Lora from Prishtina

The Goddess descends into memories
Lora took into her arms
the blessed silence
an eye she gave to love
a song to the sun
to evil she gave the smile
her lips enchanted me
embracing the dream of the poet…

Again with Lora of Prishtina
we often meet on the boulevard
looking at the shadows of the rocks
beauty walks courageous
in love as the meteor of words
rain with arrows in sight
her lips put ash on my tongue
where the unspoken word slopes
the missing halt
during the white sleep
Lora of Prishtina –
gives a song to the sun.

For the years that have fled

Last night with Lora
we followed love
in the Garmia Valley
in the chest we spread the song
of Romeo and Julia.

In Garmia was afraid
of the fire of love. In the chest
we enumerate the hours
years that have fled to freshness
singing the melody of the forgotten poet
in the love of the ivory castle
on the “Green Path”,
Lora and I.

Visit

Unexpectedly the gate looks on the screen
on the keyboard taps the verse from his mind
the shadow is measured in tumultuous ecstasy
sparkle lit in mature age
in delusion you appear to me as a vision.

Lora walks into the heart of the verse
proudly stands in front of Naim’s bust
then goes to the waiting spa
where we were yesterday
embracing my dream with open arms
pouring earthquake into the alight tinder.

Blindness

blind yourself
I do not want you
having a look at the sea
I do not want you
to see the colour
in the ocean of your eyes
I want to drown
in your grace
to have you
my love.

This wish
in light
of birth
to perish
to infinity!

Delayed Meeting

Delayed meeting with Lora
in the Poetic Autumn
I continued the trip
in the Penelope Oasis
we look in the mirror of our eyes
among the waves of love
between dream and reality
between autumn and winter
between sun and sky
between birth and sunset
between maturity and childhood
between withered leaves
and the yellow petals
with the turmoil of fire
and thrill of heart …!

Delayed meeting with Lora
in the green spring
in the depths of your eyes
near the volcano
where awakening bites forgetfulness
in the late autumn
in the garden of heaven
stretched on the edge of the road
we met late
in the arms of Love.

You Ran Away Lora

You ran away so fast Lora
in the dark night of the modernism
before the next summer comes
in the smoke and alcohol basin
killed on the trail of mistrust.

Lora plays Satan’s dance
on the holy night of heaven
love drowns in the oasis
in the intoxication of the rain plague
becoming the postpartum of the broken age.

You did not wait for the promised summer
on the bed of roses
in the run of old time
of a dirty time whose name you do not know
I look at the rain as a rope in the faint face
and ask for the way out of love.

You ran away so fast Lora
you have remained the metaphor of the virgin paths
endless poetry of the poet’s longing
novel that starts with a real landscape
melted love in the spring of absences.

In the Theater of Tragedy

Hamlet is shouting on the stage
in the backstage
Romeo and Juliet
burn in the fire of love
caress the stains of the cloth
left from Kanun’s time
the intrigues of friends with empty souls
in the museum of memories
in the imagination of Eros in Prishtina.

Juliet
curses Hamlet beyond the scene
that he had penetrated her thoughts
she is seeking the paradise in poetry
why is Romeo lying
about fiery love
I do not have a covenant or ask for the breakup
Juliet feels that he speaks with his heart.

Romeo blesses the love
that remained like a wound
from the years that have passed
trots in the lit cup
the bedbed curses
at the table…

One Day
(Requiem for the poet)

You will not see the poet
standing
in Edi Café 2*
nor will you intercept
intrigues and contemplations
he will not order espresso
the table will be empty
as the memories that evoke
alcoholic beverages…
and a toast of friendship.

The poet blessed by hatred
does not withdraw
the words blossom with rose perfume
and cry for the memories in solitude
do not believe in dreams and magic
to give the world love
and the lyrics will need calligraphy

The poet burns in an ironic smile
the storm and the sky evoke a memory
every word in the fire of words
a world you do not know
Queen with beautiful eyes.

