Monday, October 1, 2007
Editor's Note:
Welcome to issue ten of CSR! By now, you regular readers know that my only child has a knack for finding amazingly creative talent without the help of a compass. My baby can ring the glass bell of rubric language and summons the gods in the process, purely for big-hearted entertainment's sake. Issue Ten is no exception. This month you'll find stunning photographs dressed in flaming passion with brittle flowers as a bouquet, along with art that captures the fleshy locality packed with more drama than a hurricane. Add to that, a group of wonderful poets, an internationally-known music maker and one magical book review and you've got the ingredients for a vaudeville act without organs. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll feel like a cherry tomato that just got bitten, or maybe the seeds inside as they spill across a perched tongue. Either way, the contents buzzes insistently over your taste buds with details seldom found in everyday tableware. They say there is a drinking glass for every purpose. If it's true, find the one that feels the most sensual in your hand, pour so wine in it, then get busy...
Welcome to issue ten of CSR! By now, you regular readers know that my only child has a knack for finding amazingly creative talent without the help of a compass. My baby can ring the glass bell of rubric language and summons the gods in the process, purely for big-hearted entertainment's sake. Issue Ten is no exception. This month you'll find stunning photographs dressed in flaming passion with brittle flowers as a bouquet, along with art that captures the fleshy locality packed with more drama than a hurricane. Add to that, a group of wonderful poets, an internationally-known music maker and one magical book review and you've got the ingredients for a vaudeville act without organs. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll feel like a cherry tomato that just got bitten, or maybe the seeds inside as they spill across a perched tongue. Either way, the contents buzzes insistently over your taste buds with details seldom found in everyday tableware. They say there is a drinking glass for every purpose. If it's true, find the one that feels the most sensual in your hand, pour so wine in it, then get busy...
Cath Vidler
Eleven Lines From Nowhere
The void was a unit of darkness, our bodies an instant, a clap,.
By and by the water shook, no, trembled, on the verge of tears.
The leaves had no destination.
My face doesn't tell the time, but everything was cornered, like a lawn.
To the left, a deliberate flaw, to the right, a bent flower,
I've found what I was looking for.
Tree-diagrams helped explain the forest:
Her eyes, longing over the couch,
And her hands, Their beautiful dexterity didn't tell the time.
She left trailing the scent of mimosa, mimos. . .
Summer's salt-laden mist was turning to tears as we spoke.
*previously published in Turbine '06
Five senses of the moon
1
a sensation of brightness, that made seeing
possible.
2
stony silence.
3
moonflowers, feasting on pallid light.
4
the swelling increased, with tenderness.
5
inhalations of imperceptible quality.
*perviously published in Alba - Issue 12/Dec. '05
Translating the cactus
Rain in September.
Checking if the cactus became wet. Checking still.
Rain in September.
Examination, whether the Kaktus kept wet. Again inspects.
Rain during September.
Controlling is the cactus it obtained bathed. Control still.
Rain in September.
Control is ka'ktos it took humid. Check again.
Rain in September.
Verifying if the cactus obtained dunked. Verification again.
Rain in September.
Verifying if the cacti to start wet. To verify another time.
September rain.
You verify whether you obtained the inspection where the cactus
gets
wet for the second time.
Inside September rain.
The catus got and the milk it inspected. Again the prosecuting
attorney.
Rain in September.
Checking if the cactus got wet. Checking again.
Five poems I didn't write
1. This is the poem I didn't write about a group of nuns waiting for
fish and chips. Coalescing, drifting apart, coalescing again. Petals
of a sea-anemone. The shop was an aqaurium of heat.
2. This is the poem I didn't write about childbirth. 1. Broken waters.
2. Howling tree. 3. Keillands forceps (the wandering method).
3. This is the poem I didn't write about fifteen non-grammatical uses
of the word "if".
4. This is the poem I didn't write about a corporate gift basket: Golf
balls. Mixed nuts, My best friend bursting out of a mini.
5. This is the poem I didn't write about photo booths. A series of
likenesses is located beside the phones. Will only say "photo". Your
complete privacy is cut short by the curtains.
12 New Zealand Snapshots
1. A spent river makes minor calculations: curve, distance.
2. Cows eat fast air from the edge of a revine.
3. Bamboozled tussocks hold their blades erect.
4. Cabbage trees dream of the dinosaurs.
5. The sky is scuffed with cloud.
6. The cloud is scuffed with light.
7. White Rock, a man from outer space.
8. Leaves whipped into seizures of rumor.
9. The land, a swept jigsaw of horizontals, verticles.
10. Roots clamp onto the dirt like frightened spiders.
11. A milky sea, flavored with sky.
12. Emerging birds, stitches in the clouds.
*3 poems previously published in Nthposition - Oct. '06
Eleven Lines From Nowhere
The void was a unit of darkness, our bodies an instant, a clap,.
By and by the water shook, no, trembled, on the verge of tears.
The leaves had no destination.
My face doesn't tell the time, but everything was cornered, like a lawn.
To the left, a deliberate flaw, to the right, a bent flower,
I've found what I was looking for.
Tree-diagrams helped explain the forest:
Her eyes, longing over the couch,
And her hands, Their beautiful dexterity didn't tell the time.
She left trailing the scent of mimosa, mimos. . .
Summer's salt-laden mist was turning to tears as we spoke.
*previously published in Turbine '06
Five senses of the moon
1
a sensation of brightness, that made seeing
possible.
2
stony silence.
3
moonflowers, feasting on pallid light.
4
the swelling increased, with tenderness.
5
inhalations of imperceptible quality.
*perviously published in Alba - Issue 12/Dec. '05
Translating the cactus
Rain in September.
Checking if the cactus became wet. Checking still.
Rain in September.
Examination, whether the Kaktus kept wet. Again inspects.
Rain during September.
Controlling is the cactus it obtained bathed. Control still.
Rain in September.
Control is ka'ktos it took humid. Check again.
Rain in September.
Verifying if the cactus obtained dunked. Verification again.
Rain in September.
Verifying if the cacti to start wet. To verify another time.
September rain.
You verify whether you obtained the inspection where the cactus
gets
wet for the second time.
Inside September rain.
The catus got and the milk it inspected. Again the prosecuting
attorney.
Rain in September.
Checking if the cactus got wet. Checking again.
Five poems I didn't write
1. This is the poem I didn't write about a group of nuns waiting for
fish and chips. Coalescing, drifting apart, coalescing again. Petals
of a sea-anemone. The shop was an aqaurium of heat.
2. This is the poem I didn't write about childbirth. 1. Broken waters.
2. Howling tree. 3. Keillands forceps (the wandering method).
3. This is the poem I didn't write about fifteen non-grammatical uses
of the word "if".
4. This is the poem I didn't write about a corporate gift basket: Golf
balls. Mixed nuts, My best friend bursting out of a mini.
5. This is the poem I didn't write about photo booths. A series of
likenesses is located beside the phones. Will only say "photo". Your
complete privacy is cut short by the curtains.
