Sunday, August 1, 2010

Issue Forty Three
Editor's Note:

Welcome to Issue Forty Three of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my child likes totem poles and the smell of fresh garlic. It craves lemon meringue pie and makes cute little sounds at the first sight of a citrus grove. Baby has an uncanny ability to come up with better ways to sell icebergs to Qatar. We both like Palm Jumeirahs in our banana splits. This issue examines the whole reclamation process. It is filled with blueberries sprinkled over muesli. Add to that, a group of poets bungie jumping, music from watermelon seeds and fancy emperor's clothes in a book review and you've got the possibility for a complete economic recovery. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll never think of freeze-dried food the same way. Or mosquito nets on tents. Either way, you'll long to stop in the name of love. So wig your wam and get busy...
CSR: Issue 43 Contents/Contributors

Elisha Porat

Tammy Ho Lai-Ming

Rodney Koeneke

Nicolas Genette

Les Wicks

Ken Gurney

Lisa Zaran

About Art - Wheel of Justice

Linda Rennie

About Books

About Music - Roberto Fonseca

Michael Estabrook

Earl Wilcox

Contributors Biographies
Elisha Porat

Oh, Andalusia

Oh my light-washed
Andalusia . Oh my sweet
Andalusia . Oh my bitter
and cherished Palestina. Oh my
springtime Palestina. The terrible Lorca
already strolls your plazas:
As if he had just now emerged
from between the delightful pages of
Eliaz' delicate and lovely translation.
I follow him, enter
into his eyes: knives rest
under the roses and terror has nestled itself
among the palm branches. And the purity
of the bridal dress becomes entangled in the rope
of the assassin, who is crouched in hiding.

Bloody Aquifer

In this late spring, in the time before
the first summer fruits, I cruise
the roadways idly.
My mortal eye sees:
stalks of withered hollyhock and clusters of
dill, among the blossoming vegetables.
But with my other eye I
see in your deep basins,
Oh my beloved ravaged land,
blood gathering and draining: from under
the scorching subsoil, your bloody
groundwater surfaces, rises and floods.

A Sudden Stop

Yes, I too was once embraced
by warm legs, and a loving
body opened itself to me, a passionate
cheek was pressed to my mouth,
soft, damp and salty with tears.
And there was a time when I walked around
half drunk, as if I too
was a permanent guest: at
the table set with wine, flowers,
the shining marble of the ballroom of life.

And then, as I was pushed backwards
down the corridor, and a distracted orderly navigated
my stretcher, I was placed flush against
the elevator wall, that creaked croaked
shook everything, as my body trembled.
And once again, sweating, I saw flashes
of electric light, floors moving upwards
doors downwards, and I grew anxious there:
without wine, without flowers or marble,
I waited shrunken, withdrawn,
as I absorbed the shock of the sudden stop.

On A Coastal Road

Yes, I too was once embraced
by warm legs, and a loving
body opened itself to me, a passionate
cheek was pressed to my mouth,
soft, damp and salty with tears.
And there was a time when I walked around
half drunk, as if I toowas a permanent guest: at
the table set with wine, flowers,
the shining marble of the ballroom of life.

And then, as I was pushed backwards
down the corridor, and a distracted orderly navigated
my stretcher, I was placed flush against
the elevator wall, that creaked croaked
shook everything, as my body trembled.
And once again, sweating, I saw flashes
of electric light, floors moving upwards
doors downwards, and I grew anxious there:
without wine, without flowers or marble,
I waited shrunken, withdrawn,
as I absorbed the shock of the sudden stop.

South Lebanon, 1985

- all poems translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Esiner
Tammy Ho Lai-Ming

The Milkmaid's Speech

He has fallen in love with another woman
known in the village for her frequent pregnancy
not long after he taught me passion:
His full cracked lips on my blushing cheeks—

That hateful serpent, ‘concupiscible’: she dances,
sings, draws & quilts. She reads Dante,
whatever or whoever that is.
She knows much about first-rate laces.
She can speak to phantoms, truly;
& she puts on this other-worldly air.
More importantly: she has sizeable breasts.

And I milk cows.

It Could Happen You Know

It could happen you know. Things die.
A fish loses its life to something bigger
in the food chain. A baby’s strangled
for choosing the wrong sex.
Tomorrow the sky may go all dark;
everywhere you look there’s nothing to see.

