Thursday, January 1, 2009
Editor's Note:
Welcome to the 2nd Anniversary Issue of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my baby likes exploding cigars and hates yogart icecream. It craves spigots in its canteen and makes cute little sounds when it sees someone walking over hot coals. Baby has an uncanny ability to turn the words of poets into a row team with a lisp in their maiden names. Issue Twenty Four is no exception. This month is filled with snowy photographs, along with muse-making art. Add to that, a group of clever poets, an intriguing music maker and one magical book review and you've got the possibility of a festive limp. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll feel like a melody about landmines. Or he forget to include the tin soldiers in a row. Either way, this issue will hijack your interest with delights seldom found on a waterbed. So forget about your unslightly liposuction scares and get busy...
Welcome to the 2nd Anniversary Issue of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my baby likes exploding cigars and hates yogart icecream. It craves spigots in its canteen and makes cute little sounds when it sees someone walking over hot coals. Baby has an uncanny ability to turn the words of poets into a row team with a lisp in their maiden names. Issue Twenty Four is no exception. This month is filled with snowy photographs, along with muse-making art. Add to that, a group of clever poets, an intriguing music maker and one magical book review and you've got the possibility of a festive limp. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll feel like a melody about landmines. Or he forget to include the tin soldiers in a row. Either way, this issue will hijack your interest with delights seldom found on a waterbed. So forget about your unslightly liposuction scares and get busy...
Joyce Middlestead
Neighbors
his stereo bass
thuds through the wall
into her head
her pounding head
her little fingers drum counter
pointas she whispers to the dog
in the red bandana
it’s okay, cowboy
cars pull up under the street light
guys with red eyes slink to his door
then leave with faces of stone
fingering bags in deep pockets
he stands on the sidewalk
under the stolid moon
and stares at her window
behind the curtain
eyes dark and damp
she clutches the dog to the
thud thud of her heart
she chain smokes till her latest girl arrives
with her satin shirt
silky hair
and eyes wild with secret
she can’t begin to understand
Rapt in rose petals
you were
always bound by your solitude
in that deepheartless
well i should have known
a blue patch of promise couldn’t help
you climb i might have
seen but i was
rapt in rose petals and
didn’t feel your
pain
Calgary Towers
glass morning
reflects silence over the city
high into winter
stabs of mountains on
the white west
there
we gaze
saying nothing but
a ricochet
you
concrete walls
me
concrete walls
we don’t touch
i want to
seize truth by its
savage neck and
shake it in your face
you hide so well
here
high
looking down
-all poems previously published in Crossing Place Anthology 2003
Paper Doll
his farmer hands
scrape her skin like sandpaper
they are meant to
work the land and till the field
she holds a teacup
as awkwardly as he holds a lady
she is strong
but always fragile in those hands
a paper doll with a paper heart
silence
hissing in her paper head
but eyes down
in the bitter summer soil
she can still hear
the stars
Night dream
you slipped
sideways
into my dream
breath hot on my neck
hardness to softness my body
needed your need and
breath fluttered like a
strange bird exploded from
that black tunnel of
night to awake alone
lean shadows
barren blackness
outside
the wind worried the tarp
covering the firewood while
i swung the axe
cut the damning cord
-poem previously published in Conjunction: 2002 Calgary Stroll Anthology
Neighbors
his stereo bass
thuds through the wall
into her head
her pounding head
her little fingers drum counter
pointas she whispers to the dog
in the red bandana
it’s okay, cowboy
cars pull up under the street light
guys with red eyes slink to his door
then leave with faces of stone
fingering bags in deep pockets
he stands on the sidewalk
under the stolid moon
and stares at her window
behind the curtain
eyes dark and damp
she clutches the dog to the
thud thud of her heart
she chain smokes till her latest girl arrives
with her satin shirt
silky hair
and eyes wild with secret
she can’t begin to understand
Rapt in rose petals
you were
always bound by your solitude
in that deepheartless
well i should have known
a blue patch of promise couldn’t help
you climb i might have
seen but i was
rapt in rose petals and
didn’t feel your
pain
Calgary Towers
glass morning
reflects silence over the city
high into winter
stabs of mountains on
the white west
there
we gaze
saying nothing but
a ricochet
you
concrete walls
me
concrete walls
we don’t touch
i want to
seize truth by its
savage neck and
shake it in your face
you hide so well
here
high
looking down
-all poems previously published in Crossing Place Anthology 2003
Paper Doll
his farmer hands
scrape her skin like sandpaper
they are meant to
work the land and till the field
she holds a teacup
as awkwardly as he holds a lady
she is strong
but always fragile in those hands
a paper doll with a paper heart
silence
hissing in her paper head
but eyes down
in the bitter summer soil
she can still hear
the stars
Night dream
you slipped
sideways
into my dream
breath hot on my neck
hardness to softness my body
needed your need and
breath fluttered like a
strange bird exploded from
that black tunnel of
night to awake alone
lean shadows
barren blackness
outside
the wind worried the tarp
covering the firewood while
i swung the axe
cut the damning cord
-poem previously published in Conjunction: 2002 Calgary Stroll Anthology
Sundin Richards
Pluviculture
Everybody
in the buffet
is unhappy
except me
Outside senses
washed out white
a cat on a branch
in a song
Bringing tranquility
to this troubled pen
insula the Friend
snipers away
Spin spun the door
is blooded so I stay
away it’s not mine
peeking
through clouds
that look like clouds
anybody leaves anything
Saint Valentinitus
A Rooster In The Garden
Torqued in the
folds of a city
I’m happy with my
little family
The cat asleep
on the bright
table content as a
Month of Sundays
born lucky
in a silver
endowment
All roads are perfect
as long as the cash
holds out we attend
ourselves with errantry
Old ruffians get
new clothes
slower hope than
traffic allows
Here with my smog
and ruin
the bride wakes up
singing
Looting Mary-Celeste
I can’t wait to collapse
into perfection a gold
formulation of sun on
leaves of the New World
known flimflammery
towers with windows
faster than anything
rasp over the power
lines even birds
please let’s remember
the day and the hour
among dirt and diamonds
there’s no seeing where
there is to get to
this thing which is not
a sign
let’s have a three
day Triumph with useless
equipment and flashing
canaries and every notic
able slavery
that was the last place
of dogs and bandits
the long wash rubs out
memory known foreign face
a choir invisible blue stars
on a white field
it’s not rocket surgery
and the risk factor has
never been higher
Hillbilly Dictionary
Here’s the fat
guy hit with a
cannon ball
and the most
information we
can gather is
a chunk of time
saying Roanoke
not mad but be
wildered
on a farm or
in a gutter do
we not love Lydia
the tattooed lady
with revolvers and
snowballs among
scrub by a highway
in the middle of the
night
then you’re looked
at like a villain
hanging around
the steps of a music
school in this way
all that can be said
with a straight face
is oops
The Ruination Of My Right Arm
Vaccines
take for
ever slim
victories
in the tin
tinabulations
and thanks
for the per
fectos ol’
doc they
helped alot
but you knew
that from
the splint
where’s the
sound for
which we
wandered any
way to continue
it’s good to
see folks run
ning down the
center of a
street for once
because of the
elements but that’s
just a guess and
is that some kind
of boat over there
-all poems previously published at Cricket Online Review
Pluviculture
Everybody
in the buffet
is unhappy
except me
Outside senses
washed out white
a cat on a branch
in a song
Bringing tranquility
to this troubled pen
insula the Friend
snipers away
Spin spun the door
is blooded so I stay
away it’s not mine
peeking
through clouds
that look like clouds
anybody leaves anything
Saint Valentinitus
A Rooster In The Garden
Torqued in the
folds of a city
I’m happy with my
little family
The cat asleep
on the bright
table content as a
Month of Sundays
born lucky
in a silver
endowment
All roads are perfect
as long as the cash
holds out we attend
ourselves with errantry
Old ruffians get
new clothes
slower hope than
traffic allows
Here with my smog
and ruin
the bride wakes up
singing
Looting Mary-Celeste
I can’t wait to collapse
into perfection a gold
formulation of sun on
leaves of the New World
known flimflammery
towers with windows
faster than anything
rasp over the power
lines even birds
please let’s remember
the day and the hour
among dirt and diamonds
there’s no seeing where
there is to get to
this thing which is not
a sign
let’s have a three
day Triumph with useless
equipment and flashing
canaries and every notic
able slavery
that was the last place
of dogs and bandits
the long wash rubs out
memory known foreign face
a choir invisible blue stars
on a white field
it’s not rocket surgery
and the risk factor has
never been higher
Hillbilly Dictionary
Here’s the fat
guy hit with a
cannon ball
and the most
information we
can gather is
a chunk of time
saying Roanoke
not mad but be
wildered
on a farm or
in a gutter do
we not love Lydia
the tattooed lady
with revolvers and
snowballs among
scrub by a highway
in the middle of the
night
then you’re looked
at like a villain
hanging around
the steps of a music
school in this way
all that can be said
with a straight face
is oops
The Ruination Of My Right Arm
Vaccines
take for
ever slim
victories
in the tin
tinabulations
and thanks
for the per
fectos ol’
doc they
helped alot
but you knew
that from
the splint
where’s the
sound for
which we
wandered any
way to continue
it’s good to
see folks run
ning down the
center of a
street for once
because of the
elements but that’s
just a guess and
is that some kind
of boat over there
-all poems previously published at Cricket Online Review
Kuba Mokrosinski
Masters Of Ruin
Throwing a stone can bring down many useful things.
