Old Perfume

First published in Gypsophila Art and Literary Magazine, Vol II, Issue II

---

Even still

Every instant is imbued with the

Essence of you

Like old perfume on

Shirts I peel off my floors

(Because laundry is too boring

To do on my own)

So that

Even a blade of grass

Will take me back

To who we were

That sweltering summer day

Of “Where do you want to eat?”

And “Don’t go just yet, please stay”

I can’t

Visit my favourite haunts now--

The haystacks hint at you

So I resolve to remain

Holed up in this room

Until this world is just that and not

Youyouyou-

Beside me in every long lineup

The source of every sharp quip

Your hand over mine with every

Pancake flip

Even still

by Navi

My Beloved, My Enemy.

Run.

To the ends of Earth, darling.

To the lands of the dead.

To the heavens or anywhere beyond the hereafter.

But,

not you,

not me,

can ever escape ourselves.

We are but our own worst enemies.

Lurking in the dark.

Exist but not.

Unseen but felt.

Never spoke but heard.

Kind yet cruel.

Oh my lover and my killer.

My salvation and my demise.

My best supporter, friend, and hater.

You are talented, they say.

But you are not, the little voice says.

You are beautiful, they say.

But you are not, the little voice says.

Who to believe?

Those who never understand us, or the one who always stays with us?

Those who only saw our facade, or the one who saw our wretched face?

Tame them and win, darling.

It's always the little voice over the voices of others.

Morph them, darling.

Control them.

Befriend them.

Cause they are you and you can get them to believe in you more than yourself ever would.

Cause they are your biggest supporter and one who would always be there even if no one else could.

Your beloved,

or your enemy.

The right to decide has always been yours to make.

by MG

sun

i.

mama said i can

never look straight up at you.

beauty like that hurts

the eyes. yet, you still kiss me

gently—no explanation.

ii.

you ask for nothing,

give just a little too much.

sometimes your kiss glows

bright pink, often the skin burns

right off. quien como la flor.

iii.

i think i want to

be adored like that: fully

and without shame. to

turn towards my lover as

flowers turn towards the dawn.

iv.

when i fantasize

about a particular

pair of eyes, your light

is ever present, caught in

the brown, the brows, the lashes.

v.

i’ve learned to bury

myself in daydreams like you

hide in clouds, finding

faces where there are none, lov–

ing the ambiguity.

vi.

all that substanceless

white, your fingers breaking through.

people mistake you

for god when you do that—warm,

piercing, kaleidoscope-like.

vii.

it must be lonely,

burning above it all, bright

against the pale blue,

caressing summer lovers,

knowing yours is in the dark.

viii.

at night, when you’re gone,

she appears. a ghost of your

glow, bone white. i miss

you then. your heat, that summer

when life felt cinematic.

ix.

and i tried to love

like you, so warm i’m not for–

gotten, not when i

sink into the horizon,

dragging my colors behind.

by Alejandra Medina

THE POWER OF NOW

I wake up in the

morning My thoughts

wonder

in space and time

I look outside, grey skies, thunders

and rain may show up in a

minute. What is time?

Time is an illusion, it is relative and cyclical. It is

neither a succession of numbers on a digital watch or

clock hands moving across the clock face.

I touch my face, to make sure I'm still here,

present.

I think about what's relevant

And what's not...

Declutter my mind, my room and my

life. There is no reason to live in the past or be

anxious about the future, because the only

moment we are in control of is the now, this very

moment.

I am content

Of what I have achieved so far, but I know I

can do more... Content is not enough:

happiness and peace are my life goals and

they both can be found inside us. The inner

work is long and tortuous but an essential and

virtuous

necessary and extraordinary

beautiful thing to do. For me, for you, for

us. Sometimes I feel lost

Lost in my thoughts,

that's why I keep losing my phone...

Difficulties in communicating, but mostly in

staying present, thinking of plans, worrying

about what other people are doing, saying,

displaying.

I feel disconnected, without my phone. It is

everything for me, something that allows me

to stay in touch with my loved ones, to express

myself, to feel less lonely. Trying to find the

answers I have been

searching for in that little but powerful

device.

Technology is a phenomenal invention, but

if it is not used properly divides us, controls us

and drains us.

Injecting ideas, words and thoughts that

are not ours.

Social media can be toxic.

