new ::: poetry | international edition | 2016


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Published by Lauck & Dub LTD (UK)Bath street 272 / Glasgow / [email protected]

All Works are Copyright © their Authors 201All Rights Reserved Worldwid

No portion of this electronic magazine may be reproduced in any

other form or by any means, except for the purposes of review,without the prior consent of the appropriate copyright owner.P.S. All design works and illustrations were crafted by SL

TABLE OF CONTESTS

NEW ::: POETRY is a non-pro! t international magazines network and community with next attributes: shindy-indie scheme (indie production with easy-going help from others, mostly geniuses) | Focus on classical &neoterri ! c poetry, translations, premiers, new genres and experiments | No politics, religion, sexual content | Noactual budget | No sponsors | No advertisment | No academic establishment & the old boy network | Ready toprint-on-demand (POD-friendly) | Quarterly (slowsome one), Weekly+ and special editions include sci-art andchildren's magazines | " :::" is a combination of two colons ":" with three ellipses "..."; it's like a portal to thfuture and a road to it. P.S. The cover art "Goddess of time" is made by Rina Ivanova from concept by SLD.

TOP-SPOT | CONVOYCE | ARIA'S ARA: ARIA LIGI |P: 4-19

EPICANTHROPE: STANISLAV LAUK-DUBITSKY (SLD)| P: 22-34 SAYVORY: I. WRIGHT| P: 35-36 NEWP!* | P: 38-45 | ALPHAFALL* | P: 47-50 PHOETRY BOOKMARKS* | P: 20, 37, 46, 51, 71, 76

UNDER COMMAS | POEMS BY EDITORS:KEVIN KIELY | P: 53-57RINA IVANOVA| P: 58-60ROMAIN TROJANI| P: 61-63ALESSANDRA BONOMELLI | P: 64-66 MARGARITA PUSHKINA| P: 67-68SUZANNE AKKERHUIS| P: 69 MARIA SANTOS VILLARREAL| P: 70

POINEER | NEWBIES' BENEFIT:NOELLYN CARTER & RITA FORDE| P: 73 NISHTHA PANDEY, SAMER A. HADI & RYAN PELAEZ| P: 74 KIKI ERNS, ANREW P. MASON & ANNABELLE FULLER| P: 75

\VOW | SPECIAL SECTION: ELSBETH POE| P: 78-79 ZOE FISHER | P: 80MATILDA LARK| P: 81 EVA NOLAN| P: 82 CINDY CHEN| P: 83 ILANA HALEY | P: 84LISA ALAVADO | P: 85KATELYN DURST| P: 86ASHLIE ALLEN| P: 87 ROBYN BELT & LAURA BAILEY| P: 88SHÁHRAZÁD ROSE| P: 88-89

ADVERSETISMENT | WETDRYVAC| P: 92

CHILDREN OF CHILE | TEASER FROM SPANISH EDITION: DIEGO ALEGRIA| P: 94 ANDRES MORALES| P: 95-96 CAMILA FADDA | P: 97 VICTOR LOBOS | P: 98-99

Stan Lauk-Dubitsky [SLD] -Founder / Publisher / Chief SeniorEditor / Author

Aria Ligi - Senior Editor ofInternational edition / Author /Proof-reader

Tanja Istomina - Senior editor ofGerman edition / Translator / Author

Rina Ivanova - Editor of Russianedition, Senior editor of Children'sedition / Illustrator / Portraitist /Cover designer / Author

Victor Lobos - Senior editor ofSpanish edition / Translator / Author

EDITORIAL STAFF

It is the ! rst and last page with no design orartwork, so enjoy while you can :)


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Dear Reader, What you hold in your hand is the work of many, across continents, wiresand seas. It is our impassioned aim that through poetry, prose and thesharing of ideas that we may make a mark upon humanity su ! using it

with light and an indefatigable desire to better humankind.

Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau stated: “We need poets tochange the world.” Though some may naysay this, and claim that poetryis just distilled language only useful for greeting cards and wooing, itmust be remembered that throughout history, and prior to thistechnological age, poetry was not only lauded for its ability to allure andsoothe, but as a rallying cry; its thunderous tocsin, the clapper echoingviolently through marketplaces announcing and proclaiming for themasses of the day the political injustices which impacted them. This is poetry at its " nest hour, it is what it was crafted for. One need only to

look to Iran where Fatemah Ekhteari and Medhi Mousavi , two Ir an ianpoets , were imprisoned for poems they wrote challenging the statusquo. If poetry were merely meaningless drivel, the powers that be wouldnot be threatened thus.

Similarly, a US spoken word performance on the Queen Latifah show byBE, RM, and ZA, three teenagers who are members of the Get Legitorganization entitled Somewhere in America, on the Queen LatifahShow, declaimed regarding censorship in education, and the pressureson young women within society both peer and the undercurrent ofsexual objecti " cation which permeates all cultures.

This is the imperative of NEW ::: POETRY, to bring voices together fromaround the world, through poetry, and in a loud voice, around the issuesthat a ! ect us all. Therefore we can declare to all the detractors thatpoetry is not a happenstance, it is not a frivolity : it is the fuel that lightsthe engines of change.

Foreword by editorial sta ! .


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TOPSPOT | Aria Ligi as featured author with interview and selectionof poems from her forthcoming book "Hammer of God"


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ARIA LIGI | s. editor of NEW ::: POETRY (ENT)and NP ::: DESTI. Poet, critic, blogger

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Why don’t you let the hammer of god rain down on meThe gibbet tied tightly in your bloodied ! sts~Why don’t you take the mallet so heavyMade from the old hickory that stood behind our privyAnd hack and hack till my brains smackNo more to torment youNo more to sully the purity of your low hanging vine,Of you sweet Christ wine-Of you hymnals sitting as brethren on the pews sublimeTo think is absolute freedom-To question, is to shineThese things professed as unmitigated truthNow rot and twist are stamped divine~The call of so many voices pursued meOut of the darkness you consumed meI ran till my breath nearly brokeAnd your god became, what he was, unmasked,His teeth shown bared emitting bracken " aresWithin the vacuum of his oracular tombHis hammer is his tongue, his teeth are the bladeSerrated edge ripping me to shredsIn the blaspheme, in the sour bilious breezeThe hammer sounds, the tree is felled

RIMG SPEC.Rhyme: ::/::: Rhythm: horizontal, mixedsemi-universal style

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Oh prime mother , are you blind to the drossGodly entail, bequeathed to your progenyThe subtle subtext lacing that foaming e ! ervescent seaThis bequest was yours alone to giveIt was seen in the faces and hearts-In the " owers that lined and made your # nal bedWould you recognize him, the smile situated plainly,Under guile and toothy gums when pageantry is goneAnd the lights dimWill he still be your sweet gentle ingenuous child

Oh prime mother, does he dream of you stillAnd does that image wax and press within itThe promise susurrated, the una ! ected life

The image, you censuredDoes he hear you anymoreDoes he acknowledge the implications

Oh prime mother, your smile still shinesNeath the beam in his eyesLet your open arms adorn him...

Let the humble pathos be concededNo more to be suborned in convenient conventionalityUpset the sett- tear the style from your bosom

Oh Primal mother, hear our pleaThe monarchial choir, where Bobbies nod refrainsA hideous discordant act of dutyThrow the cockade to the sea

Channel a ballooning polluted pledge to aristocracyTurn your air brushed cheek rosette powdered and keenTo the last; hinting, abiding for that silent kissWould we be remiss to stand onAwaiting for her slight form to hail us from beyond

Oh Prime mother, your anthem has been accededTo the halls of the aged and the poorWhose little limbs frail as tinder,lovely embers lit the hillocksCrackling and spinning, dwindling and dyingFurious lights descending

The hearse’s motor now diminishingThe " ame she lit as none before

*For Princess Diana of Wales

RIMG SPEC. Rhyme: ::/::: Rhythm: chaotic,semi-universal style

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RIMG SPEC. Rhyme: ::/:::

Rhythm: mixed(chaotic + horizontal,separate styles)

I saw his cradled head under the wounded ! owerbedWrinkled and sagging in its frowzy spinal fareIt didst spake, unbeknownst to maternal ears:See me, hear me, climb unrestrained from your womb

But their eyes were waxened o’erSoused in the nectar of faery ! owerWhilst ears and hands mourned the lossThey had as yet to partake

They in that mournful hour, wailing their loss,Lauded the passing not so much as an abysmal parting;But with acquiescence turned their knowing gazeWhispered sad and ironic clichés – contritionFor the woe bludgeoned muse-

That they were now sacred in their loss,Gilded in ethereal dross

Lofty gold hues which are embossedTo the saddened and the few- the exclusive conclaveThe drearisome and entitled braveTouted martyrs and saints while the doors slam

And the tissues are packed awayWe are left, bemused and despisedOur entreaties of compassion sit in tattersAnd his lone voice remains unheardIn its opulent de " ant refrain: “see me”, “hear me”As the dirt pours on his open grave

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*For the 700 babies born into poverty each dayin Britian on the birth of Prince William’s son

RIMG SPEC. Rhyme: ::/::: Rhythm: mixed(chaotic + horizontal, semi-universal style)

What do they matter those tiny feet, twigsLissome stilts and sweet as ! gsWhat is the cost to our humanityTo our self-proclaimed united, nobility

We abate-We capitulate gainst primogenitureTitled heirs and the pomposityWhich somehow lifts us, silent and unawaresUnder their spell we walk dream boundFor that promised pinnacleWe wander through candy fumed clouded roomsWhere the opiates- orgiastic take us in,Wreathing us in its portentous doomThe cacophony of the unheralded is a hammer on my tongueWhich coughs and rasps a little purr quelledStamped as fripperyAnd breathing (now an arduous task) subdues the slight sacIn its naked, nascent formWhich, was never brilliant, nor fulsomeBut lay its soft head between her shaking kneesInert, while the leavings, viscous sheen driedAnd the announcement of the dayOf the imminent arrival died, unpronouncedNo dais to adorn himNo mantle decked in purple pageantry proclaimed his majestyBut gainst his mother’s slicked and sweat raked cheeksHe found dignity .

