SONIC BOOM

…for writing that explodes

Issue One

December 2014

(Poetry, Fiction & Art)

Editor: Shloka Shankar

Webmaster: Dwarakanathan Ravi

Cover Art: ‘Free Falling’ by Jamie Whitlow

Copyright © Sonic Boom, 2014

All rights revert to the authors/artists upon publication. For re-prints in future, please credit Sonic Boom as the original publisher. Works may not be reproduced in any manner or form without prior consent from the individual artists.

http://sonicboomjournal.wix.com/sonicboom

CONTENTS

Editorial 5 THE POETRY SHACK 6 - 22 The Ghosts of Yesteryear by Andrew Scott 7

Poetic Relations by Don Hagelberg 8

Longevity by Ed Bremson 9

No Comments by S. Eta Grubešić 10

Combing Through by Garima Behal 11

The Grand Ole Poetry Signing by John Kaniecki 12

Reflections by Maureen Sudlow 13

Leaving Adlestrop by Maurice Devitt 14

Soul Mate by Poornima Laxmeshwar 15

Mood Swings by Shobhana Kumar 16

No Roads by Strider Marcus Jones 19

Betrayal by Swapna Gopinath 20

Autumn by Tuvshinzaya Nergui 21

Footnote by Vinay Leo R. 22

PAPER LANTERNS 23 - 30 Veronika Zora Novak Christine L. Villa Vinay Leo R. 24 Susan Burch Mike Keville Aruna Rao Johannes S. H. Bjerg Ajaya Mahala 25 Ramesh Anand Christine L. Villa Chen-ou Liu Ed Bremson Veronika Zora Novak Sergio Ortiz 26

Johannes S. H. Bjerg Helen Buckingham Poornima Laxmeshwar Tuvshinzaya Nergui 27 Ed Bremson Sergio Ortiz John McManus Dishika Iyer Helen Buckingham Niranjan Navalgund 28 Mike Keville Samar Ghose Pat Geyer Johannes S. H. Bjerg Niranjan Navalgund 29 Samar Ghose Karen O' Leary Tuvshinzaya Nergui Steve Wilkinson 30 FICTION 31 - 39 Seed by Akila G. 32

Stellar Intelligence by Bill Waters 33

Withered by Dishika Iyer 34

Afterwards by Hansha Teki 35

Full Sun & End of Boredom by Johannes S. H. Bjerg 36-37

At the Wishing Fountain by Shobhana Kumar 38

Moving On by Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy 39

VISUAL ART 41 - 59 Caroline Skanne 42

Sheri Wright 43

Ira Joel Haber 44

Terry Gilroy 45-46

Ira Joel Haber 47

Veronika Zora Novak &

Shivapriya Ganapathy 48

Sandi Pray &

Pat Geyer 49

John McManus &

Johannes S. H. Bjerg 50

Caroline Skanne &

Sarayu Sankar 51

Ira Joel Haber &

Jamie Whitlow 52

Mike Keville 53

Jamie Whitlow & John McManus 54 AUTHOR BIOS 55 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 60

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EDITORIAL

Insomnia. OCD. A dream. This was all it took to put together the debut issue of Sonic Boom. And here we are – proud to present work by both eminent and emerging artistes who believed and stood by us. We are indebted and hopeful that this journey will take writers to the farthest corners of the world. Sonic Boom will be published tri-annually, and envisions being a journal that promotes varied styles of creative writing. It is an earnest attempt to defy strict genres and bring to you a cornucopia of literary forms. Since having fallen in love with Japanese verse forms this past year myself, I have attempted to integrate these haikai styles alongside mainstream poetry and prose. Our primary goal is to showcase a breathtaking array of the written word and art in all its multifarious forms. We wish to provide a platform that will engage our readers and raise the bar every single time. Here’s hoping you enjoy the booming resonance long after you are done reading our inaugural issue! - Shloka Shankar

THE POETRY SHACK

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The Ghosts of Yesteryear By Andrew Scott The ghosts of yesteryear swirl around my head. They leave mists of memories of time lost on a lonesome highway. The broken spirits that dance tonight are the ones that paved the dirt road to my senses. I have been clouded by dust that has been blowing for years. A tired stranger lost in the wilderness, etched with scars and memories. The ghosts of yesteryear are always creeping up on me. Looming shadows that do not fade away even as the sun goes down. The roads never go away, spreading along the plain as far as the spirit can fly. The dust never settles… always giving in to the haze controlled by these ghosts.

