The Ballad of Margaret Murphy. A poem by Jennifer Wenn

Jennifer Wenn pic

The Ballad of Margaret Murphy


The spring of another century,
an ancient land cherished and
cared for by First Nations
now flooded by waves of settlers
from an ocean away and beyond,
British, Irish and more, 
all escaping and searching.

Upper Canada in the newcomers’ parlance,
cradled by the Great Lakes, the budding
towns, villages and homesteads
of the 1830’s ruled by a masculine
colonialist elite in distant York;
and caught up in the tides of history
was an Irish girl named Margaret.

Rugged Ireland, the Emerald Isle,
home to music, poets and pride,
and, even before the great famine,
home to some lured by opportunity
said to beckon from Upper Canada,
including young Margaret,
a daughter of the prolific Murphy clan.

Fate took her to the heart of the peninsula,
an area replete with United Empire Loyalists
escaping the revolutionary States;
Quakers, Baptists and Methodists
seeking freedom of worship;
site of Norwichville, boasting a tavern,
and so many called the town Sodom.

David Hagerman, born in hilly
Duchess County New York,
wife Frances and three daughters, 10, 5 and 1;
established in Sodom now, aged 40,
a carpenter, a big man in town;
this David needed a servant, and
Margaret Murphy needed a position.

As summer 1837 faded into fall, Hagerman’s
walls hummed with the master’s complaints:
The Family Compact in York control everything,
they’re corrupt, filched a pile of land
hereabouts for the Church of England;
floors meanwhile hummed with the relentless
swish of Margaret’s broom.

Just back from Bedford’s Inn, David trumpeted,
William Lyon Mackenzie in York is the hope,
Dr. Duncombe is our man here,
we’ve got the Norwich Political Union now,
I’m the Quartermaster, we’re not letting this stand!
And on it went; what next, wondered Miss Murphy,
crouched low cleaning out the fireplace.

Fall wore into winter, December stole in,
rebel officers met at Hagerman’s,
nervous whispers of but treason? swept aside by
glorious cries of taking up arms to help Mackenzie,
Duncombe’s brigade coming together,
and on it went; trouble, thought Margaret,
cleaning up detritus from the great conclave.

December 12, Margaret, remember this day!
Cross and Davis wouldn’t give up their guns
but we got supplies from Wallace’s store.
Duncombe has a sword, pistols and a dagger;
Mackenzie’s taken York, we are off to capture Brantford!
That’s all well and good muttered Margaret,
but I’m off to the laundry and linens.

It’s all fallen apart, we only got to Burford,
Mackenzie failed, the Queen’s Militia is marching,
Duncombe is a coward and vanished,
Luke Peasley is hiding in a swamp,
I can’t stay, the Loyalists are looking for me,
Frances, take care of the girls;
Margaret—you are in charge here now.  Farewell.

Rumors were flying through town,
Loyalists said to be on the rampage,
not just hunting men on the run
but scavenging for abandoned loot.
Brave and Hospitable, so ran the Murphy motto.
The first part leapt to the fore;
the second stepped into the shadows.

Floors, fireplaces and laundry
gave way to fearless command,
the day well and truly seized:
If they’re coming, I need to be ready;
I think I know where he keeps
a couple of convincing helpers.
I’ll be damned if that rabble gets anything here!

 
Wild Irish shores birthed the Murphy name
centuries ago, Sea Warrior the noble wellspring.
A long way from the coasts was Margaret
but the martial blood ran true;
a long way from the ocean and no trident here,
but land-bound kindred implement
awaited her tenacious grasp.

Up strode the mob, all bluster and swagger,
Hagerman’s gone to ground, easy pickings here.
But in the doorway stood an Irish lass,
hair a-billowing, savage look in her eye,
two pistols stuck in her belt,
angry pitchfork primed and ready:
By God you’ll get nothing here!

Sweet words and appeals to reason
availed naught but oaths and imprecations;
smirks soon soured to grim realization,
threats beget counterthreats,
haughty barging in quashed by
tines to the throat or a gun barrel to the gut:
You can all go to Hell, you’ll get nothing here!

Defeated by implacable feminine will,
would-be pillagers slunk off
in search of easier plunder,
pistols and pitchfork showing them the way,
assorted curses ringing in their ears,
young Margaret looming triumphant,
spirit ablaze with history and the moment.

