Showing posts with label Western Voices 2021. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Western Voices 2021. Show all posts
Guest-Editorial: Scott Thomas Outlar (Western Voices)
 |
| Scott Thomas Outlar |
All the World Is a Stage
And the horses will gallop
and the cows will chew the cud
and the sheep will graze
(while being led astray)
and the vultures will perch
and the rats will scurry
and the turtles will shrink their heads
and the swine will bathe in their troughs
and the skunks will spray their scent
and the goats will gnaw on bones
and the wolves will hunt
and the foxes will maneuver with stealth
and the serpents will slither
and the salmon will swim
and the bulls will charge
and the frogs will hop
and the ravens will sing their refrains
and the owls will judge by night
and the ants will march after sugar
and the bees will buzz near the flowers
and the butterflies will flutter
and all the farm will play its part in kind
as both the shepherds
and the butchers watch over
…
The doves awakened early and began performing a raucous concert this morning. A hymnal to the sun. A symphonic meditation welcoming subtle hints of spring. They sense the signs as well as we. Shrouded in layers of cloth and fur, I joined their ecstatic ceremony, praising all forms of warmth in this world. Humming a psalm to the fire in your heart. I swore to never blink again, and I wasn’t just whistling Dixie.
All the secrets laced in your language, the hidden treasures of your verse, the diamonds in your cut, the crafty movements of your verbs … will no longer be occulted after crows are finished pecking apart the veil to reveal spilled vials.
Round two of the roaring twenties sent us spinning through a phase shift from the already obnoxious Age of Wuhan straight into Orwell’s fevered dream. The script keeps getting screwier, the acts more bizarre, the strings pulled behind the scenes more unhinged. But that’s all fine and dandy because we still have honesty and integrity on our side, right? Isn’t that art’s inherent purpose, after all? To seek out and enshrine the highest order of truth? Consult your conscience with care before answering because we all know that poetry is prone to whispering little white lies. But regardless, how fortunate are we to live in these interesting times when such a theory is being tested under the most extraordinary pressures? Commence counting lucky stars.
…
It’s been an absolute pleasure serving as guest editor on this third annual western voices edition of Setu Mag. Thank you to Sunil Sharma and Anurag Sharma for the opportunity, and thank you to all the wonderful writers whose contributions made this issue possible.
Selah,
Scott Thomas Outlar
Poetry: Western Voices (February 2021): Authors
Z. T. Balian: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Born and raised in Beirut to Armenian parents, Z. T. Balian, a French national, is multilingual. After a long career as a lecturer at a number of Middle Eastern universities, including the American University of Beirut, during which she published several English textbooks, she now devotes her time to writing. She published her debut novel, Three Kisses of the Cobra, in 2016. Her second novel, Fallen Pine Cones, is due for release this year. She regularly contributes haiku poems in Armenian to Hayerenblog.com. Her poetry in English was recently published in Hope: An Anthology of Poetry.
HAIKU POEMS
then or now
yesterday
or today
ephemeral,
fugacious
bodiless
head, headless body
the sum of
virtual
reality
the overgrown tree – crows hiding
nests in its tenebrous heart
oblivious of spilled blood
tenacious mortal
vainly but boldly seeking
the sublime
storms, shipwrecks
the odyssey
Z.M. Wise: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Z.M. Wise is a proud Illinois native from Chicago, poet, essayist, occasional playwright, seldom screenwriter, co-editor, and arts activist, writing since his first steps as a child. He was selected to be a performer in the Word Around Town Tour in 2013, a Houston citywide tour. He is co-owner and co-editor of Transcendent Zero Press, an independent publishing house for poetry that produces an international quarterly journal known as Harbinger Asylum. The journal was nominated Best Poetry Journal in 2013 at the National Poetry Awards. He has six books of published poetry, including: Take Me Back, Kingswood Clock! (MavLit Press, 2013), The Wandering Poet (Transcendent Zero Press, 2014), Wolf: An Epic & Other Poems (Weasel Press, 2015), Cuentos de Amor (Red Ferret Press, 2015), Kosmish and the Horned Ones (Weasel Press, 2018), and Illinois Infinitarium (Cherry House Press, 2020). His debut play, Bottles of Emerald for the Demon Queen (Transcendent Zero Press, 2019), was published in late December of 2019. His sixth book of poetry, Illinois Infinitarium (Cherry House Press) was published in the early months of 2020. Other than these books, his poems, lyrics, essays, and book reviews have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. The motto that keeps him going: POETRY LIVES AND LONG LIVE THE ARTS! Mr. Wise will make sure to spread that message and the love of the arts, making sure it remains vibrant for the rest of his days and beyond. Besides poetry and other forms of writing, his other passions/interests include professional voice acting, singing/lyricism/songwriting, playing a few instruments, fitness, and reading.
