Western Voices: Javed Latoo

Bio:

Javed Latoo is a senior medical practitioner and a medical editor based in the UK. In his spare time, Dr Latoo writes poetry as a hobby. His poems have been published in literary journals and magazines ( both print and online) as well as in anthologies. His poetry collections include Gushing Fountain: A Collection of Poems by Javed Latoo (2019). Dr Latoo likes to use poetry to explore the philosophy of life, mental health, neuroscience and Kashmir. He likes to write in the language of ordinary people, about their ordinary thoughts and their everyday insights. He also manages a UK literary journal "The Beautiful Space- A Journal of Mind, Art and Poetry."

Solitude 

Go and enter your solitude

You may discover 

The unexplored terrain 

Within, you may 

Untie the knots 

Of your mind, of your life.

You may discover, inner 

Ghettos, the origin of your 

Beliefs, biases, and fears.

Go and enter your solitude

You may stumble upon

Words, moments, smells, people,

And find the answer to many questions.

You may uncover, a silence, 

A womb of bliss

And creativity. Even if 

You find a dark, frightening, cave

You will find a way to Illuminate it.

Even if you find a gnawing fox 

You will find a way 

To tame it, to domesticate it. 

Even if you find rusted iron 

Bars, in the dark alleys of your mind, 

You will find a way to mould them 

Into an armour,

Into a lance, 

To fight your demons.

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Setu Mag “Western Voices” Edition Introduction

Scott Thomas Outlar

Firstly, I want to say thank you to Sunil Sharma and Anurag Sharma for allowing me the opportunity to work on this “Western Voices” edition of Setu Mag. It has been a richly rewarding process, as my spirit feels buoyed after having spent the past month reading through the powerful verse sent our way.

Perhaps I use the word “inspired” a bit too often in life, but if this is a sin then I’ll accept the consequences. For what else is there to be? Other than inspired? That passionate state of consciousness that urges us to create, to invoke, to incite, to birth, to burn, to release, to empty out. Only to seek the next hit and start all over again.

Well, you needn’t seek far when enjoying the contents of this issue, my friends. Thirty-two poets have each delivered a gourmet dish of fine delicacies for us to devour. In fact, it is a celebratory feast they have prepared, and since we’re already talking about sins, go right ahead and be gluttonous. I invite you to gorge. Dionysus wouldn’t judge too harshly. These artists have offered pieces of their hearts and souls on a silver platter, they have breathed the essence of their experiences into the pages herewith, they have allowed you inside their minds that you may see through their eyes the scenes that were shaped while making muse of dreams.

There are teeth of war and pleas of repentance. There are righteous accusations and humbled sounds of absolution. There are gentle whispers mouthed from ghosts and visions of tomorrow’s ingenuity on the rise. There is lust and there is love and there is solitude, but never is there silence in these songs.

Pick any poet and let them take you along their path for a brief respite from your own worries of the day. Prepare a cup of coffee, tea, or whatever magical brew suits your fancy, find a comfortable spot to relax, and take a healthy bite out of this compilation. Just because it is a feast doesn’t mean you shouldn’t chew slowly and carefully. Settle in. There are subtle spices in these stanzas; let them dissolve on your tongue and tease your neurons with each unique ripening flavor.

I have a strong hunch that your reaction will be much like mine after dining on this 5-star cuisine, and you will be suddenly inspired to whip up some new recipes of your own. Remember, it’s never a bad idea to add one more touch of salt. Things can generally be balanced out with an extra spoonful of sugar if need be. Mix and match until the notes are fine-tuned. And may I suggest an orange for dessert? Or two? Or ten? They are raw and electric. As are the poems in this edition. Bon Appétit.

A sincere thank you to the wonderful writers who helped make this possible. It has been an honor and a pleasure to serve on this project.

