Magnapoets Free Verse and Form

Iris Dan - Coming Down

Up there, between places,

between times, it is good:

the earth its own

precise scale model,

 

cultures neatly juxtaposed,

differentiated by shade

rather than divided by fences

plateaus, islands,

solidly implanted, reassuring

 

the sea, wine-colored,

spilling out of its cup

soothing parched edges

 

the earth responding

extending a limb,

opening a bay

 

You are of this world

You can see

it is good

 

And then, steeply,

it rises towards you

the poor, threatened,

threatening place

 

you’re accustomed

to call home

 

 

 

 

 

A Short Farewell Letter by Elisha Porat

To my Hebrew, my own sundered, grated Hebrew:
There, in my forgotten, distant childhood
You were placed inside my ear, imprinted
In my finger, poured upon my neck.
Now, goodbye: I am sinking, forgotten
You go on, not turning your head.
Fare you well, my bellwether.
Now lock on, my distant one, to
The neck of a tender boy, weigh heavily
On the heart of my successor.

Translated from Hebrew by Asher Harris

To my Hebrew, my own sundered, grated Hebrew:
There, in my forgotten, distant childhood
You were placed inside my ear, imprinted
In my finger, poured upon my neck.
Now, goodbye: I am sinking, forgotten
You go on, not turning your head.
Fare you well, my bellwether.
Now lock on, my distant one, to
The neck of a tender boy, weigh heavily
On the heart of my successor.

Translated from Hebrew by Asher Harris

What He Wants by Aurora Antonovic

a cobalt blue shirt
with narrow stripes
to bring out his eyes

softly faded denims
with whiskered creases in the front
and soft puckers down the sides

maroon boots with mustard-coloured laces
a slight wedge to the heel
shone to waxy perfection

a new image
created by a new look
to go with the new life

showcased in the back
of the Sear’s catalogue
page 373

fist published in ken*again

HOMEBODY

In wrinkly skin, and hard bone,
this body is my comfy home.
It's not some mortgage loaner,
I'm its once in a lifetime owner.

Exterior is riddled with holes,
yes, age extracts, takes tolls.
Two peepholes let the vision in,
mirrored images of aged has-been.

Under my lumpy snotty schnoz,
is a yawning hole, bleating baas.
Puckers up to spit and kiss,
purses lips and makes a hiss

Listen-up, I hear horrid screams,
embedded in music, of my dreams.
Sounds of the celestial spheres,
dissonances, jangle in both ears.

My tough hairy hide is a sieve,
a million pores let me live.
They cool me, giving up my sweat,
see I'm air-conditioned, yet wet.

Two limbs ambulate so I can roam,
jointed shanks make a mobile home.
The other two, at ten wits end,
digital feelings, messages send.

Swiveling observatory at the top,
Inside organic computer is a flop,
skews fact into it's own reality,
amusement center, sans morality.

I'm at home within my sack of skin.



by John Brooke

Iris Dan - Mediterranean Landscape with Water Birds

(Inspired by and dedicated to J. Armstead)

 

seen from the Coastal Highway:

dense clusters of water birds - so diaphanous

you may easily take them for clouds -

circling the sky, then, unexpectedly

throwing themselves to the ground

no longer a diaphanous cluster but rather

a discontinuous, disorderly bunch

competing for the bounty of the garbage dump

 

what have we done to the noble birds,

you think despondently,

and, indeed, what are they doing here

since across the road there's the sea

and at the fish farm nearby

in the neat, geometrical ponds

they could more fittingly gorge themselves

with live, healthy prey?

 

blessedly unaware of their nobility

the birds systematically scavenge

enforcing pecking order with shrieks;

forgotten they may have what is good for them

but have perfected instead an efficient method

of rupturing the bags with their beaks;

they seem to have copied our taste for junk

as well as our horror of effort.

 

you pray: may they be clever enough

to know, and to teach their young

how not to swallow nylon bags

how to tell quick-acting poison

from more innocuous trash

how to thrive on our mess

remain strong and be here

when we are no more

 

 

 

 

 

SEA STORM SEDOKA

Wind ruffles surface
embroidering wave crests white,
flounces on milky beaches.

Breeze freshens to gale;
teases sea, lusts for land.
Kelp soon salsas in the deep.

by John Brooke

EXERCISING MY RITE TO BEAR ARMS

Gave them a final jolt
with my forty-four Colt.

Taught many a life lesson
With my Smith & Wesson.

There were none left alive
blasted with my forty-five.

Blown away maimed all asunder
done by a Saki over and under.

Ruger, Browning, and Clock
death in minutes tick-tock.