You will not see me
in the coffee shop
nor the streets of Prishtina
the atmosphere steps on your footsteps’ traces,
some quiet storms
strikes like the lightning in the sky without clouds
how many stars are lit
you are crystal in the heart and you know
memories of a distant time bring me
farewell and a voice
that babbles lyrics as a hymn…
we give life the spiritual dough
all the dreams we’ve written
the love we sang in each letter
we the unloving lovers!

*Edi kaffe in Prishtina

Lora in Adriatic

The plains swing
the unsung serenade
the text sinks into the water of the lake
the sounds of love cover the mountain
the eyes dissolve the exuberant magic.

The ring of the lake shines in the Adriatic
The lake wears the ring on the finger
The rays of the sun caress the face
Lora’s lips bite the words
curdled on the eyebrow
“For me you are unique, oh Lan”
and the lake trambles.

The lips redden in the drunkness of the kiss
Lora squeezes the fingers to her chest
the adder bite at the neck and at the nape
the chest whiteness shakes on the lake
the whips of excitement like the oak sap
Lora loses the trace in the longing of waiting
the cherry melts in the language of love.

Lora in the Rain
 
Lora was jealous in the rain
why it washed Lan’s
hair, lips
neck and eyes
imagined
in crazy
love?

Lora melts in eternity
sighs in words
stuttering took
and glimpses gave.
 
Lora stops the nomad time
Lan nihilist
in the burning rain
both faces
Prishtina’s fiery kiss

The rain makes Lora jealous
she gives
the kiss of the tear
to the rock in the dark.

Lora kneads her breasts
in the longing of love
Lan feels time
in the frozen sea
of wishes
 
Lora and Lan
tease each other in the galaxy.

Valentine’s Day
 
Lora
embroidered Valentine’s Day
on the map of love
Egnatia-Naisus street
and in passing I also took
the honey flavour
from the hot ashes
of the extinguished fire.

Lora
like a blonde ladybug in the meteorite
nobody whispers
on the map of love
and the star twister out of exhausted longing
in the timeless feeling
brought the freshness of age
the kiss of the mountain like Hera from Olympus
departed in the endless today
night.

Lora
frozen in heat
slightly heated to the bosom of love
“I’m very cold
Lan takes me with him
tonight
I do not want flowers
a white rose
to have for Valentine’s Day! “

Lora

Lora
we wander through time
like snakes in the bushes
Lora and I
in the ecstasy of the painting
I gave her Mona Lisa’s smile
I drank water from Lora’s bosom
and I lost myself in adolescent dreams,

I gave Lora a life
I gave the sky a kiss
the sun seemed to be silent
and left a free way to darkness
the rainbow lightens my way
fiery I take the stars to the bosom
I hug the sun
to feel its tenderness.

Lora is silent
and she silently speaks
in her blonde hair
I touch the love
embers in the lap
white frost
Lora left traces

Lora is asleep
with the fiery stars
tickling her lips
in the corrugated crown
the sounds of silence
I put her crown
and I read under her eyelids
the novel I will write
Lora with her bosom as virgin snow
lures the Talmudists’ years
Lora
crystalline meteor.

When the Poet Loves

When the poet loves
the moon becomes pregnant
with the autumn pollen
the stars laugh with Pitagora’s theorem
the sun receives rays of love
tsunami become the poet’s words
Lora is immersed in the block of salt.

When the poet sings
adorns the world
with the smell of love
he gives the mountains
Beethoven’s symphony
the rivers are enjoying
Mtika’s work
the sea of poet’s feelings
and Lora falls asleep
on the wedding stone
a living metaphor
in infinite verses.

Lan Qyqalla graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a Professor, poet, writer and editor of the prestigious international magazine ORFEU, as well as a television presenter.