A pale light, for instance. It may also
incite: a silence, if a caretaker does not quit
his dull habitual croaking. just try cannoning
a volley into some feline eyes: you can
disperse mystery with a single stone's throw.
You can run into the street with a whizz,
if you have lived off an illusion
of her beauty for too long now. With a swing
of your arm the sticky allure falls into
the briny gutter as if sheared by a scythe.
You can adorn your own end with a stone
and just like a stone hit the bottom;
and reclaim your hands.
The Rent
homage to baudelaire
The landlady, a desiccated woman like a mastiff
beaten a moment ago - or a vixen, for she's red -
so, OK, a just-beaten vixen, she drops in on the
first Monday of the month. Knocks on the door, but
nobody can hear it: Mushroom's watching a web-
movie, Obrycki's washing his paintbrush in the
bathroom, she's banging on the goddamn door.
It's always noisy at Greg's room, the room that's
closest. Turn it down a bit, OK, says Obrycki and
Mushroom - a hell of a trumpeter - turns it up a bit,
by mistake. I'm at my Chinese philosophy classes
at the same time. In the end nobody opened the
door for her. She went away. Thursday she comes
again. Says to me, well, you weren't here on Monday,
were you, and I says, well, I was not. And what about
the money, can you pay me today? OK, sure, I says,
and I pay her; I visited my bank on Tuesday.
The Last Hunt
Slippers on, his rifle wriggles
out of his winter coat. 7 am, and he's ready now
to launch an attack. His stalker's hat is worn
only to deceive: no point in waiting
for the slightest spin. An old man's
irony despoils the floor
in an absurd play of reflections - a new arctic
is shrieking, a hunter with a cleaning powder,
that's absurd! Yet still he crawls
though his impetus is gone; the silence, too.
From windward the victim's taken,
she's so thin, kin and can scarcely breathe in the
mockery of her dream. Then a limping, a noise, amo,
amare rocks through the mind. The rifle's full of saliva.
Anti-Frame
there's nothing further to be lost in the eye's gaze -
nothing it can't follow: it polishes the screen
which itself becomes transparent and that' s what
the mode seems bearable for. the background is
determined by contrast, inch by inch the kinetics of
vision gauges a farewell to an image that would slip,
for no clear reason, into any shape.
the mode, that is, the right to disappear,
superimposed unanimously. i watch
dying: i am immortal just now.
what remains is a tool kit, an opposition party,
a centre scattered among all places, flat
as a purposeless line. not worth the impossible visit.
deftly stuffed zeros. kaleidoscope, drawings.
Note: the title signifies a transparent glass frame that
exactly matches its content and therefore can scarcely
be said to “frame” in the usual sense of the word.
Hiroshima
I drew myself a map of fear. a couple of straights. an
intersection. a turned off light. a butterfly crawling on all
fours. a talking stone. or: someone has smoked all the
fags. christ is a psychologist. niagara falls, actually, are
not the greatest ones, we've measured it, reports national
geographic. the end of the world in two years time (and I
shut the door right in front of them). everyone could drive
a car running on electricity! the nuclear bomb I copied
from my mate. my mom, as soon as she took notice,
ordered me to paste dad in. by analogy there jumped in
Russians, unemployment and pregnancy. I was going to
put the UNKNOWN at the intersection but got fucked off
and stuck just the tongue out.
-all poems previously published in Masthead
Masters Of Ruin
Throwing a stone can bring down many useful things.
A pale light, for instance. It may also
incite: a silence, if a caretaker does not quit
his dull habitual croaking. just try cannoning
a volley into some feline eyes: you can
disperse mystery with a single stone's throw.
You can run into the street with a whizz,
if you have lived off an illusion
of her beauty for too long now. With a swing
of your arm the sticky allure falls into
the briny gutter as if sheared by a scythe.
You can adorn your own end with a stone
and just like a stone hit the bottom;
and reclaim your hands.
The Rent
homage to baudelaire
The landlady, a desiccated woman like a mastiff
beaten a moment ago - or a vixen, for she's red -
so, OK, a just-beaten vixen, she drops in on the
first Monday of the month. Knocks on the door, but
nobody can hear it: Mushroom's watching a web-
movie, Obrycki's washing his paintbrush in the
bathroom, she's banging on the goddamn door.
It's always noisy at Greg's room, the room that's
closest. Turn it down a bit, OK, says Obrycki and
Mushroom - a hell of a trumpeter - turns it up a bit,
by mistake. I'm at my Chinese philosophy classes
at the same time. In the end nobody opened the
door for her. She went away. Thursday she comes
again. Says to me, well, you weren't here on Monday,
were you, and I says, well, I was not. And what about
the money, can you pay me today? OK, sure, I says,
and I pay her; I visited my bank on Tuesday.
The Last Hunt
Slippers on, his rifle wriggles
out of his winter coat. 7 am, and he's ready now
to launch an attack. His stalker's hat is worn
only to deceive: no point in waiting
for the slightest spin. An old man's
irony despoils the floor
in an absurd play of reflections - a new arctic
is shrieking, a hunter with a cleaning powder,
that's absurd! Yet still he crawls
though his impetus is gone; the silence, too.
From windward the victim's taken,
she's so thin, kin and can scarcely breathe in the
mockery of her dream. Then a limping, a noise, amo,
amare rocks through the mind. The rifle's full of saliva.
