The Birds
Line of velvet black
Dangling from a wire
Toes latched, non-conductable
Talons trimmed
To split prey precisely
Squeals and wriggling embalmed
In struggle of feathers & fur
All birds aligned
With tapered grins
A quire, negro Seraphim
Crowing, dawn squawks
a sunrise, quire coos
Their guts bursting from song
"We are the birds
who wake you in the morn
We are the birds
who sing at your funerals
We are the birds
who hold you awake at night
while your dramatizing
your personal history,
masticating memories,
It’s just you, but your Gaze
is most anticipated.
We are the birds
That sing for you
With bird feed raw throats
we sing to you"
And they'll sing
And they'll sing
And they'll yap and they'll cackles
And we'll sing
along out of tune.
"We are the birds,
Orchestrated and rehearsed"
33
An assemblage of comely
angels, squirting
muddy come, murky
ethereal orgasms.
masturbating to
Earthling lovers
understanding
they'll never
understand
the sweet
dalliance
between man
and
woman
God says,
"You can
be human.
Go."
Lotus
I am a one-thousand-petaled-lotus
Infinitely flowering
You are a one-thousand-petaled-lotus
Infinitely flowering
Flowering infinitely
Bask in the Sun of Self
Plastic flower, ego
Converting heat
Photosynthetic burning
Reflecting petals reflecting petals
Do you recognize yourSelf?
Are you aware?
One-thousand-petaled-lotuses
Are fire proof
Bionote
Jeremiah Walton is a youth poet living in New England. He manages Nostrovia! Poetry, a small publishing press dedicated towards promoting poetry and writing to the youth generation. Nostrovia! Poetry publishes chapbooks, through blogs and contests, micro-chapbooks, zines, and whatever it can sink its teeth into.
Monday, 5 August 2013
1 Poem by Taylor Graham
PUPPY OBEDIENCE
Just try to teach her
straight lines: Forward! (at a brisk
walk, her nose at my knee)
Halt! (with a snappy sit beside me) -
but she forges
at the end of the leash
to pull me past the painted lines &
out the gate & thru the
unmown grasses. There's a world
out here!
It's neither straight nor narrow.
It eludes my rules
& triggers every of her instincts.
She weaves & dashes
across my path, she trips me
on a tug to reach this particular
spot of green that looks
to me like any other.
Ah! But how different it smells
to a dog's exquisite
nose.
Bionote
Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada. Her poetry is included in the anthologies Villanelles (Everyman’s Library, 2012) and California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara University, 2004).
Just try to teach her
straight lines: Forward! (at a brisk
walk, her nose at my knee)
Halt! (with a snappy sit beside me) -
but she forges
at the end of the leash
to pull me past the painted lines &
out the gate & thru the
unmown grasses. There's a world
out here!
It's neither straight nor narrow.
It eludes my rules
& triggers every of her instincts.
She weaves & dashes
across my path, she trips me
on a tug to reach this particular
spot of green that looks
to me like any other.
Ah! But how different it smells
to a dog's exquisite
nose.
Bionote
Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada. Her poetry is included in the anthologies Villanelles (Everyman’s Library, 2012) and California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara University, 2004).
1 Poem by Margery Parsons
Hands
On rocks and walls of canyons
carved birds
with delicate feathers,
graceful antelopes,
fish, flowers,
suns with spiraling rays,
human figures:
a hunter, a line of dancers,
a flute player
on his back
kicking his legs for joy.
On every available surface
carved or painted
hands
waving, reaching,
high-fiving the universe.
I come to this place
at the cusp of a great beginning
or a great dark,
camera, palette, poems,
artist to artists,
dream
a world worthy of the beauty in us,
touch hands,
hear hearts leaping
in the rock.
Bionote
Margery Parsons is a poet and activist. She has been writing poetry since she was a child. She currently lives in Chicago and works in the arts. She has published in print and online, most recently in the Rag Blog. She has read her poetry at the Green Mill in Chicago and at other venues. She is also a music lover and film buff.
On rocks and walls of canyons
carved birds
with delicate feathers,
graceful antelopes,
fish, flowers,
suns with spiraling rays,
human figures:
a hunter, a line of dancers,
a flute player
on his back
kicking his legs for joy.
On every available surface
carved or painted
hands
waving, reaching,
high-fiving the universe.
I come to this place
at the cusp of a great beginning
or a great dark,
camera, palette, poems,
artist to artists,
dream
a world worthy of the beauty in us,
touch hands,
hear hearts leaping
in the rock.
Bionote
Margery Parsons is a poet and activist. She has been writing poetry since she was a child. She currently lives in Chicago and works in the arts. She has published in print and online, most recently in the Rag Blog. She has read her poetry at the Green Mill in Chicago and at other venues. She is also a music lover and film buff.
3 Poems by Anne Rucchetto
Lovebirds
Their immured union
signaled by mutual alteration:
plucking each other bald,
these scholars of loss.
Overnight
Under the benevolent gaze
of academic portraits and swathed
by a cream puff duvet
sleep is all strain.
Stiff but stirring,
under smoke-reek covers
thin walls animate
the rustlings and
footsteps across the
short hall.
Alone, when she is only
a few feet away,
quick breath and
clenched fists lead
stray thoughts to
the pinnacle of late
night imagination.
A confusing scenario,
paired with agonizing
suspense, made worse
as her footsteps seem endless
Centipede
In the dark you appear nothing but a startling mass,
the length of a toddler’s forefinger,
a subtle and mysterious streak of shadow.
It is in the light that your true form
becomes visible.
Legs upon legs,
long thin, spindly, striped,
stemming from a deformed
and abhorrent beast.
Silent and scuttling, you run
like a lightning bolt,
attacking unannounced.
In death, you squirm and quiver:
a full-bodied snarl,
truly determined predator that you are,
reaching, clawing,
relentless.
Bionote
Anne Rucchetto is a writer working and studying in her native Toronto. She is the current Senior Poetry Editor of the Hart House Review, a former editor at The Strand, and a contributor for The Varsity Newspaper. Her poetry has been published in Poet's Ink, ditch, The Sheltered Poet, Acta Victoriana, The Trinity Review, and Shorthand. She has other non-fiction work published through Camberely Press.
Their immured union
signaled by mutual alteration:
plucking each other bald,
these scholars of loss.
Overnight
Under the benevolent gaze
of academic portraits and swathed
by a cream puff duvet
sleep is all strain.
Stiff but stirring,
under smoke-reek covers
thin walls animate
the rustlings and
footsteps across the
short hall.
Alone, when she is only
a few feet away,
quick breath and
clenched fists lead
stray thoughts to
the pinnacle of late
night imagination.
A confusing scenario,
paired with agonizing
suspense, made worse
as her footsteps seem endless
Centipede
In the dark you appear nothing but a startling mass,
the length of a toddler’s forefinger,
a subtle and mysterious streak of shadow.
It is in the light that your true form
becomes visible.
Legs upon legs,
long thin, spindly, striped,
stemming from a deformed
and abhorrent beast.
Silent and scuttling, you run
like a lightning bolt,
attacking unannounced.
In death, you squirm and quiver:
a full-bodied snarl,
truly determined predator that you are,
reaching, clawing,
relentless.
Bionote
Anne Rucchetto is a writer working and studying in her native Toronto. She is the current Senior Poetry Editor of the Hart House Review, a former editor at The Strand, and a contributor for The Varsity Newspaper. Her poetry has been published in Poet's Ink, ditch, The Sheltered Poet, Acta Victoriana, The Trinity Review, and Shorthand. She has other non-fiction work published through Camberely Press.
Interview with Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
Jayne Jaudon Ferrer is the author of five books and the founder, host, and editor of www.YourDailyPoem.com. An award-winning copywriter and freelance journalist earlier in her writing career, Ferrer lives in Greenville, South Carolina. Learn more about her at http://www.jaynejaudonferrer.com/, http://www.YourDailyPoem.com, and /or
http://commagoddess.blogspot.com.
4 Fundamental Questions for Editor Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
1. What are the most important or interesting things that you have learned about poetry writing/
publishing as a poetry
editor?
I’ve discovered that my frame of mind
impacts my reaction to a poem, thus I’ve learned to read submissions multiple
times, at varying times of day and night. I’ve also learned that many people do
not read the guidelines before submitting.
2. Many people say poetry is dying. Do you agree or disagree with
this statement, and why?
I totally disagree. People have said for years that
poetry is dying but, like art and music, it never will. Humans have an inherent
need to communicate, connect, and share our life experiences; poetry is our
attempt to do that through words. The forms that poetry takes may change, but
the genre itself will survive as long as the human species—and who knows?
Robots might take poetry to a whole new level!
3. What defining features do you think ‘best’ poetry should
possess? In other words, what is your personal or working definition of ‘best’
poetry?
Well, I consider “good” poetry to be that which uses
words well and causes some degree of emotional reaction in the reader, so I
suppose that means the “best” poetry does that at a really high level. The “best”
poetry is honest and unpretentious, resonates with every reader in some way,
and leaves us breathless, in tears, or smiling.
