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Theme - 'SUPERNATURAL'
On this page: poems by John B. Lee, Andrea Bostrom and Lisa Swope, Clara Blackwood, Krupa Shah, Lynn Veach Sadler, Mark Sealey, Paul Raboff, Philip Burton, Liu Hong-ping
The following works are copyright © 2010. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the authors.
John B. Lee
John B. Lee's work has appeared internationally in over 500 publications. He has over 60 prestigious awards to his credit including being the only two-time winner of the People's Poetry Award and winner of the prestigious $10,000 Candian Literary Award for poetry (CBC Radio/Saturday Night Magazine). He has over 40 books in print. A recipient of letters of praise from both Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu, he was made Poet Laureate of Brantford in perpetuity in 2005.
The Inescapable Pleasure of Ghosts
what is the pleasure of ghosts
these secrets of the light
these souls gone cold
if I look
where fog seduces the lake
and the land
or in the bath-smeared mist of a breath
on the mirrors of morning
or in the wind-whipped sheers
or at the scintillating dust motes
of old barns
what might I see
in the shadow-hemmed shade
at the well mouth
at the earthen lip
of a new grave
squared by a spade
I think of my friend
who spoke of the bones
of his mother
disarticulated by time
how her femur fell from the hip
or the sacrum
broke like the beautiful shard of a bowl
or the skull
undreamed of its sleep
might have asked
of her son in the silence
too deep to behold
do you know who I was
in the sorrowing work
when the heart
was a rose in the heat
what’s clay in the mud of the mind
what’s dust in a thought
we are love
in the loins of the past
in the volumes of vanishing flesh
we must hold in our hands
such an ancestored dark
and delight in the weight
of the shade in the voice shaved thin
what a whispering then
do we hear that comes as a quieted noise
Who Was Auntie McPhale
she lie in bed
legless and silent
her hair pillow-feather white
her flesh white, limed white
her lips, a slack pink gape
taking in breath, mouth alive with gulps of air
like the small black well-hole of the mind
something to fall into dream-walking
the slow old oxygenation of her fate
with the sad rise and fall
of the counterpane over the sheet
like the waves of the sea
bleach-white where her blue hand-backs
rested and her dark pulse drums
like bird blink
she was bone-weak and weary
feckless, hen-voiced
wondering where went the girl of herself
where went the sister, the bride, the wife, the mother
the aunt—what youth imagines
of this regret is there
in the paling of painted stone
in the whitewashed windowless wall
when the barn on the grade, groans
with harvest and the hay burns
the thrust in hand and the smoke makes a ghost
of the nail heads
and time’s roof of midnight-blackened stars
falls to the floor
like red-watered rust in rain
Andrea Bostrom and Lisa Swope
 Lisa Swope  Andrea Bostrom
Andrea Bostrom and Lisa Swope began writing joint poetry when they were about 15 years old.
Andrea Nicole Bostrom lives in Versailles, KY. She has a B.A. in English and a J.D. in Law from the University of Kentucky. She has been writing poetry from a very young age and has had her poems "Stallion In A Snow Storm" and "Perennial Chill" published in The Summerfield Press.
Lisa Swope was born in Kentucky and this has been her home for all of her life. She currently resides in Lexington with her very significant other and 16 year old daughter. She's been writing poetry since about ten years of age. Her interests include reading, cosmology, physics, word puzzles and poetry.
Andrea and Lisa have been collaborating since a very early age when they met in Junior High School. They are currently working on a project entitled "The Pink Masque", which has been years in the writing and is coming to fruition.
