Poetry Drawer: Insanity Lives by Jake Cosmos Aller

Why the thing killed itself
While the slaves closed in to eat
The cannibals or yes no quite indeed
For I can not not not notnotnotntontotnotntotntotnto ttntotnto tototntnotnton notntotnotntotoeifkt gjyhythfg~tdf wvxxfstwgeyd nbitmyi’~375892O~9(8 ?’4 596o~–9=O-~?9 ~ &#&~Q~ ~ ( ~ *~&~~#%@~ ~ & t ~

The death
The reason
The dream

The dream the dream remains
They are coming coming
To get me
I know too much

I will not tell they will not believe
OK they can’t think they can only screw

Dark the thumb
the race cards tell us all
The death of God
Killed in a drunken fit
That is my story

I killed god

They snare us while we sleep
They come for us while we sleep
In a bed of golden fleas

They are waiting
In the archway of my house
They are waiting outside

I march to my doom
Screaming with all my might.

Inky Interview Special: Nyanda Foday, Birmingham’s Young Poet Laureate: with Claire Faulkner

Birmingham has an amazing creative vibrancy and it seems that poetry is at the heart of it. Nyanda Foday is currently Birmingham’s Young Poet Laureate. I was lucky enough to see her perform recently and managed to chat to her about her love of spoken word.

Where does your love of poetry and spoken word come from?

It’s hard to say. I’ve been writing poetry since I was very little, but up until somewhere in secondary school I definitely preferred prose. I made the switch when school-work and my extracurricular ramped up, and I had less time to write. I enjoy it because I find there’s something very satisfying in stringing together some words in a way that viscerally affects you and others. I enjoy spoken word because I like to perform and I feel that there’s more of a poet-audience connection than in page poetry.

How did you get involved in performance poetry?

I went to Beatfreek’s Poetry Jam with my friend and that was when I started to really make the switch. When I first watched established spoken word artists perform I suddenly just needed to one day be able to do that, and I went to a lot of poetry nights, meeting more artists and developing my poetry in the process.

What do you like about performing?

I very much enjoy the interaction with the audience- the whole mood of the piece changes depending on the audience you have. I’ve also always enjoyed performing, so it was already something I did before I took up poetry, but it’s definitely a different experience when you’re performing your innermost thoughts as opposed to someone else’s writing.

You’re currently Birmingham’s Young Poet Laureate. What an amazing achievement. This must keep you busy. What’s it like to be a Young Poet Laureate?

It’s amazing- the opportunities it has presented have been incredible, and the kinds of things I never would have been able to do without the laureateship. I’ve been able to perform at National Holocaust Memorial Day, the National Writer’s Conference, and it was how I got involved with Random Acts and ended up making a short film.

I recently saw the film of your poem Listen, and think its an amazing and effective piece. The combination of sign language, film and spoken word works so well. Can you tell us about the background to this?

I’ve always found sign language to be particularly beautiful, and when I was approached by Random Acts I figured I could just try to create a concept that would allow me to work with sign language. I decided that the most appropriate topic was expression outside of the voice, as I felt it would compliment sign language and add value to the use of sign language. It worked out really well, and getting to work with Mary-Jayne de Clifford, the translator, was an incredible experience.

Who or what inspires you to write?

I am a very inward-facing poet- I tend to write about how I’m feeling and things that happen in my life. However, I am also incredibly inspired by the poets I see perform- like I said, watching an incredible performance fills you with the need to perform something that makes other people feel the way those poems made you feel.

What’s next for you? Can you share any details of projects you’re currently working on?

Well, I’m coming up to the end of my first year at university, and the end of my two years of laureateship. What’s going to happen next is very much a grey area. With the move to uni, which meant a different lifestyle and a different geographical area, almost all of my poetry this year has been going back to Brum for laureate requests. I imagine I’m going to be doing a lot less poetry unfortunately, but I would like to make more of an effort to break into the scene where I’m now based. I would love to carry on doing the same kinds of performances, but I don’t think I’ll be asked to do them as much without the laureateship. I’m honestly not really working on any projects at the moment, things are kind of winding down for the year, though they might increase again in the Summer.

