Last Autumn
A flying carpet of
sugar maple leaves
unfurls along my road.
Just enough light to glimpse
silhouettes of yellow trees
against the dove grey sky.
Tenacious…one ragged
leaf clings to the bough.
Stopping to see the
shape of a snowflake.
After evening showers,
a garden of bright meteors
blossoms.
Amazing how many stars
fit inside my windowpane.
I Believe in Trees
Those silent citadels
standing against long
nights of wind and cold.
Broken willow bramble
scratches a pale sky after
yesterday’s ice storm.
Each spring small buds
blossom as bugs and
butterflies orbit boughs.
Green new leaf fits
your hand so perfectly.
The future lies in your palm.
Birds reciting litany in woods.
Each rainfall the forest
grows taller, more verdant.
Summer afternoons…trees
sashay in sunshine showing
off their emerald gowns.
Winds sway maple branches.
Leaves drop like butterflies
falling to the warm earth.
Red yellow brown carpets
of crunchy foliage spread
over roads welcoming us.
That long afternoon
The air became heavy wiping
willows along skyline.
Blue jays sped to bushes
startled by thunder.
Rain drops linger on face
cascading arms
falling from fingers.
Lying on lips now
precious cool.
We listen to rain
caress marigolds.
Circles of water
spreading wider wider
laden with moist
smells of summer.
Rain walks over
side streets pelting
metal roofs in
slippery symphonies.
We hide under cover
our bodies as damp
as silver willows.
Bionote
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines
such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Camel Saloon Books on
Blog, Blueline, Vine Leaves, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press
Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been
nominated three times for Best of the Net. Four of her books have been
published by fine literary presses. She has recited her work at the
National Arts Club, New York City, State University of New York,
Oneonta, McNay Art Institute, San Antonio and other distinguished
venues. A recent reading was sponsored by the American Academy of
Poetry. Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky, A.P.D. Press,
Albany, New York.
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
2 Poems by JAMeS LeO SHeRIDAN
My Past
my Past
hanging on the wall as portraits
canvas of cries I have screamed
turning on their nails
constantly crooked
imbedded in the halls
of my hurting
such is this time
extended my hands
turn to each to comfort
they in their aisles of aging
crumbling away in this darkness
now dust
their thoughts filling my ears
with their voices
I cry to each aloud
‘There is not enough time
for each of your tears
I am sorry’
I have died enough lives in your presence
in your house
the light does not enter
the doors are locked
and the keys
are crucified to catacombs unreachable
and from such depths
with what could I bring them graveside
and without these keys
the lock of letting go
laughs at my useless futile attempts
amongst his echoes I then walk
towards the halls of humiliation
and as I pass
each portrait turns
on its rusted nail
towards the wall
refusing to look at me
and all I’ve failed
My Sadness Seeps
my sadness seeps from the ceiling
ravaging the walls with its consistent complexity
weighing them down with determined desire and lost longings
the rain of your departure has saturated all I own
with its rancid smell of the disregarded
soaking in the forgotten sweaters of you
I cling to the wet articles of clothing
through the cold I shiver
searching for you
Bionote
Traveling poet and carpenter, JAMeS LeO SHeRIDAN, originally from the Chicagoland area, is currently residing in Florida and writing his memoir.
my Past
hanging on the wall as portraits
canvas of cries I have screamed
turning on their nails
constantly crooked
imbedded in the halls
of my hurting
such is this time
extended my hands
turn to each to comfort
they in their aisles of aging
crumbling away in this darkness
now dust
their thoughts filling my ears
with their voices
I cry to each aloud
‘There is not enough time
for each of your tears
I am sorry’
I have died enough lives in your presence
in your house
the light does not enter
the doors are locked
and the keys
are crucified to catacombs unreachable
and from such depths
with what could I bring them graveside
and without these keys
the lock of letting go
laughs at my useless futile attempts
amongst his echoes I then walk
towards the halls of humiliation
and as I pass
each portrait turns
on its rusted nail
towards the wall
refusing to look at me
and all I’ve failed
My Sadness Seeps
my sadness seeps from the ceiling
ravaging the walls with its consistent complexity
weighing them down with determined desire and lost longings
the rain of your departure has saturated all I own
with its rancid smell of the disregarded
soaking in the forgotten sweaters of you
I cling to the wet articles of clothing
through the cold I shiver
searching for you
Bionote
Traveling poet and carpenter, JAMeS LeO SHeRIDAN, originally from the Chicagoland area, is currently residing in Florida and writing his memoir.
1 Poem by Tendai R. Mwanaka
Infinity
Could infinity be demonstrated?
Using cause and effect.
Water could be the best way
to demonstrate it.
What is water?
What constitute it?
I am not talking of that scientific contrivance H to O thing, no. It’s not a good enough explanation.
There are both living and dead,
living in other contexts animals,
living in other contexts plants
in water, that will always
constitute water.
Water, can it really be lost.
Do we lose anything really?
It’s been there,
Water has been.
It will always be there.
In mathematical terms they are infinities that can’t be dealt with mathematically like some quanta of energy that shows infinity values. To solve them you have to do renormalisation, which is the introduction of other infinites to solve or cancel the first ones. Introducing a pest to solve another pest, thus creating a new pest.
Some wars can be solved that way
Some cannot.
Some wars have too much infinity that can’t be renormalized.
I can think of ethnic wars, and wars
Between religions.
Moslems against Christians, Nigeria,
Israel-Arab warfare…
Are some of these?
The holy war has been ongoing for years now...
Creating the third world war?
The effects of such a war
will
create
infinities
that can’t
be solved.
Bionote
I was born in Zimbabwe, in the remote eastern highlands district of Nyanga, in Mapfurira village. Left Nyanga for Chitungwiza city in 1994, and I started exploring writing that year, when I was barely twenty. My first book to be published, Voices from exile, a collection of poetry on Zimbabwe’s political situation and exile in South Africa, by Lapwing publications, Ireland, 2010. KEYS IN THE RIVER: Notes from a Modern Chimurenga, a novel of interlinked stories that deals with life in modern day Zimbabwe was published by Savant books and publications, USA 2012, found here; http://www.savantbooksandpublications.com/9780985250621.php. A book of creative non-fiction pieces, ZIMBABWE: THE BLAME GAME, will be published by Langaa RPCIG( Cameroon 2013), a novel entitled, A DARK ENERGY will be published by Aignos publishing company( USA). I was nominated for the Pushcart twice, 2008, 2010, commended for the Dalro prize 2008, I was nominated and attended Caine African writing workshop, 2012. Published over 250 pieces of short stories, essays, memoirs, poems and visual art in over 150 magazines, journals, and anthologies in the following countries, the USA , UK , Canada , South Africa, Zimbabwe, India , Mexico, Kenya, Cameroon, Italy , Ghana, Uganda, France , Zambia, Nigeria, Spain , Romania, Cyprus, Australia and New Zealand.
Could infinity be demonstrated?
Using cause and effect.
Water could be the best way
to demonstrate it.
What is water?
What constitute it?
I am not talking of that scientific contrivance H to O thing, no. It’s not a good enough explanation.
There are both living and dead,
living in other contexts animals,
living in other contexts plants
in water, that will always
constitute water.
Water, can it really be lost.
Do we lose anything really?
It’s been there,
Water has been.
It will always be there.
In mathematical terms they are infinities that can’t be dealt with mathematically like some quanta of energy that shows infinity values. To solve them you have to do renormalisation, which is the introduction of other infinites to solve or cancel the first ones. Introducing a pest to solve another pest, thus creating a new pest.
Some wars can be solved that way
Some cannot.
Some wars have too much infinity that can’t be renormalized.
I can think of ethnic wars, and wars
Between religions.
Moslems against Christians, Nigeria,
Israel-Arab warfare…
Are some of these?
The holy war has been ongoing for years now...
Creating the third world war?
The effects of such a war
will
create
infinities
that can’t
be solved.
Bionote
I was born in Zimbabwe, in the remote eastern highlands district of Nyanga, in Mapfurira village. Left Nyanga for Chitungwiza city in 1994, and I started exploring writing that year, when I was barely twenty. My first book to be published, Voices from exile, a collection of poetry on Zimbabwe’s political situation and exile in South Africa, by Lapwing publications, Ireland, 2010. KEYS IN THE RIVER: Notes from a Modern Chimurenga, a novel of interlinked stories that deals with life in modern day Zimbabwe was published by Savant books and publications, USA 2012, found here; http://www.savantbooksandpublications.com/9780985250621.php. A book of creative non-fiction pieces, ZIMBABWE: THE BLAME GAME, will be published by Langaa RPCIG( Cameroon 2013), a novel entitled, A DARK ENERGY will be published by Aignos publishing company( USA). I was nominated for the Pushcart twice, 2008, 2010, commended for the Dalro prize 2008, I was nominated and attended Caine African writing workshop, 2012. Published over 250 pieces of short stories, essays, memoirs, poems and visual art in over 150 magazines, journals, and anthologies in the following countries, the USA , UK , Canada , South Africa, Zimbabwe, India , Mexico, Kenya, Cameroon, Italy , Ghana, Uganda, France , Zambia, Nigeria, Spain , Romania, Cyprus, Australia and New Zealand.
3 Poems by Sy Roth
Work Makes Free
wrought iron gates bear the vultures’ weight,
roost above the runic message--
beginning an end—
work makes free—
their guards swim in the River Lethe
sense no evil as they cram innocents
into their machines
grinding them to death.
mouthless, silent statues
imitate life,
inhale the noxious odors,
brush the stinging ashes like dandruff from their shoulders.
while emptied beings
warped musselmen,
mark their serpentine passage
in the mud,
aimlesslessly dragged about,
mashed into dust.
hazy memories.
vultures persist
coddle the message--
linger with their young
untouched by ghosts
in their safe havens
where clocks tick endlessly
and the callow suckle at their breasts.
work makes free—
They Find Salvation
Below the stadium, where bestial games begin,
They link the beasts – bears, bulls and slaves.
Above the crowd yawps desires
their bloodlust songs sung in basso profundo waves
inky contralto voices mixed in like a tinkling avalanche
of razor-sharp crystals to the sand below.
Their fetid air, a renegade wagon
rolls down a prodigious hill,
gawkers chained to the hapless bear, bull, and slave
a gift-wrapped fury adorned in chain-mail.
Slave cowers before the snarling beasts,
bear and bull measure each other.
Stadium trembles with their bellowed wishes.
Blood-dreams inspire them,
bear’s jaw snaps at the bull's snout,
bull's horns find gore places,
the slave pisses the ground.
Blood spray bouquets, thrown to the rabble,
the slave their salvation.
Adorned in a begrimed loincloth,
he bears a long hooked pole to unlatch the beasts.
Crowd roars their entreaties,
Move to the beasts!
Sacrifice for the good of men!
Tentative steps,
turns to the closed gates, hot pokers keep him in the arena.
Bull snorts and paws the blood-stained sand,
bear growls a tooth-filled face
the pole trembles in his hands,
all lost under the umbrella of a darkling sky.
Alternatives vanish in a prestidigator’s top hat.
The hook separates the pair.
Free of the other, their fury on him.
He is the crowd.
He crosses to the red-hot pokers.
Bull and bear bloody the arena with him,
split his spine,
bring great cheer to the Commodus.
The slave finds freedom.
The crowd their salvation.
Picasso Resides in His Pipe
Picasso resides in his pipe of mangled pasts.
Familiar streets, idealized homes
mingle with droll visions in his mind.
He takes a deep drag of them
reconstructs them into mundane voyages
that end on the beaches of white-clapboarded homes
where boys and dogs could not steal his childhood.
Like Venus, they emerge from their clamshells
protecting innocence from the view
of boys pummeling each other with bicycle chains
where drunken women do not beat men with their umbrellas.
Seeks escape from besotted vacant lots.
Street dreamers reside in his head
Beneath softly lighted idyllic landscapes
mythical mischievous lands where
skinny kids sail away from the sordid to wander bucolic realms
find new realities in magical brush strokes
exploring the winds of youth
outfitting them in clothes of transcendent times
in frozen in Saturday Evening Post vignettes and Boys Life adventures.
Avoids men in T-shirts breathing beer fumes
who come to his door seeking their own realities.
He poses the innocent,
stick figures fleshed to represent life
while he sucks deeper on his pipe
to find Rembrandt in Roosevelt’s four freedoms.
His pipe burned portraits without cynicism
into canvases of lives that Morse-code that we are good.
A dialogue of the loneliness of a girl at a mirror,
a silence of separation in breaking home ties
like Vermeer lights dance under diffused light
that plays terpsichorean music in the stillness.
