Adelaide Literary Magazine No.14, July 2018

Revista Literária Adelaide

I am vulnerable outside the protecƟve hive of About the Author:
the world from which I hail in a manner that
I’m not enƟrely sure C. is, or understands. I am L.S. Hope lives and works on tropical islands in
vulnerable out here to the elements, to the the remotest reaches of Asia Pacific, managing
wind and the waves. More than one occasion resorts. Her work allows her access to some of
has found me hugging my knees to my chest the most beauƟful scenes of natural spectacle
and crying in the cockpit, an absurd childish and some of the most eccentric, colourful char-
tantrum of irraƟonal fright, as the wind whis- acters one could ever hope to encounter in a
tles through the boom, the waves crash on the lifeƟme. She is an ardent scuba diver, an appal-
hulls and the mast creaks. C., exuberant and ling housekeeper, and – at the Ɵme of wriƟng –
delighted at the sporty sail turns to regard me sƟll a rather middling sailor. L. S. Hope has
and frowns, dumbstruck and baffled. Some- published arƟcles in BeƩer Mental Health mag-
Ɵmes, in my furious terror, I feel the compul- azine, and photography in DiveLog Magazine.
sion to slap his joyful, clueless, fearless face
hard, or perhaps shake him by the shoulders;
I’m scared, you idiot. But he just shrugs and
chuckles, with affecƟonate exasperaƟon. He
makes me to the helm and internally I shake
myself, hard. It turns out I can, in fact, do it.

Living far from the world has allowed me to
discover what lies within me, bare and un-
feƩered by the old refuges I sought - the noisy,
thoughtless, well-meaning affirmaƟons that my
hyper-absorbent ego craved, the raucous solici-
taƟon to parƟcipate in a prescribed fashion
that was well within the boundaries of my own
comfort. It has allowed me to realise what I
am capable of. It has been one of the most
important and valuable lessons of my life.

It is not out of the quesƟon that I might return
to the world, someday – I should not be sorry
to find myself there. I will wrap myself in col-
ourful shawls and idle through the corridors of
high ceilinged galleries; I will languish amongst
musty stacks of yellowing paper in the second-
hand bookstores. But for now, I could not pos-
sibly feel that I am missing out. For the Ɵme
being I remain enraptured, painfully stretched,
overwhelmed and delighted by this wide sky
and the empty horizon. I am quite sure the
world can wait.

149

THE LAST VISIT

by Debra Neumann

I’m driving up to see you one last Ɵme. Our music of the current tune, “The Adams Family”
years of daily communion will soon end. I theme, match my mood, actually elevaƟng it in
should be thinking about this, finding words – a kind of diabolical, and franƟc way. “They’re
the right ones, to express myself clearly and creepy and they’re kooky. . . They’re altogether
succinctly. I must not omit anything. This is ooky . . . Strange, deranged, the Adams Fami-
my last chance. ly.” The lyrics bounce around in my mind. I
cannot escape the buzz in my brain and body. I
Instead, I’m listening to the radio, to the mar- feel like it is toying with me and recall the Ɵme
ket reports, although I never listen to them. my colleague’s seven-year-old kid tore the
Today I am absorbed with the types of steel heads off my daughters’ dolls – each and every
and aluminum used in the producƟon of beer head— and tossed them in the pool. I vow to
kegs. I am also absorbed in the traffic, which pull my thoughts together, to allow them to
threatens to delay my arrival, shortening our seƩle so the clarity of my feelings about our
Ɵme together. An old dump truck, trailing last visit might emerge.
branches and leaves, pulls out in front of me
and slows me to a 15 mile per hour crawl. I The early morning March sun rays pierce
curse – why couldn’t the jerk wait unƟl I drove through the gathering clouds into the eyes of
past the intersecƟon to pull out? I can’t think the oncoming drivers. I give thanks that it’s
about our last visit, yet I don’t want to miss them struggling to see oncoming traffic, and
one second of it. not me. I think of a book that I just finished,
“Shantung Compound.” The memoirist, an
The truck, with me in its wake, is approaching American expat interned at the Weihsien camp
the one-lane bridge. The bridge with the five- in China during World War II, describes the
minute wait between signal changes. I easily profound disrupƟon of his liberal and altruisƟc
would have made the green, but for Mr. Jerk moral foundaƟon when he observed the self-
trucker ahead. Here I sit at the signal, chafing centered, corrupt behavior of his fellow prison-
at Ɵme lost from our visit. I could use this ex- ers. When an American Red Cross truck ar-
tra Ɵme to compose my thoughts, but they rived in the camp with a large store of food and
race around like gnats – the ‘no-see-ums’ that supplies for each prisoner, no maƩer their na-
bite at exposed ankles in the summer Ɵme. My Ɵonality, the American residents claimed sole
anxiety made palpable. ownership of the goods, even though that
meant the Americans would have sufficient
With a screeching and clanging of gears, the goods for almost two years, while their fellow
truck starts up, issuing a fart of soiled air. I prisoners would conƟnue to live on a bare min-
hold my breath, but in Ɵme am forced to in- imum. Homo homini lupus (man is wolf to
hale. The radio is now reporƟng the latest in man), I reflected. The author reflected on the
unpleasant and horrifying news about the fact that even in the most moral and up-right
games those in power over me are playing. I individuals, self-interest and cruelty to others
switch over to the jazz staƟon. The lyrics and

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prevails in desperate circumstances. This is About the Author:
something you and I have discussed at length --
the possibility for everyone’s inner wolf to Debra Neumann is a psychologist and emerg-
aƩack when sufficiently terrified. ing writer who lives and writes in Bethesda,
Maryland.
Now turning into your neighborhood, I become
wolf to myself, beraƟng myself for not using
my Ɵme on the drive wisely but rather scaƩer-
ing my thoughts like the proverbial seeds
tossed upon shallow soil. I realize that I, too,
teeter on the brink of terror at the thought of
seeing you for the last Ɵme.

Then I look up. The barren towering elms lin-
ing your neighborhood streets are bedecked
with rose red rays of early morning sun. They
shimmer like alpenglow on Vogelsang Peak.
They have donned quince blossom caps to
greet us this morning. I pull into your driveway
and inhale this heart-rending beauty as I walk
to your office. I want to show it to you, but it
has vanished before you appear.

Once together, I describe my scaƩered state of
mind on the drive this morning, and we talk
about how difficult it is to say good-bye, and
the anxious and angry feelings that are sƟrred
up in me under the buzz of thoughts. I share
my recollecƟon of the beauty I encountered on
my drive, the glowing caps of the trees. We
reflect on the beauty of nature that can en-
compass the losses of life and provide a respite
from this terror-sodden world.

And then it’s Ɵme to take my leave. When I
walk outside, the sky has transformed. It is
now leaden gray and dropping tears of snow,
as my tears also drop. I am held by beauty
today – the beauty of the rose red rays and the
mirroring tree limbs, and now by the snow. My
tongue seeks to lap up a delicate flake. Drink-
ing in this magical beauty, I want to share it
with you. I’ve only just leŌ, and yet I miss you
so already. I send a text, “look outside if you
can, it’s snowing, it’s magical” and your quick
response, “Yes, I see!” comforts me. Yes, I
feel, no maƩer what, you will see it with me.

151

ON LOSING THINGS

by Serene Jansen

A three week break from a two year shit show although they weren’t. Julie especially was
always paƟently waiƟng but at the Ɵme I could-
I met Drew when I was eighteen years old. I n’t see it. So I isolated myself, leaving my dorm
just finished my first semester of college and room only to eat or walk around the lake. I
was home visiƟng from San Francisco. I was sƟll went through a bunch of short-lived acquaint-
under the spell of the new and complete free- ances that were not very good company but I
dom that college in a new city had offered me. would entertain them anyway. My anxiety
My first semester had gone well. I lost my vir- grew, my depression worsened and a semester
ginity--a drunk and effervescent threesome later I dropped out. I stayed in my SF apart-
that took place on the second floor of our col- ment for a few months, not leaving except to
lege dorm. I passed all my classes even Astron- get groceries or if Drew was visiƟng. I became
omy. I made some really amazing friends. Now agoraphobic and my depression was at its
that I was back home I tried to keep the mo- peak. During that Ɵme I only saw Julie a hand-
mentum of newness and adventure, so as rest- ful of Ɵmes. Not because I didn’t want to or
less ladies of my Ɵme are wont to do, I logged because I didn’t miss her but because I was
into Tinder. AŌer filtering through the many ashamed of how far I felt from happiness and I
frogs and fuckboys, I met Drew. He showed up didn’t want it to show. So I kept it hidden, my
to my parent’s house with a sultry glistening hands and voice shook when I saw people I
smile. I saw him just as he was entering the knew. My relaƟonship with Drew became a
gate and told him to wait for me in his car. I possessive one. I would call while he was away
said, “Never come to the door” and he obeyed. at school. I called, and called, and called on
We drove off somewhere in the hills of Holly- him. Eventually my parents let me move back
wood, I can’t remember where I just remember home. I returned weary and out of touch with
him lighƟng his backwood the second he pulled myself. TrisƟƟa.
off. I giggled and watched him with a steady
gaze that I so oŌen gave then. A gaze. One that But I did have some beauƟful days. I clung to
beamed at myself and not any person in parƟc- the familiar: the unchanging curves of my
ular. My voice was slow, solid. And the things I neighborhood, the sound of my family walking
said were fleeƟng and uncommiƩed. He fell in through the house. I was comforted. And for a
love with this. On our way back to my house he few moments in the day, I found myself unbur-
asked if he could see me again I said I would let dened by the failures.
him know. My hook was fastened Ɵghtly
around the nape of his neck and only I knew It was Drew’s turn to come back. He finished
this. his last year of college in New York and moved
back home, fiŌeen minutes from me. I was
My next semester was quite dark. I suppose overjoyed. I revelled in the fact that I could see
too much of the frivolity caught up to me. I was him whenever I wished. I drove around the
hospitalized twice, my grades were all fails and reservoir at every chance.. I would stay with
my friends felt farther and farther from reach him for days and cling to him to the person I

