Welcome to the Third Edition of Balestra! We’ve found our footing and are off to the races. This third edition is a doubling down on what’s made the last editions of Balestra great and we’re incredibly excited to bring you more incredible work by amazing artists. This edition is ripe with rich poetry, explorative prose, and powerful voices from around the world.
The artist’s for this edition are Pawel Markiewicz, a Polish poet exploring tenderness and mythology; Michael Roque, a Los Angeles native writing to us from the Middle East with a powerful, onomatopoeic depiction of a train station; Abe El-Raheb, an Egyptian-American editor, writer, and screenwriter offering us a luxuriously rich pair of poems; Jade Morningstar, a Canadian poet bringing us daring reflections on mental health and the artist’s condition; Calla Smith, a writer from Argentina exploring the little adventures of urban life; O.P. Jha, a poet stretching extended metaphors into beautiful poetic tapestries; Jason Ryberg, a poet, screenwriter, editor, and publisher offering Balestra delicate and finely organized explorations of movement and moving on; Doug Stoiber, a poetry and short fiction writer from East Tennessee providing elegant reflections on how and why we write; Christian Barragan, a California based writer delving into the alternate reality intricacies of meta-fiction; Ben Mcnair, an award winning poet and playwright from the United Kingdom offering tender and reflective poems; and Ayaan Fahad, a Pakistani poet weaving multilingual imagery into nets that capture “things left unsaid”.
We encourage you to comment your thoughts, share your favourite pieces, subscribe for more, and most importantly, enjoy!
Pawel Markiewicz
Pawel Markiewicz was born in 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is a poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems.
The hymn to dreamed dawn
You are such Apollo in eternal bliss, so dreamful. Your twilight under celestial moon is the hereafter. You are an embracing of the rainbow, drawn by the bard. Your amaranthine, tender whisper belongs to the lord. You fly into the moony dreamery full of fancy. Your august, cute, dazzling paradise is like poetry. You seem to be gentle such a zeus-like dew at tender morns. Your ontology is a plethora of Morningstars. You was read such booklet with softly written mysteries. Your amazing, dawn-like wings – drunken of the bewitchment. You stay as stones of sempiternity of meek feelings. Your beauty is not torn such an enchanted Golden Fleece. You are Apollo’s greenery in temple of light naiads. Your way into fullness is the treasure of some dryads. You are mythos, born from the purest eschatology. Your songs of lotus are traces of epistemology. You daydreamt about the eudemonia of starry gods. Your ephemeral ballads are thoughts of dew and goddess. You are throne in temple, it is like the crucial dusk – moonlit. Your sunglow and great moonshine have mayhap gold of the tears.
Ode to dreamful Erlking
You dreamful, dreamy, moony and dreamed King of Elves! You became in the most amazing ways: A dazzling statue of Buddha, as If a ghost created it from the moony dreameries. A parrot on the statue: the paradise-like birdie, awoken from stunning, meek, tender dawn. A bonfire – the shimmer in the soft night with its warmth born from the muses of the tenderness. A bewitchment-enchantment of a bliss, that brings amaranthine wind from paradise. A poet worships the statue belonging to the dreamery of the Erlkings from the morns. A pearlful inspiration in the wise mind, full of eternity of the Morningstar. The poet who writes the most dazzling poesy like soul-softness of muses with tears. The bonfire is being adored by the awoken bird of the melancholy of the times. A daydreaming of the sylvan elves, bewitched in the dawns and the gorgeous Golden Fleece. A whisper, that melancholy, for me and fancy of sempiternity, gives. We praise, You most tender Erlking, and your treasure: ontology, eschatology, epistemology, ethics, aesthetics, logic, metaphysics, epicureanism and stoicism, all of them, enchanted by tender Buddha in a most picturesque way. From the marsh Hydra noblest daydream array of wings the swamp remains enchanted when the homeplace is ablaze and I like the marshes very I wish Apollo’s grace lingered so nicely delectation
Dionysus
gallant dreamery paragon of nests the bog abode becharmed when celestial habitat began sparkling and I cherish the bogs very I wish the Zeus’ strength paused lovely indulgence
Bird
magic dreams host of nests stay the swamp magically! when august homeland finishes shining and I love the swamps absolutely I wish Hercules’ power whiled so amazingly silence
The Elegy to Orpheus
Your lute became supernaturally amaranthine. Its melody belonged to marvel of realm full muses. The tender Gods love you – Orpheus and your musing charm. And your homeland – worshipped each your dreamy song and ballads. Soft birds and dazzling animals – they overwatched at morns, with each magnificent, amusing and marvelous gig. Thus. Your amazing-dreamed eagles loved too – the singing – envoys of the weal from edenic Olympic mountains. The venom of viper had in itself somewhat pearly. It was such tear of Orpheus – overwhelmingly clean. Eurydice – the queen of muses on foggy days died. She – in eternal habitat-wizardry of Hades. You have desired to retrieve her – the immortal being and to bring unto earth full of moony spell and the pearls. Hades and Hermes were enchanted from your dreameries. Eurydice adored in odes, in homeland of shadow. You perished simply rent like the gentle stolen Golden Fleece, by angry, mythological creatures – troublemakers. On seat of death originated wonderful oracle. Its meaning was very juridic as well as dreaming. If Eurydice thought in eternity about you, the lea of Thrace would come into leaf so picturesquely. The meek, lovely, small fawn says – the world I love you too. A butterfly carries repose of Gods amazingly.
