October 13-20, 2013: Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak and Maya Richard-Craven:

Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak and Maya Richard-Craven

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Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak
bozena.mazur-nowak@hotmail.co.uk

Bio (auto)

Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak was born in 1958 and comes from Opole (Poland). In search of work she migrated to the UK. She lives in Merstham near London. Her poems were published on web portals such as Poetry London and Kronikarz-Citizen Magazine. Bozena Helena’s literary debut was the line "our love" (2011), which won first place in the competition of one line. This poem and many others, was published in the pages of The Polish Observer, Angora. The poet has released three volumes of poetry. The first "on the banks of the river called life" in 2011, the second "ticket to the Happiness station" in 2012, the third "on the departure bridge " in 2013. In July 2013 a book of selected poems in English, was released under the auspices of the International English Association (IPPA), based in London (UK).

The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The wind

Suddenly fell on me today in the garden
Where I sat reading the wonderful verse
The wind dipped their fingers in my hair
Plait my braid tangled tresses and sliced
Then again gently rubbed my hair

Touched my neck and flow over shoulders
Gently slid his hands under my dress
I flushed and embarrassed burned
Felt the blood pulsating in my temples

This scatterbrain no thought to give me a break
Getting nicer caressed me flirtatiously

When he stopped I dreamy whispered
Back to me here mischievous wind once again

 


Maya Richard-Craven
mrichardcraven@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

I am currently Sophomore Creative Writing major at the University of Southern California. I was born and raised in Pasadena, California, and have two older sisters (23, 21) and a younger brother (12). I began to enjoy writing when I took a Creative Writing course during my last year of high school. My newfound passion for craft inspired my college personal statement about my grandmother’s southern apple pie recipe, and how its legacy has influenced my relationships with taste and memory. In late Spring of last year, I was accepted to the Kenyon Review Summer Writer’s Workshop, and the UC Berkeley SCWP Creative Non-Fiction Workshop. Within one week of attending the Berkeley program, I contacted my USC major advisor to switch from the History to Creative Writing major. I am currently studying under the world-renowned Poet and Professor, Dana Gioia, and have found that my love for writing translates into various modes of craft such as Creative Non-Fiction and Lyric Poetry. My words never fail to find some page; maybe in notes on iPhone, in stained back of a Coffee Bean receipt, or even in the inner crack of course texts binding. Thought drives these words, creating a connection between my self and something more, beyond what my eyes were taught to see. Visit Maya on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Maya Richard-Craven and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Bound in Black

I, too, had known Despair,
Down in Dixie.
Poor Pastures ran outside public
Train’s dirtied windowpane,
Swamp like bright terrain sprouted
Greens mud-stained,
But concrete builds
Greasy pizza pies,
Golden sand beaches
Year round easy seasons, 
Thin people, Big names.
This place-
The South-
Lack the natural cityscape.
Instead, first comes
The Corner,
Then the Block,
In that Hood-
The West End. 
With thugs gangs shootings
And five dollar bill train
 
I was told Atlanta was urban,
Yet all I could see was
The post slavery disarray-
Georgia black with poor-
Crime to just be okay.   
Darkness strewn cloud grey
Rose from chimney outside train-slow.
Slow.Slow.Slow-
Southern United States,
Behind too many years to date.
 
They, too, had known despair,
The ones before I came.
"The Colored’s" who once lived in that-
Destitute space.
What now goes by urban ghetto, before
1920s, urban black hideaway.
Think of that time-
Precursor to Race riots round Dixie. 
Land of above the law KKK-soldiers
Of the Lord destroyed
This Little black boy’s
Trust in any God’s Grace.
Turned his face from warm chocolate brown
To dull brittle
Black clay.
 
White mans lies,
White hoses force,
White walls lunacies.
Where to escape?
Dark boys watered down after
They sat at White only place.
 
Down in Dixie some hung high.
Black boy you better
Run-
Not fast enough.
Neck to Neck,
Wrung like a
Chicken with nothing but
America-
Her hand that once waved-
Bright red,
Soft whites star and stripe, 
Deep blue shade.
 
Hands carry weapons.
Her hand, a noose that embraced
The Negro Boy tight, reminded him
Of his place. 
Shrieks became Cries.
Prayer for black people, 
Prayer to see life beyond Western skies.
Death let me rise,
In the draw of a whisper,
His soul said goodbye.
 
Down below five-foot Dark wooden pole,
Toasts called for Drinks,
Masks hollered with Glee,
Hoods swayed, pointed, spat at pole’s beneath,
Red ice bucket cradled Blue tin flavored piss,
Flame Red, and yellow orange rose
Took black boy away.
 
Excitement sparked the Knight!
Men go hip hip hooray!
Tiptoe in circles round pole did they.
Ashes, ashes,
Almost down!
Back to open truck to
Watch the grand finale!
Brown crispy fried skin seared
To black oven roast.
 
It was Ten-year-old Tom-
Tom Clay!
Cooked to his death-
Sold, 
Hung,
Dried,  
Rot. 
Draped like the rest.
Met with flies, fungus, feces. 
Raw-Red-Rape- yeah,
Slavery ended long ago, but,
Little Clay stayed in Macon, Georgia,
Until his premature August death.
The Crash would come
That October Fall.
 
The White Supremacists in costume
Saw Jesus Christ as King, and
Sought to Protect His Holy Kingdom
-From more than Black-
Jew Catholic Gypsy.
Each nightfall,
Ghost of Knights White
Channel their Lord and Savior,
To put back the unclean.
 
Drive down that same black asphalt road.
Stop- yeah,
Rite where Oglethorpe ends at Jefferson. 
And their swings Little Tom Clay,
Singin’ Away-
Sittin’ in America’s unwashed hands.
Body Limp,
Face fried,
Mouth empty, open wide-