Ancient Heart Magazine

Before the Law (my interpretation of Franz Kafka's short story)

2011-10-27T18:26:00.002+11:00

My curiosity had brought me …to the gates of The Law
But all progress was halted… I could venture no more

A Gatekeeper there stood… who obstructed my path
With his menacing demeanour …and a soul filled with wrath

Warning not to continue… on my journey ahead
For more frightening will face me: The thought filled me with dread

Though my hunger for knowledge… of what lay inside
Simply would not relent …it just would not subside

But he held firm with his caution… of the immanent danger
So now who do I trust …myself or this stranger?

Held back with uncertainty, burdened with apprehension
Unsure of my fate… I’m held here in suspension

So I patiently waited, hoping he would relent
But time just marched on, with opportunities spent

As my life drifted on, and the years passed me by
All that remained… was just waiting to die

The end brought me courage… to enquire of this gate
Though I was informed, it was just for my fate

And thus when I am gone, it will be closed up and locked
I’ve no time to be sorry, nor time to be shocked

I think of all those ambitions, of those things I’ve desired
For the unique opportunities… that left me inspired

Although I look back and wish for… this chance once again
It is time to accept… this is where I’ll remain

But the long-term companion I chose …it was fear
Controlling my choices… it drove me to despair

So now at the end… I am filled with regret
The price that I’ve paid …is a terrible debt

And what of the lesson …I chose to endure?
It was my time spent in judgement… Before The Law!

Michael Major,
London UK,
mike@kafkaforourtime.com

London Bridge

2011-10-20T21:06:00.003+11:00

London bridge, falling
In the life and times
Of my great recluse.
The link is broken-
Chains rattle
At the disjoined ends.

I left behind
The truth
The lies
What lay in between.
Wire mesh
Of twisted tales.
Pricking
The leaden heart.

You stood
On the other side.
The icy river
Divided us.
Death
Finally did us part.

Maryam B. Mirza
Lahore, Pakistan

Before My Funeral

2011-10-08T23:38:00.001+11:00

Her finger at my cheek,
Voice timid and meek,
I see the ends of her lips shiver,
Words dying there which she couldn't utter,

She choked and smiled and cried anew,
And her soul whispered, I love you,
She looked at me, her eyes red,
As I lost the love I once had,

Then she asked that which I feared,
'How can you be so hard on me dear..
Was everything a lie you said,
Was it never there, the love we had?'

I shook my head, my eyes bowed low,
I was crying and she shouldn't know,
How can you be so hard? She asked again.
My love, you stone, said her eyes in pain,
I wanted to console but could find no way,
How do I tell her I am dying today?

-Aftab Yusuf Shaikh

Mumbai, India
ayshaikh@live.in

Darque Doll

2011-09-09T12:29:00.001+10:00

Cradling her wounds she thought back
Pressed to the ground
He had stolen her perfection
Once bright white porcelain and pure
She was now broken and scarred
She did the only thing she could think to do
Though soaked in her own blood
She threaded her needle with her yarn
And stitched herself back together.

Crystal Lane Swift (PhD, Rhetoric and Public Address, LSU, 2008) is a communication Professor at Mt. San Antonio College and California State University, Northridge. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies, Speaker & Gavel, on poemranker.com, and at the Poet’s Perch. She enjoys painting, writing, singing, acting, modeling, and producing all kinds of art. She has published an academic book, This House Would Ethically Engage (2008), over 15 academic articles (2005-2011), and a book of poetry, God Bless Paul (2008). She has produced three films: Sculpting the Rhetorician (2005), Debating Christianity from Below (2005), and It’s Never About a Boy (2011), as well as an album, On Going Battle (2011). She lives in Hollywood, CA with her best friend, Elba Soto-Quinones. (www.crystallaneswift.com)

Untitled

2011-06-09T16:42:00.001+10:00

Cloud cover of gabble
Too much heat
Not enough light
for intelligent life
to thrive

Sing another chorus?
Clear the cover before us
with voices like sirens
reversed
Uncover, dispell the curse
if you will
or be part of the kill

Here, in this still place,
prior to awakening,
which dream takes hold?
Dream whatever dream you see.
Reveal your potent imagery.
Rlease your awesome wings
-- it's okay; it's just a dream ...

libramoon

http:emergingvisions.blogspot.com

Dingle, Ireland

2011-05-27T23:28:00.000+10:00

The bathroom carpet,
wall to wall, is blue,
the lightest blue,
to complement
the bowl and ceiling.

Apropos the moment:
I bend the waist
and heave the gristle
from last evening's steak.

Tomorrow I shall row again
to see those ancient men
in caps and coveralls
stand like statues
while they talk
and tap gold embers
from clay pipes
forever glowing.

I'll go there
at the dinner hour
and see them once again
fork potatoes,
whole and steaming,
from big kettles filled
at dawn by crones
forever kerchiefed
and forever bent.

At dawn you hear
these women
sing their hymns
like seraphim
a cappella
as they genuflect and dip
big black kettles
in the sometimes still
sometimes foaming sea.

Donal Mahoney

donalmahoney@charter.net
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had poems published Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United State, Europe, Asia and Africa,

With Love from Euphor

2011-05-12T20:51:00.000+10:00

On the tiled floor, I saw strange forms appearing.
The head of Spartacus
or that, more exciting, more modern also, of Actarus.

Princes
whether they come from Thrace or Euphor
always haunted my frozen mornings,
my capsized nights.

Later
- much later -
it is by their laughter that I was started the most.

The princes always had an open throat
and amazed eyes
in bed.

