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 Slomovits
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
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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
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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
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