PUBLISHED BOOKS:

• “Autumn of love in Pristina” Collection of poems, 2022 Pristina
  “Parfumul iubirii” (Scent of love) Bucharest, 2020
• “Lora” poetic collection in Turkish, translated and adapted by Kopi Kyçyku, Istanbul 2022
• “A l`ombre des muses” (“In the shadow of the muse”) French, L’Harmattan Publishing House, Paris, 2018 December 24
• “Nymph of a wounded heart” stories, in 2013 in Pristina
• “Tears – sea of pain” Albanian poem, in Pristina, in 2016
• “Tears-sea of pain” was translated into Romanian, published in Bucharest 2016
• “LORA” Albanian poem, in 2017 in Pristina
• “Passport of love” Bucharest, 2018,
• “Lora mon amour” French, Bucharest, 2018 and
• “Passport of love” English, published in Bucharest 2018
• “Whiteness in Whiteness” School monograph, 1995
• “Gani Xhafolli – prince of children’s literature” Mongrafi, 2018 co-author with Reshat Sahitaj
• “Autumn of love in Pristina”Albanian SHB PRESS LIBERTY, poetry, Pristina
• “Automne d’amour a Prishtina”. Translated into French Prof. Ismail Ismail, French, L’Harmattan Publishing House, Paris, 2023, Review by Francophone critic Laurent Griso
• “Kärlekens höst i Pristina”, Swedish, Malmo Sweden, translated by Prof. Ismjal Jashanica
• “Toamna dragostei la Pristina” Romanian, Bucharest translated by Baki Ymeri
• “Pristine’de ask sombari” Turkish, translated by Akademik Kopi Kyçyku
• “The chart of the soul” stories and novels, Prishtina, 2022

PRIZES

• – In the International Competition for poetry in Torre Meliso in Italy, he received the 1st Prize of Albanian, on May 2017
• – In 2017, he received the CREATIVE AWARD OF THE YEAR in Fushë-Kosovo
• – In 2018, the Association of Albanian Writers in Macedonia gives the AWARD OF THE YEAR “Under the shadow of the maple” to Skopje, for the best poetic book
• – A poet has been selected to participate in the International Festival in Tunisia, on November 20-25, 2018
• – He is the Director of the Association of Writers “Naim Frashëri” in Fushë-Kosovo,
• – Member of the presidency of the ASSOCIATION OF WRITERS OF KOSOVO,
• – Editor-in-Chief at “Orfeu” Magazine and Web ORFEU.AL
• – Member of the Editorial Board of the Magazine of World Historians based in Switzerland
• – Vice-President of the Union of Albanian Writers and Critics
• – He works as a Professor of Albanian Language and Literature at the Gymnasium.
• He lives and works in Pristina.

In the attic she finds a box.
Underneath an epidermis of newsprint
lies a blue-and-white china teacup,
part of the set used by her grandma
every week they went to see her.

The china, thin and determined,
pulls her into a warm room
and seats her at a groaning table.

Every cup has a saucer,
every plate has a doily,
silver sugar tongs rest
on white cloth
though no one takes sugar
in the tea poured from the squat pot
on top of milk.
On a birthday, the grandchildren
are given sugar lumps
and pretend they are horses.

They can start
when Grandma sits.
The plates are passed, achingly slowly,
sandwiches first. Egg and cress,
ham and English mustard,
soggy cheese and tomato,
too much marg,
bread cut into triangles,
crusts removed.

Then the homemade cakes are paraded:
a Victoria sponge oozing cream,
a dark ginger cake,
scones bursting with fruit.

The woman sees herself drop a saucer,
Grandma picking up the pieces
as if her fingers are tweezers,
the saucer never to be replaced.

She looks in the box again,
finding nothing.

Sam Szanto lives in Durham. Her poetry pamphlet, ‘Splashing Pink’ was published by Hedgehog Press and is a Poetry Book Society Winter 2023 Choice. Her pamphlet ‘This Was Your Mother’ won the 2023 Dreich Slims Contest and will be published soon. She won the Charroux Poetry Prize and the First Writer International Poetry Prize, and her poetry has been placed in journals including ‘Northern Gravy’ and ‘The North’. She was awarded an MA with distinction from the Poetry School / Newcastle University in 2023. Find her on Twitter/X Instagram and on her website.

