Wednesday, 5 February 2014

5 Photos by Zhijian Tao













Bionote

Zhijian Tao, regular photographic art contributor to Poetry Pacific, and member of the Chinese Writers Association in Quebec, Canada, is a scholar and translator, with a doctorate form McGill University. His published works include Drawing the Dragon: Western European Reinvention of China (monograph), Bibliography Complex (translation from Chinese to English). He has also translated, from Chinese to English, two poetry collections entitled respectively The Fortuities of a Shoe and A Line at Dawn. He has also published prose writings, poems, etc, written in the Chinese language.

2 Poems by Tom Sheehan

A Sound in the Eye
                          
This midnight’s as thick
as conspirators,
stars secreted
like listening devices
waiting for one breath
to find me out.

In the woodpile
I can’t see, a snake
settles where my hand
left a moment’s warmth
on a slanting of birch
plunging past white,

its coils
wound tight as bark.
Field mouse, beneath
owl’s infrared eyes
and sudden wing thump,
gathers into minutes.

The only flag
is pennant of skunk,
the tail-up streamer
recalling every vengeance
borne on mysteries
of abiding shadows.

High darkness
and a collective of agents,
are pierced by peephole
of a nail-head star,
deities’ confederate
beginning revelations.


Burial for Horsemen
(For my father, blind too early.)

           
The night we listened to Temujin’s life
on records, and shadows remembered
their routes up the railed stairway like
a steppe’s presence, I stood at your bed

counting the days you had conquered.
The bottlecap moon clattered into your
room in vagrant pieces…jagged blades
needing a strop or wheel for honing,

great spearhead chips pale in falling,
necks of smashed jars rasbora bright,
thin flaked edges tossing off the sun.
Under burden of the dread collection,

you sighed and turned in quilted repose
and rolled your hand in mine, searching
for lighting only found in your memory.
In moon’s toss I saw the network of your

brain struggling for my face the way you
last saw it, a piece of light falling under
the hooves of a thousand Mongol ponies,
night campsites riding upward in flames,

the steppe skyline coming legendary again.


Bionote

Sheehan served in the 31st Infantry Regiment, Korea, 1951, and graduated from Boston College in 1956. His books are Epic Cures; Brief Cases, Short Spans; A Collection of Friends; From the Quickening; and This Rare Earth & Other Flights (poetry). He has 20 Pushcart nominations and 360 stories on Rope and Wire Magazine. His work has been published in Romania, France, Ireland, England, Scotland, Italy, Thailand, China, Mexico, Canada, etc. Recent eBooks from Milspeak Publishers include Korean Echoes, 2011, nominated for a Distinguished Military Award and The Westering, 2012, nominated for a National Book Award. His newest eBooks, from Danse Macabre, are Murder at the Forum, an NHL mystery novel, and Death of a Lottery Foe, with two more mysteries due for 2013 publication, Death by Punishment and An Accountable Death. tomfsheehan@comcast.net

1 Poem by Christopher Willard

Do You Envy the Bull’s-eye or the Dart?

A man on a show said he rode a camel and ate camel.
He was clear, it was not the same camel.
I don’t know why he said that. He didn’t seem to have a need
to tell
whether either was a one or two lump camel but he said it was well done,
the eaten one,
not like chicken, more like ground beef.

A man on another show dredged a case of king crabs from the sea.
They were white and beige and pink.
They were all clawing around in their big cage.
The man pulled a crab out of the cage and tore a long leg off it
then ripped it open with his teeth.

On another show the Priest rode in his oogie boogie mobile
like one of those popping bubble toys kids push
or a Calder mobile with our interior crimes suspended by thin wires.


Bionote

Christopher Willard is a writer and visual artist.  His two novels, Sundre and Garbage Head, have been published by Vehicule Press/Esplanade Books.  He is currenlty pursuing his PhD at the University of Calgary with a focus upon developing a theory of artistic research.  cwillard@telus.net

1 Poem by Michael Lee Johnson

If I Were Young Again

    Piecemeal summer dies:
    Long winter spreads its blanket again.
 
    For ten years I have lived in exile,
    locked in this rickety cabin, shoulders
    jostled up against open Alberta sky.
 

If I were young again, I’d sing of coolness of high
mountain snow flowers, sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows;
I would dream and stretch slim fingers into distant nowhere,
yawn slowly over endless prairie miles.

The grassland is where in summer silence grows;
in evening eagles spread their wings
dripping feathers like warm honey.

If I were young again, I’d eat pine cones, food of birds,
share meals with wild wolves;
I’d have as much dessert as I wanted,
reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingertips.

But I’m not young anymore and my thoughts tormented
are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery
from torture of war and childhood.
For ten years now I've lived locked in this unstable cabin,
 
     Inside rush of summer winds, 
    outside air beaten dim with snow.



Bionote

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in twenty-five countries, he edits seven poetry sites.  Michael has released The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom (136 page book), several chapbooks Of his poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He also has over 56 poetry videos on YouTube.
Links:  http://poetryman.mysite.com/
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa
https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos
http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx
http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917
Follow Michael Lee Johnson On:
Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/poetrymanusa
Twitter:  http://twitter.com/poetrymanusa
MySpace.com:  http://www.myspace.com/469391029  promomanusa@gmail.com


2 Poems by LB Sedlacek

Seeing the Invisible Fence
                       
I wonder what will become of my files, my little impervious connections to the outside, when something becomes of me.  What will become of my books, my pictures, my soft twirling chair, my bulletin board overflowing with quotes cut from magazines, my frequent sub shop card, my used bookstore credit, and postcards sent by relatives and friends and people I don't speak to anymore.  Will they disappear as my bones decay into the ground or would someone grab them with both arms hanging on tight before they follow or would they let go in favor of filling a wading pool with ice and beer and soaking feet and shins with a garden hose making a sudsy toast of sorts the kind you won't find on paper cards attached to flower wreaths.


A Corvair Tale
                       
A Corvair in my rear view mirror,
shiny, red, gleaming, twinkling chrome
at me reminding me how
I used to want one
to cruise the old roads like 66,
the highways, the two lane roads
in the middle of nowhere.  It
sits there, that Corvair
giggling in the sunlight
top down, arms open wide
and it wouldn’t matter if
the radio worked, my ears
tuned to the drive
the mowing down of scenery,
pavement – a better occupation
than ever imagined.  A Corvair
in my rear view mirror disappears
from sight almost as fast as my life.


Bionote

LB Sedlacek's poems have been published in publications such as "Foliate Oak Literary Magazine," "Mastodon Dentist," "Fickle Muses," "Apparent Magnitude," "Sea Stories," "Ginosko," "Connotations Press," "Tertulia Magazine," "The Hurricane Review," and others.  LB's latest chapbook is "District of Confusion (the Washington DC poems)." <lbsedlacek@charter.net>

1 Poem by Lewis Ellingham






heart

my attention is fully held, I
                                                rest on a bed designed for me to move only
                                    in prescribed positions, left side, back, the room
darkened except for a computer screen, a technician’s face,
       his fingers racing over a keyboard, this is my heart,
                   the valves opening and closing, a ghostly pulsing
                               image and, from time to time, the
            sound up, rolling thumps of heartbeat, lines
                        graphing the rhythms, this has gone on
                                    for 80 years, the organ growing awhile
and, 15 years ago, violated by something called a “heart attack”
       and stent insert — I ask the technician, ‘Why is it that
              the Egyptians, Greeks and Romans, the ancient
                     world believed the heart to be the seat of
                              intelligence?’ and he responds, ‘Did they?’
   and goes on to question, ‘Do they really know if that star
         blade runner from the South African Olympics team
                 killed his also-star wife intentionally, like the police
            say, or his excuse, that he thought she was an intruder?’
     I answer, ‘The charge is he killed her in bed with some kind of
              sports bat and dragged her into the bathroom, then closed
                        the door and shot her four times through the panel.’
By Shakespeare’s time, certainly, the heart is the center of
               feeling and emotion, intellect has moved to the brain.
                        Beat, beat, beat, pump, pump, pump, the valves
       seem to be jumping up and down, a joyous dance,
            evenly galloping, not perfectly repeating, still an
                  obvious order — the light in the room, over
         the echocardiogram, is ghastly, the movement lively,
South Africa, murder, here, here and
                                                            there.


