INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Bilall Maliqi
Duane Locke
Eddie Awusi
Silvia Scheibli
Amit Parmessur
Lyn Lifshin
Juan Hongi
Shutta Crum
Peycho Kanev
Fahredin Shehu
Lana Bella
Laszlo Slomovits
Abdulrahman M Abu- yaman
Elisavietta Ritchie
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Keith Moul
Aneek Chatterjee
Tom Evans
Robert Nisbet
Paul B. Roth
Alex Ferde
Alan Britt
Ali Znaidi
Running Cub
John Grey
Jennifer Burd
Fred Wolven
Helen Gyigya
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2018
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:
The center of effort is the
point in the sail plan
that is the balance of all wind forces. Knowing nothing
of sails, even less of
direction, I refuse the harbor,
choosing a seagull study instead, admiring how their bodies
know exactly what to do
with the air. Well, I do know
something of waiting. I know how to watch the wagtail, too,
marching his salt and
pepper army of one along the lake walk.
No, I don’t want to go where I’m going even if it will balance
the wind forces, help me
find a way in through the surf.
The old black sailboat hulks in the waves, gothic
and massive and dark—but so
beautiful, too.
Each time I look up from the birds, from the line of sun
on that immense blue, the
boat has changed
its angle, and it dawns on me that there is a tether.
A deep anchoring that
permits only this controlled swing.
The arc is wide and the boat looms, but despite
the promise in the height
of the mast—it would be quite
a thing to see those sails unfurl, the shadows
they would throw—it can
only rotate around its anchor,
it can only swing and then settle in to its original position.
Michelle Bailat-Jones, St.Legier, Switzerland