single utterance has been rendered impotent?
How can we redress the grievances
of forests’ inmates
whose habitats have been effaced?
How can we rectify the gaping holes
in heritage walls,
the crumbling leaves of historic lore?
How can we mitigate the bile
of wounded pride?
How can we reconcile
a face with a smile?

Atonement is not an invisible force
that embalms the mind with a remedial dose.
It is a genuine feeling of remorse
which to serious action it takes recourse.
It is an act of healing rift
that goes beyond verbal craft.
It is an effort to repair damage,
to rebuild, replant, retrieve and salvage.

A Student’s Reminiscences

Townhead, George Square, and Cathedral Street,
I tightly close my eyes on these Glaswegian spheres,
then distill them into cooling tears.
It’s true I was friendless and without means,
but at least I roamed those amicable domains
unmolested.

The front window of W.H. Smith
was my sanctuary in times of distress.
I walked the isles in search of books
I was certain I could not purchase,
instead inhaled the fragrance of print,
regaled my eyes with the gloss of tints
of Penguin, Macmillan and university presses,
and was not found wanting in taste
for preferring books to a hookah’s blaze.

And the monster who resided in the dark blue lake
had imparted its subterranean grace
to my slender frame,
for the ripples that caressed its bashful face
still carry the fragments of Columba’s gaze.

Poetry Drawer: Four Poems by Dr. Susie Gharib

Hygiene

My body smells bad
It keeps me from finding a partner
but without a partner
I don’t feel the need for hygiene

I have a feeling of deep resistance
to taking my clothes off
and stepping into the enslaved rain
of a tiled telephone booth

Rain inside a building
designed to keep rain out
is unnatural
If I lived next door to a waterfall
my life would be different

There are places like that in the Upper Peninsula
a 3/2 with attached garage
and adjoining waterfall
but I don’t live anywhere near there

I couldn’t afford a house in those neighborhoods
They wouldn’t let me use food stamps there
They wouldn’t let me talk to their children

Children give me a sense of possibility
but they wrinkle their noses at me
and whisper to each other

I can hear them
I have very good hearing
I hear things others can’t

I took a creative writing class
and wrote an autobiographical sketch
though I claimed it wasn’t

I claimed it was about someone
who had shit stains
in the seam of his jeans

The teacher said
it was a detail that had the power of veracity

I insisted on smoking in the classroom
All the other students were against me
They all washed behind their ears with ivory soap
took naps when they were told
and wore helmets when they rode their bikes

The Dean came and kicked me out
I could tell he was afraid of me
I could tell he was disgusted by my smell

If I had a girlfriend I’d be careful about my hygiene
I’d spray my feet with athlete’s foot spray
I’d go to the drug store and shoplift cans

I’d shave my face and watch the whiskers
flee down the drain
I’d use bay rum by the half-gallon

I’d put it on my clean-shaven face
and the back of my neck

If I had a partner I’d feel a need for hygiene
because there’d be a real woman
I’d want to please
and not offend

but until then my body smells repugnant,
and there’s nothing I can do
about it

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

AT EXIT 50

On the interstate
Vacant property
Unsold for twelve years:
Once a gentlemen’s club,
Topless waitresses,
Who knows what else;
Later a stand-alone church
(That’s my term—they called it
A Worship Centre),
God’s sense of fair play,
Pastor charismatic but unschooled,
Divorce counselling,
Choir accompanied by bass guitar.
Seller motivated,
Will renovate for new owner.
Builders of big boxes
Wait in the wings.

THE SHADE OAK

Our friend’s husband, now deceased,
Had suggested cutting down
The oak at the water’s edge.
Would improve our view of the mountain,
He thought, but we prefer
Shelter from the high
Hazy sun of July,
The private rise and fall of inner tubes
On the waves of passing boats,
Hidden from jet skiers.
Each year I trim back dead branches;
Our grandchildren grasp the stubs
Like subway straps.
We watch from the porch
When a fisherman’s line
Gets snarled in leaves
Weighed down by a predawn rain.
We did not like Wilbur all that much,
To tell the truth.
We did not cut down the tree
And would not, even if the state allowed,
Content to float in the shade
And picture the mountain
From memory.