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loved, unable to see how much pain he was in.
He saw me not as a whimsical living thing not
the mischievous creature just freshly eighteen,
but as a broken, Ɵmid, inhibited being that I
became. He hated that he sƟll loved me. It was
plain to see. I saw it in the sighs he took right
aŌer lighƟng the spliff that always rests behind
his ear. In the clouds that formed over his eyes
when I screamed that he was disloyal. It was in
his muscles that tensed as I approached him,
each Ɵme I went near him. His eyes pinched
shut as if he was fighƟng to awaken from a
painful dream. And when his mother died I
clung to him harder so he didn’t think I would
disappear like her. Although he hated me being
there. He hated my eagerness to be with him.
We would look at each other and say nothing
and I knew he hated that I loved him. The hook
was no longer in him it was latched to my last
rib, it was in me so Ɵght that even when his
pressed lips said nothing I felt it reeling.
I haven’t seen him for two weeks and I suppose
in another week we should reconvene and
come to terms-- we have to spare each other
the burden. I know that Ɵme is coming so I’ve
been removing the hook liƩle by liƩle and
cleaning the waste I leŌ myself. That sƟnging
feeling from the last couple years is sƟll there
and I know it always will be, but through that
ache I can feel something in me is opening up.

153

ACROSS MY BROW

by Thad Elmore

Beyond the fence

I keep a garden out back just beyond the fence
If you stand on a chair
you can see it without going there
The sun is just right
the soil is dark and rich
full of worms
I keep a garden outback just beyond the fence
There are stories behind everything I plant behind everything I harvest
what I let go to seed
There is so liƩle work to do beyond the fence
I let the ghosts pick the weeds and turn the dark rich soil
I only plant what does not die with frost
When in the darkness I look out to see my plants
The ghosts and plants wave and call
opening the gate for me
ghosts talk of the garden as if it were theirs
I keep a garden out back beyond the fence
One can lose themselves in my garden
I rarely go there the path is far too long
far too steep
And I can see it just fine from here

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Across My Brow About the Author:

I have seen Thad D. Elmore lives in Washington State and
warriors dance on hilltops has returned to wriƟng aŌer a thirty-year hia-
I have seen the dark mass tus. Currently volunteers with the IFRC and
of dreams hide behind American Red Cross in Disaster Assesment and
sleeping flowers is acƟve in environmental issues world-
I have let sleep soŌ maidens wide. Any free Ɵme is occupied by sailing, hik-
run passion across my brow ing and traveling every and anywhere.
And from lips came hidden words
and from green to gold
the value of flowers shine true
I have let crickets
gather around my doorstep
And given to chance
that passion has its warriors
sleeping on HILLTOPS

155

ILLUSION

by Don Thompson

Waning

The crescent moon flat on its back
Bleeds out, low in the West
With no stars nearby— witnesses
Who didn’t want to get involved.

Illusion About the Author:

No wind, but sparrows like leaves
ScaƩer as if blown away,
Undoing a brief illusion.
The bare tree is bare again.

Remorse

Residual glow on a moonless night
Must be delusion— or remorse:
The dark earth itself longing for
The light it used to have.

Don Thompson has been wriƟng about the San
Joaquin Valley for over fiŌy years, including a
dozen or so books and chapbooks. For more
info and links to publishers, visit his website
at hƩp://www.don-e-thompson.com.

156

FORGETFUL ME

by Ross Hardy

FORGETFUL ME But the way our bodies
were like a tessellaƟon
I remember on our first date. when we spooned at night
We both had a list will never escape my mind.
of quesƟons that we wanted Where you went to high school?
to know about each other. Not a clue.
Years from now, But I’ll remember every note in
I won’t remember your favorite color the bouquet of your breath
but I’ll remember the way when you first woke up
it felt when our teeth and I’d bury my tongue
crashed into each other when we in your mouth before
kissed that first Ɵme. you brushed your teeth.
Like it would be the last You hated that.
Ɵme either of us I won’t recall the name
would ever kiss someone. of your childhood best friend.
I won’t remember where But I’ll never forget the
you wanted to vacaƟon next. mellifluous tone of your voice
But I’ll remember when you said the words
every color pigment in your eyes “I love you”
and how they had the perfect And I swear to every God
balance of melanin in them. I don’t believe in
Your favorite TV show that I’ll look for it
won’t even register. in every whispering wind that blows.
But the way you’d laugh Because even the memories
will be the laughter track just don’t do it jusƟce.
to every comedy I watch.
The story about you riding a bike?
It’s a blur.
But I remember every outline
to every taƩoo on your
flawless fucking body.
There’s a good chance
I won’t remember the day in May
that you hated every year
because it reminded you
of a dark past.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

TICK OF TIME SOME NIGHTS

The sun shining through the window Some nights I go to bed
is burning my right leg and think about you all night long,
as I sit there staring into space. unable to sleep,
Dust molecules float in the air, crushed by the unending pain
suspended indefinitely, moving that I feel.
purposefully to nowhere in parƟcular. Other nights, I sit up
The condensaƟon drops cascade wriƟng about you into the early hours
down the side of a glass, unƟl I’m so Ɵred and
meandering as they do so emoƟonally drained
as if trying to avoid something that I fall fast asleep
that I can’t see from where I’m siƫng. and I don’t think of you at all.
The clock in the kitchen I sƟll don’t know which is worse.
Ɵcks, and tocks,
and Ɵcks, and tocks. About the Author:
Outside I see the clouds moving.
For a second I contemplate if Ross Hardy moved to the US at the age of 25.
the earth is moving His wriƟng is intended for self-healing (I think)
or the clouds are. from relaƟonships past and is less "thought
As if it even maƩers. out" and more "spilling words to survive". Di-
Birds sing their verses vorcee, father, seeker of the soul. Ok kinda
as the neighbors car pulls off the drive. guy. Horrible picture taker. Always seeking
And everything is just so perfecƟon.
unremarkably remarkable.
Because today is my last day.
My cocktail of vodka and pills
feel like they are burning my body
and it feels like I’m floaƟng in air,
suspended indefinitely, purposefully.
And as I slip away
my body gives one last jolt
as if trying to avoid something
I can’t see from where I’m siƫng.
The birds aren’t singing any more
and the clouds slow down,
and I think about how remarkably
unremarkable my life has been.
The clock stops Ɵcking
and tocking
and Ɵme
is up

158

POLITICAL

by Peter Leight

Today I got up in the morning and started promising everything I could think of,
together with some things I’ve never even thought of,
it makes me feel poliƟcal,
I’m looking in the mirror to see what I look like
when I’m making a point—
I think it’s a kind of screening, as when you watch a program to see what’s going to happen.
Paving the way,
just listen to yourself.
It’s sƟll early,
I’m making myself some bacon and eggs, because they get along with each other in spite of their
differences,
right next to each other
or on top of each other,
the yolk running into the spuƩering bacon in spite of their different appearances and disparate
origins,
bacon and eggs or eggs and bacon,
and as soon as I finish eaƟng I’m going to spend what I don’t have,
I’m not thinking about myself,
I mean I’m thinking about myself but honestly the main thing is the best for the greatest
number—
someƟmes you can’t afford to
but you can’t afford not to.
I know it’s poliƟcal because it’s the type of benefit that doesn’t cost anything,
not right now.
When I’m poliƟcal I like to walk around without looking in front of me or turning to the side,
or turning around,
like a tugboat that pushes the other boats around
without going anywhere itself,
it isn’t a weakness,
not at all,
of course there are also Ɵmes when you say I wish I could
when you don’t actually want to,
it’s a difference in emphasis,
which makes it poliƟcal.
And my voice, I want you to like it,
I really do,
I’m telling you everything,
not everything but everything you need to know.
Looking for some content, it seems so basic although we oŌen end up with process,
it makes me feel poliƟcal.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Mutual

If you give me something I’m going to give you something,
you give me half the house
I give you the other half,
I’d like you to be the person I think you are,
when you don’t pick up I’m leaving a voicemail that is the story of a man who is looking for
somebody to talk to
unƟl he finds Isolde,
and then he is happy
unƟl it all falls apart later on.
There’s no need to push the mute buƩon, or the stop buƩon, like a mutual process of opening up
a wound
and waiƟng for it to close,
honestly I think we need to trust each other
before we trust ourselves.
Right now I’m holding onto your kneecaps—
holding onto part of something you hold onto what it’s part of,
of course it’s easier when everything about the body’s shape
is a handle.
If you turn the wrong way
I’m going to turn you around
unƟl we’re turning together,
I don’t want to stop—
I’d like to tell you how much I appreciate mouth to mouth and all the other forms of
resuscitaƟon.
I’m not asking you to leave,
even when you’re not here.
Right now I’m making a mixtape that is the story of a man who doesn’t have anybody to talk to
unƟl he finds Juliet,
and then he is happy
unƟl it is too much to bear.
I’m not even taking
what you’re not giving,
someƟmes you say stay with me,
and I say where are you?
I’d like to be the person I think I am,
if you tell me to stop I’m going to tell you you’re the one who needs to get started.