I saw their wings growing
at the same rate as their sexes
who were spread out around me
everywhere
in me
on me
in my eyes and the clouds.

I flew away too
far from this nest
to join
in dream
in the bathroom
unreal colorings,
small encrusted gravels,
in the shape of happy princes,
in the shape of dark princes.

First published in Poetry Super Highway September 2008

Walter Ruhlmann was born in 1974 in France. He currently lives in Mamoudzou, Mayotte where he works as an English teacher. He has been publishing mgversion2>datura (ex-Mauvaise graine) for fifteen years. Walter is the author of several poetry chapbooks in French and has published poems in various printed and electronic publications world wide. He co-edited and translated poems for the bilingual free verse and form section for the anniversary issue of Magnapoets in January 2011.

Back to Iraq

2011-04-11T15:42:00.001+10:00

I saw Quinn again tonight,
first time in years, sailing the streets,
weaving through people,
collar up, head cocked,
arms like telephone poles sunk
in the pockets of his overcoat,

the brilliant pennants of his long red hair
waving over the stadium
where years ago he took my handoff,
bucked off guard, found the free field,
and heaved like a bison into the end zone.

Tonight, when Quinn wove by me muttering,
I should have handed him the ball.
I should have screamed, “Go, Quinn, go!”
He would have stiff-armed the lamppost,
found the free field again,
left all in his wake to gawk

as he hit the end zone
and circled the goal posts,
whooping and laughing,
flinging the ball like a spear
over the cross-bar,
back to Iraq.

Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had poems published Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United State, Europe, Asia and Africa,

Bath

2011-03-29T09:31:00.000+11:00

She wanted to lie down next to me.
She did.
I said she ought to know there were no chances;
she took hers.

I remember this silent night
in my flat
up there
up the Plantation Shop
Bath
Nineteen
Ninety-six

Fanny
was her name
she once met the Native
and shared his wrath
against the wall
of uncertainties
that went up
between us.

Andy and Paul
were cutting plants,
tidying the shop,
clearing things,
counting money.
When she went downstairs
she helped herself with a cup of coffee
the smell of it filled up the kitchen.

I let her go
I had to
she had to go
and there were no
other ways.
The Native would come back shortly after.
He had been out all night.
Staring at the sky,
talking to the moon,
to the stars,
his fingers touching the darkest patch of the ethereal net
up there.

He entered the room
I was still lying on my bed.
He lied next to me.
The wine vapours still lingered in his hair,
on his clothes, on his pale skin.
I touched his back.
He said I ought to know there were no chances;
I got up
and went to work.

Previously published in Aesthetica Magazine, 2008

Walter Ruhlmann,

Mamoudzou, Mayotte,

France.

Walter Ruhlmann was born in 1974 in France. He currently lives in Mamoudzou, Mayotte where he works as an English teacher. He has been publishing mgvesion2>datura for fifteen years. Walter is the author of several poetry chapbooks and published poems in magazines such as Magnapoets, Poetic Diversity, Aesthetica Magazine, Ygdrasil, Above Ground Testing. He co-edited and translated poems for the bilingual free verse and form section for the anniversary issue of Magnapoets in January 2011.

Miss Lakeishia Sings The Blues

2011-02-19T09:13:00.000+11:00

Listen, mister, you're a guest
at the Night Owl Club
so you can sit here
all night long, tip me
after every song,
buy me scotch
till the final gong
but none of this will help.

You'll still go home alone
unless some other lady has a need
to make her rent
and sees the opportunity
you offer. It won't be me;
I can't be bothered.
I need a different kind of man,
a man who'll hug me tighter

than my panties can,
a big old man
whose big old tongue
will be my tampon
when I'm dry.
If you'll get off that stool
and look in the mirror
behind those whiskey bottles

standing at attention,
you'll see clearly why
you can never be that man,
not even for an hour.
I'm no Billie Holliday,
but even with my glasses off,
I can see that you
ain't no John Wayne.

Donal Mahoney

donalmahoney@charter.net
---------------------

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri, U.S.A. He has had poems published in a variety of print and online publications, including Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), Ancient Heart Magazine (Australia), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Poetry Bulawayo (Zimbabwe), The Christian Science Monitor and Commonwealth.

Awakening

2011-01-23T21:22:00.001+11:00

The sun trembled of its hot rays
sensitive to the cold, he remained there, doing nothing
he looked at the world in flames
the earth burning
the hell in front of his eyes and the flowers' as impure as the skies
when they ejaculate the psalms of the divine
avenger.

It is like a flashback:
a brother at his sides
seem to wait patiently
before the scream lay them down.
Marie, you still suffer from these infamies,
Joe shakes you such a long time, so often,
flowers of the fields
the songs put the spell on you
go back to Consecrated Land,
go back into the blue cave,
the children will show you the way.

In the blue cave
I am lying down on a bed of straw,
I am looking at the vault,
the solidified drawings,
the traces of my depressed ancestors.

The house burns.
The brain explodes.
I don't want to stay here anymore

Walter Ruhlmann Mamoudzou,
Mayotte, France

Walter Ruhlmann was born in 1974 in France. He currently lives in Mamoudzou, Mayotte where he works as an English teacher. Walter lived in England from 1995 to 1997. He began publishing Mauvaise graine, a literary magazine, in 1996, now know as mgvesion2>datura. Back in France, he has carried on publishing and writing mostly poetry, although he has published short stories in several French-language magazines. Walter is the author of several poetry booklets and published poems in magazines such as Magnapoets, Poetic Diversity, Aesthetica Magazine, Ygdrasil, Above Ground Testing. He edited and translated poems for the bilingual free verse and form section for the anniversary issue of Magnapoets in January 2011.

