April Fool

Who’s the fool
I am the fool
I believed in your perfumes
I let myself spellbound by your blossomed trees
Showered by your petals
Tickled by your fresh leaves
Oh, and the tastes of strawberries….
All that boiled in my blood streams new hopes
Allured in my veins new dreams
And like a fool
A lunatic bewitched​ by you
Spring
I fly by your side with new wings

© 2017 Iulia Gherghei

Barricades and Beds — Aditi Angiras

Abandon


Aditi Angiras

1.
try to abandon everything everyday
barricades and beds
bar stools and bridges
break out of things
that are more prison
than places
2.
try to abandon everything everyday
promises and/in politics
pornographic power drinks
rip into pieces
things more disgusting
than dollar bills
3.
try to abandon everything everyday
mothers and memories
murder(o)us in black streets
pull bullets instead
in your own chest
your own skins
4.
try to abandon everything everyday
toxic shock tampons
trip trigger tessellate
chemicals crazy
crying over bodies
of born deads
5.
try to abandon everything everyday
religions like reading
red lights and rolling paper
turn on pages
with your fingers
and fuck poems
like rockstars
and then
abandon them
like everybody abandons
everything every time anyways


Geography


Aditi Angiras

Aditi Angiras

I always got
good grades
in geography
lessons, drawing
topographic maps
I would read
contour lines
study them well
but wonder
why do we need
to read them
when will I ever
need this
in real life
Years later,
lying here
next to you,
reading
contour lines,
neck to navel
I realise


Planchette


Aditi Angiras

it’s no coincidence
that a planchette
is shaped like a
heart or a shield
when you play
with my love
like it’s your ouija board
where yes or no
hello or goodbye
sound like sounds
haunting all
the four chambers


© 2017, Aditi Angiras

The Burgundy Madonna

Lady, was there always this distance,
this gap of mutual love?

Mixing his colours with holy water,
crushed relics and prayers, was this
what the iconographer perceived
dipping his brush deep into his soul?

Sturdy and capable, your right hand
supports the Child’s bottom,
thumb tip open, pointing away:
‘So, this is it … ’
And the Child perches,
stiff in blue and gold,
his face fitting like a flesh glove
between your cheek and eye,
feet resting delicately together,
onto the twin of that large hand.

There could have been a warmth
but, almost grotesquely,
you hold the figure of a young man:
head, limbs, torso
perfectly proportioned,
his face already written upon.

No infant dribblings,
no soft roundnesses,
no puffy vulnerability
of baby flesh,
no unmapped
innocence.

Was this it? Your eyes stare
at no-one but the painter.
And over decades, centuries,
into how many other eyes
in candlelit churches, hovels,
apartments, palaces, galleries?
So much looking.
Would there have been so much
if there was no way in?

© 2017, Patricia Leighton

Published in ‘Dreamcatcher: Issue 19

Common Ground

1
Check your assumptions at the door
of this Place. If you want them back,
Think twice before you enter.

A young Enrolled Blackfeet, six foot four
Wisdom behind his easy manner. His features,
Asiatic, I would not have guessed
save for his words.

We traded stories, walking through the twilight
of an Upper Midwest town
Life on “the Rez” for him; for me, growing up
in a former Spanish/U.S. colony
in Southeast Asia.

2
Lalo’s passion, rooted in Mexico
and South Texas
It crosses many borders; in its wide embrace
are children from Central America
following the Death Train’s tracks
Indigenous people in this Upper Midwest town
hearts yet bound to the Land
of which they were once a part.

All are Family, blood-ties or no. All are
Community.

3
Suddenly, today,
In deep soul-stretching waters
An epiphany struck me like a wave:
I knew the answer
to a 30-year old question!

In a country spanning the spectrum
from milk white
to brown
to Aboriginal black
I, a lighter-skinned Mestiza, the object of stares.

Was it aspiration in their eyes?
Or, worse yet — servility?
I still can’t quite describe
the looks, the unspoken conclusions
I so resented
But now I know Why.

4
What will you do with your assumptions
when we depart this Place?
I plan to leave a few behind
and travel home lighter.

© 2017 Dorothy Long Parma

dancing toward infinity

spiral galaxy in Constellation, Coma Berenices, 60 million light years from Earth
spiral galaxy in Constellation, Coma Berenices, 60 million light years from Earth


.

each
lively soul
worlds contained
a galaxy of one
our gases, our dust
our gravitational pull
our weak wills
our strong compulsions
our stark shadowlands
our gaudy stars
dancing toward infinity

© 2015 poem, Jamie Dedes (The Poet by Day), All rights reserved

Don’t Let Fall Go – sonnet

.

