PRASENJIT MAITI Prasenjit Maiti PhD (1971-) Print (and forthcoming) credits include 2River View, A Hudson View, Blue Collar Review, Brittle Star, Brobdingnagian Times, Carillon, Circle, Concrete Wolf, Diner, Exile, Famous Reporter, Fire, Gay & Lesbian Review, Going Down Swinging, Green Queen, George Washington Review, Harlequin, Hermes, Homestead Review, Janus Head, Joey and the Black Boots, Konfluence, Lummox, Micropress Oz, Monkey Kettle, Never Bury Poetry, Nightingale, Nomad, Page 84, Paper Wasp, Parting Gifts, Peeks & Valleys, Phoenix, Pocketful of Poetry, Poetic Licence, Poetry Church, Poetry Depth Quarterly, Poetry Greece, Poetry Monthly, Poetry Scotland, Promise, Pulsar, Quercus Review, Rattle, Red Lamp, Reflections, Skald, Skyline, Solo Survivors, South, SpinningS, The Journal, WinterSPIN, Writers’ Muse and Xtant. Dr Maiti has been widely published in electronic journals as well in the UK, USA, Canada, Australia and elsewhere. His CD-ROM credits include GDS, Heist and Shaken-n-Stirred: Poetry from the Far Corners. His work will also be included in the Paradoxist Anthology (USA) and Astropoetry Anthology (Romania).

© Prasenjit Maiti: She used to make love like quite another woman and the night air was always cool and fragrant during our foreplay She could easily recall all those heady flowers the breeze caressed us sprawled out wet and spent like money She was my recklessly groomed lovemaking She was like a woman in love tending flesh, tending memories © Prasenjit Maiti: It so happened that that evening was like your full lips in bloom I have written about your lips elsewhere and yet cannot recall them anymore or even the evening when those lips were so there is now only your nothingness that likes to hang around with me and so we would walk cozily together in easy camaraderie into an evening that is so very mindless of all those holidays spent with you like prayers in rains and lovemaking © Prasenjit Maiti: January 2003 I seek the silences of your thighs, Calcutta, my expanse and my dwindling fury, as I spit on my grave and look back over my shoulders like my hunchbacked worries . . . I steal your lines and lose my job and kill our child and come sooner than your desire . . . The morning tram droops an early, hopeless return while the winter wraps around our windshield in and out the vanishing green . . . I walk back home in the company of mists, memories of battles and happen to wag my tail and my tongue when I run into my god . . . © Prasenjit Maiti: Let us go away from all our women tonight women are like wastelands let us caress the fields of joy where the haystacks groan and the memories of our lovemaking are rife with agony © Prasenjit Maiti: What about a woman without trappings? What about walking along roads that are no more? What about my women whom I do not meet anymore?

ALESSIO ZANELLI Alessio Zanelli was born in 1963 in Cremona, a small, quiet town in Lombardy, northern Italy, where he still lives and works as a private financial advisor. He began writing poetry in 1985, at first also in Italian and afterwards exclusively in English, a language he has been learning completely as an autodidact. He is widely published in small press magazines from almost every English-speaking country, his latest credits including Potomac Review (MD), Möbius (DE), Skyline Literary Magazine (NY), Pulsar (UK), The Journal (UK), Poetry Monthly (UK) and Freexpression (AUS). His first collection, titled Loose Sheets, was published in 2000 in the UK by an independent press, whereas a new one is due out in early 2003 in the USA under the title Small Press Verse & Poeticonjectures. Both titles are available through major e-bookstores such as Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

THE GREAT BANQUETER © Alessio Zanelli She feeds on the legends of the living, prospers by the sufferings of those who flee her; does not negotiate, does not defer, does not know failure. When she exhales her breath, life turns to memory— among those left to abscond. Not poets, not philosophers, not scientists are her favorite aliment. Each man devoted to his own belief in spite of her— becomes her succulent banquet. Each man taking history in his hands in spite of her— must pay the price of it in full. The Macedon, the Dictator, the Holy Roman Emperor, the Corsican— they all knew, and that was their supremacy. They were flatly sure of her— not fame, not glory, not memory. They had always known their only real advantage would be that of ending up as luxuries on her sumptuously laid table. LONGING © Alessio Zanelli lights saturate gather and merge as into a hole moments later the disc drops below from there the dusk arises out there the evening stands against the glow the mute land slips away suffused with the slow transition absconded spectators long to be espied First published in Skyline Literary Magazine (NY). NEIL'S WORDS © Alessio Zanelli It’s always made me smile indeed that stupid quarrel Hinged upon mankind’s alleged brief walk on earth’s companion ball And all those US boastful fake memorabilia. This because, although I was a thoughtless child no more than six, I well remember Neil’s words croaking from the radio, While the golden module sparkled through the silver on TV. So, either man did really step up there or never, Let me say once more for sure a threesome leap of faith it was. The flag with stars & stripes they raised persists in standing, Still and rigid in the void as if it’s sculpted in the stone. First published in Möbius (DE). THE WIND HAS WORDS © Alessio Zanelli on long branches of cedars on slim needles of pines on thick bushes of yews discontinuous the wind stirs rhythms of dances arouses quirky tunes for a while the rain pelts down again your face returns a sudden remembrance the hair soaked with wind with rain with laughter the look green light dispersed vivid bubbles of air cursory over water memories the wind has words