The government did change, but not yet,
Hagerman caught and tried for high treason;
acquitted, to the shock of many,
returning home to an intact house,
thirty years of a henceforth peaceful life
and a servant named Margaret,
still cleaning, but never the same again

Jennifer Wenn is a trans-identified writer and speaker from London, Ontario.   Her first poetry chapbook, A Song of Milestones, has been published by Harmonia Press (an imprint of Beliveau Books).  She has also written From Adversity to Accomplishment, a family and social history; and published poetry in Beliveau Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Watchyourhead, Open Minds Quarterly, Tuck Magazine, Synaeresis, Big Pond Rumours, the League of Canadian Poets Fresh Voices, Wordsfestzine, and the anthologies Dénouement and Things That Matter.  She is also the proud parent of two adult children.  Visit her website at https://jenniferwennpoet.wixsite.com/home  

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Today’s Vision for Tomorrow’s Mission. A poem by Hillol Ray

Hillol Ray 2nd Photo

Women Empowerment:

Today’s Vision for Tomorrow’s Mission

In a globalized world, gender equality
And empowerment of women are tools
To achieve sustainable development of societies,
As admitted even by fools!
Still, the violence towards women is an epidemic
Against which no country is immune.
And today, we face more challenges to peace
Due to poverty, hunger, and disease.

In the arena of politics, the poor are excluded
From governance, irrespective of gender.
And women are victims of other people’s decisions
Because they are assumed to be tender!
Yet development strategies will fail
Unless women become central players
They must be included in peacemaking,
Despite the objections of naysayers

Women suffer disproportionately from the fallout
Of the armed conflicts we’re seeing
While rape, forced pregnancies, and sexual slavery
Persist and endanger their wellbeing
Determined efforts must be made
To prevent abuse and violations
And lawmakers must be enabled
To punish violence and predations

Civilized minds can’t but hover over
All the ways basic standards of dignity
And humanity have been trampled over
To oppress women’s rights and equality
I too have spent many a night
Thinking without cessation
Trying to solve the plight
Of women in developing nations

Men need education on the rights of women
To keep them safe from violence or abuse.
They must recognize women’s place in every sphere,
Without blowing their “mental fuse”!
Remember, violence against women is not a
“Women’s issue” alone. It affects us all.
The grounds for tolerance of such acts, the edifice
Of laws granting impunity must fall!

I am assured that no peace strategy is likely to be
Durable in the absence of women’s voices.
Men must hear the perspectives
Of women before making hard choices.
We should capitalize on the impetus
That women and girls can bring.
To resolve conflicts and make peace
Let’s make women the king!

Studies show that globalization may contribute
To making the issue of women’s rights better known.
Yet the negative impacts of new tech continue
And on reports they are neatly shown.
Criminal networks still traffic women
For sexual exploitation and cheap labor.
Around the world dirty money flows
To the detriment of young women and girls.

Democracy, to my mind, will succeed
Only if there’s true representation for all.
And women in all communities must be allowed
To voice their opinions, large or small.
Tunnel vision about women’s roles
And abilities has to change.
If we want to build a better future.
Heed my call: Be an agent of change!

To reduce gender inequality, women have to be made
Part of politics more than ever before,
And encouraged to “sink or swim”
Until they reach the executive shore.
Yet statistics reveal that politics remain
A bastion of male dominance today.
Even in countries where women are active,
In fields like business, they have little sway.

Women of developed nations have to raise
The consciousness of the world now
And serve as engines of progress for women
Of developing nations with an indelible vow!
A shift in outlooks and attitudes
Towards women is needed this hour
To eliminate violence, honour
Their basic rights, and empower.

Let’s focus today on creating societies
Built on the strength of women, young and old,
And honour their role in establishing peace and security
Rather than as commodities to be traded or sold.
Let us endeavour to make real these goals
To clear all obstacles and collectively say,
Erect bridges and ladders instead of walls,
Tomorrow’s mission must start today.

Friends, the fight has just begun for
Gender equality and women’s might.
To promote security, trust, and contentment
Let’s all get on women’s side.
Today I offer my unstinting support for creating
A culture of peace and laws we won’t doubt,
Ones that help us harness the power of women
And the wisdom and fortitude we can’t do without.

The original version of this poem was recited at the Federal Women’s Equality
Day Celebration Workshop (held on August 26, 2006), in the Dallas
Infomart Auditorium, and at the Third International Women’s Peace
Conference, July 13, 2007 (at the Adams Mark Hotel, in Downtown
Dallas, Texas, USA).

 

Hillol Ray is a Poet Laureate, Author, and Song Writer. By profession, Ray is an Environmental Engineer and Manager of the Drinking Water Supply Enforcement Program with the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) in Dallas, Texas. 

Born and raised in a suburb of Calcutta, India, he has been writing poetry since the age of six, in his native language Bengali. His poems are regularly published in Bengali magazines from Asia, Europe, Canada, Sweden, and North America and are currently being translated into English, Swedish, Spanish, German and French languages.

For further information, please visit https://bwesner.wixsite.com/hillolrayawards

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3 poems by Samantha Bernstein

Samatha Berenstein

Preciousness / Trash (Section 1 of 4)

1.	
Each to our addictions:
his, the alternate universe
of orderly violence
the current conducts
into our basement; mine
the porch, laptop a caught moon,
cigarette torch and fog
as I troll for words, those slippery
fish. Will my net be taut
or slack tonight?

