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TENDAI R. MWANAKA  He is Tendai .R. Mwanaka, single, 34 years old and he has written over 100 poems and 2 books of short stories. He is from Zimbabwe and stays in the city of Chitungwiza. He has had a number of poems published in the United States in the past year or so. The first of the poems to be published was FIRST TOUCH. And the other poems to be published include among others ORIENTATIONS, IN THIS SEA, STOLEN FROM DEATH, and UNBROKEN AWARENESS in the following magazines, i.e. LANGUAGEANDCULTURE, WORDGATHERING, WINNINGWRITERS, and some anthologies. He works in Harare as a Sales and marketing administrator at Amtec motors, and he is a graduate member of ‘THE SOUTHERN AFRICAN INSTITUTE OF MARKETING’ ~ "Or had we bitten more dreams than we could chew, And we are now waiting for someone who never comes? "  |
LISTEN TO YOUR ANGER
The landscapes I have passed. Galaxies implanted upon me. Rules changing with every surprise. Connections being broken and-- The knowledge that I am a mote. I have seen them all, every one. I have cried out myself. I have suffered wounds. I have seen them, felt them. Something is still revolving. But I am still human. Sometimes time runs out. I must do what I must. Others have survived. You did, we did. I will be there someday. Only this matters. Your soul suffices this night- Do not listen to it. Listen to your anger and rage. Stand on the battlegrounds. You do not need to take witnesses. We have cluttered this life. Anger is a clutter, hate, rage- Everything is locks, closures, doors. We are blind participants dancing- To the songs we do not hear. The performers suited to the designs. THE CHOICE IS NOT MINE.
The ocean without water. The gap is right here- Where I have built my myth. My life has dunes. Which stretches thousands miles. And I am the sand-death--- Marking time. Can’t see any identifiable landmarks The cycle lies within me--- You cannot understand me. Part of me dwells underground. Its only whimsies that brings it out. And I am forced to watch. I am the ritual. I am the centre, the location. I have honour in you. Faith in what is said. Light as that reveals reality. Summoning one to prayer. It’s mine and mine alone- The spirit that dwells in me. It is a river, tears will be gone. The old, old mysteries-- They are all coming out. Some patterns do not change. Meaning is whatever speaks. To hear is to hear, I will not emerge. To be is to be, I cannot evolve again. ORIENTATIONS
We are these cells, this soul, this being. We are the choice of our own awakening. We are light that pours through the generations. Innocent little children dancing to the rain song, For a season of green to atone for our wrongs. We are a hunter caught in his own snares. We are a tidal wave in a sea of broken dreams. We are flickering whimsy - a breath’s laughter. The sacrificial dove, the hooting owl, the forlorn falcon “Oh, those surreptitious angels in their sweet anger!” Muttering of dreams lost, deep in our own silences. We are haunts cries in the aftermaths of battle. We are fine theatre made out of lost relics. We are a spider’s webs, a tender weave of time. Over here the wind blows, over there a story is told! We are dry leaves in this intricate whispering. Augmenting to a morning of silent conversation. We are this pen conversing to these sentences. Lighting the threshold to that wordless portent If we turn, what do we see, a river or a shiver? Or had we bitten more dreams than we could chew, And we are now waiting for someone who never comes? |
 Ray Succre
currently
lives on the southern Oregon coast with his ~ sunlight in the vines of Italian vigor, is morning, for some, malebolge, cadaver, brevity, and the whole pig—" |
Incipit Strangulatio
Help who brills only cards from leather, here, I begin to ask, premiering begs atop a sup-dish. Poultice of debt like a rubric, help— ball-bouncing hell is high and my younger report of powders ignited a slow echoing of newer volatilities— Help who squirms up his eyes from the hanghair, the mark includes, the greenery bible press, includes timing, help, help to the beak out its tortoise shell, financy, commission, help. Somewhat commenting is the triggered incisor; help with porcelain, help by any cavity cap, and marry me a shapelier century. Plain and DryPlain and dry, leaf and bough to shutters— here red, here yellow, here once greenery’s sum now a blackery’s curbside slough, why charley-horsed legs don’t curl without heat, why varicose Fall won’t furl without the case of plainness and dryness. Final tosses corrupt the late inner layers and no brick tree sheds dropped anvils this late- but a windy tree- here brown, here enscarfed in a treehouse walkway, but a dozen trees- here white, here tracked through with power lines, why dusk deserves its colors at arm’s length, moisture and vivid arcs, why dust infers a malting last shrap of breath, life and its rinds, and then comes latest season plain and dry. The Living DinThey have contracted them in nations, and they have vented them in towns, and having crawled in a sow-pen there, and here now, and having shot with a cartridge of soil, they have made people into an ocean that goes tasted and trowled and immensified. My wives and husbands and bare-fingered else, attractions cohesed to seatides, are my own, and my neighbor’s, and my local townsperson’s anvil seatides, and they carry trying lives atop their day. Choleric in MorningWhat a madness is morning near these portent blasts of perianths, hoarfrost, yawning domiciles, the premise of dew, procrast start, and the bigger lying, how frank is the moment pinched into redness, heavy breaths in the shale box where frivolous panics apprehend it hype. Intricate yowl, perchance bleary whine, sunlight in the vines of Italian vigor, is morning, for some, malebolge, cadaver, brevity, and the whole pig— you wake, listening upward from concave fucks, drips from the fiber, snaps from the fire, castaway, innocent sparks of the madness of morning, larking in the fairway of eloquence prime, with the day-boar awake in the dale.