Selah,
Scott Thomas Outlar

---

Poetry: Western Voices: Authors

Alan Britt Alicia Minjarez Ramirez Arlene Corwin Arthur Broomfield Chani Zwibel Daniel Pixiades Dave Norris Donna Snyder Don Beukes Duane Vorhees Dustin Pickering

Gary Lundy Heath Brougher James Diaz Javed Latoo J.K. Winters Joan McNerney John Sweet Kapardeli Eftichia Kathy Ellis Leanor Johansen Lorraine Caputo

Louis Kasatkin Marianne Szlyk Mari Deweese Mela Blust Michael H. Brownstein Mihaela Melnic Robert Maddox-harle Ryan Quinn Flanagan Soodabeh Saeidnia Wanda Morrow Clevenger

Setu, February 2019

Western Voices: Wanda Morrow Clevenger

Bio:

Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, IL – population 200, give or take. Over 600 pieces of her work appears in 169 print and electronic publications. The first two volumes of a 5-volume set titled where the hogs ate the cabbage have been published through Writing Knights Press. 

young and unadorned: 

https://writingknightspress.blogspot.com/2017/12/young-and-unadorned-by-wanda-morrow.html  

no dyeing in machines:

https://writingknightspress.blogspot.com/2018/12/no-dyeing-in-machines-by-wanda-morrow.html

dreams to come

in darkest dark

the fireflies come

just a few flecks

for a few seconds

while I breath in

and breath out

in controlled calm

reminding

the flecks are

a hypoglycemia fake out

are dreams to come

pinging off

an optic nerve

hand-me-downs

for scads of years

my wardrobe

was under the influence

of a much older woman

was scrutinized

up down and sideways

with infinitesimal regard

for current style

hand-me-downs

a boom and a curse

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Western Voices: Soodabeh Saeidnia

Bio:

Soodabeh lives in Queens, NYC. She got her Pharm D and PhD of Pharmacognosy and has worked as a researcher, assistant and associate professor in the Kyoto University (Japan), TUMS (Iran) and University of Saskatchewan (Canada). She writes in English and Farsi. Her English poems have been published in different anthologies and literary magazines including Careless Embrace of the Boneshaker (GWFM), Squawk Back, Indiana Voice Journal, Sick Lit Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review, etc. She has authored and edited both scientific and poetry collections (https://www.amazon.com/s?field-keywords=soodabeh+saeidnia).

The last conversation

you come closer,
and I feel a hole
in this very cliche
beating in my chest

and the hole isn't
like a chamber
for pumping of
my blood

nor in the myocardium
to be detected

it's growing bigger
with every pulse
of your touch
without a trace of MI

should I open it with a crystal fondle?
you say, "well ..."

should I fill it with a handful of care?
you say, "no ..."

"but what if i get drenched
in the stream
and no one is aware of the leak,"
I said.

"what if I bury an orchid's seed
next to the hole
and it blooms to recover, to heal,"
you replied.

The Day Fishes Didn’t Swim Against the Current

Fishes drift downstream

and cast themselves

off the perilous edge

into a hexagon mold

within a hammerhead

shark's dream.

They do it each day, never stop;

never dream to swim upstream

as I, sat by the window,

watch them,

count down the moments of their witless lives

on the hanging rug my father gifted.

The Way Tsunami Is Pronounced

The way you pronounce "Soodabeh",

I feel I am the only autistic child of a woman

who has seven billion normal children.

I try to recall my name and pronounce it

just like you but I fail each time,

for there's no air in the atmosphere to wave my voice.

There is only microwave and gamma radiation

piercing each cell of my brain,

the way there is no sound communication in the space.

The way white killer whales reach out to each other in the ocean.

The way you pronounce my name,

a drill digs the flatland behind my ears

and goes directly down to the left ventricle.

The way I pronounce “tsu” in tsunami

or the way a tsunami might wash

the words of this poem.

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Western Voices: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Bio:

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Peregrine Muse, Setu, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Poem for a Man Riddled with Bullets

The streets were not kind to you

just as the critics are not kind to me

and they lay a tarp over the lifeless body

as though there is some dignity to be gleaned

from such acts

                

as though mercy can be late to the party

and not treated as a truant; the way the inspectors

dig through your pockets looking for clues,

the hands gloved in talcum powder and the traffic

redirected to neighbouring thoroughfares

so you can lay in the middle of the road

beside an idling car with a cracked sun roof

and I can write this poem for a man riddled

with bullets, a man of colour as they say

on the news which reports from the scene

with its big dumb cameras.