WEDDING SONG

Soft light through Spanish moss,
White chapel on a sea island:
We have gathered over many miles and years,
Her law school friends, his cousins from Kent.
His precious little girl bears flowers.
The organist quietly plays Beethoven, Rachmaninoff,
Then, with boldness, Jeremiah Clarke,
Melodies that tell of the tenacity of love,
How it can sometimes get delayed,
How it will come back again,
How love persists, prevails.

Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.

The Coast of Time

In the pink and white golden words
Of the day outside the garden of gods
Is the hometown of thy soul.
Far before the world was born

The prehistoric giants in gold
Engraved the epic of times to be born
To tell thee, from outer skies the city of the giant
Will once again come to the coast of time

时间的海岸

粉红色 白色 金色的词语
来自天外的诸神的花园
那儿是你灵魂的故乡
这世界还没有诞生之前

史前的巨人在黄金之上
镌刻一部未来的史诗
告诉你天外的巨人之城
将再次来到时间的海岸

The Prehistoric Giants

I live in the very eyes of the stone
I am the light of the light,
The core of the universe.
Out of water and fire I emerge
Yes, churning water, turning fire.
There was a time, in black and white, when
The space of the galaxy was resplendent with colours.
The world is a book of dreams
The city of the future is above the clouds.
The prehistoric giants thence I saw
They are solemn as mountains
Living in the city of gold, transparent in body,
Synchronous with the sun and the moon and the stars.

史前的巨人

我在石头的眼睛里居住
我是光之光 宇宙的中心
我幻化出水与火
于是有了时间 黑与白
五光十色的太空之星系
世界是一本梦幻之书
未来之城在云朵之上
我看到史前的巨人
他们庄严如山岳
居住在黄金之城
透明的身体 旋转日月星辰

The Temple of the Gods

Original words –
A picture of the heart and the spirit
A breeze blowing through the silent music
That which grows in the palm of your hand
The sun, the moon and the stars singing in form
God’s bosom, the ups and downs of the earth
The river is fragrant sweet nectar of life.
Original words are stars in the night sky
Shining bright and light upon the soul.
Plaiting along the bridge of light
Can arrive at the Temple of the Gods.

诸神的殿堂

最初的词语
是心与灵的图画
是微风拂过寂静的乐曲
是万物在手掌上生长
是日月星辰在身体里呤唱
那起伏的大地是诸神的胸膛
河流芳香是生命的琼浆
最初的词语是夜空的繁星
无不闪烁灵魂之光
沿着光芒编织的桥梁
可以抵达诸神的殿堂

Golden and Transparent

When the dainty of dawn lights up your body
You shall see the golden country in stone.
The Giant is walking in the sky
His hand holds aloft a Diamond City.
In the garden outside the sky
The other one robed in transparent gold;
He’s smiling at you.
And behind him, is a huge palace.

金色透明

当黎明之光在你体内醒来
你看到了石头里的黄金之国
巨人在天空行走 手托一座钻石之城
你看到了那天外的花园
那另一个你 金色透明
他在向你微笑
身后是一座巨大的皇宫

Flash of the Giant

When I walk the City
I shall hold it in my hand.
Blowing a breath to make it transparent.
So I saw it in the future:
The Gem edifice, a flash of the giant.
The stars cling to their bodies
As if from another universe
So I know that the sea will be sweet
And the earth will be noble as gold.

闪光的巨人

当我在一座城市漫游
我会把它放在手掌上
吹一口气 让它透明
于是我看到了它的未来
宝石的巨厦 闪光的巨人
星辰在他们的体内
仿佛另一个宇宙
于是我知道海洋将甜美
大地将重新高贵如黄金

Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise, Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria.

The Foolish Crow

‘How nice you sing’
The clever fox told
To see a crow with a piece of meat
In his mouth to hold.