Bionote

Born February 27th, 1933, in Fort Wayne, Indiana. I grew up there, went away to a Jesuit high school in Wisconsin, and came to San Francisco by the mid-1950s. By 1960 I had become friends with Jack Spicer and his bar community life in North Beach, and never looked back. Spicer’s death in 1965 scattered the group, but many of those who had become friends. I wrote poetry in those Spicer years. Over the 1980s I was involved in Bob Glück’s gay writer’s group, writing short fiction. In 1982 I’d begun the book Poet Be Like God that, and eventually published with Kevin Killian in 1995 by Wesleyan University Press., the only full biography so far of Jack Spicer [complemented by Killian’s & Peter Gizzi’s account, in 2008]. Although I was one of the organizers of the Gay Writers Conference in San Francisco in the early 1990s at the Cathedral Hill Hotel and other venues in the City, shortly thereafter my interests changed, I became an amateur genealogist, focusing on projects full time that have resulted in several published titles and large research projects at libraries and on line. But by the early years of this decade, I began to write again, returning to poetry and prose poetry.
Bibliography:
Genealogy:
Boots / Stiefel [4 volumes] (2006)
Ellingham Index in North America (1998)
The Ancestries of David Miller and Clarissa Moore [2 volumes] (1995)
The Heymanns of Kaltenholzhausen (1995)
Two Coventry Shoemakers Become Indiana Farmers (2000)

Music:
3 Sonnets (Lewis Ellingham, 1965), with music by Jack Goodwin [n.d.]
Literary:
Koet’s death [novel] (1987)
La Via Sacra [long poem, illustrated by author’s photos] (1988)
Mechanicly We Move in God’s Universe [10 short stories] (1985)
Poet Be Like God, co-authored with Kevin Killian (short version, 1998)
Poet, Be Like God [5 volumes] (long version, 1989)
The Birds [poems; deluxe edition] (San Francisco: M Press, 2008)
The Bushes They Were Bells [fantasy] (1985)
The Coleman Valley Road [poems] (1981)
The Countless Unmurmuring Dead [autobiographical novel] (1986)
The Jefferson Airplane [chapbook, poems] (1971)
The Queen Mary [mystery] (1991)
The Rain Column [novella] (1990)
The Wounded Laurel [poems] (1965/1975)
Xavier [novella] (1989)
The Birds and Other Poems (San Francisco: Ithuriel’s Spear, 2009)
San Francisco: 33 Views (2011)
The Wall, The City, The Last Supper (2011)
Songs (2011)
an underlying permanence (February 2012)
Grasshopper Sparrow (February 2012)
The Collected Poetry and Prose Poetry Volumes 1 and 2 (summer 2012)
Objects (poems, 2012, 2013)

Publications in which writings were presented: 1961-1985:
9 Queen Bees (Dublin, Ireland) [poem ‘Ducks’ first appeared, then called ‘E’]
Cassiopeia (San Francisco)
Ephemeris (San Francisco)
Hart (San Francisco)
M (San Francisco)
Manroot (San Francisco)
No Apologies (San Francisco)
Open Space (San Francisco)
The Capilano Review (Vancouver, B.C. area)

Publications in which writings were presented: 1986-present:
M Press (San Francisco: Glenn Todd [personal imprimatur])
Mirage / Periodical (various issues)
Wesleyan University Press [New England Universities Presses]
Polis [annual magazine, summer 2011]
pallaksch [annual poetry magazine, 2012]

<magicpool@earthlink.net>

2 Poems by Ram Krishna Singh

BODY

The body is precious
a vehicle for awakening
treat it with care, said Buddha

I love its stillness
beauty and sanctity
here and now

sink into its calm
to hear the whispers in all
its ebbs and flows

erect, penetrate
the edge of life and loss
return to wholeness


CLAY DREAMS

They make my face
ugly in my own sight

what shall I see in the mirror?

there is no beauty
or holiness left
in the naked nation:

the streams flow dark
and the hinges of doors moan
politics of corruption

I weep for its names
and the faces they deface
with clay dreams


Bionote

Ram Krishna Singh,  born, brought up and educated in Varanasi, India, is a widely published Indian English poet, reviewer and critic of repute, with over 160 academic articles, 175 book reviews and 36 books to his credit. His poetry books include The River Returns (2006), Sexless Solitude and Other Poems (2009), Sense and Silence: Collected Poems (2010), and New and Selected Poems Tanka and Haiku (2012). Translated into French, German, Greek, Spanish,  Chinese, Japanese, Italian, Serbian, Slovene, Croatian, Portuguese, Hindi, Punjabi, Tamil,  and Bangla,  he has received many awards and honours. Dr Singh has been  teaching English language skills to students of earth and mineral sciences at Indian School of Mines, Dhanbad since 1976. email: profrksingh@gmail.com   Web: rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

3 Poems by Perry L. Powell

Escape

Where would you go if you could leave,
secretly without consequences
or pricked sensibilities, my love?
Someplace I am not?

I want to chew through your leather
straps and give you a new path
that you can wander,  that does not go
around and around and around.

We are not the Green George and the May Rose;
our harvest too long ago left the silo for markets abroad.
Now we sweep our little fields clean and meet
under a midnight sky where sometimes we touch

and sometimes there is moonlight
and sometimes only night.


Blue Fish

What if the brain
fades out
slowly
after death─
a drugged or dreamed trip,
oxygen starved,
in an immobile blue crypt of
flesh?

What if the mind
closes,
falling
into that
blinding light, slowly
sealing like a
slow-motion shutter ending
all?

What if heaven
is that
instant
of fading
feeling forever,
as a dream might
hold fast an image in its
slide?


Autumn Images

A gentle start to autumn.

Even an old man feels a touch of hope.

Smooth azure sky,
crisp all white clouds
and that mild breeze.

But every night on television
still more pictures of dead soldiers.


Bionote

Perry L. Powell lives in College Park, Georgia. His work has appeared in The Heron's Nest, Ribbons, Prune Juice, A Hundred Gourds, Indigo Rising, The Foliate Oak, Lucid Rhythms, The Lyric, Haiku Presence, Quantum Poetry Magazine, and The Camel Saloon. perryleepowell@comcast.net

3 Poems by Changming Yuan

Human Culture

when i wake up
      and open my eyes
i see all my dreams
      bounced back from the frames

when i take a shower
      and start to sing
i taste my song tart
      behind the blurring curtain

when i strive to step
      out of my humble house
i feel fences quarreling hard
      in the whole neighborhood

when i visit around and
      do some blind sightseeing
i smell blood stained
      along the castle foot

finally i flee from this world
      and hide myself far away
i still seem to hear
      the glaring cries from the great wall

delicately hung is this earth
    a bluish cage in the universe



Snow vs Crow: A Wintry Vision

Like billions of dark butterflies
Beating their wings
Against nightmares, rather
Like myriads of
Spirited coal-flakes
Spread from the sky
Of another world
A heavy black snow
Falls, falling, fallen
Down towards the horizon
Of my mind, where a little crow
White as a lost patch
Of autumn fog
Is trying to fly, flapping
From bough to bough


American Free Speech: ‘Kill Everyone in China’

During ABC’s Jimmy Kimmel Live! aired on 29 October 2013, a 6-year-old boy  proposed to ‘kill everyone in China’; in reply to the wide protest against such verbal violence, the White House recently claimed, “the principle of protected free speech is an important part of who we are as a nation." 

Apparently, it is not the tiny guy
But his big parents
Who would very much like
To kill everyone in China

No, it is not even his parents
But his teachers, the picture
Books he reads, the movies he watches
The computer games he plays, and
The media bombs he hears constantly
That encourages him to do so

On the other hand, it is not the yellow-skinned
Yellow-hearted Chinese really
But anyone that has a hue different from a wasp
That may turn out more civilized, less hypocritical
Or as innocent as the little angel sitting at the ABC’s
Round Table that Uncle Sam and his dogs of war
Aim to kill, destroy, wipe out from the earth

Just to get rid of any debts they owe
To you and me

Bionote

Changming Yuan (pen name of Yuan Wuming), 7-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in a remote Chinese village and published several monographs before moving to Canada as an international student. With a PhD in English from the University of Saskatchewan, Changming currently tutors in Vancouver. Most recently radio-interviewed by World Reading Series, Changming operates Poetry Pacific Press and has had poetry appearing in Best Canadian Poetry (2009; 12), BestNewPoemsOnline, Istanbul Review, LiNQ, London Magazine, Paris/Atlantic, Poetry Kanto, Poetry Salzburg, SAND, Taj Mahal Review, Threepenny Review, Two Thirds North and 800 other literary journals/anthologies across 28 countries. yuans@shaw.ca



2 Poems by C.M. Rivers

A Measure of Grace

When you empty the wheelbarrow
of rain-wetted weeds in the spring,
when the seashells along the garden wall
inspire you to sing,
think then, old friend, of how we once were,
and how years have fallen at our feet.

When the world empties itself of me and you,
and our lifetimes dry up from their mornings of dew,
with the breath of the sun on the shimmering leaves,
remember then to say your prayers.

