Friday, June 1, 2007
Editor’s Note:
It’s so exciting to watch CSR become more absorbed in the world of poetry. Just the thought of it warms my heart. And of course, I love my review just as any parent loves their child. It has developed a smile that knows how to stagger around the farthest horizons. It has mastered a laughter that can hammer a rectangle and still manage to preserve one smoky color of gyre. My little whale smuggler leaps over rogue swells even when the kite’s tail begins to unravel. Guess you can see why it’s the apple of my lye. Say you feel the same freeway or my bank draft might become just another astringent garden rock with not much desert for a solution. No what I mean? So, while the coast waits for a roadmap of whipping wind, let’s dive in the red algae and see what June has to offer…
It’s so exciting to watch CSR become more absorbed in the world of poetry. Just the thought of it warms my heart. And of course, I love my review just as any parent loves their child. It has developed a smile that knows how to stagger around the farthest horizons. It has mastered a laughter that can hammer a rectangle and still manage to preserve one smoky color of gyre. My little whale smuggler leaps over rogue swells even when the kite’s tail begins to unravel. Guess you can see why it’s the apple of my lye. Say you feel the same freeway or my bank draft might become just another astringent garden rock with not much desert for a solution. No what I mean? So, while the coast waits for a roadmap of whipping wind, let’s dive in the red algae and see what June has to offer…
Vicki Thornton
One Gray February
Do you remember
picking blackberries
as rain ripe clouds
raced the sky
you said
the sweetest fruit
was always the hardest to find
thorns tore at my softness
I spat bitter fruit
from juice stained lips
only to discover
you told the truth
Flotsam
they float side by side
not touching or speaking
bumping into the flow of conversation
that laps their table with thirsty tongues
she lost in a whirlpool of thoughts
where the flotsam can’t reach shore
he treads water
adrift their girl cuts herself
bleeding for attention
their boy fights the tide
of a world he can’t yet fathom
they coast to the swell
of rolling music
his arms harbour her brittleness
allowed to lead her in this dance
their bodies swaying remembering
the rhythm of when they did care
they drift back to their seats
not touching or speaking
just drowning
at first
he feared his frail flesh
his own stark mortality
marked on cold concrete walls
he stared into rust stained waters
hoping to find strength
a belief in permanence
-the machines mocked him
the silence called to him
an emptiness waiting his word
he was God
his voice filled the nothing
made it whole
created an entity
in his own image
he looked to the storm slurred skies
to the blackness that boiled
capturing the greyness
he listened for a sound
confirmation that he
was not alone
-the silence echoed
now
the silence screams at him
words he doesn’t understand
he, who was God
shreds his name
till nothing
whole remains, discovers
He is nobody
Healing
i have a stone in my heart
the size of a three month
fetus
a cold weight fallen to my womb
betrayer of trust
carried and nurtured
in the coffin of my uterus
they
will tear it from me
take what is dead
while i am to go on
Living
One Gray February
Do you remember
picking blackberries
as rain ripe clouds
raced the sky
you said
the sweetest fruit
was always the hardest to find
thorns tore at my softness
I spat bitter fruit
from juice stained lips
only to discover
you told the truth
Flotsam
they float side by side
not touching or speaking
bumping into the flow of conversation
that laps their table with thirsty tongues
she lost in a whirlpool of thoughts
where the flotsam can’t reach shore
he treads water
adrift their girl cuts herself
bleeding for attention
their boy fights the tide
of a world he can’t yet fathom
they coast to the swell
of rolling music
his arms harbour her brittleness
allowed to lead her in this dance
their bodies swaying remembering
the rhythm of when they did care
they drift back to their seats
not touching or speaking
just drowning
at first
he feared his frail flesh
his own stark mortality
marked on cold concrete walls
he stared into rust stained waters
hoping to find strength
a belief in permanence
-the machines mocked him
the silence called to him
an emptiness waiting his word
he was God
his voice filled the nothing
made it whole
created an entity
in his own image
he looked to the storm slurred skies
to the blackness that boiled
capturing the greyness
he listened for a sound
confirmation that he
was not alone
-the silence echoed
now
the silence screams at him
words he doesn’t understand
he, who was God
shreds his name
till nothing
whole remains, discovers
He is nobody
Healing
i have a stone in my heart
the size of a three month
fetus
a cold weight fallen to my womb
betrayer of trust
carried and nurtured
in the coffin of my uterus
they
will tear it from me
take what is dead
while i am to go on
Living
Eddie Kilowatt
morning, love
pastel underwear
twisted and
dropped empty
on the hardwood floor.
I watched her walk
shaky legs to the bathroom,
slight steps in the morning
while I lay in slowing breath, after.
basking in my lion's roar grin
I looked around the foreign room
yawning from a futon not mine, thena few moments later
watched again amazed as she returned
stepping slow with a sheepish grin
faint horizontal lines through the blinds
moved across her body
and our arms and legs fit together
somehow innate
and as she lay again in to me
hair falling in my face
I tried to ignore
the scent of the
well practiced, silent
vomit
breath
against my cheek
lullaby
have you ever
heard someone
cry themselves
to sleep?
it's more distracting
than
snoring.
Happens
women are great but
they die.
they grow old
stretch out
misplace their teeth
forget their children’s names and
die.
one day
you’re watching how her legs look
again
standing in front of the sink,
watching her
breasts with weight
move
as she walks to the cupboard
and the next morning
she wakes up
tells you she has breast cancer
and dies, slowly
wearing a thin
pale blue gown
that never seems to cover her ass.
she's gone.
and all others
are cold stumps,
empty toilets
sitting in an alleyway.
it's a cruel thing they do,
those gods,
making our women suffer
as we wait in the hallway
pacing.
kitchen table
It’s 4:32 in the morning
I’m sitting in the kitchen
with
eye sting soft white-not enough
lights
listening to robins outside
through the windows closed
and maybe spring sun peeking
knowing
she’s playing with her clit
using a couple of fingers
rubbing like a little girl
curious and clumsy
as I listen to an ugly office wall clock
shuffle its time
left and right
above the door.
I’ll stay in the kitchen
for another cup
with my legs crossed under the table
and let her enjoy herself
while I do the same
3 raw eggs
it is not difficult
to speak of the frailty of humans
often,
habit is stronger than truth
give someone an apple
and how much they throw away when done
will tell you everything you need to know
about their upbringing
when you’ve become a spectator
no longer doing the things
that used to make you feel your pulse,
hang what’s left on your walls
as decoration
so you can remember when you used to
after moving,
I found a note in one of my record crates
that read:
HA!