Make sure you're a good person in real

life, first,

which is outside this quick click hypnotic,

chaotic, electronic device.

Don't let your ego take the driver's

seat. I beg you, listen to my advice: put

your phones away sometimes and be here

now, in this moment

and try to realise

that this world can be a paradise

If we connect to each other and create From

the tools we already have inside

All of the gifts we've been told to hide

To work for someone instead of working on

ourselves

Our dreams on the shelves

Full of dust

Let's take them back and start fresh

Before our souls die and what's left Is

just flesh.

by Federica

LIFE OF THE PARTY

You danced all night,

Avoiding the echoes of their words,

So you didn’t have to talk to them,

You loved it, alright,

To forget the fright of your life.

One day you wake up,

Withered, water-less, without any makeup,

And there’s no one to make up for what they did,

You blame yourself as you insist

that it wasn’t your fault,

They locked you in the vault.

In the maze of the sound waves, you lose yourself,

The light in the eclipse has come,

And it feels like spring has just begun,

You’re reborn,

A new woman?

Suddenly you’re the little girl at the party,

Looking around,

Eyes darting,

Mouth filled with sand you danced to the sound

Of psychedelic bubbles you didn’t want to burst.

And the crows look on above the corpse,

But they can’t see the open coffin that you have walked out of,

Out into the glitterball of life,

Where you dazzle and they frazzle,

Can’t bear to see the flaming candle.

The blazing candle,

And they wait for it to flicker,

But it never dimmers.

The pencils of their fingers reach for the warmth,

Whilst the rubbery words try to erase the yolk,

The wax drips down into my eyes,

Milky white droplet lies,

Fitting when we were in Bath,

But they cool eventually from the

altitude of the pedestal you placed me on,

The hill you insisted we walked on.

Like the Madonna,

I knew you were gonna lead to something magnificently terrible,

Or terribly magnificent,

The rose and the serpent,

Twisting around my ankle and up the hills of my thighs,

You found secrecy in the coves of the candlelight,

When you turned off the lights,

And I lay there in doomingly apprehensive stage fright,

The little girl at the party,

Looking around,

Eyes always darting,

Mouth filled with sand I danced to the sound

Of psychedelic bubbles I wished would burst.

by Pippa Hill

The Children of Yemen

They cry before they learn to smile,

In the eye of the bloody storm,

The children of Yemen,

They play in the rubble adorned with

concrete toys belonging to boys in governments,

Who value money over man,

The slaughter over the lamb,

And the land over famine.

As they take their last breaths,

Their mothers are behest with the rancour

of rockets that fly ahead,

Keeping them awake when they sleep in their beds,

They imagine another life where they can eat food and bread,

And not worry about the daggers that drop

from the sky,

Whilst they whisper their last prayers to the shining power up high.

But God will not save them from the static deserts,

Where rows of stony slabs make morbid pavements,

Yet we forget the Holy infants that lie beneath,

As we sit in our living rooms sipping milky cups of tea,

Whilst we waste the abundance of what we have,

May we remember the children of the golden sand.

by Pippa Hill

Every day Hero

Free coffee and pastry

It seems easy,

Instead you need to wake up before the

sunrise, your eyes sore

still half closed

to get to work on time.

Barista, hostess, waitress, receptionist, retail.

Jobs someone would pay for

Made you feel like you

failed. Why?

Because you spent decades on books

trying to be well educated.

You know you were wasting your potential

Every day was the same but slightly

different. It was an essential

experience for your growth.

Survival mode.

Impotence

When you see the rich getting richer

And the poor getting poorer, but being

wealthy isn't a crime or a shame

if it is done ethically.

The problem is that there is too much

disparity, therefore you feel guilty

when you see

homeless people in the street

and you can't help them.

If you're sensitive it's both a

blessing and a curse

You end up being everyone's nurse until

You're exhausted

And since you're always the one who

helps others

there is no one now to help you

Especially if you don't ask for it.

You're stronger than you think

However don't let your ship sink

because of your pride

Don't hide your weaknesses and

vulnerability

A woman can be strong but also delicate.

Handle with care

When she has spare time it is always used

to work on something, fix and tidy up. She

needs people she can trust Even if everyone

keeps saying don't trust

us.

What kind of advice

is this?

What happened to humanity

now that we use any sort of device

forgetting how to really connect in real life

with continuously scrolling through Instagram

or e-mails? Chasing the status. We are slaves

of the system.