Anti-Frame
there's nothing further to be lost in the eye's gaze -
nothing it can't follow: it polishes the screen
which itself becomes transparent and that' s what
the mode seems bearable for. the background is
determined by contrast, inch by inch the kinetics of
vision gauges a farewell to an image that would slip,
for no clear reason, into any shape.
the mode, that is, the right to disappear,
superimposed unanimously. i watch
dying: i am immortal just now.
what remains is a tool kit, an opposition party,
a centre scattered among all places, flat
as a purposeless line. not worth the impossible visit.
deftly stuffed zeros. kaleidoscope, drawings.
Note: the title signifies a transparent glass frame that
exactly matches its content and therefore can scarcely
be said to “frame” in the usual sense of the word.
Hiroshima
I drew myself a map of fear. a couple of straights. an
intersection. a turned off light. a butterfly crawling on all
fours. a talking stone. or: someone has smoked all the
fags. christ is a psychologist. niagara falls, actually, are
not the greatest ones, we've measured it, reports national
geographic. the end of the world in two years time (and I
shut the door right in front of them). everyone could drive
a car running on electricity! the nuclear bomb I copied
from my mate. my mom, as soon as she took notice,
ordered me to paste dad in. by analogy there jumped in
Russians, unemployment and pregnancy. I was going to
put the UNKNOWN at the intersection but got fucked off
and stuck just the tongue out.
-all poems previously published in Masthead
Rax
Tourist
All over my fridge are magnets,
keepsakes from the places I've been.
In San Francisco, I bought the Golden
Gate the moment my 13 hour flight landed.
I don't have one for Tucson,
where I met you for the first time.
As if you, too, couldn't see beyond
just in front of us.
I didn't get one in Nogales, though
we went to many gift shops.
About hunger: I've known it,
and I've been told to bear with it.
As the days passed, my Arizona
collection grew: Wupatki Ruins, Sunset
Crater and yes, the Grand Canyon,
bought the week before I had to leave.
In Manila, I arranged them on
my fridge, a souvenir shrine
to remind me of what
I could not bring home.
Stitch
At the mental seams
you and I were conceived,
(stitched from the rags
of empty arms)
souls joined at the hips,
grinding against each other’s need
to be. Above the bed lay
its parallel line (contract, horizon,
point of rest) where slept
the discovery that you and I
were not supposed to meet
in this illusion of a future woven
into our past-entangled arms.
Identity
I don’t think I’ll make a real transvestite,
wear my heart in fire-engine heels,
and still walk straight, head high.
No, every morning, before I put on
my acceptable black pumps,
I cup the soles of my feet and
feel the weight of regret at
what I could never be: proud
and comfortable with my identity,
unafraid of being packed away in
the labels that would make
anyone craven, shirking
inside their own closets.
Stoned
you are the stone I swallowed
small and smooth because it fell
with rain I never saw coming
hard to catch in palms that bruise easy
the way it sat in my stomach long
after it slowly climbed up to sit
on top of the wall, a Humpty Dumpty
on a heart that needed
just one more
brick
Burned
You must find it
fascinating how–
moths are riveted
to the flickering pyre
you dangle
in between fingertips.
Its wings dance
alongside silent, gray tendrils
escaping your breath.
Circling around,
irrevocably drawn
to the sighs
that kiss your lips.
Saltine beads,
tease your temple,
then your cheekbone,
curving around your jaw.
A faint smile shows
your minute amusement
at how this creature
will leave a field of flowers
for the scent of sweat.
This drab cousin
of the butterfly,
craves attention
and will stay still
on your palm
staring up
in simple-minded wonder
at the meteor
about to burn
its wings.
-all poems gathered from her blog, Soul’s Phantasm
Tourist
All over my fridge are magnets,
keepsakes from the places I've been.
In San Francisco, I bought the Golden
Gate the moment my 13 hour flight landed.
I don't have one for Tucson,
where I met you for the first time.
As if you, too, couldn't see beyond
just in front of us.
I didn't get one in Nogales, though
we went to many gift shops.
About hunger: I've known it,
and I've been told to bear with it.
As the days passed, my Arizona
collection grew: Wupatki Ruins, Sunset
Crater and yes, the Grand Canyon,
bought the week before I had to leave.
In Manila, I arranged them on
my fridge, a souvenir shrine
to remind me of what
I could not bring home.
Stitch
At the mental seams
you and I were conceived,
(stitched from the rags
of empty arms)
souls joined at the hips,
grinding against each other’s need
to be. Above the bed lay
its parallel line (contract, horizon,
point of rest) where slept
the discovery that you and I
were not supposed to meet
in this illusion of a future woven
into our past-entangled arms.
Identity
I don’t think I’ll make a real transvestite,
wear my heart in fire-engine heels,
and still walk straight, head high.
No, every morning, before I put on
my acceptable black pumps,
I cup the soles of my feet and
feel the weight of regret at
what I could never be: proud
and comfortable with my identity,
unafraid of being packed away in
the labels that would make
anyone craven, shirking
inside their own closets.
Stoned
you are the stone I swallowed
small and smooth because it fell
with rain I never saw coming
hard to catch in palms that bruise easy
the way it sat in my stomach long
after it slowly climbed up to sit
on top of the wall, a Humpty Dumpty
on a heart that needed
just one more
brick
Burned
You must find it
fascinating how–
moths are riveted
to the flickering pyre
you dangle
in between fingertips.
Its wings dance
alongside silent, gray tendrils
escaping your breath.
Circling around,
irrevocably drawn
to the sighs
that kiss your lips.
Saltine beads,
tease your temple,
then your cheekbone,
curving around your jaw.
A faint smile shows
your minute amusement
at how this creature
will leave a field of flowers
for the scent of sweat.
This drab cousin
of the butterfly,
craves attention
and will stay still
on your palm
staring up
in simple-minded wonder
at the meteor
about to burn
its wings.
-all poems gathered from her blog, Soul’s Phantasm
Alex Lemon
The Xylophone Is Blaze
Voltage or diabetic, my hands.
We crossed the river pirouetting
on buoys. Predictions of sunshine.
Come over now, my hands flutter.
Did you believe you were good
as the rust-dulled axe, the go there
& be happy? On a beach
of violin skins we turned into lightning,
or didn’t, but smoked too fast,
attacking. Our chests tightened
with glee. Swaggering. Hip-tight
to the rough bark of perverted trees,
we shouted bloody, lips cowboy tall,
knick-winged & dusty.
I waited all day for you to tell me
that love is what I hate about myself.
A Country Mile Of Soft
Do it, the ocean wept
this morning. No one will
know. I burned
the autographs.
Licked crayon-wax
from my fingers
to celebrate waking.
I wallpapered nude
so when I flipped
into the down-dog,
I became the jumping
bean’s slow cousin.
This is the New West.
The la la in sagebrush,
a magic-strummed scenery.
Last night was guns
& confetti, an elephant-
sized centrifuge & we
were spic & span,
tongued safe & clean.
-both poems previously published at Octopus
Below The Never Sky
The goldfish spins, fan-tail
spread like fingers on fire.
It fast-forwards for days—
Figure-eights a whirling fury
that spills. Everything is forgotten.
It burns, a lightning-struck barn.
Its silken flesh unfurls, ribs
shine like a whittled moon.
But skin knotted into ruin
can’t stop it: the staccato jazz
your fingernail flicks don’t help.
It will never quit, you think,
until the summer morning
it’s found belly up in murky water,
still as a town ravaged by storm.
