Norman P. Franke
is a Hamilton based scholar (MA, Hamburg University; Ph.D. Humboldt University, Berlin), poet and film-maker. He is a Research Fellow at the University of Newcastle, New South Wales. He has published widely about 18th century literature, German-speaking exile literature (Albert Einstein, Ernst H. Kantorowicz, Else Lasker-Schüler, Karl Wolfskehl) eco-poetics and at the intersection of religion and poetry. Norman’s poetry has been broadcasted on radio and published in anthologies in Austria, Germany, New Zealand, Switzerland, the UK, and the USA. [2017/18 finalist at the Aesthetica (UK) and Feldkircher (Austria) literature contests; 2019 New Zealand Flash Fiction Day competition, takahē Short Story competion (NZ)]; 2021 New Zealand National Flash Fiction Award, Waikato Regional Award; 2021 Münchner Lyrikpreis (short list)]
After Gabrielle (Einstein in Berlin, whale sex, angry heavenly waters)
Cyclone. Rain since 5 a.m. in a tiny house, a former post bus without wheels.
The Tasman Sea in tears. Drumming and sighing.
Flash floods crash from the awning onto the riveted barrel vault of the roof.
The sea disappeared in a rainy haze. Ancient Kahikateas in the valley
swaying. Not like fronds in the stream, not like lions’ manes
in the steppe wind, and not like gigantic eyeless beings either, the kind
you find on the distant planets of sci-fi movies. In a clearer moment,
the white horses of the sea appear between the mountain flanks.
Horizonless, upwards, open towards the sky.
Yesterday, at low tide, we walked across the seabed. Recent theories
suggest that the water covering two-thirds of the earth’s surface
was carted in by asteroids. The salinity of the sea and human blood
are the same, Kennedy thought. Which isn’t entirely true,
but maybe that’s how it used to be.
In a morning dream, I was sitting next to Albert Einstein in a Berlin seminar
about religion in Prussia. Each participant received a bundle of photocopies.
Large ones in Gothic type at the bottom; smaller ones handwritten
with seals, on top. I told him, this is going to be something. And gave him
the Polynesian finger salute with the pinkie and thumb sticking out.
He obviously took it more as an insult than good cheer,
and said in an unusually deep voice – for some reason I always assumed
he spoke in a high tenor – : This is a serious topic, Sir.
I replied, yes, of course, I look forward to a productive discussion,
and gave him both thumbs up. He recognized this gesture and my good will
and patted my forearm: Yes, my friend, well then…
Our running gag in this place, you say, like in a children’s book:
I saw a whale! (In the children’s book it’s a boy who imagines he can see
a whale every day of his holiday. No one else sees it; until the whale
appears, maybe long after the boy had left, back in his prefabricated house)
What is it like to be a whale? You say you don’t care. This skin
which salt water does not corrode, the home of barnacles. Gliding through Pounamu
green, Prussian blue, familiar Stygian nights, surface every few minutes,
everything becomes brighter, breathe. The peepholes must have some protective film,
you say, otherwise they will be sanded down by the permanent friction
with the sea water. Some species are said not to get cancer. And what else?
Eat, just open your mouth, strain. Whale sex.
Do they enjoy it? Is it an instinct, like the urge to eat
which arises in due season? Did the pre-colonial Māori know more
about the whales? You say in the West everything becomes ‘the other’ or else
we anthropomorphise everything. We live in the epoch without nuances.
Cloud window. The first bush birds announce a temporary end
to the anthropogenic deluge. After which Auckland Airport
is submerged, again at one with the surrounding mangrove swamps.
The primeval track by the bus devours the freshly blackened city tires.
Even in the ford they remain clay-coloured, as angry heavenly waters
tear mother earth apart, dragging her particles into a dance,
down to the sea. We can’t get through. What else was a brook
is now a raging river, the ford’s water is too high for the wheelbase
of the small car. Back to the post bus. The bush is steaming. Heart racing.
No sea, no whale. Just on the damp note pad.
The above poem´s copy right @ Norman P. Franke ~ ARIEL-ART 2023-05-01
Julia C. Graney
is an American author, teacher and co-editor of „Ariel-Art“. Julia is proficient in multiple languages, such as English, French , Spanish and German. Currently her main interest is in Hebrew and Yiddish.
The joy of Hebrew
When I encountered this language for the first time, it was pure joy. At the beginning, it was a mystery. I didn’t understand a thing, but it was beautiful. The aleph and bet. It didn’t mean anything. But after some study, some reading, these symbols began to mean something – caught my attention, called out to me from afar. The Aleph went from foreign to familiar, and from there, meaning was born.
Now, I keep going till patience , in Hebrew, reveals to me its last letter.
La joie de la langue hébreue
Quand j’ai rencontré cette langue pour la première fois, c’était du bonheur pur. Au départ, c’était un mystère. J’y comprenais rien, mais c’était beau. Le aleph et le beth. Ça ne me disait rien. Mais après un peu d’études, un peu de lecture, ces symboles me disaient quelque chose – gagnaient mon attention, m’appelaient de loin. Le Aleph allait d’étrange à me dire quelque chose, et de là, la signification est née.
Alors, je persévère jusqu’à ce que la patience  en hébreu me révèle sa dernière lettre.
The above prose poem´s copy right @ Julia C. Graney ~ ARIEL-ART 2023-04-16
is an Indian author, journalist, father, and editor of „Words Surfacing“. He authored eight books, the latest being „Postmarked Quarantine„. His work has been translated into eleven languages.
The Complex Quantum of the Magnetic Fields
Some salesmen smoke in the market. The chickens are still alive. The shops
release the stretching cats from their shrouds.
