April 15, 2021

“Botticelli’s Oranges,” The Poetry of Reed Venrick

“Botticelli’s Oranges,” The Poetry of Reed Venrick

Botticelli’s Oranges In an Italian port village near where the boy called “Allessandro” grew up, some thought his circles drawn must be made with a mechanical compass, so round, so fine, there in the Mediterranean sand, where Botticelli grew into youth, wandering through the orange and lemon groves of the Italian littoral; even then sketching lines of muscular trunks and extending arms branching into fingers of leaves, mixing into colors of rinds of reds and yellows. But when youthful fingers grew long enough to put a brush to canvas, he tinted the precious fruit In Madonna with Child and Angels, where she sat under blooming orange trees in spring, for the artist used orange trees to symbolize the virgin, because as he said: among fruits, only oranges are evergreen, “if one sees the mean.” So…

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April 5, 2021

National Poetry Month: A Potpourri of Poems

National Poetry Month: A Potpourri of Poems

Editor’s Note: What goes better with a piping-hot cuppa java than a great poem that whisks you away to another world or makes you contemplate the eccentricities of modern life? If you agree, you’re in luck, because it’s National Poetry Month and we’ll be celebrating here at the Café all month long! To kick it off, here are a few words from our Poetry Barista, Yong Takahashi, followed by a biscuit of poetry from six different poets for you to dunk into your favorite brew. Enjoy!     A Little History In April 1996, the Academy of American Poets launched National Poetry Month to increase awareness and appreciation of poetry. It was inspired by the success of Black History Month (February) and Women’s History Month (March). Since its inception, it has become one of the…

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March 25, 2021

“Amor Fati,” The Poetry of Vincent St. Clare

“Amor Fati,” The Poetry of Vincent St. Clare

Caption: Darvaza gas crater in the Karakum Desert in Turkmenistan, said to be the Doorway to Hell. Amor Fati    I’d like to be happy in Hell  I’d like to wear my drill-on dunce cap  Stuffed to the brim with snakes and diarrhea  And all the same I could laugh all the while    Yes, I could smile  Like the Indian prince on his deathbed  Of stone covered in dysentery and then   Silence,     Despite it    But it won’t be by divine mandate   That I wash these walls  Or scrub the floors with a toothbrush  That’s got nails for bristles  Or a sponge saturated with  Brine and boiling metal    It won’t be by right or choice that I  Cross the fire and into the light  Or wander circle to circle all the way  To the big, bright gangbang in the sky    Surmounted…

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March 3, 2021

Bhuwan Thapaliya – Seven Poems from Kathmandu

Bhuwan Thapaliya – Seven Poems from Kathmandu

I’m sick of not seeing you    He poured himself  a glass of her thoughts    two years after she won  a scholarship to heaven    to pursue her PhD  in life after death    and sat down beside  her antique gramophone    with his senses  straining in the dark.    “I’m sick  of not seeing you,    I’m seeing only  the back of an African Wild Elephant  and the wide open jaws of the vultures.    Helpless days of confinement,  a stultifying inertia  and no knowledge of what comes next.    “Where are your  eyes in the sky, Grand Ma?” he sighed.    Where are the bald eagles?  Where are the rhododendrons?  Where? Where? Where?    He stammered and cried.      What type of poem am I?    “What type of poem am I?”  I am as formless as the clouds,  and as elegiac as the silence,  in the itinerary of the noise.    I am not a classic  written by the author,…

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February 26, 2021

“Rising” – New Poetry Collection by Yong Takahashi

“Rising” – New Poetry Collection by Yong Takahashi

RISING: Poems In this debut collection of poetry, flashes of life’s most intimate moments are filled with love, hope, remorse, longing, and anguish. We root for the one who reaches for happiness but is not yet able to grasp it. We wince for the one who picks at festering wounds that never quite heal. We are breathless as we run alongside those who chase after a thirst that can never be quenched.   Yong Takahashi is the author of The Escape to Candyland. She was a finalist in The Restless Books Prize for New Immigrant Writing, Southern Fried Karma Novel Contest, Gemini Magazine Short Story Contest, and Georgia Writers Association Flash Fiction Contest. She was awarded Best Pitch at the Atlanta Writers Club Conference. Her second short story collection will be published in 2021.To learn…

