Featuring John Chinaka Onyeche

FRAGMENTS OF INNOCENCE 

 

You sat on that chair,

With eyes full of innocence,

Longing for a hand to hold,

With arms stretched,

Waving at shadows of a father.

A pose only readable within

Those who went through the same

Unfamiliar road to their becoming.

I wonder what life has given you—

A load so heavy that it drenches

Your tender heart.

Even when you let out

Those sweet smiles on your face,

They speak thousands

Of unspoken words that seek love

In a creation you never decried of coming.

Here, life hands you over

To brokenness and totems,

To toss and live with each day,

Longing and wishing to fix

A family's broken portrait:

A boy, a man, and a child surviving,

Home that calls your name

In a broken map, and says that you are a man.

 

 

 

 

 

PEEP IN A SHARD HOME 

 

Today, I took a stroll in their gardens—

With a lens of knowledge,

With one who, in the time past, was one

With home, and its broken apartment,

Where nothing else is holding home,

But I, Mine, Me, and yours alone.

These words that leave homes,

In shards without knowing—

How every experience of these are shaped.

Here, I am taking a glimpse of, and glance

At their broken hearts saying:

What is home? 

And what is a family who takes only—

But I, Mine, Me, and yours alone,

To hold every child here in bondage,

Saying that they are victims of parenting,

Separating kids from home and family—

Still, calling themselves parents in all.

 

 

 

 

 

DISCOMFORTING HOME 

 

Now, I know that this life I am living is not mine. The  man of language said that it is a cliché – but I know, the message that I wanted him to know about me has been delivered. In any use of language he wanted me to do this, today, I failed him. I said: that I am living, but this life is not my own. I desire outside home frequent than home; how is this life my own and I run outside more than I run inside, and the comfort of outside is not satisfying even the shadows it offers me; alas! Am I now lost in the midst of the world? How else should I live to gather my life again? The last time I saw the light, the heavens blinked and everything became dark again where once God said: let there be light, but here we kiss goodnight to our dreams of home, of its discomfort, and the comforts of the outside home. 

 

 

 

 

3.50AM, 04/10/2024 

 

Dear Son, 

I will not lose you.

 

Some nights,

seeing you in my dreams are like;

holding a knife, cutting off

the better part of my life.

 

Where I don’t wish

the coming of another morning—

because in one night,

 

I lost and found you,

I found and lost you

in an innumerable buildings.

 

Your smile, your fears,

your agony and tender body—

maltreatment by your mother

at the mention of my name.

 

It cuts and kills me,

nights and days,

day and night alike.

 

 

 

 

 

LETTERS TO A CHILD

 

My daughter is 3-years-old, and I’m still

not sure if I’m a good father

-       Rudy Francisco

for: Chisimdiri, my Muse.

 

Dear Child,

I am writing to you

in the clasp of waters.

Listen to the voice

of atonements—

If it be 25,

born on the 27th,

or the 10th or 22nd,

heed the account.

 

Ask for the mouth

that beautifies your earthly form,

as casks of joy,

and as a gift from my ancestors.

 

There's Amina, Abasiama—

so there's Zaynaab,

and I will speak of Damilola,

perhaps Roseline and Sarah.

Seek them and learn letters.

To be loved means to love letters.

 

Here, I hang my garb—

waiting to curl my longings

in your wits.

UNNAMED 

 

This petal fell

As the flowers grew

In a troubled earth.

 

Though we wanted flowers,

Two were already planted:

 

One in love, and the other

In what took the semblance of chaos.

 

Where prayers are offered now and then,

For safe earthly arrivals.

 

But the rain never falls

On the petals nor the flowers.

 

Yet even the unnamed would know,

That nature’s ways are different.