4. What is the most or least enjoyable part of being a poetry
editor?
The least enjoyable part is wading through poems
that are not remotely appropriate for my venue, but that is completely eclipsed
by the joy of reading all those that are. You might think everything that could
ever be said about autumn leaves or a spring morning has been, and then here
comes some fresh, new take that literally brings tears to your eyes or makes
you laugh out loud. I also get tremendous satisfaction when people who, after avoiding
poetry for years, encounter a poem through Your Daily Poem that they like so much
they’re impelled to write and tell me about it.
3 Poems by Changming Yuan
Y
Corn
A whole body of teeth
Nothing but teeth
To chew the passing summer
We bite off from you
All the pearl-like memories
Tinged with sunlight
A hard but juicy kiss
Bionote
yum-yum, you seem to
have become addicted
to this alphabet, nothing but a plain letter
though it may sometimes get you high
high with your skin-colour
as yellowish as the bank of the Yangtze River
as young as a Yankee heart
while its sound can lead you
to the truth you are seeking, its shape
can grow into a huge yggdrasil
where your soul can perch
cawing towards the setting sun
Nothing but teeth
To chew the passing summer
We bite off from you
All the pearl-like memories
Tinged with sunlight
A hard but juicy kiss
Directory of Directions:
North: after the storm
all dust hung up
in the crowded air
with his human face
frozen into a dot of dust
and a rising speckle of dust
melted into his face
to avoid this cold climate
of his antarctic dream
he relocated his naked soul
at the dawn of summer
South: like a raindrop
on a small lotus leaf
unable to find the spot
to settle itself down
in an early autumn shower
my little canoe drifts around
near the horizon
beyond the bare bay
Center: deep from the thick forest
a bird’s
call echoes
from ring to ring
within each tree
hardly perceivable
before it suddenly
dies off into the closet
of a noisy human mind
West: not unlike a giddy goat
wandering among the ruins
of a long lost civilization
you keep searching
in the central park
a way out of the tall weeds
as nature makes new york
into a mummy blue
East: in her beehive-like room
so small that a yawning stretch
would readily awaken
the whole apartment building
she draws a picture on the wall
of a tremendous tree
that keeps growing
until it shoots up
from the cemented roof
Bionote
Changming Yuan, 5-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a
Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in a remote Chinese village and published several monographs before moving to Canada as an international student. With a PhD in English from the University of Saskatchewan, Changming currently lives and tutors in Vancouver, where he co-publishes Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan (Poetry submissions welcome at editors.pp@gmail.com). Recently
interviewed by PANK, Changming has poetry appear in Best Canadian Poetry (2009, 2012),
BestNewPoemsOnline, Exquisite Corpse, London Magazine, Threepenny Review
and more than 700 others across 27 countries.
3 Photos by Changming Yuan
Natureal Stanzas: Summer Parading at Zhangjiajie
(A UNESCO-Designated Nature Preserve Park in Hunan Provinice, China)
[Photographer's Note: These 3 pictures, which have never been shared with any viewers outside the family, are chosen from a group of the natural scenes Changming Yuan happily spotted while visiting Zhangjiajie in the summer of 2007.]
3 Poems by Allen Qing Yuan
Traffic Light
Green, Yellow, Red
Step
Stop
Yet again I missed the light
What could have been
What should have been
My chance to burst to
The frontier of the background
Defining the jagged shimmer
Of the tender life force
But I wait, pondering
Is this a pre-carved destiny?
An aim, beyond ambition
Green, Yellow, Red
Step
Every Youthful
Moment
Paving his own
Road, never backing
Down,
He does what he wants,
How he wants,
When he wants,
Making the light shine.
He has faith
In
The future
He’s
facing towards.
Enjoying the golden age,
Remembering every page,
Of his life,
Written or unwritten,
He gives it his all, hoping he
will not
Fall,
To
Every youthful moment.
China Charm: For Yuan Lai
Blood-red intertwined thread
of life
Passing through a shadowed
low point
The lid, lukewarm, dulled and
dusty
Inside the glass of time
A five year old grain of rice
Remains odorless and
recognizable
With it, a petite pretty
green blue flower
Flourishing without air,
Its potential limited by its
surroundings.
In scripted onto the smooth
Yellow-tinged surface of the
rice
Are yuan qing, my Chinese
name
Looking like two Taoist
drawings
It is a single small grain,
But I never forget the wide
summer fields
Swaying back and forth
without a creak or swish
It hangs high on the high
lamp head
Much like the dreams of China
in my head
A Charming charm indeed
Restrained but living
Living but not thriving
Bionote
Allen Qing Yuan, born in Vancouver in 1995, has just finished high school and is to attend the University of British Columbia. Recently
interviewed by Nostrovia!Poetry, Allen co-edits Poetry Pacific with Changming Yuan (Poetry submissions welcome year round at editors.pp@gmail.com) . Since January 2011 when he was still a 10th grader, Allen has had poetry published or forthcoming in more than 70 literary journals/ anthologies across 16 countries, including Blue
Fifth Review, Cordite Poetry Review, Istanbul Literary Review, Literary Review of Canada, MOBIUS, Ottawa Arts Review, Paris/Atlantic, Oklahoma Review, Poetry Scotland, Spillway, Toronto Quarterly and Two Thirds North. His first poetry collection Traffic
Light was released recently by Poetry Pacific.
3 Poems by Tom Howard
LIMINAL
some word i read
that caught hold as i was moving
between
diagnosis and postmortem,
on my way back
through childhood
to here.
not who she was
or who she would be
(later on,
in memory)
but still lost, somewhere
in some upstairs bedroom
crowded with ghosts.
i didn’t know
there was a name for this place.
[This poem was originally published in Petrichor Machine (2012).]
WHITE NIGHT
i love you,
she lied.
but later,
some white night looking up into pools of
lazy darkness,
half-dreaming of locks and keys:
and yet
(self-overhearing)
maybe once, couldn’t it have been
(he jiggles the lock)
that maybe once
(a tumbler falls)
yes once, she really maybe did.
or else
go back through some
pointless catalog
of misread smiles and
unilateral transcendences,
and unremember them.
VALEDICTION
she was saying something the whole time
that he couldn’t quite catch because
the wind was picking up
(from nowhere cloudless skies)
and the words
(some weightless valediction)
never reached him
but took off on their own,
and he watched them
sail away as he
lost her again,
thinking oh,
please,
try not to
(the wind was picking up)
try not to
forget this.
[This poem was originally published in Petrichor Machine (2012).]
Bionote
Tom Howard was born and raised in New Jersey (or as he likes to tell people, "Philadelphia"), and now lives in the Washington, DC area. His fiction and poetry have appeared most recently in Ampersand Review,
Atticus Review and Petrichor Machine. He's also the managing editor of a quarterly literary magazine, Northwind.
some word i read
that caught hold as i was moving
between
diagnosis and postmortem,
on my way back
through childhood
to here.
not who she was
or who she would be
(later on,
in memory)
but still lost, somewhere
in some upstairs bedroom
crowded with ghosts.
i didn’t know
there was a name for this place.
[This poem was originally published in Petrichor Machine (2012).]
WHITE NIGHT
i love you,
she lied.
but later,
some white night looking up into pools of
lazy darkness,
half-dreaming of locks and keys:
and yet
(self-overhearing)
maybe once, couldn’t it have been
(he jiggles the lock)
that maybe once
(a tumbler falls)
yes once, she really maybe did.
or else
go back through some
pointless catalog
of misread smiles and
unilateral transcendences,
and unremember them.
VALEDICTION
she was saying something the whole time
that he couldn’t quite catch because
the wind was picking up
(from nowhere cloudless skies)
and the words
(some weightless valediction)
never reached him
but took off on their own,
and he watched them
sail away as he
lost her again,
thinking oh,
please,
try not to
(the wind was picking up)
try not to
forget this.
[This poem was originally published in Petrichor Machine (2012).]
Bionote
Tom Howard was born and raised in New Jersey (or as he likes to tell people, "Philadelphia"), and now lives in the Washington, DC area. His fiction and poetry have appeared most recently in Ampersand Review,
Atticus Review and Petrichor Machine. He's also the managing editor of a quarterly literary magazine, Northwind.
2 Poems by William Greenway
Mary, Mary
for Mindi
The thing is,
I actually liked
sex, at least
later, but I
missed it with
Him. This anemic
angel gave me
a brief flutter
in the loins,
enough to make
me wonder what
it would be
like with Yahweh.
Instead I got
this tiny spiritual
rush, which is
fine, but a
girl wants more
than the carpenter’s
awl and drill:
the post planted
firmly in the
ground, legs and
arms uncrossed, outflung
and bound to
the bedpost, with
silken scarves
taut and tender
as nails.
In the Region of Women
There are those I don’t know,
but who seem to know me.
It’s as if there were
a Hades of love, all
you never took advantage of
or got the chance to.
These opportunities
lean on the lampposts
of a dark road through
my dreams, garbed in
gaudy black lace and leather.
