Untitled

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

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.

Sultana Raza © 2009

Luxembourg

Leaving

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

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

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

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

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