Writings / Poetry

Salim Gold

Revery

The little sparrows' nest among the ivy
Cries, raucous with the arrogance of birth.
Alike agog, the Aegean grates on stone:
So Rodos works white marble gainst white waves.

How I wish I could press you against me,
Or just say it: My head's a grave of flowers,
A cemetery of light, for Desire
Disgraces, disgusts, me....  Why should you care?

Look, Rodos' sky burns into the water;
Wind-swept darkness, buttercups of stars, loom-
To orchestrate your clashing eyes and hair.

I've Blanc de Blanc-white South African wine-
T'es toujours aussi belle.  As tonight dawns,
May I, cavalier, ask?  Might you accept?

First Eve

Your cool disciple, beside you I traipse
In rain:  Wet fury nails itself to wind.

But we ascend the hotel’s tower, take wine,
Negroni, sleepy alcohol, while air,
As sharp as sleet, drills grey-white gainst granite.

A jazz club’s next:  Topsy-turvy guitar,
Music that scorches like fire.  Watching you sway,
I’m swayed—persuaded:  Cease now mere Kindness.

Rain’s piss-pale, white as winter, when we stop,
Nigh midnight, before the Main Post Office,
After rosé, while woozy breezes wheeze.
Now a hungry man looks at you.  Answer:
“Yes,” and four lips meet.  On the hook of your kiss,
Caught up now, in Rapture, is all my flesh.

Consolation

I come, in panic and rapture, to you,
So be-lovely and re-lovely always-
A girl of perfume, blunt, superb beauty-
Laila-thin, angular, a waist like that!

I come to you again for ecstasy
Of completion, after wine, much red wine,
Luscious, cold, red wine (nothing is sharper):
You taste like sugar and smell like fresh milk.

Domesticity is minor music
Bluesy, bland, or schmaltzy, but soothing still
As is coupling—severally, viscerally.
I can’t lie: I prefer our commotion
Your wild, Copenhagen freshness-to calm,
As if copulation’s Consolation.

Another Evening

Geneva: Mild lamps, anchored in metal,
Colour night yellow. Breakfast will provide
Homely teas in insufficient teapots,
Plus butter’s plush, disarming luxury.

While we navigate Solitude’s downtown,
The moon looks foggy in the midnight now;
Palmed avenues crowd to the lake. Marble
Floors admit us to the hotel, gleaming.
In eight hours, the breakfast staff will prepare
Homely teas in chipped pots. But, here’s our night
Of showy stars. Beyond our affiance,
Bankers trust their cigars and laugh at debt.

Wine purrs into our cups. I hate to see
You dressed: Let night be your lingerie.

Venetian Eve

The final sun paints brilliance o’er the earth.
I’ll channel muddy wine, then undress flesh,
Splurge virgin kisses on your urgent mouth,
To make our bed a charismatic Hell-
An opera of flames. How I like this,
Grappling you-capricious apparition,
As beautiful as The Kama Sutra
And as beautifully perfumed, et cetera.

How watery is Venetian marble,
And how ephemeral, evanescent,
And intense is this light—like orgasm,
Or Lust. Love demands desperate esprit,
To start from zero, each midnight and dawn,

And forge Fulfillment before one is far.

Toward April

O! When will April kill Winter again-
Blow snow and rain through us, and down shudder
Blossoms (such Gotterdamerung glitter)
Perfumes that hurt the air—so Clime succumbs?

That kind of light is not available,
Save when apple boughs gleam in bridal white,
And our clothes become too much, too many,
And Desire beds—disorients—us all month.

Voluptuous, this April, was Venice;
Night brought bas-relief breasts, albescent,
Plus clinging summer showers-our mutual dew,
And cries-trilling, twittering-in our ears.

Post-union, great warmth freshened us. At dawn,
Paled an orange moon, halved; a black starling chirped.

Genealogy

What’s genealogy? Queyntes and coffins:
All go from one and into the latter.
It’s a tight combo-taut measure-that draught
And meal elongate, no matter how short.

But too much pound cake and too little love
Defines our curse, swears one theology.
Yet another preaches, “Each face secrets
Layers of dead people laid out beneath….”

We should be christians, not pure animals,
So frequently, casually crucified,
Knowing this world entirely as Despair.

Yet uncivil Pain prompts unholy prayer,
A ferocious scripture of Need, to set
Finally-one’s soul in tune with one’s bones.

About The Author

Salim Gold once of Lebanon, now of Montreal, is not quit of Beirut, although Canada is a settlement. His trade keeps him neither here nor there."

/ Essays

Andrew Suknaski, Poet of the Prairies

Rob Mclennan

Esiaba Irobi: The Tragedy of Exile

Olu Oguibe

/ Reviews

Film Reviews

Lequanne Collins-Bacchus

Poetry & Graphic Book Reviews

George Elliott Clarke

Fiction Review

Julia Cooper

Poetry & Fiction Reviews

Candace Fertile

Fiction Review

Michael Hingston

Fiction Review

Rosel Kim

Fiction & Poetry Reviews

Rena Klisouris

Fiction Review

Julie Leroux

Poetry Review

Andrew MacDonald

Fiction Review

Justin Pfefferle

Poetry Review

Stephen Potts

Essay & Fiction Reviews

Amanda Tripp

Fiction Reviews

Tom Ue

/ Fiction

The Hunt for the Big Bluestem

Mary Baxter

The Oak Tree

Claudia Del Balso

Another Way of Putting It

Maurice Gotlieb

Headlessness

Kyle Greenwood

The Lunch on Good Friday

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

An African Attends St. Georges Day

Austin Kaluba

Pounding Peppers

Ifesinachi Okoli

Back When We Were Superheroes

Taryn Pearcey

Ramki and the New Christmas Tree

Pratap Reddy

Allspice Dreams

Sonia Saikaley

Opening Eyes

Chika Unigwe

/ Creative Non-Fiction

Wine Dark Sea

Ross Laird

Under the Overgrowth

Kyle Stewart

/ Poetry

Ankur Betageri

Salim Gold

Ogaga Ifowodo

Ian Malczewski

Angela Nwosu

Adebiyi Olusolape

Changming Yuan

/ Drama

Euripides’s Iphigenia at Aulis

Nicolas Billon

Excerpt from 5 ½: Montreal Suite

Lara Szabo Greisman

Fresh Paint

Celeste Parr

Let’s talk of a system that transforms all the social organisms into a work of art, in which the entire process of work is included [..;] Something in which the principle of production and consumption takes on a form of quality. It’s a Gigantic project.

– Joseph Beuys
Featured Artist

Neo-Primativism

–Brendan Fernandes

Volunteers for Issue 7

For sub-editing this issue MTLS thanks:

- Lequanne Collins-Bacchus
- Amanda Tripp
- Bianca Spence
- Rosel Kim

Acknowledgement

MTLS is grateful to Ian Loiselle for his hard work on web management.