Who would you recommend that we read or see in performance?

I definitely cannot provide an extensive list because there are so many incredible artists- especially in Birmingham. First things first- go to an established open mic night (Poetry Jam, Howl, Stirchley Speaks, Hit the Ode, etc.). The talent will vary depending on the night a lot of the time, so I would recommend trying each night at least two or three times. This will introduce you to some of the local poets, and you’ll get to see some different types of poetry.

Individuals: (please remember that this is in no way extensive) Amerah Saleh, Case Bailey, Aliyah Hasinah, Jasmine Gardosi, Jess Davies, Leon, Bohdan Piasecki, Sean Colletti, Carl Sealeaf, Wuzza Razz and so so many more can all be found in Brum. Two poets I’ve performed alongside who I really enjoyed but aren’t based in Birmingham are Raymond Antrobus and Kaveh Akbar.

Do you have a poem you would like to share with our readers?

I wrote this poem walking home in the snow and just taking some time to enjoy the calm of the night

Abominable Snow Woman

Snow hitting the inner corner of your eye feels like it should hurt, but it doesn’t
The snow simply sits there
Cries itself out
Curves down the contours of my face
Tickles its way into crevices and faults and flaws
As its cold seeps into my skin
And I can’t feel my face
And it’s better that way.
The snow is clinging to my hoodie
I stopped shaking it off maybe ten minutes ago
It is persistent
Clings to itself
The first thing it covers is my breasts
Sheathes me
I become an abominable snow woman
And as I walk back in,
I am amazed by how long it takes for the snow to thaw
It is nothing if not persistent.
And when I am changed out of wet clothes
And my toes are now dry
And I am inside
I am still frozen

Do you have any advice for new writers?

I always highly recommend going to see poets perform, because in my opinion, it’s the best way to develop as a spoken word artist. Try to explore a variety of styles so you can work out what affects you the most, and what you would like to perform. You’ve got to be patient with yourself- at first you might not think your poetry is that great, but you’ve got to keep going and just keep trying to write the kind of poetry you want to read/see. Also remember that poetry is very subjective, and affects everyone differently. I’ve had some poems that I’ve been unhappy with that other people have really enjoyed. Most of all, just do your best to keep writing and keep enjoying writing.

Pantry Prose: A Taxi Made Of Mouths by Lavinia Murray

The sister tore a wisp of smoke from the fire and blew her blue nose on it. Her hindquarters fluttered with the effort.


Then she took out her latest phone, dropped it and smashed it with brass door knockers (shaped like hermitages) which she had glued to the soles of her shoes. Everyone in her address book died quite expressively on their doorsteps.

The sister said, ‘Hello, I’m’ – (checks) – ‘in the middle of Memory in a taxi made of mouths. Just pulling into Spring.’ She spoke to no one since all those she had previously spoken to were dead, victims of the Winter Cull.

The sister had opinions about Spring, and they were these: Winter wears Spring like an ill-fitting prosthetic limb. Cumbersome. Made of chipped ice and lumpen sugar. Cumbersome. The sun, cumbersome. The sky is wet rubber, bliss blue. Birds oodle along flight corridors like the tweaked sweat of athletes. Lambs straddle the green glass conveyor belt and they are pitched about for being too sweet for this life. Their fleeces show immortal, mother-of-pearl cracks.

The sister took an apple and lifted a tree from it with a movement like tugging matted hair from a brush. And another tree from the apple, from the apple core. She dotted the place she was standing in with trees. A whole orchard. Above them the wind carried the delicate rattlings of the cosmos, mostly wet plopping sounds.

Spring. The greengrocer was seated on his nest and was busily hatching-out horses and impressionists. The impressionists were so good they were impossible to tell apart from the horses. Spring was doing its thing with things.

The sister watched the Spring Ritual man dance in his great dapper clobber. Spring Ritual Man stopped and laid shadows at the base of the street lamps the way people laid wreaths at cenotaphs. All showy deference. He laid them respectfully; small ones, larger ones, teeny like crossed fingers. He bowed his head and the sister imagined he was updating his prayer profile. Then he moved on with a swish like a mermaid might do in the doldrums. A Spring Ritual woman followed him with the Nervous Paint, she crept out of the edges of his broad costume and painted shadows stretching from the street lamps, and these shadows shifted a little; they fanned out; they shut tight; they slewed and swelled and rolled themselves right up around the sister’s passing door-knockered feet. They were loud-banging uncertain shadows.