It could also happen you know. People love.
He loves her she loves him the world turns a blind eye.
When it does look it sees in one tiny corner they
have built their miniature world. No one else can go near.
He loves her she loves him.
In their world his kisses send shivers to every tree limb.
When he enters her, completely, her moans
suspend flying geese, their faces shine
brighter, the future seems to cease.

Future Bride
for Jeff Zroback

Dare I address private words to you
in public? Yes, I do.
I owe you these lines, long overdue.

When we were kids, you had blond hair,
my hair was black. Your skin pale, easily freckled.
Mine was sallow, yellow, they say, in the sun.
But who cares? Now our skin is one,
when you lift your fingers and grease my back
when you pat my shoulders, help me through
an anxiety attack. Even our hair
now blends in the bathtub drain.

You are my editor, difficult words made plain.
You are my oyster sauce and good habits.
You are my occasional Champagne.
You are the doors I squeeze through
before closing, you let me in, I you.

You have asked, millions of times,
and this time, I reply:
From our first meeting,
I saw a future bride.

Lying Scorpio
for Donna Fox

He once sent her a song with a refrain that went like this:
‘November rain is bluest to lying Scorpios.’
That was in the early days
when he wasn’t scared to be mean.
Nothing bonds two
as muchas the willingness to tease
& be teased.

They were each engaged to another.
But in the early days, that didn’t matter.
They were innocent like fat marshmallows
on separate BBQ sticks; and they agreed it was best
to only write poems about rain, about politics,
about Winter months. Others could write passionately
on little games involving fingers & mouths.

Then something happened. He sent more songs:
Tangled up in Blue, Don't be a Slave of Conscience,
Love Me Tender. All the poems
now meant nothing. He could no longer
truly write, write truthfully—too scared to betray
his unbidden thoughts of the recipient.

She listened to the songs often. She knew
the early days had passed & there’s no turning back.
She knew what bonded them, now bonded tighter.
But she remained silent for all the Summer.

Then, fallen petals, brown & wizened, everywhere.
Already, he had found someone else
who praised his choice of songs.
When November came, she said to herself:
I don’t love him. I never did.
Rodney Koeneke


Across the news, the moon
to feed the hungry?
or trace silver cantos
in dark collegiate forecourts.
Its deeds are so minimal
by map it’s still night
rich and lustrous and poor enough
for America's urban and suburban area to shine into,
a satellite for motto
phone number of the inventor of the lyric
possibly Ambrel’s party photo pics
a rite of custom brings us each together
to prefer or be judged by non-applause.


the silence, the season
the centaurs returning
a day for the razors,
the Lapiths in cups
women, the moon
the centaurs with daggers:
turn back from our women,
turn back to the wood
beasts on the friezes
eternally turning
moon on the temple
o women, return.


Meet me at the autumn gate
where planes collect to skin the imperial
lake with discharged verdure. Everything Kenny dismisses
is actually interesting: you will see the ducts
as we continue to walk a little,
this month of quiet weather
subtracting the thorns from the rose.
Look where the willows thread their fingers
through dust outside the gate:
all ceremony of motion has stopped
the traffic stilled
moons distribute coins indifferently
to the poor and the lightless hushed against the walls
pretending to autumns
officials don’t feel
except sometimes in willows.
Come to the Gate of Autumn
I am distracted and Kenny dismissed
everything anyone dismisses is actually interesting
the oak released from the forest,
willows moved back from road.
Dawn touches the butte, we are leaving.
Cold orb, where I think to find the way,
say no.

-all three poems previously published at Work

rob pollard

The pier has lost its need of the lake.
Was it so easy for the lake to disappear?

-previously published at Dusie
Photography by Nicolas Genette

Les Wicks

Someone Slipping Up

This isolated cottage is hectic
as mice, millipedes & termites are battling for supremacy.
Winter sun - coaxing in its last hours
my heart is beating like a sieve
on a hunched verandah.
The family are too far away.
Possums fighting on the roof at nightwords wasted,
turned to tin with sharpened points.

-previously published at Shampoo


I last saw him in John’s car
swatting demons from his hair (that
choice of a horror movie
was not a good idea) the marijuana
was a blessing.

