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
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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....
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staff:
Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven
Submissions via e-mail:
Slides from the past days
Moistening fingers with the lips
She was curling threads in the days of old
Scarves and shawls and socks
For us all before nights were freezing
The house walls and ice
Releasing crystalline sounds
In the middle of the dark room
With the single candle lit
When the strong winter wind
Brought snow and locked our door
We cried out loud and none we
Bagged to stay more
Falling asleep in a warm room
On the dream-wings we flew
Like flock of migratory birds
Far beyond images we saw back home
Or on black and white TV
I’ve read the sage writing about
His passage through Heaven and Hell
But he remained alive to terrify us
With his story, others in the region
Were telling we shall read him
After five decades- when our hair
Turn grey and the skin gets
Wrinkled and pealed like
Grilled aubergine
A city fool started his barking
Better than a real dog
He knew…he knew that light breathe
And a warm home is the entire world
He knew not that the world is round
And there’s no East and West
He screamed loud when the thunder
Tore up the sky apart
I was foolishly looking for a better world
As the one who is ill
Treads the green that is his cure
Who was crazy and who was stupid?
The day turned dark
All rainbows dispersed
Everything became fairy
A tale that none can tell
But to me it was an image
Of Yerevan- a picture brought
By a poet friend who went
To search for the cure
But his son died and he
Wrote a book
By that time I just tormented myself
With Beelzebub tales
And all know that Gurdjieff
Was not stupid nor crazy
Sobriety
As it was never sufficient
Ducks in the pond
in opposite to garden a gurgling
river taking away old memories
those mere things we used to leave
behind like peaches’ kernels
we threw behind our backs
while enjoying juicy flesh without peals
dark was the night later became starry
they were waiting for Moon eclipse
few waves of earthquake shook
the ground beneath our feet
the Solar System showed its sobriety
we played fool with our fate
as it was not enough like it was never
sufficient an opening- eye moment
Fahredin Shehu, Pristina, Kosova