Timothy Ogene was born and raised in Nigeria. His  poems have recently appeared in Poetry Quarterly, Contemporary Literary Review India, Underground Voices, How Matter’s Friday Poetry Pulse, Haggard & Halloo,  2010 Arvon International Poetry Competition Anthology, Writing Raw, Snake Skin and are forthcoming in The Earth Charter Global Oneness Book Project, The Poetic Bliss: An Anthology and other publications.  He currently lives in Robertsport, Liberia.

Websites: http://slitdrum.tumblr.com/
https://www.facebook.com/timothy.ogene

Gateway

by Timothy Ogene

Silence :

a blank sheet shooting into 

the future,

tearing through the wind;

a slice of chill 

off  a heap of ice 

off the north; 

a thumb gone numb pressing 

against hot coal in winter; 

a door hanging loose, 

ajar

staring space in the face; 

a gateway.

All poetry is copyrighted to the author above and may not be reproduced without his permission. “

Ting-Jen Hwang was born and raised in Taipei, lived and studied art history and philosophy in Europe, and presently resides in Singapore. Once described by her best friend as “made of air” (i.e. living above the clouds), she enjoys, most of the time, being a professional loafer/flâneur who is perpetually musing upon and inspired by beauty. She has published two books—Xü: Poems of Fei Xuei/絮:霏雪詩箋, a collection of modern Chinese poetry, and Infatuation: Watermarks/浮水印:霏雪書箋, a collection of poems, images, diary, prose and short essays written both in Chinese and English.

Website:  http://poeticoneirism.blogspot.tw/

Snow Leopard and Black Panther (For H.)

by Ting-Jen Hwang

The musky incense of nag champa, was what led

the snow leopard to the black panther:

her lustrous smoothness, the scent and warmth

of her fur and skin – an uncharted territory.

The turquoise half-hidden behind his long eyelashes, lingering shadow of long eyelashes,

was what led the black panther to the snow leopard: his quiet prowess

and elegant strength – disarming, surreptitious beauty,

the most arresting stillness.

The snow leopard softly cocoons the black panther

with ripples of golden kisses: she did not know the reason why; nor

did the stars in her pantherine night sky.

Pacing in passionate vexation, behind the invisible bars in her eyes,

the black panther lays her gaze upon the snow leopard.

With such agitation, a prayer and a plea encircle

the black diamonds scattering amidst her dangerously soft leaps.

Those sun-embroidered lines of the snow leopard’s timeless form

embrace and penetrate like a metallic thread, glowing, illuminating:

A frozen motion, thoughtlessness in sehnsucht;

a mind within, a mind without. A mind of no mind.

What melts the black panther’s restlessness

is the motionlessness in the snow leopard’s glance beyond

(but is what she perceives as beyond

truly looking backward, or rather looking inward?) –

As they flow together and walk together in the ceaseless waves

of Mo Chu’s deep sapphire, Po Chu’s avalanche white,

they meet, without intention of direction.
The quiescence and mutuality of infinity.
 

The First Poem (for David)

by Ting-Jen Hwang

(For my husband, whose lullaby is my breathing every night.)

All the secrets I do not share,

and all the secrets I tell no one;

all the secrets absent in my poems,

and all the secrets I do not sing, even in the silent song

of solitude permeating my veins

like the warmth and gentle scent of your amber,

these secrets are buried deep inside, within

the dreams of your belly.

They melt, and are reborn.

They grow wings, and they fly.

In the blueness of your eyes

is the light of a deep ocean that has lived

a thousand years, a thousand years of

meditative loneliness. In your hair, the golden amber grows

into a transparent flower, fragrance of the night.

The amber flower that connects your mind

with your heart.
One day you discovered a pale feather

of an anonymous bird, colour of a pale rose.

A rare feather,

exquisite and fragile, shining under

an old tree of glittering green leaves.

It was nighttime, but the sun was out.

Your one tender kiss awoke the feather, and turned it

into the bird she once was, in a past life she had already forgotten.

The rare and exquisite and fragile bird.

And she has lived with your heart, in your heart, ever since.

Your surrender to nothingness is expansive, and

the warmest embrace there ever is, ever will be.

Your refined detachment of the closest, dearest attachment of tenderness

It gives meaning to what seems to be void of meanings at all,

resembling a delicately and beautifully

cracked porcelain vase,

its slender neck holding all the secrets which are not remembered.

The unbreaking of a broken egg, in the most perfect shade

of pearlescent ivory, with

not even the faintest lines on a rainbow-hued seashell.

I realise in this moment we are regal.

We are angels.

Your elegance is the reddest of all the red peonies

blooming between our bodies and souls.

