Don’t Shoot The Messenger Don’t Shoot The Messenger is a NEW bi-monthly poetry magazine. DSM’s purpose is to showcase little-known literary talent from all over the country. It offers poets a platform to share their latest works, and it also provides those poets with a potential revenue stream.

DSM is a subscription-based publication. Annual subscriptions are $12, and individual issues $3. We will feature 6 new poets annually. Only 100 of each issue are produced, and there will be no back-issues available.

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Biography

"Harry Bowden, Jr. is a native of Atlanta, GA. He began writing creatively at the age of twelve, inspired by the tumultuous yet serene changes within nature he observed from the hybrid rural/suburban environment surrounding his home.

Today, Harry is a senior Biology major and French minor at Morehouse College and aspires to merge the creativity he expresses through his poetry and music with the excitement of dynamic problem solving found in his scientific discipline. After a combined seven months of international research in France and Madagascar in 2007, he returned to the United States

determined to make his craft and desired research profession relevant to a global audience, as he discovered each human culture struggles with similar essential themes such as love and loss.

Ultimately, Harry hopes to craft an honest life in which both social and scientific issues are addressed."

Excerpt The Ancient Minerva

Rolled back centuries Into a dusky cavern

My mother rests Waiting patiently to unveil her glory

Vicariously through my pen.

I sing a song of joy to you Oh ancient creator of wisdom, then,

Unknown to mankind.

May you pierce me Through and through

With your spear.

Make me to make sense Of this madness as you have ordered

Order itself.

Speak with me in Shouts and guttural tones

Inspire my callous soul to rise again To write again

To sing again To know again.

Oh ancient Minerva

Ye who inspires the bastard muses Step down and

Illuminate my path.

The Spices of India So what if all my life I have been seeing with one eye. I thank God ever still For the ability to see. And all my life I have Waited for this moment When everything I have been taught Was wrong But feels so right Still exists. I used to look hard to the righteous And their example Until I understood that "There is none righteous, no not one...” So while falling through the abyss Of attempted perfection I found them. I found you... They, at first, taught me to Understand where My logic was flawed.

But when the sky caved in I understood that it was us Together in the same boat And they, my teachers Were the ones who were flawed Because their greatest fear was me Their pupil... Who had it right all along. What an eager surprise to know At the end of the night When all else falls away It persists, Just me and you Dancing together At opposite ends of the universe. Still it is my fear that Whisks me away into a safe corner Away from admitting That dammit... Maybe I miss you. Perhaps it is my fear that prevents me From admitting still... How I really feel To be in your presence.

And to myself reveal that In this alien territory Is where I feel most comfortable. For as long as The silent reverie continues I will silence Myself To the fact that damnit... Though everything hovering In the immediate atmosphere Says it is completely wrong I miss you. Should I begin the beginning of the end while I am still conscious? Or should I follow, blindly, you who Led me to the Devil revealed in my private dream That under convention I should have died in Trusting that though I did not see you Holding my hand steadily you were My protection? Maybe it is too much to ask Of a Scorpio to be emotionless.

To dream of a world where the entirety Of humankind is blind to the Emotional reality of my discovery Of you.... Maybe it is too much to ask of me To exist in a world Where morality is golden And unchallenged. I cry for the child in Rwanda Who was slaughtered Before he had a chance to voice his Honest opinion in the purity of his Innocence. I cry for my esteem Slaughtered before I was made to Understand the joys of ignorance in My sex. Judged before I was allowed to Love the me I am. Forced to believe that my reality Was alien Before I knew there were fellow aliens To exist with me In solidarity of song choice.

Therefore I now throw myself Back to the ocean From which I was born Wild and unfettered with Possibilities and limitations... Who are you? I want to know above all... Who are you? I long to delve much deeper than the Surface to understand Who you are to feel so comfortable With my extraterrestrial mind And I with your Nomadic commitments. Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you to make me feel so Vulnerable, To not be able to explain it freely. Who are you to listen to my stories Then act upon them? Who are you to fly thousands Of miles away

Yet, still be my prayer of the night... Who am I to honestly enjoy the taste of mystery? Who am I to trust myself to Understand That everything in the way of Understanding you Is indeed wrong for me. At this tangent of the limit Of my lifespan I bow my head to no one except Understanding And the wind blowing the rain Through the sunshine Striking the leaves Of an ancient sycamore.

Contact

Harry Bowden Jr. is proudly featured in the January issue of Don't Shoot the Messenger. He is a seasoned soul and an outstanding craftsman of words. If you would like to contact Harry and send him your feedback or blessings, you may reach him via the following:

Facebook: Harry Bowden Jr.

Myspace: dafrogprince

Email: racewalk05@yahoo.com

Visit www.dontshootmagazine.com

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