Michael Roque
Born and raised in Los Angeles, Michael Roque discovered his love for poetry and prose amid friends on the bleachers of Pasadena City College. Now he currently lives in the Middle East and is being inspired by the world around him. His poems have been published by literary magazines like Cholla Needles, The New Yorker, The Literary Hatchet and others.
Minding Gaps Between Stops
Sharp whistle shrieks between stops from December Street to Jan Way— Two, four, eight eye to eye, face to face on a one-way train— thu-thud THU-Thud! THU-THUD!!! On track to a transitional pause, doors seal all into a lit tube engulfed by black for an extended enough time to get attached— to feel connection while speeding spark-lit rails to a next destination— THU-THUD!!! THU-THUD!!! THU-THUD!!! JOLT! Meeting eyes break with a whiplash at a platform where all migrate on, off the train. Last looks, farewells, goodbyes, wonders— if any meet again face to face on surface, in train, someday, while simultaneously swapping each out for a fresh gaze— THU-THUD!!! THU-Thud! Thu-thud thu— thud.
Find More Of Michael’s Work At:
Abe El-Raheb
Abe El-Raheb is an Egyptian-American editor, writer, and screenwriter who grew up in Tulsa, Oklahoma and worked as a financial analyst for five years in the Oil & Gas Industry. He earned his Master’s Degree in Screenwriting at the American Film Institute in 2019. Most recently, he served as the Showrunner's Assistant for Robbie Pickering on the Starz series GASLIT and was a staff writer on Pickering's upcoming limited series DOWNFALL for Hulu. He loves to cook, travel, and (because he’s a sadomasochist) run marathons.
Pain Suisse
Curse the day! The hills are bright and scorched in
Flame, yet labor I within a tomb of
Early dark to feed a hearth my flabby
Works. An actor off the stage am I, allow
5 Me play a servant brave. A svelte pain suisse,
My partner in the scene: I score the dough;
The straight lines meet but nigh due north a novel
Blaze too coy to tame. Beset by ash, we
Race against a cawing crow to meet a
10 Score of orders for the day. So comely draped
In egg-wash grease, the pastry, decadent
To taste and touch, leaves a case so clear and
Clean bound for a clientele, unmoor’d.
Into your mouth the prouder crunch, a small
15 Grand prix assuages the gloom. La Rochelle
North Hollywood, mini realms in every
Bite. The pocket’s empty jazz like unplayed
Notes. I wonder: do you taste my fear or
Will it exeunt unseen? Through chews of
20 Butter-flaked canals, the Palisades are
Gone for good, but stands the bakery here
And now, and so I’ll work until I burn
Begging that ferocious god by naked
Chords of sugar words to quell lachrymose
25 Hours, stem the heat and raise our wits from
Furnace welts to fairer airs above the
Sky-bound sea. Curtain call, my scene is done.Trazodone
I hear a drum beat out of Africa.
Weighty and low. Twist my neck, pinched down to
Earth. I try to listen, give it shape. I
Knew the pitch before but lost the meter.
5 In order to listen, I’ve made myself
A host: blood streams trazodone bits to
Each microplastic in my loins. Empty
As a roadside inn for rainbow fervors.
Loose and limber, I bend my knees again.
