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INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE OF NEOTERRIFIC LITERATURE & ART

THE PANJANDRUM

OF QUONDAM Tribute to Mayakovsky

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TURES COMIX-LIKE POEMS || GLOBAL RHYMES HAIKKU || RIDDLES || PHOTO-EXPERIMENTS NEW TRANSLATIONS || ILLUSTRATIONS & MORE

Let us introduce to you the one and only master of deep "innersive" poetic texts - Cassandra Swan! She is Brittish Award winning poet. She has unique poetic style named "Graphorrhoealism". And also she is spiritual medium, author, poet, artist, model, actress, activist, editor, publisher, composer and producer...


POETRY

ARTICLES TRANSLATIONS ILLUSTRATIONS & ART INTERVIEW & REVIEW PHOTOS ABOUT: NEW ::: POETRY is international magazine of neoterrific literature and art with focus on poetry, translations, premiers, new genres and experiments. Our logo is a combination of two colons ":" with three ellipses "..."; it's like a portal to the future and a road to it.

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EDITORIAL STAFF Stan Lauk-Dubitsky - Publisher / Senior Editor / Illustrator / Designer / Translator / Author Tatyana Ilushkina - Translator / Author Aria Ligi - Author / Editor / Proof-reader

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EDITORIAL BOARD

FORMULAST From Senior Editor 1. FREE POET WRITES BOTH OLD SCHOOL & FREE VERSE POEMS. 2. SMART POET TRIES ALL STYLES AND CREATES SOMETHING NEW AND DEEP. 3. RESTRICTIONS AND DISCOMFORT CAN LEADS POET TO THE NEW HIGHS. 4. NOT ANYONE CAN BE A POET. THERE IS NO DEMOCRACY, NO TOLERANCE FOR MEDIOCRITY. 5. TRUE POET CAN BE ANYONE HE WANT, ALL KIND OF ART IS REACHABLE FOR HIM. 6. KEEP YOUR HEART WARM, SHARPEN YOUR BRAINS - DUMB POET HAS A QUILL FROM CHICKEN NUGGETS.

ARIA LIGI:-EDITOR When thinking on poetry and where we are today, it may be good to consider where we have come from. In the sixteenth century poetry was often compared to painting, and indeed there was a great deal of rivalry between the two arts, poetry being likened to painting with words, while an artist who held a brush, created poetry on a canvas (or sometimes wood panel or wall in the case of frescoes), using color and sometimes egg whites (which were used as the base for paints). Poetry at that time was not only spoken, but sometimes sung. Bards, such as Spenser, Arisoto, Shakespeare, Petrarch and others perfected the form of sonnets to such a degree that they were hailed as masters of rhyme who danced within their stanzas much as a ballerina extending her leg and then spinning into a flawless pirouette. In the seventeenth century Milton, using biblical stories as his backdrop wrote Paradise Lost, which became and still is a revered classic. In the late eighteenth century, Robert Burns, though from humble beginnings, wrote heartfelt and grand poems depicting: nature, love and beauty that to this day are unsurpassed. When we come to the eighteenth and nineteenth century, the age of Enlightenment, and the Romantics, there was a surge not just in poetry, but in the craftsmanship of it. Poetry at this time was used as a means to not only express love and longing, but as a siren railing against the misfortunes of the poor and inequities that are result of class. Wordsworth was the man who started this, by writing poems which were not just meant for the elite classes, but for the common man. In addition, he wrote not only about the common man, but placed that same man in the very poems he was writing. They were central to the themes of injustice, inequity, poverty, and the rights of the plebian in society. When the industrial revolution came, and along with it the steam trains, Wordsworth spoke for the very existence nature, the trees, flowers, and all wildlife. It was due to his poetry that he was able to halt the construction of the steam train from going through his beloved North Country. While this may seem like a small victory, it exemplifies the power of verse. However, Wordsworth was not the only poet to make a difference. Leigh Hunt, who was the editor, and publisher (along with his brother John) of the Examiner during the eighteenth century, used his paper as a platform to oppose the oppressive regime that reigned in England, and even published poetry which taunted and mocked the monarchy. Hunt’s Examiner was the only paper at that time which was not in bed with the government. In the twentieth century poetry evolved from a more strict format to what is called ‘free verse’ and thus changed from the tight structure of the sonnet, ode or formed stanzas, into a more or less, anything goes standard. Poets such as Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, and Gary Snyder ushered in a male form of verse which derided traditional form to the point where craft, structure, art and sometimes even theme were all but absent. One could no longer liken poetry to the steps within a waltz, because the steps themselves had been stripped away and the dancer had been written out of the score. This was in fact, faux poetry, or rather prose pretending to be poetry. It was a lie. To say it was poetry would be the same as saying that a nail stuck in a piece of ply wood is art. It is not. It never will be, it never can be; it is just a nail, which any one could have placed there. The same is now unfortunately true of most poetry. So, it is important, and imperative to ask, where are the real bards of the day? Where is the poetry that still sings for the ages? Are there no more verses to be written? Surely there are.


EDITORIAL BOARD

7. THE TRUE POETIC FREEDOM IS A CROSSROAD ON THE MOUNTAIN'S PEAK WITH E N D L E S S WAY S T O REACH HIGHEST QUALITY OF TEXT BEYOUND ANY BORDER OF SKY AND GROUND... FOR INSPIRED READERS BUT NOT THE WAYS YOU CAN EXPRESS YOUR RUINED LIFE FOR FACELESS ECHOS. 8. PLACE ALL YOUR EVIL AND DARKNESS IN YOUR POETRY, DON'T SHARE YOUR RAGE BY MAKING SCARS, SHARE IT WITH LINES OF POEMS. 9. EVERY GOOD POEM CAN BE TRANSLATED TO AT LEAST ONE LANGUAGE. JUST TRY AND CHOOSE RIGHT ONE. 10. THERE ARE NO PROFESSORS IN POETRY BUT KIDS WITH OPEN HEART.

Then why waste another moment, writing what is clearly hallmark verse (we have all read so much of that it does get tiresome) and then pretending it is poetry. Or worse, writing something that has no meter at all? Poetry without meter is, like a fish with no gills. The fish cannot breathe, and it dies. This is not to say that we all need to go back and write firmly structured sonnets (although it would be nice) about flowers, and the rights of the people versus king. That is not the point. However, poetry which has meter breathes. It is memorable. This is why Dorothy Wordsworth, even when she was in the throes of senility could still recite William’s poetry verbatim. Poetry as it is being written now is a shadow of its greatness. It needs a rebirth, so it can once more speak for those without a voice, tell the tales that need to be told, and be that railing cry against oppression, greed, and sadness. That would be poetry with a purpose. This is why Byron’s poem Don Juan still resonates. The themes within it are timeless, and so when one reads them, there are many points where you do not think this was written in the nineteenth century, but more, you can reflect on what is happening right now and find that salient connection. For just as in Byron’s time, war was ever present, we are living in a world in which war, greed, and inequities still exist. The question then is, can we revive verse, make it meaningful in the modern age? Can we create and hone it, so that it is once more respected as an art, and not seen as so much frippery? And in doing this, can we then use it to better humanity? As bards and creative people, and as custodians of a great and ancient craft, it is my hope we can. BENJAMIN MITROFAN-NORRIS:-EDITOR It seems that poetry has been in something of a decline for decades, simply due to the fact that it hasn't ever been able to solve the issue of becoming more and more exclusive, and less and less for the general public. The days when people tuned into the radio to hear the latest works of Dylan Thomas etc are long gone. However, I'm beginning to suspect this crisis is mainly relevant to the UK, where people are increasingly terrified of aligning themselves with anything that may seem pretentious, exclusive or elitist (despite the fact that poetry needn't be any of these things). Regarding free verse and other forms of poetry, I think we're at a point now where it doesn't particularly matter. All of the arts are referencing each other and everything else nowadays, and I think a lot of the best work is mixing together free verse with more traditional poetic forms.

YES -THE ANSWER IS-


EDITOR-IN-CHEAT special rubric for exclusive stuff from Chief Senior Editor

STAN LAUK-DUBITSKY EXCLUSIVE POEMS SELECTION || UK #1

20.05.1984 (Moscow | Russia) Nationalities: German, British, French, Spanish, Austrian, Swedish and Jewish, Russian, Polish & Armenian. Infamous ancestors: Goethe & Hegel Job: science (cryobiology, stem cells) State: single || looking for soulmate ;-) Creative stuff: 300 poems / 30 big poems, few plays, 12 books in work...

All poem translated from Russian by author and redacted by Benjamin Mitrofan-Norris


BAOBAB

The poem about us and our long pathway

Stan Lauk-Dubitsky's poem and art


Long poem: maze style

Start

1-9 | 1-9 two parts We are the termites. We are the termites. We are the termites! Workers of Eden’s might! We are the hunger within bisexual minds! Tombstones are not what we deride…yet! Bite! Bite! The life, all naked and fat! Gnaw branches in the sky! Deceitful, insane! The jaws are your waves, yes, jaws are your seine! Burn your bark, scales

Hey, babe! Get in the Baobab! This deep hollow can keep your swollen soul too! Hey babe, listen to the whisper of сlawed paws in a gap There inside, we are such... we’ll be better to…! ... There the heat from words sticks together with aftersound, Heat from the friction of dreams smolders with morphine! There, in the darkness of all that’s underground, Between coals of birches all drunk with pain Our evil is born of sin! Why else are you born in this hellish pit? Spores and buds will shoot out and pierce us! All round the clock! Not need to discuss! But if you’ll reach for warm roots and first letters… Eat it and swallow! Stronger and better! Our shrines are the ghosts that were stubs of matter! But if you’ll stop in a fit of doubtfulness Each coming brother will eat your sprouts, dust and shades! A new race comes! Eat, Eat, and Get Until you won’t fall, so bloated, with your poisonous sweat ... Until it no longer cramps jaws Or tears your belly...But wait ... Of what are we built? By our consumption? By sweating and bleating?

part

Better eat the family tree down to filth and rot! On the right side! On the left side! Every place is fine for fault! So eat! Eat graves and swim without guilt! Down in the earth, in drowned waves of silt! Eat your ancestors! In cages of fiesta…Sparks of their sons!

By oblivious function?! We built statues of Pinocchio-birds With hollow souls of slime, dried and blared We build colossuses of questions from sawdust, so dead! And we pray to a demented woodpecker who strikes souls in the back of the head!

We all are termites, so mute and slight! We're in terms of tight passes! Our limbs are linked By the hunger of the masses! You hear a buzz somewhere in the distance? Buzz of Flowering hives? It's Plagiarism! It lies!

Let's throw out the memorized words from songs! Let's replace the old, rusty mold Of animal seeds sewn in the ground With a new line of life sewed by quiet suffering Of our phantom wounds... So eat! Eat until your body won’t turn to a Newly woken cell in the living giant! We'll give birth to shades, hollow, faceless shades! Who will fight with us on this field! Who is new? That's right! Fear us! We all termites ... for you! ... Hey, babe! Get in the baobab! Anyway, you're just a piece of dried branch on the wind It persecutes you on the razor edge of horizons! It will...

Your jaw puts that of the shark to shame! Honey - the silly whim of foes! Wax - a chain of illusions and words! The ashes of history, the flesh of your homeland That is the best food For sons of untrue latitude! Together! One by one! In the living titan! Then! We'll be the whole baobab That which is always chewing flesh! We'll walk, step by step, In the dale, desert and ash! Then, only then, the Earth will be shacked! Hives will fall to our feet, as the harvest trades!

Strip you, linking the ends, all fallen! What you will find in this freedom, Glaring in the madness of snow pollen And ash in the mouths of mist? Hey, babe! I warmed the nook for you... at least...


Black Velvet The story about love between demon and sinner

Stan Lauk-Dubitsky's poem and art


Long poem: maze style

Start

1-9

The velvet of your black wings Tastes to me like the beaten winds. It smells like scents of Etna’s ashen peak sneaking by To erupt my depths with cold, hard steel! My depths, indeed, died in those enchanted moments, Those moments when You teetered on the ledge, my ami, to feel The reprise of a smile which put out the light Slipping on a faded and crumpled floor A throne of day, beset with shades All scratched around time’s core. Still, no time to flee! You sat down gently, playfully, Swinging his foot, You hide behind the curtain, a moonlit deer. You bled a silhouette with the shadows of the absolute... The shades of a heavenly sphere... I knew! All of this mere illusion of the night! I knew! Still, my body hungered for your might! The spell of fear, the cross Both rest in vain. Powerless, they are, for the secret burned lane! And your blade went about removing burdens within My heart, my walls, my eaves Yet burden still fell, as dead leaves, As agony’s ash... Yet I am yours, all yours! Past drops in abyss! I’m yours, on the edge! All to-be - in trash. I saw fighting tongues of velvet, fading sparks in the smoke Within my eyes. You were fast, you were sweet, you were crazy yet wise! The force of sunset left me crucified, down It ground from my ash a pulsating groan.

The velvet sways as the milk on sky-ways. The light drew your lips to it with innocence! Oh, heaven, I prayed: “Reduce the steps, trace Between he and I, between the dreams tie” It merely destroys our inner sense! I move myself on... My breath shrinks to a mad ball In amongst chains of iron veins Suffering is faceless, and shame is Belshazzar’s fall Before hordes of sweet lust, and the banes. My move towards you left me baring my flesh And all shivered in blooming, an echo sounds! It awoke even dew On the luxurious mesh of my brown skin. Your blade kissed, and stays tunic bound Only a step, oh! My king! I was squeezed like a vine, and so, gagged and alone with a shrouding of silk suffering under my bones. It envied the tenderness of darker bonds! After I touched your flesh, grasped half a heart. All closer and closer, I watched how hearth's parts To warm my doubts through the night. And so, my heart beats, it throbs in pain and in fright! A single blink, a single breath, again and again, I felt only velvet, the velvet of your wings, In sense, in my senses, it stayed darker than night, yet soft as incense...as... It feels as the mystery of an ancient shrine, Its colour, that infinity shine

But I’m so carefree and young, burst in altar of tongue like an obsession ... I could crash down all the keys of temptation from the stairs of illusion! I could crush them like a time frozen bud - those keys revive stoney dreams, your death, with hot blood. I could abandon the wisdoms of your charmed gaze and all knowledge in the depths of a maze the crown on the two warm horns. I could abandon all of this, like skyey thorns, a burden for all the idolators psalms! Yet you remained ice calm, you remained so clever! You whispered to me that death would not come, not now, not ever. You whispered that there is only immortality where years line the dust with anointing oil And vices smolder on hard red soil And in the wind which scatters shattered bones, lust gives birth to faceless clones... A mirror melody of the flesh! Do you want me? Or my soul? For your throne which is raised above the shadows Of tamed eyelashes, in the fire, there, love splashes! But, only a moment! I broke away from the grip, And I threw a kiss to the sky's deep! I left streams of desires without any fears And caught a breath of the sun, choking back tears For the last distant cry of the dawn, But what was that? It must be life... Or maybe it has gone.


