Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Editor's Note:
Welcome to the nineteenth issue of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my baby likes adventures hiding in crayons and hates anything that resembles a slinky. It craves rhubarb and makes cute little sounds when it hears foghorn. Baby has an uncanny ability to turn the words of poets into an infusion of desert glutens. Issue Nineteen is an excellent example. This month CSR is filled with long-lashed photographs, along with a bull's-eye of art. Add to that, a group of stunning poets, an intriguing music maker and one magical book review and you've got the possibility a deer in the headlights. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll feel like a cool glass of iced tea. Or no one could have guessed he wears high-heels. Either way, this issue will highjack your interest with delights seldom found in bungee jumping. So escape from the circling helicopter and get busy...
Welcome to the nineteenth issue of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my baby likes adventures hiding in crayons and hates anything that resembles a slinky. It craves rhubarb and makes cute little sounds when it hears foghorn. Baby has an uncanny ability to turn the words of poets into an infusion of desert glutens. Issue Nineteen is an excellent example. This month CSR is filled with long-lashed photographs, along with a bull's-eye of art. Add to that, a group of stunning poets, an intriguing music maker and one magical book review and you've got the possibility a deer in the headlights. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll feel like a cool glass of iced tea. Or no one could have guessed he wears high-heels. Either way, this issue will highjack your interest with delights seldom found in bungee jumping. So escape from the circling helicopter and get busy...
Ernest Williamson III
The Value of Reinventing the Wheel
in the weighted hours
alone
in solemn care
with the vaporous stems of cold gray leaves
dead but vibrant
like a moss breathing
along the musk of aged bark
I've contained a breath
with mallet and symbol
striking away
in the monotone of flaccid existence
though I've travailed in the winter now
my ways have pounced along
the cerebral branches
of more than Grandma's Oaks
I've grown backwards in a fulsome world
staging innocence with greed for position
though position is merely a crystal ball
wading in anger
in unison
with the brunt of nihilistic
possibilities
made real
The Picture Had Already Been Taken
the bay leaves were stapled together
hugging each other
unabashed by the sultry winds
Montego Bay had never been so maroon
and swamped with rainbows meddling with black sands
in my house
aside the plush verdant carpet
was a cherry dresser
pleasant to the eye
with four legs
curvaceous legs
flirtatious in a way
like an anxious tongue
willing but reluctant
to taste hot Black tea
at 6 a.m. in the morning
next to the dresser on the cream colored wall
was a painting I painted in 1974
I called it "Daydreaming"
Today at times I sit and staple bay leaves,
watch them hug,
in Montego Bay
on plush verdant carpet,
next to a cherry dresser
with four legs,
in a naked room,
and with no painting of any sort
on the walls
while daydreaming
at 6 pm in the evening
smiling
with paintbrush in hand
The Chords of Life's Journey
the moon dove past the doldrums in New Guinea
all was a blur
grays meddling with capers
orange and brown
yellowed corners in the ionosphere
I saw the orbits of Pluto
after the beer from Milwaukee subdued my pain
though as I lay in the Alabama sun
courting my interests in red ants
my eyes dilate
and as the fringed beacons in their tirades
scream silently
against and for flesh
I empathize with food
yet worms seem not to be weary
of my destine transformation
a man with health
to flesh with nothing poetic to say
but I do say
with the winds in my nostrils
all is of interest
even the ignorance of being
less than
what people
imagine themselves to be
The First Love of Last Recollection
a breathless mirage of woman
parading round the green
leaving flowers disjointed and flooded with depression
turned aside as tired limbs in need of water and salt
she had eyes of black pearls
steaming the vocal chords in her lovers
like a black widow leading her prey
into the silk of misrepresentation
with no signs of sorry
and though she looms in the wake of day
in the balance of noon's transference to night
I still make note of her
like the enamel shaded white
leaning toward yellow reminders of life
you grow you age
but as the time leading towards death's migraine
you remember
No Understanding
lilacs folded over the windfalls
deep in the forests of Georgia
south of Grendel's redwood shack
two miles from the market next to Caddle's Street
sunlight meandering left and right
like a tiger on the prowl
merciless but of an evil beauty
for the sake of some esoteric show I guess
and the clouds white
with a glow of royal blue piercing through
gliding as black hawks
high above the vagary of my frontal vision
but still a sight worth mentioning
anyways always
as long as I still smile at nature
with no understanding
no understanding at all.
The Value of Reinventing the Wheel
in the weighted hours
alone
in solemn care
with the vaporous stems of cold gray leaves
dead but vibrant
like a moss breathing
along the musk of aged bark
I've contained a breath
with mallet and symbol
striking away
in the monotone of flaccid existence
though I've travailed in the winter now
my ways have pounced along
the cerebral branches
of more than Grandma's Oaks
I've grown backwards in a fulsome world
staging innocence with greed for position
though position is merely a crystal ball
wading in anger
in unison
with the brunt of nihilistic
possibilities
made real
The Picture Had Already Been Taken
the bay leaves were stapled together
hugging each other
unabashed by the sultry winds
Montego Bay had never been so maroon
and swamped with rainbows meddling with black sands
in my house
aside the plush verdant carpet
was a cherry dresser
pleasant to the eye
with four legs
curvaceous legs
flirtatious in a way
like an anxious tongue
willing but reluctant
to taste hot Black tea
at 6 a.m. in the morning
next to the dresser on the cream colored wall
was a painting I painted in 1974
I called it "Daydreaming"
Today at times I sit and staple bay leaves,
watch them hug,
in Montego Bay
on plush verdant carpet,
next to a cherry dresser
with four legs,
in a naked room,
and with no painting of any sort
on the walls
while daydreaming
at 6 pm in the evening
smiling
with paintbrush in hand
The Chords of Life's Journey
the moon dove past the doldrums in New Guinea
all was a blur
grays meddling with capers
orange and brown
yellowed corners in the ionosphere
I saw the orbits of Pluto
after the beer from Milwaukee subdued my pain
though as I lay in the Alabama sun
courting my interests in red ants
my eyes dilate
and as the fringed beacons in their tirades
scream silently
against and for flesh
I empathize with food
yet worms seem not to be weary
of my destine transformation
a man with health
to flesh with nothing poetic to say
but I do say
with the winds in my nostrils
all is of interest
even the ignorance of being
less than
what people
imagine themselves to be
The First Love of Last Recollection
a breathless mirage of woman
parading round the green
leaving flowers disjointed and flooded with depression
turned aside as tired limbs in need of water and salt
she had eyes of black pearls
steaming the vocal chords in her lovers
like a black widow leading her prey
into the silk of misrepresentation
with no signs of sorry
and though she looms in the wake of day
in the balance of noon's transference to night
I still make note of her
like the enamel shaded white
leaning toward yellow reminders of life
you grow you age
but as the time leading towards death's migraine
you remember
No Understanding
lilacs folded over the windfalls
deep in the forests of Georgia
south of Grendel's redwood shack
two miles from the market next to Caddle's Street
sunlight meandering left and right
like a tiger on the prowl
merciless but of an evil beauty
for the sake of some esoteric show I guess
and the clouds white
with a glow of royal blue piercing through
gliding as black hawks
high above the vagary of my frontal vision
but still a sight worth mentioning
anyways always
as long as I still smile at nature
with no understanding
no understanding at all.