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Poetic Relations (For Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet) By Don Hagelberg Formed or formless, when the poem comes,

it shatters orgasmic. The height from which it falls

bleats the loudest when the styled shoe of form fits

the sock of content. From shredded diaries to psalms,

the poem traps fingers in an aural snare.

The chance to sense: to eye the sounds, to smell

what is touched, to taste nude words, all

thrown-up on the imagined white-board of thought.

The hum of harmony and the drum of conflict

recited with mimed-lipped whisperings.

The poem shivers in the flesh, breaks

the door to hinge-open the quake of insight.

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Longevity By Ed Bremson I’ve lived longer than FDR but I didn’t save a country from Depression or help old folks in their later years or defeat a maniacal murderer . . . I’ve just written a few little poems mostly about flowers and stars and love.

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No Comments By S. Eta Grubešić No, I have nothing else to say. But I do know the things I hate. I hate my little black dress that doesn't fit me anymore. I hate my pearl necklace. I hate my Chanel earrings that now have scratches on them. I hate life for banishing the colours from mine. I hate this nice weather – it just doesn’t seem normal. I hate Murakami because I can't remember his name. I hate pebbles. They make me cry. I hate floral curtains. Mice chew on them. I hate going for a walk and saying "Hello" to people. I hate apple pies. They smell so damn good. I hate my heart for loving everyone!

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Combing Through By Garima Behal Combing through my wet hair, I pause. Broken strands fall onto my hands, my nape, my back, and onto the bare, swept floor. Dead. Scattered. I know this is what happens when the comb of years runs through thin strands of memories housed in the partitions of my mind. Combing through the years, I’m left with sliced memories like diced apples with their core discarded. Once a part of all that I was, No longer a part of all I could be.

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The Grand Ole Poetry Signing By John Kaniecki A million jamborees

with a baby jangling

on your knees –

and she ain't from Tennessee,

your curly headed girlie.

Still you serenade her sweetly,

and love her completely.

Tomorrow the world will

stand still and God will

have His way. But today

they fight and kill.

A thousand symphonic violins

in harmony confessing sins

right here, right now.

It all begins with the digital

death counter on the rise.

The devil wins.

The masses are blind.

The more we move ahead,

the more we move behind.

And when the last line is said

with contempt and rage,

the janitor sweeps the stage.

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Reflections (For Jeannie) By Maureen Sudlow The fading moments of our lives fall as autumn leaves from the trees, blown carelessly by the wind, and gather in heaps for the burning. Like water over smooth stones, the years flow swiftly past… gathering sunlight in eddies, polishing my memories of you.

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Leaving Adlestrop (after Edward Thomas) By Maurice Devitt From the platform I watch the train pull away… your face at the window scribbled into a smile, eyes unwinding all that you have left behind. Twenty years collapse into five summer minutes - a chill in the shadow of the train as you board; the convenience of glass and the words you fletch for your next brief encounter. The train leaves and I catch a slim reflection in the station window; a hand-tie of flowers and the frayed memory of a new grey suit as I wait for you to arrive.

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Soul Mate By Poornima Laxmeshwar Silence is her companion. She sleeps with it every single night. It grows on her like a polished nail. Fearing expressions, she never gets entangled in clichés and idioms. For you, her silence is enchanting. For her, silence is what you should have always been.

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Mood Swings

By Shobhana Kumar

i

calm

they warned me about the

monk-like appearance.

i like to be prepared—

so i bought myself

a halo.

when the hair fell in clumps

on my pillow, i picked them up,

discarded them,

changed the covers

and donned my new-found peace.

time.

ii

storm

they look at me. ‘alien’ would be a befitting description to what

i see in their eyes.

at other times, i can feel myself

being sucked into a tornado

of confused emotions. pity

must be banished.

but the clouds gather

faster than i can

get that halo out.

for days, the

sun doesn’t shine.

iii

pride

three successive jabs

into veins the nurses find

harder to pierce

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with every new cycle.

i know the ritual by heart now.

i can even predict my mood swings

and how deep they will take me.

now, that point of no-return is

surprisingly reassuring.

déjà vu.

the smile should be back

in exactly three days and

ten minutes from now.

iv

temerity

i am done.