The chant of a man, enamored with a dead girl Sad poem about... Just read the header, please ;-) Stan Lauk-Dubitsky's poem and art


I can’t seem to find you, lost in dreams anew. Nor can I find myself, the sky merchants Who can change my chants Of the hope of a trial, Or the lamp of a genie, all for a vial Of the most tranquil dew. Alas! Charon ferried you For only a bean, He kept the portrait, the old breast-pin, Stashed away with hearsay That there, beyond the borders, in the hush Of frozen vocal chords, or lost in the slush... Your soul suffers, and weeps alone Deprived of sleep, losing bitter groans Like a raving string, the vice-filled tones Of a nullified guitar The anathema of ice Stole fire from your star. I will know that besides Sepulchral echoes on a hill side They buried you merely a trophy, wild game Spoils of the savage chase! All for the fact you couldn’t see or name the love that lies in grace. And still I’ll stay for long, for old, And I’ll squeeze out the flaming cold. Beside that fence, without sense of time and flesh With cigales I will dance! As I am like the fallacious leaf I dry on the wind, so aged and stiff, without a face. If I fail to catch your tempting lips or your embrace. All years shall pass as passers by, My star shall fall from a fiery high, And once, for all, my soul’s cry And spirit’s whisper Will spend all tears and dispel My cares for the vesper! And then, late in, I will exalt A candle flame to the warlike bolt! To bring some peace to a rebel’s soul, I’ll stash away in a nook, in a vault And lamp-black seamstresses of darkening fault Will fall on you, drawing you With their grey voice. And the glowing of a stone-dead flare Will carry weeping from my lair And gloom shall perch on the peak of a glare Then, there can be rejoice! Only a heart will beat in vain As a dust-winged moth in a lantern’s lane Pulled back to harbour, tipsy Combusting with the hope in pain Viewed in the sphere of a gypsy…


Love of insane samurai Japanease spirit poem about mad addiction and fate with one sharp blade...

Stan Lauk-Dubitsky's poem and art


The sakura branch is A blade for the eyes’ scope, And a scabbard for sleep. he blossom of Sakura Drinking vase’s hope, Enslaved to time’s chaos. Pouring color for the deep, A slave of beauty, Of a single blink. Love of insane samurai. Amongst varlets and apostates, Amongst the whispering steps Of effigies… If I hear a noise from the shades, Just one noise I will breathe vengeance, yes, I’ll breathe, Inhaling fury as I would the dust From the flower’s tomb. I will clasp your sharp and scarlet waist So sharpened by the night, by doom. It is finer than does And sweeter than red wine! A fountain of vain hopes Glimpsed in kimono’s white lines! Katana will swoop upwards, Unseaming your clothes: A pendulum of the cares of pain! It will let me - swiftly, quietly Kill all of the mares again! And in the tightened air Amongst white drops of fear, It will draw nameless signs As a passion’s symbol Falling into a peal. It will pierce the flesh of foes And turn it into shade. It will flow down on the echo, struck from glass... Having forgiven a foe For an empty eyelash’s pass, I’ll undertake The duty of my life. In a chime of glaze, old tales and steel, I will fling you Just for a feel of the widows, veil and haze! Ahead…backwards…

part

part

Through the density Of trembling clays And empty garbs. If one will think of you With feelings on the scarps Or the theft of a shade Of our wedding tress Or only touch Of your soft tender dress I will slay him... To the shivering of the dead… I know someday the fate, On the hot red and Warlike bed, Will break our pair, Steel will stop still And shred the shade, Still naked, silken…cleft in twain, So powerless for a taste of despair And for the frozen ruin – The dark delubrum of the insane And cataleptic fingers! And then at the melting dawn Ambers of blindness lingers I’ll feel a rustling Of the crumpled papers of the fall Being held inside this stifling hall. I’ll cleanse you with the silk More fondly than the rains. Because you pass with me All grief, all these sense driven planes! All for the sacred act… In it you will permeate My belly, on the sun, All rising for the bold… And you will tightly hold To entangle with my breath, A defence of my honor, Varnishing all my crimes. For just one blink, All pains return to slimes, Inspiring waft Of shinier morn, I will be thought I'm innocent reborn and so beloved...


EDITOR'S NOTE: BENJAMIN MITROFAN-NORRIS: ......................................................... editing Stan's poems was a really enjoyable experience, and didn't really feel like hard work. However, I did spend a lot of time trying to bring some space and breathing room into the pieces, as the original material was incredibly dense and hallucinogenic. For me, this kind of dark, nightmarish poetry works best when we have some blank air between the sets of images, to intensify each image when it returns. In order to do this, I had to often rearrange some of the lines into a regular set of stanzas, which gave this almost mantra-like feel to the finished pieces, and heightened their musicality. Stan's poetry has a huge, biblical, revelatory scope which is really exciting, and feels completely timeless. It was really exciting for me to work on them and accentuate their rhythm and flow.

P.S.

STAN: My poetry is a drug for soul and brains and I write my stuff to make a perfect bait... bait for my future wife :-P, I feel that she is absolutely gorgeous and I have to do all my best to reach her.


WARRING HARRIDAN

(A Journey to the Centre of the Psyche with the) Syntactic Pyromaniac

NEW ::: POETRY. Issue . | :_.::


An extremely tetchy, trauma geyser is fizzing – as an obfusc, voodoo brew –

beneath a serene, graceful surface: yet more of my unruly lifetime’s, stymied debris to excavate – from the Abbadonian, soul-stirring slime pit – and perspicaciously express. My psyche’s Patagonian mosquito has landed: drilling for blood, it pierces my soul as a psychotic maniac with a rubiginous syringe! Deep within my subconscious, Mnemosynian archives, there resides a jagged, gyte shard: I must extract this parlous, psychological artefact – succinctly as a piece of intricately miniated hydria – and circumspectly inspect it. My glyptic wisdom will scroll poetically into cryptic diction; ornate as exquisite mezzorelievo. These curious, iconic epics will evolve into abstruse, chronological, psychological dossiers; then filed in an historic, confessional-elegy library. I am The Warring Harridan: a psychagogue, moulting my pneuma’s tedious onus by boundlessly fly-tipping versified ire – as eclaircissemental offerings – to volumes of personally quirky poetry books. My Bragian, internal brouhaha will be the theme of lengthy deliberation and criticism. My radical, Callopian cries will spansulise, and liberalize diatribes. I sense an epic, minacious monster creeping out from dank cobwebs in a derelict crypt.

Sunless recesses of my essence are melancholy potholes; muskegs, swollen with cognitive sewage. As a thaumaturgist, I transform intricate transference into fascinating, spiritually visual symbols, and phenomenal, refined Tyrian lines. I am prancing verbosely into a new arena of hearts and minds. The Alexander Techinique filched-out stout, psychotherapeutic rats a few years back; squealing and mincing frantically through my emotional bilge-pump; leaping out through my drainpipeepiglottis.


I will cast more vermin out,

poisoning them for good this time! An evil-eyed demon, the psycho, a demented artist – with a flick-knife, gun and hydrophidae – sculpted me twenty years ago into an intensely wise woman. Adam rises to consciousness in a Blake-blazing vision; he switches elements and dimensions. This devilish, black-rose abreaction triggers an odious, troparion oil slick! On the rumbling genesis of a tumultuous tempest, my psyche’s trireme will carry me through Acheron to a symbolic ravage. With irregular, cerebral outpourings, I will share my technical peak experiences and

psychodynamics, as a psychiatric travel guide on a scenic, oceanic undulation. I must journey beyond the intrepid war of ghosts, as a bard revered. My psycho-synthesis passages always aim for spiritual peace and credence. Prophetic, higher realms tell me – when I alight from my trireme – a Shaman’s giant, Snowy Owl will swoop and ululate! It will encircle the whirlwind of my mind, as an unruly, noctivagant poltergeist! Then it will perch before me, a surreal, sagacious counsel, eagerly propounding more psychologically sullied evidence, to close this tragic, Gnostic case. This Harridan will suspire fire: illuminating the grimy, insipid sea with flaming waves in a Magritte masterpiece. An over-zealous Armageddon will manifest: orgulous, intrusive psychopaths will challenge me! However, I will see through their veil of convivial sincerity. Man will continually try to sporadically employ supremacy over me; Freud’s vampires sucking at my unrepentant, Lorelei ego! Beyond the shore – as fate would have it – there is yet another war zone! I crawl: weary as a solitary soldier, digging my way forward with mud-encrusted elbows¬! I surreptitiously search for a symbolic orillion, to steal from a battlement...


...and enter my Trophonion, poet-trench. As a tactical manoeuvre, I divert from a

putative, ruthless plutocrat; refusing to squirm at his material behest! I develop a new, elegiac geostrategy and Lokian persona; carefully establishing fresh munitions and maskirovka. I transcribe in my spiritual journal as a fully-fledged, accomplished pace-setter; a hard-core, Polyhymnian graphorrhoealist, in my confessional, Poetic, Foreign Legion. I flex my newly acquired, versified ligaments, as a lurid lynx on heat. I am a slick lexicographer, with insurgent tongue and lissome feet. As Magaera, I am, now, a poetic gladiator; opposing the literati megalomaniacs; fighting – introspectively – for a place on the pellucid, world page, in diffusion of responsibility. My perilous, Russian Muse ignites my riotous heart. Vladimir demands a forward-march! Plucking the pristine, mnemonic strings on my allegorical, Pyrrhic victory harp. A fusion of instincts with Mayakovsky incites my spirit. “To poetic battle!” he cries. “I am ready for battle!” I reply. Insane as a Queen, I behead superfluous dick-heads! Striking of Dr. Death – the subordinate Acephalite – for gross plagiarizing and punctuated negligence! My calm cranium looms – as a gesticulating, Revolutionary ghost - from a wellmourned tomb. Where are the rivals? They dissemble – as if to trick the old dog – but I have learned new tricks. This Harridan – propelled by dignified furore – will take an unexpected route: ancillary enemies have to be content with following suit. Their white flags sway – as slow-motion Geishas – far faraway! I rise – as a dazzling, Dionysian apparition – from the Melpomenian ashes of time, as the intellectual hellcat: a poetic hero extraordinaire; the syntactic pyromaniac, with a jugular full of flares!


read and slowly meditate with my enigmatic anagrams based on words from "Warring Harridan". If you feel yourself confused you can always see right answer below. Have fun!

ANIGMA PAGE 1: find words there

PAGE 2: find words there

PAGE 3: find words there

1 EEN SEER NOTE: Only three "E" in answer 2 BED SIR 3 I AM + CAN 4 RYE SING 5 SCUFF BO NOTE: Only one "F" in answer 6 SUR-CAFE 7 CAT FEAR NOTE: One extra "T" in answer 8 SOUL SAP 9 CREEP IS... 10 DIM SOW || has no... 11 HARD NADIR NOTE: Only one "D" in answer 12 ROSES DIES 13 O-SUN 14 DIE AT RIBS... 15 NOM-REST 16 ONE RAT is not... 17 Ci + COiN 18 RAW GRIN 19 TYPE OR... 20 HOLY LEMAN 21 WELL - SON! 22 SIN ON PIG NOTE: One extra "O" in answer 23 E-TRASH

1 LIVE 4 DISH NOTE: without "4" in answer 2 JOY RUNE 3 VEGA + RA 4 REAL CRAB NOTE: "E" instead of "A" in answer 5 STEP TO ME... is NOTE: Without "O" in answer 6 IT - STAR 7 CREChe + EDEN NOTE: without "he" in answer 8 SAN-HAM 9 CAN'T GO IN A TV 10 DARE to DONE GAMe NOTE: only two "e" in answer 11 ...IS NICE TRY 12 ANGEL vs HELl + C (horns :-)) NOTE: only one "L" in answer 13 MY SURE CAP 14 I AM PERV...S... 15 RISE to OLD 16 TENT, TABLE, M... 17 LUCk TO TRAP NOTE: without "k" in answer 18 ONE like SPEAR NOTE: only one "e" in answer 19 FLING MA 20 ARTY SOIL

1 GO TUNE 2 GOLD AT AIR 3 I + SUR... + SAN... 4 SEINe of GIT NOTE: Only one "E" in answer 5 RIO TO US! 6 TV OR ICY... 7 IOS - FUN 8 RISe from PIT 9 PR - LYE 10 SEA INN 11 ORE + FUR 12 I + NEMESE 13 A PANO-SPIRIT NOTE: answer is singular 14 NERD LEA 15 SIRE, SON, BILL, PITY 16 LEGO + AIR CALL 17 I + RIP NEST 18 RAW FAY + A 19 HAT CELL 20 WE - HIT

ANSWERS: 1-serene 2-debris 3-maniac 4-syringe 5-obfusc 6-surface 7-artefact 8-parlous 9-pierces 10-wisdom 11-harridan 12-dossiers 13-onus 14-diatribes 15-monster 16-ornate 17-iconic 18-warring 19-poetry 20-melanholy 21-swollen 22-poisoning 23-hearts

ANSWERS: 1-devilish 2-journey 3-ravage 4-cerebral 5-tempest 6-artist 7-credence 8-shaman 9-noctivagant 10-armageddon 11-sincerity 12-dossiers 13-onus 14-vampire 15-soldier 16-battlement 17-plutocrat 18-persona 19-flaming 20-solitary

ANSWERS: 1-tongue 2-gladiator 3-russian 4-ignites 5-riotous 6-victory 7-fusion 8-spirit 9-reply 10-insane 11-furore 12-enemies 13-apparition 14-learned 15-responsibillity 16-allegorical 17-pristine 18-faraway 19-hellcat 20-white


THE PANJANDRUM OF QUONDAM (The Epic Grenade)

NEW ::: POETRY. Issue . | :_.::


