Read Poetry: The River of the Soul, by Mikho Mosulishvili

‘By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept.’
– From ‘The Waste Land’ by Thomas Stearns Eliot.

 

If you, 
Weary of the dim, 
Harassing life decide to spend some 
Of your miserable time at the river, 
It will surely bring along your corpse. 
But where are you going to be then? 
Still on the bank 
Or will the Soul River drift you away?

 

 

Genres: kōan*, philosophical, personality

* A Kōan is a fundamental part of the history and lore of Zen Buddhism. It consists of a story, dialogue, question, or statement, the meaning of which cannot be understood by rational thinking but may be accessible through intuition or lateral thinking. 

Read Poetry: Ballad of the East Wind, by Mark Anthony Tierno

Author’s Note: The following was paced to the tune of Ghost Riders In The Sky.

I) In a place of long ago,
and not so far away;
A wind did there rose,
straight out of Ca-alay.
Swirl the wind did round,
up and over ground;
Then went it up and through,
and over, Ocean Blue.

 

II) Then across the way,
a hillock it did spy;
Upon which sat a man,
‘ere here to die.
He was a sage of old,
with much knowledge to be told.
So, did the wind swirl and toy,
and ‘pon the hill did form, into a boy.

 

III) His robe was spun in silken blue,
his hair of blackest night.
His eyes shine did like moonbeams,
his smile did twinkle bright.
Then towards yonder sage he did walk,
and bent down he for to talk.
Said he, “I cometh here to talk to thee;
please, listen you to me.”

 

IV) Now, the sage did look up,
with his eyes of grey.
Said he, “please let me die,
please if I may.”
But the boy in silk was undeterred,
said he, “I wonder if you’ve heard;
Of Faerie dust and Dragon’s Wings,
and the babbling brook that just but sings.”

 

V) Then said the old man,
“What are these to me?”
Spake the boy,
“I’ll teach you to be free!”
And then up in a mighty blur.
a Blue Wind he did stir;
To carry them up in windy hands,
for to see, of unseen lands.

 

VI) The Wind carried them onwards towards,
out East across the Sea.
Passed they through colored clouds,
and waves a-flowing free.
Then stopped they ‘pon a musiked land,
with candied trees near at hand.
Where Faeries with fragile wings blue hued,
did flit about, quite nude.

 

VII) The Silken Boy then showed the man,
many a magic sight;
From Cochel Shells with magic spells,
to dragons taking flight!
But said the old man, “how frail these things be,
they are but Fantasies to me;
Let me show you now of my home land,
Come, ’tis near at hand.”

 

VIII) The man then went and showed the boy,
of streets all filled with grime;
Of lands so filled with filth and puss,
But persevere the Boy did now,
not die, nor flinch, nor even cow;
Not he when shown how murder greets,
nor poverty in yon streets.

 

IX) The man did finally give it up,
and turned to the Boy and said;
“How can you resist it all,
come down ‘pon ’round your head?”
But the Boy did but wave his hand,
and blue mist cover did the Land;
And, when the mist did clear,
’twas Paradise come near.

 

X) The East Wind’s Boy then turned around,
and spake to him like mist;
“For the Secret of Reality,
but listen you to this;
Reality is what you will,
more fragile still ’tis than your hill.
For do you not it but deem,
’tis all, but a dream.”

 

XI) The man was whisked back onto,
his hillock, thence turned to cry,
“How may such a Land exist,” he cried,
“please before do I die!”
As the Wind turned to leave it said,
“This Land you seek is everywhere you tread;
You have but your self to make it True.”
and thence he turned, and bid adieu.

 

XII) The old man now is quite the Youth,
and dreams oft’ of Dragon’s Wings.
He makes the World a happy place,
and listens as it sings.
So, see if you a Blue Wind Fly,
please to hurry out and cry!
For it may take you to the Land that sings,
of Faerie dust and Dragon’s Wings.

