Issuu

ISSUE SEVEN

freedom

JANUARY 2024

contents page 02

contents page

editor's note

freedom by emma nathan

in a week (i’ll write home) by allyssa haygood-taylor

resilience by ruchi acharya

solitary firmament by arnab chatterjee

this is a women’s revolution by mariam saidan

death by living by phoebe b.h mercury

covenant by lizzy wallis

loose by bianca tschaikner

siren song by arryn liu

bringing up the bodies from unmarked graves by julian matthews

a sky unscraped by thomas rions-maehren

cold war baby by jesus cortez leal

it took me nearly forty years to be hispanic by jonathan fletcher

miracles that happen (only) at dawn by mesh toraskar

let us weep for palestine by fatima hanan elreda

the keffiyeh interpretation by fatima hanan elreda

abecedarian for gaza by fatima hanan elreda

freedom by sarah m.

contributors list

ISSUE 7: FREEDOM

editor's note dearest friends, readers and writers alike— we are elated to unveil the seventh issue of poetically! traversing the theme of “FREEDOM”, the issue explores the diverse perspectives of 16 contributors and what the concept of liberation means to each of them. from personal reflections and public commentary to social connotations and political exegesis, the poetic verses of our talented writers echo the essence of freedom— each piece serving as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit during times when the lines of liberation are blurred and its principles are often contorted. the poetically team and i take immense pride in presenting this outstanding issue and we sincerely hope that you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed creating it for you!

— d . d a w n

freedom emma nathan

your wings are not broken, sister you’ve just forgotten how to use them all those years of silently accepting breathing through the hard times sometimes through tears so thick it feels like they may flood and you will be carried downstream to lay stranded on their riverbank until they cease to fall until all the hurt has left your being until you are dry, barren, void of all emotion other than tiredness, a deep tiredness so deep you can’t pinpoint its source perhaps it carries your parents’ own frustrations and disappointments their grief and their longing maybe it began the first time you realised his love is conditional that you are not wholly accepted as you are that you are too emotional, too sensitive, too dependent, too strong, too fierce, too independent it’s ok to stretch your wings, sister just a little at first till you remind yourself how expansive they are how powerful you are when you remember that you have them and you can use them any time you feel the need that you can strip off everybody else’s disappointment even your own and strut with your head held high and your bare feet nestled into the earth so that Mother Nature herself cradles their soles in her loving hands and gives you that satisfying spring in your spirit spread your wings sister, feel out the kinks let them twist and stretch until they are so satisfied that they fall to the ground in a soul affirming bow ... namaste for all that they are and all that they know they can be humbled by their own strength and enduring patience for they have been waiting restlessly, silently trusting that one day you will remember they are there for you, your way out of yourself 04

of the limitations of the reality you have created the prison of choices you have made they are your invitation to free yourself from the false depiction you have painted they are the courage you need to tiptoe to the edge of the cliffs and open your heart to be faced with the complete unknown the ocean raging against the rocks below beckoning you to step closer to feel its warm salty spray on your face and know that you are not his angry words booming through the walls of your house and echoing through the crevices of your Soul that you are not the confusion and dismay on your child’s face as he witnesses yet another explosive exchange of hurt and disappointment that you are not your mother’s failed dreams that you are not anything other than you at all times authentically you that all you need to do is proudly stretch those wings, sister and enter that nook deep within you where only trust resides and kindness is built into the walls, stretching from room to room interwoven with thoughtfulness and care where warmth and honesty flow, always where mirrors reflect only your true essence, goddess and allow you to see yourself, goddess it is time to release, sister, all that you think you know all that you have taught yourself to be all the heavy weights you’ve been carrying, to put them down and inch closer to the cliff edge spread your wings and leap, eyes wide open soaring on the breeze of this moment into the only comfort you need the present the uncertainty the beauty of being exactly as you are just be-ing unapologetically you.