Don’t sweep the fallen leaves, don’t wipe your tears,
don’t let this autumn pass a dream too soon,
don’t mix the joy of yellow with your fears
that it will fade, however, until noon.
Don’t let the scent of misty dawns go wasted
and let the drizzle soak in tired flow
the dust of summer days, that maybe hasted
so you can also feel the autumn’s glow.
For winter’s frost is nigh, and even nigher
the rust that eats the handle of this door
and swallows flying swiftly ever higher
next spring may not recall us anymore.
So don’t allow the sand to flow too fast –
don’t let your fall beside me be our last.

© 2017, Liliana Negoi

Donatella D’Angelo | unpublished poems 2016

Per quella luce sospesa
tra le ciglia degli angeli
morirei infinite volte

e infinite volte tornerei
corona di spine.

 

For that light suspended
between angels’ eyelashes
I would die a thousand times

and a thousand times
come back crown of thorns.

 

*

 

Nel cavo della mano la verità
e le sofferenze colte appena
nell’indulgenza dei silenzi
di abiti dismessi:

Donatella D’Angelo

eppure

risorgeranno verticali i draghi.

 

In the hollow of the hand, the truth
and sufferings just picked
in the indulgence of silences
of clothing put off:

and yet

rise again vertically the dragons.

 

*

 

Spiegami il profumo del basilico
il passo invisibile della tigre.

Nell’antro salvifico della vita
separo la notte e i suoni scordati
il muto cadere dei corpi celesti.

Perché fa tanto freddo qui?

 

Explain to me the scent of basil
the unseen step of the tiger.

In the salvific den of life
I separate night and clashing sounds
the mute fall of celestial bodies.

Why is it so cold here?


© 2016, Donatella D’Angelo; English translations by Dennis Formento with the poet

Dreaming of Children

A landscape of memory littered
with pieces of dreams
children that once lived
once laughed
oft times schemed

she sees a house abandoned now
ought times with love filled
each & every birth an
auspicious moment still
& each year

she knows she has been gifted
that any tears shed
were merely a bridge
between yesterdays
& tomorrows albeit

as other mothers cry oceans
of salt filled tears
for children that lived once
without fear in loving arms
with kisses, soft still

their auspicious moment shattered
a broken memory like
shards of glass
now buried descending deep
earth’s grief surpassed

whose sorrow cannot rebuild
houses in ashes smoldering
whose dreams
hold ghostly remnants
pale & fading

where a timeless epitaph remains
of young lives interrupted
photos tinged yellow
touched by death
a noxious poison

thinking of this she turns pages
a book of photographs old
& knows dreams
will still be her comfort
will still unfold

that some mother’s dreaming will
become a vile nightmare
an interloper in sun rays
unwanted slumber
empty days

© April 2017 Renee Espriu

A few from the vaults …

April is (inter)national poetry month at the BeZine. I’ll be honest, my inspiration and muse have been mostly M.I.A. since the election. I keep trying to write, but most of what comes out is extremely negative, cynical and just plain awful. I wanted to contribute this month, because I have always loved poetry and think it should be celebrated. So, I’m offering three older poems in the hopes that they will be appreciated for what they are. Here’s hoping that all of you find poetic inspiration and keep writing for the rest of us. 🙂

~ De Facto Plutocracy ~

Corporate Fat Cat

Buddy, can you spare a dime?

Can you break a dollar?

Can you make change?

No. Yes. And I don’t know.

Once, I believed it might be possible.

But those scheming snake-oil salesmen sold us

Out.

They convinced us to purchase our own slave-chains

Of Debt.

Of Doubt.

The only thing that “trickled down” to us

Was their whispered, decades’-long laughter,

All the way to the God-forsaken, rube-taken

Bank.

The American Dream hasn’t always been an illusion,

But “they”

found a way

to make it one…permanently.

Will any amount of shouting, shoving or even shooting,

ever be able to put US back together again?

There is no sanity, because the inmates OWN the asylum.

Bought on the bloody, broken backs of the ninety-nine percent,

The “Trust Fund” is long spent and squandered, then.

The nefarious, nebulous “They”…

They broke the Dollar.

But there was no

Change.

Yet.

~ C.L.R. © 2011 ~

~ Night Fog ~

Everything plays Hide and Seek,
When the clouds come down,
And dance on the ground.
The muted hush makes one
Reluctant to speak,
As the night-time world
Plays Lost and Found.

Crystalline drops bunched in the night air,
Coating the night’s kiss,
In a silvery mist.
Damp blanket of moisture;
Light dew, barely there,
Wrapping the darkness
In wet, velvet bliss.

Swirling vapors — breath of dreams,
Holds the silence close
In translucent repose.
Shifting shadows make nothing
As it seems,
And morning’s sun
Will mark the night’s fog as a ghost.

