3 Photos by Zhijian Tao

Spring Snapshots...

PP Topic (5): What Makes a 'Great' Poet?

Editorial Note

Since the outset of this year, PP has posed a topic for its chatroom on a monthly basis. Newly switched into a quarterly publication, we now have to make some changes accordingly: for each issue/quarter rather than for each month, we will continue to pose a topic for discussion. At the same time, we invite all those readers/visitors interested to participate by offering feedback or simply dropping by. Also, we welcome you to raise topics for PP's chatroom, and will eagerly post/publish whatever might be interesting to our readers/visitors. Our observations may be too biased from time to time, but they are meant to be 'broken bricks thrown out to attract beautiful jade,' as a famous Chinese saying goes.

The Observation

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that when it comes to poetry reading, everything is highly subjective, personal and individualized. Indeed, since every reading is a new poem (even if it is exactly the 'same' piece), it seems, more often than not, 'poetic luck' rather than 'poetic quality' that contributes most significantly to the making of a great poet in today's world. While all 'MFA'-related personnel as a powerful interest group may have been playing a dominant role, let us just consider this process:

1) An 'emerging' (or never-previously-published) author begins by making a whole series of poetry submissions to all kinds of literary outlets. After certain period of time, the author has work eventually accepted by one or even more well-recognized magazines. With such credit(s), the author becomes more acceptable to other publications.
2) Then, at certain juncture, the same author, or even another never-published one, pays certain sum(s) of money to take part in one or more poetry contests. About half a year later, the author wins a prestigious prize and, with this record, the author's popularity grows among name-hunting editors/publishers.
3) Famous as the author has become, all kinds of honor start to pile up on him/her, sometimes for political reasons, other times for economic concerns and, most of the time, for the Matthew Effect, until the author is recognized as a poetry lord or 'great' poet of the day.

This may sound incredible, but it is highly probable. If the author is lucky enough, his/her poetic talent, if any at all, is discovered by a few editors/judges/publishers, or readers in power, who somehow love something about the author's poetic work that may or may not necessarily have anything to do with the intrinsic quality of great poetry in the first place. Otherwise, it is quite difficult, if not entirely impossible, to account for this paradoxical situation: many 'great' or famous award-winning poets have written few lines that are really interesting to the common reader, while those collections put out one after another by some highly honoured poets contain few stanzas that show fine quality. In more cases than one might think, the 'greater' the poet, the less 'good' the work really seems to be; or, the bigger the name (of a poet or literary magazine), the 'smaller' the content.

In the past, a poet was traditionally recognized as great because of the poet's great artwork, as in the cases of Homer, Li Bai, Su Dongpo, Milton and Keats; however, in today's world where there are numerous literary contests and endless economic concerns, a poetry author could grow 'great' simply as a result of good luck; put another way, a poet has gained a great reputation mainly because certain 'wordlords' with certain idiosyncracies happen to hand-pick his/her work at the right moments for the right events. This certainly should not be the case. If not, then:


The Question

What contributes most significantly to the making of a 'great' poet in today's world?

Your written comments on or response to the topic are more than welcome in the box below or at editors.pp@gmail.com.

PP CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES::

WARRANTY: By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss, damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims, whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly from breach of this warranty.

* All poetic and photographic works are carefully considered year round on a rolling basis for PP's spring, summer, autumn or winter issue;

* No author information except names and email addresses in your submissions please - we will ask you for a brief professional 3rd-person bionote upon acceptance;

* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work, are all equally welcome insofar as you hold the copy/publishing rights;

* There is no money exchange involved, except a genuine shared love for art and words;

* Please send up to 5 poems, preferably by pasting them all within the body of your email, to editors.pp@gmail.com, or visual artworks as an attachment, and feel free to send us a query if, for instance, your accepted work does not appear as scheduled - our response time is shorter than 4 weeks after receipt;

* Please note only those accepted will get a reply - Many thanks & Gooooodluuuuck!

POETRY PACIFIC (2.1): Back Page

POETRY PACIFIC

[SPRING ISSUE 2013]

Natural Networking: Photo by Liu Yu

Thanks for reading, and please stay tuned...

3 Poems by Susan Terris; 3 Poems by Rebecca McKeown; Alert for Subs

3 Poems by Susan Terris::

Memo to Self

did you clap for Tinkerbelle or wish her dead

and Little Mother who betrayed Tiger Lily

you never were one to put up with competition

were you

Memo to Self

try not to see yourself as Hester that letter

the scarlet A is only the mark

of a desperate soul willing to risk

all for an alphabet of joy

Memo to Self

neither Beatrice nor Laura you are

no one’s muse no poet extolls your virtues

invokes immortality but still you may a-

muse and intimate immoralilty

Bionote:

Susan Terris' book GHOST OF YESTERDAY, New & Selected Poems was published in 2013 by Marsh Hawk Press. Ms. Terris is the author of six full-length books of poetry, fourteen chapbooks, and three artists’ books. Journal publications include: The Southern Review, FIELD, and Ploughshares. She had a poem from FIELD in PUSHCART PRIZE XXXI. She’s editor of Spillway Magazine and a poetry editor for Pedestal Magazine and In Posse Review.

-----------------------------------

3 Poems by Rebecca McKeown::

Overdose

Trapped in a never ending loop of pill cocktails.

Anti-thises and anti-thats — prophylactic lullaby-makers

In this clinical inferno.

My head’s a hatchback open wide.

No Sunglasses

Let me down.

My spirit is spiraling—

Her wings tattered—

She’s done with soaring

Anymore.

She likes to stare down dreams

In back alleys,

Like a stray cat, her

Wiry, wasted purrs

Rattle past ears

Too sick to listen

Anymore.