I quaff up the ebony librettos from the no-frills, bloodless backdrop, as a sprog with a creamy chocolate shake: intense in my anticipation, my grey matter hopelessly hunting for stimulus, as from the engaging, incisive, immutable declarations of the bards of time gone by. At the end of my examining a writers’ and critics’ magazine and newsletter, all I gleaned was the groaning air, gurgling in the bottom of a slimy glass. Eager and hungry, I had unsealed myself to absorb their supposed words of wisdom? The callivers’ utterances did not convince me, ferment in My reminiscence, or nestle into my cavernous sub-conscious. Barren and uninspired, I had craved a poetic cocktail of Plathonian delectability; with the forceful, metaphorical froth only Mayakovsky’s stanzas induce and swell. These are the kind of concoctions which never cease to penetrate highminds: each wordy imbroglio, each metaphor and honorary crown of barbarous, hyperbolic thorns have lacerated their way into my labyrinth-like temple and quintessence: they resurrect me and hold fast in the grottos of my soul, indelible, as no clique-dominated critic, or crone’s shallow observations, will ever earn the supremacy, or privilege to, within me. Contemporary poetry is dull, diaphanous, intimidated and ransacked by uniformless, poetry police: fearfully followed by the pusillanimous and brainwashed poltroons. Newfangled prosaic eddas are scanty as rain in fog: they lack clout, as a retired pugilist; and leave no traces, as professional thieves. Where have the Revolutionary, high-calibre, riskall, courageous poets gone? To the grave! Eradicated! Extinct as dodos! Driven by debacle into declivity, and an untimely death by divisive diatribes. I salute my comrades of quondam: they will spur me on as a battling balladeer, until I die. No middle-class turn out will ever dictate to me the style - or manner - in which I shall create. My eristic words will zoom through the academic cosmos, focussed as manic meteorites; scorching through packs of cut-throat, evanescent critics, with phoney, holier-than-though pomposity and trifling, controlling opinions. Believe me! Megalomania is rife in critical literary circles! But expressions... ..., which span the dynamic viaducts of epochs, as valiant armies, then detonate, potent as dynamite, decades later, they are the poems that survive and outfox all half-baked manoeuvres of critics: they render doctrinaire arbiters sublime. The Revolutionary recruits those valorous, dead poets enlist are the bards of the future; of this I insist. We care not for identification in judges’ blinkered eyes, as we’re far too great in mental stature and character. Behold! This ongoing expanse of undisguised paper is an intemperate battleground: it stretches far beyond the narrow-eyed view. No literati fortress will be large enough to deflect my deadly, sniper-like graphorrhoea; I spray well-aimed bullets too! I have an unprecedented supply of devastating ammunition to utilise in my one-woman-possessed army; my keypad is full of aesthetic nuclear devices! My convoluted rodomontades dilate with the last bastions of unbidden diction. Formidable, I bombard with deleterious, epic grenades, in the interminable brouhaha of a donnish war. Vladimir Mayakovsky tap-danced, knowingly, on versified landmines. Blew up the whole street in one demonstrative stanza! Played Russian Roulette with life! I hunger now to have been his wise and pertinacious wife. His rampant spirit penetrates me as a burley, ethereal paramour: he rouses me from dormancy to penmanship; osculating my psyche with carnal provocation, witticisms and bookish whispers, which cascade and convert into scribing weapons of mass destruction! They ignite and generate my multi-faceted, intellectual climax. I am the pre-ordained, longdistance sonneteer; seized by an ineluctable force to be reckoned with. Mayakovsky’s orders and echelons stand firm: he wears a wordy, heavily-medalled, handsomely endowed uniform of syllabary, allegory and hyperbole. He – the hero of his burning hymns – plays my Backbone Flute with unnerving regularity! There are no final performances beyond the grave: this is ferocious, loquacious intimacy; iti is eternal as death! As Mary Magdalene the most devoted, coeval apostle – my arteries are flooding with an irrepressible whirlpool of beatific passion: as an unorthodox, euphemistic zealot, I convert and reticulate, profound, encoded, kindred lineage, into supernatural elegies; I am the altruistic amanuensis of the inveterate testament, according to my indomitable, Russian confederate.


I perceive Mayakovsky’s burden, and shoulder his analogous suffering: I too have an overgrown heart with tributaries of fire; it’s core pierced repeatedly as a voodoo effigy! His spirit injected me with a primaeval line; as the proverbial pariah, I brachiated from verse to gibbous verse as he redeemed me, and fuelled my proletarian spirit. In my svelte-partitioned, asbestos bunker, in sub-zero temperatures, squalor, destitution, with no illumination but the diminishing flushes of a leaping taper, no heating and no running water, I composed a concatenation of grenade-like cantos: each time I howled, a paroxysm of vows froze in the atmosphere like fuming liquid disgorges – autonomous as magic – into hyperborean, sky-ridden crescents in Siberia! This is how pertinacious I am. Critics and crones will not stand – as adversaries – in my way: nor control anything I have to affirm. I – the unbridled versifier – will never conform to lyrical dictatorship! I will not succumb to producing squirming, diluted words, which skim across a bereft recto, as a sidewinder in the Sahara: whimsically slinking and dissolving into a melodic mirage; with no rationale, or relevance to anything, over and above the vile, bit and bridled, parsimonious, paddocks of the riff-raff bourgeoisie. They kill horses don’t they? Along with impecunious, proletarian balladeers, like me! But I have afforded myself strict poetic impunity; my intellectual dressage and indefatigable repartee is first-class: ten clear-rounds, and I gallop, bareback, marauding riotously; my frenzied hooves gouge out huge, extremist limericks. You can’t even lead this horse to water! It will never accept a critic’s drink! Words? Less is more? Less is less! There is no room for trivial altercations. Tell a ravenous pauper less is more; then listen to his or her riposte. My cursor is no protector of my jugular: I rip apart the very fabric of our society with disturbing clarity. If my head rolls from the proverbial block, it will bounce as a poetically-incorrect bomb, athwart enunciated oceans, into prospective generations. When I die, it will be my well-earned, canto-resurrection: my wordy epiblasts will transform into a sturdy, diamond-spangles poniard and skewer, repeatedly, as a serial killer, into the heart of future poetics and politics. My periphrastic harangues are adamant keys, which lead to identifying the potency of those who are assigned to marc in Mayakovsky’s tumultuous army. He has spiked my psyche with his valiant possession: interposed progency In my spine; I shuddered with the certainty of his distinct presence! He pronounced this: “It was I who summoned you. Don’t try to escape!” Mayakovsky is my leitmotiv of a man with endless candour: and no mistake! Faith and substance are fusillades from a subversive, elegiac repeater: fired at point-blank range, they perforate the pundit’s supercilious cranial form, triggering a strategy of magnitude, by an unanticipated Futurist conscript. There will always be the necessity for perceptive recruits to announce Further, caustic quotations. I blazon! Not muffled by gauze on a lesion, as a dying soldier: but I exude my unique poetic lifeblood on this pallid beggar – the sheet – and see it surge and gush, as a flirtatious, shocking pink, Schiaparelli creation, post-prohibition! Vendettas targeted at me are the very hub of my motivations. The more critics attack me, the more fuel they extol me with: that very fuel fills the metric vestibule with an abundance of vehemence and invincible credibility. With Mayakovsky as my ally, I would say my critics would die before I! I remain intellectually quarantined by dogmatic, feminist critique: as the rabid reactionary and sybaritic heroine, full of testosterone and a man’s brain! I stand meticulous, cantankerous, obstreperous, scurrilous, salacious, dauntless and relentless. A rabble-rouser rhymester! Long lives the Revolution! Yes! I am the firebrand incarnate: Mayakovsky’s obdurate, Futurist mate. Where have all the Revolutionary Poets gone? One gargantuan, magniloquent spirit is raging, extemporaneously as lighting: firing as a fanatical, compatible cathode, inside me! The ongoing, armed conflict of poetic injustice will be our conquest: we will reign throughout centuries; the bayonet jibes of the depleting army of unsubstantial critics will be vanquished beyond recall! Mayakovsky is my incontrovertible Panjandrum of Quondam: he delivers me thunder in ethereal e-mails! We voyage as high-powered hooligans, on wayward rainbows: my Cloud in Trousers, and me. As appointed bards, We skilfully collaborate, to collate truly unruly psalms: as a synonymous agitator, I propagate them – at his behest – with both his, and my, unrivalled alms.


TRANSLATTE - premier translations made by authors and short interviews


In this issue we introduce our readers to the poetry of a talented contemporary poet from Chile, Victor Lobos. (His poetry was translated by our partner translation agency NRWTO-GO). In order to experience and to understand this peace of art, to plunge into the world of Chilean poetry, we asked the author to tell us shortly about himself and his poetry (read it further).

VICTOR LOBOS SAAVEDRA Víctor Lobos Saavedra was born in Santiago de Chile in June 1960 and belonged to the first generation of José Donoso Writers’ Workshop, when the Chilean novelist returned to his country after years of self-imposed exile, after the terror of Pinochet’s dictatorship was beginning to soften and intellectual life wasn’t persecuted as viciously as before. Donoso is considered the greatest novelist his country ever produced and his best novel, “The Obscene Bird of Night” (1970), the darkest, weirdest and most demanding bloom of the celebrated Latin American Boom of the 60’s and 70’s. Lobos wanted to be a prose writer and after two years at the workshop he had mixed results. One the one hand, he learned the seriousness and subtleties of the writer’s trade; on the other, he became extremely self-critical and disappointed with his novel in progress, a sort of apocryphal biography of the Romanian surrealist painter Victor Brauner. As a result, he gave up writing and forgot his calling, studied Psychology at the Catholic University of Santiago de Chile, got married, had a daughter and became a proper bourgeois, until utter despair coupled with the reading of Robert Graves’ “The White Goddess” sent him back to the less traveled path. As a result, after fifteen years practicing Clinical Psychology, he returned to writing, this time to poems. Following a particularly productive period from 2000 to 2006, when he managed to write two or three good enough poems daily, he finally decided to publish his first book, “El ojo y otros puntos de vista” (“The Eye and Other Points of View”), in 2007, which resumes the story of Brauner, and “Norte in Elocoyán” (“North Wind in Elocoyán”), in 2013, a nostalgic journey through memory, loss and death, laced with legends and traditions of the Mapuche and Huilliche Indians of the South of Chile. He has been partially translated into English, Russian and Romanian, and his poetry has been praised by some of the best Chilean poets, among others, by Andrés Morales, Manuel Silva Acevedo and Raúl Zurita (this author won Chilean National Prize for Literature in 2000), who considered his work one of the most remarkable of his generation. An important portion of his poetry is rather allusive, full of literary, artistic and historical references, but also very fluent, vivid, intense and moving to read, sometimes animated with surrealistic touches and always characterized by a very personal combination of sense of humor, sense of horror and sense of the Erotic. Víctor Lobos Saavedra, exclusively for the "NEW ::: POETRY" magazine. According to the author, the cycle «Crows» forms a part of unpublished poetry with the name «Crows and other poems found in dreams».

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NEW ::: POETRY. Issue . | :_.::


TRANSLATION ES>EN: Víctor Lobos Saavedra


Tree of crows. Leaves still in the wind. Rustles, black croaks piercing the silence. Rotten planks in the dustly hall. Closed shutters. Lonely house at the edge of the cemetery.

ART INTERPRETATION:

the lonely girl is standing on the cemetery, the crows, bad and good, are watching, the holy tree is catching the sin...

Pampered girl naked in bed barely breathes covered in veils. Wet hand explores sacred mysteries.

[.] Árbol de cuervos. Hojas inmóviles en el viento. Crujidos, graznidos negros perforando el silencio. Tablones podridos en el zaguán polvoriento. Postigos cerrados. Casa solitaria al borde del cementerio. Niña mimada desnuda en la cama apenas respira cubierta de velos. Mano húmeda explora sagrados misterios.


Disturbing staff: crows’ shadows on naked branches at daybreak. The old house that never changes.

ART INTERPRETATION:

five nibs are under the nimbus-loop - the sad house with wide broken window is for a girl without a head, the hills of the grief won't give a wind to wings...

The scar brief and deep that goes deeper in the dark hills. The dreamed-of wound that makes way in the flesh down to the very bowels.

[:]

The girl daubed, absurdly dressed with her mother’s laces, waits and waits.

Inquietante pentagrama: sombras de cuervos en las ramas desnudas esta madrugada. La vieja casa que nunca cambia. La cicatriz breve y profunda que se adentra en los sombríos cerros.

La herida soñada que se abre paso en la carne hasta las mismísimas entrañas. La niña pintarrajeada, absurdamente vestida con los encajes de su madre, que aguarda y aguarda.


Beak, skull, eye so black that it’s blue. Lips, naked nape, stare fixed in the narcotic void of your dream.

ART INTERPRETATION:

the man with a spiralheart is creating the sacred fear for a spider and then giving the smoky threads to the sky of rage... the girl with a spiral-mind is losing her blood, weaving a crow in the boiler of the abyss

The sparse plumage of the oldest male. The goose flesh, the hunched spine, the cramps like lightnings visiting your body. Outside the crows keep watch. In the red womb of the house a man and a girl

[:.] Pico, cráneo, ojo azul de tan negro. Labios, nuca desnuda, mirada fija en el vacío narcótico de tu sueño. El plumaje ralo del macho más viejo. La carne de gallina, el espinazo doblado, los calambres como relámpagos que visitan tu cuerpo. Afuera montan guardia los cuervos. En la roja matriz de la casa un hombre y una niña


carry out dark rituals nobody understands anymore.

ART INTERPRETATION:

the captain of the dead is showing the way, his head-cannonball can not leaves this world, chained to the tough muzzle. The ship is sailing to the lost Eden, where the shadows are killing the sun for the illusive love.

The old crow at the top of the tree turns his head like a clockwork owl and looks straight into your eyes. Then we wake up: you drenched all-over; I dried out like a pirate’s skeleton hanging from the main-mast a breezeless afternoon on the coast of Namibia.

[:;] cumplen oscuros rituales que ya nadie comprende. El viejo cuervo en la copa del árbol gira la cabeza como una lechuza mecánica y te mira directo a los ojos. Entonces despertamos: tú empapada por los cuatro costados; yo reseco como el esqueleto de un pirata colgando del palo mayor una tarde sin brisa en la costa de Namibia.


ART INTERPRETATION:

the voo-doo wood has one thread from broken eggs and a mad feather... for a baby God, for a link between hope and void...between the man and the woman.

[::]

Mystical crows on the dreamed-of tree. Small paper strips obscured by night, motionless in spite of the breeze, dangling from the branches like hanged men’s souls. Black feathers stuffed of black doodles. Forest of incomprehensible signs. Pleas to the anonymous kami in front of the house. Cuervos místicos en el árbol soñado. Tiritas de papel veladas por la noche, estáticas pese a la brisa, colgando de las ramas como almas de ahorcados. Plumas negras atiborradas de garabatos negros. Bosque de signos incomprensibles. Súplicas para los anónimos kami frente a la casa.


ART INTERPRETATION:

the divine body of a fallen virgin is forcing the sun to express itself like a victim of the guillotine, its rays are crawling to her with hope to return the spark of life, but turning into snakes...

[::,]

The wind of the gods suspends them for ever, until the dead ones wake up. What are you going to do, dear child, when the spirits enter in the gloomy origami birds? When the crows fly at last in the morning, perch on your sleeping body, dig their claws in your white flesh and caw in your ear with the voice of your ancestors?