The shadows were painted on every season, the old ones (these would be Winter’s) scraped up by a machine that recycled them, spewing the shadows into the night like a wood-chipper macerating a felled tree. Sometimes, and only in Spring Time, only out of sheer high spirits, the sister tore off a wisp of shadow and wiped away her tears with it.


Inky Interview Exclusive: Rus Khomutoff, a Neo-Surrealist Poet From Brooklyn

You are a neo surrealist language poet from Brooklyn. Congratulations on your new poetry collection, Immaculate Days, published by Alien Buddha Press. Can you tell us about it?

About 3 years ago I had a personal trauma and Immaculate Days grew out of that situation. Those were dark days in my life and channelling my feeling into poetry was natural for me.

What is it you love about poetry? Have you considered writing a novel or a play?

My talent for poetry comes from my father who encouraged me to write in high school. I remember he gave me his typewriter and gave me his blessings. I wrote extensively in high school but it was never serious, at least I never took it seriously. There were others who encouraged me to pursue poetry.

Can you share some of your poems and the inspiration behind them?

I wanted to dedicate a poem to William Carlos Williams and this was the result:

Sonic threshold of the sacred

To William Carlos Williams

What waxes wanes
the enforced reincarnation hour
and green quartz veins
over the mind of pride
Nowhere you!
Everywhere the electric!
the golden one
living in a poetic world, devouring words
these are the thoughts that run rampant
love paves the way to our existence

I watched an action movie called Nemesis, and I really wanted to use that word in a poem:

Nemesis sky

A secret transmission
a noncoincidence found in
infinitization of otherness
the flame under the rubble
traversed unceasingly by the horizon
interdependence of a cosmic trigger
blossom quick synastry
sweet bitter officialdom
of the nemesis sky

This poem was built like an improvisation:


Underneath the arches of these generalities
the past, present and future
of the eternal menagerie
like a bouquet of fire through the lyric
guilty pleasures that enter while you exit
cyan deserve claim
bestow kiss merge rot
speculate dragonfly
linked deletions and much more

What themes keep cropping up in your writing? What do you care about?

I am all over the map when it comes to themes, the most important thing about my writing is that what I write excites me.

When I write, the most important thing is honesty, being able to accurately channel that nexus of feelings and emotions is key.

If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be?

Poets in general should be more supportive of each other.

Who inspires you and why?

Synth music, disco….I am a keen observer. The sights and sounds of the city…..Lately I have adopted the philosophy of a radical acceptance. I am not a practicing Buddhist, however I relate to a lot of Buddhist concepts.

What advice would you give to your younger self?

Being young you take a lot of blind chances. I have dealt with substance abuse and depression. I am hesitant to give any advice to anyone. All I can say is that you educate yourself and find yourself, because each person is a unique manifestation.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

No, not really…I think writing is a magical art and each individual finds their own footing in it.

What are you reading at the moment?

Last year I discovered two phenomenal poets-Ric Carfagna and Felino A. Soriano, they have really changed me as a writer. My writing was missing spice and I added some.

What is next for you? What plans have you got?

My friend Mark Sheeky from England has expressed a desire to collaborate with me on a project.