Let me bounce

Again.

I want to just

Open my self

And be careless.

I don’t want

To

Think

Or muse

About what

I would want

If I could have everything.

I just want to exist

And soar a little, again.

Just high enough

To brush the clouds

With my ruddy

Knees and to giggle

Through my lungs

And squint into

The sun

Because you don’t need sunglasses when you’re free.

Flow

Sitting on the park bench,

Watching old mothers

And young mothers

And pigeon ladies

And ice cream sellers

And men with pointy, greased moustaches

hustling by--each thinking in echoing chants,

“Step, step, breathe, step, breathe, step, step.”

I am reminded of your leaving

And how I’d shuffled backwards,

My feet collecting carpet fuzz,

As I’d tried to backtrack through time.

Bionote

Rebecca McKeown grew up in a small western New York college town, which has inspired many of her poems and short stories. A journalist, PR coordinator, craft blogger, and handmade jewelry maker, McKeown prefers fine poetry over fine wine, and rum over most other things, except maybe whiskey. She is also the Editor-in-Chief and founder of The Rampallian literary magazine. She rambles a lot over at www.RebeccaMcKeownWrites.com.

-----------------------------------

Dear Submitters/Friends,

For your information, here is our new email address for submissions:: editors.pp@gmail.com, which becomes effective on 3 May 2013. please feel welcome to send all your poems and/or artworks to this address. The old email address (yuans@shaw.ca) will be closed permanently very soon.

Also, we have just set up our facebook account for Poetry Pacific; the address is https://www.facebook.com/poetry.pacific. You are more than welcome to network with us there!

Please note that PP is to switch into a quarterly publication in just a couple of days. In fact, Poetry Pacific (2.1 Spring Issue) is ready to be released on 5 May 2013; and PP (2.2 Summer Issue) has already been fully committed, but submissions are open and welcome for subsequent issues. 

Many thanks for attention, and stay tuned...

PP Editors

3 Poems by Denny E. Marshall

Wind Dance Green

Trees dance
With each other
Some dance close
Some far away
Others sing
While others sway
Then settle softly
Till the wind
Kisses them again


Capture

I want to hold you
Like the light
You are
To capture
And put in a jar
To carry around
With me
To shine
Those times
We are apart


The Sign

I am at the point
I do not know what to do
Would it be the best thing
To let her go
I do not know the answers
God, please give me a sign
I do not know what she wants
You know what she is thinking
All the silent covers
All the many fronts
I cannot see through walls
Or the burden that she carries
I would rather hold her
Than walk away
I could be invisible
If that is the way, she feels
If she needs someone to love
I will not let her go
Will it be a mystery
Does she love me
A question I do not think
She may never answer
The hardest part
Is not the pain
The hardest part
Is why?
Oh, God
Please give me a sign
Should I really
Walk away
With something pulling at me
Unexplained
Oh, please give me a sign


Bionote

While Denny E. Marshall has done art & poetry for many years, the last couple of years have brought a lot of first. In 2010, he wrote his first haiku, in 2011 first fiction, and 2012 first article. The article titled “Rejection Is A Good Thing, Stop Whining.” appears online at the Eclectic Eel website on the All about Art page. Denny does not have a Facebook page or Twitter account but does have a website with previously published works.

3 Poems by Martin Willitts, Jr.

Internment

Some will deny this happened.
This always happens when they realize it could have been them —
either the ones that made it happen; or, the ones it happened to.
Complicity is the same as victimization.

There are some will say this event was a lie.
No one can fake the aftermath of carnage,
so they exaggerate truth with some lies
until anything is possible or impossible.
Conspiracy is a word to the unwise.

Some will say the death squads are imaginary.
Tell that to the nameless buried in mass graves.
Tell that to the ones identified.
There are some prayers that seem useless.

Some will say the killing fields never happened.
Tell that to the ground-up bone fragment.
Tell that to the ones never coming back.
Tell that to the incinerators working overtime to erase evidence.

Some will say, I should not write this.
Some say, I will be silenced for it.
Some say it threateningly.
They say they know where I eat.
They say they know what I think when I eat breakfast.
They also say that this never happened.
They say this, eating their own words.

The internment camp is lovely today.
My; how the sun glitters off the towers.


Escape

Every night, I plan my perfect escape.
It must be dark, starless cold as a guard’s breath.
I must blend through razor wire.
I must evaporate, levitate as droplets.

When they conduct ROLE CALL, I won’t say ONE.
They will have to start all over with the count.
They won’t realize what is missing will not return.

And that distant woodpecker — will be me
sending messages of rescue
for those still caged,
mostly skin and bones,
mostly less each day.


What Have I Left Behind

A locked door against the approaching night.
A memory of curtain. A rattling window
in disturbed wind.
A kitchen, perhaps, the stove lit,
a pot burned black with neglect.
A blackout. A rug worn down,
exhausted by waiting.
Toothpaste tube strangled to get more information.
The mirror seeing me leaving with nothing to say.
The upstairs bed, unmade, disturbed by the fleeing.
A rush of clothes. Where did I go?
The unsettling surrounding where I used to be.


Bionote

Martin Willitts Jr retired as a Senior Librarian and is living in Syracuse, New York. He is currently a volunteer literacy tutor. He is a visual artist of Victorian and Chinese paper cutouts. He was nominated for 5 Pushcart and 3 Best Of The Net awards. He has three full length books "The Secret Language of the Universe" (March Street Press, 2006), “The Hummingbird” (March Street Press, 2009), and “The Heart Knows, Simply, What It Needs: Poems based on Emily Dickinson, her life and poetry” (Aldrich Press, 2012). His forthcoming poetry books include “Waiting For The Day To Open Its Wings” (UNBOUND Content, 2013), “Art Is the Impression of an Artist” (Edgar and Lenore's Publishing House, 2013), “City Of Tents” (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2013), "A Is for Aorta" (Seven Circles Press, e-book, 2013), "Swimming In the Ladle of Stars" (Kattywompus Press, 2013), and he is the winner of the inaugural Wild Earth Poetry Contest for his full length collection “Searching For What Is Not There” (Hiraeth Press, 2013).