When the cat has his nap near the creaking porch-swing
and I’ve emptied the ‘barrow of earth in the spring,
I’ll think of you, fair weather friend,
and how there’s a measure of grace about you.

By day, a daydream ponderer who never gets his fill,
by night a barefoot wanderer who’s wandering still.
With my bamboo wind, rocks and rain,
what a lucky so-and-so I shall be.


Zen

Fingers of light
            touch down on the garden

Wild green things grow thick
            ‘round the entranceway

Spotted fawns have come by,
            mother not far behind

 Cat sits and watches


Bionote

C.M. Rivers is a native of the Pacific Northwest.  He currently lives in Ithaca, New York, where he writes and works in the culinary field.  His poetry has appeared in Rosebud Magazine, Orbis International Journal, and several online literary reviews.  His poem “What My Fingers Know” is a current nomination for the Pushcart Prize.  He is at work on a book of poetry, a book of children’s poetry, and his second novel.
http://www.cmrivers.com/. rcchops@yahoo.com

1 Poem by Tatjana Debeljacki

DEVOTED

There is no truth,
the truth and the lie
support each other!
In every truth
there is something deceiving!
The ambitious lie
is not so deceiving,
fictional, not eternal.
There is no truth contained in it
adjusted by itself.
It is solving the riddle of mystery
not paying attention if the truth
when is twisted becomes the lie!
These two opposite powers
continuously set each other to motion,
they deny each other in word puns,
start up fury, revenging rage.
Riddling, solving, I’m ashamed of you!
My eyes are hidden under the veil,
colors of light astonishing scale!!!


Bionote

Tatjana Debeljacki writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. She is a Member of Association of Writers of Serbia -UKS since 2004. She is Haiku Society of Serbia- Deputy editor of Diogen. She also is the editor of the magazine Poeta. She has four books of poetry published. Email/Websites/Blogs Debeljacki & follow her on Twitter. tdebeljacki67@gmail.com

2 Poems by Alan Britt

ODE TO A MOVIE DIRECTOR

He’s either the lover
or the killer;
it all depends upon whose side
you’re on.

Ask him for intellectual ID
and he’ll flash a brilliant disguise.

Ask him for emotional DNA
and he’ll vanish like a cougar
into the receding hairline
of Hollywood, California.


SHIT HAPPENS WHEN YOU’RE A DOG

Shit happens when you’re a dog.

You have only 10 to 12 years
of real intensity.

If you’re lucky,
your final years
involve compassionate survival.

Compassion, ah, there’s the rub.

Has to be a rub somewhere;
otherwise, dreadful expectations
could relieve themselves
like drunken patrons
stumbling from Catholic sermons
on their way home
for more wine.

Dogs are subject to potluck
in these situations.

Although dogs pretty much
wake up whenever they please,
and when they do,
it’s Are you hungry?
or You wanna go outside?

But dogs also gather the logs
necessary for our winter fireplaces.

Blue flames pop
from their loving fur.


Bionote

Alan Britt's interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem (http://www.loc.gov/poetry/poetpoem.html#alan-britt) aired on Pacifica Radio January 2013. His interview with Minnesota Review is up at http://minnesotareview.wordpress.com/. He read poems at the historic Maysles Cinema in Harlem/NYC, February 2013, and the World Trade Center/Tribute WTC Visitor Center in Manhattan/NYC, April 2012. His latest books are Alone with the Terrible Universe (2011), Greatest Hits (2010), Hurricane (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). He is Poetry Editor for the We Are You Project International (www.weareyouproject.org) and Book Review Editor for Ragazine (http://ragazine.cc/). He teaches Creative Writing at Towson University.

1 Poem by Emonde Prosper

Unrequited

You watched me sell my pride to anyone who would buy it.
This fight is only for the strong and careless.
We are not meant to be sterile. There is something healthy about this mess.
When you aren't around, I'm uninspired. My poetry goes to rest
If you treat it like a disease you will always seek a cure for our side effects.
Today I tasted the salt of your soul and wondered what made you so hypertensive at best.
Who are you without your complex?
Who the hell am I without my perplex?
Even as a coward, you maintain powerful intellect.
The world is your oyster and you don’t even own a pearl necklace?
I watched you with eyes blinking to my sunsets.
We are a defiant merger of sorts.
Human capital with commodities competing at a loss.
Who knew a cut is the same thing as the incisions it aborts?
Our connection isn't cerebral. This is a colonizing spiritual contort.
Is this why the institution of marriage is less about love and more about courts?
I don't want this anymore than tricks want magicians to support.
You make this hard even when reason is impotent.
I tore away your body to get to your naked soul.
It is the same reason we pick a flower and put it to our nose.
Spiritual instinct I suppose.
This era is the oasis where all inhibition grows.
It is a glorious day when men smell the burning of their own throne.
My child, there are many ways to love. Just ask your foes.
There is more that protects the hearts from bleeding out onto sleeves.
I have never prayed like this; just ask my knees.
It cannot be helped; emotions grow like weeds.
This fight is only for the strong and careless.
Oh he loved me not, he loved me best.
Unrequited love is always the type of fight that pride never forgets.


<emonde.prosper@gmail.com>

1 Poem by scott hastie

Life collects, pools around you.
It paints its highlights,
Nothing there you can destroy
Or begin again.

Calm in aquamarine beauty,
Barely a hint of surf’s snowy trim.
Today the sea is out
But will come again.

For the moment,
On the beach,
My love and I,
Naked and blissful as can be.

In the soft, sun baked sand
History between my toes.

Sense how
Even the smooth stones ache
With stories of their own
In the shuddering light of day.


Bionote

I am a full-time writer and poet, based in the UK– fortunate enough to be living and working in tranquil surroundings of the English countryside, some twenty miles north of London. My poetry looks to positively explore human potential, with an emphasis on love, spiritual growth and self awareness. It is very important to me that my work remains as open, accessible and as simply expressed as possible. My influences vary from the great traditional English visionary romantics through to the distillation of thought and leanness of expression offered by the Japanese haiku tradition and later technical breakthroughs achieved by leading Scottish concrete poets, Ian Hamilton Finlay and Edwin Morgan. Sparkling new poems & images at www.scotthastie.com scotthastie@hotmail.com

3 Poems by Kyle Hemmings

The Make-over

 Everyone has a wife prettier than mine. I hide her face in plastic jars marked "No More Hope," snatch her words in a rainy day season, keep them under a pillow of yellow stains, deep creases. Unexplained impressions of butterfly wings. Even after 1000 face lifts, she is still as ugly as I. We live by the fallacy that someday we might be beautiful, simple and mysterious as floating candles. We'd be homemade, truly original. I tell my wife never to trust sexy strangers posing as plastic surgeons. They will rob her blind, sell her parts to everyday cannibals, who melt before their own mirrors. I tell my wife that we are the sum of others' useless parts. Or that when we get old, nothing will matter anyway. She says that we are two battered alarm clocks with missing numbers. I imagine her weeping gently as she sells herself to a man with malleable features, a life of scoured pots and pans. Because we are so ugly, we forgive each other's sins. At night, we pull off our yesterday faces, fall hopelessly in love with the other who always wanted to be more than thin skin, misplaced appetite, the deadened reflection at a bus stop. We became beggars by water-colored noon. In the morning light, we greet our surgeons with a naked smile, a deceptive hush.


Five or Six Reasons for Believing in Vampires


After three consecutive nights of insomnia, you hear rumors that your shadow is giving dance lessons in another part of town.

Or after a dream of abandoned turtles, you find scales under the sheets.

Your girlfriend of three weeks, Emily B. Roth, tells you that she was impregnated by one of your starched shirts. She schedules an abortion with a tailor.

At work, someone is signing your petitions for better ergonomic chairs and keyboards with blood. You keep receiving inter-office emails that you are not who you think you are.

 You are accused of shoplifting Gummi Bears by a little kid who is wearing your I.D. badge.


Trees

I am the tree near the church. Perhaps a red maple or a honeylocust. You are the girl who falls through stained glass, who keeps dreaming of me. In my hollow belly, I shelter you from the beggars, the women who demand a slow drip of blood for every sin, from the altar boys who peek under your Sunday dress. Your mother says truth is like honey. You give her the sap from a condemned birch. She gives you yellow ribbons & post-its that say Love Is Not Cheap. It Does Not Come in Plastic. Hanging off my branches, you believe you will heal, grow taller. Perhaps your roots will expand to everywhere. This town is full of stunted naysayers who could never grow fruit. You promise to transplant me inside your head, to bury your secrets near a stump. In the wind & rain, we lean toward each other.. One day, a man invents an ax. He becomes an extension of it. He is jealous of what he can never have. You have given yourself to a tree. The man cuts us down. He's the one who really dies. We grow new arms & new roots. We become entwined. My thickest twig is a tongue of your silence. I am a tree with your face. No longer with crutches, a girl who looks like you walks toward us.