10 I hear a drum beat out of Africa
Crashing ‘gainst the high walls of Jericho,
Rebooted, a damp and feeble ditto,
Softly fumed from Rome, thug empire rouge.
Ugly exhaust, crown dung of an ape’s fool
15 Mind, crueler yet feebler than before. But
Recall that each stone block is made of sand!
A clenched fist now grows weary then. Allow
Us fight our way through drowning lung. They’re no
Match for the mighty writ of slave tongue song.
20 I hear a drum beat out of Africa
Sounding twin points up from Annagassan,
County Louth, a greyer Irish sea, and
Old Faiyoum, prime garden of man. I’m one
Of one. I cannot be repeated. But
25 Less I confuse mirrors for a compass
Or doomscroll atop a dead salt sea, learn
This person: our dismal century draws
To an end. Certain as our knowing sun
Withdraws her speech at close of lamp-lit day.
30 I hear a drum beat out of Africa
Telling me to go seek caves. Cake myself
In mud to rendezvous with earthen clay.
Stalactites play the starry night. Her wild
Elements could not hope to reach. Safe and
35 Clear, a groom at the altar, swooning for
All the happy things yet to come to me.
But—but, but—I’ve listened full to
That awesome drum, one strong note spreading forth
From Africa, and now I’m standing on
40 My chair. If they ask you to accept their
Cookies, shoot ‘em square between the eyes. Now’s
Not the time for charity, and forests
Have marched for less. There’s still a lot I want
To do. Hot tears for Gaza stain the walk.
45 Baby martyrs hold the crease in little
Hands, parting the veil of this crude realm. Yet
Every door’s a delta. Won’t you join
Me, Monsieur, Madame, et Mademoiselle?
Chance exodus, this be the entrance true.Find More Of Abe’s Work At:
Jade Morningstar
Jade Morningstar (she/her) is a recent graduate from the English and Women and Gender Studies programs at Brock University. She has participated in multiple poetry readings, has been published in the 2022/2023 and 2023/2024 anthologies through the BrockU Creative Writing Club, and most recently won the Michael Hornyansky Prize for Creative Writing. Please check out her Instagram page morningstar_writing.
Malware of the Brain
< “ERROR: malware detected.” >
Inserting code into my genetics,
Connections between neural networks,
Weak and underdeveloped.
my antivirus has been evaded.
< “ERROR: cannot ignore distraction.” >
Infected with malware,
A vulnerability exists
somewhere in my software.
With system crashes and pop ups everywhere
< “ERROR: unable to focus.” >
Symptoms include, but not limited to:
executive dysfunction
and emotional dysregulation,
Payload making my brain lag like Firefox.
< “ERROR: working memory impaired” >
Try to wipe my hard drive clean
With Concerta 54mg and therapy
But nothing has worked to rid me of this disease.
As a last resort, I factory reset my motherboard.
< “ERROR: reset unavailable.” >Be the Art
As an artist, my duty is to create Put pen to paper My soul on display in ways that even I cannot comprehend. But what if I do not want to be just an artist? Ink to skin my body becomes a canvas of flesh A way for me to self-express. because why just be an artist, An art-maker, When I can also be the art?
Find More Of Jade’s Work At:
@morningstar_writing on Instagram
Calla Smith
Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She enjoys continuing to discover all the forgotten corners of the city. Her work can be found in several literary journals.
