Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Editor's Note:
Welcome to issue eight of CSR. Did I mention that this is my only child? Lucky for me it's so cute because I don't think I could warm up to an ugly baby. This is its first summer and it seems to enjoy the warm weather, sitting on the veranda bobbing its head to Bach. In this issue it will present some wonderful images of late summer from a fantastic French photograher and the amazing work of an artist born in Cambodia, along with poetry that's paper-thin with contradictions and designed to leap through a summer breeze bruising for a pinch. You can use a tape measure or #2 pencil to record the wiggles. Either way, graffiti on the walls says it all. So let your panacea chill-out in a kick-back read of lukewarm mayhem steeped in a pastorial setting. Uncertainty perfected in green, settling in a form you can't resist. Now, rustle up a disguise and get busy...
Welcome to issue eight of CSR. Did I mention that this is my only child? Lucky for me it's so cute because I don't think I could warm up to an ugly baby. This is its first summer and it seems to enjoy the warm weather, sitting on the veranda bobbing its head to Bach. In this issue it will present some wonderful images of late summer from a fantastic French photograher and the amazing work of an artist born in Cambodia, along with poetry that's paper-thin with contradictions and designed to leap through a summer breeze bruising for a pinch. You can use a tape measure or #2 pencil to record the wiggles. Either way, graffiti on the walls says it all. So let your panacea chill-out in a kick-back read of lukewarm mayhem steeped in a pastorial setting. Uncertainty perfected in green, settling in a form you can't resist. Now, rustle up a disguise and get busy...
Lisa Zaran
A Dream of My Brother
~for Robert John
I love to drive, he said
as he came crawling toward me
across a desert floor, burrs in both of his knees,
a dead star caught in his long, gray hair.
I feel used, he said,
and old as usual.
I believe I’m at the height of my existence.
At once exhausted, he lays himself at my feet.
I begin combing the nests out of his hair.
Scraping the dirt away from beneath his fingernails.
Kissing his sad and lonesome cheek.
His breath comes in white gusts of wind,
snowflakes fill the air.
*previously published in The Blondes Lay Content, 2006
What You Should Do
When happiness turns
a metallic shade of green,
and suddenly music
of a simpler green
begins to antelope past,
think of a marching band,
think of the archbishop in
all of us going out of his way
to find a new home, as he
turns his sufficiency toward eternity,
just think of the word sensation
and see where it takes you.
*previously published in in Snakeskin - #124
Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen
Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.
I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.
Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.
I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.
*previously published in The Rose & Thorn, Summer 2004
Aging
Perhaps we do not have to
measure out our falling years
with quasi-nostalgic minds
and homely gestures-
as if our lives were one tremendous joke.
The next generation arrives
riper than us with thicker bones
and stronger teeth-
while we sit in waiting rooms
counting bruises, signing
power-of-attorney forms
in the event things take a turn
for the worse.
To simplify our new existence
we purchase pill boxes, i.d. bracelets.
The graveyard reaches out a hand in longing.
Though some nights we consider it,
we're never sure.† Never ready.
Suppose it is just these glasses
we're wearing that make everything
appear blurry.† They were supposed to help
but now, we can't even read the writing
that scrolls across the bottom of the screen
during the evening news.
In fact, we do not know when
or if the war will end,
the weather will change,
or night will descend upon us
like a dark, woolen blanket.
It used to be that sixty was old,
now its the marker for career change.
As the diurnal moon passes overhead-
we remove our cotton nightshirts,
toss our orthopedic slippers out the door.
We rush crooked fingers through gossamer hair.
We stand, fully unclothed in the center
of our yards, believing even in old age
we are beautiful.
I and I
I am twelve.
My sister is eight
almost nine.
I am the kind of girl
who keeps quiet.
So is my sister.
I bury my arms
in a tub of water.
My sister is bathing.
My downy arms.
My sister.
Like two sad fish
lost to the current.
She will never collapse.
Not my sister.
Not without me.
*previously published in The Blondes Lay Content, 2006
A Dream of My Brother
~for Robert John
I love to drive, he said
as he came crawling toward me
across a desert floor, burrs in both of his knees,
a dead star caught in his long, gray hair.
I feel used, he said,
and old as usual.
I believe I’m at the height of my existence.
At once exhausted, he lays himself at my feet.
I begin combing the nests out of his hair.
Scraping the dirt away from beneath his fingernails.
Kissing his sad and lonesome cheek.
His breath comes in white gusts of wind,
snowflakes fill the air.
*previously published in The Blondes Lay Content, 2006
What You Should Do
When happiness turns
a metallic shade of green,
and suddenly music
of a simpler green
begins to antelope past,
think of a marching band,
think of the archbishop in
all of us going out of his way
to find a new home, as he
turns his sufficiency toward eternity,
just think of the word sensation
and see where it takes you.
*previously published in in Snakeskin - #124
Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen
Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.
I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.
Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.
I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.
*previously published in The Rose & Thorn, Summer 2004
Aging
Perhaps we do not have to
measure out our falling years
with quasi-nostalgic minds
and homely gestures-
as if our lives were one tremendous joke.
The next generation arrives
riper than us with thicker bones
and stronger teeth-
while we sit in waiting rooms
counting bruises, signing
power-of-attorney forms
in the event things take a turn
for the worse.
To simplify our new existence
we purchase pill boxes, i.d. bracelets.
The graveyard reaches out a hand in longing.
Though some nights we consider it,
we're never sure.† Never ready.
Suppose it is just these glasses
we're wearing that make everything
appear blurry.† They were supposed to help
but now, we can't even read the writing
that scrolls across the bottom of the screen
during the evening news.
In fact, we do not know when
or if the war will end,
the weather will change,
or night will descend upon us
like a dark, woolen blanket.
It used to be that sixty was old,
now its the marker for career change.
As the diurnal moon passes overhead-
we remove our cotton nightshirts,
toss our orthopedic slippers out the door.
We rush crooked fingers through gossamer hair.
We stand, fully unclothed in the center
of our yards, believing even in old age
we are beautiful.
I and I
I am twelve.
My sister is eight
almost nine.
I am the kind of girl
who keeps quiet.
So is my sister.
I bury my arms
in a tub of water.
My sister is bathing.
My downy arms.
My sister.
Like two sad fish
lost to the current.
She will never collapse.
Not my sister.
Not without me.
*previously published in The Blondes Lay Content, 2006
Rhonda Laurel
Dear Heart
I have been waiting to give my heart away.
Waiting by the side of a country dirt road.
Waiting on the platform of the train station where you left me that night.
Waiting in a crowded restaurant at a table for one.
I do not know how to let it go.
Not sure if you will return it in a million pieces.
Or steal it and then throw it away.
Will you protect it on life’s long journey?
Will you nurture it when I am in pain?
Will you give me the breath of life when I feel I don’t have one?
Will you give me your heart in exchange?
Take care of dear heart.
I need it to breath, to speak, to listen to the words that you say.
I need it to be whole, to be human.
I need it to find my way to you.