About the Author:

Peter Leight lives in Amherst, Massachu-
seƩs. He has previously published poems in
Paris Review, AGNI, AnƟoch Review, Beloit Po-
etry Journal, FIELD, Raritan, and other maga-
zines.

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Private InvesƟgaƟon

When I look at myself in the mirror I think about how it worked out for Socrates who was
always looking at himself,
digging in
as if scooping out the tender part,
of course everybody needs to be examined from Ɵme to Ɵme, as in the kind of medical
examinaƟon
where you’re not looking for anything in parƟcular,
you oŌen look more closely when you don’t know what you’re going to see,
giving it your full aƩenƟon—
you don’t want to mess with your aƩenƟon.
In the mirror my mouth is open,
my eyes are moist, as if there’s something I’m not responsible for,
not poinƟng fingers,
not at all,
there isn’t any point.
I don’t even noƟce my hands leaving me
and coming back to me
as if they’re passing secret informaƟon, informaƟon I don’t know anything about, even though
they don’t need to.
In the mirror my mouth is a red hole full of informaƟon,
I’m trying to keep my eyes open, but it’s not always possible,
not all the Ɵme,
there’s no need to apologize,
no point,
okay you apologize what happens next?
We oŌen watch ourselves, keeping an eye on ourselves as if we’re looking at somebody we’re
not sure we trust,
somebody who’s not completely responsible—
it’s the kind of camouflage where you know what you’re seeing
but not what it is.
You tell yourself I didn’t mean to,
didn’t you?
Personally as long as it’s a secret I’m going to forget it right away,
I’ve forgoƩen all about it,
I already have—
that way I won’t be tempted.
When I look in the mirror I’m thinking about Socrates calmly sipping his soup, like an accident
nobody’s responsible for,
I mean there are errors,
you get an error message—
you’re not thinking it’s your error,
not necessarily,
when there’s an error you try a lot of different things to make sure nothing works,
someƟmes you tell yourself I’ll find something that does.
I think I’ll blame myself this Ɵme.

161

TONIGHT

by John Horvath

WORRY ABOUT A LOVER WHO EAGERLY RUSHES TO WORK EACH MORNING

I feel she does not love me as she had so long ago; REVE
It’s not some thing she’s said or done, but something that I know
Deep in my heart and soul. I feel she doesn’t love me so doctoring smallish parts,
Delay to ask the quesƟon whose answer will make me go. color of tablecloth whose
Every morning when I awake she is already gone frayed edges flag in mid-
Greedily to work: it’s not the pay nor respect she’s won: day summer breeze when we
One lover is not enough for a woman who is blonde. met alongside creek built
She does not love me; I will go. I shall go soon, be gone. dams under trees despite
Love is a frighƞul thing to own; it mingles jealousy humming insects, ignoring
Inside itself with unsaid thoughts to make false memory. water giggling over slate
Before the sun is down at end of day, there is no WE and bedrock, into evening
“In love”; for, love has turned to lust and sex revengefully. insect infested when we
“Damned Bear” she calls me when back home: so eagerly - hurried to your apartment
Oh, how she craves - my tearing off her clothes for sex, you see. to disrobe to examine what
She makes me worry just to have me at the end of day. new marks might lay claim
What’s leŌ is right when we set right imagined wrongs. to our having been together
As age enfolds, it is the only game we sƟll will play. that summer day at creek-
side by tables covered in
TONIGHT green clothe whose frayed
threads waved to us good-
I am yours ‘Ɵl earth crumbles bye because love doctors
too soon, too soon it crumbles memory so happily ever…
dogs howling along the streets
bitches marking their discontent
too soon it crumbles, too soon
be mine ‘Ɵl moonfall and daybreak

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TOO YOUNG, TOO SHORT FOR LOVE

at night alone, though proud of his
accomplishment, he lay in bed and wondered
whether he’d been her first, a face and name,
a man forever set apart from other men or had
there been a someone else for whom
she moaned, for whom her arms were meant?
He’d never know, like other men before him
never knew as would those coming aŌer
know where he had been among her list
of long forgoƩen names. I’d very like
to know, he said almost aloud (the faintest
echo upon his bedroom ceiling broke
and all its fragments were absorbed
by this or that apparel he had too oŌen
promised he would clean and straighten
up). Weren’t there more important things
that he should be about? And, what about
those thoughts that needed close aƩenƟon
in his unmade bed at night? He rose from
failed sleep in the middle of the night
to phone. It rang and rang and rang quite
much; he figured that she wasn’t home.

Where had she gone? To someone else’s house? And yet… There was no blood. Was that a sign?
No, he’d leŌ her dead, there was nothing He’d heard it was the mark of first fling
He should fret about. She couldn’t move. or something near to that. My god, sixteen’s
A peƟt death, the angels must have liŌed a bitch of Ɵme for having sex! No. Hard
her to heaven when he fell asleep upon as he thought, there was no blood, nor even
her naked flesh dark as almonds, sweet a small sign of it. He called her once again.
as cane, roiling like a rapid river during flood.

The phone rang once. Her muffled voice
as if from deepest sleep was there. And,
when he told her his thoughts then asked
whether he’d been first, she’d said, “Don’t
trouble your sad self all night with that;
you were the first and probably the last;
now don’t call back.” So there he sat.
Where he had thought. Alone at night.

What was the name she gave him amid
the rampage of his love and lust: did
she call out “Swarthy” or “Shorty”
(he didn’t know; he likely never would).
He stayed awake all starry night.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
ORIOS WITHOUT HIS CHOSEN LADY

Orios on the morning of the twelŌh Squinty eyes too narrow and too dark,
pretends he is not alone in bed, like blackened peas; his hair unkempt.
has never been; his large hands But he was large and muscular so that
reach across linen to a stuffed pillow in dimlit places late at night he might
soŌ and round, encased in the scent be taken for quite a catch. SoŌ-spoken
of secret perfume, the kind she wore too. He knew words' shape and bulk
when they had met then been together and use so used them well in order
(lovers unexpectedly she'd thought, to enƟce his chosen lady to his lair.
although he knows the shape and bulk But once-- just this once-- he wished
and use of words, how one might the woman he had chosen would
lead if wed correctly to the next remain despite the truth of ugliness
to this so soŌ block, his roomy bed that had appeared near dawn. Why get
of soundless delights). He swore out and go about a normal day as if
at empƟness then closed his eyes he were a man and not a beast?
against the fact that she had leŌ Or, perhaps, it is the beast in each
long before dawn on caƫsh toes, of us, Orios thought, that makes
without a whisper of goodbye, no kiss us act insƟncƟvely toward work and
(Orios had pretended sleep; he knew lust. She would be back. Or, another
she'd rise and walk against growing old would soon take her place. Each
with him, perhaps together unƟl death). morning he would make that bet.

She had moved nimble without a sound.
He'd heard her breath, as if she feared
that he might wake and strike her down
(oh, yes, he wished he had) or bar
her exit (that too he wished) to hold
her always at his side. Orios alone
again at morning shaves his crooked
jaw and looks upon an ugly face. Its
nose half flat against his cheeks, ears
too grand and pendular.

About the Author:

Mississippian John Horváth Jr publishes inter-
naƟonally since the 1960s (recently in Munyori
Review (Zimbabwe); Broad River Review
(print). PyrokinecƟon, Pink LiƩer, and Olen-
tangy Review). AŌer Vanderbilt and Florida
State universiƟes, "Doc" Horváth taught at his-
torically Black colleges. Since 1997, to promote
contemporary internaƟonal poetry, Horváth
edits www.poetryrepairs.com.