Harvest Of Confusion
The leaves are falling way too early
Something seems a bit amiss
Not unlike vehement calm
Before the storm shakes his fist
The air is cloying, stifled, still
The birds rustle and call at odd hours
An overbearing foreshadowing
That shows itself in wilt of flowers
There's a heaviness that lingers
Damp foreboding hovers
A murder of crows on the line
Three in a tryst makes
For murderous lovers
What is it in this unsettled air
While the winds barely blow
There's some ominous just out of reach
Something I'm fearful to know
The crows mowed the brittle fields
Though no corn could be found
They raked and scraped for no yield
And fled without a sound
The storms warned before they came
Though no soul was prepared
The thundering drone was all in vain
Drumming that none would be spared
The fist smashed down as if a gavel
And the people stared in awe
The obvious truth at once unraveled
Brutal, blatant, exposed and raw
The crows were never seen again
And the church pews were all empty
The fist drew back into the rain
And clutched what was once plenty
Harvest Dreamer
The gates are opening
Harvest Dreamer
Give me a banyon
Of fertile thoughts
A lush garden
Of dripping fruit
An English plantation
Of verdant hue
Give me the Eden tree
Laden with lust
Lost in deceit
Let me conspire
Bright trickery
I've stepped through now
How the valleys whisper
Enclosing me in the soft canyon
Give me a resting place
Of sickles and reeds
An impossible picture
For eyes to see
Soft sucking sliding sound
Prepare my bed
Six rooms down
Give me sheets
Of lacey silk
A cool underground
No flowers wilt
Give me the Eden tree
Laden with lust
Lost in deceit
Let me conspire
Bright trickery
Witness in the shadows
Wild mushrooms grow
Paradise is lost again
The setting sun refrains
Dampening the evening breeze
Where sickles and reeds are lain
I've come through now
I'm on the other side
Hear the valley's raspy whisper
Incarcerated in the dark chasm
I can't see the picture before me
The gates are closing
Harvest Dreamer
My fertile thoughts are drowning
A fruitless garden
Of dripping blood
An English plantation
Of verdant hue
Is now a crimson field
In the flood
Give me the Eden tree
Laden with lust
Lost in deceit
Let me conspire
Bright trickery
Christmas Haunting
(an excerpt from the Pink Masque)
A delicate blizzard lay outside the door
Red and green stockings slung on the floor
A miasma of tinsel strewn all about
A new merrymaker stands up with a shout
His form gray and misty tricking the eyes
He seizes the presents, the greed he espies
"I want what is mine! I have come to stake claim!"
He devours the fruitcake and thrashes the games
The regal and splendor of this Yule torn asunder
The Heavens rain down red and green thunder
The banshee comes calling, we knew he would come
He bites off the branches and spits out the plums
The carolers are mesmerized by the shock
The merrymaker resets the worn clock
Away to the Christmas of 1802
Dickens and terrorists still await you
A behement gleam in the banshee's coal eyes
A primiordial furnace, a Christmas surprise
"No room in the manger for you singing sinners!
You foolish and prideful and banished beginners!
Father Chrismas is late, but alas I'm old Nick
My spirit spreads thin but my cake is quite thick
I take home wayward souls lost in the season
And tuck them away wrapped in their reason
I've haunted this eve for two hundred years
1804 was my year of great cheer
They hung me and strung me
From Tannenbaum branches
By 1906 I'd replayed my chances
The spirits I've stolen have never been willing
They're bright stupid things bedecking my ceiling
A forgotten stratoscope found me unworthy
And dug up a new pirate swarthy and earthy
Home from the sea to the safety of family
A crystal town crows a ripe blackened homily
The delicate blizzard will whiten my lies
But you remain blackened a crispy deny
The red and green stockings never fit your souls
My stop and go as your helliday unfolds
I am the merrymaker, be kind to your host
Don't forsake my table of my spirit do boast
You'll board my ship on Christmas mourn
Your holiday finery ripped and well worn
Hung by your stockings off the port bow
It's 2010 are you of good cheer right now?"
Clara Blackwood
Clara Blackwood is a Toronto-based poet and professional Tarot reader. Her first poetry collection, Subway Medusa (2007), was the inaugural book in Guernica Editions’ First Poets Series, which features first books by poets thirty-five and under. Her poetry has appeared in such Canadian journals as the Hart House Review, Misunderstandings Magazine, Quills, Rampike, Carousel, and the UK magazine Dream Catcher. She holds a B.A. in English Literature from the University of Toronto.
