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Among the tall grass and clover flowers our youngest sits picking. She squints an eye shut and holds one up to the light twisting at its stem. Slow and careful. She wants to know how the sunlight breaks through its petals and so begins pulling them out one by one. Her sing-song voice counting them until they are all gone. What she takes from this she will tell no one. Then a helicopter seed. And a new question as she continues to pick it up and toss it into the air. Despite it's falling back to the ground, every time. But soon they are falling all around her.
A strong wind has brought them almost fluttering in a way she seems somehow familiar with. And suddenly she is spinning with them. She, this girl we worried so much about her walking late. Always tripping over nothing, and even now still unable to come down off her toes. And yet she is spinning, and stretching her arms out as if to welcome something back.
Something we at some point lost? Something, small as hope in the helicopter rain. Ruth Chad is a psychologist who works in the Boston area. She writes as both observer and participant in the ordinary and extraordinary dramas of our existence. Her portraits of her family and especially of her dying father are poignant reflections of experience like our own. There is a tenderness in all of her writing as her short stanzas tumble out into our consciousness to demonstrate and to remind us of our human condition and the contexts within which we live.
She has, in fact, spun a web of poems full of insight, fine writing and intimacy. Burnham, Jr. The sadness comes from loss-lost youth, the change of seasons, children moving away, a parent dying-but that loss breeds a deeper appreciation of life's sweetness, often symbolized by affecting natural imagery. I can't imagine anyone reading these poems without feeling more alive. A frequent reader of her poetry in the Boston area and beyond, Susan lives, writes, and offers poetry classes and consultations in Arlington, Massachusetts.
These are poems to be shared across a table, to knit us together, to face us toward the truth of our common life. This is, as Roque Dalton suggested, "Poetry like bread. What a sublime and nourishing book of poems. She was a member of the Boston small press scene in the late s and started Commonthought Magazine at Lesley 24 years ago. She has been a participant at the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference in and Her ebook, Lubbok Electric , was published by Argotist ebooks in Cover Artist: Bryson Dean-Gauthier has been an artist since childhood, and as an adult has worked in the fields of graphic design, corporate communications, television and education.
She has been a graphic design teacher for 15 years, currently with the Art Institute of Pittsburgh Online Division, and is also an instructional design consultant at New England Institute of Technology in Rhode Island. Bryson's current creative work explores photography, digital imaging and mixed media, and takes inspiration from the intersections of fine art, design, mystery, spirit, the natural world and technology. Benign Protection is a ripe and vivid collection of 32 poems fraught with multi-generational hauntings.
Pluto is meant to be read aloud. Resonant and unforgettable. Anne Pluto is one of the finest poets I know. I highly recommend Benign Protection. There are poems of domesticity that are welcome relief, but the breathing room is small. Grief is Pluto's handmaiden and we are enriched by such an exquisite companionship in this finely-wrought volume.
Martin, editor, MockingHeart Review. Edward Morin was born in Chicago and, while growing up, spent summers in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. He has won prizes in nine national poetry contests and has had poems in Hudson Review, Prairie Schooner, River Styx, Poetry Northwest and many other magazines. The author has worked as a writer for a few corporations. He has acted and sung in productions of several regional theatre and opera companies.
He lives with his wife in Ann Arbor. Edward Morin has assembled lyrics and narratives touching on subjects you and I like to read about. The exquisite title poem prepares us for engagements with blue jays, bank swallows, wood thrushes—and also the pleasures of singing, fishing, even of aging. The language is to be savored and the hard-won wisdom taken to heart. Witnessing compulsions and hardships of contemporary life, Morin evinces winged sensibilities and deep-rooted compassion. His praise of a fellow poet "Poetry Man" could apply to his own poems' "fire smoldering in the belly" rising "to enchant the heart and brain.
Some of my favorite contemporary poems are in earlier books by Ed Morin, and this fresh chapbook offers several more, especially the family and love poems, poems of conscience and responses to the violence of needless war and domestic crimes. The poems have remarkable range in portraying a holdup, which almost cost his life, and his avocation as an actor and professor.
This collection is a distinguished addition to the Cervena Barva Series. I hope it inspires a longer Collected Poems, for this poet deserves honors and attention. Poet and Playwright Martin Burke is from Ireland but has lived for many years in Flanders the northern Flemish speaking part of Belgium a region with which he strongly identifies.