Sometimes we dance slowly
in the spotlight of the streetlight,
or lie in the dark in the grass,
the dew beading on her back.
But there’s always a cop nearby,
whose “what’s all this then?”,
black hat, birdsong whistle,
and flashlight summon the sunrise
I know too well,
when long shadows again
become the bars of the same old cell.
Bionote
William Greenway’s tenth collection, The Accidental Garden, is forthcoming from Word Press. His ninth collection, Everywhere at Once (2009), winner of the Ohioana Poetry Book of the Year Award, is from the University of Akron Press Poetry Series (2003). He has published in Poetry, American Poetry Review, Georgia Review, Southern Review, Poetry Northwest, Shenandoah, and Prairie Schooner. whgreenway@ysu.edu
for Mindi
The thing is,
I actually liked
sex, at least
later, but I
missed it with
Him. This anemic
angel gave me
a brief flutter
in the loins,
enough to make
me wonder what
it would be
like with Yahweh.
Instead I got
this tiny spiritual
rush, which is
fine, but a
girl wants more
than the carpenter’s
awl and drill:
the post planted
firmly in the
ground, legs and
arms uncrossed, outflung
and bound to
the bedpost, with
silken scarves
taut and tender
as nails.
In the Region of Women
There are those I don’t know,
but who seem to know me.
It’s as if there were
a Hades of love, all
you never took advantage of
or got the chance to.
These opportunities
lean on the lampposts
of a dark road through
my dreams, garbed in
gaudy black lace and leather.
Sometimes we dance slowly
in the spotlight of the streetlight,
or lie in the dark in the grass,
the dew beading on her back.
But there’s always a cop nearby,
whose “what’s all this then?”,
black hat, birdsong whistle,
and flashlight summon the sunrise
I know too well,
when long shadows again
become the bars of the same old cell.
Bionote
William Greenway’s tenth collection, The Accidental Garden, is forthcoming from Word Press. His ninth collection, Everywhere at Once (2009), winner of the Ohioana Poetry Book of the Year Award, is from the University of Akron Press Poetry Series (2003). He has published in Poetry, American Poetry Review, Georgia Review, Southern Review, Poetry Northwest, Shenandoah, and Prairie Schooner. whgreenway@ysu.edu
2 Poems by Jennifer Lagier
Threshold
I change from sleep into hiking gear, slide into day.
Around me, mist erases pygmy oaks, drifts across a dirt street.
It’s an uphill struggle, failing knees versus gravity.
Beyond well-known terrain lies a new headlands trail.
Red paintbrush and golden poppies flaunt vivid blooms.
Chaparral clusters between broken shards of volcanic stone.
Tiny garter snakes wriggle from summer’s mummified thistles
into this year’s lupine enclaves, traverse a bare road.
Fog shreds glide from ocean to canyon, above rounded hills.
I discover land’s finite edge, contemplate choppy seas.
Eye of the Storm
High surf casts ashore seaweed fragments.
Passing rain ruffles the familiar lagoon.
Granite bones from a hidden river
peek through compacted sand.
Pelicans shelter among brackish pools,
the protected estuary’s tule blockade.
High above Palo Colorado, mist flows;
a sullen, new front emerges.
Sunrise reveals what’s to come:
mild spring ripped to shreds,
tepid light, a raw wind,
back-to-back storms.
Bionote
Jennifer Lagier’s books are Coyote Dream Cantos (Iota Press, 1992), Where We Grew Up (Small Poetry Press, 1999), Second-Class Citizen (Voices in Italian Americana Folio Series, 2000), The Mangia Syndrome (Pudding House Publications, 2004), Fishing for Portents (Pudding House Publications, 2008) and Agent Provocateur (Paisano Presss, 2012). She was nominated for a Pushcart Poetry Award in 2012 and is a member of the Rockford Writers Guild, the Santa Cruz Front Street Poets, the Italian American Writers Association and helps coordinate monthly Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium readings.
I change from sleep into hiking gear, slide into day.
Around me, mist erases pygmy oaks, drifts across a dirt street.
It’s an uphill struggle, failing knees versus gravity.
Beyond well-known terrain lies a new headlands trail.
Red paintbrush and golden poppies flaunt vivid blooms.
Chaparral clusters between broken shards of volcanic stone.
Tiny garter snakes wriggle from summer’s mummified thistles
into this year’s lupine enclaves, traverse a bare road.
Fog shreds glide from ocean to canyon, above rounded hills.
I discover land’s finite edge, contemplate choppy seas.
Eye of the Storm
High surf casts ashore seaweed fragments.
Passing rain ruffles the familiar lagoon.
Granite bones from a hidden river
peek through compacted sand.
Pelicans shelter among brackish pools,
the protected estuary’s tule blockade.
High above Palo Colorado, mist flows;
a sullen, new front emerges.
Sunrise reveals what’s to come:
mild spring ripped to shreds,
tepid light, a raw wind,
back-to-back storms.
Bionote
Jennifer Lagier’s books are Coyote Dream Cantos (Iota Press, 1992), Where We Grew Up (Small Poetry Press, 1999), Second-Class Citizen (Voices in Italian Americana Folio Series, 2000), The Mangia Syndrome (Pudding House Publications, 2004), Fishing for Portents (Pudding House Publications, 2008) and Agent Provocateur (Paisano Presss, 2012). She was nominated for a Pushcart Poetry Award in 2012 and is a member of the Rockford Writers Guild, the Santa Cruz Front Street Poets, the Italian American Writers Association and helps coordinate monthly Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium readings.
1 Poem by Elizabeth Dunphey
The Dakota
At the author's request made on 4 Dec 2017, this poem is taken down.
At the author's request made on 4 Dec 2017, this poem is taken down.
3 Poems by Tom Pickerill
Highway 81
The landscape ahead of me lay flat and brown
Hills seem more like creases in the earth
That a once tight surface has given to age.
Dried creeks are lines cut from happier times
Like laughter’s memories in the corner of mouths
Worn in old cheeks from times of abundance
Poured from the sky
Now though
Now they lay sandy and hollow.
Forgotten under bridges and between fields.
All that springs from the land around are signs.
Green markers signaling a break in the open country
With town names that stick in your teeth and throat
Like the field dirt surrounding them kicked up on windy days
Offers of gas stations and grain elevators entice me to stop
As I pass
Further south I am Beckoned
Further south I glide
THE QUESTION
I was asked to think about God today
So I thought
I thought of depth and breadth
I thought of endlessness and the dusty beginnings of man
I thought of all these fancy verbal trimmings.
Thinking in magnitude and not of the personal
I did not immediately recall those moments
Those moments at the lake
I felt life all around me, I felt peace
I felt God
I did not recall the joy of truth
Moments when I have truly learned something and see the world in fresh new eyes
I felt wisdom
I felt God
It is the personal relationships that matters most.
That is where his greatest treasure lay
Growing and becoming, cleansing and creating
His image
I think of winter as a slow moving beast
Crawling south leaving a trail of frost in it’s wake
Lumbering closer
Announced in colored leaves and fleeing waterfowl.
The landscape ahead of me lay flat and brown
Hills seem more like creases in the earth
That a once tight surface has given to age.
Dried creeks are lines cut from happier times
Like laughter’s memories in the corner of mouths
Worn in old cheeks from times of abundance
Poured from the sky
Now though
Now they lay sandy and hollow.
Forgotten under bridges and between fields.
All that springs from the land around are signs.
Green markers signaling a break in the open country
With town names that stick in your teeth and throat
Like the field dirt surrounding them kicked up on windy days
Offers of gas stations and grain elevators entice me to stop
As I pass
Further south I am Beckoned
Further south I glide
THE QUESTION
I was asked to think about God today
So I thought
I thought of depth and breadth
I thought of endlessness and the dusty beginnings of man
I thought of all these fancy verbal trimmings.
Thinking in magnitude and not of the personal
I did not immediately recall those moments
Those moments at the lake
I felt life all around me, I felt peace
I felt God
I did not recall the joy of truth
Moments when I have truly learned something and see the world in fresh new eyes
I felt wisdom
I felt God
It is the personal relationships that matters most.
That is where his greatest treasure lay
Growing and becoming, cleansing and creating
His image
FALL MORNING
I think of winter as a slow moving beast
Crawling south leaving a trail of frost in it’s wake
Lumbering closer
Announced in colored leaves and fleeing waterfowl.
Interview with Editor Russell Streur
8 Fundamental Questions for Russel Streur, Poetry Editor of the Camel Saloon
PP: Given the ways contemporary authors have been trying to compose all kinds of poetry, how would you define ‘poetry’?
RS: To me, it has to be more than typing thoughts in partial lines on a page. Give me a central image, something I can see or hear or taste; a progression from premise to conflict to resolution to insight; or a compelling story. Down those streets, it is poetry enough for me. Anything with a good old fashioned grounding in nature and the land works too.
PP: Many people say poetry is dying. Do you agree or disagree with this statement, and why?