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RIMG SPEC. Rhyme: ::/::: Rhythm: mixed (chaotic +

vertical, semi-universal style

SHUNT THE BLADE

The searing jagged jabs to the holeWill not make you whole nor atone for the quiet deathThat burning branded as a hot smoldering unfaltering noteOver and over the bludgeoning painTill it tore up my thighs and left me insane

I put my head upon the splice begging you for my life

While under the wretched bovine knifeYou hacked and hacked, slung me in your gunny sackBones chiseled shards en mass; over the blood hewn iceThe ringing in my ears reverberated through ribs and tearsTill fear and anger overwhelmed meI lay in an ocean replete where none could reach, nor hearTired child of doom let your sadness not o’er take youNor hatred, make you; let it still be immaculate seed

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I w o u l d d e f e n d f r e e d o m o f s p e e c h a n d e s p e c i a l l y a r t i s t i c f r e e d o m o f s p e e c h . T h e r e a r e s o m a n y t o p i c s w h i c h y e a r s a g o w o u l d h a v e b e e n t a b o o t h a t a r e n o l o n g e r t o d a y . T h i s i s

p r o g r e s s . I t r y t o w r i t e i n s u c h a w a y t h a t w i l l n o t m e r e l y b e s e x u a l , b u t w i l l c a u s e t h e r e a d e r t o s t o p a n d t h i n k . I f t h e y r e a d a p o e m o f m i n e a n d h a v e t o p a u s e a n d p o n d e r , t h e n I k n o w I h a v e h i t a c h o r d . I d o n ’ t w a n t p e o p l e t o r e a d i t a n d s a y , “ o h t h a t w a s p r e t t y . ’ O r w o r s e , “ T h a t w a s n i c e . ” N i c e i s n o t

w h a t I w r i t e . I w a n t t o c h a l l e n g e t h e r e a d e r t o t h i n k a n d m a y b e s e e t h i n g s i n a w a y t h a t t h e y m i g h t n o t h a v e e v e n

c o n s i d e r e d b e f o r e . I f t h e p o w e r s t h a t b e a r e o ! e n d e d b y t h a t , t h e n , s o b e i t . T h a t a g a i n m e a n s o n s o m e l e v e l , w h e t h e r t h e y a d m i t i t o r n o t , i t r e a c h e d t h e m . T o m e , t h a t m e a n s I h a v e d o n e m y j o b . I h a v e m a n y i n t e n t i o n s , b u t " r s t i s t o y e s i n c i t e a r e a c t i o n . N o t n e c e s s a r i l y p o s i t i v e o r n e g a t i v e b u t o n e w h i c h e l i c i t s d e e p t h o u g h t . I n t o t h i s I w o u l d a d d t h e a b i l i t y t o q u e s t i o n a n d s e e t h i n g s f r o m a n a l t e r n a t i v e p e r s p e c t i v e a n d t h e n i n t h e e n d , t o m a y b e s e e h o w u n d e r n e a t h d i ! e r e n c e s

Selection of best questionsof editorial sta ! for Aria Ligi

I w o u l d d e f e n d f r e e d o m o f s p e e c h a n d e s p e c i a l l y a r t i s t i c f r e e d o m o f s p e e c h .

T h e r e a r e s o m a n y t o p i c s w h i c h y e a r s a g o w o u l d h a v e b e e n t a b o o t h a t a r e n o

l o n g e r t o d a y . T h i s i s p r o g r e s s . I t r y t o w r i t e i n s u c h a w a y t h a t w i l l n o t

m e r e l y b e s e x u a l , b u t w i l l c a u s e t h e r e a d e r t o s t o p a n d t h i n k . I f t h e y r e a d a

p o e m o f m i n e a n d h a v e t o p a u s e a n d p o n d e r , t h e n I k n o w I h a v e h i t a c h o r d . I d o n ’ t w a n t p e o p l e t o r e a d i t a n d s a y , “ o h t h a t w a s p r e t t y . ’

O r w o r s e , “ T h a t w a s n i c e . ” N i c e i s n o t w h a t I w r i t e . I w a n t t o c h a l l e n g e t h e r e a d e r t o t h i n k a n d m a y b e s e e t h i n g s i n a w a y t h a t t h e y

m i g h t n o t h a v e e v e n c o n s i d e r e d b e f o r e . I f t h e

p o w e r s t h a t b e a r e o ! e n d e d b y t h a t , t h e n , s o b e i t . T h a t a g a i n m e a n s o n s o m e l e v e l ,

I would defend freedom of speech and especially artisticfreedom of speech. There are so many topics which yearsago would have been taboo that are no longer today. This is

progress. I try to write in such a way that will not merely besexual, but will cause the reader to stop and think. If theyread a poem of mine and have to pause and ponder, then Iknow I have hit a chord. I don’t want people to read it andsay, “oh that was pretty.’ Or worse, “That was nice.” Nice isnot what I write. I want to challenge the reader to think andmaybe see things in a way that they might not have evenconsidered before. If the powers that be are o ! ended bythat, then, so be it. That again means on some level, whetherthey admit it or not, it reached them. To me, that means Ihave done my job. I have many intentions, but " rst is to yesincite a reaction. Not necessarily positive or negative but onewhich elicits deep thought. In to this I would add the abilityto question and see things from an alternative perspectiveand then in the end, to maybe see how underneathdi! erences there are commonalities that link us all. rthdghgd

I would defend freedom ofspeech and especially artisticfreedom of speech. There are

so many topics which yearsago would have been taboothat are no longer today. Thisis progress. I try to write insuch a way that will notmerely be sexual, but willcause the reader to stop andthink. If they read a poem ofmine and have to pause andponder, then I know I have hita chord. I don’t want peopleto read it and say, “oh thatwas pretty.’ Or worse, “Thatwas nice.” Nice is not what Iwrite. I want to challenge thereader to think and maybesee things in a way that theym i g h t n o t h a v e e v e n

considered before. If thepowers that be are o ! endedby that, then, so be it. Thatagain means on some level,whether they admit it or not,it reached them. To me, that


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What inspired you to become a poet? Are you proud of your choice?

I would have to say my early love of music and singing. As a small child, I used to get upearly in the morning and sing to my parakeet. I would make up songs, and just sing. When we are children we have the freedom toplay, making up stories, and weaving a thread that is all our own. Children create stories and poetry naturally. Unfortunately as weage, creativity dissipates. However, if as an adult you can retain that child within, that sense of play with words or images that youhad; that is where true art comes from, whether it is poetry, painting, sculpting or any art form.

PERSON-PER-SUN | PERSONAL PATH SECTION

Did you learn poetry by yourself or did you study it during your college years?

I learned through trial and error, and reading. When I was younger, I read a lot of poetry, and experimented with di ! erent styles.That is how you " nd your voice. In high school I read poets such as: Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, Yeats, Tennyson, Burns andByron. Later, when I was in college, I did take a short story class, and a poetry class, but my major was not poetry. College is a greattime for not only focusing on your core classes, but trying new things, new avenues of creativity and " nding out just what yourpassion is.

What is the most important thing you have learned about poetry?And what do you feel when you write or read poems?

There are quite a few things, so to pare it back I would need to make a list. If in terms of what I have learned concerning writingpoetry, I would have to say that there is always more to learn. Writing is a process and as such it is constantly evolving. If as awriter you become so inured that you never alter anything, then you don’t evolve. You become stagnant. On the other hand, if youcan step back from it, and are able to take stock, hone it, and " ne tool it, then you may have something worthwhile at the end. Ofcourse, this is dependent on you as a writer, being willing to be self-critical, which is never an easy thing. One may ask, how doesone deal with a barrage of rejection slips, emails etc… You contend with it, by becoming a little numb to it and then realizing that itis in fact, not you, but them. If you can " nd the support of an editor or publisher, then that will make all the di ! erence; discovering

that person though is paramount to any meaningful success. Now, if you are talking about poetry as a whole, and what is the mostimportant thing in that regard, then I would have to say that poetry can be more than just pretty verse upon a page and it shouldbe. Poetry has the potential to be a great tool to reach the masses. During the 15th Century and up until the 20th, it was just that.It was highly regarded and esteemed. To be a poet was a greatly revered vocation and one which was not entered into blithely.What has lowered it is in fact a degradation of education, respect for education, and with that the insidious commercialism thathas seeped into our culture and which has marked poetry with the stamp of being a mere triviality. This lowering of the muse, andsummarily education and language on the whole, has depressed real verse and given rise to a ‘poetry’ which is anything but grandor consequential. The question then becomes, how do we take it back? How do we infuse it with life, meaning and the venerationwhich once hung around the poet’s pate like a coronal wreathe? We do so by lauding great works of the past, schooling ourselveson the likes of Shakespeare, Petrarch, Homer, Arisoto, Dante, Milton, Byron and then, using them as examples to craft our own. Wecan pen exemplary poetry which has merit and is di ! used with the issues of our times, if we do just that. By taking up our pens inthis great cause we can return verse to its rightful place as something which is respected and honored, while at the same timerallying for the rights and causes that impact humanity. This is the great cry of poetry.

