Author: PrachyaReview

Classical dance: The Ultimate Beauty of Body Movements by Shuvroneel Sagar  

Humans are meant to move. To be more specific, existence of life means body movement. Every living being, seen or unseen is in movement. As a human, our body contributes to our life through movements of eyes, hands, legs, etc. as well as our heart. When the heart stops beating, there is death! Long ago, when there was no language, humans used to communicate and interact with each other through body movement or gestures. Precisely, body movement is known as ‘body language’. Since the time of Hominini tribe (humans, Australopithecines and biped genera between nine millions years ago) to modern Homo sapiens (humans), body movements, still remains an effective tool of communication and interaction. As we know, there are two major forms of communication: verbal and non verbal. Verbal refers to words and non verbal refers to all communication that occurs by means of body movements. A modern research on the role of body language reveals, that during communication: (1) only 7% of the information human transmits to others is in language we speak; (2) 38% in people’s speak-quality of voice, accent, voice projection, emphasis, pace, volume, pitch etc; and (3) 55% through body language- posture, position, eye control, facial expressions, head and movement, gestures, touch etc. Body language is instinctively interacted by us all to a limited degree, but the subject is potentially immensely complex, and perhaps infinity so,...

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Poetry by Misty Rose

Dirty Laundry   In the tub another scent falls. I have to keep your coveralls Separate from my undies, To not mix sharp with ivories.   Yesterday folds flat unflattered. Today is still unhampered. A pocket kept key is a find, Spinning the churning inside.   A cool down cycle cannot chime, Till stains are aired in due time. Changed clothes, lid won’t close, No socks in vent where we expose.   This old outfit fades to mundane Shades of blame without gain Bent shoulders stretch and grieve, Wearing your heart on my sleeve.   SON TEMPLE   Staging captured audience. Then curtain tore top to bottom. Despite quaking judgement seat spectators slept through finale.   The next acts have no intermission. Skeleton orchestra removed to higher tier, Pit replaced by fresh well-springs.   The building burned to grey walls, old ones wail but will not leave. Lye and ash cannot scrub clean unsettled generations.   Look ; that foundation wall never collapsed, light stream where the beams had fallen, despite a blinding dome like a skull cap.   Towering edifices will all fall. Dreams are not the stuff of martyrs. The truth was buried in the hill, the stone has fallen away.   Rawhide welts forgive the wielders. Tongues of fire seek, consume everything, and that is the end.     But eyes are not the mirror to...

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Poem by Shane Guthrie

Incarnadine   Have you ever held up a flashlight Behind the webbing in your fingers Seen the light come through Like looking into your bloody flesh?   I once opened my knee with a machete But it was white and yellow inside Before the incarnadine color flooded in And I had to be carried back to the house   The doctor sewed the ligament Like strumming the chords of my body Nails on the chalkboard, operation game buzzing Touching the electric fence   Some colors aren’t meant to be seen   ——–   Your body Is where you gather Heavy metals To deposit In a grassy expanse   ——   Life is a war Your body will fight Even if you’re a pacifist   The bacteria and viruses Can’t be reasoned with At the bottom it is murder But not premeditated Not mediated at all   How can we talk peace While we are, every moment Containing a never ending massacre?   ——   About the Poet Shane Guthrie’s poetry has been alternatively called ‘devastating, humorous, radioactive and amusingly domestic’. Popular topics include: Dealing with Low Self-Esteem, Amusing anecdotes about childhood, why love is really actually pretty hard, why love is really actually pretty great. He resides in Duvall, Washington with his wonderful wife and two great kids.  ...

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Poems by Ginna Wilkerson

Aphrodite 2017   The stylish haircut rests on a searching teen-aged face: freckled nose, pale grey eyes, cropped hair colored magenta.   The absence of arms is arresting.   Prostheses fit to nubs of flesh – when clothed, they pass. Gripping tender flesh grimly to do their work, the arms feel alien, even after six years.   Unseen at home, she goes bare in faded T-shirts, using invented tools.   Once, she created a long-sleeved shirt with hands severed from outdated arms – cut, sewn, hot-glued to denim cuffs. The shirt was comfy, but impossible to control – hands that grip demand connection.   Tools at Hand   The metal handles of her head were too hot to touch. Lacking pot holders, she was somewhat at a loss.   She knew she should serve up the contents of her head for public consumption; keeping it private was against the rules. But she had no spoon either.   Her bed was covered with brightly-coloured rectangles, like so many Rothko paintings. She wanted to lie down. On the desk was a piece of wood and some nails – a hammer, too. Strange, that: a hammer but no spoon….She quickly grabbed the wood panel and used it to cover her gaping head, nailing it on tightly.   Then she lay down on an orange rectangle and began to die.   Obituary  ...

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Poems by Oluwapelumi Francis Salako

Crank shrapnels   I found this song in the middle of dark places and piercing catchwords, formaldehyde air and an unplaced Requiem that wears a rhythm that resemble me  so much –   This song was sang in a distant place where gloom was chiefly in a communal fest and it feels just like here -home   How starkness is a flower that blooms in every sphere of the world and how children never become free of their childhood memories and never mend from the little broken things they condescend into as they blossom into adulthood to become sad poets, and suicide bombers /militants /killers.   The new telegraph reeled out this morning;   ” let us close schools and send  Our children to war – Yemeni Minister “   Picture young boys lying inhumed in the earth. and dreams lying in craters – unclaimed, unlived, dead -just like their owners. Or youths carving their mouths into a request to kids from Maryland to fill a bank teller. Or grieving mothers searching for the carcasses of their sons.   I found this poem waiting to be hanged on a guava tree.     Fighting wars   The last time I saw her She was in that red kimono -vestige                        Her head buried in the                      grey balaclava like a cumulus Cloud                      herself retroflexing a Fez.  ...

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