Bionote

Kyle Hemmings is the author of several chapbooks of poetry and prose: Avenue C, Cat People, and Anime Junkie (Scars Publications), and Tokyo Girls in Science Fiction (NAP). His latest e-books are You Never Die in Wholes from Good Story Press and The Truth about Onions from Good Samaritan.  His latest collection of prose/poetry is Void & Sky from Outskirt Press. Kyle loves cats, dogs, and 60s garage bands. <hemming06@hotmail.com>


1 Poem by Cheryl Van Beek

The Tree of Lost Ideas

Branches sway out of reach
Kites of green break free
Leaves brush shoulders,
somersault the breeze
Angle past my outstretched arms
They parachute down
Trail their fingers
in the stream
Leave their trace
in ripples
sailing down the river


Bionote

Cheryl A. Van Beek has had poems published in Sandhill Review, Vox Poetica, Long Story Short Poetry, Five 2 One, Miracle Magazine and forthcoming at River Poets Journal, and Dandelion Farm Review. She has also written for a local newspaper. She is a caregiver for her mother and lives with her wonderful husband and their two cats in Florida, the “Land of Flowers,” where she tends an ever expanding garden of diverse wildlife including alligators and the occasional cow. <cvanbeek@tampabay.rr.com>

1 Poem by Melyssa G. Sprott

Florist

It’s-Too-Lates
and Please-Don’t-Leaves
flowers that
always deceive,
all of them—disbelieve.

Out-Of-Lucks
and Waste-Of-Times
flowers when
you lose your mind,
in this garden—so sublime.

Think-Me-Kinds
and Walk-Aways
flowers for
our dying days,
hundreds of them—gone away.

Forget-Me-Nows
and Slip-Your-Minds
flowers of
a different kind,
in this garden—most divine.


Bionote

Melyssa G. Sprott is dark and disturbing and has been expressing it with poetry and short horror stories since her birth. Her existence itself is an affront to all that is right and good in the world.  <sxyvxn79@yahoo.com>

1 Poem by Robert Karaszi

Cafe Angelika Revisited
Twilight's saffron haze reduced to memory
as light strengthens its spars over the horizon
silhouetted gossamer, woven upon ash wood and hedge
taut like strings on a violin

from my terrace down;
closely packed houses, roof tops
gnawing at the pith of the air, where starlings wings
stretch for sunshine through eastward glints

I recall factories and windmills,
wheeling under huddled clouds
across the contoured path of the Danube
where low tide exposes rockweed, tangled like knotted hair

I remember omnibuses nosing northward
towards Cafe Angelika; over mocha layered crepes
the first kiss gleaned from your lips,
revived this weary traveler


Bionote

In 1990 Robert worked as a lyricist, singer/song writer for an independent record label where he also freelanced as a writer for upcoming artists. Today he leans towards writing more traditional poetry. Currently his work is forthcoming in The Tower Journal, Blue Hour Magazine, and Brevity Poetry Review. He resides in New Jersey and is active in poetry readings and various events. bobvander@verizon.net

3 Poems by ava bird

aliens are in

talking about aliens
used to be a faux-pas
but now
they're on every channel
every corner
in conversations overheard
email boxes
&
I heard
even my neighbors now!

talking
strangely,
I see ufo's all the time now too!
I used to think it was crazy
arizona stuff
but chemtrails spraying slime
are unidentified flying objects in the sky
who are they &
what do they want?
what in heavens are they spraying?

now, ufo's are a part of life
with so many aliens in hollywood
and venice beach
swimming with freaks
sand hags and
dudes in drag
on dank
cranking
stupid muscles
and aliens are washing up
on the beach these days!


birth is an out of body experience

birth is an out of body experience
like bowel movements:
what goes in these days
is what should come out
the other end
of a beginning
and the ending
 is always a new way
to begin again
anyway we look at it
we are always coming and going
going and coming
changing and growing
beginning and ending
though purgatory is a channel to pass through too
we can make the best of everything
anyway
 anywhere we find ourselves
its always a good time
to begin again
surrendering to
a brand new ending...


real change

sshhh!  
don't scare the white people!
don't disrupt their happy little lives
with white sugary pies
& lies like god and protein and fluoride
& oh my!
 how do we take it sometimes?!
 in the land of the not-so free
lost souls on pills, coke kills, ball thrills
toxic shock chills
awed over bills
from remote control gas and shit on cable
telecom taps
google spying
abel and cain babble
two bible thumping dicks that can't just get along! 
i mean, cant we all get along?
beyond borders, disorders, fears
 and new world orders
for peace and justice,
social democracy
responsibly conscious
pure harmony
real freedom
in the land of the free
 and home of the brave
revolutionary change makers of society


Bionote

ava bird is a pranic poet, author, writer and loves the pacific. the mother ocean womb provides  her with infinite creativity, amazing beauty and great changing waves and tides for awakeness.  inspired by the every moment,  ava bird also creates recipes of healthy edibles, magical elixirs, medicinal shakes, juices, produces fun events and free form poetry.  ompoem@hotmail.com

2 Poems by Donal Mahoney

After Burying a Wife

Were she here with me now,
by the waist I would raise her,
a chalice of wonder.

I’d bellow hosannas
and whirl her around,
tell her again that I love her,

press my face moist
in the pleats of her skirt,
ask her to sprinkle

phlox on the curls
of our children
if they are with her,

ask her to stay a while longer
while I do so much more
were she here with me now.


Postpartum Depression

A wound like that
doesn't leave a scar
because it never heals.

Fifty years ago
the doctors didn't
have a name for it

but that's no help
to Jimmy now.
Ginny's dead

and their six kids
have children of their own,
some of them in college.

The doctors know
how to treat it now.
They tell mothers

what to watch for
after giving birth.
They tell fathers, too,

but that's no help
to Jimmy
in his wheel chair

sitting in the lobby
of the nursing home
watching silent

movies of his life
flicker through his mind.
A rerun every day.

He can't even
speak about it
since the stroke. 

A wound like that
doesn't leave a scar
because it never heals.


Bionote

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Some of his earliest work can be found here: http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/  donalmahoney@charter.net

3 Poems by Dean K Miller

Collage

I awoke last night,
To the sound of rain.
Falling pieces of cellophane
Disappear upon the ground.

 Fog tiptoes over the valley floor.
A seed takes root,
Begins to grow.

Silence-
The children sleep.



Naked

And they with balding heads,
their half-dollar spectacles,
and beards that almost touch
the floor (when they lie down).


With smiling metaphors
and metaphysical similes,
and insights of all that’s nuclear,
I find it more–unclear.


Maybe it’s because I work
for a living–A real job
that pays real money,
which is always enough
to be starving,
but not an artist.


A love found by the ocean side,
or with the girl next door,
seemed foreign to me.
Maybe it just didn’t happen.
Or I blinked
at the wrong time.


And sure I thrill at
the sight
of an exotic dancer,
and see the statement she is making;
Except that she is naked.



Slowly Dying

I am sick of feeling sad
And tired of being broke.
Motivation has slipped away like
Sand through an hour glass.
Long days of toiling
Over setbacks, school and life
Will surely take their toll.
Like the winter that comes
Yearly, bringing death and cold,
Does my heart feel the sinking.
Yearning to be free
Inside I shoud be strong. But
Now I've found those feelings
Gone.


Bionote

Dean K Miller is a freelance writer living in Loveland, CO. He studied creative writing at Lewis and Clark College (Portland, OR) and Mt. Hood Community College (Gresham, OR.) His poem Naked first appeared in Torrid Literature Journal IV: The D.N.A. of the poet. Other poems have been published online. Miller is a 25 year employee for the FAA as an air traffic controller who enjoys fly fishing in his spare time and volunteers for the veteran’s support group Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing. He plans to publish his first book of essays in 2014 followed by a book of his poetry. Learn more at www.deankmiller.com. http://deankmiller.com deankmiller@live.com Twitter: @deankmiller

1 Poem by Jeremy Nathan Marks

with ache

with ache
my fingers feel the felt of bark

it swaddles old woman tree

old woman tree
who guards days
when winter pays the ticket

even the ancient keeper
of turn styles
trembles with his approach

old woman tree
she does not protest
the one kind act

dressed with snow
the old man dresses her wounds
puts her circles in a box

where i find her

with ache-


Bionote

Jeremy Nathan Marks is an American who came to Canada seven years ago and can’t decide if the cows he sees in his dreams are fat or thin. By moving away from his native land he somehow has become more connected with his roots. Poetry and photography are his Muses while the PhD he came here to do has become more like an overstayed guest. His work has been published in The Blue Hour, Lake: A journal of arts and environment, Wilderness House Literary Review, Northern Cardinal Review, at The Camel Saloon, Vox Poetica and over at Nostrovia! Poetry. You can follow his work at his blog: http://thesandcounty.wordpress.com/ and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/thesandcounty?ref=hl marksjn@gmail.com.

