Will Nightingales Sing
return to Ukraine?
peck at charred seeds,
perch on fractured trees,
build homes of cold steel twigs?
still searching blue skies?
in fledgling Ukraine?
I am my Country
When crossing the borders of my country became my crossing from clarity to a distorted view of who I am, then who have I become?
As my country becomes daily talk, so have I become a dialogue between who I was, who I am today and who I am to be. So who am I?
As smoke rises from the daily ruins of my country, so have I been reduced to a shadow of who I used to be. Now, knowing me and defining me has become looking into a smoked glass. Who have I become?
As lips that once spoke become cold and forever silent, I wonder if I’ll truly live again.
I weep at the destruction of my country, and that of me. I am my country, my country is me.
When all the dust settles, who will I be? Who will you be?
war is a job for us new poets
brave cold sunrise square
on the countertop- i’m flipping
your bagged sandwich to
turn the plastic lip in (jam smear)
warm grime fogs the february window
where I couldn’t reach the rag
24-hour news rolling red like
t-90s on my kitchen table
curtain calls crackling in bright
false voices for another suburb
plumed into particles
loitering dazed in shattered streets
a closeup shot of blood on his balaclava
dies irae- i pack you one of the discount apples
they’re bruised and sure to go bad soon
i snap off the coffee-pot that smells of burning
i’m thankful the
old poets are safely dead
In a burning funnel, the engine charges,
the sharp ballistic head does not feel the whim of touches,
Ukraine’s naval forces spare no effort,
in wartime, sailors still do not know the comfort.
Winged Neptune, the patron saint of rockets,
Neptune does not need energy from the planet or the socket,
ruins of the enemy navy more than impress.
Visit The Lit Issue 4 to see Nur Allan’s multidisciplinary response to our ‘Borderline’ open call.