Read a free sample of "At The Crossing Of Seven Winds"

Read a free sample of  "At The Crossing Of Seven Winds"

at

Smashwords

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About the book : a presentation

«Nature is wild and eagles and wolves will never be lovers. But certainly Poetry can overcome every obstacle and translates our dreams, desires, passions.. in images that evoke even a new, different Universe.» (Fabrizio Frosini)

«It fulfills the very nature of poetry that we 7 poets publish our poems in a common anthology and witness how these diverse poems reflect each other, relate to each other, amplify each other.»

(Daniel J. Brick)

~*~

"At The Crossing Of Seven Winds" published by Fabrizio Frosini at Smashwords, is an Anthology of Poetry with 72 poems from 7 Authors from different parts of the world.

As Fabrizio Frosini put it: 

«When I first proposed my idea for an e-book to my Minnesotan friend Daniel Brick, we decided together to open it to other "voices of poetry" from different parts of our troubled world.  Maybe we put it a bit too emphatically, like "voices of poetry conveying the joy of creativity", to point out the real issues of human passions mediated through poetry.  Yet, Poetry is a sum of hope and despair.  It is a sum of wishes, hopes, dreams, inspirations, wanderings on the wings of Imagination.  It is a long flight our hearts and minds took, revisiting reality, memories, expectations.  Life itself is revisited through the multicolored glasses of poetry.  Everyone who reads our poetry enters our own Universe –even if for a while.  Through Poetry, we - the all of us who write and read its lines - are in touch.»

 ~*~

The 7 Authors in alphabetical order:

Leah Ayliffe (Toronto, Canada): 

Born in 1991, I have my BA degree in English Literature. Yet to me words are power. They can be cinematic, sonic, beautiful, ugly, simple and complex - pushing limits in endless ways. Words can be dangerous and liberating. I write because I feel I have to. There is a chaos stirring inside myself that only acts of creativity can fix- if only temporarily.

Daniel J. Brick (Saint Paul, MN, USA): 

I was born in the Twin Cities in 1947 and lived my whole life here. This is where I am rooted, near the Mississippi River, in a landscape of four seasons with many trees and parks and lakes. These are the natural things I treasure. Poetry and classical music are my passions.

Fabrizio Frosini (Florence, Italy): 

Born in Tuscany, I live close to Florence and to Vinci, Leonardo's hometown. Doctor in Medicine, specialized in Neurosurgery, with an ancient passion for Poetry. Author of c. 1200 poems, in 13 collections. Among them: «The Chinese gardens - English Poems», soon to be published.

Diane Hine (Perth, Australia): 

I live in Perth, Western Australia, a very peaceful yet isolated city set on the banks of the Swan River. I’m very happily married with four lovely children and two gorgeous grandsons. I work as a laboratory assistant in a large orthodontic practice.

Galina Italyanskaya (Saint Petersburg, Russia): 

Born in Ukhta, a small northern town surrounded by forests, I grew up there between civilization and wilderness. From the early childhood my curiosity about everything in the world has no limits. I love nature, science and art, music and literature, travels and discoveries, and of course I love my children.

Mallika Menon (Trivandrum, India): 

I hail from Kerala, on India’s southern tip. Lover of music and literature, I sing songs and poems. I offer collection of poems in mother tongue Malayalam as well as English. Simple emotions, gentle feelings and shades of empathy reflect in my poetry. I like reading philosophy. I’m travel-savvy, keen to explore cultures and cuisines world-over.

Abby Sze (Hong Kong): 

Born in China in 1990. Moved to Hong Kong when I was 10. Used to murmur “Our Father” at early age, but now whisper “Invictus”, by William Ernest Henley, during times of fear. First poem written is “3480”.

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Nocturnal Snowing - Fabrizio Frosini

«Let this fluffy snow fall upon our

Dreams and make them shine!»

Set free,

Your breath smoothens unshaken skies;

Your perception scratches unopened realities.

