Tuesday, May 1, 2007

CSR: Issue Five

Editor's Note:

Welcome to the May Issue of CSR, the e-zine that likes to dream and doesn't mind changing an occasional soiled diaper. It seeks reason at its most partial, least impartial level. You may be interested to know that this issue has been carefully put together to lure charm out of its readers before the internet becomes too strange and volatile. Speaking of reading, did I mention that my five-month-old creation can now read? I knew I'd created an amazing baby without ever having to follow Dr. Frankenstein's blueprint, but even I'm surprised. And as a result, beginning this month each issue will have a poetry book review, which stabs at one lean moment of invisible narratives melted into emotional calamities. Boy, that was a mouthful but what a baby! So, if you've found your reading glasses get busy...
Issue Five: Contributors/Contents

Rethabile Masilo

Lynn Strongin

About Music - The Necks

Aleah Sato

Zachary Chartkoff

Lawrence Rispher

Michael Mc Culley

About Art - Fushimi Inari Taisha

Roy Blumenthal

Robert Chrysler

Nate Pritts

Neil Aitken

Book Review

Contributors Biographies
Rethabile Masilo

Mosotho woman near Benoni

Her eyes take you and lead you to her soul.
Her roots cherish the soil that is Africa, south, north, east
And west, where a dead sun slants
With lost glimmer, touches a mission bell, and
Dull hours prepare to cease
As sun crosses moon, noon reaches night, light enters darkness
And is overcome by it.
I watch her blend afro-jazz and the lace of her dress
Into this moment, on this bit of pavement where I stand.
I watch her fête, leap,
And for a moment, escape, heartened by moon surpassing hill,
Little miss ex-kaffir bidding adieu to the day,
Knowing it is her flavor history stole.
I watch commuters mill to and fro like ants,
Some staying, watching, washing off the day's toil,
Faces seeking release,
Black, mine-working faces pressed around her
To wall the moment in, or wall another out, in tune with her soul.

:) : :(
(for Rakhali 'Malefu)

She was the chief calf in those last months
after the verdict,
when the germ fatted her—
a sort of half illusion on a stage, growth
on a kilofic scale, the curse of a deity
in a land of certain gems. Damn!
Village by village all around
we lined to send her off—
[I recounted her pouring feet into shoes,
and smiling after the feat, always smiling,
smiling in triumph or in defeat].
Now, in absentia, she still feels the need
to feed the light, thaw the chill,
ignore every nota bene from here
to Ha Tšiu, till in blanched-out smiles
hope breaks o’er Africa.
She is the tree in our midst,
our arms, limbs, branches—
we’re siblings of her will and we seek
the cardinal earth of her copse.

The fantastic story of recycling

We kicked the stool life had stood on,
fed angels the milk of cows fat on isotopic food.
If you care to listen to our world of whitest = fittest
to the unforgiven, and if I close my eyes long enough
[and sink these few coins down a well till clink on wall,
or final splash, riles you],
your reckoning should come from above—
touch the top branches first, that's where they belittle love,
disrupt the garlands there—
no pleas for leniency please,
for green’s the cover of life before the fall;
atoms hasten to a unit, intimate voices fill the interval
as specks of ash flit around, according to the sound,
sit on trash till that ultimate, echoing call
begging elements to gather round;
carbons hug in spheres of fullerenes,
old Olduvai sculptures, and Lucy and Toumaï
on virgin shores.
It’s yet another bang, an extra angle of being,
the blog of God. It’s faith to stand on, again,
and struggle.

Senqu chrysalis

That day on the river bank, we folded
the cerulean blanket, then lingered a while, our hamper
empty as the days ahead.
You hadn’t cooked, so we’d had ripe fruit instead,
because “Cholesterol will leav’ya dead”—
that’s what you always said. We chased a shaft of love
round a bend, and you drove
me with a tackle onto the grass beside the camper.
Lying naked, watching the flight of a monarch clear our vision,
hating myself for hating your big chance in the city,
down to the moon’s way of cocking its head
to look at your beauty,
something happened to us that day, and I kept it
in a pupa till now, till the present moment on
this see-through Cessna 404, flying toward the city,
and maturity.