Read Poetry: The Girl on the Bus, by Ed Teja

She turned her face toward the light,
the moving, blinking, shadowy light.
I watched patterns of darkness
pool above her high cheekbones,
her eyes deep, dark hollows
containing all her sorrows.

“It’s an enigma,” I offered, speaking
in a reassuring tone and with a beat to match
the motion of an ancient city bus
rocking down dark streets striped in light.
“It’s all truth can ever be,
our poor, sad truth.”

The look she gave me said that this lady knew all that.
Life in a hostile city had taught her well
how truth, obscured by light and shadow,
often hid in the confines of contrast.

For a moment she faced me,
half smiling some sad rejoinder.
Then, when the light changed,
she flickered with it from the bus.

Genres: society, angst

Read Poetry: Am I Really Black?, by Rose Cockerham

Am I Really Black?

Sometimes other people around the block ask me “What are you?”

At first, I want to respond in a smart-ass way by saying something like,

“Oh, I’m a human, what are YOU?”

But just end up saying, “I’m Black”.

And of course, all the years of questioning has got me questioning,

Am I really Black?

Well, this morning, I decided to moisturize and style my hair with olive oil,

But I’ve always used either relaxers or quick weaves;

The other day, I bought KFC for lunch,

But threw away the bag with the logo and hid the Chicken Little sandwiches in my purse before I went into work.

Whenever one of my white co-workers tells a story, I have to force out a chuckle because I simply cannot relate,

Yet I’m probably the only Black person who thinks that the “Martin” show isn’t that funny.

What makes a Black person REALLY Black?

Is it the level of richness of their skin tone, or type of culture they grew up in?

This must be the sequel series to the ‘nature versus nurture’ question.

Despite my exterior shade,

I’ve had many moments of crushing on men who were

Chocolate, both dark & milk.

Whenever I can support a Black Business, I do.

I’ve watched Poetic Justice, Love Jones, and all three Friday movies on repeat ever since high school.

I’ve just began to realize the delacy of squirting siracha on ramen noodles.

Some of my inspirational women include Rihanna, Gabrielle Union, and the late Dr. Angelou. To this day, it still feels like she could’ve been my play-grandma.

I play RnB and hip hop on the daily,

And I take pride in being a Black woman of God before anything else.

But….on the flipside,

I receive assumptions that I MUST be mixed with either Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian, or even Samoan if my cheeks look plumpy enough.

I’ve been told that I act like such an “oreo”, or I speak too properly, or I surprisingly get good grades, or simply put, I just don’t act Black.

I’ve never got into a fist fight in school,

The only time I say the ‘N’ word is when I’m repeating a Dave Chappelle skit at home,

Or pissed at other driver’s maneuvering skills from the inside of my car.

I don’t want to use that word to casually describe my own beautiful people. Why in the hell WOULD I?

I never smoked weed, and don’t really intend to;

I actually enjoy eating both pumpkin AND sweet potato pie;

And with the risk of being burned at the stake, I never liked mac n’ cheese.

Based on my parents’ color and lineage, there is no doubt there were a few cups of rich, black soil sprinkled on land to grow the family tree which stands today.

But I honestly don’t feel like proving my level of blackness, or brownness, or down-ness to those who are fixated on dividing our own people.

So, Am I Really Black?

Heritage-wise: Yes

Culture-wise: Meh.

Me-wise: Duh.

Read Poetry: Grief is the price we pay for love, by Abi May

I screamed today.

A silent scream.

Nobody saw.

Nobody heard.

I clenched my fists

And breathed in deep

A silent scream

Nobody saw.

Nobody heard.

There were no words.

None to speak

None to say.

I closed my eyes

Shut them tight

My face was creased

And stretched

Muscles tense

But soundless

My silent scream

Came from the heart

From a place so deep

There are no words

I didn’t cry

I just bore down

I screamed alone

Without a sound

There is no why

Nor where and how

For what, it can’t be said

But for whom.

I screamed today.

A silent scream.

For her, that dearest one

The one who now is dead.

Theme: Death and bereavement.