Answering the second question, it depends on what I am reading or writing. Is the poem sad? Is it insightful? It’s not somuch about what you feel; it’s about how you take it in. Once you have read something, what do you do with that knowledge? Doyou say, that was interesting and move on? Or do you take it in and think about it? Do you use the information to gain furtherknowledge? Does it in some way e ! ect and thus alter a previously held notion? In this way, are you a passive reader or an activeone? The active reader lets the text involve them. There have been few modern poems that have deeply a ! ected me. I " nd thatvery sad, but the truth is that most of what I read these days does not cause me to pause and re # ect. There are a few poems thathave impacted me and which I can relate to. Sylvia Plath’s poem ‘Daddy’ was the " rst poem I read which I connected with a verycore level. That is because if you are a survivor of child abuse, it hits you very strongly. It really packs a punch, and even beyondthat, her description of her father as this authoritarian " gure, is one which many young women (and men) can identify with. Whileit can be seen as a confessional poem, it has the ability to reach across time and into the inner psyche of our lives. That is apowerful poem. There are others too though, Mandelstam’s poem, gorgeous poem which starts: “I want to serve you on an equal

footing with others; with dry lips. The word does not slake my parched mouth and without you again, the dense air is empty.” AndNeruda’s exquisite ‘Body of Woman’ which in its fulsomeness reveres with such tenderness that it is more than a love poem, butan ode to all women.


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It’s pretty simple. I made a goal for myself to write every single day. Even if I have a busy day, I still write. My daily schedule though isa little backward sounding but I write in the evening and then type it in, every morning. When I put it in, I edit as I go. The nice thingabout writing at night is if I am unhappy with it, I sleep on it, so that when I come back to it in the morning I am fresher. And I don’tthink there is any one emotion. It’s important not to get stuck in particular style such as being a poet who only writes love poems, oronly writes nature poems. That’s like playing the same record, or eating the same food day after day. UGH. I want to give the readervariety. Therefore, I have poems which are humorous, sad, nature oriented, political, ethereal, satirical, etc. If you stick to a certaingenre then what happens is you get typecast as a poet who only writes one thing. There should be much more than that. Now some

poets get known for their love poems, but if you read more of them, then generally you ! nd they write about a wide array ofsubjects. That is when you know you are a well-rounded writer. The other part of that is that if you do this, then your ability to reachmore people increases because there is more of a chance that somewhere along the line, something you say will move them andthat’s what it’s all about.

That’s a tough one. I think form is KEY. You need form, because it’s your foundation. You need content, because otherwise what areyou saying? And to whom are you saying it? Technique rather goes with form, because you need technique so that you can createform. I think though form is ! rst, because without it, you have nothing. It would be like building a house with no bolsters. Thehouse would fall down. So, you can have the best content, and great technique, but with no form you have a mess. Form gives apoem richness and structure so it can stand on its own. I have read poems that zip along the page with no form at all, and readingthem is like trying to decipher the fuzzy white screen on a television when the station has turned o " . You get nothing. You are lost.This is why form is not only nice to look at, it is essential.

Since the use of words and vocabulary often seems to be unapproachable and might scare newcomers away. Whatdoes your daily schedule look like when you're planning to write and which emotion inspires your writing the most?

If you had to choose between: form, content and technique in a poem which is quintessential?

What inspired you to write about/for historical " gures?

About ! ve years ago now, I happened to pick up a book in the dollar bin at our local library on Marie Antoinette. It was a piece ofhistorical ! ction entitled “Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette” by Sena Jeter Naslund. The book was just fantastic. It is writtennot merely as a piece of ! ction pretending to be fact it was extremely poetic in its prose. I had been very curious about MarieAntoinette, not just because of her famous line (which I discovered she not only never uttered, but which was antithetical to who

she was a person and how she was raised) but because an elementary school friend was directly related to her. I wanted to knowmore. Somehow that more, morphed into writing poetry for her and my research grew and grew. I felt very close to her almost as ifshe was standing right beside me. Then she moved from standing beside me to being with me all the time. It was a strange kind ofempathetic symbiosis. After I wrote my book for her, it occurred to me that I could do more of this, and then, and I don’t recall how,I became interested in the English Romantic Writers of the 18-19th century. I think this grew out of Marie naturally because ofcourse they were from the same time period, but I wanted to see all sides of it. It is one thing to solely look at say an aristocraticpoint of view, but then to see the peasant’s point view, and then to step further back and see the entire thing from the Englishperspective, (which is completely di " erent, because they started out very invigorated by the entire thing, but as the revolutionbecame bloodier and bloodier, their stance changed from support to disgust) widens your scope. Through doing this, you don’t gettrapped in any one view point, but are able to see it from a personal framework as well, as how the views of those from di " erencultures saw it as well. One of the things I work with when I am writing poetry is that sense of empathy, so that the reader canbecome enmeshed within it too. I want to create a bridge between then and now, so that poetically, and viscerally, you can

understand what they were going through.

Oh, gosh everything!!! The softness of color, especially in the shading which the high masters called chiaroscuro, their willingness toplay with ideas and to ! nd within what they created, what essentially was already there. Michaelangelo said that when he found thepiece of Travertine marble that eventually became the statue of David, that it was already there, he just revealed it. WOW. TheRenaissance was a time of great expansion, creativity and openness. Even in Italy, there were places where in fact men who weregay, did not have to hide who they were. They could just be. Can you imagine that? Poetry was lauded and revered, and then youhad such divine artists as Raphael, Bellini, Giorgione, Titian, Da Vinci, to name a few. I think though what captures me most thoughwas the underlying reverence and need to be creative, to take chances, while at the same time the public, respected and revered

great art. What time to live!

What is it in the Renaissance that draws you to it?

INTERVIEWERS: KEVIN KIELY (5), SARAH RAHIMI (6,8), ASALLEN (3), ALESSANDRA BONOMELLI (1,2,4,7), RITA FORDE (7)


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ART & PEOPLE SECTIONPOE... PLUS POPULUS |

YES! And they need to introduce classical verse, and at the same time make it fun. Let kids play with it, and ! nd their own voice.But No. That would be silly. I think anyone can appreciate poetry, but not everyone can write it. It is a craft, and as such needs tobe valued and respected much as one would a symphony or a portrait exhibited in the Louvre. Great poetry is like that, for it iseternal crossing time and generational divides.

Do you think that poetry should be introduced in primary school to make little kids understand the power and thebeauty of it? And do you think writing poetry is for everyone?

Do you think our society has an overrated knowledge and love for poetry? Maybe poetry is slowly losing its value?

No. In fact I think poetry is underrated, at least real poetry. If you go to any bookstore, the poetry section, if it is there, is really,really small, and then what passes for poetry today is usually not. It is either Hallmark or so overly " owery that it means nothing.About losing value - I hope not. One needs to look at our world and realize that with all the chaos going on around us, poetry, andwhat it can accomplish, is needed now more than ever. I can read Shelley’s “The Mask of Anarchy” which was written about the

Peterloo Massacre of 1819 and still relate to it, because what it is talking about is more salient than ever. We need more of thatkind of writing; if it can be used as a medium to heighten understanding, it is of inestimable value.

I think morality comes from your inner core. How were you raised? What are your belief systems? Where are your boundaries?Most people know for instance that stealing, is wrong, yet, do they have that inner sense of self, that compass that will stop themfrom making a mistake? Crossing the line? Even if you were raised by hooligans, or lived on the streets, it doesn’t matter, if youhave strength within, you know. It’s in how you live your life. This does not mean being gullible, it means having a sense of balance.I would not for instance read someone’s work, and give them bad advice just to thwart their e # orts as a writer, because I feelthreatened… or if someone sent me a poem, change a few words and call it mine. That is plagiarism and it’s not only illegal it’smorally unethical. The question is, in this world in which society has this free for all on the net with artwork can you pull yourselfback, retain your integrity and still make an impact? Artists who are honest, morally and ethically are, after all is said and done,viewed with higher esteem.

The world is slowly turning more grey, no opinion seems to be absolute, everything can be relative depending on how

you see the matter, experience and describe it. In this world, where does your morality lie as an artist who has to bringher perception of good and evil, right and wrong to the world?

As we know your writings can sometimes be seen as provoking, whether it's sexual or thought. If there is a chance thatcensorship will be the norm, when a conservative party starts ruling the country, how hard are you willing to protectyour freedom of speech? And what is your intention with your poetry? To provoke what exactly?