Emails come in from Mexico she
almost died after the sex change operation
but still gardens a dry-climate peace with
fronds of fellow complexities, paints
out front of her gallery.

The art is a blaze, saw
this cascade on a website. Her
girlfriend is famous, not least
for those wings tattooed across her back.
Aloft, everyone, no decision.
That promise of cash & burn.
Our children playing in the scars.

-previously published at Jacket 40

Set Free

Beside water
I find a space, read again your letter.
A pregnant wattle leans over my shoulder.
We understand
that even light is captured.
Beside water
bishops decide to quit.
A teenager buries a knife in the coarse riverbed sand.
We go
& are blessed (in our ways)
irregardless of choice, pretension or wound.
Birds call out, but not to us.

-previously published at Cordite Poetry Review

Guide To

Perth needs a little more time
it’s kinda a pert &
under gantry is
constructing its H just
part of a broader growth-spurt the
energy of stones.

Tinplate ghosts, another people’s river
“workable” red timber
basic travel writing
comfortable shoes
worn on the head to protect from glare.
Our will, the surrender
be still, be tender.

Today is its wind.
I’m the Joe at Cottesloe, then light
Swanbourne indeed, Melon Hill, 360°
seems too many,
Ok be aloft - Kings Park is a launch pad
bind us tight against gravity
the dogs all know
their splash of tongues is anchor,
all is heaven scent.
This acclamation of signs
this muscular tidiness.

-previously published at foam:e
Ken Gurney


This lumbering sleep
meanders through
the frenzied black.
Dianne slaps the pillow
four times, swats
separate moon beams.
Her trembled body
tasks a whole breath
to a staggered minute.
This curtain I close
traps the moonlight
within the bulbous comforter.
When she wide-eye stares
at me, sees nothing, my startled
breath exclaims her waking.

Paula? Karla? Emilia?

Whoever you are
I will not be here
in the morning
to accept
the pottery shard
upon which
you serve
the eggs
and fried potatoes
and I think
the floral pattern
of your house
attracts more bees
than butterflies
though it does smell
and while your
clock ticked
with great consistency
I counted
all the books
on your shelves
and there are
about the civil war
and only two
new york times
best sellers
and over
eleven hundred
poetry books
by authors
I do not recognize
and twenty-six
by poets I’ve read.


My friend, Sara,
tells me I won’t be in Heaven
for various reasons
mostly having to do
with my not being a Christian.
I know she says it out of concern,
not spite or being mean spirited.
I know, as a good Christian,
she loves me in spite of my
glaring religious deficiency.
I know she says prayers
for my good health, and
that on my own, I will find a way
toward her heaven.
I love Sara, too, and send
my heathen-pagan prayers
to her and her family
wishing them the best
of life and health and happiness.
Only geographic distances
keep our friendship quiet
and her days busy themselves
raising a child and loving her husband.
Sara never spelled out to me
how she views the Christian heaven,
but I know a little bit of it
would be spending time with Sara―
which I did for many years
on this wondrous Earth
and count every one of those days

Two P.M. Tuesday

The sign said back in an hour,
but she lives via New Mexico time:
so she might return tomorrow,
or some day later in the week,
or she’s at the bar next door
with an early margarita
or she’s back and forgot
to take down the sign.
Lisa Zaran


From your pocket so obliquely
you pulled me out
and readily, I found a comfortable
position in your palm.

If your voice is heaven,
I've been acquainted with it for years.
Does this mean I've died ten thousand times?

I just assumed I was dreaming.
That it was my midnight
which created your mouth
and the songs pouring out

seemed to me like light
the color of cyclamen.
Maybe the ache I feel is nothing
more than a yearning toward

absolution which I find
again and again in the corner
of your pants pocket, closest to the groin.
Am I being romantic?


Some nights, when the moon is so slim
it won't stroke up a chat and the stars
by some sleight of fate get stage fright
the sky so dark like make-believe,

I'm uncertain.
Is this a sort of wantonness inside
myself or did broad daylight ever exist?
The dead, whom are nameless remain
nameless still. I keep coming across

my fathers grave covered in leaves
and human grit, buried beneath the umbrella
of a mesquite, indescribable the scent
of exhumed dreams, the flavor like spit

tobacco. Be quiet. I repeat a litany
in the confines of my own midnight head.
Stop dreaming. Hush. Keep your mouth. Shut!
The last word rips from my throat.