Lone Folkie

There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park
playing a rickety 5 string and hoot’in and holler’in.

I have no idea what he is singing.
There is no discernible melody.
Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air
to take some sort of measure
before plunging back into his flailing guitar.
After another stuttering burst he will stop/
then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/
punk operatic/ style

nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/
he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough
It’s/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key.
Beyond the realm of anything/
resembling cohesive musicality
/rambunctiously obtuse

yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light.

His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/

You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/
and make of that an evening/ with class
but I like the way this codger lets her rip/
this ragged chanteur/
airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style

Shine on

Shine on oh perishing republic of dreams
oh community of outcasts
Art in the essence with no need
for product or commodity
Convivial souls rabid rebels minds afire
Provincetown dunes Christmas Eve
Greenwich Village the 20’s to the 50’s
Innocent fervent glass of beer cafeteria a quarter
Shine on oh perishing republic of dreams!

Winged Ones

Bustling old fella dashing biddly bop by dressed to the nines
with briefcase stuffed under his arm equipped with fixed maniacal grin jabbering to himself while confirming his expressions
to an equally jazzed and jaunty westie he calls Ralph trailing exuberantly behind
let’s me know
that there are actually still some living beings out there
to learn from

Tom Pennacchini is a flaneur living in NYC.  Has had stuff published at The Free Poet, Mojave Heart Review, Jalmurra, The Scarlet Leaf, Poems for All,  Free Lit Magazine, Backchannels, Loud Coffee Press, Mason Street Journal,  Portsmouth Poetry, the Fictional Cafe KGB Lit Journal and the upcoming issue of Synchronized Chaos as well as the end of year issue of Every Writer Magazine.

Daphnaie
becoming she-conjurer
Thou – ethereal enlightenment
You are a sunflower
The elixir is tender poetry
And You are longing for wisdom
I wish, she had hope for destiny
Rumination

Epimelides
bewitching she-seer
Thou – bucolic romanticism
You are a violet
The solitude is delicate poesy
And You are yearning for acumen
I wish, she had desire for circumstance
Contemplation

Hamadryad
comely she-hex
Thou – demure existentialism
You are a rhododendron
The epiphany is supple verse
And You are yenning for foresight
I wish, she had aspiration for fate
Cogitation

Meliae
knockout she-sorcerer
Thou – dissemble impressionism
You are an Azalea
The aesthete is breakable ode
and You are thirsting for insight
I wish, she had expectation for future
Reflection

Phoebe
resplendent she-magician
Thou – effervescent stoicism
You are a begonia
The plethora is dainty song
and you are spoiling for caution
I wish, she had ambition for inevitability
Celebration

Chrysopeleia
amazing she-prognosticator
Thou – stunning Epicureanism
You are a hyacinth
The delicacy is frail rhyme
and You are itching for judgment
I wish, she had plan for afterlife
Consideration

Dryope
sublime she-charmer
Thou – vigorous Platonism
You are an iris
The felicity is effete rime
and You are hankering for poise
I wish, she had aims for fortune
Thoughts

Erato
statuesque she-enchanter
Thou – glamorous nihilism
You are a lily
The nemesis is feeble minstrelsy
and You are aspiring to prudence
I wish, she had belief for hereafter
Meditation

Eurydice
graceful she-prophet
Thou – halcyon eudemonia
You are a primrose
The scintilla is weak rune
and You are lusting after sanity
I wish, she had faith for paradise
Attention

Tihorea
dazzling she-diviner
Thou – idyllic historicism
You are a marguerite
The ripples are soft lines
And You have eye on sophistication
I wish, she had achievement for karma
Intuition

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

You can find more of Paweł’s poetry here on Ink Pantry.

Enjoy It While You Got It

I was young once,
Although I felt so old.
I should have been
More childish,
Soaking up the wild morn.