El viento de los dioses las suspende eternamente, hasta que los muertos se despierten. ¿Qué vas a hacer, niña querida, cuando sus espíritus entren en los sombríos pájaros de origami?

¿Cuando los cuervos vuelen por fin de madrugada, se posen en tu cuerpo dormido, entierren sus garras en tus carnes blancas y te graznen al oído con la voz de tus antepasados?


Like strange migratory birds for ever frozen on a map of the Nile delta locked up in a gigantic iceberg. ART INTERPRETATION:

the monster of sleep is giving a birth, out of its teeth, to the anthillcemetery for the butterfly of souls.

Like an inscrutable insects collection distributed almost at random on the nervation of a leaf caught in a piece of amber. Like a wolves pack lurking on the branches of a dream, ready to leap...

[:.:] Como extrañas aves migratorias congeladas para siempre sobre un mapa del delta del Nilo encerrado en un iceberg gigante. Como una hermética colección de insectos repartidos casi al azar sobre la nervadura de una hoja atrapada en un trozo de ámbar. Como una jauría de lobos agazapada en las ramas de un sueño, preparándose para saltar...


...over the elusive object of my desire. Like the trail of your shadow through my fingers, unreal and lonesome after having caressed your hair. ART INTERPRETATION:

the monster of sleep is giving a birth, out of its teeth, to the anthillcemetery for the butterfly of souls.

Like dark sentinels watching the borders of Hell. Like in every nightmare, the discreet custodians of your secret: the unchanging crows.

[:.:,] ...sobre el esquivo objeto de mi deseo. Como el rastro de tu sombra entre mis dedos, irreales y solitarios después de haber acariciado tu cabello. Como oscuros centinelas vigilando las fronteras del Infierno. Como en toda pesadilla, los discretos custodios de tu secreto: los invariables cuervos.


Here we are again, pale sleepwalkers consumed by the same flame, after such a long time prisoners in this house by the cemetery. ART INTERPRETATION:

There is a game in a nude house. A game to win souls. Skin filled with blemishes persecutes, the abyss aspires to be luminary, through the stairs of abandoned dummies... The Angel prays to the lamp... please don't fade!

Old girl, you ate my tongue, my fingers, my hands. Your trained crows smashed my eardrums, gouged out my eyes, left me goblined*. “The ferret, it runs, it runs”**,

[:::]

Aquí estamos de nuevo, pálidos sonámbulos consumidos por la misma flama, después de tanto tiempo prisioneros en esta casa junto al cementerio. Niña vieja, me comiste la lengua, los dedos, las manos. Tus cuervos amaestrados me destrozaron los tímpanos, me sacaron los ojos, me dejaron imbunchado. “Corre el anillo por un portillo”,


croons the crone with a little girl’s voice.

ART INTERPRETATION:

the crucified eye is a scarecrow for the black mirror, the waves of eternity and horror are bounding it for just one moment of silence...

My eye is the errand of the moon going from beak to beak between clouds breaking above a sea of crows. Black bursts the feathers’ foam. My eye is afraid of drowning with nobody left to remember him, nobody left to ever wake him up of this nightmare that isn’t his. The eye is afraid.

[:::,] canta la vieja con voz de niña. Mi ojo es el recado de la luna que va de pico en pico entre nubes que rompen sobre un mar de cuervos. Estalla negra la espuma de las plumas. Mi ojo tiene miedo de ahogarse sin que nadie lo recuerde, sin que nadie jamás lo despierte de esta pesadilla que no es suya. El ojo tiene miedo.


* “Goblined” is a lame translation of “imbunchado”, but the one offered in the dictionaries, “bewitched”, is even worse. “Imbunchado” comes from “imbunche”. What’s an “imbunche”? Here’s my answer to an English speaking person who asked me after reading the poem titled “Vamos a hacer un imbunche” (“Let’s Make an Imbunche”) from “Norte in Elocoyán”: <<What’s an imbunche. Well, it’s a fantastic, monstruous creature from the folklore of the island of Chiloé, in the South of Chile. Chiloé belonged in practice to the crown of Spain 100 years after the Declaration of Independence, because the locals didn’t want to belong to the new nation. They still have a widespread witchcraft cult with very complex roots, in part stemming from the Mapuche and Huilliche indians, but also from Galicia and the Basque country. In Chiloé is firmly believed, for instance, that every single mother has been impregnated by the Trauko, a half human half animal creature with a prodigious phallus, and the mother is never rejected, but always treated with a mixture of fear and pity. The Mayoría referred to in the poem is the covenant of witches, the Chonchón is a fantastic bird, half owl but sometimes also described as a winged human head whose scream sounds very much like a baby crying or perhaps a cat’s howl. The process of creating an imbunche is exactly like the one described in the poem. A child is stolen from their parents, sometimes an ugly creature is left in the cradle in his place, thus explaining some genetic accidents frequent in a region characterized for inbreeding. This stolen child is disfigured, his limbs broken, sometimes his face scarred or burnt, to make everybody afraid of him. He’s fed with human flesh. The purpose, apparently, is to keep them as guardians of the sacred secret places of the Mayoría. Of course, in the poem there’s the idea of saying something about children’s abuse in all it’s form, especially the psychological one, which is too common in Chile, more common than in most countries according to the UNICEF, and in all social classes.>> As in the Celtic folklore there exists the tradition of children kidnapped by goblins or fairies and replaced by a monstrous baby I though of “goblined”, although may be the word doesn’t even exist. May be we could just use the word in Spanish, “imbunchado”, but in any case I think a footnote is called for here.

** “The ferret, it runs, it runs” is the first line of a French traditional song which accompanies a children game as is very aptly described in this link: http://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=118&c=22 The same game and song exists in Italy and most European countries, including Spain, from where it travelled to the New World. In every country the lyrics change but the game is basically the same. In Chile it goes like this: “Corre el anillo por un portillo, Pasó un chiquillo comiendo huesillos, A todos les dio menos a mí. Corre el anillo por un portillo. Cayó una teja mató a una vieja, Cayó un martillo, mató a un chiquillo, Cayó un ratón Mató a un guatón, Cayó una horquilla Pinchó a una chiquilla, Cayó una tagua, aplastó a una guagua Cayó una rama de matico, Aplastó a un milico”. Although in my family the song was slightly bowdlerised to prevent children being contaminated by extreme violence, so it went “Pasó una vieja vendiendo lentejas, etc.” after the fourth line. Old biddies shouldn’t suffer violent deaths, apparently… I am not very sure, but I believe the game in English speaking countries is called “Pass the Ring” but I don’t know the song…


Bonus interview about poetry, Márquez, Latin America and more. 1. Let's start the interview with the first question, in order to honor the legacy of great

Gabriel García Márquez. How magic realism of Gabriel García Márquez influenced the Latin American poetry and in particular your poetry? Marquez began artistic career as a poet and then he switched to prose. Do you think this boom of prose is the reason why we know so little about his poetry? So is it the reverse side of the coin of his life - this tragedy for poetry, which caused the loss of Márquez as the poet and thousands of other young poets, who switched to prose because of his influence and because of the chase for success? You know, Gabriel García Márquez was a novelist, as well as most of the other authors of the so called Latin American boom of the sixties. In a way, I think the boom meant a sort of inconvenience for the development of poets here because from that time on everybody wanted to be a novelist, not a poet. I don't think my poems have much of the magical realism of Gabriel García Márquez, but there's an element of magic in them that is sure connected with surrealism. I believe something else influenced me of this writer... the search of a more natural voice... not so convoluted or baroque but more spontaneous, a writing that is easy for the reader. And it is sure a tragedy for poetry, in a sense. E.g. in Chile is easy to detect a decline in the poetical art since my generation probably, most great poets in Chile still belong to the 40's and 50's generations or even older ones.

2

2. So what is Chilean poetry like? Do Chilean poets follow the traditions or do they have

their individual styles?How often poets translate themselves into English and do they choose English as the primary language or do they prefer to write in Spanish?

I am not such a specialist in the contemporary authors, but almost all of them write in Spanish. A few of them translate into English or other European languages or have written in these foreign language a few pieces. There are different styles like the anti-poetry invented by Nicanor Parra, which in my opinion is a form of belated dadaism which often adopts the form of humorous poetry. Basically it is an antidote against the sublime style adopted by traditional poets which became overwrought. Of course a football match can be sublime or trascendent if you manage to connect it with the great subject of poetry but I am afraid the anti-poet more often than not strays his way and, after all, the sublime is what make poems worth writing or reading

...

Interviewer: Т. Istomina


3. What is the image of a poet in Chile? Why are we asking? I mean what is his appearance

among population. e.g. In Great Britain he is associated with drugs, homosexuality, marginal style of life, in Korea the poet is vagabond, beggar, in Russia he is a celebrity, sometimes from psychiatric hospitals, or school girls who fell in love or in maze of "likes", "reposts", "publics" etc. In Chile there are marginal poets, but probably not real marginal ones like Paul Potts. Their marginality comes from 2 or 3 things, first of all there are the mapuche poets, some write in mapudungun, the mapuche language, most of them write in Spanish though but they stick to a theirs subject which concerns the oppression they have suffered and their traditions. There are the feminist poets, of course. If you ask me I would say normal people sees a poets as somewhat out of place in the new Chile. People don't have much time to read poems, that is why there are not so many poets.

4. We hope this situation will change to the best soon. And now we' like to ask a question

about your poem. "Crows" is very strong and deep piece of art, which can scary and confuse an unprepared reader. Please, tell us, how to prepare yourself to read, to interpret, to understand it correctly. Does one need a special state of mind or the preliminary knowledge of books or moves related to "Crows"?

It is kind of a dream, but I will tell you more – that is a real dream. I remember when I had the first dream, because they were three dreams, while dreaming I said to myself... hey, these crows perching on that tree look like that Hitchcock movie. The cycle “Crows and other poems found in dreams” was finally based on the whole series of these dreams. And I remember these dreams in detail and this helps me to write them down.

5. And finally we'd like to know what poets can you recommend for our readers and for

us to translate into English or Russian? And thank you so much for this interview! And we hope to read much of your poetry in the future.

Yes, sure. Here we go: Octavio Paz, from Mexico and Jorge Luis Borges, from Argentina are my favourite Latin American poets. The last one rather old fashioned in his style but modern in his imagination. From Chile, Oscar Hahn, Raúl Zurita (he strives to write the great poem about Chile, the one that defines it as Neruda’s defined it for previous generations), Manuel Silva Acevedo, Oscar Lihn, Gonzalo Millán, Miguel Arteche, Veronica Zondek, Andrés Morales, Rafael Rubio (his father and grandfather were brilliant poets too), Diego Maquieira, Tomás Harris, Gonzalo Rojas and Jorge Teillier, the great poet of the South region.

Interviewer: Т. Istomina


HIGH COO - haiku-like poems rubric with love, passion and other emotions set


9: Depth keeps in the old silence A child without a shade. Eight mad nannies feed him with light! 4: The coffin for empty promises is on my neck… It is a door to a sound's purgatory, To a hell of distances... To a paradise of our bond! 5: Mummy's bust swings in the wind, Chains hold it … Will life overbalance soon?! 6: The black sun fell, Hiding a bald hill… Pent fields rounded off. 7: Pointed edges trample down bodies for life…for a passion…for a paradox of a question – «Who is the first!?» 3: Scares of dead fingers draw under blood stars the only one word - "FREEDOM" 2: The slave of blind tunnel! The lover of sharp sound! The Lord of an exit! 8: Thoughts sweat from above... The hive of wet letters Runs downwards... By damnation or hope! 10: The wind lay down, Laughing in a cradle of speed and aim... Roulettes of rules! 1: Fire spirits bathe in a dead cavern for perishing in a soul's dark cell…

WHOKKU?!

Relax and read haikus, one by one, then guess the main message for each. Check yourself with the answers in the box on the right. Answer options made by images.

1: pipe 2: key 3: USA 4: photo 5: scales

6: hat 7: egg 8: thunder 9: octopus 10: wheel

Right answers: select or zoom text to read it easily


RHYMOGLOBIN - global rhymes + hemoglobin = pure poetry is in our blood!


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BENJAMIN MITROFAN-NORRIS | UK / RO | ",," GAEL BAGE |UK | ;!; CATHERINE ZICKGRAF | US | ;!; GRANT TABARD |UK | ;!; JOHN CASQUARELLI | US | ;!; | ",,"

::: ::: :::

YULIA MAMOCHEVA | RU | ;!; ALINA SHKLYARSKAYA | RU | ;!; ARIA LIGI | ITALY | ;!;

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INNA DULCHEVSKY | US | ;!; DEBORAH HODGE | UK | ;!;

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LOREN KLEINMAN | US | ;!; | ",," SCOTT HASTIE | UK HEDVA RABINSON BACHRACH | ISRAEL | ",,"

NOTE

EXTRA || DI.VERSE SUB-HEADING: 1) JOSHUA GRAY | US and ABNER PORZIO | ITALY ::: 2) MARY ELIZABETH PARKER | US and J.J. CAMPBELL | US ::: 3) PENN KEMP | US and WENDY WOLLF BLUMBERG | US ::: 4) GLINDA BUSTAMANTE | US and KAREN COLE | US

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EDITORS' CHOICE SIGN: this sign is only for deep, smart, unique and beatifull poems granted by editors.

;!;

PREMIERE SIGN: this sign is for premiers and the first publications

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PROMO SIGN: this sign indicates authors with forced publication as promotion from magazine with a bit of a wangle or because of their luck, assistance and/or merits to the Poetry. Instead of AD ;-)

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KIDS Your genes; an unseen set of countless mannerisms, the friends you’ll choose, the bow of your mother’s lips, all you’ll become . an accumulated ocean of poses with which to hold yourself in sleep seasickness, a way with words, reactions to a thief . who may or may not come on the night you can’t drift off because of the same sad dreams your father had . all tightly wrapped in tiny fists and held before the day your mouth will move, and our music will pour forth and plenty.

KIDS 2 Parenthood was the night terror that spoiled those times I didn’t come home. A prospective grimy window, left unshattered, between myself and many others. More than once I held that vigil – forty days and awful nights willing a drop of blood to flow, as if I’d thrust myself into a dull lunar ritual pre-dating even the oldest stains on this bed we watch unseen hands and malformed feet, we dream up names nicked from old books. An exhalation, a fragile limb writhes daily, there, beneath your skin.