 

 

 

 

 

Bio:

John Chinaka Onyeche is a Nigerian writer of colour (BIPOC) and historian from Etche in Rivers State. A graduate of history and diplomatic studies. He serves as a poetry curator with Port Harcourt Literary Review. He is dedicated to ensuring that the full scope of history is accurately represented poetically. His writing can be found in various journals, including; Charles University, Prague, Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival, Akpata Review, Rigorous, Ebedi Review, Overtly Lit, Middlebury Institute of International Studies, McNeese University, Pier Review University of Brighton, Tilted House Journal, Akewi Magazine, and Brittle Paper. Best of Net, 2022, Pushcart, 2023. 

Connect with him on Twitter @Apostlejohnchin or https://linker.ee/RememberAjc 

 

 

New poems: Sushant Thapa

 

Beholding Love

 

Love escapes through

long intervals of touch

between fingers.

Kisses grow old

like mirrors

throughout life.

I was a spring dancer

now I am

a winter statue.

Clouds have darkened

and sprinkles of misty rain

fall and keep falling.

Love is an abstract noun,

but I miss your touch.

We are

concrete manifestations.

Our kisses are absolute;

they don't empty like

filled vessels.

I feel your absence

and you emerge out

of mirror frames.

I watch you

in the mirror;

we have exchanged

ourselves.

 

 

Sorrow is a river

 

Morning manifests

in clean attire

as if a slate

has been washed.

The night has lost

its own caricature.

I see that the sun

has hidden itself

and winter has flowered.

The dew covered grasses

feel as if spring

has kissed them

silently.

Invention lies in

inventing happiness.

Sorrow is a river;

it drowns you

unless you learn to swim.

 

 

Art and Discontents

 

A fresh beginning

begins with new sights

or new insights.

Every walk of life

leads to present time.

I see myself orienting

to the artistic canvas,

Pouring myself out

in scars of colorful splashes.

Resting bones

leave the flesh.

I sense a reasoning

that questions

every other question.

Buried lies

do not sprout truths

that heal.

What good is art,

if it does not revive

passion and its discontents?

 

 

Favorable Conditions

 

I am looking

at the inner life

of a wintry afternoon.

I see my old age

in my father’s eyes.

“Do you feel

motherly embrace

in your nest?”

I ask the young bird of

the early morn.

It says flying lessons

are best learned

in a stormy sky.

I don’t blame

my weakness,

but learn to

aim right

and not wait for

any favorable

conditions.

 

 
© Sushant Thapa

Biratnagar-13, Nepal

Review of Gwil James Thomas ‘love is a burning church, cleansed by welcomed rain’ (Clair ObscurZine, Yorksire UK, 2024 (18 pages).

 

Thomas is a small press Bristol poet who has previously published several chapbooks, including his latest  ‘What We Do, They Will Never Understand- a split chap with scumbag press guru Martin Appleby (@twokeycustoms) and a second collection of poems The P45 Power Ballad(@yellowkingpress).

 

Thomas’ poetry is typically free verse confessional, highly accessible  and remarkably free of literary bullshit. 

 

The chap is A5 in size, saddle stitched on recycled paper and handmade by the publisher in Yorkshire, UK. The layout and graphics which accompany the poems add to the pleasure of your read. The chap is limited to 30 numbered copies.

 

Some of the poems in this small chap have previously appeared in publications such as As it Ought To Be Magazine, Expat Press and in Back Patio Press.

 

The common theme of the chap is that of change. The persona of the poems, presumably Thomas, often narrates everyday situations which prompt him to make important personal observations and realisations.  

 

In the poem ‘Return of an Ex’, Thomas, comes across an ex girlfriend in a grocery store and humorously reminisces about their youthful relationship. He realises they both have shed their previous selves and he is “glad that the boy I once was had long since gone”:

 

Return of an Ex. 

 

It’d been years since she’d even crossed my mind 

and then suddenly she’d appeared in front of me, 

in the frozen foods section of Lidl - 

we caught up and she told me about 

her husband and her son and I told her about 

the cities that I’d lived in over the years. 