Manic perfectionist with his pipe prop
self portrait where he rests among the masters
eyeless in his own gaze
canvas echoes innocent message of indifference
until his Ruby Bridges strides confidently
sends her own smoke signals that the world has changed.
Biontoe
He comes riding in and then canters out. Oftentimes, the head is bowed by reality; other times, he is proud to have said something noteworthy. cRetired after forty-two years as teacher/school administrator, he now resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in many online publications such as in Parentheses, Poet and Geek Magazine, Gloom Cupboard, Pif Magazine, The Circle Review, Poetry Super Highway, Millers Pond Review, Earthborne, Nostrovia, Cyclamens and Swords, The Germ, Rockhurst Review, Wilderness Interface Zone, Red Ochre, Bong is Bard, Danse Macabre, Mel BraKe Press, Larks Fiction Magazine, Exercise Bowler, Otoliths, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, brief, The Weekenders, The Squawk Back, Bareback Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bitchin’ Kitsch, Peripheral Surveys, Scapegoat Review, The Artistic Muse, Inclement, Napalm and Novocain, Euphemism, Humanimalz Literary Journal, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review, Vayavya, Wilderness House Journal, Aberration Labyrinth, Mindless(Muse), Em Dash, Subliminal Interiors, South Townsville Micropoetry Journal, The Penwood Review, The Rampallian, Vox Poetica, Clutching at Straws, Downer Magazine, Full of Crow, Abisinth Literary Review, Every Day Poems, Avalon Literary Review, Napalm and Novocaine, Wilderness House Literary Review, St. Somewhere Journal, Carcinogenic Poetry, The Neglected Ratio, Windmills Magazine and Kerouac’s Dog. One of his poems, Forsaken Man, was selected for Best of 2012 poems in Storm Cycle. Twice selected Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway. His work was also read at Palimpsest Poetry Festival in December 2012. He was named Poet of the Month for the month of February in BlogNostics. Included in Poised in Flight and Point Mass anthology published by Kind of Hurricane Press. A Murder of Crows named Poem of the Week in Toucan.
wrought iron gates bear the vultures’ weight,
roost above the runic message--
beginning an end—
work makes free—
their guards swim in the River Lethe
sense no evil as they cram innocents
into their machines
grinding them to death.
mouthless, silent statues
imitate life,
inhale the noxious odors,
brush the stinging ashes like dandruff from their shoulders.
while emptied beings
warped musselmen,
mark their serpentine passage
in the mud,
aimlesslessly dragged about,
mashed into dust.
hazy memories.
vultures persist
coddle the message--
linger with their young
untouched by ghosts
in their safe havens
where clocks tick endlessly
and the callow suckle at their breasts.
work makes free—
They Find Salvation
Below the stadium, where bestial games begin,
They link the beasts – bears, bulls and slaves.
Above the crowd yawps desires
their bloodlust songs sung in basso profundo waves
inky contralto voices mixed in like a tinkling avalanche
of razor-sharp crystals to the sand below.
Their fetid air, a renegade wagon
rolls down a prodigious hill,
gawkers chained to the hapless bear, bull, and slave
a gift-wrapped fury adorned in chain-mail.
Slave cowers before the snarling beasts,
bear and bull measure each other.
Stadium trembles with their bellowed wishes.
Blood-dreams inspire them,
bear’s jaw snaps at the bull's snout,
bull's horns find gore places,
the slave pisses the ground.
Blood spray bouquets, thrown to the rabble,
the slave their salvation.
Adorned in a begrimed loincloth,
he bears a long hooked pole to unlatch the beasts.
Crowd roars their entreaties,
Move to the beasts!
Sacrifice for the good of men!
Tentative steps,
turns to the closed gates, hot pokers keep him in the arena.
Bull snorts and paws the blood-stained sand,
bear growls a tooth-filled face
the pole trembles in his hands,
all lost under the umbrella of a darkling sky.
Alternatives vanish in a prestidigator’s top hat.
The hook separates the pair.
Free of the other, their fury on him.
He is the crowd.
He crosses to the red-hot pokers.
Bull and bear bloody the arena with him,
split his spine,
bring great cheer to the Commodus.
The slave finds freedom.
The crowd their salvation.
Picasso Resides in His Pipe
Picasso resides in his pipe of mangled pasts.
Familiar streets, idealized homes
mingle with droll visions in his mind.
He takes a deep drag of them
reconstructs them into mundane voyages
that end on the beaches of white-clapboarded homes
where boys and dogs could not steal his childhood.
Like Venus, they emerge from their clamshells
protecting innocence from the view
of boys pummeling each other with bicycle chains
where drunken women do not beat men with their umbrellas.
Seeks escape from besotted vacant lots.
Street dreamers reside in his head
Beneath softly lighted idyllic landscapes
mythical mischievous lands where
skinny kids sail away from the sordid to wander bucolic realms
find new realities in magical brush strokes
exploring the winds of youth
outfitting them in clothes of transcendent times
in frozen in Saturday Evening Post vignettes and Boys Life adventures.
Avoids men in T-shirts breathing beer fumes
who come to his door seeking their own realities.
He poses the innocent,
stick figures fleshed to represent life
while he sucks deeper on his pipe
to find Rembrandt in Roosevelt’s four freedoms.
His pipe burned portraits without cynicism
into canvases of lives that Morse-code that we are good.
A dialogue of the loneliness of a girl at a mirror,
a silence of separation in breaking home ties
like Vermeer lights dance under diffused light
that plays terpsichorean music in the stillness.
Manic perfectionist with his pipe prop
self portrait where he rests among the masters
eyeless in his own gaze
canvas echoes innocent message of indifference
until his Ruby Bridges strides confidently
sends her own smoke signals that the world has changed.
Biontoe
He comes riding in and then canters out. Oftentimes, the head is bowed by reality; other times, he is proud to have said something noteworthy. cRetired after forty-two years as teacher/school administrator, he now resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in many online publications such as in Parentheses, Poet and Geek Magazine, Gloom Cupboard, Pif Magazine, The Circle Review, Poetry Super Highway, Millers Pond Review, Earthborne, Nostrovia, Cyclamens and Swords, The Germ, Rockhurst Review, Wilderness Interface Zone, Red Ochre, Bong is Bard, Danse Macabre, Mel BraKe Press, Larks Fiction Magazine, Exercise Bowler, Otoliths, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, brief, The Weekenders, The Squawk Back, Bareback Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bitchin’ Kitsch, Peripheral Surveys, Scapegoat Review, The Artistic Muse, Inclement, Napalm and Novocain, Euphemism, Humanimalz Literary Journal, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review, Vayavya, Wilderness House Journal, Aberration Labyrinth, Mindless(Muse), Em Dash, Subliminal Interiors, South Townsville Micropoetry Journal, The Penwood Review, The Rampallian, Vox Poetica, Clutching at Straws, Downer Magazine, Full of Crow, Abisinth Literary Review, Every Day Poems, Avalon Literary Review, Napalm and Novocaine, Wilderness House Literary Review, St. Somewhere Journal, Carcinogenic Poetry, The Neglected Ratio, Windmills Magazine and Kerouac’s Dog. One of his poems, Forsaken Man, was selected for Best of 2012 poems in Storm Cycle. Twice selected Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway. His work was also read at Palimpsest Poetry Festival in December 2012. He was named Poet of the Month for the month of February in BlogNostics. Included in Poised in Flight and Point Mass anthology published by Kind of Hurricane Press. A Murder of Crows named Poem of the Week in Toucan.
Interview with Doug Johnson
1. Given the ways contemporary authors have been trying to compose all kinds of poetry, how would you define ‘poetry’?
That's kind of a difficult question. There are many varied formats in Western poetry, I'm in danger of being the blind man defining an elephant. I may just have the trunk and be calling it a rope. For all the variant forms, to me poetry has two elements. 1) There are a set of arbitrary rules decided upon by the reader and poet. These may be that stanzas have meter and rhyme in the West. These may be a certain amount of characters and syllables in the East. This is qualified by the fact that free-verse and other ideas make anarchy of rules in language. The important issue is that the reader and poet understand a shared definition. 2) The second element of this, in the modern mind-set, is that it is not a linguistic form that will work through heavy prosaic fashions to communicate a story. Prose has been given wide range to serve other functions where the reader does not have to be extremely educated on the type of forms the writer is using. (For instance that an Italian Sonnet with a heroic couplet is a requirement.) Yes there are poets working at the edges between these two ideas. That's where I defer to my earlier comment. I may just be a blind man holding an elephant's trunk.
2. Many people say poetry is dying. Do you agree or disagree with this statement, and why?
All types of art forms come, go and or resurrect themselves for a new generation. Poetry has definitely impacted by technology and the ocean of words that get printed everyday in blogs and articles in the internet. In this way words have become extremely cheapened. The poet, as an artisan, carves words out of a grand idea, much like a woodcarver cuts at a block. That has been for different reasons. Lao Tzu's ideals of the "Unfinished Block" lent artisans to shape their words in an effort to offer no ego. Other poets have offered a standard of "Confessional Poetry" where the deepest secrets of a soul are left on the page. Is poetry dying? I think only in the way that leaves on a tree die. To me, at the end of the day, there are poets and songwriters in each generation. Bards tell of their poems. Sing their songs. The technology has changed how much we value the current types of poetry, but it hasn't stopped some people from crafting words with care for a new generation.
3. What defining features do you think ‘best’ poetry should possess? In other words, what is your personal or working definition of ‘best’ poetry?
This is subjective and difficult to comment on. I tend to study Han Shan and his collected songs to find by base in poetry. If you are of a Taoist or Bhuddist mindset and you study those ancestors you will look for certain elements. If you are of a political mindset and think that poetry must witness and protest then you will use the standard of "Content" as your grading scale. People prefer many elements. If anything I come to appreciate the craft of the poet for whatever set of rules they have chosen to emulate. If you want to write a sonnet with a solid rhyme scheme, those are the rules. In our modern ideas, this might appear to be an archaic exercise, but each well-crafted genre has things to teach a modern poet. The 'best' poetry speaks to their generation, using a set of rules that allows the reader/listener in. Otherwise it can be perfectly formed and sit simply as an ornament on a shelf for your own collection.
4. What are the most important makings of a ‘great’ poet? – please name 3 greatest poets the world has produced thus far.
Again, this is a challenge for me. I prefer Han Shan of Ancient China. I prefer the sonnets of Shakespeare. Walt Whitman paved the ways for rules to be broken and adjusted for new generations with the use of free-verse.
5. Who are the 3 most important or noteworthy contemporary poets according to your personal/working criteria?
I prefer William Stafford of the Pacific Northwest and Naomi Shihab Nye. Past that, I prefer Langson Hughes. All three of these people have worked within a shared set of arbitrary rules and communicated to the generations of the 20th (and now 21st) century
6. Considering the contemporary poetry writing/publishing reality, what are the most important changes that you think should be made to promote poetry as a worthy cause?
The most obvious one is for the poetry community to join the rest of the world in the realm of technology. There is a deep seated angst for all people who are used to seeing their words on paper. Paper is still the 'gold standard' and when people see poetry in a blog or on the internet is has 'less value.' That is much the same as the first automobiles that were driven. They were scene as toys and not as helpful as the common horse when transporting goods. It isn't all the poets. As the internet continues to dominate the written word, poets will have to find a place where they have carved out their niche. The copyists that were displaced by Guttinberg's press wanted to smash the press. Eventually the culture and the poets came to an understanding. The same thing needs to happen now.
7. 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?
I think one thing the internet has shown is that people's region dominates their poetry. It is a huge challenge to be recognized in poetry unless you have connections to certain regions. My favorite journals are in my region. As a small press, I pay attention to what is happening in my region and state. Here is one resource. http://www.poetrysociety.org/psa/poetry/resources/poetry_journals/ It offers a clearinghouse of what is in your area. I don't have a favorite journal the way I don't have a favorite genre of music or art. I want to constantly be cross-training with my poetry so that new ideas can influence the way I write.
8. What are the most important or interesting things that you have learned about poetry writing/publishing as a poetry editor?
People have varied motivations and interests in publishing poetry. I have found it interesting that although poets many times say they are open minded, they really don't like to collaborate. That goes back to the regionalism.
9. What is the most or least enjoyable part of being a poetry editor?
The most enjoyable part of being poetry editor is being able to help an emerging poet get excited about seeing their words in my blog or in print if it is a large project. People expressing themselves and sharing words with an expanded audience make this part of the journey a great thing. Thanks.
3 Poems by Thomas Piekarski
Prohibitive Path
I deemed that path prohibitive,
the one where you must have
gun belts strapped across your chest,
prepared to murder your way
past illusory pearly gates.
