THE POPE IS WEAK ON RHYME

by Michele Worthington

Phonics 1 for Young Catholics

maybe not when he writes in Italian

but when he says to Chicago and New York

“I have no fear I will continue to speak out loudly

 promoting dialogue ​and ⁠multilateral relationships

 among the states to look for just solutions to problems"

even line breaks do not help.

 

There is no meter, no music, 

no molecules of pleasure

just temptation to take

bread and wine

from churches 

cake and champagne

from tiny yachts.

 

Jesus rhymes with GPS,

but Christ,

that is hard

to slide into a rebuke.

 

Still, when on the papal plane

to Istanbul and Beirut

flying above stolen paradise

above lake shores sacrificed      

Leo says

Too many people are suffering

Too many people are suffering

I do believe he

sees us.

Michele Worthington lives enclosed in urban sprawl in Tucson but escapes to hike the Sonoran desert often and the Adirondacks every summer. Her photography and words have appeared in several online journals and in print in Sandcutters, Anomaly Poetry, and Nature of our Times anthology. She has been a finalist for Arizona Matsuri, Tucson Haiku Hike and Tucson Festival of Books literary awards.

THE RUSSIANS

by Suzanne Morris

Top photo: ‘Things Will Only Get Worse.’ Putin’s War Sends Russians Into Exile. —The New York Times, March 13, 2022. Bottom photo: Sasha (played by Jeffrey Rockland), son of Tonya and Zhivago in the 1965 film Doctor Zhivago.

He is the only child

in the photograph–

ten, perhaps,

no more than twelve–

surrounded by a small crowd of

students and young professionals,

wearing jeans and

heavy sweaters

seated anxiously on a long couch

or straight-backed chairs

around a table

in a sunny apartment

in Istanbul

where they’ve fled,  

fearing arrest for

protesting a war

they didn’t believe in

waged by an autocrat

they all despise.

And no one is holding

a phone.

Women with long hair,

men with short, neat beards,

eyes fixed on the speaker

outside the frame–

intent as we were

on events unfolding

across the

movie screen.

The boy stands alone in the

center of the floor; and

he’s looking, too, but with

body angled away

as if the speaker had

interrupted his play.

His eyes old and serious

for one his age, he

reminds me of

Zhivago’s young son

whose life was upended

by the Russian Revolution.

How romantic it seemed:

so long ago and far away

yet the huge

Panavision screen

made it seem we were right there

living through it all when

families were forced apart

never to be together again.

The boy is right there

in the small crowd,

the speaker instructing them

on what to do now.

How to begin.

                                           

A novelist with eight published works spanning forty years, Suzanne Morris now focuses largely on writing poems. Her poetry is included in the anthology No Season for Silence—Texas Poets and Pandemic (Kallisto GAIA Press, 2020). Examples have also appeared in The Texas Poetry Assignment and The New Verse News.

RELATIVE RIGHTS

by Indran Amirthanayagam

Graphic by Brian Stauffer to accompany The Washington Post editorial “Mohammed bin Salman is guilty of murder. Biden should not give him a pass.”

Jamal Khashoggi has been killed

for a third time. The first killing

happened just before a bonesaw

shaved his bones in the Saudi

consulate in Istanbul after

he had been kicked, stabbed,

dismembered. The second killing

took place during the show trial

in a Saudi high court, which led

to three acquittals, three prison

terms, five men condemned

to death. Described as foot

soldiers in the murder, not

the masterminds who got off

free, the five were pardoned

later at the behest of Khashoggi's

children. Now, Khashoggi,

father, journalist, betrothed—

remember he visited

the consulate to sign papers

regarding his new love,

impending marriage--

is killed again, this time

by friendly fire. The US

government has decided

that the special relationship,

the oil, the wars in the region,

preclude any punishment

for the crime. The Crown

Prince who ordered

the killing of the scribe

will remain free to engage

the US and any other

government he wishes. Where

do the scales break down?

Why does Jamal Khashoggi's

memory get sawed again,

and how can we live with

our failure to condemn abuse

everywhere, every time?

Indran Amirthanayagam writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese and Haitian Creole. He has 19 poetry books, including The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, 2020) and Sur l'île nostalgique (L'Harmattan, 2020). In music, he recorded Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, is a columnist for Haiti en Marche, won the Paterson Prize, and is a 2020 Foundation for the Contemporary Arts fellow.

IN THE VIDEO STILL OF THE SAUDI JOURNALIST KILLED BY THE SAUDI GOVERNMENT

by Alejandro Escudé




















The victim strolls into the scene
wearing dress shoes and a sport coat.
His icy gait is that of a strong, idealistic man,

a man whose life has been propped up
by words written in looping Arabic.
The man independent, unsympathetic.

To the journalist’s right, a Mercedes van,
black, parked like a stand-in for death.
It is the quietus of the journalist.

Mourn his words, wheeled like scimitars,
like mosaic pieces of a shattered mosaic.
The Mercedes ornament on the van’s grille

reflects the dead man in the sport coat
with the fallen words, walking assuredly past
—who is that? A conspirator? A guard?


Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

THE BODY POLITIC

by Edmund Conti

We both liked Istanbul.
She, having been there, and I
probably because I am,
as our President would say,
an international. I like
the idea of its being on two
continents. Intercontinental
our President might say.
I like the idea  that Istanbul
was Constantinople, that
Constantinople was Byzantium.
Wishy-washy our President
could say. Our President
talks turkey. But, then,
he’s a President and I?
I’m a Poet. And she?
She laughs at us both.


Edmund Conti's poetry is all over the place.

OTHER SIDE GHAZAL

by Judith Terzi




The quinceañera, the college graduation. You won't be here.
For your parents' fiftieth. Sorry, you won't be traveling here.

Deported for one ounce of grass. You rode the big bus twice.
You wander dreamless south of the border. You won't be here.

Your mother––sin papeles. Twenty years of tucking corners.
Ten more nurturing others' kids. She can't go there, she's here.

Your father––paperless––mower of grass, nurturer of crops.
Builder of bookcases, family, walls. Thirty years of here.

No re-entry to the USA. No entry. Stay in Aleppo, Mosul.
Trek to Gaza City, Jordan, Istanbul. No welcome mat here.

Endure the tarp of tents, bitterness in your husband's glance.
Let dust on your wife's hijab thicken. You can't come here.

Another quiet cycle through your prayer beads––misbaha.
Kiss weariness from your children's smiles. Not allowed here.

We're sorry our gods have seized the heart of this matter.
They say our country may be great again. You won't be here.

Judith Terzi's poetry has appeared in a wide variety of journals and anthologies including Caesura, Malala: Poems for Malala Yousafzai, Raintown Review, Spillway, Unsplendid, and Wide Awake: The Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond. If You Spot Your Brother Floating By is her most recent chapbook from Kattywompus Press. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and Web.