April 24, 2012

Editor's Note

Sometimes things just happen. In the whirlpool of conditions, they just happen—  especially in this part of the world. I had never thought of starting a journal like this before, but time put me in such situations and consequences which made me feel a close affinity between me and a mountain veiled in unimaginable snow and mist. And I gave myself to a creative form instead, celebrating my sweet and sour experiences in poems and lately starting Misty Mountain Review. With this being said, let me present to you, the reader, the inaugural issue of the journal.

I had received a large number of poems out of which I have chosen only twenty seven by twenty one poets from around the world. Personally, it was surprising for me (because this issue is not a themed one) to receive many poems that dealt with ‘coldness’ of human civilization. And consequently there are more such poems in this issue. Others speak of some fractured memories and unfulfilled dreams and desires. And with them too, exasparation comes along. Some other poems are even critical of modern tech-culture and many other grim social realities. In other words, very few of them are jovial in mood and tone. Perhaps this is because we, in the present times, have more to do with damage and decadence?

I welcome you all, readers and critics, to read and have your own interpretations. I also welcome any suggestions you could give in making MMR a notable journal. Finally, and most importantly, I would like to thank all the contributors who, with enthusiasm, said ‘yes’ to this springtime…

Happy reading!


Haris Adhikari

One poem by Gordon Hilgers


I am tired
of the curdled milk
of Heaven

how it bleaches
bones of the days
without nurturing us.

I am tired of your breasts
drawing me to suckle
under patchy sky.

Hold closed my eyes.
Bathe everything in white.
Blot-out the horizon.

Let me sleep again.

Gordon Hilgers began writing early, at age nine, and has continued writing. He has published poetry in several magazines including The Red River Review, Texas Arts Review, Detour Magazine, Deathlist 5, Every Reason and others.  He is the author of "Refugee Clouds" (1995) and "The War Against The Alphabet" (2001). He lives in Dallas, Texas and walks to the grocery store every day. 

One poem by William Ricci

Fracture 87

dusk nears above the
decaying faded red barn.

smoky orange clouds
diffuse streaming light

and for a moment I remember
another time, whether before or after.

William Ricci is the poetry editor for The Edge magazine and founding editor of Stone Path Review.  He is a writer of experimental poems and essays about nature and awareness with publishing credits that include: A View from the Loft, The Edge, Whistling Shade, Paper Darts, Primalzine, Whispering Angel, and Seven Circle Press. 



tHerefore I am


Kerry Furber, aka Kezz, is a 54 year old writer and musician from Bath, England.  He has had a number of poems published in anthologies and journals by Forward Press in the UK. 

Two poems by Howie Good

Red Wings

Words require more words to interpret them.
There’s a tornado somewhere as well,
obsessively rehearsing what it’s going to do.
I’m flecked with exclamation points
and long, unexplained absences.
So much so, two red wings on the porch
are all that’s left of the cardinal the cat killed.

A Death in the Family

A kitchen chair
sits empty

out under an enormous
chestnut tree

whose right hand
has lost
its cunning.

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the new poetry collection, Dreaming in Red, from Right Hand Pointing. All proceeds from the sale of the book go to a crisis center, which you can read about at the site below. He is also the author of numerous chapbooks, including most recently The Devil’s Fuzzy Slippers from Flutter Press and Personal Myths from Writing Knights Press. He has another chapbook, Fog Area, forthcoming from Dog on a Chain Press.

Two poems by Luke Prater

Hue and Cry


a deck chair
face to Earth
bleeding salt

envelop me, Mother
offer your breast, succour

craving redeliverance of
ignorance; the impurity and
inconvenience of Adulthood

worn like a suit fashioned
by a hue and cry of enraged
madding seamstresses


impregnate soil, your skin
let a bird fly, or

swallow this man in
dark damp pulsing utero

Soft Fall

soft fall, 
upturned hands;
luxuriate in let-go forget.

the relief trust brings 
the falling leaf, held aloft
with an exhalation

of cobalt firmament; 
ephemerality taken 
with soft, upturned hands, 

and held.