More akin to the broad European visionary tradition than to any form of social realism, his work is noted for his insight and lyricism, qualities which are to the forefront in this version of the famous work by Rilke. He is currently working on a book-length poem The April Calends. Who from the angels will hear me?
Into what existence may I vanish? Why is it that, though it can, beauty does not destroy us? Why does terror spring from every angel's mouth in joy? Yet this is the world's landscape where, somehow, we endure And the lovers, who annihilate annihilations Lock time like a prisoner in their arms but their hearts are birds in air Spring and its stars require us and the mission of music also As we require mirrors to hold our expectations As sinful and profane are our chosen companions Where Antaeus is livid in air but renewed on the ground oh let there be praise for such falling for this is no elegy As lovers are oh pleasurable earth that such joy be yours!
Sap to earth-mould that love rise again in any space, region or occasion through which its arrow passes To focus on the unseen voice prompting a saints' ecstasy Listening only to the secretive breath of the world Speaking histories and chronicles-but what will they tell of you? Let them tell that you were enraptured and quivered In the arrows flight within you.
She is currently working on her first novel. De Vos comes up to your table as you sit alone in a cafe, sits down in the empty chair, and starts talking to you in near whisper. You're surprised at first, don't know how to react, but are soothed by the softness of her voice, the warmth it projects, push out of your mind the din than surrounds you, and let yourself be drawn in by her words. There isn't a single lie, a hint at pretense in what she says. It is all so honest and simple. Her story is yours but she tells it in a way you would have never thought of and you see yourself differently.
You're amazed. You're grateful to her for having sat down at your table. You've gained a friend. These poems are at once clinical and compassionate as they slip from the ordinary to horror, from a boy's red balloon to his bag of blood. De Vos enlarges as she vexes our grounding in the everyday. The poems talk from across the room, then sit down and whisper unexpected truths. Where the 21st century keeps the bright and beautiful at the forefront, De Vos provides a rich depth of field that shows there is nothing of significance to fill the vacuum left from loss. De Vos opens up a complex world of brutal emotional pain delivered in elegant, precise, yet emotive language.
We are taken through a landscape scarred by anguish and littered with memories ground down to a powder by unsuccessful, at times stifling relationships. But the look back upon this scorched earth of ardent scars is that from a vantage point of forgiveness and transcendence. De Vos is magically able to simultaneously condemn and absolve the cruelty that lives within all of us. De Vos reaches beneath the surface of experience to examine what is primary and primordial in everyday-and not so everyday-actions.
Her examinations sometimes cut like a surgeon's knife, other times magnify like a biologist's microscope, to reveal what often has been taken away from those who try to give. The precision of her language and clarity of her imagery open our eyes to what has remained hidden, buried and closed off for too long. De Vos sounds the depths of what we truly know. With tremendous tenderness, yearning and passion in her voice, she gives us the visceral truth, including the literal blood, bone and guts of experience. By knowing where the limits of desire come from, herself, she is able to wisely accept what it is that life offers.
Anne Harding Woodworth is the author of five books of poetry, the most recent being Unattached Male Poetry Salzburg, In these haunting poems, the "last" gun clears its throat and speaks. He speaks his fears and hopes in a voice as unexpected as it is unsettling. We almost feel sorry for him as we follow his arrest, imprisonment, and more. These poems aim straight at the rhetoric. They trigger some laughs but mostly they lament a country in which we hear too much from guns. Guns usually get what they want. But here, in this smart, insightful collection, Anne Harding Woodworth only appears to show the gun's humanity.
Actually, she shows us our own. Van Jordan, who wrote:. The Last Gun opens with smoke and closes with a bang. As a reader, you'll find that The Last Gun is "a gathering place for Olivia Bush is currently a junior at Simmons College, an all-women's college in Boston, Massachusetts, and is studying English and Communications. After she graduates, she aspires to become an editor. Born and raised in Central New Jersey, many of her poems are inspired by its scenery from the factories on the Turnpike facing the city skyline, to the picturesque shore.
She is a poetry buff, who enjoys reading and draws inspiration from works from a variety of eras. Besides writing, she is an immature distance runner, and currently works as the director of a mentoring program for ninth and tenth graders. Despite the usually dark undertones present throughout most of her works, she enjoys a good comedy, and one of her long-term dreams is to write for a cartoon. Your peculiarity stuck me like a pin, As I am a peculiar soul; It met my delicate skin, drawing blood, Which dripped to the floor.
