Prose

It Listens Sometimes

It Listens Sometimes

a poem by Diego Vela

 

Splendid Vision, 2019, Photo Collage, 12 x 15 inches, $600

Splendid Vision, 2019, Photo Collage, 12 x 15 inches, $600

“But, I worship the ground that you tread upon,

I adore you, if you will.”

Says the sensitive child to the

one rolling it’s eyes.

-Quick inhale…slowly…breathing,

waking waking…-

In a dream…

we wake alone in tender rooms.

In one that is far away

my tiny green deer stares at you

Stares at you, while you sleep

I left it in your room

the last time I visited

It insisted,

and I can’t change it’s mind

once it settles on it!

He set His foot down,

His hoof down!

“It is unacceptable!” It cries to me,

and asked to speak to a manager.

I am the manager I said, and it smiled

with batty eyes and a cheeky grin.

It visits my dreams

it reports the reports

it calls you a spoiled boyfriend

I tell it that you don’t

like that word

“Fine,” it sneers,

“friend then” it exhales,

rolling its deer eyes and

playing dead

sticking out its tongue.

“You’re exhausting…” it coos

as it lays on the ground

made of my hand

and stares at me

waiting for concede

my concede

to give it credence.

Its bristly skin twitches in spots

its dangled black tongue limp and soft

hangs from its mouth

it trembles and plays dead

more dramatically

its long tongue dry and fat!

It baas,

“spoiled

ungrateful

and a cruel liar!”

Stopping with a jolt of erectness…

“There is a noise…”

IT Baas, like a sheep

No, it cries like a goat

a frightened goat.

I bury you deep.

to hide and protect

us.

The tiny green deer

sitting up

spooked..

ears search,

green fur twitch,

raw head snap,

eyeballs roll,

all scanning! Scanning around…

“Where are you?!”…

it calls to me

with a tremble

many trembles.

Go back deer

Go back dear

Go back…

I say

There is a constant hum

under the noise…

the noise of the world

deep under the ground

under

consciousness

where I can find you

where you can find me

waiting, wanting and listening.

About the author:

My poetry is very dear to me because it tends to be a sonic representation, and letters on a page that meet up to represent my visual artwork in a different way.

I was born in Texas, now living in New York City, via London. I graduated from, or rather survived, a private southern Baptist university in a tiny Texas town. Learning much about myself, my world and a little about art. Most of my “Learned” skill comes from just delving into new mediums to satisfy the compulsion to create.

To view the author’s art, please visit www.diegovela.com, as well as Instagram @diegodiablovela.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

After the Scream

After the Scream

a poem by Paula

Knowing Seeing Feeling Through the Ether Detail 2, Aug 2019, Photo Collage, 12 x 15 inches, $600

Knowing Seeing Feeling Through the Ether Detail 2, Aug 2019, Photo Collage, 12 x 15 inches, $600

After the scream,

there is always a swallow

the god-mouth devouring

of these calcified remains

and what is left, then, but silence.

The birds, too, have fled.

their nests now dust-hovel shallows

in an endless, barren winter.

The quiet place is not as I had imagined -

I am not made whole in your absence;

there is just space.

And, still,

so much time to waste.

- pklg -

To view more work by the author, please visit Instagram @rainingalloverthesky.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

One World

One World

a mini-monologue by Ginger Cochran

As today is 9/11, I'd like to take a moment to encourage all within the realm of this writing and throughout the universe to try to take comfort in one another and not to fear one another.

We should choose kindness instead of hatred and elect tolerance over prejudice. We can learn to live together with a will to prosper, and accept the things we cannot change about others.

We should forget our entitled ways and adopt an act of service to our fellow people. We should govern ourselves with a character of consideration and not allow our feelings to shadow our logic.

For the sake of our future generations, we can no longer be one nation, but one world - coexisting in friendship and unity.

Photo credit: Google search

Photo credit: Google search


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About Festivals and Other Witticisms

About Festivals and Other Witticisms

a poem by Daniel de Culla

          My mother already told me:

-Son, nowhere dogs are tied with sausage.

          But me, obstinately, had to go out of my land, travel the World. A World that, for me, was always flat.

-I’m a poet, mother; and Poetry is my name. And I have to drink from other waters, because the path of Life is short, and my thirst for love and knowledge is very tight. That, here, in Madrid, mother, there is little to drag and much to lose.

-Well, son, be very careful, and call me. Behave like a gentleman, and see if you succeed in what I know you go to those festivals: "to reap that barley that the girls have between two columns that support their soul."

-Mother, I will earn a lot of money, and, although I know that the Girls' suture is worth a fortune, I will return one day and I will reward you.

          My mother was really smart.

          At about midnight, I went to the airport to catch a plane that would take me from here to there.

          First, I was a witness of the Shoreline of Infinity. Event Horizon Science Fiction & Fantasy Special Festival "The Return", Edinburgh, Lothian, UK.

          Another day, at The Hucknall Byron Festival, in Nottinghamshire, UK.

          From England I went to Germany, dreaming of enjoying what I most wanted in the performances of the APA-B Association for Performance Arts in Berlin.

          Oh, oh, oh. Sad and distressed, seeing that I was my own wife and, also, my dear, I flew to Australia, in order to live its extraordinary festivals at the Byron Bay: "Byron Comedy Fest", and "Byron Writers Festival".

          Drinking, dancing and singing, I hurt my feet and my ribs hurt. I grabbed a table in a coffee bar, and broke my head from dreams.

- Madam, what are you looking at me? What are you looking at me?

-Son, nothing.

          The time I spent in both Festival, I was not attentive to the Verse or the musical note. Just, I just looked at those pretty faces that had a sex to dip bread.

          When the act was over, my illusion was over, leaving the sap of my bones lifeless and heartless, because I ended up loving myself, following the Onan’s footsteps.

          I did not eat a thread at such a festival. I followed the steps of the girls, to see where he put it, and when he reached his portal, he always told them that I was cuming. So, they didn't answer anything to me, and they left me.

          By the way, one day that I was badly dancing a tango with a great girl, in Byron Bay, Australia, I remembered the definition of the Tango that my friend Jesus did. It is: “Tango is like playing Teto: We dance; She lifts her leg, and I go into her. ”

          I wanted to fall in love,  but I was expelled by indecent from the Tango’s Festival.

          Very sad and heartbroken, after spending three years, almost four years, I returned to Madrid and, on the plane back home, to my own goldfinch my sorrows I told him:

-Goldfinch, goldfinch, what do you have to tell me, for a woman I love and look for and I can't get her in it.

          The goldfinch replied:

- To the woman you have to treat with sweetness and firmness; and with sincere kisses you will soften its hardness.

          Already in Madrid, I followed in her footsteps, as the goldfinch said; and, after all, I achieved much more than I thought.

          With my beloved, my "half orange", I moved to Burgos.

          Here, at the SanFran Mary Jane, a music bar, at “Asphalt Poetry” or “Brick Music” festivals, from time to time, I participate, dreaming with attending, one day, the Palm Beach Poetry Festival, Lake Worth, Florida, USA .

          This site, the SanFran Mary Jeane, is a cool place, because, in addition to the festivals, if you ask to eat, they give you salty sardines, and if you ask to drink they give you broom water.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, and photographer. He’s member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He participated in many Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève. He has exhibited in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos; e-mail: gallotricolor@yahoo.com


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

The Poor

The Poor

a poem by Adnan Shafi

 

friend A, 2016. Artist:  Hiroko Oikawa . pencil on paper 38 ×54 cm $380

friend A, 2016. Artist: Hiroko Oikawa. pencil on paper 38 ×54 cm $380

I never concern that one is living

In the approbatory jiffs of being rich

Afresh tromping the poor beneath

their feet

That hefty encumbrance,

 

Too hefty for their daily brawn

That ingurgitating their beliefs,

Had amorousness, in some worthy

jiffs of life,

The circumspect consecration,

 

The poor are laid waste, like the

gutter worms when clean were it expunged in any wrench

preponderant would boff them instantly bereft of life-

 

Never seen a man undaunted in the lower class,

Daring to confront,

That impulsive vigor, spooky, I would like to see.

About the author:

Young Adnan Shafi, (23) was born and brought up in a middle class educated Bhat family, which belongs to Chandrigam in Tral area of Kashmir valley. He is a poet, writer, columnist , translator, short story writer  and reviewer. 

 His poetry book "TEARS FALL IN MY HEART'  depicts sorrows and vicissitudes of life. There are various hues in his poems ranging from love to loneliness and despair. Besides, his poetry is replete with simplicity of thought and language. Some of the poems are autobiographical in nature which relate to his own life’s vows.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Winter’s Footprint

Winter’s Footprint

a poem by Pasithea Chan

 

Tundra, 2019. Artist:  Allina Forrester . Watercolor and ink, 14 x 11 inches, NFS

Tundra, 2019. Artist: Allina Forrester. Watercolor and ink, 14 x 11 inches, NFS

Hurt hurls its winds of woes

as sorrow curls its snowy toes.

Love follows the past’s shadows

sinking in life’s muddy morrows.

Time burrows with horrors

laying dormant behind icy mirrors.

Loneliness echoes from regret’s bellows.

rustling memories’ leaves tumbling like dominoes.

 

Joy stands crossing its elbows

as worry rubs its hands to fiery egos.

Yearning sobs burying its head in pillows

Distance grows drinking circumstance’s marrows.

Time laughs as apology comes and goes

trying to have tea with logic’s plea at the gallows.

Misunderstanding trips and dies of overdose

leaving care’s bodies to freeze on sorrow’s snows.

 

Life is a cycle with love for a rose

A rose that bears sorrows in pairs

holding hope’s plumes as it blooms

only to die in doubt’s shadowy sky

with every try seeming like a lie

tearing a heart apart with mistrust’s dart.

 

Life is a lonely planet when we don’t plan it.

Words whip hearts that were once lit

with love for spring and joys that bring

summer’s fruits as memories that fit

stories with lines that left souls to mint

autumn’s silence as a stint

of love’s winter making its footprint.

About the author:

Pasithea Chan is a budding Lebanese Filipino impressionist who enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy and psychology. She writes in various styles but prefers pieces that have double meanings to allow a reader to delve deeper into her works. You can find her on TheUglyWriters.com , Osprey Empire All Home Solutions, The Poet's Corner, Rigorous, Envision Arts, Fevers of the Mind, Suicide, The Voices of Real and Ello on: ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera

Twitter: twitter.com/RogueMalachite


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

We Sit In The Silence

Two Poems

by Valida Baba

We sit in the silence of a noisy world We look around seeing only what we have.

Comings, goings are all around. We sit in the silence – waiting for a new world.

One man speaks, another man listens. Two men spoke but silence heard – Words moved from one space to another.

Language exchanged yet nothing has changed.

They spoke, they silenced: One went to the right –another to the left.

***

To be tough and strong, is it me or does it want to be me? So much in me, too much in me, how to let it be?

Ballet, perfume, powder, the smell of a theater – to let it go? Can it go? …

And it happened. How? It happened. When? It happened. Ballet, perfume, powder – to let you go?

Can you go? Can I go and come back? Will you take me back?

The chain is broken…Time, Space, Form – now, boat, movement One organism, two bodies, perfect connection.

Who says you cannot fly? Push! Stand on your feet! Embrace!

Who says you cannot move? One step right, one step back. Time, space, form – will you lead me back? Do you know how to take it back?

One step left, one step further, Stop now, listen now – Must follow me now, lead me later. One step back, one step further.

And it happened again. How? It happened. When? It happened.

Re-la-tion-ship! Does it relate to ship or life? Who will carry and lead me? – Trust! Will you lead me?

One step back, one step further. Stop now, ought it to end now? Who will bring the end now?

…TO EACH OTHER – SILENCE SPOKE: D-E-A-T-H

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Valida Baba (1988) was born in Azerbaijan. She completed her BA in Business Administration at Azerbaijan State Economic University (Baku, 2010), Azerbaijan. In 2013, she was accepted into a Short Study Program in English at the Department of Photography at FAMU (Film and TV School of Academy of Performing Arts in Prague), Czech Republic. She studied at the Department of Documentary Photography by the atelier Viktor Kolář. She recently graduated from MA of Humanities at the Anglo-American University in Prague, Czech Republic, and now she is a freelancer in the art sector of Prague.

You may learn more about the author @valida_baba, as well as vimeo.com/validababa.

 


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

i fell in love with a girl in london

i fell in love with a girl in london and i'd do it all over just to see her smile at me again

a poem by Ian Campo

 

Artist:  Rolands Krutovs . Poetical Mater 1, 2019, fiber, 20 x 20 cm

Artist: Rolands Krutovs. Poetical Mater 1, 2019, fiber, 20 x 20 cm

my heart nearly stopped every time i had to cross the street
so let’s thank the queen for writing it down
before she’s just another thing i have to step over
all the rest have tickled my feet so far
and everything under construction reminds me that these days
the only remedy seems to be better luck and more cloud cover

i’ve been racing to crash on the couch
just to wake up to see if i have time for it all
and i want the stereotype to be true so i have nothing to cry about  
with the way things are going
you’d tell me not to be so brutal to myself
but the thrill i used to know is now paying its dues to the concrete

i was almost convinced i wasn’t asleep
when she whispered paris
nothing, everything may have changed
so this is not like anything i’ve never meant:

my heart nearly stopped with the regret of not talking to you
it's hard killing birds when you don't have any stones and
besides this time i think i've really done it
two days and this is already my favorite story but
second chances don't have to be so mysterious
maybe i just wanted to see you smile again

i should have said it w/o one of and the s after the L
still choosing o over x
and your pull showed my hands a home in the back of your denim
two across the channel makes the significant not so, if you want it
i’ll keep looking for you so long as you
don’t stop drawing me maps

if i died in my indecision then
your mouth showed me heaven
you’re the closest thing to purpose
i’ve ever tasted

i wish you knew how much i mean that

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Ian Campo is an abstract writer / poet residing in New York City, New York. You may view his literary works at www.hellopoetry.com/camps.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Life Is But a Test

Two Poems

by Jeremy Austin Grace

Artist:  GraceANN Cummings . Lack of Consciousness, 2017, torn paper in frame, 10.5 X 12, $300

Artist: GraceANN Cummings. Lack of Consciousness, 2017, torn paper in frame, 10.5 X 12, $300

A blank page is a blank page because your afraid to mess up the idea of a blank slate and all the writing could ruin the paper or touching it could tear it but what we don't realize is that the contents of what you have in your mind is what can possibly be the most beautiful thing in the world to someone.

Life is but a test that we all have not studied for not because we did not want to study for it but because we did not have the opportunity and that is the beauty of it. Life is also much more than a test because it's not about getting the right answers but it's about the experience you learn from the questions that rise and that you gave your effort. Life is a journey it is your own.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Jeremy Austin Grace is a retail professional and family man from Alabama, with a wife, a young daughter, and a baby on the way. He currently is a freelance writer; his genre’s include sports journalism, music and entertainment. He began writing poetry at 16 years old and has been writing now for seven years. Read his articles at WBLZMedia.com and TheAthletesHub.org.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

An Epoch of Lost Identity

An Epoch of Lost Identity

a poem by Shrutika Sharma

My mother adored draping a cotton saree, as meticulously as she could to avoid any crease and wrinkle. Back in those days, she would pluck flowers to offer to her brass god-idols, concurrently preaching my younger self to never harm any sentient life form. She had singled herself out as a self-contradictory metaphor as she exulted in the same. However, now those days seem as far away as ever. 

Did her palm creases foretell future? Certainly not, owing to the fact that I recollect them teaching me geography. They are shriveled now, time-worn.
She is now, teetering between being identified as an ailing agony of ages and as a blistering rage put to sleep, coercively. She realizes how her exuberant womanhood was carefully stacked away in that creaky ligneous almirah, similarly the way she would gingerly caress and stack away her cotton sarees. Discerning the modus operandi, it being quite concordant. 

She now fathoms how the men in her life have bargained with her integrity and autonomy. Her clunking joints resonate of the aeon of her enervated identity. She can now listen to her own pulverized words in the cremated remains of others. Maybe, this is how they got muffled. Steadily. Wantonly. 
Within the cramped confines of hollow traditions, patriarchy, gas-lighting and ingrained misogyny. 

Her alluvion of anger has always been subdued, ridiculed and mocked because when men get angry, their masculinity is ratified but when women are angry, their femininity is unwarranted. Her credibility is void. Her gaze that has always catered to her oppressors, now, dares to look up. She has now perceived the existence of a rooted chip on her shoulder. She believes that she is sitting on the cusp of realization of her trauma that had been quelled in the name of her fidelity.

Mother, I too, belong to your neck of the woods. Yet, if you stay immobile and rigid, I will be the one setting your cotton sarees ablaze. I will be the one throwing off your sententious shackles. Your lacerations and contusions will now be empowered, for the world will slow down its pace to listen to them speak up, unobstructed. 

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Shrutika Sharma is an aspiring 18 year old Indian poet and spoken word artist. Being a student of English Literature whilst minoring in Psychology has given her a dynamic perspective of the world. Coalescing the old school thoughts with the incessant current changes has aided her is analysing multitudes of emotions as she infuses them into her poems.

To learn more, you may follow her on Instagram @_shrutikasharma.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Words Will Save Us

Words Will Save Us

a poem by Ella Wylynko

 

Photo credit: the author  @wylynko

Photo credit: the author @wylynko

i wake up

holding your body

i want to remind it

that it is made of saran wrap

truncated sentences

and willow bones

i want to remind it

that eulogies aren’t allowed to take up the entire sidewalk

or bolt themselves down

i want to ask it

not to to be its shadow anymore

but the question hangs in the air

words have a lot of weight for something you cant hold

but your body is the weather not the climate

it is tired metaphors

and too many full stops

held together through convention not commonality

somehow so beautiful

a city scape at dusk

this body burns up before it notices the consequences

therefore

i though i could only love strangers

because i never considered myself a stranger

but the sun has managed to bleach this body clear

and i can see myself in it

sometimes i feel like a bath tub

sometimes i forget that

i can still drown in the shallows

if i forget that

remind me

this is your body my body our body

tied together through imagery

do we exist as more then descriptions

we speak about the earth like i

speak about my body

in third person

a stranger

In our arms

 

i write myself in third person

because it is a survival mechanism

we write nature in third person

because we don’t want to admit the destruction of words

language is a living breathing organism

and my voice is an entire ecosystem

in which no one ever dies

 

i wake up

and i cant quite tell where my body ends and yours starts

we pretend as if we are separate from you - the ground beneath our feet

but what if i told you

you are the earth

we know

history books are the biggest white lies

why does no one question dictionaries

we repress all other meanings of a word

to convey the one message we wish to tell

i think i am in love not with strangers; because that includes too much of myself

not shadows; because i may slip into one

not metaphors; because our country is built upon their bones

i am in love with

what i can tell you

and what that will make you believe

am i still talking in third person?

or am i asking the earth not to become another eulogy?

just another burning cliche

but maybe we find comfort in the repetitive nature of nature

of humans

of language

for no one has ever held us

the way words do

About the author:

My work is primarily socially, politically and philosophically conscious. I believe in the power of art as a means of positive change and progress, that art is about finding the perfect balance when it comes to exploring and exposing political and social issues. Making the concepts understandable yet critical and not turning them into digestible forms (like the media tends to do) that are over simplified to the point of falsehood or misinformation. Because we need political art to help question the frameworks and consciousness that we have been socialized and internalized. 

To learn more about the author / artist, please follow @wylynko.

Cover imagery from @wylynko.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Bengal: An identity

Bengal: An identity

a poem by Alolika A. Dutta

Naked children playing in the rain, young women chattering away in the bustling bazaars of an idle city, lonely men at the bus stop with pressed shirts neatly tucked into plain gray trousers with a Woodland Brown leather belt across their narrow waists and a piece of classic literature in their hand, poets, philosophers, and madmen lost in the lanes with a beige Jhola on their shoulder and a cigarette between the thumb and the index finger, sun-coloured Ambassador taxis with frowning old men at the helm and a playful arm lolling outside the driver's window, hand-pulled rickshaws carried by contemporary remnants of the British Raj in wrinkled sky-coloured dhotis, loose shirts, and ragged shawls,

Neighbourhoods with sandalwood women in white cotton sarees, and political opinions assertively placed on the breakfast table alongside a copy of the local newspaper and a cup of light-tinted milk tea under the arching shadows of colonial architecture assembled from Rajasthani white marble and starved lives, songs of slavery and chants of the free that find a place of burial on the reddened lips of chirpy housewives who sing away their monotony, colourful walls with posters of a non-conformist reformer who traded blood for liberty, rows of bookstores with novels and textbooks stacked outside, and a call for revolution that echoes through the walls and pillars of a city painted in propaganda, in political limericks, caricatures, and satirical literature that mock at the obedient children of the government,

 

In Bengal, even politics fears literature when radicalism rises to the skies as red-coloured flags with a white hammer and sickle in the middle, hoisted on bamboo sticks by ordinary men who robbed ordinary men,

 

In Bengal, even politics fears art, because when the musicians, the rationalists, the artists, the writers call for rebellion, the law stands void.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Alolika Dutta is an 18-year-old author, poet, and spoken word artist based in Bombay, India. To learn more and read additional works, please visit medium.com/@alolikadutta_.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

My Arms Turn Into Rivers

My Arms

a poem by Nadine Klassen

Resurfaced Monument, 2013. Artist:  Jovan Karlo Villalba . Oil on stainless steel, $3500

Resurfaced Monument, 2013. Artist: Jovan Karlo Villalba. Oil on stainless steel, $3500

my arms turn into rivers

salmon swimming upstream

meaning

blood flows back into the wound

meaning

you know where you came from

when you left here

 

maybe it's just a longing

to hold you for a hundredth time before

you swim away and I count

one hundred and one

gone

look how many fingers my hands have grown

look how I try to make room for more

one hundred and one

two

three

you come back to teach me everything about leaving

leave leaving left always

left

guessing which colour your tongue

would turn next

but it was always colours of autumn

there were always leaves

falling out of your mouth

in the middle of summer

leave leaving left

one hundred and four fingers

I find myself in a photograph

my brother took of me one summer in Spain

the week before I moved out of my parents'

house in a cab

one bag, a one-year-old dog

and only ten fingers

on my river arms

and the salmon just spawning

 

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Nadine Klassen is a 26 year-old emerging writer, born and currently living in Germany. Her poem “I, the Uproar” was published in the third issue of Persephone's Daughters.

Her work has also been published in the Ink Spills Anthology by @Yourheartbeatsstrong. She otherwise publishes her work on social media as @Emma.willows.writing.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Trading a Soul

Trading a Soul

a poem by Pasithea Chan

StradiVeritas, 2018. Artist:  Shawn Storer . Painted violin, $999

StradiVeritas, 2018. Artist: Shawn Storer. Painted violin, $999

When black flows into white
and gold shimmers in red;
Love is inked in bold
on red tips of a rose that rose
to kiss dawn's paws.

When the night unfolds
to undress stars with a caress;
Love conquers cares
Like a rose growing among thorns.

The world maybe black
And life maybe white
But my heart's red tips
bare their backs to cares
To kiss dew drops on your lips
And sleep on your eyes' shores.

The night is my friend
Together we bathe in stars
And bear longing's scars.
For a love brighter than the stars.

Home is in your arms.
And warmth is in your laughs
Right where peace lost its charms.
And logic laid down its arms.

My lines may be old
But your heart is mine to hold
And that's all the gold
My soul requires to be sold.

About the author:

Pasithea is a budding Lebanese Filipino impressionist who enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy and psychology. She writes in various styles but prefers pieces that have double meanings to allow a reader to delve deeper into her works.

To learn more, please visit ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Twisted Veins

Twisted Veins

a poem by Adnan Shafi

 

Peach, 2018. Artist:  Megan Marunowski , Photo Collage, 8 x 8 inches, $100

Peach, 2018. Artist: Megan Marunowski, Photo Collage, 8 x 8 inches, $100

At times,

Like deep twisted

veins inside me get

stuck in some hassle.

And in the body,

Many serpentine

storms with no mercy

are impelling in them.

 

Heart and soul, begging

for forbearance to have

consolation for the time

being;

They have cut my veins

to pass blood to color

my skin red,

Squeezed my bits

Of the body,

snatched my youth.

 

Who can sew my veins?

Who can stop my blood

from oozing out?

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Young Adnan Shafi, (23) was born and brought up in a middle class educated Bhat family, which belongs to Chandrigam in Tral area of Kashmir valley. He is a poet, writer, columnist , translator, short story writer  and reviewer. 

His poetry book "TEARS FALL IN MY HEART'  depicts sorrows and vicissitudes of life. There are various hues in his poems ranging from love to loneliness and despair. Besides, his poetry is replete with simplicity of thought and language. Some of the poems are autobiographical in nature which relate to his own life’s vows.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Love in Silence

Love in Silence

a poem by Sweta Kumari

 

The Songs We Play, 2018. Artist:  Sarah Miller . Digital Painting Canvas Print (Limited), 22 x 34, $499

The Songs We Play, 2018. Artist: Sarah Miller. Digital Painting Canvas Print (Limited), 22 x 34, $499

Standing behind her back

Observing staring being insane

Her lovely smile and her curly hair

The countenance still I glare

For she didn’t notice I am there

And lost myself somewhere

As if, I am no more her share

And smoking my feelings with dare

Nevertheless, I am lost

In her thought, and care

In a hope of her one glance

If she gives that by chance.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Sweta Kumari (Gold Medalist, M.A.), a research scholar at Dept. of English, Magadh University, Bodh-Gaya, contributed poems, short stories and research papers in reputed national and international anthologies and journals. She presented scholarly papers in national and international Conferences and participated actively in workshops. Her area of interest is  Feminist Film Studies and Post-colonial Studies.

To learn more or read more from the author, please visit her Facebook HERE, as well as Instagram @sweta5259.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Her Voice

Her Voice

a poem by Abraham McDaniel

Her voice is like listening to a seashell I watched the boats come into the harbor which sooth my restlessness the winds of mystery pick up as eyes meet and her  is of sustenance that open portals that create a state of comfort and ease making a canopy that smells of organic matter to view the serendipitous dawns on fates horizons

Her eyes sparkle like hummingbirds’ wings glimmering in the summer sun her awareness creates streams of interconnection that murmur stories of her beautiful mystery in a brief moment of a glance filled with vitality sweeping away illusions from reality so there are levels of fertility for amazing-ness to unfold and grow

Looking into her crystalline eyes filled with fates horizons he feels a sense of peace and comfort like returning home after a long journey relief like putting his sore feet into a rivers cool element she has a music in her depths like rapids filled with effortless graceful power whose sound is soothing and helps him sleep

Her eyes are opal skies her lips are the dark pigment of pomegranate jewels there is lightning in her essence and thunder in her soul creating a perfect storm opening portals where minds connect like mycellium threads discovering rhythms that beat in unison echoing off canyon walls in labyrinths of this painted desert finding an Oasis of heightened senses so seeds will sprout

About the author:

Abraham McDaniel was born and raised in the Sacramento, CA area. He attended a Waldorf Elementary School and then a Quaker high school. After high school, he traveled working on organic farms and exploring. Now he lives in his favorite place, spending time doing what he loves to do.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

The Color of Time

The Color of Time

a poem by Onigah, Augustine Odido

Dead Hive, 2016. Ginger Cochran, Photography

Dead Hive, 2016. Ginger Cochran, Photography

I am sitting on the street between my soul and my heart, and the mind of my being is smiling at the spirit of my essence and kissing the colour of time. The blue sky looked as though it was at war with the sea and my spirit wandered upon that moment officiating in fairness the battle between these ancient friends . Their friendship had gone sour. The sky now feels that the sea owes her, and the sea feels likewise. Their romance now brings forth their blues. The sky has vowed not to bring down water from its house, and the sea has vowed not to send water to the sky as well. Their battle is not detrimental to any of them. The sky won't fall if the sea doesn't send water to it. The sea won't dry up if the sky refuses to send down rain, but my soul is in disarray. My spirit is begging for these two lovers to come back to the friendship that there had. My spirit is reclusive, lost with all forms of imaginations, because their loving friendship was my light. The season is no longer green, nature is now blue. Animals and humans are set on war because the sea and the sky has refused to love themselves again.   

In all of these nature upset, my soul sees only the colour, indigo. Indigo possessed my soul and saw beyond my body, it tells more of the hate that the world now calls love. Indigo tells me of royalty and sadness. It went through the tales of Romeo and his Juliet, and the gory moments that described their time. Indigo has come to remarry the sea and sky, telling them that blue is not enough. The sea must not only think of it sufficience, but  the lack of the blossoming flowers  that withers when it is in mutiny with the sky. Indigo, transcends the sky to meet the sun and moon, to tell them how not to shine their lights.  

My body is now weak, because of the colour of the room. My eyes couldn't trust the colour of the words I heard taking flight through my window. The King has deflowered the sixteen year old maiden in regal colours. Her eyes were out of her body, raining tears of curses to the moments she was taken from her conventional pride. She tells her ordeal to her father, and he reacts with no compassion toward his daughter, all he could think of is the purple robe he is to wear should his daughter take in. I am crippled to the dust of my thought, as green takes up life again. The goats now grin to the field hugging each other but with suspicion. The fear of scarcity has made them enemies even in plenty. I am giving up the voice of my conscience to the green papers that demands I steal the hopes of everyone in my district. Indigo, then is the only voice of reason that embraces the primitivity of my soul.

Indigo is the colour of time. Indigo sits between my eyes and sees the beginnings of my ends. Indigo.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Onigah, Augustine Odido is a young Nigerian student of Philosophy in the University of Calabar, Calabar. “I am a lover of all that has life and has had life.” - Onigah

To read more work by the author, please visit onigahtalking.blogspot.com.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.

Throwing Up

Throwing Up

a poem by Deema Mahmood

 

I'm throwing up,

I Don't Have Time to Feel Like This, 2018. Artist:  Emily Cavender . Graphic marker, 9 x 12 inches, $75

I Don't Have Time to Feel Like This, 2018. Artist: Emily Cavender. Graphic marker, 9 x 12 inches, $75

Yes throwing up!

I curse the genes that bound me to the human race

And handed me over to this chaos

===

I wish I were a mangy or a Shirazi cat,

A mad or a well-bred dog.

I don’t care,

I wish I were a little bird,

Or a fly teeming with microbes from dumpsites,

Endowed with a pair of wings

To go far away and pull my soul

Out of this stinking human neurotic pit

===

Oh...

I’m searching for an exit.

I’m suffocating and floating in nausea.

Thick foam is choking me and no way to stop that!

 

Translated by Norddine Zouitni

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Deema Mahmoud is an Egyptian poet, born in 1972. She holds a Bachelor degree in Computer Sciences and Statistics, 1993. She‘s held the position of Professor assistant for many years in the departments of Computer sciences, Mathematics and Statistics in both the College of Education and the College of Health Sciences in Abha, Saudi Arabia.

Her publication include Braids of Spirit (Poetry), Dar Al-Adham, Cairo, 2015; I Pick Quarrels with the Horizon over a Violin (Poetry), Dar Al Ain, Cairo, 2017; and a third book of poetry in progress. Many of her poems have been translated into English, French, Spanish and Portuguese and published in several anthologies in those languages. She has participated in many poetry and cultural events inside and outside of Egypt.


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.


Sepulchre

Sepulchre

a poem by Eslam Dabank

Hands, 2018. Artist:  Marissa Kucharek . 35mm Photo Print, 8 x 10, $15

Hands, 2018. Artist: Marissa Kucharek. 35mm Photo Print, 8 x 10, $15

Unpolished,
Unfinished,
Yet, unabolished,
Like a draft, we are,
Unfurnished.

Written with the hands of those we put higher,
Whom put us lower, without calling the sire,
And throw our futures, into their-made acrid fire.

Mired in a world of fictional elite,
Writing our destiny on the margins of the sheet,
Neglecting the sound of horrified feet,
And reserving them, to death, a seat.

We fought along this crowded path,
We derived our power from gained wrath;
From the lies they all confidently claim,
From the truth they from, try to refrain,
Our dreams are nothing but a bruise
Their cracks, to build lives, we shall use.

It's comical to see the world diverge,
At the end of all the roads,
we'll only find a lonely dirge,
A burnt carpet, a grilled arm,
and endless wreckage;
Left behind the stigma of their greed,
for wars,
Scores matter. Long live the scores.

Love and remorse have been exhausted,
Polar opposites float along the shatters of wounded souls,
On the recklessness and rationality, the abyss.

Each colourless emotion soon gravitates,
Sadness will prevail while happiness rotates,
Around endless deaths, and mourns.
with a void no one can erase,
While emotions evolve toward dissolution,
each beating heart shall find a lie,
To be its own solution.

Love and remorse rot in vain,
We are, the undesired sacrifice of Cain,
Memories of the past burn within us all,
The delicate flower hovering along zephyrs,
Fragrant and enriched by the snow's kiss,
Was the second to, for mayday, call.
Man now lives in the flames of pain,
Love and remorse were the first to fall.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Eslam Dabank, a Palestinian Ukrainian artist, poet and songwriter. 19 years old. Was born in Sumy, Ukraine, but currently living in Bethlehem, Palestine, and also a student at Bethlehem University. Eslam is a businessman, a writer, a poet, an artist and an illustrator. A first-place winner of several poetry contests, has a locally-well-known brand under his name, and is co-founder of Jabra Group in BU. He speaks four languages: Arabic, English, Russian and French. 

"I started my journey of literature at the age of 15. I wrote in Arabic at first, then took a turn to English. I would describe my writing style as dark, mysterious and decently-mannered. I like to turn messiness into perfection and "written art" - as I usually call it." - the author

To learn more about the author, please visit www.facebook.com/EslamDabank

www.instagram.com/eslam_dabank


If you are an artist or author and are interested in applying for a chance to be featured in Envision Arts Magazine, please email envisionartshow@gmail.com, or visit HERE for application details.