A modern type,

but most of us ain't really

free. Jumping on and off the

train

in this constant rat race

catching a flight early I'm the morning

still need to pack

broke as fuck

You feel all the emotions at once

but you still take the chance to write

bars out of your own scars.

How brave is that?

You're a hero and I also mean your own hero.

You were there for yourself even After those

feelings of restlessness picked up the

pieces and put them back. You still help

others whenever you can There will always

be someone who criticises you or says it isn't

enough but... You are enough.

Please remove every doubt

from your consciousness.

Embrace your greatness because

You are a superhero.

You made it after witnessing

The dark night of the soul.

That is called awakening. It is

called purpose.

by Federica

The Utopian Truth

Utopia is rest.

Without the fear

of becoming subservient

Looming above like a curse

Rewinding history.

It was what the older generations

Have strived for.

In many variants of pain.

It always began as a journey through

The dreaded swamps–

Thick and waist deep.

Forests swallowing the lost into obscurity.

A moment through shallow waters

or clear pathways were scarce.

While the destructive world aimed

their vile glares.

After all the nightmarish turmoil

Sinking in their skin.

All our ancestors pleaded for was rest.

To gaze upon the land in pride.

To absorb what was deserved.

Lay underneath trees bared in ripened fruit.

Sleep afternoons away without the jolt of expectation.

Spend the waking days surrounded by family.

Every day will become a celebration of life.

No more hungering for bluer eyes

or accepting life sentences to drag

culture through a genocide

But dancing under sprinkled joy.

Utopia is free.

Without the weight

Of judgment becoming a prison

Feeding into reality.

Without fighting till the afterlife

calls their name.

by Rachel Barduhn

Afternoon delights.

I can have as many as i want if i’m good.

I smile at him sweetly as anyone would.

It’s only one a day, and i’ll burn the rest,

Every new touch lingers on the flesh.

I crave something new and sweet, I deserve a little treat.

Each strange face a cute meet and a foreign bed to sleep.

Delicious on my lips until it spoils my insides,

I always leave the remnants on my bedside,

So the next time I deprive myself i don’t forget

How to replace hunger with regret and a warm bed.

But i’m prettier between bedsheets than the confectionary isle,

And I promise not to do either for a long while.

(You can see where i’m going with this)

A hershey or a kiss? Both only moments of momentary bliss

That clings to my mouth and I suck in its foul taste.

It sinks to my stomach. He brings sweet treats to my place.

by Hannah

Scorched Eyes

You can’t poison a tongue

That has already licked thorns

With her head dragged

Through a thicket of rose bushes

Eyes scraped from the leaves

Blush pink petals left messed in her hair

Her crown bleeds yet never falls

A voice tells her to appreciate the flowers

Rather than to speak ungratefully

Questioning how she cannot see

The bright side of this sight

As she picks off the thorns from her temples

Her eyes already witnessed horror

Of streets being set fire fueled by laughter

Cackles from those who set flames

While those who supposed to protect

Run around like headless chickens

As homes burn on the street

She remembers the poor girl

Who was slapped for crying over

Her missing rag doll

The one her grandmother made

She wonders how anyone could smile

Upon the sight of ashes

She will no longer be surprised yet

She will always be shocked

by Sonia Charales

Love Poem

Divide and conquer

The agenda of a rotten world

but we are getting wiser and stronger

Day by day

Be the rose growing from the concrete

Don't allow anyone to deplete you

of your energy

Protect it

And live in synergy with like minded beings

It seems

something is changing

Autumn equinox, leaves are falling down

The future is orange: cozy,

beautiful and warm,

and I feel inspired to write another

Love poem

How come?

Well, instead of focusing on problems

attached to the outcome, we should flow

and think of ways to solve them.

Letting them dissolve

Like something drawn on sand after the

sea foam kisses the shore

Ignore the noise and observe bad thoughts

Passing by like clouds in the sky

Choose love

Over fear, a smile rather than crying

I know, the night won't exist without the day

And vice versa

but I always suggest the lesser of

evils write the rest in verses

Adverse reactions? None

Instead of guns

Use love poems

Random rhythm rumbling, tumbling

entangled in the quantum field.