Edge of Edinburgh
Newhailes
Grey against blue it rises,
a cherry tree on either side,
a triumph of 18th Century symmetry
a mansion balanced and illustrious
like the men in wigs who stayed here
during the Scottish Enlightenment.
They would have scoffed
at my superstitious ways.
Instead of relaxing,
I’m reading The Ghost
That Haunted Itself
spooking myself before bed,
pulling the tartan blanket
tight over my head.
Two ghost tours in
and I haven’t seen a spectre
not sure I want to,
if it’s one that leaves scratch marks.
Catholic friends gift me
a flask of holy water.
Old Town
At every cobblestone turn,
the site of some grisly historic fact.
Over here – the public scaffold.
And there – the tavern hangout
for body snatchers.
Cafés, pubs and closes
named after morbid figures.
Villains strangely canonized.
Greyfriars Kirkyard
A Thin Place.
Thinner at 3 am
or equinox, Hallows,
when King Death reigns supreme
peers out from tombstones
with his cackling smile.
Tears the veil of this world and that.
I’m gathered with strangers ‒
the psychically curious or inclined.
Our overzealous guide
scares us with tales of possession,
insanity and collapses.
We wait by the graveyard’s
black gates.
Was that a cold spot I just felt
or Scotland’s changeable weather?
By twilight’s end,
none of us will be going in.
North Berwick
This seaside town fell under
the suspicion of James VI.
Rumours flourished of magic
on the beach, storms conjured
to drown the King as he sailed
home from Denmark.
Were the accused dancing
on the Auld Kirk Green?
Perhaps they did.
Standing on the shore, the wind
pulls my hair, and I taste iodine.
Bladderwrack covers the shore
like a green shawl.
Weather-beaten Tantallon
lies three miles east,
concealed by craggy coast.
The sea is preternaturally aqua.
Near the gentle walkway, traffic
slows like a merry-go-round.
I get lost in the stone-fronted streets,
darkened with time.
The antique shop displays
a mirror inside a mirror,
pillbox hats with veils.
Where are the witches of North Berwick today?
Hiding.
Dream Notes on the King of the Faeries
He has high cheekbones,
a sharp jawline and arched eyebrows,
dark brown hair and hazel eyes.
There’s an air of caprice,
also inquisitiveness.
His hand reaches into the foxglove, again.
*
The Page of Cups with pointed features,
drops falling from the tips of long fingers
as he offers the cup of invitations and proposals.
The triumphant return of the Elf King
in a hyper-modern world.
He arrives alone, to dance
under multi-colored lights,
movements in sync, yet ahead of the music.
Dances in my dream in Faerie,
cascades of gas-flame blue,
iridescence behind him.
*
I stumbled upon a troop of them,
mostly dark and little,
playing instruments . . . dancing.
It was the one with the hummingbird wings
spinning in mid-air,
displaying great joy
who first caught my attention,
then He, the tallest of all,
appears to be leading this Pixie fair.
*
Suddenly they all make strange ‒
realize they are being watched
halt the festivities
become sullen, sombre . . .
*
Elsewhere, Vulcan at his forge.
His experiments go awry,
cause explosions and fires downtown.
He's been on trial for public mischief,
is disliked by many,
but he's most at home overcome
by rapture larger than himself.
His skinny ribcage fills with air
and his whole body shakes ecstatically,
in rhythmical motions
following the lead
of his Priestess partner.
Krupa Shah
Krupa Shah is an independent researcher based in Pondicherry. She has an MA and an MPhil in English from the English and Foreign Languages University, Hyderabad with an overall grade of ‘O’ for outstanding performance. Her research interests include political theatre, fiction and poetry in Indian Writing in English and film studies. She is also a poet and a writer with award winning plays and short stories. Her love for foreign languages has led her to learn French and Italian at a graduate level and she also holds a Diploma in Russian. Currently she is a faculty for Russian and Italian at the Lingua Mystica Society of Language Experts, Pondicherry.