It was surprising: just a pin drew such abundant blood; but the bleeding roused my fancy, as it poured from veins to the air. When it collected in a puddle, stained the rug; I knew I had to do something To stop the bleeding— I eventually learned bandages only go so far. Since he has lived in Sweden. He has published works in American studies, English literature, and travel writing. In recent years he has been translating poetry from Bosnian into English and from English into Bosnian, published in various venues. I mourn for the cypresses I brought from Hvar: under tiny days, like through sunglasses deficient they grow, breathing with deaf leaves as if through a button.
From their horrible disease, like a thin trail of ink spilled on a newspaper, they bleed out at night over the yard wall into the moonlight. The long winter is drying out the boats down at the lake, a small church above smoking roofs looks like a fishing buoy. No one from anywhere to unlock me from the cypresses. Planted in the snow, they traipse after me with their shadows' needles like after a vial of lavender. Mark Pawlak is the author of seven poetry collections and the editor of six anthologies. For more than 35 years Pawlak has been an editor of the Brooklyn-based Hanging Loose , one of the oldest independent literary journals and presses in the country.
He lives in Cambridge. He currently teaches English in a Massachusetts high school. Myles Gordon's ambitious and affecting sonnet sequence not only conveys — sometimes with beautiful formal understatement, other times with bitter directness — the horrors of Jewish history, but also, heartbreakingly, how those horrors infiltrate the present. In Until It Does Us In , moving sonnets about the suicide of a hip, pot-smoking, peace-sign wielding older cousin function as continuations and repercussions of what is captured in this exquisite final couplet: "the Jews of Brest Litovsk; the German gun.
Then there were none. This little book of sonnets startles and reaches the reader in ways that no other medium can. It is the naked truth, the full story, condensed in a few lines. It weaves the horror of the Holocaust through the fabric of generations, linking past atrocity to present day tragedy, laying bare all pretenses and deceptions that are attempt to disguise it.
How is it we evolve from violence? Myles Gordon asks then answers in 25 tightly controlled sonnets. Compassionate and unflinching, Until It Does Us In seeks to answer one of the most heart-wrenching of questions: How is it that someone whose family was nearly murdered out of existence ends up taking his own life? Myles Gordon directly confronts the afterlives of the Holocaust through this deftly woven family saga, crossing continents and centuries.
Gordon maps the "DNA of tragedy," determining the difference between what we inherit and what we control, forever searching for the legacy of the Holocaust to end. David P. He has twice been a featured reader at Stone Soup in Cambridge, Mass. He is a librarian at Curry College, in Milton, Mass. Listener, burnish the sense where it is felt, each jewel, sound-being. Air's voices shift as skull pivots, left side and right, six directions set in unwavering mind. My scatterhead's listening checklists church chimes' humid auroras, mosaic clatter of startled bird babies, flat thump of cardboard on plastic.
Heard that. Heard this. The roster ticked. Packed earbuds guard concentration's thin gate. Play it again: repeat, fade, decay. Repetition manufactures foreplay for the ears, but with bare attention stillness' pulse shines. Now you, see your hearing. Introspect sound in your skull's heaven: lustrous percepts. Each beat, rasp, slide, crack, sigh, manifest like honey, like water, like night. No more useless meetings under florescent lights in stuffy windowless rooms. He can concentrate instead on making better poems and on pursuing his other interests including: history, art, music, theatre, opera, and his wife who is still the most beautiful woman he has ever known.
Wasn't until my mid-fifties that Sam-the-Tattoo-Artist from Cambridge, Massachusetts, etched my first tattoo onto my left shoulder: a pair of red roses encircling one another on a mat of shimmering green leaves. Robin, our youngest daughter, was in cahoots with me, driving me to the tattoo parlor, in the room watching the whole while. Our other daughter, Laura, was excited and gleeful, yelling to her husband, "Chris come and see, you're not going to believe it, my Dad got a tattoo!
While my wife, my poor wife, she's away on business, hasn't seen it yet, doesn't know of it either. But she can't be too mad, I reason, seeing as this tattoo was drawn by her, not as a tattoo, of course, but as an embellishment for a book of my poems. So she can't be too upset because it's her art and, as Laura said, "it is such a romantic thing to have Mom's art on your body, forever.
