Waiting for the Winter

 

Waiting for the winter
I feel the breath of the lands that have caught cold
Just because of thinking that cold weather will soon launch the assault
Just because of thinking that frost is on its way to them
The anxiety of leaves saddens me as well
(My loves rustle with anxiety)
But why should loves and lands blame us
For their making haste to reach solitude
Holding torches in their hands?
Why should our vague memory that fails to remember
When the first sunset hits it
Throw blame on us

Alisa Velarj

Translated from Albanian by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania, in 1982. Her work has appeared in a number of print and online international magazines. Her first full-length book, A Gospel of Light, from which this poem is taken, was published by Aquillrelle in 2015

Five Views of Mists

 

1
The blind sees
With the eyes of mists

2
Even trees hide their greenery
In mists

3
The sun buried in mists
Looks like a pale moon
And the river’s memory is
The bluish green oblivion of pearls

4
Cities and mists write
The chronicles of the sun’s solitude

5
Mists even without solitude inside
Count almost nothing…

Alisa Velaj

Translated from Albanian by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania, in 1982. Her work has appeared in a number of print and online international magazines. Her first full-length book, A Gospel of Light, from which this poem is taken, was published by Aquillrelle in 2015

Threshold

– To Mario –

The child builds a house inside the house
A small hut of bed pillows
A little lamp lights the tiny shelter
The child reads about midgets with his mouth open
And feels happy to have a tiny house like theirs
Whereas Cinderella sings songs
And prepares sweets for the child and his friends coming from the fairytale
Outside a stormy rain falls the last leaves of trees
And the wind howls like a crazy bitch with no reason at all
Sometimes his mother sings to deceive the stormy rain
With melodies sweeter than all the songs
Ever heard going on between Scylla and Charybdis
Tonight Odysseus will certainly invent an Ithaca in Orpheus’s arms
Sleepy though…

Alisa Velaj

Translated from Albanian by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania, in 1982. Her work has appeared in a number of print and online international magazines. Her first full-length book, A Gospel of Light, from which this poem is taken, was published by Aquillrelle in 2015

The Man’s Flood

That day was another threshold
A stranger stole from him his mother’s lap and his sister’s affectionate eyes
Blind with sadness he stood as before a lifeless thing
When at midnight his love’s shelter appeared in front of him
He was in the grip of the man’s flood…

Alisa Velaj

Translated from Albanian by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania, in 1982. Her work has appeared in a number of print and online international magazines. Her first full-length book, A Gospel of Light, from which this poem is taken, was published by Aquillrelle in 2015.

To some Cockroaches, Co-owners of my Coat

 

Brown wise solitary fellows of the night,
I salute. I hope your night was lovesome;
However I haven’t come to be winsome
As my morning does not look so bright.
Yes, I believe the coat served you last night;
See! The little roaches are frolicsome,
Evidence that last night was awesome.
But this whole scene is just a loathsome sight:

Why must you cockroaches still lurk around
In the puny confines of my white coat?
Didn’t we agree it was mine in the day?
These stains! What do I tell my lass about it;
Ah, that some fellows cannot keep an oath?
Oh well! Under my feet you all shall pay.

Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

What is Love?

 

What is love?
Is it that feeling in your
stomach..?
Or is it that lust below your
waist..?
Is it that firefly that goes up the
rack..?
Or is it that tug you get, when you
see a damsel so chaste..?
What is love..?
Is it that burning desire to
acquire..?
Or is it that pain you get when
you face denial..?
Is it that urge to uncover their
past..?
Or that surge you feel, to hug him
fast..?
What is love..?
Is it likeness to the core..?
Or getting filled but still wanting
more..?
Is it that tendency to wish for
expectancy..?
Or is it the sweetness of their
decency..?
What is love..?
Is it meant to sweeten or hurt…?
Is it supposed to be a mansion or
a hut..?
Is it supposed to make you
bleed, when her actions cut..?
Is it a mass of grass that grows
with just a dot..?
What is love..?
Is it an attitude..?
You distinguish in her, from a
multitude..?
Is it a beautiful latitude..?
Is it scornful, is it rude..?
What is love..?

Ikechukwu Joseph

Ikechukwu Joseph is from Nigeria and blogs at Poetrimania.blogspot.com. His email is josediccus@gmail.com.

Where the Wild Welo Waits

 

Under a sail jinx, by Long Sandy Nest,
where benthos hurdles strand at rest,
the Welo oozes flotsam song;
cockled, gurgled, burbled along.

It floods a bilge view; main faraway,
viscous murmuring of shudder days;
fluxed on mildew bludgeon rings,
mizzen pots, straw-spat wings.