Us.
You say I can neither understand nor imagine. I close

my eyes and think of

the most beautiful desert moon, or the saddest

love poem, or our daughter

in your arms, in the farthest and nearest yesterday

of our tomorrow.
You spoke to my philosophy professor as if

he was one of your oldest friends.

You talked about Heidegger, and game theory,

and all the dilemmas of life, in a beautiful manner which transcended them all,

as if they were lines from an old poem you had written long ago.

You say the whole life is in The Little Prince, and that you

cannot admire someone who is not an acharya,

however brilliant his thoughts,

however great his legacy.

I look at this perfect man before me, with his

bluest blue eyes and think to myself, “I married

the one rare acharya I know.”
I am your heart, as you are my poetry,

mirror of my aloneness

the soundlessness of my melodies,

the attachment of my detachment,

the meaningfulness of my meaninglessness,

the nothingness of my very own self,
my undefined/undefinable otherness.
You taught me I am myself and I am enough,

in need of no more, like Cocteau’s Trinity

that binds my heart in the truest way it longs to be bound.
And so I write, different from how I have ever written poetry,

in the state of being and the state of breathing,

without striving and crafting,

without effort,
as if I was writing

for the very first and the very last time.

All poetry is copyrighted to the author above and may not be reproduced without her permission. 

T Petrov Pavlova comes from Macedonia, Europe. She’s been writing poetry since she was 14 years of age. Her dream was to become a doctor, and after attending years of medical school she finally realizes that poetry was her real passion. Her first book, Spectres Bare, was published in April, 2010, “a book of poetry that shall extinguish the thirst of those thirsty for it.” She now resides and writes in USA where she also graduated with an ALP at Bergen Community College. Spectres Bare is available on Amazon.

Silent Cry

by T Petrov Pavlova

How did sorrow an’ pain dare,

To kiss my soul, as I soulless am,

And not one of those who care.

Damn thou be!

Who beckons thee?

As a plough heavy to plow thro’ wounds,

And stop up cry unheard to be.

For the love not to tell that my heart did see.

To shout let me!

Tears that smother me I plea.

As if a sickle reaps thee,

Into soul mine soil barren stratifies

All be, our love to be caught I sacrifice,

To shout just let me.

To him sent wi’ kindness, wi’ love very

This cry silent wind wild to carry

And caress his face if not me.

Behind the Eyes

by T Petrov Pavlova 

Behind the eyes, into the blindness

Darkness there palsy, leaden

Shadows there drowsy, mindless

And thro’ them riddle some hidden

Understanding to be solved it seeking

Upon a thought I thought

And heard the mind speaking

Scintilla was it I sought?

What news the confusion gets

‘Tis what illusion to it begets

Behind the eyes, into the blindness

Behind the notion, behind kindness

There’s light always all be mindless.

All poetry is copyrighted to the author above and may not be reproduced without his/her permission.

Victoria Mosley is a poet novelist and spoken word artist. She has published two poetry collections – The Dry Season (1998) and Crazy Love (2002). These are available to buy on Amazon.co.uk. Her third collection As in a Dream by Victoria Mosley and The Sublimes was released on CD in 2004 and is available to listen to on www.garagband.com/artist/sublimes 

Her newest novel, Moonfisher, is set in Second World War-torn France and present day London, and is a story of the Maquis and the Special Operations Agency which sent British Spies into occupied France.. Published by Quartet on D day 2011 She is currently writing the follow up to ‘’Moonfisher’’ entitled

Victoria’s poetry is followed daily on her Facebook page by over 5000 worldwide fans and her poetry blog can be joined at victoriamosley.com

Website:  http://VictoriaMosley.com 

Beyond the beyond

by Victoria Mosley

Sky is God’s

handsweep

across a palette

of dark galaxies

expanding to one

edge.

We could fill

the sky, with kites,

with words,

with the fire

our hearts erupt into.

Each meeting a hope

for life, for learning,

I burrow into the softness

of your skin, like a worm

alive in your darkness.

You call me lover,

you ask me to be mother,

myriad fantasies

pass back and forth

between us.

Today this sky a

curve of blue beginnings.

I take train journeys,

plane journeys, I journey

to find meaning.

Here heaven is infiltrated

people have thrown away

simplicity. Coupling in the night

we pretend to have found

each other ,but wear too many faces.

Our love is coloured lights,

our anger curved scimitar

my mind freezes this.

From my window

flowers hang like earrings.

Crazy love

by Victoria Mosley

When the light comes in

it burns with cadent iridescence and the sky blushes

when the bubbles burst

they kiss the crowded streets with rainbows,

when you touch me

skin smoulders seasoned woodsmoke

and when you call my name,

gypsies sing.