Life On The Run
The train tracks were the veins of the city, crisscrossing it in what might have once seemed like organized patterns but were now nothing more than lines drawn by chance. People complained about the old, worn-down trains and the trash that scattered the glassy sloped of ground that led to the endless lines of pavement, but to Summer, they were beautiful. Every bridge dripping with flowers and bright green leaves was like a forgotten love song. Summer knew she was the only one who saw it, but she liked it that way. It was as though it was a task that had been assigned to her by something larger than herself, something she couldn’t see but could feel in the silver motes of air that danced in her vision at dusk. She sat on the concrete platforms or dangled her legs down from between the railings of the metal bridges that shook with every step she took. Under the light of the moon and stars, she followed what felt like ancient pathways to another land, somewhere better, where the ground wasn’t littered with plastic bottles for her to pick up and throw into a overflowing trashcan. It was true that the streets were the only thing that was always moving, taking people to all the places they needed to go. Cars never stopped flashing by, and pedestrians patiently waited for their turn to continue their journey. But the roads only led to all of those places that she would rather not be: the small shop where she worked, her room in her parent’s house that she still couldn’t afford to leave, and everywhere else her parents expected her to go. But her family didn’t know about her secret act of rebellion, her mission to live a life in the dark, far away from the sharp, cruel light of day. They didn’t know the city was better when it was quiet and the shadows were long. She often found small trinkets out on her ramblings. In her pocket, she kept someone’s simple wedding ring she had found glimmering with the last rays of the sunset. There was a Teddy bear she had found, missing one eye and with one of the ears torn off, that she had taken home, washed, and sewn back into health. She thought the child who once loved the toy would be happy to know that someone else gave it a goodnight kiss every day. There were scrapes of old clothes and single shoes that were far beyond the point that they could still have been useful to anyone, and candles whose wax had melted down that she didn’t dare touch. She had always loved the tracks, but as time passed and she spent more and more of her life there, her parents started worrying about her pale half-moon face and the dark rings under her eyes. It became harder and harder to face them at the breakfast table, just as she could barely get herself out of the door on time for work, arriving later and later until they told her not to bother showing up at all. After that, there was no point in pretending anymore. She went home for the teddy bear and a few changes of clothes without the intention of ever returning. She slept that night in the hidden crevasse of a tree and spent the next day wondering over the landscapes that only she witnessed. She left the towering skyscrapers behind as she walked through the flat stretches of modest houses. She didn’t know how far the trail would take her, but she would go for as long as she had to. Something good was waiting out there for her; she was sure of it. She just had to find it.
O.P. Jha
O.P. Jha’s poems appeared in Rigorous, Mantis, Punt Volat, Discretionary Love, In Parentheses, Shot Glass, Lothlorien Poetry, The Cry Lounge, The Odessa Collective Magazine, Backchannels Journal, Homer’s Odyssey, The Indian Literature, The Broken Teacup, Poetry Pacific, By the Beach, miniMag, Iceblink Magazine, Infinite Scroll, The Rome Review, Tiger Leaping Review, Aloka , Wildscape Literary, Ghudsavar, Pineberry Literary, Valiant Scribe, Kelp Journal, pulplit Mag, Gabby &Min’s Review, Quibble Quarterly and others. His poems appeared in anthologies "We were Seeds" and "We are Resilient". He holds Ph.D. in "Translation Studies".
a nomadic wind
a wandering wind pushed me for blowing and I blew with it in the gusts I wrote some pages on the forehead of time some words were erased some words remained intact they call me a migratory bird but I see my face with some moles ‘n’ marks on the surface of a lake and I find a morsel in my mouth as a fish in the beak of a crane for this fish the bird has composed some great epics of flight on the back of a wandering wind my breaths aren't the scattered paragraphs of unsung soliloquies on slippery slopes but they're pregnant volumes filled with dialogues of many lands bearing pains and penances topped up with some gains reaped by needy hands a nomadic wind is writing a new chapter to be read in a new Geography to be described as a new Economics to be read with a new poetics I’m blowing as a tiny tale with a nomadic wind.
A glow-worm
a glow-worm hasn’t yielded before chaos it’s glowing in the clump of darkness sometimes indolent gusts of time pushes it to leave the spot but it gathers strength musters courage and starts glowing again everyone knows, no one can prohibit the little vulnerable creature from glowing, it’ll glow as long as there’s darkness in nights its glowing attracts its male partner for mating on the board of darkness, it’s compiling an ever-expanding glossary of glow that churns one’s heart and brings out the symphony of love for clinking in clumps all the day.
After a long night
In my jittery sleep, I saw smoke around and darkness
silently soaking red drops dripping down at the sandy
soil. Date-trees had already lost their listening ability.
Trampled soil had no time to embrace the shrieks
because its bosom was busy to bear the unwanted shoes.
The pole star was descending down somewhere
between the occupied territories of opposing groups. I
didn’t know how to read the messages of stars. The
twitter of a small bird on an olive tree, at a distance,
drew my attention and I got up soon. Through my
window, I saw some tired people among the scared
crowd and some tired men in uniform also. I kept my
ears closer to dunes and deciphered many such tales
inside the murmurs. After a long night, the morning
looked like a pregnant epic and tales were coming out
of uterus to see the light.