The silken

Although you do not speak, I follow your voice
to the source, a million silken filaments flow from you
—I wonder how far I can hold my breath.
You do not speak, but your voice enters me,
a brisk staccato where the dead moon rides the sea,
your hand the music of my breath.
In my dream, a couple is wearing leaves.
I see it here on a witch’s chart graphiting lives,
And I hear it on spirited streets.
Bow-bent in apnoea, I receive your touch,
sprouting like a spore where the aching starts.
All thought that occurs self-destructs, because
in every way you fill me to the core.
Lynn Strongin


Down they went
into the waters for the poor
blunt-headed silver
(--Mary Oliver, “Cormorants” Thirst)

1933 9, July Dublin, Ireland,--14. 2007, Victoria B.


In Bourbon Light
Cognac Light, I make a small corner with my books
imagining the Blitz in London
Lantern hewn of wood and translucent oxhorn
the elohim
of existence
a spiritual Jew, you wore a Jewish star from me
& would only have gone to Germany
to make a pilgrimage: tapping into a bad childhood memory,
passoing on the torch
Snow lying in swatches like winding cloth
on stones, seacliffs.
Rucksack words like train’s freight:
stacked, strapped, chainmail, link-knit gray-silver air: the Barrens:
faggots of wood to be burned in the darkest night. In the Train Depot
“Wait” of the City, “Hang On.”

In the city, “Despair”

you wait
thick hands folded in lap
but on the curl of bursting into iron, irony with your strong
right hand
unlocking from a fluid-lighter, flame.

Burning peach pits to keep oranges alive
the way persimmon & vermilion illuminated letters in a monk’s text:
make me visualize final efforts to keep you alive hooked to
heart-lung machine:
Beyond critical:
an empty salt shed
for our 15th winter storm.
You were anesthetized at the Royal Jubilee.
Spent gray eyes
changing outfits
one calico, the other
the color of Doll’s eyes.
My love asks me would I want to live a quadriplegic.
“I would not” she informs me
my blood runs cold. All I was told
as a child:
children on stretchers. Pale as moon: All I can do is keen:
I turn my face to the wall.

The Christmas toy-soldier carnelian wood
(a color you rarely wore)
still hangs on the tree by golden thread
The last message is in the e-mail “It would be lovely to meet for a
bowl of Chinese soup”
and the landlady who walked Turkey Head with you every day
weeps uncontrollably over the phone
after a fit of volubility: I saw two souls at the white heat, you two striding:
vowels, syllables
iron hoops into the Thames slid, spilled down under icy water.

Two lights at the end of the tunnel, “The Knife”
were your grandson’s visit & the plush Doulton lambkin from me:
You’d kissed him & hugged him all that afternoon before surgery
Two radiances, revolving like white ink blurred to fur on a blotter
morphed into a train coming toward you
100 m.p.h. Tres Grand Vitesse
Made blind
you could only communicate by monosyllables written
on a piece of cardboard with your good hand:
you fell like a ton of bricks,
crumbled like a house on fire,
left us, minute-by-minute, second-by-second over four weeks,
pile of rubble & hymns, roses & blood-iron at dawn.

