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
------------------------------------------------

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

------------------------------------------------

 

staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
 

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

SONG OF SONGS 1: RETURN THE PAWN

No, I am not mistaken: there, at dusk
                                     gods secretly
                                     melt their gold
to dress with it goddesses and prostitutes
and if some gold remains they think about seas and mountains. 
The gods of dusk seduce the poppies to shamelessly rub
                                                            against the ear-wheat,
they sprinkle a little gold, a little silver on your body,
on your crimson lips, your nose – a hill that separates two lakes of light.
No, I am not mistaken.
But you, return the pawn before sunset!
Do not pawn the gold, nor the millstone,
Do not pawn the well, quench the thirst of the world!
I am not mistaken, of course I am not mistaken. 
Love is a breeze, it does not esteem the shackles that
the rose hides in its golden buds.
I am not mistaken, by no means am I mistaken.
Each one is punished for his own sin,
the scale is like the eyes on a face:
                        weigh the dusk of the immoral gods,
                        the poppies shamelessly rubbing against the ear-wheat
                        weigh me also as I come, as I gently sway
                        although only an hour has passed since I left my ship
                        and earth, strangely enough, has no waves.

 

ORATORIO TO BEES

The queen bee fed with the milk of a queen
lives five times longer than the other bees
and its giant sting is a cosmic rocket in the bee galaxies.
Flowers bow their heads even when she does not visit
and in the absence of sex they paint petals
                                                in sunlit orgasms.
Very festive the bees at the time of reproduction,
people imitate them.

“This nature that dies daily inhaling the hate of dust” – the bees say
“and this queen with the yellow of autumn on her Hiroshima wings” – the bees
say
“these tragic flowers in a game with roots” – I say
“and these weary people that try to laugh in exchange of defeat” – I say
“this round world, a breast just incised by the atomic scalpel” – I and the bees
say
“everything is a honeyed hope” – I and the bees say.

“To the bees’ small eyes
                        the honeycombs are pentagons” – I say
                        “but sadly we don’t know the angles of lies” – the bees say.
                                   
                        The bee came from Baghdad1
                        sipped nectar from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

The queens lecture in the evenings
when tired bees drowse inside their honeycombs.
                        Step lightly on the blue-bells,
                        their sound will awaken the hungry bears
                                    The bee came from Baghdad
                        Be cautious with the red roses for you will injure the dead
                                    The bee came from Baghdad
                        Be cautious with the yellow roses for you will drive jealous the
                        mad
                        Never injure the white roses!
                                                Ah, the white roses!
                        When you pass by the chrysanthemums, whisper words of love
                        and leave behind a drop of milk for the glorious dead.
                        If someone touches you, turn into kamikazes,
                        then pray that death finds you at peace.
                                    The bee came from Baghdad
                        Before closing your eyes,
                        take a white rose petal as a shroud.
                        I will read to you the Bible of Honey
                        written with letters of poison…
                                                Ah, the white roses

 

Petraq Risto, Albania & New York

          Translated by Sidorela Risto-Sanchez, New York

   


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