2 Poems by John Grey

MEN WITH NETS

They’re sweeping the water
for fish.
How easy is that.
No wriggling worm ruse.
No patient line dangling,
reeling the bounty in one at a time.
No arm muscles rigid as bricks
fighting the big one.
No shrug of the shoulders,
tossing the minnow free.
It’s just one huge trawl of the ocean,
hauling out whatever’s there.
It’s not like meeting you.
It more like the flood
swamping a thousand homes.
It’s no quiet, canoodling,
interplay of fingers.
But a forest fire,
a flame that doesn’t know
oak from possum,
green from brown.
And yet the fish taste the same,
whether trapped in their flapped thousands,
or pierced alone on a hook.
And so you and I
are in a sea-food restaurant
and we can’t taste the difference.
But we sure can tell the difference.


THRILL-SEEKERS OF THE KING SIZE BED

I don’t know about these things.
Stock car racing? What’s that?
And gun running?
Who’s out there in the jungle
pushing AK47’s?
I know love, I believe.
But not tiger watching in Bengal.
And the feel of a woman.
But cliff diving? Running with the bulls?
There’s no adventure in my holding you
so why does it feel so extraordinary?
Would a spin around Le Mans
provide a bigger thrill?
Or a tight rope walk across Niagara Falls?
One soft, warm, kiss.
Why am I not yearning for
the ten million warm, soft kisses
of downhill skiing?
Or surfing off Oahu?
I make love to you
and I feel as if I’ve done it all.
But something’s missing.
Deep sea diving? White water rafting?
No, we make love again.
The Iditarod never saw that coming.
Mush, my love!


Bionote

John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.
 

1 Poem by Mary Mann

Proof

I've measured my life in email chains
Chats and texts and messages
(Things you wouldn't write home about,
And anyway, no-one write letters anymore)
And the occasional concert
Kiss or twilight run
That's so much bigger than everything else
That it actually hurts
And the time I ran into you
In front of Double Windsor
And you said my voice had changed
Gotten raspier
And I said I didn't know
And it was good to see you
Who knew what my old voice sounded like.


Bionote

Mary Mann is a reader and writer in New York City. She is an MFA candidate in writing at Columbia University. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, New York Magazine and Bookslut, among others.

2 Poems by Joe Massingham

VANCOUVER HAIKU PLUS

Que cerise sera
signals of Vancouver Spring
-que sera sera

Nippon’s pink blossom
blown across north Pacific
Vancouver’s cousins

Vancouver Springtime
pink and white spread all over
Summer’s on the way

Wearing white or pink-
cherry brides and bridesmaids bound
for Easter weddings


Shanghai

Faded facades from
The men that came to Shanghai
to impress those here
Greek myths retold in buildings
Along Huang Pu river


Bionote

Joe Massingham was born in UK but has lived about half his life inAustralia. Retired early because of heart problems and now waits to see medical practitioners, writes and smells the roses. He has lived in Canberra for the past twelve years. He has had work published in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, UK, Eire, USA and India. joeandsal@netspeed.com.au

3 Poems by Samuel Smith

Photo Album: Venezia, 1562

Here we are dancing
in Piazza San Marco.
Pigeons, more pigeons,
a churning bile of gray snow.
And Pulcinella –
we laughed until our throats hurt.
Here's Cassio and
that silly whore Bianca
kissing, downstairs by
the well in the Ca' d'Oro.

Black armor of the sky.
Iago, his smile like a sheath.


Kitsune's Wedding

Sign of good fortune:
rain falling from sunny skies.
Be not proud, Kensei.

In infinite universes once
Musashi said: her dual nature ruptured
the world in threes: Trickster, Mother, Crone.

Nine-tailed Kitsune
smiles like a will-o-the-wisp,
skips into the wood.



Coderain
    When two people dream the same dream, it ceases to be an illusion. – Philip K. Dick

1.
Tecumseh bade the leaves to speak.
Code talkers raised the flag at Iwo Jima.
A beam of pink light saved Christopher Dick's life.
Claude Shannon forged a science of signal,
Roland Barthes a cult of noise.
Words ride the drums from Kumasi to Techiman.

2.
Trust the pictures on the screen.
Build an altar to the projectionist.

3.
Rods and cones and ganglia:
our bodies enigma engines.
I call to say it's storming,
drive safely:

my voice encodes
flies through the air
hits a tower.

I touch you,
tongue to the base of your neck.
You shiver ones and zeroes.

4.
These are Psalms of the Cryptodaemonomicon,
each scribble a divine variable,
fugue made dogma:

You cannot outrun the talking drums.


Bionote

Originally hailing from Winston-Salem, NC, Samuel Smith now lives, works, writes and practices his photography in Denver, CO. He'd love it if poets sold millions of copies of their work and played stadium tours, but since that's not the planet he was born on he labors away in the exciting world of marketing by day and plies his craft in the evenings and on weekends, which never last long enough. His work has appeared in places like The New Virginia Review, Poet & Critic, The Cream City Review, storySouth, Pemmican, Uncanny Valley, Amethyst Arsenic, Manifest West and The Dead Mule. He is the publisher and poetry editor for Scholars & Rogues, an online journal of culture, arts, literature and politics.

