INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Paul B. Roth
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2015
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
note: in print 1967 - 1980. Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.
As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 47 years all together....
Silver Grey Fox
To write a love song is to
trap the burning sun
inside a bigger circle
to deflate the moon
to draw a dark someone
in perfect darkness
Like my neighbour’s
grey and afro hair
that has been ruffled
I’ve forgotten the love song
my mother sang to me
when I was a bony kid
And like a kite that
has started to whisper
its own language of magic
I have run far and wild
Over the wall
Along the shore
like the wind that keeps
blowing and billowing
I now believe we have
to feast on delicious
honeycombs and light
the bizarre bulb of love
To not love is to be broken
children who dwell
in yesterday’s coffin
To write a love song
is to sit at a rectangular table
open a square carton
smile at a circle
devour a peppered piece of pizza
and discover one’s identity
in Bermuda’s sizzling samosa
while drawing a white someone
on snowy ground
LA FEMME FLEITA
Who is this?
Why sits she straight in twilight?
Wherefore plays she? Listening,
my limit loses all its limits.
She must be la femme fleita, with
feline fingers shepherding melodies
eternally new out of her silvery flute.
I can see the mute music in her eyes;
I can feel her eager eyes in the music.
There are so many wild dreams tangling
and tangoing round the lucky embouchure,
waiting to breathe reality. There’s an
improvised bow tie on her talented bosom
with tunes that may unravel life’s tightest knots.
Her multilingual throat shelters poetic winds
of future charms, and her fragrant lips
change allure so dexterously that they could
enchant the Edenic snake
and revive any river reed any day.
La femme fleita do always hold the
right keys and break the fake chains
while you open and close over
the tone holes unconsciously. Maybe
we come from the same slice of paradise
so let me hear you a bit tonight
before I go away surreptitiously. Remember,
many gentlemen would love
to smell the fire of the flowers
around your tender body.
It’s a pity I’ve just sold the pair of
unused bansuris in my kitchen drawer.
Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius