Ann Arbor Review


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
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

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:



I became an aggregate of pixels
aspiring to develop into a fully fledged selfie
in a world embedded in simulacra
on this Elysian crystalline screen.



Those hallucinations were baptized in the water
of springs.
Those nightmares were baptized in the sand
of the deserts.
Those dreams were baptized in the mud
of bogs.

Naked at dawn, those dew drops would drive
all these apocalyptic visions away.



when killing a moth
just remember the theory of ontology
just remember Sappho’s eternal breath
just feel the pulse of life in her poesy
just remember the gloss of her ruby lipstick
when killing a moth
just remember those Sapphic scents
just remember the throbbing life
in the syntax of her footsteps
& don’t remember the tyrant



fearing to drift into the abyss of those tweets
he’d rather make some rites of passage
& before forgetting all the previous texts
he’d rather type something afresh
although there’s that danger of remaining unsatisfied



soft grass in autumn
weeds unremoved & flowers untended
a line of ants behind a black birch tree
it is just representation by proxy
i have a dream
that this line of ants would finally be set free
the weight of all my sorrows eventually would dissolve
like a haiku in a haibun



Ali Znaidi, Redeyef, Tunisia

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