in a week (i’ll write home) allyssa haygood-taylor

when i stop walking long enough to wash my feet when i cough up enough pills to remember and swallow enough oceans to sink i’ll write a letter, crumble it up, and throw it away i’ll grab the letter from the trash fold it into a paper airplane with all the best words like gratitude and love intentionally on the outside i’ll hum jingles into the night that are just loud enough to carry the letter to the other side of the world to home my letter will make my aunts hope their daughters take after me but not in the way i run or am always hungry they like how I think of mothers they hope their daughters will remember to write home i hope they're far too busy forgetting

resilience ruchi acharya

amid the walls, the cracks are growing wide, like the connection between my body and mind. a s silence reigns and my unheard screams remain, i am done explaining to the people who i truly am. u nlocking the prison of mind with flickering beliefs, adversity is what all i have seen; i am breaking. m y mind attempts to numb my eardrums’ pain, to shield me from unloved words’ harsh refrain. i’ ve become invisible within the walls of my home, and lost my shadow under the sunny sky, i forlorn; my dancing days have long since slipped away, my soul in disarray, devoid of life, i pray, i pray. b ut then, a ray of hope enters, hidden in my bones, a dorsal ink that through my veins has flown. i’ ve learned to fight, to conquer every foe, invisible no more, invincible, i glow. i set myself free from the burden i accumulated over the blue moon nights in agony, i waited to seek happiness in solace from which i exempted. n evermore; now, my lucid eyes see my miseries being drifted. 07

solitary firmament arnab chatterjee

i guess you don’t grow lilacs anymore – t he garden you tended for so long l ay barren, waiting for your tender touch; t he tired stones are covered in moss s eeing the days pass in dejection, while t he swing in the backyard keeps waiting i n the morning’s hush and awakening dews; t he tapestry of dawn waits to be fertile a nd compose their harmonious ballet; t he boughs that play in light and shadow d elay their synapses as they hear t he wind rises beyond the mountains t o reach out and come back emptying. t he mortal wounds engulf and adore y our thorned doors and window shut. c an you let the waltz of butterflies t hrough meadows and fields to home? t he lazy summer breeze arrives in the face o f the chariots of winter only to discover t he home hidden in the patterns of the wild y ou had made one in every bud and leaf; t hose entwine a way to start a story of its own. 08

this is a women’s revolution mariam saidan

our eyes shoot bullets, silence is their god's first language, ours are farsi, azeri, kurdish, gilaki, mazandarani, luri, arabic, balochi, and turkmen and more.. all loud and fierce. we know, we know they suffer from lack of air sun, earth, moon, living going about the world feeling dead already, haunted by the ineradicable, the petrifying presence of woman. 09

death by living phoebe b.h mercury

at the back of my head, t here lie my eyes. a t the back of my heart, t here lies my ration. b ut in front of my vision, t here is nothing worth seeing. n ot even feeling, n ot even thinking. t he lot settled in a weird land. w here you die by living a nd revive, while dying t he private soul cries again, a s he is not given the right f or intimacy to bargain, s o he just chooses to fight. h ow can you truly be free? i n a society you want to live, e very part of you and me a re left for the strangers to see. o nly gods and beats live as they wish j ust like the greeks had said, a nd you all end up in a ditch, a nd even there you are not alone yet. is freedom truly there? y es, however you can find its notoriety o nly within the structure of society. j ust like pieces who fall, o n top of another, on top of another y ou are winning off others' struggles, l ike some dominos, without any bother. y ou breath strangers, and exhale friends, y et alone, a single entity nobody can be, n ot even planets, not even me. 10

so we are born into death, a nd die into living, w hat can the human do? t o abide the law of nature, t o be forced into this torture, s o he can say he has lived? h e can rebel, rebel how? r each immortality, by slightly climbing t he stairs leading to the pedestal, o f nonentity and everything? p hysically it is impossible, y et the human is split in half, b etween a body and a spirit, o ne just dies, another laughs. s o to conquer death by living, t he mind has to progress, t o destroy the barrier limiting t he condition of distress. b ut the human can be just one, b ody and also soul, t hen with more fierce he has to fight, s o that he could take control. w e are shaped by fleeting beliefs, a nd we shape those said convictions, s o it's up to you to decide, w ho guides and destroys who. y our reward is death, a nd the obstacle is life, b ut how can you value eternity w hen you haven't felt the trials. t herefore freedom can not be achieved, i f you were not once a decadent, s o just live, die and live a nd conquer the expenses.