I keep seeing mountains
in layers, gray and grayer
trespasses leading to another world

I don't want to ruin
my new skirt trying to climb
or break one precious bone

against some tweaked stone
I know
is waiting there for me.

Eye Of The Beholder

is just an eye
dotted with puffiness

the average eye
framed by a face

of varying age
with splintery whiskers

and a mouth
which has spoken shame

like the rest of us

tongue languishing
in its guilty cave

the eye, a different
flower altogether

that sways like any
when the breeze shifts.

Outdoor Art - The Wheel of Justice

Cast in the form of an ancient totem animated by primitive figures and vegatative forms, the oxidized bronze Wheel of Justice appears at first glance to have been unearthed from a Mayan archeological site. On closer inspection, it is clearly of our time, being decorated with aphorisms such as “Danger Invites Rescue” and “The Cry of Distress Is the Summons to Relief.”

The figures include policemen and families, everyday objects such as a telephone, and symbolic flowers from the Queens County flag. The wheel is mounted in the center of the pleasant courtyard in front of the colonnaded Supreme Court building; the sculptural ensemble also includes granite benches inscribed with the names of towns in Queens.

The outdoor sculpture was designed by Ed McGowin and Claudia DeMonte, in 1998 as part of the Collection of the City of New York, ans was sponsored by the Percent for Art Program of the Department of Cultural Affairs. It is located in front of Queens Supreme Court, 88-11 Sutphin Boulevard at 89th Avenue, Jamaica in New York City. Find out more at:
Artwork by Linda Rennie

About Books:

Title: Witch Dance
Author: Glenna Luschei

Description: In this collection Glenna Luschei responses to the death of her husband Bill in poems that are as brave and biting as curry spices. This is a lively musical collection of colors and shapes put to words that wash over the reader like watercolor washing over art paper. There is a definite clarity, a meaning, and a purpose. Witch Dance celebrates the elements that make up life and death,with images that are full-blooded, breathtaking, and wildly imagined. She mines the depths of words and comes out with the canary singing on her shoulder. Long after the poems have ended, you feel the dust each stanza has stirred around underfoot.  

Product Details:
Printed: 6 x 8 inches, 84 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9800081-7-3
Copyright: 2010
Language: English
Country: USA
Publisher’s Link:

About Music - Roberto Fonseca

Roberto Fonseca (born 1975, Havana) is a Cuban jazz pianist.. From an early age, Fonseca was surrounded by music: his father was a drummer, his mother, Mercedes Cortes Alfaro, a professional singer (she sings on her son’s album, Zamazu), and his two older half-brothers, Emilio Valdés (drums) and Jesús “Chuchito” Valdés Jr. (Piano) are also two young musicians of great international prestige.

After an early interest in drums, Fonseca switched to piano at the age of 8, and by 14 was experimenting with fusing American jazz and traditional Cuban rhythms; he appeared at Havana’s Jazz Plaza Festival in 1991 when he was just 15. He studied at the Cuba’s prestigious Instituto Superior de Arte, where he obtained a Master’s degree in composition, even though he often says that he was a really bad student. After earning his degree, he left Cuba to find his sound.

His first album, En El Comienzo, which he recorded with Javier Zalba and the group Temperamento, was awarded “Cuba’s Best Jazz Album” in 1999. This success encouraged him to work on two solo records: Tiene Que Ver and Elengo, combining latin jazz, drum and bass, hip-hop, urban music and Afro-Cuban rhythms.

In 2001, Fonseca went to Japan to record No Limit: Afro Cuban Jazz. He also toured with the Buena Vista Social Club the same year and has worked with Rubén González, Ibrahim Ferrer, Cachaito, Guajiro Mirabal and Manuel Galbán. In the 2003 he continued turning with Ibrahim Ferrer promoting Good Tour Brothers visiting the U.S.A., Europe and Asia in more than 80 shows. He has been acclaimed so much by the public as by the critic in each concert and its Temperament I make the opening of the show of Ibrahim Ferrer in Europe 2003 in but the prestigious theaters like Frankfurt Alter Oper in Frankfurt, Palais de Congres in Paris or the famous Albert Hall in London with a great success. 2004 saw more tours to Eastern Europe and South America. His latest album is called “Akokan.” Find out more at:
Michael Estabrook

Just doing His Job

I used to wonder if Johnny
and Lois would ever get back together
after his second marriage became
all fucked-up.
I wondered if John would want
his girl back again,
the sweet little thing he fell in love with
when he was only 17.