JIM NASIUM / GymArt Jim Nasium Is: An Artist, A Poet, A Traveler, A Lover Of Life, A Coin Collector, A Web Page Designer, An Old Fashion Concrete & Masonry Master, A Small Business Owner, A Father of two boys, one who works with him in the summer a brother to one man, who also works with him and Jim is a good friend to many. Jim lives, works and shows his GymArt in Galleries and Art Shows in the greater Philadelphia, Pa. USA Area. Besides being a graphic artist he is also a published author having written numerous articles on error coin collecting, and he has had several stories and poems published in alternative magazines, underground publications, cyber publications, a National Poetry Publication and Philadelphia University's "The University Reporter." Jim has been painting since he was a child Writing poetry ever since he could Never did what he was told to do and was always misunderstood... Jim has been over heard saying that his secret to success is to break everyrule ya can... never follow guidelines and never, ever stay within budget.. Jim claims that this will afford a very exciting life.

BLIND JUSTICE © Jim Nasium 2002 A tailor brought the class action suit when the baker said he kneaded the dough they called in a farmer out standing in his field and a traveler who wanted some place to go the fisherman wasn't the only one who went to sea a candle maker was standing there in the light the doctor, the lawyer and street walker were also there to share that night No one ever though it'd go this far after all it was all based on hear say the farmer couldn't produce evidence not even up until this day but never the less it only takes one rotten apple to spoil the bunch I thought it was wrong but what could I do all I really had was a hunch I watched as they took him off to jail another young man falsely accused she sat there with a smile on her face everyone knew she enjoyed being used the judge said "this case is closed" I sat there quietly on my hands it was another case of blind justice the law's so hard to understand THE HUNTERS © Jim Nasium 2001 Once while deep in The Amazon I watched the hunters dance with raised arms they spun in circles chanting hunting songs deep from their gut dancing to build trust in their abilities there was no time to wallow in doubt a small gourd cup was passed around filled and refilled with a magical hunting potion The potions scientific name belongs in parentheses right behind the Indian name, chi chi doro somewhere on the sketch pad of my colorful past that's been unplugged and left motionless for too long The fire they dance around burned through the night the hunters dance and chant and wave their arms their women sit and watch in anticipation of the feast to come no one seems to mind me being here Dawns lights the way for the hunters carefully they make their way into the jungle poisoned arrow waiting in leather sheaths on the backs of the brave men who wear them spears and blow guns held securely sights have been set and goals reached the men return slowly to the village burdened by the weight of the kill women prepare the feast for the tribe men and children bathe down in the river I sit and write about what I saw the air is filled with the aroma of fresh meat cooking SANTA MARTA: I WILL DIE IN YOUR ARMS © Jim Nasium 2001 Snow capped peak red with the sunsets hues white beach below accepts the rising tide wooden docks nearby smell of rotten fish the narrow dirt streets are quiet at last I sit in my small brick walled hotel room alone again I wait out the night the white powder covers every thing now even the pain that brought me here this town near the mountain on the beach up on the north coast of the land that to this day still lies virgin escaping the modern worlds lust is moving at a much slower pace life as I know it can only be better that what was left behind, for change some times music flows from small cafes packed with the other people here they are not watching what I see why don't they take joy in nature they turn to each other for pleasure that can be bought and paid for only leaving them wanting more never getting enough to quench the thirst what I do makes time stand still for me I am the only one that knows this place remembers me well and the days that have passed us by once I was a younger man my pace quicker than it is today the time spent here was spent wisely and now, Santa Marta I will die in your arms GymArt: http://www.gymart.com Poems: http://www.gymart.com/poemindex.html GymArt & Java: http://www.gymart.com/myjava.html GymArt & VRML: http://www.gymart.com/index4vrml.html Error Coins: http://www.gymart.com/coins.html Join My Lists: http://www.gymart.com/joinmylists.html

GLENN NORMAN CARTER My name is Glenn Norman Carter. I was born May 17, 1955 in Fayetteville, North Carolina. I have penned five hundred and fifty poems to date, a handful of short stories and I am currently at work on a novel. I learned from the masters how to write, reading the world's great literature. At an early age I familiarized myself with the classics and moved on from there to the study of the masterpieces of the twentieth century. I read British and American fiction, also French, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian and Japanese works in translation. I like especially the poetry of the French writers, Charles Baudelaire and Authur Rimbaud and I enjoy the Spanish poets---Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz and Federico Garcia Lorca. My poems have been published by Third Lung Review, Dog River Review and Nomad's Choir and on the web by Muse Apprentice Guild and Indie Journal.