And it didn’t seem to make sense
to adopt opaque philosophies
trying to climb the impossibly
tall and shaky scaffold
that reaches godhead.
The Mix
Thrown into the mix the fixture
on the wall, the thing hung, visible.
Thrown out of the mix the phantasm
that enters dreams nightly, uninvited.
Thrown into the mix belief
there’s an urgency to be brief.
Thrown out of the mix attitude,
since it limits psychic amplitude.
Bon Vivant
Oh so alone self-promoting unproclaimed
artiste bon vivant…
“I get where you’re at, but there has to be
some kind of life outside the fife,”
said the piebald piper, stung,
stunned by a cobra.
Called a poltroon, stranded,
shrinking on a pontoon
out a vast, steady, open ocean,
who loves watching seabirds soar
in a perfectly clear powder blue
winter sky
this frigid afternoon…
Cockatoo perched in a cypress,
imperious, impervious, at attention,
staunch, stanching
inadmissible evidence with a vengeance.
Bionote
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His theater and restaurant reviews have been published in various newspapers, with poetry and interviews appearing in numerous national journals, among them Portland Review, Main Street Rag, Kestrel, Scarlet Literary Magazine, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Penny Ante Feud, New Plains Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Muse-an International Journal of Poetry, and Clockhouse Review. He has published a travel guide, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems. He lives in Marina, California. tbaker16@yahoo.com
I deemed that path prohibitive,
the one where you must have
gun belts strapped across your chest,
prepared to murder your way
past illusory pearly gates.
And it didn’t seem to make sense
to adopt opaque philosophies
trying to climb the impossibly
tall and shaky scaffold
that reaches godhead.
The Mix
Thrown into the mix the fixture
on the wall, the thing hung, visible.
Thrown out of the mix the phantasm
that enters dreams nightly, uninvited.
Thrown into the mix belief
there’s an urgency to be brief.
Thrown out of the mix attitude,
since it limits psychic amplitude.
Bon Vivant
Oh so alone self-promoting unproclaimed
artiste bon vivant…
“I get where you’re at, but there has to be
some kind of life outside the fife,”
said the piebald piper, stung,
stunned by a cobra.
Called a poltroon, stranded,
shrinking on a pontoon
out a vast, steady, open ocean,
who loves watching seabirds soar
in a perfectly clear powder blue
winter sky
this frigid afternoon…
Cockatoo perched in a cypress,
imperious, impervious, at attention,
staunch, stanching
inadmissible evidence with a vengeance.
Bionote
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His theater and restaurant reviews have been published in various newspapers, with poetry and interviews appearing in numerous national journals, among them Portland Review, Main Street Rag, Kestrel, Scarlet Literary Magazine, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Penny Ante Feud, New Plains Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Muse-an International Journal of Poetry, and Clockhouse Review. He has published a travel guide, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems. He lives in Marina, California. tbaker16@yahoo.com
1 Poem by Anne Whitehouse
AUTUMN LIGHT
A faint breeze ruffles
the last leaves on the trees,
and a parade of dead leaves
skids over the dry dock,
light enough to float
over the surface of the quarry
with its deep, dark waters.
The sky has opened up,
beautiful and terrible.
It is time to go.
Bionote
Anne Whitehouse is the author of the following poetry collections: The Surveyor's Hand, Blessings and Curses, Bear in Mind, One Sunday Morning, and The Refrain. Her novel, Fall Love, is available as a free ebook from Feedbooks and Smashwords. She was born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, graduated from Harvard College and Columbia University, and lives in New York City.
A faint breeze ruffles
the last leaves on the trees,
and a parade of dead leaves
skids over the dry dock,
light enough to float
over the surface of the quarry
with its deep, dark waters.
The sky has opened up,
beautiful and terrible.
It is time to go.
Bionote
Anne Whitehouse is the author of the following poetry collections: The Surveyor's Hand, Blessings and Curses, Bear in Mind, One Sunday Morning, and The Refrain. Her novel, Fall Love, is available as a free ebook from Feedbooks and Smashwords. She was born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, graduated from Harvard College and Columbia University, and lives in New York City.
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 much the blood runs liquid loose for richest men to fatten goose,
While around the tables at 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.
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 much the blood runs liquid loose for richest men to fatten goose,
While around the tables at 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.
1 Poem by G David Schwartz
I Never Had A Packard
I never owned a Packard
But I was not a slackerard
I would get out and walk
In and out and around the partook
I never had a Chevy
Thought my friend Bill did
When he graduated high-school
When we were just kids
I never had a Ford,
A Buick or any other
Why that was
you'll have to ask me mother
But I rarely walked
I was a lazy kid
I saved the money from pop bottles
And bought myself a Schwinn
Bionote
G. David Schwartz is the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue (1994) and Midrash and Working Out Of The Book (2004). Currently a volunteer at The Cincinnati J, Schwartz continues to write. His newest book, Shards And Verse (2011) is now in stores or can be order on line.
I never owned a Packard
But I was not a slackerard
I would get out and walk
In and out and around the partook
I never had a Chevy
Thought my friend Bill did
When he graduated high-school
When we were just kids
I never had a Ford,
A Buick or any other
Why that was
you'll have to ask me mother
But I rarely walked
I was a lazy kid
I saved the money from pop bottles
And bought myself a Schwinn
Bionote
G. David Schwartz is the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue (1994) and Midrash and Working Out Of The Book (2004). Currently a volunteer at The Cincinnati J, Schwartz continues to write. His newest book, Shards And Verse (2011) is now in stores or can be order on line.
2 Poems by Ben Adams
well priced
the moon pours out its light
like wine from a well-priced bottle
the world is intoxicating
when you give it the chance
not pristine, or laced
with hints of something else
but rich, earthy, drunken
full and bursting as syrah grapes
the spice-box of youth.
and as this light of shadows
this blood of poets
continues to flow
& overflow,
we drink it down simply
and want only for more
well-priced nights
like this one.
a clean, crisp winter
your absence
is an ache
that spreads through
everything.
memories
that linger
like perfume.
memories of being
alive in the
wintertime
speaking
about the world.
you wanted every part
of it.
remembered
warm cafes and
a feeling like the beauty
of a clean,
crisp winter.
a clear smooth accent
speaking
about the world.
you went back
to it.
leaving
a voice that spreads
like an ache
through
everything.
Bionote
Ben Adams is a writer and political ranter currently studying for his PhD on the poetry of Charles Bukowski. He comes from Adelaide in South Australia, which Salman Rushdie once called a sleepy conservative town (of 1.2 million) and “ideal setting for a Stephen King novel, or horror film.” Ben takes this as a compliment, much preferring King’s work to that of Mr Rushdie. Ben has also worked as state ambassador for Express Media’s National Young Writers’ Month, a Buzzcuts arts reviewer and coordinator, and had several poems appear in the online small press. He proudly served among those last few video store clerks to hold their ground against the coming of Netflix. More at backpagesblog.wordpress.com
the moon pours out its light
like wine from a well-priced bottle
the world is intoxicating
when you give it the chance
not pristine, or laced
with hints of something else
but rich, earthy, drunken
full and bursting as syrah grapes
the spice-box of youth.
and as this light of shadows
this blood of poets
continues to flow
& overflow,
we drink it down simply
and want only for more
well-priced nights
like this one.
a clean, crisp winter
your absence
is an ache
that spreads through
everything.
memories
that linger
like perfume.
memories of being
alive in the
wintertime
speaking
about the world.
you wanted every part
of it.
remembered
warm cafes and
a feeling like the beauty
of a clean,
crisp winter.
a clear smooth accent
speaking
about the world.
you went back
to it.
leaving
a voice that spreads
like an ache
through
everything.
Bionote
Ben Adams is a writer and political ranter currently studying for his PhD on the poetry of Charles Bukowski. He comes from Adelaide in South Australia, which Salman Rushdie once called a sleepy conservative town (of 1.2 million) and “ideal setting for a Stephen King novel, or horror film.” Ben takes this as a compliment, much preferring King’s work to that of Mr Rushdie. Ben has also worked as state ambassador for Express Media’s National Young Writers’ Month, a Buzzcuts arts reviewer and coordinator, and had several poems appear in the online small press. He proudly served among those last few video store clerks to hold their ground against the coming of Netflix. More at backpagesblog.wordpress.com
1 Poem by Adreyo Sen
Romeo and Juliet
Yesterday I was watching
Romeo must die
Needless to say, I survived
The ordeal punctuated
By bad music.
But a part of me much given
To unproductive cogitation
And counting of stars and
Raindrops
Wondered, what if Romeo and Juliet
Survived
And came together?
I guess
Unable to cope with married boredom
Living in poverty beyond the pale
And hated by their families
Romeo discovering Juliet’s fondness
For a little bit of gin
While disgusting her with his own
Loss of muscle to flab
Would find themselves no longer
Brought to climax
By their essential difference
The lawlessness so hyped
Of their romance.
If enlightened, they’d call it quits
Divorce each other, no big deal
Divide the almost-nil assets with some
Acrimony and move on
If not, one would kill the other
With passionate violence
And emigrate to Australia
Or do life in an institution
Where inmates do Shakespeare
For their GED.
Bionote
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, currently writes full-time. He did his undergraduate education in English and his postgraduate education in English and Sociology. He is infatuated with Tina Fey, George Clooney
and Vera Farmiga. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
Yesterday I was watching
Romeo must die
Needless to say, I survived
The ordeal punctuated
By bad music.
But a part of me much given
To unproductive cogitation
And counting of stars and
Raindrops
Wondered, what if Romeo and Juliet
Survived
And came together?
I guess
Unable to cope with married boredom
Living in poverty beyond the pale
And hated by their families
Romeo discovering Juliet’s fondness
For a little bit of gin
While disgusting her with his own
Loss of muscle to flab
Would find themselves no longer
Brought to climax
By their essential difference
The lawlessness so hyped
Of their romance.
If enlightened, they’d call it quits
Divorce each other, no big deal
Divide the almost-nil assets with some
Acrimony and move on
If not, one would kill the other
With passionate violence
And emigrate to Australia
Or do life in an institution
Where inmates do Shakespeare
For their GED.
Bionote
Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, currently writes full-time. He did his undergraduate education in English and his postgraduate education in English and Sociology. He is infatuated with Tina Fey, George Clooney
and Vera Farmiga. Adreyo has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.
2 Poems by Ben Nardolilli
Take Water as an Example
Figure in changes of phase, phrase
You already mastered, hence the degree,
You have paid attention to learn
A process that condenses and releases back
What it has used from others to find:
Some new meaning with the matter at hand.
But phases, these you must master
In preparation for the sure collapse of lattices
That have arranged your life so far,
The sublimation that comes in disasters:
Loved ones suddenly turned to ash and wind,
Or let loose in a vapor of blood.
These will hopefully be rare occurrences,
Yet nerves should be readied for slight
Misfortunes that occur in greater proportions:
The evaporation of funds on a rainy day,
Or when love has melted a barrier for safety
And hate has frozen a former channel.
Mix and Match
I won’t go into too many problems,
I know there’s a morass there,
Possibly here too, I haven’t kept tabs
On exactly where the morass
Has been heading, can it even be tamed?
With a hopeless angel and no chance
Of quick relief from this place,
I know not to ask for wings to flap
And rise because all she has to show me
Are wire drawings and bits of names.
She can keep me caged up for good,
Maybe a long sentence can be a vacation,
No reason to change, or depart,
In time I might produce a classroom,
Nothing else to do with my free time.
Bionote
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, THEMA, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He has a chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, from Folded Word Press. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.
Figure in changes of phase, phrase
You already mastered, hence the degree,
You have paid attention to learn
A process that condenses and releases back
What it has used from others to find:
Some new meaning with the matter at hand.
But phases, these you must master
In preparation for the sure collapse of lattices
That have arranged your life so far,
The sublimation that comes in disasters:
Loved ones suddenly turned to ash and wind,
Or let loose in a vapor of blood.
These will hopefully be rare occurrences,
Yet nerves should be readied for slight
Misfortunes that occur in greater proportions:
The evaporation of funds on a rainy day,
Or when love has melted a barrier for safety
And hate has frozen a former channel.
Mix and Match
I won’t go into too many problems,
I know there’s a morass there,
Possibly here too, I haven’t kept tabs
On exactly where the morass
Has been heading, can it even be tamed?
With a hopeless angel and no chance
Of quick relief from this place,
I know not to ask for wings to flap
And rise because all she has to show me
Are wire drawings and bits of names.