The fishbowl shimmers dark, golden
as if, in your absence, the heavens
crawled—packed stars cellophane tight;
waiting for you to shake off your impossible
dreams and bow to that half-whole reflection.
Silt
After Charles Baxter
In the dark, I count fingers,
Watch lightning spider
Over the mountain’s toothy peaks.
All the while, the cupola grows
Cloudy with accidents—
Dark blossoms sticky and wet,
Clinging shadowy with reincarnation.
Yesterday eight and now, eleven,
Memories distilled, frayed.
The neck-breaking spiral
Of this morning’s junco
Landing on a gnarled fence,
A surgeon’s fingers tapping
His way through afternoon sleep,
Breaking a heart into ballet
Or the several postures of pain
A body makes falling unconscious
In the bathroom while violins roar
On a television straining with blue Light.
The fatigue of healing
Interrupted by the susurrus
Of an empty shower. An ear, blood-
Smeared cheek and bit lip—
A sterile, sweating tiled floor.
-both poems previously published at Post Road
Teeth
You think I’m lucky, but tell that
to my pit-bull soul. Bruise-bit,
it dreams of sunlit concrete & steak.
Squeeze its tender neck,
hold hands like explosions. When it licks
your face, you’ll see, under the tiger-star,
the Toyota flip & roll. Constellations
of face-cuts, then flames. There are
names for this burning: winesap, still-life
with three skulls. Can you imagine my hands
welcoming pain as I tried to help? “That’s all
I can do,” the dentist said when he pulled
the slivers from my gums, holding
the mirror up to my emptied smile.
-previously published at Konundrum Engine Literary Review
The Xylophone Is Blaze
Voltage or diabetic, my hands.
We crossed the river pirouetting
on buoys. Predictions of sunshine.
Come over now, my hands flutter.
Did you believe you were good
as the rust-dulled axe, the go there
& be happy? On a beach
of violin skins we turned into lightning,
or didn’t, but smoked too fast,
attacking. Our chests tightened
with glee. Swaggering. Hip-tight
to the rough bark of perverted trees,
we shouted bloody, lips cowboy tall,
knick-winged & dusty.
I waited all day for you to tell me
that love is what I hate about myself.
A Country Mile Of Soft
Do it, the ocean wept
this morning. No one will
know. I burned
the autographs.
Licked crayon-wax
from my fingers
to celebrate waking.
I wallpapered nude
so when I flipped
into the down-dog,
I became the jumping
bean’s slow cousin.
This is the New West.
The la la in sagebrush,
a magic-strummed scenery.
Last night was guns
& confetti, an elephant-
sized centrifuge & we
were spic & span,
tongued safe & clean.
-both poems previously published at Octopus
Below The Never Sky
The goldfish spins, fan-tail
spread like fingers on fire.
It fast-forwards for days—
Figure-eights a whirling fury
that spills. Everything is forgotten.
It burns, a lightning-struck barn.
Its silken flesh unfurls, ribs
shine like a whittled moon.
But skin knotted into ruin
can’t stop it: the staccato jazz
your fingernail flicks don’t help.
It will never quit, you think,
until the summer morning
it’s found belly up in murky water,
still as a town ravaged by storm.
The fishbowl shimmers dark, golden
as if, in your absence, the heavens
crawled—packed stars cellophane tight;
waiting for you to shake off your impossible
dreams and bow to that half-whole reflection.
Silt
After Charles Baxter
In the dark, I count fingers,
Watch lightning spider
Over the mountain’s toothy peaks.
All the while, the cupola grows
Cloudy with accidents—
Dark blossoms sticky and wet,
Clinging shadowy with reincarnation.
Yesterday eight and now, eleven,
Memories distilled, frayed.
The neck-breaking spiral
Of this morning’s junco
Landing on a gnarled fence,
A surgeon’s fingers tapping
His way through afternoon sleep,
Breaking a heart into ballet
Or the several postures of pain
A body makes falling unconscious
In the bathroom while violins roar
On a television straining with blue Light.
The fatigue of healing
Interrupted by the susurrus
Of an empty shower. An ear, blood-
Smeared cheek and bit lip—
A sterile, sweating tiled floor.
-both poems previously published at Post Road
Teeth
You think I’m lucky, but tell that
to my pit-bull soul. Bruise-bit,
it dreams of sunlit concrete & steak.
Squeeze its tender neck,
hold hands like explosions. When it licks
your face, you’ll see, under the tiger-star,
the Toyota flip & roll. Constellations
of face-cuts, then flames. There are
names for this burning: winesap, still-life
with three skulls. Can you imagine my hands
welcoming pain as I tried to help? “That’s all
I can do,” the dentist said when he pulled
the slivers from my gums, holding
the mirror up to my emptied smile.
-previously published at Konundrum Engine Literary Review
Amanda Auchter
Eden
Nights your fingers circle the blue
thorn patch. Your mouth
at my side says nothing. Count
the willows, the green-struck leaves,
the tipped stars. We sleep in
the wood grove, your back to the snake-
branched tree, the riverbed. You fill
everything: my neck's damp hollow,
knotholes, the moon's sorrowed face.
You have said my breath begins
inside you, each of my slivered bones,
my hair, my lips. All winter
I have searched for myself in other things —
stone, red earth, honeycomb.
You mention the outside, its rawness.
Death, I believe in that, think of the desire
between us, of my want — the char-lit sky,
the mountains, how each echo is an end
we cannot live without.
-previously published at Three Candles
Ash Wednesday
You arrive in a paper bag inside a shoebox marked
size seven and a half. What’s left of your body
but the measurement of your feet. Your toes
pressed together in red heels or rain
boots, slippers next to the bed. Now your fires
have waned to nothing but the gray flour you’ve left
behind. My fingers unfold the wrinkled neck
of the sack and you escape without protest.
I’ve emptied you for months cleaned the closets
into garbage sacks meant for the curb, still in the back
of the attic, the trunk of my car. How I want to find
you inside this ash. You slowly disappear,
your terrible act. What remains sticks to the bottom
of the bag, slips out into cardboard, my hands.
-previously published at 32 Poems
Fall of the Medici
for Ron Mohring
As the Wedgwood would split its blue floral spout,
then so would the man, so would his fragile shape,
but not his ash. As the teapot rocked and fell
you caught its hairline crack.
As quick as the box you emptied of him into
the bayou, as quick as that. As winter
was just frost on your floor that night and no night
went without shiver, when he held the cup and the
pekoe his tooth chipped the shell rim.
You buried it
in the yard below the bulbs and bay bramble. Dug it up
after the internment. Bone sliver, his half-
dying. The teapot’s fracture, your fissure unfilling.
Once its delicate leak was enough to consider
discarding. Water boils threat, breaks the china cup.
Your palm-scald fear, your floating suspended, or only him
blowing the steam from his mouth, warming the air, the
air full of air. You watched them float together, then away.
-previously published at Perihelion
Exuberant Poem
for Matt Hart
Indeed I rush to open the six windows, to watch
the neighbor's turkey confuse itself with shadow
and lawn jockey. What gorgeous singers
at this hour: warbler, jay, the bent squeaky
tricycle wheel. All day I am picket fence,
sidewalk, snow cones, mail truck. All day
the light comes in further, gathers
in the hedgerow, box bushes, brightening
the sink stopper, tile, my face, this
jubilance of the dishwasher springing
its tenth leak, the beautiful near-
disaster of warped linoleum, pockets
of suds, air, specks of last night's pork,
wine, the little grains of rice, all of it, perfect,
catching the cracks, the late light just so,
that when I open my hands the suds
fill the sky, my hair with whiteness
and I am altogether wild, I am
unbelievably exuberant, thin blank
paper woman holding as much
of the world that will fit into the fibers,
follicles, the impossible folder of her mouth.
