Arc Prose Poetry Anthology 2021 is specific for prose poems.
From the book:
IT STINKS TO BE A FLY ON THE WALL By David Thane Cornell
It stinks to be a fly on the wall of Napoleon's bathroom. I was on assignment, researching my doctoral dissertation on the existential psychotherapy of alienated persons. This was an important case study. Napoleon had stolen the Mona Lisa and hung her portrait over his bathtub. His daily ablutions made her wink, like counter transference between therapist and patient. This became central to my thesis and you may now call me Doctor Fly, even though Sigmund Freud pointed out there were too many holes in my theory about an art thief.
Shirdi Sai and Neem Tree by Pragya Suman
The green leaves stagnate even in their move. They know a magic which an old fakir had taught them.Two mynah live at neem tree twigs, they splutter in the magic of music the old man left behind. Essence of soft talks is still alive and the story is still scampering in my soul.
An adolescent arrived at Shirdi and began to meditate beneath the neem tree. A circle of nimbus sparkled the vision of shirdi dwellers. One day the young boy was digging beneath the neem tree. Gaping people around began to fly in a spell!
Were they spellbound?
Five earthen cups alighted in divine fire were laid at the dug place.
“This place belongs to my master,” the young boy beamed.
When I was reading this story a mauve colored mynah perched at my window sill.
The mauve colored mynah tweeted ---
“The young boy was an old fakir and the neem tree is still alighted with the saffron fire which engulfs chimera.”
Smashed Flowers By Anwer Ghani
Yes , it is a flower, but it is just a smashed flower from the ruined land. It has been made in Iraq; the destroyed land. If you want to see sadness face to face, then look at it, if you to see the wretchedness face to face, then look at it, and if you want to see the ruination face to face, then look at her. It is from here, from Iraq of the ancient sadness and old ruin. The age of ruination extends to hundreds of years.Yes, for hundreds of years the hands are destroying us, ruining our land and smashing our times, and why? I don’t know. When the sun rises here, it rises ruined, when moon appears here, it appears destroyed, when the morning wakes up here, it wakes up with screaming and when night sleeps here it sleeps with weeping. Yes we have roots and flowers, but smashed flowers and roots of ruination. Smashed flowers,yes it is a flower, but it is a just smashed flower from the ruined land. It has been made in Iraq; the destroyed land.if you want to see the ruination face to face, then look at her. It is from here, from Iraq of the ancient sadness and old ruin. The age of ruination extends to hundred years. Yes, for a hundred years the hands are destroying us, ruining our hands and smashing our times, and why I don’t know. When the sun rises here, it rises ruined, when the moon appeas here it appears destroyed, when the morning wakes up here, it wakes up with screaming and when the night sleeps here, it sleeps with weeping. Yes we have roots and flowers, but smashed flowers and roots of ruination.
Uninvited Guests By Oz Hardwick
The bedrooms are full of humans, and there’s a queue for the bathroom that stretches down the stairs and out of the front door. It’s good to see that everyone’s wearing masks and maintaining social distance, though it means that those joining the back of the line aren’t really sure what they’re there for, but just assume it’s what they’ve always wanted, whether that’s a fast car or the Holy Grail. At different times in my life I’ve wanted both, though now I just want everyone to get out of my house; but I don’t like fuss or confrontation, so I say nothing and just keep the soap and tissues replenished. With the masks, it’s impossible to read people’s expressions afterwards, though more than a few have eyes that glisten with tears, and there’s usually something of surprise and something of sympathy as they remember where they are and take in the queue that still stretches down the stairs and out of the front door. The next expectant soul is already ascending the final steps, leaving insufficient room to pass, so I direct my last guest by gestures to one or other of the bedrooms, where they can join the other humans. I don’t know what they do in there, but they do it in complete silence.