BENJAMIN MITROFAN-NORRIS


by Catherine Zickgraf For the raw throats of souls in Hell, I swallow waterfalls from the faucet till I’m satisfied. Daddy tells bedtime stories to warn me of the silver fire writhing around the unfaithful, about what’s awaiting me in death, how the Rich Man, his mouth dry as dust, once begged Abraham for a drop water on the tip of his finger— for I’m in agony here in this fire. But Father Abraham denied the thirsty man that small relief while holding his own children to his chest in death’s cool twilight across the canyon from the unholy. And the great Father of nations called out to the Rich man: My child, he said, your life was good, so you will suffer dead. Sheol was eternity’s waiting room, says Daddy, opening the Bible to the book of Luke. There, everyone who died before Christ waited for the Resurrection— their souls separated from their corpses which froze motionless in their graves. And when that day came, Daddy explained: Christ arose from the dead. Then Abraham’s chosen children left the sweet breeze of Sheol’s righteous sea taking seats at Heaven’s golden table.

But across the chasm, the lost wailed in cages among other hated souls, Until Sheol turned into Hell— changing itself into waves of flames. Then the unchosen souls awoke in their bodies. They opened their eyes, exhausted, but couldn’t lie on the burning ground. And their skin bubbled up, their eyes vaporized. They felt everything. And there was weeping and gnashing of teeth, Daddy says. Weeping and gnashing teeth, I repeat, grinding my baby teeth. For the Rich Man’s charred tongue, I drink, pink nightgowned under the bathroom’s moon-soaked curtains. I drink in the middle of the night, parched from these dreams of Hell. I drink in the middle of the night because the punished cannot drink at all, and their Hell is not a dream. I can still gulp the water stream from the faucet to my palm to my lips, gulp life from the plumbing. Though I wonder under my eyelids, back in bed, with the teddy bear I always hold, whether I too could be quick to slip, whisked down to the pit of blistered souls.


(i) 1 a.m. bird call, once he shrilly rasps. a murder of branches wrapped around that flat reed blown like a raspberry in the silence of a court,  in the silence of a bedroom  with one lamp masking shadows to the abandoned walls that will be wrapped   in a curtain of mirrors, the next night, the next show, and I, writing this poem for no one am clinging to the slouch backed  shadow,  a life raft that will see me  to the door of an incomplete  dawn-rise 

(ii) The magic carpet's camel hair eventually tires and I plummet into a dark, soundless sea, a thread being torn buried in a pile of stones. To sleep is to drown and be resurrected in dream. Aegis, the breastplate of a protector  in this kneeling, pointing to the sky he says "each bead is his name,  each portrait is a walk among spectres",  the dead eyed glare  has never seemed so beautiful. But still, I want sprinkled salt on this earth, the walking place of ghosts  enticed by the scent of rotting, of ethereal soil.

EVENSONG (iii)

(v)

Nightfall, the firstborn from the dead. Tonight I sit and witness

This night is a traveller, an illusion of sky

both the oak great and thorny small, a model of the universe where nothing

in patched cipher fabric roving underneath our pillows.

accepts that nothing can spawn everything, with this I find a certain kind of beauty

Thief of magic, a cruel moon's ragged spasm of purple.

in the beast of the backstreets, in the depths of the empty handed.

Thief of resurrection, bury me so I can see the sky

(iv)

inviting Time by the sun, to a field of a rebellious Russian blue

Made as a bed, your loathed grave, throwing dirt on a wreath of the dead, 

box coat, framed in a glaze of my window, 

as delicate as blood. The dust of you had shadow turned to stone.

and life is a somber shadow mopping the reflected water from the room

GRANT TARBARD

in my undecided shoes, in my Russian novel of a head.


JOHN CASQUARELLI

when passing through sullen sea-shadows because I linger still when hosts shall no more wander onto sorrows & bravado

that burst like blue giants in nature

necessary

frightened

naming the nameless air

heightened by eternal blooms

in human spirit

reaching the edge of the wet rice plains

hungry & holding

of mind & mystic whims

concealed in luminous silence

summoned by water wind obscurity absence between farewell & anecdotal bliss


I'm kindling the candle to cherish the spark Until it blooms into ďŹ&#x201A;ame. I know, that you're still afraid of the dark, That's why you have called my name. I came. Here I am, blessed by blindness of Night And vague as the slumbering thought. Be keen on beginning-to-see-the-light, The blossom of which I brought!.. I brought you the scarlet blossom of blaze, As hot as the throbbing sore. It scents of the sense, it scents of the grace, Of ardor, with which I adore. It seems like a wound, bleeding with glow, The wound in the ďŹ&#x201A;esh of the gloom... You're startled by Magic of mine, I know: That's why you are leaving the room. Dive into the yard from the height of the porch, Inhale the nocturnal quiet!.. I'll kindle the moon as the wondrous torch To let you see the light.

J U L I A M A M O C H E VA


Poison in our Veins Alone fear seeks a pack asking how do I look and how much have I got tuned to a mad media reality hung-up on "what I don't have", envy It spreads, silent, insiduous : esteem by what each has and not what each is.” onesies, selfies, grasping, climbing over the others to top of the pyramid alone alone with silence can be beautiful but only if we're content with what lies on the inside if the inner critic has no axe to grind how can we find contentment of mind if folk on city streets are found asleep on a bed of concrete in subzero temperatures the stench, the fleas , freeze - dying, alone . alone life is too hard unyielding like granite it's too hard to be on our own for we all need someone who cares who'll be around long enough to be our friend bone chilled, with no warm body near at the end they have fallen off the edge of the world frozen to cardboard, drifting in a sleep from where there's no awakening , young and old die alone .


I’ll miss you, house. I’ll miss your heart in my heart. I’ll miss your chairs at the center of the large cold room at the center of the cold winter. House, I’ll miss you. I’ll miss the creak of floor and grey dust balls from your wide-open mouth. The thought of coming home to you and wanting you when I go. House, I’ll miss the sun on my body through the cracked window, through the brown shade. I’ll miss your blast of heat and cool of air, the whirl of laundry in the room where I imagined I’d fold the belongings of my lover. House. House. House. I sigh each time I say that word. Like it’s a dead mother I miss, or dead child I mourn. My house, sweet and clean, a fresh peach between my teeth.

LOREN KLEINMAN


:::

WHO TOLD YOU Who told you That I didn't want To sail on the boat of colors? To rise and fall, to caress the wave Like breasts of quivering expanses Who told you that I was not afraid Lest wave and sea would sweep me away From amid the "I" and the wandering day which hides my face – They shall not see me So who whispered to you? –in the boat of hues I gathered the silver, the capering gold And I painted eternity with the palette of winds Shall I return from the wind? To become simply a witness Of the brief moment secreted in a tiny furry recess In the fleeting streets of those that flee And I who sing and paint the dance Of the eternal and the wave as they come and go...

HEDVA RABINSON BACHRACH.


Welcome the Ocean Sand and people Mixed in one Ocean’s wave Swallows the shore Runs away and Leaves behind Ocean’s treasury to all Tangled seaweeds Different colors Shells’ varieties of shapes Smiles to eyes of people Cheerfulness into a day Cleans from any hurtful troubles Takes away the heavy loads Blesses time with Grains of hot sand Glides the skin With salty wind Splashes droplets Of the ocean Skims the faces With sun rays Sand and people Mixed in one Sand and people Mixed with sand Sand and people Sand with salt Salt is not from tears

Inna Dulchevsky Inna Dulchevsky

GHOST I run through a long corridor I run through its dim lights bright lights They flicker on my face Light up cat-jade eyes Swim in wheat seas of my hair Pale whisper of tall walls An echo Game of words mind games Silk cloak routs down the spine Slides alone the curve of my sacrum Runs over the cups of my knees Presses against long naked legs Shades of stone are heavy on ankles Let me walk through that door --if the door exists-Because I am here I have been looking for myself Keep the lights on


the long and the short of it chickens meet llamas and cats meet dogs who says they can't but often they wish if the crow flies south and the sun never sets what was once a world becomes an island a home becomes a house backwards and forwards the ebbing tide of life when all we do is kiss frogs such as this hopping and skipping from lily pad to heart tongues flicking out catching air catching flies dull glazed stare from big rounded eyes glistening skin the skies caving in the llamas don't cluck pecking and scratching away till it hurts when once there was life now the cat's don't fuc* and madness is rife out of this though two minds can collide however fleeting their meeting filled with life and promise and greeting do we run away from the cats and the llamas thinking that there may always be dramas or embrace the thrill of the chase laughing like idiots and fu*king like base animals and manimals and mammals and fish what do we have in a garden such as this slugs in our cabbages and lice in our dish drowning and drudging and sludging like pish out of the sediment I see some merriment intrigue is rife far from real life do what you want to whenever you can just don't end up like cats dogs and fish


LA CONVERSAZIONE

(In three cantos, starting with Lucrezia Borgia and alternating between Lucrezia and her brother Ceasare)

1. Where have you been brother friend Never far, never near just beyond fingers that would hold you into me-in me constant, though unsettling I am aware of this distance it can ne’er be breached The waters which divide us stand house upon the sand glinting, golden cockles about your brow floating wavelet your man-child eyes see mebut do not the ache cinches constricting and clawing Robbing me Raping me While I stand here bloodied and the blood, our blood flows like a river down the blade We don’t think these things the thoughts themselves verboten Could you have ever said them in my presence Your hands tremble eyesLondon blue cool as the ocean slip through brimming tears you dare not shed dread laden -dead while my hands and lips would wait forever for the remittance that never will be This would be our final hour... Read the next page

ARIA LIGI


... This would be our last hoorah This would be our solo foray into the wave where words are not tainted and love is not stained Let us come up from the sea In the light of day let us be brave 2. Not brave No knight stands before you only the mirage-twisted, fright filled knave To see you is not simply torture it is my crucifixion The curls upon my brow convolve bristles jimmying into the emulsified core where memory waits my hands upon you hands that would clasp and then compound as cement into that sweet honeyed nave into your crystal prism intemerate cave or the foot and heel -steel wailing against brittle molded bone... Read the next page


Crushing the central point tiny tinder twigs pubic symphysis against your vulva-velvet dome Did I do this Club, club to rub out what was Did I do that thing so hateful to you the one most loved Or was it desire feeding and nesting on fire While with a pitch fork the stabs came inwardly secretly so, though forever without sin I close my mouth against the words lest they escape – Prisoners on the run We scream sanctuary not from them but from the voices huddled within 3. In my dreams it was gentler there were no bouts fists and feet heel as staves raging in paroxysms while the room dropped and spun

In the quietude between night and dawn we lay The thrum of your beating, thundering warmth heart inside my skin There you would ne’er voice it nor wink in self -assured acclamation Within your breast certainty beamed and the blade was sheathed I could hear you low, unafraid though the reckless and galling sea pitched and tossed me o’er the railing heart submerging neath the cool black glass tempered pane away away from the surety of your gaze the unsteady rage In my dreams it was a gentler thing and the words themselves remembered not the sour lit craze but the solid glowing flame not the fists shooting death drones into the secret place where Venus reigns not the dusky hours of screams unanswered my innocence deflowered but the cannon writ of love, which in its beauty is silent but not extinguished


I know in my heart it is a given That I can never entirely banish This spectre of the night, It will always be beside me, as it needs to be. Just as surely as the sunniest of summer’s mornings Or the broadest of smiles on a lover’s face Can make your heart soar, As a counterpoint in the navigation Of all that’s possible in life. All that one would ever want to reach out for, Whether driven by angels or demons. So I choose to condemn it To wait on the sidelines forever. And as an irrelevance, a meaningless shadow, A token silhouette to all my blessings. Like the soft dusting of fallen snow on hollow bones, On the already broken, spilt corpse Of souls long since departed. Strengthened by the certainty That the light I cherish and hold dear within Will instead keep me safe and warm, Till my own time comes…

Life collects, pools around you. It paints its highlights, Nothing there you can destroy Or begin again. Calm in aquamarine beauty, Barely a hint of surf’s snowy trim. Today the sea is out But will come again. For the moment, On the beach, My love and I, Naked and blissful as can be. In the soft, sun baked sand History between my toes. Sense how Even the smooth stones ache With stories of their own In the shuddering light of day.

We are anything but finite Or alone! After all the petals of proof Are here in our hearts, Are they not? And however deflated We might sometimes be, Either by our own frailties Or the cruelty of others, - Inviolate At the core of our being, The very prism Of sanctity and self remains. And latent there, The quick silvered opportunity Of redemption, To become enchanted again. Sublime moments refracted, Even if only for seconds, Caught forever in your soul.

SCOTT HASTIE

And still the darkness waits for me, As I know it will… And ever more avariciously still, As it senses my journey comes closer to fruition.


OFF-HEADING

DI.VERSE - poetic duets united by editors as "diversion" without a permission.


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",,"

HAPPILY EVER AFTER slipping underneath the pain of a lover's lament it gets hard out here once you realize happily ever after never existed in the ďŹ rst place bleeding hearts and dark souls your perfect skin in another man's hands build these walls until the sun can no longer be seen wallow in the guilt of what could have been a beautiful death one last kiss a tearful goodbye somewhere a violin begins to play

J.J. CAMPBELL

SPECIAL UNITED ILLUSTRATION

MARY ELIZABETH PARKER BATS POISE ...for dusk to swoop, soft gray bat. A palm cupped her, scythe hand reading the shape of skull, ear, sloped arm, knotted wrist. Now the slight press of the ham of a hand turns white where a moon of perspiration marks the glass of the night table. Rain falls staccato from the balconies, stops. Returning from a place of lights or a dark room with one other body, a man jingles keys in his pocket: vanishes into his front door. Rain begins again, lopped gait like a stump-legged horse receding.


We were in the hospital all together and we didn't know Our Lord and Savior, coming to kill us swiftly, so quickly with his thin, pocket Sci-Fi killing machine. Passing around the tasers, maybe that would get their attention. In fact, we were having 7 Eleven ice cream in all flavors all three or four, in the small little girl cups that Beatrice wanted to blossom in the snow wanting to breathe freely without the cigarette smoke coming from all the vehicles. In the parking lot I saw a man named Goofy Chaos a Black young man, who looked like soot and Walt Disney World. He said he had many names, and one of them sold records so long ago, when he was both a Crip and a Blood. I told him, don't kill that lesbian lady, let's give her a ride Just like in the college dorm rooms of my own mind that I had already attended But never really lived or been in for some unknown reason having to do with satanic hell, or perhaps beautiful white people. Goofy Chaos was the order of the day all around. Then Goku, the wise Scruffy version, showed up and tried to fulfill all our dreams. He was going to kill us all, rather than making us stand around waiting To die of choking, horrible surgeries, and other things Goku knew. I marveled at his Muslim wisdom and his deep and abiding courage. Then Andrea, the wisest woman I have ever, who knows Jezebel from the Bible is fascinating to her and she is NOT "them" and she and my best friend forever hides in the bookcase Behind a secret compartment that nobody gives a hoot about. You see, Andrea wants to lead a real normal life. Certain Jewish people have no idea of what they are, uh, missing. Certain Christian people wonder at how anyone goes on living. Certain Muslim people want to be good forever, and sigh for a very long time. I just want another cup full of vanilla plastic spoon ice cream.