Luke Prater writes in many styles/genres and on many topics, including candid social/ geopolitical statement, sexual politics, the dynamics inherent in human relationships and personal/spiritual growth, amongst others. He lives in rural England with a Mac, a guitar or two, a silent fridge and a brain that won't switch off. His poetry has been published in several places online and in hardcopy. 

To read more of his poems, please visit his website: www.lukepraterswordsalad.com

Two poems by MH Clay


We are little men
Standing small
Against our massive concrete sprawl
Little lives
Lived in turn
But little matter to the Great Big

Little ideas
Little words
Piece them together
Little grunts and gasps
To make a big noise
To be a little big

But still little

Little time to be here
Little years to be noticed
Is no little thing to bear

On the way out
Have a little fun

Exit with a little laugh


Only the torn ones
            Those who struggle in the mind
Will take the lead

Those who pass from white to black
Endeavoring to hover in the gray
Who venture to step out
Straight into where black conceals
Where feet may hold or quickly slip away

The timid will follow
Would rather hold back
            Not walk into unknown cold
Would have the warming light against their backs
And move in steps that others took before
For these
Some guarantee of comfort must avail

But the conflicted
Each step they take
Each passing place
Brings questions
About what changes would have made
What other paths might have pulled
To weigh the reason right or left
That always must abandon one
To take the other

What implications of each choice
What love to keep, which pain to bear
And doubt to ponder

Especially the one that questions
Whether we were meant
To walk into the light instead

MH Clay is a poet and playwright residing in Dallas, TX.  An active member of the Dallas poetry scene since 2003, he has performed as a spoken word artist in venues throughout the D/FW Metroplex.  His one-act plays have been produced by various North Texas theater groups.  He is the Poetry Editor for Mad Swirl at www.madswirl.com and co-hosts Mad Swirl's monthly Open Mic every first Wednesday at the Absinthe Lounge.  Find him on FaceBook at http://facebook.com/michael.clay .

Two poems by Richard Doiron

En Route to Nothingness

Like a film rewinding,
Going back in time,
I reclaim my kisses,
Withdraw myself from you,
My promises denied,
The man in me no more,
A little boy instead,
And now undelivered,
Somewhere deep inside,
The throes of ecstasy:
Another place, another time,
Another someone there,
But now that, too, nebulous,
Another reel rewinding,
Another reel and still another,
Crossing line after line,
A creature now that crawls,
Now in darkness with the void,
Now en route to nothingness.

The Being of Poet

The being of poet
is not in the yelling
of it from off
the mountaintops,
that it should echo
into the valleys,
deep and wide,
but in merely
the whispering
of it into the wind,
which will then carry it
to the mountaintops
and back again.

Richard Doiron, 65, poet, Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada. He is the author of 17 books. Twice nominated for the Governor-General's Award; work read at the United Nations, the 4th World Congress of Poetry & Cultures; winner of several International literary competitions; an estimated 1000 poems published in books and anthologies; recipient of the 2012 World Poetry Lifetime Achievement Award.

One poem by Dale Patterson

That Monkey

has feelings
knows more
than you think.
Look at the mud
in his eyes
heavy in volume
the air on his lips
cussing you out.
See as he rattles
his cage.
He's watching you
laugh at his antics
your superior 
that sneers 
at his love
his poem
that he writes
with opposable 

Dale Patterson is a visual artist and poet living in Indiana. His works have appeared in Black Heart Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, Clutching at Straws, Main Street Rag, Iodine Poetry Journal, Bank-Heavy Press and Four-and-Twenty.

One poem by Sreemanti Sengupta

Sounds and Silences

Silence hung from the clothesline
Hung there to dry
The tears of the housemaids
Who toiled and soiled in the kitchen
Stretched evenly out on the sunny terrace
Silence dripped of stale gossip
And made a rude face at the harems
Where the maids retired to have their due

Silence sedated the iron gates
Silence rung of Silence

Sreemanti Sengupta is an advertising copywriter based in Kolkata, India. She has been writing in her vernacular (Bengali) and English ever since she can remember. Her poetry and prose pieces have been published previously in various anthologies and online journals. She celebrates 'the word' as a tool for profound change in all planes of existence.