500 Miles of Postcards

all laid out

in a row

signed

like an autograph

from the familiar

anything can be

a postcard,

sent from afar

to those much

nearer

and sitting up in bed

the smile hurts her face

she feels it with her hands

to make sure it is really

there

the careful way he adjusts his mirrors

before pulling away from

the curb

a knife

over ripe tomatoes

before dinner

shipping crates

over open waters

or you in my arms

pecking at cheeks so red

you know I’ve been

drinking.

Where the Filibusters Roam

We are all hunters in our way

never once a gun in these receptive hands

blue veins wound ‘round red knuckle

as though binding a single brown fencepost

in chicken wire

arms outstretched, cracking elbows

where the filibusters roam,

coffee with a friend who hiccups

when they are nervous,

starts books they never intend to finish

which aggravates everyone but the author

who is now dust on the road

and my lips dry and crack and weep,

it is blood sacrifice all over again

it is the heart cut out and revered

like a first edition anything;

something scrawled on the flyleaf,

looks like a recipe for mushroom

soup.

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Western Voices: Robert Maddox-harle

Bio:

Rob Harle is a writer, artist, photographer and reviewer. Writing work includes poetry, short fiction stories, academic essays and reviews of scholarly books and papers. His work is published in journals, anthologies, online reviews, books and he has three volumes of his own poetry published – Scratches & Deeper Wounds(1996) and Mechanisms of Desire (2012), Winds of Infinity (2016). Recent poetry has been published in Rupkatha Journal (Kolkata), Nimbin Good Times (Nimbin),  Beyond The Rainbow (Nimbin), Numerous specific anthologies,  Indo-Australian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry (2013) and World Poetry Year Book (2014), Setu Journal (monthly), Asian Signature (2013).

He is currently a member of the: Leonardo Review Panel: Manuscript Reviewer for Leonardo Journal;  Advisory Editor for Phenomenal Literature (India); Member Editorial Board of numerous international literature journals, and Australian – NZ editor for Setu Jornal.  Artwork, Publications, Reviews and selected writings are available from his websites:

https://www.robharle.com 

https://www.maddoxharle.com

Scratches and Deeper Wounds

The hot bread shop breathes
warm fragrance of yeast and crust
awakening a primal urge,
a step or two
more temptations tease
coffee shop seduction
flat white, short black
cappuccino cream
the Choice is yours.

The balmy first flesh of spring
awakens other primal urges,
everywhere temptation
false hopes for new life,
temporary appeasement of deeper needs.

Stand clear, f**k, stand clear
four pall bearers frantic,
push past,
oblivious to piercing eyes,
oblivious to the stray dog
pissing on a post.
Her thin pale body,
lies motionless,
silent
flat upon the canvas stretcher,
O.D'd, indeed.

Is she breathing?
Yes, I think
hurry, hurry,
hospital seems so far,
her bearers,
barely friends
accomplices in street life hype
full of fear and flight and fight,
and hope; hurry.

Homeless, hopeless
street tough, street wise
some not wise enough to stay alive,
stand crying in the street.
The mourning penetrates their mask,
as secrets of their heart and care
flow down the gravel verge
and stain society's slate.
Her morning hit,
a simple scratch
has turned into a deeper wound.

As silent witness to this scene
of rage and life and love
I watched her die,
and wondered why.

Shooting the Breeze

Three weeks past the 'best by' date

dragged reluctantly, angrily

into existence with the force

of cold, old steel pliers

my characteristic, a furrowed frown

a frown on a new leaf of life.

Rising, falling, drifting with the breeze

resting now and then to hide

a city plot, the mountains green

the sea or coast, a place to dream

to reflect upon the absurdity of life

of birth and breath and death.

And now with good companion leaf

I've come to rest a-while

in great long dead volcano's arms

whose primal landscape laughs too loud

whose village struggles under steamy skies.

The uniformed and drugged misfits

go floating onwards, past,

and egos, grossly over size

strut the dirty street

stoned beyond courtesy's convention

with paranoia lines etched deeply

into empty faces, void.