164

MUSIC BEHIND
THE MELODY

by Jean-Mark Sens

Music behind the melody

Leave the melody behind to hear the music
coming out of the sound, notes plucked
run quick over the sidewalk, shoes tapping and sƟleƩo crescendo,
a rumbling of trains, pianograffity— Mingus
A Chinese dynasty— the clarity of vases
resounds Charlie— Ivory smooth of fioriture’s
like Don the see the stars in a glass— Perignon
and the kids in Kansas---eyes erased to snow moƟons on and off
the screen and screams what’s more real than the shadows
a challenge to Plato of phenomenological double bass.
NoƟce the Doctor said that summer your face asymmetrical
lumped on one side---silent stroke
a musical aphasia? Bell Palsy of a percussionist
and how not to buy it coming from a specialist,
hologram on his smock? Pictures won’t even tell.
Check otorhinolaryngologist---as if something wrong in the music box of your face
tabbed your cheeks, the end nerves of your skin
and that evening— all inconclusive—
listen to Mingus— leŌ the melody behind
for the music and nothing to find crooking your lips,
turned and smiling.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Lips

It is only recently I have noƟced
the many lips women leave behind
seasonal and changing to circumstances
they color their lips
the classic red, the auburn hue, the young and trendy
silvery blush, and some others of more extreme glossiness
even a rebellious velvet blue of a teenager
as if to accentuate this mysterious aperture
the worlds come back and forth through us
transmuƟng words and air
the tongue lolls and longs inside—
lips women leave behind
semi-moons on paper coffee cups
a red rim on a cigareƩe
as to give back something out of the evanescent smoke
or the strange imprint
pursed lips on a napkin that unfold an oval silence
opened almost like an eye.
Lips mulƟplied to the marks they leave,
floaƟng out of the mouths that bore them— like buƩerflies
as in a dream escaping
sensual and ephemeral imprints
more than desires can read
and coming back to me
those lips of a new year revelry
quick and elusive among the throng
the tease of yours I found years later in a kiss.
At the hospital my brother directs an art therapy workshop.
Lips appear oŌen on drawings red and out of proporƟons
wanƟng to say what the mind can’t arƟculate,
voluble silent a hand traces
and the women especially smear moon circles.
Once a parƟcipant rounded an O mouth with lipsƟck over the window
and wrote in reverse inside “We’re in/ You’re out,”
a divide transparent and tangible,
A lost kiss floaƟng in the air for all to read to red.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Today you belong to the rain

The eyes of needles through its curtain.
It murmurs its own eternity.
Realm of guƩers, culverts
its flowing in echo of a few discrete songs.
It belongs to the city— glazes it
gives yellow eyes to busses, Ɵptoes avenues
fast high-heel claƩers of its run.
The rain weaves silent threads
wet drapes stepping out open and close in
a passage on the air waves
news recitaƟons, currencies dipping,
rise on interest, rice field profits
raƩling billions of grains bagged from chutes.
You belong to the rain which does not belong to you.
It polishes your face bent over the banister
a ship sails two dimensional against the mist
chartered shells of cargo containers
parts to parts UNLIMITED the whole puzzle of a factory
a present presence interloper of its own journey
it withdraws, migrates washing colors behind to a new brightness
insects, plants, a spell of freshness as through spontaneous creaƟon
a clear horizon, rebirth over sidewalks and gangways, a few promeneurs
your face wet with a new rain from under your skin
the rain you belong to within/ without your body— 80% humidity the air and you.

About the Author:

Born in France, Jean-Mark Sens has lived in
the American South for over twenty years. He
candidate for priesthood at Notre Dame Sem-
inary in New Orleans. His work has been pub-
lished in the U.S. and Canada, and he has a
collecƟon, AppeƟte, with Red Hen Press:
hƩp://redhen.org/book/?uuid=26010B90-
F50B-AE04-1A31-0B86BB199EA4
He is also working on culinary book Leafy
Greens & Sundry Things

167

LUNCH WITH

JESUS

by Belinda Subraman

Lunch With Jesus Memory Is a Woodpecker Tree

We held hands around the table We snuggle down for the cold
at Applebee’s and prayed before eaƟng. joyous greed and mercy
Fox Network was there and low self-esteem. in carols of nebulous infinite love
“The white cops were right,” they chanted. and slaughter
“More people need beaƟng, where Biblical Yin-Yang
We need more guns. produce branding codes
Too many geƫng rich off welfare tethered to12 layers of selves
too lazy to work.” half of them lovers
“ChrisƟans have no rights,” one claimed. half of them trees
“What about the ChrisƟans?” unnaturally used for torture
I kept quiet. Dogs were howling for meat. and cartoon sweetness.
Jesus turned his head away.
Bibles slept in their cars. Zen
gelaƟnous cauliflower magic
constructs reality as a river,
illusion with no legs
where everything is wet
and not one drop maƩers more
than another.

Trees with holes
leak sap eaten
and recycled by birds
who nourish life underground,
life that eats our death
when the coffins rot
and what we thought we were becomes
feces from thousands of worms.

168

The Unlikely Professor Revista Literária Adelaide

is a serious poet Date Rape
playing at teaching
what he believes First date,
cannot be taught. he swings the car off the road,
says he has something for her,
He’s a sexy sexagenarian, the movie can wait.
keeps a centerfold layout
in his open book Like a bank
as he teaches, hoping to earn interest,
gets hot on the subject he offers her money.
(sizes up the girls She withdraws.
in class
imagines them Then he tries inserƟng himself
spread out, like a coin
stapled). into a vending machine,
The students admire want to bang impaƟently
his smile, his lines, for the candy.
his enthusiasm
and his strong, tall In the end
podium he prises her open
which hides his firm like a plumber
disbelief. unclogging his pipes…
then asks her
if she loves him.

169

BEYOND THE HEAVENS

by Edward Bonner

Radiant Flames Hovering Beyond the Heavens

The shiŌing currents Hovering beyond the heavens
shoulder the cerebral coast, the verdant dawn,
sending sediment awed by the auric benefacƟon
through your brain. of a painted horizon
InsƟncƟvely the mind wakes saturated by our Mother’s
more quickly to agony, dulcet murmured benedicƟon.
than a star-shaped heart
radiant with flames. Perched high in an oak,
a magniloquent MarƟn
Brushing silica harmonized
from your fingers... melodies manifest
Scars of persuasion with grace and delight
like a violent storm. and the caress of the
The darkened skies mourning dove’s coo.
behind your lidded eyes
wild with wind Westerly winds
and beauƟfully formed. entwined the land
where secrets behold
This field wields it’s bouquet: from her tender hand.
hypnoƟc, exoƟc and consuming.
Our bodies tossed on thick moss, Rejoice with the blessing of
surrender in kudzu, Divinity’s voice.
soaked with sweat.
Too late to understand,
fate was in our hands.

Thanks to co-author Jocelyn Vaughan

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Howling Echoes

Lonely is the wilderness blanketed with snow,
whose ember eyes reflect a most dazzling glow.
In the twilight sky she hunts alone,
scanning the forest upon her throne.
Brilliant stars covet the earth.
Rising thermals embrace the secret spells
of nature’s mirth.
Her first howl echo’s through the misty hollow.
The alpha male perks up his ears and follows.
Together they search for prey.
A series unfolding they hunt for days.
Intelligent, cunning and calculaƟng.
Hunger drives their insƟncts to excel.
An inbred survival of hidden spells.
Rhythmic sound waves shaƩer the sky.
Eyes slowly adjust to pinpoint why.
A cry from an elk, it’s life in despair.
Holding Ɵght, the wolves run in pairs.
Their ecstasy is mastered through a paradox of exisƟng.
Only in the end, life will be forgiving.
SalivaƟng.
Licking.
Chomping.
This surging wrath becomes a prosperous ending.
God’s chosen to thrive,
these beauƟful animals will survive.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

IntoxicaƟng Passion

As the earth Ɵme changed in early spring.
Somewhere now he stands, steam pouring from his body.
Heat and humidity screaming, but no breeze.
Her pulsaƟng heart crossed over with trembling hands.
This hysteria is an intoxicaƟng passion wrapped around their delirious emoƟons.
To the lips of forgoƩen fruit,
let them pass between rivers,
moistened for thirst of a delicate star.
Their hidden grace ‘neath lace unraveled by the rosebud’s thorn.
And when they transcend, petals unveil in a storm.
Eclipsed by Eros’s shadow.
A pervasive zephyr begins to burnish their flesh like pearls refracted through glass.
A love completely spontaneous and uninhabited absorpƟon.
Followed by a perfumed fragrance,
life’s consummaƟon has been fulfilled.
Thanks to co-author Jocelyn Vaughan

172

Revista Literária Adelaide

Nature’s SilhoueƩe

Darkness will cover what is hidden by light.
It let’s you caress the imaginaƟon
of unknown sight.

Distorted shades play a story
only the character can assemble.
Ethereal images are accented
with beauty or ghostly tremble.

Calm winds whisper a solemn song
and the young fiddlehead ferns
wake for their turn.

Fresh, hushed, mesmerized hues
glimmer against the trees,
lightly covered with dew.

And there she is.
Her sculptured limbs flowing with design.
Curves of luscious sweetness
enveloped our pulsaƟng minds.

A peace that captured the eyes of grace
answered to nature’s calling place.

About the Author:
Edward Bonner grew up in a small mill town in
PiƩsburgh Pennsylvania.Hazelwood, Pa. A very
rough neighborhood. Raised by his mother and
grandparents unƟl he was 13 years old. That's
when his mother remarried. He then moved to
a suburb south of PiƩsburgh. Growing up, he
probably got into trouble like most kids. An
avid outdoorsman. 5th degree black belt / 36
years in Shotokan karate. Author of "One Kiss"
Just One Kiss. A collecƟon of love poems and
more. Author of Through The Eyes Of A Lost
Boy. A collecƟon of poetry about "Love, Loss,
Trauma, Pain and Healing.” A journey of life
through wriƟng.

