April 21, 2015

Quick Note

Dear readers and contributors, the seventh issue (odd issue) of Misty Mountain Review is here for you to offer a different taste this time around. There are altogether twelve poems by nine poets, and a translated poem of Mishra Baijayanti, a prominent female voice in contemporary Nepali poetry. Hope you will enjoying reading this issue.

Please make sure to scroll down and see 'the older posts'. Blogger.com is showing only 4 posts at maximum! For the translation work, please see at the blurb (Poetry in translation). Thank you!

Happy reading!

Haris Adhikari

One poem by Richard Luftig


I was ten and playing
the piano when he
walked out the door,

down the drive.
I waved but don’t think
he saw. He died

that day. Now,
I can’t let anyone
leave without saying

goodbye, saying
I love you. If you
are going to work,

going to war,
it does not matter.
I must give you a kiss.

I think it drives most people nuts.

Richard Luftig is a former professor of educational psychology and special education at Miami University in Ohio now residing in Pomona, CA. He is a recipient of the Cincinnati Post-Corbett Foundation Award for Literature and a semi finalist for the Emily Dickinson Society Award. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States and internationally in Japan, Canada, Australia, Europe, Thailand, Hong Kong and India.

One poem by Jeannie E. Roberts

Alien Birth

                                 ―Inspired by James Bernal's photograph

                                                                      Photo by James Bernal
                                                                His website:  http://www.jamesbernal.com/

Apparently, the patient died before the blessed event;
still, a heavenly glow radiates from the corpse's
enlarged abdomen.  Nearby, a man stands facing

a second glowing room―he's neither gloved nor gowned,
though, his sleeves are rolled-up.  Perhaps these sorts
of deliveries are routine, or, more likely, this guy's just

unprepared.  An odd-looking peak rises from beneath
the shrouded silhouette; by the looks of it, the serenity
of this moment could change―in a heartbeat! 

Watch out, Doc!  This isn't one for the sacred Book,
but definitely one for the history books!  What a pity. 
Where's Sigourney Weaver's firearm when you need it? 

Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of NATURE OF IT ALL, a poetry collection (Finishing Line Press, 2013).  She is also the author and illustrator of LET'S MAKE FACES!, a children's book.  Her poems have appeared in the Festival of Language's Festival Writer, Misty Mountain Review, Off the Coast, Quill & Parchment and elsewhere.  Born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, Jeannie lives in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin.  For more, visit www.jrcreative.biz.

One poem by Klaus J. Gerken

what i do

i don't
write no
poems no more
i got no
and i got no
they took my
education from me
at college
tried hard to
get it back but
ain't no use
all them fancy
words disappeared
one night
and i was left with
nothing but the
openness of sky
and mud of earth
and strawmen
walking around
like zombies
in a ts eliot
poem falling
over each other
is the truth
and nothing
can be done
about it but
to kill
so i don't
write no
poems no more
i scribble
no one wants to
think about

Klaus J. Gerken is the editor of Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts. Founded in 1993, Ygdrasil is the first ever literary journal published on the internet. KJG lives in Ottawa, Ontario.

Two poems by Gordon Hilgers

Inside and Outside

To be solidified and approximate a life
as fixed as stone. To withstand the entire night,
the nocturnal black rose,
revolving endlessly with no need for light,
and then to dwindle. To discard the baby-blue
umbrella as pointless and to move-out
from under sky.

Perhaps death exists as an end in itself, exemplary
of a squall too formidable for the breath
we must inhale,

only to impel our collapsing lungs until we grasp
ourselves awake on the landing
in the papery dusk, the tangle-headed gray

a crone's bed-head, as we overlook the atrium
surrounded by questions, outside only
screaming emptiness as we meet-up with strangers
and shower-off this sweat

called life. 


To hold a poem inside like a rattlesnake,
thumb clamped against its throat as venom
drools fang to beaker, and to clasp multiple feelings
like locked lovers; this is to call-down threats
of lightning

with a house key crooking kite string, you being
the fool in the rain.  Interlocutor of the starry night's
near-blinding irritant, luminously fearsome, attractive
as rattler tambourines, you must bleed-out
your hurt, fever dreams mystifying a fibrillating
banal heart

until you burst-free like illumination struck by sunlight,
vacant lot become cathedral, nervousness transformed
into the orgasmic, brief liberty that confuses
dull reason

and which defeats prison walls of obscurant cloud banks,
the noxiousness a cure, witcheries bleak and satiate,
reptilian body snaked around wrist and pen. 

Gordon Hilgers has published poetry in three anthologies, has been nominated for the Sundress Press's 2014 "Best of the Web" contest, is currently a featured poet in Edgar Allen Poet Journal, and has also had poetry printed in Boston Literary Journal, Red Fez, Red River Review, Deathlist 5 and several other magazines and journals.  He lives in Dallas, Texas.