Gospel of the Organ Donor
for Nathan
I did not want to stay as I was: bone
shattered, snapped spine, skin stung
from glass, gravel. I wanted to speak
to my body —rise up— to hear
just once more my own voice out loud,
to see my mother lay down her prayers,
for the nurse to release the Mylar balloons,
for each one to drift toward the ceiling,
fluorescents, windows, the pale door
of death. Just by closing my eyes forever,
it all came back to me—my body
as I'd never see it again, blips and screams,
needles, my never-waking brain, lung,
collarbone. How I'd miss coffee, Mistletoe,
the first frost of the year, eighteen, sex,
stereos, cookies. I stared into the after-
math of my body (left finger, larynx, liver)
asking for this death to shape me,
and I was shaped of air, soul, exhaustion,
the morning jay, tinsel, breath,
new bodies that refused to let go.
-both poems previously published at MiPOesias
Eden
Nights your fingers circle the blue
thorn patch. Your mouth
at my side says nothing. Count
the willows, the green-struck leaves,
the tipped stars. We sleep in
the wood grove, your back to the snake-
branched tree, the riverbed. You fill
everything: my neck's damp hollow,
knotholes, the moon's sorrowed face.
You have said my breath begins
inside you, each of my slivered bones,
my hair, my lips. All winter
I have searched for myself in other things —
stone, red earth, honeycomb.
You mention the outside, its rawness.
Death, I believe in that, think of the desire
between us, of my want — the char-lit sky,
the mountains, how each echo is an end
we cannot live without.
-previously published at Three Candles
Ash Wednesday
You arrive in a paper bag inside a shoebox marked
size seven and a half. What’s left of your body
but the measurement of your feet. Your toes
pressed together in red heels or rain
boots, slippers next to the bed. Now your fires
have waned to nothing but the gray flour you’ve left
behind. My fingers unfold the wrinkled neck
of the sack and you escape without protest.
I’ve emptied you for months cleaned the closets
into garbage sacks meant for the curb, still in the back
of the attic, the trunk of my car. How I want to find
you inside this ash. You slowly disappear,
your terrible act. What remains sticks to the bottom
of the bag, slips out into cardboard, my hands.
-previously published at 32 Poems
Fall of the Medici
for Ron Mohring
As the Wedgwood would split its blue floral spout,
then so would the man, so would his fragile shape,
but not his ash. As the teapot rocked and fell
you caught its hairline crack.
As quick as the box you emptied of him into
the bayou, as quick as that. As winter
was just frost on your floor that night and no night
went without shiver, when he held the cup and the
pekoe his tooth chipped the shell rim.
You buried it
in the yard below the bulbs and bay bramble. Dug it up
after the internment. Bone sliver, his half-
dying. The teapot’s fracture, your fissure unfilling.
Once its delicate leak was enough to consider
discarding. Water boils threat, breaks the china cup.
Your palm-scald fear, your floating suspended, or only him
blowing the steam from his mouth, warming the air, the
air full of air. You watched them float together, then away.
-previously published at Perihelion
Exuberant Poem
for Matt Hart
Indeed I rush to open the six windows, to watch
the neighbor's turkey confuse itself with shadow
and lawn jockey. What gorgeous singers
at this hour: warbler, jay, the bent squeaky
tricycle wheel. All day I am picket fence,
sidewalk, snow cones, mail truck. All day
the light comes in further, gathers
in the hedgerow, box bushes, brightening
the sink stopper, tile, my face, this
jubilance of the dishwasher springing
its tenth leak, the beautiful near-
disaster of warped linoleum, pockets
of suds, air, specks of last night's pork,
wine, the little grains of rice, all of it, perfect,
catching the cracks, the late light just so,
that when I open my hands the suds
fill the sky, my hair with whiteness
and I am altogether wild, I am
unbelievably exuberant, thin blank
paper woman holding as much
of the world that will fit into the fibers,
follicles, the impossible folder of her mouth.
Gospel of the Organ Donor
for Nathan
I did not want to stay as I was: bone
shattered, snapped spine, skin stung
from glass, gravel. I wanted to speak
to my body —rise up— to hear
just once more my own voice out loud,
to see my mother lay down her prayers,
for the nurse to release the Mylar balloons,
for each one to drift toward the ceiling,
fluorescents, windows, the pale door
of death. Just by closing my eyes forever,
it all came back to me—my body
as I'd never see it again, blips and screams,
needles, my never-waking brain, lung,
collarbone. How I'd miss coffee, Mistletoe,
the first frost of the year, eighteen, sex,
stereos, cookies. I stared into the after-
math of my body (left finger, larynx, liver)
asking for this death to shape me,
and I was shaped of air, soul, exhaustion,
the morning jay, tinsel, breath,
new bodies that refused to let go.
-both poems previously published at MiPOesias
About Art - The Lost Correspondant
Jason Taylor has created a stunning underwater sculpture park just off the Caribbean island of Grenada. The sculptures are 2-8 meters underwater, which makes them ideally suited for scuba divers and people who enjoy snorkeling. Each piece is a permanent ocean floor fixture, which means they will act as an artificial reef for corals, algae, and sponges. In turn, this makes the area an ideal home and breeding area for fish, turtles, and other sea creatures. Which in turn makes it an even more desirable scuba diving destination. A brilliant idea all the way around, thanks to the foresight of the Grenadian Ministry of Tourism and Culture and their support this enterprise.
The Lost Correspondent, one of a half dozen sculptures, depicts a man sitting at a desk with a typewriter at a depth of 7 meters. The desk is covered with a collection of newspaper articles and cuttings that date back to the 1970s. Many of these have political significance, a number detail Grenada’s alignment with Cuba in the period immediately prior to the revolution. The work informs the rapid changes in communication between generations. Taking the form of a traditional correspondent, the lone figure becomes little more than a relic, a fossil in a lost world.
Taylor’s underwater sculptures create a unique, absorbing and expansive visual seascape. Highlighting natural ecological processes Taylor’s interventions explore the intricate relationships that exist between art and environment. His works become artificial reefs, attracting marine life, while offering the viewer privileged temporal encounters, as the shifting sand of the ocean floor, and the works change from moment to moment. Find out more about the artist and his work at: www.underwatersculpture.com
Jason Taylor has created a stunning underwater sculpture park just off the Caribbean island of Grenada. The sculptures are 2-8 meters underwater, which makes them ideally suited for scuba divers and people who enjoy snorkeling. Each piece is a permanent ocean floor fixture, which means they will act as an artificial reef for corals, algae, and sponges. In turn, this makes the area an ideal home and breeding area for fish, turtles, and other sea creatures. Which in turn makes it an even more desirable scuba diving destination. A brilliant idea all the way around, thanks to the foresight of the Grenadian Ministry of Tourism and Culture and their support this enterprise.
The Lost Correspondent, one of a half dozen sculptures, depicts a man sitting at a desk with a typewriter at a depth of 7 meters. The desk is covered with a collection of newspaper articles and cuttings that date back to the 1970s. Many of these have political significance, a number detail Grenada’s alignment with Cuba in the period immediately prior to the revolution. The work informs the rapid changes in communication between generations. Taking the form of a traditional correspondent, the lone figure becomes little more than a relic, a fossil in a lost world.