My application for forgiveness Long denied and cast away I must contend for my redemption Thus begins a losing game Substitution seemed the answer Something else to kill the pain Although seeking something deeper What found me was quite the same Yet satisfied with what I tried The dope worked like a charm To ease the hurt and make things work Assuring me no harm Suddenly- The boat got shaky As the cost for joy increased Though I didn't have the money The drugs still wait for me From then on I was willing All I need is to get high As I'm planning future binges Speed preoccupies my mind I sold my soul for these addictions I won't stop until I'm gone I try hard not to admit it I had lost and they had won Face to face with my own master And the keeper of my soul

GLINDA BUSTAMANTE

My desire overwhelms me, INo longer in control This life's not worth the living If my life is not my own I chose these pills against my will And now I can't go home We watch my body whither Wane too weak and frail for looks I don't care for my appearance Just one hit is all it took This world says things are over There's no choice but to give up This hell was too expensive Though my life was not enough

KAREN COLE

THE DOPE GAME


In Celebration of Forest

Sycamore is our memory tree, shedding its bark for new skin, its winter silhouette a ghostly skeleton, reminding me of old London’s Plane-shaded streets. Mother trees surround us, the very few left over from original forest we long paved over, old rotten stumps that settlers burnt to clear their land. Trees know their season, their reason for being. How each tree reaches out to become World Tree. We have so much to learn from not living on but with our place. We who live in a Forest City must ensure a name never replaces the reality of canopy. Long may our trees flourish for we can only prosper with our elder brothers, our mothers down the long lineage of those gone before. Penn Kemp

Here’s to trees that celebrate soul! We celebrate their verve. Here’s to tree as memory holder, tribute to their power of ongoing presence. Trees we have known are trees we can meet by species. Once connected, always familiar, old friends to greet on any city street or in deep woods if we can slow down long enough to salute the Tree of Life in each. Light candelabra of Catalpa, Horse Chestnut, Pine, Balsam Fir, Juniper or Cedar cone. Sing a litany of names that belong here like lacey Walnut or Honey Locust, whose canopies carry us off to African plains: Acacia giraffes might browse or Le Douanier paint above his lion.

My Untethered Horse Beloveds I want to tell you A dream I had In the darkest part of night A dream so vivid I have to believe It was no dream But real I am riding on the back Of an untethered horse I too untethered No saddle no stirrups No reins Come between us As my hands hold to her mane My knees pressed against The shine of the hair On her sides

WENDY WOLLF BLUMBERG

Poem inspired by the book, The Untethered Soul, by Michael Singer

Oh... I would ride free Forever I call to the wind On the back of this Untethered horse My soul, my spirit As free as she Galloping on the sunlit shore With an endless sea Behind her

Then Beloveds I wake filled with joy Feel my spirit speak Hear words From my soul Telling me The untethered horse Is my horse She is God’s love For me My freedom I can ride untethered Free forever All I must do is let go Drain pools of negativity Collected through years Of judgmental thoughts Judgmental words spoken aloud Deep pain from shame From guilt For things that were done Not done Neglected forgotten By me, Let them pass Through my consciousness Like water through a sieve Let go, let them go Unto God

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GOATH - fairy tales and myths in rhyme; goat's oath - you'll enjoy.


A Grecian Tale nting bird, e m la , id u g n la a e lik l, My sou nt, red face; ta is d s it h it w , st a e e Gazes to th rban herd, u l, fu le o d e th m o fr e I desire to escap raway place. fa a to , rn u jo so a r fo And depart

.

by John Lars Zwerenz

l strain; a m is d a f o re a y a w b The sounds of a su s dark. u ro o p va y, ra g e th in rk They die by Central Pa , wilting bark h is n w ro b f o ks a o e th Graffiti on with disdain. ry a e w d in m c ti e h st e Renders my a

My spirit of a troubado ur, hungry for meadow s, Immured with the city , clasped around my fe et, Will break beyond the tears of these dreamle ss ghettos, On a journey to the pa st-to the Isle Of Crete.

:

At last! - I am free; In regal felicity, I saunter, laved by breezes, blissfully sweet and mild, As I behold the unbridled, transcendent and wild Pelagic domain of the exuberant sea.

traverse, ek re G t, en ci an is th n o , There, among statues d in a dream lle lfi fu , n io at ir sp su s r’ ve Like a lo g in a stream, in n te is gl s, in ta n u fo f o Of a freshet hereal verse. et e lik m ea gl s w o rr fu c Thalassi

: : .

Tall, ivory pillars, of bri lliant colonnades, Grace my white shrou d, as I pace on promen ades; Roving through grand dunes of billowing, go ld sand, I feel the royal hold of Apollo’s noble hand.

The Mediterranean’s effervescent breath Fills my lungs with the wines of Dionysus. As I pass beyond the veils of intangible death, Carmine blooms shine, and all becomes

of a palace, rd ya rt u co e th h g u ro th Soft zephyrs veer alice, ch t n e in m e n a f o s m ri Caressing the n wine, ig re ve so e th in s le p p Stirring ri nshine. su te la cu a m im e th f o Glimmering in the rays

: .

Illustrious marble step s mount a precipice; Overlooking the ocean ic canvas, I contemplate the dea th of tragic Icarus, Above foamy rolls- I w eep upon the cornice.

Pearly fountains fall, as I behold the flowers: The enchanting, rosy-red florets of every year; A Macedonian sentinel of the intoxicating showers Threatens my adventure with a long, silver spear.

ZIG-ZAG READING

: :

Among cascading broo ks, an immense garde n shinesHome to a thousand p otent wines and elatio ns; It ferments amid Hera ’s dappled, dangling vi nes: A bower of fragrant hu es, and mystic revelati ons!

Aphrodite’s white lyres sound like Spanish guitars, Adorned with the luster of enamored, white stars. I turn from Alexander, where an orphic breeze veers, Leaving the blooms of Orpheus, resisting blissful tears.

I pass redolent hedgerows, of ornate enclaves, In the soft wake of Sappho, I approach wild waves. A strange, wooden ship of ghostly sails awaits my heel; I board the cryptic schooner, and it creaks where the currents reel.


The large, foreboding vessal knows no other hand but I. I clasp the splintered w heel, beneath a balefu l sky. Something is beneath the boat; (why I do no t know) All that I can fathom is the kraken dwells belo w.

: : :

ancient plays. e th ss e n it w I d n a , lis o I reach the Acrop n with grace. o n e h rt a P e th ts n e sc A goddess of wisdom a’s fair face n e th A , le p m te r e st a b By an ala quets. u o b e in th n a m ra a h it Smiles as I bless her, w

: : : .

Through a storm I perv ade, beyond the gleam ing sand; I sail at topmast, north ward, to the deep Aeg ean Sea, Until the sirens are left with no sonatas to ass ail me; I find a forgiving harbo r- Onto the glorious m ainland!

oric rose, D r e h g in ld o h e b , d ve My heart, gravely mo inous repose. ta n u fo , d ri o fl a in d e lf Is engu ndly weak. u fo ro p l u so y m s ve a The fire of her kiss le n not speak. ca I h ic h w f o n so a re ial I have visions of celest

I see in the distance, spirited, fine and black, A stallion beaming in the sun, awaiting my plea: “I implore, tenacious breed, to saddle your raven back; Let us ride beyond the wind- beside the splendid sea! ”

We pass through a viny, trellis-lined portal, Beyond the azure glow of a tall, resplendent tree; We reach the blue dominion of His teeming majestyThe great and stony titan: - Poseidon- The Immortal!

Lifted above the worl d, beyond curtains o f time and space, Together we breach The pure, valiant spirit all earthly realms as s of my gallant horse a we ride, nd I Entering an effulgent Witness the quintesse place beside the tide nce of the infinite fly b ; y; We behold upon the Beneath the bronze o billows-a glimpse of f the sky, across the dia heaven’s face! mond shore we race, Increasing the speed o f our incredible pace.

: : : :

ecstasies, ss le p to f o st e cr e th Rising above gate a glimmerd e lid g a d n yo e b ss e n We wit g shimmerin sh vi ra t, n e rd a n a to Blooming in ble rubies. a ff e in f o s d n ki ll a g in Contain

: : : : .

us I ascend, p m ly O t n u o M n o s, u e And so, like Z and lofty. s u ro tu p ra is t a th ll a To absorb d an ecstasy, n e sc n a tr o h w s rd a b e But like all tru the end. in s g in w y m d n a it ir I relinquish my sp

My muse whispers into my ears: “You must return home.” The sunlight disappears, withering on the vanishing foam. Shedding red, the dream is pierced, as if with a rending fork. The beach sheds amber tears, as I behold New York.

: : : : :

nd, a s d e anish b e h t e of e r lect, g l i e d t e n i p d my y fair e m llect m , i o o a c l s e c r d s An ly to ty ha n i l o a t e f d. r e n l e a , l l s l u d e a e Bec farew hant c u n o e y r bid f you o e g I must i t ves s u o l u A neb

d n e The

rings) e d n a ry W a n o i s i V (~ From


WHYPER! - why?! + viper + hyper = special reviews on movies, tv-series & books


Lo and behold we just watched the "nympho"-movies in the long marathon: for the first time - in one breath, the second time - with a notebook and pen, and then - slowly, contemplatively and frame by frame. What can we say: «erotic porn" scenes showed almost chastely (in official version of course), but separate genitals, on the contrary, are posted on the flagpole as a trigger or gesture for the all critics of Trier. They are completely devoid of components that require further understanding of the plot, the earth doesn't revolving around them. Then the movie quotes was almost self-trolling, like rhyme with shadow from a mirror or tribute for cinephiles, quite unnecessary. As a result we have a gorgeous movie with poetic, multifaceted, existential and sharp-edged soul which bared one confrontation: in one corner it is tolerant and "pious" denial of sins by cowardly hypocritical theorists for whom religion - is the art of the dead languages and love and freedom - are just a lust and licentiousness without sacrifice and responsibility and in the other corner (VS) the position of the protagonist - outasight, if you will "Aquarian-style" like antonym to a bygone era of "Pisces" (the birth of Christianity), where the black colour - it's just the black colour, not gray, red or white. So who is the winner is? Dare I say it - the future! Sluring over the banal allegories I can compare this movie to a aerostat: it's light dome filled up with screams, sighs and thoughts carry you up to your personal tree of the soul, but it has a solid bottom, hiding all of our sins, all the depth and darkness, the higher you rise the more you get. And, of course, the fire of aerostat now fading then combusting with risk to burn it all and huge overboard bags with errors, fears, prejudices, desires and shadows. Each cinemagoer can decide for himself what he can shift off to see the true horizon of Trier's creation. We shifted off everything at the our own risk of suffocation in a clean, dark cold, but we found behind the screen all this light and full aesthetic satisfaction. Wish you the same! Condition after viewing: exciting and confused, piecemeal shock and rising enthusiasm, desire to review and discuss with experts. Conclusions after viewing. "Nymphomaniac" is: Trier for everyone and anyone / the ode to frigidity of the human soul / the mobius-trap for blinkered liberals and pseudo-intellectuals / a moral and philosophical tragicomic anecdote / a religious parable about nudity away from Spirit / the test for the ability to read, during orgasm, one phrase tattooed on pubic, in the dark alley, in the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts, phrase about ourselves / this movie is a Rubicon, after "the Antichrist" movie and the end of the world, it is hope for the best ending / ... perfect place to start your trip to unique art world of Lars von Trier.

Target audience: this film is for cinephiles, intellectuals, poets, writers, psychologists and doctors. Do not watch it if you are: boring, impassive, ordinary, puritan, porno-fanatic. Where to watch: at home, in a quiet environment With whom to watch: with a partner (prepare him / her) When to watch: when you will get clear and fresh mind state and not after dinner.

...poetical orgasm for your body, brain and soul; it is highly recommended to rewatch every 5-10 years.


IQUTE INTERPRETTY'ATION

Explanations and interpretations of the all complex moments in the movie for lazy and smart readers.

ATTENTION! SPOILERS PLEASE, BE CAREFULL

BONUS CINE-RHYMES

FIRST MOVIE 1) Genitoures (from mortuary): rhyme with "Borat" movie 2) Confession: rhyme with «The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders» (D. Defoe) / «Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure (Fanny Hill)» (J. Cleland) 3) Joe's name: Hey Joe song (Billy Roberts) 4) Fish-man and tree-souls: mirror rhyme with "Big fish" movie SECOND MOVIE 1) Body degradation: рифма с фильмом "Salo" (Pier Paolo Pasolini) 2) Pedophile on the chair: rhyme with "Hard Candy" (2005) movie 3) Masochism: mirror rhyme with "Belle de Jour" (1967) movie 4) Chapter "the Gun": Chekhov's gun 5) Child's name: Marcel Proust ("In search of lost time") 6) Hypocrisis: rhyme with "La vie d'Adèle" 7) Child & balcony: "Antichrist"


Beginning of action: one and a half minutes of silence and darkness, this is a curtain at the very beginning ..., staying in the birth canals of the plot or of the sheer hell, choose what you like better. We do not see the sky, only the yawning holes of windows, asphalt, cracks, flaws, bagel in hand ... of Joe, on the sandpaper of asphalt which is put like ugly blob - like half-dead G-spot. Encounter and ice breaker of the conversation: meeting with antagonists "Book of books" - a Jewish man and a Christian woman... "Adam" who grew old too early - Seligman, and tacky "Lilith" - Joe. However, Seligman is non-religious Jew, and Joe is non-religious Catholic. He is a fisherman and a contemplator, a connoisseur of Fibonacci and polyphony, she is "nympho" and practician, a connoisseur of carnal pleasures, bodies collector. Instead of Catholic "through my fault, through my most grievous fault“ (Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa), from the mouth of Joe sounds quite a different prayer - «Mea vulva, mea maxima vulva» (My vagina, my greatest vagina). But this is only a half-truth , for the "sinner's confession," opens with the following: - "So what happened? Robbed thee? - It's my own fault. I'm just a bad person." Joe's Childhood: "Perhaps, my main distinction from other people is that I demanded more from sunset, more exciting colors when the sun touched the horizon. "- It can be traced back to a longing for extremes; allegory with the male, Ying, oppsite of Yang (sun), a bed (horizon), touch and orgasm, after which comes the glory of the night, oblivion, joy of a sunset despite the joy of dawn. Herbarium: dry leaves like hearts, Joe's book of tranquility, which is similar to a collector of trophies, similar pictures, the light-sensitive, thin, they show only shadows of the spring and shapes ... Solitaire, loneliness, and Fibonacci numbers: Solitaire is translated as "patience", the iconic image of a mother's self-absorption; patience – this is not love (hence the scene in the hospital when her father dies). Superficial well-being of the family is deceptive: Joe's mother is like a stranger, cold bitch, playing her solitaire – playing with cards like playing with empty people is an allegory of sin orgy. Joe hates solitaire, but she plays it unconsciously her whole life, not with cards but with living warm bodies... all alone. Also, as the Fibonacci numbers: 0 + 1 = 1 - Joe and her emptiness inside, thirst, lack of the mother / 1 + 1 = 2 masturbation Joe, the bait and the appearance of the first man / 2 + 1 = 3 - absorption of a man and a search for a new partner, Joe is always alone and she is looking for new victims. The addition of numbers should actually have led to spiral of the golden section, but for Joe this addition is just a search of ghostly harmony, systematic falling along the spiral staircase of DNA. From a human being to a female primate. Finishing-Fishing: Going back to the canonical "Catch of the human souls...", back to father words about souls of trees; Joe catches naked bodies of male fishes, they are silent, instinctive, predictable and so cold, wet on her hook. But in the beginning of story she caught too as a bait in the form of nymphs in Seligman's apartment. Dwarf hamster: in anticipation of the winter hamster fills its empty cheeks with everything it can find. This is an image of insatiability which comes from emptiness and fear; these are dwarf, underdeveloped emotions! Falling in love: Jerome is the person who deprived her of her virginity as a thing, following his own rules, through the humiliating pain, automatically, against the background of dying-out engine - heart ... but that was what she wanted, and from that moment she created her rules, violating her "oath", she used men, but forbade them to touch her body, remembering Jerome's strong arms. An attempt to fall in love with him, to find him and possess him has only led to the fact that the emptiness and pain came back, without feelings. Polyphony: Various of voices merge into one harmonious melody, but Joe has hundreds sighs from copulations that merge into one scream, turned inside out, it is seeking harmony hopelessly.