(A Prose-Poem)Find More Of O.P. Jha’s Work At:
Jason Ryberg
Jason Ryberg is the author of twenty-two collections of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and countless love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His work has appeared in As it Ought to Be, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Thimble Literary Magazine, I-70 Review, Main Street Rag, The Arkansas Review and various other journals and anthologies. His latest collection of poems is “Bullet Holes in the Mailbox (Cigarette Burns in the Sheets) (Back of the Class Press, 2024).” He lives somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, with a rooster named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe.
Long Path To Wisdom (Tanka)
Heart half-empty, tank half-full, not a star in the sky, and the long path to wisdom is full of round- abouts, courts and cul-de-sacs.
Wrong Turn
Some-
how
my heart
became an
origami bee-
hive and my head was an all-night-
grindhouse-horror-movie-thon (featuring all my least-
favorite C-list actors and only
the most affordable special effects of
the day), haunting my dreams with the echoes of M.C.
Escher-esque stairwells in empty
abandoned buildings
on streets you
only
wind
up
on
by
making
a wrong turn
from bad directions.Nothing Left To Say
A day of ghosts and
gray rain when you can’t help but
feel that there’s really
nothing left to say about
anything that hasn’t been
deconstructed already.Find More Of Jason’s Work At:
Doug Stoiber
Doug Stoiber writes poetry and short fiction and is a member of the Mossy Creek Writers in East Tennessee. His short story, "The Friends of Daniel Cabot", appears in The Rabbit Hole Volume VII anthology, and his original short story, "Woowo" debuted at The Literary Heist on June 21, 2024. His short story, “Sustenance and Verse” appears in Bewildering Stories in January, issue 1074. His poem, “The Devil With a Gun” will debut at Academy of the Heart and Mind in January 2025. “Racist” appears at CafeLit January 13. His short story, “Brotherhood of Cool” will appear in Down in the Dirt Magazine in May 2025.
LAMENT OF THE FAINT-HEARTED
We spoke but once, and only just in passing A word or two, a simple sentence; silence closing in behind it Had we lingered to continue, I would not have really minded; Her eyes alight with sparkles fairly dancing I could have tarried. Late arriving home My lukewarm dinner there congealed; a silent reprimand awaiting Had I remained, held by her sibylline seduction so persuading I might have then composed a different poem
ACROSTIC POEM
A lot of people think that art of any kind Requires a purpose greater than itself Some higher value for the cultured, coddled mind Gotten up in fancy clothes, perhaps to gather wealth Respect (some auteurs claim) their bottom line and goal Admiration crowning dreams that they have brought to life Then, others gather followers whose eyes they can control In SEO supremacy with which the internet is rife A singer’s song not just his talent’s testament Alone, but formulated to secure a record deal Renowned tragedienne on the stage, a star in theatre’s firmament To see her name in lights displayed upon a marquee’s grille I care not for wealth or fame or spotlight on my silhouette Save only let my next creation be my greatest yet
Christian Barragan
Christian Barragan is a graduate from California State University Northridge. Raised in Riverside, CA, he aims to become a novelist or editor. He currently reads submissions for Flash Fiction Magazine. His work has appeared in the Raven Review, the Frogmore Papers, and Caustic Frolic, among others.
A (Spoiler) Review of an Artsy Novel
“Hidden in Plain Sight,” by C.A. Saenz is a novel that is neither plain nor deserves to be hidden. Though most of his work has known nothing but relative obscurity, I’m confident that this latest novel will highlight him as one of the greatest writers Stromwood has ever produced, even if only in retrospect. I’m sure as soon as he is found, he will be proud to hear his work is being appreciated. The unfortunate release of uncooked reviews that have preceded mine have largely overlooked some of the more significant aspects of the novel, so we begin with a fresh look at what is, simply, a masterpiece. Hold onto your caps, folks, because this isn’t your average mystery novel, or even a mystery at all, but a sort of slipstream drama that promises to rewrite the way you look at legacy and interpersonal relationships. Prepare to embark on a journey through the whimsical prose people have come to know from C.A. Saenz, the master of simplistic language. At least, those of us who have had the foresight to keep up with his work. Published by the Stromwood Press and only one hundred and seventy pages in paperback, this is not your average tale of lasers and ghosts. Within its pages, we may have lessons to learn not only about our own lives, but the life and fate of its creator. Set in the charming but eerie town of Wickerbrook, the narrative follows the life of Emerie, an aspiring visual artist forced to make sacrifices at every turn in her relentless quest to become the greatest artist to have ever lived. Much like our beloved