1 Poem by Mark Kaplon

Nuzzled in the Bosom of Hills

On the roaming magnetic land
 lying flat, my eyes shocked awake

by the electric liquid light:

chilling winds do not chill me
I know no harm can hold me
even a killing wound will only
seep me back into the stars...

be seeping out from me:

into the float of her womb
and cradled from the cold--
a cradle-of-stars' hanging
 the milky way….


Bionote

Mark Kaplon lives with his wife on their sustainable family farm on the Big Island of Hawaii. His poetry can be found in recent issues of the Aurorean, Lilliput Review, contemporary haibun online, Right Hand Pointing, Frogpond, and elsewhere. markkaplon@hotmail.com

1 Poem by Valery Oisteanu

 Toast to “Zombie-itis”

Cheers for the year of the Metal Snake
 Bless us Our Lady of Perpetual Inhumanity
 Give us our dreams and nightmarish leftovers
 >From the wars and armed interventions
 The hot roses melt beneath the burning targets
 As the moon slithers upon wings of a shiny drone
 Please praise our saints of vulgar brutality
 Our wizards of rendition and water-boarding
 Unending killing cycles, sky smothered with red
 Mastering the banality of cruelty
 The landscapes of graves, the venom of revenge
 While masses of the dead will own the future
 Laser teeth for the aging dogs of war
 Bless us oh prophets of Caliphate and Sharia
 The sun growls, the clouds bark, the air crumbles
 Darkness evaporates into more darkness
 Behind nuclear mountains rivers run in reverse
 The crystal skull exhales chemical storm clouds
 A toast to a new intelligence, that sleeps among
 Night vision goggles and scorpions in flight
 A toast to zombie-itis!
 

Bionote

Valery Oisteanu is a writer and artist with international flavor. Born in Russia and educated in Romania. Immigrating to New York City in 1973, he has been writing in English for the past 40 years.
He is the author of 11 books of poetry, a book of short fiction and a book of essays: ”The AVANT-GODS”(in progress). A new collection of poetry with collage illustrations titled   “Perks in Purgatory” appeared in” Fly by Night Press” New York, 2010. For the past 10 years he is a columnist at New York Arts Magazine and art critic for Brooklyn Rail. He is also a contributing writer for French, Spanish & Romanian art and literary magazines (La Page Blanche, Art.es, Viata Romaneasca, Observatorul Cultural etc.) As an artist he exhibits collages and assemblages on a regular basses at the galleries in New York and also creates collages as covers and illustrations for books and magazines. As a performer he does theater plays and musical collaborations with jazz musicians, sessions known as Jazzoetry! zendadanyc@earthlink.net

2 Poems by Bruce McRae

Recalling Tomorrow

All summer long the light stewed in its cauldron . . .

Come winter, and Polaris is a hinge,
arctic overflow a pivot, a wild-eyed fulcrum,
the storms longing for more, for something better.

Such as the homesick girl who’s pining for love,
for her cat and its calico kittens,
for the lovers and secrets tucked away softly.
The girl writing in her candy diary.
Who quarreled with a jaybird,
consoled a rosebud, wept in a garden shed.
Who possesses rainbows for brains,
and a dab of hope among the hindrances.

Snow falling in the terrarium,
and the girl is remembering
quotes from Wittgenstein and poems of Poe,
recalling an oar trailing through water,
and a kiss so tender her god has stopped speaking,
the earth jarred and night succumbed,
her inch-high god turning away in shame,
in divine terror.


Mud And Leather

The soul sounds like a breath
being held against its wishes.
It’s not a town, it’s a sea
fed by glacial waters.
It’s a ghostly presence,
a stand-in for an absent God.
I don’t know what the soul is.

There’s a glimmering mirage
in the theory of a desert.
But that’s no soul.
Light’s dappling reflections
are not a soul.
Surely no soul is a clot
of sticks and feathers.

And there’s no soul here,
in the rind of a lemon.
In the house of prayers
no soul dares reside.
It’s not this serpent.
Not this cut to the skin.

If I have to say I’ll say
the soul is a shadow
cast by an alien sun.
If forced to talk
I’ll speak of nothing.

To say, the soul is a shelter
from the body’s weather.


Bionote

Originally from Niagara Falls Ontario, Pushcart-nominee Bruce McRae is a musician who has spent much of his life in London and British Columbia. He has been published in hundreds of periodicals and anthologies. His first book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ is available from the Silenced Press website or via Amazon books. To hear his music and view more poems visit his website: www.bpmcrae.com. bpmcrae@live.com

3 Poems by Valentina Cano

Childhood

The house had a roof made like thoughts.
Tangled up and furred,
the straw threatened to catch fire
each New Year’s.
We lived beneath it as mushrooms would,
four capped heads
growing in the dampness and warmth.
The gurgling of our soft limbs
the only needed sound.
A house lined with pebbles,
ones through which I used
to kick anger (the simplest of sieves).
A house crackling with all
we’d have to leave behind.


Chasing Zero

Thinner
A word that ticks inside me
like a beetle’s voice.
Croaks and sighs.
Less tissue,
less muscle,
less everything that pushes
against my sausage skin.
I want pockets of nothing,
air bubbles I can puncture open
and lay flat
like water-filled calluses.
The temptation
to be less to be more.


Palm Reading

The line slashing her palm
in two shouldn’t waver.
It should be a measure
of years of uninterrupted
breathing and brushing of teeth.
There should be no need
to gather time’s puckered edges
and sew them into clumsy patchwork.
Hoping seams will hold
another minute.
With luck, another hour.


Bionote

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, A Narrow Fellow, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Rem Magazine, Structo, The 22 Magazine, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Niteblade, Tuck Magazine, Ontologica, Congruent Spaces Magazine, Pipe Dream, Decades Review, Anatomy, Lowestof Chronicle, Muddy River Poetry Review, Lady Ink Magazine, Spark Anthology, Awaken Consciousness Magazine, Vine Leaves Literary Magazine, Avalon Literary Review, Caduceus,White Masquerade Anthology and Perhaps I'm Wrong About the World. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize.You can find her here: http://carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com valca85@aol.com


1 Poem by Josh Lisiuk

Fallen Angel 

Slumped and depressed within utopia, grief in the Garden of Eden
Tortured by relentless doubt, plagued by a harrowing indecision?
Is she really worth the highest treason?
He cast his dice, the decisions made, he’s leaving perfection.

The verdict to desert heaven, just renounce nirvana and leave the excellence of above
All for human woman, all for the influential pursuit of a mortal love,
For the messenger imprison by her elegance and captured when she sings,
He retires from his place within the cherub choir,
Removes his halo and relinquish his golden wings.

This morose monotony and belated boredom by the flawless infinity
Slamming the pearly gates behind him and departing thought purgatory
Stood upon the edge of endlessness, Michael and Gabriel chasing in distress
Ignoring the virtuous angelic warning calls. He falls.
Then plummet from the summit to answer her heart felt prayers
 Never again to see the golden gaits and the universal crystal stairs

Falling, fallen, fell
He knows he will suffer to the burning fires of hell
But He longs to kiss her,
Awaken dormant senses to experience the delicate touch of her skin
Lost in his deadly desire, to disregard heaven is the ultimate sin
To abandon heaven above,
All for mortal love,
And how do I know this fateful tale, this beautiful story?
For I am still waiting for an angel to fall for me.


Bionote

I am a 23 year old poet from Manchester, England. I currently live as a musician but writing poems has always been a passion. My favourite author's is William Blake. I have a fascination with mysticism and ancient magic as well as old greek manuscripts from homer. I frequently perform my poetry at my gigs in Manchester. If you would like to read more please follow my facebook where i try to post poems/artwork as often as possible: https://www.facebook.com/warriorpoetpresents. warriorpoetrecordings@gmail.com

1 Poem by Nicholas Damion Alexander

VALLEY SONG

The valley is a wonderful spectacle
of color: pink poi, red hibiscus,
golden sunflowers; all arranged masterfully
as if by an expert florist.

When the sun shines sincerely
on leaf surface, it sparkles
like a coin; giving the valley a sheen
synonymous to piety.

You marvel at the miracle that is Nature;
the awesome opening of the flower
the brilliant bleat of the goat-

a sound that energizes the valley
like the splendid scrapings of crickets
straight through the night.


