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Two poems- by Sheikha A.

25/10/2018

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If There Was a Way 
 
to know how the ant became stuck in an ice cube, 
it would mean a night of occupation; 
tonight the moon will become sightless 
until the sun decides its end of demise, 
and the stars have already flanked like asteroids - 
tiny from a distant, sparkling like fire- 
stones. If I knew why the ant crawled  
into the water inside the cube, I would 
know why my arms feel the way they feel 
when in some nights they hold darkness  
like an earth-lotus, blooming without water. 
I would know that curious minds are not 
the only ones that renounce fear for break- 
through; the desire to experience pain 
is probably what drives stars to incarnate 
cyclically; is probably what made the ant 
want to be frozen. It isn't considered 
death. The mind finds a sterile axis, stops 
the rotation of churning, curdling to thickness 
until the only form that remains is gel; water  
is gel, in the inanimate way you enter  
the realm of dreams, in the steadfast 
manner you become home to the constricted. 
But, I don't crawl like the ant into self- 
picked spaces. I bloat like a pustule on burn, 
find my own water in which to entrap  
and cover the over-skin with glitter of relief. 
The night will throb the moon on its frontal lobe; 
the blind dawn will freeze in cataracts of light, 
and nobody will know how I died a thousand hours 
to watch the sun rise from its own. 
 

​Sew 
 
He sews under the needle of numbness, 
electrons cheering-on magnum opus of the dead 
 
cells. There will never be dearth of spectators, 
this is how he will always see, bright conjunctions  
 
meant to slip him under a dreamless spell. 
Some minds skull out of their forms -  
 
disseminating like a torn letter - thinning paper 
under a solvent of nerves. He sews like a vein 
 
ready to receive; the exclusion of the external 
like the red dots he would swallow for sleep. 
 
It must feel like the universe has expanded  
on a shrinking platform, and the ebon fills 
 
in fast litres his jug of resistance. It is always  
day when under; he sews a thatch to roof 
 
his eyes as he dreams of hammocks 
that don't feel like wired enclosures under  
 
his skin, that sound of cooing waves of a lazy ocean, 
that taste of lobsters, glossy red like giant pills. 
 
When his jaw vibrates, he eats his teeth. He sews 
under fluids that are chemically stable. And then 
 
when he wakes, the white fluorescence 
turns blue. His mind tells him he's an active dart 
 
ready to shoot for target, his body sewing  
his burning, fading memories of his sleep. 

( Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her work appears in a variety of literary venues, more about which can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com)

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Two poems- by Ahmad Al-Khatat

18/10/2018

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One More Night


What I always wanted is a space
to my spirit with tears and cure
myself from the grief and believing
that tomorrow will be a good day
One more night staying up late
I was not born to enjoy this world
with the diamonds of her parents
she mercilessly cuts my chest open
As the blood starts dripping all over
my flesh and I am walking away from
the dark road to rest and sleep in a
dirty sidewalk and having nightmares
If I ever survive with a broken heart
I would break the bird wings to fly
leaving no scent of my flesh nor do I
want to wash in a salty sea to die sweet


Only God Knows


Only god knows how much I need you.
I miss you as much as the snow misses
a moment to fall above the cedars.
Everyone says that I should keep moving on,
but I hear your voice coming toward me
slowly as if I hear an echo from a distance.
Weeping, because of my daily routine, the
autumn season appears twice in one year.
first was from the cloud, second is from my eyes
bitter is how happiness tastes
I smile in my dreams, waiting to see you
before the train comes and leaves me in grief


( Ahmad Al-Khatat. He was born in Baghdad on May 8th. From Iraq, he came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when he wrote his first poem back in the year 2000. He also has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world. His poems were translated into Farsi, Albanian, German, and Chinese. And he currently studies Political Sciences, at Concordia University in Montreal. He recently have published his two chapbooks “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline”.  With Alien Buddha Press. It is available for sale on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.)

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Third Generation- a poem by Robin DeFrance

4/10/2018

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​Third Generation
 
There are some silences which annihilate the landscape.
I was brought up with them, learnt the topography of them
across the kitchen table. Fatherless girls fall in love
 
with the ghosts of their fathers. How many times
have I had to remind myself of this? But I’ve learned
not to look back in anger and not to confuse servitude
 
with solitude or vice versa. You know how it is,
that feeling of standing still in space, with every
double entendre, every double-bladed sword
 
sinking into the back of someone’s neck
while you watch, completely stunned?
The fire consumes a histrionic,
 
blisters them with jealousy,
turns ordinary women into furies.
I watched my grandmother pour gin
 
and vermouth down her throat,
as if that could somehow drown the flames,
but she passed out by 7 pm every night.
 
Momma would go upstairs to get stoned.
I’d play with my Barbies in the closet,
left numb, wondering why everything can’t be
 
straight forward. And if some things
just weren’t nice, you should never speak
of them again. But it is almost winter,
 
and I am myself ever, and God
is nowhere to be found. I watched
my grandmother recede in dementia
 
and my mother beaten into an invalid
by a stroke. She used to call me a changeling,
a wicked child. I came into her life
 
during a storm. I brewed secret poisons in
holes I dug, filled with rainwater and little
toads I caught behind the house.
 
Can I write myself into being?
Give me some matchsticks
and a cold and desolate patch of rock.
 
Give me some dead branches
under the twisting ribbon of night.
I’d fly through it; I’d fly straight
 
home.


( Robin DeFrance is a writer and activist who worked many years as a caregiver. Currently, she resides in Kane, PA with her partner and cats. She finds poetry to be the best mouthpiece for communicating traumatic experiences such as isolation, abuse, sorrow, love, or remorse.)

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    The Beautiful Space-
    ​A  Journal of Mind, Art and Poetry.


    1. This is your literary journal to publish your unpublished poems and artwork related to themes of the mind, the body, the soul, mental health, health, healing, illness and the brain.   
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    2. We may occasionally accept work not related to above themes as long as it is of good quality and relevant to our project.

    ​3. We aim to publish work of one author every week depending upon the rate of submissions and quality of work.
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    5. All submissions will be subject to peer review before accepting for publication. We will contact you ( within 8-12 weeks) only if we decide to publish your work.
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    Submit Poems, Artwork, and Blogs
    1. You can submit your poems ( max 50 lines, up to three poems at a time, all in one document), & Artwork.

    2. We are happy to publish anonymous work as well as stories if you choose to as long as we hold your details in our records.

    3. All submissions should be your own unpublished original work.

    4. All submissions will be reviewed before accepting for the publication. Decision of our reviewing team will be final.

    5. Please send all your work as one Microsoft word document file, align to left of the page and font 12 Times New Roman with your details to the following email​.

    ​6. Please also include one sentence personal bio you would like to be published with your work

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