Now jeopardy, now skiff baleen,
teeming sanguinous, rheumy unseen,
in mull-malty troughs, brackish lights,
the Welo eye-starts… mines hollow nights.

John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead is a poet and illustrator whose work can be found all over the Internet. He lives in Bradford on Avon in the UK.

Jabberquark

 

’Twas theory, and the Synchrotrons
Did yield and hurtle in the Drift,
All anti- were the Positrons
And the Bubble Tracks so swift.

Reveal the Jabberquark my son;
Their charge conserved, they interact.
Reveal the Gluon in the Hadron
Holding them intact.

And as his brain did cogitate,
The Jabberquark, with Hidden Charm
Did seem to strongly mediate
Through Bosons in his arm.

He took uncertain pen in hand
And warped his random head with thought
Of Quark and Lepton symmetry
In the particle he sought.

One! Two! Schrodinger’s Equation!
The postulator fast prepared
The number of the Baryon
By E = mc2.

And hast thou found the Jabberquark,
Its Top, its Strangeness, its Beauty?
Oh Prize Nobel, you’ve made your mark
Upon the Unified Theory.

’Twas theory, and the Synchrotrons
Did yield and hurtle in the Drift,
All anti- were the Positrons
And the Bubble Tracks so swift.

John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead is a poet and illustrator whose work can be found all over the Internet. He lives in Bradford on Avon in the UK.

The Birds of Albion

 

Up on windsy cliffsheers, Harpy Termagents peal
At flocks of Brayling Whippersnaps veering in low wheels

Portle Cuckolds flap grey tufts to stay their flitting eggs
While reams of Winky Scrutators scan for frisson dregs

Up in glimmer the Peccadillo girdles a lifelong mate
And Ruddy-Faced Popinjays are giddy with fresh bait

As Cock-Squabbles and Hen-Quibbles witter without cease
Blue-Footed Dimwits snivel through a carrion feast

White-Capped Pettifoggers peck with scumgrins of flesh
Where Lesser Black Finagles are caught in Scrivener mesh

And there hang Mock Quislings on treacly threaded air
Over flags of Harty Martinets drivelling without care

Masques of Pin-Stripe Hoodwinks, dimly treading naves
Careful watch Gold Sterlings deep in fiscally graves

The Main Brace turfs out Guttersnipes to sleen their drabs away
And so the Shabby Wangle drones, slupping day to day

Yet save a blary eye for the Youngling Nincompoops
As Wurdy Lampoons rythe and mud-sling garbog in a scoop

Their stumble flights are clogged – catastrophly broken
Chasing ever hardlong winds to snatch at shiny tokens

For Dark Coaxers hover badderly in slinky slippy light
And soon the Black-Billed Sexton scythes in on lasting night

John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead is a poet and illustrator whose work can be found all over the Internet. He lives in Bradford on Avon in the UK.

Bookworm

The novel begins: two travellers, seagull
and star, see the night bus run empty.
Do you speak human? asked the Riverend
Alpheratz. I speak Joyce. The bus turns
the street to comic-strip. I am devoted to
the smooth running of internotional thought.
In dictionaries is defined what it is
we no longer have. A devil in the toenail,
mathing the voluminous timespace that
ends on the black of the page, askeletal
desplorer buzzsawing climaxes. Collapsed
Tetragrammaton did not act
rationally in writing these, his eyes bled
out of word and he explained in too
many voices, in glossed unterwelten of speech
that ladders did not reach, in the attic
when books swarm angrily from their boxes.
This is the song we empty as the head
heaves with inanotion. Populations
surge: in their hooked hands is sand,
siftwork, sieved the varioral textscape.
He shouts in his sleep he is stuck inside
time’s tomefoolery awaiting the age of mildew.
The people stand incredulous: they drilled
rubble to find an ancient library
in cinderends, within it buried the word
for you, ill in your vast bed. Whistle
the treeself, disarmer of night, driller:
under your darkness your undercovered travels
in leafed delyrical intercludes.
We forgot how the forest stretched
into a single twig or spire of dust.
Ghosts fit between pages, waiting for
the news to tell them we invented time to forget
eternity. Mistress of index, what she
cannot unearth, the sparsim tararas
under the carapace, I have eyes
to hurt myself with, a sense losing in the spill,
so sleep the words into the book, tunnel
a novel, erupt as bullethole or butt, aporia among
the embers, ideal reader, eat alive the pronouns
make fleshword, think open the sensefolds:
all pages are binding upon the reader.

Giles Goodland