Tag: Poems

“To Khulood al-Zaidi, Women’s Rights Activist” by Suzanne Morris

“Just to have the freedom to go wherever I wanted,
and to not think something bad might happen to me.”

I try to step outside
freedom’s airy shelter

and look in through
the open windows of my day:

how I stroll from house
to road, unafraid,

and, heart unflinching,
open the box to withdraw
the mail, then

wave at a friendly honk
from a passing car.

Nothing worthy of note
along the way.

Or so it seems,
until I think of her:

how, alone that time in Amman
she heeded a warning

and boarded a plane
for San Francisco

then rode the bus for hours
just because she could,

rode and rode
all over San Francisco,
just because she could

maybe her thoughts
drifting to Fern, who

might be there too,
had she survived

the short ride from Baghdad.

Imagine how,
by habit of mind,
she might have

lowered her eyes
from a stranger’s gaze

then, stepping out,
surveyed
the sloping street

for any suspicious sign;

how she might have
smiled to herself then, that

being free and being safe would
take some getting used to

at least for as long
as she was here

how she might already
have known that

Duty would call her home.

I think of her as I sit down
on my porch of an evening,
to read a book

how heedlessly I surrender
to a world of make-believe,

how easy it is to take
this small freedom
for granted.

The breeze picks up
and I look around,

suddenly alert.

I bring my fingers
to my cheeks,

trying to imagine myself
inside her skin:

the breeze upon her face
as she waits for the bus

in San Francisco.

Suzanne Morris is a novelist with eight published works, and a poet. Her poems have appeared in several recent anthologies, and in online poetry journals including The New Verse News, The Texas Poetry Assignment, Stone Poetry Quarterly and The Courtship of Winds. She resides in Cherokee County, Texas.

Three Roman Poems by Carlo Rey Lacsamana

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for the poem.

I
Morning is laid out like a tablecloth
over the gardens of Villa Borghese
the whole of existence sparkles like the trumpet
moaning in full blast at the piazza overlooking Piazza
del Popolo
how the winter clothes bite the warm crust of sunlight like bread
how the ears drink the never-ending songs of fountains like wine
-songs of return songs of leaving-
and as I step into the shadows of trees
I remember what brought us here
to feast on this mystery like sheep that feed on grass
stuff our mouths with marvel and green air fill
our bellies with gratitude and poems
we stay close to each other listen to the wind
play with our hair our good intent for the world
reunites with our sorrow in the freshly cut grass
to love what is left to love in this loveless world
we lean back our heads in the light with eyes closed
as though we carry the answers

II

Temporarily on display
at the Galleria Borghese
is Rubens’ Risen Christ from 1615

to rise like the Christ in Rubens’ painting
waking up from death with a face washed by forgetfulness
not of indifference but of surrender
a face that says “it could not have been otherwise”
the dignity of the wounded
his body looks healthy and fresh
as though it has forgotten the wounds and the injury
it has suffered
even the stab hole on his lower right chest does not speak of pain
but like a tiny mouth that wants to sing
his feet longing to touch the warm earth again to walk all over again
pass through fatigue and thirst and hunger all over again
the angel lifting the shroud from his head with a surprised look
to see in Christ’s eyes the love of life as great as the suffering endured
dying indeed is the beginning for this is what Resurrection is
we are summoned to live again to love again to be hurt again
to die again