40 pounds thinner

with no effort at all.

i slip into my grade 10

jeans— yes, the same one

that couldn’t get past my

knees.

little tufts of hair have

grown back. i like the style.

no combing.

i think i’d like some chocolate cake. and coffee,

perhaps with double cream.

v

calm

been there. done that.

bungee jumped without

the rope. trekked Everest

in the bare cold. slept in

the Thar, unsheltered.

all without even having

crossed this room.

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any moment from now

is bonus. i’m going to spend them all.

on flowers, butterflies,

birdcalls and…

time.

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No Roads By Strider Marcus Jones With no roads on our map of conversation, we begin without a plan and climb the branches of imagination, past the twigs and leaves – those apothecaries of lost libation. Through deserts wanting rain after years of stasis, somehow, go now through the eye of words and into the heart of this rhythm; then home like migrating birds into separate nests – for now, our love rests.

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Betrayal By Swapna Gopinath Mephistopheles, let me trade my soul!

For I am a fallen man, a sinner

cursed out of the Garden, eternally.

My children remind me of my sin.

My woman, with her tempting sweet tongue,

probes into my soul for the last

vestiges of innocence. Thrust out of

my natural abode - I wander

a refugee caught in a deluge.

I have sinned. But where is it?

The forbidden fruit of Pleasures,

the treasure chest of Knowledge,

Science and Arts and Philosophies?

Where are the citadels of Ecstasy?

The lustful unions of unadulterated sin?

My heart bursts with anger, cruel

injustice, and betrayal.

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Autumn

By Tuvshinzaya Nergui

This autumn so cold,

covers my soul.

I want to be hidden.

For my sorrows to cease

and unravel tenderly along with

the swirling leaves. I cannot

remember when the last rain was,

or the first snow. A skylark quivers

on the frosty branch. Cranes that I

welcomed in spring with joy

have long gone. Silently, stealthily.

And all of those things unheard, unseen

that cover my soul.

I want to sleep this autumn.

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Footnote By Vinay Leo R. juggling my life… so many aspects, so many facets; I have to embrace my many quirks – each like a strand of a large quilt knit out of time. all the plans I made that never sustained, leaving my slate in a blank state that’s run out of rhyme. I write my story, ink what I want; but do I become with every word that I lose here, just a footnote?

PAPER LANTERNS

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a thousand oceans cannot drown this sorrow in a gull's cry echoes of yesterdays carry on the wind - Veronika Zora Novak the coldness as leaves turn red... from another photo I rake memories of you to keep me warm - Christine L. Villa memories unwilling to let go I hear the ocean you kept locked in an old shell -Vinay Leo R.

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yard sale - all the men like my grassy knolls - Susan Burch just one beer and English becomes my second language - Mike Keville stuck thoughts the pencil dragonflies between my fingers -Aruna Rao always measured against the impossible cornflower - Johannes S. H. Bjerg empty carton the user's manual thrown before use - Ajaya Mahala looking for love in all the wrong places - proctologist - Susan Burch feeding my dogs two days running I call my dead cat - Mike Keville

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stirring my coffee anti-clockwise... I wonder if everything would go back in time -Ramesh Anand

morphine moon... fading in and out my courage as you ask me where you are - Christine L. Villa the blue haze that is Toronto lies before me in the distance: a new home, and yet ... - Chen ou-Liu I’m glad you waited till I stumbled into your life . . . now we’re listening to sunsets together - Ed Bremson across the water i call out your name only the tide returns a lone dragonfly skims twilight's memory - Veronika Zora Novak remembering old lyrics, I watch the world toss its shadow on the moon - Sergio Ortiz