She can keep me caged up for good,
Maybe a long sentence can be a vacation,
No reason to change, or depart,
In time I might produce a classroom,
Nothing else to do with my free time.
Bionote
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, THEMA, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He has a chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, from Folded Word Press. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.
3 Poems by d.n. simmers
Demons & Snow
"Skyward soar the whirling demons
Shrouded by the falling snow."
Alexander Pushkin
Walking as the shadows fill in and night comes with mist.
The snow has left today and the sky is mottled with
dark grey and clouds sag.
Heavy against the darkness.
Feet are moving in a set pattern and they are filled with
hesitation and delay.
The afternoon was full of children's laughter and
their tears and now as only the night is
there.
Silence is at peace with this time as feet move
up the path and back
inside the door of home.
Risings
" Winds have risen. They have
pierced up like a spear."
Rumann mac Colmain
The beach is broken. Bits of twigs. Large trunks.
For storms have lived here, awhile.
They came with conquering bands of winds, rain
and snow, that moved along the lined edges.
Taking branches and small shrubs to an early grave.
Now, a battlefield forgotten, all have moved away.
The quiet is bring back gulls. their search between the
seaweed and the shore, for dead crabs and small fish.
The morning was cold. Brought smitten fog with
rain. Following, like an old dog, with silver tail.
That has dropped some snow, between the hollows,
of newly cropped logs. Corpses. In frost's early light.
Skies
" Like a sheet of cellophane
or a sky of alcohol"
William Logan
Waking up, with a hangover on a Saturday.
Having to build a fence when we were living
upcoountry.
Snow flakes in the head
frozen flesh of the pickled dead.
Warm up the hands and get coffee in the heart
and begin.
One section at a time. Only do two , a weekend.
So the booze could flow through the veins
after twelve noon.
The numbness of getting through the day
would slow down. The dreams
like those as a child, coming back
with each bang of the hammer, each nail
in the coffin , of the morning.
Bionote
dn simmers is an on line editor with Fine Lines. He has been published in the USA, Canada and Europe.
"Skyward soar the whirling demons
Shrouded by the falling snow."
Alexander Pushkin
Walking as the shadows fill in and night comes with mist.
The snow has left today and the sky is mottled with
dark grey and clouds sag.
Heavy against the darkness.
Feet are moving in a set pattern and they are filled with
hesitation and delay.
The afternoon was full of children's laughter and
their tears and now as only the night is
there.
Silence is at peace with this time as feet move
up the path and back
inside the door of home.
Risings
" Winds have risen. They have
pierced up like a spear."
Rumann mac Colmain
The beach is broken. Bits of twigs. Large trunks.
For storms have lived here, awhile.
They came with conquering bands of winds, rain
and snow, that moved along the lined edges.
Taking branches and small shrubs to an early grave.
Now, a battlefield forgotten, all have moved away.
The quiet is bring back gulls. their search between the
seaweed and the shore, for dead crabs and small fish.
The morning was cold. Brought smitten fog with
rain. Following, like an old dog, with silver tail.
That has dropped some snow, between the hollows,
of newly cropped logs. Corpses. In frost's early light.
Skies
" Like a sheet of cellophane
or a sky of alcohol"
William Logan
Waking up, with a hangover on a Saturday.
Having to build a fence when we were living
upcoountry.
Snow flakes in the head
frozen flesh of the pickled dead.
Warm up the hands and get coffee in the heart
and begin.
One section at a time. Only do two , a weekend.
So the booze could flow through the veins
after twelve noon.
The numbness of getting through the day
would slow down. The dreams
like those as a child, coming back
with each bang of the hammer, each nail
in the coffin , of the morning.
Bionote
dn simmers is an on line editor with Fine Lines. He has been published in the USA, Canada and Europe.
3 Poems by J. Michael Yates
Way into Winter
One final mouth of water
Speaks
From its dark center
In the freezing lake.
No birds circle now
But in the orange-rose skies
Behind my eyes:
Large black birds.
I've been to the fire
At the center of the earth:
My steps shall not snow-over
Before spring.
走过冬季
就要全部冻结的湖面上
那张水做的最后的嘴巴
从它黑暗的中心
开始了讲话。
没有鸟雀在此徘徊。
但在那橘黄兼绯红色的天空中，
在我的眼睛背后，
有黑色的大鸟
在地球的中心
我走过炼狱之火。
春天来临前，
我的脚步不会再让白雪盖住了。
FERNWEH
The wind began
And hackles
Of the land
Arose on end.
Spannung between
Being seer, and,
At once, all
A seer has seen.
Late realization that
The history of one man
Is recorded always in
Unhurried loops of a woman's hand.
A white wind
Is moving in
The green thighs
Of the grain.
There is music
I shall never
Play
Again.
远方之痛
起风了
大地之毛发
在终结处
竖直
左右为难存在于
做个先知
和先知一次看到的全部
之间
迟来的领悟是
一个男人的历史
总是刻录在一个女人之手的
不快不慢的翻云覆雨中
白色的风
正朝着
谷类绿色的大腿之间
移动
有些音乐
我永远
都不会
再去弹奏
HUNTER
The animals approach too near now.
A final hunter sheds his human scent.
I wish sometimes I might have wished
To walk upwind all of my days.
猎人
野兽们正步步逼近
最后的猎手暴露了其人之本性
我有时却情愿我希望过
一直以来我都曾顶风而行
Bionote
J . M . Yates was born in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri and graduated from the Universities of Missouri and Michigan with a doctorate in Comparative Literature. A famous writer, poet, playwright and translator, he is widely published in poetry, fiction, drama, translations, and philosophical essays. His works have been translated into most of the western languages and several of the eastern ones. He has won many literary prizes, including the Major Hopwood Awards (both poetry and drama the same year) and the Lifetime Achievement Award in the Arts and Sciences from University of Missouri. He taught creative writing and comparative literature in several universities in both America and Canada; his last rank as a university professor was Distinguished Professor. He has also been a logger, a motorcycle racer, a broadcast executive, a commercial photographer, a Maximum Security Prison Guard, and SWAT team member. The Chinese translation is done by his wife, Jibei.
One final mouth of water
Speaks
From its dark center
In the freezing lake.
No birds circle now
But in the orange-rose skies
Behind my eyes:
Large black birds.
I've been to the fire
At the center of the earth:
My steps shall not snow-over
Before spring.
走过冬季
就要全部冻结的湖面上
那张水做的最后的嘴巴
从它黑暗的中心
开始了讲话。
没有鸟雀在此徘徊。
但在那橘黄兼绯红色的天空中，
在我的眼睛背后，
有黑色的大鸟
在地球的中心
我走过炼狱之火。
春天来临前，
我的脚步不会再让白雪盖住了。
FERNWEH
The wind began
And hackles
Of the land
Arose on end.
Spannung between
Being seer, and,
At once, all
A seer has seen.
Late realization that
The history of one man
Is recorded always in
Unhurried loops of a woman's hand.
A white wind
Is moving in
The green thighs
Of the grain.
There is music
I shall never
Play
Again.
远方之痛
起风了
大地之毛发
在终结处
竖直
左右为难存在于
做个先知
和先知一次看到的全部
之间
迟来的领悟是
一个男人的历史
总是刻录在一个女人之手的
不快不慢的翻云覆雨中
白色的风
正朝着
谷类绿色的大腿之间
移动
有些音乐
我永远
都不会
再去弹奏
HUNTER
The animals approach too near now.
A final hunter sheds his human scent.
I wish sometimes I might have wished
To walk upwind all of my days.
猎人
野兽们正步步逼近
最后的猎手暴露了其人之本性
我有时却情愿我希望过
一直以来我都曾顶风而行
Bionote
J . M . Yates was born in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri and graduated from the Universities of Missouri and Michigan with a doctorate in Comparative Literature. A famous writer, poet, playwright and translator, he is widely published in poetry, fiction, drama, translations, and philosophical essays. His works have been translated into most of the western languages and several of the eastern ones. He has won many literary prizes, including the Major Hopwood Awards (both poetry and drama the same year) and the Lifetime Achievement Award in the Arts and Sciences from University of Missouri. He taught creative writing and comparative literature in several universities in both America and Canada; his last rank as a university professor was Distinguished Professor. He has also been a logger, a motorcycle racer, a broadcast executive, a commercial photographer, a Maximum Security Prison Guard, and SWAT team member. The Chinese translation is done by his wife, Jibei.
3 Poems by Jibei
The Final Performance Art
From the 30th floor
He plunges like Superman
Into the middle of Willow Street
He blossoms: a red red rose
Screams flood the space like waves
Unperturbed, he arises
Up and up
Music and soft light wrap him
As if he were a new-born Baby
With a transparent smile
He takes one last look down
And murmurs goodbye
You idiot
Those who commit suicide
Go straight to Hell
And drag everyone else
With them
He opens his eyes
His mother is shouting
At his left ear
最后的行为艺术
从三十层楼顶上
他像超人一样纵身
跳到柳树路的街心
绽开出一朵血红血红的玫瑰
尖叫声洪水般从四方涌来
他泰然自若地起身，飞升
越来越高
轻柔曼妙的音乐和光包裹他
就如同他是个初生的婴孩
露出一个透明的微笑
他看尘世最后一眼
并轻声说再见
你这个白痴
那些自杀的人
除了直接下地狱
哪儿也去不了
连带你的亲朋也要被拖累
他睁开双眼
原来他的母亲
正在他的左耳大叫
A Surrealist Dream
Would you be kind enough
To go back to
Where you came from?
Poised high above
The cloud, a huge eye
Whispered out aloud.
If and once you do,
The eye continues to
Foretell:
The exquisite corpse and
The new wine
Will tango and elope,
And the seed of death
Will sprout shoots
Of life and hope.
一个超现实主义的美梦
你能不能
乖乖地
回到你来的地方去？
镇定地高坐云端的
一只巨眼
低声地喊问。
一旦你这样做，
眼珠子继续
预言道：
精致的尸体
和新酿的美酒
会翩翩起舞并趁夜私奔。
死亡的种子，
也将萌芽生命的
嫩芽和希冀。
I Heard Screams
Yesterday leaves fell like colorful beams.
I heard red scream,
I heard yellow scream,
I heard brown scream,
and I also heard black and white scream:
To hell with life's fraudulent scheme.
We come, we give, and then we have to die?
What happens to the eternity upstream ?
What happens to love's dancing dream?
To hell with life's fraudulent scheme.
Some of those leaves followed me home.
Putting them between the pages of a book
Called Not As Simple As It Seems,
I opened the black fridge door,
And took out some mango ice cream.
我听到嘶喊
昨日秋叶缤纷直落如光柱，
我听到红色的嘶喊，
我听到黄色的嘶喊，
我听到棕色的嘶喊，
我还听到白色和黑色的嘶喊：
见鬼去吧，生命的弥天大谎
我们出生，我们贡献，难道就为死亡？
那信誓旦旦的永恒去了哪里？
那迎风飘舞的爱恋又将置何方？
书桌上躺着一本我正在看的
《事情好像没那么荒唐》
我将跟我回家的数片叶子于其中安放，
然后打开黑色的冰箱门，
拿出了芒果冰淇淋一小碗。
Bionote
Born in Linchuan, Jianxi of China, Jibei did her degrees at the Second Military Medical College (M.D.) and the University of New Brunswick (Ph.D.). She started her writing initially for Chinese Electronic Magazines around 1995 and hasn’t stopped since. Her essays and short stories have been widely published in Chinese and English both in North America and China. Occasionally she writes poems for fun.
From the 30th floor
He plunges like Superman
Into the middle of Willow Street
He blossoms: a red red rose
Screams flood the space like waves
Unperturbed, he arises
Up and up
Music and soft light wrap him
As if he were a new-born Baby
With a transparent smile
He takes one last look down
And murmurs goodbye
You idiot
Those who commit suicide
Go straight to Hell
And drag everyone else
With them
He opens his eyes
His mother is shouting
At his left ear
最后的行为艺术
从三十层楼顶上
他像超人一样纵身
跳到柳树路的街心
绽开出一朵血红血红的玫瑰
尖叫声洪水般从四方涌来
他泰然自若地起身，飞升
越来越高
轻柔曼妙的音乐和光包裹他
就如同他是个初生的婴孩
露出一个透明的微笑
他看尘世最后一眼
并轻声说再见
你这个白痴
那些自杀的人
除了直接下地狱
哪儿也去不了
连带你的亲朋也要被拖累
他睁开双眼
原来他的母亲
正在他的左耳大叫
A Surrealist Dream
Would you be kind enough
To go back to
Where you came from?
Poised high above
The cloud, a huge eye
Whispered out aloud.
