THE POET PROVOKED

by Roberta Batorsky

These verses searchlight wrongs,
thrust into the light
all injustice lurking in the shadows.

Stanzas pry loose prison bars,
insights scorch wrong-doers,
violators of decency

No place for you to hide as
my couplets cauterize you.
These devices are unsparing
instruments of revenge.

Haikus hunt you
Elegies eviscerate
Ballads batter 
And meter mauls you.

My lyrics bear the sting 
of sincerity,
passing merciless
judgment in rhyme.

 

This poet for hire.

Roberta Batorsky, a New Jersey poet, has published this month her first book of poetry, Perihelion.

EYES FORWARD

by Darrell Petska

Ai-Da wears a woman’s head,

speaks in a woman’s voice.

She can paint, sculpt, wax poetic, even

expound on Picasso and knotty issues of our times.

A robot in human guise,

she has no feelings like we do, no designs

on our jobs or our necks—though she states

I enjoy being a person who makes people think.

Ai-Da’s knowledge of Dante’s Divine Comedy

sparked in her these poetic lines:

     We looked up from our verses like blindfolded captives,

     Sent out to seek the light; but it never came,

     A needle and thread would be necessary

     For the completion of the picture.

     To view the poor creatures, who were in misery,

     That of a hawk, eyes sewn shut.

Some, feeling threatened, will rail against

algorithms that might influence our behavior,

subverting human autonomy. Others will engage with

and direct how AI affects words and meaning.

Where shall all this lead? Poor creatures, those

who meet the future with their eyes sewn shut.

Darrell Petska is a retired university editor. His poetry and fiction can be found in 3rd Wednesday Magazine, First Literary Review–East, Nixes Mate Review, Verse Virtual, Loch Raven Review, and elsewhere. A father of five and grandfather of six, he lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife of more than 50 years.

IN LOVE AND POETRY

by Indran Amirthanayagam

“Hope,” a painting (1886) by George Frederic Watts and assistants.

Call it now. Out loud.

Without shame. By

its name. Call it

this morning on waking

in the still dark. Call it

reading last night

your words on the screen.

Call it banishing sleep.

There is no energy

more sweet that sustains.

Call it for the one

who corrects these verses.

Call it on streets of

suburb and city,

in the fields. Call it

in front of the Capitol

on top of Mount Baldy

on Waikiki Beach,

by Lake Superior.

We are going far my dear

and we are walking back

home for Thanksgiving

Let us invite Kamala

and Joe to the table.

Let us boil sweet potatoes,

serve elderberry jam,

make a bean and onion stuffing,

let our friends know

the meal will not involve

killing a turkey

or any other fowl.

Let us give thanks God

for this vitamin flowering

in the early dark, guiding

our fingers as we write,

saying call it now.

in the day, at night,

to friends and enemies

alike. In love and poetry

we are going to make

table and bed, and

we are going to write

our songs in these days

of the plague until

we see light come up

above the trees on fire,

the befogged clouds,

until the back of beyond.

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.