Anne Harding Woodworth is the author of five books of poetry and three chapbooks. She lived on a farm in New York State during much of her childhood, where her fondness for cows began. She now divides her time between a cabin in the mountains of Western North Carolina and a home in Washington, D. In Herding , cows rush in where angels fear to tread, as Anne Harding Woodworth finds the human in the cow and the cow in the human. Here, we find the essential: our place on and of the earth, and in the immediate and more general human relationships that make up our personal herd.
He is devoted "to a bravery found only in the details," to the "the raspberries and the ball games," or his wife "in a strange and beautiful hat," as well as to the dreams, disappointments and possibilities of everyday existence. Not for him the modish pessimism and linguistic difficulties of much of contemporary poetry. The apparent simplicity and genial humor of these marvelous poems are grounded in an artful subtlety that reflects the way life really is.
This is a collection to be read over and over. Hilarious, unflinching, and right on the mark! Gloria's poetry has been translated and published into the Romanian, Serbian, Spanish, and French. Her flash fiction has recently been published in Thrice and Thunderclap. She has work forthcoming in Bliss. Gloria has had nominations for the Pushcart Prize, St. Butolph Award and was awarded a fellowship from the Somerville Arts Council. Press, Inc. Theatre S. Gloria works as a social worker and freelances teaching workshops. The poems in this chapbook are all mistranslations taken from poems in languages unknown to me.
Sometimes a foreign word would remind me of a word in English. I wrote what I thought the poems were saying knowing that I was wrong in my interpretation. The whole purpose was to write as quickly as I could while looking at the foreign language. This is one of my favorite ways to write.
This is a work of fiction. Don't try to understand what is written here. Just enjoy the nonsense. Her poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, book reviews, and writer interviews have been published or are forthcoming in many online and print journals such as Metazen, Blue Fifth Review, A Baker's Dozen: Thirteen Extraordinary Things, and The Pinch. Her published work can be read at Entropy: A Measure of Uncertainty , jpreesetoo. Reese lives and works in Texas.
Yusef Komunyakaa | Poetry Foundation
The voice in her writing is always unmistakable, genuine, and penetrating. These poems — and you will keep them close to you — serve as maps for journeys over dark and grieving landscapes. This is a strong poetry that promises and delivers a place, finally, of human faith, of hope under 'the arid bone of flowered stars'. Reese's poetry is subtle that way. And powerful. A departure. The lamp spreads its yellow halo over my mother's dark curls. Smoke swirls around her face as she reads, a tea pot in its cozy, rose-painted cup and saucer near.
Pall Mall butts lie discarded in the ashtray, tipped with Avon's latest red. Unthinking, she raises delicate fingers to her pink tongue, dabs a sliver of tobacco from its tip. Never taking her eyes from the book cradled in her lap, she lives another life. My father sleeps, rooms away, unaware of the change taking place in the cooling, midnight air. Michelle Reale is an academic librarian on faculty at Arcadia University in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
She is the author of four collections of short fiction and prose poems. She has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She blogs on immigration and Migration and Social Justice in the Sicilian context at www. Her rhythms are rough in prose, often at the edge as a stone cut at various angles, yet continuous and steadfast. The sensation of the hard and quick gallop of a horse through this horizon of remains and longing is heard. The fortitude of trudging onward, of seeing ruinous sights combined with delicious heated passions, leave the reader sweltering and swollen, understanding the validity of bruises.
You will want to breathe in to your pulsating lungs each beautifully crafted poem in this chapbook. You connect with the speaker of these poems on many levels and are drawn into each poem, I found myself holding my breath many times while reading this collection of achingly beautiful poems that encompass the human condition and all that it entails. The stories she paints are harrowing and touching: alive as lizards and intoxicating as wild flowers. There is an exquisite touch to them: the robust flavor of wine, the taste of the nibbled food and the omnipresent homage to Sicilian religiosity.
We held hands until the intersection. He dropped his first. I pulled my coat around me tight, for something to do, the buttons long gone. My breasts were sore and I shuddered. Don't do that , he said. He pointed with his head to the ATM machine across the street from where we stood. Make it enough this time , he said. I hurried across the street. I heard him greet some men in the street.
The keffiyeh's they wore waved like flags in the wind. They spoke guttural and urgent. I could hear them over the vibrating traffic, cars negotiating difficult turns. I stood with my coat open and the wind ripping a gaping hole through me. I had the money in my hand. He waved off his friends and came to me. He stood outside the market. I chose some meat in a plastic package, pink tomatoes small and premature, grown somewhere far from where we found ourselves.
