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
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THE TAJ MAHAL
Words, lose their way
like the dry leaves and suffuse
into the grandeur of a mausoleum
where art recites the history
of a love’s lyrical madness
a death becomes a broken dream,
a grand loneliness towers
in the splendour of minars
beyond the range of an artist’s eye
with the fossilized epic that
runs along the eloquent marbles
in the wild silence of alien letters
and the timeless moonlight
resorts to the empty nuptial nights
beside the perennial waters
of an emperor’s lost voice
KITES
Because this window bars the world and
the dreams age with every dawn drying up
the salt in the eyes, today the hands try a kite
of silent words red and blue that the spool
unravels into a silence where they want to
break down to the last syllable that:
“this life is a false start so let me chirrup a song
of new joy in the vast world of a little nest
somewhere” but at the sun down, the darkness
reminds we are the kites of the earth let off
only with a dirge of time.
MIMOSA
Would I have these words,
if you weren’t a silence?
Would I have a handful of earth,
if you weren’t a sprout of hope?
Would I have a rain of feelings,
if you hadn’t a cluster of smiles
in the last evenings
of my dying father?
There was a moment, suddenly
when some words
exploded in silence
out of the broken glassy window
of my eye,
and drew invisible lines.
At times I feel the keys
for a piece of an unheard music
to reach you
filling the distances
and today the song of my heart
flits everyday like a lost butterfly
around the tender folds of your silence
till it becomes a muted epitaph
in the time’s inexorable hands.
A DAWN
of sips and doors,
a lost duckling
waddles into a terrible bleakness
under the drums of the sky
an earthworm scattered
drags its broken self
across the drenched road
a silent fledgling
in the dripping nest waits
for the unknown mother
the neighbour’s cow lows
into this deafening silence
of painful absences
creep into another dawn
nibbling at the edge.
Sreekanth Kopuri, Machilipatnam, India