From Abi May – http://www.avalleyjournal.co.uk

A poem I wrote in one of the moments of deep grief. Both of my children (Pax and Catherine) have passed away before me. A mother’s worst agony is to bury her childre

Read Poetry: Confessions, by Lizardin Bain

You say I’m pretty. You say I’m kind,

But does it ever cross your mind,

That you’re being awfully abusive.

 

Of course, it doesn’t. Why it should?

The nicest words they never could,

Hurt anyone or be intrusive.

 

And people think so, and my brain,

It tries to cope, but all in vain.

My heart prefers to be preclusive.

 

You sing those tunes without a care,

You fail to see that I can’t bear,

The notes that sound to me illusive.

 

I understand that I am flawed,

But all I see is brutish fraud,

Who is as rude as he’s delusive.

 

I do not trust when someone says:

“I fell in love in three short days.”

It’s highly doubtful and allusive.

 

Your words are brining only pain,

They are constricting, like a chain,

And I can hardly take your glee.

 

But you’re urging me to stay,

And not allowing me to say,

My desperate, urgent plea.

The anger hops up to the front,

You end up sliced. You end up burnt,

You cuss, you spit, you flee.

 

I ‘m left alone. I’m left unbound.

Denied a voice, denied a sound,

Like cursed, unwanted sea.

 

I curl inside. I close the door,

Refuse to roar and feeling sore,

I throw away the key.

 

And I am failing to confess,

And I am failing to express –

How love confessions hurt me.

Genre: love, relationship, hurt, another point of view, confession, sad

Read Poetry: Notion, by Lucrezia Mancini Nardi

Once thin skinned like orchid petals all
frustration was mistaken for tears.
Then resilience took over so to cry
only having the feeling of no amend.

So far bones resounded metal cold,
lack of nearness is not about fears
but to save weeping for better times,
trying to roll over any sign of dead-end.

Whether eyes or not drops come from
They’re salty stories and may reveal
promises made to oneself but unkept in life
like the notion tears fall not at our command.

– I own all rights to this poem –

Lucrezia Mancini Nardi

Read Poetry: At a Glance, by Joyce Villeta

When I thought I had it all
Trouble came and made me fall
I stripped myself from finding love
Not from men, but from above
I held joy inside my womb
I chose to end it way too soon
I never even had a chance
To think it happened at a glance
Devastation hit me hard
It was my choice; I chose the card
That led me to my biggest fear
The one that never lets me hear
The sound of peace cause I have none
I’m blinded, lost, there is no sun
It’s gone; the road ahead is rough
It’s time for me to say enough
I can’t forget the sight of when
I cried because the pain won’t mend
So here I am thinking of you
A year ago, I still feel blue

Read Poetry: Curse Coffee Cups, by Andrew Green

Curse the coffee cups and spoons
The yellow fog, the window panes
Curse the dying of the light
Curse the rage against the night.

Curse daffodils, satanic mills
Pleasure domes, the albatross,
Comparisons to summer day
The last man in, an hour to play.

Curse roads divergent in a wood,
The knock upon a moonlit door
The airman’s helmet and the hawk
Painted women and their talk.

Curse Gunga Din, curse Kubla Khan,
Curse the Tiger burning bright.
Curse Dulce Et Decorum Est
Let Drummer Hodge not find his rest.

Unstop the clocks, unmuffle drums
Forget the honey with your tea.
Forget the grin of bitterness,
The look of rooms returning thence.

Forget the friendly bombs on Slough
And men in brightly lit canteens.
Curse the damns of your content
The crumpling floods that force a vent.

Zero hour will never come,
We won’t ride a merry go round
Or Whitsun train that’s late away.
We won’t be naming parts today.

Stop the cannons, stop the charge,
Stop Hiawatha in mid song.
The eye will simply look on glass
It won’t look through; it shall not pass.

No knock kneed men will cough like hags
Three will never meet again.
Blood stained hands will be washed clean
And woods won’t come to Dunsinane.

Too many words crammed in my head
The rhythms dance, the cadence strong
I need new words to call my own
My head rings with another’s song.