Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Lana Bella
Laszlo Slomovits
Amit Parmessur
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Yuan Hongri
Yevgeniya Przhebelskaya
Alex Ferde
Karyn M. Bruce
Rajuish Mishra
Alan Britt
Patrick Ashinze
Shutta Crum
Fahredin Shehu
Paul B. Roth
Helen Gyigya
Aneek Chatterjee
Joanie Freeman

Gale Acuff
Robert Nisbet
Fred Wolven
Sreekanth Kopuri

Michael Lee Johnson
Silvia Scheibli
Richard Gartee
Ali Znaidi
Jennifer Burd

John Grey
Running Cub
Peycho Kanev


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2019 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

 

 

I TRIED TO STAY AWAY 

I tried to stay away, from poetry,
write not in verse but prose.
Four months I managed to stay cleansed
of verse, four months exactly,
not a day more, nor less 

Then it happened,
the form at least.

I know now that I canít choose it,
it chooses me.

I write,
I live.

Itís not easy: to live, to write
and then, I need at least one
good thing to live on.

Poetry, I say, is as harmless
as any other addiction,
its price, one life.

 

WHATíS THE HARM?

My mobileís memory stores details, but itís old.
Itís not smart, my mobile, and old.

I donít delete some numbers.
Theyíre dead, Iíve been told.
Not the numbers.  

I thought to call,
once at least,
at least one of them,
then I did not call.

What if I made that call
Tomorrow?
Tonight?
now?
Is it too late now?  
Sometimes I think I should give it a go.
Whatís the harm?

 

ITS TIME HAS NOT COME

This is not the poem I always wanted to write.
Its time has not come, not yet.      
This one is on what I always wanted to write,
but never did. I wanted to write of shiuli flowers in bloom.
No, itís not English, it rises from the soil: the name, not flower.

What about that strange sounding flower?
Nothing. Itís just a flower, white petals, saffron stalk.
In autumn nights, in the months before and after
the Motherís puja, this flower fills dark nights
with the light of sweetness. Thatís not enough.

There are flowers, bela, rajnigandha: white alright,
that bloom at night and smell as sweet. Yet,
this poem is not on them. They canít fill time
with their fragrance. I canít walk under their light
and suddenly get hit by a pleasant wave that goes
for over a meter, and few minutes or hours,
or points its fingers towards Ďa long time agoí. Right?
No? Not you? This flower may not be magic for you.

The poem I want to write bangs fingers clenched
in a fist at mindís doors at workless nights, with a
leisurely walk under a shiuli tree,  the ingredients
of the poem I always wanted to write for you.
Its time has not come, not yet.

 

Rajnish Mishra. Varanasi, India

   


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