I would defend freedom of speech and especially artistic freedom of speech. There are so many topics which years ago wouldhave been taboo that are no longer today. This is progress. I try to write in such a way that will not merely be sexual, but will causethe reader to stop and think. If they read a poem of mine and have to pause and ponder, then I know I have hit a chord. I don’twant people to read it and say, “oh that was pretty.’ Or worse, “That was nice.” Nice is not what I write. I want to challenge thereader to think and maybe see things in a way that they might not have even considered before. If the powers that be areo# ended by that, then, so be it. That again means on some level, whether they admit it or not, it reached them. To me, that meansI have done my job. I have many intentions, but ! rst is to yes incite a reaction. Not necessarily positive or negative but one which

elicits deep thought. In to this I would add the ability to question and see things from an alternative perspective and then in theend, to maybe see how underneath di # erences there are commonalities that link us all.


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YES! Those are two great examples and I would add to them, Leigh Hunt, (the owner, Editor and Publisher of The Examiner)because he really put his money where his mouth was in terms of not only criticizing the government, but actually having thechutzpa to publish satirical essays, poems and columns on the King of England, George IV and then being tried for sedition andlibel three times, and ! nally being sentenced on the fourth time to two years in Kings Bench prison. He was courageous. Huntspoke out not only on the King’s immorality, he was a gambler, womanizer and corpulent as whale due to constantly overindulging on food, but Hunt spoke out on the immoral and abusive treatment of the soldiers in the military. There was this one

soldier who refused to be " ogged. He was then " ogged 200 times. He only made it to 100 lashes before he died. Hunt in speakingout on these abuses was so loved that he would get fan letters in prison from the mothers’ of soldiers saying that he had savedtheir son’s lives. WOW. Blake, spoke out on child prostitution and child labor before anyone took the cause on, and Shelley, wouldgo out into the streets and give soup and blankets to the poor. He lived according to his ideals, which meant he emphasized : love,compassion, and equity. He was adamantly opposed to slavery, so much so that he refused to have sugar in his home because heknew it was picked by black slaves and he took in a homeless girl, adopted her and raised her with Mary. I think the sad part is thatboth Shelley and Blake would be deeply disturbed at how little society has changed in terms of reaching these goals (and havingtheir actions re " ect these ideals).

Blake and Shelley were ! ghters of freedom, equality and justice. Does their attitude re " ect your position in society?

How do you see poetry during the modern age where everything needs to have a pragmatic purpose rather thana personal one, like pleasure, enrichment of the soul/intellect?

I see it as evolving. In the beginning poetry was more about music and creating a mythos between and for cultures which passedon through time. (i.e. the tribal songs, ceremonies and prayers to gods) then it morphed into long and grand epics, esp if you readthe Greek or Italian works by writers as Petrarch, Dante or Ariosto. Poetry was hip and cool for a long, long time. It was how youngmen wooed women, or men wooed men; it was a means of creating art, love and even political descent. Then during the16th-19th century you had the greats, Shakespeare, Milton, Burns, Cowper, Chatterton, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley,Browning, both Robert and Elizabeth, Dickinson, and with that the shepherd, Leigh Hunt who was himself a publisher and poetand who found new talent, such as Keats and Shelley, and really helped to bolster their star. Most people when you mentionByron, Keats or Shelley think of love poetry, but in fact, they were political crusaders in a time of violence and oppression. Youhave to remember that this was the time of the French Revolution and so many Englishmen and women hoped for reform as aresult for England. It’s imperative to understand this, because out of the blood and ashes came great, profound verse the likes ofwhich has yet to be seen again. Then we come to the sixties, and what we got was Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Auden, etc, who with thisfreedom call of anti-war, and free love decided to dismantle poetry from its foundations, strip it from the roots, and recreate it

without any girders at all. That is free verse. While free verse has its place, it is not in the same league as classical. It is much, muchmore akin to prose. So much of what is written out there sounds more like a Hallmark card, than a poem, or is so intenselypersonal that unless you have a map for it, you have no idea what is being said. I don’t think you should need instructions (like theones used to construct furniture from IKEA) to understand a poem. While footnotes (and I do use them) can be helpful, theyshould only be aides; the poem itself should be able to stand on its own, so that any person reading it will retain some sense ofvalue.

INTERVIEWERS: SARAH RAHIMI (1,3-7), ALESSANDRA BONOMELLI (1,2)

Yes, but it also means silvery, Aria was a nymph in Greek Mythology who had a child with Apollo and it was also the name of theCapitol of Afghanistan for a long time. I have had a lot of Persian friends think I am Afghani which of course would be silly, becauseI am this petit woman with blond hair. HA! I like your thought though. And I see my essence as very, very, very old (soul-wise) andyet always evolving and changing. In terms of a metaphor rather like liquid silver, or mercury just reforming and adapting as timegoes on. I don’t feel a day is complete unless I learn something new. That’s part of it. The other part is that no matter how much Ishare with others, or learn from others, I think there is always more to me, and more to you, that I can learn and know. I ! nd thaendlessly wonderful and fascinating.

Could you try describing yourself with most minimal amount of words to capture your essence? Because when I thinkof Aria, I think of forest, poetry, romanticism, white, old books, freedom. Am I correct?


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| POETS' SECTPETAL TALE |

Do you believe poets today care to learn about traditional poetry?

My brief answer is they don’t care, but they should. There are many schools within poetry, the traditional classists and the freeverse folks, but in truth, one abdicates form entirely and the other uses form as a ballast upon which to build their work. Therehave been signi ! cant poets, in both schools, generally speaking though, I think it’s very important to have knowledge of theclassical poets, and the great bards, because then you have a foundation from which to build on. After all if you were a musician,you would want to study the great composers such as Brahms, Beethoven, etc. Would you be so arrogant as to say, I don’t need toknow this, and skip to the likes of Phillip Glass? No, and so like any art, you need to know where you came from to have anappreciation of where you are. This in turn will strengthen you as a craftsman. Poetry is akin to sculpting with words. A sculptor

would not decide one day to create the worlds’ best statue, he/she would need to study sculpture, and work towards that. Poetryis the same way; modern poets need to understand that.

I am not a huge fan of this genre at all. For one, because it feels to me like so much vomit on the page. Secondly, if you only writeconfessional poetry then that does not take a lot of imagination and of course once you have confessed all your crap in poetry, thenwhat do you have to write about? Thirdly, a lot of this is so speci ! c to the writer’s experience, that unless you know that personpersonally, you may not understand what they are saying. Good poetry should not need a guide post, or map to understand it. Evenif you use footnotes, which I do, they should only be to tell the reader the meaning of a word, or maybe shine light on context whichmay be unfamiliar, but the feeling that emanates from the piece should be there without the writer needing to extrapolate.

What is your opinion of confessional poetry in that all modern poets seem to be confessional?

You must have in " uences even in Harold Blooms's phrase 'anxiety of in " uence' but do you feel that poetry is neverwritten in a vacuum and de # nitely in " uenced by other work or is there any poet who can claim total lack of in " uence?

We all learn from each other, if we are honest. At the same time, imagination is the foundation of poetry. It cannot be written in avacuum because that would assume that one is so intractable that they are never in " uenced by any outside sources. Since we areall part of this world, then, it is only logical that just by being in it, we a # ect one another. It is useful to have someone to bounceideas o # of, if they are knowledgeable about what you are trying to do, and supportive, it can be of great bene ! t. It really dependson who you are conversing with. If they are not empathetic, then it can do more harm than good. On the other hand, if they nevergive you any advice but only gush over your work then it will be a waste of time. So, it really depends on what you want out of therelationship and what the dynamic within it is. (Some friendships have been strained by using friends as sounding boardstherefore, it might be better to ask the advice of someone you are not especially close to). For myself, I don’t really turn to anyoneas a muse or guide. I read and I listen to my inner voice. I don’t believe in looking to others for your creative source, because thatmakes you dependent. I would never want to be that way. Otherwise, if said person left, or died then where would you be?

That’s an interesting albeit di $ cult question to answer, as in I do not in my spare time contemplate how many errors there are andif there is a common thread. That being said, the most frequent mistakes are an overabundance of adjectives. This is a clue that thewriter is either trying excessively hard to impress by adding in as many descriptors as possible, or that they simply have no ideawhat they are doing. They are in e # ect throwing words on the page. What do you have after that? Nothing; after that the other oneis a writer who has not found their voice yet, so they either switch pronouns in the middle of the work or their piece has no singletheme. This leaves the reader lost. Where are you going? And what are you trying to say? Another one, is the overuse of the lower

case 'i’ which unless you are E.E. Cummings, looks pretentious or like you are stuck in elementary school. My advice is be a grownup. This is the same as adults who write their ‘i’s’ with the dot as a bubble, smiley face or worse a heart. It’s cute when you are in! fth grade, but after that, it just looks absurd. I don’t want to sound dogmatic here, but use correct grammar, and format. Writewith purpose, otherwise, why do it at all?

During the time you have been an editor, what have you learned about the mistakes poets are making today?


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If there is anything you could tell an insecure aspiring writer, what would it be? What would you say to encourage newtalents? Any tips to get inspiration " owing?