This Marl World
you have left
Always Ishmael:
the Mercedes
still parked
in its wood stall
behind your turn-of-century house:
whoever would have thought you’d go down
like a ton of coal
the week before Christmas?
Waters of the poor dark silver rising,
“We are never wise about ourselves.”.
And to think there are people ho go thru life
to whom things never happen

About Music - The Necks

The Necks are one of the great cult bands of Australia. With next to no publicity, their thirteen albums have sold in their thousands.Chris Abrahams (piano), Tony Buck (drums), and Lloyd Swanton (bass) conjure a chemistry together that defies description in orthodox terms.These three musicians are among the most respected and in-demand in Australia, working in every field from pop to avant-garde. Over 200 albums feature their presence individually or together, but the music of The Necks stands apart from everything else they have done. Featuring lengthy pieces which slowly unravel in the most intoxicating fashion, frequently underpinned by an insistent deep groove, the thirteen albums by The Necks stand up to re-listening time and time again. The deceptive simplicity of their music throws forth new charms on each hearing. Not entirely avant-garde, nor minimalist, nor ambient, nor jazz, the music of The Necks is possibly unique in the world today. Find out more about these amazing artists and their music at: http://thenecks.com/
Zachary Chartkoff


Tell me that pigeons have it easy, my
dear, someone must. The sky is vast. I love
the sky, though I am pale. The antennae
of those apartments all rise up, they glove
the whole world in their messages. They shove
old God out of bed, they must, and I think
through this door lies Rome. It rises above
the clouds. You can see it all purple-pink
in the winter sky. Or Paris? The stink
of this life — sore, wet and smog — makes it tough
to tell. Pigeons know. They are my far link
to the beyond. And this door. It's enough
to know I can go. Rise on ruddy-gray
wings. Wild pink delight in a wild pink day.

High Desert

I have been consorting with the desert's
demons, things of air, lately. I know their
tastes, their humors and woes. Let the experts
scoff at these pale dreams, figments borne on air,
laughter at the eye's corner. Asleep I
am more grand than any phantasy. They
come; a few at a time, across sand, sky,
dune and under moon. They please me, they lay
down by my body. Passion is in birds'
breath, bat's wing; not in another lover's words.
Words! I am sick of all these words! True
delight is not a single word but herds
of night ghosts. Go. I'm the last of Ben Hur's
blood kin and I have no more use for you.


"anger is an energy" — Public Image Ltd.
This is urgent. This poetic justice
concealed in the long gun's long chamber.
I'll turn to you since poetic chorus
rarely makes good Peace Keepers. This anger
turns us passive witness. Always after
our wars do we even hear a poet
condemn our bloodshed; a general slur
against violence. But this poem? I cut
it on a bullet and put the bullet
in the chamber; it's a rhyme against bad
behavior. Now, goddess of the sonnet
and the bullet, Athena of the mad
blood, speak through this poetic deterrent.
Help me cock this gun. This is urgent.

And What of the Dead?

For once I won't look back; tell you stories
about what the dead eat in the under
world, how the cold milk from Persephone's
breasts might have tasted had you been there. Were
my past a song of jade, I would forget
it. Like that. Instead, my friend, let me tell
you of the future. A real alphabet
secret, stone dream. I will meet you in hell
once the boat lands and take you by the hand.
There. Live on that knowledge; mix it with salt
and sweet honey. Friend, do not look behind.
You can't eat the past. Only the dead's bland
food can do that. Eat what's to come, cobalt
on the tongue. Eat its seed and its sour rind.
Aleah Sato

Wing bones

She dissolves into the radio’s transmission –
It’s sugar in the coffee, muddy boots in the kitchen.
Ignores the sound of mice in the basement,
their constant chewing. She points her father's
shotgun down the stairs, but the mice are still
there -- the man who came for supper
and never left. He holds a bottle and a smile
spent on Sunday. Living here with two sisters,
babies on floorboards : tobacco and sweat –
secrets holding hate to the back of the neck,
the kiss - the swallow’s nest.

The Good Dream

You are Pegasus dipping wings in a clear pool.
Under a blanket, I touch the bare sun.
My hand, neither burnt
Nor melting - I flicker the yellow dominion.
Turning back, you are the cool night,
The Joseph star rising first and last
As I follow. Such comfort is the muddled dawn.

