Magnapoets Free Verse and Form

The Ashes of Her Kiss and Broken Dreams, Like Emeralds in the Dust (J.Armstead)

...the wine of heartbreak on my lips...

Bittersweet, a cold, wet wind,
a silken stream of memory,
quicksilvered time
and
brittle, finite space,
blows in from off the coast,
caressing my face,
leaving icy, ghostly tracks
of jeweled melancholy,
gemstones
lost amid the stars,
oak leaves and thorns
in a Winter season
crowned with the antiquated
imperiousness,
corona radiata,
of a sundered heart,
Nobility in the dust,
the lost coronet
in a dream of flight
unrealized.

...thirsty, the ashen taste does not quench...

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

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: GOLDEN CROWN OF EMPEROR RUDOLF II by Pomortzeff, dreamstime_520788.jpg 

A Morning's Commute (Joseph Armstead)

The whispered word of Truth
hides, masked, behind
a winter light,
embarrassed
at its hollow ring.

I didn't have time to get coffee.

Seagulls and pigeons soar in dim light
across blue-gray skies where a storm
marches relentlessly inland
from the distant horizon
and, for a heart's pregnant beat,
I stare at my reflection
on the train car's dirty window.
It is like a ghost, a memory
caught like a fly
in polished, clear,
double-paned plexiglass.

The pretty Eurasian girl
in the blue leather jacket
and the black denim cargo pants
is crying softly,
hot crystal tears
born from volcanic depths
she tries to deny exists,
while she listens to her
shiny pink MP3 player.

I want to look away,
but part of me, a dark gnome
hiding behind my face,
wants to drink in her misery.

Warning:
Use the exit door release
only in special circumstances.
In the event of an energency,
to open the door manually after the train stops,
pull the cover panel away
and move the gray lever
in the direction of the red arrow.

I return to pretending
to read my magazine,
news and events, lies and portents,
glossy images selling
sex, pathos and revolution.

The story remains the same:
Angry voices in far away lands
strike like a million fists,
rising from the jungle's heart,
a thunder of discontent
from the metroplitan war-zones,
like those through which the train slides
a sinuous, multi-ton serpent,
and I am a tick, mindlessly persistent,
burrowed deep into the scaly hide
of the armored,
electronic beast.

Warning:
In the event of a medical emergency on the train,
remain calm and contact the Train Operator
using either of the intercoms
located at each end of the car.
Wait for help to arrive, listening for instructions
from the Train Operator or from rescue personnel.

The pretty girl with the diamond tears
doesn't know it, but she is praying to me,
unaware that I am but one of the many
faces of a new God, an angrier Messiah,
a divinity served by a legion
of alienated angels.
Seagulls and pigeons
soar into the cold wind
lashing blue-gray skies.
I do not offer Salvation.

Warning:
Always walk down the center of the track bed,
avoiding the Third Rail.
The third rail is the most interior rail,
the farthest from the tunnel walls.
While, in an emergency, power will usually be cut,
there is a chance that the third rail
could remain electrified.

The pretty Eurasian girl leaves the train at her stop.
The train doors close behind her with a regretful sigh.
I watch her on the platform, wanting to look away,
but I can't. Her image is hypnotic. I am transfixed.
Grinding my teeth, I turn to a new page in my magazine.

The whispered word of Truth
hides, masked, behind
a winter light,
embarrassed
at its hollow ring.

Coffee would be nice.

*********

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Train" by Ximagination, dreamstime_2026261.jpg

l'amour by David Matthews

We consume caffeine
In the rain
Myths of synchronicity
And pain —

Blue trees spring
From operatic rooftops
And the blood of stars
Heiroglyphs the moon

A charming quark
Steps softly
From the storm
Where ocean transforms
Fire into sky —
And color is song —

l'amour

How light falls
With handcuffs
Through the rain

Four Poems of the Coming Holocaust by Eliaz Cohen

and we shall go the way we went for many long days

glutinous and forth roundabout and forth

and stubborn and drunk and rebellious and we shall not know that in a moment

the disaster will reach us

*

and on that day I will lift my eyes to the mountains

      but there are no mountains

already disaster has touched brushed lightly their peaks melted ran

     like hot wax hills

      dissolved into valleys

the myriad hosts of mankind too

men with women youths and virgins old men and small children

      flowed became a river

      the fat and the honey

*

and it shall be on that day the land will flow with the fat of her sons and daughters there will be no refuge on the mountain of Jerusalem

*

perhaps, my love, we will come, you and I, in the tunnels of Etzion

   in a love which, unknown to us, is the last

   suddenly, in the middle, the lust

      will rise in us

and in a moment we will melt together flesh desire soul

      the children will follow us

*

and the river of fat and honey will come bubbling to the city of Jerusalem

     gold-dome-mountain-drops will come in it in woe

the mount-of-olives will liquefy to oils and marble will split down the middle

      without a sound   

*

in the coming holocaust we will sit, seraphs, on the porch

      and we’ll count the wanderinjews

*

the-song-bird will be singed in flight and the mouth

     of the land will be blocked by screams

burned sunflowers will frequently bow their heads

and a dry hand will release the vine to crumble in the ashes

            of heaven

and all that lives in this good land

     will be like God:

azure

       crystalline

      ethereal

translated from the Hebrew by Larry Barak

Parting by Elisha Porat

How old were we then?
When we embraced trembling on the summer
carpet?  Fifteen?  I
remember your vivid
blush, when I pulled your thin shirt
over your head.  I
remember the strange odor,
sour, that emanated from your nether regions.  Our
wonder, as we peeked at
the secrets of the body.  And how we left
the shack, stepping hesitantly, like those
who have not yet learned to take their leave.

Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

Time on my shoulder by Tom Berman

Time sits on my shoulder

implacable,

Time looks at me

in the mirror

measures me

as I walk

Time rides my breath

inhaling exhaling

Time condenses

with early morning mist

swirling on the roadway

Time rises with thermals

of heated air in fields

flying to a setting sun

Time cycles the seasons

of the years' progression

From whence to when?

I see the faces of all the clocks

Second and minute hands circle

Numbers click and change

The spring uncoils

The pendulum swings

solemnly, steadily

Time ticks by

Time ticks by

in my pulse, in my heart

in my brain that ponders

What is Time ?

How much time is left

to unravel

what Time is?

Time sits on my shoulder

The owl blinks,

                       time passes

Published in Shards, A Handful of Verse 2002

The Barrier Crasher by Eliaz Cohen

                               For Ali Yichya, my teacher
                                on being appointed ambassador to Athens

At this dusky hour, at the foot of Mount Gilboa
when I am dressed in drab against my will
to join the guards of the roadblock
(the Jalama border crossing, at times a roadblock, at times
       a road ascending from the Afula Valley to the Dotan Valley
       and to the road of the mountain and the fathers)
at this hour I think of you Ali Yichya
how you came all warm and paunchy rolling to us,
little settler-children of Sabia and Thamania in the land of waking Samaria,
     the dancing gutturals
     of the language of Hada’d.

At this dusky hour your people are returning, Ali, the people that are in the fields
and I stand in their way, with all the security checks
and those gutturals that came then to our little mouths
Return searching for a language.

At this dusky hour almost anything is possible
     when my heart sings Arabic and goes out to the woman
     whose onions have spilled out of her sack all over the place
and how in her proud silence she collects them whispering
     one of the songs
that you taught us Ali Yichya from Kara Village in the virgin Elkana
which is being built
[and I didn’t know that you and your village have roots in our hills
that your ancestral mound which was deserted on an el-juma day
miten snin ago (they found in the mound a pot of meat and bones left on the coals)
near enough to be seen by us]   

at this dusky hour I see you Ali Yichya
     carrying the prayer shawl flag
in the heights where the Greek gods of the Acropolis dwell
     and how in an excited-Arab-soul all my cuts are healed
     in the one soul

here at the roadblock silence descends now
     and only the gold skin-of-gathered-onions still broadcasts a smell
     that song and the smell
      of the embarrassment of the woman and the soldier standing over her
     (meaning me)
and ana mushtak- lak ya sid Ali


At this dusky hour, at the foot of Mount Gilboa
Soon the day will fall on its sword
And a cobalt blue evening will rise
     With no moon.
From pretty Jenin and her daughters once again will curl skyward
     The allahu akhbar in the wonderful mak’am
     And I will send fingers of a Hebrew Priest
      To my loved ones who are in the mountains
      And to you as well

translated from the Hebrew by Larry Barak

University of the Spirit by David Matthews

(note: It occurs to me now that last fall when this poem was composed would have been the appropriate time to post it. Ah, well, fall term is done, the grades are in, and the winter quarter is upon us.)

The sunlight falls more softly now
Across a sea of leaves soon to turn
Gold, orange, yellow and fall
In windswept riot of imagination,
Throwing bands of light and shadow
On spines of books that rise
In untidy stacks on my desk
Alongside pens and writing pads
Filled with the scrawl that is
The thinking out of thoughts
And working out of poems
For this new fall term
At the university of the spirit
Where I pursue my studies.

The Young Students by Elisha Porat

"The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them
at night when the clock counts."

-- Archibald MacLeish

On the morning of Memorial Day I walk into the class.
"The young dead soldiers do not speak. 
Nevertheless, they are heard . . . "
I read to my young students;
My voice echoes in the silent space of the class.
Their eyes are fastened to my lips,
Fear beats upon my face:

I'm the one who knows,
I'm the one who remembers;
I bite my lip, and  begin to cry.

Abruptly I flee from the classroom,
As the eyes of my young students
Drill into the silent space in my brain.
Speak to me, dear children,
How I truly need to hear
Your voices now.

translated from the Hebrew by
the author and Ward Kelley

Lost in the Plantation | Walter Ruhlmann

She wanted to lie down next to me.
She did.
I said she ought to know there were no chances;
she took hers.

I remember this silent night
in my flat
up there
up the Plantation Shop
Bath
Nineteen
Ninety-six

Fanny
was her name
she once met the Native
and shared his wrath
against the wall
of uncertainties
that went up
between us.

Andy and Paul
were cutting plants,
tidying the shop,
clearing things,
counting money.
When she went downstairs
she helped herself with a cup of coffee
the smell of it filled up the kitchen.

I let her go
I had to
she had to go
and there were no
other ways.
The Native would come back shortly after.
He had been out all night.
Staring at the sky,
talking to the moon,
to the stars,
his fingers touching the darkest patch of the ethereal net
up there.

He entered the room
I was still lying on my bed.
He lied next to me.
The wine vapours still lingered in his hair,
on his clothes, on his pale skin.
I touched his back.
He said I ought to know there were no chances;
I got up
and went to work.

Previously published in Aesthetica (UK) issue #20