I need it to make the journey and back again
One
A STATIONARY DRIFTER.
A FAN OF THE UNDERDOG.
CHAMPION OF LOST CAUSES.
LOGICAL LIKE A KLINGON
EXCEPT WHEN MY FAMILY’S CONCERNED.
Loyal like a dog.
A people watcher.
A tongue sharp like a razor’s edge.
Love a good laugh.
Not a fan of the past.
A passionate woman.
Own rose colored glasses.
Destined for infamy.
My own worst enemy.
Power behind the throne.
Appreciate fine things.
Weary of strangers.
Love him.
Jack of all trades.
Master of one.
Return To Eden
Do you think of me as your oasis?
Your supreme paradise of truth and beauty?
In a perfect world I would be sought after like a rare gem or an
exotic flower.
You seek refuge from the harshness of the outside world to
become whole again.
To remember who you were when you were inside the gates of Eden.
As you ponder why you ever left in the first place,
I wonder why you thought you could ever return
Roots
How deep are your roots?
Do they dig firmly into the ground from hundreds of years of
fertilization?
Or are they easy to unearth like a newly potted plant?
Do they plunge deep down to the center of the earth?
Or do they spread out and infuse themselves with roots of another?
Can your roots survive a drought?
Can it withstand leaves slowly falling away from the tree up top?
Can your roots feel the pain of branches being torn away by age, time and acts of the divine?
In the end will the leaves say, ‘those are your roots not mine’?
Destroy the tree if you will but the roots will always survive.
*previously published in The Writer’s Post Journal - August 2004
Southern Comfort
I knew this man.
A proud, stubborn southern man.
Proud of his southern ways.
Proud of his family and the life he’s lived.
This strong, gentle man taught me a thing or two about love.
We met in a time when the world was not ours for the taking.
But we took as much as we could.
A life made of glass, implausible by chance.
His ways were not my ways.
And my ways were not his.
Who knows what will happen when southern gentility meets a citified heathen.
But we shared the same dream.
My world will always be a better place because of Southern Comfort.
Dear Heart
I have been waiting to give my heart away.
Waiting by the side of a country dirt road.
Waiting on the platform of the train station where you left me that night.
Waiting in a crowded restaurant at a table for one.
I do not know how to let it go.
Not sure if you will return it in a million pieces.
Or steal it and then throw it away.
Will you protect it on life’s long journey?
Will you nurture it when I am in pain?
Will you give me the breath of life when I feel I don’t have one?
Will you give me your heart in exchange?
Take care of dear heart.
I need it to breath, to speak, to listen to the words that you say.
I need it to be whole, to be human.
I need it to find my way to you.
I need it to make the journey and back again
One
A STATIONARY DRIFTER.
A FAN OF THE UNDERDOG.
CHAMPION OF LOST CAUSES.
LOGICAL LIKE A KLINGON
EXCEPT WHEN MY FAMILY’S CONCERNED.
Loyal like a dog.
A people watcher.
A tongue sharp like a razor’s edge.
Love a good laugh.
Not a fan of the past.
A passionate woman.
Own rose colored glasses.
Destined for infamy.
My own worst enemy.
Power behind the throne.
Appreciate fine things.
Weary of strangers.
Love him.
Jack of all trades.
Master of one.
Return To Eden
Do you think of me as your oasis?
Your supreme paradise of truth and beauty?
In a perfect world I would be sought after like a rare gem or an
exotic flower.
You seek refuge from the harshness of the outside world to
become whole again.
To remember who you were when you were inside the gates of Eden.
As you ponder why you ever left in the first place,
I wonder why you thought you could ever return
Roots
How deep are your roots?
Do they dig firmly into the ground from hundreds of years of
fertilization?
Or are they easy to unearth like a newly potted plant?
Do they plunge deep down to the center of the earth?
Or do they spread out and infuse themselves with roots of another?
Can your roots survive a drought?
Can it withstand leaves slowly falling away from the tree up top?
Can your roots feel the pain of branches being torn away by age, time and acts of the divine?
In the end will the leaves say, ‘those are your roots not mine’?
Destroy the tree if you will but the roots will always survive.
*previously published in The Writer’s Post Journal - August 2004
Southern Comfort
I knew this man.
A proud, stubborn southern man.
Proud of his southern ways.
Proud of his family and the life he’s lived.
This strong, gentle man taught me a thing or two about love.
We met in a time when the world was not ours for the taking.
But we took as much as we could.
A life made of glass, implausible by chance.
His ways were not my ways.
And my ways were not his.
Who knows what will happen when southern gentility meets a citified heathen.
But we shared the same dream.
My world will always be a better place because of Southern Comfort.
Roger Humes
Distracted
Distracted you failed to notice
the changing of the seasons
or the portents the wind did omen
or the wearied moments lost
when you forgot I was there
waiting patiently across the table.
Isolation No. 1
Frequently I write of intimacy
because I am attracted by
what I lack and by what best
diverts me from the recognition
that I always confused misfortune
to be the form of kindness I most desired.
Obedience School
Love is a dog rummaging
through the garbage under
the sink: the brain is aware
punishment is inevitable but
cannot resist the imperatives
demanded by the stomach.
A Certain Comfort
There is a certain comfort
one finds when the experience
of discomfort
becomes expertise.
Now I understand why
my father would chain-smoke
at 2:30 in the morning
while staring at the remainder
of what his life could have been.
Legal Tender
Every life has a price:
for some it is love, for some it is death
for all there is a cash register of regrets
where they hoard the legal tender
of the mistakes of their existence.
Sometimes I pretend your words
Sometimes I pretend your words
were composed for me
so that in the evening
there is someone else
to join my conversation
while I listen for the postman
to deliver those letters
you have never written
Distracted
Distracted you failed to notice
the changing of the seasons
or the portents the wind did omen
or the wearied moments lost
when you forgot I was there
waiting patiently across the table.
Isolation No. 1
Frequently I write of intimacy
because I am attracted by
what I lack and by what best
diverts me from the recognition
that I always confused misfortune
to be the form of kindness I most desired.
Obedience School
Love is a dog rummaging
through the garbage under
the sink: the brain is aware
punishment is inevitable but
cannot resist the imperatives
demanded by the stomach.
A Certain Comfort
There is a certain comfort
one finds when the experience
of discomfort
becomes expertise.
Now I understand why
my father would chain-smoke
at 2:30 in the morning
while staring at the remainder
of what his life could have been.
Legal Tender
Every life has a price:
for some it is love, for some it is death
for all there is a cash register of regrets
where they hoard the legal tender
of the mistakes of their existence.
Sometimes I pretend your words
Sometimes I pretend your words
were composed for me
so that in the evening
there is someone else
to join my conversation
while I listen for the postman
to deliver those letters
you have never written
About Music - 3 Leg Torso
3 Leg Torso formed in 1996 as violin, cello and accordion trio with the mission of creating original modern chamber music for their unique instrumentation. Over the following years the band has expanded both its musical mission and its size to become a quintet that now performs its eclectic synthesis of chamber music, tango, klezmer, latin and world music. As principal composers, founding members Béla Balogh (on violin and trumpet) and Courtney Von Drehle (on accordion) provide the core of 3 Leg Torso’s sound. They are joined by veteran percussionist/mallet player Gary Irvine, the fastidious mallets/percussion of Kyle MacLowry and the fiery upright bass player Michael Papillo.
The bands history began with street performances, which they titled, "Meestering", and has led to their releasing two CDs (3 Leg Torso and Astor in Paris), East Coast and West Coast tours, performances with symphony orchestras and a profile on National Public Radio’s "All Things Considered" . The cinematic nature of their music has made it a natural for them to work with many independent film makers. These collaborations have included scoring The Dowager's Feast and The Dowager's Idyll, two films by Academy Award winning animator Joan Gratz; scoring With Hope and Help, a United Nations funded documentary on AIDS in Thailand; the piece Divertissments for Performing Bears being used as theme music for a Bosnian television series.
In 2003, Von Drehle was awarded a Fellowship at the Sundance Film Composers Lab. Twice the band has been commissioned by the Portland Institute of Contemporary Art to create new evening length works, most recently involving a collaboration with David Greenberger, the originator of The Duplex Planet. Find out more about them at: http://www.3legtorso.com/
3 Leg Torso formed in 1996 as violin, cello and accordion trio with the mission of creating original modern chamber music for their unique instrumentation. Over the following years the band has expanded both its musical mission and its size to become a quintet that now performs its eclectic synthesis of chamber music, tango, klezmer, latin and world music. As principal composers, founding members Béla Balogh (on violin and trumpet) and Courtney Von Drehle (on accordion) provide the core of 3 Leg Torso’s sound. They are joined by veteran percussionist/mallet player Gary Irvine, the fastidious mallets/percussion of Kyle MacLowry and the fiery upright bass player Michael Papillo.
The bands history began with street performances, which they titled, "Meestering", and has led to their releasing two CDs (3 Leg Torso and Astor in Paris), East Coast and West Coast tours, performances with symphony orchestras and a profile on National Public Radio’s "All Things Considered" . The cinematic nature of their music has made it a natural for them to work with many independent film makers. These collaborations have included scoring The Dowager's Feast and The Dowager's Idyll, two films by Academy Award winning animator Joan Gratz; scoring With Hope and Help, a United Nations funded documentary on AIDS in Thailand; the piece Divertissments for Performing Bears being used as theme music for a Bosnian television series.
In 2003, Von Drehle was awarded a Fellowship at the Sundance Film Composers Lab. Twice the band has been commissioned by the Portland Institute of Contemporary Art to create new evening length works, most recently involving a collaboration with David Greenberger, the originator of The Duplex Planet. Find out more about them at: http://www.3legtorso.com/
Ananya Guha
This Time
I write once again of the whispering wind
cradled in nature's mythic past
what bewilders time?
what ails it?
the hills know, so do those stones immortalized
by the sky, the river red
and the wondrous fluttering
of leaves, but the sad monotone
of the cawing crow sidles into my umbrella
of pent up fears, which admonish
effervescence of bubbling dreams
Truth
... is an astonishing mountain
have you seen it ?
derelict joy, tears of sadness
every passing shadow is truth
celestial mountain, abode of
unreleased dreams
let’s climb this mountain
to unwind, midst cloudy,
tumultuous seas.
Tonight
there is no wistful wind,
nor springtime cherries
summer has tanned us into
fistful of sultry moments
the mind refuses to lift
from stupor, somewhere else
in this country, you will hear
of turbulent, boisterous floods
making enough clamor to awaken
sensibilities of the fourth estate
floods are meant for the starved
it is only us in our frigid
arid zones, who complain plaintively
of the heat; and sing dirges on it.
*previously published in Thanal Online - Issue 3 2006
Afternoon
The afternoon
sighs once again
for the rains
as cumulous clouds
envelop skies, and
me with my hauteur
desire once again
to play those little games
but the afternoon is like
the sunset, to take refuge
in the solitariness of these
forests, and hills, so I linger
continue lingering with hallowed
dreams, as the afternoon in equipoise
reminds us once again of winter time.
Skies
They look ruffled
as if beaten by the wind
weather forecasts say that
it is going to rain, but
these brow beaten skies
cloud beaten, weather driven
pay homage to the Goddess
in this festive season
I look up to them heavenwards
and pray for small mercies.
*both poems previously published in Muse India - 2nd Anniversary Issue
This Time
I write once again of the whispering wind
cradled in nature's mythic past
what bewilders time?
what ails it?
the hills know, so do those stones immortalized
by the sky, the river red
and the wondrous fluttering
of leaves, but the sad monotone
of the cawing crow sidles into my umbrella
of pent up fears, which admonish
effervescence of bubbling dreams
Truth
... is an astonishing mountain
have you seen it ?
derelict joy, tears of sadness
every passing shadow is truth
celestial mountain, abode of
unreleased dreams
let’s climb this mountain
to unwind, midst cloudy,
tumultuous seas.
Tonight
there is no wistful wind,
nor springtime cherries
summer has tanned us into
fistful of sultry moments
the mind refuses to lift
from stupor, somewhere else
in this country, you will hear
of turbulent, boisterous floods
making enough clamor to awaken
sensibilities of the fourth estate
floods are meant for the starved
it is only us in our frigid
arid zones, who complain plaintively
of the heat; and sing dirges on it.
*previously published in Thanal Online - Issue 3 2006
Afternoon
The afternoon
sighs once again
for the rains
as cumulous clouds
envelop skies, and
me with my hauteur
desire once again
to play those little games
but the afternoon is like
the sunset, to take refuge
in the solitariness of these
forests, and hills, so I linger
continue lingering with hallowed
dreams, as the afternoon in equipoise
reminds us once again of winter time.
Skies
They look ruffled
as if beaten by the wind
weather forecasts say that
it is going to rain, but
these brow beaten skies
cloud beaten, weather driven
pay homage to the Goddess
in this festive season
I look up to them heavenwards
and pray for small mercies.
*both poems previously published in Muse India - 2nd Anniversary Issue
Kimberly L. Becker
The Fallen Apples
Target fodder for BB guns,
the fallen apples
once were used for apple butter,
pies, dumplings,
or drying—shriveled faces on a rack.
The fallen apples
are fewer now.
The orchard,
once dense with bees,
is sparse.
The fallen apples
fit in the snug of your hand
like the skull of a fetus,
squash under your shoe,
core crushed like soft bone.
How long can trees bear?
Kenosis of growth.
And we lowered the branches
and ate until we were as gods,
knowing good and evil.
The apples, no longer picked, but fallen,
fall with a soft thump.
They roll down the hill and halt.
Like us, they are both sweet and tart.
Like Schiller’s apples, their very rot is inspiration.
So much has fallen into ruin:
the house, the barn, our lives, our overripe intentions.
Look: two apples have fallen beside each other.