Is it a diversion – maybe – for lost thoughts,

For lost faces and sins?

Looking the other way out of fear or

Embarrassment, waking up next morning,

You should then learn

How to keep alive the drowsing mind,

While trying to shove away

Her plait of hair,

Jammed in the eyes of memory.

Ah.. Those haunting memories!

Was her pain real

When she asserted  «That one is my spoiled dress !

My party dress,

Which your eyes, filled with lust, tore off me..» ?

Hardly a twist of fate that

Multivalent perception which made

Visionary  –Fanciful

Your unnecessary waiting.

Because she didn't come back.

Even at dawn. Even in your expectation.

Now your pain screams only through silence

When you sink your fingers deep

Into your bleeding heart  –A sheer grief

With no voice anymore

Because day in day out, year after year

Everything becomes habit.

Until,

Gazing at the fluffy snow falling, you

Caught a glimpse of her  –Along with a

Whiff of her perfume..

Peering deeply into your eyes

She spoke words of hope

Along with a promise –possibly– :

«A new life is looming beyond the whitened

Fields of your mind»

Hushed words, uttered under her breath,

Not to scrape the purity of the night.

Was it a prophecy?

The celebration of a triumph or a

Failure  –A bloodcurdling nightmare?

Enough! I'm fed up!

I stare at my bloody fingers

And faintly sigh.

(Fabrizio Frosini) 

Four Taoist Poems - Daniel J. Brick

I

Scattered rocks lie
beneath the moss-covered boulder.
They are Tai Chi students
resting in the shade of their master.
They have learned enough for today -
It's time to stop
and speak softly to the earth.

II

The grasses display no ambition.
They grow everywhere along the Path
with a tangled sense of humor.
There is a deep truth hidden here
but I'm laughing too hard to care about it!

III

Walking in the Marsh

Balancing on one leg,
without a thought in her head,
the bird mocks philosophy.
I'm too stubborn to get the point.
I'll come back next week
when I'm ready.

IV

Suddenly I don't know what to say.
Perhaps I should keep my mouth shut.
The barren branch knows so much more
than I ever will
in the Ten Thousand Years.




(Daniel J. Brick)

The Beggar - Mallika Menon

The broad and well kept thoroughfare
Got cuddled with its heavy traffic.
The town was over crowded with
folks of each and every league.

I was walking through the street
My eyes were searching for his sight.
When I saw him he was
in quest to stop his hunger with
rotten fruits and leftovers
from a waste bin next to him.
That place seemed his home itself
And the sky just turned as roof of it!

Agedness with illness had played a role
to make his body frail to the core.
The torn and soiled clothes of his
Seemed to be there in name only.
The dull and void look in his eyes
Conveyed me the miseries
in which he was going through.

He had spread a filthy cloth
infront of him as usual.
By using stones on all four sides
it was well tucked to the ground.
Someone's generosity glittered well
in that rag as few coins.

His shivering hand had saluted all
Even someone who showed disgust as well.
The word ego was not meant for him,
A pauper did not know its meaning!
People who never had endured with the wretchedness of poverty,
did not even bother him,
but murmered in between them that,
Why should he be there as a 'trouble mirth',
with utter contempt in their looks.

One of his feet had a bandage
and tried his best to conceal it.
I could see the blood like substance
Oozing from it continuously.
Paining wounds and starvation
had made his status so pathetical.
He was always accompanied by
Countless torments as his shadow.
To satisfy the call of hunger
He had to go through all those sufferings.

By seeing this sight made me think
With how much luck I have been born!
Then and there I took an oath,
To be contented with what I have!
I didn't forget to thank Almighty
With gratitude and love in my mind!
For granting me His precious grace,
All through in my life ardently!


(Mallika Achuthan Menon)

Coming, ready or not - Diane Hine

When we play hide and seek,
my grandson tells me where to hide.
I must hide in the tan swivel armchair.
I want to sneak away to hide somewhere
clever while he counts, but can’t
because he’s canny, though only three
and can see right through me. He can see
through his eyelids and fingers too.