Taylor’s underwater sculptures create a unique, absorbing and expansive visual seascape. Highlighting natural ecological processes Taylor’s interventions explore the intricate relationships that exist between art and environment. His works become artificial reefs, attracting marine life, while offering the viewer privileged temporal encounters, as the shifting sand of the ocean floor, and the works change from moment to moment. Find out more about the artist and his work at: www.underwatersculpture.com
About Books:Title: After The First World
Author: Christine Casson
Description: In their rich, meticulous language and in their wide-ranging perceptiveness, the poems in After the First World roam and entwine themselves with convincing realities. Christine Casson’s first collection a fine poetic debut.
—Tony Hoagland
—Tony Hoagland
Product Details:
Printed: 91 pages
ISBN: 978-1-932842-25-8
ISBN: 978-1-932842-25-8
Copyright: 2008
Language: English
Country: USA
Publisher’s Link: www.starcouldpress.com
About Music - William Orbit
William Orbit (born on 30 July 1956, as William Wainwright) is a British musician and record producer, best known to the public for producing Madonna’s album Ray of Light, which received four Grammy Awards. He has also co-produced several unreleased Madonna songs originally recorded for other albums that were never used. Also, he produced “13” by Blur, and remixed some of the songs on the album.
His speciality is atmospheric keyboard electronica although much of his work features accomplished guitar playing. He has also recorded several largely instrumental solo albums under the name Strange Cargo which features vocals by Beth Orton, Laurie Mayer, Joe Frank among others. He was the musical force behind Bassomatic in the early 1990s, and formed the band Torch Song together with Mayer and Rico Conning in the 1980s. He has also produced and remixed numerous other artists, like Nitzer Ebb and The Cure.
Orbit’s remixes carry his signature electronic sounds and techniques, making them sought after by fans of his solo work. He also worked with pop girl trio Sugababes.
Some of Orbit's remixes include the song "Electrical Storm" by U2 in the album The Best of 1990-2000. His remix is called "Electrical Storm (William Orbit Mix)." He has also worked with Swedish duo Roxette in the song "Entering Your Heart."
In 2007, Orbit composed his first orchestral suite for a full orchestra. The composition was performed for the first time on July 8, 2007, by the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra in the Bridgewater Hall at the Manchester International Festival. Working title to a Strange Cargo album due to be released on 2008 on the Theomorph label. Find out more about the artist at his website: www.williamorbit.com
William Orbit (born on 30 July 1956, as William Wainwright) is a British musician and record producer, best known to the public for producing Madonna’s album Ray of Light, which received four Grammy Awards. He has also co-produced several unreleased Madonna songs originally recorded for other albums that were never used. Also, he produced “13” by Blur, and remixed some of the songs on the album.
His speciality is atmospheric keyboard electronica although much of his work features accomplished guitar playing. He has also recorded several largely instrumental solo albums under the name Strange Cargo which features vocals by Beth Orton, Laurie Mayer, Joe Frank among others. He was the musical force behind Bassomatic in the early 1990s, and formed the band Torch Song together with Mayer and Rico Conning in the 1980s. He has also produced and remixed numerous other artists, like Nitzer Ebb and The Cure.
Orbit’s remixes carry his signature electronic sounds and techniques, making them sought after by fans of his solo work. He also worked with pop girl trio Sugababes.
Some of Orbit's remixes include the song "Electrical Storm" by U2 in the album The Best of 1990-2000. His remix is called "Electrical Storm (William Orbit Mix)." He has also worked with Swedish duo Roxette in the song "Entering Your Heart."
In 2007, Orbit composed his first orchestral suite for a full orchestra. The composition was performed for the first time on July 8, 2007, by the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra in the Bridgewater Hall at the Manchester International Festival. Working title to a Strange Cargo album due to be released on 2008 on the Theomorph label. Find out more about the artist at his website: www.williamorbit.com
Morgan Lucas Schuldt
Anachronistically Yrs
Mine say mine to say something.
Or sleepstow this mention between us.
How over yestoyears description dies
& gropes are throes are touchlines put
to trace as some sweigh-bridge.
Sway–the body’s mixplaced satisflictions
for which all doing is banquet.
The craved of thus as done;
the hands of soothes come true.
Love this anachronistically yrs
tipped to lips as sipped
is hail to one’s heat, & means
being. Means
makes warm sheets
‘twixt which are still
wantknots, ah vowels,
rives letter-built between which
between which we bade un-
––be knownst!
Version’s Verge
If nothing I do does & nothing I am say,
whatever you will in the inter-uhmm,
mercies to furies want to be enough
& fall short, furies to mercies.
So our loudship, readypresent, masses
where love is night-&-a-half remembered
& folded in, de-realized as though
a name had been called,
folded again into this kisshand.
Do we care to call it a bless?
To have what back?
Carry forward. Portion this mortal
dabble, this should-hurry of the waist.
Fall from the wartower, your highsleep.
Pretend to be habited. As the grateful,
take your body & go. Or mine,
mindful of our matters made.
Variations from Inside an Hour Glass
Am I soft sift?
Am . . . fists of it?
If I fast most––
atoms’ tiffs? I
omit fasts, if
a moist stiff;
if’s fast omit,
its fit of am
is fast motif.
I am soft sift.
-all three poems previously published at Free Verse
On Seeing Leonard’s Grotesques
Whelmed by a catalogue of flesh, by faces
chaptered as grotesques,
some lurk-looking, others grim-grinned
or surprised. Hatched & cross-hatched
in red chalk, in black chalk heads all verb; exaggerations
of sag, slope, slack.
Of clench, furrow, drooze
incessance. Drafts of else & yet. Inexhaustible,
a living-list of body-blame & graceless
growth. Of humored sake
& gape & health & age. The fore-drawn
conspicuous could practiced
onto paper out of the any-heaven hope
to sketch too:
word for the bare
incurable variety of self.
-previously published at TYPO 9
The Corner on Angel Lust
How long can this motion overmind,
this haughtful onesome last?
One, two, threely forth-and-flaunting
for an hour, a day, so up and budging
from the body’s heap?
Portending what once, and now?
Blunt bridge to some her’s
or his’s yes? Please of a no
that lackens back to earth?
All soft-fledge and new must—
conquer’s nowise
nowhere encore.
Useful such an ago ago,
who asks instead of urges,
give us ables?
Rather than the utmost aw-shucks ode-ing O
some other ahhh-ward out.
-previously published at Shampoo Poetry
Anachronistically Yrs
Mine say mine to say something.
Or sleepstow this mention between us.
How over yestoyears description dies
& gropes are throes are touchlines put
to trace as some sweigh-bridge.
Sway–the body’s mixplaced satisflictions
for which all doing is banquet.
The craved of thus as done;
the hands of soothes come true.
Love this anachronistically yrs
tipped to lips as sipped
is hail to one’s heat, & means
being. Means
makes warm sheets
‘twixt which are still
wantknots, ah vowels,
rives letter-built between which
between which we bade un-
––be knownst!
Version’s Verge
If nothing I do does & nothing I am say,
whatever you will in the inter-uhmm,
mercies to furies want to be enough
& fall short, furies to mercies.
So our loudship, readypresent, masses
where love is night-&-a-half remembered
& folded in, de-realized as though
a name had been called,
folded again into this kisshand.
Do we care to call it a bless?
To have what back?
Carry forward. Portion this mortal
dabble, this should-hurry of the waist.