RS: When the guardians of western culture say something is dying, it’s a pretty sure bet that they’re afraid its vitality is strong enough to toss them out of the towers if the truth was ever told. So they have to sell lies in Burger King whopper bags to the media dupes to keep the crowd below distracted. Those doomsters won’t own the last word in this debate. In fact, those guys are in hock to the Bank of Mediocrity up their necks. Pay no attention.
PP: What defining features do you think ‘best’ poetry should possess? In other words, what is your personal or working definition of ‘best’ poetry?
RS: An honesty deep and sharp enough to draw blood, and an unbreakable commitment to the Muse. Totally beyond the ability of the ivory poets to discern. If those self-congratulatory wigs had ever heard of Lin Zhao for instance, they wouldn’t be so quick to declare the craft on life support.
Who’s Lin Zhao? Chinese poetess, trapped by Mao Zedong’s honeyed and duplicitous Hundred Flowers Movement back in the late 1950s.
Mao’s gang tried to sweet talk her into admitting she was out of step with the Party. After declining several increasingly insistent invitations to renounce her writings, she was finally sentenced in 1965 to twenty years in prison where, hewing to China’s long tradition of poetic impudence toward imperial edicts, she continued to mock her captors.
Her refusal to touch her forehead to the dirt for the pleasure of the Great Helmsman is captured in the sardonic lines of her most-cited poem, “A Day of Suffering for Prometheus.” In it, Lin has Zeus ask the Titan who brought the a gift of fire to the human race at the cost of his liver being made into bird food, "Is your head made of granite?" To which Lin has the hero promptly reply, "No, but it is protected by the truth."
Truth didn’t protect Lin. On an April day in 1968, Lin was taken to Shanghai’s Longhua Airport and executed with a bullet to the back of the head. Per custom of the public security bureaus, the lieutenant who pulled the trigger presented Lin’s mother with a bill for the cost of the ounce of lead that stilled her daughter’s earthen voice: five cents. Lin’s devotion to the iron-willed and unrepentant muse of her personal Mount Kaukasos has attained an immortality of its own. During her years in custody, the story goes, Lin wrote thousands of poems—at first in the traditional manner, on paper, in ink; then later, after her warders took away her notebooks and her pen, on the walls of her cell, in her own blood.
What are the most important makings of a ‘great’ poet? – please name 3 greatest poets the world has produced thus far.
A language of nature. A collision with the established culture. An abandonment of life. My votes would place these three among the best: Issa, e.e. cummings, and Tu Fu. Each is interchangeable with others: I could just as easily say Neruda, Zhao and Rimbaud.
PP: Who are the 3 most important or noteworthy contemporary poets according to your personal/working criteria.
RS: For a language of nature, Li Po. He’s immortal so contemporary too. For collision with the established culture,Woeser, the Tibetan poetess. For abandonment of life, Daniel Ladinsky, who does great translations of the Persian crowd of mystics.
PP: Considering the contemporary poetry writing/publishing reality, what are the most important changes do you think should be made to promote poetry as a worthy cause?
RS: Immediate abolishment of National Poetry Month and the total elimination of all Laureate posts. These are carnival tricks to artificially manufacture a false elevation and an unnecessary separation of the poet from the rest of mainstream society. Horse wax, with apologies to the horse. Publishing on demand and online poetry blogs and sites will return the craft to where it belongs, as a common discourse among the people. Can’t happen soon enough.
Which 3 poetry editors or magazines would you like to recommend to all poetry lovers? Or, which 3 are your most favorite poetry editors/journals?
RS: Ross Vassilev, who ran Opium Poetry 2.0 and Asphodel Madness a few years ago still inspires me. He keeps the archives up at (http://opiumpoetry.blogspot.com/ and
http://asphodelmadness.blogspot.com/).
G. Tod Slone of The American Dissident, who does not compromise, period. Abandon your groupthink, all ye who enter here: http://www.theamericandissident.org/.
And Mgcini Nyoni from Zimbabwe runs a great world poetry site at Poetry Bulawayo, http://poetrybulawayo.blogspot.com/
PP: What are the most important or interesting things that you have you learned about poetry writing/publishing as a poetry editor?
RS: About poetry writing, how important it is to use season, place and color and other tactile elements.
PP: What is the most or least enjoyable part of being a poetry editor?
RS: The most enjoyable is the ability to give a platform to people who have something to say. What could be better than to share a voice with the world? Drink up.
5 Photos by Russell Streur
 |
| Bamboo grove along the Chattahooche River, Georgia |
It’s a different story in the winter, on those certain days when the temperature, the humidity and the wind are just right. Then, the cold waters of the Towaliga bloom in the early hours before dawn into big billowing clouds of steam and mist. In that short time, on those few days, the 21st Century is a long way off, and the visitor finds the place even older than the ruins of the mills, and empty and quiet enough to hear the old voices, the whispers in the pines, the heron’s call, and always the harmony of the river, always that music, that song.
3 Poems by Neil Ellman
El Péndulo Immóvil I
(after the painting by Antoni Tàpies)
When the pendulum stops
suspended in gravity
no longer keeping time
between heaven and earth
systolic and diastolic
oscillations of the blood
as if rivers stand still
oceans freeze
heart flutters, pauses
for a moment
where it began
where the pendulum
plumb-fixed on a string
life ceases to be.
Cacodemonic
(after the painting by Paul Klee)
The red eye watches
intent on means
justified by ends
in fire
brimstone-fire
burning in the dark
leering, luring
to possess
another’s soul
it sees inside
knows its character
as if it were itself.
Abyss Pool
(after the painting by Don Suggs)
Madness has a shape
sometimes round
a winter melon
fallen from the vine
a square
having four arguments
against the singular truth
of equidistant lines
the hexagon’s
too many avatars
and angles
in a world of certainty
and then an oval
cracking open
in a third dimension
as an egg
The shape of madness
is a disk
within a disk
within a disk.
Bionote
Twice nominated for Best of the Net, as well as for the Rhysling Award from the Science Fiction Poetry Association, Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. More than 750 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. Many of these previously published poems appear in Parallels, this first full-length collection. ellmans@comcast.net
(after the painting by Antoni Tàpies)
When the pendulum stops
suspended in gravity
no longer keeping time
between heaven and earth
systolic and diastolic
oscillations of the blood
as if rivers stand still
oceans freeze
heart flutters, pauses
for a moment
where it began
where the pendulum
plumb-fixed on a string
life ceases to be.
Cacodemonic
(after the painting by Paul Klee)
The red eye watches
intent on means
justified by ends
in fire
brimstone-fire
burning in the dark
leering, luring
to possess
another’s soul
it sees inside
knows its character
as if it were itself.
Abyss Pool
(after the painting by Don Suggs)
Madness has a shape
sometimes round
a winter melon
fallen from the vine
a square
having four arguments
against the singular truth
of equidistant lines
the hexagon’s
too many avatars
and angles
in a world of certainty
and then an oval
cracking open
in a third dimension
as an egg
The shape of madness
is a disk
within a disk
within a disk.
Bionote
Twice nominated for Best of the Net, as well as for the Rhysling Award from the Science Fiction Poetry Association, Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. More than 750 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. Many of these previously published poems appear in Parallels, this first full-length collection. ellmans@comcast.net
1 Poem by Stephen Kopel
Agitation
Her black bikini,
red boots
brought Kafka to mind
He'd sweat at the thought
of untying that frilly top,
cupping hand to heel,
yanking,
spanking soft leather
with his tongue,
biting her bare ankles, then,
striding down the boardwalk
backwards
expecting her nakedness
to dissolve into ether
Later, at Iturbi's,
sipping espresso,
he imagined seeing her breasts
emerge from boots,
black bikini on spiders' legs
scuttling out the door
Bionote
Stephen Kopel is a teacher, cyclist, wordsmith and events presenter in San Francisco; he is the author of chapbooks crux and crax; of books Tender Absurdity, Spritz and Picnic Poetry; twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize; this poet's principal interest is bringing together a disparate audience for his work...hence, the underlying principal in Mr. Kopel's poetry is to enjoy the language as he uses it - double/triple word and phrase meanings, imaginative associations of phrases throughout the poetic work and a deeply-rooted sense of FUN. stephen.kopel@live.com
Her black bikini,
red boots
brought Kafka to mind
He'd sweat at the thought
of untying that frilly top,
cupping hand to heel,
yanking,
spanking soft leather
with his tongue,
biting her bare ankles, then,
striding down the boardwalk
backwards
expecting her nakedness
to dissolve into ether
Later, at Iturbi's,
sipping espresso,
he imagined seeing her breasts
emerge from boots,
black bikini on spiders' legs
scuttling out the door
Bionote
Stephen Kopel is a teacher, cyclist, wordsmith and events presenter in San Francisco; he is the author of chapbooks crux and crax; of books Tender Absurdity, Spritz and Picnic Poetry; twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize; this poet's principal interest is bringing together a disparate audience for his work...hence, the underlying principal in Mr. Kopel's poetry is to enjoy the language as he uses it - double/triple word and phrase meanings, imaginative associations of phrases throughout the poetic work and a deeply-rooted sense of FUN. stephen.kopel@live.com
3 Poems by Robert Jacoby
Becoming and Coming
What words I must invent for us
dreamers in each other’s eyes
ensnared in love and dust and furies
shining stars picked from
fingertipped night skies
a hallowed sea, a seaful of eyes
full of the glories of creatures
becoming and coming
our skin the sieve of selves
flown and knowing
bleeding and believing creation in each other’s eyes.