‘How sweet is your voice?’
He again said
‘Sweeter than the cuckoo’
‘Lovely to hear’ he added

And he pleaded
‘Sing a song dear crow’
As the crow’s heart melted
And he tried to sing
The meat fell down below.

The Little Sony

Sony was the girl
Small and nice,
She could not be quiet for a while
And denied all she did with a clever smile,
While kids played with the ball
Sony was found on the ice.

She ran up the stairs often
And fell down below thrice,
All was helpless to the naughty Sony
She fed the cats her bread and honey,
Only Mom cooled her down tutting twice.

No things unbroken the little Sony left
All felt comfort while she slept
Instead of toys, she played with mice,
She was the little Sony, naughty but nice.

Moonshine and Matches
Syncopated in smooth
M-o-l-a-s-s-e-s
Rhythms; a smoulder, a crack,
A flicker that dances with the
Intensity of evergreen sap on
A rainy, September Sunday.
Which is not at all blazing
But still it somehow roars with
Turpentine toxicity, tickling
The pine-addled fancy of
Lazy haze and cabin dreams.

Consumed in stillness,
Hidden beneath a
Kindled soul.

RIP

In deep sleep
     a sudden rush
                         of wings
     a swirl
of golden light
confused
     with black

Heart hurts
Deep roots
         ripped   out
  in one fell swoop

O Mother
I was in
you
were in
            me
            until that
                        rip

GO

in sleep
in dark
                 confusion

Go in one
     fell
                    swoop

free

of body’s husk
brain’s dread
tangle

knotted you
severed
me

So much got lost
your laughter on the phone
your sturdy feet

on the path around the lake
the mischief in your eyes
harks back

to the last millennium
the time
between the wars

brief peace
you were a laughing girl
before
                     catastrophe

"WHERE IS SHE?"

I ask the persimmon tree
You've harvested all
my fruit     What else
do you want?

I ask the dead leaves
on the garden path
"Where did she go?"
Listen

we crackle
under your feet   dry
as bones   long past
fall colors  empty vessels
for the wind

I ask the mountain
"Where is my mother?"
Here, says the rock
Here, says the scrub oak

Here, says the cloud
shrouding the peak
with one fell swoop
crow caws

Wake up   you fool
She's right behind you
pulling your wings down
lifting your head    to the sky

Your mother is
 your spine

BLOODY SHOW

In the dream I see
bright-red blood
a bloody show?

a miscarriage?
like the two   you had
before me?

You are a lake
I'm trying to
walk around

The path goes boggy
the reeds threaten
to pull me in

You are breaking up
mother    falling
into pieces   of a child's

fell swoop
a child's lost
loop   or perhaps

you are    the sap of
Our mother tree
Our body of blood

Our body of water
Our body of laughter
Our body of roots

I WISH

I could tell you
about
the Women's March

Mother

Would you
get that
half-offended

half-delighted
look
when   in fell swoops

in loops   of language
I explain
                   pussy hats?

Naomi Ruth Lowinsky is a Jungian analyst in private practice in Berkeley, CA, and the Poetry and Fiction Editor of Psychological Perspectives, which is published by the Los Angeles Jung Institute.

Naomi’s “Madelyn Dunham, Passing On” won first prize in the Obama Millennium Contest. She has also won the Blue Light Poetry Chapbook Contest. Her work has been widely published and has appeared, or is forthcoming in Argestes, Backwards City Review, Barely South Review, Blue Lake Review, Bogg, Cadillac Cicatrix, California Quarterly, The Cape Rock, Caveat Lector, The Chaffin Journal, Circle Show, Compass Rose, Comstock Review, Crack the Spine, Darkling, decomP, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Dogwood Review, Drunk Monkeys, Earth’s Daughters, Eclipse, ellipsis…literature and art, Emprise Review, Euphony, Evening Street Review, Fourth River, Freshwater, Front Porch, G.W. Review, Ginosko, Ibbetson Street Press, Into the Teeth of the Wind, Jewish Women’s Literary Annual, Juked, Left Curve, Lindenwood Review, Mantis, Meridian Anthology Of Contemporary Poetry, Minetta Review, Monkeybicycle, Nassau Review, Origins Journal, The Penmen Review, The Pinch, Poem, Prick of the Spindle, poetrymagazine.com, Quiddity, Qwerty, Rattle, Reed Magazine, Runes, Sanskrit, Schuylkill Valley Journal Of The Arts, Serving House Journal, Shark Reef, Ship of Fools, Sierra Nevada Review, SLAB, Sliver of Stone, Soundings East, South Dakota Review, Southern Humanities Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Stand, Stickman Review, The Texas Review, Tiger’s Eye Journal, Tightrope, Verdad, Visions International, Weber Studies, Westview, Whistling Shade, West Trestle Review, Wild Violet, Willow Review, and in the anthologies Child of My Child, When the Muse Calls, and The Book of Now. Her fourth poetry collection is called The Faust Woman Poems.