Flyer Poem #236
Screaming openmouthed in Arctic darkness,
you return to the time of suspension.
Age of Ice, Epoch of Frozen Thought.
Metaphysical metal, golden and tamed,
claims the throat of those who
speak its true, unidentifiable names.
The alchemy of third eye kissing
from a sky of stone.
People awash with monotonous tones,
their accursed monogamous flaunting.
Eight rings to practice the taunting
spirits eternal students to cease haunting.
Broken flowers become his old flames.
Flyer Poem #223: The
Moth
Psyche in a negative photograph,
tailored to fit any philosopher’s hypothesis.
Nocturnal emission of spectral plasm,
all congregating around the lamplight’s illuminating bliss.
The moth sees only the floodgates of the Moon,
the main attraction behind shrouded clouds.
Here to tell you off…scathing moth.
The moth hears only the flapping of predatory wings,
the sonar screecher who stands out in a crowd.
Here to tell you off…scheming moth.
Guru Moth, where will you take me?
“To the other inverted tree rings.”
Soldier Moth, what are we fighting for?
“Weapons’ ladies won over the hearts of soulless kings.”
Surrender before iron gods.
Moth Hammer obliterates the odds.
Black Queen of Winged Feats casts
a spell over the children of misguided steps.
A lifespan of incantations, precious
beyond the mating call Death’s head left.
The moth has menacing eyes on its back,
blinking when facetious mammals dare to strike.
Here to write you off…merciful moth.
The moth sings of its bipedal ancestor,
seven feet in height, deceased, yet lifelike.
Here to write you off…your son moth.
Elder Moth, what say your wisdom about love?
“Derivative adventures, fleeting moments.”
Cynic Moth, is there any semblance of hope?
“Abandon all light and burn yourself with sentiment.”
And, away it soars into the insect ether.
Take this night as your lover, passing creature.
Flyer Poem #177
Call her clay…
Stiffened Messiah names
a line of blackish grey.
Throb and bleed for us…
Blood from the stone.
Carry Atlas’s weight.
Call her iron…
Welded pariah claims
a trapezoid of regurgitating green.
Ache and long for us…
Long white on a mirror.
Inhale milk powder.
Sprint across obsidian oceans.
Wayne F. Burke: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Wayne F.
Burke's poetry has been published widely online and in print. He is author of
eight published poetry collections and one collection of short stories (TURMOIL
& Other Stories, Adelaide Press, NY, 2020). Two of his book reviews
have previously appeared in SETU. He lives in the central area of Vermont, USA.
Translation
Navigating the wet sidewalks
clumped with snow & ice
I reach the river of babble-on
murmuring, like
a crowd in a theater before
the curtain rises—
whispering, like the children
in bed before lights out—
it babbles of wetness, no
doubt,
speaking in fluidities…
I cannot translate the
croak of the crow
or
the screech of the wind
either.
Perfect
A blue infinitude and
dreamy clouds
above the sun
sinking down
to a horizon of
ridge line pines
marching along the crest
left right left
as a jet
coming in from the west
lays a stream of smoke
like a needle
to stitch a rent
should one appear
in the perfectly blue
sky.
Kalpas to Go
A howling baby
starts the world again
world without end
or beginning
we are born into
again and again
until Nirvana when
all karmic debts
paid
the wheel of samsara
stops
to let off
a Buddha
while the rest
have kalpas to go
before arrival at
the golden silent hall of knowing
birth-less and
death-less.
Strider Marcus Jones: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Strider Marcus Jones is the founder and Editor of Lothlorien Poetry Journal: https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogs...
https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/
THE MADRIGAL OF
VOICES
the madrigal of voices
somewhere, in its choices,
chooses and rejoices
back to me-
collecting frozen wood,
from the crofts and slums, of old childhood-
sat here, on this chair
in the numb night air.
now, your moonbeams kiss
the winter of me. stirs
ripples on its pond skin
back to the begin.
unpicks the threaded wish
of passion’s positive remark-
while sleep fights
these luminous lights
of limp daggers-
laughing in the dark.
somehow, its root
of subdued jasmine and tropical jute,
reaches that closed chamber of your core-
and thoughts transmute,
woven to the nature of its lore.
negativity narrows
when i stroke in your shallows-
forward as before;
but staying in tomorrows,
i enter and endure.