Follow Rus on Twitter 

Get Your Copy of Immaculate Days

Poetry Drawer: Asymmetry At Full Blast by Gabriella Garofalo

Asymmetry at full blast,
Angels nowhere to be seen if clouds
Bristling like freshers over a failed test
Get her wired –
Is it you, the shroud of blessed sleep?
Anyone here? No way.
The bloody sniper’s on the ball,
Aren’t you, my light?
So no need for ads no time for reps,
Forget slush, schmaltz,
Just let dogs snap bits of blue-green mould
Trimming corpses adrift,
Let tattooed guys sip booze and pewter skies
And glassy-eyed winos breathe starvation
As words live elsewhere, under lilac skies –
Or are they periwinkle? –
Fancy that, last night lilac flowers –
Or were they periwinkle? –
Got up in arms rotten sick of their job,
They can’t dance on her skirt, that bloody fabric –
Of course she fell face down from her bike,
See if –
Me? Oh, I woke up to a fluo light:
Anyone here? Is it you, the shroud of blessed sleep?
Sure, light, I know, God bit ruthless,
‘Cept here they are, limbs in a wheelchair
And their sulky caregivers:
Ever seen the breath of life?
Not that you can spot it,
What with mannequins in red panamas,
Sneering grins and plumpish ladies asking
’Is evil odd or even?’ –
Sure, light, I know, God bit ruthless,
‘Cept here she comes, darn, poetry here,
All glints in her eyes, waves at you
And bloody tangled in your cheap tat.

Inky Interview Special: Gerard Sarnat, a California-based Poet and Social Activist

Can you tell us about yourself?

Thank you for the invitation, Deborah. I’m a 72-year-old California-based poet and social activist, and have worked as a physician, Stanford professor, and healthcare CEO in the past.

What is it you love about poetry?

For me writing poetry is an elevated, cleansing, meditative experience.

Can you talk us through the inspiration behind your poems Bronx Rails & Poet Pourri?

Bronx Rails was inspired by the Red Wheelbarrow fast-food joint in the surreal, often dysphoric TV show Mr. Robot, riffing off fellow doc-poet William Carlos Williams.


solicited or not, fsociety is tracking you this Christmas.
Blur between whore art and slush pile poetry/fiction requires a transvestite prophet’s high priest magical robes.
Dark army dares Costanza Paoli to open Evil Corp’s attachment.
Or on second thought, fuck that, trust white rose below.

The Red Wheelbarrow
ORIGINALLY XXII from Spring and All (1923)

so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white

A century later, these words of William Carlos Williams, New Jersey family doctor
& poet, nurture fsociety’s Mr. Robot with Coney Island anarchic hackers’ barbeque.
Scrapping high school-ers say, ‘What fur? Let’s meet at the bike racks at 3.’

Poet Pourri originated as a nod to recently deceased poet John Ashbery: his unpredictability has always been a welcome challenge to a physician trained to write linearly and logically.


i) Nitroglycerin Terminology

“What I am trying to get at is a general, all-purpose experience —
like those stretch socks that fit all sizes,” John Ashbery

climate crisis
denier —
clicks & brick
blows up chest

iI) lonelyhearted misanthrope

neon planet DNA howl, lab
sow or cease cow passages
north, hungry chimera still
point streetcake patchwork,
paperlined mothy penniless
press wolf’s words w/out jam

What themes keep cropping up in your writing? What do you care about?

Deeply loving family whose private satisfactions allow me publicly to go out tilting at windmills, for instance, setting up and staffing under-resourced homeless clinics, fighting for Middle East peace as a member of the International Board of the New Israel Fund.

Have you ever been on a literary pilgrimage?

Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris. Sort of namesake Sarnath in India where at The Deer Park, The Buddha gave his first sermon on The Dharma. Scores of times being in the presence of iconic older Jewish brothers: Leonard Cohen, may he rest in peace.

My wife and I were at Oldchella in 2016 to be in the presence of Bob Dylan. A photo and short article of us was published in the New York Times

If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be?

For the vast preponderance of Homo sapiens lineage, we have been undomestivate wild animals foraging in Hobbesian “nasty, brutish and short” ways just to stay alive. Humans, particularly testosteroned XY males, are slowly learning how to be civilized, how to live together..

What are you reading at the moment?

Under-appreciated Bill Knott’s poetry collection I Am Flying Into Myself and Nobel Laureate Orhan Pamuk’s, The Red-Haired Woman.

Who inspires you and why?

Barack Obama, Thich Nhat Hanh, my youngest daughter (who’s recently started a family), among many others.

Tell us about one of the best days of your life.

Although I’m particularly drawn to Burning Man’s sense of community and openmindedness and adventure — my middle son and I have been there together many times — other edgier aspects are not for me. The Ecstasy Tent At Burning Man is wonderful.

What is next for you? What plans have you got?