One poem by Lee Evans


Sledgehammer blows:
The timbers crack and bend.
Glass shatters and time, too —
But not space

Time’s fragments
Reconstitute themselves.
But if space were to split apart
From the blows of the Will,
Well, the debris of our works and days
Would slip through the fissures —
Coins for wishes
Into a bottomless well,
Never to redeem the moments again

Lee Evans lives in Bath, Maine, and works for the local YMCA. His poems have appeared in such journals as Contemporary Rhyme, The Christendom Review and Decanto. His five poetry collections are available on Lulu.com.

One poem by Arun Budhathoki


Everything is in shortage here
Everything I say
Electricity Petrol Transportation
Food Constitution Love

But we live adjusted happily
Together Separate
We don’t care about shortage
Simply live living

But it’s too much
Fed up
With this that this that


Shortage of Mind Peace Education

Why are we poor? I ask

But why did this happen?
The figs flutter
Faces grumble
They stare

Buildings flash
Memories break up like wooden sticks
Twart! I guess the sound is

Love is ice-cream
You eat more
Don’t care – Diabetes Death

Love is sweet I’m sweet
She said
That’s not shortage
Love is not!

Arun Budhathoki (Daniel Song) is from Nepal. He has recently published his first poetry book – Edge. He currently runs the journal The Applicant (http://www.theapplicant.org/) and mostly writes poetry.

One poem by Caroline Nazareno

Pandora Escapes Unto My Hands

time exists in my hands
as dreams escalate to wilderness
born from the ages of prodigy
where wordsmith come
in the breathing dawn
to the free cycles
of wind, of water, of fire
saving the hourglass of all-giving
on the day i become
a reality.

Caroline Nazareno, a.k.a. Ceri Naz, a contessa of her dreams coming to reality, has been reading at World Poetry New Westminster and a featured poet at the Word on the Street (WOTS) Vancouver. Her poem “The song my heart sings” was featured in KIRAZ HABERTRAK Magazine in Turkey, where respected Turkish poets, writers, filmmakers, musicians and literary editors were featured monthly.

Two poems by Marie Olofsdotter


The full moon gives birth
to the brightest shadows.


The ocean carries
stories to the shore.
When she arrives,
the grains of sand
open their eyes
and sing.

Marie Olofsdotter is a poet and painter. Her awards include a Minnesota Book Award, and grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board and the Jerome Foundation. She was a Loft Mentor Series Winner in Poetry, 2007. A native of Sweden, Marie now lives in Minneapolis.

One poem by Fiona Clements


The same words play over and again.
Yours comfort me.
Mine are lost in limbo-land,
tossed around by the chaos
in which no order can be found.
No drug induced madness reigns here.
The fury of lies, the struggle to remain wise,
when all around me is lost.

Fiona Clements lives in Ireland and has been writing poetry for about four years. She loves nature, animals, her friends and family. She wishes for world peace and end to war and hunger.

One poem by Mark Windham



did you hear

the light created
before the sunrise

intake of breath
before the bird sang

blink of the eye
before the tear fell

flush of the skin
before the kiss

did you hear


Mark Windham is a writer living in the suburbs of Atlanta with his wife, three children and three dogs.  His poem, Chapter Closed, was featured as one of the five winners of the M:/P Mag "Page Turn" Contest. His other works have appeared on Postcard Shorts and The Book Times.

One poem by Suzanne Parlee

Little Boxes

Inside myself
Tiny puzzle pieces
In their box

Inside myself
A looking glass
Mirror images
Cutting and razor sharp

Inside myself
A box of stars
I'm afraid to open
Just wishes
On days gone by

Inside myself
Odds and ends
Little parts
To keep and hold
Me together

Suzanne Parlee is a poet living in New Brunswick, Canada. Her poetry has been included in the novel "The Jealousy Game" as well as in various anthologies. Her novel "Melody of the Mind" is due out in print in June.