3 raw eggs, serve that up!,
and decided to take it as a challenge
the people with nothing to smile about
will still laugh as though saying “Please kill me.”
every time
when you say “In bed!”
after someone reads their fortune cookie
morning, love
pastel underwear
twisted and
dropped empty
on the hardwood floor.
I watched her walk
shaky legs to the bathroom,
slight steps in the morning
while I lay in slowing breath, after.
basking in my lion's roar grin
I looked around the foreign room
yawning from a futon not mine, thena few moments later
watched again amazed as she returned
stepping slow with a sheepish grin
faint horizontal lines through the blinds
moved across her body
and our arms and legs fit together
somehow innate
and as she lay again in to me
hair falling in my face
I tried to ignore
the scent of the
well practiced, silent
vomit
breath
against my cheek
lullaby
have you ever
heard someone
cry themselves
to sleep?
it's more distracting
than
snoring.
Happens
women are great but
they die.
they grow old
stretch out
misplace their teeth
forget their children’s names and
die.
one day
you’re watching how her legs look
again
standing in front of the sink,
watching her
breasts with weight
move
as she walks to the cupboard
and the next morning
she wakes up
tells you she has breast cancer
and dies, slowly
wearing a thin
pale blue gown
that never seems to cover her ass.
she's gone.
and all others
are cold stumps,
empty toilets
sitting in an alleyway.
it's a cruel thing they do,
those gods,
making our women suffer
as we wait in the hallway
pacing.
kitchen table
It’s 4:32 in the morning
I’m sitting in the kitchen
with
eye sting soft white-not enough
lights
listening to robins outside
through the windows closed
and maybe spring sun peeking
knowing
she’s playing with her clit
using a couple of fingers
rubbing like a little girl
curious and clumsy
as I listen to an ugly office wall clock
shuffle its time
left and right
above the door.
I’ll stay in the kitchen
for another cup
with my legs crossed under the table
and let her enjoy herself
while I do the same
3 raw eggs
it is not difficult
to speak of the frailty of humans
often,
habit is stronger than truth
give someone an apple
and how much they throw away when done
will tell you everything you need to know
about their upbringing
when you’ve become a spectator
no longer doing the things
that used to make you feel your pulse,
hang what’s left on your walls
as decoration
so you can remember when you used to
after moving,
I found a note in one of my record crates
that read:
HA!
3 raw eggs, serve that up!,
and decided to take it as a challenge
the people with nothing to smile about
will still laugh as though saying “Please kill me.”
every time
when you say “In bed!”
after someone reads their fortune cookie
About Music - WMDJ
WMDJ are Photographer Peter Dixon, Poet Tom Kelly and musician/producer Steve Thompson. Together they have produced a multi media work called "Voices".
The VOICES Exhibition is an impressionistic look at the north-east corner of England. It ignores the Party City, the riverside loft apartments and the gastro-pubs. The collaborators leave that to others as they capture the world at the blunt edge of our society.
They work using new technologies, collaborating across distances and times using Internet applications to help evaluate and shape their ideas. The result however is more human than technological. The picture builds in a mix of music, voices and photographs that are both evocative and moving.
All three are from the area and have a long lineage of work relating to the north-east. VOICES‚ is what they call their project, one that is very close to their hearts. By the way, the collaboration is not a career move. And they mean it. To find out more about their unique form of musical “poetic justice" and hear Tom Kelly’s stunning poetry just click-on “sounds” at: www.stmedia.org/wmdj
Dorothee Lang
Rave
an overcast morning
but the sun rises just there
in the only stripe of sky
between cherry twigs
grays blend into rays of light
while a stone shadow
stretches into the breathing
of an asana posture
later, on the way to the bakery
a white raven circles
above a blocked crossing
when she returns
carrying the hazy warmth
of sesame bread rolls
in a news paper bag
the raven is still there sitting on a light
less street lampit looks for holes in the clouds
and cries like fear
*This poem previously appeared in Void Magazine - Dec. ‘06
Transition
she had been there, in the heart of Rome,
standing there, in front of the statues
while the sky was whitewashed
by blazing sunlight
"avanti, avanti," the guide had said
and so she had left, without a chance
to change words with the stones
or with her self
instead of a memory, she took
a photo to tint it like dusk,
later, in a night of mediterranean
October rain filled
with the lost tunes
of this place so far away
from where she had been
that day
One
one drop of water
falling into blue
creates perfect
centric waves
why can't we
be like water
when we fall
down
Swallow
When you have the hiccups
someone’s thinking of you
somewhere in the world,
my grandma explained to me once
while I sat in her kitchen
on my embroidered cushion
counting the tapestry roses
that grew in rows on the wall.
Tell me about your school day,
she would always say,
and I would tell her about
the fossils of birds, the way they
can last forever when they fall
to the ground in the right place
and how they are made to plates
to hang on the auditorium wall.
When I arrived too late for lunch
she told me not to worry,
the youngest and the oldest
have a right to be heedless,
she would state, and leave
the door accidentally open.
But what if I want
the hiccups to stop,
I asked one day, there,
between strawberry jars.
Then you drown a sugar cube
in vinegar and swallow it,
she said, and I thought
it was a joke until I tried.
Until this sweet sour taste
blended into the memory of her.
*This poem previously appeared in Eclectica Oct/Nov ‘06
Asleep
the forest, asleep
while i walk, while i take
a photo of trees covered
with frozen december dew
a single hour of sun rays
could wake the birds,
could melt the frost
and churn the sky to blue
back home, a line in a printed
interview, stating that i'm
someone else altogether, yet
somehow missed to be that one.
ich bin eigentlich ganz anders
aber ich bin nie dazu gekommen
folding away the newspaper i try
to imagine the tree who gave
its life for this line to be printed,
to be rooted in black on white.