12 New Zealand Snapshots
1. A spent river makes minor calculations: curve, distance.
2. Cows eat fast air from the edge of a revine.
3. Bamboozled tussocks hold their blades erect.
4. Cabbage trees dream of the dinosaurs.
5. The sky is scuffed with cloud.
6. The cloud is scuffed with light.
7. White Rock, a man from outer space.
8. Leaves whipped into seizures of rumor.
9. The land, a swept jigsaw of horizontals, verticles.
10. Roots clamp onto the dirt like frightened spiders.
11. A milky sea, flavored with sky.
12. Emerging birds, stitches in the clouds.
*3 poems previously published in Nthposition - Oct. '06
Patrick Carrington
Johanna
When you come you are the rustle of leaves
tuning the distance, the rhyme of songbirds
and windwhistles, the arched rhythm
of bowing branches.
The sound of silk sliding
to hardwood—there is harmony to you
like the assonance of spring song
as it serenades the day and disappears.
In that way I wish to make you move,
pass through you. Be as porous,
accept and use me. Dance.
The stretched neck of twilight sees that paths
of evening passion are wayward, that accidents
are afoot. There is riot in night eyes
as sunset loosens vision, released
and rushing outward. Join me
in a bending
the way a falcon slams the sky,
the way this dark propels itself
to stun the earth in heavy rattles. Like them,
I want to jar you, hurl toward you
with that dispatch,
that complete collision.
*first published in Möbius
Inking the Road Again
Tumors of sidewalk snap under my shoes.
I don’t listen or look left at the cancered
house as I pass. But I know it’s there,
slumped in an easy chair of mud, pitifully
dressed in maple crumbs and stains of rain
like my father wore on his ginnie t. His
nightly storm of chips and beer watching tv
in a lazyboy. Swelling in the belly, shrinking
in the groin while his neglected wife stripped
skin from a biker, sucking highways out
of his tattoos. Once, he gave her roses
for no reason but love, cut from bushes
in the yard. I know that prize garden
is a graveyard now. I buried the bodies
and planted the stones, groomed
its misery until mower blades were
the color of evening sky. I pruned vines
with unpracticed hands until dry thorns
couldn’t break babyskin, chopped down
riots of wood until the ax head wobbled
and fell in the dirt with my dreams.
I don’t look back, won’t look. I tend
to myself, hit nothing now but the road.
I’ve found my mother’s double yellow line.
No crossing, no u-turns. Funny how
I never got there until the morning
I had this fine replica of a Route 66 sign
inked into my arm, right above the heart
that says “Mom”.
*first published in Frigg Magazine
Almost a Savior
Most of all I remember the weight, his
thudding footfall at night when he came home
from Bethlehem . His boots brought factory iron
with them. And the bronze bubbles of the smelt,
the ash on his whiskers, added dark gravity
to his face. A circle of white where a hardhat
protected mind and kept skin pure made him look
like his two-tone Chevy rotting in the yard.
Each evening, he reminded me that angels
could be heavy, that shaking floorboards
need not enhance terror. Night is scary enough
he said, without the ghosts of sound. Tremble
at the real, boy. Besides, devils don’t have beards
or halos. And they all drive Fords.
*first published in Epicenter
Whispers from the Pier
Beyond the dunes there is a place
where jetty poles are snapped
and mark a death, graveyard on sand.
Like scriptless stones, they guard
the buried days. Split with salt,
they sag but watch. We were there
once, beneath the choking wood, dying
with the pier in shadows. No one
heard us, naked in the rain, whispering
the wind quiet, crying the clouds dry.
We could have been anyone. We could
have been old gulls. Or tides, eroding
legs and life, returning the dust.
Above our heads, the fleeing feet
tapped out our grief. They ran
to rooms in the storm, left us
to the dark, the swell, the grinding
rides. Left us, to the rotting heart.
One time, there was a peace
below the moon, when sky
and sea held hands. On the flat,
the boards drew breath and saw
the sky wheel spinning.
*first published in Willard & Maple
returning her home disheveled
back on her porch unbuttoned,
tresses tangled. bare
of berries.
you saw her ripe this morning,
scarlet and smooth.
now color drained,
stem-stripped.
my lips are red.
she will seem fruit again tomorrow,
rebloomed ruby, sundress hiding
blue hips. lace laundered,
clean of me. perfect
for backyard barbecue,
your hostess serving iced tea,
raspberry sweet
but fire shy,
already on my grill,
charred.
*first published in Slow Trains
Johanna
When you come you are the rustle of leaves
tuning the distance, the rhyme of songbirds
and windwhistles, the arched rhythm
of bowing branches.
The sound of silk sliding
to hardwood—there is harmony to you
like the assonance of spring song
as it serenades the day and disappears.
In that way I wish to make you move,
pass through you. Be as porous,
accept and use me. Dance.
The stretched neck of twilight sees that paths
of evening passion are wayward, that accidents
are afoot. There is riot in night eyes
as sunset loosens vision, released
and rushing outward. Join me
in a bending
the way a falcon slams the sky,
the way this dark propels itself
to stun the earth in heavy rattles. Like them,
I want to jar you, hurl toward you
with that dispatch,
that complete collision.
*first published in Möbius
Inking the Road Again
Tumors of sidewalk snap under my shoes.
I don’t listen or look left at the cancered
house as I pass. But I know it’s there,
slumped in an easy chair of mud, pitifully
dressed in maple crumbs and stains of rain
like my father wore on his ginnie t. His
nightly storm of chips and beer watching tv
in a lazyboy. Swelling in the belly, shrinking
in the groin while his neglected wife stripped
skin from a biker, sucking highways out
of his tattoos. Once, he gave her roses
for no reason but love, cut from bushes
in the yard. I know that prize garden
is a graveyard now. I buried the bodies
and planted the stones, groomed
its misery until mower blades were
the color of evening sky. I pruned vines
with unpracticed hands until dry thorns
couldn’t break babyskin, chopped down
riots of wood until the ax head wobbled
and fell in the dirt with my dreams.
I don’t look back, won’t look. I tend
to myself, hit nothing now but the road.
I’ve found my mother’s double yellow line.
No crossing, no u-turns. Funny how
I never got there until the morning
I had this fine replica of a Route 66 sign
inked into my arm, right above the heart
that says “Mom”.
*first published in Frigg Magazine
Almost a Savior
Most of all I remember the weight, his
thudding footfall at night when he came home
from Bethlehem . His boots brought factory iron
with them. And the bronze bubbles of the smelt,
the ash on his whiskers, added dark gravity
to his face. A circle of white where a hardhat
protected mind and kept skin pure made him look
like his two-tone Chevy rotting in the yard.
Each evening, he reminded me that angels
could be heavy, that shaking floorboards
need not enhance terror. Night is scary enough
he said, without the ghosts of sound. Tremble
at the real, boy. Besides, devils don’t have beards
or halos. And they all drive Fords.
*first published in Epicenter
Whispers from the Pier
Beyond the dunes there is a place
where jetty poles are snapped
and mark a death, graveyard on sand.
Like scriptless stones, they guard
the buried days. Split with salt,
they sag but watch. We were there
once, beneath the choking wood, dying
with the pier in shadows. No one
heard us, naked in the rain, whispering
the wind quiet, crying the clouds dry.
We could have been anyone. We could
have been old gulls. Or tides, eroding
legs and life, returning the dust.
Above our heads, the fleeing feet
tapped out our grief. They ran
to rooms in the storm, left us
to the dark, the swell, the grinding
rides. Left us, to the rotting heart.
One time, there was a peace
below the moon, when sky
and sea held hands. On the flat,
the boards drew breath and saw
the sky wheel spinning.
*first published in Willard & Maple
returning her home disheveled
back on her porch unbuttoned,
tresses tangled. bare
of berries.
you saw her ripe this morning,
scarlet and smooth.
now color drained,
stem-stripped.
my lips are red.
she will seem fruit again tomorrow,
rebloomed ruby, sundress hiding
blue hips. lace laundered,
clean of me. perfect
for backyard barbecue,
your hostess serving iced tea,
raspberry sweet
but fire shy,
already on my grill,
charred.
*first published in Slow Trains
Andrew Kaye
Interpersonal Epidemic
I don’t need your extra sadness,
I’ve got plenty of my own,
but you:
clutch me tighter,
cry into my shoulder,
refuse to stop until there’s
no emotion left in you
and far too much in me.
They say that misery loves company.
That’s because misery is a disease
you need to spread to feel better.
The President of the World
walked in.
we had been slacking off.
he gave us a lecture:
he wasn’t always President,
he had to work hard,
and make sacrifices,
and persevere,
and all that other bullshit,
to get where he was today.
and so he fired us,
by which I mean:
he set us both on fire.
Mantis
Pray.
Pray that you’ll be safe.
Pray that you’ll be strong.
Pray that you’ll survive the horrors of
Sexually Transmitted Decapitations and
Post-coitus cannibalism
Midgard Serpent
The Midgard Serpent
lounges at the bottom of the ocean’s
darkest, freezing depths,
wrapped
around the entire globe with
his tail in his mouth,
his end in his teeth.
He grumbles,
mutters,
desperately praying
for a bowel obstruction.
Dandruff
God purchased a new type of shampoo
to rid Himself of His dandruff problem.
It doesn’t snow anymore.
Interpersonal Epidemic
I don’t need your extra sadness,
I’ve got plenty of my own,
but you:
clutch me tighter,
cry into my shoulder,
refuse to stop until there’s
no emotion left in you
and far too much in me.
They say that misery loves company.
That’s because misery is a disease
you need to spread to feel better.
The President of the World
walked in.
we had been slacking off.
he gave us a lecture:
he wasn’t always President,
he had to work hard,
and make sacrifices,
and persevere,
and all that other bullshit,
to get where he was today.
and so he fired us,
by which I mean:
he set us both on fire.
Mantis
Pray.
Pray that you’ll be safe.
Pray that you’ll be strong.
Pray that you’ll survive the horrors of
Sexually Transmitted Decapitations and
Post-coitus cannibalism
Midgard Serpent
The Midgard Serpent
lounges at the bottom of the ocean’s
darkest, freezing depths,
wrapped
around the entire globe with
his tail in his mouth,
his end in his teeth.
He grumbles,
mutters,
desperately praying
for a bowel obstruction.
Dandruff
God purchased a new type of shampoo
to rid Himself of His dandruff problem.
It doesn’t snow anymore.
Marcia Arrieta
Boderline
blues tangled
wrapped around clouds
through branches & limbs
quiet blues
uncertain.
hesitant
imaginary.
dreaming
blues hidden
behind frames.
within doors
transient.
unfathomable
complex blues
chessboard left in a garden
backwards & forwards
a tiny sun
the outline of a bird
or a tree
a hand across a page
inside your mind/my mind
a triangle absolved
the appearance/the disappearance
sculpture & rain & light
sand script poetry
or the cliff in leucadia
made in idea
made in india
without asking the seaweed
is lost
mind corresponds to sky
or a pair of socks on a wooden floor
unravelling threads in a navy blue shirt
eons & rain
threadless
nondescript/brilliant
art in disguise
art in perpetual
a black caterpillar
or an orange poppy
the world of
the battle between the hero & dragon.
how would you define free?
the boat sails. inland there is an old oak.
there are voices of travelers. an alphabet of now.
the grey has become the blue.
sleep within the moon. outline open.
Boderline
existential
rift
illusion
or
understanding
diagnosis
edge
diagnosis
extreme
blues tangled
wrapped around clouds
through branches & limbs
quiet blues
uncertain.
hesitant
imaginary.
dreaming
blues hidden
behind frames.
within doors
transient.
unfathomable
complex blues
chessboard left in a garden
backwards & forwards
a tiny sun
the outline of a bird
or a tree
a hand across a page
inside your mind/my mind
a triangle absolved
the appearance/the disappearance
sculpture & rain & light
sand script poetry
or the cliff in leucadia
made in idea
made in india
without asking the seaweed
is lost
mind corresponds to sky
or a pair of socks on a wooden floor
unravelling threads in a navy blue shirt
eons & rain
threadless
nondescript/brilliant
art in disguise
art in perpetual
a black caterpillar
or an orange poppy
the world of
the battle between the hero & dragon.
how would you define free?
the boat sails. inland there is an old oak.
there are voices of travelers. an alphabet of now.
the grey has become the blue.
sleep within the moon. outline open.
Roland John
Headlines
Passion’s wasted on the incontrovertible,
who cares who did what or when;
too many feel that the sensual nerve
has value, but learn to embrace restriction
We are rational; it is our history, our condition
yet here we are lacking compassion’ scheming,
acceding to the desires that exclude our shame
tolerant of lies, torture, even death.
We stand at the margins having thrown
out seasoned morality, religion’s certainties,
substituting reason, acerbic ratiocination
that should sunder us from superstition.
But who calls out there? We hear no gods:
gone their rituals that once clinched
that natural world we grasped with wonder
before we let our reason plough us under.
Large Garden With Chime
Chinese, it’s supposed to be
more likely Hong Kong, Taiwan,
but it does not matter.
Suspended from the pear tree
It has chattered for years;
rebuilt twice after winter storms,
its original lucky red fading,
still hints of the gold I sprayed
it once. Now the top pipes
are greened with mosses
as it waits for another winter;
I expect it will fail again
if so I’ll splint it with
wooden skewers altering
once more its habitual clack.
It’s aging well; still keeps
its friendly call and overall design;
but how long before the pipes crack
and fall and I have to substitute
with another wood, altering
its familiar sound for good?
Leaving Provence
To make farewells at last
putting aside a past that fixed
so many years. The joys
multiplied in its rich heat.
I travel North now away
from the cicadas’ noise,
the bread and sweet oil,
a landscape that held me
with dry air, tatters of romance,
moistureless earth, fecund
dust. I leave at last its trust
in thin wines, its blood-fed fields.
Love Song
Here at the edge of things
the quarry’s rim, a turn of trees,
with you below calling out.
The susurrus through branches
dumbs you, your arms flail
as you semaphore some meaning.
The sun deadens my interest,
the wind’s whisper is intriguing
I am oblivious to your gestures.
Once they would have set me
running down the perilous track
enticed and bewildered.
Neither time nor space
have altered; rather the changes
are appropriate to us
who seldom understood the clues,
those connections that snap,
a tightness embraced
this is where we have reached,
beached, contented,
resigned to small delights.
Fistral Bay Thrity Years On
Hearing and smelling again that surf,
recalling thirty years ago when I rode
these waves, careless of rocks, sure in my skill;
returning I wonder whether I could do it still
Screams of gulls, the sea’s dark roaring,
then I knew how to paddle out and wait;
also her, she who taught me more than surfing,
marked my life, our brief affair never forgotten.