Prism

2010-12-21T18:45:00.001+11:00

Just as the sun descends into
A drop of water
Creating a canvass of hues
The 7 columns of mist-spray
Embrace it with open arms
Painting a world of colours into
Its little body

I too possess a sun
And when I embrace it
A spectrum of rainbow-flowers grow from within me
All it takes is a slight change of direction
And again I become
A simple droplet of water
Blank and colourless.

Rehan Qayoom
London
www.rehanqayoompoet.blogspot.com

Cuckold's Plea

2010-11-05T09:11:00.001+11:00

You'll never see him again, you say,
but what if he brings to your room
a midnight poem he says
he's written for you.

Will you read it together
a couple of times, out loud,
as you have in the past?
And what if he then

shoots like a rocket
into the forest, igniting the fire,
as he has in the past.
Will you see him again?

We have the children
to think about.
That's why I'm here.
We all need to know.

Donal Mahoney
P.O. Box 140184
St. Louis,
Missouri 63114-0184
U.S.A.
donalmahoney@charter.net

Shadows Falling from the Heart

2010-09-11T10:20:00.001+10:00

for Kelly K. Moran

Before they fell in love
he'd met her heart in a dream.
It offered hope and beat within him,
brought soil and light to the trees.

Then she came to him, full-bright,
an unearthly light across the fields.

As she spoke
her voice lifted flowers from the gray.
They swelled and broke the silence within him,
brought blue to the sea.

In such time she carried him, sleep-quiet,
placed his broken body in the arms of angels.

When the shadows fell away, one by one,
they could see that his heart resembled hers.
An undeniable sign.

Oh love, mysterious thing,
as vital to life as the stars are to the universe,
you are what gives God his sight.

Jason Sturner
Wheaton, Illinois, U.S.A.
www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

Swing and Creak

2010-09-01T21:45:00.000+10:00

See-sawing in the breeze-
the thin crusted line
between the disparate worlds
is trodden down by soft petal-toed feet,
on this day of horrors.

On other dark hued days preceding.
On the long oily chain of days following.

Said but not spread,
only to whim
and not design.
It is not bright,
not suffiently warm enough to
gnaw holes in the freezing ice that covers everything.
freezing innocuous
moments like diseased flies in amber.

Find oneself in a familiar, previously trodden down spot?
Say welcome back Mrs.

Rebecca Woods
becki.woods@hotmail.co.uk

Homesick

2010-06-16T10:14:00.001+10:00

Far.
It is not long since the moon crept in
And broke a few silver paces across the deck.
Not Far.
Since the light held your eyes,
As a lonely crystal flew
Across your face.
Liquid.
It is not far.
Since the day waved goodbye to morning
And welcomed politely the afternoon.
It is not far.
Since the earth jumped to caress you
Warm its kiss upon your face encased in nevers and not evers.
It is not far.
To walk to hear your laughter.
No, no,
It is not far.

Natalie Williams,
Wirral, UK
nataliewilliams-gypsybutterfly@hotmail.co.uk

Tangle

2010-02-18T10:58:00.001+11:00

As your broad stemmed green shoots emerge
from the heather, slowly
eclipsing the rosemary and dandelion
rooted with azalea and blackberry intertwined, and your viburnum,
fuschia, and yucca crowd
the cedars, cherries, dogwoods, magnolias,
on whose feet
the climbing rose and English ivy tangle, hopelessly
thriving, I want

to know
when will I know enough to stand still with you, too still
to say your name?

Christianne Balk
cbalk@juno.com
Seattle, Washington
USA

That's How I Feel..

2010-01-03T12:04:00.000+11:00

Closing my eyes into your face,
apparently walking, but trying to trace,
your footsteps to see if, just in case,
they lead to my heart.

The longing in my heart never seems to fade,
have been thinking nothing of late,
save you...I feel fascinated by the wait,
that your eyes bring with you.

Your words ring in my ears,
In those long hours with newfound tears,
Thinking of the long gone years...
How did I survive without you?

Your mere shadow gives me company,
Your mere laugh is a symphony,
You make my foggy day sunny,
Isn't all this enough?

That you then enter my dreams,
Spark across my skies like a multicolour beam,
Pull my fantasies upto extremes,
And still saviour enough for my day,
Making me feel all-supreme.

I'm not alone, just lonely,
I'm not mute, just silent,
I'm not a statue, just still,
And I'm not in love, just obssessed.

Drishti Sharan

Wake up and farewell

2010-01-01T09:30:00.000+11:00

Another sunny afternoon, near summer.
I woke up.

Do one last recall, and this is the real farewell.
Last summer, those unbridled loud cries and laughs --
Floated away!
Quietly flowed through my body, as swept by a gust of tornado, ran towards the opposite direction and disappeared in waves.

Glossy leg fell asleep.
It will no longer wake up. I knew.
You hold my face under the moonlight. When tears become pearls, my reborn life is announced.

So screw those miniskirts!
Even wearing black nail polish, I have miraculously regained virginity.

Let me use the gentlest voice to talk to you.
If there is no tenderness, how can we survive?
You must take me with you.
I'll grow between your fingers.
When they clench, I obediently fall asleep.
When they open, I show the most coquettish erotic dance to you only.

And then, I will sit among crowds and listen to the stories of countless others.
I listen to stories.
I write stories.
I tell the stories to lots of irrelevant others.
It also gives me joy.

Apart from you, this is the second thing I feel happy for.
And this will do. I am very satisfied.

Another sunny afternoon, near summer. I woke up.