Rave
an overcast morning
but the sun rises just there
in the only stripe of sky
between cherry twigs
grays blend into rays of light
while a stone shadow
stretches into the breathing
of an asana posture
later, on the way to the bakery
a white raven circles
above a blocked crossing
when she returns
carrying the hazy warmth
of sesame bread rolls
in a news paper bag
the raven is still there sitting on a light
less street lampit looks for holes in the clouds
and cries like fear
*This poem previously appeared in Void Magazine - Dec. ‘06
Transition
she had been there, in the heart of Rome,
standing there, in front of the statues
while the sky was whitewashed
by blazing sunlight
"avanti, avanti," the guide had said
and so she had left, without a chance
to change words with the stones
or with her self
instead of a memory, she took
a photo to tint it like dusk,
later, in a night of mediterranean
October rain filled
with the lost tunes
of this place so far away
from where she had been
that day
One
one drop of water
falling into blue
creates perfect
centric waves
why can't we
be like water
when we fall
down
Swallow
When you have the hiccups
someone’s thinking of you
somewhere in the world,
my grandma explained to me once
while I sat in her kitchen
on my embroidered cushion
counting the tapestry roses
that grew in rows on the wall.
Tell me about your school day,
she would always say,
and I would tell her about
the fossils of birds, the way they
can last forever when they fall
to the ground in the right place
and how they are made to plates
to hang on the auditorium wall.
When I arrived too late for lunch
she told me not to worry,
the youngest and the oldest
have a right to be heedless,
she would state, and leave
the door accidentally open.
But what if I want
the hiccups to stop,
I asked one day, there,
between strawberry jars.
Then you drown a sugar cube
in vinegar and swallow it,
she said, and I thought
it was a joke until I tried.
Until this sweet sour taste
blended into the memory of her.
*This poem previously appeared in Eclectica Oct/Nov ‘06
Asleep
the forest, asleep
while i walk, while i take
a photo of trees covered
with frozen december dew
a single hour of sun rays
could wake the birds,
could melt the frost
and churn the sky to blue
back home, a line in a printed
interview, stating that i'm
someone else altogether, yet
somehow missed to be that one.
ich bin eigentlich ganz anders
aber ich bin nie dazu gekommen
folding away the newspaper i try
to imagine the tree who gave
its life for this line to be printed,
to be rooted in black on white.
Uber Mensch
Seasong
Seawetsoil seawater seaair,
all becomese
afront.
Seagulls
fly low cooing..
See…
kids, colors; joyous
families promenade;
seagreen, seagrey, seablue
sea stroms sea music
at sea distance
see...life
Sea.
Death by life
Another October falls slowly and
burns my thatched heart. I'm awoken
from your dreams- the same song that
plays , when you walked naked
down the stairs; The yellow dawn dangling
by the gleam of your nose, the smell of all night
love. In a silent gun salute, my heart beats
twelve times a year. For us . Memories of the words
spoken with our eyes, trickle letter
after letter into the book of drying trees; All the poems
I wrote in March and read aloud to you late night
by the lone candle, get crushed by
strangers' oblivious feet. Leaf
by leaf,
I wither.
Autumn
Autumn
is here. Your
Memories
Wither
withe
with
wit
wi
w
.
.
.
.
Sixty Two Years
Sixty two
Years! How can they
do it?
To be married
that long, in fact a lifetime
like those
paired body parts that
work with each other,
Flexors extensors; Right
and left.
Together, all through
those
Wonders , winters
even
World Wars.
Ask them that
and
they shake in delight
holding hands proudly ,
frail on their own but perfect
together,
Not two separate
lives, but
two insepa-
rable
Dreams tugged
unto each other
like a Sweden
embraced in a Norway.
For ever
for memory.
For
a
lifetime.
In search of my K
There is
a dedalaus, K and
an always...Inside.
They are not mine.
(Sayswho??well, jamie, franz and mikey over there)
There is a cappuccino,
a notebook and
a german pen -
Outside.
They are not mine-
Either.
(Says who??? - Master card)
Heck!
even my children
are only half mine…
(says who?- biology lecturer)
but these:
they come,
ricochet,
stay,
go away…....
These
are mine
and
mine alone…(hahaha!!)
These words
Seasong
Seawetsoil seawater seaair,
all becomese
afront.
Seagulls
fly low cooing..
See…
kids, colors; joyous
families promenade;
seagreen, seagrey, seablue
sea stroms sea music
at sea distance
see...life
Sea.
Death by life
Another October falls slowly and
burns my thatched heart. I'm awoken
from your dreams- the same song that
plays , when you walked naked
down the stairs; The yellow dawn dangling
by the gleam of your nose, the smell of all night
love. In a silent gun salute, my heart beats
twelve times a year. For us . Memories of the words
spoken with our eyes, trickle letter
after letter into the book of drying trees; All the poems
I wrote in March and read aloud to you late night
by the lone candle, get crushed by
strangers' oblivious feet. Leaf
by leaf,
I wither.
Autumn
Autumn
is here. Your
Memories
Wither
withe
with
wit
wi
w
.
.
.
.
Sixty Two Years
Sixty two
Years! How can they
do it?
To be married
that long, in fact a lifetime
like those
paired body parts that
work with each other,
Flexors extensors; Right
and left.
Together, all through
those
Wonders , winters
even
World Wars.
Ask them that
and
they shake in delight
holding hands proudly ,
frail on their own but perfect
together,
Not two separate
lives, but
two insepa-
rable
Dreams tugged
unto each other
like a Sweden
embraced in a Norway.
For ever
for memory.
For
a
lifetime.
In search of my K
There is
a dedalaus, K and
an always...Inside.
They are not mine.
(Sayswho??well, jamie, franz and mikey over there)
There is a cappuccino,
a notebook and
a german pen -
Outside.
They are not mine-
Either.
(Says who??? - Master card)
Heck!
even my children
are only half mine…
(says who?- biology lecturer)
but these:
they come,
ricochet,
stay,
go away…....
These
are mine
and
mine alone…(hahaha!!)