And then pure love flows by

to set the paradox a-straight,

the valley mirrors cycles sure

of death and life and change

as living green disguises basalt bare.

Old clairvoyants waffle on

drowning in their flood of self-deception,

and I wait for the breeze of synchronicity

weaving my philosophy of existence

upon my companion’s loom

10,000 megabytes from Virtual Village.

The Ultimate Metaphor

The guardians haul on heavy doors

white Wellingtons, blood stained

give way to fashion footwear

the stench of terror, drifting

moves out across the sea

a caution to the whales

of mankinds’ wanton whims.

Today the product doesn't cower

nor freely ooze with blood

the blood is there though, only subtle

hidden, trapped in paint and canvas.

Paintings, sculptures, drawings

fade into carcasses before my eyes

the ultimate metaphor stuns me

like the art-speak stun-gun hype

stuns yuppies

mostly, sometimes vegetarian.

The obscenity of life and death

is celebrated in the House of Slaughter

offal transmutes to cheese and crackers

wine splashes like urine, cheaply

against the cool-room walls;

dressed to kill, many patrons

fat with credit, lean with taste,

whisper, as the trains thunder past.

Cyberspace encompasses you, assures you

it’s all right,     it’s all right

let yourself go, drift

slide into virtual.

Exploding through virtual into harsh

my soul regurgitates contamination

from lingering toxic visions

I run towards the cleansing sea

and realise far too late

meat = art = kill = cash.

NB: * House of Slaughter is my term for the abattoirs at Byron Bay NSW Australia which were closed and poorly converted into an art exhibition and performance space.

* Wellingtons are waterproof long boots

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Western Voices: Mihaela Melnic

Bio:

Born in Romania, Mihaela Melnic later moved to Italy where she has lived for the past 20 years and where her poetic journey began in 2011. Her inspiration comes both by her life experiences and nature in all its forms, all the while being lulled by the flow of the Tiber River and the sinking memories of her past. Her debut collection of poetry, Change of Seasons, was published in 2018 and many of the poems from the book along with new ones entertain daily the clientele of the bar that she runs in Rome, "Cafe' Miki.”

Eureka!

I made my magnetic choice
simply reversing the poles
to each south its north
otherwise we're alone.

I allowed my dreams
to emerge
to overwhelm me
to annihilate me
and I don't exist in flesh anymore.

I'm just a quivering of limbs
only spinal vibration
only a waving of hips
just an ephemeral shape
in an astral picture
and I take every form
between folds of sheets
on a river's bank
into the sacred woods
where, philosophizing with the trees
whose branches do to the sky
what your hands do to my flesh,
I discovered that
I love you ..

Perpetuum

Oh dear, from the womb
floating at first
then crawling,
walking the line
then running.

Perpetuum in motion
with stillness
in devotion...
Some truth in it, or not?

In perpetuum the laughter
sometimes followed by crying
for sorrow
or for joy.
Perpetuum in death?
What's next?

The sigh
the word
the wonder.
The glance
the touch
the hunger.
Mechanical device.
A key will turn it right?
-the heart-
Perpetuum in love
shivers
anticipation
lust given
by our demons.
Dear drugs of our bodies,
are you within our souls?

Perpetuum in motion
or still
-not that it matters-
Together. Not alone.

Oneiric night (Cancer)

In my oneiric night
at the dearest flesh
the cancer seems to gnaw.

But dear, give it a closer glance.
Keys hanging from a wire, you say-
the personal effects.
One black, the key, a car's engine ignites.
The car is mine and by my man is being
steered. Why, why?
Who among us, cancer, do you want to eat alive?

Three golden keys on the same ring
are kept - to open what?
They look like honey
dripping from the bottom lip
of a man that is not mine.
Let me taste it, I fancy.
I can feel all the sweetness as
his tongue I bite.

A steak for breakfast now.
The kitchen's wide enough
the fire burns and cooks - the meat
still raw remains.

I take a path - steak cut and packed
carried with me. Where? Why?
And I know nothing of those
buildings - the passersby, they watch.
I turn my head
and the facade has spots
- is it cancer or pure art?