Bionote

I am a teacher of English and Philosophy. I am also a poet. My works have been published in The Jamaica Gleaner, The Jamaica Observer, Caribbean Voice, Tongues of the Ocean, The Caribbean Writer, Small Axe: sx salon, Poets against War, The Cartier Street Review, Auckland Poetry, The Black Collegian, Angelfire, Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge, Eos, Truml, Poemhunter, The First Cut, The View from Here, Snow Monkey, The Weary Blues, The Cynic Online, Poets Online, United World Poets, Nazar Look, Wulfstan, The Rusty Nail, Poem Share, The Screech Owl and the 'Calabash' anthology So Much Things To Say. In 2008 I was awarded a fellowship with Calabash International Writers' Workshop.In 2011, I was featured on e-Buffet's online magazine: "Postcards from the people of Earth". In 2012, I was featured in Squid Inc.(UK), B-Gina and Dagda. <jamaicayouth@yahoo.com>                

3 Poems by B.Z. Niditch

HERMETIC MARCH

A morning
as ordinary
as oats
watching a sled
in a lost season
recover a child
with a crushed arm
now abscessed thoughts
rescue on blue hills.


ALONG THE DOCK

I have lost
our reciprocal letters
of my childhood friend
when he suddenly
passed out of my life
outside the sea home
now harboring pebbles
to throw back
in the ocean's wave
when we built
the orange kayak
reflecting as the sun
gleams on a torn
blue envelope.


4 AM

French bread
resembling a
quarter moon
murdered
on the granite table
an hour ago
by the tentative night

The artist
drawn to exhaustion
of a lost landscape
in solitude
clothed
by sleeplessness.


Bionote

B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher. His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest);  Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.  He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts. bzniditch@gmail.com

2 Poems by jackelin j jarvis

GOLDIE IN DREAMLAND

Enlightened beings for thee I hear
Brought to the table with belly's clear
Endowed with gurgles, gas, and hiccups
Bear claws and muzzles and Goldie in chair

Sleepless thoughts rise in bubbles
Glide away into earthly hollows
Rooted knocker awakens whom?
Underbreast a woodland, in twigs and stubbles

Hearing song so softly uttered
In a place beyond dream so craftly cluttered
Swinging a skirt marked with red and gold
Is locks covered with a cream-hooded shutter

Wind abode with signs of tempest
Inching to reclasp that path-like nest
Back to the place where once she slept
Back to the place where she met three guests


A BITTER WOOD

In a bitter wood stood a tree scarred with ax
next to him an oak burled by sapping wax

Down the way an odd hole murking with wet
was raising a red wood tree which protruded from its depths

Its crown was inhabited by beings in balls fluttering about its leaves
so woe to those whose hearts bittered while chopping up the trees

The spirits of the trees bonded to the red dwarfs
in a bitter wood where micro-tear threads flew then morphed

With each wound the birch and maple's veins would ooze
Lutins turned red, whence went to bruise

Who would do such a violent thing?
For wood or paper, not fit for a king

For the screams of the trees spooked the hobs people
a fleeing of bees rang the highest steeple

Dragonflies, fireflies, and butterflies so ill...
guarded a gate before a sill
Marred with unlived life and smothered and stilled
in a bitter wood such hearts were minified and chilled


Bionote

Born in Springfield Massachusetts home of Dr. Suess, I began my artistic journey by way of organ lessons
at the age of seven. Not until I was thirty-six did I know I had a poetess within. It was in Italy
in the village of Rocca Priora southeast of Rome where my inner life had been renewed and many
gifts were unleashed. As of late, I've published poetry with Miller's Pond Magazine, authored the book
"The Devils of Rome Made Me Do It", and a book called Aphorisms Anytime. Currently, I live in Connecticut with my dearest grandmother Lucy, where I can draw, create stories, poems and other written works. jqquie@yahoo.it

2 Poems by Cindy Rickey

Late Night in the Lowcountry:
Don’t let de hag ride ya


Dank humid smells of pluff mud and salt
drift heavily through the night
and permeate the souls
of humans and animals in the Lowcountry

Geechee songs of mourning
are held captive under the fog
as they try to rise above
to reach the elusive light of the moon

While hermaphrodite rushes of tidal marshes
sway and press against each other
as they reflect the slow sensuality
of Lowcountry lovers

Gullah women rest from daily toil
as the root doctors moan
and their secrets sleep
in the weaves of sweetgrass baskets

Spanish moss hangs low
over murky brackish creeks
as primitive alligators slowly swim
hungry for their fleshy meals

Red boo hags pass by on their nightly rides
of Southern belles and Confederate men
who lean brooms against bedposts
in protection

And the salt water and creek water
converge and become one
as they find their way
through the salt marsh maze

While humans stumble and trip
as they dream of their darkest fears
and reach for the solace
of their lovers’ warm touch


For Jean-Louis “Jack” Kerouac
En Souvenir


The undertaking was
so hard so driven
this inner search for
peace and truth
on crisscross railroad cars
and marijuana highways
in jazz riffs and prose streams
with yab-yum bodhisattvas

He flew too close to the sun
the wax melted
in long slow drips
in Florida
and he drowned while blowing
in an alcohol red sea

too soon at 47


Bionote

I am a poet and photographer and have published a book of poetry entitled A Year in the Life of an Unemployed Poet.  I was a 2011 winner of the NYC Office of Cultural Affairs and Mayor Bloomberg’s Poetweet contest in honor of National Poetry Month, published in MetroNY and picked up the next day by The New York Times blog.  One of my poems was also selected by the NYC Office of Cultural Affairs to appear on their FaceBook page in honor of Poem in Your Pocket Day, 2011.  My poetry has been published in several issues of Avocet, A Journal of Nature Poetry and Avocet Weekly.  I have also been published in Blueline; Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine; The Mountaineer; and On Your Mark and Sacred Visions, publications of the Blue Door Gallery.  To read more of my poetry or see some of my photography, please visit my website at www.cindyrickey.com. carickey1@gmail.com

1 Poem by Linda Benninghoff

Owl in Flight

There is no provender
where she is in late winter
and coming spring, no mice, rats,
the blue nestlings of crows.
She will not stay and sing
of heaven like the other birds;
today her deep notes
speak to other things,
the fickleness of the wind,
the food thinning,
if there is a hell,
and if it is amongst us,
in the shadows,
the cold,
the hunger.

Instead she flies,
tail outstretched,
fleeing the spring and its newness,
wings never losing their texture and arc.


Bionote

Linda Benninghoff most recently published in Mipoesias, Verse Wisconsin and Agenda.  She has an MA in English with an emphasis on creative writing.  She lives with her dog behind a state park, and this dog has gone through two sets of trainers. benningln@aol.com

1 Poem by Brett Stout

The Orthodoxy of Disgruntled Aliens

carbon based beings,

with
lust like rats
we’re
caged and grotesque
from
life until death,

skirting and breeding
in the sewers of life
underground and rarely seen
poking their beady little eyes out
from the depths
the depths of despair
it’s a feeling I know well
and so do you,

carbon based beings,

with
lust like rats
we’re
caged and grotesque
from
life until death,

a concubine of
liars and hypocrites
all smiles on the outside,

and
demonic brutality
awaiting everyone on the inside
a handshake extended
while holding a sharpened knife
in the other
forgive me for trusting
friends
girls
and guidance counselors,

drive and ambition
cubicles and luxury automobiles
a sign of weakness
be
nothing
be
no one
in the end
we’re just
bloated organs
and decaying Periodic Tables
covered in maggots,

carbon based beings,

with
lust like rats
we’re
caged and grotesque
from
life until death.


Bionote

Brett Stout is a 34-year-old writer and artist. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and Paramedic. He writes while mainly hung-over on white lined paper in a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC. He published his first novel of prose and poetry entitled "Lab Rat Manifesto" in 2007. anticondoart@yahoo.com

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from breach of this warranty. At the same time, 
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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.

* All poetic and photographic works are carefully read/viewed 
year round on a rolling basis for PP's spring, summer, autumn or winter issue, 
to be released respectively on 5 May, August, November and February;

* No author information in your submission please, except your name, 
and email address (which we will include in your bionote 
upon acceptance/posting unless you tell us not to do so)  
- we follow a blind submission policy, 
and will ask you for a brief 3rd-person bionote upon acceptance;

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

* Although we wish to pay our poets and buy certain rights from them,
 there is no money exchange involved, at least not for now, 
except a genuine shared love for art and wisdom;

* Please send up to 5 of your best shorter poems each time 
by pasting them all within the body of your email,
to editors.pp@gmail.com
or visual artworks as individually separate attachments. 
Before acceptence, we will NOT open any attachments/files
 for virus/spam-related concerns, but we may ask you 
to send the accepted work as an attachment;

*  Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance, 
your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;

* All submitted poems or responses to interviews may be posted on our facebook 
or other networking vehicles for promotional purposes;

* Our response-time is 6-8 weeks at latest, usually shorter than 3 weeks: 
since we never give anyone any 'rejection notice,' please feel free 
to do whatever you want to with your submission
 if you do not get any response/acceptance from PP within 60 days
 after you send it over to us. In other words: 
only those accepted will get a reply. 
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!