My love gathers
digital weaponry, click click 
quick fingers that all day pecked
the best letters to compose
the news now make hard men
complete their missions. I 
pace kitchen to door,
nightly travels o’er
desecrated forest, my littered 
hardwood sacred to me
for shmeared with the grime
of my darlings. Their toe-prints
swirl there beneath the dirt and flour.
Wonders in the underbrush: 
small rabbits, tiny pitchers, beds,
groves of sole socks, string. So sing
the happy hours. Sprigs of pine,
candy wrappers.  
I squat
and lift, keep glutes afloat and 
words like cat hairs on the floor
gather and disperse as I 
decide, decide
what to pick up, 
what to ignore.  
	
Trash, preciousness – 
how talk
domestic life
at a time like this?
Mary Wollstonecraft, New Year’s Eve,
LRB podcast as I dust the stairs; the domestic
as mirror and microcosm. 
Progress.
My love suspends a sudsy bowl
orating his point; 
I make mine rag wiping. 





Impulse Control


I will not post on social
this hairball in its slime,
though kneeling over it, competent 
with peroxide and paper towel had a moment 
of wondering why	

 – the baby’s crying; will she quiet? – 

some facets of the domestic 
are so exalted over others. Are sourdough 
loaves so much more gorgeous than 
hills of unfolded clothes? 
It’s the craft, I suppose. Laundry 
cultivates itself. 
Though if you ever
had the pleasure 
of paper towel folded just so
to absorb a mess,
you know any moment you take
functional measure of a thing 
has its artistry.

I had been headed for a poem.
Who knows what, now?
On my knees there was
the red geranium in bloom
against the dark window
above my head. (It was Barthes 
who hated geraniums? Yes. Also
women in slacks. 
Related?) One wipes and thinks
and ministers to things,
and then it’s late. 
	
Be dark enough thy shades, and be thou 
	there content. 

This frittering is freedom.
If you have something to say, 
say it, else go
fold the laundry and watch a show, clean the hairball, 
gather that wad of undigested self, 
and throw it in the bin.





Miscarriage

The night I ejected
the embryo sac (at least I think
that’s what it was), I felt
a flash of performing this act, 
this messy process (body shunting 
object large enough to plink like a marble in water, 
days emitting blood and slime, some urgent shits) 
on a cold throne in dark woods, in a backroom pot with sixteen 
people, with servants to cover with cloth and remove.
It was the thought of telling
my husband downstairs that might have been it – the fact
that I could – carried me to what other women might tell;
my sense (as of threat) that these acts women do 
have often been repellant, thought wicked, 
reason for suspicion, dismissal, discipline.  
  To the tribunal in 1593, 
   the girl accused of abortion described her
   miscarriage in a field: The foetus slipped out
   like a piece of ham. 
There in my bright bathroom, carried through
a business uncountable bodies have known, gratitude
for sewerage, toilet paper, privacy, hot water, and the ability
I and most women I know possess – to describe without fear
a sense of the mess we clean up 
as the body resets, primes itself
for our next shot at life beyond death.

Samantha Annie Bernstein lives in Toronto/Dish With One Spoon Territory. She works as a contract professor, most recently teaching English and Creative Writing at Trent University.  Her scholarship focuses on intersections of ethics, aesthetics, affect, and politics.  These poems are taken from her forthcoming chapbook, Kitchen Island Poems (Gap Riot Press).  Her previous books are Here We Are Among the Living (Tightrope Books) and Spit on the Devil (Mansfield Press, 2017). 

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Home. A poem by Gordon Phinn

GordonPhinnPhoto

Home

Sipping on cold ales
As supper succumbs

To it own sense of perfection
While Paul O'Dette plucks the

Magic of John Dowland
In this candlelight where

Centuries wither into seconds,
We imbibe the soft trance of

Smiling in your own home,
Hearing ourselves whisper

The thanks that are due.

Gordon Phinn has been writing and publishing in a number of genres and formats since 1975, and through a great deal of change and growth in CanLit.  Canada’s literary field has gone from the nationalist birth pangs of ’65 – ’75 to its full blooming of the 80s and 90s, and it is currently coping as well as it can with the immediacy and proliferation of digital exposure and all the financial trials that come with it. Phinn’s own reactions was to open himself to the practices of blogging and videoblogging, and he now considers himself something of an old hand. His Youtube podcast, GordsPoetryShow, has just reached its 78th edition, and his my blog “anotherwordofgord” at WordPress continues to attract subscribers.

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Once Upon A Prison Metal Time… a poem by Denise Garvey

Once Upon a Prison Metal Time….
	
They feed you fairy tales with breast milk or
formula. It is all formula.

Little girls are really princesses
waiting for handsome princes or princesses to
kiss them better; whisk them off to their perfect lives.

Your mother says your expectations are so high
you’ll never find a prince to keep you in the style
to which you are accustomed.