The soul in the flame died along with the evil body.
The reborn life stands in the ocean, with so much excitement.
Darling, let me show the most coquettish erotic dance to you only.

Xi Nan
Hometown: China
Country of Residence: UK

Silence

2009-12-28T10:52:00.000+11:00

These are the silent times, the best of times
Where reflection is the handmaiden of realisation
To soak in the tallow glow of a candle flickering dimly
And find memories laid bare to analyse retrospectively
To hear the voices in the still nothingness
And observe the shapes eldritch formed which try to defile
This is the calm before the storm when all will come again
To seek to confuse the namelss scribe of introspection
Sounds from a distant melancholy invading cunningly
Seeking to make true on the harpies' seductive deception
But never to find their way into the protective stream
This is the moment of our benediction to higher powers
When we put pen to paper and let words flow like liquid cyanide
A curtain call to those who would but listen for its instruction
And a calling card for the dissolute, disaffected generation
So bask in these moments well my friends
For they will only come when least expected
And once we float away on the obsidian wings of angels
We shall find our truth, before all is lost in the maelstrom of consequence

Reg Davey

reg_davey@hotmail.com

Country of Residence: UK

Hometown: Nottingham

These Things

2009-10-30T16:46:00.000+11:00

for Kelly K. Moran

I have longed to be
the quiet, fading light
that helps you sleep;
and sunrise through the open door.

I've stayed awake for hours,
wondering how I could channel
the most beautiful things
through your eyes,
and into your heart.

I have wished to be
the warm, child-long summer
that stirs your playful curiosity;
and dreams across the long winter.

For a time I doubted I could
be any of these things,
or the myriad others
that fill my head each day.

But the stronger my life
bonds with yours,
the less I doubt my abilities,
the more revealed is my part.

With love, all possibility follows;
it follows me, it follows you.
And all these things wished for
are already true.

Jason Sturner
Wheaton, Illinois, U.S.A.
www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

Child Labourer

2009-10-02T20:07:00.001+10:00

Uncle, uncle he cried as he ran behind me
When I turned around, a small child did I see
He pointed to a fireworks stall and asked me to visit it please
I frowned in the gentle autumn breeze

I’ve already brought my fireworks I said roughly I don’t need anymore
I turned around and walked away never seeing the tears that did flow
I didn’t even known his name was Ramesh, his age was seven, I didn’t care
But at night peacefully I slept after my dinner and a prayer

In my dreams I walked in his shoes
God’s way to help me choose
He was only seven
When his Father left them

How he cried when he worked his first day in the cracker factory
How day and night he slumped into bed in a hungry and exhausted sleep
How he worked for twelve hours non stop
How he was made to exert till from exhaustion he dropped

Silent child, tears of silver
Won’t someone ever come near?
Mothers touch oft forgotten
Life is but a ball of cotton

How did fate deal him such a bad hand
This is something Ramesh will never understand
Here we cry if we don’t get into McDonalds and for money is what we pray
Ramesh would be lucky to get a Sunday off and a square meal a day

There was a fire in his factory which almost burnt him to death
Brave lad, he never wept
Simply got salves on his hand to stop the pain for a while
Started working the next day but he couldn’t smile

He sees many men getting rich off his hard work
Is their any justice in the world?

So many children like Ramesh are made to work in the Sivakasi fireworks factory, this Diwali remember them before you light a fire cracker, it may have been made with their hard work, the profits of which they will never see in their life time because it will be swallowed by greedy business men and fat politicians.

by Rahul
Home Town Chennai, Tamil Nadu
Country, India
Email: rahul.gomez@gmail.com

Spring Came...

2009-07-30T10:39:00.001+10:00

Spring came. With clothes of winter still
wrapped round me, I walk to the bus.
Growing craftier everyday
To a world on its hinges.
The noise and wind work at the nerve,
I only have to look at my jacket
And I became melancholy.
I only have to speak of shoes and
I weep. The misunderstood nature
of conflict swallows the world's truth
With a dogs decorum for concern.
Working everyday wears away the
Immunity like a pair of
Shoes. You can repair the laces,
The heels but when your soul gives out-
It's over.

Tom Harding
www.tomarianne.net
tom.harding@talk21.com

The Voice of Despair

2009-07-13T20:14:00.001+10:00

Triangles of half-open doors
Reveal all the truth that is hidden:
Just condoms and cans on the floor,
Black papers with verses, forbidden -
Unfinished remakes of the song,
Deprived of the right to speak loud
Of wicked intentions gone wrong -
Erasers have muffled the shout.

The only illusion-proof mind -
A poet, the voice of despair,
Sincere, the one of this kind
Throws verses far into the air
Right there, in a dirty old flat
Among once great talents, now rotten.
They all have deserved more than that,
But even their names are forgotten.

April A.
St. Petersburg, Russia
beautiful-disaster-90@hotmail.com

You Never Know

2009-06-18T11:35:00.002+10:00

Tomorrow I shall be new
Wake up glowing
Wake up knowing

When the morning hits the window pane
I’ll wake up sane

Sleeping madly, sleeping badly
I toss and turn
Burning the midnight oil
No reward for this toil

Promises are never kept
No matter what dreams are dreamt
I say tomorrow but I know
The day is lost
I’ve lost it now

Natalie Williams
Liverpool,
United Kingdom

www.natalie-williams.com
nataliewilliams.gypsybutterfly@googlemail.com

Untitled

2009-05-04T18:34:00.001+10:00

When the paper arrives,
the news is rumors mixed with fact
strangely sprinkled in seasoned sections,

-scientist stare into atoms face
electrons report

news and evenings
fantasy,

Where the paper caught
the bridge fall,
the tower topple
and that strange
virus renamed
to killer status-

Oh yeah,
the cop,
who could forget them,
strolling streets with the tough voice
looking for vagrants-

names and addresses
and papers,
more paper-

I feel guilty thinking
I missed it.