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between nights a palimpsest of light's scribbles - Johannes S. H. Bjerg blood moon poultice spreading the lava - Helen Buckingham night deepens… mother re-stitches our broken dreams - Poornima Laxmeshwar filling, emptying . . . the autumn moon gazes at a distant star - Tuvshinzaya Nergui

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Son, I've shown you so many things from cradle to first grade… but you've really given me much more than I've given you - Ed Bremson I'm going to run with my imagination, jump out a window and learn the language of questioning, mother - Sergio Ortiz unopened presents I pass my neighbour’s son to a paramedic - John McManus autumn breeze his rack of clothes now empty - Dishika Iyer US~~~~~us - Helen Buckingham footprints... my fading identity along the shore - Niranjan Navalgund

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a song thrush adding the missing notes of an old wind chime - Mike Keville the fishermen's song parting a cobalt sky - Samar Ghose turning back just in time to capture a memory - Pat Geyer hardly enough for a v geese in a / - Johannes S. H. Bjerg nodding daffodils the answer to my question - Niranjan Navalgund

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city park bench sitting briefly beside me the midday sun - Samar Ghose the wind rattles the skeleton – my shadow - Karen O' Leary first rays of the sun on the shadowy mountain of yesterday… - Tuvshinzaya Nergui rain stained streets... I try to figure out the colour of sadness in the old man's face behind the distorted glass - Steve Wilkinson

FICTION

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Seed By Akila G. It was a rectangular spiral bound album that sported a deep red cover. There must have been around forty thick black sheets with photographs of my parents’ wedding, all bordered in white. Translucent butter papers that crinkled even under the softest touch to unveil those moments. I remember seeking grandpa’s company in tracing the journey from tender beginnings to fine wrinkles. The last few sheets of the album carried a random collection of my pictures clicked at a studio, as if trying to establish the continuity of the folds of time therein. Tonight, as she watches my wedding videos, my daughter is amused to see how the faces that are now familiar to her, looked back then; I freeze on those who are no more. class test… filling in the blanks in a star’s life cycle

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Stellar Intelligence By Bill Waters

Every night, their cat Felix would bring some of his toy mice up from the living room with a triumphant cry and then drop them on their bedroom floor. "Isn't that cute," they'd say the next day. "Isn't he clever!" One morning, they saw a familiar-looking grouping of three. "Looks a lot like Orion's Belt," they agreed. Then, that night, Felix brought all of the mice he could find. "My God," they said the next morning, "it's the Big Dipper!"

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Withered By Dishika Iyer As I trudge along the path that we once walked together, my eyes wander, pleading with nature to show me something different; something to take solace in. To show me that this world is not under your spell. But all I see are the same things... the swing that I used to sit in, the way you gently pushed me, the plants we planted together, the fencing we leaned against still hand in hand... all those things that remind me of you. Suddenly, my eyes fall upon something, one that I least expected. The willow tree under which we used to sit is no longer there. In its place is a new budding plant. I stare at the way it peeks out of the soil, as if too scared to blossom. early darkness... I shed my shadow on the curb

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Afterwards By Hansha Teki Oftentimes I may find myself gazing at black swans as they glide in and out of the twilight hours of an inlet's low hanging mist. At my desk too, I grow attentive to the memories of things that I have seen, heard, smelled, tasted and touched as they again seem to become enfleshed. Once more the smell from the steaming afterbirth of a newborn calf, the sight at dusk when, with the sound of an eyelid's blink, a blackbird parts the shadows to settle upon a branch within a tree's silence. I feel just as truly the rough-tongued clasp of a sea anemone around my finger-touch to its heart. I taste once more the austere sacredness of my first communion host and the sound of my breathing as I enter the stillness where I become at one with my absence. As my body slows down, almost fully engorged from the lust of the senses for the world it dwells in, I listen to the music of my mind interpreting the nuances of meaning, the subtleties of connections. ancient pond— the everywhichway of words

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Full Sun By Johannes S. H. Bjerg “What happened to that ‘follow-Christ-whatever-it-takes’ thing?” “He went to a Jimi Hendrix concert.” K. covers his ears demonstratively. full sun but no poet swoons over that