At that moment you decide to keep yourself
in the family style and better.
Subscribe to a punitive regime of work and savings.

Live in your new home with no floor coverings
while you save for a kitchen linoleum.
Delight in its arrival so much you roll on it (alone) all evening.

Sleep in a thirty-year-old bed until you can buy your own.                                                                                                       Write long letters for years (the only pastime you can afford)
on borrowed furniture in the sitting room where voices echo.

The fairy tale says your parents love you, do everything they can to
care for you. They will not let you bleed all night from a botched
tonsillectomy although the doctor lives at the end of the cul-de-sac.

Then, the prison metal bed in a red tiled hospital
handcuffed to a bag of blood, abandoned, bewildered. Punished?

You get lots of presents, drink one-handedly from a babies feeding cup
although you are seven, left alone after visiting hours with other
imprisoned children, scabbed and burned, cuffed to hanging bags
beside their prison metal beds and prison metal cots.

That first bath afterwards turns terrifyingly red
while the nurse’s aide who bathes you says “It’s ok.”
When you get home, you are handed to the Home Help.

A little whisper, “They nearly lost you.”

The fairy tale says the charming prince will come and make it better.
You long for the apprentice-turned-managing-director you haven’t
dreamed of who works to treasure and look after you, just as you do him.

Your heart is ripped out when the boy next door
holds hands with the girl from down the parks.

Even Cinderella got to go to the ball. For the first time in your life
in the absence of a fairy godmother, you arrange to go to a ball
(and buy the simplest of ball gowns with your own sparse bobs).

Your mother is amazed you are so happy.

So happy, yet with a certain pecuniary sense, you stash plastic boxes of
cold sausages, bread rolls, tomatoes and a bottle of cheap red wine
behind the couch in the Trinity common room to sustain

you and your prince for the night and see the sun rise over Howth.
You walk home wearing his tuxedo.

You kiss a lot of toads.

You find a prince with a silk cravat to share your style now
fully floored and freshly furnished. Your mother says
she has been saying novenas on her knees for you, for decades.

You wake up in a nightmare. Your mother says
she knew from the beginning he was wrong but
“What God has joined together let no woman pull asunder”.

All those fairy tales end in happy ever after. Well into the
second half of your life you know that Happy Ever After is
Total F*@king Bunkum.

You know your own children don’t believe you did enough for them
though you scoured the kingdom for their gowns and finery.
Spent their hospital nights beside them on prison cold floors.

Like the three little pigs (although you only have two surviving children)
they have to build their own houses now, with their own princesses.
The wolves will huff and puff. Walls will topple. Foundations will shudder.

Denise Garvey directs a Maths and English study centre in Galway, Ireland. She has performed her poetry at several Irish Poetry festivals, and featured in an Irish Times review of performance poetry. Her work has featured in THE SHOp anthology of Poetry, New Irish Writing (Irish Times), Skylight magazine and Happiness is Vital. She is working towards her first collection.

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Platinum City. A poem in translation, by Hongri Yuan

Hongri

Platinum City 


By  Chinese Poet Hongri Yuan
Translated by Manu Mangattu
Assistant Professor, Department of English
St George College Aruvithura, India
manumangattu@gmail.com
www.mutemelodist.com


Ah! Of iridescent gems of time
The heavenly road you paved light！
In a kingdom of stars,
I found my home.
In the golden cities,
I opened the gates of the city to the sun,
To behold the godly giants.
At the royal palace of the jewel
I read of prehistoric wonderful poems
The enormous, gorgeous ancient books.
Carved with the golden words 
The wondrous strange mystery tales,
Made my eyes drunken.
I walked into the full new universes,
And saw the holy kingdoms:
Even before the earth was born
The erstwhile home of human history.

Across Time and Space in crystalline glitter
Stands this moment a platinum city –
The spaceships drifting leisurely,
Like the birds, resplendent in variegated hues.

In the crystal garden I saw
A crowd of youthful giants,
Their eyes were bright and glittering
In the aura of the body sparkle..

They sang happy songs
They danced a wonderful dance
Lanky boys and girls in pairs
As if to celebrate the splendid carnival.

I saw a circular edifice
High above the city.
Giving out white-bright lightnings.
Raised ground to fly into the quiet space.

A frame of platinum edifice
Creating a beautiful pattern.
The whole city is a circle
Arranged into a fine structure.

Into a bright hall I went.
A strange instrument there I saw.
A huge screen hanging on the wall,
Displaying a golden space.

Like bits of colourful crystal gemstones!
Resplendent with variegated colours of the city!
Those strange and beautiful high-rise buildings
A sight better than the myth of the world.

I saw lines of strange letters.
On one side of the screen flashed swiftly
Numerous young and strong giants
An effort to concentrate on the changing images.

Their look is quiet and peaceful.
The learned flame flashes in their eyes.
In a flash of clothes
The next is a whole.

