Still thankful and amazed for the Long Island Sounds Anthology, I have news in my mail once again.

I have just received a beautiful, golden book from Marlow Peerse Weaver, the Seventh Volume of the ambitious project called "In Our Words: A Generation Defining Itself".

Weaver says in the Foreword the following:

"In the eight years this book of series has existed great changes have taken place. The bubbling optimism of economic and technical globalization, in the 1990's, has given way to bloody turf wars throughout the world. It is almost as if the nihilism that resurfaced with this generation was prophetic in its message `THERE IS NO FUTURE´. As a counterweight, though, this generation of the 1960's and the 1970's has matured into highly-skilled professionals, parents, leaders in public forums. It`s becoming their world to take, for the better, or for the worse."


I would add that in spite of the hopelessness I also perceive a heavy spirituality, as though if there was a well-defined metaphysical sense and a also a clear search for non-visible realms and answers.

Among hundreds of talented writers from all over the world, whose work is in this publication, I will only mention some of them such as: Lera Auerbach (Russia-USA), Anne Provoost (Belgium), Jenna Cardinale (USA), Kavita Jindal (UK), Bragi Ólafson (Iceland), Pilar Adón (Spain), Philip Ruthen (UK), Changming Yuan (Canada), Pablo Giordano (Argentina) and many, many others.

I am pleased that my poem called "Crime Scene" was included in this Book, and for your enjoyment I will give you a short sample of the great works in this book, as follows:

MY LIFE

My mother imagined
my life a color TV,
its programs changeable
with the touch of a button
on a remote control.

My father imagined
my life a stage
on which I could switch characters
by the mere change of lights, makeup, hair and dress.

I imagined
my life a cocoon
from which I longed to tear out,
see my vibrant wings - even just once -
beneath sunlight.

Mandana Zandian
Calabasas, CA, USA
translated from Persian by Sholeh Wolpé

CURLS FROM BEHIND

Will I ever
Track the in-going streaks
Of eyes
Flowing to flaming,
Unabated word?

Life so curly... and
Love is a monologue at midnight
Scurrying
In swollen throbs
Festooned in silence
Marble and glass in your dialogue
That grits and breaks
Aloof,
Aside of targeted longings
Married to times
Of half existence.

Will I ever
Track the in-going streaks
Of eyes
Flowing to the flaming
Unabated word?

Jamal Eddine Benhayoun
Tetuan, Morocco

SERPENS

Once a serpent rose from the pole,
now it`s turned into a shadow.

The moon`s low-lying,
the snows are reddening,

a foxtailed light curls
through the forest`s fur collar.

The room was smaller before,
now even hunger`s a fear.

The one who once gave breath
presses it lower now
towards the snow, under the snow.

A split in the dark, a studden gust,
a bluish necklace, the sky`s pole.

Tomi Kontio
Helsinki, Finland
from Tai vaan latvassa ("In the skytop", Tammi, 1998)
Translated by Herbert Lomas

CITIZEN

born homeless
born stateless
both are places you are taught into

until you nearly forget
except in harsh dream cry
that you were nearly lost to both.

Philip Ruthen
London, UK

from NIGHT OF THE BLOOD

recurrent dream

one can mull over its main features
the murder
the lack of spatial or temporal coordinates
the bitterness and ease of throwing off conventions
the small force-field around the shoulders
the disembodiment and flight
the muck covering the faces the glue covering everything

room 2

the dead lie in the room 2 on nice coloured beds
their dreams go into the scarred belly of themachine
in our ward there`s always a perfect balance
between life and death
so every Sunday we crawl down the hall to their room
and sing to them

Eugen Suman
Bucharest, Romania
Traslated by Rares Moldovan