III

As old as Rome is my love for you
as chaotic as the tourists in Fontana di Trevi
is my desire for you
the way Bernini grasped chisel and hammer
I grasp you in my heat to shape this desire
to make a body of this wanting give it head arms and legs
miraculous as marble
maybe along Trastevere our glance will meet
when everyone is on his way to work when every fucking tourist
returns to his hotel when the sun grants refuge to the cold
and brokenhearted or in some corner in Piazza Spagna
where people show off their clothes or in some bar at
Piazza Navona where the fountains say your name all the time
over a cup of coffee our glance will meet
because your eyes are the city
that I feel enclosed engulfed enveloped like a gladiator
in the Colosseum but I do not fight there are no cheers
no rewards no condemnation
I am only a poet whose weapon is a flock of sparrows in his throat
whose appetite for loneliness runs further that the Tiber River
whose longing is as steadfast as your seven hills
I would rather be punished if punishment means
to be devoured by your touch
who can I make friends with here but the wind passing by like myself
sighing through neighborhoods razing the palaces and squares
with its cold breath of nostalgia
she keeps me company like a mother leading me by the hand
taking my heart to all the places where metaphors
lead to another existence where every line of a poem leads eventually
to you
yes, the wind whipping against my face exposes my heart
the heart which has too many secrets intrigues dark passages
like the Vatican but its walls crumble when it hears your footsteps
when the fragrance of your hair invades my body with tremors
and my voice is silenced like the paintings I survey for hours
at the museum searching for your face sometimes I dream of entering
the paintings of me becoming Christ crucified and you embracing me
like the Madonna weeping or me becoming Saint Sebastian
tied to a pole and you the arrows entering me without mercy
I loving the pain or I want you to be the nude like those of Rubens’
so loved by the painter you can tell by the folds and softness of their flesh
outside of these art galleries the moon wells up brighter and wiser
the lampposts flicker the river flares up the burning waters
carrying your reflection the rumble of cars over the road
the dying civilization words pile up in me like the dreams of immigrants
along the roadsides
the ghost of Anna Magnani appears in Piazza del Popolo dancing like
a madwoman
I dance with your shadow while the Neros of this world
set the temple on fire
maybe civilization is a bad idea who can tell
all these noise and madness tearing us apart
what about this dancing beneath the winter stars
the smoke-signs above the railways there is another road
we can turn into and the secret you impart in my ear
there is still a reason to live

Carlo Rey Lacsamana is a Filipino writer, poet, and artist born and raised in Manila, Philippines. Since 2005, he has been living and working in the Tuscan town of Lucca, Italy. He regularly contributes to journals in the Philippines, writing politics, culture, and art. His works have appeared in Esquire Magazine, The Citron Review, Mediterranean Poetry (Stockholm), Amsterdam Quarterly, Lumpen Journal (London), The Berlin Literary Review, Literary Shanghai and in other numerous magazines. His short story Toulouse has been recorded as a podcast story in the narrative podcast Pillow Talking (Australia). Follow him on Instagram@carlo_rey_lacsamana

“Carrol Avenue” by Joshua Ginsberg

You never promised
to make me a writer or an artist;
only that you would beat me like one –
backbreaking barbacking
reeking of beer and dragging ass home
just in time to curse the sunrise;
you hardened me to the clatter of the L,
showed me who serves
the best Chicken Vesuvio,
taught me to drink bourbon neat, and
where to find a stone mermaid
carved by the shore of Lake Michigan.
Whispered to me all the dirty things
you never told Sandburg.
On days so cold I thought I might shatter
you slid a warm sly smile into my pocket
waiting for a cab at Chicago and Milwaukee
while I read the inscription at the base
of Nelson Algren Fountain.
You lowered me down below the streets,
entombed so deep under
prairie style terracotta and concrete
that sunlight’s just a myth, where
you stole my teeth and wallet, left me
drained and dreaming, straining in the dark
to see through two bruised and swollen slits;

but it was there in the shadow of the bricks
of that rat’s nest palace of filth,
that at last you spread wide
your tarnished gold wings
and blessed me with
your secret face.

Joshua Ginsberg is a writer, entrepreneur, and curiosity seeker who relocated from Chicago to Tampa Bay in 2016. He is the author of “Secret Tampa Bay: A Guide to the Weird, Wonderful and Obscure,” (Reedy Press, 2020), and his poetry, fiction, and non-fiction has appeared in various print and digital publications. He maintains a blog, Terra Incognita Americanus and has been a business proposal and resume writer for over 10 years. He currently resides in Tampa’s Town and Country neighborhood with his wife, Jen, and their Shih Tzu, Tinker Bell.

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.