This bay so important then, its sands and sounds.
the waiting for the right wave, the exact moment
to work, thrust, catch and slide sharply forward
to grasp, hoping to stand tall and swerve
into the bay’s curving and the adulation;
that camaraderie then, the talk, drinks, girls,
acceptance of the timeless, our constant present
and now in my later life do I strive for it.?
Too old now, no doubt, to accept those thrills, risks;
have I the strength to fight currents, swim under
to reveal my presence, to make that elemental call?
No longer a part of it; unequipped, I hire a board.
Headlines
Passion’s wasted on the incontrovertible,
who cares who did what or when;
too many feel that the sensual nerve
has value, but learn to embrace restriction
We are rational; it is our history, our condition
yet here we are lacking compassion’ scheming,
acceding to the desires that exclude our shame
tolerant of lies, torture, even death.
We stand at the margins having thrown
out seasoned morality, religion’s certainties,
substituting reason, acerbic ratiocination
that should sunder us from superstition.
But who calls out there? We hear no gods:
gone their rituals that once clinched
that natural world we grasped with wonder
before we let our reason plough us under.
Large Garden With Chime
Chinese, it’s supposed to be
more likely Hong Kong, Taiwan,
but it does not matter.
Suspended from the pear tree
It has chattered for years;
rebuilt twice after winter storms,
its original lucky red fading,
still hints of the gold I sprayed
it once. Now the top pipes
are greened with mosses
as it waits for another winter;
I expect it will fail again
if so I’ll splint it with
wooden skewers altering
once more its habitual clack.
It’s aging well; still keeps
its friendly call and overall design;
but how long before the pipes crack
and fall and I have to substitute
with another wood, altering
its familiar sound for good?
Leaving Provence
To make farewells at last
putting aside a past that fixed
so many years. The joys
multiplied in its rich heat.
I travel North now away
from the cicadas’ noise,
the bread and sweet oil,
a landscape that held me
with dry air, tatters of romance,
moistureless earth, fecund
dust. I leave at last its trust
in thin wines, its blood-fed fields.
Love Song
Here at the edge of things
the quarry’s rim, a turn of trees,
with you below calling out.
The susurrus through branches
dumbs you, your arms flail
as you semaphore some meaning.
The sun deadens my interest,
the wind’s whisper is intriguing
I am oblivious to your gestures.
Once they would have set me
running down the perilous track
enticed and bewildered.
Neither time nor space
have altered; rather the changes
are appropriate to us
who seldom understood the clues,
those connections that snap,
a tightness embraced
this is where we have reached,
beached, contented,
resigned to small delights.
Fistral Bay Thrity Years On
Hearing and smelling again that surf,
recalling thirty years ago when I rode
these waves, careless of rocks, sure in my skill;
returning I wonder whether I could do it still
Screams of gulls, the sea’s dark roaring,
then I knew how to paddle out and wait;
also her, she who taught me more than surfing,
marked my life, our brief affair never forgotten.
This bay so important then, its sands and sounds.
the waiting for the right wave, the exact moment
to work, thrust, catch and slide sharply forward
to grasp, hoping to stand tall and swerve
into the bay’s curving and the adulation;
that camaraderie then, the talk, drinks, girls,
acceptance of the timeless, our constant present
and now in my later life do I strive for it.?
Too old now, no doubt, to accept those thrills, risks;
have I the strength to fight currents, swim under
to reveal my presence, to make that elemental call?
No longer a part of it; unequipped, I hire a board.
About Art - "Non-Violence" Sculpture
When the Swedish artist Carl Fredrik Reuterswärd learned that his friend, John Lennon, had been murdered, he became so upset and angry over this senseless death and the many other outbursts of unnecessary violence that he went to his studio and started working on the “non-violence” project. “My first sketches in three dimensions were rather rough and simple, but the important thing was that the idea of the knotted barrel was with me from the very start,” he said.
The bronze sculpture was created for the government of Luxembourg, which offered it on September 30, 1988 to the seat of the United Nations in New York. The sculpture represents a revolver whos gun is tied, one which wants to be, as its name indicates, a symbol of non-violence, in accordance with the mission of peace in the world which the United Nations see entrusted by their charter.
From this piece of art, the Non-Violence Foundation has been formed using "The Knotted Gun" as its symbol. It was founded in 1994 by Dr. Michael Nobel as a non-profit organization in Geneva, Switzerland. Today, the Foundation operates in the United States, South Africa, Brazil, England, and Germany.
"The Knotted Gun" over the years has become a universal symbol of non-violence. The sculpture at the UN is located in the Visitor's Plaza, facing First Avenue at 45th Street. Replicas which can be found at the Olympic Museum in Lausanne, Switzerland, and prominent locations in Malmo, Sweden, Cape Town, and Miami. Find out more about the organization, sculpture and artist at: www.imaginetheconcert.co.uk/lennon/Imagine.swf
When the Swedish artist Carl Fredrik Reuterswärd learned that his friend, John Lennon, had been murdered, he became so upset and angry over this senseless death and the many other outbursts of unnecessary violence that he went to his studio and started working on the “non-violence” project. “My first sketches in three dimensions were rather rough and simple, but the important thing was that the idea of the knotted barrel was with me from the very start,” he said.
The bronze sculpture was created for the government of Luxembourg, which offered it on September 30, 1988 to the seat of the United Nations in New York. The sculpture represents a revolver whos gun is tied, one which wants to be, as its name indicates, a symbol of non-violence, in accordance with the mission of peace in the world which the United Nations see entrusted by their charter.
From this piece of art, the Non-Violence Foundation has been formed using "The Knotted Gun" as its symbol. It was founded in 1994 by Dr. Michael Nobel as a non-profit organization in Geneva, Switzerland. Today, the Foundation operates in the United States, South Africa, Brazil, England, and Germany.
"The Knotted Gun" over the years has become a universal symbol of non-violence. The sculpture at the UN is located in the Visitor's Plaza, facing First Avenue at 45th Street. Replicas which can be found at the Olympic Museum in Lausanne, Switzerland, and prominent locations in Malmo, Sweden, Cape Town, and Miami. Find out more about the organization, sculpture and artist at: www.imaginetheconcert.co.uk/lennon/Imagine.swf
Kelly White
Every Line Should Be A Poem
your dark machine, your laughing hands
gray rain windows lock her face to his
no birds, but then, who needed flight?
as if a single cracked brick could hide my world
gold leaves have fallen on the wet tile roof
an amber bracelet, a woven lock of hair
drops of rain ignite the telephone line
salt spilled and sifted across the floor
the sign spoke but there was no dog
your chair bent my back to your form
a saddle, a split stone, a blunted nail
one child crying, one laughing, one stilled
there was a whisper, her son, her bruised tight fist
that bleeding shadow on the floor
three galloping footsteps and then the fall
If the train comes late
will you get on it? Even if
it rattles? Even if its whistle’s
broke and the wheels don’t strike
sparks? And if it smells coal clinkers
and left-over tuna fish? Will you take
your seat in the club car? And the menu
serves nothing but the word love?
And the coffee tastes of burnt kitchen
matches? Oh, box car, coal car, caboose,
oh Mother Cabrini on the Virgin
cruise of the Queen Mary. Better make that
Queen Elizabeth. QE II to you, and darling,
don’t let the cranes prove me wrong. Or do.
