Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Bilall Maliqi
Duane Locke
Eddie Awusi
Silvia Scheibli
Amit Parmessur
Lyn Lifshin
Juan Hongi
Shutta Crum
Peycho Kanev
Fahredin Shehu
Lana Bella
Laszlo Slomovitz
Abdulrahman M Abu-  yaman
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Keith Moul
Aneek Chatterjee

Tom Evans
Robert Nisbet
Paul B. Roth
Alex Ferde
Alan Britt

Richard Gartee
Karyn M. Bruce

Ali Znaidi
Running Cub
John Grey

Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven

Helen Gyigya


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2018 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 51 years all together....

------------------------------------------------
staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:

poetfred@att.net

 

A GLIMMERING GRAMMAR

At the first hints of dawn
flies begin embroidering
the windowpane with excrement.
There is error in this animated annotation.
However, a folklore trade is still taking
shape. A startling gloss from corner
to corner. Now the gloss dominates.
A bit of glimmering grammar.
No word explodes from
the orgasmic fits of the mating flies.
Perhaps one day
the discharge of anger
will burst from
the graffiti and blossom.



SATIATION

That rainbow—you can't draw. All
you could do is absorb the colours
of the apple juice. The more you absorb,
the more you understand your origin,
and less and less things matter because
colours will invade your veins and mind,
making you witness moments of revelation;
the kind of moments you really crave.
Hence, you want nothing more from life;
something like enjoying the sound
of chocolate melting in hot milk in a cold
morning.—The effervescence of pleasure.
No other versions of beauty needed.



STREAMS OF COLOURS

Obviously the rainbow 
is made up
of streams of colours.
You can’t imagine
how the sky can bloom
with colourful fluffy geometry
and prompts of ecstatic mystery.
But nothing can erase agonies
and wounds.—Thus a syntax
of confession thrives
like blood that rises
from a wound
when the body is forced to open
its spectrums of colours
that never clot.




Ali Znaidi, Redeyef, Tunisia


 

   


Ann Arbor Review   |   Home    |  next   previous  |  Back to Top