Monday, November 1, 2010
Editor's Note:
Welcome to Issue Forty Six of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my child likes stevie in the wonder and an architect in the angel. It craves collard sunbeams in its stary stary night and makes cute little sounds at the first sight of a box of crayons. Baby has an uncanny ability to Inuits in a hulu skirt. This issue examines the leaky war reports. It is filled with peace plans in the curry. Add to that, a group of poets but no Lay-Z-Boy recliner, music to shag a carpet by and oatmeal in the book review and you've got the possibility of an entirely new species of frogs. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll never want to watch live election night returns again. Or bed bugs to the recuse! Either way, never buy used furniture without careful examination. Now, blow your nose and get busy...
Welcome to Issue Forty Six of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my child likes stevie in the wonder and an architect in the angel. It craves collard sunbeams in its stary stary night and makes cute little sounds at the first sight of a box of crayons. Baby has an uncanny ability to Inuits in a hulu skirt. This issue examines the leaky war reports. It is filled with peace plans in the curry. Add to that, a group of poets but no Lay-Z-Boy recliner, music to shag a carpet by and oatmeal in the book review and you've got the possibility of an entirely new species of frogs. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll never want to watch live election night returns again. Or bed bugs to the recuse! Either way, never buy used furniture without careful examination. Now, blow your nose and get busy...
Felino A. Soriano
Approbations 502
—after Marcin Wasilewski Trio’s The First Touch
of a Summer hand
heated prisms pointed inward:
humidity
of agape sincerity, skin
bathe, virtuous societal neoteric custom
calls
toward listening anthology of bodies:
walk, tempted relay the heard spines
curving toward emotional stints : smiles
overcome burgundy clouds
squatting before releasing slants of wet
atop those heading toward praise.
Approbations 504
—after Ana Fort’s Lullaby
Hands have their various voices: embrace, twist
reinvent shades of documented chaos. Too
voices have their various hands: embrace, twist
control environmental shades of
the young one’s necessary modes
of interpretative rest.
Approbations 514
—after Noah Howard’s You All
know
among skeletal glances
her face asterisk
denotes italicized semblance
feature forward anger
butterfly drunkard bounce:
glare, yes, the eye of your love
silk at times (pleasurable too; such farness)
now however
shard-blend physical violation,
touché to the forgotten
tongue (yours)
misplacing
anniversary surprises
late, too, yes
wallet non-finite
cannot reclaim smile of yesterday’s
moment of emblematic, enigmatic
prompting.
Approbations 516
---after John Coltrane's and Don Cherry's The Blessing
Resembles silvery stutter of wings, apparitional
hurry,
recalling the name
of illustrative contour
corresponding annex
growth human etching
gilded
as the gliding concept
overwhelming quotidian constructs
famous for clichéd signals foreboding
aggregated sheep. Stilled. Requiring
interpretation’s orchestrated boons
heard
nearest translation of intertwining air
hovering
the lake’s turquoise
construct of rippling ambulation.
Approbations 502
—after Marcin Wasilewski Trio’s The First Touch
of a Summer hand
heated prisms pointed inward:
humidity
of agape sincerity, skin
bathe, virtuous societal neoteric custom
calls
toward listening anthology of bodies:
walk, tempted relay the heard spines
curving toward emotional stints : smiles
overcome burgundy clouds
squatting before releasing slants of wet
atop those heading toward praise.
Approbations 504
—after Ana Fort’s Lullaby
Hands have their various voices: embrace, twist
reinvent shades of documented chaos. Too
voices have their various hands: embrace, twist
control environmental shades of
the young one’s necessary modes
of interpretative rest.
Approbations 514
—after Noah Howard’s You All
know
among skeletal glances
her face asterisk
denotes italicized semblance
feature forward anger
butterfly drunkard bounce:
glare, yes, the eye of your love
silk at times (pleasurable too; such farness)
now however
shard-blend physical violation,
touché to the forgotten
tongue (yours)
misplacing
anniversary surprises
late, too, yes
wallet non-finite
cannot reclaim smile of yesterday’s
moment of emblematic, enigmatic
prompting.