Do ‘dis me. Kiss me. Bliss me! (Pssst:
Secret: I got carried away,) I’m treed hon,
you must be a blue-tick hound-dog. That dark
bugle in your cruel night. That big old fire
under your bushel. I’d eat you
up. Or down. As the case maybe, J. B.,
sing. You’ll be able to do that—smiling,
with perplexed teeth. (I used to your
teeth.) Mumbling: Onchomycosis. Oncho-
dystrophy. Oncholithiasis. The stethoscope
salutes the womb. Let that little murmur
take a ride.
In Memory of the Body Donors
9. Roses
It is perfectly legal to sell human bones in the United States. Except for select antique specimens, all human bones for sale in the United States have been prepared overseas. Prior to 1985, the main supplier of human material for medical use was India. India ceased exporting bones in 1985 following changes in Indian law. In recent years China has became our primary source for human bones. For more information, please see our Bone FAQ.
Remember
the uncorrupted body
of the 2nd Patriarch?
of Saint Bernardette ?
that gave off
an odor of roses?
(posies, posies,
ring around
the rosie)
gather the saints roses
a stain
upon your back
Your father’s bothered
because the anatomist is German.
My daughter is in the waiting room
with a new haircut and a skirt
we both know why she has an old magazine
it is a slow day only a few patients
see me walk and lift her chin this one,’
with the radiant newborn calls me over
she is younger than my girl
she bubbles sweet praise and I too praise
the beauty of the child of the mother
but girl, my girl (my lips tighten to not speak)
this must not be you
Every Line Should Be A Poem
your dark machine, your laughing hands
gray rain windows lock her face to his
no birds, but then, who needed flight?
as if a single cracked brick could hide my world
gold leaves have fallen on the wet tile roof
an amber bracelet, a woven lock of hair
drops of rain ignite the telephone line
salt spilled and sifted across the floor
the sign spoke but there was no dog
your chair bent my back to your form
a saddle, a split stone, a blunted nail
one child crying, one laughing, one stilled
there was a whisper, her son, her bruised tight fist
that bleeding shadow on the floor
three galloping footsteps and then the fall
If the train comes late
will you get on it? Even if
it rattles? Even if its whistle’s
broke and the wheels don’t strike
sparks? And if it smells coal clinkers
and left-over tuna fish? Will you take
your seat in the club car? And the menu
serves nothing but the word love?
And the coffee tastes of burnt kitchen
matches? Oh, box car, coal car, caboose,
oh Mother Cabrini on the Virgin
cruise of the Queen Mary. Better make that
Queen Elizabeth. QE II to you, and darling,
don’t let the cranes prove me wrong. Or do.
Do ‘dis me. Kiss me. Bliss me! (Pssst:
Secret: I got carried away,) I’m treed hon,
you must be a blue-tick hound-dog. That dark
bugle in your cruel night. That big old fire
under your bushel. I’d eat you
up. Or down. As the case maybe, J. B.,
sing. You’ll be able to do that—smiling,
with perplexed teeth. (I used to your
teeth.) Mumbling: Onchomycosis. Oncho-
dystrophy. Oncholithiasis. The stethoscope
salutes the womb. Let that little murmur
take a ride.
In Memory of the Body Donors
9. Roses
It is perfectly legal to sell human bones in the United States. Except for select antique specimens, all human bones for sale in the United States have been prepared overseas. Prior to 1985, the main supplier of human material for medical use was India. India ceased exporting bones in 1985 following changes in Indian law. In recent years China has became our primary source for human bones. For more information, please see our Bone FAQ.
Remember
the uncorrupted body
of the 2nd Patriarch?
of Saint Bernardette ?
that gave off
an odor of roses?
(posies, posies,
ring around
the rosie)
gather the saints roses
a stain
upon your back
Your father’s bothered
because the anatomist is German.
My daughter is in the waiting room
with a new haircut and a skirt
we both know why she has an old magazine
it is a slow day only a few patients
see me walk and lift her chin this one,’
with the radiant newborn calls me over
she is younger than my girl
she bubbles sweet praise and I too praise
the beauty of the child of the mother
but girl, my girl (my lips tighten to not speak)
this must not be you
About Music - Timo Mass
For almost twenty-five years and during thousands of DJ-sets German-born Timo Maas has turned energy into ecstasy, mixing a congenial and cohesive Dance-combination for the soundtrack to the perfect party – drawing on eclectic ingredients from Hip Hop to Alternative and R&B. Despite all that, Timo Maas feels he is more craftsman than alchemist, never resting on his laurels, and always re-inventing himself. Most importantly: He does not spin records, he more than anything creates his sound. Restless, untiring, worldwide. Preferably all night long, at least for four to five hours, more trip than trial – and in June 2006 even as the opening act for Depeche Mode in Warsaw. At the peak of the excitement, floor filled and audience screaming, Timo Maas will say something like: “I think I’ll really get them going in about twenty minutes or so.”
The look ahead and both ears to the ground have achieved a lot for this telecommunications-engineer from Hanover: From the local Discotheque in the Eighties to popular residencies in The End (“best venue“, Time Out Live Award, London), the new Pacha in New York and the DC 10 on Ibiza in 2006. From high-profile remixes and a proud Grammy-nomination to a whole lot of original productions, two artist-albums and his own label 99 Percent. “I approach every gig, every single set and everything I produce, as if they were my last”, says Timo Maas, whose name, by the way, is neither a pseudonym nor an acronym (even though “a Thousand Incredible Moments Of Music And Aural Sensations” would fit). “All of this is only possible, because I believe a hundred percent in what I’m doing. I love my job!”
Numerous singles, mixes and albums have made Timo Maas, always in collaboration with his sound-designer Martin Buttrich, a household name far beyond the dance-world. Maas released his own debut album Loud in 2002 on his label 99 Percent, which takes its name from an almost all-encompassing vinyl-release policy. It featured guest appearances from Kelis and Finley Quaye. A second Music For The Maases, Volume 2, was released, again consisting of remixes and new tracks. In 2005 Maas released his second personal album, Pictures, featuring guest artists Kelis, Neneh Cherry and Placebo's Brian Molko. His "To Get Down" track was used on the sound track to the 2003 remake of The Italian Job (2003 film), and also for the sound track to the video game, FIFA 2003. Find out more about this 37 year old producer/remixer at his website: www.tomimass.de
For almost twenty-five years and during thousands of DJ-sets German-born Timo Maas has turned energy into ecstasy, mixing a congenial and cohesive Dance-combination for the soundtrack to the perfect party – drawing on eclectic ingredients from Hip Hop to Alternative and R&B. Despite all that, Timo Maas feels he is more craftsman than alchemist, never resting on his laurels, and always re-inventing himself. Most importantly: He does not spin records, he more than anything creates his sound. Restless, untiring, worldwide. Preferably all night long, at least for four to five hours, more trip than trial – and in June 2006 even as the opening act for Depeche Mode in Warsaw. At the peak of the excitement, floor filled and audience screaming, Timo Maas will say something like: “I think I’ll really get them going in about twenty minutes or so.”
The look ahead and both ears to the ground have achieved a lot for this telecommunications-engineer from Hanover: From the local Discotheque in the Eighties to popular residencies in The End (“best venue“, Time Out Live Award, London), the new Pacha in New York and the DC 10 on Ibiza in 2006. From high-profile remixes and a proud Grammy-nomination to a whole lot of original productions, two artist-albums and his own label 99 Percent. “I approach every gig, every single set and everything I produce, as if they were my last”, says Timo Maas, whose name, by the way, is neither a pseudonym nor an acronym (even though “a Thousand Incredible Moments Of Music And Aural Sensations” would fit). “All of this is only possible, because I believe a hundred percent in what I’m doing. I love my job!”