Words shield like an armor

Harbour, where you can rest And

find ways to express yourself Your

best interest is to overcome

unhappiness, say it from your chest

Hymn of freedom

Discipline and

optimism Let love be your

religion

Fighter, magnetised

After finding out about wholeness

Individualism is the medicine prescribed To

keep us away from community and union.

Be a safe place where your loved ones

can take off the armor.

Tell your man he's handsome

Don't always wait for him to tell you

Sentimentalism, romanticism, spiritualism

against scepticism, separatism and rationalism.

I'm not saying don't use your brain, but don't over analyse everything...

let it be.

In this troublesome capitalistic world

Write love poems instead of invoices.

See the beauty all around

Smell the flowers

Light some incense and pray

Wake up with the first light of the day Meditate

and make the world a better place

by Federica

Hot tongue

It’s the baby brown glitter eyes for me that shine as Frank O’Hara recites another love torn poetry on the tape/ On my wall , there’s a picture of you smiling, the one I clicked when I told you I love the rush , motorcycles and leather jacketed guys/ you thought I was saying the truth/ some days I wish I was/ I would rather love someone like you/ the ones who are quiet and not quiet/ the ones who give their all, pining like a teenage baby, watching from afar because they think they aren’t enough to drop by and say hi/ they are the ones, the crazy ones in my dictionary, my match on earth or some other celestial place, the ones who look very much like you/ who would rather watch Ladybird with me in bed than get drunk on whiskeys just because they can/ the ones who'll suffer in their loneliness, let the anguish run wild in their journals and surrender their fantasy of being the one for Fiona Apple like girls/ only to see them smile from afar/ but let’s be honest, I probably won’t even speak without feeling you around me/ I’m dramatic like that and too far gone for guys like you/ or just you/ the 16 year old me has yet to realise that/ as O'Hara says, i would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world/ I think that says a lot about how far my obsession goes for slow love/ for you/ where I let go of what all others look for/ I'd rather live in a broken chair at home with you than the motel bars that never have the quiet ones gazing from the afar

by Divisha Chaudhry

La Veo

Was it a hallucination,

or did a god really call my name?

From the deep night

I was awoken by the roar of Coatlicue.

Her glowing yellow eyes burrowed

into my mine, igniting my mind.

The brown scales of her serpentine heads

glistened, slithering through

my quiet thoughts.

My fear made my head turn from her,

afraid of possible sacrifices asked of me.

She drew closer,

muttering in a language my mouth was meant to taste.

What warnings were whispered into my mortal ears?

What teachings did I miss?

Still, she is calling, and I don’t know how to answer.

For now, I light candles

and speak to shadows, hoping it is her.

I need this more now than I ever have.

I am lost in the blur between this world

and theirs.

Hungry to know everything

that was once lost.

by Christiane Williams-Vigil

to the cleaning lady at benito juárez international airport

i had a grandmother who loved me once / maybe / i am searching for her everywhere / even before a flight / back home / to the house she died in / she is the ghost / i look for in the living / in your ginger coils / i see her white ones / the same plastic bucket / you hold aloft / to avoid the splash / sloshing its fullness / to the floor / your mop with thick, long locks / like melting snow & mud / & heavy as a head of hair / even the earrings / gold hooks hanging / from the lobes of your ears / remind me of her jewelry box / how she beckoned me / to her bedroom / every birthday / to gift a ring or necklace / from its velvet gums / i wore each one once / then lost them / or covered the gemstones in dust / i kept my mouth shut / even when my mother asked / looking up / i ask my father to translate / the spanish words threaded in white / down your spine / where it says / cleanliness is an act of discipline / (see: code of behavior / regiment / direction) / es una expresa de amor y respectó / (see: esteem / regard / admire) / i swallow it / & think of how i used to be loved / am i still grandmother’ed / if i only have one? / i want to believe it / rather than an act of servitude / of hurting heels / & bended back / eyes lowering when another / enters a room / perhaps it is neither / perhaps it is both / but if this is love / i picture your heart in the soap / a beating, bloody thing / cradled by bubbles & suds / your lungs sitting / on the spot you just mopped / shoe prints already appearing / a stand-in yellow sign calling cuidado / a warning both tender & sharp / like a soft slap on the wrist / how my grandmother growled it / when she saw me / running / sock-slipping on the floor in the dark / you smell like sundays at our house / like all of mexico / disinfectant & bleach / purple-bottled fabuloso foam / diluted with water / & thrown in buckets to the street / you come closer / smile with eyes / i can’t remember the color of / but i notice you’ve become blonde / in this light / she had the same hair once / & scoliosis from bending over too much / being the last to sit down / to eat / to pray / i don’t want to be a woman / always looking down at her feet / i wish i’d asked for your name / please / i hope you go home early today / treat yourself to a warm bath / scented with oils & fruit / soak your hips in the water / return to a spouse / willing to massage / the meat of your feet / i wish i’d told her so / before she left me / moving through the world mourning / & seeing the dead in every emptiness / maybe / i’m trying / to clean her out of me / free my mind of her memories / even though she’s made my heart a home / come / scrub away at this bruise / the aching / the burning / the blue.