I’m naked in millennium’s last spring

shedding yesterdays like moulted snake coils

and my laughter calls for crazy love

tongued through late night connections

rounded by the certainty of wanting.

When the light comes in

it twists the spangled night to fireflies in your eyes

whirls the sluggish river into white water thighs,

when you hold me there’s nothing but conclusion

branded hot metal heartbeat singing possession,

salt licked aching crevices crave another dive

and we’re talking crazy love

stretching every second of our borrowed lives

until that blinding moment when there is no “I”

and the light comes in.

After

by Victoria Mosley

After the incense, whisky , music, lamplight,

after we’d waited for the world to turn a quarter revolution,

when you had kissed the places that you found,

stopped short of loving

what was the unknown message that we’d yet to learn?

After you’d offered me a future apple tree’d in brilliance

some exotic paradise where life is clear blue lagoon,

when I’d checked my heart to find if it was beating

the way I knew you needed it to .

Outside the opaque window Venus rose between us

visible for an instant then lost in clouded conflict,

there was absolutely nothing left to do.

After touching hidden corners where the creases curled

after wanting some solution to the sadness that we felt

after tearing clotted arteries where the old blood lay;

when I tried to hear the question there was only empty footsteps

the shadow of oblivion where I could not stay.

All poetry is copyrighted to the author above and may not be reproduced without her permission. “Crazy love” and “After” were previously published in the book Crazy Love (2002), published by Steve Savage Publishers Limited and available on Amazon. 

Saki Ram comes from the eastern part of India, a place with many forests and tribes. Since a young girl, her imagination has been fueled by the fantastic stories she has heard of these people, most of whom are considered outcasts in Indian society. She took to writing poetry at an early age, beginning with rhymed verses at nine, moving onto using free and blank verse at the age of fifteen. She currently dabbles in the study of law along with her writing pursuits.

About her poetry: “My poetry is mostly about ideas which have little social acceptance, and are on many occasions perceived as gross and uncultured. As a poet, I try to give such ideas a fresh perspective by attempting to humanize them. Thus my poetry is often written in the first person from the frame of a social outcast, in an attempt to erase the difference between the “them” and the “us.” I derive inspiration from philosophy; in particular, existentialism, nihilism, and absurdism, apart from the people I meet and personal experience. As a believer in the idea that poems are paintings created with words, imagery is an important component in my work. Rather than being purely abstract, I consider poetry to be a powerful tool to engrave a thread of pictures into the mind. Depending on how these pictures are juxtaposed, a single poem becomes a personal experience, acquiring a unique interpretation with each reader.”

Illusionary

by Saki Ram

He held her, and he tried to hold her

But she was water, she flew

She rose like rings of smoke

And sprouted flimsy wings

He kissed her, she kissed him back

She was a sweet gust of air in his mouth

Which scattered.

Then he saw her on the parapet

Poised with her fins

He called out, she turned to look and smiled

There was something in her eyes

She flew on delicate wings

And fell till she was a puff of dust.

Bite My Tongue

by Saki Ram

Hear the wind awaking, my friend.

Hear it rustling through the night…

I walk on a starry road. Alone.

Beneath an overcast sky.

I am dark and huge and ugly

I am a nonchalant gait.

I look above and

My horrible form the heavens hate

I have carved me myself

Chiseled to perfection.

I laugh as I look above

And they are disgusted at my form.

I am at peace against the stupid, mighty wind

I walk forth and I walk with pride

I give not a damn.

I drag a stick across the ground

Across sand and gravel.

I etch lines, push it hard across the ground

Till it breaks into two.

And I smile, I am happy

I am a happy sort of person.

I brand myself with the heat

Of little cigarette stubs.

I run my fingers across maidens of iron

Touch them till I bleed.

And then I bite at the punctures.

I neatly dissect an ant.

I look at claws digging into flesh

And I think how beautiful this world is.

I run my nails against the wall

I hate the sound and it gives me immense pleasure.

I break my nail, and the pain

Is intense and deeply satisfying.

I feel the underside of a tiny petal, it’s soft

And beautiful and I want to tear it apart.

So I will not touch, no.

I will run away.

And cigarette smell, well, is foul. I hate it.

I want to smell forever and swallow it.

Hear the wind awaking, my friend

I would pounce and shut it up

I would make it scream and ride through the night.

And if I see an infant,

I would hold it to death. Strangle it.

And if I see my friend, I would come close

And sink my teeth into his neck till it is raw.

I would draw blood.

So I would dare not touch, no.

I would run away.

I would pick it up and fondle gently.

I would kiss him tenderly.