Our love is suns’ fusions thick
Our love is suns’ fusions thick
Fashioning meteors’ star-tipped misted musics
Across a stretched sheet of star-pured universe
One hand full of God’s slowed love
One night full of starred and starring you
Globes are suns are skull-shifting weight
Planet’s axes re-align to gravity’s seed
North and south and south and north combined.
Our dark matter is beginningless.
Liquid divides the air, to heaven’s level.
Our glory comes from such.
Of the Universe and My Insects
The universe is in my head
Leaking out by drips
Through bone holes without edges
Eaten by insects
Desperate to crawl
To horizons
For horizonless suns.
The insects are relentless. The insects will not rest.
They breed meticulously
Cleaning antennae
Of bits of dreams while
I tend the larvae.
Bionote
Robert Jacoby [www.robert-jacoby.com] pursues happiness in Maryland. His poems and short works have appeared in about 20 literary magazines, most recently in Sleet Magazine, Slow Trains, and The 2River View. He is the author of two books, a novel, There are Reasons Noah Packed No Clothes (2012), and a memoir (by interview) Escaping from Reality Without Really Trying (2011). He is at work on a second novel; a book of poems, from which these poems are selected; and another nonfiction book—Never Stop Dancing—a memoir (by interview) of a friend who lost his wife in a pedestrian traffic accident in Washington, D.C. in April 2010, and the aftermath and recovery with his two young sons (visit his friend’s online journey at http://hole-in-the-sun.blogspot.com/). http://www.robert-jacoby.com; LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/in/robertjacoby; Amazon Author page: http://www.amazon.com/Robert-Jacoby/e/B005P926HQ; Goodreads Author page: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14571.Robert_Jacoby; Wikipedia User page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Cirrus_Editor
What words I must invent for us
dreamers in each other’s eyes
ensnared in love and dust and furies
shining stars picked from
fingertipped night skies
a hallowed sea, a seaful of eyes
full of the glories of creatures
becoming and coming
our skin the sieve of selves
flown and knowing
bleeding and believing creation in each other’s eyes.
Our love is suns’ fusions thick
Our love is suns’ fusions thick
Fashioning meteors’ star-tipped misted musics
Across a stretched sheet of star-pured universe
One hand full of God’s slowed love
One night full of starred and starring you
Globes are suns are skull-shifting weight
Planet’s axes re-align to gravity’s seed
North and south and south and north combined.
Our dark matter is beginningless.
Liquid divides the air, to heaven’s level.
Our glory comes from such.
Of the Universe and My Insects
The universe is in my head
Leaking out by drips
Through bone holes without edges
Eaten by insects
Desperate to crawl
To horizons
For horizonless suns.
The insects are relentless. The insects will not rest.
They breed meticulously
Cleaning antennae
Of bits of dreams while
I tend the larvae.
Bionote
Robert Jacoby [www.robert-jacoby.com] pursues happiness in Maryland. His poems and short works have appeared in about 20 literary magazines, most recently in Sleet Magazine, Slow Trains, and The 2River View. He is the author of two books, a novel, There are Reasons Noah Packed No Clothes (2012), and a memoir (by interview) Escaping from Reality Without Really Trying (2011). He is at work on a second novel; a book of poems, from which these poems are selected; and another nonfiction book—Never Stop Dancing—a memoir (by interview) of a friend who lost his wife in a pedestrian traffic accident in Washington, D.C. in April 2010, and the aftermath and recovery with his two young sons (visit his friend’s online journey at http://hole-in-the-sun.blogspot.com/). http://www.robert-jacoby.com; LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/in/robertjacoby; Amazon Author page: http://www.amazon.com/Robert-Jacoby/e/B005P926HQ; Goodreads Author page: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14571.Robert_Jacoby; Wikipedia User page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Cirrus_Editor
3 Poems by Neil Leadbeater
The Fire Raisers
Your nightmare
is a lit match on dry wood
the odour of paraffin
leaking through the letterbox
a quick flame
on a length of fuse.
In your soaked sheets
you shout for sand buckets, fire
blankets, pails -
draw water from the depths of taps
while the dogs whine at the window slats
their nostrils flared for air.
Heat blisters the rooms into sores
scorching the soot-black wall:
Where is the rain
you ask
hoping to catch its fall.
Fully conscious now
you begin to relax the muscles of the jaw
thankful to find
the house intact
the fast beat of your heart
exact
in the last year of the war.
Animals Without Backbones
Lately I have taken to reading Professor Buchsbaum’s
Animals Without Backbones:
two volumes about the miracle of life
in the small hours
of the morning.
It made me flush out a smuck of jellyfish -
the blood gills of insects
the basal disc of the sea anemone
the coelom of the clam
the nerve rings of starfish
the blastula of the sea urchin
the capillaries of the squid -
these soft, gelatinous, simple forms -
the earth’s jewelled aquariums.
The Red Harvester
so much depends
upon
a red harvester
inching its way
along the
quarter bank
its bladed edge
skirting the
hogweed
convolvulus vetch
and the pinched
waists of dead
nettles standing
tall in the
scrape
Bionote
Neil Leadbeater is an editor, author and poet living in Edinburgh, Scotland. His poems and short stories have been published widely in anthologies and small press magazines and journals both at home and abroad. His first full-length collection of poems, Hoarding Conkers at Hailes Abbey was published by Littoral Press in 2010 and a selection of his Latin American poems, Librettos for the Black Madonna, was published by White Adder Press in 2011.
Your nightmare
is a lit match on dry wood
the odour of paraffin
leaking through the letterbox
a quick flame
on a length of fuse.
In your soaked sheets
you shout for sand buckets, fire
blankets, pails -
draw water from the depths of taps
while the dogs whine at the window slats
their nostrils flared for air.
Heat blisters the rooms into sores
scorching the soot-black wall:
Where is the rain
you ask
hoping to catch its fall.
Fully conscious now
you begin to relax the muscles of the jaw
thankful to find
the house intact
the fast beat of your heart
exact
in the last year of the war.
Animals Without Backbones
Lately I have taken to reading Professor Buchsbaum’s
Animals Without Backbones:
two volumes about the miracle of life
in the small hours
of the morning.
It made me flush out a smuck of jellyfish -
the blood gills of insects
the basal disc of the sea anemone
the coelom of the clam
the nerve rings of starfish
the blastula of the sea urchin
the capillaries of the squid -
these soft, gelatinous, simple forms -
the earth’s jewelled aquariums.
The Red Harvester
so much depends
upon
a red harvester
inching its way
along the
quarter bank
its bladed edge
skirting the
hogweed
convolvulus vetch
and the pinched
waists of dead
nettles standing
tall in the
scrape
Bionote
Neil Leadbeater is an editor, author and poet living in Edinburgh, Scotland. His poems and short stories have been published widely in anthologies and small press magazines and journals both at home and abroad. His first full-length collection of poems, Hoarding Conkers at Hailes Abbey was published by Littoral Press in 2010 and a selection of his Latin American poems, Librettos for the Black Madonna, was published by White Adder Press in 2011.
2 Poems by Kevin Minh Allen
When Home Is Not Enough
Shrouded in rumor, your secrets were unraveling,
and the swelling underneath your blouse
was no longer a question of if but when.
Away you were sent to lie in a bed of lice and dried shrimp
in a village hostile to yet another bastard
who will end up begging for forgiveness.
Yet, here I am, returning from the deep well they tried to drown me in, waiting
to enter the silence of your existence echoing in this dark cave,
however indecipherable.
Breathing In Absentia
Creased air bore my form
Sun in the palm of morning
Crept away the night
Opened my eyes for the first time
Heavy with unspent promise
Bionote
Kevin Minh Allen was born Nguyễn Đức Minh on December 5, 1973 near Sài Gòn, Vietnam to a Vietnamese mother and American father who remain unknown to him. He was adopted by a couple from Rochester, NY and grew up in Webster, NY with his two younger sisters. In 2000, he moved to Seattle, WA to pursue a life less ordinary. Kevin is a technical writer who has had his poetry published in numerous print and online publications, such as Aileron, HazMat Literary Review, Chrysanthemum and, most recently, Eye To The Telescope. Kevin finished his first collection of poetry, The Wind Above The Coast¸and is searching for a publisher.
Shrouded in rumor, your secrets were unraveling,
and the swelling underneath your blouse
was no longer a question of if but when.
Away you were sent to lie in a bed of lice and dried shrimp
in a village hostile to yet another bastard
who will end up begging for forgiveness.
Yet, here I am, returning from the deep well they tried to drown me in, waiting
to enter the silence of your existence echoing in this dark cave,
however indecipherable.