There was a name for this in my language, but I forgot what it was. At home I fried the meat. I sliced the tomatoes, cut my finger and sucked the blood. He made a face, called me simple.
Picked his teeth right in front of me and I thought of what my father might say. He stared at me, his face softening by degrees. I pulled down the neck of my blouse, revealing my bruised breasts. Purple and green and yellow flowers bloomed like a night flower. He set his toothpick down.
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It wasn't me , he said. His coffee boiled over on the stove. I smelled the scorch. Breathed it in to my pulsating lungs. Salvaged what was left. Served it the way he'd become accustomed to; hot. A curl of lemon skin. Never sugar. Krikor Der Hohannesian lives in Medford, MA and has been writing poetry for some 40 years though only submitting work over the past several years. In another poem a wife is keening, a child is crying, and the poet listens, listens with all his imagination and his heart.
We hear colonial whispers emanating from the Granary Burial Ground. We hear the particular beauty of the names of the winds in many languages, and in another poem we hear the equally specific sadness of parents grieving a lost child. We hear final words, and words that should have been said, and we hear in several of these poems the long, agonized memory traces of the Armenian genocide. In all there is a deeply empathic imagination at work, and these poems give the poet and the reader alike a place of refuge, a place in the shadows in which to hold onto what is so profoundly dear and filled with meaning.
Eliot — The Wasteland. Hiroshima might have looked like this the morning after. Squeezed hard. Forlorn natural scarecrows. He is a two-time recipient of a fellowship in fiction writing from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. Imaginary Planet is full of such nuggets, a book with intelligence and compassion to burn. Elyshevitz is a poet to savor and be thankful for.
Robert Vaughan leads writing roundtables at Redbird- Redoak Writing. His writing has appeared in hundreds of journals. His book, Flash Fiction Fridays , is at Amazon. Microtones is as much about transcendence as falling. Vaughan blasts through the subterfuge of the unsaid and lets us "face gravity head-on. Read it! You can follow Roberto Carlos Garcia on Twitter at thespokenmind. His website is www. They flirt and they want and each section a near erotic frame of determined risk ready to widen the realm of the reader's senses.
Here is a poet who can dress and undress the lyric with his mind, hands and tongue. This is a luminous book that marks the emergence of a new and important voice that is sure to stir up all kinds of bad. Once the lions are fed I can enter the cage but still, I'm leaving my life to chance. Rachel Goldstein is the daughter of Holocaust survivors. At the age of two, she moved to La Paz, Bolivia with her parents. Five years later, her family emigrated to Montreal, Canada, where she completed her education with a degree in English Literature from McGill University.
Her poems have been widely published. Her spare, elegant poems provide intimate and poignant insights into a harrowing time and lives lived bravely afterward. She helps the reader understand, "you were not there [when] eyes tilted toward the impossible. Perfume bomb whose silk surface protects a silver subcutaneous and is surrounded by parchment, you draw me close with evocations of mother preparing Dal for the week. The remembered architecture of you below cinnamon, against cardamom, below lime draws me so close I overlook your anger, which makes me cry.
You are capable of destruction, of warping a weft of garlic and chilies. I could cool you, put you in the fridge till you cannot overwhelm me. I could heat you, sweat you till natural sugar caramelizes and you can tell me nothing. I could hurt you also, dear onion. A mutual respect actualized as we grasp each other. Pulled from a womb of dirt, you also have roots in ancient Asia. In eating you, I eat my relatives; their ashes fed your ancestry where they were spread. The dance of eating and burning you within my own burning body fertilizes the future, when in turn I will feed your children.
I dissect you, your rings akin to those of a tree, until I reach and consume your center. Its delicate youth lingers on my breath and is a flashlight for my tongue. Teneice is originally from Akron, Ohio but currently lives in Dayton, Ohio. She is currently pursuing a degree in Community Counseling at the University of Dayton.
Natalie Zacek for meeting with me after a random email and an even more random trip to Manchester, U. Delgado tells a story that needs to be heard and she gives deft voice to the resigned and defiant. These poems yield an understanding of human captivity from new, devastating angles, and they vividly convey the ways in which hope can wither and flare. It is ironic that theorists proclaim we may be in a post-racial society.