The Temple of Samāra
The temple in the valley of Samāra
Is more than a home to me-
I have borne its myths and histories
In the furrowed wrinkles of my brow,
In the folds of my widow’s garb
I have treasured the dust of another time,
For I am old, old like the wind
That never dies even with ebbing.
Beside my begging bowl,
Where shadows crumple against the wall
I think about the years- ah! So many years
Behind me.
In the silence of the sanctum sanctorum,
The evening lamps begin to flicker
I see your form in the green darkness
Your shriveled body and your vacant eyes.
Ah my child, my poor cursèd child!
My daughter, my bane!
Panting I bore you in my arms
I shook you and coaxed and whispered
And beat my breast, but you never cried
Nor opened your eyes-
My blood in you was cold.
At dawn they wake the sleeping mendicants:
Bangles, fragrance and a feminine haste-
The rush of veils and whispers,
Hennaed hands and silver anklets
That fill my white head with colourful thoughts.
"Old Hag!" the wives grimace and shudder,
Profaned by the sepulchral stench
Of age and exiguity.
With her kohl-rimmed eyes and vermillion,
The new wife is the last to arrive,
Her walk is slow and she falters
Under the weight of her swollen belly.
Gently she stoops to drop a coin
In the hollow of my coconut shell
And as she climbs the temple steps
The others look fondly upon her.
One by one they reach for the bell
And strike its tongue in a loud clear sound.
With gold thalis decked with flowers,
They sing for their Lord in unison.
I wrapped you in velvet and silk,
Soft and limp like your own body-
Cursèd child who left me barren!
I buried you with my own hands!
Here in this corner where shadows sleep,
Squatting among the mendicants,
I see you glide like wisps of smoke,
And curl around the temple bell.
The night outside is soft and starry,
And this is my home and my grave-
Beggared of all, all that is dear,
Let me rock you in my arms, my child,
And sing about the years- ah! So many years
Behind me.
Samāra: A fictional Indian village.
White head: Traditionally widows have to wear white. Ornaments and coloured clothes are the privileges of married women.
Bell: Every Hindu temple has a bell at its entrance which worshippers ring before going into the sanctum. The sound of the bell is said to ward off evil spirits.
Thali: The plate in which worshippers carry the ingredients for a ceremony called the Pooja which is performed for the deity.
Lynn Veach Sadler
Widely published in academic and creative writing, former college president Dr. Lynn Veach Sadler has six poetry chapbooks out and another and a full-length collection in press. One story appears in Del Sol’s Best of 2004 Butler Prize Anthology; a novel will soon join her novella and short-story collection. She won the 2009 overall award of the San Diego City College National Writer’s Contest and Wayne State’s 2008 Pearson Award for a play on the Iraq wars.
The Curse on the Duncan McGrieves
’Twas in St. Andrews centuries ago
as I was growing to sweet young thane.
’Twas on a Hogmanay, a New Year’s Eve.
The lass seen first would be to me betrothed.
McScratchen (Angus)
and I both had eyes
for fair Kate Kibblekurl
and she for me.
The sly McScratchens set a plot afoot,
their surly eldest lass put in my path
with stolen token of my dearest Kate.
When I did raise that soft white veil,
’twere not my bonnie Kate
but that McScratchen shrill.
Our Laird bade clan to meet in secret glen.
The argument was fierce, but in the end,
’twas ruled I to America would flee.
’Twas too well-known
what those McScratchens sought:
our line, land, Presbyterian roots.
The clan ruled I could nae have my Kate.
But there my heart,
’ginst kirk, ’ginst clan, did balk.
I went for Kate.
McScratchens placed a watch.
They chased us to the cliffs,
and down went we.
I thought us safe,
then looked a-full at Kate.