They look to be red but instead are striated with discoloration.
Companions, they lie and ripen where they fall.
A still life
is still a life
*previously published in Southern Hum - Issue 2 Dec.2006
All The Graves
Within the space of a week I visit all the graves.
My grandparents’ double wide and my uncle’s
double but singly inhabited one.
His twice remarried wife will have to choose
with whom to rest eternally.
My undead mother’s drawer in a parish
columbarium is empty but engraved.
The CSA grave of a great-great grandfather
lies surrounded by the little mounds of
influenzaed infants. And my own grave:
You can see it from the window
by the kitchen table, a straight view into
the upper meadow past the barn. A rock
of granite big enough to stand or sit on.
A rock of substance and of ages.
Just stand on it and cast my ashes around.
Maybe with no breeze they’d plop into cow pies.
No matter. It’s the sweep of ridge I like.
The land is already consecrated
by the call of hawks, throaty bullfrogs in
the summer, petite feet of scavenging fox,
so I don’t require or want any formal rites.
A psalm if you must, about the hills.
But let the wind be my homily,
the range of mountains my communion.
The Queen Anne’s lace and staves of goldenrod
are all the altar flowers I’ll ever need.
Don’t be shy about visiting, but don’t
come on my account. If you find yourself
here, sit down. Take in the view. This is the heaven
I know and knew. I hope you’ll know it, too.
*previously published in A Southern Journal - Vol. 7 ‘07
The Terrible Infants
The Infant of Prague changes its clothes
or rather has them changed by nuns
and people venerate it or rather, him.
(If you work backwards, from doll to cell by cell
accretion of the Word, it sort of makes a twisted sense.)
The Infant has 70 outfits in its wardrobe.
Terrible, the power of a baby,
whose image is for sale on eBay.
My sister is due any day.
They will be changing and changing tiny clothes
they’ll revere on flawed flesh got from them both.
The way my sister’s husband looks
for signs of his own cancer
in his baby’s gas attests:
Terrible, the power of an infant,
its small, yet critical mass
What the Head Said
News item: she is accused of running down a homeless man
and driving home with his body grotesquely lodged through
her windshield. She pulled into her garage and sat in the car
and cried, repeatedly apologizing to the man, who was moaning.
When she got him home he was still lodged there
so she parked in the garage and sat in the backseat and talked
to his head
that was crashed through the glass over the dash.
She didn’t talk so much as cry.
She said sorry sorry sorry sorry
She said Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord
The head said Please and Mercy and Help
Later, weakened, it said what she hoped was Forgive
Like the head of John the Baptist
its gaze was judgment demanding repentance.
Like the head of Orpheus
its words became the poetry
she would hear singing through her unquiet dreams
and all through her waking hell.
It is her sentence to hear that voice forever.
And it just kills her
How to Make a Poem
Crucify yourself on the cross of memory and desire.
Enter the tomb and pull the stone shut behind you.
Descend into hell.
On the third day rise again, clutching blood-stained sheet.
Lather, rinse, repeat
The Fallen Apples
Target fodder for BB guns,
the fallen apples
once were used for apple butter,
pies, dumplings,
or drying—shriveled faces on a rack.
The fallen apples
are fewer now.
The orchard,
once dense with bees,
is sparse.
The fallen apples
fit in the snug of your hand
like the skull of a fetus,
squash under your shoe,
core crushed like soft bone.
How long can trees bear?
Kenosis of growth.
And we lowered the branches
and ate until we were as gods,
knowing good and evil.
The apples, no longer picked, but fallen,
fall with a soft thump.
They roll down the hill and halt.
Like us, they are both sweet and tart.
Like Schiller’s apples, their very rot is inspiration.
So much has fallen into ruin:
the house, the barn, our lives, our overripe intentions.
Look: two apples have fallen beside each other.
They look to be red but instead are striated with discoloration.
Companions, they lie and ripen where they fall.
A still life
is still a life
*previously published in Southern Hum - Issue 2 Dec.2006
All The Graves
Within the space of a week I visit all the graves.
My grandparents’ double wide and my uncle’s
double but singly inhabited one.
His twice remarried wife will have to choose
with whom to rest eternally.
My undead mother’s drawer in a parish
columbarium is empty but engraved.
The CSA grave of a great-great grandfather
lies surrounded by the little mounds of
influenzaed infants. And my own grave:
You can see it from the window
by the kitchen table, a straight view into
the upper meadow past the barn. A rock
of granite big enough to stand or sit on.
A rock of substance and of ages.
Just stand on it and cast my ashes around.
Maybe with no breeze they’d plop into cow pies.
No matter. It’s the sweep of ridge I like.
The land is already consecrated
by the call of hawks, throaty bullfrogs in
the summer, petite feet of scavenging fox,
so I don’t require or want any formal rites.
A psalm if you must, about the hills.
But let the wind be my homily,
the range of mountains my communion.
The Queen Anne’s lace and staves of goldenrod
are all the altar flowers I’ll ever need.
Don’t be shy about visiting, but don’t
come on my account. If you find yourself
here, sit down. Take in the view. This is the heaven
I know and knew. I hope you’ll know it, too.
*previously published in A Southern Journal - Vol. 7 ‘07
The Terrible Infants
The Infant of Prague changes its clothes
or rather has them changed by nuns
and people venerate it or rather, him.
(If you work backwards, from doll to cell by cell
accretion of the Word, it sort of makes a twisted sense.)
The Infant has 70 outfits in its wardrobe.
Terrible, the power of a baby,
whose image is for sale on eBay.
My sister is due any day.
They will be changing and changing tiny clothes
they’ll revere on flawed flesh got from them both.
The way my sister’s husband looks
for signs of his own cancer
in his baby’s gas attests:
Terrible, the power of an infant,
its small, yet critical mass
What the Head Said
News item: she is accused of running down a homeless man
and driving home with his body grotesquely lodged through
her windshield. She pulled into her garage and sat in the car
and cried, repeatedly apologizing to the man, who was moaning.
When she got him home he was still lodged there
so she parked in the garage and sat in the backseat and talked
to his head
that was crashed through the glass over the dash.
She didn’t talk so much as cry.
She said sorry sorry sorry sorry
She said Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord
The head said Please and Mercy and Help
Later, weakened, it said what she hoped was Forgive
Like the head of John the Baptist
its gaze was judgment demanding repentance.
Like the head of Orpheus
its words became the poetry
she would hear singing through her unquiet dreams
and all through her waking hell.
It is her sentence to hear that voice forever.
And it just kills her
How to Make a Poem
Crucify yourself on the cross of memory and desire.
Enter the tomb and pull the stone shut behind you.
Descend into hell.
On the third day rise again, clutching blood-stained sheet.
Lather, rinse, repeat
Jonathan Penton
Wilson told…
me yesterday
that you can't teach
poetry.
He's a sweetheart, but in telling me
that Justin, as an
editor and promoter,
is not a real artist,
he in
advertently said the same
of me.
Although more accomplished,
Wilson is younger than I.
I find it hard to listen
to the wisdom of the young.
After all, I know so little.
Today, I read Michael's words.
He, too, says you can't teach poetry.
Yet Siddhartha learned
listening from
a river.
I am done with poets.
They have taught me nothing,
as they told me to expect.
I will ask the mountains
for wisdom.
If they know nothing,
at least I will
find a pretty place
to die.
I'm sorry, what ?
You are upset because I haven't asked what?
You want me to ask you how you're doing?
For the past two months, I have survived
off the odor of your breath.
I have sated my hunger by knowing you
were next to me in bed.
I have dreamed your terror, over and over again,
trapped in your frail woman's body
under a man's hot hands
and somehowyou seem to feel
you aren't getting an adequate supply of my attention.
Maybe it's time I started doing more of the talking
because frankly
I don't ask questions when I already know the answer
I could describe for you
the way the Miami sun's heat
splays across my right cheek,
inching down my throat,
while,
by some trick of particles and rays,
simultaneously tickling the left side
of my belly.
Or I could go inside and have a good cry.
I don't think you're really listening anyway.
Virginia Woolf
walked into the river
with her pockets full of rocks
Hemingway
used a shotgun over breakfast
and you know all about it,
don't you,
you smug little well-read bastard?
Famous people doing
crazy things
just to keep you entertained
They said they killed themselves
to keep from going crazy
Oh, the irony
it gives your sophomoric mind
something to puzzle over
with a beer in one
hand home-brewed absinthe in the other
Until you find yourself,
at dawn,
in the same spot you occupied at midnight
twitching
with each
tick
of the
clock
waiting
and
waiting
for
relief to come
And that moment
when you realize
the bad moments
outnumber the good
The End
Not that it matters.
At some point,
either in this life or the next,
I have to decide that I no longer find
the stupidity of others
fulfilling.
A poet's lifestyle is not viable
and I learned long ago
that suicide is not an escape
*all poems previously published in East Village Poetry except Virginia Woolf
Published in Unlikely Stories 2002
Wilson told…
me yesterday
that you can't teach
poetry.
He's a sweetheart, but in telling me
that Justin, as an
editor and promoter,
is not a real artist,
he in
advertently said the same
of me.
Although more accomplished,
Wilson is younger than I.
I find it hard to listen
to the wisdom of the young.
After all, I know so little.
Today, I read Michael's words.
He, too, says you can't teach poetry.
Yet Siddhartha learned
listening from
a river.
I am done with poets.
They have taught me nothing,
as they told me to expect.
I will ask the mountains
for wisdom.
If they know nothing,
at least I will
find a pretty place
to die.
I'm sorry, what ?
You are upset because I haven't asked what?
You want me to ask you how you're doing?
For the past two months, I have survived
off the odor of your breath.
I have sated my hunger by knowing you
were next to me in bed.
I have dreamed your terror, over and over again,
trapped in your frail woman's body
under a man's hot hands
and somehowyou seem to feel
you aren't getting an adequate supply of my attention.
Maybe it's time I started doing more of the talking
because frankly
I don't ask questions when I already know the answer
I could describe for you
the way the Miami sun's heat
splays across my right cheek,
inching down my throat,
while,
by some trick of particles and rays,
simultaneously tickling the left side
of my belly.
Or I could go inside and have a good cry.
I don't think you're really listening anyway.
Virginia Woolf
walked into the river
with her pockets full of rocks
Hemingway
used a shotgun over breakfast
and you know all about it,
don't you,
you smug little well-read bastard?
Famous people doing
crazy things
just to keep you entertained
They said they killed themselves
to keep from going crazy
Oh, the irony
it gives your sophomoric mind
something to puzzle over
with a beer in one
hand home-brewed absinthe in the other
Until you find yourself,
at dawn,
in the same spot you occupied at midnight
twitching
with each
tick
of the
clock
waiting
and
waiting
for
relief to come
And that moment
when you realize
the bad moments
outnumber the good
The End
Not that it matters.
At some point,
either in this life or the next,
I have to decide that I no longer find
the stupidity of others
fulfilling.
A poet's lifestyle is not viable
and I learned long ago
that suicide is not an escape
*all poems previously published in East Village Poetry except Virginia Woolf
Published in Unlikely Stories 2002
Kate Greenstreet
Clearing
He loses ground building cabins.
The air reminds her of before.
People keep arriving (you, like all others).
We want to show you who we were.
Start by sitting in a comfortable position.
Notice it’s powerful, yet pleasant.
One small room, wooden floor, favorite window.
The leaves are burning. Why should it be better.
*previously published in Octopus Magazine - Issue 5
Conviction
Nobody has ever been so happy.
the city covered in snow
the town buried "all rise"
"Only if it changes everything."
I know he's good—
(or) he's someone I love.
The freighter represents history,
the river is the ground.
snow on your coat
fishermen
reporters
police
He's still walking away.
*previously published in The Tiny Journal.
“on the way to the ice” (2)
“it comes in bullets,
in jets
and that's the modern way”
“Well, we're the long range people”
“approves or—discards—this is murder—
you see…during the years—thirty—”
“I wouldn't ask, as you say”
“too tired to lift it”
“I could have delved
into deeper things but
one can't risk—”
[ ]
“—talking clears the air
and brings out half a laugh…
we poor beings
with what we think…
[D]irectly
that's our best way”
“not just for me
but the world. And while we live.”
*previously published in Fascicle - Issue 2
Pupil
A genius! they say.
Or then: She has almost no gifts.
Get the pipe in, and bury it.
What we beganto know, we began
to know
in secret.
If you are vulnerable
to this music...
it's not about ecstasy,
merging, or being unusual,
believe me.
What we've done so far
is like assembling ingredients is
to hunger. If you are vulnerable.
(A great place to live!
In loving memory)
We thought the future
had arrived.
Fields,
a stony place, then forests.
All positions being apparent,
no one agrees about
what happened next.
It was the past. (Shoe
that fits)
Mathematics
was a prayer they did
with chalk.
I pondered the meaning
of the letters—thx (lowercase,
period)—instead of thanks.
Decided I had said too much.
I wanted to be asked.
Shoe that fits,
shoe made of glass.
Begins to explain
how in prayer
the soul is united with God.
Describes how we may know we are not
mistaken about this.
*previously published in Verse Daily - 2005
Introvert
Deep in my own green element,
I met a friend—
my double, my dearest.
Others
pulled me out of the sea,
placed me
in this pan of water,
added salt,
and taught me to eat bread.
*previously published in The Duplications - Sept. 4, 2005
Clearing
He loses ground building cabins.
The air reminds her of before.
People keep arriving (you, like all others).
We want to show you who we were.
Start by sitting in a comfortable position.
Notice it’s powerful, yet pleasant.
One small room, wooden floor, favorite window.
The leaves are burning. Why should it be better.
*previously published in Octopus Magazine - Issue 5
Conviction
Nobody has ever been so happy.
the city covered in snow
the town buried "all rise"
"Only if it changes everything."
I know he's good—
(or) he's someone I love.
The freighter represents history,
the river is the ground.
snow on your coat
fishermen
reporters
police
He's still walking away.
*previously published in The Tiny Journal.
“on the way to the ice” (2)
“it comes in bullets,
in jets
and that's the modern way”
“Well, we're the long range people”
“approves or—discards—this is murder—
you see…during the years—thirty—”
“I wouldn't ask, as you say”
“too tired to lift it”
“I could have delved
into deeper things but
one can't risk—”
[ ]
“—talking clears the air
and brings out half a laugh…
we poor beings
with what we think…
[D]irectly
that's our best way”
“not just for me
but the world. And while we live.”
*previously published in Fascicle - Issue 2
Pupil
A genius! they say.
Or then: She has almost no gifts.
Get the pipe in, and bury it.
What we beganto know, we began
to know
in secret.
If you are vulnerable
to this music...
it's not about ecstasy,
merging, or being unusual,
believe me.
What we've done so far
is like assembling ingredients is
to hunger. If you are vulnerable.
(A great place to live!
In loving memory)
We thought the future
had arrived.
Fields,
a stony place, then forests.
All positions being apparent,
no one agrees about
what happened next.
It was the past. (Shoe
that fits)
Mathematics
was a prayer they did
with chalk.
I pondered the meaning
of the letters—thx (lowercase,
period)—instead of thanks.
Decided I had said too much.
I wanted to be asked.
Shoe that fits,
shoe made of glass.
Begins to explain
how in prayer
the soul is united with God.
Describes how we may know we are not
mistaken about this.
*previously published in Verse Daily - 2005
Introvert
Deep in my own green element,
I met a friend—
my double, my dearest.
Others
pulled me out of the sea,
placed me
in this pan of water,
added salt,
and taught me to eat bread.
*previously published in The Duplications - Sept. 4, 2005
About Art - Flamingo Sculpture
Flamingo, created by American artist Alexander Calder, is a 53 foot (16 m) tall stabile located in the Federal Plaza in front of the Kluczynski Federal Building in Chicago, Illinois. The sculpture was commissioned by the United States General Services Administration and was unveiled in 1974, although Calder's signature on the sculpture indicates it was constructed in 1973.
Flamingo weighs 50 tons, is composed of steel, and is vermilion in color. Calder gave the stabile its color, which has come to be called "Calder red", to offset it from the black and steel surroundings of nearby office buildings, including the Ludwig Mies van der Rohe-designed Kluczynski Federal Building. The stabile is an art form which Calder pioneered. It is an abstract structure that is completely stationary, as opposed to a mobile, which can move with air currents.
Calder was commissioned to design the sculpture because of his well-established international reputation; the space, surrounded by rectangular modern buildings, necessitated the kind of arching forms and dynamic surfaces that a large-scale Calder stabile could provide. Flamingo was the first work of art commissioned by the General Services Administration under the federal Percent for Art program, which allocates a percentage of a project's budget to public art. Calder unveiled the model for Flamingo on April 23, 1973 at the Art Institute of Chicago; the sculpture was presented to the public for the first time on October 25, 1974, at the same time that Calder's Universe mobile was unveiled at the Sears Tower. The day was proclaimed "Alexander Calder Day" and featured a circus parade.
Despite the large size of the sculpture, its design is such that viewers can walk underneath and around it, thus enabling one to perceive it in human scale. The shape of Flamingo alludes to the natural and animal realm, which is a stark contrast to more literal interpretations in sculpture from previous decades. Calder's structure is a prominent example of the constructivist movement, first popularized in Russia in the early 20th century. Constructivism refers to sculpture that is made from smaller pieces which are joined together. To find out more about one of America's greatest artist who is credited for inventing the "mobile" go to: www.calder.org
About Books:
Title: Embryoyo
Author: Dean Young
Description:
In this follow-up to his Pulitzer Prize‒finalist collection Elegy on Toy Piano, Dean Young—one of the most individual poets of the past several decades, and with one of the most iconic voices in poetry today—once again sets about taking some cracks at the piñata of commonplace reality. No one is unsure if they’ve read a poem by Dean Young. The power and sheer curiosity of the poems in this book leave a mark.
“Dean Young’s work will delight only two kinds of people: those who generally read poetry and those who generally don’t.”
—The Threepenny Review
Product Details:
Printed: 105 pages, 6"x9"
ISBN: 10: 1-932416-69-2
Copyright: 2007
Language: English
Country: United States
Publisher's Link: http://books.believermag.com
Title: Embryoyo
Author: Dean Young
Description:
In this follow-up to his Pulitzer Prize‒finalist collection Elegy on Toy Piano, Dean Young—one of the most individual poets of the past several decades, and with one of the most iconic voices in poetry today—once again sets about taking some cracks at the piñata of commonplace reality. No one is unsure if they’ve read a poem by Dean Young. The power and sheer curiosity of the poems in this book leave a mark.
“Dean Young’s work will delight only two kinds of people: those who generally read poetry and those who generally don’t.”
—The Threepenny Review
Product Details:
Printed: 105 pages, 6"x9"
ISBN: 10: 1-932416-69-2
Copyright: 2007
Language: English
Country: United States
Publisher's Link: http://books.believermag.com
Kenneth Gurney
Roadside Flowers
These are not the stop and smell type.
Really. They are weeds with blooms.
The kind you should ignore
or mow down, but that does not stop you
from stopping. Just to look for a moment.
Which turns into five minutes
because you never really liked should’s
or the insistence of punctuality parameters.
It occurs to your mind that you never
see these flowers at the florist
and now that you’ve taken the time
you acknowledge that they are rather beautiful.
Why would anyone want to mow them down
to protect some crumbly asphalt shoulder.
In fact, you pull your swiss-army pen knife
from your pocketed keychain
and cut several stems to gather a handful,
for the office, where you are headed
on this day you chose to ride
your bicycle into work on a secondary road
that the highway department tends to ignore.
Strays
She doesn’t want to be fat in spring
and science provides a solution.
Maybe not, if the townsfolk learn
and apply their morals to her.
No one yells at the boy
and that bothers her that he
doesn’t share the verbal beatings,
the damning glances.
He isn’t all black leather
like the rumors state,
but Sunday-go-to-church
and works at the hardware store.
The conviction of popular opinion
places her in chains with no key.
The shame of it all resides
in her parents, constrained in their eyes.
Her Christmas dress doesn’t fit anymore
and she passes on New Year’s Champagne.
By Saint Brigid’s feast she boards
a bus, suitcase in hand,
a black sheep cousin in the city
offers welcome in a letter.
Practice
Delphi reads the wind,
the subtle nuances of blown leaves,
the swirl of wrappers by the door.
She says she has no answers,
nor questions, only questing
for a few friends who don’t
chew her up and spit on the sidewalk.
Delphi measures her loneliness
in oceans—today it is Indian,
tomorrow, maybe, Arctic or Atlantic.