Their stature, unusually tall.
Each one is well-nigh seven meters high.
Both men and women look dignified
Almost no age difference apparent.

Their skin is white as snow
With a faint flashy shine
Bright eyes are as naive as an infant’s
Also kindled with a strange flame.

They manipulate the magic of the instrument.
The pictures of the changing space.
Their language is artless and plane.
As the bell is generally pleasant.

As I survey the length and breadth of the bright hall
I feel a powerful energy
Body and mind suffused with bliss and delight.
As if I too am a giant.

I seem to understand their language.
They are exploring the mysteries of the universe.
The cities on a lot of planets
Peopled with their countless partners.

Their mind they use to manipulate the instrument
Also can to transfer data be used
Even thousands of miles apart
Also to talk free to the heart.

Many lines of text on the screen
Is but a message from afar.
The whole universe is their home.
They build cities in space.

They use the spaceships 
To transport you to far-distant other spaces.
Into a lightning, a moment, and you
Vanish into thin air, without a trace.

I feel a new civilization.
They have magical eyes.
They seem to be able to see the future
And can enter diverse time-spaces.

Men and women are holy and loving
Superior to our world's so-called love
They don't seem to understand ageing
Neither do they know about war.

Time seems not to exist
Science is jut a wonderful art
Their happiness comes from the creation of
A universe full of divine love.

I saw a young giant
Opening the door of a platinum 
A round, magnificent hall
Packed with rows of giant s of men and women.

I saw a crystal stage.
Gyrating at the center of the hall.
Where a dignified and beautiful girl
Was playing a huge musical instrument.

A bunch of golden rays,
Shifting with all kinds of brilliant graphics
A mysterious and beautiful music
Like the Dragon leisurely crowing.

Thence I saw an enormous giant
Jump out of the remarkable dance onto the stage.
His hands held a huge ball
Which flashed with many colourful drawing .

I saw a group of young girls
Wearing a kind of white dresses
They seemed to fly lightly
Like the giant cranes.

The huge circular hall was resplendent
With clear, transparent decoration.
Like a bizarre gem of a full set，
Scintillating brilliantly in the light.

I saw a young singer
About the golden flame
The sound was strange and striking
Like singing , like chanting too.

Their music is at once mysterious and blissful
That shift randomly like the lightning
As if many planets of the universe
Shining bright and light in space.

The crystal city, aloft in space
Looks resplendent, magnificent
Countless wonderful golden flowers
Bloom and blush in that flawless space.

I saw an image of a transparent smiling face,
As if it were a colourful garden
The sky shed the golden light 
And turned it into a city of gold.

I strode out of the circular hall
Came to a wide street with a smooth
Pavement covered with precious stones
And in line with the platinum edifice.

There are no terrestrial trees here,
But they are in full bloom with a lot of exotic flowers.
Sparkling with rich incense,
Shaping a garden at the center of the street.

Some strange flowers were there.
The branches as transparent crystal
Flashing all kinds of brilliant colours;
And bunches of round golden fruit.

I saw a huge statue.
It was like a spaceship.
Clustered around by shining stars,
High above the centre of the street.

I saw the column of a dazzling fountain
In a huge circle in the square;
The elegantly modelled statues
Portraying the holy giants.

The soaring magnificent edifices
Ran round the circle square.
There were some garden villas
There was a platinum steeple.

I saw a wide river
Girdling this huge city
The bottom flashed with transparent gold dust,
Amidst which were scattered brilliant gems.

The planning of tall trees on shore
And a long crystal corridor
A big multi-coloured bird
Three five one group floated on the surface of the water.

I saw a vast forest
The swaying tree, a tree of gold
The trees with towering spires
And as some platinum Pavilion.

I saw some giants along the walk,
Some male and female bodybuilders.
At the water's brink or in the forest
Like birds carefree and relaxed.

The wonderful space was as bright as crystal
Embraced this platinum city;
A giant, white and bright ball
Flashing boundless light into the air.

It resembled the huge suns
And like the man-made planets
The whole city was shining too,
Weaving a rare breed of magic.

A strange speeding train circled
About the city back and forth;
There seemed to be a kind of track in the sky
Like a shiny silver curve.

They seated body white buildings 
As if it was a dreamlike maze
This huge city was unusually quiet,
Could not even hear the sound of the wind.

I bade goodbye to the platinum city.
Near a golden space
Stands another city here
A huge city of gold.

The building here is also huge.
But it's another beautiful shape.
The whole city is glittering
Golden edifice as beautiful as sculpture.

Here there live some other giants.
As if from another nation
They have boundless wisdom.
Like a golden, holy civilization.
3.3. 1998



Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Acumen, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, Fine Lines, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are“Platinum City”and “Golden Giant”. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.