Breathing In Absentia
Creased air bore my form
Sun in the palm of morning
Crept away the night
Opened my eyes for the first time
Heavy with unspent promise
Bionote
Kevin Minh Allen was born Nguyễn Đức Minh on December 5, 1973 near Sài Gòn, Vietnam to a Vietnamese mother and American father who remain unknown to him. He was adopted by a couple from Rochester, NY and grew up in Webster, NY with his two younger sisters. In 2000, he moved to Seattle, WA to pursue a life less ordinary. Kevin is a technical writer who has had his poetry published in numerous print and online publications, such as Aileron, HazMat Literary Review, Chrysanthemum and, most recently, Eye To The Telescope. Kevin finished his first collection of poetry, The Wind Above The Coast¸and is searching for a publisher.
1 Poem by William Bortz
Sheets
I remember the canopy over your bed,
and how the light from the window would pour through it,
and onto your silky skin in the mornings.
I found a piece of myself in that bed when I discovered who called it home.
the girl who would ask why the sun was so bright when her mood was so dark,
the girl who would nurture me when I wanted the sun to be brighter.
she would tell me how scared she was of oblivion,
the girl I told was my oblivion,
and the girl who answered saying, "I am just a wreck amongst wrecks, darling."
the girl who's skin smelled like green tea,
and felt as soft as ash.
not once did I close my eyes underneath that canopy,
and not once did you ask why.
because there was nothing to worry about as we would lie there trying to sleep.
a part of me got lost in those sheets
Bionote
William Bortz is a young poet and author from the Midwest. William currently has three books under his belt, 'These Ties', 'Petrichor', and 'Noema', but is always working to add another. When William isn't writing he's working towards his Bachelor's degree in psychology.
I remember the canopy over your bed,
and how the light from the window would pour through it,
and onto your silky skin in the mornings.
I found a piece of myself in that bed when I discovered who called it home.
the girl who would ask why the sun was so bright when her mood was so dark,
the girl who would nurture me when I wanted the sun to be brighter.
she would tell me how scared she was of oblivion,
the girl I told was my oblivion,
and the girl who answered saying, "I am just a wreck amongst wrecks, darling."
the girl who's skin smelled like green tea,
and felt as soft as ash.
not once did I close my eyes underneath that canopy,
and not once did you ask why.
because there was nothing to worry about as we would lie there trying to sleep.
a part of me got lost in those sheets
Bionote
William Bortz is a young poet and author from the Midwest. William currently has three books under his belt, 'These Ties', 'Petrichor', and 'Noema', but is always working to add another. When William isn't writing he's working towards his Bachelor's degree in psychology.
2 Poems by Jason Constantine Ford
Another Folder
Although the folder held within my hands is emptied out
Of contents I treasured years ago, I have no doubt
Of finding another means of gaining a source of hope.
I simply place the folder on a table made of wood
And leave my home already eased in a tranquil mood
As one immune to former lies which gripped me like a rope.
The lies I left behind cannot approach my back
As I no longer walk along the wayward track
I used to take through years of blindness gone away.
I await the day for another folder to come
With a set of words which remedy senses numb
Unto a state of healing from all forms of past decay.
Looking Back
The falling residue of bitter pain collapsed
Upon the stones of guilt until each trace has died
Returns to me as cycle that has now elapsed
From light of morn to final tear my heart has cried.
The pain of looking back to memories which break
Into a set of shards which Justice’ hands forsake
Is bitterness following me along a road
Revealing pain within each episode.
Although I try to break away from pain
Beginning strong until it fades to grey,
A cycle set to bitterness has choked each vein
From feeling happiness within each day.
Your betrayal is what remains from early morn
Until the end of light which wipes away your scorn.
Bionote
Jason Constantine Ford is from Perth in Australia. He works as an employee at a book shop. He has over fifteen years of experience in studying various styles of poetry. The major influences on his style of poetry are William Blake, Edgar Alan Poe and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Blake’s ability to address the social issues of his time through poetry and painting has had a lasting impact upon Jason’s early years. For correspondence, contact Jason at jasonconstantinford@gmail.com .
1 Poem by Summer Nolan
Scraping wallpaper in the bathroom
My father and I work contentedly, jubilantly,
Scraping off the layers of paisley and the blood red flowers underneath them.
Revealing the creamy white wall which hasn’t been seen in more than 20 years.
It is as if we are scraping away the layers of your sickness.
As if the walls were filled with tiny pores which are finally able to breath
The room feels lighter
It echoes with our laughter.
I cannot remember the last time you were gone for an entire day,
The last time I didn’t return home, arms laden with laundry,
To hear your voice echoing through the dark hallways
Like a ghost
Quietly putting into place another broken something-
Today you have left for an entire afternoon.
My father and I turned on the lights when you left, and inspected the dilapidated nest you
had woven.
We set to work with sponges, and watched,
As the thick old paper began to melt.
It was as if it was ready to move on, quietly, putting up very little fight.
Some places required grit, but for the most part
It was a peaceful ending.
I am hopeful, that when you return home to see what we have done
You will do the same.
Your pores will open-
And a piece of your soul will begin to breath.
Bionote
Summer Nolan is a twenty two year old college student from Oklahoma studding Theatre Performance. She is also an advocate for victims of human trafficking, hoping to raise awareness with her co-authored play on the subject, VOICED. She enjoys long books and short naps, and also the reverse.
PP CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
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* All poetic and photographic works are carefully read/viewed year round on a rolling basis for PP's spring, summer, autumn or winter issue, to be released respectively on 5 May, August, November and February;
* No author information except name and email address in your submission please - we follow the blind submission policy, and will ask you for a brief 3rd-person bionote upon acceptance;
* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work, are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;
* Although we wish to pay our poets and buy certain rights from them, there is no money exchange involved, at least not for now, except a genuine shared love for art and wisdom;
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POETRY PACIFIC (2.2): BACK PAGE
POETRY PACIFIC
[SPRING ISSUE 2013]
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| Nature's Fashion Show: Photo by Changaming Yuan Thanks for reading, and please stay tuned... |
Sunday, 5 May 2013
POETRY PACIFIC (2.1): Cover Page
POETRY PACIFIC
[SPRING ISSUE 2013]
 |
| A Snapshot of Spring: Photograph by Zhijian Tao |
Poetry Pacific (2.1): Editorial Note
SOME CHANGES TO NOTE::
* Thus far, PP has been featuring 3 selected poets and their artworks on a weekly basis; however, starting from now, PP is switching 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 or photographic artworks each time;
* PP (2.2) [Summer Issue] has already been fully committed, but submissions are open year round for the subsequent issues;
* The email address for submissions has been changed to editors.pp@gmail.com; the old one yuans@shaw.ca will be closed permanently very soon;
* PP has just established a facebook site at https://www.facebook.com/poetry.pacific, where we look forward to networking with you...
HAPPY READING & HAVE A GREAT SPRINGTIME!
* Thus far, PP has been featuring 3 selected poets and their artworks on a weekly basis; however, starting from now, PP is switching 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 or photographic artworks each time;
* PP (2.2) [Summer Issue] has already been fully committed, but submissions are open year round for the subsequent issues;
* The email address for submissions has been changed to editors.pp@gmail.com; the old one yuans@shaw.ca will be closed permanently very soon;
* PP has just established a facebook site at https://www.facebook.com/poetry.pacific, where we look forward to networking with you...
HAPPY READING & HAVE A GREAT SPRINGTIME!
1 Poem by Carl Palmer
CORDIALLY YOURS
sitting on the couch
she has forgotten who I am
greets me like a stranger
treats this stranger better
than she ever treated me
I yearn for her glower
that glint of disgust
the biting sneer
her refusal to say anything
nice to me at all
Bionote
Carl “Papa” Palmer, twice nominated for the Micro Award in flash fiction and thrice for the Pushcart Prize in poetry, grew up on Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, VA. Carl now lives the good life in University Place, WA.
Motto: Long Weekends Forever
sitting on the couch
she has forgotten who I am
greets me like a stranger
treats this stranger better
than she ever treated me
I yearn for her glower
that glint of disgust
the biting sneer
her refusal to say anything
nice to me at all
Bionote
Carl “Papa” Palmer, twice nominated for the Micro Award in flash fiction and thrice for the Pushcart Prize in poetry, grew up on Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, VA. Carl now lives the good life in University Place, WA.
Motto: Long Weekends Forever
1 Poem by Donal Mahoney
Father Spoke in Code
Father spoke in code
Mother understood.
She would cry
once he went to bed.
I never understood the code.
My sister didn't either.
As we got older, we quit
asking Mother what he said.
A feral cat claimed our yard.
It would leap the fence
when anyone appeared.
Except, of course, Father.
When he came out to walk
around the garden after supper,
the cat would sit straight up,
then rub against his leg
and look at him as if it understood
what others never could.
My sister used to say
the two of us were proof
Father and Mother
got together twice.
I told her I wasn't so certain.
I looked a lot like Mr. Brompton,
the next-door neighbor.
