Ann Arbor Review


Lana Bella
Deji W. Adesoye
Chris Lord
Ali Znaidi
Francis Annagu
Olajide Vincent Ajise
Lyn Lifshin
Akor Emmanuel
Duane Locke
Running Cub
Paul B. Roth
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits
Silvia Scheibli
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Amit Parmessur
Irsa Ruci
Elisavietta Ritchie
Alex Ferde

Richard Gartee
Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Changming Yuan
Nahshon Cook
Peycho Kanev
Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven

Karyn M. Bruce


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2016 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 47 years all together....



Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:



The first lecture I always give to my students
is to be suspicious for the knowledge
I pretend to transmit,
noone is omnipotent
and nothing can be ever-lasting
we're just bowed learners with long years carried in our back
in life, nothing but traces of steps we take...
More than when they recite my gibberish,
I am excited by their finding of new arguments
their bring of different point of views, perceptions freed from frames
because only the best of minds
cannot be deceited.
A student should never take for granted
but ought to be yearning by curiosity
and see beyond...even beyond time.
Should turn their rebellion into pealing voice,
otherwise they'll sleep in desks
where cheating is inscribed
waking after some years with useless papers
wandering in dead-end lonely streets.
The last lecture I give to my students
is to be cynical to that point
that whoever treads on them, must fear...
Proud and cynical
for the future they bear in their hands
cynical and revolutionary
DonKishots who fight with books and words.
Convinced that inside the auditoriums a nation is growing!



Another year waits dreams in east
Mornings come with words frozen in air
Echoes of continuity;
Only the heart can turn the cold into breath
Lines fall from the sky, songs are melody
Of growing children in the peaceful world.
Trees shriveled by the time,
The time is afraid to walk lost in melancholy
Drunk, idyllic moments
…oh, I can’t run so fast after this deathly winter
Where even the mountains hide behind the fog
Like the flush of a lass hides behind her hands
The city is a ship,
Floating in troubled waters
The waves of freedom cuddle the agony,
The birds ruin the whiteness of the sky
To find their way at that sun ray which promises
The heaven to the earth.
This evening I am cringing in my solitude
A drop of wine, close to the fireplace,
I hear the wind roaring in the windows
While I enjoy some poems,
Winter is but a fairytale to break the monotony
It is winter only the soul has cold…


Irsa Ruçi, Tirana, Albania

   Translator: Silva Daci, Tirana, Albania       


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