I remember he glued her photo
onto the dash of his shiny, new GTO.
I remember him on her heels
like a guard dog through
the high school halls
ensuring no other guy would touch her
or even look at her.
I remember talking him down
after her inspection at
the gynecologist’s, saying,
“He’s a doctor, John, for Christ’s sake,
a doctor, he’s just doing his job,
what’s all the fuss about?”

I couldn’t understand why
such a thing would bother him.
But now, strangely,
after all these years have passed,
I find myself jealous and possessive
over my wife’s visits to her doctor.
Seems no matter what she goes
to see him for, he needs to be poking her
and feeling her in places
that should be reserved only for me.
I mean, he’s a guy isn't he?
and she’s still a beautiful woman.
The things these doctors get away with!
Funny to hear her say to me,
“He’s a doctor, Mike, for Christ’s sake,
a doctor, he’s just doing his job,
what’s all the fuss about?”

Landscapes, Plumbers, And Electricians

Six years and hundreds of workouts
with my Kung Fu instructor
and his students: tough guys all,
carpenters, roofers, car mechanics,
landscapers, plumbers, and electricians.
Endless kicking, punching, blocking,
speed exercises and precise controlled forms,
push-ups, sit-ups, leg raises,
panther walks and frog hops back and forth,
back and forth, back and forth
across the hard school floor.
All this sweat and strain and pain,
getting wacked in the mouth,
my hands and forearms swollen, black and blue,
my shins throbbing. (“How can you kick that bag
so hard with only your shin?”)
And all this essentially for my wife,
to protect her should the occasion arise.
And I just found out
that she never thought all that much
of my Kung Fu practice,
wasn’t impressed which of course I wanted her to be.
She thought it was low class and beneath me.
But well, in this modern world,
it turned out to be
the only manly thing I got to do.

Philip Larkin

Friday evening resting in the family room,
the television off, quiet in here for a change,
only the rush of cars
speeding along High Street,
heading home for the weekend.
“Boy, do I ever need this weekend,”
I said to Bob over lunch –
turkey and cheese sandwich, a small container
of fresh blueberries. “Me too,” he responded.

Sitting home now my feet up on the coffee table,
book propped on my lapdesk on a pillow on my lap,
reading about Philip Larkin.
I have his “Collected Poems” downstairs
in my library, but am not that familiar
with his work, so I’ll read some soon.
Anyway, at one time he was very popular
in England , but after he died his personality
got in the way: “racism, misogyny,
and quasi-fascist views.” So now he sits
alone and lonely in clouds of dust on the bookshelf.
But I don’t know about all that,
I guess I need to read him to learn more
and make up my own mind because after all,
as Martin Amis reminds us, “only the poem matters.”
Yes, yes indeed, only the poem.

Simply Eating Her Salad

Sometimes I become completely overwhelmed
by merely being in her presence,
my chest tightening, heart racing,
like when I was a teenager and first
fell in love with her, helplessly, hopelessly.

Like this afternoon
at McDonald’s with the grandchildren,
I became suddenly choked with emotion,
barely able to speak,
while simply watching her
sitting there eating her salad, quietly,
unassumingly, absorbed in a world of her own,
the most perfect creature I have ever seen.

I had to work at not crying,
(What a silly spectacle I would have been.)
dabbing at my eyes
with a crumpled McDonald’s napkin.
“Guess my eyes are watering
because it’s so cold outside.”
(Sure, nice try, you silly old man.)