The father's death: Her beloved father, once so philosophically mixed myths of "Elder Edda "with the stories about nature; father fade away in a deep dementia... being a doctor. And what about Joe? At the subconscious level she misinterprets her father's words that bare tree trunks are their souls: naked people's bodies are quite different. Joe's gift for her father (ash's branch) was the key to the death' temple, the key of anesthesia that could ease his fate, but finally led to the pain, agony and oblivion... A shameful moment when Joe "was wet" can actually be traced back to an ancient subconscious reaction to the death, which is combined with the conception of a new life - sex with... after an obsequies. The image of the Ash: image of the ash with no leaves and black buds it is the mythological tree of Yggdrasil, repeatedly told in the narrative Trier; this is the key to understanding. Naked Yggdrasil connects three worlds - Hel, Midgard, Asgard, with Odin, which it hangs on it, dead, - it's almost a Christian symbol of the crucifixion. The three worlds represent the the Holy Trinity. And the human being, here, is a bud, is a promise to reveal shown once as a heart-shaped leaf. Will you wake up from the sleep of insensitivity, will you love, or will you overcome the modern motto - "it's not time yet for..."? The nymph is an aborted insect, not yet dragonfly. Nymphomaniac - is a human nymph... The primate becomes the God-man only through true Love. Bach: The sounds at the last minute of the movie are so eloquent and unequivocally, it is Bach's Choral prelude «Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ» - «I call to You, Lord Jesus Christ" and also melodically citation of „Solaris" by Andrei Tarkovsky, who once said very accurately: "We do not know what love is, we behave monstrously to ourselves. We misunderstand what is to love ourselves, we are even ashamed of it. Because we think that to love ourselves is to be selfish. This is a mistake, because love - this is a sacrifice." Forked oak of Joe’s father: The image of the mother is almost excluded from the film, she is only pretending to be patient (it’s contagious) and stands over the dead body, the father takes all the Joe’s love for himself, his tree, a mighty oak has two souls in one - a kind father and a cold husband. Joe’s tree: The ash which we see in the first part of the film was a male tree and its comparison with Joe was the essence of nymphomania, but in the second part she found her true tree of soul - Rowan (Eng. name "Mountain Ash", let’s remember the tree and its fingers in the ashes). In Greek mythology the ash was created from the blood and feathers of an eagle (the Seligman’s phrase about "if you have wings, you must fly."), who helped the Hebe (goddess of youth) with her ambrosia. But in the mythology of Northern Europe this tree is a "flying rowan" from which was created the first woman! Comments are unnecessary. Nymphomania and the Joe’s way: In the fact Nymphomania is the transformation of woman into man, even male beast. Joe’s "male'ky way" (like milky way in the night sky) has next steps: the first - loss of innocence according to plan with the guy - "deflorator 24/7, free of charge, painful but reliably"; the second step - competition for the stimulus (train and sweets); the third step - mini-society / club ”vulva maxima"; the fourth step - job, just to check the box, and unlucky love with Jerome; the fifth step systematic, cold-blooded hunt for sex-partners; the sixth step - accidental unwanted child’s birth through caesarean section (her vulva is not for this purpose; it is for death, not for life), lack of maternal instinct; the seventh step - unhappy routine marriage and official permission from husband to fornicate with strangers; the eighth step - leaving her family and child for the sake of lust and pain (Christmas eve); the ninth step - attempt to cheer up (returning of orgasm) through intense pain - the shadow of orgasm; the tenth step - work with debt, the self-affirmation through the dominant masculinity and inheritress; the eleventh step - murder attempt... And all of this was done with blatant indifference to the consequences, selfishness and self-confidence. Defective ear: The allegory of the deformed girl’s ear (Joe’s inheritress) is not the only label of viciousness, the mark of evil, all-receiving and free, that’s why it is so similar to light, from time to time, but it is also the image associated with the ash leaf from the diary of herbarium, twisted and battered. It is symbol of the beginning. This does not augur a favorable conclusion.


The Names of the heroes: the Name "Joe" (unisex, Joseph / Josephine "Yahweh will repay") / Name "Jerome" (Jeremiah, "the Lord will glorify"). If we consider the history of the prophet Jeremiah (he predicted the destruction and captivity of the Jewish people) and St. Joseph (the story of Jesus), it is so clear why Trier chose these names for the movie. Indirectly or directly he killed "happy" anti-Zionist Jew by the name of Seligman. What is it? Of course, it is the settling of accounts. The name "Seligman" initially it's not 100% Jewish, though it sounds very authentic. This name is old high German / Norwegian and is translated as "blessed"; this name was given to the priests! And Seligman takes confession. (Read more about this in the final). In addition, it may be trolling for Martin Seligman - founder of positive psychology. Running up the hill: When little Joe unwillingly received orgasm, two great nymphomaniacs looked at her in reproach; this is not blessing or initiation, but rather a sign warning about inevitable fate, as well as the birth of a son, family and finale. The Jerome’s image: The casual meetings with Jerome were always slightly similar to the fantasy, pretty mythical... for example: suddenly - her boss, meeting in the Park, returning and salvation of her son, the client for collecting debts, meeting in the alley; only their first meeting was classic, though Jerome just was near Joe's orbit, mutual friend, a sex-target. Finally Joe gave the relay baton to her inheritress "reduced copy" and Jerome took her to the same mind trap, and possibly deprived her of her virginity. The circle has closed. In the end, after such sudden scenes of the "appearance"... the remark of Seligman was immediately recalled - "this can't be true". And then Jerome, the most ordinary man, turns to some quasi-domination essence over Joe's soul, the distorting mirror; the same norm which was incompatible with her, but dominated and served her as a kind of reference point for her personal domination and manifestations of masculinity. Jerome is like the main code of our society. The Final way of Joe: Having found her tree Joe had to get out of the vicious circle of Jerome’s norms; to be allegorically watered (joke of Trier in the alley), find the sun (the light on the wall, sun spot like G-spot and a thread to up) and to make sacrifice will killing of Seligman. The Problem of Seligman and Chekhov's gun: Well, Seligman, the old bookworm of an Apple of knowledge, had one mistake - he released his snake at a bad time. He gave to himself full moral / immoral right to rape sleeping, exhausted Joe with naive hope that she won't awake and then she will just continue her path to the new horizon. All of this is a circus with substitution of concepts! Now let's examine why Seligman did it. He appears in Joe's life not as a "theorist" of being and sex who decided to taste forbidden fruit after all these stories with a woman who wanted to be reborn and forget her lust... Oh. no! But Seligman is not the "righteous" person who fell in sin at the close of his days with Magdalene, earning the "burning in hell” figuratively, but in fact he earned death. Seligman is a man who did not believe anything that Joe said. She, dirty and broken, stay at his house, talking dirty stories that is one more illusory then another, but in fact she is just a typical slut who is greedy for sex. So he wanted to try her. Everything is normal? No, no, no again! The murder of Seligman is a kind of blood oath for the truth of all her stories and for the future - not-guilty verdict. Take a break, think about it... ... Her first friend! In a dozen minutes! Ta-da and the first murder! She tried to fight inner Jerome in her brains, heart and vulva by killing Seligman. Well done! She killed the person who, wriggling into favour, desecrated not whore but an awakened soul, from the black buds of Yggdrasil (world tree, ash-tree). She has becamed a big heart but not wild female. Joe was able to understand, accept and love herself and through this love she stood to the path of the Godman. In the all context of the movie this is the best final from other possible.

the end


CHRONLINE

INFOGRAPHICS-REVIEW WITH EMOTIONS WHILE WATCHING MOVIE.

pensiveness / neutral / mixed rampage / strong positive cry / hard negative smile / lite positive sad / lite negative pause: time to take break or for discussion, WC-minute.

EMOTIONS ICONS EXTRA ICONS

poetribute: this episode described in poem

IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT TIMELINE: 6+ (minute) on chronline (timeline) is mean that time of episode is from 6:01 to 6:30, and 7- is 6:31 to 6:59. It's rule.


Chapters: Chapter 2

Chapter 1

CRY LAUGH NEUTRAL

0

N SMILES Y SAD M P H O M A N Рогалик, I Россия и ложь A C

2-3+4 5+6 8+9 10 11 12+14+15 18-18 19 19+20-20+21-21+23-24 24+25+26-26+28+29 30-31 32 33 34 36 37 38-40 41 41+42-43-43+44-45-47

Seligman! Ash and trees Red colour, Finnish weapon

Betty the hamster and lewd man

Frog game River and males

Studying

Sunset and colours

Herd Rain

Fly & bait Vacuum cleaner

Defloration and Fibonacci-style

Rammstein, gaps, cracks, curtain...

Preference and cold mother

I

Mass imitation of orgasm

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

CRY LAUGH NEUTRAL SMILES

0

45-47 49+51 53 54 55-56-56+60-60 61 62 63 64 64+65 67 69-69+70 71 72 74 76 77 78 80 81 82 83 84 86 87 88 89 91 93 94 96 97 98 99 101 103 105 108

complex order

Tree's Soul Another Fibonacci

Herbarium Croissant, Russia and lie

Noir and asylum

Jerom and photo

Paroxysm and despair

Darling, I'm yours!

Jerom-Lego in the Subway

Ash leaf as deathbed gift

Parade of the cold and pendulous...

Space and loneliness

Parking and stupid Jerom

"Wet Joe"

BAM!

I... nothing...

Drama-queen with kids Lust dice

Emotion || occurring time 2-, 53, 6964, 69+, 76+, 84, 89, 91, 93, 108

11, 14, 15, 19, 20, 24, 29, 40, 41, 43, 55, 56, 57, 61, 63, 64, 80, 87, 88, 94, 96, 101

0-2 / switch off the light, phone, internet.

4+, 11, 18-, 23-, 49+, 51, 60-, 69, 70, 71, 72, 74, 76, 81, 82, 86, 87 3+, 10-, 10, 20-, 20+, 21+, 25+, 26-, 28-, 28+, 33, 34, 36, 40, 41, 41+, 42-, 44-, 47, 54, 55-, 63, 64+, 65, 88+ 4-, 8+, 9-, 11+, 12-, 12+, 14, 15-, 15, 18, 19+, 21-, 24, 24+, 26+, 29, 30-, 32, 37, 41+, 43-, 43+,47-, 53, 56-, 56+, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 67-, 69, 76, 78-, 80, 81, 82, 83, 87, 88, 94, 97, 98, 99-, 101, 103, 105,

ATTENTION!!! 1:03:35 after this scene you will see the parade of dicks!

XXX CONTENT 38:40 - 40:40 /1:39:00-1:41:00

SAD


Chapters: Chapter 6

CRY LAUGH

0

N Y M P H O M A N I A C

2-2+3-4+5+6 7 7+9 9+10-11-11+12-12+13+14 14+15-15+16+18-18+19-19+20+21 23-23 24 26 26+ 27-27 31 32 38-39+40+41+42 43 44-45-

Selignam virgin

Jerom impotent

Forks Sudden frigidity Caesarean section

Afro-ero

Rublev and churches

(...)

Chapter 7

SMILES SAD

Lash Western people

(...)

II

Car repair

Running up the hill

NEUTRAL

Chapter 8

CRY LAUGH NEUTRAL SMILES SAD

0

47- 48 50 52 54 55 57+58-59 60 63 66 67 69 70 71 75 77 80 81 83+84 85 87 88 91 94+97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108+110+ 111 113+

Child and balcony

Debts and Jerom

Father's tree

Seligman lover

Attempt 3+5: second part

Biting episode

Heiress

Sun

Lesbo

Murder and freedom

Tree of the soul

Leaving

Duck tales

Interrogation No to nymphomania, first friend

Peace!

Emotion || occurring time 2+, 3+, 7, 11+, 12+, 14, 19-, 26+, 27-, 59, 91, 99, 106, 110+, 111

11, 14, 15, 19, 20, 24, 29, 40, 41, 43, 55, 56, 57, 61, 63, 64, 80, 87, 88, 94, 96, 101

6, 15-, 15+, 18-, 39+, 48, 52, 55, 58-, 75, 77, 80, 81, 87, 88, 102, 104

full attention, no talks, watch alone, at home

0:49, 5+, 14+, 16+, 20+, 21, 32, 45-, 47-, 50, 57+, 85, 94+, 97, 101 3-, 6+, 7+, 9, 12-, 12+, 13+, 18+, 19+, 23-, 23, 24, 27, 38-, 40+, 41+, 44-, 54, 58-, 60, 63, 70, 71 2-, 3, 4-, 4+, 5+, 9+, 10-, 11-,15+, 26, 27-, 31, 42, 43, 57, 66, 67, 69, 83+, 84, 98, 100, 103, 105, 107, 108+, 113+ (экстра)

XXX CONTENT 04:58 - 05:27, 15:40 - 16:20, 23:20 - 25:40, 36:58 - 36:60, 37:01 - 37:04, 37:32 - 37:40,


Poetry isnpired by the movie. NOTE: before each poem' line you can ďŹ nd time mark of episode which inspired author to write this line.


