[su_box title=”Peace” box_color=”#2D2D73″ radius=”0″]The topic for Creative Writing this issue is peace, and with good reason. As of late, the world has been reeling from the shock of terror in our midst – the evil actions of a small few to punish innocent people. I chose two themes for the writers this time – ‘a call for peace’ or ‘the vigil’, and once again the responses display UEA’s unique sensitivity and empathy for those who are suffering around us. – Jay Stonestreet, Creative Writing Editor[/su_box]
[su_spoiler title=” The Flame of Kindness – Imogen Swash” style=”simple” icon=”chevron-circle” anchor=”Flame”]
We all hold the flame of goodness, Deep within ourselves.
It burns on love, on family, on the gift of kindness
And is distinguished only with our last breath.
Sometimes our flames struggle and flicker,
They fight against desert winds and hurricane rains.
Wavering with sorrow, our flames weep their smoke,
Which unfurls and soothes with its rich homely scent.
Every ember will grow again,
Each will transform into its original, beautiful body,
We can all radiate the warmth of love, With each flame of goodness the bat- tles will be conquered
And desert winds and hurricane storms will be no more.
[su_spoiler title=”Gazing Peace – Jay Stonestreet” style=”simple” icon=”chevron-circle” anchor=”Gazing”]
I set out on my walk, a half-minute till the midnight dawn. The silver moth wing wisps agape show me diminutive visions of age.
Behind them, consciously emptying and filling always with bomb and bursting birth, Supernovae happening away at the instant of my footfall.
Ever a witness in mind, for these expiring lenses live like a fly through summer, Buzzing and batting but just as brief with reflected colour, frantic dream, teasing prophecy.
Eyes ascend from leaves, leaves, sodden yellow, sulphur under lamps, Over eaves, eaves and steaming tiles.
Thud, thud in gazing peace. A loamy damp obstruction
Scatters and scrapes colourless cold.
All you stars, now and then a now away,
All you stars here and gone.
[su_spoiler title=”Mungu Wetu – Carlo Saio” style=”simple” icon=”chevron-circle” anchor=”Mungu”]
Morning broke this morning,
sleep caught like crystal dew
in the prison call of the sun
dawning far away
from the grey
bland aftertaste of day,
the horizon’s lifeless grain;
a mauve shawl of the dying winter
emerges in splinters, wanting to dawn
more, more than just day, today
Flitter falls, fell with the night,
first eyes, found first blossom trails
on silent fairy lights, carrying the wind.
Feet step on delicate origami worlds
scattered miniatures of all we hold,
revolve in the breath they blow
Life glows the starblood centers of the blossom
uncurled and alive from where they fell,
the mist pressed them onto themselves
into one amassing tide of perfume
of the most delicate youth, running beneath
the powder fall of thoughts,
That morning masks and mutes,
numbs the focus of the fall
and renders the sweet stung scent
blanched by its own discovery
when in the full circle of a year,
all stops, suddenly aware
as if hung on a weightless impasse,
clung to a belief that will never come
and through this infinite, the miniature worlds
of the blossoms curls, slowly part;
mark the splintering of their white
by creases of crimson spills of sight
and find refuge in the fight to grapple
and turn a shadowless light;
a transparent disguise
to their inseparable selves
one hundred and forty seven selves
fell into the blossom’s plight
in my first sight of spring
– when we fall, we fall
each and all, to the one floor
from the same great height-
and on they fall, and on we fall
converging in woe, engrained
in the dirt pressed from our past;
the identity cast of our footprints
mar on the blossom grounds of life,
unable to live out of difference,
outside of reasons, too afraid of seeing
ends, when they are the beginnings
to the hemlock spin of our blossom season,
We are the spiral of the gyre’s design,
The heliocentrism of no sun
forgotten as fingerprints of spring
[su_spoiler title=”Calling for An End – Charles Pritchard” style=”simple” icon=”chevron-circle” anchor=”End”]
Now do I appraise that which I did not.
The gall of Gauls rising to the throat.
La musique, L’ivresse, et la joie
A beautiful trinity,
Because it is human,
Not tediously divine.
They need not pray to Muses
While they dance already in the Paris bars
Beaten in drink yet never sinking pissed –
As though hung from young vines
Curling to the night.
They have thrown the crosses from their shoulders
And ripped shirts of imperial stains
What would redeem the revellers
Who heard the band sing
That they had met the devil
As they played His song
With pleasure only fauns evoke.
And He was there.
Sprawling in the detail
Branching like paths of thoughts
That culminate to joy –
The numbness with no death –
Pulling his people with release and contraction.
His muscle flexes stronger than God’s tongue
If he does have one.
But those fires that arose
Were not of Hells’ design –
Merely from martyrs to the temples built on air.
They who revive the timeless inanity
Of revenge upon Death’s lovers
Who are of no nation,
Who are of no heart.
I cry for waving crescents
And steep my head for the mothers
Who over them once ruled.
For our redemption in their eyes
Let us bring an end.