You are the plum and the blackbird,
The purple violets of proximity.
From my side, a plucked wing.
Lady in the woods leans into darkness.
Her nightingale cacophony shuts out the lights.
Listen to the dreams and sighs of children.
My head on this pillow, o husband of lullabies and mirrors

The Oath

I have made many promises. Between continents
my alibis have become alibis. I try to be good.
Even disease has a cure, but my wanting
has its own crimes. I fly on pure gluttony -
at times, speak tongues for fools. Uncomforted
in Heaven; the angel songs sound dull.

I have made poison for love - searched the
dark woods for the horned god.
What hands can keep such a thing underneath
the stinging skin – I have been
curled like light on the Devil’s moon –
too soon to make babies or pretense.

In us, a pure plan of running –
Running onto highways, into fields
where corn blooms taller than our heads,
and lost are our complications. Friend,
tell me you don’t see what I am seeing :
the smoke & all our lies screaming
alive in the flames


All you've ever wanted : the firefly and
the wind, the big realm where
possibility dwells, the parade of motors.
Snow falls on our field. You are out there,
lining the horizon, a figure smoking -
watching the whirls of garbage burning
into the sky. When do you fit into
a life, cradle the corn and the hammer
like they are starlets batting false eyelashes
in a stupid state, always sunshine,
always - Do we see the same lives
twinkle and shine, or have your
hands fallen the way mine have fallen,
to the pets, the comb, and later. Watching
traffic from the kitchen table. It is cold again.
You come in and kiss my hair, say
goodnight. Just goodnight
Photography by Lawrence Ripsher

Michael McCulley

Graveyard Dust

Fence posts are broken off at the ground,
field-wire snarls fret the brush,
seven oxen occupy the field.
Black-eyed Susans look up
from cool dirt, tall grass
is eaten, or trampled,
large heads sway side-to-side.
Dark clouds build on the eastern plain,
even the air is edgy and taut,
a quail, a snipe, a spark erupts in the air,
large heads thump across the creek,
surge to the trees and into
a graveyard, tipping stones,
and troubling yellow dust.
Side-to-side large heads sway.
Things are going to get better
later tonight, or in the morning,
so I’ll just wait around.

A Place To Sleep

In golden commotion the sun slides down
over the edge, over the lip,
and a glass of wine. A slender moon
rises behind trees, darkness rises
from the floor and coats the walls.
A dark thick pervades the room,
deadens old voices, I can’t hear
my own barter. My temper is outside,
under the star dome, under the clouds.
I walk into the night street
and find the doorway to my inner cell.
Standing in the doorway looking down
the street is like standing on a beach
thinking across ocean swells,
mythic people chant,
lanterns rock slowly back and forth.
A doorway where I can be alone,
a place to sleep.

Late Autumn

I know the marshland
below my hermitage
the way I know the tavern
at the end of the street.
Wrens glean brown tulles,
roots deep in black water,
crows perch on branches
long free of blossoms.

Great Blue Heron

Juliette leans, sways like marsh grass
dithering in a breeze, seed head
lopped over, errant plume hangs.
Juliette’s exposed to peril, moves on
to stay ahead, to find a bar,
a mudflat where needs are satisfied,
fish are picked clean. Alights,
settles on a hummock, neck doubled
in, waits for change in the tide,
in the rain, in the darkness
sleeps light on a dicey perch.
Robert Chrysler


For Nila Wherever you walk, the moon takes notice It both
follows and guides you Every variation of your breathing
a variation just biding time Fully alive in space Your
tongue crashes the fabric spoken into layered
mists moist with glee Air rushes in, forms
a golden symphony that sits alone in
white clouds Hands engaged to
the morning sun you sing
laughter sanctified and
I’m slowly learning how to
entice your rhythm from lonely
sighs Indelible hieroglyphs encode
glistening sheets of thigh bitten by vowels
that lust To reciprocate with an infinite lock purple
glimpses memories between your legs An angular wetness
to your face gliding a text dripping with desire to reveal receding
shades of fluorescent green framing gentle eyes Dreaming time
spent in our temple the blessed symbols thrumming on knees
rhyming with your neck's nape I knew then that I would
drink iron for you Sleep contently in your mind A key
drawn from the silent center of you wearing winter's
pearled vigilance entry engrossed cusping through
your serene possession of night

Between Secrets

...wandering between the secrets night carries in its turbulent blood
Patches of a shattering light carving music on your pale wet cheeks
Certain the force of our passion would conquer the sleeping city,
delicious sedition embracing even ghosts hiding behind cold, sullen
windows. Your fingers slipping between mine, furtively at first,
intensifying our glowing-green nakedness. Our joy passing over
fallen clouds of a vagabond sky to wet the garden with secret names
chanted through wild branches swollen with spring's desire. Your
curves merging with my own, burning kisses that married water and
light, grafting themselves onto dawn's first notes. I can only bleed
vicariously at this point, to implode within your sweetest pearl.


a singular warmth to your tongue. within my passageways to stare
into the end of the world. the discovery of fire. known halcyon
wetness. fermenting the smooth, brown crying her eyes. a private
slurring of shared nomenclatures as if morality warranted. making
our masks move forward fear brought hydrogen to a dark chant.
way too long as a Phoenix carouse drunkenly. only green and black
tonight. out here climbing passion of a musical syntax. needing to
push legs into the earth astonish symmetry with two maniacs. raised
curtains of wonder after the initial deluge of madness. tracing the
line of muscle curving along something resembling the absolute.
reclaiming you the symbolic intertwining in your hard gasps. Built
an alliance
with the night.
to leave the totality
alone in your moisture
a war beneath shining. travel
across the white. your city meets
my city. air gently heaving from alert
breasts. drunk before noon paper between
ideology. ready to become dark again. besotted
driving a secret into the unconscious. shredded denim.
stroking lying beside the highway. playful light through
exploded beds of hate a different future etched on your cheek.
brief love seen in the arc possible in exquisite hardness. anchors
to have. an intimation of our nudity. design automatic. complex
and flawless flowing the ancestors burnt in our kiss anomaly nine

About Art - Fushimi Inari-Taisha

Fushimi Inari-Taisha is a shinto jinia (shrine) dedicated to the spirit Inari, located in Fushimi-ku, Kyoto, Japan. It is especially well known for the thousands of bright vermilion torii lining the paths on the hill on which the shrine is located. The torii gates are all donations from individuals, families or companies. The Inari spirit is considered to be the protector of grains, especially rice, and has thus historically been associated with wealth. Company officials often make offerings to Inari shrines in the form of barrels of rice wine (sake) or torii gates. Torii gates are wood and are replaced about every ten years. At the bottom of the hill is the Go-Honden Shrine and the Sakura-mon gate. After following the torii-lined hiking paths, a visitor can stop at various food stalls that specialize in Kitsune udon, a popular noodle dish named after foxes (kitsune) which are regarded as the messengers of Inari, the shinto deity of harvest. Statues of kitsune are often found depicted in Inari shrines with a key (for the rice granary) in their mouths. At the top of the hill is the main shrine. Unlike most Shinto shrines, Fushimi Inari Taisha – in keeping with typical Inari shrines – has an open view of the main idol object (a mirror). The easiest way to get to Fushimi Inari shrine is to take the train. JRInari Station (about 5 min. from Kyoto Station on the Nara Line, directly across the street from the Sakura-mon gate. It is considered one of the most beautiful spots in Kyoto and one of the symbols of Japan. A drawing in Kiyoshi Nozaki's book Kitsune: Japan's Fox of Mystery, Romance and Humor depicts the shrine in 1786 and says that its two-story entry gate was built by warlord Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536-1598). The shrine, which draws several million visitors over the New Year holiday, was featured in the 2005 film Memoirs of a Geisha. The website is: www.inar.jp

Research info provided by: www.wikipedia.org
Artwork by Roy Blumenthal

Nate Pritts

The Fastest Man Alive

One note played just right
stops me in my tracks, surrounds me
with such a pleasing nimbus of white light

that I don’t even want to move.
I’m riveted, rooted, waiting for what comes next
while normally, I’m gone

before I’m arrived. Normally it takes only a fraction
of a second for me to understand what
needs doing & to do it. But my speed is my doom,

a giant treadmill I seem always upon.
Every morning I wake up in the same place
I went to sleep; I can never get ahead!

I leave my problems in the dust & somehow
they meet me at the finish.
The time has come to reconsider my careen;

what good has come from bouncing away fast?
They say time is a thing that runs out,
that my buzz is nothing more than a flash.

*previously published in Coconut Magazine - Issue 2

Great Thunder!

Early morning & I’m already

cornered, thoughts scattered

like sun glint. I wish that, at least

first thing, you’d point your spears

somewhere else but your red shoes

are stunning nevertheless.

For my part, I can call down a rain of comets;

I know how to hit you where you live.

Every five minutes you think you’ve got me

trapped & only sometimes you’re right.

You forget that I come from a future

where you can change your hair color

to match your intentions, you can read

the instructions before you phase in.

Overhead, the grey cloud swelling with thunder

masks the sky, bright orange as the sun’s light

starts to move & find its way.

Whatever you throw at me, I’m ready.

My strength comes from someplace

even I can’t imagine: I have these two mystical devices

attached just below my waist.

I can walk out whenever I want.

Horrible Dreams


Lurking, encroaching: the man
whose head I can see clear through.
Folding pink mass that sparks
with each step he takes. I’m trapped
in the air just above myself
but realize that’s what’s saving me.


Crushing, rending: the beast
with a face like green fire, asterism
of star-bright eyes. He says he’d pull me apart
if he could, he’d grind my human sadness
to dust. He says he has no power
over those already so fractured.


Lumbering, inhuman: a cybernetic
gorilla, all wired & mechanical. The inexorable
jaw, a light like purpose in his eyes.
The night air is cool on the street
where I grew up. I feel safe, this most
primal protector, vigilant.


Yelling, pleading: me, asleep, & me,
trying to get myself up. Just eyes & teeth.
It is day & night. My voice is not loud enough
for me to hear. The only movement
is a bird’s wing which grows & grows
though nobody can see it.


Jumbled, confused: an army.
Frogs who walk like men seem always to lament
the state of their souls. They want something
I have, something I didn’t know I had & can’t
find. There is a knock at the door, a princess
who’ll sacrifice herself to save me.


Released, relieved: I’m nowhere to be found.
Two men drag another man through water
again & again. “To cleanse,” they say
though the man screams & scrapes to fill himself
with what’s been washed away. The stars above—
I am one of them.

How Little it Matters

How little we know, clueless
walking blood pumps,

attendants at the organic filling station.
Faith is my fuel, brute desires

loshes around my tank but alas
the gauge is desperately low.

How little it matters, our misty & in
accurateaccumulations. We have found

no entrance to the four-chambered heart
or to its tarnished flipside

the almighty head. If it’s true
there are two sides to every coin,

that everything mixes up with everything,
then why should we be surprised

at these howling mongrel lives of ours?
Neil Aitken

Four Hours to Taipei

Emptied of thought,
my head against the gray
window of the car.
In what should be dark, but isn't,
the constant barrage of light flares up
from waterstained apartment buildings
and rundown homes on the hills, or gleams
at the side of the road, and every point
in between. Plastic store signs
lit from within, everywhere.
Scooters and taxis disappear,
leaving only the last trace of their tail lights,
like fireflies escaping into the night.
The road hums like a tired monk
at the end of a Buddhist wake
long after the body has drifted
into the river of stars.