Jenny Allan
Blinds & Patience
parting over delay
long shade relies
on enough setting
of up chalked
marks with themselves
colourfully cracked
/I drew you in pastel hues that didn’t suit your complexion and
when the snap came, it was too much to expect reliability from
a sketch/
Float…ing
On becoming separated from my ideas
I wondered if it was true that to
‘keep your head above water’ requires
a buoyant brain: more upbeat than grey
matter acknowledges.
Having discarded their armbands, those ideas
were capable of reaching some shore
by means of backstroke and wit alone.
Leaving me with a crossed mind and salt.
Spurs-of-the-moment
Shoving all limits in the closet, she washed wonder down
with a tolerant brew: part tea, part not;
part thirst-haste, distraction quencher.
Before ground struck the thriving steps
swept under carpet’s enchantment.
The Blue
What becomes of blue when sky leaks late
deliveries too posthumous even to resurrect
a meager shelter.
In opposition to atmosphere we say “out of or into”
as if nothing did come.
10+’s Lover
We are two ones: attaching
a restless power to victory
barely resolving to kick
discontent in the meaning.
Like asking a bombshell to reduce shock
or trim the other cheek.
From one cool scene to a sinking silhouette
a faint ticking
hears background noise
as we line up to launch entertainment
and suspend refuge until humour stops staring.
-all poems taken from her blog, Intermittent Voices
Blinds & Patience
parting over delay
long shade relies
on enough setting
of up chalked
marks with themselves
colourfully cracked
/I drew you in pastel hues that didn’t suit your complexion and
when the snap came, it was too much to expect reliability from
a sketch/
Float…ing
On becoming separated from my ideas
I wondered if it was true that to
‘keep your head above water’ requires
a buoyant brain: more upbeat than grey
matter acknowledges.
Having discarded their armbands, those ideas
were capable of reaching some shore
by means of backstroke and wit alone.
Leaving me with a crossed mind and salt.
Spurs-of-the-moment
Shoving all limits in the closet, she washed wonder down
with a tolerant brew: part tea, part not;
part thirst-haste, distraction quencher.
Before ground struck the thriving steps
swept under carpet’s enchantment.
The Blue
What becomes of blue when sky leaks late
deliveries too posthumous even to resurrect
a meager shelter.
In opposition to atmosphere we say “out of or into”
as if nothing did come.
10+’s Lover
We are two ones: attaching
a restless power to victory
barely resolving to kick
discontent in the meaning.
Like asking a bombshell to reduce shock
or trim the other cheek.
From one cool scene to a sinking silhouette
a faint ticking
hears background noise
as we line up to launch entertainment
and suspend refuge until humour stops staring.
-all poems taken from her blog, Intermittent Voices
Tammy Ho
Going To My Parent’s House On A Crowded Bus
I’m sandwiched by two unattractive men
on a city bus to the land of sky
and water. An hour’s crossroad journey
from one home to another -
Outside: The metamorphosis of high-rise
glass buildings to fragile trees.
Inside: Ten pairs of eyes staring
at my breasts involuntarily pressed
against the back of a seat.
My lungs absorb enough foul-smelling
air recycled from people’s breath
to choke a fatal enemy. Dignity
I sacrifice for several hours
with my family.
Previously published in Spoken War
Dinner Table
The two of you bellowed to each other in
fiercest intellectual insults.
An unsuccessful chaperone I was. I shut
my eyes to listen to an orange horse gallop
on, not too clumsily, a bed of golden-
brimmed grass shooting north.
Forks dueled with knives, glasses clinked
and licked. Already? Back to the dining
table, together you laughed, mouths open
wide to park spaceships.
Ever since I used that word 'love',
both of you repeated it
ad infinitum, adorned with other crude
lexemes, as if all of a sudden a child
was allowed to play with Daddy's lighter.
This Be The Postcard Poem
I pretend to be a postcard poem,
being denied the side of the stamp.
(It's fenced.) Let the address be short--
I hate fighting for space with a country
name that is accidentally polysyllabic.
The picture on the front is a deaf fly?
a beggar? or a bowtie? Perhaps
nonchalant bedcovers. (I know not
what.) It's like a single eye peeping,
edgily, at its lid.
I hope the recipient likes this poem;
and forgets (only just) that the man
who sent it has nothing to say
from afar, or nothing to sigh
about, either.
Both previously published at Lunarosity
In This Massive Hallway
In this massive hallway the mahogany
reception desk is guarded by a woman of
mixed ancestry.
The owner of a well-trimmed moustache
told me he has been hanging out there
for more than five years:
too long, indeed, too long
for his original to wait,
and he died of lung cancer.
The old man has five poems:
three on canoeing,
two on the Canadian poet-cum-singer
Leonard Cohen.
I am newly sent to this New York journal
armed with three petite prose poems:
one on fishing, two on post-postcolonial Hong Kong.
My original, naive and expectation-laden,
is sending numerous mes
to different magazines, e-zines and whatnot.
Us – her invisible doppelgangers –
carry her manuscripts and wait,
sometimes for days,
sometimes for weeks,
sometimes for months,
for responses from editors.
We haunt waiting rooms,
store rooms,
nearly-empty rooms,
forgotten rooms.
In the Summit Of Greying Snow
A poet died in the summit of greying snow.
He wrote about ordinary families,
and the human’s subconscious wish
to be short-lived, fast-mated insects (no mid-life
crises). Some envious poets thought aloud
to each other: oh it was wonderful to die
in the sacred cold, don’t you think? The icy weather
formed a natural tomb for the sealed
and healed spirit. Other poets took up the task
to console the poet’s wife: her cream marble face
scarred with two non-parallel one-way tear tracks.
At the funeral, the wife asked the poets
to recite a poem of her husband’s – any poem
from any period of his writing career would do,
she said. Even the insect poems, she added.
The request drained away all sounds in the hall
in which the coffin was appropriately centred.
Both poems previously published in Mascara
Going To My Parent’s House On A Crowded Bus
I’m sandwiched by two unattractive men
on a city bus to the land of sky
and water. An hour’s crossroad journey
from one home to another -
Outside: The metamorphosis of high-rise
glass buildings to fragile trees.
Inside: Ten pairs of eyes staring
at my breasts involuntarily pressed
against the back of a seat.