WHAT EVERYBODY AND NO ONE KNOWS
when you are broken
like a once loved doll,
and those spurs, that still hurt, have spoken
you blind with methanol-
the mental heather
that holds it all together,
finds you on its well-worn path
and in the aftermath,
walking alone
it takes you home-
through the Spanish orange groves
where old men sit with expired widows
thinking silently i suppose
what everybody and no one knows.
then musical scripts
of hidden songbirds play and mix
with secret symbols of illuminati
in the terracotta garden
for my ghost at its own party
of father's day stardom,
while my prince and princess
smile at me, with their mother's Maltese eyes-
in their more, i am less
but keep my loss disguised.
this is their day to me-
their prose
in how it goes-
like lambas bread
in what is said
as we journey.
IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE
i have
disconnected self
from the wire
of the world
retreated to
this unmade croft
of wild grass
and savage stone
moored
mountains
set in sea
blue black
green grey
dyed all the
colours of my mood
and liquid
language-
to climb rocks
instead of
rungs
living with
them
moving around
their settlements
of
revolutionary random place
for simple
solitary glory.
i am reduced
again
to elements and
matter
that barter her
body for food
teasing and
turning
her flesh to
take words and plough.
rapid rain
slaps the skin
on honest hands
strongly gentle
while sowing
seeds
the way i touch
my lover
in the talk of
my tobacco smoke:
now she knows
she tastes
like all the
drops
of my dreams
falling on the
forest
of our
Lothlorien.
Soodabeh Saeidnia: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Soodabeh Saeidnia
lives in Queens, New York. She got her Pharm D and PhD of Pharmacognosy and has
worked as a researcher and university professor in Japan and Iran. Falling in
love with poetry at 12, she writes her poems in English and Farsi which have
been published in different anthologies and literary magazines. She collected,
translated and edited the contemporary poetry from around the world and
published them in several anthologies, most recently “Persian Sugar in English
Tea” and “Saffron Flavored Rock Candy”. The first volume of the bilingual
series, Persian Sugar in English Tea, will be sent to the Moon with a fleet of
stories for a Lunar Time Capsule 2021.
Farewell
my hands sense nothing
when I long to touch you
my arms deprived of your curves
my eyes blind to see your borders
I cannot hold you anymore
as the sun is such a kidnapper
a tormentor who tears you apart
I will wait for the next rain
if you say so
farewell, my dear rainbow
Garlic Bread Is a Divine
she always says
she prays with her hands
soaked in the cumin dough
and bows to a pouch of cayenne,
to a pan filled with cinnamon rolls
in the line to the oven,
treats them as if
they are children of angels
I often find her lying
prostrate and petrified
on top of the kitchen table,
staring at puff pastries,
afraid to stand up
in front of the saffron closet
she stuffs the Batard loaves
with raisins and savory
and I keep looking for
a trace of garlic
in her divine menu
Sabaa
“Sabaa” is the name of a wind
blowing from the east
a gentle breeze
swirling like a playful girl
never destroying a sand castle
singing like the grandpa in the kitchen
never howling to cause a fear
pulling the shy cloud to the sky
hanging over until the rain starts telling
the story of the winds
lost in the memory
of this whimpering hurricane
Sabah Carrim: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Sabah Carrim has authored two novels, Humeirah and Semi-Apes, both set in Mauritius where she was born.
Her short stories have been shortlisted in various international competitions such as the Bristol Short Story Prize, AfroYoung Adult Competition, Not-So-Normal-Narrators Contest, Small Islands Anthology Contest, and the Gabriele Rico Challenge for Creative Nonfiction.
She’s also an academic with a PhD in Genocide Studies, and is currently recipient of the W. Morgan and Lou Claire Rose Scholarship in Texas State University for a MFA in Creative Writing in the United States of America.
Musings
The mirror doesn’t show much of a
difference—although there is one,
a silent decay
like meat that’s stood on the
kitchen counter for days—meat
that’s dehydrated
that’s how we appear as we age.
Everyone interesting and
passionate, and most importantly
alive
is henceforth ten years
younger—or more
and you wonder where your
contemporaries are.
