M
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L E Magazine’s 1
2014 Poetry Competition Winners’ Anthology
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Poems Š Contributors Published by: Miracle e-zine http://miracleezine.wix.com/miracle-e-zine
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Introduction This anthology is a publication by Miracle Magazine following the winners of its 2014 Poetry competition. The competition was held between February and June and the level of this contest was mesmerizing! The theme for this year’s contest was “Masks” and we were glad to see how different poets interpreted and spun around the loose theme. Poets from all around the world and of all ages took part and made the competition much more interesting. The winners of this contest truly deserve and have been chosen after days of discussions, disapprovals and caffeinefilled nights by the Miracle team. We hope you enjoy reading the anthology!
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Table of
Curiosities:
Vinita Agrawal – Anatomy of a mask Andres Vaamonde – A Mohawk Peter Grave Roberts – Purple Flower Michael Dench – Finishing someone else’s story Melissa June – Dissection of the imperfect Cheryl A. Van Beek – Masquerade Lisa Wooley – Masquerade Daniella Cugini – To the last Fred Mcllmoyle – Baglady’s Shadow Catherine Lucie – The skin suit Rakaya Fetuga – New Skin Alwyn Marriage – Veiled Caleb Young – Man behind the mask Jerrold Yam - Animal Shallet Joseph – Drawer half open Rakaya Fetuga – New Skin Ho Cheung LEE ( Peter) – Nine years a teacher
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The silence that comes after the last full stop Of a story, someone else’s, and I feel The mask drop. I want to fill that silence with something, Not to be so exposed, Though I ache with newness. So I pace my flat and I look at the remote, Not ready for that, not yet, Not at all. Even the kettle’s whistle is too much for now, A new mask of hot water, perhaps coffee. And song fills my head, the potential of music, More masks. I’m relieved of one that I only begin to understand At the end, a satisfying final thrust. I should bask, ruddy cheeked in this in-between stage Before my own mask begins to mistake me once more To the world, To myself. It’s delicious but hard. I want more. I need a disguise but the real one.
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Hijab If I veiled would you know me or pass me unsuspecting in a crowd? Chador Will you see below the colour of my skin: the shape of nose, or curve that catches smiles born in my eyes? Burka A fleeting image of a woman, shrouded, scuttling out of the side of a television screen. In the foreground men, burning books burning flags, burning with rage. Niqab A London street, miles of cultural alienation from the place called home. I smile at you and in return receive a miracle of veiled communication.
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Ripping off my unappealing skin the agonising pigment of my complexion to release the pain held deep within under the flesh of a dysphoric reflection Torn veins peacefully rest at my heels as I drain the blood from my face until what once was, forever conceals the vision of me I couldn't embrace So I chisel away at the exposed bone obliterating the imperfect structure of me as mangled pieces are viciously thrown faraway from where the eyes can see Feeling serene as my unconscious rage dies as I covered the remains of my dissection looked into the mirror through porcelain eyes as I held to my face a mask of perfection.
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it’s what I see the concrete on fire the streets of addiction the holes in the colon... an ocean of glass and volcanic, and manic the power depression impression of mine; held back by broken bones and wrenched neck as I stop and stoop to pick and hand her one small purple flower -my first baby daughter. while leaning against it to keep it behind me so she doesn't see. pgr(3/29/14)
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In this theater, day and night swap masks like comedy and tragedy. Night pretends to be unending, then light peers around its dark corners, sears the cool hush. Day, a masquerade ball of hot white fire opens its eye, lifts its head above the horizon stretches, wraps its rays around the edges to hide night like a present but the stars and the past are with us always though their twinkle is obscured by the blinding mask of day.
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It’s not my fault I can’t sleep at night That every day is a fight to find a reason to be alive And you’re not right when you say I was born this way, because I wasn’t And it doesn’t matter how many times you tell me I can fly Because all I see is another way to die: falling when my wings fail me. You see, the behaviorists had it right when they said we were born neutral We were the sun’s pupils, and his light gave us hope And maybe you were moved to a slope in the desert, spending too much time in the light But I was planted in the dark of a nightmare I watched my brother murder everyone in my family Including me. And yes it was a dream, but that doesn’t make it any less of a memory. Being afraid in every way does some things you can’t see, but I feel them. Maybe I was born to stem into a rose, but the gardener said, “Not today.” I thought the easiest way to escape things was to close my eyes To throw on another disguise and avoid the lies I’d have to tell While inside I was yelling at myself, wishing something would end this miserable hell That we call life But above all, avoiding the world was the game I played It feels like a lame excuse when I say “I’m depressed”, so I don’t And you won’t know I want to die every day when you see me smile Or how every inch seems a mile when I fight for my life each morning like a murder trial. But once in a while I get up and find courage to face the world And maybe this courage comes from a shirt with a lion on the front But sailors used Orion to find their way, so why can’t I use a shirt To shrug off the dirty looks of people who don’t understand me? What I’ve discovered is this: the difference in the seed isn’t what makes My life different than yours Because we all share the human seed The reason we bleed differently from one another is because we were planted In different gardens when we were discovered.