So I scrunch myself up, close my eyes
and blend into the wrinkled leather.
After looking in the cupboard, under
the desk and behind the curtain,
he finds me straight away.
Then he hides under the table.
I look under the curtain. He sings out,
‘I’m here Grandma, under the table’.
After looking in the desk and behind
the cupboard, I find him straight away.

How worried we’d be, if I couldn’t find him
or he couldn’t find me. Much more sensible
to hide in plain view, so we do.





(Diane Hine)

Splitted - Galina Italyanskaya

Splitted 

 The world around me has vanished, lost in the night 

All things and thoughts seem fallen in some black hole 

The wires are ruptured, the sky is flashing with light 

Or, maybe, it’s the result of my last default 

And since the dark has taken me by surprise 

I’ve lit a candle, remained of Christmas Eve 

Its gentle flame is dancing before my eyes 

Obedient to your whisper, my true belief 

I pour out my soul onto the sheet 

I write a letter to someone who’s drawn a sword 

And looking over my shoulder you try to read 

But obviously understand not a single word 

I hear you saying again: I should not give up 

Oh, can you recall the time when you were betrayed? 

I wonder if ever you saw me draining your cup 

And bearing that very cross to the top one day 

 Let poetry be my last escape from the blues 

I heard about its healing creative force 

The way rough diamonds turn into precious jewels 

It facets our feelings and secret thoughts 

 My pen is running along and filling the page 

The flame is dancing, and slowly drop by drop 

The melted wax is running over the edge 

I guess that trust has nothing to do with hope 

 It’s really hard to live on and never wait, 

To liberate all your fantasies, let’em fly

 Resigning to the maxima “come what may” 

And write your story across the undying sky 

My poetry is the candle your love has lit 

It’s not the wax, but verses are dripping down 

The wick of life is burning - I’ve got a bit  

When everything is written I’ll simply die. 

 Or, possibly, it will end up with less delay 

If someone, who wants to leave to forget my face,  

Just slams the door behind and goes away, 

And blows out my dream 

To another space 

 You’re not a smoker - there are no matches at hand 

To make alive that one decided to break 

I know my fate, and truly I don’t pretend 

Please shelter my lonely light from a big mistake

~ Galina Italyanskaya

A mouth talking - Abby Sze

A mouth talking

I've got a mouth, 
Blablabla.
Talking about how I think 'love & peace' rocks,
Talking about how big my dream is,
Talking about how hard I will work,
How great my plan is.

I've got a pair of hands,
Clapclapclap.
Ten fingers moving on the tiny buttons on the screen,
Typing to invisible viewers what I have done today,
How lovely the dinner is,
Most of the time my fingers scrolls.

I've got a pair of foot,
Tactactac.
I Wear it a beautiful shoes,
Which David Beckham is wearing in a commercial.
I give it a good care,
Landed on the floor at rest.

I've got a pair of hands.
But I didn't touch the mystery of the world.
The ten fingers did not feel the roughness of the society.
Nor does it held up a fist and punch to fight.
The foot on me,
Didn't step on the moist green grass,
Neither scratched by running,
Or kicking to break, anything.

Blablablablablablabla,
Lips touched and released,
Tooth and tongue moving up and down,
Giving the world meaningless message,
Producing noise to fill the silence.
People talking without speaking,
Sooner or later I will die and left nothing.

~Abby Sze

I Keep Her Ghost Near - Leah Ayliffe

I Keep Her Ghost Near

I would lie on the ground in the hallway
Just before my front door, where light could shine through
But it didn’t
Because I would lay on the floor in the silent night
Starring up the great stairs,
the railing wrapping around that area where we used to play.
My mind races back to the beginning, the ghosts are near
And dear.
Sometimes I watch, confused, thinking they are strangers.
Yet the thrill in their laughter brightens the past.
I remember, I remember.
If remembering counts as knowing what was,
What has been, or ever is real.
It is real in this moment, I don’t care what you say.
I say it and so it is.

