INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Running Cub
Elisavietta Ritchie
Odimegwu Onwumere
Laszlo Slomovits
Lyn Lifshin
Ramesh Dohan
Silvia Scheibli
Alex Ferde
Richard Kostelanetz
Richard Gartee
Irsa Ruci
Duane Locke
Janet Buck
Nahshon Cook
Jim Daniels
Fred Wolven
Peycho Kanev
Ali Znaidi
Sunday Eyitayo Michael
Karyn M. Bruce
Arsim Halili
Engjell I. Berisha
Muharrem Kurti
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 48 years all together....
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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
THE SUN’S SHORE
At Sun Dusk the Sun emerges in my window
The wind shakes the curtains with rarity
The day’s bird fell in my verses
Softly as rain falls over the flowers
The Sick air of night with sadness
Dropped over the flower’s leaves in the balcony
Was the time awakenings
It was tired and flayed with us
I went and walked over the street
The island surrounded with roofs full of kids
THE TIME OF AWAKENING
The emerald Spider
Places a net in my eyebrow
The painting of mulling looks at my eye
And forget the body far away
Again with feet
at times on the right or left in the garden
the long road
towards an abyss
Even the Sun, and day and light
Are nothing but color
That pours into the mantel
Of the letter where this poetry
Will be written
While emerging from night with the bed
With wings of sleep
With the dream
We are enlivened through the silver rays
Just as a ring
And I am awakened
THE GREEN TIME
One day blossomed the
flower in the vase
It greened my view
From the room where you can see the road
Through which is coming my child
That I don’t have another job
Including you at every morning
Of the water with sweet water
With a sacred water
And when the flower blossomed in the window
I said what is the value of it when you don’t have feet
To come after me beauty
At the roads where roofs emerge
Exhausted
and at night awakened with may blossoming flowers
through the paths of which
the water turns into green
MOTHER
The remnants exploded charcoal emerged
The front of chimney an old icon
shrunk in darkness – sadness
the candle of this room
a clear river
the ancient cradle lying
in a room wall where there will never
emerge a seed of sound
It does not take my hand
the face it never feels
exhausted marks a life relaxes
Engjell I. Berisha, Prishtina, Kosovo
Translator (from Albanian): Peter M. Tase, Milwaukee, Wisconsin