For the last week, this new member of the Orphans’ Club has grieving the loss of my 102 year-old mother.

Personally, my wife of nearly a half century and I are pretty much on the circuit travelling among our three kids and four grandkids. Next stop: the room we stay in Los Angeles above our oldest’s garage.

Poetically, I’m beginning to envision publishing my fifth collection which ventures deeply into visual and concrete poetry.

Gerard’s Website

Poetry Drawer: Loving by Stephen Mead

To know another’s pain & plunge
further, to explore, to hold it, a pistil
flowering within…
To know consolation as desire &
find the boomerang of it returning
the same on passion’s Catherine Wheel,
that rack too of roses suddenly thorn-less
once fear’s disclosure becomes the surprise
of acceptance yet, of tender mutuality…

Oh darling, turn me over.  Go up.
For all the time it has taken
now is the right time.

Poetry Drawer: Golden Giant by Hongri Yuan: Translated by Yuanbing Zhang

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.

Golden Giant: Translated by Yuanbing Zhang

Who is sitting in the heaven and staring at me?
Who is sitting in the golden palace of tomorrow?
Who is smiling?
The golden staff in his hand
Flashing the dazzling light
Ah, the flashes of lightning
Inter-weaved over my head
I walked into a crystal corridor of the time
I want to open
The doors of gold
Lines of words in the sun
Singing to me in the sky
I want to find
The volumes of gold poems
On the shores of the new century
To build the city of gold.

Laozi with rosy cheek and white hair
Smiling at me in the clouds
A phoenix danced trippingly
And carried in a book of gold.

Lines of mysterious words
Made my eyes drunken
Countless giant figures
Came towards me from the clouds.

The times of seventy million years
Emerged leisurely before my eyes
The cities of gold
Surrounded with the crystals garden.

The sky of sapphire
Sent out the colourful miraculous brightness
On the green hills of jasper
Dragons and phoenixes were flying.

Exquisite pagoda
Majestical palace of gold
The airy pavilions and pagodas
Standing in the purple-red clouds.

The laughing girls
Riding the colourful husbands and wives
The propitious clouds
Sprinkling the colourful flowers.

I opened the door to a golden palace
Saw the rows of scrolls of the gold
A giant with the haloes all over his body
There was a golden sun over his head.

With smiles, he picked up the books of gold
Recited the sacred verses
I was intoxicated with miraculous wonderful words
Surrounded with the purple-gold flames all over his body.

A golden lotus
Bloomed beneath my feet
Lifted up my body
Wafted up from the golden palace.

The red clouds
Drifting by my side
Outside of the sky I saw
Another golden paradise.

The leisurely bells
Calling to me
The countless giants
Roaming in a golden garden.

The sky of the ruby
The rounds of sun
Like the golden lotus
Blooming in the sky.

The intoxicating fragrance of flowers
Like the sweet good wine
The golden trees
Were laden with the dazzling diamonds

The wonderful flowers
Bloomed for thousands of years
The land of gold
Inlaid with the gems.

The pavilions of gold
Strewn at random and overlapped
Someone was playing chess
Someone was chatting.

Quaint clothes
Colossal statures
Miraculous eyes
Happy and comfortable.

The white cranes
Flying in the sky
The husbands and wives
Crowing leisurely.

Beside the old man, I came
As if he was waiting for me
On the golden pavilion
He opened an ancient sword casket.

A glittering ancient sword
Engraved some abstruse words and expressions
Were clear and transparent like lightning –
A dimly glowing purplish-red pattern.

He told me a metaphysical epic
The sword came from nine billions years ago
Which, was made from hundreds of millions of suns
It was a sacred sword of the sun.

It could pierce the rocks of time
Open the layer after layer skies
Let the sacred fire smelt the heaven and the earth
Into the golden paradises.

The old man’s eyes were deep, archaic and abstruse
Dimly shone the joyful flames-
He let me take this sword
To fly towards a new golden paradise.

The huge golden lotus floated leisurely
I flew over the sky thousands of miles away
The huge pyramids
Impressively in front of my eyes.

The mountainous figure of giants
Walked about in front of the pyramid
The huge pyramids of gold
Were much taller than the mountains.

