Author: mascara

Nabina Das lives two lives, shuttling between USA and India. Her short stories have been published in Inner Voices, a contest-winning collection of fiction (Mirage Books, India), and The Cartier Street Review. A 2^nd prize winner of an all-India Poetry Contest organized by HarperCollins-India and Open Space, her poems appear in Quay, Pirene’s Fountain, Shalla Magazine, Kritya, The Toronto Quarterly, The Cartier Street Review, Maintenant 3 (Three Rooms Press), Muse India, Danse Macabre, The Smoking Book anthology, Liberated Muse anthology, Mad Swirl and elsewhere. A poetry commentary and a poetry book review also appear in Kritya and The Cartier Street Review respectively. A 2007 Joan Jakobson fiction scholar from Wesleyan Writers’ Conference, and a 2007 Julio Lobo fiction scholar from Lesley Writers’ Conference, Nabina was Assistant Metro Editor with The Ithaca Journal, Ithaca, NY, and has worked as a journalist and media person in India for about 10 years in places as diverse as Tehelka.com, Down To Earth environmental magazine, Confederation of Indian Industries, National Foundation for India and The Sentinel newspaper. She has published several articles, commentaries and essays during her tenures. An M.A. in Linguistics from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, her other interests are theater and music. Formally trained in India classical music, she has performed in radio and TV programs and acted in street theater productions in India. She blogs at www.fleuve-souterrain.blogspot.com and freelances when not writing.

Aleph

The first sound uttered is always forgotten
Possibly it is never even a word. Just
An interjection that derives from faraway
Fears or an anxious rhythm of speech.
The first sound can be heard quite clear
When groans and grunts are taken care
Of with mighty sweep of authorized
Hands that also stifle songs and smiles.
If you were a baby or a doddering pair
Of legs, your first word would be despair
Not a calligrapher’s delight in dusky ink
Blinking away in the heliotrope night.

In one little fable the first letter was
Meant to be the first word of wonder
But no one wrote it down and so later
The ocean took it with fish and dead matter.

Living Room Homily

Women talking in high voice
Tingling streets
An indolent afternoon in the library
– All that glides up to whisper:
How we love life

After poems are read
Blood is spilled
Bee stings are removed
From unresponsive arms

We can measure up to reality
As though it’s a challenge
We can read minds
As though it’s an ancient art, revived

Furry dogs bustling
Smothering fleur du soir
A fleeting glance after remembrance
– Nothing that stops enchantment,
To say we love life

After you come back home
Hobble in the pantry
After newsprint withers
Becomes compost in the bin

I can clamour under the bright light
Straighten my pleats and scarf
I can wake up before dawn
As though night never came.

Anca Vlasopolos was born in Bucharest, Rumania. Her father, a political prisoner of the Communist regime in Rumania, died when Anca was eight. After a sojourn in Paris and Brussels, at fourteen she immigrated to the United States with her mother, a prominent Rumanian intellectual and a survivor of Auschwitz. Anca is a professor of English and Comparative Literature at Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan. Her poetry collection is titled Penguins In A Warming World. Anca is also the author of an award winning novel, The New Bedford Samurai and the memoir No Return Address: A Memoir of Displacement.

Wedded Bliss

gold bands glint
over a plastic bucket
where two pairs of hands
lovingly
gut
fish no bigger
than the hands

this could be a portrait
of marriage
man and woman
in harmonious
complicity
fish gored bleeding
from the side

Above the Bird’s Eye View

winter this year
sprang
a lynx
from still full-leaved branches

huge paws of wind to bat us
should we raise eyes toward light
or sigh at the thin horizon
arriving earlier each day

in this desolation in drab and gray
i look from a second-story window
see him—olive camouflage
for a pulsebeat unzipped

his rich summer gold
streaking
sun bullet
bursting through lynx dominion

Born in 1963, a Hindu in Malaysia, Anushka Anastasia Solomon left for the United States as a teenager to study journalism. She returned to Malaysia with a B.A (Creative Writing/Education), envisioning change of the race and religion based Malaysian system of Education. Her poem, “13 Ways of Looking at Malaysia” inspired by Wallace Stevens, which appears in Asia Literary Review Autumn 2008, articulates that vision. The Malaysian government, then and now, frowns upon her ideas. In 1998, due to intolerable family violence and persecution after her mother’s premature death, Anushka, her husband, Ben Solomon, and son David Marshall converted to Christianity, fled Malaysia and immigrated to the United States.

