INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Lyn Lifshin
Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Kufre Udeme
Michael Lewis-Beck
A. J. Huffman
Nugent Karhu
Fred Wolven
Shutta Crum
Fatmir Terziu
Steven Gulvezan
Kyle Hemmings
Adeeko Ibukun
Chris Cialdella
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu
Chris Lord
Dike Okoro
Jennifer Burd
Alisa Velaj
Joanie Freeman
Jeton Kelmendi
Richard Luftig
Dzekashu MacViban
Mike Berger
Al Ortolani
Ndue Ukaj
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Diane Giardi
Running Cub
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2013
Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
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staff:
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
No one is willing
To hear the story from the beginning.
The leaf is a leaf
And the tree is a tree
The overwhelming green remains
A visionary illusion
Or a wooden bed of unconsciousness.
Once I fell in love with the pine that was not a pine
And startled solitude with bluish branches
Later I became as exhausted from wakefulness
That I fell as a feather over the tree crown.
And here exactly begins the tale
Of what the pilgrims have said for me;
That I once was made of flesh
But later an item full of leaves
One night in September I lost my ability
To feel the lust of your deepest feelings.
This is as cold as the genes of origin
At nights I breathe below the shade of candles
Without recognizing anything
From the timid game of flames.
And the tale ends every night lit by the moon
When you are drunk from other bodies
Praying to the Veneers with cloudy faces.
A sad pilgrim
Of the roads where the trees have no leaves...
Alisa Velaj, Tirana, Albania
Translation, Peter Tase