These words
D. Garcia-Wahl
Descending From Cain
Even by sight or breeze
of my open window, I know not
if this is a summer or a winter
No season reborn for the man in wait
Beggars want wine and coins,
not postcards
They slur their poetry, tattoo their mark
on the softer man,
suffer and fall away
What is made of man, if not fool
For man is sacrifice
Man hears the heart bells but does not know them
Man seeks courage in displeasure
as the shepherd of guilt
or a thief who’s only option is the dark
They struggle in a gardenless bloom,
suffer, and fall away
There is nothing more to sleep
but to sleep
The Remains Of Purpose
It’s a fundamental sin -
the thought that rivers to your hands
There is no shame or apology
for the living
or a quote
When we die we die alive
And every Spring the rains will come
to pull us on toward delusion
At the Shepherd’s watch
less a balance between
faith
and
instinct
than a division of
what I know
from
a clay beggar’s bowl of graceful prayers
and a mat of simple straw
Amy Nude Ascending
She to wake me eager of tip and tongue
all at the risk of desiring
what would drown the heartier man
She rises
having held my hand to myth
She rises
with flesh as perfect as the feathers that shape the swan
She rises She rises
soon to tea, soon to morning’s confessional
soon to whistle
She rises
to a feral light
in which no smile can dim
She rises unabridged, she rises gilded
She rises in the quell of yesterday
She rises having stolen the rain
Rising as that blameless thief
She rises She rises
She moves to what will move me
She has led me to where she goes
Should it happen dreams pull me again from her:
Bite at this heart ‘neath naked breast
Plum Solace
Let memories share
in what they cannot answer
bringing forth what is left
to the back of the mind
A child
gone lone to the grove
beneath trees with dense branches
that the sunlight barely breaks through
where wind cannot
and just enough to illuminate shadows of this youth
taking in the perfume of the nectar
dripped to the ground
in mindful breathes
Singing rhymes to the dream of love
Kneeling to the fixed ground
Balanced prayers for dignity
and the lastings of youth
and in a final naive wonder
takes a bite of the sweet fruit
to cut the agony of becoming a man
Descending From Cain
Even by sight or breeze
of my open window, I know not
if this is a summer or a winter
No season reborn for the man in wait
Beggars want wine and coins,
not postcards
They slur their poetry, tattoo their mark
on the softer man,
suffer and fall away
What is made of man, if not fool
For man is sacrifice
Man hears the heart bells but does not know them
Man seeks courage in displeasure
as the shepherd of guilt
or a thief who’s only option is the dark
They struggle in a gardenless bloom,
suffer, and fall away
There is nothing more to sleep
but to sleep
The Remains Of Purpose
It’s a fundamental sin -
the thought that rivers to your hands
There is no shame or apology
for the living
or a quote
When we die we die alive
And every Spring the rains will come
to pull us on toward delusion
At the Shepherd’s watch
less a balance between
faith
and
instinct
than a division of
what I know
from
a clay beggar’s bowl of graceful prayers
and a mat of simple straw
She to wake me eager of tip and tongue
all at the risk of desiring
what would drown the heartier man
She rises
having held my hand to myth
She rises
with flesh as perfect as the feathers that shape the swan
She rises She rises
soon to tea, soon to morning’s confessional
soon to whistle
She rises
to a feral light
in which no smile can dim
She rises unabridged, she rises gilded
She rises in the quell of yesterday
She rises having stolen the rain
Rising as that blameless thief
She rises She rises
She moves to what will move me
She has led me to where she goes
Should it happen dreams pull me again from her:
Bite at this heart ‘neath naked breast
Plum Solace
Let memories share
in what they cannot answer
bringing forth what is left
to the back of the mind
A child
gone lone to the grove
beneath trees with dense branches
that the sunlight barely breaks through
where wind cannot
and just enough to illuminate shadows of this youth
taking in the perfume of the nectar
dripped to the ground
in mindful breathes
Singing rhymes to the dream of love
Kneeling to the fixed ground
Balanced prayers for dignity
and the lastings of youth
and in a final naive wonder
takes a bite of the sweet fruit
to cut the agony of becoming a man
Kola Tubosun
IF THESE WERE WRITTEN IN TIMES PAST
They would smell of rum, maybe wine
Of a pristine dance on brown keys that tapped,
Rasped in echoes across father's dusty lounge.
They would reek of innocence, shy lines
Of the toddler whose eyes lay only in the silence,
laden trivia of books, and old record sleeves.
They might show relics of a hopeful child lie
Within a bulwark of rage in the silence of night,
Quiet when adults slept with ears apart, dead to the world.
They would try to hide the author's disgust
for past bustles, home noise and day jobs,
Useless rants that mainly deter than fuel a budding muse.
But it wasn't written then, and so the past remains
Bilked in bits of old rum in even older flasks, and pains.
MACEDONIA
Lagos again, December
Speak you must, muse, in taps, raps -
Drum, tat-a, rolls of a furious key.
The tongue to rile a fog of blabbing naps.
As with a lost wing, flap on white winds -
Serrated dots of letters, dice dials of thought
Move the night with mares of omen rinds.
Why do you forget yourself so? Soul-
Journer of a sea of words and flaming fate?
It is I who call. Grant the bearing role.
Speak you must, muse, in raps, taps -
Drum, tat-a, rolls on a furious key.
From this fringe of meagre dream of wraps
*both poems forthcoming in Drumvoices Revue
Unspoken Love
All the while we stand silently there
Staring aimlessly at minutes gone by.
Flighty love shining hopelessly bare
Waits endlessly, and leaves, asking why.
All the while you look at me, tender,
Like a blooming rose on a frail headland.
And smile, on the sly, knowing that love's long slender
Mind drools of slimy tears that fall on waiting hands.
That while you hesitate to keep open
That heart gate, for love warmer than known blood.
You slipped on the slimy grass of a love to happen
And trudged ahead of a waiting, frothing flood.
Perhaps the good Lord
Might help with another Moses' rod.
*previously published in Book Poetry Corner
ON RETURNING TO EARTH/After 48 dark hours
Thanks due,
for long hours in warm bosom
as the world moves on wondering
tales of mad symptoms
with snide lonesome looks.
Thanks due,
for permissions freely given
and stolen touches at chocolate cleavages
when hunger bit and all that was
defied naming, except on eager lip folds.
Thanks due,
for a heart loaned out,
however shortly, as breeding land
for things "that were as though they were not"
thanks due
as rat dangles on,
light rolls multiple in growing glows.
PS: What's the date today?
Is it Friday or Sunday?
*previously published in Janet Owens Online
IF THESE WERE WRITTEN IN TIMES PAST
They would smell of rum, maybe wine
Of a pristine dance on brown keys that tapped,
Rasped in echoes across father's dusty lounge.
They would reek of innocence, shy lines
Of the toddler whose eyes lay only in the silence,
laden trivia of books, and old record sleeves.