Her legs were twisted
in that place forevermore.
As Kate was healing,
McScratchens found us out.
Their Bogeyman his mark
upon me sealed, gave me humpback
to match Kate’s twisted legs.
He had another motive, too,
all knew. I, Duncan, Clan McGrieve,
was chief in golf, our ancient sport,
ne’er played yet by humpback.
Oh, I that curser see, that curse still hear:
“I, The Bogeyman,
on behalf of Clan McScratchen,
curse you,
Donnchadh MacGrievey as is,
Duncan McGrieve as will be.
I, The Bogeyman,
curse you with self-deformity.”
I felt the humpback take shape
upon my back.
But worse still was to come.
“I, The Bogeyman, curse you
with seeing
your Intended One deformed.
I, The Bogeyman, curse you and yours.”
When will our curse be lifted?
Oh for the Death of Light!
I look through stars wanting respite,
though I do not deign to ask.
I cannot abide to look to shore
where harbor lights lacerate . . . exacerbate.
Oh that all such lights would out!
That I might go down in eternal darkness!
Centuries should curry surcease!
That puny product of Edward Everett Hale?
Tame Philip Nolan watching
the lights of harbors up and down the land
that foreclosed on him.
Poor pitiful pretending patriot.
Man without a country! Pah!
I am The Man without a World.
As is their custom,
Americans seized the main chance.
Silly Key watching the British
bombard Ft. McHenry
from his vessel in the harbor.
He had harbor lights a-plenty!
“On the shore, dimly seen
thro’ the mists of the deep.”
What could Key know of light or dark?
I’m here for wagering with the Devil!
I played dice with Old Nick himself!
When I murdered, the plague came.
All ports closed to us.
But not their accursed lights!
Would to Heaven—would to Satan!—
I had the power to out all harbor lights
as I ousted my white-haired crew
of bones hauling at
my Flying Dutchman’s sails.
That rain of bones plays louder in my head
than the storm Satan raised
to best me as I tried to round
the Capes of Hope and Horn.
No matter. I am the Flying Dutchman still.
See me and know Disaster Imminent.
Light every light you can. Disaster will sail in.
Oh, to dine upon Death-as-you-know-it . . . !
Oh for the Death of Light!
And at the End
A thane of Scotland insulted
Mary Queen of Scots
for having sluttish ways.
When our Mary was beheaded,
said thane was in the very room,
compelled to be, though loath.
As our Mary was wending
toward the block,
she looked upon the people in the room.
And the people were sore afraid,
moved back before her stare
until she gazed direct as fire
upon that insulting thane
who had dared malign her.
“From this day,”
said Mary Queen of Scots,
“yon churlish thane
will tend my dog and be my dog,
for he has reviled Scotland’s favorite,
Britain’s rightful queen!”
Her little black dog leapt from her then,
ran for the insulting thane,
jumped into his arms,
snapped about his face.
And the thane could not
put the dog away or down.
“From this day,”
said Mary Queen of Scots,
“you will wander forth the earth
redressing your wrong done unto me
by kissing the feet of all women
unto the ugliest hag. And all women
will love you and hate the rest who do.
All men will hate you, too.
You will never happy be,
never have mate or friend.
My sweet dog will hate you, too,
force you on and on.
You have reviled
Scotland’s favorite,
Britain’s rightful queen,
and it is woe unto you.
You will move like smoke
upon the midnight hour, and,
come centuries and centuries passed,
you will be torn to shreds
by my sweet dog,
by women and by men, scattered
as bloodied clots of mist
around the universe.”
The time is nigh.
Mark Sealey
Mark Sealey is a British expatriate living in Southern California since 1996. He has a background in education, technology, music and journalism with degrees in English and history from Cambridge and mathematics education from London, Kings’. Recent poems of his have been published in Atlanta Review, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Poetry Nottingham International; The Journal; The Pedestal Magazine; Obsessed with Pipework (Flarestack Press); in The Ugly Tree; Linkway and Manifold.