The giant trees of gold
Like a forest
Stood in the sky
Laden with the stars.

There in the multi-coloured propitious clouds,
Was a huge bird
In the silvery sky
Crowing joyfully.

I came to the front of a pyramid
A door was opening wide
A group of blonde giants sat
With smiles in the grand palace.

There as a holy great old man
reciting the singular language-
The temple was painted with magic symbols and
Giant pictures of gods

The palace was full of silvery white light
blooming with huge wonderful flowers
A peal of wonderful mellifluous bells
made the person suddenly forget all time.

I heard an immemorial verse
It was written hundreds of millions of years ago;
It related countless eras of giants
that created the holy kingdoms of heaven.

Their wisdom was sacred and great
and knew completely the past and the future of the universe
They flew freely in the sky
Landed on the millions of planets in the universe.

They made time change at your pleasure
Which could reach spaces
Make a stone turn into gold-
Make the gold bloom flowers.

They were like the round sun
Which could erupt the sacred flames-
Let all things blaze in raging flames
Turn into their imagination works.

They landed on the planets
Established the golden paradises
with their magic abstruse wisdom
and built the platinum cities.

I saw the gorgeous words
Flashing in the volume of gold
And the magical wonderful halos
Rotating like coloured lightning in the sky.

I came to another wonderful heaven and earth
And saw a huge edifice of platinum
The whole city was like a piece of work
Sending out quietly the brilliant white light.

A huge round square
Encased some unearthly works
The giants of great stature
Came and went leisurely in the street.

They wore singular clothes
Shone all over their bodies
With smiles on their face
Both men and women looked beautiful.

They spoke wonderful language
which was as intriguing and pleasant as music
Some of them run moved by
Spaceship flying around silently in the sky.

I walked into a huge edifice of platinum
Saw a magnificent hall
Platinum wall was inlaid with gems
There were also a row of unusual instruments.

Their eyes were like bright springs
They wore multi-coloured clothes
Some of them were operating instruments
Some of them were talking with each other, softly.

I saw a magical picture
With drawings of giant planets,
There the cities stood
And there also, were crystal gardens.

I opened a crystal door
Saw a group of happy men and women,
They were singing softly
The blinking books of gold were in their hands.

Both the clusters of flower and the glasses of golden wine
Were on the huge round table
The golden walls were sparkling
Carved with all kinds of wonderful pictures.

I saw a demure girl
The golden halo was sparkling on her head
She was dressed in a purple-gold longuette
which was as peerless as a sculpture.

The pages were marked with whimsical words
Like lines of ancient magic symbols
Each book was made of gold
Like a golden crystal.

I understood their euphonious songs
They were singing of the sacred love
They were singing about great ancestors;
they were recounting the civilization of the universe.

Their city had gardens everywhere
Surrounded with sweet rivers
The whole earth was a piece of jade
And the clay was a layer of transparent golden sand.

I saw some white-bright huge balls
Suspended high above the city
The giant balls were sending out dazzling light
And the heaven and the earth shone as bright as the crystal.

The towering great buildings stood in great numbers
As if they were carved by a whole piece of platinum
Both the doves and some colourful
birds were flying in the sky.

I saw a singular train
Flying swiftly forward in the sky
The streets were white and bright
And any moving vehicle could not been seen.

Their bodies were unusually strong
Playing a wonderful game,
They piled up the pieces of great stones
into some grotesque works.

Both like some giant eyes
And some ancient totems
There were also some strange birds
Covered with lightning feathers all over their bodies.

I saw a couple of tall lovers
They aviated a spaceship
Their eyes were quiet and bright
A colourful halo shone around their bodies.

The wonderful space was gyrating leisurely
Like a huge, resplendent crystal
I said goodbye to the unusual city
And moved towards a space of golden light.

The cities flashed in the sky
I flew over the layers of the sky again
And I saw a newfangled world-
A multi-coloured city of crystal.

The high towers were exquisitely carved,
Shining like multi-coloured pearls
The layers of eaves were painted with dragon and phoenix
There hung the singing golden bells.

The earth was a crystal garden
The palaces were limpid and crystal
Huge mountains were like transparent gems
Lined with the golden trees.

