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Poetry Corner 2

An Elegy for Silent Letters

Logically, if a letter’s in a word Succumbing to silence isn’t an option. Obscene elisions should never occur Edges or middle, stressed or soft Love of aspiration should be taught. Champagne poured for enunciation. Ghost letters, however, abound. Business coddles brevity. Knives are taken to sounds. Folk refuse stutter steps. Damn it all, let’s be precise.

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By Ed Ahern. Ed resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over three hundred stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works on the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors.

Poetry

Poetry will save my ass beyond the freckles of times and its indecorous arrogance will colour the endless prairies of every fuck-up I buried along concealed locations like a dog leaving its bone to reinstate its love, whatever it’s left one day, some point, somehow

poetry will disseminate tears inaugurating new oceans of fight roaring waves sounding like strings cuddling like a mother at the edge of her cliff at the beginning of life

it will bite the heaven out of me in a butterfly-like kiss I won’t even try, to resist

By Aldo Quagliotti. Aldo is an italian poet living in London, UK. He’s the author of Japanese Tosa (London Poetry Books) and Confessions Of A Pregnant Man (AllienBuddha Press). His poems have been rewarded in Italy, Brazil, USA, Canada, Ireland and in the UK. He has been included in many anthologies, several webzines and magazines have also published his work. In October 2020, he was chosen to represent the Poetry Corner at the London Chelsea + Kensington Art Week.

Font

I never type in Arial, whose letters traded graceful curves for lines unsexed, calligraphy caught in the standard fetters of thin-lipped, snobby anorexic text.

I never knew how Ariel could gaze upon the man who prospered by her chains, sans-seraphed but with hopeful heart ablaze, she dreamed of staying trapped despite the pain.

I never could be aerial, bereft of wings and fins, a loss we cannot mend and cannot fight. Such evolutionary theft will cost us all our serifs in the end.

To protest the truth of this foul omen all I do is type, in Times New Roman.

By Sarah Bricault. Sarah has a PhD in neurobiology and currently works as a postdoc in that field. Her fascination with the mind and how it processes information often finds itself in her poetry, as do themes related to mental health. Sarah’s work can be found in Brown Bag Online, Beyond Words, Serotonin Poetry, High Shelf Press, and elsewhere. For more information on Sarah, check out SarahBricault.com.

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