Approbations 516
---after John Coltrane's and Don Cherry's The Blessing
Resembles silvery stutter of wings, apparitional
hurry,
recalling the name
of illustrative contour
corresponding annex
growth human etching
gilded
as the gliding concept
overwhelming quotidian constructs
famous for clichéd signals foreboding
aggregated sheep. Stilled. Requiring
interpretation’s orchestrated boons
heard
nearest translation of intertwining air
hovering
the lake’s turquoise
construct of rippling ambulation.
J.V. Foerster
Reversed Shaman
He was spent, left to boil in the sun
a plump snake
in the desert dust
slippery skin
caressing dry death
all around were
stark white bone
she laying between the angry
bones of her husband, the sharp bones
of her dogs,the weeping bones of his ex-lover
looking up in horrorat her swaying
blue white skinhollow skeletal
statue of a ghost woman
rocking their child
-previously published in Eclectica Magazine
Daughter of Enigma
I will pick & choosemy sorrows carefully
call down weather
wind or fog
dance on the mounds
of my dead & lost vices.
I am an unguardedstep daughter
falling from the grace
of a good life
tumbling off the hands
of the creator, a silent
Goddess of small truths
and I am falling
falling
And I tell you
oh poor mother
oh poor father
oh poor poor
waiting family
there is no floor
no foundation
no end for a poet.
-previuosly published in Niederngasse
The Harvest
What's in the length of this poem?
How far in will the roots reach?
How far up will the stalks grow?
Or will it die
as I have allowed
so many things I love
to die before.
It is a seed to me
a tiny oily pod filled with a rich head of harvest dreams.
It carries me this poem
to the stories of my ancestors that I have wrapped my
feet in so I could dance the dance of my people
so that I could breath and
follow a good solid road
to home
The Composer
Two canned lane
Philadelphia
spouting oily dirt
he's looking for anger
to move him
to the right place
sitting for hours
black bitter coffee
buzzing his blood
songs singing soprano
a thousand mosquitoes
whispering in his ear
notes
by 11:00 he'd wave them
away with a beer.
At night fall they became
rich cacophonous symphonies
the crazy rhythm mixed up stanzas trying to
set it up right
get it down right
to play
his rifts into the hollow
night air
ringing loud
on on
for five years he has no sleep
remembering
Beethoven and that there is no peace.
-both poems previously published in Southern Ocean Review
Reversed Shaman
He was spent, left to boil in the sun
a plump snake
in the desert dust
slippery skin
caressing dry death
all around were
stark white bone
she laying between the angry
bones of her husband, the sharp bones
of her dogs,the weeping bones of his ex-lover
looking up in horrorat her swaying
blue white skinhollow skeletal
statue of a ghost woman
rocking their child
-previously published in Eclectica Magazine
Daughter of Enigma
I will pick & choosemy sorrows carefully
call down weather
wind or fog
dance on the mounds
of my dead & lost vices.
I am an unguardedstep daughter
falling from the grace
of a good life
tumbling off the hands
of the creator, a silent
Goddess of small truths
and I am falling
falling
And I tell you
oh poor mother
oh poor father
oh poor poor
waiting family
there is no floor
no foundation
no end for a poet.
-previuosly published in Niederngasse
The Harvest
What's in the length of this poem?
How far in will the roots reach?
How far up will the stalks grow?
Or will it die
as I have allowed
so many things I love
to die before.
It is a seed to me
a tiny oily pod filled with a rich head of harvest dreams.
It carries me this poem
to the stories of my ancestors that I have wrapped my
feet in so I could dance the dance of my people
so that I could breath and
follow a good solid road
to home
The Composer
Two canned lane
Philadelphia
spouting oily dirt
he's looking for anger
to move him
to the right place
sitting for hours
black bitter coffee
buzzing his blood
songs singing soprano
a thousand mosquitoes
whispering in his ear
notes
by 11:00 he'd wave them
away with a beer.
At night fall they became
rich cacophonous symphonies
the crazy rhythm mixed up stanzas trying to
set it up right
get it down right
to play
his rifts into the hollow
night air
ringing loud
on on
for five years he has no sleep
remembering
Beethoven and that there is no peace.
-both poems previously published in Southern Ocean Review
Joy Helsing
Fantasy Tour
Let's take a trip,
Just you and I,
On a Mobius strip.
I'll tell you why:
It's a fun-filled ride
Round and about
On a singular side --
No in, no out.
We'll repeat each day
With never a doubt.