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February 22, 2021

“To Your Inner Slavery,” Poetry by Selma Haitembu

“To Your Inner Slavery,” Poetry by Selma Haitembu

To Your Inner Slavery    You try really hard not to show it  I will not relent to evade my notions,  Nor my ideas, hence the color of my skin  Spoke before I could raise my head  To your foot, beneath the very grounds  I lay scythed by your scorn  I will not relent in shame  My mother, I wore as pride   Ride me into the dangers of your color  Your ignorance and frivolous abuse  Your amusement related to mine   Rooted from two different aspects  I worry not where you are from  Your stench has no beginning  I worry only what you would do next  To know, to finally see my color  My mind in this brown skin bag  Has gears twisted in complex turns  I deserve to be here as well, it will show  And below me you will fall soon  Your hate of me will beg to exist,…

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February 14, 2021

Laura Carter – Poems of Sensations and Memories

Laura Carter – Poems of Sensations and Memories

I pull away from the bruise. There is no bruise. It’s been said that language itself is a bruise, a collection of things to be feared. There is no bruise. I put off the pain. The pain returns. The body burns, as if in a fire, largely having been heated in winter by the obsolete feeling of the no. There is no no. I pull away from the no. The no, not having been part of the story, can’t really comment on anything. There are no people. There are people. Someone lights the proper way forward, as if in modernity, and I pull away from that. Why go? Someone on the other side of the ocean would pen a marinade and drink it down for dinner. I eat. There is no food. I see. There is no sight. I put away the bruise. Then, all…

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February 1, 2021

“Shush Please,” Poetry and Art by Tamizh Ponni

“Shush Please,”  Poetry and Art by Tamizh Ponni

Shush please        On a cold winter night  I lay in the comfort of soft blankets and cushy pillows  The non-stop titter-tatter against all tangibles  mercilessly broke my hard-earned slumber  Sliding and slithering over and over   Crystalline droplets raced on the glassy tracks  without much caution or trepidation.  The uncoiled skeins of climatic emotions  were desperate to bring glee into doldrums.  I woke up, sat up and stayed up  leaning towards the window pane, listening to their tantrums  All night in silence, eyes closed, ears open  It was a performance that clamoured for attention  from lonely souls and midnight owls.  I wish it came with a volume control  The loud clatter and yellow lights, were acting like partners in crime  brutally stirring up memories of good times  Days that could not be reclaimed  Nights and people…

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January 28, 2021

Mbizo Chirasha – My First Year as Poet-in-Residence

Mbizo Chirasha – My First Year as Poet-in-Residence

Time has legs: it walks and of course it runs. Somewhere in the cybernetic land of the brave, America, a trailblazing coffee shop is situated, born from assortments of poetry biscuits, flash fiction soups that wink likea jolt of rainforest lightning. The Fictional Café, a buffet of literary commentary and steaming cups of cappuccinos,the sweet aroma of words waft through its glowing virtual walls,  beckoning and satiating all sure creatives.Inside the Café, you are welcomed by a band of poetry baristas. I joined the Fictional Café as the Poet in Residence and the greatest blessing is a myriad of my experimental writings have been serialized, featured, and published within its digital pages.  Jack B. Rochester and your team of literary champions:I salute you for the Poet in Residence position and for your confident investmentin my writings and mutual collaborative efforts.  ***…

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January 25, 2021

Mark Parsons – Poetry in Pieces

Mark Parsons – Poetry in Pieces

Leg  Panel the color of raw  steak discoloring  once it’s exposed to the air  slides on its runner, crosscutting fibres  bunched into fascicles sheathed with elastin  that shift like amoebas, contract, clinch,  then dilate again.  Panel  after panel,  runners underfoot and  thickness of panels decreasing.  A click,  something catches.  Or caught,  something releases  and scrapes to the opposite wall.  This fleshly corridor  can’t go on much longer:  the panels can get no thinner.  The thought of hiding  once I’m out,  the reason not to hide.  Never did I present agoraphobia,  or tendencies . . . say,  vampiric.  No symptoms of anemia.  Never was a bleeder,  in any sense.  I have to keep my nerve.  It’s all that separates me from  my surroundings.  My leg  feels . . . feels like.  Prologue    Taking life  one rescue  animal  at…

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