Numerous singles, mixes and albums have made Timo Maas, always in collaboration with his sound-designer Martin Buttrich, a household name far beyond the dance-world. Maas released his own debut album Loud in 2002 on his label 99 Percent, which takes its name from an almost all-encompassing vinyl-release policy. It featured guest appearances from Kelis and Finley Quaye. A second Music For The Maases, Volume 2, was released, again consisting of remixes and new tracks. In 2005 Maas released his second personal album, Pictures, featuring guest artists Kelis, Neneh Cherry and Placebo's Brian Molko. His "To Get Down" track was used on the sound track to the 2003 remake of The Italian Job (2003 film), and also for the sound track to the video game, FIFA 2003. Find out more about this 37 year old producer/remixer at his website: www.tomimass.de
About Books:
Title: Bellocq's Ophelia
Author: Natasha Trethewey
Description: "Inspired by (photographer) Bellocq's Storyville portraits, Nastasha Trethewey brings to art a young 'octoron', in 1912, gallant, dignified, undefeated in her aspirations, yet barely able to breathe trapped and objectified in the world of a New Orleans brothel. Hers - theirs -is a stunning accomplishment." -- Gail Mazur.
Product Details:
Printed: 56pages, 6" x 9", black/white interior
ISBN: 1-55597-359-0
Copyright: 2002
Language: English
Country: United States
Publisher's Link: www.greywolfpress.org
Title: Bellocq's Ophelia
Author: Natasha Trethewey
Description: "Inspired by (photographer) Bellocq's Storyville portraits, Nastasha Trethewey brings to art a young 'octoron', in 1912, gallant, dignified, undefeated in her aspirations, yet barely able to breathe trapped and objectified in the world of a New Orleans brothel. Hers - theirs -is a stunning accomplishment." -- Gail Mazur.
Product Details:
Printed: 56pages, 6" x 9", black/white interior
ISBN: 1-55597-359-0
Copyright: 2002
Language: English
Country: United States
Publisher's Link: www.greywolfpress.org
Jennifer Van Buren
Steel Desk Solid
it took two men to move
your old desk into the new office
watchful eyes over cubicle spy
just too damn ugly is all
consider this replacement?
acrylic fingernail points
page 36 particle board under
high gloss laminate
disposable inorganic
beautiful lie
you and I need our metal solid
wood all the way through
mercury rising
through capillary tubes
existing expanding
no liquid crystal representation
of reality plugged in
still we exchange digital orchids
and satellite calls
in the bottom drawer
a plastic cock in a box waits
for my address
gears and cranks
grind your flour
in the distance
a brick wall stands
without its building
Kodochrome
I do not see myself
in the panoramic stretch of your day
no torn ticket stub fortuneteller,
no colored pebbles from the creek.
Your marble statues do not have my curves,
lady feathers balance lightly among your leaves.
We do not balance lightly.
I want my fingerprints
on your polished mahogany,
paperweights to fall under our disturbance,
manuscript and utility bills to flutter down
around our bare toes.
You tell me you see me everywhere.
She calls to you.
She needs something at the store,
she needs something picked up off the floor.
You owe her you owe her
all the best years.
You must go to her
you must
keep your desk
straight.
Express Line
it gives me a sick thrill
to toss the Astroglide
onto the moving belt
forcing pornographic images
into the minds of holiday shoppers.
the motor hums and shakes
the box
towards their order,
closer
closer
until red divider knocks over
their diet coke
forcing the bottle
nose first through pastel toilet paper-
bubbles try to escape, pressure builds
and that is when he sees it--
my box
staring at him.
his eyes shift up to mine,
hold
hold
steady
don't look away now
savor this nerve merge static shock thrill ride
of imaginations opening the package together, aisle 17.
do not unlock this gaze while
he scans through cotton,
compass needle points south
as he dips, slips and slides in slowly
and again harder this time before returning
to my dangerous eyes.
Pulling his sorority sister sweetheart
in a little closer,
he kisses the part
in her natural brown hair
pays in cash.
Not All Berries
I will close my eyes
and tell you what is mine.
This, your beauty I carry with me down aisles
calling for lost children, selecting
the box with the reddest of strawberries.
All of these are mine.
Not all berries, these berries.
Not all children, these children.
Not all of you, but this part of you only I hold.
Other lips may taste juices,
I see them on display,
but not these, not mine.
Steel Desk Solid
it took two men to move
your old desk into the new office
watchful eyes over cubicle spy
just too damn ugly is all
consider this replacement?
acrylic fingernail points
page 36 particle board under
high gloss laminate
disposable inorganic
beautiful lie
you and I need our metal solid
wood all the way through
mercury rising
through capillary tubes
existing expanding
no liquid crystal representation
of reality plugged in
still we exchange digital orchids
and satellite calls
in the bottom drawer
a plastic cock in a box waits
for my address
gears and cranks
grind your flour
in the distance
a brick wall stands
without its building
Kodochrome
I do not see myself
in the panoramic stretch of your day
no torn ticket stub fortuneteller,
no colored pebbles from the creek.
Your marble statues do not have my curves,
lady feathers balance lightly among your leaves.
We do not balance lightly.
I want my fingerprints
on your polished mahogany,
paperweights to fall under our disturbance,
manuscript and utility bills to flutter down
around our bare toes.
You tell me you see me everywhere.
She calls to you.
She needs something at the store,
she needs something picked up off the floor.
You owe her you owe her
all the best years.
You must go to her
you must
keep your desk
straight.
Express Line
it gives me a sick thrill
to toss the Astroglide
onto the moving belt
forcing pornographic images
into the minds of holiday shoppers.
the motor hums and shakes
the box
towards their order,
closer
closer
until red divider knocks over
their diet coke
forcing the bottle
nose first through pastel toilet paper-
bubbles try to escape, pressure builds
and that is when he sees it--
my box
staring at him.
his eyes shift up to mine,
hold
hold
steady
don't look away now
savor this nerve merge static shock thrill ride
of imaginations opening the package together, aisle 17.
do not unlock this gaze while
he scans through cotton,
compass needle points south
as he dips, slips and slides in slowly
and again harder this time before returning
to my dangerous eyes.
Pulling his sorority sister sweetheart
in a little closer,
he kisses the part
in her natural brown hair
pays in cash.
Not All Berries
I will close my eyes
and tell you what is mine.
This, your beauty I carry with me down aisles
calling for lost children, selecting
the box with the reddest of strawberries.
All of these are mine.
Not all berries, these berries.
Not all children, these children.
Not all of you, but this part of you only I hold.
Other lips may taste juices,
I see them on display,
but not these, not mine.
Lynn Strongin
Flip Flop My Mules
Those jewels
Go in the parking lot
I’m as happy as people on earth can be.
Pushed to the limit daily the grit of sun in trees
Flouring down
Late light
Finally
Ease.
These:
& my mules:
She who had been aghast
Watched a truck with “10800 Get Junk” pass
Thinking of the bricoleur
We all have been;
The past, mire & gold.
Good. Good. Belly good, as old Chinese say. Thirty three years.