Since poets are truth-seekers and truth-tellers, more and more books being published - and lauded - investigate race. I admire the way he takes flogs without flinching, hate him for his strength when I cry out. I wait, watch his eyes. They are the color of boiling molasses. He spits on my red face on his way through the field. But he knows enough to say I am not John. The mulatto driver laughs with his whip. Get in line, Not John. Not white, he says, not John. He will not waste his mothers' tongues on rotting, sugar sharp mouths. He lives in Richmond, Virginia.
I crawl out of the plane and walk through a terminal that reminds me of a prison I once visited in Moscow. I smell soviet uniforms pushing people out of moldy bread lines. I see a black and white picture of two soldiers beating a man in the frozen gulag. I follow the line from baggage claim out into the diesel air packed with greetings and logistics, firm handshakes.
I throw my bag under the bus and take my seat, fall asleep as we pull away toward the rising sun. I wake up and look out the window. I see sun shadows, blue tears of Eden dance in fields of cognac and gold, the crevices of echoing snow and yellow skies nourishing the navel of the world. Christopher Allen interviews Matthew A. He has been a regular at open mics in Southeastern Massachusetts and is one of the poetry workshop facilitators for the Brockton Public Library Poetry Series.
It's true in love as the women in the poems are moving away, imagined, unapproachable, even for sale, yet he is in there swinging away. It's true out in the world of the skyline, subway, street illuminated by either streetlight or stars, both mocking him but not discouraging him.
Weinrich earns our attention, sympathy and respect through crackling language. Weinrich doesn't waste words or our time. Every line is rich in sound and meaning and emotion. That's a pretty good definition of rock and roll, and these poems rock. Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for nearly fifty years. He has been a bookseller, a publisher, an editor, a creative writing teacher, a book reviewer and a social worker for special needs children.
All This Dark is his second collaboration with John Elsberg. They are working on a third. Website: www. John Elsberg is a poet, reviewer, editor, and historian. He is the author of over a dozen books and chapbooks of poetry, and his work has been in a number of anthologies. He also has led various writing workshops, including explorations of experimental poetry with high school students. He has since been the editor or poetry editor of several other literary magazines, ranging from Bogg to The Delmarva Review on Maryland's Eastern Shore, where he and his wife Connie now spend a good part of their time.
He never seems content to repeat an achieved effect. He is always wrestling with some new project. He will figure into zany anthologies. And be admired for "difficulties," while in fact commanding attention through the clear vigor of his inventions. Rich Murphy, American original. The author of the poetry collection Shell Games sunnyoutside, , he has also published several chapbooks.
At his best, his dry humor and easy way with a sentence propel you forward from each piece into the next. A tyrannosaurus and a triceratops put their heads together and guessed what would inevitably happen to all the dinosaurs, but the two could not agree how the end would come about. They debated for some time, before finally agreeing to disagree, since preventative measures—they decided—were more important, ultimately, than causes. United, they resolved to construct a massive canoe with a great umbrella mounted in its middle. They called their craft The Salvation, and as soon as it was seaworthy, they eagerly launched.
In their haste, they forgot to bring paddles, and so the tyrannosaurus and triceratops drifted into the deeps, then drifted and drifted some more. When he had finished his meal, the tyrannosaurs sighed heavily, regretting that his arms were too little to wipe his chops. Then he took down the umbrella and waited for the meteors. Hood won the Book Award for Poetry! The Cover Art is a photo of G. The Hallelujah of Listening is his first Chapbook A CD of Preston H. It was recorded by Berred Ouellette and produced by Disc Makers. The cover art of the CD face is a photo of G.
His poetry has been published in national and international journals and anthologies. He is a retired teacher and administrator currently writing his memoir. He spends his other time bicycling, kayaking, and hiking with his spouse Barbara J. He lives in Lyman, Maine. From the Forward —Bruce Weigl. His beautiful images are often intimate and passionate, illusive and questioning, then shocking, real and haunting.
Louis, and the University of Cincinnati. He is founder and editor of Oneiros Press, publisher of limited edition, letterpress poetry broadsides. Oneiros broadsides have been purchased by special collections libraries around the world, among them the Newberry Library Chicago , the Beinecke Library at Yale, and the University of Amsterdam Print Collection. In just twenty-two elegant pages it contains an epic journey across an imagined city. The happenings in this city are surreal, ominous, funny and vivid. The circumstances may be dreamlike, but the longing and the wisdom are entirely real.