About the Translator
Manu Mangattu is an English Professor, poet, editor, director and rank-holder. He has published 7 books, 73 research articles and 36 conference papers apart from 14 edited volumes with ISBN. He serves as chief editor/editor for various international journals. He has done UGC funded projects and a SWAYAM-MOOC course (Rs 15 lakhs). Besides translations from Chinese and Sanskrit, he writes poetry in English as well as in Indian languages. He was named "Comrade to Poetry China" in 2016. A visiting faculty at various universities and a quintessential bohemian-vagabond, he conducts poetry readings, workshops and lectures when inspired. After an apprenticeship in Shakespeare under Dr Stephen Greenblatt, he currently guides 23 research scholars and mentors NET English aspirants.


白金城市
远红日

时间的五彩宝石啊
你铺成了光芒的天路
在一座星辰的王国
我找到了自己的家园
我打开一座座太阳的城门
在一座座黄金的城市
见到了一个个神圣的巨人
在那宝石镶嵌的皇宫
阅读了史前奇妙的诗篇
一部部古奥华丽的巨书
镌雕着黄金的词语
一篇篇玄奇美妙的故事
迷醉了我的双眼
我走进了一个个崭新的宇宙
看到了一座座圣洁的王国
在地球还没有诞生之前
曾经是人类的史前的家园
 