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First, trails of kohl like a raven’s errant wing lacing the upper lid, then smatterings of amber, hazel, mussel-bronze opening the eye’s film noir, salt grains washed up on a cheek’s satin beach. My mother is helping my sister with her makeup—look up, look away—and her fourth finger, freed for a moment from its belt of silver, scrawls the finishing touches, nature’s gown pressed to the lips like petals of fire. My mother’s heart races for no good reason; she believes her life incised, picked clean and hollowed like the hushed valour of a photograph, her unguent life-force distilled, poured down the chalice of her daughter’s face with each wayward stroke. An hour before dinner, dishes brewing in their own enclosures, the blush of moon like a face averting the world, she feels her womb calling out; this is her plea, parched echo of a tomb, last scraps of colour dragged across the room.
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I have never understood this maiden in broken mirrors, thousand images , baits bolted in crimson threads. A huge black makeup kit she unfurls, countless shades, paints ,Papier-mâchÊ used and blend into surreal infants, Spreads on whole dressing table like wood chips around casket. Bald brushes crowns fake agates in voids and ducts. Scales ,pencils and hypotenuse stretches across smile, tears, emotional clasps ,coffin maker's contentment . Thimble finger darns wounded dove in mortal roost. Adding planks to immortal bridges ,souls, aimless voyage. Jigsaw pieces lost, shapeless and torn. Flutters a tender butterfly on glass door. Fidget antennas, wobbling eyes on crawling feet, tail clenched with endless threads ,faints to infinity. At midnight ,eye lined radicals enroots into pillow, guilt unfolds, hurls semi decayed mask into drawer, with new resolutions ,amendments and shades. Tranquil air veils her soft flesh, a maternal pleasure, sand grains suspends in hourglass like , lotus floating on calm azure loch ankled with pearly mist. Next morning, she kisses an alluring smile on mirror and offs with newspaper strips dispersed on the floor
and the drawer half open and empty......
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The graveyards are behind her face Her lips sealed on the departed souls She traps their liquid memories inside her bones Sweeps all emotion from her face So that it looks like spotless temple courtyard. Slowly, inch by inch, the mask she wears Enters the retina of her eyes Settles in them like a stone in a pond Cold, lifeless, heavy. Pain talks only if you allow it to. She doesn't. But when she moves, when she speaks Her hands give her away.
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I awaken to a dome of light, fitted across my face. Clinical, hard-edged. Oxygen mask. An alien hand pulls at it. Accordions fire in the heady sea of breath escaping, irrevocable - out into the white My lungs and I, we sputter, we are bonded by inadequacy. Panic. I am encapsulated by sleep. --Spearmint lip balm. The aftertaste of something sour. Fears articulate themselves in finger-taps, in the rhythm of teeth. They are vacuum-packed into this dome. A sterilised forest of tiles, clean dead things live here. I can feel my mother, doused in worry; indulgent, rich worry. I imagine she's chased you out. --Hospital. Hospital. Funny, faraway word. A state of being. The stars are harsh, amplified by rippled window-glass. Fate is felt here. Doctors dance elaborately in the weave of tubes. Masked ball. I feign sleep while my mother prods, pokes, appraises. I feel fossilised. I look for you. --Canned yelling. You are behind the glass, gorgeous, streaming, fists clenched. The doctor has a wedding ring and a firm look. I know before I hear. Much is governed by blood. Rust has collated in these worn veins and they should have been yours. Little is governed by 'should.' You start to cry. --Soul sisters, they called us. We even look similar but you're too stubborn to lie. I dream of cancers, of hearts bunkering themselves in before the bombs come. Mine came years ago, a copper snow. Kick my heart out, I said, prove I'm real, prove it, prove it. You kissed me. Here, I feel translucent. Improbable. ---
--I have a week. At best. When they tell me I unlock my lungs, let them flounder
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Time softly lights this impeccable room, plays on my father's worried face. These weeks are a toybox for it; it elongates, shrinks, warps. I try texting at midnight, the letters fuzzy and refracted by the frame wresting suffocation from my lips. He sees, deletes with a furious serenity. --I have a week. At best. When they tell me I unlock my lungs, let them flounder in their own freedom. I ask for you. My father blames oxygen deprivation. Straight to the brain. Madness seeps through these seams, collates into something comforting that sleeps at the foot of the bed. Nothing is loud enough here. --Expanse of white. I know nothing. I feel everything. I can't remember the last song I will have heard. I can't think of last words. I am adrift in a sea of newspaper, of good jokes with misplaced punchlines. I am scared I am scared I am scared. I am not yet too old to be scared and that is the most frightening part of all. --'Partner' is an ugly term. It sounds like tennis, or chemistry. It sounds given up. --(Popcorn lip balm instead of spearmint. "I bribed the nurse." You. You are alight with crime, with scarlet. You have never looked more beautiful. The mask tightens, a possessive vice. I cannot hold you again. You sing, quietly, you sing about stars. I reach out, quietly, cradle our dying heart.) --In the morning, you are gone. The popcorn lingers. There is beauty here, now. Each inflection holds your honeyed eyes, your sugar-spun hair. All I do is look for you. They cannot accuse me of passivity, I will not die of it. I will die watching, alone. My lungs still hold that last refrain.