A Blue-Winged Thought

A blue-winged thought navigated round my fingertip,
then cast its anchor at the foot of the lethargic quill
that in my hand had stood for hours so transfixed.

The ink that in stagnant wells had congealed
began to ripple with Osirian zeal
irrigating with words my yawning sheets.

With aquamarine, azure, and Egyptian blue
my consonants and vowels were imbued,
genetic hues.

Congruity

I’ve never wanted to be a politician,
a social worker, or a shrink,
a saviour in the miraculous sense,
a superwoman, a clairvoyant, or Merlin.
But my students keep on asking me:
How can we make the future a better thing?
So with my propensity to philosophize,
I answer: start with foetuses,
how they are impregnated,
because the semen of love is the foundation of a healthy citizen.
Annul social contracts that have infested marriages,
then build a mother who is devoid of prejudice.
She does not only suckle babies white fluids.
Her every pore exudes her beliefs and feelings,
to be imbibed by her infants.

Make religion an affair of the heart,
the inner light within.
Erase it from documents.
Stop segregating school-pupils
each according to inherited creeds,
to abolish sectarianism.

When hunger and pestilence stalk continents,
why spend trillions on ships to navigate galaxies!
Why enthuse the public with enmities
against potential adversaries,
the Aliens,
as if civil and international wars are not enough distraction.

They claim they have abolished racism,
discrimination at work, of gender, of skin.
I suggest they start with the family and establishments,
the nuclei of favouritism.

Prune and preen your media missions,
your visual images,
the sounds which kill from a distance,
make it a tool of pacification
and not of perennial division.

The Word-Shields

Your steps recede
into the uncharted leas,
I hearken to the retreating echoes in a state of disbelief.
How dare you leave?
The man who looked death in the eye has disappeared.

You thought I use hyperbole in speech
but wait till you view with the second sight granted to the deceased
my grief water every vein that steaks your grave
until new blood seeps into your dissolving heart,
my tears.

Wait till you see your eyes bloom into fleur-de-lis
to float on the surface of every word I out-breathe,
endowing the shields of my words with heraldic miens.

Apart From

Apart from Sir Sean Connery, the sage
and the antiquarian Nicholas Cage
what would be your perfect catch?
The Roger Moore of The Persuaders,
or the Kevin Costner of Dances With Wolves?
A Scottish,
Sinclairean,
or wolf-dancing match!

Apart from Auden’s Funeral Blues
and the bards’ of the Yorkshire moors,
with what type of verse do you converse?
With Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,
or with Wilde’s The Ballad of Reading Gaol ?
The hyperbolic,
stoical,
or penitent strain!

Apart from the wall-breaking Pink Floyd’s
and the sensuous sinuousness of Depeche Modem
to what type of music are you attuned?
To the Arthurian leitmotifs of erudite Era,
or the expansive vistas of Massive Attack?
A psychedelic,
erotic,
or transfiguring bent!

Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with
a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been
lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide
Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, the Pennsylvania Literary
Journal, The Blotter, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, Down in the Dirt,
WestWard Quarterly, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways 4, A New
Ulster, The Moon Magazine, the Mojave River Review, The Opiate, Always
Dodging the Rain, Coldnoon, and Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine.