Prose

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.

A Brand New Life

A Brand New Life

a poem by Liesbeth Gregory
     

Untitled, 2018. Artist: Ginger Cochran. Photograph, NFS

Untitled, 2018. Artist: Ginger Cochran. Photograph, NFS

A new beginning for everyone
its time now don't you think
The pain and the sorrow are put away
for here is a brand new day
The flowers are blooming the smell is so sweet
we can walk around on our bare feet
It had been too long before that we could do that
the winter had been way to long
So now that is was gone and the spring was here
they all were so happy now
The sang and they danced the day  away
it had been so short they said
But tomorrow would come and then we start it all again
It will be quite a brand new day
We knew it would be here to stay
So now we take this good time and thrive
in this so brand new life.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

My name is Liesbeth Gregory. I came to the USA in 1986. I thought the people to be very nice and always helpful if I said a word wrong they corrected me which I like and appreciated very much. I been writing since 1989 because I felt so bad; I was homesick for the Netherlands where all my family live. I love it here now and would not be want to live anywhere else; this is my country now .


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.

These Greedy Corrupts

These Greedy Corrupts

a poem by Neha Jain

These greedy corrupts
Are the biggest disease that erupts
Parents gave them good education
They made their pride a hesitation
Black money is kept in save heaven
Citizens are made to sleep in starvation
Promises are made just to take vote
At the end chair and money is all they got
These greedy corrupts
Are the biggest disease that erupts

To them Motherland doesn't evolve
Corruption is all for inner resolve
Going foreign to enjoy vacation
Just to have inner satisfaction
Will remember people during election
Will sing national anthem on every action

Clenching citizen's money
Claiming self to be trustworthy
Is really so funny
singing clean India taking mop
Is just their false ray of hope
These greedy corrupts
Are the biggest disease that erupts

Fault is not their but ours
Under table bribe is building our towers
We have made them rich beggars
These greedy corrupts
Are the biggest disease that erupts

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Neha Jain is an aspiring poet living in Rajasthan India. Her subject genre’s include politics and current issues. You may follow her blog as well as her Facebook page at www.facebook.com/neharshitjain.


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.

Crow In The Night

Two Poems

by Jeremy Austin Grace

Fôret Noire, 2018. Artist:  Dominic Desmeules . Digital photography + Photoshop, printed on fine art paper, 8 x 10 inches, $250

Fôret Noire, 2018. Artist: Dominic Desmeules. Digital photography + Photoshop, printed on fine art paper, 8 x 10 inches, $250

For the Crow in The Night,

Is Distant in The Fog.

Oh But A Night,

Oh But A Night.

The Bright Light Shines On,

Through the Fog.

Through the Fog No Man Shall Stand,

No Man No Man.

When the Fog Settles,

No Man Shall Stand.

Only God.

Life is what you make it isn't it?

It is still what you make it.

We believe that we can still do anything.

Don't we still believe.

Hope is what we cling to most.

But Time Wins in the End.

Time catches us all in the End.

Doesn't it?

Time is all that win isn't it.

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.

Springtime Now

Springtime Now

a poem by Daniel Miltz

Lean Into the Light - Dogwood, 2018. Artist:  Stephanie Lawhorn . Acrylic on Canvas, 20 x 20 inches, $600

Lean Into the Light - Dogwood, 2018. Artist: Stephanie Lawhorn. Acrylic on Canvas, 20 x 20 inches, $600

Cold Winter dances away happily

Singing softly in gaiety

To the heavens jubilation

Life creates with resolution

The spring-time moon now in harmony

Shines with golden symphony

Reflecting in orange pale ivory

Nature rests in splendor bedrocks

While birds race in flocks

Stars twinkle through the night sky

As sunrise awakens across, the horizon eye

About the author:

Daniel Miltz was born in Michigan and now comfortably retired, resides in Hampstead, NH.  Devoted 40 years to an Engineering profession; now contributing value to society through his writing as a freelancer Writer & Poet. Academically, Daniel is a ‘Mechanical Design Engineering’ degrees holder from Detroit Engineering Technical Institute & Lawrence Technological University. In his engineering career, he triumphed in the Aerospace Industry, and many Government Aerospace military programs. Now these days, he is writing a fiction novel, based on his past experiences. He has won over 75+ accolade awards from numerous Poetry Forums and has been in sixteen anthologies with two published books to date.. As a young aspiring writer, he was fascinated and guided by the spontaneous prose and poetry written by the writers of the 'beat generation.' Writing poetry has been Daniel’s passion since his early bohemian days living in California.


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.

Death of a Poet

The Death of a Poet

a poem by Deema Mahmood

 

Scent of Broq-pa, 2018.  Artist: Ziesook You . Photography, 51.76 cm, $1500

Scent of Broq-pa, 2018. Artist: Ziesook You. Photography, 51.76 cm, $1500

I heard that a close-by poet crouched inside the mouth of death

I don’t know him

But the squeaking that smacked my nerve ends

Alerted me to the void around

Perhaps because death sensors in my imagination gleaming in all directions showed no mercy.

They were loading children, teenagers,beautiful women,

Paupers, vendors, old people, lovers, and gays for free

And dumping them into junk yards full of skulls, epitaphs, and skeletons

While cutting white surrender flags into shrouds, and silly coffins

*

A poet dies

That means the curve of the street corner will be sharper

That bullshit will pour out of the belly of indifference

That more holes and garbage will accumulate in the back street

That pine and oak trees will bend

That the executioner will increase the number of guillotines getting ready for the massacre

 *

When the poet dies the wall on which jasmine sleeps

will fall

The maysaloon will wither, doves will cry

Seas will pour into rivers

Vine tree will yield raisins

And young maidens will awaken from love dreams

*

The poet overflows with love that exceeds life

Life can’t suffer him, so it mutilates itself.

A little while in the coffin,

And he’ll seep into the eye of the sun

After hiding it from the eye of death

And hiding death from death itself.

He’ll gather its light into balls that he’ll roll over the earth

So that others dance with butterflies on their way to death!

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.

Hit Me

Hit Me

a poem by Eslam Dabank

 

Something in the Way, 2018.  Artist: GJ Gillespie . Mixed media collage, 24 x 18 inches

Something in the Way, 2018. Artist: GJ Gillespie. Mixed media collage, 24 x 18 inches

Hit me with the knives you sharpened with your rage,
Hit me with the words you wished you released out of the cage,
Hit me with the floods coming out of your eyes, the undesirable wreckage,
Hit me with the revenge you composed, to stay for your soul, a heritage,
Hit me with the dreams you wrote on that vintage page,
Hit me with the memories you drowned down the rivage.

Hit me with the passion I made you fantasize,
Hit me with the pain you can't verbalize,
Hit me with the struggle I gave as an advice,
Hit me with the sorrows that won't let you rise,
Hit me with the filth unleashed of my vice,
Hit me with the agony I'd enjoy to poetise,
Hit me with the sadness you should idolize,
Hit me with the deception that I got to, on you, idealize.

Hit me with the thoughts you ignited in your head,
Hit me with the lies I loved you with instead,
Hit me with the cries that to your end, have led.
Hit me with the words I never dared to let being said.
Hit me with the regret that you'll never get,
Hit me with the anger, you, because of me, have met.
Hit me with the ages of misery, I've for you set.

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. 

“I started my journey of literature when I was 15. I wrote simple songs in a messy way, but my writings improved with time, and got better.” – the author

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.

Two Gushes of Passion

Two Gushes of Passion

the poetry of Lateef Shareef Dhmayd

Traditions, 2013.  Artist: Igor Zusev . Photograph, 11 x 14 inches, $200

Traditions, 2013. Artist: Igor Zusev. Photograph, 11 x 14 inches, $200

1

I'm Sinbad

I'll come to take you on my raft

To the land of magic and diamonds,

my land, where you'll reign

as the sole queen

I'll pay you my homage and attribute

And stand by thee

To fan you with my feather fan

and wipe every drop of sweat

that may run on your soft rosy cheeks

and before you retire to bed

I'll claim your delicious lips

with a hot and ever felt kiss.

2

What can I say of you? 

You are the words and the pen? 

You are the rose in its maximum bloom. 

Not only one Adam if you wink is fallen. 

Elysium is total alienation

if you are banished from 

How many a racer has his life lost 

just to have you by him been touched 

you are not only a blissful abode 

You are the dream and it’s becoming true.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

In a small town, slumbering on the shoulder of Garaf River, which Bertram Thomas, the British political officer, once described as the bride of Garaf for being beautiful and having a nice weather, and for being the granary of Mesopotamia altogether, Lateef Shareef Dhmayd, an Iraqi poet, was born and grown. He learned there, then, moved to Baghdad, the capital of Iraq, where he obtained his primary degree in translation. He, like fellow citizens, loved poetry and started writing it when he was a student of Shatra high school. He was encouraged and appraised by his teachers. He has two poetry collections, not yet published. He has a lot of poems published on different poetry sites. He writes both in Arabic and English. He also translated a lot of poems by great Arab poets.   


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My Handbag

My Handbag

a poem by Shurouk Hammoud

 

Everyday (2018)  Artist: Clara Quintela . Embroidery, 4 m x 3 m - Exhibition at Popup Gallery

Everyday (2018) Artist: Clara Quintela. Embroidery, 4 m x 3 m - Exhibition at Popup Gallery

My handbag is full of caution

Buttons of all sizes

For sudden holes

Needle and black threads

To sew wounds of heart and clothing as well

Empty sanitary bags for vomiting cases that occur to those who live here nowadays

Wet wipes to wipe make up' shredders.

My handbag is full of futility

Polisher for my shoes those expired by long roads

A mobile phone that is full of people 'names I cannot any longer remember

My poor quality glasses

My optometrist prescribed

On the pretext that I do not see beyond my nose

Dry cigarettes and a lighter that staggers genetically

Dried flowers and poems whose papers did not accommodate

Hankies those got tired of farewells

And you ask me why does my back hurt?

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

 Shurouk Hammod "born in 1982 ", a Syrian poetess, literary translator, BA of arts graduate and a master degree graduate of text translation, Damascus University. She has three published poetry collections in Arabic language and two published poetry collection in English titled: (the night papers),(Blind time), in addition; excerpts of her poetry that have been published in many poetry anthologies in France, Serbia, Netherlands and India. She is a member of Palestinian writers and journalists union and honorary member at NAJI Naaman international library of honorary culture. She is an award winner of many local and international poetry awards, to include: Charles Baudelaire first prize for poetry creativity, 2018; Sylvia Plath medal for writing poetry 2017; Jack Kerouac poetry merit award 2016; Arthur Rimbaud merit diploma for writing poetry, 2015; Nazik al Malieka literary prize for writing poetry 2012; Alexandria public library prize for writing poetry 2012; and Naji Namman international literary prize for writing poetry 2014. She has been appointed as ambassador of the word by the Spanish Foundation Cesar Egido Serrano, in 2016. Her poetry has been translated into French, Finnish, Spanish, Bengali, Mandarin, German, Romanian, Italian and English. Email: shurouk.hammoud82@gmail.com


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Based On a True Story

Based on a True Story

 

Sleepers, 2013. Artist: Edgar Invoker. Acrylic on polyvinylchloride, 50 x 50 cm, $300.   @edgarinvoker

Sleepers, 2013. Artist: Edgar Invoker. Acrylic on polyvinylchloride, 50 x 50 cm, $300.

@edgarinvoker

When I was 16 I wrote you love notes and poems.

Late at night I sat by noisy creeks.

I loved the sound of the rushing waters.

I wrote you that I couldn’t wait to meet you,

And I knew you were waiting for me too.

I lamented about worshiping the ground you walked on.

I wrote you about the depths of my soul,

And how I longed for you to discover me.

I wrote you that I would never let anyone but you in.

I wrote you that I couldn’t wait to love you,

And to be loved by you.

I wrote down all my secrets for you,

And my tears of loneliness would fall freely on the pages.

When I was done writing you, I would fold the paper in half,

give it a kiss, and I would leave it under a rock there by the creek.

I would walk away knowing someday I would meet you.

I would look into the starry night and I knew somewhere you were too.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Kelly A. Berry currently resides in Chicago, IL with her tuxedo cat Baby. Coming out of a very tumultuous childhood she always found herself in the middle of meaningful friendships with artists, but would never dare to give herself the honor of calling herself an artist. Everyone around her was just so much better than her. Although she was writing poetry and short stories from the time she learned cursive in school, it wasn't until she took a pottery class in 2008 that she was able to accept herself for who she is. The class allowed her the freedom to express herself truly, to let loose those bottled up ideas and emotions, and now Kelly A. Berry can say with confidence that she is an artist. 


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Creation

Creation

a poem by Anthony Andrea

Untitled II, 2019. Artist: Ginger Cochran, Mobile photograph, iPhone 6+

Untitled II, 2019. Artist: Ginger Cochran, Mobile photograph, iPhone 6+

creation exists

brute fact

it’s possibility

is uncreated

brute fact

there exists

potential

namely

that which is uncreated

brute fact

creation is in existence

existence is real manifest and palpable in experience

brute fact

reality is definite, supervening permanent and final

and manifesting all properties, qualities attributes

potentialities possibilities probabilities domains

and being in existence

existence is real

brute fact

and prevailing

and whereupon

and inevitably

and therefore

and hence

nothing is not possible

brute fact

nothing is not possible now

take it or leave it.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

[Anthony Andrea is] a 57 year old care worker and has been writing since 2018.

“I am not a writer. I mean I do not wish to ever feel obliged to say anything. I am not a professional anything. The professional refers to a higher human authority. I am an Amateur. The Amateur refers directly to the Divine. I have no biography - such a thing is antithetical to my natural inclinations since all Bio's are inevitably fictional. I have always loved words.” - the author


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Man, With a Gun

Man, with a gun

micro story by Ginger Cochran

A few years ago, I was leaving my neighborhood one day.
I came to a stop at a crosswalk.
In the short distance, a gentleman on a bike came approaching the walk.
He then stopped right in front of my car, put his hand to his head in the shape of a gun and playfully blew his brains out.
He then got on his bike and continued on.
I still think about it from time to time.

True story.

Photo source: the author

Photo source: the author

About the author:

Ginger Cochran is an abstract painter and fiber sculptor, as well as emerging poet, residing in Denton Texas. She is currently working on her first poetry collection, Doorways, to be published in 2019. To see more of her prose, visit Self Labeled.


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