They might show relics of a hopeful child lie
Within a bulwark of rage in the silence of night,
Quiet when adults slept with ears apart, dead to the world.
They would try to hide the author's disgust
for past bustles, home noise and day jobs,
Useless rants that mainly deter than fuel a budding muse.
But it wasn't written then, and so the past remains
Bilked in bits of old rum in even older flasks, and pains.
MACEDONIA
Lagos again, December
Speak you must, muse, in taps, raps -
Drum, tat-a, rolls of a furious key.
The tongue to rile a fog of blabbing naps.
As with a lost wing, flap on white winds -
Serrated dots of letters, dice dials of thought
Move the night with mares of omen rinds.
Why do you forget yourself so? Soul-
Journer of a sea of words and flaming fate?
It is I who call. Grant the bearing role.
Speak you must, muse, in raps, taps -
Drum, tat-a, rolls on a furious key.
From this fringe of meagre dream of wraps
*both poems forthcoming in Drumvoices Revue
Unspoken Love
All the while we stand silently there
Staring aimlessly at minutes gone by.
Flighty love shining hopelessly bare
Waits endlessly, and leaves, asking why.
All the while you look at me, tender,
Like a blooming rose on a frail headland.
And smile, on the sly, knowing that love's long slender
Mind drools of slimy tears that fall on waiting hands.
That while you hesitate to keep open
That heart gate, for love warmer than known blood.
You slipped on the slimy grass of a love to happen
And trudged ahead of a waiting, frothing flood.
Perhaps the good Lord
Might help with another Moses' rod.
*previously published in Book Poetry Corner
ON RETURNING TO EARTH/After 48 dark hours
Thanks due,
for long hours in warm bosom
as the world moves on wondering
tales of mad symptoms
with snide lonesome looks.
Thanks due,
for permissions freely given
and stolen touches at chocolate cleavages
when hunger bit and all that was
defied naming, except on eager lip folds.
Thanks due,
for a heart loaned out,
however shortly, as breeding land
for things "that were as though they were not"
thanks due
as rat dangles on,
light rolls multiple in growing glows.
PS: What's the date today?
Is it Friday or Sunday?
*previously published in Janet Owens Online
Loretta Pierfelice
Winter's End
Grey and lean,
the ancient gypsy woman
drives her weary flocks ahead
ragged skirts trailing
dirty edges of sky
Until she stops
in the white nights
mumbling away the time
plotting, spinning drifts of crystal yarn
to cover, and keep warm the chastened children
when they learn the iron stories of old age.
Tough
Toughness earned
on the sharpness
of splintered bone
rusting nails
Too-knowing words
callusing soul stuff
Laughter shaken out
Or tears
Or both
in gallant pain
Cruelty demands
its chunks of heart
Compassion bleeds
Summer Insomnia
I am drugged by heat
Until I swim upon my dampened sheet
And rise to fracture less restricted space,
to seek the solid core of things
Whose burnt and ragged edges shred my sleep.
I plumb the eye sky fires
The questing, questioning stir
That feathers over my flesh
And draws the shrieks like music from the deep.
But I am loved by heat.
Mother Pain
The old one inside my head,
Thinks I’m too stupid to learn
The easy way.
I feared her back then, back when
I healed with careless speed.
And cried real tears.
And my clumsiness was swiftly met
With instant effect
Fierce and red.
But old bone grows back slow-
I mind her cautions better now and listen,
With respect, to my old friend.
Winter's End
Grey and lean,
the ancient gypsy woman
drives her weary flocks ahead
ragged skirts trailing
dirty edges of sky
Until she stops
in the white nights
mumbling away the time
plotting, spinning drifts of crystal yarn
to cover, and keep warm the chastened children
when they learn the iron stories of old age.
Tough
Toughness earned
on the sharpness
of splintered bone
rusting nails
Too-knowing words
callusing soul stuff
Laughter shaken out
Or tears
Or both
in gallant pain
Cruelty demands
its chunks of heart
Compassion bleeds
Summer Insomnia
I am drugged by heat
Until I swim upon my dampened sheet
And rise to fracture less restricted space,
to seek the solid core of things
Whose burnt and ragged edges shred my sleep.
I plumb the eye sky fires
The questing, questioning stir
That feathers over my flesh
And draws the shrieks like music from the deep.
But I am loved by heat.
Mother Pain
The old one inside my head,
Thinks I’m too stupid to learn
The easy way.
I feared her back then, back when
I healed with careless speed.
And cried real tears.
And my clumsiness was swiftly met
With instant effect
Fierce and red.
But old bone grows back slow-
I mind her cautions better now and listen,
With respect, to my old friend.
About Art - Whalsay Sculpture
The Whalsay Sculpture was built by environmental artist Keith Barrett. This sculpture forms its own sheltered space in a hostile environment. It is made of elm with concrete foundations and steel fixings, with a length of 7.5 meters.
It was commissioned Symbister House Arts Project with funding from the Scottish Arts Council Sighted at Symbister, Whalsay, Shetland.
The source of imagery for the structure comes from the surrounding environment, reflecting the movement of wind and waves, the surface perhaps bringing to mind the synchronized motion of fish swimming in a shoal. The layered structure forms a double-sided shell, suggesting the form of upturned boats, or an open clam. A person approaching the work would see this shell like form and then the view through the work to the landscape beyond. The sculpture frames the distant landscape, and creates an optical illusion where the landscape is magnified or brought forward within the frame. On entering the sculpture the person would find shelter from the persistent Shetland wind suggesting a peace to be found only in the shelter of a building, or underwater or in death. The twisted timber strands that weave together within the shell can make the association with seaweed turning in an underwater current. People living on the island of Whalsay know the sea as a giver and taker, and live with the shadow of what may be lost in pursuit of their livelihoods. A friend who saw the work told me it felt like a memorial to a schoolmate who had been lost at sea when his trawler ‘The Gaul’ went down. Other people have referred to the work as ‘female’ and ‘like a womb’. Find out more about it and the artist at: www.keithbarrett.com.uk
About Books:
Title: Thrist
Author: Patrick Carrington
Author: Patrick Carrington
Description:
Winner of the Codhill Poetry Chapbook Prize for 2006, Patrick Carrington's
Thirst reads like a novena, a plea for understanding and mercy."—Pauline Uchmanowicz, Final Judge
Product Details:
Printed: 32 pages, 6" x 9"
ISBN: 978-1-930337-26-8
Copyright: 2007
Language: English
Country: United States
Publisher's Link: http://www.codhill.com/
Thirst reads like a novena, a plea for understanding and mercy."—Pauline Uchmanowicz, Final Judge
Product Details:
Printed: 32 pages, 6" x 9"
ISBN: 978-1-930337-26-8
Copyright: 2007
Language: English
Country: United States
Publisher's Link: http://www.codhill.com/
Craig Kirchner
Full from the Grave
The limo – large,
black, gray leather seats,
typical soft ride – was driving itself.