I saw tall giants
Wearing purple clothes
There was a round sun above their heads
And their bodies reflected a shining halo.

They sat up in the main halls
Singing a mellifluous song
Some were roaming leisurely in the garden
Some were summoning the birds in the sky.

The crystalline airy pavilions and pagodas
Were beset with jewels and agates
A huge jewel on the spire
Shining the golden lights.

I saw a holy giant
Sitting in the middle of a main hall
The purple-gold flame flashed around his body
Filling the whole majestic main hall.

Full-bodied fragrance filled the hall
Like a cup of refreshing wine
Solemn expression was merciful and joyful
A huge book was in his hand.

The hall was full of men and women
Listening quietly to the psalms of the saints
The lotuses were floating in the sky
where the smiling giants sat.

The golden light poured down from the sky
Bathing the crystal kingdom
The jewels above the giant
towers were golden suns.

The golden walls of a golden tower
Were carved with lines of flashing words
Flying around the dragons and phoenixes
as if they were intonating the inspiring poems.

The smiling giants had huge halos
That flashed around their bodies;
Each was dignified and tranquil
Floating in the golden transparent sky.

I flew over the crystal kingdom
And saw the vast golden mountain in the distance
That was sending out the brilliant lights in the sky
Where the propitious clouds were blossoming.

There was a golden giant
sitting in the golden transparent sky
His body was composed of thousands of millions of constellations;
the golden sun was rotating on his forehead.

He lit up the whole marvellous universe;
the kingdoms of heaven shone in the sky
Here there was not the sky or earth
The up-down four-direction were the lights of pure gold.

The smiling giants were sitting
on the gold-engraved pavilions
The pavilions levitated in the transparent sky
shining the layers of purple-gold light.

There were multi-coloured transparent mountains
Propitious clouds floated in the sky;
large wonderful flowers were blooming in the mountain peaks
And there were also trees of light.

A river flowed from the sky
and the bottom reflected a layer of golden sand
There were strange and beautiful birds and
the beasts were like some aerial phantoms.

This was a world of light
Everything was made of light
The divine light formed all things,
And the golden paradises.

The golden giant I saw was
Shining the kingdoms of heaven in his body;
I saw the cities of gold
brilliant and fascinating in his bones.

I saw lines of extremely large words
arranged into a huge book in the sky
It seemed as if they were the bright stars
constituted a wonderful drawing.

There was a golden pavilion in the sky
floating around with huge dragons and phoenixes
An old man with a whisk
waved to me and smiled.

I was attracted by the magical
Leisurely, I came to his side
He told me the golden giant
Was my great ancestor.

This was an eternal palace
With no sense of time
Holy light was God
What I saw was better than heaven.

He pointed to the huge book in the sky
and told me that it held the mystery of the universe
The book contained magical wisdom
and created the countless worlds of gold.

He pointed to a pagoda in the sky
Told me that was the temple of words;
the light turned into the sacred words
and the words created the time of gold.

He held up a very large pearl
In which flashed pictures
He told me that it was the future
It was all of the wonderful worlds.

He told me that it was another universe.
I wanted to go to the other paradises
He gave me the magical pearl
and said it would be my future guide.

I said goodbye to the holy old man
I set foot on a new road of the heaven again
I sat in a golden pavilion
Lightly flew to the distant outer space.



谁 坐在天上向我凝望

谁 坐在明天的黄金殿堂

谁 微笑着



































































































Flash In The Pantry: Pushing Up Daisies by Michael Murray

‘No, no, no,’ he was thinking as he was waking. ‘Too early.’

‘Damn birds. Damn, damn.’ His protestations lacked the vigour to drive him up and doing. He pulled the covers over his head. But he lay there tense. He knew; that was enough. Too much light. Too much…busyness. It was in the air. And it was stifling under there.

‘Someone turned on the heating? I’ll kill… The bills!’

But it wasn’t that. What it was, he knew, he had to shell-out for a new mattress. Sticking into his back again.

‘Memory foam. Not one of these…with metal bits sticking up into you…’

But at least this got him up and dressed.

