David Dephy is a Georgian-born award-winning poet and novelist and the winner of the Finalist Award in the 2020 Best Book Award National Contest by American Book Fest, as well as the Spillwords Poetry Award.
The life I breathe in; the ocean in three dimensions is you.Water, saline, within, without blurs my visions and dreams,day and night. The fear that I’d lose you and live without you,Day after day, year after year, eyes dry, no tears,For that’s who I know I am; frightens me, it frightens me. That question resurfaced from the depths of a dark ocean trench,the question of intense passions that make it easier to die for a cause: you.From the depths of past, it came; it hadn’t gone anywhere.My weakness that lay crouching, pounced upon its prey.At a moment of abject vulnerability. I wasn’t so weak before youCame into, happened to, me, my life. I’m now on my knees. I’ve left the guarded sophistry, my second nature;I feel like I’m begging from a person as powerless as I, to becomeThe life I breathe in, to congeal time right there, so that I don’tBreathe out the air, to stay within forever,My life, my death, my nectar, my venom,Killing me dead yet not leaving my body. Rajnish Mishra is …
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Sick of the illusions raised by the killers,became teachers. Sick of the dust raised by those teachers,became fools. On the edge of the past, the fears are rolling over. We are still running all around each other in forest and its dark stillness. A stillness never tells the truth. Forest is only a body of leaf’s soul. We still believe the war is over now, but do not recall who won it. Kind people, no doubt, for only they would leave so many dead. Their last breathkeeps us turning back to something forgotten, to something misplaced, keeps us turningback toward their dreams, which are blameless. David Dephy is a Georgian/American award-winning poet and novelist. He is named as A Literature Luminary by Bowery Poetry, The Stellar Poet by Voices of Poetry and The Incomparable Poet by Statorec. He lives in New York. Photo by arcusxx
“As Above, So Below,”
Marks the gate to proxy-rules
That read stars, like they’re a cluster
Of those Indo-European symbols…
A two-storied brick house appeared before Lwin, who could not believe his eyes, when his childhood friend pointed at it and blurted out…
Tonight, the sky is pale yellow
like the skin of a mourning mother.
Tonight, the night is dark, darker…
This feature offers mini-interviews with Litehouse’s poets and writers, offering a glimpse into their soul and what it means to be an exophonic writer.
Women like me, yes
have been added over the years to overshadow
what preceded us […]
Read Tea’s poem for Litehouse here