1 Poem by Walter William Safar

Dreams

When destiny leaves you alone in the dark;
When your mother and father leave you early,
All you have left are hope;
All you have left are Faith;
All you have left are dreams,
Yes, my friend, life rolls along the road of dreams,
And each dream is finished soon;

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
Into the land of color,
the wonderful land of noble memories,
So that my blind spirit might see through the turquoise moon's eyes,
So that my tired spirit finds its peace in your sacred cradle.
Fly with the breath of Freedom,
So that you may sow the seed of young hope
In the courtyard of heavenly gates;

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
To honor the many tears haunted by memories,
To honor the many stars haunted by lonely nights,
To honor the many winds haunted by prayers of the unfortunate;


Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
Into distant valleys of saturnine silences.
Find your humble home
In the infinity of human tragedies,
So that you may fraternize many unfortunates
With your merciful existence,
So that my lonely spirit can see the magnificent light
In the fraternal souls of people I hold dear;


When they want to kill your hope,
hoist your flag of dreams
And keep on marching your way,
like a noble soldier of Dreams.


Bionote

WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6^th 1958 in Sherman-Texas . He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the flames of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The Devil’s Architect”, "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems.

3 Poems by Cheri L. Miller

All Summer

All summer I looked forward

to that rose-gold horizon drawn ahead in the haze,

some place on the other side of this sea.

I waited on the sand in the white sun,

glided through the jade waves

attempting to bathe in each moment.

It’s always slipping by me, slipping through me,

love, heat, a rush of days

of warm wind and water,

an ethereal hand

of light on my shoulder.

Middle Age

 

My chest is freckled from years of sun,

and my breasts sag

so you must cup them in your hands

to kiss them.

I am no longer the Christmas fruit,

yet the irony of the coconut

is not lost on me—

such succulence in a coarse-haired shell.

Clear Mind

White sky, white woods,

and a blue jay--

a single streak of indigo ink

across blank paper.

Bionote

Cheri L. Miller is a poet, fiction writer, creative nonfiction writer, and writing tutor from Baltimore, Maryland. Her poems have appeared in journals across the country, including Rock & Sling: A Journal of Witness, Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters, Penn-Union, Welter, Snakeskin, and others.

3 Photos by Joneve McCormick

3 Poems by Ali Znaidi

The Olde Word

o word

thou art

stale

o word

thou hast

ailments

just soak

in a bath

of ale

In the Abyss of a Desert Mirage

Prickly pears in succulent stems,

make no bones about! You never

knew

the preciousness of water

until all water drops turned into

flakes flying in the mirage.

The Story with the Meat’s Smell

Does the grass tell stories?

wondered the grasshopper—

a barbecue

prepared in a grassy terrace

of a villa in the countryside.

Bionote

Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. His work has appeared in Otoliths, The Tower Journal, streetcake, Ink Sweat and Tears, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories: Episode IV, Red Fez, Carcinogenic Poetry, Stride Magazine, and other ezines. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network-http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.

2 Poems by Mbizo Chirasha

I am  a night mare

My breasts are dry of milk in the climate of this heat
My earth ejaculates platinum and uranium
anus of my rock puff pure gas and crude oil
The clay of my heart binds together the dust of my dreams
Forests of my mind sagging with coco beans and coconuts

I am tired of bullet and paparazzi gossip
I am a country eating peanut and bananas
I am the flower of want, whose bloom was pruned by madness,
Whose holy nectar was imbibed by mad drunkards?
I am a night mare, poets and prophets bring back my wildness


I am Congo 11

I am Congo, with my cough riddled voice
I am Congo i see my children bewitched by the wizard of Nile
I am Congo whose clans are foot mats of war gods and goddesses from the east and the west
Iam Congo with emerald in my blood and diamond in my stomach
I drink my tears with triplets’ kayole, kwangware and kiberia,
We ate our stolen coco beans with
Ivory Coast and gold coast
When will chairman Mao, Samora,Neto amilcar of this  earth of  stolen diamonds and dried
Peanuts, that we write our history in blood, sand and granite
Shaping the ideology of generations and the dreams that we eat the eggs of uhuru
And see the dimples of freedom smiling.

Bionote

Mbizo Chirasha is an internationally acclaimed performance poet, writer, and creative projects consultant. He is widely published in more than Seventy-five journals, magazines, and anthologies around the world. He was the poet-in-residence: from 2001-2004 for the Iranian embassy/UN Dialogue among civilizations project; the United Nations Information Centre - 2001-2008; Convener/Event Consultant THIS IS AFRICA POETRY NIGHT 2004 - 2006; official performance poet Zimbabwe International Travel Expo in 2007; Poet in Residence of the International conference of African culture and development/ ICACD 2009; and official Poet Sadc Poetry Festival, NAMIBIA 2009. In 2003 Mbizo was a delegate of Zimbabwe International book fair to the Goteborg international book fair in Sweden . He perfomed at Nordic African Insititute and Swedish writers union.A delegate to the Unesco photo novel writing project in Tanzania, Mbizo is the Official poet in residence for the ISOLA/ international conference of oral literature 2010 in Kenya.Mbizo is Chirasha is widely profiled in both local and abroad media institutions. His poetry books Good Morning President is Published in UK and Whispering Woes of Ganges and Zambezi is published by an Indian/American Publisher Cyber wit Press. A lot of more anthologies are under review by other publishers.Mbizo Chirasha the Founder /Operations/Creative Director of Girl child Creativity Project, the newly founded Urban Colleges Writers Prize. Curator and Producer of GirlchildVoices Fiesta/100 thousand poets for change program in Zimbabwe. Coordinator of Zimbabwe -Nigeria Literary Exchange

3 Poems by A.J. Huffman

Champagne

Liquid stars fly nowhere

in sea of gold, slide

up side of crystal flute, erupt,

tickle nose before diving

down into darkness,

swathing tongue and throat.

