January & February 2019
Vol IV No I
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
If good coffee (or just the concept of coffee), great books, sharp wit, and great authors excite you, we are for you!
Tip: if it is underlined it is a clickable link.
Note: drop downs from the menu below sometimes take a few seconds to load.
We have a new publishing schedule!
International Poetry الشعر শ্লোক ကဗျာ ליבע ਪਿਆਰ өлүм
with Michael R. Burch
for those who don’t know chocolate!
for those who don’t know chocolate
the children of poverty
and the sleepers in the corners of ancient streets
for those who survived famines but are still hungry
for those boys who never dream
because they never sleep
for those who don’t know chocolate
but only heard rumors about its sweetness
the people with half a soul
who lack food and live in imaginary houses
for those who crawled on the sharp platforms at mid-night day
after day
seeking the warmth to live
for those babies who never tasted milk
who stare with wide eyes looking for any help
for the hands of charity
and the sensitive hearts which cry and bleed
for those who gathered in the torn tents around the world waiting such a long time
for those who don’t know chocolate
and haven’t the ability to imagine it
for the innocent faces washed by the rain
for the seekers of the smell of humanity in each dark alley
for those who kiss the sun through their contemplative glances
for those who write with heavy hearts and crushed dreams
the climbers of existence’s shoulder
looking for the face of justice
for the dancers with bare feet on Everest’s peak
who do their best to bring joy and peace
for the sun of tolerance warming our bones
for the bloom of the flowers
amidst the sky’s gloom
for those who never tasted chocolate
but have heard about its magic
the crawlers of the earth with their great desire
to make the difference between the past and future
for those who draw in the sand
with belief in their friendship with the waves of the sea
for the people murdered in every battle
for the injured soldiers in every war
for those women who haven’t the right to vote
for the fishermen in their ships
for the highest star in our sky
and for the rainbow
for those people with disabilities
and for those players with woolen balls
for the little boys who sell water
for the little girls who feed the roosters
for the nations which suffer from drought
for the victims of racism
for the dead murdered by terrorism
i write this poem
for those
who don’t know chocolate
Amirah Al Wassif is a freelance writer. She has written articles, novels, short stories, poems, and songs. Five of her books were written in Arabic, and many of her English works have been published in various cultural magazines.
A fallen flower
She lingers at the golden hem
Of foliage among a flock
Of yellow flowers clustered
Around an amaltas limb —
Her terminal abode.
Her prayer is to be reborn
As a mother to the bees,
To harbor weary butterflies
And feed them nectar
Till the sun recedes.
But for now as with others,
She must face this decisive
Encounter with life,
The moment she leaps
Down to where he waits
To swathe all, one by one
In a bright yellow shawl
Until he shades it to brown.
Now she discerns perfectly
How the pigment of time
Paints a monochromatic end.
All that efflorescence is Earth —
The fate of her kindred
And us all.
A journey to hometown
It is not a regular morn.
The ‘sunrise view’ alarm
Skylarks its autumn flute —
A wanderer prodding my grave.
The torpid eyes cannot slumber.
An ebony ink of silence
Soaks the glimmering city.
Foofaraw is like a bubble
Rambling under ice;
Its sway fractures my sleep
Like a half-broken biscuit
When dipped in a fervent teacup.
The engine’s demesne is the east
And the moon has promised
To babysit all along,
Bending my worry’s bones
To an enduring malleability
Of the now.
Each second is to sense
Things we should learn.
As I pass over the bridge,
Automobiles sprawl along
The city’s branching roads,
Steadfast, like ants
Marching to their obligations.
At a stoppage, I behold passengers
Carrying cheerless luggage,
Bustling around with a dutiful
Childlikeness.
Finally, a sundry chaos carves
My destination,
Where an underfed coolie clad in a red shirt
Looks hungrily to lift
The weight of my possessions.
The revelation of this journey
Is a lesson floating in my mind —
If loads bolster the coolie’s life,
My life should never seem a burden!
Richa Sharma resides near New Delhi, India and loves reading and writing poetry in her leisure time. She is a nature lover, an avid sky watcher, and a dreamer.
THE MOORLAND
Darkness deepens.
The day is being woven
Between the black and white threads.
From time immemorial,
The restless wind emerges and blows
Out of the ancestral graves.
By the tongues of the leaves
Death murmurs:
‘Life drops and splits like a tear,
Down the moorland where the devil vultures
Flutter with blade-like wings.’
Everyone is betrayed in their sleep
By the dream that makes us smile
Yet leads into the black hole of death.
The world overflows with funeral songs;
Each soul sings a dirge in the tomb.
After the violent fight with the shadows,
We yield with a scream
Echoing from clouds and hills.
It is our dreams that burn on every pyre;
Hope itself is buried in this battlefield,
The graveyard of the lost.
Muhammed E Rafeek graduated from the University of Calicut, Kerala, with a BA and B.Ed in English and earned an MA in English Language and Literature from Periyar University, Selam. He now works as an Assistant Professor at a private college. He blogs at www.phoenixkoppam.blogspot.com
The darkness reigns
Agony plants itself at my core,
Its seeds rattling in my heart like chimes kissed by the wind.
Shall my heart be forever scarred by your intricately crafted lies,
Their poison flowing like a river inside my heart?
Let me free of this pain, my lips whisper!
Tears course between the floor tiles as love pounds through my veins.
Pick them up, my heart pleads to another, and wear them around your neck like diamonds.
But hearts rarely listen to one another, I think in utter misery.
Pick me up and water me until I blossom as I once did,
Only to wither when you bore the sun away.
Spare me the taste of your truths and poison me with the lies of
your love,
For I only live when I’m with you.
Come for me, my love,
I lie down among my own vines, dark and alone
And craving your taste.
Will you deny me what has been made for me?
I shall wait here till eternity begs me to leave.
I shall curl up among the memories of you until the ground swallows me
Alive and alone and so, so dark.
Mahnoor Waqas is a Pakistani MBBS student who’s a huge bookworm and a strong advocate of “writing is art.” She is intrigued by words and blogs about them until her friends roll their eyes!
RIPPLING RIBBONS
secrets—
entwined with
the curly tresses
of a misty kaleidoscope
that spoke of bright color
and supposed love
no keyhole big enough
to fit twisted entwinements
of moonlit whispers
the solemn flickering
of blue eyes
gentle keyholes—
struggling to give shape
to my subtle self
rippling ribbons
of blushed sky
illuminating the agony
beyond the keyhole
the solemn flickering
of blue eyes
I lace another secret
into my being
with a rippling ribbon
of blushed sky
Veerangana is a 15-year-old girl who lives in New Delhi, India. Her work has previously been published in the Haiku section of our September 2017 edition, and the International Poetry section of our October 2017 edition.