Dave Barber
Albuquerque, New Mexico
United States

Poetic Loss

2009-04-18T09:17:00.002+10:00

The following poem is a tribute to Ancient Heart Magazine, its editor, Richard James van der Draay, and to the fellow poets, its contributors.

There was once a time

when poets wrote poetry

for the sake of poetry itself

no slashing of paper

in painful red

no squirmings of self-pity

in whining blue

no rantings against the world

in merciless black

no railings against fate

in envious green

there was once a time

when readers read poetry

for the sake of poetry itself

not to escape from

drudgery or grinding chores

not to run away from

concrete steel chains

not to blank away

depressing truths

not to find solace

in virtual reality

there was once a time

when bards let poetry

flow through their pens

to blow out new creations

catch metaphorical pearls,

set sensations to music

dance, fly, whirl

spiral through

rhyming similes

twirling idioms

build scented paths

to sublime spheres

there was once a time

when poetry lovers

floated languorously

between unfathomable lines

to roll around, chew upon,

absorb, fully savour

the unforgettable flavour

of each melodious rhyme

pulsing with subtle spices

to sublimate their emotions

through the perfume of

incandescent verses.

Luxembourg

Leaving

2009-04-17T21:53:00.001+10:00

Spirits drag
wool to her eyes
the silence inside
the telephone dies
the lion paces
the old crow flies
by the way
of missed goodbyes
lightning screams
thunder cries
the dogma star
must ostrasize
the trilogy
of quasi lies
to the moon
it's no surprise
the little star
pokes green eyes
the pulsing sun
burns out and dies
the lion paces
the old crow flies

Carrie O'Neil
Pizwat23@yahoo.com
You can also find me on MySpace Mama Freak

Review: Theodore in November - Natalie Williams

2009-04-17T12:14:00.001+10:00

Theodore in November is the second poetry offering by the wonderful poet Natalie Williams. This poet made a convincing impression on this editor with her first poetry volume and now, once again, has produced something very special. Theodore in November (ISBN 978-1-906600-10-5) was published by Jeremy Mills Publishing Limited (www.jeremymillspublishing.co.uk) www.natalie-williams.com

The poems in this book seem to illustrate an allegorical journey with as its main characters Theodore/love and November/Eden; a journey of self-discovery and the realisation of true love, that ephemeral and elusive fabled beast.

There are some truly stunning and haunting poems in this collection and, as I am coming to expect with Natalie Williams, the author often strikes just the right poetic tone, hits home to the reader’s heart and makes her point in a direct and wondrous manner.

In ‘Cover me in Latin’ I am fixed by the lines ‘Easy lover/I’m skinned by you/And gift wrapped in joy/Present me to your finest woes/And I shall curl my toes’. Sheer beauty and so incredibly evocative. Williams is the mistress of setting the mood. In ‘Words of Wine’, I am treated to ‘And I am liquid in your hands/Liquid to fulfil your demands/Flow to meet your commands/You drink me up yet I am drunk with you/. Who can resist a poetic flow like this?

Theodore in November seems to be an exploration of precisely those feelings that make human beings feel human, and, at times, immortal. These are themes that resonate throughout the ages; love and loss, longing and desire, the quenching and the hurt, the pain and the bliss involved in the mere act of living and loving. This, all said, is a beautiful book of poetry.

I will leave you with a few more lines that inspired this editor. What joy is poetry when it comes in the form of sublime craft. From ‘Take me back to November’: ‘Take me back to November/Make me remember/The steps I took to December/../Develop me/Envelop me/Play with me/Today with me/Stay with me’. And also: ‘Blow me into a Rainbow/Fly me like a kite/Let me be the moonlight/On a November night’.

Swan Song

2009-04-17T09:17:00.001+10:00

So full of grace

she walks in beauty

on sun-drenched days

simply doing her duty

trailing white flowers

in full bloom

of a lazy spring

gone all too soon

with lustrous petals

all Nature’s creation

without any artifice

or Man’s manipulation

Soft, fine sand

between her toes sifts

doesn’t choke on

deadly seaweed drifts

she swims in beauty

with a curving waist

untouched, unbloated

by toxic waste

she dances in air

that’s fresh and pure

for fumes and poisons

she cannot endure

she soaks in beauty

with no allergic shock

by pollen, hay

or pink Holly Hocks

she faces the sun

beating down mercilessly

through an ozone hole

made so carelessly

she floats in beauty

with her lovely train

while she sheds tears

of never-ending rain

she sings of beauty

but will it last;

is Nature’s poetry

all in the past?

Sultana Raza

June

2009-03-17T12:07:00.000+11:00

In June we meet again.

No baby this year, she explains
as we lie sideways on the couch,
her skin rough
like the heal of my foot.

And I dip my face into hers,
sopping her tears with my cheek.
*
Once we saw a snake
outside a shop, Bloor street,
slithering, confused
to be in a city,
not even looking
for his home,
not even trying
for a patch of grass.
*
I think of her only in winter:
skidding on beetle black streets,
raw skin and runny noses.
Or on the lake,
our bladed feet licking the crusty frost
as we glide, paths slicing
gutters onto the virgin ice.

Only in winter
did the soft parts under her eyes
turn red from the pawing winds.

Only in winter
Did she wear the snowflakes
about her like a veil.