The author of two poetry chapbooks, Please, God, Don’t Let Me Write Like A Woman, (Finishing Line Press, 2007) and The Hindu and The Punk, (Pudding House Press 2009), Anushka’s work is featured by Amnesty International at the Edinburgh International Book Festival, Scotland, 2007, 2008 and 2009. She lives in beautiful Evergreen, Colorado. (www.atthewindow.us)

Recipe for Success –Slumdog Millionaire

I buy the Bollywood look in Wal-Mart
Gold hoop earrings with yellow beads
$1.50 marked down from 5 US Dollars
Decorate my years shrivel the sari to a
A skirt I buy at Forever 21
$10.00 marked down from more than that
With my skin the color of cinnamon bark
I dress up for a lark. I make naan and
Have An American friend photograph
Me by the Yellow Barn
The lentils are
Cooking slowly, I will add some spinach
And prepare to garnish the dish with some
Dried red chillies
That will crackle in my frying pan
And on your tongue, I will hum a Hindi
Song and you will never know
That perhaps
Like you
I do not know how to live
In a slum.

Cooking A South Indian Curry From Memory

1.

I slice tender red beef, the cold silver blade
Of the knife creating an everglade
Collide worlds in a colander
Demarcate the days on the calendar
Take a cutting from the past
It is not my intention to aghast
Those who consider the cow holy
I just want to cook a curry boldly
Solely
from memory.

2.

Listen. Here in America,
They tell me– the poet – that the onion
an apple and the potato
all have the same taste.

That the differences in flavor
Are caused by their smell.

Listen. Here they prove
these things
Science, Surveys, Studies.

I can’t argue with their facts.
I don’t. The facts mount this
case from Malaysia
And ride it, like a show horse,
around and around until I am
ground into the spices
bleeding the truth in my marrow bones
for William Butler Yeats

and this South Indian Curry I am cooking from
memory because I am
ornery

3.

To prove the onion, an apple
and the potato the same

They say – pinch your nose
Take a bite.

They will all taste sweet.
Try it!

Booze, women and writing.
All the same.

4.

I remember my Hindu father swinging a bag
Of goat’s intestines
For my mother to cook, she ran water
In the sink
Obediently washing the insides of a goat
Wrinkling her nose in distaste
Listen. Charles Bu-cow- ski wrote a poem
About a Mexican girl
Who washed his private part
With a rag

5.

Contemporary American men’s poetry
is that sultry
the Buddhist monks who conducted  
Bu-cow-ski’s funeral rites
must set their sights a tad higher
for women. Our gravestones
ought to read: “Don’t Try”
like his.

Alternatively:
 “Don’t Cry”.

The more things change
The more women I find

On the streets – like loose change.
They, like all things, stay the same.

6.

Or am I cooking this up from memory
Mixing it up with chicory

Using it to pound a point in
Like ginger and garlic

In a medley of flavors
For a variety of favors

Like the Thai and Indonesian women
With splayed toes

Who for a few bhat or rupiah
Rub the stress off the backs

Of the missionaries selling Jesus
Vying for a chance to stand

Beside Bill Gates? Accolades.

7.

I ought to go back to cooking the
South Indian curry from memory.

Don’t use beef. The cow is holy.
Remember?

Use chicken. Hold your nose.
And all the horses in Colorado.

It would be a good idea to hold
Your tongue as well, my belle.

Show some cleavage at Christmas.
And don’t joke about mangoes.

Or tell them that wearing a sari
And exposing the navel is asking

to get raped. Save the juicy parts
for when the Guests go away.

..unless they stay.

8.

Then you can tell them the recipe.
How you stand poised on the edge of the precipice

Cooking South Indian curry from memory
Listening for some inner harmony

Orange and purple bougainvillea
Climbing over the balcony like all

The idealized Tamil lovers
Of the silver screen

Your love of all things
falling unrequited

like the bougainvillia
Bunga kertas, paper flowers

Your nail polish, the new indigo blue of the sky.

A dual Australian-Irish citizen, Nathanael O’Reilly was born in Warrnambool and raised in Ballarat, Brisbane and Shepparton. He has lived in England, Ireland, Germany, Ukraine and the United States, where he currently resides. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Antipodes, Postcolonial Text, Transnational Literature, Prosopisia, Blackmail Press and Southern Ocean Review.

The Hills of Bendigo
For Sean Scarisbrick

We spent the summer of ninety-two
In the hills of Bendigo
Living in a colonial house
Replete with a croquet lawn,
A ballroom, servant’s quarters,
A wine cellar, an in-ground pool
And a deep, dark verandah
Overlooking an acre of grounds
Scattered with pine needles,
Stone benches and rose bushes.

Home from uni on summer holidays,
We lived on my parent’s charity.
After sleeping past midday
In a room with burgundy velvet curtains
And foot-thick stone walls,
Days were spent swimming in the pool
Seven steps and a leap from our beds,
Reading Eliot, Salinger and Hardy
In the shade on the verandah,
Writing long letters to girls
We thought we knew and loved,
Listening to U2, Van Morrison,
And Hunters & Collectors, always
Getting a kick out of the line
“Way out back in Bendigo.”

When the heat was bearable
We walked over the hills
Along winding goat-track streets
Left over from the goldrush,
Discovering tiny pubs,
No more than front rooms
Of miner’s cottages,
Occupied by old blokes
In op-shop three-piece suits
Perched precariously
On vinyl bar stools.
Old Jimmy fished a battered
Harmonica from his waistcoat
Pocket, shook out the saliva
And puffed out a wheezy tune,
His narrow shoulders hunching
As the condensation slid
Down the side of his pot of VB.

Some days we walked to the mall,
After passing the oval, the Art Gallery,
The high school and the park,
Browsed countless racks of CDs
We couldn’t afford at Brash’s,
Left our sweaty fingerprints
On Thrasher and Rolling Stone
Under the disapproving glare
Of the Chinese newsagent,
Took refuge in the Public Library
Where we flipped through LPs,
Discovering Klaus Wunderlich
And His Amazing Pop Organ Sound.

Evenings were spent at home
Drinking my parents’ wine,
Eating thick slabs of cheese
Grilled on toast while watching
Day-night cricket matches on telly.
Or, if the Austudy hadn’t run out,
Drinking Carlton Draught downtown
In the Shamrock Hotel or the Rifle Brigade,
Playing pool and the jukebox,
Bullshitting about the great things
We would do after finishing uni,
What we would do for a living,
Where we would live,
Where we would go on holidays,
Which girls we would sleep with.

At night we wandered through the hills
Drinking from the silver bladder
Ripped from a box of Coolabah Riesling,
Unable to sleep in the January heat.
We took turns waiting on the swings
In the park across from the Milk Bar,
While you or I made reverse-charge
Calls from a Telecom phone box
With shattered glass and AC/DC graffiti.
Afterwards, we went back to the house
For more grilled cheese on toast,
More chilled wine, and conversations
That lasted into the early hours
And echo through the years.

Weam Namou was born in Baghdad, Iraq as a minority Christian, and came to America at age ten. The author of three novels, she studied poetry in Prague and screenwriting at MPI (Motion Picture Institute of Michigan). She is also the co-founder and president of IAA (Iraqi Artists Association). Her articles and poetry has appeared in national and international publications. http://www.pw.org/content/weam_namou

A Childhood in Iraq

Sun shines over a mélange of
green grass and white snow,
like a lime flavored slurpee.
Snow in rarely detected in Baghdad.

Through the window a squirrel
passes by, nibbles at the cereal
I’ve left for it on the deck.
Pets are not encouraged in Iraq.