173

A STUDIO
DISTURBANCE

by John Grey

UNCLE RAY’S MEMORIES OF VIETNAM A STUDIO DISTURBANCE

In one baƩle A large room
he saw a soldier as studios go,
ripped to pieces light from east window
by barbed wire and shell, and skylight –
and the guy pleaded with Uncle Ray
to put him out of his misery. I narrowed my eyes
so they completed the circuit
And he was in a club in Saigon with hand and brush and canvas and model.
where a band was playing LaƟn music
and that combo was really fantasƟc My subject sat
but only the whores were dancing. enclosed in fine skin,
firm flesh,
her head proud and erect.

She placed her feet
firmly on the floor
and her leŌ hand
rested on her right knee,
arched her shoulders
to meet her tossed-back hair.

Were she just a woman
she would have
disturbed my thoughts
greatly.

But she was my model.
She disturbed my thoughts
abstractly, intellectually,
transcendently and hypotheƟcally.
Oh yes, and greatly.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

LAST I SAW OF THE BARNETTS

They were as bankrupt economically
as that so-called preacher on TV was morally
except he didn’t have to leave his fancy mansion
and their modest coƩage couldn’t wait
to see the last of them.

The husband took all his clothes off
and was found wandering in the suburban mall
aŌer closing hours.
His wife considered suicide
but seƩled for a job scrubbing hospital floors.
The kids took to booze and drugs,
both before the foreclosure and aŌer.

That was when the stock market collapsed
and some folks pissed their savings away.
And everybody sued everybody else
to ensure the ascension of lawyers into heaven.

The husband promised to keep his clothes on
from that day forth.
The wife developed a herniated disc in her back.
One kid checked himself into a clinic to dry out.
The other didn’t.

That was when lives
that weren’t travelling so smooth anyhow
were side-swapped or smacked head on,
and some went crazy
and others hunkered down and started over.

The husband and wife are sƟll together.
They see their kids once in a while.
Everyone somehow survives
though I don’t know how.
But then it’s like I’m viewing things
from something like Google Earth.
You never know when the picture was taken.

About the Author:

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident.
Recently published in Fall/Lines, the Coe Re-
view and Columbia Review with work upcom-
ing in Cape Rock, Poetry East and Midwest
Quarterly.

175

Adelaide Literary Magazine

SUNRISE

by George Korolog

Smelling as a PosiƟon

Now there is just the hard cement under your feet, Now the world is just clean lines
a foot path where birds might surprise you
with a suggesƟon to inhale deeply and competent design
pretending to provide a path,
and spindle downward, featherlike, even as you turned your back on it.

off the road, You didn’t want to be noƟced sniffing
or having someone steal
rolling into the absolute certainty of dirt,
you away on the inhale.
acrid and sƟnging, like you remembered,
before everything had all gone bad. You wanted to stay in it more than you knew.

They are singing in the swells

of air that used to be nestled
around you,

like tendrils of mist rising from block ice,
a nose planted in a well oiled glove,

or a face, nestled in honeysuckle,
or something smelling blustery

if you only turned in the right direcƟon.

The bouquet of tar bubbling on the street,

the perfume on her sweater,

inhaled so deeply that
you forgot how to breathe.

The scent of sweat panƟng.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Sunrise

The sun is adamant. It knows that if it rose too quickly,
It traces the world with fiery fingers, our eyes would melt through
filaments intent on their own slow rising, the cracks in the hands that
insinuaƟng with a taunt, were held up to cover our face.
teasing the underside of the nether world, The sun does not want a fight.
while bloƫng the new sky It beauƟfies and refuses
with ribbons of fresh color, to leave us alone with the pain
like a new painter blossoming forth in our terrified eyes.
with coming promise, It comes with the promise of return,
with the gradual reassurance of slow transit, and the assurance
of Ɵme to seƩle of an unbearable beauty
into the rhythm of change, that we dare not face.
preparing us for the moment
when it reaches the other side
and begins, once again,
to take back the light.
The sun does not choose to spew
and splaƩer wildly.
It takes the fight out of us in silky measure
and soothes
the world into gradual change.

177

Twilight Adelaide Literary Magazine
blood moon

I strode into your The moon is hanging in there
raw fluƩering, with a big ego,
your exhibiƟonism, receding at one and a half inches per year.
thinking of us, It’s not a trick.
both willing as moths. 10,000 years ago the Sahara desert
I looked up and saw you, was wet with frogs
tonguing the last of the sky and the moon was four football fields
with your marble dreams, closer to earth,
rocking burnt amber reminding me again
crescents that I become when I listen
slowly across the wind, to the growing distance
your sad crimson bleeding of my own round image,
across a macaroon sky, embarrassingly red.
I reached out and
cupped the scent of your color About the Author:
to my face and inhaled,
hoping to fathom George Korolog is a San Francisco Bay Area
fathomless things. poet and writer whose work has appeared in
Did you miss me over 100 literary journals internaƟonally, in-
hiding in the far corners, cluding The Los Angeles Review, The Southern
blushing myself, Indiana Review, The Bookends Review, Tar
waiƟng for you to arrive? River Review, Pithead Chapel and many others.
I am desperate to transform He has twice been nominated for the Pushcart
you into the purest white Prize and twice for Best of the Net. He can
but I am consumed by oŌen be found backpacking alone in the moun-
gobbets of recollecƟon, tains or forests, along the ocean or in the de-
by the greyest blue, sert, and is someƟmes known to write on bark
seeping with me into the ground. and rocks with pine quills. His first book of po-
etry, “Collapsing Outside the Box,” was pub-
lished by Aldrich Press in November 2012, His
second book of poems, “Raw String” was pub-
lished in October, 2013 by Finishing Line
Press. He is working on his third book of po-
ems, “The LiƩle Truth.”

178

MISSING MESSAGES

by David Ryan Palmer

The White LeƩers

Dearest son,
I hope this leƩer finds you well. I have not seen your address since the accident, but my friends
here have interesƟng ways of knowing things. I was not sure I would like the white, but once I real-
ized that I was not looking anymore, I became used to it. I have found that I can become used to
anything.
I do miss your father, but my new friends here told me that he has his own friends, now. They tell
me that he is sƟll looking, and so is not used to his new color. I do not have much Ɵme to think
about him, and they discourage me. Instead, I write to you, my own darling son.
Are you sƟll seeing that man? Even as most mothers want to become grandmothers, and I know I
harped on that so much in the past, my new friends have told me that more children are not always
the answer. They discourage me here, too. Grandchildren without a grandmother are not grand-
children, they say. They discourage everyone here from asking for grandchildren. My new
friends do not think it is worth the effort, any longer.
Do you sƟll have that calendar I gave to you? You should mark December, any day in December.
The day itself does not maƩer, only that you come. Bring your man - my new friends would like to
meet him! They would like to meet everyone, even if when they meet them, they do not much like
their color. Like with your father.
Oh, there I go again. It is a bad habit, dear, dwelling on the past. My new friends tell me about the
future, about December. Remember, my son, and come to us in December. The end of the year
was always my favorite Ɵme. I only regret that my new friends here are not overly fond of New
Year parades.
They do not see the point. But for me, I do not see. I became used to it.
Love in eternity,
Mother

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Hungry Moon

In school, they encouraged them to shoot for the moon.
The engineers, who never really worked in metaphor,
sent men atop redirected violence and hit lunar paydirt.
They found grey dust and craters full of void.
Three years later they stopped going,
leŌ the lunar scape liƩered with metals and patrioƟsm.
In school, they encouraged them to shoot for the moon.
The poets, whose skill at metaphor increased with age
sent words out into the negaƟve between mother and child.
Curious, the moon driŌed close to look,
and in looking found it wanted.
In wanƟng, it found hunger, too.
They found meaning in phases and cycles,
cause poets will find meaning in all places.
They didn’t expect meaning to find them.
In school, they encouraged them to shoot for the moon.
And landing there, the poets and engineers did not guess
That the moon would come for them.
The moon found red movement and green silence,
it cast a metaphor about its marble blue neighborhood,
a mind woken by the feet of ants on its skin.
In school, they encouraged them to shoot for the moon.
The military opened up more constructed explosions,
this Ɵme in dense packages to the silver lunar soil.
And all the explosions of the engineers
and all the maneuvers of the military
may have scarred the lunar surface, sƟll it came.
In school, they encouraged them to shoot for the moon.
But when the moon rose last the only thing leŌ
were rust and wilt and young dead words.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Ink Heavy Dawn Clouds About the Author:

It is ebony black.
If you ink heavy clouds
your other senses report in:
smooth and cool, soŌ, with
raised goose down as I explore.
Some would come to this land
seeking conquest.
A quickening wind, waves
which signal codes,
followed by a low tone
it escapes, rolls down
smooth and cool wonder
alights on waiƟng ears.
Conquest means different things.
This land responds to my touch.

It is red orange.
If you stay up all night
your sanity’s reports will garble:
first, a crawling sky blushes,
renewed and flush as a lover.
Some would come to the sky
seeking answers.
A quick open panic
the deep sky
spreading through as a warm drug.
It overtakes, swells up
a crawling worried wonder.
Your hand covers mine.
Answers mean different things.
This sky awakens to our touch.