Only in winter
could we make whole families
out of snow.
*
But it is June when we meet again.

And while lie sideways on the couch,
listening to our bodies
that breathe together,
I will ache for the winter.

Home at last
the first time in years.

V. Macdonald
Toronto,
Canada
nessy416@hotmail.com

Kings Cross

2009-03-09T19:33:00.001+11:00

Fresh scent of jasmine flowers
mingled with exhaust fumes;
telephone booth, graffiti
numbers, scattered pages,
direct line to love. How much
everything grows out of everything--

Or the way God shows herself
to himself, as our eyes meet.

Paul Christian Stevens
Central Coast,
Australia
caratacus@gmail.com

The Chimaera

Geisha Girl

2009-02-28T22:24:00.004+11:00

You are a star
Four pointed and not quite perfection
I make wishes on your lips
Millions of inconsequential wishes

While you are sleeping
The moon and sky cry weeping
I clutch at all the thousands of dreams I have
I believe I am dreaming
Your presence melts shattered tomorrows
All I am is my gift to you
Daisied eyes, damson dressing
Belief in this vision of you is my blessing

Gaze into my sleepy time, Geisha Girl
As I trip into midnight.

Natalie Williams
Liverpool,
United Kingdom

Website: www.natalie-williams.com
Email: nataliewilliams-gypsybutterfly@hotmail.co.uk

Review: Daydreams in Mermaid Grass/Natalie Williams

2009-02-28T14:23:00.004+11:00

Review – Daydreams in Mermaid Grass/Natalie Williams, 2008, Jeremy Mills Publishing Limited, ISBN 978-1-906600-09-9. www.jeremymillspublishing.co.uk
www.natalie-williams.com

This is a stunning collection of verse by a promising poet from the UK. Here we have magical imagery and mysterious lyricism evoked with a masterful touch. This is exactly the type of poetry that this editor likes to savour.

The flyer to Natalie Williams’ collection states that: ‘In her verse, Natalie Williams summons up the world of Bracken, a mesmerising realm populated by fantastical creatures. Serpent dragons journeying on quests that reflect all wrongdoing, princesses clothed in darkness and the enigmatic `Speaker` are just some of the treasures that await.’

Daydreams in Mermaid Grass is most definitely a wondrous epic read of beautiful dream-inspired visions. Williams explores the mindscape of dreams and dreaming and what happens to us in that mythical state of not quite knowing what’s going on or rather feeling that something important is happening if only we could fathom the depths of its meaning. Williams makes poetry her medium, her prism and what we readers are served up is a enchanting kaleidoscope of wonder and beauty.

In her poem The Mockingbird and the Jewelfinder we read: 'I am ancient; I am old/So I sing, jewels to me bring/I am withered; I am cold, so cold…/I shout out, let all the earth with my echo sing'. This is highly successful imagery and the lines convey a sense of place that lies without our normal mundane sphere of interest. It is ‘other’, ‘over there’. These are glimpses of some kind of wonderland that is never sugary sweet or trite. It is a realm of enchantment and the way in which Natalie Williams evokes this state of being is utterly confident and capable.

Here we have a unique poetic voice and one that at once thrills and moves. In Geisha Girl the reader is transported: ‘While you are sleeping/The moon and sky cry weeping/I clutch at all the thousands of dreams I have/'…and: ‘Your presence melts shattered tomorrows/’..and the beautiful line: ‘All I am is my gift to you.’

These poems are a tonic to the soul, a wondrous balm for modern humankind, so often engaged in the trivial and exasperating facets of life. Natalie Williams’ poems are rich and exquisite and reflect a sense of purity that, ultimately, most of us long for in some way or other.

Speckled Dragon is an intriguing, terse poem but perhaps my favourite verse in this outstanding volume is Komodo Princess with its crisp, sharp images: ‘I am reversed/Painted onto the backside of time/Blurted forth into wickedness/Into your moment of death/How sublime.’

This volume makes for supremely compelling reading. It’s not escapism that delights; these poems refer to that blissful dreamy state of being itself. These are poems that denote wonder. It’s a gem.

In the biography it states that Natalie Williams grew up in Zimbabwe and lived on the purple carpeted Jacaranda Lane. Where I live Jacaranda trees abound and when they are in season they are a joy to behold. It is no wonder that it would instil a sense of wonder and magic in a budding poet. Anyone who has seen the Jacarandas in bloom must believe in the power of dreams and poetry.

i know a dancer

2009-02-20T15:47:00.001+11:00

and she walks with the grace of a dream
a billowing message of the worlds goodness
and it fills you from all angles and lifts you to say
‘Hush, it’s okay’
and that’s all you wanted to hear anyway.

and the kiss of her lips to the fumes of the ash
kissing the air of creativity
she sucks with a passion and blows with a
sigh
and that’s all she wanted
anyway.

the dancing arms and the dancing hands
the dancing fingers
wrap around
my welcoming neck
and we dance in each others eyes to Brahms
as we kiss the air
and not each other.

and it will be quiet
and it will be perfect
and everything will be clean and perfect
possibly
probably
definitely.

Alexander J. Allison
London
UK
aja_clarkman@hotmail.co.uk

Painting the Isles

2009-02-18T19:34:00.002+11:00

The busy Scillonian
disgorges, absorbs.
Tourists melt away,
ferried to other Isles,
or slowing the pace
along St Mary's trails,
where, if the flora fails,
then the beaches will not.
They care not that waves
now massaging this sand
will one day wash
over sharp, remnant rocks.
For the day's colours
are deeper,
the land
more solid,
than any legend
lost to sea.

