Tag Archives: poem

Point Counterpoint: Gorgons of This World by Saloni Kaul

Three winged monsters, females serpent haired, on end
Each ominous wing flap stark calling your attention,
Most rhythmic, purposeful, with ‘look at me’ command;
Ah, single glance would mean lifelong detention.
Epoe0001_400yes locked in strong embrace that would kindle no passion bright
Straight glances meeting that trigger neither love nor lust,
Instant sending trick’ry, he’d be stone at first sight,
Marbled in time, forever cold, not even crushed to dust.
Strategic thought to his rescue, a brain wave skilled
And lo ! he holds the captive in his shield array.
Mirrored in there, their eyes meet and Medusa wills
Him to turn and become her, those three Gorgons’, prey,
But eye to eye, he classily aims and at once her kills.
Armed with Perseus-like strategy, beware of first sight.
Medusa’s gone, immortals two remain out there to bite.




Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, poetry

2 am by Jan Sand

2 am

The early black
Is still unstirred
By yawning morning.
The ceiling fills
moon001_400With predatory thoughts,
Like quiet children
Come to play
Their silent games,
Poking sticks into
Dark passages
Of forgotten memories;
Memories like frightened mice
That scurry off in panic.
The sadly moaning bell
Eighty years ago on a lonely buoy
Shrugging its shoulders
In a choppy sea.
A special purple
Strangely found on both
An apron and a stub of clay
In kindergarten.
The round eyed stare
Frozen to my mother’s face
As cancer pain
Prodded her to certain death.
A pet white rat curled in snooze
On my pillow by my cheek.
The falling crescent moon
Smiles in my window
Like my long gone mother
Soothing me
Back to the peace of sleep.

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, poetry

So by Bohdan Yuri

So, …
there was a war.
your great grandfathers
killed my great grandfathers.
my grandfathers
killed your grandfathers.
your father
killed my father.
I will kill you.
your  son
will kill
my son.

so, …
there will be
a war.


Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, poetry

All day I’ve dreamed of you by Abigail George

All day I’ve dreamed of you
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

Once, once you were like Persia to me.

    For the last time, show me the ways
    to love. Cue me its despair. It’s hardship.

afr001This deprivation that must follow its

demise. This starvation that must follow
its poverty. This progress. This madness
that eats away at my soul. It twinkles like noisy stars,

those glam beauty queens with their own illustrious alibis,
their lunar emptiness and subtle-subtle

No more walking in circles for me, friend.
No more wishing the past is gone while
sitting in at my kitchen table. I’m over that bridge.

These stars have their own silent-silent
moon-sick horses. Moon-sick bones. Butterflies in their governing
confusion leaving scratch-marks on

the seawalls of my stomach. The red brick
walls of my lungs. I think your parade
beautiful. I think you’re lovely. I think you’re

Jupiter. Does it matter. Does it matter.
I think of those Caucasian stars pasted
on the ceiling of the night sky. I am ready to confess.

Does it matter that I am only ready to
confess now. I am trying to erase the beast-monster.
Monster-beast that has made me suffer so.

The forest was painted. It even had
wrinkles. Age lines made out of soul.
Spidery leaves marking the end of

time, that

hourglass country, a hive found there
in the segmental ruins of the God-supernatural
found in the honey and milk and blood-

work of the desert. Let’s take a trip
out there to where the wind blows. That
infant deed. Can you tell. I’m dreaming

of those Parisian-syllables. The ethereal.
The apparition of that high mountain-top.
That drum. That prophet. God’s lions.

Elijah. David. Jeremiah. Job. Jonah.
God’s chosen. There were others. There were others.
I’ve written about this before. Falling in love

and falling out of love but I’ve never
written about our love before. You made the veins in
my heart splendidly narrow so that only

the pure river could flow through.
The smell of roses. Old wounds forgotten.
Only the reigning legend of the

sparse river could get through
before anything else. Before the blood itself. I wanted you to
know that I’m pressed for time. That

you’ve been a legend in my life before
you became a legend in real life. I’m
writing this to thank you for not taking me

all the way to madness like the others
did. You were the virtuous one. You
were the one who saved me. I just

thought that you should know that.
I’ve been carrying that around with
me for the longest time. You were

genuine. They were fake but I ate
their cake anyway because I was

I called myself victim under a
million stars.
I just wanted you to know that life

is different for me now. I’m no longer
running up streets and down streets in

I’m authoritative when it comes to
my feelings now. I don’t try to slip a yes in
when I mean no. I’ve learned how to say no.

Oh, I also know what thirst is.
But I don’t project my hate unto
other people and I listen to others (which I never did before).

This grid, I have put it away.
It is an exile like me. I don’t
know yet if it must be forgotten.

I keep watch over spring or
it keeps watch over me. I don’t
know which. I only know this.

Sometimes when I get angry
my anger is as hot as a desert and I don’t
ask for permission. Only that you listen. I forget.

Please forgive me when I forget. Please,
please, forgive me when I forget myself. Once, yes,
once, you were like Persia to me.

Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“All about my mother” & “Brother Wolf and Sister Wren”
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!


Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, poetry

Pinholes by David Sparenberg


If you shine a light
size and shape of a pinhole
into the innermost inward,
you might catch a glimpse,
form and face,
from the mythology of dreams,
of the world’s most enchanting woman.
Her name is Rhiannon
or Deirdre, Brigit Bright, Miriam
Virgin, or Helen of Troy.
But it might just be
Ayano or Sasha
Etta, Evie, Zoe, or Gea.

davi001_400If you shine a light
size and shape of a pinhole
into the innermost inward
you might see
a wise old man, a
benevolent, ancient sage,
with elevated candle, lucent,
or lantern, luminous, in hand.
He is called
Lao Tzu, maybe Merlin, possibly
Gandalf, even Einstein,
or any such magical name.
Radiant he will be
in quiet thought and spirit-power.

now if you shine a light
the size and shape of a tiny pinhole
into the innermost inward,
you might behold
the presence of a shadow,
a combustible darkness
from the deep-down of dreams
or dreamtime’s cauldron of nightmares. A
Humbaba or Grendel, Caliban called
or humped Quasimodo –rejected
lump with poet’s soul in
burdened limp and
twisted limbs—condemned
among gargoyles; a spark
spewed out from lips
of a tragic god, encased
in opus of alchemic stone.

The phantom is your own.
You must own this shadow
if you would be whole.

Shadow abides
in cave primeval,
or in the alembic hidden
glass of your socialized
dis-integral self.  If
you look…

look into dreamspheres
you may see some masks of
gods in mirror-shards of
collective memory scattered
in the glimmering amid
oak and laurel, fig and ash
willow, aspen, pomegranate, and apple.

Do now
as the doctor prescribes:
play at archetypes.

In images of dreams
feel as you peer through pinholes,
how puzzle pieces fit.
and rejected pieces fit.

Now tell me, honestly,
dream-maker, how visible
is the invisible in your dreamtime?
In what orchard are you rooted?  Who
is at the center of your circle? Do
you know you are a circle to be centered? What
angel prays before you; what
candle burns in secret of your soul?
What darkness yet
by light
waiting to be discovered? What forest
out of time, awaiting
for your awakening to re-find?

One favor, one only:  Stop
waiting for the homunculus
in the cubicle of false learning.
For all you know in exile, navigator,
myth-singer-sailor, these pinholes are
soul-charts of your guiding stars!


Check David Sparenberg’s NEW BOOK
THE GREEN TROUBADOUR A Source Book of Performance Ecosophy
is online now and you can download for FREE HERE!



David Sparenberg has also 2 more Books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“Life in the Age of Extinctions volume 2 – Threshold”
Download for FREE HERE!


Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, poetry

Sky high love by Saloni Kaul

Sky high love

You keenly wait to hear what I have yet to say
As clouds of streaming white go drifting by.
Then, as you look up, quite as clear as day,
In my own pointed way, like monthly pay,
My thoughts on love are posted on the sky.


Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, poetry

Starving by Bohdan Yuri

Flowing silk saris
Surround painted faces,
Baubles and bangles
Still hang from the past.


Crowds bumped apart,
Hands waved in flight,
Life’s a mirage
As street children play.


Outcasts still live
In shadows of fear,
Wives can be murdered,
A child even tortured.


Arms half stretched,
Beggars learn for free,
That life takes back
What seems so certain.


Fakirs set standards
For fools in abstraction,
Black holes exist
In lost corner squares.


Eyes in wide comas
March monsoon parades,
Religion is strifed
With conflicts that cry.


They bathe in the Ganges
To cleanse tainted souls,
Yet cows still remain
Life’s most sacred tolls.


Each day’s a feast
But lost in charades
Why bother to change
Most Indian ways.


Ovi magazine

Leave a comment

Filed under ovi magazine, poetry