时空的水晶啊光芒闪耀
一座白金的城市矗立眼前
一只只飞船悠悠飘过
像一只只巨鸟五光十色
 
我看到一个个年轻的巨人
身体闪耀七彩的光环
他们的眼睛欢喜明亮
聚会在一座水晶的花园
 
他们唱着欢快的歌曲
跳着一种奇妙的舞蹈
一对对高大的少男少女
仿佛在庆贺盛大的节日
 
我看到一座圆形的巨厦
高高耸立在城市的上空
发出一道道白亮的闪电
高高地飞入宁静的太空
 
一座座通体白金的巨厦
构成了一个美妙的图案
整个城市是一个圆形
排列成一个精致的结构
 
我走进一座明亮的大厅
看到一排奇特的仪器
墙上悬挂巨大的屏幕
显映出一片金色的太空
 
一座座五光十色的城市
像一块块五彩晶莹的宝石
那些奇丽的高楼巨厦
胜过了人间幻想的神话
 
我看到一行行陌生的字母
在一面屏幕上匆匆闪过
几位年轻健壮的巨人
专注地观看变幻的图像
 
他们的神情宁静安然
两眼闪映智慧的光芒
穿着一种闪光的衣装
通体上下是一个整体
 
他们的身材异常高大
个个足有七米多高
男男女女容貌端庄
几乎没有年龄的区别
 
他们的皮肤洁白如雪
隐隐闪出亮丽的光泽
明亮的眼睛单纯如婴儿
又含着一种奇异的火焰
 
他们操纵神奇的仪器
变幻太空一幅幅图景
他们的语言简洁流畅
像钟磬一般悦耳动听
 
我端详这座明亮的大厅
感受到一种强大的能量
身心充满了幸福欢喜
自己也仿佛变成了巨人
 
我似乎听懂了他们的语言
他们在探索宇宙的奥秘
那一颗颗星球上的城市
住着他们无数个伙伴
 
他们用意念操纵仪器
也可以用意念传递信息
即使相距千里万里
也可以自由地用心交谈
 
那屏幕上的一行行文字
即是远方传来的信息
整个宇宙是他们的家园
他们在太空建造城市
 
他们乘坐的太空飞船
可以到达另外的空间
一瞬间化成一道闪电 
在空中变得无影无踪
 
我感受到一种新的文明
他们长着神奇的眼睛
他们似乎能看到未来
也能进入不同的时空
 
男男女女都圣洁慈爱
胜过人间所谓的爱情
他们仿佛不懂得衰老
也不知道什么叫战争
 
时间仿佛并不存在
科学就是奇妙的艺术
他们的快乐来自创造
对宇宙充满神圣的感情
 
我看到一位年轻的巨人
打开了一座白金的大门
一座圆形的华丽的大厅
坐满了一排排男女巨人
 
我看到一座水晶的舞台
旋转在这座大厅的中央
一位端庄美丽的少女
演奏着一种巨型的乐器
 
一束一束金色的光芒
变幻出各种奇妙的图形
一种玄妙动人的音乐
仿佛是龙凤悠然的啼鸣
 
我看到一位健美的巨人
在台上跳出奇异的舞蹈
他手中托起巨大的圆球
球内闪耀着彩色的画图
 
我看到一队妙龄的女郎
穿着一种雪白的裙裳
他们仿佛在翩翩飞翔
像是一只只巨大的仙鹤
 
巨大的圆厅金碧辉煌
像水晶一般清澈透明
又像是嵌满奇异的宝石
闪耀出一种绚丽的光芒
 
我看到一位年轻的歌手
全身缭绕着金色的火焰
那声音奇特而又优美
像是歌唱又像是吟诵
 
他们的音乐欢喜玄妙
像一道道闪电变幻莫测
仿佛是宇宙的一颗颗星球
在太空中闪烁亮丽的光芒
 
又仿佛一座座水晶的城市
在空中矗立宏伟辉煌
无数奇妙的金色的花朵
开满了清澈晶莹的太空
 
我看到一张张透明的笑脸
仿佛是一座缤纷的花园
金色的光芒从天空洒下
化成了一座座黄金之城
 
我走出了这座圆形大厅
来到一条宽阔的街道
光洁的路面嵌满宝石
两旁林立白金的巨厦
 
在这儿没有人间的树木
却盛开各种奇异的花朵
浓郁芳香又闪闪发光
形成了一座座街心花园
 
这是一些奇特的花木
枝干透明仿佛水晶
闪烁各种奇妙的颜色 
还有一串串金色的圆果
 
我看到一座巨大的塑像
仿佛一个太空飞船
高高地耸立在街头中心     
周围闪耀一颗颗星球
 
我看到一柱柱晶莹的喷泉
在一座巨大的圆形广场
一座座造型优美的雕像
刻画出一个个圣洁的巨人
 
一座座巍峨壮丽的巨厦
环绕着这座圆形的广场
巨厦的上面是一些花园
还有一座座白金的尖塔
 
我看到一条宽广的河流
怀抱着这座巨大的城市
水底闪映出透明的金沙
还有一颗颗七彩的宝石
 
岸边排列高大的花木
和一条条水晶的长廊
一种色彩亮丽的大鸟
三五一群在水面飞翔
 
我看到一座广阔的树林
摇曳着一树树黄金的树叶
树林中耸立一座座尖塔
又仿佛一些白金的楼阁
 
我看到一些漫步的巨人
男男女女健美潇洒
或在水边或在林中
像鸟儿一般逍遥自在
 
奇妙的太空亮如水晶  
怀抱着这座白金城市
一只一只白亮的巨球
在空中闪放无际的光明
 
仿佛是一颗颗巨大的太阳
又像是一颗颗人造的星球
整座城市也闪放光芒
形成一种神奇的景象
 
一种奇特的飞驰的列车
在城市上空回环往复
天空中仿佛有一种轨道
像一条银白闪亮的曲线
 
那一座座通体白亮的巨厦
仿佛是一座座神奇的迷宫
巨大的城市异常宁静
甚至听不到风儿的声音  
 
我告别了这座白金城市
奔向了一片金色的太空
在这儿矗立另一座城市
一座巨大的黄金之城
 
这儿的建筑同样巨大
却是另一种美丽的造型
整座城市金光灿烂
黄金的巨厦美如雕塑
 
这儿生活着另一些巨人
仿佛来自另一个民族
他们拥有伟大的智慧
像黄金一般圣洁的文明
1998.3.3  北京

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3 poems by Nicoleta Crăete

overturned dream 

love is a scaffold where we sleep
whereas our sleep has a sight towards birds

don’t make yourself a cradle from a watered woman’s hair
a bird has built a nest in it
so it could die

you are to plant it the next day
and you will know
that you know nothing that you know
while reading on the bodies with your blinded hands

all you are left with is to tie the trees face down
so that the earth should mirror them when calling you
with a strange name





enlightened poem 

fear has sat down at the basis of the world to take a rest
above its head some ants were smashing seeds
one two
seven nine

but here is how from the right ear a religion has risen
bearing long legs
the middle worshippers would worship her
the left worshippers would worship her as well
even the worshipped ones would also worship her
and too much concord would have been there in the world
hadn’t it been

but there is how from the left ear rage was growing up from final
moods floods
wars
the right worshippers would worship them
even the worshipped ones would also worship them

you just hold me the candle so that I could write





open poem 

I closed

the doors windows waters gases lights cars walls houses days nights dreams wounds pits streets errors schools hospitals diseases factories churches governments planets frustrations anguishes phobias shades zippers words
so that I could laugh by myself

I took a man at random
from laughter did I take him
and threw him to the world
so that he should find out
that the evil there is
it’s not exactly
how it is



(translated into English by Nicoleta Crăete)

Romanian poet Nicoleta Crăete’s collection, The woman with a body of wax, won the Manuscript Section of The International Poetry Festival of Sighetu Marmației and was published in 2019 by Grinta Publishing House. It was also awarded the Book of the Year Prize at the Ion Cănăvoiu Literature Festival.

