BREAKING POEMS

Nicole Arnoldbik

Nicole Arnoldbik is an American freelance editor and writer. She studied Old Testament and Semitics in southern California and Print Media Communication in Chicago. An explorer at heart, she enjoys road trips in the American West and feels happiest (and most poetic) near cottonwood trees on the Prairie.

 

Boundaries

 

I know what it’s like

when the sun and the years

drain the pink flagging tape

of its fluorescence

and the vines smother

the corner stakes

to rob them of their poise

when vacant land rolls

from one field into the next

and only the Spirit hovering

over the face of the deep

could breath new life

into leaning fence posts

 

—But Good God—

Let me not draw lines

where no lines are needed.

Let me not belittle the doormat

for all its questionless

quiet yesses.

Let me know which no

is more spineless

than holding my peace.

Oh, to draw lines

without drawing swords

that boundaries can fall

in pleasant places.

 

The above poem´ s copy right @ Nicole Arnoldbik ~ ARIEL-ART 2023-11-022

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 [1], 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 [1] en hébreu me révèle sa dernière lettre.

 

[1] סַבְלָנוּת

 

 

The above prose poem´s copy right @ Julia C. Graney ~ ARIEL-ART 2023-04-16

Kushal Poddar

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.

https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

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.

 

 

Apparition

 

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.

 

 

Fish

 

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

silence

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

above him

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

Lunch Lady

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

Terra

 

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

lively everywhere,

magically thrive:

 

Plants, so green and fair.

Gorgeous, my décor.

Wildlife billionaire.

 

In the air, ashore,

in the deepest sea.

Here and there still more.

 

Every piece of me:

Perfectly arranged.

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

René Descartes

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

rise high

 

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