He used to buy us sugar cones
from the ice cream truck.
My sister, by the way, didn't look
like anyone in the family either,
but that was 40 years ago
when I last saw her.
I went away to college
and she got married.
We were never close after that.
Not even Christmas cards.
Forty years is a long time.
Now, we plan to get together
for a weekend this summer
before one of us dies.
I suggested we wait
till one of us is terminal.
What's the rush, I said.
But my wife told her
I was only kidding,
that we'll be coming
and not to make a fuss.
Burgers and hot dogs
will do just fine.
I know what Sis and I
will talk about that weekend,
the two people we'll always
have in common, no matter
how many years and miles
may lie between us.
Father and Mother have been
dead for decades now
but they're still alive in us.
I talk in code, my wife says,
and my sister cries a lot,
now that her husband's dead.
The one thing I want to know
is if my sister knows
what happened to the cat.
It knew the code,
may have had some answers.
Bionote
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Father spoke in code
Mother understood.
She would cry
once he went to bed.
I never understood the code.
My sister didn't either.
As we got older, we quit
asking Mother what he said.
A feral cat claimed our yard.
It would leap the fence
when anyone appeared.
Except, of course, Father.
When he came out to walk
around the garden after supper,
the cat would sit straight up,
then rub against his leg
and look at him as if it understood
what others never could.
My sister used to say
the two of us were proof
Father and Mother
got together twice.
I told her I wasn't so certain.
I looked a lot like Mr. Brompton,
the next-door neighbor.
He used to buy us sugar cones
from the ice cream truck.
My sister, by the way, didn't look
like anyone in the family either,
but that was 40 years ago
when I last saw her.
I went away to college
and she got married.
We were never close after that.
Not even Christmas cards.
Forty years is a long time.
Now, we plan to get together
for a weekend this summer
before one of us dies.
I suggested we wait
till one of us is terminal.
What's the rush, I said.
But my wife told her
I was only kidding,
that we'll be coming
and not to make a fuss.
Burgers and hot dogs
will do just fine.
I know what Sis and I
will talk about that weekend,
the two people we'll always
have in common, no matter
how many years and miles
may lie between us.
Father and Mother have been
dead for decades now
but they're still alive in us.
I talk in code, my wife says,
and my sister cries a lot,
now that her husband's dead.
The one thing I want to know
is if my sister knows
what happened to the cat.
It knew the code,
may have had some answers.
Bionote
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
2 Poems by Afzal Moolla
The Whispering Leaf
Infinite tendrils,
weave exquisite patterns,
forming an immaculate, delicate sheaf,
while morning's dew whispers,
tales of forgotten woes,
left scribbled on every leaf.
Murmurs float gently,
across solitary trees,
to distant forests deep and dense,
teasing the waving grasses,
while coquettishly inflaming every sense.
Listen! For the murmurs whisper to us all,
listen carefully,
as the whispers recall,
the crushed memories of the lovers' call.
Listen!
For the whispering leaf shares,
a story that may travel,
to you, to me,
if we still our minds,
and,
gaze upon each leaf,
and quietly marvel.
The African Rains
Soaking,
the rains settle,
meandering over jagged faultlines of our memory.
Drenching,
the rains settle,
streaming through veins,
the thud-thudding of the heartbeat of Africa.
Absorbing,
the rains that settle,
within each of us,
herald rebirth.
And,
if you listen,
if you strain to hear,
while shedding the raucous noise of your inner turmoil.
If you listen,
the whispers of the ancestors,
speak to us all,
lending us warmth,
urging us to stand,
even though we may stumble,
even though we may fall.
Bionote
Afzal Moolla lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. He writes for pleasure and enjoys reading non-fiction and the occasional novel.
Infinite tendrils,
weave exquisite patterns,
forming an immaculate, delicate sheaf,
while morning's dew whispers,
tales of forgotten woes,
left scribbled on every leaf.
Murmurs float gently,
across solitary trees,
to distant forests deep and dense,
teasing the waving grasses,
while coquettishly inflaming every sense.
Listen! For the murmurs whisper to us all,
listen carefully,
as the whispers recall,
the crushed memories of the lovers' call.
Listen!
For the whispering leaf shares,
a story that may travel,
to you, to me,
if we still our minds,
and,
gaze upon each leaf,
and quietly marvel.
The African Rains
Soaking,
the rains settle,
meandering over jagged faultlines of our memory.
Drenching,
the rains settle,
streaming through veins,
the thud-thudding of the heartbeat of Africa.
Absorbing,
the rains that settle,
within each of us,
herald rebirth.
And,
if you listen,
if you strain to hear,
while shedding the raucous noise of your inner turmoil.
If you listen,
the whispers of the ancestors,
speak to us all,
lending us warmth,
urging us to stand,
even though we may stumble,
even though we may fall.
Bionote
Afzal Moolla lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. He writes for pleasure and enjoys reading non-fiction and the occasional novel.
3 Poems by Maude Larke
March
Between the stone wall
and the stone church
fistfuls of yellow, pink, purple heads.
Inheritance
Great-granddad was a vampire
so we all have
stakes sticking out.
Recipe
Consciousness’s main product,
self-consciousness; main by-product,
self-importance.
Between the stone wall
and the stone church
fistfuls of yellow, pink, purple heads.
Inheritance
Great-granddad was a vampire
so we all have
stakes sticking out.
Recipe
Consciousness’s main product,
self-consciousness; main by-product,
self-importance.
Bionote
Maude
Larke has come back to her own writing after working in the American,
English and French university systems, analyzing others’ texts and
films. She has also returned to the classical music world as an ardent amateur, after fifteen years of piano and voice in her youth. Winner of the 2011 PhatSalmon Poetry Prize and the 2012 Swale Life Poetry Competition, she has been published in Oberon, Naugatuck River Review, Cyclamens and Swords, Mslexia, Cliterature, and
Short, Fast, and Deadly, among others.
1 Poem by Nathan J.D.L. Rowark
Insanity Revival
So the sensible man is a relic past of the go betweens of financial fast;
as the money tide falls short of shore, to the little man for a banker’s whore;
and the funding hand, Sahara plain in this place gone mad, as I’m not to blame,
for squandered pound they fluttered free from their grubby fist for champagne she.
Unlaced her bodice beneath her blouse as the markets fell in their Nero house;
for the wife and child upon your street to husband find, then shotgun greet.
How quick their tragic blood runs lose for richest men to fatten goose,
as on the tables of misery's place, they follow own prayer when saving grace.
In sleep aloof they hear the cries of hungry souls that they despise.
A use is found for those by day, yet at night their candle is blown away
on mushroom cloud of hot air balloon that floats above to venture soon,
to all the places you've never seen and for you is all but a night time's dream.
And this is how it came to pass, that in envy green of a greener farce,
the note on which adorns a race became much more than the bearer’s face.
So now you’ll have to pucker up, and to your lips, their liposuction butt
will rest on chair of those below who cannot rise up in madness's show.
But now the doc has made me silly, says my way is a dallied dilly;
the powers that be can easy rest, as the words of the unhinged are unhinged at best.
Yet I find the way the world is fouled, has axis tipped and I’m mad endowed,
to look beyond the trappings laid by those who still think a flat earth stayed.
Bionote
Nathan J.D.L. Rowark is a poet, novelist and founder of Horrified Press: http://horrifiedpress.wordpress.com. His credits include over sixty stories and poems published in various mediums, and three works listed in the British Library. He is about to release two anthologies written by other like-minded artists, one in February and the other in March. They are titled respectively, Tales of the Undead - Hell Whore, and Tales of the Undead - Suffer Eternal.
as the money tide falls short of shore, to the little man for a banker’s whore;
and the funding hand, Sahara plain in this place gone mad, as I’m not to blame,
for squandered pound they fluttered free from their grubby fist for champagne she.
Unlaced her bodice beneath her blouse as the markets fell in their Nero house;
for the wife and child upon your street to husband find, then shotgun greet.
How quick their tragic blood runs lose for richest men to fatten goose,
as on the tables of misery's place, they follow own prayer when saving grace.
In sleep aloof they hear the cries of hungry souls that they despise.
A use is found for those by day, yet at night their candle is blown away
on mushroom cloud of hot air balloon that floats above to venture soon,
to all the places you've never seen and for you is all but a night time's dream.
And this is how it came to pass, that in envy green of a greener farce,
the note on which adorns a race became much more than the bearer’s face.
So now you’ll have to pucker up, and to your lips, their liposuction butt
will rest on chair of those below who cannot rise up in madness's show.
But now the doc has made me silly, says my way is a dallied dilly;
the powers that be can easy rest, as the words of the unhinged are unhinged at best.
Yet I find the way the world is fouled, has axis tipped and I’m mad endowed,
to look beyond the trappings laid by those who still think a flat earth stayed.
Bionote
Nathan J.D.L. Rowark is a poet, novelist and founder of Horrified Press: http://horrifiedpress.wordpress.com. His credits include over sixty stories and poems published in various mediums, and three works listed in the British Library. He is about to release two anthologies written by other like-minded artists, one in February and the other in March. They are titled respectively, Tales of the Undead - Hell Whore, and Tales of the Undead - Suffer Eternal.