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Kansas, Old Abandoned House. An ekphrastic poem by Michael Lee Johnson

Kansas1AbandonedHouse

Kansas, Old Abandoned House
 
House, weathered, bashed in grays, spiders,
homespun surrounding yellows and pinks
on a Kansas, prairie appears lonely tonight.
The human theater lives once lived here
inside are gone now,
buried in the back, dark trail
behind that old outhouse.
Old wood chipper in the shed, rustic, worn, no gas, no thunder, no sound.
Remember the old coal bin, now open to the wind, 
but no one left to shovel the coal.
Pumpkin patches, corn mazes, hayrides all gone.
Deserted ghostly children still swing abandoned in the prairie wind.
All unheated rooms no longer have children
to fret about, cheerleaders have long gone,
the banal house chills once again, it is winter,
three lone skinny crows perched out of sight
on barren branched trees silhouetted in early morning
hints of pink, those blues, wait with hunger strikes as winter
that snow starts to settle in against moonlight skies.
Kansas becomes a quiet place when those first snowfalls.
There is the dancing of the crows−
that lonely wind, that creaking of the doors, no oil in the joints.

Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada.  Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1098 new publications, and his poems have appeared in 40 countries, he edits, publishes ten poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018.  Two hundred seventeen poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. 

Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings:  The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.

https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Lee-Johnson/e/B0055HTMBQ%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share

https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type=.  Member Illinois State Poetry Society:  http://www.illinoispoets.org/

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Wild Lass of Kells. A poem by Pratibha Castle

Pratibha

Wild Lass of Kells

She shuffles on the kerb outside O’Shaunessy’s, corner of Kelly and Dunleven Road. Her eyes the colour of Our Lady’s veil, scorched bluer by her copper curls. On the lookout for the Da. Her task of a Friday night to wheedle the wages off of him before he sets off on the lash. Glad of a break from the chores. Socks like a flock of crows, forever jostling, hand me down frocks in need of hems, pants snagged on barbed wire, nails, atop of farmer’s walls and fences. Herself, the firstborn of a baker’s dozen; endless mopping up of spats, snail snots, scabby porridge pots.

Licks of laughter, yellow light, sidle out the gaping door into the night, let out by culchies on their shuffle to the bar. Eejits with purple slurs for eyes, glances tossed her way

collection plate

clink of small change at

Sunday mass

The odd time, a flash of lust; the most times, shame. A rare smile to build her up, sure aren’t you a dote now, Delia, looking out for yer Mammy. God bless yourself.

Eyes cast down, pious daughter of The Virgin, Lord luv the child, in her wilting dress, miraculous blue medal clipped to the chest of her tatty cardigan. An occasion of sin, to be sure, sleveens might take advantage of. Till she glances up. That glare, brazen as hell’s flames, from the child of Maire of the Scry Eye, seventh daughter of a seventh son.

flame hex

of a

wild blood tinker

Skipping off home to a last scald of the pot, wedge of soda farl thick with dripping, her pocket is a clatter of coins, only the lighter by a bleary-eyed pint.

 

Pratibha Castle’s award-winning debut pamphlet A Triptych of Birds and A Few Loose Feathers (Hedgehog Press) publishes Summer 2021. Graduating as a mature student from Chichester University with a first-class honours degree in English and Creative Writing, she studied further on their Creative Writing MA. Her work appears in Agenda, Dreich, The HU, Blue Nib, Fragmented Voices, Live Encounters Poetry & Writing, Fevers of the Mind, Saraswati, Reach, Words for the Wild, Bonnie’s Crew, Panoply, Poetry and All That Jazz, Fly on the Wall, Lothlorien Journal. Winner of the NADFAS poetry competition age13 – 17,2009, Highly Commended in the Binsted Arts, Sentinel Literary Journal Competitions 2021, Storytown 2020, and Hedgehog Press, Postcards from the Hedge: A Bestiary of the Night and longlisted in The Brian Dempsey Memorial. She reads regularly on West Wilts Radio.

Note: This poem was longlisted for the Brian Dempsey Memorial Competition and appears in the prize winners anthology Horses of a Different Colour edited by Janice Dempsey

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red geraniums. A poem by Joseph A Farina

Joseph A. Farina

red geraniums

burnt sienna apartment buildings rise above the piazza
blue shuttered windows, opened in the summer light

ledges fringed with red geraniums tended by housebound tenants
their ancestry from mountain farms and valley fields

here in their urban gardens, 
reduced to single terra cotta pots

they dip their hands in the contained earth
dreaming of sowing and harvests

and the blood call of roots.

Joseph A Farina is a retired lawyer in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. An award-winning poet. Several of his poems have been published in Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, Ascent, Subterranean Blue and in   The Tower Poetry Magazine, Inscribed, The Windsor Review, Boxcar Poetry Revue, and appears in the anthology   Sweet Lemons: Writings with a Sicilian Accent, in the anthology Witness from Serengeti Press and Tamaracks: Canadian Poetry for the 21st Century. He has had poems published in the U.S. magazines   Mobius, Pyramid Arts, Arabesques, Fiele-Festa, Philadelphia Poets and   Memoir (and) as well as in Silver Birch Press “Me, at Seventeen” Series. He has had two books of poetry published— The Cancer Chronicles   and   The Ghosts of Water Street.

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