covenant lizzy wallis

i like to imagine you when your pronouns first left the lips of another, and encircled your ears. y our soul inviting the words to wash over you, and fill you up in ways you never knew possible. a word you never knew could be your own already was your own is your own a s true to your life as the air in your lungs. a nd deeper perhaps unhinged to this world, this lifetime. t he same way abraham and sarah must have felt when they first heard their names spoken into existence. t he first time adam watched the sun set, expansive palette painting the sky, and said to themselves: “i thought the d!v!ne only created night and day, and yet here we are in all this glory.” l ike the forbidden apple eve tasted just to plant a seed in their throat, sowing their masculinity. t o relish in the iterations, to delight in the magic of the in-between, to speak the truth of another, sparking joy that spans dimensions beyond any boundary. any binary. t his is the truest covenant i know. 12

loose

bianca tschaikner on the way back from the wedding late at night, driving with ambar on his motorbike through the jungle i’ ve had some beers; i wear no helmet and there might be panthers hiding in the black bushes i close my eyes and let my hair fly; and the very moment i forget this world i enter another one: night blue hills rise under silent skies seascapes unfold & sleeping palaces on the water pass by and then a far light – high white dome hovering in the black between water and air: the observatory ∙ sleeping in the center of a starry lake like a spaceship floating in its own universe white dome dreaming itself ∙ sublime solitude suspended in the silence of its own, infinite night i think some god must be dreaming all this through my eyes slow down ambar i don’t want to reach home too soon i am on another planet (albeit with the same moon) c ommentary: I could not say what i wanted to say b ut when that night became more night at the shore of fateh sagar lake i became the silence i heard, i became the beauty i saw, i became the sweet nothing of a sugar cube dissolved in a cup of black tea. b lack like the sky which that night opened up in a great gesture that contained me, the sea, the observatory, everything. i became that what was that night an d although i’m still there, i can’t say where i am. i might fail with my words: b ut i am not on my way home anymore.

siren song arryn liu

it didn’t seem like that long ago when the mother of grain granted me my first-ever pair of wings to aid in the search of her beloved daughter– you know, the one equally capable of having some of the loveliest blooms sprout from under her every step as she is of falling upon a handful of juicy ripe pomegranate seeds like a ravenous little bird upon a few pangs of human hunger But alas, when I failed to pry her off of the lap of the merciful yet misunderstood l ord of the dead men who had been given permission to take her from her mother by none other than the King of a ll gods, gatherer of stormclouds for six months of the year that was when I was smited–cast off into the sea my wings torn off my back my lungs threatening to fill with water until the tides took their pity on me and bestowed me with gills– then fins–and scales–and an iridescent tail– and a promise that i would be protected so long as i used that very same voice that previously helped to lull my former mistress into slumber to aid in providing sacrifices in the form of unsuspecting sailors and whalers and all who have done wrong to the seven seas t hus did i dutifully fulfil my end of the agreement luring countless men to their deaths with false song and veneers of beauty s ometimes i would swim through the raging currents o vercoming any and all who attempt to come and avenge their fallen kin t hen look into the skies and at the white squawking gulls and albatrosses with their wide-spanning wings a nd reminisce the times when i was able to fly a s freely as they 14

and then came you–a mere mortal, yet one who proclaims himself t he fearless almighty conqueror of armadas who dredged me from my sanctuary and claimed my lips for the promise of being able to breathe and swim underwater as freely as i could a nd thus was a daughter of the sea revered by so many cultures and feared in others subjected to whatever mortal king peleus did to the proud and lovely thetis so many years ago l ike her, i let myself fall apart to your wicked machinations t hen i took the first opportunity i had to savour your precious lifeblood straight from your neck while you spurred me on, eyes closed in ecstasy because that was the only way i could reclaim any sense of control over my own fate t hen, after all is said and done you made it known to me that you have always wanted to know what a siren’s song was like s o i let loose my voice and sang and sang and sang some more until you were lulled into sleep n ow i gaze upon your slumbering form my mind telling me to resign myself to this fate like i always have my fangs and webbed claws itching for more of your flesh and blood and my heart yearning for an existence beyond this cycle of violence and servitude t he choice was mine to make–and yet, considering the circumstances perhaps even that was nothing more than a mere illusion...