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False faces At every turn The urge to Rip them off And reveal the Ugly truth that hides Underneath. The music begins The dancers creating Poetry in motion They glide as if Flying, effortless. The glow of candlelight hides the presence of dark and miraculous things. Turn around flee the scene, Break the fake surrounding you. Where is the hero to save me from all your lies. The shield tarnished Blocks nothing. The only savior is the truth. His sword cuts into lies Thick as molasses Sinking into the depths; until only The mask floats
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Two brown carrier bags - that`s all she had!
One bore the remnants of yesterday’s dreams, The other a store of today’s necessities. I thought it sad, and watched a while. She turned and caught my eye. Trapped! I tried to smile - to comprehend What tortuous path had led her here. Where were those who should be near To ease her anguished years? She shuffled towards me, Tattered trainers, bandage bound. Grasped my hand in both of hers. Instinctively I stiffened, Then unwound and listened, Captured by her words. "Don`t grieve for what you think you see, This is just a shadow of the girl I used to be. Look into my eyes and see reflected there A joyful past that dulls the pain Through days of care"
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Its redness spoke to him, and he reached out to the gaping scruff of its neck, lifting it high as his child’s arms could reach. It was longer than him and heavier, arms hanging like hams. Its legs pooled on the floor so that the suit appeared seated but the angle was wrong; the knees bent outwards. He tried a flappy, jangling dance but his bones got in the way and he envied the suit, the way it flowed from his hands. The way it lazed. Putting it on was like climbing into a giant fruit its lining slippery like a fig’s insides. Its smell rose up to meet him, made his nostrils wet but still he wallowed in the suit fell about in it, filling out its chambers. After a time, the suit’s skin was his skin; it gobbled his toes, his legs, crept over his belly, his ribs, his heart, and grew with him. It was his scaffold, it coated the curve of his cheek
and inched upwards. Later, only his eyes looked out wide and white against the double blood, the only part of him that remembered the cut of the cool air.
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They pound, spread, churn This putrid paste In a cracked china bowl. What's in there? Spit, blood, prejudice. They hack off their hair And scoop up the Mouldy mess Which sears their bare hands, Smells like Hate, tears, bawdiness. They smear it on their faces, Over their heads, Wait until it sets. One stands, declares: A mask, a shield. For strength until The wounds have healed. Some don't approve the way we are So we save what they hurl and tar Our skin. Protect ourselves, Reflect their ugly within.
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When the sunshine rises And seeps wearily through his shades, When his eyes roll forward reluctantly, when he wakes, But only after a night not unlike the others, A night that leaves his head and liver mourning, And produces a thick layer of gauzed fog slick over his bed, He fumbles, He fumbles with the zipper, The zipperthat lies beneath his Kmart-brand dyed Beach-blonde anti-pre-punk-post-modMohawk, The zipper that runs down the nap of his neck and the railroad tracks of his vertebrae, The zipper he always has trouble with, And then he stumbles, He stumbles out of a lifeless, Useless, unfashionable skin And into the skin he will wear today The skin his mother likes The skin he can eat breakfast and talk about CousinCarol in.
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I say what the people only think, and when all the rest of the world is in a conspiracy to accept the mask for the true face, mine is the rash hand that tears of the plump pasteboard, and shows the bare bones beneath. Wilkie Collins, The woman in white
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A Miracle Publication 24