Sunday Night
Our town should have been snoring.
Over the damp, brownsward,
dark
the silent jasmine ought
to have tended us to dream.
We could not sleep for
the slow, broken
plot, splitter, lock
of Sunday night rain; the blahsk blahsk
- lazy - close - of screech owls' wings:
we could not sleep.
Poised, pointed the town, cut
out of the moor, cut
off from the shore, cut
in two by swashed gutters:
damns and falls. The back
road was drowned. The pack
horse road crowned:
drumsticks, fluted withies, hornsticks
torn
from pine, hawthorn,
trotted, skipped. Lunatic skittles with
neither hoof nor boot
to snap their night's riots.
Noh-painted clouds' feet
were writhing free - unmasked - of
autumn vortices which whipped and striped
air over the clock in the square.
Then retied in progress -
trounced inside out - above the town. Both shuffling.
Trancing northwards. Wrestled with the wind.
The bells of every town church together began to ring. To ring.
Missing in Morocco
Firmly shattered by the experience of loss
(they call it that here; we always said 'death'),
Petra had tramped off,
thinking we'd follow. We usually did.
She'd wandered toward the desert.
We had calmly watched her go, crawling upright,
with that exaggerated, rolling gait
practised only by the sailor and -
in Petra's case - the lapsed pilgrim, resorting
to rodomontade at the dunes.
Looking sideways at one another we knew
"She'll be back soon".
Not even Stephanie ventured her usual
"Oughtn't I to…?"
Petra was a foot tall now and seemed
to stumble once or twice. We could still see
her stop,
and stretch, and perhaps rest her hands on her knees.
We were thirsty and sad;
so we turned to Pimms and limes:
"She's a grown woman after all."
A plague of motorbikes bashes past the riyad
which we're renting for the week's wake;
Stephanie mutters about 'Going in now';
out come the cards, the beer and the batinjaan.
Flies and bats matter in our hair and our drinks,
so we do file inside. The chequered floor
accepts the tiny irregular clicks and slops of our six exhausted feet.
It's cooler and quieter. We miss Petra. Probably
only Nathan is anywhere near worried. (We can hear fireworks from the Medina.)
"An owl!" Stephanie, still resting on the couch,
wants us too to see the bird before it makes off.
It's blinking down at the three of us,
wondering who we are and whether we belong here,
whether we'll be here in a season's time;
it's making the most of its black and yellow contact with us.
The bang of the tall cedar door
startles the owl outright. We hear, not see, it flap away
stroking the stars and jasmine of the open midnight.
That'll be Petra. It is.
Nathan chuckles. "Well?"
"I didn't walk far; didn't have to. After an hour,
hour-and-a-half at most, I got to a bank of caves.
I sat down outside them for about forty-five minutes,
just sat there, until I decided I would go inside.
I'd go inside, and then come back here, to us.
You're not going to believe me, Nathan, Stephanie, Marius.
I'm not 'dreaming'. I did see, inside on the wall
hidden from the entrance, I did see, painted - sort of etched, bountifully -
a wolf's head, mouth open facing right, very very dark grey and brown
and inside, between its teeth, mother's initials - C.L.C.
in my hand.
And none of us here, or out there, before."
Paul Raboff
Paul Raboff began publishing poetry in the nineteen-fifties in various “Beat” journals where Ginsberg, Corso and Snyder appeared. Unlike the Beats, however, it wasn’t enough for him to appropriate mystical language and terminology to leverage his poetry. He actually did have a real and convincing mystical experience that changed his outlook and sent him to Israel where he has lived since. Paul has published in the best journals accepting poetry in English in Israel and later was chosen to be among the English-language poets in Israel represented in Avon Books’ (New York) anthology of modern Jewish Poetry: “Voices in the Ark.” In 1990, a Swiss publisher, Éditions Ouverture (Lausanne) published in French, “Parce que je l’ai desiré”, a selection of his poetry in translation and in 1998, Gefen Books (Jerusalem) published “From Baal to Ashtoreth.”