A mellow, still feeling of
finality and freedom at about 50 per,
willing without manipulating,
the driver really was barely
touching the wheel.
Occasionally rubbing the small tin
in my right pant pocket,
I ponder Coppola,s Count
crossing the ocean
with his boxes of native soil,
the ship on auto-pilot sailing
itself to the new land,
the next red light.
An Altoid tin. What’s that,
three tbsp.s maybe?
Only an hour old and it has become the charm,
the luck piece, the jewelry I never wear,
the collection I never had,
the never handed-off inheritance.
I dated a girl once that kept clipped nails
in a similar tin,
but she kept it in her room
not with her
and though frequently contributed to -
its major characteristic was dead,
cut from life.
My tin speaks in familiar tones,
never feels quite the same,
evolves against my leg,
and subtly intimates it will eventually
grow something if given a chance.
Dream Doctor
Silence between the bed-clothes on
a quiet afternoon has a rose reverence,
a calming pace, a new purpose defined as space.
The bed is sturdy, four legs solid on the floor,
mega-stones set just so by Ancients,
pushed under the window with a view of the lake.
The geese like June Taylor dancers all turn at once,
choreographed in V’s and me pondering
nefarious formations to a deep lazy sleep.
Grasping pointlessly at reeds and mud
as the lake drains through an hourglass funnel
falling to dust, dirt and deep dimensions below the bed
where worker ants are sticking to the plan,
stacking symmetrically, motivated to give time space
and space time in a prime meridian castle for their Queen.
.
The Dream Interpreter arrives with a clipboard
measuring latitude and longitude, describing taste as color,
intuition as liquid and pain in geometric shapes
as red eyes dot anew tunnels of archeology and Druids,
geese and Jurassic antennae stay busy for his monthly visit
through circles of pink quilt, mounds, sneezes and Stonehenge.
Refugees
They walk down small empty streets
with ruined houses.
The clock in the square has no hands.
Rats at the end of the alleys
eat their dead,
the grind of their teeth in the flesh
the only interruption
of the humid afternoon
silence of retreat.
No more drive-by,
not the carts full of plague
long gone to shallow graves
and cried over,
not the car bombings, no Jihad,
only crippled insurgents
left with limbless occupiers
only gray lines of brutal aging
slow lifeless exit,
and in the undisturbed
brick and limestone
everything quietly waiting
for the nocturnal,
the gutters to run clear
and shadows begin to crawl
as innocence tries again
to sneak in, to root,
to find an infant footing
Presocratic
The geese-traversed frozen lake
like a black and white Jackson Pollack,
arbitrary crisp prints on ice,
thawing to smudged lines,
early spring dissolving winter art
to water supply,
reminds me that the nutritive capacity
to replenish all cells, mine included,
buoys these geese all summer,
touches all things local,
is seasoned by all it touches,
all that dies in its’ bed come fall.
The geese become me,
and all things are full of the lake god.
Can we dispute the natural philosophy
that water is the originating principle,
that in benefiting All Things as it does
its’ value is close to the Tao.
Can we ignore the mist and the wetness
that allows the words to ascend the trite,
the mundane. Peter quoting Old Testament Joel
about speaking in tongues.
“God will pour his spirit upon all flesh
and all the stream beds shall flow with water
and a fountain shall come forth
from the House of the Lord.”
Can we pretend however,
be so self-centered,
as to believe that our version is the one,
the lubricant of the universe,
the Zen-like moisture of all.
Millions of stars and billions of miles
between them create infinite possibilities
of both similarity and variety.
What of the planet covered with
grape-juice like oceans,
their plumbing pumping purple staple
and lilac skinned thinkers smelling
of fichus and eucalyptus
sit and ponder the mauve wet as the maker,
perhaps they are even Pre-Socratic,
possibly one is a Thales.
Morning encounters
The metaphor of mirror
on the medicine cabinet door –
twins - he of the new language,
me twisting and shaving the other,
grounded barefoot on the cool white tile,
the one that grew the 3 day stubble.
It’s cold out there, he says,
redefining with the black comb the part,
now sitting on the right.
I tilt his screen 90 degrees
to face the wind and sleet
beating against the upstairs window.
He – no longer there to see –
is replaced with the appropriately
frigid answer to his question;
replaced also, as it were,
with the prescriptions, remedies,
ointments and mouthwash,
neatly arranged new metaphors,
categorized carefully on 3 shelves
quietly not caring about
the view or the weather,
the vanities of me
and one dimensional musings
Full from the Grave
The limo – large,
black, gray leather seats,
typical soft ride – was driving itself.
A mellow, still feeling of
finality and freedom at about 50 per,
willing without manipulating,
the driver really was barely
touching the wheel.
Occasionally rubbing the small tin
in my right pant pocket,
I ponder Coppola,s Count
crossing the ocean
with his boxes of native soil,
the ship on auto-pilot sailing
itself to the new land,
the next red light.
An Altoid tin. What’s that,
three tbsp.s maybe?
Only an hour old and it has become the charm,
the luck piece, the jewelry I never wear,
the collection I never had,
the never handed-off inheritance.
I dated a girl once that kept clipped nails
in a similar tin,
but she kept it in her room
not with her
and though frequently contributed to -
its major characteristic was dead,
cut from life.
My tin speaks in familiar tones,
never feels quite the same,
evolves against my leg,
and subtly intimates it will eventually
grow something if given a chance.
Dream Doctor
Silence between the bed-clothes on
a quiet afternoon has a rose reverence,
a calming pace, a new purpose defined as space.
The bed is sturdy, four legs solid on the floor,
mega-stones set just so by Ancients,
pushed under the window with a view of the lake.
The geese like June Taylor dancers all turn at once,
choreographed in V’s and me pondering
nefarious formations to a deep lazy sleep.