 

It was clear that the girl I’d once known had gone,

but as she talked some memories came back to me - 

like the time that I picked her up in my old banger, 

after I’d spontaneously spray painted 

the word KILL across the bonnet 

and how to my surprise she’d found it hilarious, 

or the way that the radiator by her bed 

would shudder when we’d have sex, 

or how I learnt to play songs on the guitar 

by bands that I’d hated and she’d adored, 

or of the evening that she’d left me and the pain 

that I’d dragged out trying to get over her 

and how one day that had just disappeared, 

like our youth and there was something wonderful, 

horrible and fucking stupid about it all.

 

Eventually, we said so long again and I paid 

for my shopping and wandered back to my car, 

where I stopped and glanced at the clean bonnet - 

glad that the boy I once was had long since gone, 

even if I was going to buy a can of spray paint 

on my ride home.

 

(poems in this post are published with the permission of the writer)

 

In the poem ‘Change?’ he meets a girl at a bar through some friends.  The following afternoon he opens a window and senses hope amongst his brokenness:

 

 

Change?

 

She’d arrived as unannounced, 

as love and disaster -

a beautiful Welsh, Italian girl, 

a friend of some friends. 

From the cow eyed glances 

at the bar when no one was watching, 

to the extended touches nobody noticed - 

I knew the script well enough and once 

the drugs and alcohol drowned out 

any inhibitions, we’d left to our 

poor excuses.

The script flipped back at my flat 

and instead of passing out all fucked up, 

or jumping one another’s bones, 

we’d talked and she told me about 

a pain inside that was hard to explain 

and despite her youth, career and looks, 

against all of my lack of, 

I knew then that she was broken 

in the same way that I was -

yet, to laughter and sunrise, 

we’d shelved suicide, 

before her lips met mine 

and we’d stripped, whilst a fresh day 

had unfolded outside. 

Alone, the following afternoon, 

amongst my room’s familiar decor 

and its fluttering moths, 

I’d opened the windows to the bipolar weather -

I wasn’t even sure if I’d see her again, 

but something in me longed for change

and for the first time in a long time, 

I felt the truest smile fall onto my face -

realising, that I’d finally felt 

something.

 

These are deeply personal, well crafted poems. As Thomas describes in these poems, change may be traumatic but it is also an inevitable and regenerative part of life. 

 

Buy the chap here: https://clairobscurzine.bigcartel.com/product/love-is-a-burning-church-cleansed-by-welcomed-rain-by-gwil-james-thomas

 

Featuring Shiva Neupane

The Mantra of Curiosity:

The curiosity is the seed

of discovery. 

Which enables us to 

explore the things. 

I just wondered 

For why this came to exist.

What is the purpose of curiosity?

If we were not curious  

Where our civilizational journey 

would have been?

I would like to decode 

the mantra of curiosity 

for why it is governing 

my thoughts. 

 

 

The Tides of Time:

The tides of time

Were smaller.

When I was a small boy,

As I grew older 

The tides of time became 

Bigger.

I realised the tides of time

Is very powerful.

It won’t wait anyone,

The art of sailing through the tides

of time what life teaches us.

 

The Death of Death: 

I keep wondering

and, wondering

about why, death

doesn’t need to die.

While everything has to die

In the universe.

How does it 

get the existential- immunity 

to get away with the rule of universe.

If there were a death of death

What would have been 

the existence of cosmos?

Could our mind afford

to understand this arcane truth?

 

 

Life is a candlelight:

Life glows like a candlelight,

It erases the darkness 

And creates the sense of happiness.

Life glows like a candlelight 

And teaches us to deal with plight

Life melts like a candlelight

And mingles in the air, fire, water 

and soil. 

Life doesn’t offer the purpose 

or meaning.

It’s us who give the meaning to it.

 

 

 

Mr. Shiva Neupane is a distinguished Nepalese-born Melbourne, Australia based writer. His articles have been featured nationally and internationally in acclaimed newspapers and journals such as ‘The Age’ (Australia), ‘The Beatnik Cowboy and ‘The Medusa’s kitchen (U.S.A), ‘Doublespeak’ (India), ‘The daily Global Nation’ (Bangladesh), ‘The Kathmandu Post’ and ‘The Himalayan Times’ (Nepal).