14+

15+

ASH AND PERRER Open your eyes. Look at the card of tarot with a "Fool"! It is flying away by your sighs 11+ From the bottom to Venuse's thigh... to a girl, black and white, who is standing alone behind naked ash, in chimera-dress 19+ / 64 striated by numbers from crashed moonstone. 96+

Look at her face! Her lips dry, soundless, dissected by stars fallen from skyey mess... Her eaves winded by the old rusty screw she can't close her eyes, but she's watching through you!

Then look below! The mesmeric spiral is rolling with woe! 65+ The pocket watch's hanging over her hips... These are mad times waiting for a first seed, innominate arrows are running the pit of the endless eve... She is holding a pepper of her own, covering up the scared palace... to exchange it for the glorious rustle of alive leaves 87+ All for her father on the mourn' throne he can not leave... Now look at the ash... 14+ It didn't drop heart-shape leaves to the black heart... among the all darkness- and light-struck photos the bareness of trees! 55+ There are strong winds swaying ash' limbs. 20+ / 24 It is waiting for rain, for the breeze to explore a fallen river, catching a cloud with branches like rods... 11+ / 29 Anticipating the coming red whips of sunset! They will lure all the hues to the all-nightly bud, throwing up pollen hooks, on the fly, in the mud, It's so light by the gloom... by the void of Gods.

41+

43+ / 56 61+ 62+ / 63+ 66+

80+

88+

57+

94+

Then listen! The whisper of the frost worm... It's looking for an echo of the last warm! The ash-tree is hiding it's all~ all inside, Poking it's twigs to the hole till the storm, and the agony knot! For the deep pure sparks dancing the swarm! For the Nymph, she is naughty and hot But alone... The girl's turning her pepper into an ice cone. It's melting from the smoke of her dreams, Marking snow with red blots... They are kissing with shades creating blurred birds of regret! Of the spring! They are ringed in hearts with a voiceless sin from the root and from newt's broken skin! The shame of her kin! Then... look and don't cry. They're sitting in the tree and singing a song of love, so awry All for the pit... The ash-tree is listening to it hunting for reflections with ease or with hurt among the old trees, incurable stubs, and leaves full of memories chained to the dirt... … The drowsy ash-tree is weeping full of compassion with tears in the crown! It's hugging the girl, lifting her from the ground but she's hanging on... in a loop of her wig, On the weakest old twig. She's clinging with her knees on the bark, wheezing, droning, like walk in the yard. And now behold the last hollow card! Her dew is flowing through and down the dawn giving rise to the new life of her own.

EDITED BY ARIA LIGI


YESSAYMO: - eskimo essays for the tropics of topics. Cold brain + hit-hot tongue


part

CURRENT TRENDS IN THE TRANSLATION

Nowadays Pushkin and Byron would be lost in the internet space, if they were born in our age. On the one hand, with appearance of numerous web portals, which give to the young poets and writers a unique opportunity to publish their written work and, on the other hand, with the commercialization of most literary projects, it is difficult for ordinary people to "sift out ashes from cinders", to find good writers, to distinguish between good and mediocre poetry and prose, in their own country, in their mother tongue. Even more problematic, this task will appear in the international extent: many readers often don't know the specific language or the national rules of the publishing houses or literary forums. Our column and experienced translators will help you to understand various trends in contemporary poetry from all over the world, to enjoy and love it. It may even inspire you to create your own poetry! The main goal of a literary translator consists of a complete understanding of the original text and of transfer of this piece of art into another language, as far as possible keeping word-images, style, melody and rhythm. The key feature of this translation type is a aptitude of the translator to feel the images and emotions, to be able to express them using the resources of another language. Therefore, translator has to create a balanced peace of art, on the one hand, as near as possible to the sense of the original writing, on the other hand, the translation should be independent, and poetic in the target language. That is the reason why a translator often has to choose between finesses of the sense and beauty of various translation options. Due to the development of technology, both poetry and literary translation are undergoing changes. On the one hand, 21th century is technically well equipped, translators have many facilities for searching and editing information. On the other hand, the task is even more complicated than before, a translator has to communicate with the author more closely, to become a partner of the author, because otherwise he or she can't understand, who and what exactly has inspired the author. If a translator doesn't have this information, it is very difficult to interpret inter-textual and intercultural details in the written work, especially when those have many meanings, or are taken from unknown sources from all over the world. In this issue we will discuss the translation of the symbols-images, which cause a particular difficulty in translation illustrated by cycle of poetry of the Chilean poet Victor Lobos "Crows". This cycle has 6 poems in total, they have one topic and one central image in common. The image of a crow, which is repetitive, visible and invisible, and it's changes from the beginning to the end; this image follows the reader through the cycle till the end. As the author indicates himself these "poems were found in dream" which means from the very beginning the reader can understand that the environment, reality, and all that happens â&#x20AC;&#x201C; it is just a dream, moreover, even the author can't control it, because it doesn't belong to him. This explains the patchy, compressed style: there are the most important, the most remarkable things in life, which are combined in a strange unthinkable way, so this can only be in a dream, one can surely understand. Symbols in such pieces of art, exactly as in a dream, can have various meanings, and even they can change through the whole cycle, from one part to another, that is the reason why their understanding plays a huge role. The task of a translator becomes even more difficult than before: already known symbols can have additional meanings, e.g. meanings from written works of other nations and countries, also original meanings of the author.

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NEW ::: POETRY. Issue . | :_.::


part So in this cycle of poems one can feel the influence of Victor Brauner, e.g. in the surrealistic elements of the comparisons: in the red womb of the house as symbol of a home and family, but also the symbol of mother and her womb, of life she gives from it; crow - mechanical owl can stand for time. One can also notice a trace of Chilean poet José Donoso, e.g. in the dark, even scary motives and symbols: house near cemetery, black color, husky croak, dark rituals, mystics, forest monster, all of which the author uses to address the topis of loss, pain and death. (I also want to notice that the author himself should be able to translate his or her own poetry or, at least, to understand the target language and to help the translator). The author borrows many of his images from nature, moon as a poet's eye, tree, night, dawn, crow are significant in his poetry. The difficulty of the understanding and translation lays in multiple meanings of symbols which the translator has to find over and over again till the end of the cycle. Crow is a bird, which in other countries traditionally symbolize the idea of fate, destiny. So in the beginning of the cycle the bird can have the meaning of “carrier of ugly news”. Russian readers and translators immediately compare it with the well-known poetry of Edgar Poe “The Raven” and also well-known classical translation of K. Balmont. In the poem of E. Poe the crow appears as an ominous bird. Further this image acquires other meanings: anxiety, sorrowful memories, in this way the image is changing and developing through the whole poem: from horror and anxiety to the symbol of ancestors, loneliness, fate, fear for uncertainty. For instance, crow appears as the Japanese god Kami, which according to Japanese Shintoism one should feel with tremor. Further the soul of crow obsesses the origami bird, the Japanese bird of paper. Crows in the poem are both migrating birds which are frozen in an iceberg and are guards of the borders of the hell, they choose who is allowed to enter the hell and who enters the paradise. In this way, the image, the symbol of crow in the cycle acquires various meanings, from traditional and familiar to original and inspired from images of other countries. Victor Lobos skillfully and meticulously combines these possibilities, creates new and original solutions based on several familiar elements. On the one hand, it can make the translation process more difficult, but on the other hand it challenges the translator, sets a new interesting task, makes it possible to create something new with the author, but in a new language. Dead poets don't leave those who are alive, holding them in a deadly grip. First they observe living one, then they put out claws, pecking out piece after piece. Also the topic of the after-world, mystical, inexplicable and predestined things in life as one of the central topics both in a philosophy and surrealism are approached through various symbols: lonely house near cemetery as a constant symbol of a predetermination, girl who becomes old woman, immovable leaves in the wind, ticking time even in a dream, secrets, rituals, pentagrams. It is essential to notice that Victor Lobos' experience in clinical psychology plays an important part here. Most probably from here comes the idea of rambling in a foreign dream, which can be interpreted according to various theories as a reflection of sub-conscience, of memories. It can also explain how many images are fineness, originality and psychological deepness: scar is deepening into the dark hills, a wound is a symbol of dreaming, a tree is sleeping, emptiness is a narcotic. Finally, one can remember the famous words of Russian poet V.A. Zhukovski, that a translator is a slave in prose, but a competitor in poetry. In the context of the contemporary translation one can suggest an inevitable remark – translator in poetry is partner of poet.

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Tatiana Ilyushkina NEW ::: POETRY. Issue . | :_.::


bonus part

Why has the sunset closed its eyes While praying the moon, bowed? Why can the earth roll back when I Just try to ďŹ&#x201A;y above it? Why do life-roads have no last stone? Where are the reasons of those? Why is insomnia alone, When even day gives birth? Why has the world caught sight of me, While letting time be drawn? Why can minds rain soundlessly, While language swallows down?

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NEW ::: POETRY. Issue . | :_.::


It's about boredom and entertainment... We gave them all and they killed it, the poetry, yes, that's it. How? Well look ... Soon micro-chipped birds will sing in English or write poetry. Digital echo will swallow Longfellow, Poe and Shakespeare; all poets, critics, and even readers - really all - will be downloadable and available for democratic fees. There is no longer need to read anything too, just download a program of poetic literacy and at the time, bam, you will see in front of you all the necessary poetry lines you want and know, and if not, then who cares?! If you like then the whole world will be rhymed! News, public, movies, games, books, everything! And this is future! And what else? Just click on any item and you will get all words, images, allegories, which were created for it throughout history, in all languages, just read it till death! Even if this item is quite new the program will find an analogue! Any cheap AD-bot is a poet in this world if it has right directive and if you paid a bill for services of rhyming and access to needed databases. That's why there are no poets here. Any certified digital critic, just in a few seconds, can disintegrate a new poem into atoms showing all sense or style links between words, all hidden meaning even unknown for the author of poem, ha, just imagine it! For example - you wrote something simple about love or kittens with no wish to show deep thoughts but a critic got it and created the whole damn Bible with basis of your poem! Awesome? Of course is! But that's not all! The program can write better than you, not because of vengeance to the humankind, no, just for demonstrating the proper poetry, correct verses. Aaah... and if you have enough money, you can buy a complete package of poetic entertainment - then lay down, relax, get a couple of pills and connect to the top of the visual channel! And what will you see? In front of your eyes is an illusion poem just written by you (not really by you - by AI of course, but you won't know) and about you; you read it and every single word becames a firework fiesta of feelings, so you live for it / in it / with it (any options), brighter and brighter, with biochemical way to the brain's orgasm! Pictures will float on words, weave with absorbed ones, derive from them, creating new values and faces of verse ... And Music! What sort of music! Every letter sings sounds - it's like a sweet thread, an echo which caresses your ears and ... here you are again in the gray everyday life. Do you like it? Then work on. And what is interesting, rumor has it that the programs themselves like to communicate with each other through the verses and write them interweaving its code ... just think, if it goes on, we find ourselves in a poetic rhyming digital world where there would be a place for us, modern consumers. I swear; I am almost tempted to sell my body and become part of something bigger, meaningful, long-forgotten old, straight out of the Magic of speech, religion and feelings emanating from the vibration lines. But this is, of course, too expensive, everything is just from time to time, listen to how your house is writing poetry, at night, quietly, afraid to wake you up or turn on travel or the nature channel and watch the wild tribes, singing ritual songs or even living poets who write poems on paper with charcoal or chalk in squiggles neglected languages. why, for whom - is unknown; however let us leave this and start living...


ILLUSTRATION - rubric for the all visual art, paintings, drawings, illustrations


"7" (2012 г.) 40 х 50 sm, canvas, acrylic, oil. "Go where the sea join the sky" (2014 г.) 90 х 70 sm, canvas, oil.

1


"Bay at the moonlit night" (2013 г.) 40 х 60 sm, canvas, oil

"Vibrations of eternity" (2014 г.) 70 х 60 sm, canvas, oil

2


Maria Bloom

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1. Clear mind and forced mind think the same... About forgiveness, but the cobweb of doubts shivers from words... still untold... 2. Slave of time was born in shirt from cracks and roots of nowadays, he dosn't watch beyound the horizon... Count is on... 3. Scab of our consciousness is a mask, is a cocoon, is a coďŹ&#x192;n for senses! Soon only one trace will stay on our cheek - echo from us...


PHOETRY! - poetry + photos. From MARS surrealistic photoart to the classic.


SPECIAL MARS


PLOWMAN'S DREAMS

Interpretation: the soil fallowed by veins and lines of Life, the images of ďŹ&#x201A;owers and scions above it... It is plowman's sleep. Material: human aorta // Camera: Carl Zeiss Axio A1


BURONIN

Interpretation: Samurai-ronin is staying below ground in a rush, the light still breasts across soil, but death erenow awaits in the diverse dimension of Life... Material: glass, paint // Camera: Carl Zeiss Axio A1


DEATH-END DESCENT

Interpretation: stone stairs, precipice, burning dale in the distance... Material: glass // Camera: Nikon D90


W E R E R I V E R

Interpretation: a river, shore front, distant clouds, sky mushrooms Material: glass // Camera: Nikon D90


BUTTERFLY & MOON

Interpretation: green leaf, caterpilar / nymph of the butterfly, the great Moon Material: lamp, fir // Camera: Nikon D90


SNACHE

Interpretation: a mist, wise snake, an egg with spirit of the eternity Material: glass // Camera: Nicon D90


"SUBER" - graphic surrealistic rebuses with hints for smart ones.


People

REBUS-4

REBUS-3

REBUS-1

REBUS-2

REBUS-5

REBUS-6

HINTEYE OR BARED CLUES: 1) rebus-1: 1/2 book name + noun or sea term 2) rebus-2: anatomy word + astro & music words 3) rebus-3: prefix + noun + ending 4) rebus-4: noun + verb in past tense + noun + n = adjective 5) rebus-5: noun + verb in past tense + city's name 6) rebus-6: prefix + noun + anatomy term

ANSWERS Dictatorship Absolute Despotism Totalitarian Tyranny Dependent

Profile for NEW:::POETRY

NEW ::: POETRY | . :_.::.  

NEW ::: POETRY is international magazine of neoterrific literature and art with focus on poetry, translations, premiers, new genres and expe...

NEW ::: POETRY | . :_.::.  

NEW ::: POETRY is international magazine of neoterrific literature and art with focus on poetry, translations, premiers, new genres and expe...

Profile for newpoetry
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