My lungs absorb enough foul-smelling
air recycled from people’s breath
to choke a fatal enemy. Dignity
I sacrifice for several hours
with my family.
Previously published in Spoken War
Dinner Table
The two of you bellowed to each other in
fiercest intellectual insults.
An unsuccessful chaperone I was. I shut
my eyes to listen to an orange horse gallop
on, not too clumsily, a bed of golden-
brimmed grass shooting north.
Forks dueled with knives, glasses clinked
and licked. Already? Back to the dining
table, together you laughed, mouths open
wide to park spaceships.
Ever since I used that word 'love',
both of you repeated it
ad infinitum, adorned with other crude
lexemes, as if all of a sudden a child
was allowed to play with Daddy's lighter.
This Be The Postcard Poem
I pretend to be a postcard poem,
being denied the side of the stamp.
(It's fenced.) Let the address be short--
I hate fighting for space with a country
name that is accidentally polysyllabic.
The picture on the front is a deaf fly?
a beggar? or a bowtie? Perhaps
nonchalant bedcovers. (I know not
what.) It's like a single eye peeping,
edgily, at its lid.
I hope the recipient likes this poem;
and forgets (only just) that the man
who sent it has nothing to say
from afar, or nothing to sigh
about, either.
Both previously published at Lunarosity
In This Massive Hallway
In this massive hallway the mahogany
reception desk is guarded by a woman of
mixed ancestry.
The owner of a well-trimmed moustache
told me he has been hanging out there
for more than five years:
too long, indeed, too long
for his original to wait,
and he died of lung cancer.
The old man has five poems:
three on canoeing,
two on the Canadian poet-cum-singer
Leonard Cohen.
I am newly sent to this New York journal
armed with three petite prose poems:
one on fishing, two on post-postcolonial Hong Kong.
My original, naive and expectation-laden,
is sending numerous mes
to different magazines, e-zines and whatnot.
Us – her invisible doppelgangers –
carry her manuscripts and wait,
sometimes for days,
sometimes for weeks,
sometimes for months,
for responses from editors.
We haunt waiting rooms,
store rooms,
nearly-empty rooms,
forgotten rooms.
In the Summit Of Greying Snow
A poet died in the summit of greying snow.
He wrote about ordinary families,
and the human’s subconscious wish
to be short-lived, fast-mated insects (no mid-life
crises). Some envious poets thought aloud
to each other: oh it was wonderful to die
in the sacred cold, don’t you think? The icy weather
formed a natural tomb for the sealed
and healed spirit. Other poets took up the task
to console the poet’s wife: her cream marble face
scarred with two non-parallel one-way tear tracks.
At the funeral, the wife asked the poets
to recite a poem of her husband’s – any poem
from any period of his writing career would do,
she said. Even the insect poems, she added.
The request drained away all sounds in the hall
in which the coffin was appropriately centred.
Both poems previously published in Mascara
Harry K. Stammer
terror 108
attention center
"sense is" jaw chew
strip round (more)
pole indicator
moment "hi, I"
'sensual crucial state'd
throw left
arm right arm
around back
front front back
"hi, I" head
lift plant heel
(s) basing (ed)
('tude) piece
attached left cut
45 degrees down
('phrenic) "hi, I"
closely
which hall long
(lines) palm up eye
squint (ing) "no,
considerate" wall
chapter x
"you got something... for me, huh?"
the mirror sunglasses blonde dancing two doors
away "liquor store, that's it a,"
once look down/up rest hood on momentary
leg crossed tank top shoulders
a result (raucous) result certain (myth
just a proof) certainty 'pect
except where rested 'centive in
desire [not salt or flour] nor/or under't
dream it "once result breaks
down" dog (say feral) leashed runny
nose "for me?" (ring of muscle, closed)
hot "perhaps, cleft dreamed on
a river of a glory" sing spin
tubes out legs ache knuckles
swollen "what motor function?" shift affect
paralysis [sun glass mirror] fatigue that
something expelled D gets up to
point (ed) sitting inflections verb/noun disabled
desire (e) lysium contradicts (tion) 'llel
resolve 1
oblivious "crown'd saying
this" spiral turn
nothing two legs
two arms "gravity knows"
swallow gripping fingers
hand in (hard)
percept (ing) behind't pass't
"motel
here it is"
suspend (up) back
sit 12
beating(s) laughing felt still
"created for its, position,
for its" puncture tingled
jingled foot sock stance
"that it thinks" walks
moved away another time
"says it that, is
as well as" breathing
not giving to attention
the nothing place that
value'd adaptation it hear't
repeats "alone and packing
this baby, who the
pocket jingling reeling laughed
done child" and the
bone "tingling"
Drop 7
(ing)
"get your
'etics, up" blood
pours
over block
walled & singing
tongue
constant one
more song chorus
leg
ankle toe
shin slapping pants
held
tone position
"sure, it's more”
-poems taken from his blog, Poetry From Downtown LA & Adjacent (s)
terror 108
attention center
"sense is" jaw chew
strip round (more)
pole indicator
moment "hi, I"
'sensual crucial state'd
throw left
arm right arm
around back
front front back
"hi, I" head
lift plant heel
(s) basing (ed)
('tude) piece
attached left cut
45 degrees down
('phrenic) "hi, I"
closely
which hall long
(lines) palm up eye
squint (ing) "no,
considerate" wall
chapter x
"you got something... for me, huh?"
the mirror sunglasses blonde dancing two doors
away "liquor store, that's it a,"
once look down/up rest hood on momentary
leg crossed tank top shoulders
a result (raucous) result certain (myth
just a proof) certainty 'pect
except where rested 'centive in
desire [not salt or flour] nor/or under't
dream it "once result breaks
down" dog (say feral) leashed runny
nose "for me?" (ring of muscle, closed)
hot "perhaps, cleft dreamed on
a river of a glory" sing spin
tubes out legs ache knuckles
swollen "what motor function?" shift affect
paralysis [sun glass mirror] fatigue that
something expelled D gets up to
point (ed) sitting inflections verb/noun disabled
desire (e) lysium contradicts (tion) 'llel
resolve 1
oblivious "crown'd saying
this" spiral turn
nothing two legs
two arms "gravity knows"
swallow gripping fingers
hand in (hard)
percept (ing) behind't pass't
"motel
here it is"
suspend (up) back
sit 12
beating(s) laughing felt still
"created for its, position,
for its" puncture tingled
jingled foot sock stance
"that it thinks" walks
moved away another time
"says it that, is
as well as" breathing
not giving to attention
the nothing place that
value'd adaptation it hear't
repeats "alone and packing
this baby, who the
pocket jingling reeling laughed
done child" and the
bone "tingling"
Drop 7
(ing)
"get your
'etics, up" blood
pours
over block
walled & singing
tongue
constant one
more song chorus
leg
ankle toe
shin slapping pants
held
tone position
"sure, it's more”
-poems taken from his blog, Poetry From Downtown LA & Adjacent (s)
Lisa Stewart
The Inn
The Messiah
has come for the
lost sons of Babylon.
