PAUL SOHAR

THE NAKED TRANSVESTITE AGAIN (AND AGAIN)

You're riding a nude bicycle

with the handlebar

poking at a memory breeze

the sunshine says the stiff rod

in your hand wants to make a turn

but there's no corner coming up

the ginkgoes of the street chant

the bicycle needs a heavier

and darker coat of paint

and who knows what else

shows up on the screen

and who's watching it

your breath may silk

the air around you and pink it too

but you'd better pedal fast

TEN STEPS IN ONE PLACE

At the end the ball

knocks the soccer players off the field.

Only grass stays standing.

            *

The blind man shakes his head,

doesn't believe in the sun.

Darkness another lie.

            *

A lone maple takes its

shadow for a walk on the lawn.

A breeze holds the leash.

            *

The clock stops in the bank.

An indoor cemetery with

rows of grave-still desks.

            *

Green light on the box.

The cat inside the tv is asleep

with her eyes open.

            *

The groundhog raises

its head high above the grass.

Let's vacuum the rug.

            *

Give me air. Give me wind.

Give me a fan or silence.

Take these walls away.

            *

At dawn the window

and I start glaring at each other.

Raindrops stare back at us.

            *

Pillows sleep all day.

At night they tell us

all about their dreams.

            *

The two hands keep racing

tardily around the clock.

The spokes of a broken wheel.

DYNAMITE

(The Explosions of a Villanelle)

who has given you the right

to chew it like a fish fillet

and stand there spitting dynamite?

yes, you can savor every bite

you have picked out from the tray

but who has given you the right

to share its old  metabolite?

try to taste what others say

instead of spitting dynamite

whatever caused the plight

of barbs and arrows to wither away?

Who has given you the right

                                                                                                                     

to switch from the nimble and light

weapon of humorous essay

and stand there spitting dynamite?

your words echo the halls of night

not a well directed play –

who has given you the right

to stand there spitting dynamite?

Paul Sohar has been writing and publishing in every genre, including seventeen volumes of translations. His own poetry: Homing Poems(Iniquity Press), The Wayward Orchard (Wordrunner Press) and In Sun’s Shadow (Ragged Sky, 2020). Prose: True Tales of a Fictitious Spy (Synergebooks) and a collection of one-act plays from One Act Depot (Canada, 2014).

SUPPORTING THE INDIE BOOKSHOPS

image: Shakespeare & Co., Paris

Coronavirus is making life difficult for everybody. But our special interest at Bradlaugh's Finger is books, and they were having a hard enough time before the virus hit. Now, more than ever, they need our support to keep them alive. So I'm inviting any bookshop who needs a little publicity to drop me a line. We'll put a picture of the shop up, an address, phone and email contact details and anything about the business you want our readers to know.

Reach out, if you feel like it, and we'll see what we can do to generate an extra sale or two. We are literally all in this together, and if coronavirus takes away our bookshops the lives of those who survive it will be incalculably poorer.

*****EDITORIAL SUGGESTION*******

And let's order from these bookshops if we can, rather than corporate giants like Amazon. They will survive. The indies will go under with breathtaking speed if they don't have money coming in.

LAURIE THOMPSON

Inhaling Gardenias in Oaxaca The chilly winds of December swirl around the street dogs  curled on the edge of the curb. It sounds cliché but there is an old blind man playing the guitar and singing "Dos gardenias para ti" and within seconds a woman wearing embroidered juipiles from Juchitan passes with a basket of gardenias perched carefully on her head as if fresh eggs. Ten pesos for two days of fragrance so rich you cannot keep your eyes open against it and you hold your breath so long you feel dizzy and giddy forgetting where you are and with whom. A scent fuller than the rising harvest moon Sweet as a lover's first kiss. Breathing Carried through the storm on some wave of grace and cure I exhale landing on the cornsilk nest of your ombligo dark, soft, warm. I inhale your honeyed voice, smoky tongue faint hint of salt and mescal. I exhale my wobbly orbit of days 24 bright Mexican moons pass. Beside the road an injured Northern loon struggles for flight. I catch my breath and hold it.   Waiting For the sun to rise the melon to ripen the test results the ballots to be recounted the flood waters to recede the letter you sent me in April For the warm wind the bluebirds to hatch in the nest outside my window the smell of you on my pillow to fade the first American female President the shadow of the jacaranda to reach my doorstep the tear gas to dissipate the final divorce papers For the season of wild mushrooms for the dog of vengeance inside me to sleep the dog of forgiveness to awaken For the landing the sound of your laughter the full moon For the reason to return Image above: shoaibnzm2.blogspot.com