Art & literatures emerging from everywhere in this planet

Painlandia and Other Poems, by Barbara Ungar

in Poetry by

Painlandia

Language is the only homeland.
—Czeslaw Milosz

you want only to escape,
barefoot, schlepping

your bundle. If you’re lucky
and do, you lose the lingo

we all want only to forget.
Cross the border and no one

gets that primitive tongue
that sounds to them like barking

or moaning. Who could guess
the tenderness of its ten thousand

untranslatable ways of saying
Feel.

P comes from the 3,000-year-old Phoenician and Semitic sign pe, mouth.

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The indispensable face, by Djelloul Marbrook

in Fiction by

Of how many faces can you say, I’m glad I won’t be leaving this place without having seen that face? I don’t mean the faces, necessarily, of loved ones. I mean instead those relatively few faces one is glad, truly glad, not to have missed.

They will differ, of course, for different people. Given the plethora of media in our times, we see many more faces than most people would have seen in earlier times, and we’re influenced by editorial and curatorial ideas about beauty.

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The Man With Six Hands and Other Poems, by Michael Meyerhofer

in Poetry by

THE MAN WITH SIX HANDS

May not have seen
the face of God
but he made a wicked
swimmer, so many
chlorinated molecules passing
between his fingers
that he blurred
towards the finish line
where a blue-
eyed sweetheart
with brothers in the war
smiled and knelt as
she held the towel open.

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Why He Hasn’t Seen The New James Bond Flick and Other Poems, by George Drew

in Poetry by

Why He Hasn’t Seen The New James Bond Flick

He really wanted to go today,
but didn’t. Now the man reclines
in his recliner, watching on his wall
to wall flatscreen images of the most

recent apocalyptic carnage flash
one after another, specters there
then not there, entanglements
of grief and sorrow, anger, and relief

that he is here and not there. Here,
the man rubs his hot crotch, rubs up
and down, each rub aligned to wave
lengths of photons streaming in

and out of his flatscreen. He rubs
and rubs, and nothing happens,
nothing here and nothing there,
rubs, comforted that at least he still

has them. That he hasn’t lost them.
Even if only shaken and not stirred.

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