We cannot stray --
Not thereabout.
Whatever we do,
Each fabulous view
We'll see anew
Is deja, deja, deja vu.
-previously published in Mobius
walking on dream feet
down a long dream street
I peer in shop windows
at baubles not there
hear the rattle of dishes
from phantom restaurants
pause to pat
an imaginary dog
-previously published in Brevities
UFO
Dropped ice cube
slides across kitchen floor
into corner cobweb
Spider rushes to fix web
pauses perhaps puzzled
by invasion of Unidentified
Frozen Object
-previoulsy published by Poetry Jumps Off the Shelf
Musing in the Museum
Eyeless
tongue-less
the skull in the glass case
reminds us
of our history
and our destiny
-previously published in Poetalk
Fantasy Tour
Let's take a trip,
Just you and I,
On a Mobius strip.
I'll tell you why:
It's a fun-filled ride
Round and about
On a singular side --
No in, no out.
We'll repeat each day
With never a doubt.
We cannot stray --
Not thereabout.
Whatever we do,
Each fabulous view
We'll see anew
Is deja, deja, deja vu.
-previously published in Mobius
walking on dream feet
down a long dream street
I peer in shop windows
at baubles not there
hear the rattle of dishes
from phantom restaurants
pause to pat
an imaginary dog
-previously published in Brevities
UFO
Dropped ice cube
slides across kitchen floor
into corner cobweb
Spider rushes to fix web
pauses perhaps puzzled
by invasion of Unidentified
Frozen Object
-previoulsy published by Poetry Jumps Off the Shelf
Musing in the Museum
Eyeless
tongue-less
the skull in the glass case
reminds us
of our history
and our destiny
-previously published in Poetalk
Amber Nelson
Poem 18
we heft our sails
their pearls
unfurl
like fingers from fists
remember how to breathe
in quiet
Poem 22
These guts are rust-
ridden & ladeled
on the table
for display. Touch
the small intestine.
Then taste your fingers.
Broken & metalled
to steel against
the coming, the burning
the fallout.
Poem 25
listen to
the quiet
trickle of
daylight
into night's
empty room
Poem 27
Try this ride along the highway
in turn stasis ate the bank
and flow tings the pave I meant
to wide sail eat cherries sea,
each wary see these breezy
yesses. Say yes. Seance. Save us.
The wheels will wile us
into heaven. Your will wilts
wildly in two havens.
Poem 18
we heft our sails
their pearls
unfurl
like fingers from fists
remember how to breathe
in quiet
Poem 22
These guts are rust-
ridden & ladeled
on the table
for display. Touch
the small intestine.
Then taste your fingers.
Broken & metalled
to steel against
the coming, the burning
the fallout.
Poem 25
listen to
the quiet
trickle of
daylight
into night's
empty room
Poem 27
Try this ride along the highway
in turn stasis ate the bank
and flow tings the pave I meant
to wide sail eat cherries sea,
each wary see these breezy
yesses. Say yes. Seance. Save us.
The wheels will wile us
into heaven. Your will wilts
wildly in two havens.
John Hoppenthaler
Tree House
Take a walk down your block at three
in the morning. Listen to things
obscured by white noise in daytime:
gargle of a gutter at the end
of Limestone Lane; mild groans
from your neighbor’s tree house;
two maples daring just a little
closer to heaven. Vast orchards
of planets spin away into kilter.
Climb the rope ladder hanging there.
Sit in that far corner where high
moons filter through leaves
& over grass clippings, weekend roses
rot on the compost pile. Flickering
bats can barely be glimpsed dipping
darkness. It will be hard to leave
if you do it right. It will be awful
to stand down again on earth.
When Rachel's Father Moved Away
a week ago, she began to sing and still
hasn't stopped. I hear her now,
trilling through leaves, perched high
in the farthest crook of the apple tree.
Her mother's concerned. "Rachel
doesn't sing well," she jokes, forcing
a grin. "It's hard hearing her lullabies
falling asleep at night, and what
about school? Maybe it's just a phase."
Walking over to the gnarled trunk,
She grabs hold of each end of a board
he'd nailed there to serve as a ladder,
peers through the branches. "Rach,
sweetie, how about a sandwich?"