|
 AMPARO ARROSPIDE Under her pen-names Amparo Arróspide and Amparo
Perez
Gutierrez, several links give more details and allow extensive
reading of some of her works in e-zines such as The Barcelona Review,
Wakan, El Otro Mensual (Eon), Especulo, Poetry
Life and Times, etc. ~ "Wish you were alive and
sleeping by my side" |
Night of the Sleeping LivingFrom the darkness of the night, when voices are silenced,when souls silently weep their sorrows and drunk with sun-light let minds rest as bodies lie wrapped up, embracing each other or in solitude licking their wounds, --their wounds When murmurs turn to utterances slogans are forgotten in oblivion the land looks at herself sentinels guarding hidden treasures, for a moment --only murmurs And you're dead with the dead and you cry their unutterable truths Night of the Sleepless Living Wish you were asleep, deeply, just to reawake Towards another night of deep, calm or disturbed dreams Wish you were alive and asleep Deeply by my side, alive and sleeping Lost in your forests of delight, your crystal palaces Turning into shadow towns, doubling your vigil Lost in eclipse of the self, time and eternity; For usual parameters and known coordinates Wish you were alive and sleeping by my side Quiet but murmuring, uttering The unutterable sorrows of the living. 
|
 Born in Pequannock, NJ. At a young age, she moved to a 70 acre horse farm in Allentown, Pennsylvania with all of her 7 sisters and six brothers! The apple doesn't fall far from the tree! Now residing deep in the woods of a Florida tropical fauna... Kimmy is inspired... ~ "Through the habited, So does colour, in- turned ways; Regeneration." ~ |
The
Resurrection of The Fall
On
shortened days, on field’s fallowed sights Fruition
had brimmed, topped over with honey Just
dream, my love, under the tabernacle moons The
green has left you . . . In the
pith of an esse . . . God
willing, my love. . . my Fall
 Original
Pen and Ink Optimized
Copyright 2007 Kimmy Van Kooten "The Resurrection of The Fall"
Sheep'd in a Red Dress Of
skirting’s refined, About frock
on brings, Through the
habited, Sprite's
in Flower" original watercolor by Kimmy Van
Kooten
Copyright 2007  A Sprite’s Yarning
In a whither spun land In the inst of a blink, the Island of Blest fixed man . . . In ferreting out, a sprite’s beingness, hence, the especial dusk lushed, In a timelessness ...and then man incited an epicure, on the effete of darkness . . . "Come out, come out, from behind your Ymp tree! O’ glaring, virtuous beauty Unearthly . . . fly to me! With your witty dust dust, On me, you'll be Come out, come out . . . Come out and dew me!" On wings of the breezy, a sprite, in a saw through hues Swift as a titter, she sprinkled her morning jeu Aurora of the dawn, conjuring in casual glitter Pomp on a flower, the sprite’s alula’s were in a didder! Thus so far, rapt resplendently blase she darted to and fro’ amongst an efflorescent maze Landing upon whiteness, whereas frenzy downed her, that little sprite mizzled wist her dusting powder Come out, come out, from the chroma of your poon My little tempest imp, who brawls to incense the wind n’ moon Come out, come out . . . Come out, aggress this loon! Blossoming burst, amid a brightly colored calyx Petalled in green sepals, she enwrapped his craggy phallus Hitherto, the sprite, she licentiously flew... up and down the parterre of the virile, revile woos The sprite prang up with her wily faerie pith, maligning him in bind, with the garland she so writhed With tepid gales and brilliant brier,Pixilated profusely, the sprite then bound his overweening spire "Come out, come out from your woody evergreen! O’ being smitten by little curling whorls, will be found in every preen! I sing to you the yarning of many a vestal’s myth, " Yes, you're the first one, my sweetness" ...Then the sprite pricketh’d him wist syph! © Kimmy Van Kooten, 2007 |
| Poetry Life and Times goes bimonthly as from the New Year. Our next issue appears February 2008. Thanks! |