The empty paper, the pen, and the pain.

I can’t get started, he says,

while priming the pump.

The pieces laid out on the table.

Fresh water or fresh thoughts:

both sometimes require a taking apart,

a putting-back together.

Jari in Unhola  M.R.A. – 2017

 

My friend keeps on stealing my few words

I have created in the foggy nights in Unhola.

There is nothing new or old –

everything has already been said too many times.

My prostate is getting larger faster than my thinking.

I still love my friend, the poet, on the other side of the table,

The stealer of my few words.

The Stealer of Words   J.L. – 2017

 

Have we suffered enough for breakfast?
The world has turned once more.

Bombs have fallen somewhere. I didn’t quite catch where, on the radio.

A new tyrant in office; the people’s saviour.

And yet: the sun rose,

And we are here.

My stomach complains.

There will be tea and toast

And enough suffering, no doubt, for dessert.

Suffering and Breakfast   M.R.A. – 2017

 

There is no measuring tape for one’s suffering before the breakfast

Home-made yoghurt is the most delicious poetry

That has ever touched these rough lips.

Suffering and Breakfast   J.L. – 2017