David Ryan Palmer is a graduate student pur-
suing his Masters of Arts at McNeese State
University in Southwest Louisiana. He spends
too much Ɵme on Youtube, and just enough
Ɵme peƫng his two cats, Quinn and Foster,
and not enough Ɵme peƫng his fiance,
Michelle.

181

ARTISAN

by Anthony Lawrence

Leonard Cohen As Down is to Snow

At a Jewish food stall, considering knaidlach, We wake holding hands.
shakshuka and falafel, Leonard Cohen took my It is early, yet too late
order. His apron was dusted with fingerprints. to return to sleep.
His name badge flashed in the sun as he moved
along tables, describing ingredients. When I I had surfaced to lines
asked about the origins of cochin coriander- by Robert Frost - one
and-cumin chicken, he spoke of spices and the where a horse stops
shipwreck that saw his descendants seƩle in
Mumbai, in 175 BCE. He talked of eaƟng fra- to shake the bells
grant strings of goat meat in the light of Sab- of its harness, and one
bath oil lamps. I bought carrot halva and a bag- that tells of how
ful of bagels and he wished me well, suggesƟng
I return to try his masala lamb stew -A tonic for promises are to keep
the heart and soul, he said, with loving aƩen- as down is to snow.
Ɵon to the weight and sound of each syllable. You had woken to

a detail in a painƟng
by Richard Diebenkorn
in which the ocean

meets the land head-on.
If anything had been
uncertain or withheld

during the night, it has gone
as a tram breaks
over the sound of rain.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Inheritance

Begin with a cast-iron pan, handed down
from a long line of kitchen magicians
on your father's side, men and women
who understood the word season
and its implicaƟons
for the way metal culƟvates a sheen
like tannin from traces of earth
released over heat and Ɵme, yet now
it appears more expansive in style
and form, its handle like a stem of shadow
coaxed from a Dryden couplet
so prepare a meal
by shaving mangrove tapers
into the swim-bladder of a fish
whose name means atoll
and leave it to simmer in the brine
it was liŌed from, along with the liquid
from peppers so red
you had bundled the rest
like pliable ampules of blood
Ɵed with string dyed green from a neƩling
and aŌer the eyes of the fish go to cloud
and the gills close the way
bivalves rock shut when they're sick
shuffle the pan
unƟl flame pours over the sides
then add slivers of kelp
with a flourish you learned
from watching your father in smoke and steam
and before serving what the sea and land
have conspired to make visceral, say a few words
in praise of the shoreline and reef
something that speaks to how
wading birds read the margins of the Ɵde
then sit down with your loving
aƩenƟon to detail, and rejoice.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Cleaning Trout

Spangled drongos were leaving the trees in theatrical collapse.
I'd cleaned a table of trout, my hands lit with scales.

AƩempƟng the call of a bird with a long forked tail
I disturbed a Labrador, a breed whose bark I can tell

from collie, kelpie, mongrel. Then a man chimed in
with the kind of abuse I'd heard when playing rugby, lying

under a maul. A dog yelped. A man signed off on his vitriol
by slamming a door. Twice. Too late to consider
how fishing kills what I love in communal or pelagic form
I put the fish on ice and threw their gills to the gulls.

With a feeling like I'd lost or forgoƩen something
I drove home.

ArƟsan About the Author:

A box of old-style drill bits and plane blades Anthony Lawrence has published fiŌeen
like a pain monger's inventory. books of poems. His most recent collecƟon,
A brass plumb machined by hand ‘Headwaters’ won the 2017 Prime Minister’s
in a stuƩer of lamplight, when Shakespeare Award for Poetry. He teaches CreaƟve WriƟng
was sipping a wreath of smoke from a pipe at Griffith University, Queensland.
with a starling skull for a bowl.
And as for the theory
that if your old man could make a cabinet
from celery pine, the grains aligned
to give the impression of pale flames
and despite having never shown interest
in working with Ɵmber, you can sƟll
craŌ a bookshelf with dovetailed joins
from offcuts and driŌwood...
just saying the word carpentry
is enough to give me shingles.
So when I see, on the cover
of Hand-Made Homes, that someone
has raised the canopy of a rainforest
as a sky pavilion, or I take a virtual tour
of a cliff-top eyrie with a liŌ
from cinema to helipad through a shaŌ
in the limestone, I give thanks
for my two thumbs, a desk, lamp
and chair in a room someone else has made
so I can make this.

184

THESE ARE THE
OPEN ARMS

by Ralph Geeplay

These Are the Open Arms ll

You woke me up Moving quietly to fair waves,
when I was dead, the clouds crushed, hovers,
teaching the night washing the mud away,
stars wantonly to obey freeing her from the rocks,
the AtlanƟc; then slashed bathing the earth
my arteries in flight and taking away
to Lake Piso, humbling the dust disguised as chaffs.
its boundaries, before fusing the yacht’s inviƟng voice is
them calmly to a gel. heard throƩling along
When the elders speak ---between hearty murmurs,
in parables, it is a mix of chuckling to the weaving
pepper soup which the fufu currents, curving the AtlanƟc surf,
welcomes and surrounds. dancing fervidly, where the fires
As the deer is trapped meet the pits of burning woods.
in the undergrowth, The hearth in a melody on the
so does it waits to be strapped. placid shores of Sinkor, inƟmately
---These are the open arms as Monrovia grins to the AtlanƟc.
to the farms, mucking the
deserted mansions decked lll
in chocolate nuts, covered
in honey; the lost spectacles Bewitched, racing to the beaches
of yesterday now over. is a sweetening of the surf stones.
Once gowned with cluƩered The shells humbled under the rocks.
cow-webs and peppered In trance, the turtles are running
with shrubs, this, before with the whales, the currents,
the revival of the silvery, the smell of salt water
grimy walls, serenade overpowering, yet elegant. Your
and greened with lilies slender sailing finger rubbing
whose aroma calls my rough ankles brings comfort.
from a hundred miles ---You woke me up when
to the carpenter---the tool I was dead, teaching
man and his bride waiƟng to be the night stars wantonly
announced as the sun swell the to obey the AtlanƟc bay,
hilltops, smiling to the boats like seashells humbled under the rocks.
sailing on smooth Ɵdes.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Africa Masekela!
I can touch the rhythm of your beats,
Africa, this sun drenched bliss, and sense the chirpy throb; the music
come to Botswana and see streams it currents to my pulse, the
the terrific translucent creeks hair on my skin rises, the trumpet
of Okavango Delta, as it blends ricochets, filling the room, seizing the
with the sun rays and glistened. passages in my veins! I am driŌed,
Let the unmistaken eyes to the swings of the melody, the
catch the stretched neck zebra, harmony synchronizes, its bliss is
graceful---game in the name on the hill which now fills my mind!
of Africa. Its beauƟful furs
decorated in broad strokes, A bass once stole my dancing feet,
rising in circular waves, from head, Whistling away on the veld in Witbank.
to hind. Now feast your eyes Oh, Masekela. With my snapping
on the herd of elephants and fingers, the pulsaƟng tempo is curving
the desert radiant landscape my arteries, there is feasƟng in the
of the Savute --- Africa, oh Africa! fields and a Grazing in the Grass, the
The motherland ever so enchanƟng; herds with nudged cadences can
the beauƟful safari, barely hold their joy, feeding off the
and her handsome subtropical Jazz, synchronized with KuƟ, Makeba,
wasteland, home to the Kalahari. and the giŌed Huddleston.
Then the overstretched sandy, salient Your trumpet wore the piano, and a voice that
Desert, as she greets the Tourag of Mali. seduced the dancers, caressing to
Supple as their camels, nomads melodic sway, rings the saxophone-man,
and traders of the Sahara. whose fervor tenor blasted, then won
The colossal evergreen forest, against Apartheid, now drives away,
wildlife, and plateaus of Liberia. leaving me, to an empty room, to
From palm to palm, crystal clear which, sits a set of idle instruments.
beaches along the AtlanƟc, vista. Who is going to stroke the trumpet?
Thrilling oasis of waters from And beat the bass, and own the saxophone?
the Congo to Lake Victoria. Where his shiny flutes once breathed,
The land of my Fathers and its now silence pervades to rust
stunning rapture---Africa, oh Africa. laden winds. The gadgets leŌ behind
Let me glean with naked eyes the glossed with silvery gleam beckoning
loveliness of the Table Mountains to be picked up from the stage that
in Cape Town, and live in Soweto once flung them to being in Soweto.
for a day, a borough of feisty warriors. Is it true that Pepper birds live in
To stomp my feet as they do when those hoary tubes, singing beauƟful
they dance and protest unreservedly. strains, whistling to the moon?
In the land of the quiet giant, who took Or that in your opus, love invites a
on and beat Robin Island with glee, romanƟc ocean filled with golden surfs,
then crushed it to dust in one palm. laced with cords of grooves? Which driŌs
Spectacular chronicle for generaƟons. soŌly to the waiƟng night, to be picked up.
The land of the Pharos, In the music I know, there is hope
The beauƟful---Africa oh, Africa! flying on the horizon, with no brawls in the
way to hinder its flawless trail,
now lost on the stage that once
flung them to being in Soweto
[in tribute to Huge Masekela:]
---1939-2018/January

186

Farewell to Ellen Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author:

It rains so much in Monrovia Ralph Cherbo Geeplay was born in Pleebo,
that a day is like the bloated dough Southeastern Liberia, West Africa. He is among
on a grey earthly May, washing the younger Liberian youth who were forced to
over October. My love, the sun, hides aƩend college during the brutal Liberian civil
in her bright den refusing to be seen. war. Geeplay, studied at the University of Libe-
Life comes to a slow twiggy moƟon; ria, majoring in Journalism, and while sƟll a
student worked in the media during the 1990s,
the forest is breathing with moisture, starƟng in radio broadcasƟng at the Liberia
like a hut puffing smoke as a pipe. BroadcasƟng System (LBS), the naƟonal radio,
While the creeks bridged their ledges, 09 and later worked with Radio Liberty before
there is a seismic run-down Waterside! freelancing with Radio Monrovia where he
Enough, no more, the sewage can take! worked as a producer and reporter. He later
She is in my arms, listening to the music transiƟoned to the print media, parƟcularly,
pounding the roof. SƟll, calm, reading with the Monrovia Inquirer Newspaper, where
Ebony Dust, though, with lightning bolts he worked as a senior staff reporter. Geeplay
yelling to be heard. The claƩer is like published his first set of poems in 2009 in the
a rumble---tumbling falling rockets. Liberian Sea Breeze Journal, edited by Stepha-
The sorry corrugated zinc holds her seams, nie Horton. His themes include: Africa, the Li-
the bed is dry, but the room is a puddle. 18 berian civil war and its tragedy, his Grebo herit-
The city is cramp and damp, like a soaked age, and everything in between. He is the edi-
sponge dripping with water. tor of an online journal, The Liberian Listener,
The hustling contested old city in and lives in Edmonton Alberta, Canada, with
an evening fog, the Mesurado in his family.
a bulge, taking FanƟ fishermen
to and fro, to the edge of Westpoint.
To love in the midst of mists,
of raging thunder under your ears
and an air filled with blithering 26
vermin, is to drink a linctus in
anger, cooped in wretched penury.
So when the wait, cannot wait
to be over, you my love must endure,
waiƟng to part with the wrath the rains
imposed, much needed however,
to calm the California wildfires,
giŌed on these shores, for free. Now:
you understand, then,
the irony of nature! 36

187

GHOST GUMS

by Jan Napier

Eqalussaq

(Greenland Shark)

far
far
below
Inuits skimming skin kayaks uncertain bergs foghorn’s mourning
d
o
w
n
where the world is dark and fluid there giants swim
fin slow slow kilometres seek and feed
where ship bones broken by pack ice snap and crack
men’s soŌ pink bodies
m
o
t
i
n
g
into silt
sliding beyond kraken’s haunt sharks hear nothing but skreek
of floe faint scrape of walrus tusking molluscs

observe short sighted scienƟsts in habitats of Ɵn
goggling at depths neƩed to empty metal Ɵck Ɵcking
limits as caught in flash’s acƟnic shock tasƟng
only tainted water monsters cruise deeper

pursue the surety of obscurity
become mythic and not yet exƟnct
s
i
n
k
into shamanic vision

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Revista Literária Adelaide

PINK QUARTZ PEBBLE

Who knows how to speak the philosophy of stone?
Each pebble dust humble but not easily formed for all that.

Born of heat lacking in pain and expectaƟon,
skin rough and lightly pink, crystalline meld of silica
and oxygen warms in the hand aŌer a moment spent

in touch, and is relevant, always relevant, as a red
feather dropped, or tadpole ponded in a universe
as mysterious and necessary as any.

No sin splits its existence. So if frost and fire and soil
conspire to alter place or structure, unbuild it to some
new symmetry, then nothing is lost, that too being strange

and perfect and marvellous as sunlight on lemons,
or the brownian moƟon of tea in a cup.

Landscaped as part of matrix, this small god, translucent
and ever as the rest, was there at the beginning, but
who knows how endings go?

GHOST GUMS

Ghost gums, signage etched in desert
tells nomads where water rests far below
limestone; eroded caverns smashed, Devonian,

home to beetles and mites, echidna,
numbat, lizard, mummified, dried; cave fish
flickering like tapers lit to defend

against darkness; deeper lithography
alive with myths, glyphs, sea creatures seared
into dreaming, ciphers to pools secreted

before stories. Roots of these eucalypts crack rock,
suck soŌness far from parch. Women filling
emu eggs from seepage, glance at wagyl

on boulder; white ochre trees, yodelling
dingoes, smoke of birds, each easy to read
as spoor of explorer and horse drooping exhausted
further into the dry.

About the Author:

Jan Napier is a Western Australian poet whose
work has been showcased in anthologies and
journals both at home and overseas. Jan’s first
poetry collecƟon Thylacine, was launched in
2015.

189

VELIMIR KHLEBNIKOV’S
POETRY

translated by Boris Kokotov

I don't know whether the Earth is spinning or not...

I don't know whether the Earth is spinning or not,
It depends on whether the word fits the line.
I don't know whether apes were my grandparents,
Because I don't know what I want, sweet or sour.
But I do know that I want to seethe, I want the Sun
And the sinew of my hand to tremble together.
I want the ray of a star to kiss the ray of my eye,
As one deer kisses another (oh, their beauƟful eyes!).
I want to believe there is something that remains
When a maiden's braids are replaced with, say, Ɵme.
I want to find the factor that is common to myself,
To the Sun, to the sky, to the pearl dust.

Я не знаю, Земля кружится или нет...

Я не знаю, Земля кружится или нет,
Это зависит, уложится ли в строчку слово.
Я не знаю, были ли моими бабушкой и дедом
Обезьяны, так как я не знаю, хочется ли мне сладкого или кислого.
Но я знаю, что я хочу кипеть и хочу, чтобы солнце
И жилу моей руки соединила общая дрожь.
Но я хочу, чтобы луч звезды целовал луч моего глаза,
Как олень оленя (о, их прекрасные глаза!).
Но я хочу верить, что есть что-то, что остается,
Когда косу любимой девушки заменить, например, временем.
Я хочу вынести за скобки общего множителя, соединяющего меня,
Солнце, небо, жемчужную пыль.
1909

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Numbers

I'm peering at you, oh, numbers,
And you emerge clothed in animals, in their skins,
Leaning calmly on uprooted oaks.
You bestow unity between the snake-like movement
Of the universe's spine and the dance of a rocker.
You reveal centuries as teeth of a rapid laugh.
My eyes have opened, propheƟcally,
To learn what would be I when its numerator is one.

Числа

Я всматриваюсь в вас, о, числа,
И вы мне видитесь одетыми в звери, в их шкурах,
Рукой опирающимися на вырванные дубы.
Вы даруете единство между змееобразным движением
Хребта вселенной и пляской коромысла,
Вы позволяете понимать века, как быстрого хохота зубы.
Мои сейчас вещеобразно разверзлися зеницы
Узнать, что будет Я, когда делимое его -- единица.
1912

Neither fragile Japanese shadows...

Neither fragile Japanese shadows
Nor mellifluous Indian daughters
Sound as sorrowful
As the last supper oraƟons.
On the verge of death all that has happened
Repeats itself quickly but differently.
And that is the basis
For the dance of death and its achievement.

Ни хрупкие тени Японии...

Ни хрупкие тени Японии,
Ни вы, сладкозвучные Индии дщери,
Не могут звучать похороннее,
Чем речи последней вечери.
Пред смертью жизнь мелькает снова,
Но очень скоро и иначе.
И это правило -- основа
Для пляски смерти и удачи.
1915

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Oh Asia! You are my torment... О Азия! тобой себя я мучу...

Oh Asia! You are my torment. О Азия! тобой себя я мучу.
I fancy thunderclouds like maiden's brows, Как девы брови, я постигаю тучу.
And lengthy gatherings at night Как шею нежного здоровья.
Like the bloom of tender shoulders. Твои ночные вечеровья.
Where is the prophet of a new day? Где тот, кто день иной предрек?
Oh, If only Asia would cover my knees О, если б волосами синих рек
With the hair of blue rivers, Мне Азия покрыла бы колени
And whisper her crypƟc pleas, И дева прошептала таинственные пени,
And soŌly weep for joy И тихая, счастливая, рыдала,
Drying her eyes with the Ɵp of her braid -- Концом косы глаза суша.
She loved! She suffered! -- Она любила! Она страдала!
The vague soul of the universe. Вселенной смутная душа.
And my heart would respond И вновь прошли бы снова чувства,
To the struggles of Mahavira, and Zoroaster, И зазвенел бы в сердце бой:
And Shivaji. I would be a contemporary И Мохавиры, и Заратустры,
To those fallen fighters, И Саваджи, объятого борьбой.
Asking quesƟons and giving answers. Умерших их я был бы современник,
And you would cover my feet with your hair Творил ответы и вопросы.
Like a pile of blond money, А ты бы грудой светлых денег
Whispering "Oh, Master, Мне на ноги рассыпала бы косы.
Shouldn't we seek out «Учитель, -- мне шепча, --
The ways to freedom Не правда ли, сегодня
Today, together?" Мы будем сообща
Искать путей свободней?»

1921

192

Revista Literária Adelaide

The lonely actor

While Achmatova's tears and songs

Were raining over Tsarskoe Selo,

I, unwinding the enchantress' ball of thread,

Dragged myself through the wilderness

Where impossibility was dying,

A Ɵred actor

Striding forward.