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SPECIAL CALL 

FOR POETRY SUBMISSION TO 

CANATEEN POETRY



In our upcoming summer issue, 
we will feature a group of poems written by Canadian teens 
to promote interest in poetry among Canadian teenagers or high school students.
In addition to those listed under our normal guidelines,
here are a few more things to note: 
Title: Canateen Poetry: A Special Collection 
Date of Release: August 5, 2014.
Deadline for Submissions: July 31, 2014.
Qualification: Any teenager studying or living in Canada

POETRY PACIFIC(2.4): BACK COVER


POETRY PACIFIC

[Winter Issue 2014]

Photo Credit: Zhijian Tao



Tuesday, 5 November 2013

POETRY PACIFIC(2.3): COVER PAGE

Autumn Meditating: Photo Credit - Zhijian Tao

PP: Editor's Notes/Pushcart Nominations

The following is the official list of Poetry Pacific's nominations for the Pushcart Prize for our publication year of 2013::

1. Robert Sheppard: Moby Dick
2. Koon Woon: A Season in Hell
3. Niall O'Connor: House
4. Stephen Page: Transformations
5. Diablo: The Doomsday
6. Allen Qing Yuan: China Charm: For Yuan Lai

Beginning in every October, we feature the nominated poems/poets individually on our facebook for our readers, friends, and/or associates.

This is how we nominate our poets for the Pushcart Prize::

1. Time: Mid-October every year;
2. Candidates: All the poets/poems and/or other literary materials featured in Poetry Pacific during its publication year (which started in October of the previous calendar year);
3. Process: As a rule or in principle, we select one most page-viewed piece from each issue, and the remaining two in terms of editors' preferences and the number of pageviews. Apparently, the first 4 choices are highly democratic, since they are actually made by our readers; the other 2 are less 'politically correct' as they are more subjective.

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In August, we upgraded PP to a publishing house temporarily called Poetry Pacific Press. Before we launch our press's own website (hopefully on the Remembrance Day of 2013), we would like to make the following announcements::

1. In August, we published Allen Qing Yuan's short collection titled Traffic Light as our very first trial-operation, which is available at http://www.lulu.com/shop/allen-qing-yuan/traffic-light/paperback/product-21138162.html;

2. With our Chinese partner, we published in September a bilingual (English and Chinese) reader titled 300 New Chinese Poems (1917-2012), a collection of 'best' contemporary Chinese poetry, which includes hundreds of Chinese poets who have receive or deserve to receive much critical/readerly attention for the past 100 years or so;

3. We plan to publish a yearly anthology in print next year, including the 'best' and most popular poems featured in our e.journal since it was launched on the Remembrance day of 2012;

4. We hope to find a volunteer web-master/designer or intern to help develop the website of our e.journal Poetry Pacific, and welcome anyone interested in the position to contact us at editors.pp@gmail.com or yuans@shaw.ca.
------------------------

Beginning from now, we are to feature the best poems available to us that have been translated into English. In this issue, we have a special section devoted to a group of Chinese poems presented in both the Chinese and English versions. By doing so, we hope to promote poetic/cultural exchange between English and Chinese, the two most widely used languages in today's world.





PP's First Poetry Anthology Just Released

dear PP friends,

the very first bi-lingual (english and chinese) anthology of contemporary chinese poetry 300 NEW CHINESE POEMS (1917—2012) we published here at Poetry Pacific Press in september has just become available. pasted below please find an introduction to this ambitious project. since 29 november 2013, we have been posting some selections every week on our facebook; and beginning from this issue, we will feature 5 poets from the anthology for your reading pleasure.

we hope this is a good way to promote the poetic/cultural exchange between english and chinese, two major languages used by most human beings on earth today.

if anyone by chance is interested in getting a copy, please free welcome to contact us at yuans@shaw.ca or editors.pp@gmail.com or .

now the introduction itself...

The Chinese New Poetry: The Brilliance of 100 Yeas
                                    — Preface to 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012)
                                    By Diablo

Since the year of 1917, the new Chinese poetry has a history of 100 years, during which the Chinese nation has witnessed a series of drastic and important events such as the May Fourth Movement, Confused Fighting between the Warlords, Anti-Japanese War, KMT-CPC Civil War, “Anti-Rightist Movement”, “Movement of Cleaning Politics, Economics, Organization, and Ideology”, the Cultural Revolution, April Fifth Movement, Black 1989, and Reform and Opening up to the Outside World. So much so that it can be said that the 100 years, whether from the angles of history and culture or politics and art, are unexceptionally filled with briers, distress, chaos caused by war, struggles, famine, slaughter, hue and cry, as well as tribulations.
In such a dark and bloody historical context, the new Chinese poetry has undergone stages from its creation to its experiment to its construction: the process shows its utmost fortitude in being undaunted by repeated setbacks. In the past 100 years, there have emerged a host of excellent or great poets who have produced many important and immortal pieces, which have been given attention to the international poetry circle. Unquestionably, it is time to exhibit the whole process and the artistic features of the new Chinese poetry by translating and introducing classic new Chinese poems to overseas countries. Based on this point, through discussions with renowned poetry critics, translators and scholars from 8 universities respectively located in Tianjin, Beijing, Chongqing, Shaanxi, Zhejiang, Hunan, Anhui, and Fujian, etc., we have reached a broad consensus at the end of 2010, namely, to compile a Chinese-English textbook of selected new Chinese poetry, which is tantamount both to the brilliant achievement of 100 years of the new Chinese poetry and to the great tradition of Chinese poetry. Our target is: “with a copy of Chinese-English 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012) in your hand, you can get an overview of the history of 100 years of the new Chinese poetry and the representative pieces. Meanwhile, Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012) provides a new view point and breakthrough point for those who are engaged in the research of new Chinese literature, while providing text reference for the future development and construction of Chinese poetry. What is of particular importance is that the Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012), by dint of the extensive and effective international communication system established by IPTRC (The International Poetry Translation and Research Centre) through 18 years, the new Chinese poetry is brought into the whole process of world humanistic order, while providing a true, vivid, and profound landscape of language and mind for the 100 years of course of thought of the Chinese nation.”
We all know that since its birth in 1917, the new Chinese poetry is closely connected with the poetic art of foreign countries during its development. In the information age of globalization, the new Chinese poetry is to be more communicative and interactive with the international poetry circles in a more direct and extensive manner, and one of the most effective ways is to compile large-scale Chinese-English bilingual poetry readers. Which bespeaks our original intention to compile this Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012).
In my opinion, poetry writing is writing of the mind. In other words, we shall regard the Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012) as the miniature of 100 years of the spirit or the mind of the Chinese nation. Leafing through the Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012), we can feel the beat and rhythm of each heart: the powerful poetic force, like surging waves in the Yangtze River charging eastward, is exhibited in each poetic line …
Compared with other selections of the new Chinese poetry, this Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012) is found to have the following features:

 (1) In selecting poems, consideration is first given to their artistry and the construction of linguistic text form. While paying attention to the chosen works’ significance in literary history, the modern sense and artistic value (or aesthetic value) of the poems are highlighted.
 (2) In addition to poets from Mainland China, Taiwan, Hong Kong and Macao, overseas Chinese poets are also included. The book is a thorough examination of the new Chinese poetry since 1917, which exhibits the free and independent human spirit. The book is a selection of the new Chinese poetry with the longest time span and the most extensive areas.
 (3) The included poets are in the order of their dates of birth and, after their poems, included is an introduction to the author.
 (4) In the context of global economy and information integration, the book endeavors, in bilingual form of Chinese and English, to exhibit the development and artistic achievement of the new Chinese poetry in the past 100 years objectively, thoroughly, and comprehensively.
 (5) The English translation of this book composes of two types: poetic translation and academic translation, in which poetic translation is dominant.