She reads the wind,
knows where to go for sustainance
to replace the daily bread
that raises welts in allergic reaction.
Delphi has other people’s answers
and they flock to her, take a measure
of her day, her life, her life force
and think money is a fair trade.
She knows it is not fair trade,
or barter, or a gift from god—
the answers so obvious, blatant,
written everywhere, especially
on the wind.
Woman in an Apron
I would like to tell you
that it is as simple as
slicing tomatoes
or setting the last clean dish
in the drainer.
And it is.
These acts, along with
all the others,
make a life real, valid,
but the simplicity
of living
gets lost
in the complications
of society,
productivity,
relationships.
It’s as easy
as the red that drips
from my finger
where the knife
drew thru the tomato
as the wondrous bird song
outside the window
distracted the angle
of the cutting.
Even that sense,
while standing still,
of slipping away
toward the ridge
where the alders
shade the corn
is just as real
as the constant tug
of the dog’s leash
on a walk.
And so are the days
when the only thought
that can be mustered
is the idea
of leaving the house
to walk the dog
or visit the ridge
with the alders
or pick tomatoes
from the vine.
Even in a dream
I am so much myself
and may speak honestly
as the lonely mind is in
the world at large
and not excluded
from influencing
what is about me.
All The King's Men
blue daisies
black rose anthem
new Chinese glyph
disguises g. m. o.
rolls of the dice
cross the rubicon
emperor penguins
parade up main
seek ice cube machines
oh the sting
of almond bees lost
the pollenators’
unstable ladder
humpty dumpty
agro-economy tilt
Roadside Flowers
These are not the stop and smell type.
Really. They are weeds with blooms.
The kind you should ignore
or mow down, but that does not stop you
from stopping. Just to look for a moment.
Which turns into five minutes
because you never really liked should’s
or the insistence of punctuality parameters.
It occurs to your mind that you never
see these flowers at the florist
and now that you’ve taken the time
you acknowledge that they are rather beautiful.
Why would anyone want to mow them down
to protect some crumbly asphalt shoulder.
In fact, you pull your swiss-army pen knife
from your pocketed keychain
and cut several stems to gather a handful,
for the office, where you are headed
on this day you chose to ride
your bicycle into work on a secondary road
that the highway department tends to ignore.
Strays
She doesn’t want to be fat in spring
and science provides a solution.
Maybe not, if the townsfolk learn
and apply their morals to her.
No one yells at the boy
and that bothers her that he
doesn’t share the verbal beatings,
the damning glances.
He isn’t all black leather
like the rumors state,
but Sunday-go-to-church
and works at the hardware store.
The conviction of popular opinion
places her in chains with no key.
The shame of it all resides
in her parents, constrained in their eyes.
Her Christmas dress doesn’t fit anymore
and she passes on New Year’s Champagne.
By Saint Brigid’s feast she boards
a bus, suitcase in hand,
a black sheep cousin in the city
offers welcome in a letter.
Practice
Delphi reads the wind,
the subtle nuances of blown leaves,
the swirl of wrappers by the door.
She says she has no answers,
nor questions, only questing
for a few friends who don’t
chew her up and spit on the sidewalk.
Delphi measures her loneliness
in oceans—today it is Indian,
tomorrow, maybe, Arctic or Atlantic.
She reads the wind,
knows where to go for sustainance
to replace the daily bread
that raises welts in allergic reaction.
Delphi has other people’s answers
and they flock to her, take a measure
of her day, her life, her life force
and think money is a fair trade.
She knows it is not fair trade,
or barter, or a gift from god—
the answers so obvious, blatant,
written everywhere, especially
on the wind.
Woman in an Apron
I would like to tell you
that it is as simple as
slicing tomatoes
or setting the last clean dish
in the drainer.
And it is.
These acts, along with
all the others,
make a life real, valid,
but the simplicity
of living
gets lost
in the complications
of society,
productivity,
relationships.
It’s as easy
as the red that drips
from my finger
where the knife
drew thru the tomato
as the wondrous bird song
outside the window
distracted the angle
of the cutting.
Even that sense,
while standing still,
of slipping away
toward the ridge
where the alders
shade the corn
is just as real
as the constant tug
of the dog’s leash
on a walk.
And so are the days
when the only thought
that can be mustered
is the idea
of leaving the house
to walk the dog
or visit the ridge
with the alders
or pick tomatoes
from the vine.
Even in a dream
I am so much myself
and may speak honestly
as the lonely mind is in
the world at large
and not excluded
from influencing
what is about me.
All The King's Men
blue daisies
black rose anthem
new Chinese glyph
disguises g. m. o.
rolls of the dice
cross the rubicon
emperor penguins
parade up main
seek ice cube machines
oh the sting
of almond bees lost
the pollenators’
unstable ladder
humpty dumpty
agro-economy tilt
Contributors Biographies
Lisa Zaran: is the author of five collections of poetry including The Sometimes Girl and The Blondes Lay Content. Her work is currently being translated into German and forthcoming poems will be translated into Bangla, a language of Bangladesh. Her poetry has appeared in A Little Poetry, The Beat, Orthogonal Review, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Arizona. Her website is: www.lasazaran.com
Rhonda Laurel: who works in the mortgage industry has been writing for several years. She made her writing debut with the short story, Playing For Keeps which appeared in A Place To Enter in 1995. Since then, much of her creative writing has been dedicated to novels or short stories. Only recently has she branched out into poetry. Her poems have appeared in The Writer's Post Journal and Da poetry Room. She lives in Irvington, NJ. Her email address is: coffeebeanP@aol.com
Roger Humes: is a poet/computer graphic artist/musician. His recently published collection of poetry, There Sings No Bird is available in hardcover at Lulu online. His poetry has appeared in Literati Magazine, Poetry Diversity, A Little Poetry, and elsewhere. He is the Director of The Other Voices International Project (a cyber-anthology of world poetry) and the International Poetry Editor for Harvest International. He lives in Claremont, CA. His website can be found at: www.electrato.com
Ananya Guha: completed his graduate degree in English Literature at North Eastern hill University. He has had four collections of poetry published and has appeared in numerous magazines, journals, and anthologies in India and aboard. He has also done some translations from modern Bengali poetry into English. He currently lives in New Delhi, India, where he works as a Joint Director in the Indian Gandhi National Open University. His website is:
www.art-arena.com/asguha.htm
Vincent Teuilere: has a PhD in mathematics and considers himself an “amateur” photographer. The subjects that he shoots varies from industrial to natural landscapes to intimate portraits. His images are strongly influenced by impressionism and surrealism, aided by colors juxapostion in an attempt to create a feeling of altered reality. He lives and works in Toulouse, France. More of his photos can be found at: www.vtruliere.free.fr
Kimberly L. Becker: who has a heritage which includes Cherokee, is a native Southerner. She attended UNC-Chapel Hill and says she her heart is still in the mountains of North Carolina, where she returns as often as possible. Her relationship and memories of this land are woven into her work. Her poems have appeared in 2River, Borderlands, Georgetown Review, Ghoti Magazine, ken*again, and elsewhere. Her short fiction has appeared in Parting Gifts. She resides in the Washington D.C. area. Her email address is: malinoiskim38@yahoo.com
