Poetry 3

    Poetry 3

    The Esoteric Poetry of Physics

    By Luiz Canha Machado


    I’m leaving soon,

    So it’s farewell

    To world’s own materiality.

    I stole what I could

    From my time here.

    All I can see now is

    Humanism in rags,

    The open vein

    Bleeding the new theorem.

    Organic as I am,

    Roughly framed

    By space and time,

    I lost the battle of endurance.

    I lived for something

    So intangible

    That only a dream

    Could dream of it.

    You know I’ve always been lost

    In the esoteric poetry of physics.

    Although they said

    I was just a collection

    Of Joycean flecks,

    I’ve seen the sum

    When I was in the asylum

    And I refused

    To be emptied

    Of the narrator’s prism.

    I would never sober up,

    Have a grip on economics,

    Discuss politics,

    Learn some maths,

    Or quit the search

    By understanding statics.

    I only knew how to live

    For something so ethereal

    That only a dream

    Could dream of it.

    You know I’ve always been lost

    In the esoteric poetry of physics.



    Luiz Canha Machado was born in Porto, Portugal, in 1971. He started writing poetry at the age of sixteen, drawing inspiration from his own life, the XIX Century Romanticism and the counterculture movements of the XX Century. He first wrote exclusively in his mother tongue but soon began to write in English also. Since then he alternates his poetry in both languages. Yeats, Neruda, Whitman, Ginsberg, Joyce and Kerouac are among his personal favourite poets and writers. Besides poetry and literature, his other passions are music and history. He married his high school sweetheart and continues to write to this day.  He has two books on Amazon, “Misplaced Poems” (2015) and “Chapters of Poetry” (2016). His poem “Utopia” (the original Portuguese version) was selected to be part of Portuguese contemporary poetry anthology “Between Sleep and Dream VII”, published in Lisbon in 2016. .


    Bottle Caps #1 

    By Ash Slade


    Ridged edges

    Popped off

    Cold brew.

    Refuse of


    Barren bottle

    Idles inside

    Sitting —-

    Expecting —-

    Degradation to set in.

    Degradation to set in.

    Expecting —-

    Sitting —-

    Idles inside

    Barren bottle


    Refuse of

    Cold brew.

    Popped off

    Ridged edges.



    Ash Slade considers himself to be a mysterious person. Poetry has been his passion since 12 years old in 7th grade. A poem can take minutes or days to write, each one is important. Ash lives in Connecticut in a small New England town. Hobbies included collecting notebooks and poetry books.



    The Winter Room

    By Mary Chydiriotis


    Here we speak the same language

    as marble ruins peer down at me

    spying honeysuckle lazy in the captive sun

    goats bleating under shady cypress

    yiayia waits for me in the village Bytina

    I’ve heard that name my whole life

    Greek tourists escaping the relentless heat of their cities

    spend summers there high amongst fir trees and pines

    once a tightly wrapped baby in pink

    now brazen with feminist zeal

    I’m a stranger in this place

    I’m a stranger in this place

    she’s snappy that I’m late

    ‘argises’ she says in the winter room

    snug with bedding and icons to keep us safe

    fire burning and mulled wine

    always hunched over            always in mourning black

    homemade bread and fetta untouched on the table

    We honour my mother            the missing link

    We honour my mother            the missing link

    meltemi winds have now long passed

    yiayia prays daily for her daughter’s return

    her own fading memories in frames

    it’s my mother’s voice she waits for now

    she asks ‘pote tha erthi’ when will she come?

    soon I say unconvincingly

    then wait for her phone call

    We wait for her phone call

    three women divided by place and time

    yiayia speaks her prayers down the line

    the same question over and over

    pote tha erthis’ when will you come?

    the same answer over and over

    ‘tha ertho tha ertho’ I’ll come I’ll come

    later lying awake I smell wafting pine

    hear the bell clang as the goat moves against the silence

    We speak the same language still

    I’m a stranger in this place



    Mary Chydiriotis is a social worker and writer living in Melbourne.

    Her poems have been published in journals and anthologies both locally and overseas, including Social Alternatives, Garfield Lake Review, Offset, Short and Twisted, Tincture Journal, The Unprecedented, Professional Amateur and Right Now; Human Rights in Australia.

    Mary has worked with migrants and refugees in the community sector for fifteen years.



    desert bloom

    by Lora Lee


    if ever there were
    gods or goddesses of desert
    of the drylands
    of parched earth some call home
    they would be surprised to learn
    of the miracle of
    this Spring deluge
    unfurling forth
    from deep within
    the crusty dermis
    of this sublunar territory:
    hydrangea and Sodom apple flower,
    intermingling their hues
    of mauve and lilacs,
    as well as the color of sky
    blooms of the succulents
    popping open
    in celebratory dance
    in wild fuschia
    sunray butter:
    a dazzling botanic trance
    hollyhocks of magenta,
    veils of bougainvellia, too
    sweetpea clusters
    curling in the trellis
    weaving heavy-scented magic
    through and through
    a private orchard of lemon tree, and apple
    olive and pistachio grove
    One would not guess
    the endless giving
    of this desert treasure trove

    And I feel like a goddess
    of mythology softly spun
    like Demeter, or Ceres
    ancient Egyptian Renenutet
    my hands spread out
    in the licks of gentle sun
    for as spring pours forth its honey
    all through this barren land
    I , too reawake
    and flush out all the infected,
    dust-scratched sand
    I welcome in
    the waters of abundance,
    of love, of light under stars
    let new energy wash out
    old poisons
    my radiance spilling far
    Reaching out unto the Universe,
    cradling this heart
    I cup the buds of blooms,
    of nectar
    to inseminate my dark
    allowing me
    to release the past
    and seed within me, lit
    the atoms
    of  new
    unfolding bit
    by tender



    Trembling Hands

    By Peter Gate


    Innocence within, breeds violence without

    For every blush you will reach for the knife

    Innocence judges, violence finishes

    Wisdom holds no opinions

    it treads lightly in a heavy land

    but he always remembers

    he becomes immune to repetition

    and its consequences

    Never let my hand go

    not without the knowledge

    you like the water it doesn’t make you cry

    we were friends years ago

    but now its forgotten

    you built a boat that flies

    now I remember

    How goes the war or shouldn’t I mention it

    No we have made progress on reality

    I hand around street corners begging

    I lost my job as a general

    What do you fear the most?

    Children with guns or

    Old men with no memory

    holding the button



    As You Want

    By Daniel Wade


    Spare me the histrionics. Words like ‘traitor’ and ‘love’

    Are too strong for whatever it is we do to each other.

    Your Spotify playlist skips on repeat, my half-drowned silence

    Splashes in a tumbler: it’s either you or me this time,

    Bone-rattle or spitfire tongue, your lip or nipple bitten,

    My searing milk between your legs, bunched knickers

    Or coiled river, fruit hanging low in the sun-starved grove.

    You learn to ignore the pouring glaciers’ plod,

    The waves’ rogue gurgle, both pending as the whim of God.

    You unzip me, just as you are in the getaway car,

    Wanting what I want, and not wanting to surrender first.

    Kipling warned against making dreams your master;

    Wilde said your punishment would be the sight of dawn

    After a night spent in the moon’s full company.

    Yes, you want passion; but only according to your taste,

    Tailored, cloaked, sealed in medium-rare ferocity.

    Yes, you hope for Heathcliff; a man with elemental soil

    Drying his heart. But instead, you get me, only me,

    And nothing but me, and we’ll take the choicest of liberties

    With one another. For my part, I have no offering

    For you, bar these limbs and these lines, that you may use

    Or discard, forget or sweat over, as you want.






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