Kinga Fabó

 

 

 

Not Because Its Chic

Here I have a place
where I can be sad.
I adore it. I adore it.

I exist only in roles.
I want colors! Colors!
Just as above me the sky is always blue.

Not because its chic. Not because of that.

 

 

 

 

Kinga Fabó is a published Hungarian poet (linguist, essayist). Her bilingual (Indonesian-English) poetry book Poison  has just come out. She has an essay on Sylvia Plath as well. Website: www.hlo.hu/news/poems_by_kinga_fabo

 

Note: Translated by Michael Castro and Gábor G. Gyukics

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Susan Castillo Street

 

 

 

 

Voices

Oaks rumble in deep bass
that thrums straight down
their roots, draws from the earth.

Hornbeams belt out Sixties pop songs,
twist and shout. Willow divas wail
soprano dramas in a minor key.

In the blades of grass, whispers coil. Spirals whisper
when the south winds sigh, ruffle and caress
the soft green hair of graves.

 

 

 

Susan Castillo Street is a Louisiana expatriate and academic who lives in the Sussex countryside. She is Harriet Beecher Stowe Professor Emeritus, King’s College, University of London, and has published a book of poems titled The Candlewoman’s Trade (Diehard Press, 2003).  Her second collection, Abiding Chemistry, is published by Aldrich Press and was reviewed on IS&T on 1st July.  Her poems have appeared in The Missing Slate, The Stare’s Nest, Nutshells and Nuggets, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Snakeskin, Literature Today, York Mix), She is a member of three poetry groups, The Conduit Street Poets (London), 52, and Slant 2015.

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Jay Frankston

 

 

 

The Portrait

I’m not looking for perfection
I don’t really want it
It is essence I seek, wholeness
with blunders and errors
and the unexpected surprise.
The hand that shakes
when you unwittingly are being the hero.
From small talk and blabber
to the sublime
I treasure your humanity
It must have room to breathe.
The calluses on your hands
the mud on your boots
the cut under your lip
the leaning shoulder
the hesitation in your voice,
they are a book we can all read.
But don’t be timid
nor aggressive, nor complacent.
You speak more clearly
when you body is in motion.
It is then that your portrait is complete.

 

 

 

Jay Frankston was raised in Paris, France. Narrowly escaping the Holocaust he came to the U.S. in 1942, became a lawyer and practiced on his own in New York for nearly twenty years, reaching the top of his profession, sculpting and writing at the same time.  He is the author of several books and of a true tale entitled A Christmas Story  which was published in New York, condensed in Reader’s Digest, translated into 15 languages. El Sereno, his latest novel.

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Ilse Pedler

 

 

 

Breathing

 

Sometimes in the car I forget to breathe,

almost. Respiration reduces to

tiny transactions reluctant to leave

 

any trace. Warm skin and car seat a new

union, matter overcoming mind,

the windscreen a cornea to see through,

 

the heartbeat of wipers. I am confined

until a sickening jolt of preservation,

a shriek of tyres. Less than seconds defined

 

by red lights focussed, the dislocation

of time, and a density of fears

like a stone, but with the termination

 

of burnt rubber on tarmac, it appears

there are only white lines stretching on for years.

 

 

Ilse Pedler has had poems published previously in Poetry News, Prole, 14, Poetry Salzburg Review, Ink, Sweat and Tears and The North among others. She has also had poems in 2 anthologies. She works as a Veterinary Surgeon in Saffron Walden.

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Charlie Hill

 

 

 

This chaos

We live, perhaps, in a lawless world,
rejoicing as it does in the wild swings
of good against bad, confounded
by questions of maplines
and economics
and the democratic process,
informed by gods,
the tensile strength of duplicitous reason,
by spatters of blood.

And yet, in all this vital disorder,
this human-threatening human flux,
I can’t quite flap the feeling out of my hapless sickened bones,
that there is a truth
that mocks this chaos with its constancy,
even as it underwrites more chaos still.

For it seems to me, that
ours is a civilisation built on war,
and a civilisation built on war
is no such thing.

 

 

Charlie Hill is a writer from Birmingham. Both of his novels have been critically acclaimed. His short stories have appeared in many publications in print and online.  Website:
 http://www.charliehill.org.uk/

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