Monthly Archives: December 2015

My Country, My Country by Julia Webb

I am not a silent poet

Dear Country,

I have always been embarrassed by your lack of conviction, meaning can be found everywhere if you look hard enough. I have unchained myself from your belief systems but I can’t unchain myself from the weight of our shared past.

Dear Country,

What you hold dear seems a little off kilter sometimes. People fall for your
charms without understanding that you are all surface. Hold a mirror to a mirror and what do you get?

Dear Country,

I could say that you are going to the dogs but I don’t believe in clichés.

Dear Country,

Some days I walk ten paces behind you in the street and pretend that we are not related.

Dear Country,

Simply, no.

Dear Country,

I admit that I am part of the big SO WHAT. These days you show me only your snarly face and I am afraid I don’t much like it.

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Bright side of the earth

debasis mukhopadhyay

Bright side of the earth published in I am not a silent poet (December 30, 2015). This is perhaps my last publication of 2015. Again I feel proud to be a contributor of IANASP. This new blogzine has certainly found a niche with 45, 000 views in 2015. Congratulations to the crusading editor Reuben Woolley and to all my fellow contributors!

Bright side of the earth


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Bright side of the earth by Debasis Mukhopadhyay

I am not a silent poet

My eyes are smokescreen white
Maybe I will sleep
No bombs tonight
My skin in the dark of derelict home
Empties the bones of all fears
Hoping tonight
No bright side of the earth

The baby is lying in pieces
Buried beneath the crumbling walls
In sleep
Maybe I will feel around her eyes
No bombs tonight
No clouds to ring her body
No moon
So stuck open
In blood
No bright side of the earth

Debasis Mukhopadhyay‘s work has  appeared often on I Am Not A Silent Poetand has also appeared in many journals including The Curly Mind, Thirteen Myna Birds, Yellow Chair Review, Of/Which, Silver Birch Press, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Foliate Oak, Eunoia Review, Snapping Twig, With Painted Words, Fragments of Chiaroscuro, Words Surfacing, among others. He lives and writes in Montreal, Canada. Follow…

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2015 in review

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,900 times in 2015. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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Could Be by Dominic Albanese

I am not a silent poet

really n truly
a big
either con game
side show
this entire set of
n social order
can you not see
there are among us maybe 600 people
who could fill pick up trucks full
of cash
from interest on loans
they made to
Joe Shit the rag picker
from his 3 dollars of tax
on his 9 dollars of pay
n Willy Bob Betty n Judy,,,,,,all pay
then get old
n get a kick back just enough
to get by on…..(barely) while
supposed leaders keep up
either giant pile of hammered manure
called……Nation Building
or’……spreading policy ……..drilling for oil
each idea is more belligerent than the
idea before it
n one one quiet deck side morning
staring out at flowers n happy grass
ask yr self
did this massive debt….bait and switch
called Progress
really make my day
easy….was I spiritually fed

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I wished upon a star by John Alwyine-Mosely

I am not a silent poet

When was that night of Christmas lights
in streets shine-wet, the splash
of footsteps, windows bright for the curious
and you, hand cold and rough
as I tasted wood smoke of fireside happiness
Our conversation was as empty
as the puddles, just a reflection
that vanished as the car swished
by letting you make a joke about snow
I wanted to say ‘fuck’ but you had.

Now even the roses on the bird-cage
are as plastic as the voices
that made me invisible,
like cast off toys in attics,
then dogs barking
said it was time to kiss the cross,
keep eyes cold,
like rows of your brightest books,
but outside leaves rustle in the wind
and distant birds dot across the sky
saying all that matters.


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5.10 a.m. by Dominic Albanese

I am not a silent poet

woke up grumpy n sad
of places I been
people I knew….and know
hungry bears
die off bees
birds n other creatures loosing places
safety….absolute fuckwad dipshit morons
running for office
excess consumption…..material greed
never even mind paper stack assholes who
breed on other people’s “investments”
sick to my soul
every artist… matter who
use what is already here
wanna make statues go da junkyard
use ole bumpers n doors
wanna paint….mix your own
writers save paper…be aware of waste
this is indeed our only place
straight up…..sustain
not complain
we are in a process
of destroying our rock in space
smug face
callin em self “rich”
so….I must….for a few days
sort of pull in my own horns
bassoons…baboons…..chitter chatter snarl
moan….decry…..I am scared
not afraid to admit it
between hate n fear n profit
I sit here
peace on earth good will towards men
a puddle…

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Egypt in Two Halves by Karen Jane Cannon

I am not a silent poet

There is something unpleasant lurking here—

we wrinkle noses over gritty cups of Turkish coffee,

the air rich with incense and open sewers.

How can a country


as beautiful as this

be so full of shit? We twist through crowds

of traders selling bright rolls of papyrus

from dark-lit shops, essential oils, Egyptian cotton,

glass perfume bottles, our ears buzzing

with music and the call to prayer.


This country of two halves—

of men rushing to wash our hands

at filthy public toilets in Sharm,


of the beach at Naama Bay, all parasolled deckchairs

and cocktails, the sea full of broken glass,


the grinning boy police officer in khaki fatigues

proudly holding a submachine tight across his chest


and the desert— the empty miles

where Moses once cut laws from rock,

is littered with faeces and coffee cups.


No surprise when we visited a…

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