Curtains

Patterned ghosts blowing or

still.  Their movements haunt

dreams, nightmares, depending

on angle of light.

Teapot

Screaming tantrum, a temperate

child waiting for responsive touch.

Too late, fire

recedes in a breath, a sip of cup.

Bionote

  

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com.  She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals.  Most recently, she has accepted the position as editor for four online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( www.kindofahurricanepress.com ).  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222. 

1 Poem by Larissa Shmailo

Father of a Ghost (after Stephen Dedalus)

            James Joyce b. February 2

            Hamnet Shakespeare baptized February 2

Father of a ghost, but from the charnel dead!

Truepenny called, but bid his one son read

A woeful bedtime tale. So list: if Hamnet were

A suicide (the rest, what is the rest?); if Shakespeare were

Behorned by Ann (and her way hath will, clear)

And asked the poor young Hamnet to kill the adulterous peer,

(Perhaps to pour the poison in the porches of his ear?)

Cert, he would read just like a crab, ass backward and in fear:

Hamlet (his twin), ou le Distrait, une Pièce de Père Shakespeare,

Ophelia-like, rosemary clad, made mad with that despair.

Or … if the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter held fast,

Would he be murdered with all murdered at last?

And, scarred by family the most,

Who would rise to be his ghost?

Bionote

Larissa Shmailo's poetry, translations, and criticism have appeared in Gargoyle, Barrow Street, Drunken Boat, Fulcrum, The Unbearables Big Book of Sex, Rattapallax, Lungfull!, the Cordite Review; poetry.about.com, BigBridge, MiPoesias, American Translator, Jacket, and over 30 anthologies. Her books of poetry are In Paran (BlazeVOX [books]), the chapbook A Cure for Suicide (Cervena Barva Press), and the e-book Fib Sequence (Argotist Ebooks); her poetry CDs are The No-Net World and Exorcism, available from iTunes, Spotify, Amazon, CDBaby, and Rhapsody. Her original translation of A. Kruchenych's Victory over the Sun is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press. She has been a translator for the American Bible Society's Nida Institute for Biblical Scholarship's History of Bible Translation series. Larissa blogs at http://larissashmailo.blogspot.com

3 Poems by Jessica Slote

THREE WINTER POEMS

1.The Hawk

A hawk is tearing apart a bird (I see
a wing and bits of feather fluff ripped) from the ridge of the house extension, across the garden.

I must have just missed the kill.

I came out to sweep the porch and set up a chair as I haven’t
      done in a long time.

(It just flew down to the garden floor with prey hanging from talons—
‘cheep-cheep’—was that predator or still-alive prey?)

It’s a hawk. Saw it in garden several times last winter, but
      not since then.

What else?

Rustling of bamboo bushes—enormous thicket
      in elusive currents of winter air

Prayer bell occasionally moved to sound—its message
      simple, clear:

Now—hear?  Now—here.


2.What is it?

Little birds perch at the tops of tall trees, darting for minor
changes. Pigeons perch securely on rooftop edges—clucking and observing. The garden is at peace—minus the hawk.

 Little thoughts perch at the top of tall ideas, darting for minor
changes. Assumptions perch securely on concept edges, clucking and observing. The mind is at peace—minus the hawk.


3.The Hawk (again)

Hawk in my Heart
Bits of Flesh, Feathers Fly—Ripped
Tear at my Entrails
Guts in Revolution

Brain, Memory, Language—three Sisters
   on a Throbbing Respirator
Pumping out the Same, Old Tune

I’ve been Lonely for a Lifetime
for as Long as I Remember

Clung to your Sleeping Body like
“Man Overboard!”


Bionote

Jessica Slote is a playwright, poet, performer, and teacher. She comes out of theexperimental theater scene of NYC's Lower East Side in the 1980s. She is currently working on "The Next Step: Le Luminarie," the construction of a theater — an imaginary landscape—mirrored by a double construction in the heavens, le luminarie of the gods.

1 Poem by Martin Reckhaus

poem 46 JAZZ
             
                  eddy returns                                                                
with food of the streets
cries
tears
we dry them with our hands
on your eyes
your fingers
your imprint
gentle
our passion
ancient and exiled
the wind sweet
we dream of our courage
outcast
forever with us
and drink the moon milk
we sing

Bionote

Martin Reckhaus (actor, director, poet) is currently composing the dramaturgical score for a new theater work, Le Luminarie, a play about providence and divination. He is a founder of the theater collective, Loretta Auditorium, based in Naples,Italy and the Lower East Side.

Topic 4 for PP Chatroom: What Makes a Poem 'Best'?

Editorial Note

From the pageview statistics, we know that our 3rd topic has been receiving more readerly attention than almost all other postings of the month. This fact is so encouraging that we will continue this more theoretical approach to poetry. In other words, we will try to keep this chatroom open insofar as there are a reasonably good number of visitors dropping by.


The Observation

Over the past two decades or so, we have had increasingly more 'best' poems of every conceivable kind: there are as many 'best' poems as journals, media, places, years, authors, or readers in power. While every judge seems to be authoritative enough to proclaim whatever s/he considers the 'best,' very few have even mentioned in passing why s/he has chosen the piece(s), let alone officially disclose a set of criteria used in the selecting process. At the same time, all common readers could do nothing but acquiesce. The reason is all too understandable: in matters concerning poetry, everything is simply personal and subjective. That is to say, the 'best' poems, if any at all, are 'best' simply because they are most favoured by a privileged reader or a group of privileged readers.


The Question

What are, if any at all, the universally acceptable elements that make a poem 'best'?

Your written comments on or response to the topic are more than welcome in the box below or at yuans@shaw.ca.

