March 14, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Amandine Van Ray



Leslie Philibert



Front Door



Sort of a face full of kicks

                         from the day you lost your key,

                         the annoying mouth of a letter eater,

                         then a mat of small stoned tango.


You never know the shapes behind,

                         those already, the secret curses,

                         the forced elevation, the upstanding,

                         you fail to read thoughts, an open smile


of oh-you-are-back-again, your news like the ill tide

                        of a badly tuned tranny, the damp fog

                        of tea steam rolls down the hall.


Home again.










A perceived reality, refractory plate

                                    of melted sand

                                    that makes the outside far.


Laced with dusty curtains, a single glass

                                   guarded by neglect;

                                   a Dachau for summer insects.


The sill an altar of soft dust, aged relics

                                   of minor sin at weekends,

                                   empty bottles of glass,

                                   traces of sea and sanded eyes.


Outside in the street, they trudge to the station;

tired ones walk to work, framed for a moment

                                   through old windows

                                   smudged with thick leaded paint.


Those that walk past are only for a second real.

They walk off the edge of the world.










When the geraniums turn to water in autumn

                                       the early dimness

                                       locks out the path.


The path cracked and sinking, a kind of code

spelled in neglect, the roses like a parody of rowans,

each hand reaches out to bloodline your steps.


Even near to your home the wildness blooms.

There are many places here hidden by growth.


All your steps pass weak grass and stumble pots

                                       become ill with care,


only the knowledge of the sky in late autumn

                                       makes it less alien.













Leslie Philibert

Leslie Philibert comes from London, England. After studying English Literature in Ireland he moved to Bavaria in Germany, where he now works as a social worker. He is married with two children. He has had poems published in a number of magazines in the UK and USA. He has also done some translation work for a South German theatre group.


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