Cycling In The Dark

I sing low and under my breath,
these hymns, words full of longing,
not for anyone else, not even for God,
but for me. For something to hold on to.
Even in movement, there is a hush that builds
with this prayer against falling.
Here, in that close space occupied only by me
and the bicycle and the distant white shirt
of the one ahead of me, I find a certain peace,
a place outside of language.
My feet move in a steady rhythm,
circle after circle. The tires roll forward
over the pavement, the trash, the blood-like stains
of binglan spit out on the streets. I ignore
the man pissing against the wall in the shadows,
the sharp scent of his urine blending
with the open sewers that run the edge of the road.
What I can't ignore is absence. When I look up
into the night sky, blank and amnesiac,
there is no trace of satellites, only gray upon gray,
smog upon cloud, no memory of stars.


There is always cold at my heels, the tall ships of
thunder, small men with seeds. This is my gift.
This storm I bequeath to the acres of graves, the
bent necks of reeds, trees I remember. More than
color, I leave rain on doorsteps. Deep into night. I
drown the dust-heavy barns. Make red the dulled
wood. Carry the dry-veined leaves of maples back
into streets stained with earth and tires, black as
hard coffee. I am always heavy with gray, its sharp
scent of longing. The taste of uncanceled stamps.
Borneo. Hong Kong. Nicaragua. Belize. A passage of
water. I return your sorrows unsigned. I am unhinged.
I am a man with a bag half-full of teeth. An echo of
iris. Blood print of cobalt. All night, I am weaving this
filigree of darkness. All night a net of rivers blooms.
Someone is singing a love song for water. Someone is
digging a grave for the moon. If I stop, I might see
her – some white-haired goddess of winter and mist,
trailing behind me through the high-walled streets.
One hand cool on my shoulder, another pressed through
the back to iceberg skin. Already I know, she will not ask
for time, for black-inked names, only some token of trust,
a miracle of geese. For anything bent on returning.

Kite Flying

Late summer, when the winds blew hard, I would blend
into the sand, while my father stood at the edge of the
beach watching the kite rise against the dark pines, and
the line which tethered it to his hands, became invisible
in the half-light of dusk. How it pulled heavenward into
the insubstantial blue, or circled twisting in the breeze,
falling then rising again, always beyond reach. And he
would stand gesturing, as if calling a stray dog home or
a cat from a tree. A secret spell, something only he knew
to waken the creature in the sky, to send it running out
to sea like an angry pike on a line, then return exhausted
to his hand. And when winds struck, it could seem as if
the whole kite would burst with longing to leave the earth.
What an old song this is—what flies above our heads
like a banner, a wish for the one who never comes home.

About Books:

Title: All The Ways We Could Have Met
Author: Susan Culver


"Real life, real love, real poetry." -Patricia Gomes, Editor In Chief of Adagio Verse Quarterly and Author of Stroking Castro's Beard. "Susan Culver writes the way we all would write if we could." - Craig Murray, author of The Banshee. Susan Culver's first full length volume of poetry, All The Ways We Could Have Met, is a collection of love poems that travel beyond the romantic here and now to explore love's place in the world of maybe.

Product Details:

Printed: 72 pages, 6" x 9"
ISBN: 978-1-4116-4866-1
Copyright: © 2005
Language: English
Country: United States
Publisher's Link: http://www.lulu.com/
Contributors Biographies

Rethabile Masilo: was born in Lesotho. He is the co-editor of Canopic Jar. His poetry has appeared in several issues of the magazine. He divides his time between writing poetry and about African social and political issues, playing soccer, and spreading quality time with his two children. His and his family reside in France. His poetry blog is: http://poefrika.blogspot.com

Lynn Strongin: was born in New York City in 1939. In 1971, she moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to start her Doctorial stuides at the University of New Mexico. During that same year, she received a National Endowment of the Arts (NEA) Creative Writing grant; her first book, The Dwarf Cycle, was published the next year. From 1971 to 1979, she lived, studied, and taught in Albuquerque, during which time her other six books of poetry were published. Her latest collection is called Girl With Cooper Colored Hair is due to be released soon. She moved to Canada in 1979 for what was intended to be a short stay. She remains in her adapted land still, living in British Columbia. Her email address is: yosunt@shaw.ca.

