Ann Arbor Review: International Journal of Poetry

Winter 23

Ann Arbor Review

Southeastern Florida                                                                                                                 Ann Arbor Review


Ali Znaidi
Silvia Scheibli
Richard Gartee
Deji Adesoye
Shutta Crum
Solomon Musa Haruna
Alan Britt
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits

Robert Nisbet
Gale Acuff
Rekha Valliappan
Fred Wolven
Aneek Chatterjee
Alex Ferde
Michael Lee Johnson
Jennifer Burd
Running Cub
Duane Locke

Helen Gyigya

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2020 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 53 years all together....

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub

Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:



Nothing is real. Reality is a mixture of poisons.
We seem to be pseudo semicolons because
colons and periods are on the verge of extinction.
Life is but a quest. Life is a series of quests wasted.
But how is reality being generated?
—Generation after generation we only float
on an infinite stream of losses and frustration:
Just fake jouissance, and kitsch chocolate.
Fake news and avatar selfies. {Also wikihow
instructions on dating and fashion tips}.
Shades of grey no longer hold. Are there
still rites of passage? Anyway, prom dates
still hold hands, although everything right now
emerges from glitzy cyber bazars and viral myths.



There are scars everywhere. Still, it’s better
to have scars than having nothing at all.
Scars wear us, hence we live by addition.
The reason things add up is because scars
keep developing. Scars wear us like hungry
flies on a piece of rotten marrow. Scars wear
us like unsaid poems hunkering beneath our skins.
Although scars look like silent words budding
on the cusp of a nymph’s lip, they always mesh
like cogs to satisfy the palimpsest of our bodies.
—A thing to remember, even when we have
Alzheimer's. From now on, who is still scared
from scars?—Those epitaphs carved on our bodies
—Those preludes to a world of our own composition.



The inside was dark. Thus dark things inside
would look larger than the dark sky because of
proximity. Sinking into imagination with closed
eyes is a bit risky. Sometimes, solitude (inside the
dark) is better than walking in a street full of pitfalls
and trash. The crow’s caws and the owl’s screeches
only blossom in the dark. Life would be so much
frustrating without the existence of night & what
is the night without silence? A thousand silent words
make graffiti and graffiti give meaning to life. Fireflies
were climbing through my body in the dark. The
graffitied walls of my room were pouring over the edge
of silence. Words were the only things that glitter. Still
fireflies were throwing firecrackers at each other, at me...



Ali Znaidi, Redeyef, Gafsa, Tunisia


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