-Pillaging from the rich,
giving to the poor.
He waits at the Inn
for you to repent.
Mary watches
from the kitchen.
They bring her flour
for bread.
Jesus rests
-uneasy.
A humble smile
upon his face.
We bathe his feet in
palm oil.
Take the thorns
from his crown.
He is not dead.
You can find him
at the Inn
when the yeast
is Risen.
Dusk
When the winds blew across the derelict beach,
I knew you were never coming back. The storm had
lifted you to heights where we can only dream.
I followed the trail to the oceans mouth, and watched
the waves’ dance across the shore.
At dusk you appeared and stood silently beside
the orange sunset. I didn’t know what to say, words
seemed so meaningless, so insignificant in your company.
Your eyes glazed with the wilderness of oceans
shone in brilliant blue, drowned me in their stare.
As I sank beneath the water, drinking your freedom.
I watched your face linger between the light
and knew that you were home, a deeper sense of
realisation that all was well in your new world .
As I gathered the fallen feathers from your wings
and watched you blend into the sunset.
Somewhere
I search for you
where they wait to be fed.
Through the crowded space
of a square.
Walking the streets
each day and night
for one trace
of your hem.
There are beggars in halls,
actors in cafes.
I have seen their mouths
fill like starved refugees.
But I am not from that world.
I wait outside like Lazarus
-for crumbs.
I shall take my hunger to Paris.
or Lerici, to fill my soul with
the sleeping poets.
Daylight fades.
I must collect my bags.
Leave the streets
before dusk.
Left You Drowning In Rain
Thirsty in sunlight
Neglected like a broken doll.
Now I have seen your nature
as you breathe from these sheets
with silence on your tongue.
Asking for nothing
while I ask for too much!
It is spring
And I must take your
roots to earth
with my words
And let your freedom
— Sing!
Where Man Begotten
searches for reason.
Where life for the lifeless
beckons each sunset.
I am tied to the shroud
the one piece of light.
Where angels lay broken
and dawns pass unnoticed.
The Inn
The Messiah
has come for the
lost sons of Babylon.
-Pillaging from the rich,
giving to the poor.
He waits at the Inn
for you to repent.
Mary watches
from the kitchen.
They bring her flour
for bread.
Jesus rests
-uneasy.
A humble smile
upon his face.
We bathe his feet in
palm oil.
Take the thorns
from his crown.
He is not dead.
You can find him
at the Inn
when the yeast
is Risen.
Dusk
When the winds blew across the derelict beach,
I knew you were never coming back. The storm had
lifted you to heights where we can only dream.
I followed the trail to the oceans mouth, and watched
the waves’ dance across the shore.
At dusk you appeared and stood silently beside
the orange sunset. I didn’t know what to say, words
seemed so meaningless, so insignificant in your company.
Your eyes glazed with the wilderness of oceans
shone in brilliant blue, drowned me in their stare.
As I sank beneath the water, drinking your freedom.
I watched your face linger between the light
and knew that you were home, a deeper sense of
realisation that all was well in your new world .
As I gathered the fallen feathers from your wings
and watched you blend into the sunset.
Somewhere
I search for you
where they wait to be fed.
Through the crowded space
of a square.
Walking the streets
each day and night
for one trace
of your hem.
There are beggars in halls,
actors in cafes.
I have seen their mouths
fill like starved refugees.
But I am not from that world.
I wait outside like Lazarus
-for crumbs.
I shall take my hunger to Paris.
or Lerici, to fill my soul with
the sleeping poets.
Daylight fades.
I must collect my bags.
Leave the streets
before dusk.
Left You Drowning In Rain
Thirsty in sunlight
Neglected like a broken doll.
Now I have seen your nature
as you breathe from these sheets
with silence on your tongue.
Asking for nothing
while I ask for too much!
It is spring
And I must take your
roots to earth
with my words
And let your freedom
— Sing!
Where Man Begotten
searches for reason.
Where life for the lifeless
beckons each sunset.
I am tied to the shroud
the one piece of light.
Where angels lay broken
and dawns pass unnoticed.
Kianseng Ng
Seeing
You gave me kestrel eyes and now
I see the horizons beyond the bend
of the globe. I see midnight infinity
with midday clarity. I see the night-
sky and I know which stars
have died because the speed
of my sight is greater than the speed
of light. I see places so far
away that the zodiac seem as near
as the pictures of a travel
guide. I see that last place
in the sky where eclipses are metaphors
because the sun behind the crystal-
ball of my mind throws not shadow
but more light on the moon
of my imagination. Because I see further
I travel further than a cartographer's
pen. Any place that cannot be imagined
is imaginary, any place that can
be imagined is not imaginary,
it is a space-station I will soon star-
trek to in my satellite spinning.
And this is my diary, each entry
is not a man's small step in the pages
of a log-book but the heart's giant
leap in the orbits of the universe.
Whispers Of Silence
old men playing chess
games are won and lost
without the creasing of brows
in tousled garden
where tall lalang runs amok
petite bonsai blooms
last call to board plane
at the back of jostling crowd
nun without luggage
Delusion
I'm a Van Gogh who does not
cut off his ear. My "Sunflowers" master
piece: A last supper portrait not graced
by the cord of a Mona Lisa
smile, hybrid colours and mutant lines.
Like Van Gogh I have a butterfly
mind, flitting, fragile, yet most beautiful
when set against the backdrop of a "Starry
Night".
Paranoia
I am fearful of some things, the woman
who is a shadow of her cosmetics, the man
who has two shadows, the Pandora box
of my cupboard where the skeleton of my
hope is kept, the mannequins who spy on me
through the binoculars of the glass window.
I'm glad I do not have claustrophobia,
agoraphobia, acrophobia.
An Old Master
"Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you.
You're so like the lady with the mystic smile.
Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa?
Or is this your way to hide a broken Heart?
"Sung by Nat King Cole, 1950
I am climbing up to chapel
ceilings, scaling refectory walls.
I am recalling renaissance
wizardry to frame your Mona
Lisa fire. I am making
a mystic smile. I am drawing
dreams that dance at door-
steps. I am immortalizing the face
that is love's patented prison.
I am adding last supper
colours, burnished brown of clenched
fists, Good Friday red
of a heady wine. I am working
on a cornerless cloth, nailing
it to the stars, moons, suns,
hanging it on the wall
of my left ventricle. I am painting
you on the canvas of my mind.