They’re in their homes, washing dishes,
cleaning
the mess of their children and
their
partners, soaking whole grained
oat meal
for breakfast on the morrow
They’re doing the accounts,
counting the number of months
before the loan’s paid, so they
can figure out when it’s
safe to get a new one
to secure them in their old age
They’re going to bed early,
setting their alarms to wake up
on time
to swallow their oat meal and
beat the traffic jam
while you’re sitting here,
looking in the mirror, looking
at the distant sea
and the distant horizon,
pondering on these
eternal wheels we’re caught up in
pondering on these dreary and
boring lives you’ve avoided
that always seemed both—attractive and repulsive
Have you ever engaged in
conversation with the sea?
Have you heard it roar and lash out at you in anger
especially in the middle of the night
as if
the sun it had swallowed
was rebelling from within its stomach
(it seems because the lights went out)
Have you heard the sea roar and lash out at you
with the crescented moon just atop
and a few stars dotting the side
all peeking through the leaves of a coconut tree
and staring at you
Have you had to soothe the sea with your words
and watched and heard it tone down
and felt consoled that an unruly child could be calmed by
you
Have you ever had to play music to the sea
and synchronised its rhythm and beat to the
ebb and flow of the splashes on the shore
and as you turned to go back to your room
heard its complaints its lamentations all too soon
Broken Things
At certain junctures of our lives
after the analysis, after the diagnosis
of the problem
arises the need to gather courage
to undo things that aren’t right
to do things that have to be set right
to unplug oneself from a broken system
to revert, recede, restitute
to do to act
to stop thinking that
it could have been worse
when it could have
been better
—but people usually falter at this stage
one would think that everyone has a threshold for the pain
they can endure—but no,
ultimately most of us
end up
living
with
broken things
Ryan Quinn Flanagan: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Ryan Quinn
Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with
his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be
found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The
New York Quarterly, Setu, The Blue Mountain Review, Red Fez, and The
Oklahoma Review.
Wish Fountain
The fountain in the mall
was littered with coins.
A wish fountain surrounded
by sharply dressed
window mannequins.
Always with large red sale
tags.
They always seemed to be on
sale.
I sat on the side ledge of
the fountain as my mother went in shopping.
Closing my eyes and
listening to the sound of the water.
I knew better than to grab
the coins.
Those were other people’s
wishes.
Then the fountain began to
talk to me.
I opened my eyes, but no
one was around.
I knew it was the fountain.
Just me and that fountain
in the middle of the Bayfield Mall in Barrie.
And the fountain told me it
had some wishes of its own.
That everyone only cared
about their wishes.
I didn’t have any money,
but I told the fountain that my wish
was that its wishes came
true.
I was a very quiet and
compassionate child.
The fountain still seemed
sad when I left with my mother.
I guess it knew I was just
some kid.
That wishing for its wishes
would never work.
The Nest
This gentleman showed up
when we were living on Meadowland.
I was still a child and
watched from the living room window.
The man came to the door
first to get his money from my father.
Then he asked if we had a
pail and something long.
My father got a very large
white pail from under the sink.
Then he thought for a
moment.
There are some
hockey sticks in the garage,
my father offered.
That will do,
the man said.
Then my father closed the
door.
He had already been stung a
few times.
The man came back from the
garage.
He walked towards the large
pine tree
with nothing but the white
pail and a hockey stick.
The nest was inside the
growth of the tree.
The sky filled with attacking
wasps whenever you approached.
I craned my neck, but the
front of the house blocked my view.
Then the man returned a few
minutes later.
With no protective gear.
Just the white pail and a
hockey stick.
The sky all around him
swarming angrily.
But the man seemed
unaffected.
The nest so humungous it
hung over the lip of that giant pail.
It looked like something
almost alien.
LOOK AT THAT!
I could hear my father’s
amazement behind me.
The man just walked to the
back trunk of his VW bug
and put the pail with all
the wasps inside.
Then he closed the truck
and drove off.
I could see the inside of
the car filling with angry wasps.
The man seemed completely
unbothered.
It was one of the most
amazing things I have ever seen.
Flying Colours
A young child sits
cross-legged on the floor.
Leaning over a colouring
book.
Scratching some smears well
outside the lines.
Two women sit over coffee
in the next room.
One the mother, the other a
friend.
The child is not yet able
to talk.