I find a gap between two trees
or four, or maybe hundreds.
The scent is there - my dream is here
my bed knows better than I.
Is it Sakura time?
No cherry trees but pink
flowers abound.

Look at this flower on the branch.
I wish to take it home - they pass and throw half glances- I'll bring my man to look at that.
I breathe in all the beauty until my lungs, my eyes, they hurt!

Again a child I am - the snow,
the snow on which I slide - I even fall. Just once.
A dream of winter time?
Where is the spring, the flowers
of the trees that showed me
life, life, life...
I left the spring behind.

A place to eat my steak - it's finely cut-
Here, by the guardian lake that keeps a shimmering eye
on someone's brown hand bag - from thieves perhaps.
Leather brown bag lies by the lake - I don't.

I conquer a concrete wall.
Still by the lake - how strange-
immigrants sing along in a rock cave.
I poke inside my bag. The raw meat is still there?
A child- who knows his eyes? Slightly vexed he stares
oh, such an imprudence - my hand inside to search, sitting on concrete wall.
I might disturb the show.
A man shouts in my face: A gun
is what you have?
I raise my hands. No, no!

Cancer...
How can I eat here, now?
The child sings, I can hear him.
Another folds red garments and curly
is his hair
and black is the young skin.
- so red the shirt he folds is...

Cancer! Why did you lead me here
outside the cave
by the lake
in snow immersed
with poplars standing
flowery branches
buildings of arts
people that watch...

The steak is cold
is finely chopped
I want to go back home.
I couldn't eat one single bite
raw, cooked or burnt.
The black key has been lost.
The golden ones
have leaves or wings
and open at least three
doors. Perhaps.
Who knows...

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Western Voices: Michael H. Brownstein

MY RESTING PLACE AMONG THE BRANCHES

This is the way of the seed of the locust,

the grass frog, the tiny peeper.

I built this room from ripped cedar shakes and cardboard,

soft adhesives, silver spun nails, crucifix screws.

Light enters the room through tears in the netting,

disfigured branches, salt and weed.

They told us her shoes were on the wrong feet,

that her eyes leaned backwards.

They told us she had chameleon skin

and wonderful hair the color of curl and frizz.

They told us she would like this place above the garden,

near the home of the gray squirrel and mother possum.

We like it, too, the wood strong and smooth,

soft bark, the leaf a melody of light and windsong.

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Western Voices: Mela Blust

Bio:

Mela Blust is a moonchild, and has always had an affinity for the darkness. She has been writing poetry since she was a child. Her work has appeared in Isacoustic, Rust+Moth, Anti Heroin Chic ,i am not a silent poet, and more, and is forthcoming in Rhythm & Bones Lit, The Nassau Review, The Sierra Nevada Review, and The Bitter Oleander, among others.

kiss of saturn

one way street dead end town

new moon cold night head out

always keep my eyes open head down

under the bleachers where your lips found

my heart

kiss of saturn how it burns

i wonder if we're microscopic to something larger

watching us through the glass

throw everything away for one

moment, one night in a one

cowboy town, stars examining our naked souls

i remember the last time we danced

our skeletons clawing to be free

i left never looked back hung my dress

on your ego

the slow bloom of resent

sixty miles an hour when i finally got far away

from this slice of earth that birthed me

same torn sky wherever i go

prayer

all the pretty horses

     and all the pretty men

rusty shovel mouth/child of god again

  whiskey in my petticoats

a warrant to shoot blanks

oh i fell down stars again

rabbit hole/penny thoughts deep

suckle the ink black dusk

and pray before i sleep.

to save the limb

his voice reminds me of when we were young

how he could fold me into something convenient

and tuck me away on a shelf

for when he was hungry.

i always heard the ticking of a bomb in his mouth

the wires like little arms pulling me inside.

the body i knew betrayed me,

a shapeless form eagerly spilling into his firth.

the frigid pool of myself on his tongue,

without warning he spat; i lay discarded.

i waited there on the algid cement

until winter's fingers cradled me home.

how did we not know our sadness?

that it was like water

that it would fill whatever container we allowed it to occupy.

now this phantom heart sings its hollow dirge.

and the distance stretches between us

as though an artery still attached to a severed limb.

of course there is still blood,

but it's not enough to save the limb.