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End of Boredom By Johannes S. H. Bjerg “Don't open it! Put it back!” K. has taken down the Big Book of Danish Birds. He doesn't listen to me and opens it and out flies all the black species of native birds: ravens, black crows, jackdaws, rooks, swallows, blackbirds, of course, and some other kinds I don't know the names of. They flutter around the living room making a hell of a noise - except the blackbird which begins the overture from The Magic Flute. Books are being torn down from the shelves, cups and things on the table tip over and there are feathers all over the place. “Now look what you've done!” I say. “You clean up that mess. And shut the damn book, will you!” “Cool down, man. They're only birds.” “Yes, and birds shit!” “Ah yes, there's that ...” I decide to hide the Big Book of Spiders.

sleepless I go through already dreamt dreams

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At the Wishing Fountain By Shobhana Kumar the last time i held your hand life ebbed away from it slowly shutting down organs as gently as it could i watched teary-eyed shoulders heaving under sorrow and yet not once did my eyes look away from your faintly beating heart except when... year end the slow ticking of the grandfather clock

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Moving On By Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy I want to get to them before they get to me. Who is getting to you? Them outside. Everywhere in the world, there is evil. That is fair enough. Are these people trying to harm you? No, they are nice. So why are you hitting out at them? Well, they are keeping me in this jail. The police are involved in it. This is a care home, not a police station or a prison. Well, that is how it feels to me. This place is too noisy. I like it quiet. You moved here just over a week ago. You were living in your own house before this, is that right? Yes, all my life. And I am 105. Well, actually you are 90. It must be frustrating to have to be in a care home. Do you think you can look after yourself? Not really, not for more than a week or two, I guess. Yes, you are also unable to walk without help. So rather than fight these people and hurt yourself, would it not be better if you worked with them? They are only trying to help you. When I get angry, I behave like this. I was abused as a child. And this was the only way I could get myself heard. I am sorry to hear that you had an unhappy childhood. But you overcame all that and fought in World War II. Yes. I was in the D-Day landings. Yes, you have been very brave and independent. You are a fighter. You can now put your feet up and relax. The staff here will listen to you. They want you to tell them how you feel. You don't have to hurt yourself or others. Ok, I am sorry. That is ok. Are you willing to give it a try? Yes, thank you for seeing me. I am sorry to have wasted your time.

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Not at all. We are very honoured to see you. Good night. Good night.

VISUAL ART

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Haiga by Caroline Skanne

the sound of dreams expanding

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Burning Metal by Sheri Wright

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Notebook Drawings by Ira Joel Haber

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Photography by Terry Gilroy

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New York City (2014) by Ira Joel Haber

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Haiga by Veronika Zora Novak

bare foot ways I enter and exit this world

An erasure from Charles Bukowski’s ‘2 Flies’ by Shivapriya Ganapathy

angry bits of life taunt me as I go in half-circles crawling near a tragic impulse

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Haiga by Sandi Pray

thoughts rewritten in a pond’s shadow a fox waits

Haiga by Pat Geyer closer to the sun… a hummingbird humming just south of my dreams

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Art by John McManus

Astro Turf by Johannes S. H. Bjerg

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A Parallel Universe by Caroline Skanne

Copper Pods by Sarayu Sankar

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Pastel on Paper (1981) by Ira Joel Haber A Moment in Glass by Jamie Whitlow

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Two Haiga by Mike Keville all the boys that never returned side by side in the rain last of the winter leaves with her sole