Seeing
You gave me kestrel eyes and now
I see the horizons beyond the bend
of the globe. I see midnight infinity
with midday clarity. I see the night-
sky and I know which stars
have died because the speed
of my sight is greater than the speed
of light. I see places so far
away that the zodiac seem as near
as the pictures of a travel
guide. I see that last place
in the sky where eclipses are metaphors
because the sun behind the crystal-
ball of my mind throws not shadow
but more light on the moon
of my imagination. Because I see further
I travel further than a cartographer's
pen. Any place that cannot be imagined
is imaginary, any place that can
be imagined is not imaginary,
it is a space-station I will soon star-
trek to in my satellite spinning.
And this is my diary, each entry
is not a man's small step in the pages
of a log-book but the heart's giant
leap in the orbits of the universe.
Whispers Of Silence
old men playing chess
games are won and lost
without the creasing of brows
in tousled garden
where tall lalang runs amok
petite bonsai blooms
last call to board plane
at the back of jostling crowd
nun without luggage
Delusion
I'm a Van Gogh who does not
cut off his ear. My "Sunflowers" master
piece: A last supper portrait not graced
by the cord of a Mona Lisa
smile, hybrid colours and mutant lines.
Like Van Gogh I have a butterfly
mind, flitting, fragile, yet most beautiful
when set against the backdrop of a "Starry
Night".
Paranoia
I am fearful of some things, the woman
who is a shadow of her cosmetics, the man
who has two shadows, the Pandora box
of my cupboard where the skeleton of my
hope is kept, the mannequins who spy on me
through the binoculars of the glass window.
I'm glad I do not have claustrophobia,
agoraphobia, acrophobia.
An Old Master
"Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you.
You're so like the lady with the mystic smile.
Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa?
Or is this your way to hide a broken Heart?
"Sung by Nat King Cole, 1950
I am climbing up to chapel
ceilings, scaling refectory walls.
I am recalling renaissance
wizardry to frame your Mona
Lisa fire. I am making
a mystic smile. I am drawing
dreams that dance at door-
steps. I am immortalizing the face
that is love's patented prison.
I am adding last supper
colours, burnished brown of clenched
fists, Good Friday red
of a heady wine. I am working
on a cornerless cloth, nailing
it to the stars, moons, suns,
hanging it on the wall
of my left ventricle. I am painting
you on the canvas of my mind.
About Art - Another Place
Another Place is a piece of modern sculpture by Antony Gormley that is now permanently erected on Crosby Beach, Liverpool, England, it was due to be moved to New York, United States in November 2006, but there was a controversial proposal to retain the work at Crosby. It was recently stated in the local paper, the Crosby Herald, that they may stay for up to a decade, but at a meeting on March 7th 2007, Sefton Council accepted proposals that would allow the sculptures to be kept permanently at Crosby Beach.
The sculpture consists of 100 cast iron figures which face out to sea, spread over a 2 mile (3.2 km) stretch of the beach. Each figure is 189 cm tall (nearly 6 feet 2½ inches) and weighs around 650 kg (over 1400 lb).
In common with most of Gormley's work, the figures are cast replicas of the artist's own body. As the tides ebb and flow, the figures are revealed and submerged by the sea. The figures were cast by Joseph and Jesse Siddons Foundry in West Bromwich.
Another Place was first exhibited on the beach of Cuxhaven, Germany in 1997 and after that in Stavanger in Norway and De Panne in Belgium.
As of March 2007 permission was granted to have Another Place permanently installed at Crosby. Initially, coastguard authorities expressed safety fears, saying people could become stuck in soft sand and be cut off by the tide when viewing the statues up close.
The planning committee decided to move 16 of the statues back away from an area used by small sailing craft. Three others are being re-sited away from bird feeding areas. The work on the 16 started on July 16 2007 and the plan is to put them in storage and return them in 2008. The full cost is expected to be £194,000 which will be paid for by Another Place Ltd, with funding coming from sources including The Northern Way and Northwest Development Agency. Find out more about the art of Antony Gormley at: www.antonygormley.co.uk
About Books:
Title: Dreamers In A Cold Climate
Author: Tom Kelly
Description: Dreamers In A Cold Climate are reflections on the poet's past or present life, coupled with the redemptive power of filial love. In the final section we meet Geordie Everyman, trying to make sense of his life and times. These elements blend successfully in this moving and honest collection.
Product Details:
Printed: paperback, 8.5x5.5, 79 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9554027-4-6
Copyright: 2008
Language: English
Country: UK
Publisher's Link: www.redsquirrelpress.com
Title: Dreamers In A Cold Climate
Author: Tom Kelly
Description: Dreamers In A Cold Climate are reflections on the poet's past or present life, coupled with the redemptive power of filial love. In the final section we meet Geordie Everyman, trying to make sense of his life and times. These elements blend successfully in this moving and honest collection.
Product Details:
Printed: paperback, 8.5x5.5, 79 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9554027-4-6
Copyright: 2008
Language: English
Country: UK
Publisher's Link: www.redsquirrelpress.com
About Music - ZuccheroZucchero (Italian for "sugar") is an Italian rock singer. He was born Adelmo Fornaciari on September 25, 1955 in the Italian province Reggio Emilia and has since become one of the most famous Italian singers.
He is probably best known internationally for the song Senza Una Donna, which is a duet with Paul Young and hit number 4 in the latter's native United Kingdom, where Zucchero has generally made little commercial impact, in 1991. He commenced his musical career in 1970 with his first single in 1976, and his first album in 1983. His music, in Italian, Spanish and in English, is largely inspired by gospel, blues and rock music, and alternates between syrupy ballads and more rhythmic boogie-like pieces. He sang several duets, in public or on disc, with Joe Cocker, Miles Davis, Paul Young, Andrea Bocelli, Sting, Luciano Pavarotti, Tom Jones, and Johnny Hallyday.
European hit singles include Il Volo (English version: My love), Cosi Celeste, Baila (sexy thing), Diamante (featuring soul singer Randy Crawford), and Wonderful World (with Eric Clapton). Zucchero's 2004 album ZU & Co features duets with Miles Davis, Paul Young, Sheryl Crow, The Cranberries's Dolores O'Riordan, B.B. King, John Lee Hooker, Maná, Brian May, and Sting. It has sold millions of copies throughout Europe and the world and entered the Billboard 200 charts after its release in the U.S. in the summer of 2005.
In July 2005, Zucchero took part in the Live 8 concerts in both Rome and Paris. In July 2006 Zucchero's new single 'Bacco Perbacco' was released. In September 2006 his latest album, entitled Fly, was released. It includes the singles "Bacco perbacco", "Cuba libre" and "Occhi" and features collaborations with artists such as Ivano Fossati and Jovanotti. This year he will tour to promote the Fly album. Find out more at: www.zucchero.it/english
James Owens
October, the House Draws Near the Woods
The day unmakes itself,
turning outward,
shaking loose long rags of color.
*
I wanted flight.