Stromwood, strange occurrences underline the transparent shroud of normalcy present in Wickerbrook. It's no secret that Stromwood has been the subject of mystery and legend since its founding, with more incidents reported in recent years. From our high depression rates to the uptick in disappearances, much is mirrored in Saenz’s novel, albeit with more overtly mystical elements. Beneath the veneer of quaintness in Wickerbrook lies a mysterious force that weaves through the tangled web of scandals and secrets that any seasoned journalist would cower from. Saenz’s prose radiates with wit and charm, painting a vivid portrait of a town where word travels fast, unless it's about our protagonist, who seems to be forgotten by everyone she comes across in her turbulent life. A life where most of the people she cared about are no longer there, either by tragedy or by choice. As she completes her paintings in solitude, she realizes that the images she creates, featuring important figures in her life, speak to her in a literal sense. Though unnerved, she declines to dispose of them, as they continually inspire her work and provide her with conversations she can no longer have. Through sheer talent, she is able to garner creative attention but not what she desires most. Connections. She is stuck listening to her paintings alone, which grow more hostile with time. The day someone finally checks on her, they find her long dead (I did say this was a spoiler review). Through an omniscient narration, we see the masterful continuation of the narrative even after Emerie’s death and how her art falls into the hands of numerous people, some of whom make their own modifications to her work. Steadily, she is forgotten. One can’t help but wonder how much fiction is influenced by real life, as several aspects of Saenz’s novel suggest heavy inspiration from his own life, what little we know about it. The real-world factor is itself what sets “Hidden in Plain Sight” apart from most of the cozy dreck published by our local presses these days. Some, including myself, have posited that the novel itself may house clues as to where C.A. Saenz has been residing, as several of the locations in Wickerbrook mimic those of our own Stromwood. Is Saenz trying to make a larger statement about the relationship an author has to their work? Or did life imitate art too closely for comfort? It falls upon us to wait and find out. The possibilities are as endless as the unused colors on Emerie’s pallet. Despite Saenz’s disappearance, his presence looms large over the pages of this flavorful work of literature. With memorable characters, razor-sharp dialogue, and more twists than Stromwood’s catacombs, “Hidden in Plain Sight” is a quick, wispy ride that will leave any reader feeling fulfilled and stimulated. Plenty of Saenz’s works have featured similar themes, though, in my opinion, none done quite as masterfully as “Hidden in Plain Sight,” the title of which was reportedly decided by the publisher after his disappearance. You may recognize Emerie as the “sedentary loner” archetype that we’ve seen many times in his earlier work and seems to be a reliable character for him. I mention this archetype of his in my review of his previous novella “Written by a Robot” on my blog, available below. While some misguided pseudo-intellectuals have gone so far as to call his previous work “dry,” this novel offers a contradictory morsel of moisture. No, this is a story with more twists than a surrealist painting, and but a fraction of the real-world controversy. So grab yourself a cup of coffee, lock your doors, and prepare for a long relationship with a book you won’t be able to put down until you’ve finished. This novel, as life itself, will leave you guessing until the very last page. But keep an eye out for anything suspicious. You never know what secrets might be hiding in plain sight.
Ben Mcnair
Ben Macnair is an award winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter @benmacnair
Photographing Fireworks
We stand watching, hear the oohs, and the aahs, the click and the flash of the camera invisible against a night sky decorated by man-made fireflies. In the same way that bloggers relive the monotony of everyday experience, hoping to make one lasting connection with a complete stranger, or poets hope to relive one moment for their reader, nobody cares. All that wasted energy and noise. All this useless beauty. Time spent in the pursuit of an experience that shouts I was here. I did that. That was me. All we have to show is a shadow. Reflections, blobs of falling embers in a sky already full of wonder, and rather than living the experience, we collect it. These moments are gifts. They are not investments. Live them. Share them. Be them. Do not swap a shared experience for a talent for photographing fireworks.
Autumn Lovers
They are as close as two leaves bound by a vicious Eastwind. Their visible breath, entwines around the end of conversations. Their cheeks are as red, as any crimson leaf. Autumn is a time for lovers. For memory. For fireworks. Bonfires. Scary movies. Marshmallows. Remembrance. So it is that my brightest Autumn memory, will be the one I carry of you.