SERENADE © Glenn Norman Carter In the portals of sleep I dream. I am disturbed by these Figments of my imagination In waking hours. I am amazed at their lucidity. It is a night steeped In an inkwell of black. The moon is as clear As a pitcher of water Carried by a washerwoman. Oh, to die under the stars That shine perpetually, Reminding us of our immortality. It takes a devout man To define the meaning of life; he must be humble to have nobility. Wait for me in the courtyard Of your rich father's mansion WhereI will read to you From my book of poems, The young girl clad In a dress with a satin brocade, Sitting on a marble bench In the garden of rare flowers. Our hearts will beat together Beneath the pale, melancholy moon. She plays a flute, caressing the notes. Her song is playful, urgent, Begging me to follow Down the garden path Into the staring light. THE FRINGES © Glenn Norman Carter Climb the spiraling staircase of the stars, explore the milky sea to sky, its moon montages. Travel down transparent rays of light, bright as God's face or the path I choose. I forge this boiling metal because I have to; it seethes within me and it must come out somehow, some way. I dawdle in a nebulous trance, biding my time. Thoughts and the accompaning feelings come the way love comes, suddenly and unexpectantly, like a storm in dry places, wading into the rolling waves, the pounding surf. I am a better man now, because I have mellowed with age. All the successive dawns that have been wasted frivolously, erased by these timid creatures. Brave the free, higher air of a remote world that is mine, divine my sand pantomine. An artist is a tortured idiot, a tormented fool who worships the sublime --- things ignored by the others. Every day is another reprieve for you who squander the precious hours like coins tossed into a wishing-well. I stand and wait patiently on the outer edges while the clock ticks and dreams coincide. Inspiration © Glenn Norman Carter The sun awakens, light tiptoes shyly into the room, barefoot. It hangs like a lantern, dangling from the black branches of the gaunt trees huddled together on the hill. Shadows cringe in the corners of the room, particles of dust float in the bars of sunlight spilling through the glass. A gentle breeze blows through the open window, disturbing the petals of theflowers in the vase n my writing table. Outside I hear the plateresque trills of the birds, ushering in the dawn of the glorious day. I live in a humble abode, spending many hours in proud seclusion among the poor. I eat my simple peasant meal and leave the house, walking into the dingy streets. Come, walk with me under the azure sky in a sun-kissed valley in the early morn. Wade into the pool of my deepness, drink long draughts of memory. I feel the sweet sensuousness of the earth, lying in a field of heather in the shade of a splendid oak, I study the sun's countenance to see if he is happy. I fall asleep in the grass and the hours pass like the steady procession of a parade. The sky begins to grow dark. A storm brews, guns of thunder, lightning cracking. Raindrops touch my eyelids. I hurry home, threading my way on the sidewalk under the railroad bridge. Sodden garbage and shards of glass of shattered wine bottles litter the roadside, weeds flourish along the curb and in the cracks of the concrete. Water rushes in the drains of the sewer. I tred upon my shadow that proceeds me through the squalid neighborhood. I reach the door of my dwelling just as the streetlights are illuminated. Night falls tenderly and the rain drums monotonously on the tin roof as I write these lines in my notebook --- a legacy on these spendthrift pages. Flower Of Mysterious Union © Glenn Norman Carter Paint the night in somber hue. The song of the nightingale fades into quivering silence; the quiet also has its timbre, lingers in the nocturnal air. The evening, profound and reticent, enfolds me in her arms. I can see love in her smiling eyes, a sign of recognition. There is a hint of feeling there, visions she keeps to herself, a precious secret. When night comes in sacred legions the gods go home, their backs to the setting sun, slowly receding, vanishing beyond the horizon, going down to inhabit the underworld like gallant horses drowning in a branch. In the garden alone, the muse meditates, inspired by a gift for lyricism, star-struck on the moonlit cobblestones. The beautiful night, idol immortal, eternally renews itself with a shy toss of her long tresses, hair unpinned, averted face, looking askance. In the distant grove, I smell the sweet flower of mysterious union, consummated by starved passion--- desire maddening.