Watching at the window
as the clumsy wind
licked red maple leaves
one by one
—the desire
like a prolonged absence of salt:
waiting,
suspended,
I imagined the taste of this other earth,
gritty and rich,
its leaves’ kinship with jeweler’s metals.
(an earlier version appeared in French at Mauvaise Graine)
Paperweight
This stone on the desk is inaccessible
in its rare innards, though fist-shaped
and polished by years’ employment
in meditation—an idle hand grasping
as a mind strokes History or notions of Being.
The cool skin of rock never returns
the answer to any question, not to the fingers
that try its bumps and grooves, not to the silence
of the empty room where it huddles toad-like
while light crosses the desk, slowly, from the window,
in the turning of the day. The stone takes the light,
quietly, when no one sees, then curls back upon itself.
(an earlier version appeared in the chapbook Loan of the Quick)
An Ache in the Pause Just Before
All that summer they were unquiet.
Their nights were longer than normal, conscious
of a pressure, a glance that must have been
themselves, later, looking back from some other
present, with longing or horror. They waited
like something looked at—a painting
holding its breath the long afternoon,
while many bored and dull file past,
and traffic outside the museum stalls in rows,
and simpering, winsome Eve extends the fruit
forever and Adam wakes to discover time.
The Doors of Perception
Transmutation we all desire and dread.
Rescue’s harsh mercy for the sifter of dark.
Thrown from the dim house to raw noon sunlight,
the moth— rich with detail as a Dürer engraving,
ash-gray with shocked mahogany eye-spots—
loops in jagged orbits, drunken rings.
Blinded by that instant, rock-hard dazzle,
it tilts through this vertigo of color, cacophony of light.
(an earlier version appeared in the chapbook Loan of the Quick)
Three Wakings, Parked Beside A Scene From The Inferno
1.
The slate dump breathes hell and rotten eggs,
unfinished as lust, little twirls of smoke
from some fire in its guts the rain
can't reach, that twist and thin as they rise
through the ending darkness,
breath forgetting the body of dirt and rock.
2.
When she lay down in the tub,
the blood from her wrists must
have swirled like unraveling strings of smoke,
the world a far, bright circle
around her face there in the water—
this wet sun behind clouds
that wakes thinking of her with no way to stop.
3.
He finds himself here again, unsurprised,
still half-drunk after a night of drizzle,
drawn to this final landscape.
Morning blackens in his mouth.
The roar of heavy trucks shudders up
through the steering wheel.
Coal dust and sulphur ash
gom the wiper swathes of passing cars.
October, the House Draws Near the Woods
The day unmakes itself,
turning outward,
shaking loose long rags of color.
*
I wanted flight.
Watching at the window
as the clumsy wind
licked red maple leaves
one by one
—the desire
like a prolonged absence of salt:
waiting,
suspended,
I imagined the taste of this other earth,
gritty and rich,
its leaves’ kinship with jeweler’s metals.
(an earlier version appeared in French at Mauvaise Graine)
Paperweight
This stone on the desk is inaccessible
in its rare innards, though fist-shaped
and polished by years’ employment
in meditation—an idle hand grasping
as a mind strokes History or notions of Being.
The cool skin of rock never returns
the answer to any question, not to the fingers
that try its bumps and grooves, not to the silence
of the empty room where it huddles toad-like
while light crosses the desk, slowly, from the window,
in the turning of the day. The stone takes the light,
quietly, when no one sees, then curls back upon itself.
(an earlier version appeared in the chapbook Loan of the Quick)
An Ache in the Pause Just Before
All that summer they were unquiet.
Their nights were longer than normal, conscious
of a pressure, a glance that must have been
themselves, later, looking back from some other
present, with longing or horror. They waited
like something looked at—a painting
holding its breath the long afternoon,
while many bored and dull file past,
and traffic outside the museum stalls in rows,
and simpering, winsome Eve extends the fruit
forever and Adam wakes to discover time.
The Doors of Perception
Transmutation we all desire and dread.
Rescue’s harsh mercy for the sifter of dark.
Thrown from the dim house to raw noon sunlight,
the moth— rich with detail as a Dürer engraving,
ash-gray with shocked mahogany eye-spots—
loops in jagged orbits, drunken rings.
Blinded by that instant, rock-hard dazzle,
it tilts through this vertigo of color, cacophony of light.
(an earlier version appeared in the chapbook Loan of the Quick)
Three Wakings, Parked Beside A Scene From The Inferno
1.
The slate dump breathes hell and rotten eggs,
unfinished as lust, little twirls of smoke
from some fire in its guts the rain
can't reach, that twist and thin as they rise
through the ending darkness,
breath forgetting the body of dirt and rock.
2.
When she lay down in the tub,
the blood from her wrists must
have swirled like unraveling strings of smoke,
the world a far, bright circle
around her face there in the water—
this wet sun behind clouds
that wakes thinking of her with no way to stop.
3.
He finds himself here again, unsurprised,
still half-drunk after a night of drizzle,
drawn to this final landscape.
Morning blackens in his mouth.
The roar of heavy trucks shudders up
through the steering wheel.
Coal dust and sulphur ash
gom the wiper swathes of passing cars.
Arioborzine Farin
Tenderness
She haunches,
her burgundy hem
delineates the sand,
the pebbles and shells
of the cellar floor.
She clutchesthe light-blue jar
with sweet and sour
courgettes: cut and bare-
bottomed in the half-dark.
The ground stirs.
As if sieved, he’s there,
turns her round. His hands
on hers, they huddle
in hot, tangy slurry.
Eta Boo (The Solitary One)
I have nothing,
not even the stars
as words -
Akhir an-Nahr,
Delta Gem,
Sheratan -
nor the sky as map,
error-prone,
yellowed,
like the glint
of the cobblestone
in my palm,
lifted
to be weighed,
splintered,
shattering
the lazurite window
of delineated
stillness: glass
as compass,
unreflecting
and pointing
into every direction,
contours
as detours,
because uncut
I have nothing.
Where It All Began
Until my eardrums
Stop beating.
Until sprayed-over keys
Stop sticking
In aluminum locks.
Until the plated aerials
Stop blowing
Like manta rays
On a tricky undercurrent.
Until my daydreams
Bubble up - reflected
With the yellow road signs
And the hot tarmac
In the scratched tailfins.
Above, between the rocks
Rustle metal coat hangers
On rubber washing lines.
Reminiscent
Of long-lost relatives
Apparently
They function
As untested lightning rods.
Please check
If we’ve reached
Broadcast level yet.
Further up,
Between the pastel balconies
Drop,
Eyes closed,
Washed-up pins and pegs
Like fuzzy threads,
Disentangling the tassels
Of neighbourly connections,
Reverting broidered rugs
To reddest flax
And what was yours
Becomes ours.
Until this name
From a house
Of impeccable tradesmen
Is changed back
To Rastagar: wanderer,
Lost one, usurer.