Grasping pointlessly at reeds and mud
as the lake drains through an hourglass funnel
falling to dust, dirt and deep dimensions below the bed
where worker ants are sticking to the plan,
stacking symmetrically, motivated to give time space
and space time in a prime meridian castle for their Queen.
.
The Dream Interpreter arrives with a clipboard
measuring latitude and longitude, describing taste as color,
intuition as liquid and pain in geometric shapes
as red eyes dot anew tunnels of archeology and Druids,
geese and Jurassic antennae stay busy for his monthly visit
through circles of pink quilt, mounds, sneezes and Stonehenge.
Refugees
They walk down small empty streets
with ruined houses.
The clock in the square has no hands.
Rats at the end of the alleys
eat their dead,
the grind of their teeth in the flesh
the only interruption
of the humid afternoon
silence of retreat.
No more drive-by,
not the carts full of plague
long gone to shallow graves
and cried over,
not the car bombings, no Jihad,
only crippled insurgents
left with limbless occupiers
only gray lines of brutal aging
slow lifeless exit,
and in the undisturbed
brick and limestone
everything quietly waiting
for the nocturnal,
the gutters to run clear
and shadows begin to crawl
as innocence tries again
to sneak in, to root,
to find an infant footing
Presocratic
The geese-traversed frozen lake
like a black and white Jackson Pollack,
arbitrary crisp prints on ice,
thawing to smudged lines,
early spring dissolving winter art
to water supply,
reminds me that the nutritive capacity
to replenish all cells, mine included,
buoys these geese all summer,
touches all things local,
is seasoned by all it touches,
all that dies in its’ bed come fall.
The geese become me,
and all things are full of the lake god.
Can we dispute the natural philosophy
that water is the originating principle,
that in benefiting All Things as it does
its’ value is close to the Tao.
Can we ignore the mist and the wetness
that allows the words to ascend the trite,
the mundane. Peter quoting Old Testament Joel
about speaking in tongues.
“God will pour his spirit upon all flesh
and all the stream beds shall flow with water
and a fountain shall come forth
from the House of the Lord.”
Can we pretend however,
be so self-centered,
as to believe that our version is the one,
the lubricant of the universe,
the Zen-like moisture of all.
Millions of stars and billions of miles
between them create infinite possibilities
of both similarity and variety.
What of the planet covered with
grape-juice like oceans,
their plumbing pumping purple staple
and lilac skinned thinkers smelling
of fichus and eucalyptus
sit and ponder the mauve wet as the maker,
perhaps they are even Pre-Socratic,
possibly one is a Thales.
Morning encounters
The metaphor of mirror
on the medicine cabinet door –
twins - he of the new language,
me twisting and shaving the other,
grounded barefoot on the cool white tile,
the one that grew the 3 day stubble.
It’s cold out there, he says,
redefining with the black comb the part,
now sitting on the right.
I tilt his screen 90 degrees
to face the wind and sleet
beating against the upstairs window.
He – no longer there to see –
is replaced with the appropriately
frigid answer to his question;
replaced also, as it were,
with the prescriptions, remedies,
ointments and mouthwash,
neatly arranged new metaphors,
categorized carefully on 3 shelves
quietly not caring about
the view or the weather,
the vanities of me
and one dimensional musings
Contributors Biographies
Vicki Thornton: is the author of four children’s books and her poetry, articles and short stories have appeared in various publications including Pendulum, Poetirx, Tamba, Going Down Swinging, the Mozzie, Blue’s Country Magazine, Woorilla, Phaedra (USA), Acruelworld, Southern Ocean Review (NZ) and mod-piece. She lives and writes in the scenic Dandenong Ranges outside Melbourne, Australia. Her webiste is: www.lrw.fathen.net.
Eddie Kilowatt: performs regularly live and on radio. He has been an instructor and poet-in-residence at the Tyme Out Youth Center’s Creative Writing Program in Nashotah, WI. His poetry has appeared in Thunder Sandwich, Word Riot, Remark, My Favorite Bullet, Thieves Jargon, and elsewhere. His first collection of poetry titled Manifest Density was released in April of 2006. His forthcoming second collection will be titled Carrying A Knife Into A Gunfight. He leaves and works in Milwaukee, WI. His website is:
www.eddiekilowatt.com
Dorothee Lang: is a writer and net artist. She is the author of Masala Moments, a travel novel about India, and is the editor of the Blue Print Review, an online journal of unintended prose and poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Mississippi Review, Pindeldyboz, Word Riot, Hobart, and Cautionary Tale, and elsewhere. She lives in Germany.Visit her website at: www.blueprint21.de.
Uber Mensch: a psychiatrist by profession, he uses “Uber Mensch” as a pseudonym. You might find him trying to pluck words out of thin air while waiting at a traffic light or at the neighborhood café. He says the two reasons he can still believe in humanity are Ulysses and Beethoven’s 9th and that without the spirit of true creation the universe would be as useless as an armpit. He can be happy at times living in England and can be reached at: ubermensch13@gmail.com.
Correia Emmanuel: is a professional photographer who trys to capture a world most people overlook. He was born thrity-five years ago in Dijon but now lives in Frontignan, a small town in France’s south. He uses a monchrome minimalist style, inspired by long exposures. He is also a graphic expert specializing in architectural visualizations. He is married with two children. His website is: www.emmanuel.correia.free.fr.
D. Garcia-Wahl: is the aurthor of the collection of poetry, All That Does Come Of Madden’d Days and the novel, Ashes of Mid Autumn. He has three more forthcoming novels and another collection of poetry he is currently working on. Also in the works is a collection of short stories, a recording of spoken word CD, and a cable TV production about poetry entitled DIVE as well as a HOB documentary. He currently divides his time between living in America and Paris. His website is: www.dgarciawahl.tripod.com.
Kola Tubosun: born in 1981, he obtained a degree in Linguistics with honors from the University of Ibadan (Nigeria). In school, he was the president of the Union of Campus Journalists between 2002 and 2004. He has been awarded the Okigbo Poetry Prize and the Mac Arthur Foundation Scholarship among others. His poetry has appeared in Sentinel Poetry, The MAG, Farafina, and elsewhere. He was Ibadan’s Poet Laureate in 2004 and is the author of a collection of poems called Headfirst In The Meddle. He lives and works in Nigeria. His blog is: www.igwatala.blogspot.com
Loretta Pierfelice: is a “sort-of-organic” grower of hand picked hostas, a shade perennial that’s easy to grow and virtually disease free. She operates a farm, publishes social science research, triages data at a nearby university, and manages and is managed-by two dogs, a partner and three grown children. What ever time she has left is devoted to writing poetry. She lives in Pataskala, OH. Her website is: www.ciderhousehostas.com.