bringing up the bodies from unmarked graves julian matthews

“the only crime we committed as children was being born indigenous...we will find more bodies and we will not stop until all our children are found,” — chief bobby cameron, federation of sovereign indian nations, 2021 “hey, google define ‘unmarked’ “ “not marked or bearing identifying markings.” when they bring up the bodies from unmarked graves will you see the scarring of their raw flesh will you feel the violation of their fragile frames will you smell the branding of their pink tongues will you hear their muffled cries, alone in the dark, night after night when they bring up the bodies from unmarked graves in canada, will you think of the children in...every other former colony, every conflict zone, every disputed territory, every refugee camp, every squatter slum, every logged rainforest, every place you entered every patch of land you exploited will you think of the children in your city, town, suburb, neighborhood your neighborhood, your next-door neighbor's children, the children in your own home tonight “hey, google define ‘indigenous’ “ “originating or occurring naturally in a particular place; native.” When they bring up the bodies of children from unmarked graves will you google their names, their “tribes”, their culture, their claims will you apologize for the desecration of your forefathers will you forgive the sins of your fathers, and mothers will you start the healing of generation upon generation of unprocessed pain will you break the chain of trauma over trauma will you see through this insanity will you end it all here “hey, google define ‘bring up’ “ “look after a child until it is an adult” when they bring up the bodies of children from unmarked graves will you uncover their white, white bones, stained with guilt and fear and shame, will you unearth only shadows that their beautiful, warm souls left behind, or will you expose their hopes, their dreams, their truth in the sun, all they could have become will you see the sparkle of their eyes — in your own children's eyes will you hear their peals of laughter, their playful shouts of joy their mighty hearts still singing, still singing 16

a sky unscraped thomas rions-maehren

i need a sky unscraped by the steel and glass of human vanity; rather, a sky ruptured by mountains and volcanos and diamond-tipped ranges reaching out from the earth’s heart to grab the wispy air, to show all things unified: cloud, snow, rock, star. there is a shame in seeing the heavens in rags, ripped to shreds by iron and spires and vainglorious lunacy, a violated goddess in a tattered gown, bleeding morning dew, her moaning lost in the roar of jet engines. i need a place where the fiery, silken robes of dusk remain intact, where people are small, where the life of a lichen, a pigeon, a bush, a butterfly, and a king are worth the same: nothing, everything. i want to talk without breathing busy fumes, to take rapid steps through the landscape without running. i want to feel the past under my feet, an ethereal support, without being pressed through the meat-grinder present into a stainless-steel future. 17

cold war baby jesus cortez leal

born in 1980— remnant of the 70’s, created in mama’s womb, though not likely by her choice w e faced north— arrivals and departures, the bus and the dirt streets, dragging feet, with only stories, not much in immigrant pockets h ave you seen rocky IV, you didn’t see rocky beat drago? america always wins america always wins! m ama was always leaving— following the campaign trail, following the possibility of food— el PRI always wins, el PRI always wins. always. 18

c heckpoints, checkpoints, get off the bus, get on the bus. m igration, immigration, invasion, more checkpoints—get off the bus get searched, and searched, and back on the bus then, a border to cross, a fence, like any other t he wall, falls, the WALL falls— too cold, too poor to care d id you see predator? you haven’t? d on’t you have a vcr? the americans are the good guys, they’re always the good guys! h ow many times have they lost in vietnam already? Is rambo in afghanistan now? america always wins! c hildren, as young as me, with guns fighting the military— central america still at war m y cousin teases me as i hang out on bella vista street— drive-by he says, and i duck, as he laughs.

it took me nearly forty years to be hispanic jonathan fletcher

to enroll in adult spanish classes. t o build an altar for día de los muertos. t o visit my hometown of lima. t o search for biological relatives. t o identify as “peruano.” t o code-switch in my poetry. t o read for voces cósmicas. t o perform a poem in spanish. t o protest with groups like MEChA. t o reread authors like lorca. t o translate a poem from spanish to english, del inglés al español. t o try my hand at skinning ceviche. t o feel comfortable in my brown skin. t o feel my ancestors around me. t o feel my shoulders wrapped with a manta. t o tear up when I’m told “bienvenido.” t o weep when i’m called “hijo.” 20

miracles that happen (only) at dawn mesh toraskar

i wanted to breathe so i opened the door to a stranger’s car parked in a field and the world was small again. f og filled in through the cracked window as if dawn and masked my only way back to my father. it’s okay the stranger said lackadaisically as if a bird discovering flight. s o when the sky appeared, bloodshot red as god’s eye pressed down on me searing my shadow onto the sweetgrass my skin calm with submission, i was suddenly more, in hope and in words and to be more is to be a dissolving prayer, ready for extinction. s o i ran, ran into the light enough to drown in but never enough, always empty and holy as a new word stopping only to dance, even when the music stopped just to feel my knees weak with autumn. terrified of being good only sometimes but being loved always. t he day opened the size of my fist, which is to say it could finally hold my heart and my eyes were wet still blue from last night because this field turned my pain into poppies & honestly, what a blessing. i see a void and call it longing but no one told me that at the end of it i ’ll always find a tongue, that limits of my language are the limits of my being. i am wrong often but i too need a place to hold myself. that my back was never meant to be bulletproof but to shimmer at the sight of the decadent sunlight. that i can be touched by alcohol and still be true. that to want something else is just to be human. so it’s okay. there’s time. t ime which folds on itself like the page from my favourite book, pointing towards the good. i t’s okay. It’s too soon to know the meaning of my hands. 21