Until the posters
With winged table dancers
Are returned
To the silver railings
with legal disclaimers.
Until his scribbled notes
Are handed over
By my father
In email or letter.
Until stonewashed denim
And glossy lipstick
Are fashionable again:
Please check
If we’ve reached
Broadcast level yet,
I will petition
The last city captain.
Anatomy
Up the stairs in the observatory,
The rail’s slippery with lavender
Pollen and sandy rain.
She rotates in her chair,
A scrapbook on her oak desk,
Where she writes quatrain
After quatrain and tears
The red and yellow leaves
I collected from the mulberry
Bushes, chewing their black fruit.
Sometimes, she peers into the eyepiece,
Records, calculates, predicts
The measure of loss, the limits
Of gain: an instant sketch
Of a body, soft and uncertain.
Wrong Frequency
There is a lantern
In the street that shines
An alien magenta
On the underlined
And redrawn pavement,
The searching eyes
Of the dismounted horses
In the alleyways.
She’s long gone,
Her hair a tangle
Of piano strings,
Her tip-tap-toe
A dislocated echo.
You should have
Seen it coming.
It’s how she sings.
But she only drank
The whitest wine
And I was dizzy
On her demarcating
Lips, the interrupted
Scale in reverse:
Soundless black keys
And impatient hooves.
Tenderness
She haunches,
her burgundy hem
delineates the sand,
the pebbles and shells
of the cellar floor.
She clutchesthe light-blue jar
with sweet and sour
courgettes: cut and bare-
bottomed in the half-dark.
The ground stirs.
As if sieved, he’s there,
turns her round. His hands
on hers, they huddle
in hot, tangy slurry.
Eta Boo (The Solitary One)
I have nothing,
not even the stars
as words -
Akhir an-Nahr,
Delta Gem,
Sheratan -
nor the sky as map,
error-prone,
yellowed,
like the glint
of the cobblestone
in my palm,
lifted
to be weighed,
splintered,
shattering
the lazurite window
of delineated
stillness: glass
as compass,
unreflecting
and pointing
into every direction,
contours
as detours,
because uncut
I have nothing.
Where It All Began
Until my eardrums
Stop beating.
Until sprayed-over keys
Stop sticking
In aluminum locks.
Until the plated aerials
Stop blowing
Like manta rays
On a tricky undercurrent.
Until my daydreams
Bubble up - reflected
With the yellow road signs
And the hot tarmac
In the scratched tailfins.
Above, between the rocks
Rustle metal coat hangers
On rubber washing lines.
Reminiscent
Of long-lost relatives
Apparently
They function
As untested lightning rods.
Please check
If we’ve reached
Broadcast level yet.
Further up,
Between the pastel balconies
Drop,
Eyes closed,
Washed-up pins and pegs
Like fuzzy threads,
Disentangling the tassels
Of neighbourly connections,
Reverting broidered rugs
To reddest flax
And what was yours
Becomes ours.
Until this name
From a house
Of impeccable tradesmen
Is changed back
To Rastagar: wanderer,
Lost one, usurer.
Until the posters
With winged table dancers
Are returned
To the silver railings
with legal disclaimers.
Until his scribbled notes
Are handed over
By my father
In email or letter.
Until stonewashed denim
And glossy lipstick
Are fashionable again:
Please check
If we’ve reached
Broadcast level yet,
I will petition
The last city captain.
Anatomy
Up the stairs in the observatory,
The rail’s slippery with lavender
Pollen and sandy rain.
She rotates in her chair,
A scrapbook on her oak desk,
Where she writes quatrain
After quatrain and tears
The red and yellow leaves
I collected from the mulberry
Bushes, chewing their black fruit.
Sometimes, she peers into the eyepiece,
Records, calculates, predicts
The measure of loss, the limits
Of gain: an instant sketch
Of a body, soft and uncertain.
Wrong Frequency
There is a lantern
In the street that shines
An alien magenta
On the underlined
And redrawn pavement,
The searching eyes
Of the dismounted horses
In the alleyways.
She’s long gone,
Her hair a tangle
Of piano strings,
Her tip-tap-toe
A dislocated echo.
You should have
Seen it coming.
It’s how she sings.
But she only drank
The whitest wine
And I was dizzy
On her demarcating
Lips, the interrupted
Scale in reverse:
Soundless black keys
And impatient hooves.
Contributors Biographies
Ernest Williamson III: is a 31 year old polymath who has published poetry and visual art in over 120 online and print journals within a time span of 8 years. His poem "The Jazz of Old Wine" has been nominated for a Best of the Net award by the editors of "Thick with Conviction". He holds the B.A. and the M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the University of Memphis. Ernest is now listed in the prestigious Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers. Professor Williamson is also a private tutor, a Ph.D. Candidate at Seton Hall University. He lives in South Orange, NJ. Visit his website. www.eyeoftheart.com/ErnestWilliamsonIII
Jenny Allan: is a graduate of the University of Brighton, England. Her poetry has appeared in Sidebrow, Otoliths 3 and Intercapillary Space. She lives in West Sussex, UK and expresses her angle of movement from “a to a” in a blog she maintains at http://intermittent-voices.blogspot.com
Tammy Ho: she obtained her B.A. from the Department of English and Department of Chinese, University of Hong Kong in 2002. She is the co-founder and co-editor of Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and co-editor of two other literary journals and has written academic publications. She was a teacher of English Language, World History and Social Studies for one year. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals including Mascara, Arabesques Review and Spoken War. Tammy is interested in Victorian studies, especially Charles Dickens, literary linguistics, poetry, and the contemporary novels. Visit her website at: http://www.sighming.com
Jose Paulo Andrade: he lives in Porto, Portugal. He is a medical doctor and university professor that uses photography to express the beauty present in small details. He has particular interest in the use of color and shape to obtain images that may surprise the viewer. He captures his images and then sorts them out to finally place them in over a dozen unique motifs. Find more images at his website: www.pbase.com/jandrade
Harry K. Stammer: his poetry has been published in Sidereality, Dream Virus, Znine, BlazeVox, Moria, Poetic Inhalation, and xPress (ed). He has also collaborated with Karri Kokko in a book titled beeasily published by xPress (ed). The poet lives under several swaying palms in Los Angeles, CA. You can visit his blogsite and find out more about his books and e-books at http://www.harrykstammer.blogspot.com
Lisa Stewart: she is the editor of Decanto poetry magazine and has produced a series of poetry by children books that include her own illustrations. She has written over 6 collections of poetry including ‘For All Eternity’, ‘Another Sentiment’ and ‘The Last Lament’, and is currently working on a new collection ‘A Different Song’ due later this year. Her poetry has been included in many magazines and anthologies, and she recently won 3rd place in the ‘Rubies In The Darkness’ poetry competition. She lives in West Sussex, with her musician partner (David). Visit the couple’s website at http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/masquepublishing
