Blank documents/ in retrospect
alight the nascent day
sun cresting the horizon
meteor showers/ salted debris
black canvas/ infinite twitches
flicker against the night
the mind creates
a fortress/ to ground the body
to a meaning/ a purpose
to greet each day—
as the turning of lathe to leg
on wooden post.
Would the Creator grumble if broken?
Of course you ask the obvious
not mistaken for frivolity—
you jester
a crooked smile
then proceed with caution.
it’s a marvel—really
it strikes me in the middle
of the conversation
the reason clouded over
in denial without logic
a substitution of my human
ability to reason—
lost in the emotion
the cause really irking
my sense of knowing
it all, but then again—
this is what pisses you off.
Snagged a Spotlight – If you’ve wondered what makes me tick or where I hail from, check out my interview on SPILLWORDS today.
A big thank you to Spillwords Press and the Editing team, Dagmara and Rebecca, for the opportunity to share a little more about myself.
For those who are new to Spillwords, here’s a bit about their mission-
“At Spillwords Press, we espouse the philosophy that words matter, and imagination is the seed of accomplishment. When you join Spillwords, you will gain a door to the world not only through our website but also via social media. Once you submit your original content, our team of editors will ensure your work is presented responsibly in addition to crafting a visually compelling presentation of each work. Our mission is to give both, published and independent writers, a place where their works can have the proper exposure to readers, writers, other literary communities as well as publication firms around the world. Our passion and commitment to writers and readers began in 2015 with the promise to be the true free press of the people. With each passing day we reaffirm our vision of being the voice from New York City to the world.”
So, as when the dark falls / so, as when the night sleeps
We rage / we weep / we throw stones on the rivers bed
On our pillows we weep / we weep to forget—
The day.
Alone / to leave love / to bleed love // to drain
Forget— to forget / we come under the spell.
Let sleep render the day from the trails of nettles
Crushed under the foot of tyrants / from the blowing up
Of our celebrations—
Let pain rest on dreams and let the night jet you to new planets / moons // stars.
We calm the quakes as earth reawakes the great freeze / release // release!
And the flowers / they disappear from graves / and the thieves they come
They steal the peace / they harness the hate / to fuel the race / reject // recoil
Raise your head from the mountains—parade / prone // pray
Throw roses to the gods, then raise your glass and drink.
Do you think it’s easy to ignore this pain?
I bothered myself to care
regret
pressed upon my day
to give a crap
thought it could lead to understanding
But, when liars sit in your heart
they eat you from the inside out
corrupting the very essence of love—
disrupt the heartbeat
with vile undertakings
to justify the insanity
of their lack
It negates the purpose of existence
the reasons to love
cloud over in a hazy-milky-sap
blunting the thing
you say you love—
There comes a moment
when time stops
the pain of the abuse
doesn’t subside
The disgust/ the daggers/ the game-playing
nonsense—
ruthless in its endeavors/ and senility
sets you back 10 years/ or more.
if illusion is fake
a dream lost its place
but we no longer
care
the battle for truth
silenced by riddles
belittled by fate
the truth is
illusion—
is a false debate.
I can only manage one
and you are it
tidy up the bed/ make the coffee
and off you go
pitter patter feet to the car/ zip gone
now I’m alone/ to manage this one thing
Can I do it without folding in and succumb to
my own undoing? Manage to complete
the work of my life—
feel the release
of a lifetime of complaints
that I only had you/ all along
This One Thing.
Can I get it done?
as stiff as a backboard
protruding—
jutted bone / fetid waste
the smell of weeping willows
tears rolling on the blackbirds
little-black-face
cars whiz by in a hurried pace
we fiddle the locks to close out
the last of what remains
no feeling of need
to be on time
or need—
to be someplace
it’s like that these days
we blow in the wind
like dandelion seeds
fuzz drifting
every which way
landing momentarily
then floating away.
the windows are rattling / vibrating
warrior drums / drumming up battle
the traffic is doubling in immensity
steel thrumming / brakes grinding / growling engines
the vulgarity in population density thickets / then thickens
gridlock cemented / tourism almost non-existent / instead
new-residential-sales increase / billow / like sails on the gulf stream
blowing in torrents of wind / hailing in the newcomer’s almighty dollars
latching onto our sorrows / as we trail new trails / to avoid the inevitable clashes
the horizon rising higher / flat-earthers swallow / the sunset / drunken beggars / maulers
flatten silence with hollers / peaceful sunsetters forgotten / pollution increases two-bit liars
ocean views lost to skyscrapers / modern boxes hatch like turtles on salted landscapes / if
Hemingway saw this / as witness / his drunken brawls would pursue this / plot an escape / in third person / narrate a way out / I feel a sense of dread mixed with doubt / how long can this go on
before the whole thing POPS like corn!