When the carrousel maker died, he dreamed of horses, wild horses, giraffes, zebras, deer, all running riderless but in bright carnival colors, as if every animal he'd sculpted and painted in garish and gilt colors were running wild again as they had for him very early when he was young and hardly knew the difference between wild animals and those that circled the carrousel. You dreamed that night of escaping on a carrousel. The guards fire at you every time you come around again. You crouch down low to streamline your body for speed, then ride upright around the back side to slow it down, to delay the inevitable encounter with the guards.
You are having one of his dreams, or he is having one of his dreams for you. Dreams of confinement and escape follow each other uninterrupted, night after night until the one looks like the other. You walk a beach sided by high cliffs and turn to climb stone steps leading up.
They're covered with sand; they enter the rock cliff tunneling in, so you're climbing in darkness. But there's sunlight ahead. Finally, stepped into full light, you push open the gate of a picket fence. The spring creaks. On the gate, a sign, dusted over. You must brush off the lettering with your thumb. It says: This is not the way to the world. You must return to the beach down the steps. You look around.
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In the large fenced fields, grass has grown tall or the deep green of vegetable leaves spread in the sun. A woman has hiked her skirt up over her knees and she is bent over tending to a plant. A dog nearby begins to growl deep in his throat. You know you must leave and take the long, steep stairs, covered with sand, carrying the large bag of birdseed you've had with you all this time, searching for sure footing in the dark, back to the deserted beach where you find an endless line of stairwells leading up.
You must try each one. They need each other. Pamela Annas grew up in the Navy, constantly moving from country to country. Back of the Navy housing project the women hang the laundry. Under a thin morning sun, braced against a keening wind, my mother lifts wet towels out of the wicker basket heaves them to the curving clothesline higher than the top of her head and a late setting sickle moon. I hand up the wooden pegs one by one adrift in a cotton trance. The back yards are a harbor of sails rippling in the icy breeze.
Freezing stiff, cotton diapers are lined up in ranks on review. My brother and I play hide and seek among the swaying sheets, or crouch between two lines as in a bivouacked tent, telling stories of heroes and feasts. Rows of back doors, scuffed dirt, a red tricycle. Family uniforms come off the line in a fading yellow afternoon. We slide the pegs back into their cloth bag, stack frozen diapers in the basket. Red chapped hands wrapped around mugs of hot chocolate thaw in the cramped steamy apartment.
Clean clothes relax into tenderness throwing off a fresh cold scent, silver notes from a Celtic harp. My mother's life, the story of a day: gathering, washing, hanging, drying, sorting and folding, putting away. The result, as you see, is a complex assortment of printed goodies white, milk, and dark chocolate dedicated to valentines everywhere.
Zvi A. He is editor of the Muddy River Poetry Review. This great chapbook is about the giant dumpster of memory in the realm of past loves gone dead. Taking Rilke's Duino Elegies as a starting point, these "footnotes" to the older poet's work are technically sophisticated and sonically lovely. They're also deeply moving, meditating on mortality, God, and the constantly vanishing past, retrievable only through the vagaries of memory or the creative imagination.
These are beautiful, impressionistic poems distinguished especially for their shifting, subtle intelligence and their emotional force. She is the editor of Poetry Contest Insider, an online guide to over literary contests, published by www. Visit her blog at www. Jendi Reiter's Barbie at 50 contains an inventive re-imagining of the fairytale woman as well as iconic images of women, including Barbie. The poems are replete with surprise and peppered with humor. I'm easy listening. Barbie at 50 is a lush collection of poems with lines embroidered with the craft of a studied life.
New York School of Poets
It's Barbie outdoing herself, leaving off the accursed weight of a 's perfectionism to discover the truth of genuine joy. These are poems of a life more real than any doll's, as they point up the grace of having confronted the problematic entanglements that attempt to derail a woman making her way through the puzzles of maturing in the last fifty years, a time studded with all ridiculous matter.
These poems show us a difficult tenderness harvested from what makes us weep and what makes us shout out in celebration, what makes us laugh. Throughout this collection, various poems include reference to the following brands: Barbie and Ken, trademarks of Mattel Corp. No rights in these marks are claimed nor commercial affiliation intended. In Stella Radulescu's poems, a second veil of stars seems to settle over the earth like the ashes of the dead, and yet the streets are lit up with the light of the new moon.