A lunch of hot tea and a cold slice
of pepperoni pizza I prepare for me,
without removing the pepperoni.
Pork is not halal in the Arabic world.

I listen to the poetic Quranic verses on TV
even though I belong to a Christian minority
who still speak Aramaic, called the Chaldeans.
They’re being persecuted in their native land as we speak.

All praise is due to Allah, Lord of the Worlds…
the imam leads a prayer
I remember the paper bag of baby green apples
my father used to bring home for us.

My younger brother and I tied
their stems to a string,
treated the apples like yoyos.
We had no toys back then, nor swings.

We built play houses out of cardboard boxes
pretended pillows were our dolls,
pots and utensils our musical instruments.
In Iraq, today, children can’t afford to be that simple.

Didn’t need anyone to read to us a bedtime story
aunts and uncles, cousins and neighbors,
were our heroes and villains.
Now, terrorists and gangs rule that part of the earth. 

America

I talk about you, as many others do,
sticking labels such as arrogant and gullible
over your name, like stamps over a large Christmas package.

You dress me with possibilities,
I try on this and that outfit of different colors and sizes,
meanwhile focusing on your limitations.

You do not reprimand me for my verbal thoughts,
rather, you listen, weigh the options and consider
whether what I have to say is worthy of action.

Oftentimes, I even receive applause
for pointing out your negativities and idiocies.
In return, you remain true to the First Amendment you’ve provided.

You’ve allowed me to take a deep look at your weaknesses
and in turn caused me to appreciate your strength and integrity.
That’s real balance, the yin and yang, of our planet.

While I love the country of my birth, of Iraq,
where I was blessed with the best childhood,
I must admit, had I remained there, as an adult,
Freedom of Speech is something I may never have experienced.

 
Gina Forberg is an elementary school teacher in Westport, Connecticut.  She received her Masters of Arts Creative Writing at Manhattanville College.  Her work has appeared in The New Delta Review, The Mochila Review, Slant Magazine, Blueline Press, Squaw Valley Review, Anderbo Magazine,

The Turn

Maybe there is gratitude in the map
quest that steered us wrong, that allowed
us to meet our mate when we missed
the church, that prevented the accident
at mile 54. Perhaps we found our dream
house, a new favourite restaurant.  
What if we returned to the simple scribble
on the page, the loops, curves of a writer’s
hand, the elegance of slant, the enjambment
of words. I’d  like to believe he is
intrigued by the white space, cares less
about cross-outs, erasures, knows not
what direction he is going.  For us
to worry about diction, syntax,
punctuation is to misplace the emotion,
to resist the turn we need to make.
The starts, the stops are what drive
our engines.  The setting aside restores us.
If we are willing to lose ourselves
in the extra miles we may be surprised
at our destination. If we are lucky,
a reader will follow close behind.

The Conditions and Events of The Winter Olympic Games as a Metaphor for Sex

i.  
Snowfall must be sufficient enough to guarantee beyond question a heavy cover
during the prelimary practice.

ii.
Altitude should be sufficient to guarantee snowfall without unduly affecting the
respiration of the athletes.
                                
iii.
If you are going to be a skiier choose freestyle. It has no restrictions.

iv.
It is important for a woman to use her hips during the turns in the downhill slalom.

v.
In classic freestyle, skiiers use the traditional straight-striding technique and do not
deviate from the parallel tracks.

vi.
The word “hockey” derives itself from the French word “hocquet” which refers to
crooked stick.

vii.
Skaters must wear rubber caps to reduce the amount of wind resistance.

viii.
In the luge there is no rule that says a doubles team must comprise members of the
same sex, but traditionally, men have ridden together with the larger man lying on top
for a more aerodynamic fit.

ix.
The luge event is designed to reward consistency, endurance and ability to withstand
pressure, particularly on the second day.

x.
In curling, the stone moves toward a series of concentric circles. The object is to get
the stone as close to the centre of the circle as possible.

xi.
In the biathalon relay each team member has two firing sequences and is allowed
three extra bullets to hit five targets.

xii.
Location changes every two years so make sure the conditions are conducive to your
specified event.