If and once you do,
The eye continues to
Foretell:
The exquisite corpse and
The new wine
Will tango and elope,
And the seed of death
Will sprout shoots
Of life and hope.
一个超现实主义的美梦
你能不能
乖乖地
回到你来的地方去？
镇定地高坐云端的
一只巨眼
低声地喊问。
一旦你这样做，
眼珠子继续
预言道：
精致的尸体
和新酿的美酒
会翩翩起舞并趁夜私奔。
死亡的种子，
也将萌芽生命的
嫩芽和希冀。
I Heard Screams
Yesterday leaves fell like colorful beams.
I heard red scream,
I heard yellow scream,
I heard brown scream,
and I also heard black and white scream:
To hell with life's fraudulent scheme.
We come, we give, and then we have to die?
What happens to the eternity upstream ?
What happens to love's dancing dream?
To hell with life's fraudulent scheme.
Some of those leaves followed me home.
Putting them between the pages of a book
Called Not As Simple As It Seems,
I opened the black fridge door,
And took out some mango ice cream.
我听到嘶喊
昨日秋叶缤纷直落如光柱，
我听到红色的嘶喊，
我听到黄色的嘶喊，
我听到棕色的嘶喊，
我还听到白色和黑色的嘶喊：
见鬼去吧，生命的弥天大谎
我们出生，我们贡献，难道就为死亡？
那信誓旦旦的永恒去了哪里？
那迎风飘舞的爱恋又将置何方？
书桌上躺着一本我正在看的
《事情好像没那么荒唐》
我将跟我回家的数片叶子于其中安放，
然后打开黑色的冰箱门，
拿出了芒果冰淇淋一小碗。
Bionote
Born in Linchuan, Jianxi of China, Jibei did her degrees at the Second Military Medical College (M.D.) and the University of New Brunswick (Ph.D.). She started her writing initially for Chinese Electronic Magazines around 1995 and hasn’t stopped since. Her essays and short stories have been widely published in Chinese and English both in North America and China. Occasionally she writes poems for fun.
Q&S: Responses from Pattie Flint
Pattie Flint is an uprooted Seattle native toughing it out in New England and spends her days as an editor at Medusa's Laugh Press specializing in hand-bound books. She has been published in Five [Quarterly], Ditch, Hippocampus and TAB, amongst others. She is currently working on her second young adult novel.
9 FUNDAMENTAL QUESTIONS FOR POETRY EDITORS
1. Given the ways contemporary authors have been trying to compose all kinds of poetry, how would you define ‘poetry’?
I would define poetry as any type of writing that focuses on the cadence and musicality of the individual words rather than an arcing plot or theme, and that inspires a sense of emotional inspiration or memory. When I look at a poem; I am asking myself how this piece makes me feel, on a personal level and on a communal level with the poet. What might inspire the poet may not necessarily inspire me, but a good poem will leave room for the reader to recognize that fact.
2. Many people say poetry is dying. Do you agree or disagree with this statement, and why?
I strongly disagree! I think with the prevalence of the internet society's interest in poetry is growing stronger than ever. We have literally hundreds of magazines online now, that one can read for free. And now you don't have to be a renowned poet or have a degree in creative writing to submit to even the most esteemed literary journals; making the process of being a published poet that much easier. The accessibility of the internet is poetry's best asset, just as the printing press hundreds of years previously.
3. What defining features do you think ‘best’ poetry should possess? In other words, what is your personal or working definition of ‘best’ poetry?
This is an impossible question to answer; since I believe everyone has a different definition of what is "the best" poetry. That's why I think all editors should work in teams; the poetry I like is generally really different from the poetry my co-editor likes. It makes for a lot of arguing, but also a lot of improvement and learning. To me personally, the best poetry is the poetry that invokes a strong feeling of "frisson." Frisson; a french term that translates loosely into "a shudder", or "a sudden strong wave of emotion." To me, a poem should be able to invoke a sense of emotional nostalgia or inspiration in the reader. I want it to be smart, not in an academic sense, but in it's intimate knowledge of the secrets the reader possesses, and the ability of the poem to extract said secrets.
4. What are the most important makings of a ‘great’ poet? – please name 3 greatest poets the world has produced thus far.
A great poet should be able to invoke a widespread change of ideas or a widespread feeling of hope/revival. Three poets that I absolutely adore are William Blake; for being one of the first writers to elevate children from demonized, corrupted beings to innocent ones, with his collection of poems "Songs of Innocence". This is an idea that we still carry with us today. Another poet I love is Elizabeth Bishop; whose use of subtlety really redefines themes of sexuality and love in modern poetry. She broke barriers of social restraint and I really respect that. Finally, I love the surrealism and eroticism that surrounds the work of Pablo Neruda. I believe that he really set some of the foundation for contemporary experimental poetry, as well as popularizing Central and South American poetry.
5. Who are the 3 most important or noteworthy contemporary poets according to your personal/working criteria.
I am in love with Nate Slawson. I would read his grocery lists if he decided to publish them. He has such a beautiful and charming style of imagery; like a junk drawer filled with all the notes I wrote to friends in high school. He makes me feel giddy and in love with I read his poetry. Joshua Marie Wilkinson is much more difficult to define, but he, too, writes poetry that I love. It's creamy and complex, and has a shy, skittish feel to it that makes his words deliciously elusive. The type of poetry I enjoy brooding on. Finally, I have to say that my last choice is Andrea Gibson. She has been a huge influence on my own poetry for the soothing yet passionate cadence of her work; and her ability to hit hard issues with love and firm understanding.
6. 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?
More chapbooks. One of the best delights of AWP was seeing how many presses were bringing back the mini-chapbook. Poetry is a form of art, and it always seemed condescending and archaic to me to confine poetry to a dry-sized standard book. I love picking up a mini-chapbook that emphasizes style as much as content. It makes poetry more accessible, because people are much more willing to spend 5$ on a mini-chapbook/pamphlet than they are on a 20$ tome. I think that this model has been proved successful with such work as seen by HOOT, which serves up single poems on postcards, and Ugly Duckling Press; which popularized handmade pocket-sized poetry books.
7. 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?
I love Greying Ghost Press. Sometimes I feel like they've cloned me five times and used my clones as editors for their press, because everything I have ever read from them is absolutely spot on. Another magazine that always happens to catch my attention is Diode. They always have beautiful work that is extremely "soft" but packs a good punch. Highly recommended. And then, tinywords is a great magazine that focuses on tiny (think haiku or smaller) poems. I had never appreciated the little stuff until I read some of their work; it gives readers a new appreciation for the intricately minuscule.
8. What are the most important or interesting things that you have you learned about poetry writing/publishing as a poetry editor?
I've learned that I'm not going to like all types of poetry. That it is sometimes extremely difficult to distinguish between what I enjoy as my personal poetry flavor versus what constitutes "good poetry" which, while it may not appeal to me, may appeal to my readers. It's kind of a gamble, really; editors put a lot of time and work into pieces that may or may not be received well by their readers. But interestingly enough, I've also learned that what may constitute "good poetry" is sometimes not popular with readers either. To edit is to be a poet in it's own right; it's about feeling the emotions of the words and not being satisfied until you find something that is just right.
9. What is the most or least enjoyable part of being a poetry editor?
The most enjoyable part is being able to send an acceptance letter to someone who really deserved it. I love to get excited about poetry. One thing that I try to do that I am thankful I have the time for, is that I like to write personal comments about each piece. Even if I ultimately reject it, I always take the time to find at least one snippet that I really enjoyed. Inversely, the hardest part of being an editor is realizing that we are limited by costs in terms of time, printing, and mailing, and sometimes it's incredibly painful to let a poet or project go, simply because you didn't have the resources for it. I'm still haunted by poets that I turned down years ago; every once in awhile I'll do a google search on their name to make sure that they're still alive and writing.
3 Poems trans. by Zhinjian Tao
A Life Mailed Out
My dream
Was that sheet of paper in my bag
Mailed out
With my memories to
The banks of Saint Lawrence River
When I opened the bag
A gust of sea wind took it away
And took also
The words written on it
I was lost
Lost also was, more sadly
The writing brush
I had used in my child days
I passed by
The old town by Saint Lawrence River
Where both men and women love
Kissing
As they savour their French wines
A flash of lips under the red candle
Flew by my eyes
And I saw that
Saint Lawrence River needed not
My senses, nor
That pair of cloth shoes
On my feet
I recall
On the sheet of paper was a finger print
And beside it, my home address
But that
The memories that were taken away
Like broken-away kites
Were spread over my soul’s course
The package that Mother mailed out
Had turned into
A faded stamp
That was fixed
On the banks of Saint Lawrence River
The Fortuities of a Shoe (1)
One morning, a shoe got lost
By pure fortuity
Following a storm, it landed far
On the other side of the ocean
The day was getting dark
In hunger, it walked toward the light-dotted
City
Wishing to find home, and the other shoe
The other shoe, however, was waiting for it
In front of the door it departed from
Day and night
The Fate of a Novel
You cast the novel
You had been writing over a decade
On the road of your distant journey
You let streams of traffic roll the story into pebbles
And you let rain wash it to the roadside
You thought
No words of joy and tears
Would remain from it
But
Maybe one day
I will in the blowing wind
Read of the plots
Which I guess
Will be mottos carved on mileposts
My dream
Was that sheet of paper in my bag
Mailed out
With my memories to
The banks of Saint Lawrence River
When I opened the bag
A gust of sea wind took it away
And took also
The words written on it
I was lost
Lost also was, more sadly
The writing brush
I had used in my child days
I passed by
The old town by Saint Lawrence River
Where both men and women love
Kissing
As they savour their French wines
A flash of lips under the red candle
Flew by my eyes
And I saw that
Saint Lawrence River needed not
My senses, nor
That pair of cloth shoes
On my feet
I recall
On the sheet of paper was a finger print
And beside it, my home address
But that
The memories that were taken away
Like broken-away kites
Were spread over my soul’s course
The package that Mother mailed out
Had turned into
A faded stamp
That was fixed
On the banks of Saint Lawrence River
The Fortuities of a Shoe (1)
One morning, a shoe got lost
By pure fortuity
Following a storm, it landed far
On the other side of the ocean
The day was getting dark
In hunger, it walked toward the light-dotted
City
Wishing to find home, and the other shoe
The other shoe, however, was waiting for it
In front of the door it departed from
Day and night
The Fate of a Novel
You cast the novel
You had been writing over a decade
On the road of your distant journey
You let streams of traffic roll the story into pebbles
And you let rain wash it to the roadside
You thought
No words of joy and tears
Would remain from it
But
Maybe one day
I will in the blowing wind
Read of the plots
Which I guess
Will be mottos carved on mileposts
4 Poems Recommended by Yuan Yao
清明断想
——遥祭我的父母
姚 园
我不相信过了今天 雨水不爬上眉梢
雨伞从来只是与雨天结缘
我不相信生命是以消失
而陷入无边的空寂
我不相信清明 冠上一个节字
路上会少一个孤魂
我不相信是因为曾经的相信 而曾经的
灯火或者幽暗 都将化为时间的一滴珠露
Qingming Thoughts
－－Memorial to My Parents
Yuan Yao
I don’t believe -- no raindrops climb the brow after today
Umbrella is always associated with rain
I don’t believe -- life is lost
Fallen into endless loneliness
I don’t believe -- crowning a festival on Qingming
There will be one less lonely soul on the road to heaven
I don’t believe – it is because I once believed
Once light or dark will be evaporated into a dewdrop of time
我属于你
方耿鼎
我属于你
我从你的腹部出生
将死于你的腹部
所有的悲欢，都将在你的脸上写过
体内的河山，灵魂的火焰
五千年传统的骨骼，还有
珍珠般滚落的泪水
以及深藏在汗水里的桃花源
都属于你
我属于你
包括那一声
愤世的怒吼，和
曾经那一声深情的母亲
都热血沸腾
I Belong to You
Tr. Haifeng
I belong to you
I was born from your abdomen
And will die from your abdomen
All the joys and sorrows will be written on your face
The rivers and mountains in the body, the flames of the soul
The bones of five thousand years history, as well as
Pearl-like tears rolling down
And the paradise hiding deep in the sweat
All belong to you
I belong to you
Including the cynical roaring, and
My soft voice to my affectionate mother
All excited
你的坏笑
王杰平
是水做的蜜桃
开口的石榴
又是待熟的莲雾
还有着青草的味道
就这样
你一脸坏笑地看着我
像看着一个饥饿的孩子
向往高处的果实
这是宁静的一刻
风的翅膀
像一只伫立的蝴蝶
收拢了表情
生动 但不飞翔
这是你的阴谋
而我有我的诡计
一个站立的俘虏
正待逃跑
跑进你一脸的坏笑
Your Mischievous Smile
Tr. Julius
Your smile is like a sweet peach—so watery,
Like a pomegranate—already cracked from maturity.