First of all read, read anything you can, If you do nothing else. It does not have to be poetry, but read. The best teachers are books.The other thing is experience life. Get out there and be active. Meet people, all kinds of people and listen to their voices. There areso many di ! erent people, and with so many di ! erent stories of their own. The more you listen to others, the more you increaseyour inner reservoir of knowledge. And of course go to museums, libraries, bookstores, concerts and immerse yourself in art.Expose yourself to art, and take chances. The more you are open to new ideas the more you will discover. If you look at the greatworks of the Renaissance, and you read how the masters made the frescos or statues in Rome, then you will learn even more. It is

not just about seeing a painting and saying, ‘That’s nice’, but asking yourself what was the artist trying to convey? And whatmaterials and modes of craftsmanship did they employ to make it? I learn through reading others’ works, through practice andthrough academia. It’s not necessary to take classes in poetry to be a poet. One can be technically masterful at creating a sonnetfor instance but if the poem itself is devoid of feeling, then you end up with nothingYou need to have both form and conviction otherwise the end result is vapidity. Next, be patient, because Shakespeare was not apoet or playwright when he was two. So, be patient and allow yourself to make mistakes and to write crap. You have to keepmoving forward and keep trying. Also, don’t beat yourself up if it doesn’t sound right. Even crap can be bene " cial because withoutit, you don’t learn. I had this poem a while ago that I wrote. I hated it. I knew what I wanted to say, but it came out all wrong. So, Iput it aside and came back to it later. I had to rewrite the entire thing, and gain new perspective by taking time away from it. Allowyourself to make mistakes and forgive yourself. This is an art, it’s not about throwing words on the page and calling it art. Then,remember that to be a writer, you need to feel that pull within yourself that says I am doing this because I have to, not for money,or glory, but because the desire beats within like a drum. If you can " nd that then everything will follow.

INTERVIEWERS: KEVIN KIELY (2,3), SARAH RAHIMI (5), ASHLIE ALLEN (1,4,5), ROMAINTROJANI (6), RITA FORDE (5)

ARIA'S SUGGESTIONS FOR READING MATERIAL:"Childhood, Boyhood, Youth" Tolstoy | "The Bell Jar" Sylvia Plath | "Will There Really Be a Morning" Frances Farmer | "East of Eden"

John Steinbeck | "Iphigenia in Tauris", "Medea" Euripides | "The Faery Queen" Edmund Spenser | "Byron, Life and Legend" FionaMacCarthy | "Percy Bysshe Shelley" James Bieri | "The Seagull" Anton Chekov | "Five Finger Exercise" Peter Sha ! er | "Butter # ieare Free" Leonard Gershe | "The Idler in France" Lady Blessington | "The Grasmere Journal" Dorothy Wordsworth | "The FatalFriendship: Marie Antoinette and Count Fersen and the Flight to Varennes", "Paris in the Terror" Stanley Loomis | "Abundance, ANovel of Marie Antoinette" Sena Jeter Naslund | "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man" James Joyce | "A Spy in the House of Love"Anais Nin | "Blood and Beauty, the Borgias" Sarah Dunant | "Coleridge, Early Visions" Richard Holmes | "Valperga" Mary Shelley |"The Sonnets, Triumphs and other poems" Petrarch | "The Abandoned" Paul Gallico | "The Witches’ Boy" Michael Garber | "TheBartimaeus Chronicles" Jonathon Stroud | "Pietro Bembo: Lover, Linguist, Cardinal" Carol Kidwell | "The Whole Disgraceful Truth:Selected Letters of Lady Caroline Lamb" Paul Douglass | "Night" Elie Wiesel | "Lord of the Flies" William Golding | "The GoldenNotebook" Doris Lessing | "Z- for Zachariah" Paul C. O’Brie | "Triste" Osip Mandelstam | "The House of Spirits" Isabelle Allende |"Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair" Pablo Neruda | "The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath" Sylvia Plath | "Vindication of theRights of Women" Mary Wollstonecraft | "Fanny Hill" John Cleland | "Justine" Marquis de Sade | "The Complete Poems and Songsof Robert Burns" Robert Burns... And William Shakespeare.

Do you think it is worth it to rewrite poems that you had written a long time ago, or should they remain unchanged? Ithink it is extremely helpful to go back, reread what you have written not just with the aim of possibly editing but tosee how you have progressed as a writer, to take stock if you will.

I did this a few years ago, because I had not written anything in a very long time, and wanted to return to poetry. There had been alot of personal tumult and so I was unable to write at all. After things had calmed down though, I went back and decided I wouldlook at all of my old work. I have this suitcase full of all my writing: poetry, journals, etc. I think there are about 200-300 poems in it.I wanted to see just where I was, and if I could still do this thing called poetry. Had I changed? Out of all of it, I kept about sevenpoems and out of those I rewrote maybe two. It is also an interesting thing to do, because it’s kind of like looking at yourself from anew vantage point. I was astounded for instance that so much of it was just not me anymore. I couldn’t relate to it. I had no ideawho this person was who wrote this stu ! . That is why, in terms of really assessing yourself as a writer, I think it is an invaluable

tool. The other plus to doing that, is that it challenges you to be honest with yourself. Can you say truthfully, this is junk? And doyou have the strength to say, you know this is not me anymore, and I am throwing it out? Now, I did not throw out any of my work,I kept it. I did that purposefully, to remind myself of how far I have come. I think that is important. The bottom line though, isforcing yourself as an artist to be honest, be humble and work relentlessly at whatever you are doing, be it poetry, music etc, sothat in the end it will re # ect your highest aim.

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And it is hope which permeates throughout this, yet it is a hope measured with meterthat breathes, and has a strength of purpose. It is not so much the grinding through ofeach day that matters, but the moments along the way. Do we share them with lovedones, or huddle beneath our blankets, cowering in fear? Hastie asks us to take thosemoments and walk with him, dance the verse of life and thought and rhyme.

Nothing that sings soCan ever evaporate,Be excised,Burnt out of your soul

We too can repairOur cracks with goldAnd glow again.Crazed by life,More beautiful than ever before

For isn’t it true that,Without fear,We are capable of anything…

The smell of fresh rain,Like gunpowder on the lawn,Embellishes the day,As the summer rips on

If we always knew for sureWhat lay aheadWould we still stirEach and every morning?For me, my warm,Soft sheet, snuggled erectionsAre daily optimism personi ! ed,Transitory sti " ened dreamsRiven with hope

THREADS: Journeying within the soul

It seems as if the world all around us is collapsing into a fen of racism, terrorism andunderneath it all a current of xenophobia driven by fear. This is the poison within oursocietal well. Yet, in Mr. Hastie’s newest tome, Threads, he reaches into our fears, and! nds, beneath it all that beauteous rills of hope. He asks us to be better, to strive forthat, which is exalted, the great goodness within all humanity. This is not done in theguise of Priestcraft or demagoguery, but instead it is executed with subtlety and poetry.

It is present in such as lines as:

He is speaking not only of the revivi ! cation of lost love, but of the echoes of the heart.And indeed he ! nishes the poem by bringing us back and reminding us of the resiliencewithin humanity, to feel, to long and to love. At the denouement of the poem he writes:

The themes of love, rejuvenation, sadness, the ability to mourn and then repair whathas been lost, are plangent within. In Here I am, he confronts dead on the fear that likea viper sleeps within us all:

Yet he does not leave us hanging, but continues in a lovely stanza that not only captureswhat he is saying but is poetic and metaphoric without being banal.

And so we press on with reading not because we must, but because like a symphony itebbs and swells, and within it the culmination sweeps us up with orgiastic verve. Thereare treasures within this that are little slices of life, such as the lovely lines:

SCOTT HASTIE'S BOOKREVIEW BY ARIA LIGI

ARIA'S ARA

Threads:

The poetry of Scott HastiePublisher: CenturiaISBN -10: 099270930XISBN -13: 978-0992709303Publication date: 13.2.2016

:|:_.:


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poetry + photos

''Library of forgoten sun beams" The cast: Light, Shade, Plastic cap

Director: SLD. Operator: Nicon D90

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21/100

EPICANTHROPE a special section for epic

poetry at all forms


22/100

Without echo of the "whordes''Let me avow - I don't like "poets"!"La-Fa" to "...Hoo!", Luck-fu** to words!Stablets of wasp to ! re-closets!

You're brinky-dinks in top, in slop, in opiu...,And " oats of sheets + Ache'ron of plebs!For every " ub - gagrave to Calliope,For every zero - "views" of blebs!

You're ministrel of medals & MedusasAnd drover of the blood to yawner' darks,

The mirror' seed, worm-kalian and oozesIn desert sayfs, like Adam, stale in " ux...

You’re hormones’ lead untill the Manna Lisaand chains’ bleed and froth of bluish pipes!So skive sky dots to get Parnassus visain whiten square, oh mannequin of lines!

Your «...m" and «um..." -is «My» in bands of dummy,

Long egos make sep-Pooh-ku by laugh’ rents!And standing on «tra-la…", «ta-ta!» tatami,You'll peg’asus all sparksof crazy «tents»...

Stan Lauk-Dubitsky ( SLD)| Restaurant | 2016

EPIGRAPH

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I remember the dreamthat I had to redeem,

hour by hour,

from the prison of noisewith agleam screamy voice,Which annoysyour aplomband convoysto the home...

