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Feature of the Week – 4

I chose Marsha Owen’s prose poem “Ugly Times” for this week’s feature. A heart-breaking rant. I loved the sounds. The images are vivid and rooted in reality. The juxtaposition of harsh reality and continuity of nature makes this poem effective.

Ugly Times

Hung a new fan on the outside porch today. Blades sliced the humidity, brought flutters of relief, but I coulda’ sworn I heard one whisper, Why bother? He’s just gonna’ start a war, you know, pack his suitcases with green roots of evil, play golf on our graves.

So I sat down with my new friends, squatters who swarm in my head now, drop by uninvited, keep me awake every night. I tried to send them away, but they stay—then sunshine drops its snarky self onto my grass as it has for eons, and just then in the oak tree, birds all lemony and apple-red catch my eye. Audacious, I thought, while warships circle each other somewhere, but I hear mothers still birth babies, brown babies, white babies, less than right babies, destined to be children (let us pray) but the rich bitch says now all must pay to play at school, lunch canceled, so I wonder if I should get a refund on the fan, get a little money, a few dollars maybe, enough for a bottle of filtered water because a child I don’t know drinks poison, or enough to fill your grandma’s prescription, maybe enough to buy a wheel for his chair and then I remember those pussy hats waving from crowds, a sea of pink sails bobbing along almost like they were sewn together and all the feet moved as one river of blood.

I watched the fan circle. I coulda’ sworn I saw a noose hanging there, the oak tree out back blackened against my scorched earth.

Weekly Feature

Feature of the Week – 3

Untitled

By Jerry Vilhotti
Their third born, Christina would carry for three days dead. Dead. Dead; afraid they would be turned away before reaching their destination of Sao Paulo where two miles outside the large city work awaited them on a coffee plantation …

“And what are you carrying in your arms, young lady?””My child,” she said in halting Portuguese.

“So you are the Italians who will make our Brazil a great country like Rome?” the second official said disdainfully; afraid for all their women.

“Sim, if your wealthy do not kill off all the dreamers,” Micalino said trying to control his tongue but even he did not know the baby was dead.

“Why is it bundled up so?” the first official said compassionately.

“He has the chills and his mother is keeping him warm,” Micalino said in a tone of voice that suggested it was none of their business.

The mother had known Ghiberto was dying while on the ship crossing the Atlantic for he had vomited three whole days but she was afraid to tell anyone; thinking they might be quarantined and then be refused port entry. She had tried to wash his fever away but it persisted and when they boarded the train, she looked inside the blanket and attempted to shake him gently to wakefulness or at least to make his eyes close into a soft sleep. She closed his eyelids with one finger and then draped the blanket over his face and began to rock him – not stopping until they nearly reached their cabin on the two-mile walk and then told her husband: “The baby is dead.” Only then did she allow herself to cry and continued as Micalino dug up the earth as he cursed the sky, the stars, Columbus for discovering the “new” world and all the future dictators who would fling their banners of Reich in the faces of the masses leading them to an abyss to a grubby greedy One World Order drinking the blood of innocence and all those with stains on their souls perpetuating misery and dug up the ground that would become his son’s bed of rest under the many blossoms of the beautiful quince trees.

Weekly Feature

Feature of the Week – 1

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Welcome to the first feature of the week series.  For the very first feature, I chose the flash fiction piece by Lisa Reily.

 
Like a Bird

He was a fanatic. Always the daredevil, the jock, the sports star. She could hardly remember why she ever liked him. They had met in high school, and twenty years later they were still married.

She felt his body pressed against her from behind. Why the hell did he need her to do this? She was well and truly over the role of subservient wife. Yet here she was again, indulging her husband’s desires and jumping out of another ridiculous plane.

She’d lost count of how many times they had done this together. He thought it was a bonding experience. But to her, it was another example of the monotony of married life.

She looked out at the wide world around her, the beautiful green hills and mountains. She longed to be part of it, her own two feet on the ground. Instead, she was here with him, plummeting to earth through the blue. She didn’t even like the colour anymore. It just reminded her of the years she had spent living his dreams.