I can understand being so smitten
when you first fall in love – how can you help it!
The beauty, the youth, the vigor and vitality,
the inescapable mystery of it all,
crashing over you like an avalanche in the Alps .
But come on! I’ve been at this now a long time,
with this woman almost half a century!
How could it be possible
that I still get all choked up watching her
sitting there simply eating her salad?
Earl J. Wilcox

Bill Gates and the Poet
for Richard Wilbur on his birthday

In his Frost-country cottage, the poet
and his trusty L. C. Smith typewriter
labor in clear harmony this morning.
The machine does its clacking act
when the writer pounds the keys.
Only one whose finger muscles
are still strong enough to clutch
an axe handle or milk a cow, if need be,
can muster strength to strike with
force worn-down letters like y or z,
and others when pressed into action.
Here there is no angst or desire
for the ease which a chichi computer
keyboard could offer to curtail
the constant pain in the right hand
or the left one, too, for that matter.
Poet and typewriter conspire, create
a new song amid the view from the
open cottage window, where Bill Gates
seems irrelevant, does not intrude.

Hitchhiking In A Minor Key

Bach’s C Minor Fugue fills the car from my stereo.
I adjust the AC, sip from a bottle of flavored water.
Rounding a craggy mountain curve, I spot you,
yellow shirt dangling loosely across your brown arm.
You flip the shirt, a signal you’re hitching. Speeding
too fast to stop, I glimpse your suntanned face, a
smile radiant and sustained as Bach’s fashioned fugue.
After three decades now, I can still hear Dad’s voice:
“Don’t pick up hitchhikers. They’ll rape and kill you.”
In the ‘70s, the news about hitchers was always bad,
gentle hippies taking blame for savage deaths done
by road walkers attacking unwise, unwary drivers.
Bach’s Fugue completes its coda. I drive into the cool,
Appalachian spring morning, wonder if Dad was right.

An Incomplete History of Baseballs

In a plain, unpainted basket---made to hold peaches
or some fruit long ago eaten and forgotten---a batch
of scarred and battered baseballs is piled up. Our brood
has collected the balls over the years, tossed them into
drawers, under beds, in closets. One flew on a line drive
toward my wife. The date on that ball helps us recall
how fast balls fly, aimlessly choosing who they might hit.
Sometimes I toss a ball in the air, run a thumb over its
rough ridges, imagine who threw it. Can’t tell which balls
Granddad held in his hands near the end of his 90 years,
50 spent as a small town leftie who tried out for the Detroit
Tigers in the ‘30s. Baseballs tell us nothing of their history;
won’t say which ones my son and I pitched before he left
early for the outfield near the corn patch, like a player in
Fields of Dreams. But no matter if baseballs don't talk.
They tell stories as a team, fill an unpainted basket.

Southern Sunday
for Elizabeth

It was the spring after you had been to China,
where you first ate eel, snake, dog, and hundred-
year old eggs. Snapped on a Sunday after a lunch
of quiche or the other family favorite, chicken,
the picture blossoms with a background of azaleas
festooned against a latticed wooden fence our
neighbors built to ward off the likes of us who play
Beatles, Bono, or Bach at all hours, laugh
with the heartiest, look happy in photographs.
In the picture, our sons and I wear tee shirts you
bought in Hong Kong or was it Beijing where
you dashed with friends to a KFC for wings and
soggy veggies you would never touch at home
because you had lost weight from not eating food
served in a dingy Outer Mongolian hut or on the
trains from the large cities to the tiny hovels with
TV sets, where gaunt Chinese exist in places guide-
books fail to mention. Southern men, we look overfed.
The two boys squat behind me, like a pair of baseball
catchers waiting for the pitch---perhaps a screwball
or a knuckler nobody can catch much less hit. We
all look much younger than I can see in my mind’s
eye now: robust, smiling, happy faces caught in a
spring snapshot brimming with sass which you had
sense enough to notice. Bright red, Chinese logos on
our tee shirts date the picture which remains timeless.
Contributors Biographies

Elisha Porat

Bio: he has published 21 volumes of fiction and poetry, in Hebrew, since 1973, including his latest, My Reprive Is Still Valid (Hakibbutz Hameuchad Pub., 2005). His works have appeared in translation in Israel , the United States , Canada and England. His poetry has been published in Porcupine, Midstream, Tikkun, Ariel, Rattle, Oyster Boy Review, Deep South, Boston Review, and elsewhere. The English translation of his second stories collection, Payback (Wind River Press) was published in 2002. His book Episode, a biographical novel ("Y&H" Publishers, Israel) was released in 2006. Born in Kibbutz Ein Hahoresh in 1938 he still lives in Israel. Visit him at:

Tammy Ho Lai-Ming

Bio: she is co-editor of Love & Lust, Co-author of 'Their Voices, Varied and Many', aka Sighming, is a Hong Kong-born and -based writer. She is the editor of HKU Writing: An Anthology (March, 2006), a co-editor of Word Salad Poetry Magazine and a co-founder of Cha: An Asian Literary Journal. She frequently writes with Reid Mitchell. She is a Hong-Kong-born and based writer. Visit her at:

Rodney Koeneke

Bio: he is author of the poetry collections Musee Mechanique (BlazeVOX, 2006) and Rouge State (Pavement Saw, 2003). Rules For Drinking Forties, a chapbook, appeared from Cy Press in 2009; another, Names of the Hits (of Diane Warren), is due from OMG Press in 2010. He lives in Portland, OR where he helps curate the Tangent Reading Series and blogs regularly about poetry at Modern Americans:

Nicolas Genette

Bio: he was born in 1976 and grew up between the beaches of the island of Houat and the countryside of the Auvergne province in France. He sailed mainly dinghies competitively for 15 years. Perhaps it was his passion for quantum physics and his attraction to the universe in all its forms that led him to a career in computer-generated images and animations. But a real passion for the world and the nature of things less technical and more naturally intuitive led him to art photography, which allows him to express a purer, more traditional approach to understanding the meaning of life, centered on observation and composition. He still resides in France. Visit him at:

Les Wicks

Bio: he has been a figure of substance in the Australian literary community for 35 years, a guest at most of the nation’s literary festivals, and been published in well over 200 newspapers, anthologies and magazines across 12 countries in 7 languages. A publisher and editor he conducts one of the best-known poetry workshop templates in the country. From Hobart to Byron Bay to Perth, he has for years been enthusing and challenging developing writers in his Plan to Be Published program. He lives in South Wales, Australia. Visit him at:

Ken Gurney

Bio: he edits Adobe Walls an anthology of NM poetry. His poetry has appears mostly on the web and sometimes in print due to his habit of spending SASE and reading fee monies on Ginger Spice cookies for his Dianne. His latest book is An Accident Practiced. He resides in Albuquerque, NM. For a publication record of Gurney's poems visit his website at

Lisa Zaran

Bio: she is the author of six collections including The Blondes Lay Content and The Sometimes Girl. Founder and editor of Contemporay American Voices, most current homes for her work include SONS, a museum in Kruishoutem, Belgium, Literature- an Introduction to Reading and Writing published by Pearson, Duece Coupe, Nomad's Choir Poetry Journal, The 6S Love Book, Gloom Cupboard, Best of the Web Anthology and Not a Muse Anthology. Three of her poems have been recently performed by Radio Theatre Group in Glasgow, Scotland. She lives and writes in Arizona. Visit her at:

Linda Rennie

Bio: she was born in Glasgow Scotland, and grew up surrounded by natural beauty. With my first camera, from my Grandfather, she escaped into the world of photography. When she moved to Texas in 1982, she continued to enjoy photography and surrounded herself with art and music. Years later, she put brush to canvas and found a new passion, recently discovering the art of reverse painting on acrylic. This process has allowed her to create interesting dimensional art work, as she experiments in attaching the floating paintings to frames of wood and acrylic. She lives in Dallas. Visit her at:

Michael Estabrook

Bio: he is a baby boomer who began getting his poetry published in the late 1980s. Over the years he has published 15 poetry chapbooks, his most recent entitled “They Didn’t Leave Notes.” Other interests include art, music, theatre, opera, and his wife who just happens to be the most beautiful woman he has ever known. They live in Acton, Massachusetts. Email him at:

Earl J. Wilcox

Bio: he began writing poetry at age 71, a few years ago. In his previous incarnation he founded The Robert Frost Review, published several academic essays and books, and was a university teacher in the USA, Greece, and England. He held Fulbright grants to teaching in Greece and Thailand. His poetry has appeared in more than two dozen journals in print and online. He writes about baseball, aging, Southern culture, birding, gardening, literary figures, and poets. He lives in Rock Hill, South Carolina, about which he frequently also writes poetry. You can visit him at:

Closing Note: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on Sept. 1st. Copyright 2010 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.

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