I remember the dream...I was naked and dim

And I walked amid lees,dirty purlieus

Of sleeping “Egopolis”.Full of poll-lice

who crying for pleaseto industries' supreme sire,

to messiah...of progress and o " -faresIn a stress and cares.

I saw in roads, wires,knots of lives how

My faith was decayingIn mis-mist of cocaine...How love was hangingOn fallen phalli-gallows

With a fear inside egg shellsPlaced in empty eye-holes,With a grief on hairs,

and silent bellsIn a belly-a-bowl!

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I walked to nowhere, making a suitFrom beautiful leaves and spots, from dots and "if's"with scaled words...And then I sewed a tie with threads of my hope...by a needle of lies and a middle's dictate, so "ho-ho-ho".

I broke eighty-eight mystic twigs, making a stickIn the form of a gun to lean on...

and to walk as a noun in commas' taiga, almost alone.

I felt a hunger inside, my guts turned to a hollow inkwellAnd tongue to a quill, dry with a wilt, nothing to quell...My scream was dropping from lips to a fellOf a paper asphalt under my feet.I walked on the "No hour for honour" street,So unknown, guided by fate's aidin the maze of queries-a-mice

with umbrae of numbers on posters, pre-paid...

There... there... I heard a cry... I knew it was fay!And I turned to a wall, to an alley, so blindWith the name of ideas of genius mind.There I slunk as a rogue and saw my shades,they were catching all sparks

With a seine of smoke, with a trap of cum / mucks!I touched the wall and it burst like sun' bubble in lour!I saw ahead a block with scroll-shaped tower –a bastard of Pisa raped by Babel!It was made by tales' cabels and tails of lizards,By tongues of funny phoniesand tones of Money-a-Lisa...It stood in fashion of ash and ra " es and leisure.I saw there a signboard with a ra " esia

and fay with a lesion,

yelling "Restaurant "Poesy".

It was full of neon lights and none-colours of Icon’ners!I went around the cornerand saw a backstage box, there were sitting pied dogs

with white wolfs' orbs but prostheses; Just like cold decks or Tarotwith "cons and pros" theses’about life errors...


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I saw how chef of burnt words opened "go-to-hell' windowand threw out a paper of soul with a pepper-and-salt,a slot-machine meat of reverse reveriesWith sinews of sin’ use, and fate’ bones picked by miss…!

Just near them, in rotten cages I saw cadaver cadgersSeeking tombs of the past and tomes in a dust.They were crooked by miseries like broken keys.They kept gags and hats in handsWith scraps of scrips and knocked-out teeth.Their lips shivered like worse Morse code.Then I saw besides the blinds, they scoredBy torn strings and thorn-shaped matches,

playing marches on guitars -about gits and us;

Oh, then...a knot of footless weasels with bloody easelsIn wait for pittance and plea from patrons' arm & pit.

And behind, in a smoke's waves, there were young waifsdressed in dirty notes & bills on de " ated wheels...Their arms of shame by papier-machehad machete-quills!

Oh, my...their eyes were red by hope to # nd the way in -the shade-thread to a hole of the scene...

Then beneath I recognized masksBuried in cobblestones with long tonguesin the form of cracks, licking grey ink,

Belching out the text and sketch of a blink...

There...I saw faceless troubadours

lamed for fame.They were chalking their troubles on doors,on empty frames, on uneven veinswith # ngers grazed to the bones,

...chalking lines from the Bible of hearts,still unknown!


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I smelt out the burning and malodour!There were shamans of sham coda, all rough.They were tattering, scathing their stu " in a copper tun with a dance, outdone.

And at the other side of the # re the living lamb-malkins,Each with bloody, house-shaped cuckoo clock!Their garrets kept a smoked cock...with cigarettes rolled by book leaves,# lled with tobacco of soul, lighting by hell greaves...

They were poets of Eden's sui-ciderwith sweet sow-spider's weaveIn burning shock-shore!

All... all of them were standing near the backdoorwith a trashcan, so grotesque,in the form of a grot-desk full of wads...

I remember how I turnedto the grand entrance with only one wishto have a dinner with shifty # shwithout the din of a lunar laver and mourning dew!But then I was stopped with favor

by a riant Maitre d'!The giant with a snake-trident and suitsewed with remains of blood and chains of faked dossI saw blurred crystal doors

were starting to shiver and burst opened

for new guests of a poetic halt. Lo and behold!

Filling the air with sweat and dust,from the guild of the rust pensthe potbelly gilded "sires" with small dot-eyesarrived with a wheeze and whisky!

They grabbed whiz kids with weak wicks,still burning, with sell-by dates,and put on the leash.

Besides of them the lathy dames,so smoke-saturated,lazy, no names,


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...Like sur-summer mums with hens under armsfor rotten eggs and terrene charm.Then… with scars by bank-notes venal Venus' swineswith false romance signs tattooed on snouts…their grunt is loud, their grant is outfor every "pig’eon" of skyey sty which fell beyond!And next… with nightly tie, scarf, long and shady,I saw geniuses from “whoribless” lady of late a " atus.Their souls were traitors in the war of words!

Bale' cavalcade! ...Like oblatory cadesfor absurd table bla-bla-blats!

And, increasing void and holes, at their heels,the contours of men marched with ledgers made by toilet seats.I saw surnames on them, surnames of fallen feats!

Oh, what a mess!

Spitting on it, I came closer to Maitre D’and gave him my quill.He sealed it and made a mark on my wrist

with a branding-iron of Bye-bye'ron priest!

I entered inside and then what I saw...My eyes were blinded by pageantry and glent…of # ying, burning pages with no content.My ears were deafened by screams and laughs.There was a score of tables with Abel's labels and sta $ .Clients were like serpents with poison pens

and snakeskin pads!I saw six show-estrades with corset-dressed muses

dancing on the pillars of trades

for ars' pills and spousal oozes!Their femors were full of rhymes from morswith typos by prose.They had price tags on mammillaeand "mills of vanilla" hair-pose...What I had to suppose?Oh Calliope! Euterpe! Erato!Your poetry is errata of tic-tac-toe!

And just opposite, in the aureate cage from Eden twigs,was the stu $ ed Pegasus with hay decayed wig...


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...and near it, on smoked ribs with dispute' dribs,the derbies' birdies and bodies, bodies, bodiesof smooth spoken grooms.

Then I saw, between the rooms, portraits of the greats, painted by Azoth and rainbows!And everywhere were waiters of the way of dose,they were scurrying in ecstasywith masks of nimbuses and horns:

Kalian lions, drugs guards, alcohol cowls,Any desire for them all!

I looked around and descried, on the ceiling,the numbered niches with nailed down tables, chairsand ladders in a red mist.

Number one was a pier for spiritists -disappearing pirates of writing' rates.Triturating alium and ash, they called ghosts of golden ageto threw down a gage, to cut gorgeous gorgesWith a feathers by Saint George's name!

Number two was the casino of endless spirals of sinners

and Cassandraesque cashiers!Russian roulettes with rusty bullets of fear!Dices from ancestors mould and stakes for a zero – their soul!

Number three was an entrance to the court of ill fameand wide-open palp of courtesanswith baits of saliva for lepra-rail dance.Fallen god-divas to dive or divest!Steamy windows rattling from a venery nest!

Oh, but number four was a funeral tribunal for any guest!It was full of mop-headed critics with wired yokes,

The Word' syphilitics, fogies, so broke!I saw in their ripped bowels little men - littered ratterswith rotten vowels from dead literators!

Their red eyes were closed by matted eaveswith no tears, no matter for one-line reef.Their mouths were open book-covers with black inked teethSharpened by "Ave's" to slaves of the heath.


29/100

They... were waiting for bloody dishes of cutter poetry sheets

With pain and wishes and passion' reprints...Then... in rear of them the gibbous old " scal - Gibbon with a top hatAnd jungle side-whiskers, salty withe' etiquette.His purse was a purpose to forge from a verseGold chains for opus of future to worse! And... of course,

the glass screen was above him,all shining, keeping the grand " gure of laureates' lordWith worries for glory and all words untold.His face was an ink blot, shivering, leaking, making awe echo

from freaky fanfares of lottery-plot.That lord wore a nightmare swarm of woe wormsand " les- # ies in the form of nimbi,Screaming his pseudonyms for every imbeciles of Limbo!

He had thirteen cupping-glasses with dead spiders, on his spine,And nailed receipts for morphine to the " nal divine.

His throne was a smouldering stubAnd just at his feet

I saw the crown from star, fallen from feeand the sceptical scepter - coarse force cup;then the orb, the misbirth,

with tin nitid cross, " re scrub…

Oh... Because of these... I fell so easy with dizzinessAnd closed my eyes… for a rest.

After a while I stood up surrounded by kinky-ink darknessAnd saw nearby a pulsatile spangle!It was a lit microphone for every rhyming Angle...Sounded like a heart but more like "ha-ha".It was calling for all poets

Who are still keeping the lamp -from slam' Haham and jargon' Maharaja

to agio' aged anes and all other insanes...

Bah!... I saw the " rst one -the faceless, unnamed "Hydra" enceinte with void,

in high drama dress but with heads of sea-port fellatio-whores...It started reciting a free verseand with every second that microphonewas grabbing its soul and light


30/100

like a magnate-magnet or black hole of lie!And after the " nal rhyme the poet crumbled to dustto make this scene vacant for the next star stud...who can or who must...And yes, then I saw an ordered row of poets!