It lets out a tiny sudden
sound.
Shirtless and in diaper.
Throwing the cup full of
crayons up into the air.
Before throwing the ones that
land closest.
One of the women gets up to
peer around the corner.
A motioned grunt from the
child.
Then more crayons.
Robin Wyatt Dunn: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his work at: www.robindunn.com.
the earth
remembers me in my sleep
with her dark
nectar
my enemies have
found my position and torture me
with electricity
I pour it down to
her in my bed
miles deep
but how many earths
are there below?
These trees hover
as icons
Theotokos, the birth
giver of god
Pantokrator
in the door of
contemplation
Over the girl
with the hula hoop
Over the old man
with his cigarette
Over the Africans
chanting and drunk
Over the ritual
night
Glowing
Their needles are
sharp and come into my room
The sun is their
storm brother
Locked in sight
Ash hands and
headbeams
Hair branches
cutting the sky
the nasty eyes of
the office woman
the colorless
faces
trying for joy
the stairwell
haunted
by too much meat
the designer some
satanist
off in his keep
the color of the
desert
ravishing
the cats
cut hard against
the grass like snakes
the lizards
imbued with
heartache
able to dance against
the light
treating men like
children
before the light
the monitors
sucking the people in
wraiths
give me the
freedom to take the gun out
and inform my
associates of their mistake
this is a holdup
moth*f*ker
of your mind
Robert Maddox-Harle: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)
Bio: Robert Maddox-Harle (aka Rob Harle) is a poet, artist and reviewer. His work is published in journals, anthologies, online, and in books. He is on the editorial board of a number of international art and literary journals including Leonardo. His current work is concerned with restoring the “mysterium tremendum fascinans” which postmodernism has all but destroyed.
Allegro Vivace
adventures come and go
days fly by in a mesmerising hurtle,
nail it down
slow it down
the race to death is too hectic.
seems like yesterday
fixing dad’s vintage Victor mower,
sixty five years have slipped by
days crossed off the calendar
a calendar of unknown finitude,
a pile of days dissolved like morning mist,
constant battles against unnecessary angst
have etched their marks too deep.
family ties both East and West
the tyranny of distance hard
but still we made the effort,
now all but two are gone
one East and one out distant West,
different oceans different shores apart.
Dvorak dissolves my largo introspection
throwing me to the floor in rapture,
Adagio - Allegro Molto
Largo
Molto vivace
Allegro
“New World’ in E Minor roars,
roaring, dipping, diving
a cascading avalanche of orchestral bliss
testing the glass of old windows,
Moderato
Tempo Di Valse
Scherzo
Larghetto
“Finale” - Allegro Vivace,
and now I am young again.
Red Queen
The Red Queen stands aloof
commanding her subjects with shouts,
mysterious in her gaze
compelling in her countenance.
Agitated she invites the Mad Hatter to lunch,
“Bring the red tea
and a menu now!”
“What are the
ingredients of Rabbit Pie?”
she screeches sourly.
Sugar, water, salt
Salted plums, thickener, tomato paste
Food acids (330, 260), garlic, ginger
Rabbit on the bone
Dripping, flour, flavour enhancer (621)
Caramel (150a)
The tension rises, looks are exchanged.
Exclaiming rudely the Mad Hatter shouts
“I do not eat Rabbit
Pie!”
“Then”, off with
your hat!
and then, off with
your head!”
Remember what the Dormouse said?
“Feed your
head”.
Cut Short
it started at five in the morning
falling out of bed,
a strange reaching-out dream
over balanced, flat on my back
the floor was hard and unforgiving.
consult the oracle
Astro-girl in the local tabloid,
You’ll have a hard day!
Be careful meeting strangers!
Perhaps a trip down memory lane!
filtering through a box of old cards,
a get well card from
Bhakto
now he’s dead
i miss his Zen sayings.
a Christmas card from Derek
now he’s dead
i miss his smile and sculptures.
a cartoon card from KAF
now he’s dead
i miss Kevin’s clay and artistic way.
Another card another one dead
more cards more dead
too many friends, too many family
All dead!
forlorn i threw the cards
one by one into the fire,
the funeral pyre with saddened flames
smoked and roared
as i reflected on these truncated lives.
like young shrubs, tender saplings
mercilessly pulled from the ground
purged before their peak,
All dead!
Dead! Dead! Dead!
the cast became too long to continue,
the sadness too great to swallow!
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