David Wilkins
Bristol,
United Kingdom

Night Train to Rome

2009-01-30T12:54:00.002+11:00

I went to bed in the night of a city,
with light and noise and movement constant,
tossed and turned and slept and woke and slept again.
Unseen engines rolled the scenery past
and gathered it beyond my sight.
Throughout the night towns strobed past my window
but I passed unknowing.
Sleep held me in its echoing grip until I had enough and left her.
To wake to a different sky of delicate serried clouds.
Terracotta coloured roofs and pastel walls,
arches of dubious value but certain grace.
Hills rolling into mountains of green,
marked by cypress cryptography
pointing the way to ruined villas
while others waited timelessly behind forgotten light.
Roofless towers spoke of power or poets or dust and produce
and lines of supported trees fanned past,
sprocketing a film that would have surprised no ancient Roman,
until the power lines gently nudged the landscape
into today.

Motorgyre
Killarney, Co Kerry,
Ireland
motorgyre@googlemail.com
http://motorgyre.wordpress.com/

Untitled

2009-01-24T15:11:00.000+11:00

On the new year,
I’m wondering where winter sleeps,
certainly not in my backyard
where the leaves remain sleepy brown,
grasses bid me to wake up soon,
waking up soon.

Sure, winter wakes here
by the calendar - at least
but my eyes lie to me,
and my heart tests the metal
of the season.

Dave Barber
Albuquerque, New Mexico
United States

At Some Point

2008-12-13T20:46:00.000+11:00

Some day,
I think you’ll know my heart.
You’ll pick up the folder, book, journal
and break your heart
like the ice forming outside,
(At least this sheet)

You’ll know
how hurt I was when forgotten
when i was secondary
to life in general
the show,
phone call.

at this point,
i am gone
a scratch of ink lines
stretching a word to a thought,
into a strange passion,
you’ve never read.

Dave Barber
Albuquerque, New Mexico
United States

Desert Poem

2008-12-02T00:39:00.001+11:00

Windprint on the clear face soothes man’s mark
Mirror patterns of nature’s art.

We climb in order to survey
And at each brow
Another dune ascends
Nature mocks our miniature attempts.

Shapes of hip and cheek and brow
The endless line twixt sky and sand.

Mind and lungs expand
To meet the stretch of desert space
Ripples to land’s end.

Samantha Burns
Salalah
Oman

Life of a Candle

2008-11-21T10:10:00.002+11:00

Count the carbons
fifteen, twenty, twenty-five
yes, linked, bound, binding
together into a cold set.

Useless,
until fire
lights me,
then,

Burning coldly
casting our amber light
into rooms.

But what of it?
who counts the candle
save a monastery
pressing prayers into his hands

lighting,
extinguishing and lighting again.

day after day.

when I’m burned out
spilling my liquid
useless short wick,

then I’m waste
just that collection
of carbon refuge.

Collection: 'Natural Law'

Dave Barber
Albuquerque, New Mexico
United States

Where the Mountain Took Him

2008-11-17T09:24:00.002+11:00

Imagine this room,
stain on the dark wooden floor
hole where the gas line ran
where I sat up worried
I’d killed everyone.
A room wet with guilt
a shrine to ignorance
and naivety,
a manger of pain.
This room changed
but remained the same.
When I kept falling down
it made the same crash.
When I returned,
it was for sewing-
(Nothing else really)

My feet creak the floor
boards giving under the weight
of years, or under my shadow-
light
shadow
both mixed.
No shadow of turning.

Dave Barber
Albuquerque, New Mexico
United States
(Upcoming Book: 'Don’t Ask Those Questions')

Eternal Return

2008-11-14T08:25:00.001+11:00

Before the day my heart was shattered,
My thoughts eternally return.
A perfect likeness won’t discern.
Enochian doused fractions whispered
‘The price of love is ego martyred.’
Father Time’s trapped in passion’s urn.
Before the day my heart was shattered,
My thoughts eternally return.
I was a mouldering moon fettered
To orbit radiance that burned.
A stagnant satellite, I yearn
For those days when each moment mattered
Before the day my heart was shattered:
My thoughts eternally return.

Justin Ehrlich
Essex
England
lordhenry@hotmail.co.uk

ISSN awarded

2008-11-10T11:16:00.002+11:00

You may have noticed the ISSN appearing in the top right-hand corner of the screen. I just had confirmation form a very friendly contact at the National Library of Australia that I am allowed to continue to use the existing ISSN here in Australia. I always derive a sense of excitement when an ISSN is awarded. It denotes official approval of one's efforts. Good stuff.

Soul Flare

2008-11-01T23:48:00.001+11:00

I sent you a wish last night.
Just for you.
While you were sleeping,
And I was awake,
I sent it marked and wrapped.
I tapped it with kisses.
When it was gone I missed it.

Did you get my wish?
You never replied.
Although you didn't need to,
I'd have liked it if you had.
I feel less complete now, but satisfied.
I fell asleep when it was done.
I was tired.

So just in case it was lost in transit,
Just to check,
What it did feel like to receive?
Could you believe it?
Did you laugh? Or cry?
Did you sleep through it?
Did you weep?

Really, I'd like a reply.
I'd like to know why
I'm without a soul.
You never said a word.
I never heard a thank you,
Or a murmur.

It was a gift you couldn't compare.
Just something I drummed up
In my sleepy time.
A soul flare.

Natalie Williams
Liverpool,
United Kingdom

Friendly fellow editor

2008-10-31T13:51:00.003+11:00

Have a look at the current issue of Poetry Life and Times, a great UK based poetry mag edited by my good mate Robin Ouzman Hislop. He always manages to get great content and makes a point of supporting new talent. In the current issue there is a mention of AHM and also a few poems by yours truly. Have a look, then come back here and submit a brilliant poem.