Fall from the wartower, your highsleep.
Pretend to be habited. As the grateful,
take your body & go. Or mine,
mindful of our matters made.
Variations from Inside an Hour Glass
Am I soft sift?
Am . . . fists of it?
If I fast most––
atoms’ tiffs? I
omit fasts, if
a moist stiff;
if’s fast omit,
its fit of am
is fast motif.
I am soft sift.
-all three poems previously published at Free Verse
On Seeing Leonard’s Grotesques
Whelmed by a catalogue of flesh, by faces
chaptered as grotesques,
some lurk-looking, others grim-grinned
or surprised. Hatched & cross-hatched
in red chalk, in black chalk heads all verb; exaggerations
of sag, slope, slack.
Of clench, furrow, drooze
incessance. Drafts of else & yet. Inexhaustible,
a living-list of body-blame & graceless
growth. Of humored sake
& gape & health & age. The fore-drawn
conspicuous could practiced
onto paper out of the any-heaven hope
to sketch too:
word for the bare
incurable variety of self.
-previously published at TYPO 9
The Corner on Angel Lust
How long can this motion overmind,
this haughtful onesome last?
One, two, threely forth-and-flaunting
for an hour, a day, so up and budging
from the body’s heap?
Portending what once, and now?
Blunt bridge to some her’s
or his’s yes? Please of a no
that lackens back to earth?
All soft-fledge and new must—
conquer’s nowise
nowhere encore.
Useful such an ago ago,
who asks instead of urges,
give us ables?
Rather than the utmost aw-shucks ode-ing O
some other ahhh-ward out.
-previously published at Shampoo Poetry
Ananya S. Guha
Afternoon
The afternoon
sighs once again
for the rains
as cumulous clouds
envelop skies, and
me with my hauteur
desire once again to play chimerical games
but afternoons are like sunset
takes refuge in the solitariness of these forests,
and, hills so I linger,
continue lingering with hallowed
dreams, as the afternoon's equipoise
reminds us of rugged winter times.
Truth
... is an astonishing mountain
have you seen it?
derelict joys, tears of sadness
every passing shadow is truth
celestial mountains, abode of
unreleased dreams
let's climb this mountain
to unwind, midst cloudy,
tumultuous seas.
Words
They numb me
talk to me
in whispering solitude
yoke me into water tight dreams
elude me, when I
want to escape
spill me over to
yester years, bringing wraiths
catch me unawares as I write,
speak forbidden truths
wait for me in zones
of discomfort
they are; what I am, or not
Yet with hauteur
they striptease me
into importunate surrender.
Tree
Now I am alone
alone as the tree
with its drooping dismembered self
planted for nocturnal years
near the window of
a peregrinating house
the tree is taciturn
knows the sun, the hills
the moon and speckled stars
The tree stands anonymously
refusing to mingle with habitat
even when stormy skies
threaten to shake ramparts
in the whirlwind;
Views landscape
with gnarled
spreading branches like tentacles,
melting into fistful of waif like tears
We are alone the two of us
Waiting patiently like the hawk
Changing Faces
I don't like the changing faces of men
They smile when they ought to
And sad when they are not to...
I don't like the changing faces of men
They are like snipers, ready to fight
Prolonged wars, in ghostly cupboards
With leering skeletons doing somersaults
I really don't like the changing faces of men
they sport moustaches in ghoulish ways
among talk of humanism and love
Their light banter among arid ribaldry.
Afternoon
The afternoon
sighs once again
for the rains
as cumulous clouds
envelop skies, and
me with my hauteur
desire once again to play chimerical games
but afternoons are like sunset
takes refuge in the solitariness of these forests,
and, hills so I linger,
continue lingering with hallowed
dreams, as the afternoon's equipoise
reminds us of rugged winter times.
Truth
... is an astonishing mountain
have you seen it?
derelict joys, tears of sadness
every passing shadow is truth
celestial mountains, abode of
unreleased dreams
let's climb this mountain
to unwind, midst cloudy,
tumultuous seas.
Words
They numb me
talk to me
in whispering solitude
yoke me into water tight dreams
elude me, when I
want to escape
spill me over to
yester years, bringing wraiths
catch me unawares as I write,
speak forbidden truths
wait for me in zones
of discomfort
they are; what I am, or not
Yet with hauteur
they striptease me
into importunate surrender.
Tree
Now I am alone
alone as the tree
with its drooping dismembered self
planted for nocturnal years
near the window of
a peregrinating house
the tree is taciturn
knows the sun, the hills
the moon and speckled stars
The tree stands anonymously
refusing to mingle with habitat
even when stormy skies
threaten to shake ramparts
in the whirlwind;
Views landscape
with gnarled
spreading branches like tentacles,
melting into fistful of waif like tears
We are alone the two of us
Waiting patiently like the hawk
Changing Faces
I don't like the changing faces of men
They smile when they ought to
And sad when they are not to...
I don't like the changing faces of men
They are like snipers, ready to fight
Prolonged wars, in ghostly cupboards
With leering skeletons doing somersaults
I really don't like the changing faces of men
they sport moustaches in ghoulish ways
among talk of humanism and love
Their light banter among arid ribaldry.
Contributors Biographies
Joyce Middlestead: she was born and raised on the Alberta prairie. She has written poetry for fun and little profit most of her life. Her poetry has appeared in Prairie Poetry, LZ Angel, Crossing Place Anthology, and elsewhere. The mother of two has worked for the Provincial Government for over 25 years and now dreams of retiring to an island off the west coast of British Columbia, Canada. She resides in Calgary, Canada. You can visit her website at: http://www.geocities.com/morgansdream/joy.html
Sundin Richards: his work has appeared in the Colorado Review, Interim, VOLT, and Western Humanities Review, where he took the 1999 Utah Writer’s Prize for poetry. He is a construction worker, living in Salt Lake City, UT and has no website.
Kuba Mokrasinski: he was born in 1980 in Lodz, Poland, and is a graduate of the Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznan (English philology). He has published short stories and poetry as well as translating extensively from English. His first book collection of poems, karate kon (karate horse), was published in 2004. He is interested in combining poetry with music in an endeavour to reach out to a wide audience - has been cooperating with a Poznanian band Snowman by means of writing lyrics for them. He has also written a script for alternative theatre and co-directed a play staged at the Malta International Theatre Festival in Poznan, Poland and is working on a first antinovel as well as his MA paper on philosophy. He lives in Poznan, Poland. He has no contact webisite.