let us weep for palestine fatima elreda

let us weep tonight f or there are no stars in the sky. h ow will we see in the dark? o ur tears will light the way. w e will look for shrapnel in the fields of sorrow. a nd when our souls burn with grief, we will find refuge under an olive tree. i will tend to your wounds if only with my words. w ill you quieten my trembling heart? l et us forget sleep tonight: r est your eyes against the silence, i ’ll read darwish under the moonlight. i s there anything more beautiful than love & freedom? 22

the keffiyeh interpretation fatima elreda

olive leaves . i’m reading poetry and this time an olive leaf branch is my bookmark. nestled between the pages. between land and body. the olive leaves have been condemned to an eternity of symbolism. f ishnet . saltwater only burns when there’s a wound s omewhere even if you can’t see it. and the sea is poisoned. t he children are playing football on the beach. c an the fisherman capture all their hopes and bring them back to shore with a broken net? t rade routes . they come and go loading their ships with lies, but the women here weave stars into thobes. l ook into the eye of a rifle. navigate checkpoints, the passage from death to more death. t he tender. the brave. i ’m writing poetry this time and a keffiyeh teaches me all there is to know about pattern and symbol. whereas i annex words and build a wall around imagery clumsily arranging and rearranging them, someone has gracefully tucked flowers: gerberas, roses and gypsophila, into the keffiyah which is wrapped around the martyr’s face. t he final composition: musk & worship & bloom. w hat art is this death? 23

abecedarian for gaza fatima elreda

a press conference among amassed corpses b ecause the world wants proof. as c hance has it, a palestinian’s life is subject to d ebate. doctors, paramedics, journalists— e veryone is a superhero in gaza. f reedom, an incantation, rising from dripping tents: g od sees and records all. h ere, children must cry i n front of cameras for the world to believe their pain. j ust another interview, another soundbite after kids d rinking rain and yearning for bread. l et them play hopscotch in the m ud of grief and collect teddy bears from remnants of their dreams. n ames scribbled on hands and legs o bituaries on tender flesh p at the orphans’ heads without asking too many q uestions. enough has been said. r ewind 75 years. s uture their wounds without anaesthetic, these t elevised massacres raw footage of u nfiltered agony, true-to-life mise-en-scene. v acant stares into the slab of the night. w hat else can doctors do? x -ray their souls to provide evidence of humanness? y esterday, blood trickled down the moon and minarets. z oom out. that’s enough genocide in the frame. 24

freedom

sarah m.

freedom, they say, is a beautiful thing, b ut what, in essence, does it bring? i t's the wisp of words suspended i nto the void of the universe, f rom the lips of human souls, f orever burdening the atmosphere. i t's the gentle touch on a face, o r a harsh slap on the back, t he curvature of lips, concave or convex, s etting the tone for the hours to come, a nd the next, a nd the next, c reating an everlasting domino effect. ' freedom '— the power to choose , t o determine your next move, t he capacity to express or suppress, t he permission to be your authentic self, t o refuse to be dominated b y the will of another. ——— t o refuse to consider t he well-being of another, t o flagrantly favor o ne man's wish over the need of another, t o invade boundaries u nder the flag of ' freedom '— the power to abuse . f reedom unbound i s freedom abused, f reedom of the unwise i s the captivity of the universe. i f only consequences cast their shadow beforehand, i f only man feared hell a nd strove for heaven, w ould freedom be a beautiful thing. 25

contributors list ISSUE SEVEN: FREEDOM phoebe b.h mercury thomas rions-maehren mesh toraskar jonathan fletcher allyssa haygood-taylor bianca tschaikner sarah m. jesus cortez leal arryn liu ruchi acharya julian matthews mariam saidan arnab chatterjee emma nathan lizzy wallis fatima hanan elreda

for

wordsmiths, for

wordsmiths,

storytellers storytellers and the poetically & the

poetically

inclined. poetically

inclined. 27

ISSUE 07: FREEDOM

ISSUE 7: freedom