e-revista EgoPHobia - ISSN 1584-6210
click pentru versiunea română Golden Shovel Borrowed From Derek Walcott and Gwendolyn Brooks In that ragbag Calypso down in Trinidad The braggadocio of the frontloaded word, bad, For how good steel drums shaped for pan sound With a Spock-like ear to the wok-burnt ground.
Vers Restricted A poet is one Who Balances The energy Of a line Within Margins Set by The world’s Smallest Typewriter.
by Lewis Gesner Evasion firstly implies moving away, which you may further break down to moving and direction. Moving, energy, motivation encapsulated in direction, extending from a primary, atomic or undigressable node, which is the principle of evading an object, whether physical, hypothetical, or simply invisible. (perhaps, fictional) Evasion as a […]
by Aprilia Zank [butterfly kiss by Steve Garside]
click aici pentru versiunea română Seymour Mayne is the author, editor or translator of more than sixty books and monographs. His writings have been translated into many languages, including French, German, Hebrew, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, and Spanish. His latest collections include Ricochet: Word Sonnets/Sonnets d’un mot – 2011 (a bilingual French edition of his word sonnets) […]
by Ştefan Bolea Music is an art for the average listener and a science for its creator. Thus if I perceived the beauty of a particular song, the composer would speak of it in terms of truth. Should we speak about a work of art in terms of aesthetics or of epistemology? Keeping in […]
Fishing Dindi I watch an eagle drop down from the sky’s hem to snatch up a perch. She has more style than I do, in my worm-smeared shirt
Jupiter Lisa believes that we live in god’s imagination and that god may be on psychotropic medication in a ward somewhere in the Austrian alps and enjoys the view of the snow capped mountains.
walls black and moss-green walls witnesses of chivalrous virtues cast-iron chastity perennial stones
by Virginie Colline Latin Quarter room the vestige of Cioran’s book in a garret trunk The Fall into Time at the bottom of the bed some food for night thoughts he looks at the sky his silence a monolith at the crack of dawn