PP Call for Submissions

SOME CHANGES TO NOTE:

* Thus far, PP has been featuring 3 selected poets and their artworks every Monday; however, starting from May, PP is to switch into a quarterly publication, with the four issues to be released respectively in early May, August, November and February; 

* Submitters are welcome to send over up to 5 (rather than only 3) poems each time. 

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

WARRANTY: By submitting to PP, the submitter warrants that s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify and hold PP and its staff harmless from and against any and all loss, damage, costs and other expenses arising out of claims, whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly from breach of this warranty.

*All poetic and photographic works are carefully considered year round on a rolling basis for PP's spring, summer, autumn or winter issue;  

* No author information except names and email addresses in your submissions please - we will ask you for a brief professional 3rd-person bionote upon acceptance;

* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work, are all equally welcome insofar as you hold the copy/publishing rights;

* There is no money exchange involved, except a genuine shared love for words;

* Please paste up to 5 poems in the body of your email text and send them over to yuans@shaw.ca; our response time is shorter than 3 weeks after receipt;

* Please note only those accepted will get a reply - Many thanks & Gooooodluuuuck!

3 Poems by Basil P. Rouskas

MAKING PEACE 

"I leave my brush in the East and set forth on my journey.

I shall see the famous places in the Western Land.”

– Hiroshige Utagawa

I leave my poems 

on Black River's

southern bend

where winter sunlight

reflects into our 

bedroom window.

I am going east

to make peace 

with my brother –

We both grow old. 

He in our father’s village home,

I in my home by the river.

UNEXPECTEDLY ON BLACK RIVER

And I walk the path

along Black River

as I have most mornings

for twenty years.

In summer, the river feeds 

skunk cabbage in the marshlands. 

In winters fallen oaks and tulip trees 

slow the water through patches of ice

to soften the anger of  Pottersville Falls 

by the old Norwegian’s cabin.

And suddenly, unexpectedly,

in my walk I see father get up for work.

Half asleep, he splashes cold water  

on his face. My eyes are wet. 

I turn and gaze at the river bend.

THE CALL

The dress, a crudely colored green
on a black and white photograph.
The body at camera angle,
left side forward, hand on hip,
right forearm across the waist, relaxed.
Your eyes — still intense — look
at me square and call me to join you.
But I cannot do that, mother, until I
finish what you asked me to do.


Bionote

Basil Rouskas has been writing poetry for over 30 years. His first poetry lines  in the Greek language were protests against the military Junta who took over Greece and ruled it until the mid 70's. He translated literature and theatre during his first years in the US and gradually his poetry became bilingual. He currently writes mainly in English. His first chapbook Redrawing Borders was published in 2010 by Finishing Line Press and drew favorable reviews in the Journal of Hellenic Diaspora in 2012. The book's main subject is the complex subject of transitions that take place as one leaves one country and builds roots in another. It is not the geographic borders, but the spiritual and psychological ones that establish the space of how the loss of the old weaves with the assimilation of the new and eventually becomes an integrated life: Past and present become seamless and borderless in their co-existence when the change has been completed! Basil's poetry has been featured in many poetry venues, including the New York Times, Princeton Public Library Podcast (2007 celebration of April as Poetry Month), Helix Magazine, Shot Glass Journal, and TIFERET: A Journal of Spiritual Literature. He has read his poetry in several libraries, bookstores, including venues such as Cornelia Street Cafe in NYC, Immigrant Festival Writing in NJ and the Tribute World Trade Center (Ground Zero Visitor Center) in 2009. Basil has worked in corporate and not-for-profit organizations in the roles of executive, entrepreneur, consultant and leadership coach. He has also taught at leading universities on leadership development, personal strength assessment and team effectiveness. His work is described partially in his firm's website www.nov-aspire.com.

3 Poems by Jacob Silkstone

Bonfire Night: Self-portrait with potatoes

November: hunched above the peel-specked sink

he skims his fingers with the steady knife.

So many hours and still no time to think

and, in the bitter winter dark, his life

curls smaller, colder while the city blooms

with fire, expands itself beyond the night.

No call for bloated dreams in narrow rooms,

no cause, these frozen days, for stunted flight.

There’d been vague promises he meant to keep

or leaps of stubborn faith he’d planned on taking;

there’d been a hazy summer half-asleep,

he’d faked whole lives and hoped to go on faking.

Now, if he dreams, it’s only surface-deep

and always at the needle-point of waking.

‘Casi como un milagro’

Every morning begins with a cup of coffee,

and over time the rings have moved like ripples

across the faded surface of the kitchen table.

Each small mark is a sign of victory.

Every morning, he takes a book of poems and reads

for half an hour at his desk, stealing a few lines

for a notebook which has frayed with time.

The seven o’clock cold curls around his feet.

For years, mornings have begun this way

but now he feels a desperate need for order,

a rage to cling to details, to record the

swell of birds against the paling sky.

Each day becomes a requiem for all he cannot know;

still, in its minor way, a miracle, like bluebells in the snow.

Midlife morning

The middle comes nowhere near the middle –

one morning spent dragging a hangover

to a pinched spit of rock, I’d recover

a single word from the deep brown ribbon

of a rip current and then hurry on,

feeling the quick thrill of being alone,

noticing only that the sea seemed new:

a midsummer, kingfisher shade of blue. 

Bionote

Jacob Silkstone lives in Bergen and has previously worked as a primary school teacher in Dhaka, Bangladesh. He is a poetry editor for The Missing Slate and an assistant editor for Asymptote, and his work recently appeared in Sculpted: Poetry of the North West.