The ghosts trace my mind,
echoing a heart ache that’s still fine,
His face I see in a flash.
The broken glass so beautiful,
The psychedelic colours move through the light,
The spark of stars, or the sunshine beams of dawn.
I am haunted.
I was always haunted.
Once of what would, could, would not be.
And I grew, maybe like a child, I grew ancient,
Haunted by what was or could have been if only..
And this beautiful ghost who smiles like an angel would,
Is alone in her mind.
I want to let her know, be happy my darling,
Do not wander too deep in that pretty little head.
I want to let her know it’s not so scary,
Death is a blessing and a friend,
A beautiful truth shining in darkness.
Please let yourself fall in love with it.

Lightening strikes, I am on the ground.
I nod farewell.
It’s time to fall asleep with memory,
I don’t mind, I don’t mind.
God can haunt my soul if his face is my face,
His hands my hands that reach for her, unknowing little fool.
Take her on a holiday,
because I cannot bear knowing
she is trapped in that confused state of mind.
And I'm here, free.
I stopped looking for the answers.

~Leah Ayliffe

7 Poets from 7 corners of the world

From top (left) to bottom right) :


Abby Sze (Hong Kong, HK)

~*~

Mallika Menon (Trivandrum, India)

~*~

Daniel J. Brick (Saint Paul, MN, USA)

~*~

 Leah Ayliffe (Toronto, Canada)

~*~

Fabrizio Frosini (Florence, Italy)

~*~

Diane Hine (Perth, Australia)

~*~

Galina Italyanskaya (Saint Petersburg, Russia)

~*~

Introduction

by

Daniel J. Brick

Many years ago, in a poetry class for beginners, I read one of my early efforts which contained the following three lines:

         " A young poet drops his pen, astonished

          by the twenty lines he has just written,

          certain it is the Poem of Total Realization."

The teacher, who was supportive of our weekly efforts, smiled and said, "I remember thinking I had written that poem when I was sixteen." I can now agree wholeheartedly with her: the Poem of Total Realization is an adolescent fantasy. A mature poet recognizes it as a fool's errand, because, first, no single poem can encompass the variety of all human experience. Second, the writing of such a poem would end a poet's career, since all of his future poems would be mysteriously contained in that magnum opus. It would take all the oxygen into itself, and leave all the living poets breathless and gasping.

What we learn from writing poems over a long expanse of time is that each one takes further along the path of our daily life, leading eventually to whatever fulfills our existence. Each poem illuminates for its moment the darkness surrounding us, and in that light we can see the World in its glory or, sadly, in its degradation. Finally, we will carry within, not only the poem as a piece of literature but also the

emotional growth it promotes.

Our poems express our individual selves. It is not just self-expression, although that's the surface impression often conveyed. It's something far more deeply interfused, as Wordsworth memorably put it. We filter our experiences through our poetic selves to make poems which reveal both the Self and the World. When we look back at our poems, a day or a decade later, we are often surprised by the discoveries about life they carry within. Robert Frost put this very succinctly: a poem, he wrote, begins in delight and ends in wisdom. But that wisdom is never A Big Statement; it's not an abstract idea, or a philosophy. It's like a window opened to admit more light. It takes the form of an insight that points to emotional growth, and propels our lives toward ever richer states of being.

And so it fulfills the very nature of poetry that we 7 poets publish our poems in a common anthology and witness how these diverse poems reflect each other, relate to each other, amplify each other. Poetry is the most democratic of all the arts, because its essential material - language - is a given in every person's life.  This makes poetry accessible to every person as a reader and writer.

Walt Whitman celebrated this democratic core of poetry eloquently:

        "The messages of great poems to each man and woman are, Come to us on  equal terms, only then can you understand us. We are no better than you"

        what we enclose you enclose, what you enjoy we enjoy.


(Daniel J. Brick, Saint Paul, MN, USA)