Rajnish Mishra… Sic semper [evello mortem] tyrannis

 

Sic semper [evello mortem] tyrannis

 
‘Still waters run deep’.
 
Clichés are good to begin a poem with.
I love justice and hate tyranny.
I love justice more than
I love my country, its people, my people, fame or wealth.
Sometimes, truth sounds clichéd.
 
Quid est veritas?
 
At first it seems not easy,
not quite, but then, as it’s natural to kill, so natural,
in fact, that they need to write,
sometimes on stone, sometimes on paper:
‘Thou shalt not kill!’
 
Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.
 
He rose high, and masses called him God.
He’s not alone, but caput gone triumvirate kaput.
It’s unnerving to feel within – a fierce, feral,
beast, unnamed and ferocious, rise and fill
all the space up under the skin
of a citizen: civilized, harmless and tamed.
 
Hoi polloi
 
The masses, sheep, sons and daughters of apes,
imitate, submit, follow and yield liberty
to tyrants, despots, usurpers with power,
for their patch of pasture or bunch of bananas.
 
‘But here I am to speak what I do know’
 
I am an honorable man, not a butcher.
You are an honorable man, no accomplice.
We are all honorable and good men.
They are not honorable.
 
Ehyeh asher Ehyeh.
 
You are what you are,
and masses are ‘them’, not ‘us’.
Strangely though, it’s them, not you,
who lust for blood tonight, my blood.
Bloodthirsty sheep? Lion-apes? Always?
 
‘Fearful symmetry’
 
Tiger’s fire is sheep’s death.
Thy blood my brother bought death for me;
Thy blood ‘cries out’ to them ‘from the soil’
brings vengeance, seven fold,
Insane at night, sane at dawn.
No, Caesar never cried ‘Et tu Brute’,
nor I ‘Sic semper evello mortem tyrannis’.
 

Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India. He is the editor of PPP Ezine, a poetry ezine. He has a blog on poetry, poetics and aesthetic pleasure: https:/poetrypoeticspleasure.wordpress.com.

 

Copyright © 2017 by Rajnish Mishra

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Ahmed R Teleb… This Dance

 

This Dance

so long here and now
beginning a waltz
perhaps to foxtrot
around a rumba
 
front to front
Axum Indian Sea
back to back
when legs bachata an ocean
salsa a sly river
 
shoulder side to side
fingertips, sides, knuckles
fists, elbows kiss keys
 
downshifted thighs up
continental divides
–so here thought, like a bird flies back
        if right–
rocky green and ocean blue
 
leg leg                        measure globe
compass metronome
infinitesimals
mini-huge studio
 
sing improbable colors
salseo, ando six rivers
for this dance
 
james garcia mohamed brown
twists turns, against themselves
to know no moves
 
forever (in)finite
        (open)circle
note to note
        a ka-kosmos
 
a river-ocean studio dance
knowing tiny forever
long too short
with no moves
 
again
 

Copyright © 2017 by Ahmed R Teleb

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Robert Ronnow… Not like a figwort

 
 

Not like a figwort

Not like a figwort but not an aster, either. Could he be a buttercup
with sepals, no petals, but sepals like petals? Alan is a bluebeech,
an ash if his books sell. Quick shake hands. Zach’s bald ok, a
magnolia, cone-like fruits a bridge to his neanderthal father.
When did Ben become a chestnut lover? It’s said women are practical
but there’s much variation in their leaves, ovaries. Many are older,
stumps, snags for peckers and porcupines, teachers, feeders, seeders.
What did the wood thrush sing
                                                   teaching its young thrush meanings?
 
Sometimes a mushroom. Did you know such fungi are mostly protein?
Mushrooms could replace meat, and the dead, the dead’s feet, white
as pyrola, could replace the living. Well, we worry. Will we bad luck
be extinguished. Denizens of convenience stores think who cares, will
I beat the reaper? Hope sempiternally springs. Things rarely clear
as sun among the sundews. Eating huckleberries from your kayak.
What Paulinaq says is live your life and then your death until nothing’s left.
Then thou shalt be bereft
                                       of the heavy sackcloth of the soil, soul.
 
Said to Mrs. Buckthorn good poets imitate great poets steal.
I think she’s more an apple tree. Or pear. Good to eat,
amenable to loving. Rose or Ericaceae the differences make the
difference. Emerson and Rylin Malone are dead. The dead
are dumb, the dust won’t speak. And this deep, dull and dark
blessing’s a horizontal reserve. Moonlit. Mr. Hickory is actually a yellow birch,
holy and exfoliating. Busy spilling seed on the surface of the snow.
Teaching essay
                                 writing, algebra, earth science, branches of government.
 
I would be a cypress, cedar, branches calligraphy brushes, divorced from desert.
It takes a divorce for one to know one knows no one not only one’s wife
but your very sons who will always choose the open flower bud.
Good, as they should. Their bones are your bones, strange bones, and a
strange selection of their words. They are Uvularia sessifolia (wild oats)
and Polygonatum biflorum (Solomon’s seal). They outlast the holocaust
or not, they’re made of matter. These windows need a good cleaning.
Leaf-raking. Dusting for ghosts. Ah, sweet peace, perfect rest, there are
no ghosts
                 adults are trees, teens are shrubs, and children are herbaceous.
 
 

Robert Ronnow’s most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at http://www.ronnowpoetry.com.

 

Copyright © 2017 by Robert Ronnow

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Afzal Moolla… Massacre at Houla

 

Massacre at Houla

 
She was no more than 10 years of age.
He could have been a grandfather.
 
Young, old, women, girls, men, boys.
 
108 lives.
 
Now they are buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.
 
Killed by knives,
shot at point-blank range,
slaughtered, mowed-down.
 
108 lives.
 
Snuffed-out. Decimated. Taken-out.
 
108 lives.
 
As Damascus lies blatantly,
spewing forth untruth,
108 warm, dead bodies,
remain buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.
 
108 lives.
 

Afzal Moolla was born in New Delhi, India while his parents were in exile, fleeing Apartheid South Africa. His father Mosie Moolla represented the African National Congress (ANC) in India, Egypt and Finland.

Afzal returned to South Africa following the unbanning of the ANC and the release of Nelson Mandela and other political prisoners. He works and lives in Johannesburg, and shares his literary musings with his most strident critic – his 12 year old cat – Scully.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla

 
 
 
 
 
 

TS Hidalgo… Well Beyond the Outskirts of Your City

Well Beyond the Outskirts of Your City

If you go running to get to the middle of heat
(whilst Hamilton takes pole in Canada
and the constitution of stable governments
is discussed in your country),
either avoiding obstacles
after reaching our Land of Rabbits,
or you plan to go from Spain itself
e.g. to the Wall, or the rest of it
(… Deutschland,
Deutschland über alles… ),
surely you’ll wonder upon arrival
May I finally sit right here?;
money, power, influence,
bugged phones,
environmental protection,
a fluzo condenser,
but there is none of them here:
plain and simple,
you just don´t know
the Hospitality Sector has become a preferential matter.
 

TS Hidalgo (44) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Canada, Argentina, Chile, Germany, UK, Spain, Portugal, South Africa, Nigeria, Botswana, India and Australia,and he has been the winner of prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) in short story and a finalist at Festival Eñe in the novel category. He has currently developed his career in finance and stock-market.

 

Copyright © 2017 by TS Hidalgo