Meanwhile the curly head

Of the subterranean bull was chomping people

In the dark caves

Amid impudent threats.

So wandering under the lunar crescent's spell

I was jumping canyons

And moved from one cliff to another

In the cloak of dreams,

Moved blindly

As winds of freedom

Propelled me and hit me with heavy rain.

And then I chopped the bull's head off from mighty shoulders

And put it against the wall. Одинокий лицедей
A warrior of truth, I shook it and shouted to the world:

Look, here it is! И пока над Царским Селом
The curly head that crowds idolized! Лилось пенье и слезы Ахматовой,
And then, with horror,
I recognized -- no one could see me: Я, моток волшебницы
Eyes should be sown first, разматывая,
A sower of eyes must come
Как сонный труп, влачился по
пустыне,

Где умирала невозможность,

Усталый лицедей,

Шагая напролом.

А между тем курчавое чело

Подземного быка в пещерах темных

Кроваво чавкало и кушало людей

Как в сонный плащ, вечерний странник
Во сне над пропастями прыгал
И шел с утеса на утес.
Слепой, я шел, пока
Меня свободы ветер двигал
И бил косым дождем.

И бычью голову я снял с могучих мяс и кости
И у стены поставил.

Как воин истины я ею потрясал над миром:
Смотрите, вот она!

Вот то курчавое чело, которому пылали раньше толпы!
И с ужасом

Я понял, что я никем не видим,
Что нужно сеять очи,

Что должен сеятель очей идти!

1921 - 1922

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

If I turn humankind into a clock...

If I turn humankind into a clock
And show how the century hand moves
Wouldn't war disappear from our age
Like an obsolete leƩer from the alphabet?
Our kind got itself piles
From the springy chairs of war,
But I tell you what I learned about the future
Through my preterhuman dreams.
I know you are faithful wolves,
To your five shots I respond with a handshake.
SƟll, don't you hear the rustle of Fate's needle --
That wonderful seamstress?
I will flood exisƟng government formaƟons
With the deluge of my powerful thought,
I will reveal fabulous Kitezh
To acolytes of the old fatuity.
When the gang of globe's chairmen
Is offered to the hungry like a moldy bread crust,
Every exisƟng government's nut
Will become obedient to our wrench.
And when a bearded girl
Throws the promised stone
You'll say: "This is exactly what
We were awaiƟng for centuries."
Ticking clock of humanity,
Turn my thought into your moving hand!
Some will grow as governments fail, others -- through the book.
Let the Earth be domineerless.
Chairglobegreatest!
This song must be like a dodder:
I tell you, the universe is the strike of a match
On the face of numbers,
And my thought is the master key
For a door behind which -- a suicide...

About the Author:

Velimir Khlebnikov (1885-1922) -- one of the great Russian poets of the 20-th century. His work
was translated nearly into all European languages and many others. Perhaps the most comprehen-
sive translaƟon to English is The Selected Poems / Ed. R. Vroon, trans. P. Schmidt. – Harvard UP:
Cambridge, 1997. SƟll, as you know, there is always a room for another try. Khlebnikov was called
someƟmes the poet for poets, meaning that his poetry isn't quite accessible for a common reader.
To remedy that some translaƟons are a bit more explanatory than the original text. My approach is
different: I aƩempted to present his poems "as is", with their exoƟc semanƟcs and twisted logic.
It's up to criƟcs, of course, to decide whether this aƩempt was successful.

194

Revista Literária Adelaide

Если я обращу человечество в часы...

Если я обращу человечество в часы
И покажу, как стрелка столетия движется,

Неужели из нашей времен полосы
Не вылетит война, как ненужная ижица?
Там, где род людей себе нажил почечуй,
Сидя тысячелетьями в креслах пружинной войны,

Я вам расскажу, что я из будущего чую
Мои зачеловеческие сны.

Я знаю, что вы -- правоверные волки,
Пятеркой ваших выстрелов пожимаю свои,
Но неужели вы не слышите шорох судьбы иголки,

Этой чудесной швеи?
Я затоплю моей силой, мысли потопом
Постройки существующих правительств,

Сказочно выросший Китеж
Открою глупости старой холопам.
И, когда председателей земного шара шайка
Будет брошена страшному голоду зеленою коркой,
Каждого правительства существующего гайка
Будет послушна нашей отвертке.

И, когда девушка с бородой
Бросит обещанный камень,

Вы скажете: "Это то,
Что мы ждали веками".
Часы человечества, тикая,
Стрелкой моей мысли двигайте!
Пусть эти вырастут самоубийством правительств и книгой -- те.
Будет земля бесповеликая!

Предземшарвеликая!
Будь ей песнь повеликою:
Я расскажу, что вселенная -- с копотью спичка

На лице счета.
И моя мысль -- точно отмычка
Для двери, за ней застрелившийся кто-то...

1922

About the Translator:

Boris Kokotov was born in Moscow, Russia. Currently he lives in BalƟmore. He writes poems and
short stories in both Russian and English languages. His translaƟons from German RomanƟcs were
published in the anthology "Vek Perevoda" (The Century of TranslaƟon) in Moscow. His translaƟon
of Louise Glück's "The Wild Iris" was nominated for the best translaƟon of the year 2012 in Russia.

195

NAILS

by Jennifer Lauren Collins

Nests in Corners

Gripping three fingers of my leŌ hand,
my son drags me forward to a corner of our yard.
He moves aside dry brush, leaves, dirt that’s been
fueling his liƩle-boy musings for weeks, I’d bet,
and he gestures gently with a sƟck
to a now unhidden nest of snakes’ eggs,
excited and unafraid.
His eyes are as wide and oval as the moist ovals
in front of us, almost hissing
with possibility
and with what another mother
(so different from myself)
has hidden away for our quiet findings.
His chaƩer, my fear, our sight:
how to tell him that we can’t tell whether
these eggs will bring on liƩle devils or god-sends
for the garden, for guarding--
how to tell him that what we see and what he wants
is not something to return to—
how to tell him that I am frightened and—
that, upon hatching,
the young are far more dangerous
than the grown.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Nails

You used to paint your nails, flirƟng in my gaze with fluƩering hands
fluƩering them in the air and teasing darts of fingers
around us as if they were mosquitos that never stayed my gaze for long,
to dart and sƟng though my mind won’t turn from them now
their color along clothing as I’m watching, waiƟng,
or my cheek, for used-to-be colors to come
threatening feminine touch calling, intenƟons fluƩering
while drying on makeshiŌ wind. and flirƟng with want, to stay my gaze,
wanƟng and waiƟng
I’d be watching, waiƟng on your painted nails
for the tell-tale tap of your nails to dry.
along each other and then
elsewhere, proving dryness by virtue
of the fact that no color ran—
as if the test would disappear
from fabric or skin
if you were wrong.

You used to paint your nails
as if to draw my aƩenƟon to your ends,
to your Ɵps and lines and the
colors of your wants,
red or brick, solid or shining…
metallic or built
to withstand a conservaƟve gaze.

You used to paint your nails
as if my gaze maƩered,
as if you wanted my eyes on you
in moments of coloring,
the flirtaƟon of adornment
something you played with and plied
over our aŌernoons,
every so oŌen,
as if I couldn’t watch.

I’d be watching, waiƟng,
when you used to paint your nails,
as I watch now in case you begin
again to play my aƩenƟons
along your lines, along your colors to be
so that I might stay my gaze
on yours, and lead elsewhere.

UnƟl now, when I say you used to paint your nails
and I wonder where those colors went,
where your brushes lie now,
and whether I could ever turn away
again if you began again
to paint yourself while I watched,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Muscle Dreams AŌer Time

The muscle memory of the dream pulls, The proof had once been
stretching and straƟfying heavy and deep in her bones.
my thoughts to find acceptance More glistening than any jewel,
for what it is, to find its place more clear than arithmeƟc
and hold my mind made simple for children.
sƟll, occupied The proof had once been
in its thrall and waiƟng there, ruling and real.
for the next show.
Was there a stage where
Malignant, such a dream it faded from the foreground,
as it is tears away at my present where the math grew more complex,
unƟl again my heart is held the jewel tarnished,
open and wanƟng the bones more briƩle,
for what it offers, unreal, the proof fading, but there?
as tempƟng as marijuana Or had there been a moment missed?
to a fourteen year old who’s never Like that point in a Physics class
tasted smoke where students realize:
and has no one what we thought was real
watching. is wrong,
what was simple
Back again, felt again, is something else
the dream sloths my eyelids we only didn't know enough
shut against any other to see.
potenƟal and cries its own ending,
wanƟng my want Or perhaps there was no epiphany to be seen,
and waiƟng to be recognized as damning
to be held as it holds me anything at all.
against it, Maybe it all had simply suddenly been gone,
breathing heavy charred beyond recogniƟon into doubt,
and untested, its memory blurred
its skin the very parƟcles and ashen, its shadow
of mine, circling her finger
and salivaƟng as she searched for what one lay
for the same beneath the ring, in her bones,
control. proving love in more
than sight,
more than society,
where it could be felt
once upon a
Ɵme.

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