Pareidolia
Those early childhood mornings, when the kettle would inevitably sing, an opera singer at the end of an emotion, steam caught on the window. Mother Nature has filled the streets with colour, and we finger paint shapes on the glass. The squiggles that could be birds. The circle could be a ring. The man, a figure of darkness or loneliness, staring through the windows. His shape is lumpen, uneven, unnatural, he could have legs, but they could be the birds, that peck out their own meaning with beaks of coldness, passing time. Like sandcastles, washed away by the inevitably of the tides, every new day offers a new blank canvas. A new set of colours, of passing people, of strangers facing lives that don’t go the way we think that they should. Like the children that we once were, we look to make familiar shapes out of the unknown, so we draw squiggles of birds in the condensation, with fingers of coldness, passing time.
Find More Of Ben’s Work At:
@BenJMcnair on Instagram
Ayaan Fahad
Ayaan Fahad is a poet from Lahore, Pakistan. He aims to write poetry that emotionally resonates with people and captures things left unsaid.
Ballet Brûlant
Toska.
Icicles enclose my burning heart,
Melting as the blaze runs cold.
It yearns for coals-
To reignite the flames
Or fade into embers.
Carpe noctem,
The hour forsaken.
Fulfill or exsanguinate your desires.
Water-wood to my heart's flaming fires.
Extinguish it
For all Love is Futile,
Lost. Nothing worthwhile,
An eternally haunting hiraeth.
Miracle;
My uneven, fleeting breath.
Inferno.
Ashes ascend to heavens,
Raining upon barren ground,
Begging solace and attention
Of an indifferent bloodhound.
Nosferatu drowning in impure blood.
White peignoirs disgracefully drenched in lust.
In Somnia Veritas.
Veritas awakening volitions.
Your dreamy eidolon's,
Visit my reality,
Your shadows in every corner,
They question my sanity,
My ability to love,
Stab my heart-
A hemorrhage of longing.
Scarlet Serenade.
In this rose-meadow, collect your scars,
Through thorns, to the stars.
Burn and Bloom-
A waltz in this burning field.
Among flames lies our fate concealed,
Sealed.
Still, Sway to its mournful melody,
Aware of tragic ends
To this dreadful delight.
To the vivacious virulence
Of this ephemeral night.
Amor.
Burn, Rise, Fall-
Let flames rewrite it all.
Hearts and Roses,
Through Thorns to your destined star.
Toska: Longing
Carpe Noctem: Seize the night
Inferno: Hell
In Somnia Veritas: In dreams lies truth
Amor: LoveHymn to the Dove.
Burn your insights, Dim the city’s lights Where puddles reflect my frights. Where the crowd dismisses the stagnant water. A pitch consumes me. Flee to frosty woods to die on an unimportant hill. And sing to love Sing to the squirrel in the tree, Write to the dove Ask how she broke free. Live not to be buried on a mountain, But a hill uninhibited. Free spirited. You may have lost all But the woods. Butterflies enthrall, The bird broods. Man broods too, Menacingly; corrupting words, Maliciously; corrupting worlds. So I sit in the forest free, Needing no man’s plagued honesty. Listen to the strum of a guitar, The hum of a shooting star. Intoxicate on nature’s blissful qualia, Slip into rasasvadic reveries, Intertwined with the trees, One with the azure sky Sway to the creek’s lullaby. Bathe in gold, Apricity’s descend from heaven, Flow along the December breeze, Let the soil meet your knees By this elysian’s amaranthine awe. Till the frost melts on your skin, Forgetting to bite, As you dissolve in sunlight, One with the earth.
Thank you for reading Redoublement, Balestra’s second edition! Reading everyone’s submissions over the past few months has been an incredible experience. With every new edition it’s Balestra’s pleasure to get to see the cutting of contemporary art and it’s always incredibly difficult determining which submissions to share with our amazing audience. It’s been a phenomenal run so far and we look forward to starting work our upcoming fourth edition, and the one year anniversary of Balestra!
As always, thank you for reading. Without you, our wonderful readers, Balestra wouldn’t be what it is. We hope that the poetry and short stories that fill this third edition can entertain and inspire you, and, if inspired to create something of your own, send it our way. If you enjoyed this edition and want to see more please share Balestra with your friends and family, subscribe for more, and comment on your favourite work.
Wishing you all the best,
The Balestra Team
"Pain Suisse" is an impressive, dramatic work. My mouth actually watered when I read: " Through chews of
20 Butter-flaked canals, "
Bravo.
What writer or would-be writer wouldn't enjoy this poem AND its perfect conclusion!