Holy Moly says Orphan Annie
My love, I cannot read to the bottom of her thoughts
But God alone knows
She blossoms like the rose.
I go. Love flows.
Anne, your mind is a gold mine
With lace veins
Elves have not stolen.
Once you gouged your skull
Now no more
You strike Italian marble, with words delve deeper.
A marble & ebony magpie against sky
Doesn’t belong with Holly in our July
But scaling sky of a classicist O Salem
You have in your eye Sappho’s passion.
Now I know
At school, last days of 7th grade, I must have contracted polio.
Those last days I walked slow motion as thru oil
To the yellow brick library, a dollhouse in New Rochelle
Against a yellow brick sky
Toting books home, so thin, so lean.
Before we broke the dining room mirror the three of us, horrified
I found myself a mirror shattered.
Remember, darlin,
When you look askance at me
When you pop all my balloons & rain on my parade
(if you have wandered from me)
You were the angel
At the top of our Yuletide tree.
Grandmother’s cupboard
Was eerily magical
Hexagonal glass translucent
Wealth haunting as poverty
Toe crux of me.
Were her eyes green or gray?
Was she a flake with speckled eyes?
I always tried to live a good poem as a child before her
Wearing white stockings, combed blond bangs.
Finding thimbles of strangeness, steel shavings
Tarnished gold of old ring
O horn of hope. I found carbons
Copies of this fragile threatened globes.
Porcelain
Animals stood, statues:
A maverick, goat, sheep dog
Ghosting
While little sister with her chestnut bangs stood behind
“Horsy Dog!” she pointed to a Great Dane passing on Fifth Avenue
five stories below grandmother’s room
unfathered, unmothered—by my childhood polio nearly unsistered
but always in the presence of
Grandmother’s magus-like magical cupboard.
Midsummer Library
Libris, the Lion
Of wood is being refurbished:
Will his mane be golder in the fall, the snow?
“Branch into reading” a tree with a thousand flickering knives for leaves
shades a child’s imperiled head.
And I am one blue number:
Number
Than hollyhock
In this stream I have fed
Of discontent: stoicism must suffice, dry pie
This other side of paradise.
Flip Flop My Mules
Those jewels
Go in the parking lot
I’m as happy as people on earth can be.
Pushed to the limit daily the grit of sun in trees
Flouring down
Late light
Finally
Ease.
These:
& my mules:
She who had been aghast
Watched a truck with “10800 Get Junk” pass
Thinking of the bricoleur
We all have been;
The past, mire & gold.
Good. Good. Belly good, as old Chinese say. Thirty three years.
Holy Moly says Orphan Annie
My love, I cannot read to the bottom of her thoughts
But God alone knows
She blossoms like the rose.
I go. Love flows.
Anne, your mind is a gold mine
With lace veins
Elves have not stolen.
Once you gouged your skull
Now no more
You strike Italian marble, with words delve deeper.
A marble & ebony magpie against sky
Doesn’t belong with Holly in our July
But scaling sky of a classicist O Salem
You have in your eye Sappho’s passion.
Now I know
At school, last days of 7th grade, I must have contracted polio.
Those last days I walked slow motion as thru oil
To the yellow brick library, a dollhouse in New Rochelle
Against a yellow brick sky
Toting books home, so thin, so lean.
Before we broke the dining room mirror the three of us, horrified
I found myself a mirror shattered.
Remember, darlin,
When you look askance at me
When you pop all my balloons & rain on my parade
(if you have wandered from me)
You were the angel
At the top of our Yuletide tree.
Grandmother’s cupboard
Was eerily magical
Hexagonal glass translucent
Wealth haunting as poverty
Toe crux of me.
Were her eyes green or gray?
Was she a flake with speckled eyes?
I always tried to live a good poem as a child before her
Wearing white stockings, combed blond bangs.
Finding thimbles of strangeness, steel shavings
Tarnished gold of old ring
O horn of hope. I found carbons
Copies of this fragile threatened globes.
Porcelain
Animals stood, statues:
A maverick, goat, sheep dog
Ghosting
While little sister with her chestnut bangs stood behind
“Horsy Dog!” she pointed to a Great Dane passing on Fifth Avenue
five stories below grandmother’s room
unfathered, unmothered—by my childhood polio nearly unsistered
but always in the presence of
Grandmother’s magus-like magical cupboard.
Midsummer Library
Libris, the Lion
Of wood is being refurbished:
Will his mane be golder in the fall, the snow?
“Branch into reading” a tree with a thousand flickering knives for leaves
shades a child’s imperiled head.
And I am one blue number:
Number
Than hollyhock
In this stream I have fed
Of discontent: stoicism must suffice, dry pie
This other side of paradise.
Contributors Biographies
Cath Vidler: is editor of Snorkel, an online literary magazine specializing in creative writing by Australians and New Zealanders. Her poetry has appeared in Sport, Trout, Tinfish, Alba, Otoliths, Cordite Poetry Review, and elsewhere. In 2001 she was a member of the editorial collective for the inaugural issue of Turbine. She lives in Sydney, Australia. Her website is: www.snorkel.org.au
Patrick Carrington: is the poetry editor at Mannequin Envy. His manuscript Thirst (Codhill, 2007) won Codhill Press' 2006 Poetry Chapbook Award. He has work forthcoming in print at The Connecticut Review, The New York Quarterly, The Potomac Review, The Evansville Review and other journals, and online at Poetry Southeast, Painted Bridge Quarterly, and elsewhere. His first poetry collection Rise, Fall and Acceptance (MSR Publishing, 2006) is available at Main St. Rag online. He lives in Wildwood Crest, NJ. Contact him at his email address: patcarringtonpoet@yahoo.com
Madalina Iordache-Levay: was born in Romania in 1982. she grew up paiting and drawing, and then set aside her images for words when she went to university to study journalism. It was journalism though that led her to discover photography and digital art. Her work has been described as having the appearance of Tarot cards. Everything she learned has been self-taught. She's currently a free-lance photographer based in Hollywood, FL. See more of her amazing images at: www.madyiordache.com
Andrew Kaye: is a mish-mash of storyteller, poet, and cartoonist who resides in opulent Box Manor in Northern Virginia where he often dreams of the sea. When not consumed with his own scribblings he edits the literary humor magazine Defenstration. The once Pirate King of some repute, has once again started recruiting a new crew, which will begin pillaging several fanciful ports after hurricane season. If interested, contact him at: www.defenestrationmag.net
Marcia Arrieta: eidts and publishes Indefinite Space. Her poetry has appeared in Eratio, Aught, Argotistonline, Zafusy, Blueprint Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Osiris, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Experimental, was published by Potes & Poets (CT). Her recent poetry/collage has appeared in Homenaje Al Quijote. She lives in Pasedena, CA, surrounded by oaks and a garden on the edge of a canyon with mountains and open sky as a backdrop. She is a high scholl teacher and lives with her three sons. Her website can be found at: www.marciaarrieta.htm
Roland John: is a poet, publisher, editor, translator and critic. After traveling widely in Europe and the Middle East he returned to the UK, where he founded the Hippopotamus Press. he is the author of A Beginner's Guide To The Cantos of Ezra Pound; his latest collection is A Lament For England (Bluechrome, 2005). The London-born poet moved to Somerset in 1989 where he lives close to the Mendip Hills. Contact him at his email address: rjhippopress@aol.com