‘Something…was it King Albert? Edward? Someone who shoulda known better, died through…tetanus…septicaemia…from a bed spring?’

And that had him washed and dressed, and presenting himself downstairs.

A cheer as he walked into the workshop. Sarky lot, he groused. He looked at their beaming, lively faces.

‘Come on, Granddad. Get this down you.’ A mug of strong tea. Too strong, His constitution…there’s a word from his younger days, when he had the gift o’ the gab… Well, his stomach could no longer take it.

They meant well. He looked at them again, felt a warmth for them. A part of him whipped out, ’Infectious. Infectious good-will.’ And that part of him knew that bode ill.

And then they brought out the chair. The wheelchair. He froze. That anger felt good; he felt better. Slightly. But he couldn’t sustain it. To his shame, and yet…relief, admit it…he slipped into it, as if into a made-to-measure suit. He thought about it, his old wardrobe, those suits up there. Maybe he could donate them. The styles, well. They say it all comes round every twenty years or so. So…

They were all looking at him. Their young, eager, and innocent expressions. It was an unhurried, but expectant look. Does that look have a name? He no longer cared…cared to follow through, find the lost connections. Is youth an expression? It’s…an age…thing…

‘Let him rest,’ they were saying, looking over to him. Benevolent, he thought, that’s it. That’s the word. He’d slumped. They’d left him near a window, and it was too bright, too hot.

‘Has one o’ yous put the heating on?’ But he couldn’t get the tone right. It came out like a snarl. Had he upset them now? But the bills!

‘Come on, old man,’ they were saying, gently – like to an old pet? No, there was respect in their faces, their manner. His students. And suddenly he felt proud of them.

‘Just this one last job, eh?’ They wheeled him to the engine room, lifted his hands to the iron wheel.

‘Easy, now,’ they soothed. ‘Just one last slow, steady push. Then it’s all over, eh. Plenty of sleep.

Those daisies don’t rise by themselves, Mr Winter.’

Flash In The Pantry: Jack by Andrew Williams

Birds sang in the bare branches of the trees. The air had a fresh, new smell to it, the very earth exhaling as the days grew longer. Mary pulled her winter jacket a little tighter around her shoulders. The sun was bright but it gave out little warmth. It would be a few more weeks before the jacket was no longer required.

Spring at last, Jack.’

She carefully set a canvas bag beside her and knelt down to tend the soil. She could feel the damp even through her denim jeans. They’d probably need to go in the wash later.

I thought that winter would never end. You’d like that, I suppose – school closing and all that snow for sledding.’

She took the gardening fork from her bag and began to dig into the earth. The cold and wet weather had left it packed together; no use for planting. Still, at least the weeds weren’t a problem yet, though they would be next month.

You remember that snowman we made last year? Ping pong balls for eyes and a carrot for a nose. I put one of your caps on it and said you looked like twins.’

The soil tilled, she put the fork aside and took a plastic wrapped bundle from her bag.

Crocuses,’ she said. ‘They’ll look lovely when they come up.’

She gently pushed the bulbs into the soil, then covered them back over. There was no need to water them; the ground was damp enough already.

She packed up her bag and stood up. A cold breeze blew over her and she shivered.

Mind you, the daffodils are coming up nicely. They should be flowering any day now.’

The birds sang. She breathed deeply, feeling the crisp chill of the air in her lungs.

How is daddy? I miss you both, you know. It hurt me so much when you went to join him. But that wasn’t your fault, I know.’

She wiped away a speck of dirt from her eye.

Your daddy left when you were so young. Did you even remember him?’ She sighed, her breath like steam upon the cold air. ‘I suppose that doesn’t matter. You’re together now.’

The wind blew through the bare branches of the trees.

I should have paid more attention to you. I should have listened. And now all I have are these visits. I can’t hug you like I used to. I can’t kiss you on the cheek before you walk through the school gate. I let you down, and you were taken from me.’

She fought off the tears. She’d cried too many already.

I’m sorry, Jack. Mummy comes whenever she can. And now that spring is here, I’ll come every week. I promise.’

She turned away, following the path that led out of the gardens. Behind her, the polished black marble glistened under a coat of morning dew.