One poem by Amy Barry

A majestic beauty                                                           
She lives and breathes in the mountains,
she touches the sky, holds her crown
above her head. Clouds swirl and dance
around her, a prodigious sight!

Sleet beats against the hostel window.
Alas! Alone, I plunge into this backpacking
experience, a glimpse of her
creates a magical joy in my soul.

She hears me say her name and smiles,
a beauty of elegance, supremacy;
triumph in her eyes, rejoicing in my spirit.

I stand on the hills of Nepal,
silent, still, absorb the unruffled ambiance,
I suck jaadh, it sinks into my soul,
cries euphoria in blood.

I hail those who have scaled her,
and reached the peak!

 ‘A tribute to a true wonder of the world.’

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Her works have been read on radio. She loves traveling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris and Berlin. These places have inspired her work, too. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

One poem by Jennifer Habana-Abastillas


          Archieved you
          Unable to find
                                  your familiar face
          Your vacant , scarred eyes
           Yet sailed in my island of dreams
           Where our river flows
           Grasping our unspoken meaning.

           In this transverse universe
           Where my moonlight meets
                                  meets your sunlight
           I wil linger
           To share the youthful grief of
                                  my winter nights
           And summon the promises of
                                  my forever whys
           With the sonnets and haikus you left
           In this shadow of

Jennifer Habana-Abastillas resides in California and works as an Emergency Room Nurse. Aside from writing, she likes to run and hike with her husband and 2 children. Some of her poems have been published in Nursing Journal, Requiem Magazine. Her recent poem has been included in Poetry Book of War and Peace by Brian Wrixon.

One poem by Satyn Bulchandani


To go through life as if it were a colorful haze,
shapes and shifts, curls and swirls,
that may dance across the screen with a twirl of a knob,
absorbing deeply only the flashing lights –
ignorant that you've got one eye looking through a lens,
fascinated by the roses, of several shades,
and the other                          in another realm. 

Satyn Bulchandani is a 19 year old aspiring writer. He has lived his whole life in Bangalore. His interests vary from writing to music to photography. He wrote his first poem when he was in the 2nd grade and since then has been occasionally dappling in narratives until about two years ago when he began his journey to become a prolific writer and poet.

One poem by Maeve Heneghan

Kindness of Strangers

Old woman,
Stranger in a foreign land,
Sits on unforgiving ground.

She looks you in the eye and says,
“Hello, Big Issue lady?”
She knows you won’t reply.

Unnoticed by the hurried mass,
One man goes against the tide,
Makes this faceless woman, human.

He cups her weathered hand in his,
Holds out one silver coin,
Maybe, just for a moment,
She sees the face of God,
In the kindness of a stranger.

Maeve Heneghan is a native of county Dublin, Ireland.  After spending a number of years teaching English in China, she returned to Ireland and now lives in the Midlands with her husband and daughter.  She has been writing poetry and short stories for several years and has had some of her work published online and in print.

Two poems by Rachael Stanley

The Middle Ground

I recall a voice from years ago,
a yoga teacher sharing wisdom with his pupils,
‘Where there’s freedom, there’s balance
and where there’s balance, there’s freedom.’
In the middle, between two opposites
like a weighing scales measuring out
an even measure,
or like a rider on a bicycle

who does not lean to either side,
but balances in the middle,
or like a special envoy on a mission
of peace between two nations at war.
The whole of life strives towards this balance,
‘Where there’s balance, there’s freedom,
and where there’s freedom, there’s balance.’

Words Part 1
I looked at the hearse
as they slid the coffin in
and later, I looked
when the coffin was lowered to the ground.

Words first appeared in the newspaper
to announce the death.
Then words were used at the funeral rite.

More words were spoken in the church ground -
Noble words that she'd never heard when she
was still around.

Rachael Stanley is from Dublin, Ireland. Her recent publications include poems in Writing4All, Best of 2010 and Static Poetry II and III.  She has also published haiku in Haiku J, an Irish online journal. Her other work is coming up in Issa's Untidy Hut.