Carmen Spitznagel: for years now, photography has been one of her primary passions. She says her greatest pleasure in life is to "behold and percieve" the world around her. The images she makes are the result of her subjective sense of reality. Her portfolios include landscapes, florals, and abstracts. She lives in Waldberg, Germany. You can visit her photography website at: www.momneto-eterno.de
Rax: “Rax” is the pen name used by a lawyer who says she’s still the same lazy daydreamer kid she’s always been and always will be. Her hobbies are philosophy, cooking, and poetry. She lives in Makati, Phillippines and more of her work can be found at her blog: http://soulphantasm.blogspot.com
Alex Lemon: his poetry collections include Hallelujah Blackout (forthcoming in 2008 from Milkweed Editions), Mosquito (Tin House Books 2006) and the chapbook At Last Unfolding Congo (horse less press 2007). His poems have appeared in AGNI, BOMB, Denver Quarterly, Gulf Coast, Kenyon Review, New England Review, Open City, Pleiades and elsewhere. Among his awards are a 2005 Literature Fellowship in Poetry from the National Endowment for the Arts and a 2006 Minnesota Arts Board Grant. He co-edits LUNA: A Journal of Poetry and Translation with Ray Gonzalez and is a frequent contributor to The Bloomsbury Review. He teaches creative writing at Macalester College and lives in St. Paul, MN. His website is: www.alexlemon.com
Amanda Auchter: she the editor of Pebble Lake Review and the author of Light Under Skin (Finishing Line Press, 2006). She is the recipient of the 2005 Milton Kessler Memorial Poetry Prize from Harpur Palate and the 2005 James Wright Poetry Award from Mid-American Review. Her poetry appears in Born Magazine, Columbia Poetry Review, Crab Orchard Review, The North American Review, and elsewhere. She currently teaches in the Writers In The Schools Program in Houston, TX, where she lives. You can visit her blog at: http://alauchter.blogspot.com
David Lloyd: he works mainly with acrylics and prefers to use a loose canvas, meaning one which is not mounted or strecthed. Before approaching a gallery work, he often warms up with quick studies. He says the warm-ups usually ends-up possessing the same spirit and energy as the more complex pieces. His work has been exhibited in galleries in Houston, New Orleans and elsewhere and has also appeared on the cover of Art-New Orleans. He lives in Houston, TX and welcomes you to visit his website at: www.davidlloydgallery.com
Morgan Lucas Schuldt: is the author of Verge (Parlor Press: Free Verse Editions, forthcoming fall, 2007) and Otherhow (Kitchen Press, forthcoming spring, 2007), a chapbook. His work has appeared most recently in Verse, LIT, Diagram, Typo and Shampoo. A graduate from the University of Arizona’s MFA program, he lives in Tucson where he edits the literary journal CUE: A Journal of Prose Poetry, and the chapbook series CUE Editions. Visit his blog at: http://morganlucasschuldt.blogspot.com
Ananya S. Guha: he was born and brought up in Shillong a pretty hill town in North East India popularly known as '' Scotland Of The East''. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, ezines, websites in India and several countries abroad. He is currently a Joint Director in the Indira Gandhi National Open University, New Delhi. His hobby and, favorite past time is ' dreaming'! He also dabbles in broadcasting, which brings him great satisfaction. He says he also holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. He resides in Shillong, India. His blog is: http://thelovebook.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 Feb. 1st. Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my eclectic blog: http://www.lipterrain.blogspot.com/
my poetry blog: http://www.chantinghead.blogspot.com/
tutoring blog: http://www.miceroom.blogspot.com/
and music blog: http://www.mmant.blogspot.com/
Joyce Middlestead: she was born and raised on the Alberta prairie. She has written poetry for fun and little profit most of her life. Her poetry has appeared in Prairie Poetry, LZ Angel, Crossing Place Anthology, and elsewhere. The mother of two has worked for the Provincial Government for over 25 years and now dreams of retiring to an island off the west coast of British Columbia, Canada. She resides in Calgary, Canada. You can visit her website at: http://www.geocities.com/morgansdream/joy.html
Sundin Richards: his work has appeared in the Colorado Review, Interim, VOLT, and Western Humanities Review, where he took the 1999 Utah Writer’s Prize for poetry. He is a construction worker, living in Salt Lake City, UT and has no website.
Kuba Mokrasinski: he was born in 1980 in Lodz, Poland, and is a graduate of the Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznan (English philology). He has published short stories and poetry as well as translating extensively from English. His first book collection of poems, karate kon (karate horse), was published in 2004. He is interested in combining poetry with music in an endeavour to reach out to a wide audience - has been cooperating with a Poznanian band Snowman by means of writing lyrics for them. He has also written a script for alternative theatre and co-directed a play staged at the Malta International Theatre Festival in Poznan, Poland and is working on a first antinovel as well as his MA paper on philosophy. He lives in Poznan, Poland. He has no contact webisite.
Carmen Spitznagel: for years now, photography has been one of her primary passions. She says her greatest pleasure in life is to "behold and percieve" the world around her. The images she makes are the result of her subjective sense of reality. Her portfolios include landscapes, florals, and abstracts. She lives in Waldberg, Germany. You can visit her photography website at: www.momneto-eterno.de
Rax: “Rax” is the pen name used by a lawyer who says she’s still the same lazy daydreamer kid she’s always been and always will be. Her hobbies are philosophy, cooking, and poetry. She lives in Makati, Phillippines and more of her work can be found at her blog: http://soulphantasm.blogspot.com
Alex Lemon: his poetry collections include Hallelujah Blackout (forthcoming in 2008 from Milkweed Editions), Mosquito (Tin House Books 2006) and the chapbook At Last Unfolding Congo (horse less press 2007). His poems have appeared in AGNI, BOMB, Denver Quarterly, Gulf Coast, Kenyon Review, New England Review, Open City, Pleiades and elsewhere. Among his awards are a 2005 Literature Fellowship in Poetry from the National Endowment for the Arts and a 2006 Minnesota Arts Board Grant. He co-edits LUNA: A Journal of Poetry and Translation with Ray Gonzalez and is a frequent contributor to The Bloomsbury Review. He teaches creative writing at Macalester College and lives in St. Paul, MN. His website is: www.alexlemon.com
Amanda Auchter: she the editor of Pebble Lake Review and the author of Light Under Skin (Finishing Line Press, 2006). She is the recipient of the 2005 Milton Kessler Memorial Poetry Prize from Harpur Palate and the 2005 James Wright Poetry Award from Mid-American Review. Her poetry appears in Born Magazine, Columbia Poetry Review, Crab Orchard Review, The North American Review, and elsewhere. She currently teaches in the Writers In The Schools Program in Houston, TX, where she lives. You can visit her blog at: http://alauchter.blogspot.com
David Lloyd: he works mainly with acrylics and prefers to use a loose canvas, meaning one which is not mounted or strecthed. Before approaching a gallery work, he often warms up with quick studies. He says the warm-ups usually ends-up possessing the same spirit and energy as the more complex pieces. His work has been exhibited in galleries in Houston, New Orleans and elsewhere and has also appeared on the cover of Art-New Orleans. He lives in Houston, TX and welcomes you to visit his website at: www.davidlloydgallery.com
Morgan Lucas Schuldt: is the author of Verge (Parlor Press: Free Verse Editions, forthcoming fall, 2007) and Otherhow (Kitchen Press, forthcoming spring, 2007), a chapbook. His work has appeared most recently in Verse, LIT, Diagram, Typo and Shampoo. A graduate from the University of Arizona’s MFA program, he lives in Tucson where he edits the literary journal CUE: A Journal of Prose Poetry, and the chapbook series CUE Editions. Visit his blog at: http://morganlucasschuldt.blogspot.com
Ananya S. Guha: he was born and brought up in Shillong a pretty hill town in North East India popularly known as '' Scotland Of The East''. His poems have been published in journals, magazines, ezines, websites in India and several countries abroad. He is currently a Joint Director in the Indira Gandhi National Open University, New Delhi. His hobby and, favorite past time is ' dreaming'! He also dabbles in broadcasting, which brings him great satisfaction. He says he also holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. He resides in Shillong, India. His blog is: http://thelovebook.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 Feb. 1st. Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my eclectic blog: http://www.lipterrain.blogspot.com/
my poetry blog: http://www.chantinghead.blogspot.com/
tutoring blog: http://www.miceroom.blogspot.com/
and music blog: http://www.mmant.blogspot.com/
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