Rigor mortis has set in some mice, some writhing.
Megaphones slur. Words travel in paddle-carts.
Work has been cancelled by the union demanding
more works. Our favourite mad man turns, yawns, farts.
The flight of the pigeons thunderclaps
the complex quantum of the magnetic fields into the sky
An Address Bleeds On The Door
Once more I’ve come to the door,
scored a photo, asked the mystery behind-
„What is it that keeps pulling me in?“
The numbers on the woodwork, hand-painted,
bleed a lot, and I wait
as if its wound would heal, the address would
instill a jiffy etched in the air by a capricious feather.
Knock on the skull; if I have ever lived here
as a resident, as the one behind,
that I had been unlocked into infinity.
My father, all gone, whispers
to my mother, all gone, that I have grown to be
nothing they imagine, but it matters no longer.
A single see-through crow in the morning meadow,
I feel the sugar drainage, sway a bit, hallucinate.
One crow multiply; the crow inside the crow comes out.
The town uncrates its memory boxes around us.
This is the oldest part, made of superego.
My teacher walks towards the river. His suicide note
floats like a duck feather in the mote.
I can eat a candy and stable my vision, but why!
Thousands of thoughts fly and infest summer.
Sky is only beginning to gather itself.
Sea comes, plays with the shore,
leaves it wet, but reruns the lore.
Two fish, we caught. You murmur
something about ocean being a big graveyard.
I nod. Sleep shores up my nodding head.
Two fish, we caught, kept in
one faded paint bucket, noisy and struggling,
whirl to imitate a yin yang I dream often.
All above poems copy right @ Kushal Poddar ~ ARIEL-ART 2023-02-18
The difficult stick and the easy one
Not for digging, a stick, although quite
suitable for digging deep, is sliding
between his fingers and his thumb
while he who´s climbing up
the vineyard´s steepest slope
is looking for a decent gap
to peek through
all this busy universe
he knows he needs his silence
once in a while, the calm ground for mulling over
answers whose questions still are to be found
so, he simply follows the dynamics of his stick
that´ll lead him unobtrusively
to places abounding with thrilling
arising, when mossy saxifrages
show up, beaming epiphanies,
growing between some simple weed
in all this busy universe
he knows that there´s no need for too smooth
moves, no need for an easy-going
stick, but a strong one to poke through poison ivy
a stick that leads through thickets
a stick that leads through the scent of horse
shit lost between the vines –
a stick that makes discover quite anew
an ancient meaning´s hovering
the noise of a woodpecker or a hawk
jolted out of his hide
copy right @ Amadé Esperer ~ ARIEL-ART 2023-02-11
copy right @ DR Muzar~ ARIEL-ART 2023-02-08
is a good title
for a novel
or a game
or a poem
or a website
or an escort girl
or it is just a snide remark
about the security expert for combat
tanks, militating like a machine gun against some peace pals
copy right @ DR Muzar~ ARIEL-ART 2023-02-02
copy right @ DR Muzar~ ARIEL-ART 2023-02-02
You were looking for a home, you whispered to me
You opened another door
And again I found myself in the crosshairs
copy right @ cotevet_benotza~ ARIEL-ART 2023-01-23
Agnes likes Animals like Agnus
Agnes likes animals like Agnus:
A selection of delightful and tender animals
horses making love or oxen courting cows
in the middle of a cave
she can imagine
the raving cravings of a couple of bats –
Yet, what is it like to be a bat or a rat or a cat
outside Agnes´s chat in a universe that ´s flat?
copy right @ D.R. Muzar~ ARIEL-ART 2023-01-20
Over me: my star.
Next to me: my moon.
Both are not too far.
This is such a boon.
I am full of life.
Every spot abloom.
Flora, Fauna strive
Plants, so green and fair.
Gorgeous, my décor.
In the air, ashore,
in the deepest sea.
Here and there still more.
Every piece of me:
Then the end of glee:
Homo sapiens appears
and everything does change.
The dawn of a new age.
He talks. Reflects. He makes.
The human, oh, this sage!
He hates. He fights. He takes.
He spills much blood.
He causes many aches.
I don’t feel fine. Used up.
I’m scarred and soaked in sweat
because it’s way too hot.
Oh, human, see the threat!
I’m Terra. What are you?
A „Terran“! Don’t forget:
The consequence, it’s true:
If I should meet my death,
then you will do so too.
copy right @ Daniela Gesslein ~ ARIEL-ART 2023-01-04
Cogito ego, ergo sum
Braving the Raving
These proto-apocalyptical days lie idle,
unbridled like a crying baby in a cradle,
breathing in and breathing out
the hustle and bussle of the tussle of time,
shock-rocked in the arrhythmic swing
of news breaking lose in incursions invasions penetrations,
humming gumming news like sing along songs,
flooding the mind in ever sharper throngs,
frying dying lies, slicing all dice,
cramming the days with the clatters of ting-a-ling-a-ling
B U T
in the cradle of mulling and thinking it twice
I´m becoming all ears and all eyes,
braving the raving
Copy Right @ Amadé Esperer ~ ARIEL-ART 2022-02-22
Themis is Watching
Oracle say do not believe in ousouria
Oracle say it´s just okay, it´s smoke in the mirrors
Oracle say you´ll never know if ousia will be
whether Themis isn´t watching
new markets pop up
overnight, when the fight just has started
among droning doves, an early morning saw hawk
whole continents below lay bellowing, spread legs
watched bestmen abuse the brittle bride
while Pandora outside lost her beauty bag
no hope to ever recover the stuff
Copy Right @ Amadé Esperer ~ ARIEL-ART 2022-02-22