Like a lotus—getting ripe.
Your smile smells like tender grass.
So,
You look at me, mischievous smile on your face,
As if beholding a hungry child,
Who are longing for the fruits up in the air.
This is a silent moment.
The wings of wind stand like a still butterfly,
Holding back expressions,
Passion revealed; but fly controlled.
This is your conspiracy; but I have my trick.
I am a slave,
I am trying to run away,
Away into your mischievous smile
瞬间
汉江
落日的瞬间异常空寂
只有黄昏铺成躺椅
我也只采集了几片叶子
任花朵与鸟儿飞离
所有的灯保持着安谧
此刻，我愿睡去不再醒来
只要有人附身对我说声
──晚安，亲爱的
The Moment
Tr. Yuan Yao
It is unusually lonesome at the moment of sunset
Only the dusk changing into a reclining chair
I have only collected a few leaves too
Let flowers and birds fly away
All lights are keeping tranquil
At the moment, I'd like to sleep and never wake up
as long as someone is whispering to me
good night, darling
——遥祭我的父母
姚 园
我不相信过了今天 雨水不爬上眉梢
雨伞从来只是与雨天结缘
我不相信生命是以消失
而陷入无边的空寂
我不相信清明 冠上一个节字
路上会少一个孤魂
我不相信是因为曾经的相信 而曾经的
灯火或者幽暗 都将化为时间的一滴珠露
Qingming Thoughts
－－Memorial to My Parents
Yuan Yao
I don’t believe -- no raindrops climb the brow after today
Umbrella is always associated with rain
I don’t believe -- life is lost
Fallen into endless loneliness
I don’t believe -- crowning a festival on Qingming
There will be one less lonely soul on the road to heaven
I don’t believe – it is because I once believed
Once light or dark will be evaporated into a dewdrop of time
我属于你
方耿鼎
我属于你
我从你的腹部出生
将死于你的腹部
所有的悲欢，都将在你的脸上写过
体内的河山，灵魂的火焰
五千年传统的骨骼，还有
珍珠般滚落的泪水
以及深藏在汗水里的桃花源
都属于你
我属于你
包括那一声
愤世的怒吼，和
曾经那一声深情的母亲
都热血沸腾
I Belong to You
Tr. Haifeng
I belong to you
I was born from your abdomen
And will die from your abdomen
All the joys and sorrows will be written on your face
The rivers and mountains in the body, the flames of the soul
The bones of five thousand years history, as well as
Pearl-like tears rolling down
And the paradise hiding deep in the sweat
All belong to you
I belong to you
Including the cynical roaring, and
My soft voice to my affectionate mother
All excited
你的坏笑
王杰平
是水做的蜜桃
开口的石榴
又是待熟的莲雾
还有着青草的味道
就这样
你一脸坏笑地看着我
像看着一个饥饿的孩子
向往高处的果实
这是宁静的一刻
风的翅膀
像一只伫立的蝴蝶
收拢了表情
生动 但不飞翔
这是你的阴谋
而我有我的诡计
一个站立的俘虏
正待逃跑
跑进你一脸的坏笑
Your Mischievous Smile
Tr. Julius
Your smile is like a sweet peach—so watery,
Like a pomegranate—already cracked from maturity.
Like a lotus—getting ripe.
Your smile smells like tender grass.
So,
You look at me, mischievous smile on your face,
As if beholding a hungry child,
Who are longing for the fruits up in the air.
This is a silent moment.
The wings of wind stand like a still butterfly,
Holding back expressions,
Passion revealed; but fly controlled.
This is your conspiracy; but I have my trick.
I am a slave,
I am trying to run away,
Away into your mischievous smile
瞬间
汉江
落日的瞬间异常空寂
只有黄昏铺成躺椅
我也只采集了几片叶子
任花朵与鸟儿飞离
所有的灯保持着安谧
此刻，我愿睡去不再醒来
只要有人附身对我说声
──晚安，亲爱的
The Moment
Tr. Yuan Yao
It is unusually lonesome at the moment of sunset
Only the dusk changing into a reclining chair
I have only collected a few leaves too
Let flowers and birds fly away
All lights are keeping tranquil
At the moment, I'd like to sleep and never wake up
as long as someone is whispering to me
good night, darling
1 Poem by Lu Xun
Tombstone Inscription
I dreamed that I am standing before a tombstone, reading the inscription. The tombstone seems to be made of sand stones, which is peeling off and choked with moss, with a few remnant words —
“…Cold stroke in the heat of singing, to see abyss in the sky. To see nothing in all eyes, and to be saved in hopelessness…”
“…A wandering soul is transformed into a long snake, with poisonous teeth. Instead of biting people, it bites itself, and eventually perished …”
“…Get away! …”
Coming to the back of the tombstone, I see a lonely tomb, bare of trees and grasses, and is dilapidated. From a big gap, I see a corpse, with broken belly and chest, without heart and liver. But the face is free of any sign of happiness or sadness: it is misty and hazy.
Before turning back, in doubt and fear I see remnant words on the nightside of the tombstone—
“…Get one’s own heart to eat, so as to taste the original flavor. But it is so painful, how can the flavor be tasted? …
“…When the pain is allayed, to eat it slowly. But the heart is old, how to get the flavor? …
“…Answer me. Or, get away! …”
I am to go away. But the corpse is sitting up in the tomb, and it says without movement of lips and mouth —
“When I turn dust, you’ll see my smile!”
I hurry away, not daring to turn back, afraid of seeing his tailing up.
June 17, 1925
About the author:
Lu Xun (1881—1936), originally named Zhou Shuren, was a native of Shaoxing, Zhejiang Province. He went to study in Japan in 1902. Later, he gave up medicine and engaged himself in literary creation. He returned to his native country in 1909. In May, 1918, he published A Madman’s Diary, the first vernacular novel in the history of modern Chinese literature, and became a great standard-bearer of May 4th New Culture Movement. Wild Grass, a collection of prose writings is his representative work. His Complete Works of Lu Xun (ten volumes) is known to the world.
(Tr. by Zhang Zhizhong）
墓碣文
鲁迅
我梦见自己正和墓碣对立，读着上面的刻辞。那墓碣似是沙石所制，剥落很多，又有苔藓丛生，仅存有限的文句——
“……于浩歌狂热之际中寒；于天上看见深渊。于一切眼中看见无所有；于无所希望中得救。……
“……有一游魂，化为长蛇，口有毒牙。不以啮人，自啮其身，终以陨颠。……
“……离开！……”
我绕到碣后，才见孤坟，上无草木，且已颓坏。即从大阙口中，窥见死尸，胸腹俱破，中无心肝。而脸上却绝不显哀乐之状，但蒙蒙如烟然。
我在疑惧中不及回身，然而已看见墓碣阴面的残存的文句——
“……抉心自食，欲知本味。创痛酷烈，本味何能知？……
“……痛定之后，徐徐食之。然其心已陈旧，本味又何由知？……
“……答我。否则，离开！……”
我就要离开。而死尸已在坟中坐起，口唇不动，然而说——
“待我成尘时，你将见我的微笑！”
我疾走，不敢反顾，生怕看见他的追随。
1925年6月17日
作者简介
鲁迅（1881—1936），原名周树人。浙江绍兴人。1902年赴日本留学，后弃医从文。1909年回国。1918年5月，发表中国现代文学史上第一篇 白话小说《狂人日记》，成为“五四”新文化运动的伟大旗手。主要作品有：散文诗集《野草》。另有《鲁迅全集》（十卷本）传世。
I dreamed that I am standing before a tombstone, reading the inscription. The tombstone seems to be made of sand stones, which is peeling off and choked with moss, with a few remnant words —
“…Cold stroke in the heat of singing, to see abyss in the sky. To see nothing in all eyes, and to be saved in hopelessness…”
“…A wandering soul is transformed into a long snake, with poisonous teeth. Instead of biting people, it bites itself, and eventually perished …”
“…Get away! …”
Coming to the back of the tombstone, I see a lonely tomb, bare of trees and grasses, and is dilapidated. From a big gap, I see a corpse, with broken belly and chest, without heart and liver. But the face is free of any sign of happiness or sadness: it is misty and hazy.
Before turning back, in doubt and fear I see remnant words on the nightside of the tombstone—
“…Get one’s own heart to eat, so as to taste the original flavor. But it is so painful, how can the flavor be tasted? …
“…When the pain is allayed, to eat it slowly. But the heart is old, how to get the flavor? …
“…Answer me. Or, get away! …”
I am to go away. But the corpse is sitting up in the tomb, and it says without movement of lips and mouth —
“When I turn dust, you’ll see my smile!”
I hurry away, not daring to turn back, afraid of seeing his tailing up.
June 17, 1925
About the author:
Lu Xun (1881—1936), originally named Zhou Shuren, was a native of Shaoxing, Zhejiang Province. He went to study in Japan in 1902. Later, he gave up medicine and engaged himself in literary creation. He returned to his native country in 1909. In May, 1918, he published A Madman’s Diary, the first vernacular novel in the history of modern Chinese literature, and became a great standard-bearer of May 4th New Culture Movement. Wild Grass, a collection of prose writings is his representative work. His Complete Works of Lu Xun (ten volumes) is known to the world.
(Tr. by Zhang Zhizhong）
墓碣文
鲁迅
我梦见自己正和墓碣对立，读着上面的刻辞。那墓碣似是沙石所制，剥落很多，又有苔藓丛生，仅存有限的文句——
“……于浩歌狂热之际中寒；于天上看见深渊。于一切眼中看见无所有；于无所希望中得救。……
“……有一游魂，化为长蛇，口有毒牙。不以啮人，自啮其身，终以陨颠。……
“……离开！……”
我绕到碣后，才见孤坟，上无草木，且已颓坏。即从大阙口中，窥见死尸，胸腹俱破，中无心肝。而脸上却绝不显哀乐之状，但蒙蒙如烟然。
我在疑惧中不及回身，然而已看见墓碣阴面的残存的文句——
“……抉心自食，欲知本味。创痛酷烈，本味何能知？……
“……痛定之后，徐徐食之。然其心已陈旧，本味又何由知？……
“……答我。否则，离开！……”
我就要离开。而死尸已在坟中坐起，口唇不动，然而说——
“待我成尘时，你将见我的微笑！”
我疾走，不敢反顾，生怕看见他的追随。
1925年6月17日
作者简介
鲁迅（1881—1936），原名周树人。浙江绍兴人。1902年赴日本留学，后弃医从文。1909年回国。1918年5月，发表中国现代文学史上第一篇 白话小说《狂人日记》，成为“五四”新文化运动的伟大旗手。主要作品有：散文诗集《野草》。另有《鲁迅全集》（十卷本）传世。
2 Poems by Guo Moruo
The Celestial Market Street
The street lights are on in a distance
As if numerous stars show.
The bright stars loom in the above
As if numerous street lights glow.
I believe there must be a beautiful market street
In that aerial heaven with cloud clear.
The goods displayed on that street
Must be rarities which we don’t have here.
You see, that shallow Milky Way
Must be not very wide.
The cowherd and weaving lady separated by it
Must be able to visit each other on a ride.
I believe at this moment along that street
Sauntering there must be they.
If you doubt, please look at that shooting star,
Which may be the lantern they are taking on their way.
The Coal in the Furnace
—My emotion for Motherland
Alas! My youthful lass,
I will live up to your grace,
You, too, will care for my caress.
I burn my heart to excess
For my dear lass!
Alas! My youthful lass,
You may have known my trace?
You don’t care for me as a careless black mass?
Only the bosom of a black mass
A fiery heart in it has.
Alas! My youthful lass,
If myself I trace,
I must have been a useful column, I guess.
I’ve been long buried deep and base
Until today can I re-see the sunrays.
Alas! My youthful lass,
Since I have re-seen the sunrays,
I often miss my homeland, nonetheless.
I burn my heart to excess
For my dear lass!
Composed in December, 1920
Bionote
Guo Moruo (1892—1978), originally named Guo Kaizhen, was a native of Shawan Town, Leshan County, Sichuan Province. He went to study in Japan in 1914. after his return to China in 1923, he co-sponsored “the Creation Society” with Yu Dafu, Tian Han and others. He took part in the Northern Expedition. After the October of 1949, he was chairman of China’s Federation of Literary and Art Circles and president of Chinese Academia of Sciences. Goddess, Starry Sky, Vase, Foremost, etc. are his major collections of poems. His Complete Works of Guo Moruo is known to the world.