Death to the pimp and floozy
sprayed aimlessly from my Uzzi.

Nobody is left standing alive
blasted with my side by side.

Guns I loved to my last breath
lead poisoning caused my death.

by John Brooke, June 18, 2009

Johnny Come Lately

Hola Aurora Antonovic, I just woke up after a very long sleep.

I have a few poems in my bag that  I would like to share in this vibrant site.

Seagull On a Cross (J. Armstead)

A seagull bathes in the rays
of the morning's sun,
perched on the wrought iron crucifix
of an aging brick and mortar church
on a street corner in a part of the city
where urban regentrification
has made only timid inroads.

The dirty white marquis of the church reads:
"Through my eyes I see a dusty crossroads in the rain.
Through His eyes I see the purity of an infinite Hope."

The seagull sees there are three
garbage dumpsters
nearby where it can scavenge its next meal
of discarded leftovers.

The corner it straddles is a four-way intersection
that was once the place where tribes
of warring Native Americans
met to air their differences, strategize
or talk peace
during times of famine, disease or violence.
Now it sits opposite an auto mechanics' shop
and an Afrocentric Moroccan cafe
with free wireless internet access,
its nearest neighbor on the same street, to the east,
being a music store reselling old vinyl records
of dead or obscure jazz musicians and big band orchestras,
and, to the south, a four-story tall,
private practice psychiatric clinic.

The Lord obviously believes in irony and subtext.

The bird preening its feathers atop the cross
believes in the smells on the wind over the streets.

A weary homeless woman pushing a shopping cart
believes she is being watched by agents of the CIA.

It's the end of spring and 7:15am
on a Saturday
and the church's doors are locked.

******************************************************************************************

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Images: "Stone Memorial Cross" by Sherez, dreamstime_713005.jpg

Midnight At The Pyramids by Aurora Antonovic

We hold them in our hands:

slippery strobes of gyrating colour

wrapped around shivering fingers

until - eel-like - they slip away

and all that’s left

is frigid breath

wistful among the stars

Without A Eulogy by Elisha Porat

What he wanted was
to hide among the simple
or among the small
whose greatness
he had always craved.
To be at rest with friends
cloaked in the pride of the meek without words,
and without even a eulogy.
And after that, only this:
To lie below tender shoots
sheltered in the shade of thorns
and to hear nothing
but Blackbirds singing.

* Translated from the Hebrew by Alan Sacks.

Dawn by Yoav J. Tenembaum

Seeing you is to me
What dawn is to nature

The touch of your body
Produces in me
What dawn does to a bird

So placid and quiet its tone
And yet so powerful its effect
The dawn

Like you
To whom my own nature
Is ever drawn

Yoav J. Tenembaum
©Copyright, 2004

Originally published in Poetic Portal

Iris Dan - On my Way to School

On my way to school

there was the widow with three children

cursing because once again

the neighbors had poisoned her geese

(introduction to the banality of evil)

then the railway, where often

I waited for hour-long trains

loaded with coal, timber and wheat

to pass towards the Soviet border

(introduction to geopolitics)

and finally the hospital

with the morgue door open, revealing

the last bloated corpse

flanked by paper flowers

drenched in cheap perfume

while from the windows

corpses in making

spat on the pavement blobs of soul

mixed with sputum and tobacco

(introduction to death and dying)

I imagine I was so eager for love

(introduction to love)

because I needed something

to attach my thoughts to

on my way to school

(First published in Cyclamens and Swords)

I Am A Female Samson by Aurora Antonovic

I always see myself with my hair long, even
when it is not, and I think I feel it tickling my
elbows and wrists, falling over my arms
as I write my letters. I think I feel it growing as
I rake the yard, run for the subway, or take a
thoughtful walk in the old grand park that has a
mansion with a balcony. I see myself in my mind’s
eye with my hair stretching past my waist; I
feel myself sitting on it, feel the power it
gives me from my roots down to the tips of my
tired toes. I go to sleep with you brushing it, even
though you are not here.

first published in SYNO

Burial by Janet Lynn Davis

It’s not like in the movies:
no expansive green hillside
overlooking a flawless
earth. The sun isn’t
beaming and blood-free.
Voices aren’t in tune.

Truth is, you’ll probably find
yourself in a crowded corner
with others who have left
before you.  You’ll feel
the feet of your mourners,
but your home won’t be in dirt.

As for those still here
to tread the windings,
none can know the spaces
in their hearts that will form vacuums—
preserved from frost and coals.
Maybe never to be unsealed.

first pub'd in ken*again, 2005.