April is ARAB-AMERICAN HERITAGE MONTH in America. To honor my heritage, I chose to share some Poetry of resistance from occupied Palestine, today.
TRANSLATED BY SULAFA HIJJAWI Published by the Ministry of Culture Baghdad- Iraq 1968 This is a revised and edited version- 2009
THE OLIVE TREE
by, Tawfiq Zayyad
Because I do not knit wool*
Because I am always hunted
And my house is always raided.
Because I cannot own a piece of paper,
I shall carve my memoirs
On the home yard olive tree.
I shall carve bitter reflections,
Scenes of love and yearnings,
For my stolen orange grove
And the lost tombs of my dead.
I shall carve all my strivings
For the sake of remembrance
For the time when I’ll drown them
In the avalanche of triumph
I shall carve the serial number
Of every stolen piece of land
The place of my village on the map
And the blown up houses,
And the uprooted trees
And every bloom that was crushed
And all the names of the experts in torture
The names of the prisons…..
I shall carve dedications
To memories threading down to eternity
To the blooded soil of Deir Yasin
And Kufur Qassem.
I shall carve the sun’s beckoning
And the moon’s whisperings
And what a skylark recalls
At a love deserted well.
For the sake of remembrance,
I shall continue to carve
All the chapters of my tragedy
And all the stages of Al- Nakbah
On the home yard olive tree!
* Reference to Madame Lafarge, who used to knit the names of the traitors
and send them to the French revolutionaries during the French Revolution.
Darkness engulfs my heart
wrenching itself between
the metal and the flesh—
Parading as a commoner,
fools blinded
by it’s dark beauty,
then—
shattered to bits
by its intent.
The sheer weight of knowing, is a burden one cannot always carry, it hardens your mentality like candy rock pops, stuck in your throat. Knowing too much, clings to your intentions, with expectation of some weird kind of occasion, some weird excellence of endeavors hanging over your head— we blaze on, as though it isn’t there, feeding the bitter taste of it, then spitting it out in attempt to brush it away, only to further the appeal of its existence— but instead, we trod on as though it’s some kind of weird apparition, escaping our daily vision.
…craving, craving, craving, it was the best of times if you read between the lines, it was the worst of times if you read between the lines, craving, craving, craving, we the readers of the United States, in order to form a more perfect understanding of what it means to read between the lines, craving, craving, craving, literary theorists shall make no…read full poem
Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is a Jar, The Phoenix, and other journals. Edward is also a published poet.
in this land there are tyrants but we do not crumble
in this land that is our home, we stand shoulder to shoulder
and bear the brunt of tyranny
alone
we scream into the air / the waves hear us
yet nothing answers—
in this land that is our home, we stand shoulder to shoulder
and call the name of our oppressor out loud
we take the hits as patriots—
we scream into the air / the waves hear us
yet nothing answers—
in this land there are champions that rise to battled skies
stand shoulder to shoulder / bear the brunt of tyranny
alone
we call out your names—
we scream into the air / the waves hear us
yet nothing answers.
As I watch the TV
and witness the horror
the day slips away
as if it never began
the powerless feeling
the air heavy
light becomes dark
day turns to ashes
the gray in my brain
matter becomes black
no joy in birds
chirping
the people lack
hurt driven deep
into a pit of
no turning back
I ask for nothing
hope for something
the chatter
the denial
smiles of dolls
appearing to sleep
I clamor for news
to break the hell—
to no avail
people boiling fear
shit soaked rumors
inferiority beliefs
holding patterns
that sever love
and disintegrate into hate
posing as knowledge
arrogance on steroids
don’t ask my opinions—
‘til truth matters
again.
I ask myself to batch it all up
and let go
float the raft down the river
and watch it wash up later
downwind
stop pretending this doesn’t exist
and face the truth
when will I see that it was part of my
skin
all the wounds
all the lines
all the ugly spots—
I chose to ignore
I try, I do—
but, however I parse it out
I lose in the end
the meaning—
of why
I tried again,
at all.
We bleed fatigue now
as contagion and war spreads itself
like jam across the universe
jamming mutations / mutating jam
from reason to reason to gone fishin’
perhaps no reason existed, just mutation.
Fatigue recites a Soliloquy
to the few who engage
a wide-eyed gaze
at the mutant vibration
of mutations—
living amongst our dead.
We plod on with our day
fatigue welded to the end
of our words—
muscles atrophied / nerves deadened.
Fatigue engulfs like petrol on water
flames / bombs / fire's
in our mind’s eye
skies lit / trauma’s blaze
a trail through Millennial moments—
but those mutants are mutating
again / the bitter bitten
bastard enemies
of our future dreams—
Act One complete!