It is known that there are more common points than different points between two languages; therefore, interlingual translation is possible. The translatability between languages becomes the theoretical basis for translation. However, this does not exclude the differences between languages. Generally speaking, the translation of poetry, among all literary translations, is the most challenging. And if the translator happens to be a poet himself, his translation is usually superior to that done by a non-poet.
Translation, in a real sense, is for a poem or a life to be reborn in another context of words, like Phoenix Nirvana. It is my belief that this Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012), under the collaboration of Chinese and overseas poetry translators and sinologists, is to regain life in the world of English, sparkling with charming artistic rays.
Here, I would like to list the names included in the Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012)(The included poets are in the order of their dates of birth):

Lu Xun, Shen Yinmo, Liu Bannong, Hu Shi, Guo Moruo, Lai He, Xu Zhimo, Wang Duqing, Wen Yiduo, Li Jinfa, Bing Xin, Zhang Wojun, A Long, Wang Jingzhi, Liang Zongdai, Zhu Xiang, Luo Niansheng, Dai Wangshu, Sun Dayu, Feng Zhi, Zang Kejia, Li Guangtian, Su Jinsan, Yin Fu, Ai Qing, Bian Zhilin, Qin Zihao, He Qifang, Xin Di, Ji Xian, Zhong Dingwen, Tian Jian, Chen Jingrong, Hang Yuehe, Mu Dan, Du Yunxie, Cai Qijiao, Tang Shi, Peng Yanjiao, Tang Qi, Zheng Min, Zhou Mengdie, Hu Pinqing, Chen Xiuxi, Yuan Kejia, Huan Fu, Zeng Zhuo, Liang Zhihua, Lü Yuan, Yang Lingye, Tu An, Niu Han, Shi Tianhe, Lin Hengtai, Kong Fu, Xia Jing, Gong Liu, Yu Guangzhong, Luo Fu, Li Qing, Luo Men, Xiang Ming, Wen Xiaocun, Rong Zi, Yang Huan, Bai Hua, Shang Qin, Chiu Pin, Zheng Ling, Shu Lan, Chan Sirisuwat, Loiushahe, Zhang Mo, Ya Xian, Ma Boliang, Shao Yanxiang, Zheng Chouyu, Han Han, William Marr, Chang Yao, Lee Kuei-shien, Dai Tian, Wai-lim Yip, Wu An, Bai Qiu, Zhang Shijian, Lin Ling, Han Mu, Hsu Chicheng, Lin Huanzhang, Yang Mu, Shi Ying, Huang Xiang, Du Guoqing, Gao Ge, Ya Mo, Hua Wanli, Lan Haiwen, Yun He, Zhang Cuo, Xi Murong, Fu Tianlin, Zhou Tao, Fu Tianhong, Li Minyong, Shi Zhi, Zhang Ye, Leung Ping-kwan, Luo Qing, Mo Yu, Bei Dao, Jiang He, Mang Ke, Shen Qi, Duo Duo, Li Gang, Li Xiaoyu, Zhou Lunyou, Li Yufang, Shu Ting, Hai Shang, Yang Zongze, Yan Li, Wang Xiaolong, Yu Jian, Yang Ze, Liang Xiaobin, Yang Lian, Zhai Yongming, Wang Xiaoni, Mao Han, Gu Cheng, Bai Hua, Xia Yu, Lin Hua, Ouyang Jianghe, Zi Wu, Zhang Shuguang, Liu Cheng, Yang Ke, Da Xie, Zuo An, Wang Jiaxin, Yuan Changming, Liao Yiwu, Wang Shunbin, Yang Ran, Ye Shibin, Wei Ming, Yan Yuejun, Bei Ling, Lv De’an, Luo Yihe, Fang Wenzhu, Han Dong, Meng Lang, Jidi Majia, Chen Dongdong, Chen Kehua, Lu Yimin, Zhang Zao, Ding Dang, Liu Manliu, Xue Yang, Yang Li, Lin Yaode, Hong Ying, Aerdingfu Yiren, Liang Xiaoming, Xi Chuan, Huang Canran, Zhong Dao, Li Yawei, Zhao Xingzhong, Chu Zi, Jie, Chen Meiming, Hai Zi, Na Ye, Nan Ou, Mo Mo, Zhu Likun, Zang Di, Tu Ya, Diablo, Shen Wei, Yao Hui, Xiao Hai, Feng Chu, Shu Cai, Xie Yixing, Gu Ma, Ma Ke, Yi Sha, Wei Se, Zhang Zhizhong, Ye Zhou, Mo Xue, Pu Dong, Lei Pingyang, Yu Nu, Ma Qidai, Ge Mai, Hou Ma, Zhao Siyun, Xi Du, Tang Shi, Xu Jiang, Chen Xianfa, Lan Lan, A Mao, Yang Jian, Wu Touwen, Zhou Sese, Yang Lin, An Qi, Luo Guangcai, Zhou Yunpeng, Jin Lingzi, Meng Ling, Dong Yue, Di Bai, Zhao Weifeng, Lin Zhongcheng, Huang Lihai, Yao Bin, Yang Xie, Duo Yu, Yin Lichuan, Li Xiaoluo, Hai Xiao, Mu Cao, Jiang Fei, Yang Jun, Zhu Jian, Shen Haobo, Ding Cheng, Li Cheng’en, Wu Xiaochong

After three years of efforts, now the Chinese-English textbook of 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012) is to be published for the readers, both Chinese and overseas, to appreciate and criticize.
In the process of compiling this book, I have been encouraged and supported by Chinese and overseas poets, critics, translators, and sinologists, hence my homage and indebtedness to all of them!
Poetry is immortal, and art is eternal.
The foregoing is my preface.

                                                                                        June 28, 2013; Chongqing, china

bionote of the editor 

Diablo (1965— ), whose original mane is Zhang Zhi, English name Arthur Zhang, and pen name Wuyuelou (Moonless Tower), with ancestral place of Nan’an of Chongqing, was born in Phoenix Town of Baxian County, Sichuan Province. He is doctor of literature and honorary doctor in humanism, and has successively been engaged in many professions. He is the current chairman of the International Poetry Translation and Research Centre, executive editor of The World Poets Quarterly (multilingual), editor-in-chief of the English version of World Poetry Yearbook, embassador in China of the International Poets Association in Chile, and foreign academician of Greek International Literature & Arts and Science Academy. He began to publish his literary and translation works since 1986. Some of his literary pieces have been translated into over twenty foreign languages, such as English, French, German, Japanese, Russian, Greek, Spanish, Portuguese, Polish, Romanian, Danish, Hungarian, Bengalese, Italian, Swedish, Korean, Slavic-Mongolian, Serbian, Hebrew, Arabic, Slovak, Croatian, Bulgarian, Macedonian, and Albanian, etc., to be included into dozens of domestic and overseas anthologies. He has ever won poetry prizes from Greece, Brazil, America, Israel, France, India, Italy, Austria, Lebanon, and Macedonia. His main works include poetry collections such as RECEITA (Portuguese-English-Chinese), SELECTED POEMS OF DIABLO (English), POETRY BY ZHANG ZHI (German-English-Portuguese), Selected Poems of Diablo (Chinese-English), collection of poetry criticism entitled Series Essays on Avant-Garde Chinese Poets, etc. In addition, he has edited Selected Poems of Contemporary International Poets (English-Chinese), Selected New Chinese Poems of 20th Century (Chinese-English), A Dictionary of Contemporary International Poets (multilingual), The Book Series of World Poets (Bilingual), and Chinese-English Textbook 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012) , etc.

bionote of the tranlating editor 

Zhang Zhizhong (1966— ), his ancestral place is Boai County of Henan Province. He successively obtained a bachelor’s degree in English language and literature from Zhengzhou University, a master’s degree in English and American literature from Tianjin Foreign Studies University, and a doctor’s degree in translation studies from Nankai University, and he has done his postdoctoral study in aesthetics of poetry translation at Henan University. He is now director of Translation Studies Center of Tianjin Normal University, and professor of Foreign Languages College of Tianjin Normal University. Meanwhile, he is guest editor of The World Poets Quarterly, vice chairman of International Poetry Translation and Research Centre, and translation reviser of New Poetry, a large-scale periodical sponsored by the Research Institute of Lierature & Art of Chongqing University of Technology. He has done a huge amount of translation, including over 50 classic American movies (English-Chinese), the 84 episodes of TV play The Romance of Three Kingdoms and the movie entitled The Tale of Sister Liu (Chinese-English), etc. Until now, he has published 44 books (11 in collaboration with others), 70 academic papers, and over 3,500 translated poems. Besides, he has published his own poems. In October, 2003, he received scholarship from Nankai University; in November, 2003, he obtained Excellence Award in the 15th National Translation (Chinese-English) Competition for Youth Sponsored by Han Suyin; in December, 2005, he was entitled as the Best International Translator for 2005; in November, 2006, he won the Prize for Distinguished Translator in the 2nd World Poetry Prizes Sponsored by Dr. CHOI Laisheung; in March, 2007, he was entitled as the academic leader for 2006 by Henan Provincial Educational Bureau, and in September, 2011, he won the Translation Prize of “Contemporary Chinese Poetry Prizes (2000—2010)”.