In a Middle-East War-Zone

by O.P. Jha

Sweating profusely
and visible directly
under the helpless slant eyes
of barren hillocks,
some yards away from
the bruised and bleeding sand-dunes
some steps away from the debris
of a forlorn bunker
filled with hate and anger,
hidden from the cameras
of omnipresent media
that unearths the secret stories
of skeletons
whose flesh was robbed
by unknown paws,
with heavy heart a solitary mother
reaping the crops of a war
that leaves voids in hearts


She’s found broken intestines
of imported bombs
and scattered limbs of a young fighter
living together
as if two life-long enemies have buried
their anguish
and got married after their death
to show their ‘good deeds’
to their respective gods


the tearful detective eyes
of the mother aren’t sure
of the identity of the lacerated limbs
of the warrior
and the crippled intestine
of the bombs
but the bruised skull
resembles her only son’s head
that she’d kissed in her last meet,
the skull emits the same smell even now
as she’d felt while kissing his forehead
when it was full of ambitious flashes


the (late) young man’s ex-girl friend
couldn’t detect his identity
but she’d not forgotten
the body odor of her lover
emitting from his arm-pits
Alas! There’re many deformed arms
but no arm-pit


a mother knows the smell
of her son’s head
a beloved knows the odor
of her lover’s armpits
but the death knows no one
and hate spares nothing in a war-zone


the helpless mother fixes her eyes
on the hillocks
where once upon a time
Jesus had roamed with a herd of lambs
where once upon a time
grasses used to grow


she asks the hillocks:
“Is it the same Middle-East?”
where once upon a time
prophets were born
angels had descended
and faith had found hues


the hillocks know the answer
but their voices are suppressed
under the nudities of our time.

O.P. Jha’s poems and fictions appeared in journals like The Indian Literature, The Daily Tribune, Rigorous, Mantis, You Might Need To Hear This, Punt Volat, Zoetic Press, Discretionary Love and others. His poems have been selected by The Elevation Review and The LKMNDS podcast. He is the author of an inspiring book Management Guru Lord Krishna. He has a Doctoral degree in Translation Studies. He has also translated books of two Turkish writers: Ahmet Hamadi Tanpinar and Yekta Kopan. Email: opjha189@yahoo.com , twitter: @OP Jha17

What the Sky Sees, What the Sky Says

by Glen Armstrong

From space there is nothing
of interest here,


only reflected light interrupted
by a satellite,


no yellow rose petals
defying the rain,


defying change and expectation,
vibrating, shaking.


•


I bunker down and listen
to the thunder


cloud’s pedantic rumble:
I am the sky – expect me to fall.

Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine.

spring

by Tohm Bakelas

yet again, the season changes.  

winter dies, spring is reborn.  

worms crawl out for sun.  

birds return for seed.  

grass grows green.  

flowers bloom. 

people smile. 

 

the cycle repeats, ad infinitum.  

 

ink on pages lasts longer than  

the candle I was born holding—

help me savor things that matter  

most before they’re gone forever—

 

the worn maps of memory… 

the tired paths once walked… 

the changing landscapes of cities… 

the greying oceans of dissipating time… 

 

all this, and everything between, 

carefully scratched into poems,

will be what remains of me.

autumn is dead

by Tohm Bakelas

Outside flicking burning matches

onto silent streets, the dying smoke

rises skyward toward vacant dusk,

the starless sky. Keeping company

with the dead is easy, having said

what they’ve already said, they

never talk back, they just listen.

When words are forced and used

for the sake of using, all meaning

is forever lost and becomes useless.

Circumstantial ramblings such as

these provide a fogged window into

a mind plagued by terror, sorrow,

and a complicated but happy life.

Walking along these streets there

is a quiet that only exists on the

cold concrete of hometowns, or

so you convince yourself because

it’s easier to believe you have

something special when you refuse

the possibilities of anything better.

The lone streetlight, struggling to

come alive, flickers on and off.

And like a wounded season that

had no chance—autumn is dead.

slow extinguishing flame

by Tohm Bakelas

again and again and again and  

again left with this dying life,  

this slow extinguishing flame,  

this total and absolute longing  

for something you can’t define.

calendars, with their uselessness, 

neatly thumbtacked to dirty walls,  

covered in holidays, lunar cycles,  

birthdays, and emptiness… mock  

your life with their lack of purpose.  

days and months blend together  

becoming a muddied grey. years  

pass with no sense of grounding.  

time is relative as long as you  

believe in life, but the future 

is meaningless when you 

have nothing to wake for.

Chapter 1: Stop

by Jesse Salmeron

Mama was so angry when I told her. I'm in so much trouble. Mama hasn't been

this quiet since I missed so bad I broke the window. Since La Senora Winthrop made her

work everyday for a month when her daughter got married. Since the man turned off the

lights in August. Why did I turn around and talk to Juanito. But I finished all the tables,

and all were right, even 8x8. If 8 falls over it turns into forever.

Stop. Stop. Stop. Red means stop. But red tastes like moving. But sounds like

stop. And looks like stop. Mama didn't say gracias to the bus driver.

“Que hisistes?”

“I don't know.”

When Ms. Wexler asks how I know. I say I don't know and she laughs. And I

laugh. Gifted. By who? My As are because someone gifted me. I wish for heat this

Christmas. No more cold. No more air coming into the tear in my shoe walking to

school. When I tell mama what I learn about space shuttles and the moon and space she

says we can't be those things. We. Mama can't. She's almost 5x5. But Ms. Wexler says

I can be everything.

“Como que no sabes?”

“I didn't do anything.”

But I must’ve done something. Mrs. Griffith said it and Ms. Wexler was so mad

at the word. But words are just letters and letters are just scratches on paper. But they

hurt more when mama says them in her words. Mama can't say my words. Tia says if

you say words a way they make magic. But Ms. Wexler says there's no such thing as

brujeria.

“Donde esta la oficina?”

“This way I think.”

Is it the way to the principal's office? Mama had to miss work because of what I

did. Mama never misses work. I should just tell her what Mrs. Griffith said I did. Just

like she said them, Gifted program? But he's illegal. And Ms. Wexler knew what I had

done and walked out of the office so angry. I should just say the words but mama is too

angry and she'll get angrier like when the man said the word to her at the bus stop. No,

I’ll let Ms. Wexler tell her what I did.

The hallway is so much longer when no one is here. I'm in so much trouble.

The Monthly Cycle of Injustice

by Smrithi Senthilnathan

gripping pains threatening to end me // rivers of red flowing down my legs // screams of agony begging for respite from the suffering // popping the pills, placebos and painkillers alike // wondering how others, millions of women around the world, hold through the pain // watching as men in power slander our image // drinking in their honeyed words and derogatory comments alike // observing as they barter with our bodies as though it was their decision to make // noticing how they treat us worth less than corpses // straining through the pain for justice // watching as countless others fail before me // popping the pills, the pills that only ease the physical pain

my drug of choice would be freedom from the men // the drug i take is freedom from the torment

 

Smrithi Senthilnathan [she/her] is a teen writer from India who aspires to become a young adult author or journalist (or both). She believes everything in this world has a story and she's made it her life's mission to capture the unwritten stories. Her work has been published in various magazines such as Sea Glass Literary, Small Leaf Press, Cafe Lit Magazine and more. You can learn more about her on her blog. 

—Look for more of her work in the Winter ‘23 print issue of OC Magazine—

2 Year Anniversary 4/20/23

We will be celebrating our 2 year anniversary at La Coqueta on April 20th, 2023. Featured readers will open up the night, followed by an open reading/open mic. Come out and celebrate!

We will have print copies of the first magazine available!