Now what am I?
Old and fat and bald.
Yet still younger
Than so many
Who only exist in the past.

Living In The Now

As we continue our slow destruction
Of the only planet
Where our species lives,
Remember to pause
To display a middle finger
To all of your neighbours
And every plant and animal you see.
Especially remember the little children
That still run and play.
Give them both barrels
And your cruelest laugh.
As for infants in bellies
All those yet to be born,
Bare your ass to their future.
Let them and others mourn.

Lost Again

With sorrow I looked
At the road ahead
And the road behind.

How did I get here,
This place that is
So other?

Ah well, what is life
Without mistakes?
Sometimes the best
Memories come
From bloody errors.

I will continue moving
One foot after another
Until I get to
Wherever I go,

Whether it is
A shining city,
A place not worth
Mentioning,
Or more of the same
That was and will be,

Regardless of
My best intentions
Or my failed sense
Of direction.

Hey Baby

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
I love it when you feed me
All your juicy stuff.

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
I love it when you hold me
And when you treat me rough.

Yes, I am your baby
You better not have another one.
If I find out you do
It will be the end of all your fun.

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
And I will always be your baby
So long as you stay true.

The Language Is Everything

A poem is a short story.
A short story is a poem.
This is not always known.
It shouldn’t be.

All these words,
merely outflow
From that lake of sewage
Deep inside.

Come and take a swim.
Dive in.
Practice your backstroke,
Doggy paddle, and crawl.

You may want to shower
After you climb out,
But you will never feel
Completely clean again.

Far From Home

In the world but not of it,
You are merely a tourist
Far from home.

You watch, you listen,
You taste all the flavours
Of good and evil.

You hope your credit card
Will pay for all your crimes
With a single swipe.

If not you may need
To wash dishes
Or go to prison

Until you are pardoned
Or a sufficient bribe
Of prayers and offerings

Set you free enough
To return home
To rest, recuperate,

Work and save
For another trip
To lands forbidden,

But so much better
Than more
Of the same.

Existing in the poem

These verses
And so many others
Seem hardly worth it,
Both to write and read,
But they come anyway,
And go where they go.

They are seen by eyes
Unprepared for
Such foolishness.
The reader howls
Before crumbling paper
And throwing it away.

Oh, to be a banker
Or a plumber
Instead of a poet.
That would be
A solid life,
More easily understood.

Unfortunately
I have this curse,
This infection
That will not go away.

Words are the life
Of a poet.
There is only
Their sound
And how they look
On the page.

The rest of life
Is an illusion,
A mirage
A hand might reach for,
But never grasp
Or comprehend.

Joseph Farley has had over 1350 poems and 140 short stories published. His 11 poetry collections include Suckers, Her Eyes, Longing For The Mother Tongue, and Yellow Brick Pilgrim. His fiction books include Labor Day, Once Upon A Time In Whitechapel, Farts and Daydreams, and For The Birds.

You can find more of Joseph’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Heaven and Hell

Silence fills the air,
as I sit, alone,
among endless rows of graves.

I wish for heartbeats,
for laughter,
for tears.

I miss the noise.

But I know that I can’t have it.

I can hear the footsteps of the living,
but there’s no sound for me.

Silence surrounds me,
as I lay in my own void,
a void of life,
eternal and silent.

I will never know happiness again.

But I accept it,
lying here, alone,
among endless rows of graves.

It was fun being dead for a while,
to feel the quiet
and the peace.
I thought hell would have fire and brimstone,
but I guess that’s only what they tell us.

I’m moving on now,
accepting my reality.
And I know that one day,
I’ll find my meaning,
In the cold abyss.

But for now, all I have is silence,
a silence that never ends.

And I bet there’s fire in heaven.

Foolish Understanding

The things I thought unmeetable—unattainable—as if from Eden—
Forever luring us with what could never be pure in value as it might have been—
  Or so we’ve all been told:
But why should my heart believe it this for so?
This is what I know!
My dreams!
As clear as the words of my own ears—
Unencumbered by notions of what I was or would be.
Just a child at that point in time;
  Unaware of the traps or whims of foolish understanding.
Always trying, always striving.
And now, standing here–where was I standing before?