Kianseng Ng: he is a physician, and elder in the Presbyterian church. His writings (poems, inspirational pieces, short stories, medical articles)have appeared in 44 different journals published in Malaysia, Singapore, India, Australia, New Zealand, USA. A prize winner in many different poetry competitions, including the prestigious 1995 New Straits Times-Shell poetry competition. Many of his inspirational poems have been translated into Mandarin. Author of 3 books of poetry, "White Magic","Postcards from Kluang" & "Familiar Strange Country". Presently working on his 4th book of poetry tentatively entitled "A Different Kind of Magic". He lives in Hong Kong, China. Read more of his poetry at http://alwaysmorebeyond.blogspot.com
Therese Kenyon: she holds a Master of Fine Arts Visual Art University of NSW and is currently Director of Manly Art Gallery & Museum, Sydney . She works on paper and canvas as well as digital imaging. Her work can be found in collections including the National Gallery of Australia, state and regional galleries and private collections within Australia and has appeared in both solo and group exhibitions. She lives in Kings Cross, Sydney and works in her studio at the Ultimo Project in Addison Rd Centre Marrickville, Sydney where she lives. Visit her fasinating art website at http://www.artists@artconnect.come.au/theresekenyon.index.htm
James Owens: has had two collections of his poetry published in 2007: An Hour is the Doorway, from Black Lawrence Press, and Frost Lights a Thin Flame, from Mayapple Press. His poems have appeared in numerous publication and are upcoming in Tipton Poetry Journal, The Cresset, and Boxcar Poetry Review. He maintains a blog at http://klagewelt.blogspot.com
Arioborzine Farin: she was born in Iran to an Iranian father and a Dutch mother and spent her childhood in the Netherlands and the UK and now works as an English teacher for adults and translator in Germany since 2000. She writes poetry as a means of discipline and as a way to communicate with others. She calls her poetry blog more of a “workshop” than a display window. She currently lives in Leipzig. Read more of her poetry at her attractive blog, Scribblings And Sketches at: http://scribblingsandsketches.wordpress.com
Closing Notes: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on Aug. 1st.
Copyright 2008 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/
Ernest Williamson III: is a 31 year old polymath who has published poetry and visual art in over 120 online and print journals within a time span of 8 years. His poem "The Jazz of Old Wine" has been nominated for a Best of the Net award by the editors of "Thick with Conviction". He holds the B.A. and the M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the University of Memphis. Ernest is now listed in the prestigious Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers. Professor Williamson is also a private tutor, a Ph.D. Candidate at Seton Hall University. He lives in South Orange, NJ. Visit his website. www.eyeoftheart.com/ErnestWilliamsonIII
Jenny Allan: is a graduate of the University of Brighton, England. Her poetry has appeared in Sidebrow, Otoliths 3 and Intercapillary Space. She lives in West Sussex, UK and expresses her angle of movement from “a to a” in a blog she maintains at http://intermittent-voices.blogspot.com
Tammy Ho: she obtained her B.A. from the Department of English and Department of Chinese, University of Hong Kong in 2002. She is the co-founder and co-editor of Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and co-editor of two other literary journals and has written academic publications. She was a teacher of English Language, World History and Social Studies for one year. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals including Mascara, Arabesques Review and Spoken War. Tammy is interested in Victorian studies, especially Charles Dickens, literary linguistics, poetry, and the contemporary novels. Visit her website at: http://www.sighming.com
Jose Paulo Andrade: he lives in Porto, Portugal. He is a medical doctor and university professor that uses photography to express the beauty present in small details. He has particular interest in the use of color and shape to obtain images that may surprise the viewer. He captures his images and then sorts them out to finally place them in over a dozen unique motifs. Find more images at his website: www.pbase.com/jandrade
Harry K. Stammer: his poetry has been published in Sidereality, Dream Virus, Znine, BlazeVox, Moria, Poetic Inhalation, and xPress (ed). He has also collaborated with Karri Kokko in a book titled beeasily published by xPress (ed). The poet lives under several swaying palms in Los Angeles, CA. You can visit his blogsite and find out more about his books and e-books at http://www.harrykstammer.blogspot.com
Lisa Stewart: she is the editor of Decanto poetry magazine and has produced a series of poetry by children books that include her own illustrations. She has written over 6 collections of poetry including ‘For All Eternity’, ‘Another Sentiment’ and ‘The Last Lament’, and is currently working on a new collection ‘A Different Song’ due later this year. Her poetry has been included in many magazines and anthologies, and she recently won 3rd place in the ‘Rubies In The Darkness’ poetry competition. She lives in West Sussex, with her musician partner (David). Visit the couple’s website at http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/masquepublishing
Kianseng Ng: he is a physician, and elder in the Presbyterian church. His writings (poems, inspirational pieces, short stories, medical articles)have appeared in 44 different journals published in Malaysia, Singapore, India, Australia, New Zealand, USA. A prize winner in many different poetry competitions, including the prestigious 1995 New Straits Times-Shell poetry competition. Many of his inspirational poems have been translated into Mandarin. Author of 3 books of poetry, "White Magic","Postcards from Kluang" & "Familiar Strange Country". Presently working on his 4th book of poetry tentatively entitled "A Different Kind of Magic". He lives in Hong Kong, China. Read more of his poetry at http://alwaysmorebeyond.blogspot.com
Therese Kenyon: she holds a Master of Fine Arts Visual Art University of NSW and is currently Director of Manly Art Gallery & Museum, Sydney . She works on paper and canvas as well as digital imaging. Her work can be found in collections including the National Gallery of Australia, state and regional galleries and private collections within Australia and has appeared in both solo and group exhibitions. She lives in Kings Cross, Sydney and works in her studio at the Ultimo Project in Addison Rd Centre Marrickville, Sydney where she lives. Visit her fasinating art website at http://www.artists@artconnect.come.au/theresekenyon.index.htm
James Owens: has had two collections of his poetry published in 2007: An Hour is the Doorway, from Black Lawrence Press, and Frost Lights a Thin Flame, from Mayapple Press. His poems have appeared in numerous publication and are upcoming in Tipton Poetry Journal, The Cresset, and Boxcar Poetry Review. He maintains a blog at http://klagewelt.blogspot.com
Arioborzine Farin: she was born in Iran to an Iranian father and a Dutch mother and spent her childhood in the Netherlands and the UK and now works as an English teacher for adults and translator in Germany since 2000. She writes poetry as a means of discipline and as a way to communicate with others. She calls her poetry blog more of a “workshop” than a display window. She currently lives in Leipzig. Read more of her poetry at her attractive blog, Scribblings And Sketches at: http://scribblingsandsketches.wordpress.com
Closing Notes: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on Aug. 1st.
Copyright 2008 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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