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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. You can visit his website on www.luizcanhamachado.com 



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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