I walk on a starry road. Alone.

And I stamp on the stars.

Till my feet burn whole.

Because they are so beautiful.

And because I love them.

All poetry is copyrighted to the author above and may not be reproduced without his/her permission.

Shoshana Kertesz was born in Budapest, Hungary. She started to write poetry and short stories at the age of fifteen. She completed art school in Budapest and moved to Jerusalem, Israel where she lived for seven years before her recent immigration to the United States. Her poems and essays have been published in several Hungarian publications. Her English poetry is currently featured at the L.E.S. Review magazine. Besides writing, Shoshana Kertesz occupies herself with painting, photography and studying piano.

Website: http://www.shoshanakertesz.com/

Ballad of a grieving woman

by Shoshana Kertesz

Too bad that you are dead

I loved the sound of serenity of your mind

In a million lovers there is only one

that is worthy to leave behind

with an aching heart

Now, I shall join myself in the ever growing City of Solitude

And play on my flute a slowly dragging Postlude

Black March

by Shoshana Kertesz

The thick stone pebbles on the streets of Jonquare

Are crying out

being trampled upon by a mighty flock of creatures

all dressed in black

Even the crows hushed and fled

the city of the past

The mighty flock marches on

Oh, the sheer terror of the sound of their steps!

Death came to visit Jonquare

I knew that they were coming

and I know that they will pass

but where shall I be then?

Homage to Sylvia Plath

by Shoshana Kertesz

I used to kill myself many times

Until you came along and killed me

I thought my little half-shy cuts were painful

Until your deep red blooded breath

Left its mark on my thin skin

I felt used. How dare you?

Mr. Casanova Marquis

Walking around with your top hat

And a big walking stick

Trying to evoke pity

Then you flash your bright white vampire teeth

So impressive that the victims volunteer

To put their own neck on the deck

You cut me to kill me

I kill myself to cut you

But instead you just continue to spread

Your strange gospel of death

But worry not

Some day in some shape and form

I shall be back, back, back

All poetry is copyrighted to the author above and may not be reproduced without his/her permission.

Ken Burstall is a middle-aged Englishman, living in Austin Texas with far too many children. He works, intermittently, as an oilfield geologist and has calculated that he has spent six of the last twenty years on oil rigs far offshore. His poem “Quadrangle” was published in the anthology “A Word is Worth a Thousand Pictures” and his short fiction has appeared in M-Brane SF and Kaleidotrope.

Website: http://fallslikesnow.blogspot.com/

The World Behind the Sky

by Kenneth Burstall

The Sky

Those who love the azure sky, beautiful

Limitless, a place for the soul to play

Should know that the sky they see is a lie

A cover for the glories behind, that

The horizon is too low, a jagged

Cheapened line carrying far too much

Sky, far too much weight, unlike the past

The Cliffs

There were cliffs so high they curved above us

Striped with geology so old, so rich

It had no names, not even those of the

Miners who died in the winding holes they

Dug into the cliff walls, holes to the sky

Rapidly closing as the rubble falls

Behind the miner who looks over

His shoulder, drops his pick, sees darkness fall

And outside, on the cliff face, another

un-named dot appears, revenge of the cliff

The Cities

There were cities up there, intricately

Carved into living rock, up and down a

Thousand feet, fifteen feet deep, elegant

Homes, one room after another, shallow

Caverns containing formal gardens, scents

Of mountain flowers drifting over rocks that

Were encrusted with lichen, pale gray, rose

Red grey, washed out pastels against the

Dark grey of the rock, there were farms, six inch

Wide terraces of pounded rock mixed with

Excrement. There were vertical hunts for

Nests of giant birds or the lizards of

The High Cliffs where loops and curtains of light

Crash against jagged black rocks forever

The Machines

In other places hidden by the sky

There were cascades of machinery

Turned, powered by paddles pushed by super-

Sonic waterfalls, pistons and cogs moved

Together in relays as long as

A continent, as high as a house. engines

That carried coils of data upward to

The inaccessible peaks where, under

Loops of light, reality becomes real

And flows downhill in vast cataracts to

Infect worlds below with consistency

The Face

If we could tear down the sky like the cheap

Drapery it really is we would see

All these things and more, but behind it all,

We would see a face – huge, asymmetrical

Broken like a boxers at careers end

Eyes red with blood, blurred with tears, filled with rage

Look from a face like an ancient mask of

Terracotta, cracked by time, unglazed

Dusty red, wet lips move, slow syllables

Make out the word of unmaking, one word

An eon, a mad god unwinds the threads that

Hold together the world behind the sky.

All poetry is copyrighted to the author above and may not be reproduced without his/her permission.