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AUTHOR BIOS

Ajaya Mahala is a post graduate in Economics, and serves the Government of India under Indian Revenue Services. He was introduced to haiku in 2013, and since then, has won all the four world kukai that were held during 2014. His poems have been published in major international haiku journals. He was also one of the contributing poets of Cycle 17 on Daily Haiku. Akila G. often dabbles in poetry, including the Japanese genres, while juggling home, work and her four year old 'dotty'. A few of her works have found a place in online journals such as Haibun Today, brass bell: a haiku journal, Creatrix and Atlas Poetica. Andrew Scott is a native of Fredericton, NB. During his time as an active poet, he has judged many poetry competitions and has also been published in The Art of Being Human, Battered Shadows and The Broken Ones. His books: Snake with a Flower and The Phoenix Has Risen, are now available. Aruna Rao is primarily trained in the Visual Arts. Her love for anime led her to haiku and tanka, which have helped her give shape to moments. She has only recently started submitting to journals and her tanka have been published both online and in print. Bill Waters lives in Pennington, New Jersey, U.S.A., with his wonderful wife and their three amazing cats. A lifelong lover of the English language, Bill reads like crazy and has a passion for writing extremely short fiction and Japanese-style micropoetry. You can find more of his writing at twitter.com/bill312 and at billwatershaiku.wordpress.com. Caroline Skanne, Rochester, UK, is obsessed with anything wild and free. She is the founder of hedgerow: a journal of small poems. (https://hedgerowpoems.wordpress.com/) Chen-ou Liu lives in Ajax, Ontario, Canada. He is the author of five books, including Following the Moon to the Maple Land (First Prize Winner, 2011 Haiku Pix Chapbook Contest) and A Life in Transition and Translation (Honorable Mention, Fourth Turtle Light Press Biennial Haiku Chapbook Competition). His tanka and haiku have been honoured with many awards. Christine L. Villa is an animated story teller and artist by nature. She dabbles in children's writing, short form poetry, and photography. She is the editor of Frameless Sky – a video journal showcasing poets, artists, and musicians in collaborative projects. She loves wearing hats, creating jewellery, making videos, and fussing over her succulents or her parakeet named Georgie. (http://framelesssky.weebly.com) Dishika Iyer, a first year Bachelor of Arts student from Mumbai, India, has been recently acquainted with Japanese verse forms, namely haiku & haibun. Her haiku received an Honourable Mention in the TATA Lit Live ‘Autumn Rain Haiku Contest’ 2014. She is also a Bharatanatyam dancer, and is currently working on her first novel. Don Hagelberg created Live Poets, a two-hour radio program that was broadcasted weekly on a listener-supported Bay Area station, in 1974. He has read his work on radio stations and has had poems read on WLUC in Marquette Michigan, as well. Don firmly believes and furthers non- violence, sustainability and social democracy. He is a Moravian in belief and practice.

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Ed Bremson is an award-winning haiku poet. His poems have appeared recently in the Wisconsin Review, The Bamboo Hut, Asahi Shimbun, Mainichi Daily, Found Poetry Review, etc. He had several books published this summer, and Heart, his first book of erasure poems, was published this fall. Ed lives in Raleigh, North Carolina. S.Eta Grubešić, from Croatia, is an ex-journalist, a short-story writer, poet and photographer. Her works have been published in various books and literary e-journals and portals. Garima Behal, from New Delhi, India, is an ambivert bibliophile, currently in her second year of graduation. She is defined by a penchant for language and literature, and loves poetry by Robert Frost and Gulzar. Her other interests include travelling and casual photography. She runs her blog at theseismicscribbler.blogspot.in and contributes to a page called Starlit Sorrows on Facebook. Hansha Teki has been scribbling off verse and prose utilising Japanese haikai techniques over the last 3 - 4 years. Helen Buckingham was born in London, 1960, and has lived for many years now in the southwest of England. Her work has been placed in awards, journals and anthologies throughout the world, the latter including: Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years (Norton, 2013). She has several poetry collections to her name, the most recent being: Armadillo Basket (Waterloo Press, 2011). Ira Joel Haber was born and lives in Brooklyn. He is a sculptor, painter, writer, book dealer, photographer and teacher. His work has been showcased in numerous group shows both in the USA and Europe and he has had 9 one man shows including several retrospectives of his sculpture. His works are in the collections of The Whitney Museum Of American Art, New York University, The Guggenheim Museum, The Hirshhorn Museum & The Albright-Knox Art Gallery. Since 2007, his paintings, drawings, photographs and collages have been published in over 200 online and print magazines. He has received three National Endowment For The Arts Fellowships, two Pollock-Krasner grants and the Adolph Gottlieb Foundation Grant. Jamie Whitlow is a young artist originally from Long Island, New York, now located in Nashville, Tennessee. She creates paintings, drawings, digital art and photography consisting of primarily surreal and visionary styles. Jamie uses bright colour palettes and symbolism that represents personal thoughts and ideas that she is passionate about, including perception, dreams, and growth. Johannes S. H. Bjerg (b. 1957) is a Dane who writes in Danish & English simultaneously. He mainly writes (hai)ku and its related forms. Some of his books include Penguins/Pingviner, Parallels, Threads/Tråde, Paper Bell Lessons, Noah's Eggs, Beatitudes/Saligprisninger, and many more bilingual works. He was also the instigator and is the co-editor of Bones – a journal for contemporary haiku. (www.bonesjournal.com) John Kaniecki is an activist poet residing in Montclair, New Jersey, with his wife Sylvia. He has been published in over four dozen outlets. He recently won the Joe Hill Labor Poetry Prize for his poem, ‘Tea with Joe Hill’. His first book of poetry is entitled Murmurings of a Mad Man. John McManus has had work published in various journals and anthologies. He's the former Expositions editor of A Hundred Gourds and is the founder and current editor of the Frozen

