Ann Arbor Review: International Journal of Poetry

Issue Number 14

Ann Arbor Review

Southeastern Florida                                                                                                                 Ann Arbor Review


Deji Adesoye
Changming Yuan
Violeta Allmuca
Beppe Costa
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Stefania Battistella
Agron Shele
Lana Bella
Fahredin Shehu
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Alex Ferde

Irsa Ruci
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Richard Gartee
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Amit Parmessur
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Robert Nisbet
Jeton Kelmendi
Duane Locke

Lyn Lifshin

Richard Lynch
Jean McNerney
Fred Wolven



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2015 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....



Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub

Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:



To write a love song is to
trap the burning sun
inside a bigger circle
to deflate the moon
to draw a dark someone
in perfect darkness

Like my neighbour’s
grey and afro hair
that has been ruffled
I’ve forgotten the love song
my mother sang to me
when I was a bony kid

And like a kite that
has started to whisper
its own language of magic
I have run far and wild

Over the wall
Along the shore

like the wind that keeps
blowing and billowing

I now believe we have
to feast on delicious
honeycombs and light
the bizarre bulb of love

To not love is to be broken
children who dwell
in yesterday’s coffin

To write a love song
is to sit at a rectangular table
open a square carton
smile at a circle
devour a peppered piece of pizza
and discover one’s identity
in Bermuda’s sizzling samosa
while drawing a white someone
on snowy ground



Who is this?
Why sits she straight in twilight?
Wherefore plays she? Listening,
my limit loses all its limits.

She must be la femme fleita, with
feline fingers shepherding melodies
eternally new out of her silvery flute.
I can see the mute music in her eyes;
I can feel her eager eyes in the music.

There are so many wild dreams tangling
and tangoing round the lucky embouchure,
waiting to breathe reality. There’s an
improvised bow tie on her talented bosom
with tunes that may unravel life’s tightest knots.

Her multilingual throat shelters poetic winds
of future charms, and her fragrant lips
change allure so dexterously that they could
enchant the Edenic snake
and revive any river reed any day.

La femme fleita do always hold the
right keys and break the fake chains
while you open and close over
the tone holes unconsciously. Maybe

we come from the same slice of paradise
so let me hear you a bit tonight
before I go away surreptitiously. Remember,
many gentlemen would love
to smell the fire of the flowers
around your tender body.
It’s a pity I’ve just sold the pair of
unused bansuris in my kitchen drawer.


Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius


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