Redacted

Routine is the devil of a stranger:
   A death spell is different only in name.
18th century England–the rise of industrialisation,
   the first factory system—the spilling out of a Satanic rage.
Alone, for I sought you everywhere.
  In Spain, at five paces away from me,
 Your torso moving gracefully like a flower blooming—
So perfect you were; I should have found a way
to grasp the beauty in it:
  To be with you was to be good, filled with God’s love,
But in that moment my heart dared leap out of my chest
    In the franticness to make time stop for us… To make us both strong enough to last
 eternally
— To love us amidst the world’s fear of each other— It is not as easy as it seems…
  It is enough that we are together.
  You are here beside me. And that’s enough.

Close To Me

It’s lovely, the number of times
you look down on me and forget to see,
 as if from your corner of the sea—
   You could not hear once I begin to plead;
It takes a little time before you come,
 To coax me back again up to the dreams.
  That there is no moon,
 only we are nearer the stars—
    I am but asleep. And yet, here we lie: Far apart.
At some point I think to wake myself up,
   To make sure I haven’t been lying,
And when finally I realize it’s true—
    I find myself so faint; Holding too tight; Too cold.
I think it may be time for a change after all.
  But as things are today—or so it would seem—I’ll sleep here alone under the covers awaiting you to come, more closely to me at last…

Claudia Wysocky, a Polish poet based now in New York, is known for her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions in her writing. She firmly believes that art has the potential to inspire positive change. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, Claudia has had her poems published in local newspapers and magazines. For her, writing is an endless journey and a powerful source of motivation.

Like Wile E Odysseus

When you put on your mask
your glasses fog up
as your nose exhales
all that super-saturated air
and the world acquires a halo
putting Homer’s
early-born and rosy-fingered dawn
to shame
but you cannot see
pulling off the mask solves that
the areola fades
the world sharpens
it is still beautiful
but with risks
Sirens still call your name at Hooters
Scylla and Charybdis whisper in one ear to sell
that stock you bought last week
and to buy more of it in the other
nothing has changed much
risk is everywhere
mask or no mask
antibody or no antibody
take your pick
be like Wile E Coyote
that manhole at your feet may be
a figment of your imagination
or maybe
your gateway to the netherworld

This Could Be Enormous

I’m not saying we have to be exact
what I’m saying is
try to be accurate within certain limits
I mean
how thorough are they?
they’re going to give this the once over
they’re not fact-checkers
or CPA’s
they are bean counters
and you know how they think
it’s all about the head bean counter
and as we all know
he knows nothing
except what is whispered to him
when the lights go out
this could be the next big thing
if we don’t blow it
there is no such thing as a
national average
even they know that
but they are stuck with their
protocols
the only one we have
is to make it look good on paper
now, here’s a ream of Grade 3
put your mark on it
and do us all a favour
don’t look back

Short Story

Eternity
long as it may seem
is like a short story
Beginning, middle & end
conflict, struggle and resolution
Guy de Maupassant
could have written it

In the Beginning
there was just Him
with all this time on His hands
He wasn’t lonely
but He fretted a lot about
His omnipotence and
what to do with it
a lot of it had to do with
miniscule details
what atoms He favoured
the chemical structure of hydrocarbons
and He kept wondering which one
would work out the best
although He should have known
this went on a long time
in geologic time yes it is
pretty lengthy
but in story-telling time
only a third of the whole
the conflict was His alone
that probably made Him grumpy
as there was no one
to blame
yet

Then He made up his mind
Bang!
Which was nothing but a diversion
designed to rid the universe of
the Evil One
and it didn’t work
He thought it might
but deep down knew better
and the Evil One prospered
due to us
after all
we had the common bond
of both being kicked out of somewhere
so we all struggled
and He fretted some more
having underestimated
our cleverness our intransigence
and our insatiable lusts
and watched as His plans
headed downhill