~ C.L.R. ~ © 2008

~ Feeling Blue in a Red State ~

Red state.
Full of red-necks,
And their red, ‘Murican blood.
Flag waving,
Non-white hating,
Cesspool of inbred brood.

Your ignorance is excusable.
Your stupidity is not.
You narrow-minded,
Backwards bigots,
Who seldom have
An original thought.

Thump your Bibles louder,
Maybe God, Himself,
Will hear.
Spread the hatred,
Pump yourselves up prouder,
Sow dissent,
And reap the fear.

Your Reich-Wing, fascist antics,
Sure collect a lot
Of wannabes.
Forget about arguing
Intelligent semantics,
You only mimic your idols,
On your big-screen T.V.s.

Never a thought,
Of how you
Affect the planet.
Never thinking about,
The future of ALL.
No concern for
How your so-called leaders
Straw-manned it,
As long as you’ve got yours,
The rest can just crawl.

The one comfort I have,
Living here, among you,
Is that I’ve already escaped
This cesspit of snakes.
Karma will catch you,
Sooner or later.
And reveal
All you gun-toting,
Beer-bloating,
Mindless voting,
Scripture mis-quoting,
Intolerance-promoting,
Haters
As fakes.

C.L.R. ~ © 2011

– Corina Ravenscraft

Four Poems by Reuben Woolley

histories

the girl
…………….who danced
the ibis moon  ………….she brings
the story of it all
& this
is the telling

close

& personal ………………my sudden
consent ………….& ……..distance
is full i have
my history here
in the pulse of it all

and this is the saying of it

the dark days
……………………………& my growing
in bones & bodies
& here ………………i’m doing
a telling of it

the legs ……………& mouths ……….. & hearts of it
she dances alphabets
in the crescent fire

& the boat returns the day

* * * *

this
is the telling of it all

there is mud
& reeds ………….. & a boat
in the sky ………..& i
have names for them

the threads of what it is
& what we know ……………..she
danced a world for us

* * * *

in my sinking
sands
………………things
do not occur successively
like gravity
………………..oh ……………then
………………..i’ll get up
………………..& fly

to all my ………..scattered
dependencies

it’s what this ……………..thing
says
when i’m not looking

words
of those hands i haven’t got
just these .……………………poor
counterfeits

hold.…………………………….. separate
like atoms …………………….do not
touch …………….she
……………………….stirs
……………………….the air
the cells are orphans
pointing ………………………further

……………………………………...she is
maker ………. in every outward
move

of that old…………………………. yellow
………………………..crescent

* * * *

…………………………all the rest
is outside
where a feather
…………………………………...is counterweight

the ghosts of real
come solid from shade …………………… they play
on red sand ……………………with a girl
who danced a bird

wings spread & beating
………….the ibis & the girl
she danced a boat
sailing she danced a ragged
book
………………& this
was the telling of it

 

hiraeth

hiraeth: (n) homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past – Welsh

give me the sea
for my dotage.i’ll wear it
in shawls / in weeds
…………………………..flowing

i’m rich in reflections
in dark & blue & once
there was a girl
& a song i can’t remember
……………………………the water notes
patient just breathing

* * * *

………………………………..i cannot bleed
sufficient & all my bodies
lie in other countries

let them burst
in all their broken splendour
shining

i clothe my scars
with care
i shall not be revealed

……………………………wear shrouds
walking ………………a perfect space
of death

* * * *

……………………….diving
into deep skies …………….are homes
that do not live
in this my circus
& dark matter

i twitch to distant currents
lost
& permanently delayed
there were so many
…………………………..varied
deaths………………. i know the way

…………………………...all ticking
backwards

* * * *

we bathe in dust
deep.it is
no gentle immersion
……………………………& the sun’s
a yellow ball
……………………………fading
out of a painted sky

wait

for rain
not coming

we fly black flags
upriver …………..watch towers
………………………………………………….fall

distance between

sewing together
every lasting piece
…………………….i make
a rose
……………..on folds
……………..on leaves

here’s a bloodthorn
& the lines.paint
ages / flowers
……………..& faces
everything fades.it is
the nature of dark
glass
……………….reflecting
not silver

…………………..& we’ll dance
a last tango late
……………………………..& lips
tire in substance.just see
the words lie deceiving
…………….like petals
…………….like blood
like smiles on old canvas

those lasting rites

………………………………dry

tides
the weed & rubbers &
…………………………….rusty
spades

& flooded castles
………………………scattered

………………………………….here
a life
in such offering

flowers & broken
stems / the blind
rats

………………………see them
scurry
in shadows in
carcasses of sand

………………………watch them
eat
through dying flesh.pink
& grey & red again
a heartbeat a breathbeat

tick

tock

© 2017, Reuben Woolley