by Sofía Aguilar

Celestial remedies

orbiting in the crevices of my body I

found that a lighthouse lives

in the pinpoint, triangular cusp

of my heart

the trickling goes on and on

to the quiet region of my gut

backstrokes in memories

below, some earthy overgrowth

floral features flood the fragments

[absences]

sewing seeds into my bones

now — of molasses

imagine that water was collecting at

the commencement of my daydreaming

held my breath to examine the

spotted roof above

found tightropes with wild dragonflies

fired up / still mirroring glass

compromised by pines and currents

if in this lies the stillness of movement

i’m going to stay some more

by Paris Jessie

Pippa, I'm Disintegrating

Pippa, I’m disintegrating

you say to me,

I’m not the way I used to be,

Not slightly.

And all I can see is people

who flash their life,

Whilst I can barely walk here, melting under

the molten yolk of the summer light.

The slathers of your cheeks shiver as you speak,

And you find it hard to get the words out,

It’s a squeak,

And all the seagulls you spend your time

shouting at,

I wish I didn’t bother getting worried,

I’m bad at that.

You call me and you call me all the time,

Whilst you forget I’m sitting upstairs on the telephone line,

But I don’t mind that the beads of your memory

have disintegrated completely,

Just being here with you is a lovely eternity.

by Pippa Hill

Wishful Thinking

Every time I hear love song

Blasting outside my window

I hope it's you

Finally


Coming back

To fight for me

But then I remember


That stuff only happens in movies

And none of them include

"I LOVE YOU"


Stitched across a homemade mask

Set to the backdrop

Of a global


Pamplemousse rose

by Lé

First Generation

Although I try to rest like the sun, Because

I have so much passion inside

to give to this world. not only do I thrive for me,

When I try to shut off I thrive for:

I feel horrible. my mother,

my father,

I feel that I am not putting my sisters,

enough of me in the family legacy. my uncles,

my cousins,

I feel like I’m being too selfish. my grandparents,

my great-grandparents,

But, do they not know and all those who came before me.

that this load is too much?

And that's too much...

I need some self-care to keep thriving.

A little patience, -- I only

love, and support to continue giving. need

a moment

for me

to keep thriving

by Solany Lara

Corner

I dream about smashing skulls into the corners of tables


but last night I didn’t


last night I dreamt the bodies were already wrapped up, with packing tape, the brown too-shiny kind, the threaten to rip-at-any-second type


and they were stuffed hastily into a too-large suitcase on top of all my favourite possessions

but somehow they stacked neatly with everyone else, quiet, murmuring,


there is no longer a difference between the once-alive and the once-dead.

something glints, meaningfully, underneath the crackling bodies


I exclaim in delight as I recognise them as forgotten clothes I once-loved

so I pull them out in a flourish.


who would be so silly to put all my favourite things in this suitcase?


isn’t it to be rid of? isn’t it to be parted with?


why would I ever want to let go of you? why would I ever need to?

a flashback pierces my skull this time.


I saw how my shin bone sawed off its head. I saw how my applied pressure made their eyes bulge out, it was almost comical (but I don’t laugh).


so we have a history... we did so much together... didn’t you laugh with me at the point of

contact? (you laughed your head off, and I offered one in return).

but now you lie neatly with the other two and I don’t recognise you anymore.

there’s no blood on my hands


there is only the sharp corner of a table.

by Yulin Huang

she has many names

maybe sultanahmet is the brain

where the memories of the old city live

maybe the bosphorus is the veins

maybe beyoğlu is the heart

beyoğlu broke and the city cried

the bridges started to collapse around me

by Gamze Şanlı