Ernie Gerzabek: was born in Budapest, Hungary, surviving the 2nd World War and the subsequent communist Stalinist regime. shortly after the brutal Soviet crackdown in 1956, he and his family escaped to Austria, spending nearly tow years in refugee camps. They ended up in Australia, where he studied to be an architect. Art began as a hobby and continued to devolop in retirement. His inspiration comes from the unspoiled countryside, wilderness areas, wetlands, deserts and seashores and is often patterned after Aboriginal folk art. He lives in Belrose, Australia. His website is: www.Ernie-Gercabek.com
Kelly White: has been a pediatrician in inner-city Philadelphia since 1980. Since 1999 her work has been published in numerous journals including Exquisite Corpse, Nimrod, Poet's Lore, Rattle, and The Journal of the American Medical Association. Her most recent chapbook, Rule Of Thumb, recieved the Cynic Prize from Cynic Press. Her most recent poetry collection is Living In The Heart (Word Press). She has recieved nine Pushcart Prize nominations, five in 2006. Her poetry has been featured on NPR's The Writer's Almanac (Jan. 5, 2007). Her website is: www.geocities.com/kellywhitemd
Jennifer Van Buren: has a background in education and science but has always had a passion for writing. Her poetry has appeared online and in print finding homes at Poetry Motel, Free Verse, Ken*again, Niedergasse, Clean Sheets, and elsewhere. Her poetry and photography has been featured in From East To West, Artistry of Life and Admit 2. She is web editor/publisher of Mannequin Envy, a web-based journal, and just released the first print anthology purchased through lulu.com. She lives with her two children in Baltimore, MD. Visit her at: www.mannequinenvy.com
Lynn Strongin: was born in New York City in 1939 and was raised in around New York. She lived in California during the politically active Sixties and worked, in Berkeley, for Denise Levertov. She moved to Albuquerque, NM in the Seventies where she taught. Her poetry collections include The Dwarf Cycle (Thorp Springs Press), Toccata of the Disturbed Child (Fallen Angel Press), A Hacksaw Brightness (Ironwood Press) and Countrywoman/Surgeon (L' Epervier Press), all published in the Seventies, and Bones and Kim a Novella (Spinster's Ink Press, 1980). She currently resides in British Columbia, Canada. She website is: http://members.shaw.ca/stronginweb/index.html
Closing Notes: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on Nov. 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/
Cath Vidler: is editor of Snorkel, an online literary magazine specializing in creative writing by Australians and New Zealanders. Her poetry has appeared in Sport, Trout, Tinfish, Alba, Otoliths, Cordite Poetry Review, and elsewhere. In 2001 she was a member of the editorial collective for the inaugural issue of Turbine. She lives in Sydney, Australia. Her website is: www.snorkel.org.au
Patrick Carrington: is the poetry editor at Mannequin Envy. His manuscript Thirst (Codhill, 2007) won Codhill Press' 2006 Poetry Chapbook Award. He has work forthcoming in print at The Connecticut Review, The New York Quarterly, The Potomac Review, The Evansville Review and other journals, and online at Poetry Southeast, Painted Bridge Quarterly, and elsewhere. His first poetry collection Rise, Fall and Acceptance (MSR Publishing, 2006) is available at Main St. Rag online. He lives in Wildwood Crest, NJ. Contact him at his email address: patcarringtonpoet@yahoo.com
Madalina Iordache-Levay: was born in Romania in 1982. she grew up paiting and drawing, and then set aside her images for words when she went to university to study journalism. It was journalism though that led her to discover photography and digital art. Her work has been described as having the appearance of Tarot cards. Everything she learned has been self-taught. She's currently a free-lance photographer based in Hollywood, FL. See more of her amazing images at: www.madyiordache.com
Andrew Kaye: is a mish-mash of storyteller, poet, and cartoonist who resides in opulent Box Manor in Northern Virginia where he often dreams of the sea. When not consumed with his own scribblings he edits the literary humor magazine Defenstration. The once Pirate King of some repute, has once again started recruiting a new crew, which will begin pillaging several fanciful ports after hurricane season. If interested, contact him at: www.defenestrationmag.net
Marcia Arrieta: eidts and publishes Indefinite Space. Her poetry has appeared in Eratio, Aught, Argotistonline, Zafusy, Blueprint Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Osiris, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Experimental, was published by Potes & Poets (CT). Her recent poetry/collage has appeared in Homenaje Al Quijote. She lives in Pasedena, CA, surrounded by oaks and a garden on the edge of a canyon with mountains and open sky as a backdrop. She is a high scholl teacher and lives with her three sons. Her website can be found at: www.marciaarrieta.htm
Roland John: is a poet, publisher, editor, translator and critic. After traveling widely in Europe and the Middle East he returned to the UK, where he founded the Hippopotamus Press. he is the author of A Beginner's Guide To The Cantos of Ezra Pound; his latest collection is A Lament For England (Bluechrome, 2005). The London-born poet moved to Somerset in 1989 where he lives close to the Mendip Hills. Contact him at his email address: rjhippopress@aol.com
Ernie Gerzabek: was born in Budapest, Hungary, surviving the 2nd World War and the subsequent communist Stalinist regime. shortly after the brutal Soviet crackdown in 1956, he and his family escaped to Austria, spending nearly tow years in refugee camps. They ended up in Australia, where he studied to be an architect. Art began as a hobby and continued to devolop in retirement. His inspiration comes from the unspoiled countryside, wilderness areas, wetlands, deserts and seashores and is often patterned after Aboriginal folk art. He lives in Belrose, Australia. His website is: www.Ernie-Gercabek.com
Kelly White: has been a pediatrician in inner-city Philadelphia since 1980. Since 1999 her work has been published in numerous journals including Exquisite Corpse, Nimrod, Poet's Lore, Rattle, and The Journal of the American Medical Association. Her most recent chapbook, Rule Of Thumb, recieved the Cynic Prize from Cynic Press. Her most recent poetry collection is Living In The Heart (Word Press). She has recieved nine Pushcart Prize nominations, five in 2006. Her poetry has been featured on NPR's The Writer's Almanac (Jan. 5, 2007). Her website is: www.geocities.com/kellywhitemd
Jennifer Van Buren: has a background in education and science but has always had a passion for writing. Her poetry has appeared online and in print finding homes at Poetry Motel, Free Verse, Ken*again, Niedergasse, Clean Sheets, and elsewhere. Her poetry and photography has been featured in From East To West, Artistry of Life and Admit 2. She is web editor/publisher of Mannequin Envy, a web-based journal, and just released the first print anthology purchased through lulu.com. She lives with her two children in Baltimore, MD. Visit her at: www.mannequinenvy.com
Lynn Strongin: was born in New York City in 1939 and was raised in around New York. She lived in California during the politically active Sixties and worked, in Berkeley, for Denise Levertov. She moved to Albuquerque, NM in the Seventies where she taught. Her poetry collections include The Dwarf Cycle (Thorp Springs Press), Toccata of the Disturbed Child (Fallen Angel Press), A Hacksaw Brightness (Ironwood Press) and Countrywoman/Surgeon (L' Epervier Press), all published in the Seventies, and Bones and Kim a Novella (Spinster's Ink Press, 1980). She currently resides in British Columbia, Canada. She website is: http://members.shaw.ca/stronginweb/index.html
Closing Notes: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on Nov. 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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