Zachary Chartkoff: is the son of two California archaeologists. He grew-up in East Lansing, Michigan near the Michigan State University campus. He is a dedicated poet but to support himself has worked as an auto-parts delivery boy, a nurse’s aide, a light house tour guide and a Peace Corps Volunteer (Armenia, 1995-97). He is currently working on a new translation of Federico Garcia Lorca’s “Gypsy Ballads”. he lives in Lansing, Michigan. His website is: www.zacharychartkoff.com.

Aleah Sato: is the author of the recently released book Badlands and the forthcoming Stillborn Wilderness (Poka Press 2007). Her work has appeared in Nthpostion, Adirondack Review, Wicked Alice, Blue Fifth Review and Eclectica. She is a marketing manager and co-owner of RickSticks Inc. in Toronto, Canada where she resides. Her website is: www.aleahsato.com.

Lawrence Ripsher: is a photographer who shoots a diverse range of subjects including portraiture, ballet, pets and his greatest passion - contemporary photography. His work is well-known in online communities, particularly for the way his images story-telling ability and for their “experimental” quality. He plans to exhibit his collections in both Singapore and abroad this year and regularly conducts one to one workshops. He resides in Singapore but is originally from the UK. His online gallery is: www.pbase.com/scared_of_the_dark.

Michael McCulley: who resides in Montesano, Washington, has spent 25 years in computer education and support. He has created an e-book “Word Anger” which is available on his blog of the same name. Retired, he has rewired his energies and uses them in pastimes such as birding and writing poetry. He shares poems on other poetry websites, including his own at: www.wordanger.blogspot.com.

Robert Chrysler: enjoys challenging capitalist property relations, trying to figure out what the post-structuralists are going on about, and dreams of someday living in a tree. At present, he is an inspired subway-ranter from Toronto, Canada. His email is: loveecstasycrime@canonemail.com

Roy Blumenthal: has been a South African radio personality for almost a decade. The writer/director/producer, artist and musician is also a stand-up poet/poetry slammer and voice-over expert. In 2005 he directed six of the thirteen episodes of a show called Go-Open for SABC-2, a magazine series dedicated to the “open source” movement. His voice-over talents are represented by Shane at X-Factor. He says his life motto is: “I live my art in prosperity and abundance”. He resides in Johannesburg, South Africa. His website is: www.royblumenthal.com.

Nate Pritts: is the eidtor of the H_NGM_N , an online journal of poetry and politics. His poetry has appeared in The Southern Review, POOL, and Forklift and online at TYPO, Softblow, Story South, Diagram and elsewhere. He has published three chapbooks, The Happy Seasons, Winter Constellations, and Big Crisis. He is the author of Sensational Spectacular (Blaze Vox) and lives in Natchitoches, LA where he is an Aissistant Professor at Northwestern State University. He can be found online at: http://www.h-ngm-n.com/nate-pritts

Neil Aitken: is the founding editor of Boxcar Poetry Review. An award-winning poet, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, Portland Review, Poetry Souteast, The Druken Boat, and Washington Square. His poem “Adrift” won the 2004 Prairie Poetry Friends’ Award. He recently completed an MFA in Creative Writing at UC Riverside and now lives and works in Port Coquitlam, British Columbia, Canada. Visit his literary review at: www.boxcarpoetry.com

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 June 1st.
Copyright 2007 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.

Also visit the editor’s personal blog at: www.copyat5.blogspot.com
And my music blog at: www.medleymakersant.blogspot.com