Arrived in Oz

2008-10-21T10:47:00.003+11:00

Dear readers and poetry lovers, the good news is that your editor has survived his first week in beautiful Balmain. Already, I have seen the interior of quite a number of its famous pubs. I look forward to publishing poems from all over, but it would be nice if I could include a local poem for the first one to hit the pixels of my mag after re-launching here in Sydney. Spread the word and do submit, always submit..

Encounter with the Possible World

2008-09-29T19:16:00.000+10:00

Where you can be sitting on a shelf
Half dusty, fully forgotten
When you can have an encounter
With the possible world that you will never forget
And fall hard into the mud one day
Cause your shelf gave out a little after the flood had finally surrendered
Like a curio, your life is an object onto its Self
Like a souvenir from a place
That normally would have been forgotten . That’s how it’s supposed to be…
Except the Possible World will one day arrive
Like a loud accusing angel, just, say, call him Ike.
Ike the invisible equalizer.
Ike the wasteful hunter.
Ike the destroyer of the objects that hold the memories that hold our lives.

Now voyager -
Exchanging one dream for another…
That is what an encounter with the possible world can do.
Even if you are half-dusty

II

(and some God some where works, furiously focused on just today.
I guess like a real God would.
Forgetting the past, forgiving the future
Ready to hear the case of the next accusing angel)

Tony Wynn
Galveston Island, USA
From the collection - 'Hurricane Writings'

Embryo

2008-09-28T17:23:00.002+10:00

Lifeless flesh clinging for its life,
Anticipating breath, before it formed a mind
The yearning to have vision, before it formed its eyes.
An immaculate decision, with wisdom from up high.

Buoyant pre-existence, amphibious with persistence
Comfortably claustrophobic, and growing by the inches
Searching for the answers in its maternal prison
Why had I been chosen, or isn’t it my business?

A council of the Angels arrive at their position
Asking all the questions as they sit and watch and listen.
Once the scroll is rolled up the writing can begin
A life that’s full of questions, the answers lay within.

Jason DeAngelis
Caroline Springs,
Victoria, Australia

Not long now!

2008-09-20T02:43:00.002+10:00

Just a few more weeks and AHM and I will be leaving for Sydney, Australia. Ancient Heart Magazine will be an Australian poetry magazine, which in itself I quite like. In due course I shall be applying for an Aussie ISSN but the blog/mag needs to get going a bit more first.

I've started spreading the word about AHM's new incarnation a bit more so hopefully we'll see a few more submissions. Counting down..

Bliss

2008-08-06T06:51:00.003+10:00

caught between
flights of rainbows
and spirit’s sighs

chasing handfuls of life
pulled whole from the blush of dawn,
twirling in a fragrant rose-hued breeze,
drowning in the innocence
of bliss

delicate moss yields, softly,
giving gracefully beneath my touch,
and the cool morning dew
settles on my skin,
gleaming

Donna L. Doyle
Nova Scotia, Canada

36 Watts

2008-07-18T02:29:00.001+10:00

Lighthouses, it seems, take thirty-six watt bulbs
A third of those that shine above me, used
To keep rocks unencrusted by skeletons
Hulls draped like whalebone fossils over stone

How many men does it take to change them?
No joke when so far from shore, remote
And guarded even from repair crews’ boats
By frothing water sheathing points beneath

No men wait within the place these days, no
Bearded keeper, lonely, watching out for
Shadows of things lit too near the rocks
No peaceful stay within this man made spur

Nothing but that single thirty-six watt bulb.

Stuart Sharp,
Beverley.

First submission in!

2008-07-18T02:27:00.004+10:00

Stuart Sharp from Beverley is the first ever contributor to this new incarnation of Ancient Heart Magazine. Check out the next post for his poem 36 Watts. Great stuff and thank you Stuart!

Setting course!

2008-06-13T04:17:00.002+10:00

The good ship Ancient Heart Magazine is setting sail again. Still based in the old harbour town of Bristol but within the near future we'll be arriving in our new base of Sydney, Australia, another famous harbour city. More news about this will be forthcoming at some point.

For now, let's enjoy the fact that the poetry mag is alive and well again and let's see whose poem will be the very first to be published.

I'm waiting..

Austral

2008-06-13T04:04:00.001+10:00

I'll get there, you'll see,
Come hell or high water,
I'll set foot on that blessed land,
That lucky country,
That southern heart that made me long for it.

I'll be older,
And not much wiser,
And certainly no surf dude,
But I will make my way,
And lay my head down somewhere I can call home
For the very first time.

Richard James,
Bristol, UK

Alive and kicking all over again!

2008-06-13T02:44:00.002+10:00

Well, here we are again. Some of you may remember the UK poetry magazine with the same title that appeared in print and online for a number of years. Towards the end of its run I found that far too much time was taken up with correspondence, submissions, answering emails and queries and much more besides. It proved to be a distraction from the noble art of poetry and my Muse was not best pleased, I can tell you..

That is why this time around, things will be different. The mag will appear in blog format and rather than submitting your poems by email the process will be thus:

Submissions:

-Leave your poem (just one poem!), your pen name, home town and optional email address as a comment on the last appearing poem/blog post. So, all you need to do is post a comment on the latest blog post here and in due course you may see your poem show up on this blog that just happens to be a poetry magazine.

-Nota Bene: I will not be entering into any correspondence and I won't be acknowledging receipt of your poem or feel obliged to answer any other queries.

-Let's have some fun!