Her poems are rich in connotations, metaphysically profound in some great unlocatable fashion. Surreal, etherial, some of the poems enact ghostly things, and a very powerful world view glitters and solidifies, somehow, a seeing beyond what's there, depression as a visionary state, associative and oblique. And yet her work is also full of the things of this world—birds fluttering through the night, trees, the sea—and in the half-light her lines haunt everything It's a dark poetry shining with the ecstacy of the imagination let loose, a triumph of being, a war against banality.
These unpredictable and often code-defying lines give us Stella Radulescu's unwinking eye for chaos, loneliness and the metaphysically absurd when before death without afterlife our hope and reality is "the amazing grace in ugly days," "fire on top of the pines," "hills sinking in sound," and "crimson for remembrance!
In dark, often powerul images, Stella Radulescu offers a rich experience to those who pay attention to her poetry. Stark and intense in her performance, these poems cut to the bone and blood, yet provide release and respite. On stage, she is an insistent voice that deserves to be heard, and on the page that voice continues to resonate.
Books by Villayat Sunkmanitu
My mind and clothes are caught in March winds as buildings and cars go flat, whirled into remembrances of worlds antedating ecological suicide, when the last farmhouse spoke and sick meant soft warm milk, "supported," not "supporting," when all I had to do, after class and homework, was to whirl and be a paisano of yo-yo's and kites, bikes, popsicles, chocolate bars, ice cream and second-day doughnuts and smoke whirled off bonfires where I was baking potatoes underground, snow whirled off buildings and I flew into the wind like a comet, there were no walls between me and my world and it all flowed through and with me.
Adam Shechter and Daniel Y. Harris are possessed of that molten globe of fiery perdition that draws the brighter children of the tribe to the flame. Add poetry and oy! What can I say? For this reason, he started the online journal, The Blue Jew Yorker. Sadly, this quaintly anarchistic periodical has not found its reputation competitive with the above named titans of publishing.
Still, Mr. Shechter receives great emotional satisfaction in publishing authors and artists in the journal. A tragic and ironic fact of Adam's life is that his neighborhood of birth and raising, Park Slope, now houses some of the most successful authors of the writing world. Roger Cohen moved in next to his parents, a house where the fabled Christiansen family once lived. In line with Freud, listening to the same song over and over is one of Adam's favorite hobbies. Daniel Y. Harris, M. Div, holds a Master of Arts in Divinity from The University of Chicago, where he specialized in Jewish theology and comparative religion and wrote his dissertation on The Zohar.
He is the associate editor of The Blue Jew Yorker. He is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. George Held's inexhaustible subject is the moon in all its phases, and he treats it with a quiet ear-pleasing lyricism and an impressive range. His moons shine on the world, and, bathed in their various lights, his imagination shines on the subjects it conjures and illuminates. A delightful, entertaining, and attractively presented collection celebrating our sidereal companion, the moon. George Held is the author of 10 poetry collections and the editor of the anthology Touched by Eros.
A Fulbright lecturer in Czechoslovakia , he retired as a professor of English at Queens College in Held resides in Greenwich Village with his wife, Cheryl. His short story collection, Still Waters: Five Stories was nominated for a Georgia Author of the Year award in the short fiction category. He and his wife, Carol, have six children.
The poems in Moments Around The Campfire With A Vietnam Vet flow with an incredible narrative voice spoken from the recollected perspective of a ghost poet with a precise eye for detail, a poet who carries you along the beautiful waterfall of misery with your eyes wide open and your heart in your throat. Each poem commands the page, daring the reader to deny its verity and weight, forbidding the reader to dismiss the small totals of Vietnam we still don't speak about. These poems took my breath away. Thom Brucie's style is direct, his images clear and specific, and the poems often end on a sardonic or ironic note.
He makes us feel as though we were actually invited into the camp circle to hear the stories of these people, to know their longings and aspirations and disappointments. This is one of the best books of war poems I've ever read. I promise, you won't be able to put it down. Gulnar Ali Balata was born in Iraqi Kurdistan in Gulnar has had work appear in a number of literary journals, websites and anthologies in Kurdish and Arabic languages which are her first and second languages. She is now busy with her first story, a novel, and a third book of poetry.
She received an associates degree in English from Duhok, Iraq. She taught English for three years before she left home in Documentaries y autobiografias. Share this Rating Title: Endless Poetry 7. Use the HTML below. You must be a registered user to use the IMDb rating plugin.
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