1 Poem by Melissa Fry Beasley
In The Night
In the dark
Silence enfolds the world
You are sleeping
And i'm here watching
The moon changes colors
This night is like stained glass
A cathedral with no parishioners
As dream bends to daylight
Bionote
Melissa Fry Beasley is a Native American/Irish poet and social activist from Oklahoma. She currently advocates for various literacy and G.E. D. programs. Melissa has three dogs, three cats, and three children. She has previously been published in online and print magazines and journals and is currently working on an exciting new chapbook.
In the dark
Silence enfolds the world
You are sleeping
And i'm here watching
The moon changes colors
This night is like stained glass
A cathedral with no parishioners
As dream bends to daylight
Bionote
Melissa Fry Beasley is a Native American/Irish poet and social activist from Oklahoma. She currently advocates for various literacy and G.E. D. programs. Melissa has three dogs, three cats, and three children. She has previously been published in online and print magazines and journals and is currently working on an exciting new chapbook.
1 Poem by Jnana Hodson
Listen With Hands: XXXVI
This other Washington
has a vegetable market down the street
and Hawaiian sneakers
I’d swear that bird was singing
“Let’s go, Red Sox! Let’s go, Red Sox”
in the middle of a hot streak
REMDAWG its own mantra
Too much sugar
not enough crotchety - turn demanding, boy
and whip it around
By the way, did she ever get
to that horseback riding?
Happy trails and pleasant dreams
your adoring fan in the North
Unlike the young pastor
looking for the church
within the church
somewhere along the seaboard
Bionote
A native of the Midwest, Jnana Hodson spent four years in the interior desert of the Pacific Northwest corner of the United States, leaving shortly after Mount St. Helens erupted and covered his home eighty miles away in volcanic ash. He now lives on the other side of the country, where he blogs at Jnana's Red Barn (jnanahodson.net).
This other Washington
has a vegetable market down the street
and Hawaiian sneakers
I’d swear that bird was singing
“Let’s go, Red Sox! Let’s go, Red Sox”
in the middle of a hot streak
REMDAWG its own mantra
Too much sugar
not enough crotchety - turn demanding, boy
and whip it around
By the way, did she ever get
to that horseback riding?
Happy trails and pleasant dreams
your adoring fan in the North
Unlike the young pastor
looking for the church
within the church
somewhere along the seaboard
Bionote
A native of the Midwest, Jnana Hodson spent four years in the interior desert of the Pacific Northwest corner of the United States, leaving shortly after Mount St. Helens erupted and covered his home eighty miles away in volcanic ash. He now lives on the other side of the country, where he blogs at Jnana's Red Barn (jnanahodson.net).
3 Poems by Les Wicks
Function @ Disjunction
Why did the toaster cross the pillow?
To (cruci)fix the broken thought.
Do not (donut) go there, each fried
thing has nails we bring
them corrosion
then sneak on out the window
magical nihilist
stuck on sunset
cut by colour
bright tight plates.
Shuck
When science forgets departure
& the ardent clouds bend down to blow
tenderly on the feathers of roosting lorikeets...
you & I touch at secluded borders,
the leaves fall such
sweaty benevolence such
blithe zeniths.
Hurtle
Fling on a string You take this moment wrap it in fluoro influenza we fly towards a finish with nothing but the frightened children of our lungs. Knees spin like torrid toad eyes we are stalks within stalks as feet crash in a gravity graze one after the other pile driving all for an instant, late permanents that twitter beneath a frangible sun all is movement each bird is a word, beach umbrellas gavotte under the calamitous clamour of a tide turned twisty. Flog & bubble, no metal - cats prospect on the headlands while dogs discover sex like masters. Eyes smash, weeks drop, caning the cathedrals of the double stubble. Crash through the cotillions of commute – cute boys sensible girls all the girdles of hurdles leap then laughter, whiffling over ways trample the wisdom left thoughtlessly on the path. Fill the fountains with fire, each injury is wave, is aware. Stairs bite at pyramids, branflakes overhead flap at heaven (but the weight), violins fruit on trees. to this point.
Bionote
LES WICKS has toured widely and seen publication across 15 countries in 9 languages. His 10th book of poetry is Barking Wings (PressPress, 2012). leswicks@hotmail.com. http://leswicks.tripod.com/lw.htm
Why did the toaster cross the pillow?
To (cruci)fix the broken thought.
Do not (donut) go there, each fried
thing has nails we bring
them corrosion
then sneak on out the window
magical nihilist
stuck on sunset
cut by colour
bright tight plates.
Shuck
When science forgets departure
& the ardent clouds bend down to blow
tenderly on the feathers of roosting lorikeets...
you & I touch at secluded borders,
the leaves fall such
sweaty benevolence such
blithe zeniths.
Hurtle
Fling on a string You take this moment wrap it in fluoro influenza we fly towards a finish with nothing but the frightened children of our lungs. Knees spin like torrid toad eyes we are stalks within stalks as feet crash in a gravity graze one after the other pile driving all for an instant, late permanents that twitter beneath a frangible sun all is movement each bird is a word, beach umbrellas gavotte under the calamitous clamour of a tide turned twisty. Flog & bubble, no metal - cats prospect on the headlands while dogs discover sex like masters. Eyes smash, weeks drop, caning the cathedrals of the double stubble. Crash through the cotillions of commute – cute boys sensible girls all the girdles of hurdles leap then laughter, whiffling over ways trample the wisdom left thoughtlessly on the path. Fill the fountains with fire, each injury is wave, is aware. Stairs bite at pyramids, branflakes overhead flap at heaven (but the weight), violins fruit on trees. to this point.
Bionote
LES WICKS has toured widely and seen publication across 15 countries in 9 languages. His 10th book of poetry is Barking Wings (PressPress, 2012). leswicks@hotmail.com. http://leswicks.tripod.com/lw.htm
1 Poem by Yermiyahu Ahron Taub
Empty Nesters
The plums plummeted early on Bunker Hill Road this year,
toppled by a misalignment of climactic signals
or a rare eagerness convened by the envoys of spring.
No one was quite sure.
Their skins were rent by the fall,
or rather its aftermath.
Some had sought safety and were, in fact, gingerly avoided;
most were squashed in the stampede of train commuters,
the stamp of stiletto heels visible upon inspection.
The pavement beneath was transformed into a kaleidoscope
of bruise and mortification.
The color of the ruin resembled that of the trees’ leaves,
offspring mirroring parent.
Indeed, some of the branches had become ragged, leaves sparse,
barely budding—a line of treasured, if flawed, canopy shade.
Equally unexpectedly, armed with manuals and shears and
synchronicity, guerilla landscapers descended one morning to clip
the branches of the plum trees. Their resolve was noted with unease.
Perhaps they aim to revive the blood; perhaps they seek to console.
Perhaps they wish to ease the agony of the parents
over this indifference to their children,
crushed before their time.
Bionote
Yermiyahu Ahron Taub is the author of three books of poetry, Uncle Feygele (Plain View Press, 2011), What Stillness Illuminated/Vos shtilkayt hot baloykhtn (Parlor Press, 2008; Free Verse Editions series), and The Insatiable Psalm (Wind River Press, 2005). His poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Avatar Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Eclectica Magazine, Free Verse, Prairie Schooner, and The South Carolina Review. One of his poems was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and two were nominated for the Best of the Net award. Please visit his web site at www.yataub.net.
The plums plummeted early on Bunker Hill Road this year,
toppled by a misalignment of climactic signals
or a rare eagerness convened by the envoys of spring.
No one was quite sure.
Their skins were rent by the fall,
or rather its aftermath.
Some had sought safety and were, in fact, gingerly avoided;
most were squashed in the stampede of train commuters,
the stamp of stiletto heels visible upon inspection.
The pavement beneath was transformed into a kaleidoscope
of bruise and mortification.
The color of the ruin resembled that of the trees’ leaves,
offspring mirroring parent.
Indeed, some of the branches had become ragged, leaves sparse,
barely budding—a line of treasured, if flawed, canopy shade.
Equally unexpectedly, armed with manuals and shears and
synchronicity, guerilla landscapers descended one morning to clip
the branches of the plum trees. Their resolve was noted with unease.
Perhaps they aim to revive the blood; perhaps they seek to console.
Perhaps they wish to ease the agony of the parents
over this indifference to their children,
crushed before their time.
Bionote
Yermiyahu Ahron Taub is the author of three books of poetry, Uncle Feygele (Plain View Press, 2011), What Stillness Illuminated/Vos shtilkayt hot baloykhtn (Parlor Press, 2008; Free Verse Editions series), and The Insatiable Psalm (Wind River Press, 2005). His poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Avatar Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Eclectica Magazine, Free Verse, Prairie Schooner, and The South Carolina Review. One of his poems was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and two were nominated for the Best of the Net award. Please visit his web site at www.yataub.net.
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