Most of her friends had the same problem with their husbands. Some of her friends laughed and fantasized about leaving, but no one ever did.

She remembered their first jump. She did not want to do it. He held her tight and she had felt safe in his arms. How consumed she was by the feeling of falling. Attached to him now, his closeness just stifled her.

Falling rapidly towards the earth, her cheeks flapped with the force. Her goggles pressed hard onto her face. She knew they would leave marks for hours on her delicate skin. Enough was enough. This time, she was leaving him.

As the world came closer, she unlocked the harness that attached her body to his, and let go. She cupped her hands and spread her arms out in the air like a bird, and flew away from him.

She looked back at her husband, his face pale with shock, his body spread-eagled against the sky. She watched as his parachute exploded its colour without her.

She was free.

***

Lisa Reily can be found here.

Announcements

Weekly Poetry and Flash Contest

For the past two years, we have released one issue per quarter.  Although this gives the readers a rich tapestry of written arts, the readers want more. Based on the feedback we received, we decided to publish one poem and one flash fiction story once a week on the blog. The quarterly magazine is thriving, and we will continue to publish it.

So, starting today, I am opening the submissions for the weekly feature.  Let the excitement begin.

— Pratibha

Contributors

Contributors Vol 2 Issue 4

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Janet Reed
Hugues Dufour
Richard Luftig
Olivia Grayson
Scott Luddati
Christpher Werkmn
Lisa Biggar
Jose Sotolongo
Monique Hayes
Suchoon Mo
Rodney Nelson
Lauren Peterson
Stephenson Muret
Colin Dodds
Catherine Mcguire
Simon Perchik
David-Matthew Barnes
Larry Hollist
Jared Pearce
Laonard Zawadski
Marion Kaplun Shapiro
Brett Thompson
Joe Cottonwood
Cath Nichols
Marina Rubin
Jason Daniels
Peter Goodwin
Elaine Webster
David Mattews Barnes Joe Cottonwood Stephenson Muret
Colin Dodds Peter Goodwin Olivia Grayson
Larry Hollist Scott Luddati Richard Lufting
Catherine McGuire Suchoon Mo Rodney Nelson
Cath Nichols Jared Pearce Laurel Peterson
Simon Perchik Janet Reed Marian Shapiro
Brett Thompson Leonard Zawadski Lisa Lynn Biggar
Jason Daniels Hugues Dufour Monique Hayes
Marina Rubin Jose Sotolongo Elaine Webster
Christopher T. Werkman
musings

Thanksgiving 2016

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thanksgiving2016
 

One day is there of the series

by Emily Dickinson

One day is there of the series
Termed “Thanksgiving Day”
Celebrated part at table
Part in memory –
Neither Ancestor nor Urchin
I review the Play –
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday
Had There been no sharp subtraction
From the early Sum –
Not an acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room
Not a mention whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto such, were such Assembly,
‘Twere “Thanksgiving day” –

 

In the times of turmoil, I always turn to Emily for comfort and wisdom. No matter what part of the world you live, these are the times of upheaval. It’s that annual day of giving thanks in the United States.  I, for one, am thankful for poetry in my life, so I am sharing this poem here today.

The poet says it’s  a “series/Termed “Thanksgiving Day.””
Perhaps, she means to say that we should be grateful for our blessings, whatever they may be, every day, in a series of days, and not just for one day of the year.

The holiday is  “Celebrated part at table” and “Part in memory -” because perhaps, not every loved one is sitting at the table to celebrate.

She refers to the day as a “Reflex Holiday,” a celebration carried out without much introspection. She feels that the holiday would not have held a deeper significance had there been no loss. “Had There been no sharp subtraction/From the early Sum -” Because life is full of losses, the celebration of the bounty is more meaningful.
This theme of some loss making the joys of life sweeter appears on several of her poems. The Elsewhere she says, “To comprehend a nectar/Requires sorest need.”

We certainly have the sorest need for the nectar right about now.

May you have a joyous day today and every day of the year give you satisfaction.
Happy Thanksgiving.