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Butterfly. John was one of the featured poets in New Resonance 8, and received a 2012 Touchstone Award from The Haiku Foundation. Karen O’Leary is a writer and editor from West Fargo, ND. She has published poetry, short stories, and articles in a variety of venues including, Frogpond, A Hundred Gourds, Sharpening the Green Pencil 2014, Now This: Contemporary Poems of Beginnings, Renewals and Firsts, Creative Inspirations, and Poems of the World. She currently edits an online poetry journal called Whispers. http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com/ Maureen Sudlow is a resident of the Kaipara in the north of New Zealand. She is a member of The New Zealand Society of Authors and writes poetry and children’s picture books. Her poetry has been featured in various online and print journals, and she has just published her first poetry collection, Antipodes which is available on her blog: www.kiwis-soar.com Maurice Devitt completed his MA in Poetry Studies from Mater Dei in Dublin. During 2014, he was a runner-up in the Over the Edge New Writer Award, short-listed for Poets Meet Painters, Cuirt New Writing Award, The Listowel Writers’ Week Collection Competition and selected for The Cork Spring Poetry Festival. Over the past three years, he has had poems accepted by various journals in Ireland, England, Scotland, the US, Australia and Mexico. He is also a founding member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group. Mike Keville declares that he is neither a poet, nor a photographer. He enjoys the creative process immensely and adds:

“I am what I am and what I am

I’ll let you decide.” Niranjan Navalgund is a professional chess-player, a lover of words, and occasionally tries his hand at poetry. He seeks immense pleasure in learning about life through the game of chess. He believes that writing is a wonderful exercise for the soul. Outside of these sixty four squares, Niranjan loves listening to instrumental music. Pat Geyer, an amateur photographer and poet, lives in East Brunswick, NJ, USA. Her home is surrounded by many parks and lakes. She walks every day to find her inspiration in nature. She has been published in Bright Stars, Moonbathing, Kokako, The Bamboo Hut, Undertow Tanka Review, Gnarled Oak and Akitsu Quarterly. Poornima Laxmeshwar holds an MBA in finance and works as a content writer in Bangalore, India. Her poems have appeared in Kritya, Muse India, Northeast review, Stockholm Literary Review and others. Her haiku have appeared in several international journals. She has authored a poetry collection titled, Anything but Poetry. Poornima dreams about freedom, chocolates, and heels. Ramesh Anand dabbles in Japanese short form verses, and his poems have appeared in 15 countries and have been translated into 8 foreign languages. He has over 200 publications to his credit including tanka, haiku and haiga. Recently, he was awarded with the Akita Sakigake Shimpo President Award. http://ramesh-inflame.blogspot.com/ Sandi Pray is a wild child who roams between mountain and marsh in North Carolina and Florida. She blogs at http://ravencliffs.blogspot.com