3 Photos by Zhijian Tao

3 Poems by Diana Smith Bolton

Communion

We might be sisters, she whispered.
The lines of our bodies were as empty
as the priest’s gesture, wiping
the chalice’s lip with white linen.


Whole Silences at Walden

Amish neighbors knew him as that strange English.
He wiped away cataracts of sweat with his hoe,
glaring at unborn vegetables in their hush.
The fence’s post-holes were rows of perfect Os.

He planted potatoes (Kranz and Frontier Russet)
and turnips, returning each week to the field
to startle some Rallus elegans from their nests
and pace the dark grids of his winter yield.


Mockingjay Triolet

May there be good among the harm
in every empty place you walk.
Remember, strongest foes come armed
with good. To stand with you, face harm—
my life was built for such alarm!
But that’s enough of empty talk;
your odds are good despite the harm,
though it’s near empty where you walk.


Bionote

Diana Smith Bolton's poems have appeared in the Cartography anthology by Imagination and Place Press, as well as in 32 Poems, Magic Lantern Review, anderbo, The Jackson Hole Review, and elsewhere. She is the founding editor of District, a journal of writing and art.

2 Poems by James B. Nicola

Frost Bites #3: Exhaustion

      I could do This, I think,
but then, I could do That; I know
on One path I’d speed but at a brink;
      the Other’s safe but slow.

      And then there's always There:
Is That a place that I should go?
Or is Here as good as Anywhere
      and High as fine as Low?

      The possibilities
are tiring as a life is long—
longer when I’m made ill-at-ease
      by choices proven wrong.
        Though what I think I need
is, wrong or right, to strive—
and exhaustion, since I don't succeed,
      to remind me I'm alive.

from the  Frost Bites sequence


potter putter putz

potter putter putz
fiddle faddle futz
mind’ll wander fumble CRASH
putz futz klutz


Bionote

James B. Nicola has had 300 poems published in periodicals including Atlanta Review, Tar River, Texas Review, Lyric, and Nimrod. A Yale grad and stage director by profession, his book Playing the Audience won a Choice Award. As a poet, he also won the Dana Literary Award and a People's Choice award (from Storyteller); was nom­inated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award; and was featured poet at New Formalist. His children’s musical Chimes: A Christmas Vaude­ville premiered in Fairbanks, Alaska—with Santa Claus in attendance opening night.

2 Poems by Joseph Farley

Angry Spring

The new grass grows green and high

Scampers in the wind, brushing

Against knees of oak and willow.

The blades shout their small cries,

“We are many and we are young.”

A beech shakes its branches.

The forest sighs, and sheds it leaves,

Knows the cold sun will shrink the noise,

If the summer bulls do not stop to feed

On all that grass so ready to bleed.

Unraveling the tapestry

An old photo shows who you were,

Young man naive and ripe with dreams.

You smile with a full head of hair,

Knowing the future will be bright.

Twenty plus years have rolled by

And that eager boy has become

A pot bellied curmudgeon,

Cynical and angry with all.

Happiness is a fading memory.

The golden years lie ahead,

minus the gold,

and the rich tapestry

you sought to weave

with your life

has proven to be just a smudge,

a bit of oil and dirt

stuck to the wall

in a wide and

ever darkening

room.

Bionote

Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory from 1986 to 2010. His books and chapbooks include Suckers, For the Birds, Longing for the Mother Tongue, Waltz of the Meatballs, and Her Eyes.

3 Poems by Doug Johnson

SONG 209
Han Shan

When water is so clear it sparkles
you can see the bottom without effort
when your mind doesn’t have a goal
no circumstance can distract you
once your mind doesn’t chase illusions
even kalpa holds no change
if you can be so aware
from such awareness nothing hides

Chanson 209
Quand eau chuchote verre
Elle-veut carpe diem
il-peut voir carpe doré

Quand votre qi chuchote verre
Villageois hurleront mirage
mais cadres ne inquiétez-vous pas

kalpa changent bébés
kalpa changent âgées
Si peut-il chuchote sans parler

Peuvent-ils entendre tout
Peut-il chuchote eau

SONG 209
When water whispers glass
She sees, seize the day
You can see the golden carp

When your chi whispers glass
Villagers will scream mirage
but surroundings don’t disquiet

kalpa changes babies
kalpa changes elders
If you whisper without speaking

You can hear all
You can whisper water


THINKING OF MY HOME IN CH’AN-AN WHILE TRAVELING WITH THE ARMY ON THE NINTH

Ts’en Shen

If only I could climb somewhere
but no one sends me wine
my poor distant garden of mums
blooms by a battlefield now



RÉFLÉCHANT DE MA MAISON EN YAKIMA PENDANT QUE J’ ÉTAIS Á BICYCLETTE EN LE AVENUE NEUVIÉME

Si seulement je pourvoyais monter Montaigne Froid−
mais pour quel raison.
Le gardien de ma femme plein de basilic
demande du Chemin,

pourquoi nous combattons les rosiers?


THINKING OF MY HOME IN YAKIMA WHILE RIDING MY ON NINTH AVENUE

If only I could climb Cold Mountain−
but for what reason.
My wife’s garden, full of basil,
asks the Way

why do we war with the roses?