（Tr. by Yang Xu）
天上的街市
-- 郭沫若
远远的街灯明了，
好像闪着无数的明星。
天上的明星现了，
好像点着无数的街灯。
我想那缥缈的空中，
定有美丽的街市。
街市上陈列的一些物品，
定然是世上没有的珍奇。
你看，那浅浅的天河，
定然是不甚宽广。
那隔河的牛郎织女，
定能够骑着牛儿来往。
我想他们此刻，
定能在天街闲游。
不信，请看那朵流星，
那怕是他们提着灯笼在走。
炉中煤
——眷恋祖国的情绪
啊，我年青的女郎！
我不辜负你的殷勤，
你也不要辜负了我的思量。
我为我心爱的人儿，
燃到了这般模样！
啊，我年青的女郎！
你该知道了我的前身？
你该不嫌我黑奴卤莽？
要我这黑奴的胸中，
才有火一样的心肠。
啊，我年青的女郎！
我想我的前身，
原本是有用的栋梁，
我活埋在地底多年，
到今朝总得重见天光。
啊，我年青的女郎！
我自从重见天光，
我常常思念我的故乡，
我为我心爱的人儿，
燃到了这般模样！
1920年12月间作
作者简介：
郭沫若（1892—1978），原名郭开贞，四川乐山县沙湾镇人。1914年赴日留学，1923年回国后，与郁达夫、田汉等人创办“创造社”。参加过北伐 战争。1949年10月后，曾任中国文联主席、中国科学院院长等职。主要作品有：诗集《女神》、《星空》、《瓶》、《前茅》等。另有《郭沫若全集》行世。
The street lights are on in a distance
As if numerous stars show.
The bright stars loom in the above
As if numerous street lights glow.
I believe there must be a beautiful market street
In that aerial heaven with cloud clear.
The goods displayed on that street
Must be rarities which we don’t have here.
You see, that shallow Milky Way
Must be not very wide.
The cowherd and weaving lady separated by it
Must be able to visit each other on a ride.
I believe at this moment along that street
Sauntering there must be they.
If you doubt, please look at that shooting star,
Which may be the lantern they are taking on their way.
The Coal in the Furnace
—My emotion for Motherland
Alas! My youthful lass,
I will live up to your grace,
You, too, will care for my caress.
I burn my heart to excess
For my dear lass!
Alas! My youthful lass,
You may have known my trace?
You don’t care for me as a careless black mass?
Only the bosom of a black mass
A fiery heart in it has.
Alas! My youthful lass,
If myself I trace,
I must have been a useful column, I guess.
I’ve been long buried deep and base
Until today can I re-see the sunrays.
Alas! My youthful lass,
Since I have re-seen the sunrays,
I often miss my homeland, nonetheless.
I burn my heart to excess
For my dear lass!
Composed in December, 1920
Bionote
Guo Moruo (1892—1978), originally named Guo Kaizhen, was a native of Shawan Town, Leshan County, Sichuan Province. He went to study in Japan in 1914. after his return to China in 1923, he co-sponsored “the Creation Society” with Yu Dafu, Tian Han and others. He took part in the Northern Expedition. After the October of 1949, he was chairman of China’s Federation of Literary and Art Circles and president of Chinese Academia of Sciences. Goddess, Starry Sky, Vase, Foremost, etc. are his major collections of poems. His Complete Works of Guo Moruo is known to the world.
（Tr. by Yang Xu）
天上的街市
-- 郭沫若
远远的街灯明了，
好像闪着无数的明星。
天上的明星现了，
好像点着无数的街灯。
我想那缥缈的空中，
定有美丽的街市。
街市上陈列的一些物品，
定然是世上没有的珍奇。
你看，那浅浅的天河，
定然是不甚宽广。
那隔河的牛郎织女，
定能够骑着牛儿来往。
我想他们此刻，
定能在天街闲游。
不信，请看那朵流星，
那怕是他们提着灯笼在走。
炉中煤
——眷恋祖国的情绪
啊，我年青的女郎！
我不辜负你的殷勤，
你也不要辜负了我的思量。
我为我心爱的人儿，
燃到了这般模样！
啊，我年青的女郎！
你该知道了我的前身？
你该不嫌我黑奴卤莽？
要我这黑奴的胸中，
才有火一样的心肠。
啊，我年青的女郎！
我想我的前身，
原本是有用的栋梁，
我活埋在地底多年，
到今朝总得重见天光。
啊，我年青的女郎！
我自从重见天光，
我常常思念我的故乡，
我为我心爱的人儿，
燃到了这般模样！
1920年12月间作
作者简介：
郭沫若（1892—1978），原名郭开贞，四川乐山县沙湾镇人。1914年赴日留学，1923年回国后，与郁达夫、田汉等人创办“创造社”。参加过北伐 战争。1949年10月后，曾任中国文联主席、中国科学院院长等职。主要作品有：诗集《女神》、《星空》、《瓶》、《前茅》等。另有《郭沫若全集》行世。
1 Poem by Shen Yinmo
The Moonlit Night
The frosty wind whirling and whirling
The bright moon shining and shining
I stand abreast with a tallest tree,
But not on it leaning.
1917
About the author:
Shen Yinmo (1883—1971)，was born in Xi’an, Shaanxi Province, and his ancestral homeland was Wuxing, Zhejiang Province. In his early years he went to study in Japan. From 1923 to 1928, he worked as a professor in Peking University. During the literary revolution, he advocated the movement of vernacular poetry. After October, 1949, he was deputy director of Central Institute of History and vice chairman of Shanghai Federation of Literary and Art Circles. He was the author of A Collection of Qiuming (a collection of poems), Miscellanies of Qiuming Studio, etc. Tr. by Yang Xu）
月夜
-- 沈尹默
霜风呼呼的吹着，
月光明明的照着。
我和一株顶高的树并排立着，
却没有靠着。
1917年
作者简介：
沈尹默（1883—1971），生于陕西西安，祖籍浙江吴兴。早年曾赴日本留学。1913年至1928年，任北京大学教授等职。文学革命期间，倡导白话诗 运动。1949年10月以后，曾任中央文史馆副馆长、上海文联副主席等职。主要作品有：诗集《秋明集》、《秋明室杂集》等。
The frosty wind whirling and whirling
The bright moon shining and shining
I stand abreast with a tallest tree,
But not on it leaning.
1917
About the author:
Shen Yinmo (1883—1971)，was born in Xi’an, Shaanxi Province, and his ancestral homeland was Wuxing, Zhejiang Province. In his early years he went to study in Japan. From 1923 to 1928, he worked as a professor in Peking University. During the literary revolution, he advocated the movement of vernacular poetry. After October, 1949, he was deputy director of Central Institute of History and vice chairman of Shanghai Federation of Literary and Art Circles. He was the author of A Collection of Qiuming (a collection of poems), Miscellanies of Qiuming Studio, etc. Tr. by Yang Xu）
月夜
-- 沈尹默
霜风呼呼的吹着，
月光明明的照着。
我和一株顶高的树并排立着，
却没有靠着。
1917年
作者简介：
沈尹默（1883—1971），生于陕西西安，祖籍浙江吴兴。早年曾赴日本留学。1913年至1928年，任北京大学教授等职。文学革命期间，倡导白话诗 运动。1949年10月以后，曾任中央文史馆副馆长、上海文联副主席等职。主要作品有：诗集《秋明集》、《秋明室杂集》等。
1 Poem by Liu Bannong
How Can I Refrain from Missing Her, the Fair
In the sky some faint cloud is drifting around,
And some breeze is wafting over the ground.
Ah!
The breeze gently stroking my hair,
How can I refrain from missing her, the fair?
Of the sea dream the moonbeams,
Of the moonbeams the sea dreams.
Ah!
At this silvery night with honey-tasting air,
How can I refrain from missing her, the fair?
Slowly floating the blooms on the flow,
And slowly swimming the fish below.
Ah!
What are swallows talking about in the air?
How can I refrain from missing her, the fair?
In cold wind wave the withered boughs,
In the dusky twilight the wildfires arouse.
Ah!
Some cloud in the western sky remains red there,
How can I refrain from missing her, the fair?
London, Sept., 4, 1920
About the author:
Liu Bannong (1891—1934), whose originally named Liu Shoupeng, and also Liu Fu, was a native of Jiangyin County, Jiangsu Province. He took part in the Xinhai Revolution in 1911. He was an editor at Zhonghua Book Company in 1913, and editor of New Youth in Beijing in 1917. He went to study in Britain in 1920, and to France in the next year. He got his degree of Litt.D at the University of Paris. After his return to China, he was a professor at Peking University, Sino-French University, and Furen Catholic University [Beijing], successively. His major works include A Collection of Vulgar Poems, A Collection of Galloping Poems, and Selected Poems of Liu Bannong (collections of Poems). (Tr. by Yang Xu）
教我如何不想她
-- 刘半农
天上飘着些微云，
地上吹着些微风。
啊！
微风吹动了我头发，
教我如何不想她？
月光恋爱着海洋，
海洋恋爱着月光。
啊！
这般蜜也似的银夜，
教我如何不想她？
水面落花慢慢流，
水底鱼儿慢慢游。
啊！
燕子你说些什么话？
教我如何不想她？
枯树在冷风里摇。
野火在暮色中烧。
啊！
西天还有些儿残霞，
教我如何不想她？
1920年9月4日 伦敦
作者简介：
刘半农（1891—1934），原名刘寿彭，又名刘复。江苏江阴县人。1911年参加辛亥革命。1913年任中华书局编辑。1917年任北京《新青年》编 辑。1920年赴英国留学，次年转赴法国，1925年3月获巴黎大学文学博士学位。回国后历任北京大学、中法大学、辅仁大学教授等职。主要作品有：诗集 《瓦釜集》、《扬鞭集》、《刘半农诗选》等。
In the sky some faint cloud is drifting around,
And some breeze is wafting over the ground.
Ah!
The breeze gently stroking my hair,
How can I refrain from missing her, the fair?
Of the sea dream the moonbeams,
Of the moonbeams the sea dreams.
Ah!
At this silvery night with honey-tasting air,
How can I refrain from missing her, the fair?
Slowly floating the blooms on the flow,
And slowly swimming the fish below.
Ah!
What are swallows talking about in the air?
How can I refrain from missing her, the fair?
In cold wind wave the withered boughs,
In the dusky twilight the wildfires arouse.
Ah!
Some cloud in the western sky remains red there,
How can I refrain from missing her, the fair?
London, Sept., 4, 1920
About the author:
Liu Bannong (1891—1934), whose originally named Liu Shoupeng, and also Liu Fu, was a native of Jiangyin County, Jiangsu Province. He took part in the Xinhai Revolution in 1911. He was an editor at Zhonghua Book Company in 1913, and editor of New Youth in Beijing in 1917. He went to study in Britain in 1920, and to France in the next year. He got his degree of Litt.D at the University of Paris. After his return to China, he was a professor at Peking University, Sino-French University, and Furen Catholic University [Beijing], successively. His major works include A Collection of Vulgar Poems, A Collection of Galloping Poems, and Selected Poems of Liu Bannong (collections of Poems). (Tr. by Yang Xu）
教我如何不想她
-- 刘半农
天上飘着些微云，
地上吹着些微风。
啊！
微风吹动了我头发，
教我如何不想她？
月光恋爱着海洋，
海洋恋爱着月光。
啊！
这般蜜也似的银夜，
教我如何不想她？
水面落花慢慢流，
水底鱼儿慢慢游。
啊！
燕子你说些什么话？
教我如何不想她？
枯树在冷风里摇。
野火在暮色中烧。
啊！
西天还有些儿残霞，
教我如何不想她？
1920年9月4日 伦敦
作者简介：
刘半农（1891—1934），原名刘寿彭，又名刘复。江苏江阴县人。1911年参加辛亥革命。1913年任中华书局编辑。1917年任北京《新青年》编 辑。1920年赴英国留学，次年转赴法国，1925年3月获巴黎大学文学博士学位。回国后历任北京大学、中法大学、辅仁大学教授等职。主要作品有：诗集 《瓦釜集》、《扬鞭集》、《刘半农诗选》等。
1 Poem by Hu Shi
The Night of January 24th
The shadow of the aged pagoda tree,
Is gently waving in the moonlit ground;
A few dry leaves are still dancing on the date tree,
To make a feeble voice from time to time.
The autumn tint of West Hill beckons me several times,
Unfortunately I am shackled by my own disease.
Now they say I am to be well.
And the remotely gorgeous autumn is long past.
