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
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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
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MODERN ODYSSEY
Through dreams makes love with Penelope,
The road to Ithaca is longer than its distance
Between the dream and reality...where the tired vision
Explodes in search of Ithaca
And returned to the word in the traditional nest.
At the swamp full of memories
Where their roses are falling apart
And take the color of Autumn. Tragically
I stepped over them, just as in lost grounds.
Without a brake opens its minimized eyes
Its tired eyes, faded from the endless search.
In trouble he is descending the stairs of memory
And opens the pages of nostalgia. Full of passion.
In the roads of the world is crises-crossed his confused search.
While with nostalgia is searching a small place to take a break
Nervous from the tempted cruiser of life
In the waves of memory dissolved just as the Sun dew.
Odyssey died in antiquity.
In the lap of Penelope is relaxing
With the mountain of memories that are fading,
Every time that Troy is burned.
And Penelope in the window is drawing the reception.
Welcome as large as longevity
And the letters of this poetry
Extending their voice up in the sky.
THROUGH THE CRY OF PAIN
The writers walk every morning through Sodom and Gomorrah
And kiss the tower that touches the frozen sky
And scream as if they were drunk.
Oh, the language of creation, what is this?
The slogans of time are broken
And with those are wrapped the unheard pains
Impossible to heal, my God.
The pain of the poet touching the sky
And the deep evil of Earth
With his hands full of passions
And I,
With the horse of history full of dreams, and pain,
And a mountain full of wished desires
Walking through the city of evil
Just as in the circles of Dante's Hell,
Not seen and without noise,
Would find the door of the exit, my love.
I gather with my wounded fingers
The pains of time, oh the pains that stung
The verses and metaphors.
Just as the unhearing viruses in the water of sadness.
The human being can understand how he was tied badly
That day when the contract was burned,
And I kept looking over Sodom and Gomorrah.
Ndue Ukaj, Pristina, Kosova
Translated from Albanian by Peter Tase