Finally things will get resolved
we aren’t there yet
but He, having whipped out His
slide rule
sees that about 15% of us
actually followed His rules
and the rest of us
are like Pop-Tarts in this
huge toaster
cursing
part of the resolution
is what they call the
denoument
the outcome of a doubtful series of occurrences
which now leads to sadness
and this is where He finds the culprit
and says:
‘I knew it was carbon all along’

Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has travelled all over the place and met lots of people from all walks of life. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. He is a featured poet at Mad Swirl.

exit stage left

he worked there too
I would see him
in the foyer
coming in for evening class
asking me about open mics
chatting scenes & actors
mouth wide
goatee curling
like a thick black
hedgehog
under attack
always a laugh
a long toothy laugh
& then his tall man’s hand
extending & shaking

& then I stopped seeing him
& then I didn’t work there
anymore
anyway
& then
I heard the news

a balcony somewhere hot

he picked up the rock

expecting to find
perfection

but instead found
dead bugs
& happiness

he didn’t notice either

because that’s not what
he was looking for

Fruit Bowl

she rearranged
my furniture
while I was out
& later
tied me
to a chair
& used a blindfold

she bought me
a fruit bowl
blue fairy
lights
and
a Paddington Bear coat

I regretted ever
letting her
have a key

wealthy daughters
come along like rain

too much
& not enough

after I’d finally found
an umbrella
her father
remarked
that I hadn’t been
up to standard
in the first place

twenty years later
I still have the fruit bowl
& I’m still laughing

Mum Shagged the Milkman

but it’s not
as bad as
it sounds

she married him
& he was a barman
when they first met

then later
at some point
my brothers
& I
attended
their wedding
in pin stripe shirts

I still remember
the day
I found out
I was the dictionary
definition of a bastard

I still remember
feeling a little surprised
disappointed even
that the words
had no effect on me

but maybe that was when
I first learned
words can
just be
words

& nothing
at all

A Golden Ale Sky

the horizon
is pouring
itself
almost
imperceptibly
slowly
westward
shifting
its
every
thing
fraction by
fraction

either that
or I’m more fucked

than I realise

the remedy

for most
things

sleep

& the warmth
of someone
you’d
die
for

Danny D. Ford’s poetry & artwork has appeared in numerous online and print titles. He has sixteen chapbooks to his name, including the recent collections Rum Lime Rum (Laughing Ronin Press 2023) and Sucking on a Wet Pint (Anxiety Press 2022). He can be found in Bergamo, Italy.

I am not barren

I am not barren.
My fecundity has not dwindled yet.
Enough as before to bring forth blossoms of all sorts and I do.
Alas! Frequent invasions of atrocious autumn
Debilitates their potency to bloom in full
To show my greatness in their daintiness and redolence
That would once captivate aves from overseas
To warble in praise of my nature.
O God! Free me from this brutish autumn,
Can’t endure it any more.
To glitter with my flair
Let clement spring reign over me.

Don’t avert thy gaze

Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries!
The voices for peace and averse to slavery
Are interred here.
The eyes anti to tyranny and the altruistic hearts
For the persecuted are interred here.
Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries!
The buttresses for the decrepit and the comforts for the pained,
The joys for the dejected and the glims for darkness are interred here.
Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries!
The gallant patriots of my nation- moral for the coward Slaves
The upshots of the tyrannous reign and even of the traitors are interred here.

How to fulfil dreams there?

How to fulfil dreams there
Where one often takes breath in the net of fear of disappearance and of death
And where one carries more coffins but palanquins few.
Not many raiments for weddings
But more shrouds one has to sew.
How to fulfil dreams there
Where each moment is spent in jails and yowls
And youths decay in dingy jails.
Where one while fishing, fishes out a corpse
Of a mother’s only progeny and succour
Beheaded or mutilated or putrefied
Or still from his wounds, is dripping blood of innocence.
How to fulfil dreams there
Where one’s childhood is caged, divested of its joys
Where deranged mothers (as if their sons) are lullabying toys.