About the author:
Hu Shi (1891—1962), originally named Hu Hongxing, was a native of Jixi, Anhui Province. He went to study in America in 1910, and got his PhD at the University of Columbia. After he returned to his native country in the July of the same year, he was professor and then president of Peking University, and Chinese ambassador in America. In January, 1917, he published “A First Opinion on the Reform of Literature” in New Youth, and launched a literary revolution together with Chen Duxiu. He went to America in 1948, and later to Taiwan. He was the author of A Collection of Trial Poems, A New Collection of Trial Poems (collections of poems). His Standing Writings of Hu Shi and An Outline of Chinese Philosophy History are known to the world.
（Tr. by Zhang Zhizhong）
一月二十四日夜
-- 胡适
老槐树的影子，
在月光的地上微晃；
枣树上还有几个干叶，
时时做出一种没气力的声响。
西山的秋色几回招我，
不幸我被我的病拖住了。
现在他们说我快要好了。
那幽艳的秋天早已过去了
作者简介：
胡适（1891—1962），原名胡洪骍，安徽绩溪人。1910年赴美国留学，1917年获哥仑比亚大学哲学博士学位。同年7月回国后，曾任北京大学教 授、校长及驻美国大使等职。1917年1月在《新青年》上发表《文学改良刍议》，与陈独秀等掀起文学革命。1948年赴美国，后去台湾。主要作品有：诗集 《尝试集》、《尝试后集》等。另有《胡适文存》、《中国哲学史大纲》等传世。
The shadow of the aged pagoda tree,
Is gently waving in the moonlit ground;
A few dry leaves are still dancing on the date tree,
To make a feeble voice from time to time.
The autumn tint of West Hill beckons me several times,
Unfortunately I am shackled by my own disease.
Now they say I am to be well.
And the remotely gorgeous autumn is long past.
About the author:
Hu Shi (1891—1962), originally named Hu Hongxing, was a native of Jixi, Anhui Province. He went to study in America in 1910, and got his PhD at the University of Columbia. After he returned to his native country in the July of the same year, he was professor and then president of Peking University, and Chinese ambassador in America. In January, 1917, he published “A First Opinion on the Reform of Literature” in New Youth, and launched a literary revolution together with Chen Duxiu. He went to America in 1948, and later to Taiwan. He was the author of A Collection of Trial Poems, A New Collection of Trial Poems (collections of poems). His Standing Writings of Hu Shi and An Outline of Chinese Philosophy History are known to the world.
（Tr. by Zhang Zhizhong）
一月二十四日夜
-- 胡适
老槐树的影子，
在月光的地上微晃；
枣树上还有几个干叶，
时时做出一种没气力的声响。
西山的秋色几回招我，
不幸我被我的病拖住了。
现在他们说我快要好了。
那幽艳的秋天早已过去了
作者简介：
胡适（1891—1962），原名胡洪骍，安徽绩溪人。1910年赴美国留学，1917年获哥仑比亚大学哲学博士学位。同年7月回国后，曾任北京大学教 授、校长及驻美国大使等职。1917年1月在《新青年》上发表《文学改良刍议》，与陈独秀等掀起文学革命。1948年赴美国，后去台湾。主要作品有：诗集 《尝试集》、《尝试后集》等。另有《胡适文存》、《中国哲学史大纲》等传世。
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WARRANTY & AGREEMENT: 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. At the same time, the submitter/contributor agrees that PP can use part or all of his/her accepted material, including responses to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook and/or other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.
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Poetry Pacific (2.3): Back Page
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Photo Credit: Charles Hayes |
Monday, 5 August 2013
POETRY PACIFIC (2.2): Cover Page
POETRY PACIFIC
[SPRING ISSUE 2013]
Summer Flow: High Falls - Photo Credit: Russell Streur
Poetry Pacific: Editor's Notes
Since we released our first quarterly (spring) issue, we have had a much wider readership! According to our traffic records, we have thus far had pageviews by browsers from more than 100 countries, with the United States, Canada, Germany, Russia, China (excluding Hong Kong, Taiwan and Macau), the United Kingdom, France, India, Philippines and New Zealand as our top 10 sources of audience.
Starting from the current issue, we will introduce a prose section "Interview with Poetry Editors," in which we are committed to featuring a number of poetry editors by asking them to respond to what we consider to be "9 Fundamental Questions" about poetry writing/editing/publishing. By replacing our topics for PP's Chatroom with these questions in each upcoming issue, we hope to encourage more interest in, and thinking about, poetry as a worthy human cause. In the mean time, everyone is welcome to answer these questions (as can readily be found in our interview pages), or even raise more or other questions and send his/her response to us at editors.pp@gmail.com. If we find it informative, intriguing or inspiring, we will post it as soon as we can.
As we are to upgrade Poetry Pacific into a publishing house, we plan to begin publishing poetry chapbooks or collections later this year when we are technically more prepared. Please stay tuned for more details/guidelines as well as for our open calls for manuscript submissions. In fact, as an experiment, we have just released our very first poetry collection in hard-copy in a couple of weeks; it is titled TRAFFIC LIGHT by Allen Qing Yuan.
To receive more readerly attention, we will do more social networking via Facebook, and LinkedIn. By so doing, we will try harder to promote our poets, their works and other poetry-related activities. For instance, we will post our interviews with poetry editors on our facebook, and post an editor's pick for discussion from time to time. Please join us, like/follow us on http://www.facebook.com/poetry.pacific.
Last but not least, please note the changes in our submission guidelines on the right column of our main page. For instance, we request all submitters not to send their work in .docx any more, as it does not work well with our blog-based formatting process. Also, any submitter who does not get a acceptance e.message from us within 30 days after sending his/her work over to us please feel free to submit it anywhere else, since we never give any one a 'rejection notice'.
Happy reading and have a great summertime!
Editors
POETRY PACIFIC
Mon., 5 August 2013
Starting from the current issue, we will introduce a prose section "Interview with Poetry Editors," in which we are committed to featuring a number of poetry editors by asking them to respond to what we consider to be "9 Fundamental Questions" about poetry writing/editing/publishing. By replacing our topics for PP's Chatroom with these questions in each upcoming issue, we hope to encourage more interest in, and thinking about, poetry as a worthy human cause. In the mean time, everyone is welcome to answer these questions (as can readily be found in our interview pages), or even raise more or other questions and send his/her response to us at editors.pp@gmail.com. If we find it informative, intriguing or inspiring, we will post it as soon as we can.
As we are to upgrade Poetry Pacific into a publishing house, we plan to begin publishing poetry chapbooks or collections later this year when we are technically more prepared. Please stay tuned for more details/guidelines as well as for our open calls for manuscript submissions. In fact, as an experiment, we have just released our very first poetry collection in hard-copy in a couple of weeks; it is titled TRAFFIC LIGHT by Allen Qing Yuan.
To receive more readerly attention, we will do more social networking via Facebook, and LinkedIn. By so doing, we will try harder to promote our poets, their works and other poetry-related activities. For instance, we will post our interviews with poetry editors on our facebook, and post an editor's pick for discussion from time to time. Please join us, like/follow us on http://www.facebook.com/poetry.pacific.
Last but not least, please note the changes in our submission guidelines on the right column of our main page. For instance, we request all submitters not to send their work in .docx any more, as it does not work well with our blog-based formatting process. Also, any submitter who does not get a acceptance e.message from us within 30 days after sending his/her work over to us please feel free to submit it anywhere else, since we never give any one a 'rejection notice'.
Happy reading and have a great summertime!
Editors
POETRY PACIFIC
Mon., 5 August 2013
Interview with Editor Susan Terris
Bionote
Susan Terris, Editor of Spillway Magazine, and Poetry Editor: Pedestal Magazine, In Posse Review
Susan Terris, Editor of Spillway Magazine, and Poetry Editor: Pedestal Magazine, In Posse Review
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. Ms. Terris has a prior career in the field of children’s books where she had 21 books (mostly young adult fiction) published by Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, Macmillan, Scholastic, and Doubleday. In addition to writing & journal editing, she does freelance editing of book-length poetry manuscripts and teaches workshops on “The Making of a Chapbook”. With CB Follett, she hosts a series of weekend workshops taught by poet David St. John.
PP: Given the ways
contemporary authors have been trying to compose all kinds of poetry, how would
you define ‘poetry’?
ST: Poetry is not prose. The best poetry is not “about” something but a made
piece of art with multiple layers of meaning. Its language needs to be
musical yet muscled. It requires compression. Stanza breaks and line breaks
must be strong enough to add power and movement to a poem. Poetry—rhymed, free
verse, whatever—is not only words on a page but a creative endeavor meant to
make you feel something. It needs memorable images, ones that don’t rely
on overused adjectives or adverbs—but propels the reader ahead with well-chosen
verbs and interesting nouns. As a poet and as an editor, I like many different
styles of work; but, to me, the best poetry surprises and includes the reader
in the surprise.
PP: Many people say
poetry is dying. Do you agree or disagree with this statement, and why?
ST: If poetry was dying, why would there be so many students battling to get
into poetry classes at colleges, MFA programs, PhD programs in poetry? If
poetry is dying, why does everyone turn to it for weddings, funerals,
inaugurations, and all significant occasions? Why does Garrison Keillor offer
poems to his radio audience? Surely, he doesn’t think it’s dying. Poetry will
never die, because it reaches into the depth of the self and produces reactions
that surprise and delight the reader or listener.
When I was writing in the field of children’s books,
a stranger at a party, upon hearing I wrote for children, would address me in
words of one syllable. Now if I tell a stranger I am a poet, usually he or she looks
for an excuse to walk away. Why? People have an inherent fear of being ignorant
about poetry. BUT just read poems aloud to any of these strangers and see the
reaction, the enthusiasm, the aha! moments.
Not enough people read poetry; but as poets we must
try to educate them to listen to more of it. Poetry—an ancient art form—is,
after all, meant to be read aloud. We can keep it from dying, not only by
educating students and reading it aloud but also by trying to bring more of it
into the everyday lives of children and well as adults.
PP: What defining
features do you think ‘best’ poetry should possess? In other words, what is
your personal or working definition of ‘best’ poetry?
ST: I’m repeating myself but:
Musicality of line, interesting line & stanza
breaks
Originality
Surprise
Immediacy
Good imagery, but not imagery conveyed by too many
adjectives or adverbs
Poems where I learn something new
Poems
where each line makes me what to know what the next line is going to
hold
PP: What are the most important makings of
a ‘great’ poet? – please name 3 greatest poets the world has produced thus far.
ST: In English: William Shakespeare, John Milton, W. B. Yeats
In other languages: Dante, Wislawa Szymborska, Pablo Neruda
PP: Who are the 4 most
important or noteworthy contemporary poets according to your personal/working
criteria.
ST: Theodore Roethke, W.S. Merwin, Adrienne Rich, Muriel Ruykeyser
PP: Considering the
contemporary poetry writing/publishing reality, what are the most important
changes that you think should be made to promote poetry as a worthy cause?
More poetry read aloud in homes. More poetry read aloud in schools, starting
at kindergarten and first grade. More community & public readings of poetry.
More book reviews of volumes of
poetry. Any & all efforts to remove the idea that poetry is so esoteric
that it’s meant only for the highly-educated elite.
PP: 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?
ST: Kenyon Review, FIELD, American Poetry Review
PP: What are the most
important or interesting things that you have you learned about poetry
writing/publishing as a poetry editor?
ST: Almost all the poems I receive for Spillway,
where I am the editor, or for Pedestal
and In Posse Review, online journals
where I am poetry editor, are good, in one way or another. The ones I reject
feel, in general, like lineated prose or they lack the all-important element of
surprise. Or, especially in a longer poem, they have stanzas or passages that
are weaker than the rest of the piece. To publish a poem, I have to fall in
love with it. With all of it. For me, it’s always about the poems – not about
who the poet is or how many publishing credits that poet has. In fact, I never
read the cover letters until after I have read the poems.
PP: What is the most or
least enjoyable part of being a poetry editor?
ST: WORST:
Rejecting poems – especially by poets I’ve published
before and by poets who are just beginning to publish.
Proofreading Spillway
before it goes to the printer.
BEST:
Finding those original poems, in any poetic voice or
style, which I admire, love, and wish I’d written!
The
actual act & art of editing. I am a hands-on editor, one who often makes
suggestions I feel will improve a poem. These usually involve pacing,
substituting for over-used adjectives, making the ending of a poem stronger,
etcetera.
Putting
a magazine together, not alphabetically by author’s last name, but like a small
anthology where one poem fits (I hope) almost seamlessly between the poem
before it and after it.
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