Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Amit Parmessur
Elisavietta Ritchie
Donal Mahoney
Fahredin Shehu
Richard Kostelanetz
Alex Ferde
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Duane Locke
Chris Lord
Nahshon Cook
Al Ortelani
Shutta Crum
Ajibola Tolase
Silvia Scheibli
Laszlo Slomovits
Emmanuel Samson
Lyn Lifshin
Running Cub
Nikita Parik

Alan Britt
John Grey
Bhisma Upreti
Paul B. Roth
Jennifer Burd
Sunday Michael
Michael H. Brownstein
Burd
Ali Znaidi

Richard Gartee
Kanev Peycho

Engjell I. Berisha

Fred Wolven
Petraq Risto
Carolyn Elias
Alabi Oyedeji



 

 


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2015 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
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AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....

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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net
 

 

 

 

GENTLE MORTIFICATION

Piles of Men bones and thenÖ digged from the holes hidden deep in earth.Stones and ashes with sweat of slaves you think we donít have them today.  My hair turned grey and the vision shortened. It suffocated by bizarre images created throughout the world and beyond. Who said and who had ever promised us to come down on earth and enjoy our vacation, for life demands more than I may see, more than I may feel, more than I may utter the first word of the first language- that of Silence.

Thereís another Soul evaporating on the deck and in the shore the breeze blows odors of their smelly sweat. They watch as they wait in the queue their turn to death entrance. That Gate open-heartedly awaits so many Öa way so many guests for their retirement. There is a vast Space beyond blissful Knowing and the bells rang beneath the roof of the utmost Heaven. You see. Even Death is different, not only Fate, not only Joy, not only uninterrupted Smile- The one that demolishes every hatred. Even Love is different

in the process of your Gentle mortification. Then ask me where is Freedom, where is the Turquoise bone of Destiny and the days as cheap minerals overwhelming Life taken as corn seeds by chicken and a rooster with the chirping voice who calls them and donít allow them to have even a grain.

Öand the flowers are frozen by the snow on the Aprilís end- this Spring has betrayed us all- sour are the strawberries, you think you eat cherries.

Öand what else do you think we shall do when the Sun burns your shadow until it disappears.

Who said you have a right to call me Life- when in real Iím only a Gentle Mortification.

 

 

 

Fahredin Shehu, Prishtina, Kosovo

 

 

 

   


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