Creature
(“He shall be the head and thou shalt be the tail”. Deuteronomy 28:44)
Not the head
But the tail.
They stuck the head
On the tail,
The tail on the neck.
It winds around blind
As if it had
Some kind of mind,
Less than a snake,
But now it thinks
From its buttock.
This creature
Can't be led
By sense at all
But by a vestigial
Pre-figure.
Each end pulls back
Against the other.
Stretched from the middle
Going nowhere,
Stressed to tear
It's stopped dead
Heat
It's so hellishly hot.
The black cat settles
Into the tar pool
Of its own form,
The two yellow leaves
Of its eyes stuck
To the shiny surface.
It has melted
Into the slight depression
Of the ground
Where it has collected.
The Cave
Tracing back my thoughts
I learn they lead me
To the narrowest of places
Where I don't want to be;
There, where I lose them
Down the dark passages
Anguish carved in the heart.
Certainly I will need
That long string spun
From strands of daylight
I paid out through the maze
To be able to return
To its source of memory
Before the one-eyed one
Tries to devour me,
Thumping with his club.
Philip Burton
Philip Burton was shortlisted for The Kent and Sussex Poetry Competition in 2009. He is widely published in literary magazines including Stand, PN Review, Smiths Knoll, The London Magazine, and Poetry Nottingham, and in anthologies for children. As Pip The Poet he is available to schools – www.philipburton.net
Philip was a volunteer on Kibbutz Hulata. Upper Galil, from September 1967 till March 1968.
The Ghost Of Dorothy’s Leg
I am Dorothy Canter’s leg
left in the gloom like an old washing peg
doomed to this loo for a century or two -
I am the ghost of Dorothy’s leg.
No sensible girl will venture along
except at break (among a throng)
but, even then, they bring Mrs Clegg -
such is the fear of Dorothy’s leg.
When the wind howls in a cold copper pipe
and the toilet cisterns run all night
I hop like a shadow on tippest of toes -
I am the leg of Dorothy’s ghost.
I scare the school mouse into its hole.
When the sun throws its light up over the wall
I frighten the cleaner. SLAM! I am
the ghost of Dorothy’s leg I am.
You have to be brave, or even more
to be at the loo when I hop through the door.
Cut off at the knee, no rest of me -
I am Dorothy’s leg, you see.
I’m only a leg, three inches wide.
You can run, but you can’t hide.
Am I scary? You decide -
I’m Dorothy Canter’s leg that died.
Liu Hong-Ping
Liu Hong-ping is a Chinese poet whose CV includes teaching English, interpreting and translating English and French, and marketing management in an international environment. She was born in Chongqing City, majored in English at Sichuan International Studies University and has lived in France for several years.
The Nostalgia
Roses greet the wind
Which blows against my face
In a high clear sky
Why do I palely sigh
Idling alone under a lazy sun
Which is the reminder of my hometown
There is no way to lead me home
As stray birds unsettled
Branches shaking high
With every breeze blowing by
That’s mamma’s hand
Calling her child back
Bamboos
What force has emptied your heart
With all your dreams escaped
Solely the exclusiveness left
Since poking out of the earth
You’ve been redeeming lost souls
Saying prayers in the breeze
What an emotion it is!
So supercool and aloof
Ere the sharp knife
Night
Dark night —
You are my close friend
With my sinking heart
I could feel your temperature
With your color
You could hug my sorrow
Bats weaving in dropped sky
Rivers rustle and sigh
The night voice coming to ears
“Something beautiful passing by”
For the red at dawn
I was wounded in mist
For the green in spring
I was lost in maze
Red, orange, yellow
Green, black, blue
You hold the dream of all colors
You are my last hue —
Dark night, has crept
Upon the burden of my body —
Black colour, into your arms
Has my soul found rest
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