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Samar Ghose grew up in India, but now lives in Australia with his wife and two daughters. Like most people who discover Japanese verse forms, he too attempts to write some. Sarayu Sankar likes too many things – dance, art, photography, travelling, trekking, politics and governance. She completed her B. A. in English from Women's Christian College, Chennai. She plans to pursue her Master’s in Public Administration/Policy soon. Sergio Ortiz is the founding editor of the Undertow Tanka Review. He lives in San Juan Puerto Rico. He is a four-time nominee for the 2010-2011 Sundress Best of the Web Anthology, and a two-time 2010 Pushcart nominee. Sheri Wright is the author of six books of poetry, including The Feast of Erasure. She is also a two-time Pushcart Prize and Kentucky Poet Laureate nominee. Wright’s award-winning photography have appeared in numerous journals, including Siren. Her photography has been shown across the Ohio Valley region and abroad. Currently, she is working on her first documentary film, Tracking Fire. Shivapriya Ganapathy is from Kanchipuram, India. She graduated with a Master’s degree in English Literature from Madras Christian College, and is now a research scholar at the University of Madras. Apart from being a researcher, she is also an aspiring poet. Some of her poems have been published in Whispers, VerseWrights, Word Couch, Spilt Ink Poetry and Wordweavers. She also maintains a personal poetry blog, and finds writing therapeutic. Shobhana Kumar has authored two collections of poetry, namely, The Voices Never Stop and *Conditions Apply, both published by Writers Workshop, Kolkata. Her works have appeared in numerous anthologies and journals from around the world. She has also authored 5 books of non-fiction. Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy is a psychiatrist from Bengaluru, India. Living in Birmingham, UK, he is a trained vocalist in Carnatic music. He is also a Vaggeyakara of Carnatic Music and has 2 CDs to his credit. Well versed in several languages, Shrikaanth writes poetry in Kannada, Sankethi, Tamil and English. Many of his haiku and related genres have been published in various acclaimed publications. Steve Wilkinson has been writing poetry for many years. He is the editor of The Bamboo Hut, a journal of contemporary English language tanshi, and also runs and maintains the TanshiArt website. He has been published in a number of on-line and print journals and has self-published a collection of tanshi entitled, Listening to the Wind. Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex-civil servant from England with deep Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical. When not writing, he can be heard playing his saxophone and clarinet (just ask his neighbours). Susan Burch is a good egg. Swapna Gopinath, from Trivandrum, Kerala, is a teacher by profession. She teaches English Language and Literature and enjoys reading and writing poetry. Terry Gilroy, originally form Yorkshire, England, now lives in South West Scotland, where he continues to be inspired by its stunning scenery. He has recently embraced macro photography,

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particularly insects and flowers. His art has been featured in the World Haiku Association, paper wasp, tinywords, Daily Haiga, TanshiArt, and Undertow Tanka Review. Tuvshinzaya Nergui is a haiku poetess and translator from Mongolia. She edited the haiku and senryu anthology, White Silence (2011) and was also a co-author and translator of the haiku anthology, The Nature of Feeling (2014) that was published both in Mongolian and English. Her poems have been published in the Living Haiku Anthology, Sharpening the Green Pencil, etc. She maintains a poetry blog called Beyond the Limits. Veronika Zora Novak is simply a daydreamer who resides in Toronto, Canada.

Vinay Leo R. is a poet from Bangalore, India. He has been published in haiku journals such as Frogpond, A Hundred Gourds, Modern Haiku and Cattails. He loves to write poetry and short fiction. He also reviews novels and other literary works for major publication houses such as Random House India and Hachette India.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS No journal thrives without its contributors. And in the case of the fledging issue of our journal, this has been even more so. Without the support, love and the encouragement that I received from my friends in the literary circle, who have been my backbone, Sonic Boom would have perished as an unrealized dream. I cannot thank my mentors enough – Johannes S. H. Bjerg, Hansha Teki, Ed Bremson, and Steve Wilkinson – for contributing some of their finest works to the debut issue. There were times when I was close to calling it quits, but timely advice from my godmother, Shobhana Kumar, kept me going. I also wish to extend my heartfelt thanks and gratitude to all my fellow poets for believing in me. Last, but not the least, I couldn’t have done any of this without my best friend and partner in crime, Dwarakanathan Ravi.

FINIS.