SONG ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY −NINE
Han Shan

Live without making visits
die neither kind nor just
words include limbs and leaves
thoughts contain lies and betrayals
people who clear a small path
thereby give rise to great deceit
claiming to build a ladder to the clouds
they whittle it into splinters


CENT SOIXANTE VINGT – NEUF ESCELIERS AU CIEL

Vous vit sans rendre visites á Stevie Wonder
Vous meurt ni gentil ni juste
mots cultivent branches et feuilles
réflexions fleurons mensonges et abuses de confiance.
Coupait les arbres construire escaliers au nuages
Stevie nie, fend et brise le Chemin


ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY −NINE STAIRWAYS TO HEAVEN

Live without visiting Stevie Wonder
die neither kind nor just
words grow branches and leaves
thoughts blossom lies and betrayal.
Cutting down the trees to build stairways to the clouds

Stevie nixes, splinters, and shatters the Way

Bionote

Doug Johnson is the founding editor of Cave Moon Press. He holds a PhD in Psychology and is a member of Mensa.  His poems and photographs have appeared across the U.S. in literary journals.  His short stories have appeared in Audience and Skive out of New York and Australia.  His book of short fiction Frank’s Diary was nominated for the Pacific Northwest Bookseller’s Award.  A chapbook will be released by Red Ochre Press called Pedaling Blind. His debut novel appears in fall of 2013. Of the book, Home on the Range, Naomi Shihab Nye wrote: “Douglas P. Johnson, citizen of the world, visionary artist of words and visual images, responds deeply and generously to the mysteries and complexities we are living through.  He is a voice of witness and empathy, resonantly attentive to the voices and stories around him- poems as corrals, gathering places, or poems as sieves, filtering out the tiny glittering stones.”

2 Poems by Kristin Roedell

Few things are quiet

as night snow:

there is the uninvited

past, sharp and 

certain as geometry

when geese fly;

there is age coming in slow

on a stinging tide;

there is sleep spinning

thin as blown glass.

All things snow remain

silent here;  cars slip

inaudibly to the shoulder,

children doze, bedded

in the back seat

like sled dogs.

Down at the lake,

power went out

days ago; behind curtains

candles are lit, flashlights

doubling in the downstairs

mirror. Belly to back,

your damp breath

lies on my feathered

nape; like night snow,

you fall everywhere,

mute, ubiquitous.

Few things are quiet

as your still regard.

What Jung Would Say

My knees always ache before a storm;

last night a barbed November wind

turned the madrona to the north,

branches bent horizontal

in a stiff Quaker’s broom.

Drowned birds clung

to the sagging phone lines.

This morning the dog killed a crow

flapping on the frosted steps,

its left eye socket empty.

I built a fire in a rusted barrel

and burned it; it was small

without the thirst for flight.

I thought this means

something, in the way that

dreams speak in pictures;

a key means come in,

and a shoe means go out.

I thought

if a fire with wings means

death is a ladder,

and a one eyed crow

means love is one sided,

this winter means endless.

Still, the key beneath a stone, 

the shoes behind my door

wait. There will come

the sound of ice cracking

in the birdbath.

The first black bird on the wire means

the soot of ravens will fly.


Bionote

Kristin Roedell graduated from Whitman College (B.A. English 1984) and the University of Washington Law School (J.D. 1987). Her poetry has been published in over fifty journals and books including Switched on Gutenberg, Ginosko, JAMA, Damselflypress, Frost Writing, Tacoma City Arts, and Voice Catcher Anthology. She is the author of three chapbooks: Seeing in the Dark (2009, Tomato Can Press), Girls with Gardenias (2012, Flutter Press), and Night Circus (2013, Legal Studies Forum). She has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize. Her website is at
http://cicadas-sing.ucoz.com/.

2 Poems by Lisa Pellegrini

Blueberry Streams

Visions of streams soak up blood

that is no more,

turning it violet.

Did I say violent?

The violet weakens.

Now it is shy amethyst.

Memories of violence

stop

lingering.

I immerse myself in the stream

and disappear.

Magenta

Trouble is cloaked in shades of pink.

Reckless colors create ruin.

Will she stay?

Will she ever return?

Pray for her.

Her body snaps

like a toothpick

after claiming her last victim.

She breaks too easily--

all but her heart.

Bionote

Lisa Pellegrini graduated from Beaver College (now Arcadia University) in Glenside, PA, (U.S.A.) where she earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English. Her poetry has been published in Zouch Magazine, Downer Magazine, The Rainbow Rose, Dark Matter, Bolts of Silk, and Misfits' Miscellany. She has forthcoming poetry that will appear in Eunoia Review, The Rusty Nail, The Lascaux Review, Jellyfish Whispers, The Alarmist, and L'Allure des Mots.

3 Poems by Kim Clark

This Is [1]

the impossibility
of cleansing
the palate
of sorrow

all the wetness
in the body/world
a mere moistening
of the ashen tongue

nothing sharp enough
[black/white]
to cut
the words
loose
either. please.


Sign Off the Times


                                    something about time
                                       in the homecoming from Athens
                             watch-crystal lost in airspace
                                       over Paris or Keflavik
                                            exposed face
                       hands sensitive to my hectoring fingers
                           7:00. 12:50. 10:12. 10:00.
                                       then in Vancouver
                     dead car battery, dead dashboard, dead digits
                               can’t make the ferry boat by the stars
wall clock in this bathroom locked at 5:20
      watching it stopped for hours I can’t see
                                 even ghost numbers lose visibility
                   heroic in the untold

Untitled

pluck and clutch

forsaken muscle

anxious

about whose Harley

****** **** *  loud in the drive *     say

sunny periods

fending off the dullness

of the day shift

overlapping skull plates

picked-over connections

clutch and rev

the rattle *

  of bones

oh          here

and      here.

if I had a title, it’d be Chrome Your Daydream, Baby

Bionote

Kim Clark’s debut fiction (sexysickchiclit) collection, Attemptations (Caitlin Press), was launched in 2011 and one of its novellas has been optioned for a 90 minute feature film. Her chapbook, Dis ease ad De sire, the M anu S cript (Lipstick Press), came out in April, 2012 and her new poetry collection, Sit You Waiting, hit bookshelves in August, 2012 via Caitlin Press. She lives in Cedar on Vancouver Island.