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Western Voices: Mari Deweese

Bio:

Mari Deweese lives outside of Memphis, and dreams of a place with an actual autumn. Her first book, Kinky Keeps the House Clean, was published by Nixes Mate Books in 2017, and her next collection of poetry will drop from the gibbet in fall 2019.

Aldonza

Surprises lurk

in all these doorways.

Which word 

is the right name?

Logos, sweetness,

meridian, morte,

windmill, sloes-

will any of these release me?

A filthy rag symbolizes

a filthy rag,

and dirty water tastes like shit.

If my hate for you

were half as heavy

as all my hate for me

you'd never rise.

Promise Me You'll Stain My Skin with Yours

More words in more tongues

exist in the mouth of relativity

than all the tongues that ever

uttered them.

They span outward

like Hopkins' shook

foil, flaming, brightening,

destroying.

When will we learn

the only lesson of permanence,

the importance of ephemeral?

And these words-

these scratchings on the surface-

and *these* words-

these effusive vibrations-

vanish from memory

as they never do from fabric

galactic: they are

the dark matter

the only matter.

Lance

Ergo

The aspens

Shive

r, reeling from a dusk

too humid in nature

for this season. Appetency

lengthens in the shadows

who ripple down the stone

the singing stone

burgeons in ecstasy

of thwartation. Courtly love

is less flirtatious than

curious: MY WEB FLIES WIDE.

Ergo

you are my mirror. The river,

The womb, the warrior,

the curse. I do not exist, but you,

Sun-kissed night, will rise

beyond the prows of all this

crusty understanding

and know my name

if it is the only gift

that I can give you.

Ergo

The wheel spins, the joints

Stretch, and we break

our own bread dipped

in our own vintage for

absolution, exploration, communion

and the three spirits

that hold us in contempt

until the polarity of chivalry

and degeneration slip inside

each other and release seed

to reach two-thirds synthesis

before a spontaneous abortion

in a gibbous phase.

Ergo

The falcon flies towards the east;

The dove flies south;

The moth in the window;

The wax on the casement,

Dripping. Do not let me in.

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019 

Western Voices: Marianne Szlyk

Bio:

Marianne Szlyk edits The Song Is... a blog-zine for poetry and prose inspired by music (especially jazz). Her poems have appeared in of/with, bird's thumb, Cactifur, Mad Swirl, Setu, Solidago, Red Bird Chapbook's Weekly Read, Mermaid Mirror, Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love, and Resurrection of a Sunflower, an anthology of work responding to Vincent Van Gogh's art. Her full-length book, On the Other Side of the Window, is now available from Pski's Porch and Amazon. She invites you to stop by her blog-zine and perhaps even submit some poems:  http://thesongis.blogspot.com

On Drawing the Six of Cups

Snow-covered spruce, my age-mates, surround me
as I walk the long-gone path,
once dirt, trodden-down grass, and stone,
now asphalt.  Ghosts of ponies linger,
breath rising and mingling with mine.

Beneath tall white pines, needles lie
as if no snow fell today,
heaping onto stiff spruce, bare trees,
bleached grass, and stony fields alike.
A toy stove, still aqua and
white, waits below.  Plastic, it will
persist long after the trees will
be felled, long after I’m gone.
I look for a sword but find
only dolls, only a white bear
in a yellowed hand-smocked dress.

Dancing in 1984

In Friday night’s blood-red ballroom, clots
of couples twirl to electronic music,

notes like string binding them together,
keeping them apart.

No cat who can see through
patchouli murk, Lila looks for space
away from mirrors, shirtless bald men,
tiny sleeveless women.

White skirt flapping, she runs past
couples now clutching, now coming apart. 

Her bare feet pound the floor.

She stops, finding herself next to
the fire escape.

The man she came with dances
beside flickering candles.  A birdlike woman
flutters past, red hair like feathers.
He touches her elbow, a wing.

Wincing, Lila imagines blue flame catching
the hem of his faded jeans,
burning this brick building down

while she waits on the fire escape.

---

Western Voices :: Setu, February 2019