Shafkat Aziz Hajam is a poet from Kashmir, India. He is the author of two children’s poetry books, The cuckoo’s voice, and The canary’s voice. His poems have appeared in international magazines and anthologies like Wheel song anthology (UK based), Prodigy, digital literary magazine USA, PLOTS CREATIVES online literary magazine USA, Inner Child Press International USA, AZAHAR anthology in Spain, SAARC anthology, Litlight literary magazine Pakistan etc. He has also written more than a hundred funny limericks for the children and adults’ poetry book, The Unknown Wounded Heart.

The silence of the night,
in the wake of many bullet-rent years,
is torn by the remonstrance of three stray dogs
who find no food in the garbage container,
having been emptied by junk-collectors
who would not now hesitate to consume
any available leftovers.

In the background, the festivity of a posh nightclub,
which is not very far-off,
aims at the slumberous heart
with enervating beats of folklorish drums.
This happens every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night
until the break of dawn.

Poverty and excessive wealth sit side by side
in this part of the world.
There are no West Ends or East Ends,
which only makes the contrast more flagrant.

My dog is agitated and responds with a series of barks.
I have to find a way of calming her down
or I will meet with a wave of disapprobation
from the neighbours themselves,
who will sift all other noises
and only hear my dog’s responding soundtrack.
I start stroking her coat
and her barks eventually subside,
but she remains unsettled
by both the shrieks of the nightclub
and the intermittent howls of homeless dogs.
How can I explain to friends that insomnia
has nothing to do with the intake of caffeine
or psychological strife?

Contemplation III

What is God?
I ask myself as I contemplate the interwoven clouds.
Far on the horizon, faint streaks of lightning corrugate the gloaming sky,
Ruffling my meditative stance,
for now we dread whatever can herald a storm,
which we associate with floods, earthquakes, and apocalyptic doom.

I retrieve my thoughts from the menace of apprehensiveness
that tends to dominate our current moods.
How can I paint a mental picture of a featureless Lord?
He is not supposed to possess eyes, a mouth, or a nose.
In paintings, He is depicted with a white beard
and sagaciously old.
What if He is eternal youth
and this virgin world which we have contaminated
is one of his countless words?

I like the idea of inhabiting a word.
It is simpler than the metaphysical and transcendental schools
for within each word He utters
dwells realms and worlds to roam.

Calculations

She twists every word I speak.
I decide to calculate how many words I utter
in her presence every day,
and to monitor their denotative and connotative implications.
She does not say Good Morning,
because she knows that every conversation would end
in acrimony and ill feelings.
She resurrects the past instantaneously
and blames me for every single decision
taken by my dad,
whose headstone is now twenty-two years old.
These calculations would hopefully divert my mind
from the putridity of every memory she unearths
to derail any dialogue aimed at peace-making.
I can put up with the abuse that pours into my consciousness
but the desecration of the memory of the dead,
especially that of my kind-hearted dad,
is more than I can take.
She seizes every opportunity to heap blame
on his decaying head.

On the first day, it does not work.
I wade into her lukewarm morning talk
until it gets scorchingly hot
and lava is forced out of my tongue.
It becomes so hard to keep silent
once the agitation of the nervous system sets in
and she is so good at awakening the worst in you
not even slumberous demons on narcotics
can ignore her venom.

On the second day, I succeed in shortening each argument
by five minutes
and though I cannot count the words in use,
the shortened time of the interchange
indicates the inevitable decrease.

On the third day, I begin to enjoy this test of patience;
however, the less words I use,
the more infuriated she becomes.
It is a no-win situation.
I begin to turn my thoughts inwardly
every time she starts her turbulent orchestration.
Half her words go unheard
and the lack of physiognomical reactions on my part
makes her mistake taciturnity for acquiescence
in her never-ending remonstrations.

Dr Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.

Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.