A Trio of riot and upset: # ying jaws of jazz couplets,Epigram' pelts from pet-pigs and tough epitaph' skulls

with laughing buds in zag-zigs of adults;

Songs' erot-parrots of Cupid's "oops!"with orchestra of 24-carat coops;

Clock-work mummies tied up with honeyed fused-snakes

of mezzo-sonnets and fake aches;

Illegal crying nuns of elegies with hidden jeers to Gods of joy;The anagrams’ undead boysmade by limbs mixed with angor, limits and fog;Tremendous maids from rocks and grog

And tornado binding shades for epic poems arcade;

The ballad bald cocks eclipsewith # ying music nibs ready for nips and lip-locks

to make moon palls invalids;The pallid and lank nurses of blank verseswith paper wads with rigmarole words instead of heads;

The red-faced midget with scars instead of eyes

And army of mice from high coomb for reading of haiku;Huge frogs with in # ated paunches

in sandy conches of fata morgana for hymns and honour;

Reeky freaks - palindrome twinsfrom a circus of echo' circles on dim mirror’ skin;Painted and panting mimes with spyglasses-crutchesFor drawing visual rhymes with matches;

Romantic mantis of losswith two chained doves of swale in claws;Possessed tall rusty dolls of PoseidonWith automatic writing of fall-side-onThey all... all gone in this microphone!


31/100

Bounce...bounce...bounce...I saw the organ made by backbones of fallen poetry TitansAnd the ogre made from glass, tears and ashas organist with agony dash!

His ! ngers were playing a great mactation' tune!But then all bony pipes turned to balloons! lled with airy feces,An organist was torn to pieces

To make a jazz band of twisted rainbows land.

And... Ho-ho-ho!I saw again the restaurant' hallFull of the same sta # , so eerie!Famished and over-weary

I asked the nearest waiter to ! nd me a pit for patersand a second had not elapsedwhen I saw my table - perfect round cobweb

and a candle - ! re spider with smoky chela

from a killer of pokey steps...

That waiter took my suit, hanged on a living mannequinWith my childhood face and noose within...I sat almost naked, ashamed and chill

With only one ! g-leaf –a fail’ gift with cipher of life and ill.

Then the waiter gave me the following:A broken clock-face as a plate,With the title "Too late!",the fork - dried leg of peafowlWith inkpot full of foul beams,the knife - a petri ! ed quill of seams

And a lot of serviettes to write and servewith tears or dew...

Afterwards I asked for a menu

And voilà!It was being tattooed on my breastwith hidden vein-shaped pricesin talents and rises.And possibility to pay

by credit card of your soul!It was so...


32/100

Noo-Nurse | False pregnant nanny with manymammary summaries and milk climax' reprise;

No-meds demons | Orchestra of dead voices' chessburied in ear's chest with sick kisses of incest;

MUSES OF USED SUM (W/O LUTE-10)

Madam modesty | Shy-high’s house-skipper of "skip"-

advice with "hows" dipper full of "whys";Miss Stress | Sado-maso hysterical "May-day" maidenwith laden eidolon of colon-bonds;

Signora of ora-signs | Reverse abettor of «worse orbetter» who’s making rotten bets on «etc» nets;

Done-Donna | Poltergeist with raised poultry of literalheist and living no-no-notes;

PATRONS WITH POWER'S POWDER

Mister Rest | Old and lewd sir sarcast glued with hoarmoan, golden sweat and harm-hormone;

MaMoth | Immense nympho-phony with horny ...nym as

tattoed tutor with routine nimb;Youth producer | Gigolo-jigger who reads on threadsonly tears code and has, instead of heart, the toad;

Smokey-okey | Kalian from ally alien - the Worm withcool coal-roll from the storm hole with alcohol;

Dope'lganger | Drugs from a huge dugs of craze andlubricous maze with sacred bricks;

Deliri | Prophetical pro ! t from XY-Styx with sour sauceof pain and blind six-six-six zoom;

Ares of mares | Imagination gin for eternal imagos ofwords with syringe-straw of war' warts;

INSPIRATION SET (V.EGO FRIENDLY)

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Celess | Angel gel quill with heavy poises of niland balloons of lunar-loony quilt;

WRITING TOOLS & LOOT

Glorry ride | Brittle lepra-pencil from sillycelebrity with ten stencil for sale;

Eyes-yes | Readers in bundles, for sale,bobbleheaded, no noble or blessed, just dumband best;

DESERTS

AD / A.D. | Ocean of promotion by super-octopus with reposting epos and bubbles-bulbsof blurb…;

Onus-bonus | Chef`s specialty: a niche in thetemple of fame, full of fume from Ma ! apunctuation marks...

TallMud | Self-publishing on the loose-leafbook of sun' dies with sorrel chain-links of "youand I".

Suck'cube | Vampirish pen with a bill of cross +sorrow-driven garlic garland, no cause;

Antique-tock | Fantastic fang of the arc shark-

beast with black blood ink full of clock-workbees;

Rod-ode | Brush-shrub with always burning hairfrom calvous calvish poets of chair;

Dick'tate | Embalmed priapus of any superiorpoetry man with didyMuse inkstand;

Metatron-2000 | Fine knife- ! nger and a halfwith nay-nail and pocket torch in a haft;

Loaf & foal | Couple of coupon-ponies withshow-shoes for trip to the tip of dei ! c booze orTartarean hot tart ! lled with excuse;

Recitit | Night-jam major-jumper with nival,naive brains and veil of levins for paper lane.

Ha-Ho harsh-horse | Shire athlete-sire for hireto reach higher pits and spiritual spiral bitingbits.

STABLE OF TABLE PEGASI

Cade-abra | Starry but rusty hobby-horse fromwitches' broom for kidalts’ moor-room.

Horary horse of the last hoars | The hoodooRIP-stallion with a bridle by idle needles and “to-do” tombstone among cross-skittles in wait forlips of double eclipse beetle.

"Bible" bi-bleb | Encoded tomb-tome for anysects and sports, " ecked with dirty blank spots;

PUBLISHING ON A LEASH

"Lavatorah" | Rot rotulet from a sacral toiletroll and " y strip for a one-trip soul;

Peek-a-book | Collection on poisoned " y-sheets - the panacea with label "See ya!-hits»;

Viral for rival | Prints on the back of everypasser-by with bice ink of tolerant lie…;

NOTE: if you are paper pauper and havenot had enough (Ugh!) talents you canleave as a deposit your sap of past andfuture to raise your balance on the lanceof percent.

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34/100

A Waiter asked me for my o ! er and raised a candle to mark a courseBut I took my quill, placed in a " re sourceand threw all the napkins up, making the burning gyre!I threw the inkpot to a waiter with ire

But his tail-coat soaked it up like night’ felt…

I yelled: “I want a fresh big " sh - leviathan

without divine levy, for mind, sharp and heavy!”

He laughed: “Pish, pish sir! No " sh for the new eras,

Only water is free for swollen sunken chimeraswith sad eddies and bleed

for the god of bog - sky cancer of greed!”.

The silence accidentally took this place;All persons, black full points, were watching me and my playI stood up and took the plate and smashed it to smithereens,

immanacling hour-hands and green miseries

by curly brackets of blu ! !I decided to leave this place with an empty belly from stu ! .

But the door closed with a bang and everything vanishedThe restaurant became an armchair with me as an embryo of man -a question mark

enswathed with nebulose sparks,reared by an empyreal colonto step on the stairs of an ellipsissomeday…

allone…:::

Stan Lauk-Dubitsky ( SLD )| Restaurant | 2016

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35/100

One morning , somewhere between dream and not,I found myself clung to sheets made of ! nely-woven fear,

The sheets asked to become my skin, I panicked and so they had permission

Pick left or right, do not shift gears, or feel the might of storms that veerNo see in saw; no warmth in plight, can't let it thaw, the runo " bites

Look to the bright, the lightning's here, your eyesight is meant to steerRename your awe as thoughtful slight; don't want the gnaw, whether trite

Devoid of air, terrors spread, sinking, coolingI screamed out when they asked to become my blood, they took what was theirs

I would be nothing but fear itself, writhing in form, delighting in the chew

To paint in white and rid the # aws-Who gave my ears these dusty laws?

The leaning sight's a peer through straws,but I'm unclear of just what caused

A squeeze so tight, that the gut with-draws,how raincloud tears make rusted jaws

So then the ! ght's to strip it raw,if rain is near, let’s # ush what was...SAYVORY bonus section


36/100

Breeze in it while I volunteer;a chance to see the thought premiere

Junctures rank as they appearand words will be my pioneers

"Liquid adheres"

ease in it lest it seem veneerA dance between the hemispheres,structure a plank upon a pier

and merge it with the engineer"Crystal smear"

freeze it in the now and here,the glance that's seen on all frontiersPicture the blank from chandeliers,

converge it within the mind's atmosphere"Backwards years"

tease it like a pamphleteer;Entice the dream to reappearPuncture all tanks that interfere,

if urged the edge becomes insincere"Frozen spears"

seize me to be cavalier,advance serene to preserve for sure what sank is all that's dear

Defer my streamline gondolier

"Grip-less fear" Only the brave create;

a poem bangs a drum, overdone Juxta positions in rerun, just read and succumb,

Anyone can know that life only comes when a sun explodes,

Lines full of outcomes with no crumbs to sew,There's already some, but its from unknown,

We add up to one the sums in code,odd combinations like a glum "hello"

I. WrightSAYVORY bonus section

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37/100

poetry + photos

''Fallen angel or unseen seed of sin" The cast: Light, Shade, Plastic cap


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38/100

NEWP! - the most unique section with new ways of art invented by magazine.