Jonathan Penton: is Editor-in-Chief of UnlikelyStories. He says he travels throughout North America with nothing but two suitcases, a laptop, and a massive army of feral cats. Many towns have looked upon his approach with something bordering vague curiosity while others have given him a hefty cleaning bill when he leaves. He has published three chapbooks, Last Chap (Vergin Press, 2004), Blood and Salsa (self-published, 2006) and Painting Rust (self-published, 2006). He finds both traveling and writing equally rewarding. You can find him at: www.unlikelystories.org
Kate Greenstreet: is the author of Case Sensitive (Ahsahta Press, 2006) and Learning The Language (Etherdome Press, 2005). She received a fellowship from the NJ Council on the Arts in 2003. Her poems have appeared in Octopus Magazine, Konundrum Engine Literary Review, Repopo, Free Verse, Typo, Word For/Word, Gut Cult, Conduit, Barrow Street, and elsewhere. Born in Chicago, she currently lives in New Jersey. She welcomes online visits at: www.kickingwind.com
Andrew Hem: is a recent graduate of Art Center College of Design. He began painting graffiti at the age of 12 but did not paint on canvas until he was 22. He paints stylized characters that are both whimsical and depressed. He says that his work is influenced by graffiti art and traditional old masters, and is intended to tell stories of life. His work has appeared in Thinkspace, Arena 1, Suenka Mobler, Black Maria, and elsewhere. Born in Cambodia, his parents fled to America when he was still young. He lives in Culver City, CA. His website is: www.andrew.com/painting.htm
Kenneth Gurney: poetry has appeared in literary sites like Ficklemuses, Wordriot, Poetic Diversity, MannequinEnvy, Blue House, and eslewhere. He has degrees in art and computer science. He says at his age, approaching 50, being retired is another word for unemployed. He is the editor of the poetry webiste Origami Condom. He likes his low stress life, especially when a pretty girl takes up a conversation or scrabble game with him at some lazy cafe. He currently resides in New Mexico. Take a look at his poetry website at: http://origamicondom.org
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 Sept. 1st. Copyright 2007 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit the editor’s personal blog: http://www.copyat5.blogspot.com/
And his music blog: http://www.medleymakersant.blogspot.com/
Lisa Zaran: is the author of five collections of poetry including The Sometimes Girl and The Blondes Lay Content. Her work is currently being translated into German and forthcoming poems will be translated into Bangla, a language of Bangladesh. Her poetry has appeared in A Little Poetry, The Beat, Orthogonal Review, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Arizona. Her website is: www.lasazaran.com
Rhonda Laurel: who works in the mortgage industry has been writing for several years. She made her writing debut with the short story, Playing For Keeps which appeared in A Place To Enter in 1995. Since then, much of her creative writing has been dedicated to novels or short stories. Only recently has she branched out into poetry. Her poems have appeared in The Writer's Post Journal and Da poetry Room. She lives in Irvington, NJ. Her email address is: coffeebeanP@aol.com
Roger Humes: is a poet/computer graphic artist/musician. His recently published collection of poetry, There Sings No Bird is available in hardcover at Lulu online. His poetry has appeared in Literati Magazine, Poetry Diversity, A Little Poetry, and elsewhere. He is the Director of The Other Voices International Project (a cyber-anthology of world poetry) and the International Poetry Editor for Harvest International. He lives in Claremont, CA. His website can be found at: www.electrato.com
Ananya Guha: completed his graduate degree in English Literature at North Eastern hill University. He has had four collections of poetry published and has appeared in numerous magazines, journals, and anthologies in India and aboard. He has also done some translations from modern Bengali poetry into English. He currently lives in New Delhi, India, where he works as a Joint Director in the Indian Gandhi National Open University. His website is:
www.art-arena.com/asguha.htm
Vincent Teuilere: has a PhD in mathematics and considers himself an “amateur” photographer. The subjects that he shoots varies from industrial to natural landscapes to intimate portraits. His images are strongly influenced by impressionism and surrealism, aided by colors juxapostion in an attempt to create a feeling of altered reality. He lives and works in Toulouse, France. More of his photos can be found at: www.vtruliere.free.fr
Kimberly L. Becker: who has a heritage which includes Cherokee, is a native Southerner. She attended UNC-Chapel Hill and says she her heart is still in the mountains of North Carolina, where she returns as often as possible. Her relationship and memories of this land are woven into her work. Her poems have appeared in 2River, Borderlands, Georgetown Review, Ghoti Magazine, ken*again, and elsewhere. Her short fiction has appeared in Parting Gifts. She resides in the Washington D.C. area. Her email address is: malinoiskim38@yahoo.com
Jonathan Penton: is Editor-in-Chief of UnlikelyStories. He says he travels throughout North America with nothing but two suitcases, a laptop, and a massive army of feral cats. Many towns have looked upon his approach with something bordering vague curiosity while others have given him a hefty cleaning bill when he leaves. He has published three chapbooks, Last Chap (Vergin Press, 2004), Blood and Salsa (self-published, 2006) and Painting Rust (self-published, 2006). He finds both traveling and writing equally rewarding. You can find him at: www.unlikelystories.org
Kate Greenstreet: is the author of Case Sensitive (Ahsahta Press, 2006) and Learning The Language (Etherdome Press, 2005). She received a fellowship from the NJ Council on the Arts in 2003. Her poems have appeared in Octopus Magazine, Konundrum Engine Literary Review, Repopo, Free Verse, Typo, Word For/Word, Gut Cult, Conduit, Barrow Street, and elsewhere. Born in Chicago, she currently lives in New Jersey. She welcomes online visits at: www.kickingwind.com
Andrew Hem: is a recent graduate of Art Center College of Design. He began painting graffiti at the age of 12 but did not paint on canvas until he was 22. He paints stylized characters that are both whimsical and depressed. He says that his work is influenced by graffiti art and traditional old masters, and is intended to tell stories of life. His work has appeared in Thinkspace, Arena 1, Suenka Mobler, Black Maria, and elsewhere. Born in Cambodia, his parents fled to America when he was still young. He lives in Culver City, CA. His website is: www.andrew.com/painting.htm
Kenneth Gurney: poetry has appeared in literary sites like Ficklemuses, Wordriot, Poetic Diversity, MannequinEnvy, Blue House, and eslewhere. He has degrees in art and computer science. He says at his age, approaching 50, being retired is another word for unemployed. He is the editor of the poetry webiste Origami Condom. He likes his low stress life, especially when a pretty girl takes up a conversation or scrabble game with him at some lazy cafe. He currently resides in New Mexico. Take a look at his poetry website at: http://origamicondom.org
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 Sept. 1st. Copyright 2007 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit the editor’s personal blog: http://www.copyat5.blogspot.com/
And his music blog: http://www.medleymakersant.blogspot.com/
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