Arnor Bieltvedt: grew up in Iceland then moved to Germany after graduation from high school. He majored in Economics and Social Science at the Univ. of Augsburg. He then immigrated to America and received a B.A in Marketing, at which point the started his studied all over again, this time to become an artist. He received a B.F.A. and then a M.F.A. degree and served as art department head of two school over the next several years. In the past decade his work has been exhibited at some of the most reputable galleries in the U.S. and around the world. He currently resides in Hamburg, Germany. His website is: www.artistarnor.com.
Craig Kirchner: has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His works have appeared in journals including Lily, Erosha, Thunder Sandwich, 3AM Magazine, Adagio, Tripolia, Laura Hird, Clean Sheets, Niedergasse, Fifth Street Review, To Tell Motel, Poetry Superhighway, Wicked Alice, and elsewhere. He lives and works as a consultant in Maryland. His most recent chapbook, Roomful of Navels has been published by Slow Trains and can be viewed at: www.slowtrains.com/vol4issue/roomfulcover.html
Closing Notes: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on July 1st.
Copyright 2007 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my personal blog: http://www.copyat5.blogspot.com/.
And music blog: http://www.medleymakersant.blogspot.com/
Vicki Thornton: is the author of four children’s books and her poetry, articles and short stories have appeared in various publications including Pendulum, Poetirx, Tamba, Going Down Swinging, the Mozzie, Blue’s Country Magazine, Woorilla, Phaedra (USA), Acruelworld, Southern Ocean Review (NZ) and mod-piece. She lives and writes in the scenic Dandenong Ranges outside Melbourne, Australia. Her webiste is: www.lrw.fathen.net.
Eddie Kilowatt: performs regularly live and on radio. He has been an instructor and poet-in-residence at the Tyme Out Youth Center’s Creative Writing Program in Nashotah, WI. His poetry has appeared in Thunder Sandwich, Word Riot, Remark, My Favorite Bullet, Thieves Jargon, and elsewhere. His first collection of poetry titled Manifest Density was released in April of 2006. His forthcoming second collection will be titled Carrying A Knife Into A Gunfight. He leaves and works in Milwaukee, WI. His website is:
www.eddiekilowatt.com
Dorothee Lang: is a writer and net artist. She is the author of Masala Moments, a travel novel about India, and is the editor of the Blue Print Review, an online journal of unintended prose and poetry. Her work has recently appeared in Mississippi Review, Pindeldyboz, Word Riot, Hobart, and Cautionary Tale, and elsewhere. She lives in Germany.Visit her website at: www.blueprint21.de.
Uber Mensch: a psychiatrist by profession, he uses “Uber Mensch” as a pseudonym. You might find him trying to pluck words out of thin air while waiting at a traffic light or at the neighborhood café. He says the two reasons he can still believe in humanity are Ulysses and Beethoven’s 9th and that without the spirit of true creation the universe would be as useless as an armpit. He can be happy at times living in England and can be reached at: ubermensch13@gmail.com.
Correia Emmanuel: is a professional photographer who trys to capture a world most people overlook. He was born thrity-five years ago in Dijon but now lives in Frontignan, a small town in France’s south. He uses a monchrome minimalist style, inspired by long exposures. He is also a graphic expert specializing in architectural visualizations. He is married with two children. His website is: www.emmanuel.correia.free.fr.
D. Garcia-Wahl: is the aurthor of the collection of poetry, All That Does Come Of Madden’d Days and the novel, Ashes of Mid Autumn. He has three more forthcoming novels and another collection of poetry he is currently working on. Also in the works is a collection of short stories, a recording of spoken word CD, and a cable TV production about poetry entitled DIVE as well as a HOB documentary. He currently divides his time between living in America and Paris. His website is: www.dgarciawahl.tripod.com.
Kola Tubosun: born in 1981, he obtained a degree in Linguistics with honors from the University of Ibadan (Nigeria). In school, he was the president of the Union of Campus Journalists between 2002 and 2004. He has been awarded the Okigbo Poetry Prize and the Mac Arthur Foundation Scholarship among others. His poetry has appeared in Sentinel Poetry, The MAG, Farafina, and elsewhere. He was Ibadan’s Poet Laureate in 2004 and is the author of a collection of poems called Headfirst In The Meddle. He lives and works in Nigeria. His blog is: www.igwatala.blogspot.com
Loretta Pierfelice: is a “sort-of-organic” grower of hand picked hostas, a shade perennial that’s easy to grow and virtually disease free. She operates a farm, publishes social science research, triages data at a nearby university, and manages and is managed-by two dogs, a partner and three grown children. What ever time she has left is devoted to writing poetry. She lives in Pataskala, OH. Her website is: www.ciderhousehostas.com.
Arnor Bieltvedt: grew up in Iceland then moved to Germany after graduation from high school. He majored in Economics and Social Science at the Univ. of Augsburg. He then immigrated to America and received a B.A in Marketing, at which point the started his studied all over again, this time to become an artist. He received a B.F.A. and then a M.F.A. degree and served as art department head of two school over the next several years. In the past decade his work has been exhibited at some of the most reputable galleries in the U.S. and around the world. He currently resides in Hamburg, Germany. His website is: www.artistarnor.com.
Craig Kirchner: has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His works have appeared in journals including Lily, Erosha, Thunder Sandwich, 3AM Magazine, Adagio, Tripolia, Laura Hird, Clean Sheets, Niedergasse, Fifth Street Review, To Tell Motel, Poetry Superhighway, Wicked Alice, and elsewhere. He lives and works as a consultant in Maryland. His most recent chapbook, Roomful of Navels has been published by Slow Trains and can be viewed at: www.slowtrains.com/vol4issue/roomfulcover.html
Closing Notes: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on July 1st.
Copyright 2007 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my personal blog: http://www.copyat5.blogspot.com/.
And music blog: http://www.medleymakersant.blogspot.com/
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