39/100

FUN DAMENTAL S:

Visual rhyming: you should "rhyme" letters ofwords with images from their de ! nition. So themore easy way you can read the word and seethe image linked with de ! nition the more clearrhyme it is.Visual rhythm: an order of visualized letters:vertical, horizontal, chaotic, mixed (vertical +horizontal etc), mirrored, and their style: universalfor all letters / words (the one font, size ortechnics) or di " erent.Theme: the comix-like lines, one-two visualizedlines per page, all lines per page and others.Sizes of visualization: ! rst letters only, constantsonly, use of abbreviations, title, slogan / motto,haiku, small poems, selected parts of poems,medium poems.Forms: 3D projection, 2D projection, any angle ofview suitable for context.

Visualization rule and technics for objects from the real world with well-known form. The onlyrule is: you should use all letters of word in its visualization with mostly universal style / technics and withstraight links to its de ! nition or related words to make your idea clear and solid. There are some technics:1) Anchor + Choir: you can use one letter of word as an "anchor", highlighted important part of an object

with possible additional details or di"

erent style, and other letters as a "choir" - parts of an object linkedwith each other by style and logic, for example body parts.2) Anchor + Action*: one letter or syllable + all other letters based on actions linked with de ! nition ofvisualized word, for example: gun + aim, ! re, bullet. * Instead of action you can use related words linkedwith results of the action (stove + food), tool of action (stove + ! re) or environment (stove + kitchen).

Visualization technics for abstract or complex objects: you can visualize it with freedom of expression.1) Formula: turning letters to separate objects organized and linked in one meaningful formula. Signsfrom math / physics are accepted. Alchemistry stylization is can be used too.2) Carnival: combination of objects based on related words with masks - hidden meaning or riddles.3) Jazz: just like in formula but without links between objects.

RIMG : Rime (rhyme) + Img (image) isa new visual poetry for full letteringvisualisation of titles and smallpoems with speci ! c rules anddi" erent technics made by SLD.

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40/100

Line 1:

Hey,nightsamurai

Smiling face is a storyteller. "Hey" is like an archer who is shooting to make attention. Night isrepresented as temple of Japanese night Goddess with moon as a hook, candles and stones."Samurai" is laying on the one side with swords and helmet (second "a"). The snake of his dreamsare serving the night.

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41/100

Line 1:

unitemindand paradise

"Unite" is a formula u+n=e,"and" is like a bridge with arcs."Mind" is a combination ofimages: jaw vise + brains +book + spade + pipe."Paradise" has heavens arcs

and door, angel and devil.

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42/100

Line 3:

It's easy:mind -knife

Null text illustration:

Brain + knife + quill + spine

"Easy" is a scene with samurai "y" who is uplifting three letters "e,a,s" on hisblade, two persons are pointing to him, amazed ("it's") . "Knife" has frontprojection, hand ("k") and slit over the old scar ("e"). "Mind" is a mirroredmaze with code and fume-like chains and fetters.

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43/100

Line 1:

highs'aether -sheath

Null text illustration:Sheath + sun + beam +baby

"Highs" is like cloud's eggs inthe sun. "Aether" is bell- ! owersamong these clouds. And " nallythe "sheath" is like womb-gravefor spermatozoa of war.

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44/100

Line 1:

that's why'die -withcare

44

"that's" is an arrow and pointing ! nger at the same time, "why" iscombination of question marks; "die" is like time in the metal vice of Vice withthree last drops into cradle of sunset; "with" is bridge-like linkage and"care" is a scene with dead body on the table, another person is keeping theceremonial candle with care.


45/100


46/100

poetry + photos

''Vertex of veritas and shades" The cast: Light, Shade, Plastic cap


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47/100

visual orchestra of alphabet


48/100

" A AAAH!" This is Al ! na.She is giving a birth to her..." B ABY!" and it is putting into..." C RADLE!" from dark-red star' candle, this night is his" D ATE of birth!"...

Made by SLD

The baby and mother are " E AGER!" to each other. And she is" F EEDING!" it to'' G ROW'' it up and to'' H ELP'' it," I RRADIATING!" his...

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" JOURNEY!" for the temporal..."KEY!" of... "LIFE".

"N OMADS!", pop ones with nets and..."OPPONENTS!" to ask them with "PLEASE" deep..." QUESTIONS " about...

At this path it will able to"M EET!" many no-mads,

Made by SLD

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50/100

to ! nally return to the"V ILLAGE!" of..."W ISDOM!", so"X ENIAL!" , and bring "Y OUTH" and"Z EAL" into endless celestialdoors of knowledge.

"R OOTS!" of night and"S OURCES" ... of the sacred"T ORCH" of shades' ruins and"U NION" of sparks.

Made by SLD

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51/100

poetry + photos

''Face of abyss" The cast: Light, Shade, Plastic cap


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52/100

UNDER COMMAS - special introductions of our editors with selected art stu ! .


53/100

Kevin Kiely | poet, novelist, playwriter, iiterary critic—born Co.Down, Northern Ireland—University College Galway (Ireland):Diploma in Creative Writing; Honorary Fellow-in-Writing IowaUniversity; Master of Philosophy in Creative Writing, Trinity College,Dublin (Ireland); Fulbright Scholar-Professor Boise State University.

:|:_.::.

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OBSERVE THE POE-HEADS OF ULSTERMARCHING TOWARDS FABER & FABER

RIMG SPEC. Rhyme: ::+/::: Rhythm: chaotic,universal style Size: title, full / Theme: 1 page


55/100

I give you two ! ngers " a de ! nite V for victorythis art thrives on excellence:not wet-turf stack poetry

I could never dig with Seamus’s sheep-shaped headand between fore ! nger and thumb

hold a laptop insteadThese careerist Norn Iron poets hijacked languageto build a lego-fake hyped up rural idolatryparading as a literary earthquake

While Charlie Monteith fawnedon the London Literary Press via Faber & Faber" British guilt exalted a daisy chain of reverse-

Men smudging on Paper & Paperfrog-marching poets cashed-in when civil rightsfought wrongs in the North...

Alone, the real su# eringpeople linked broken arms and marched forth.In a dirty tricks ! x

Vacuous movements of empty mouthsakin to the mushroom-dolmenpresses in the South

Fitted green carpet-poets! nding a slim volumeaudience at home

Nostalgia for farm, kitchen, pigsty, and the sub-Kavanaghbog-longing poem" imagine bleating sheep dressed inhomespun ill-! tting woolly kilts

Dull little po-hemslike turf-smoke signals:stinted verse poised on stilts

This cunning clique worked up a jumble of politicsto blame and shame us, a pretense to proxy historywhile their aim was fame...

They made ideal Media ! llers betwixt ‘the Troubles’and full page ads " a bunch of self-exiled,non-artistic have-nots and talentless-never-hads

Rising on the sectarian tide,implying they were speaking fortheir people as they pumped up

their Plastic Paddy Parnassianfolkloric steeple

Parading dialect as a Hallmark: yet,overtly reeking of political journalese -fooling many with their coughsand preambles and non-literature-tease

Nothing more than a crinkle suited hackademic phalanxpulling strings through insider institutionalcongregational readings

Keeping their bleary dreary eyes on the Guardian,TLS and the BBC, London, Boston, New York,the Irish Times and RTÉ

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56/100

These pretender dumb-pome-menwith exported clipped tones ! Poe-Biz behind the scenes &bookings on the phones

Ambassadorial culture-sales folkwho traded IN their nativeNI! hotly pursuing reputations for which they would dierather than spend a week in Belfast, Armagh or Derry

Unless with a " lm crew, taxis, dinnerspreceded by Tio PepeFino sherry ! the dry-wall poet-spoofs,truly northern, truly rooted:never beaten, jailed, bombed out, harassed or hooted

Living safely and squarely in Southern Irelandvainly and gainly ! writingNorth of North about its pastoral landscape mainly

Metaphor gone mad, slackcadenced vocality of the localitya poetry of fauna, # oraand the threshing machine’s practicality

These were a Fallacy all of one tuneinhabiting their Shangri-La-La Land

North by North of Pseudo-BrigadoonFrauds posing with putrid books in handsoft-slippered yodelers out of tune

Never exposed for being right royal hypocritesPoking poetry-hams at home, at Americaand at peace-loving mainland Brits

Ireland’s self-styled scribe-heroes spewingfashionable greenink of ploughs, potatoes,hayforks, yokel-clichésand the jawbox sink

Pulling a fast one with nod and winksmarter than their publicdon’t you think

They connived, cajoled and curried favourthese cowards abandoned their next door neighbourand are outed here for their Caper & Caper

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Con ! icts in the arts proliferate. Actio

new ::: poetry | international edition | 2016

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