But Rachel isn't hungry. Suddenly
much younger, she's into a sing-a-long
learned years ago from Barney,
that lavender dinosaur on TV:
"I love you, you love me," she chants, picks
a big, green apple. She takes a bite,
and it's bitter; then, she takes another.
-both from his poetry collection, Anticipate the Coming Reservoir
Mirage
―Ibn Batuta, a 14th century Moroccan,
became the Muslim world’s Marco Polo.
He crossed the Sahara expecting wealth
& robes of honor in Timbuktu. His gifts:
"three rounds of bread, a piece of beef
fried in gharti, a calabash with curdled milk."
Later, at a small feast of a root like taro,
all six of his party took ill. One died.
Batuta survived by forcing himself to vomit.
The world was larger than he’d imagined,
& in weakness he thought his dead friend lucky.
On the trip home, Batuta found he’d lost
rapport with the gait of camels but could now
derive a certain comfort by admiring endless
shapes of women lounging along the dunes.
The sand would never again be so forgiving.
-from his poetry collection, Lives of Water
Order To Go
Down on Main Street, the guy who owns Pizza Boutique
has bought out River Antiques
to open a family restaurant. Word in town has it that he's
got designs on Molly's, which
would rankle me―man doesn't smile, never acknowledges
my desire: "easy on the cheese."
Today I order a pie with grilled veggies, "easy on the cheese,"
head to Molly's for a quick pop,
maybe three. The barstool feels fine, like my ass tethers one
world to another, one life to hundreds
who've swiveled this seat, knocked back smoky shot glasses
of bourbon, felt heat course into
their flabby but always-hungry stomachs. Molly's sympathetic,
still easy on my eyes, and my ass
is reluctant; as I spin from the perch, lurch for the door,
it puckers up in an effort at tightness,
tries mightily to overcome the gravity of mozzarella.
-previously in The Innisfree Poetry Journal
Tree House
Take a walk down your block at three
in the morning. Listen to things
obscured by white noise in daytime:
gargle of a gutter at the end
of Limestone Lane; mild groans
from your neighbor’s tree house;
two maples daring just a little
closer to heaven. Vast orchards
of planets spin away into kilter.
Climb the rope ladder hanging there.
Sit in that far corner where high
moons filter through leaves
& over grass clippings, weekend roses
rot on the compost pile. Flickering
bats can barely be glimpsed dipping
darkness. It will be hard to leave
if you do it right. It will be awful
to stand down again on earth.
When Rachel's Father Moved Away
a week ago, she began to sing and still
hasn't stopped. I hear her now,
trilling through leaves, perched high
in the farthest crook of the apple tree.
Her mother's concerned. "Rachel
doesn't sing well," she jokes, forcing
a grin. "It's hard hearing her lullabies
falling asleep at night, and what
about school? Maybe it's just a phase."
Walking over to the gnarled trunk,
She grabs hold of each end of a board
he'd nailed there to serve as a ladder,
peers through the branches. "Rach,
sweetie, how about a sandwich?"
But Rachel isn't hungry. Suddenly
much younger, she's into a sing-a-long
learned years ago from Barney,
that lavender dinosaur on TV:
"I love you, you love me," she chants, picks
a big, green apple. She takes a bite,
and it's bitter; then, she takes another.
-both from his poetry collection, Anticipate the Coming Reservoir
Mirage
―Ibn Batuta, a 14th century Moroccan,
became the Muslim world’s Marco Polo.
He crossed the Sahara expecting wealth
& robes of honor in Timbuktu. His gifts:
"three rounds of bread, a piece of beef
fried in gharti, a calabash with curdled milk."
Later, at a small feast of a root like taro,
all six of his party took ill. One died.
Batuta survived by forcing himself to vomit.
The world was larger than he’d imagined,
& in weakness he thought his dead friend lucky.
On the trip home, Batuta found he’d lost
rapport with the gait of camels but could now
derive a certain comfort by admiring endless
shapes of women lounging along the dunes.
The sand would never again be so forgiving.
-from his poetry collection, Lives of Water
Order To Go
Down on Main Street, the guy who owns Pizza Boutique
has bought out River Antiques
to open a family restaurant. Word in town has it that he's
got designs on Molly's, which
would rankle me―man doesn't smile, never acknowledges
my desire: "easy on the cheese."
Today I order a pie with grilled veggies, "easy on the cheese,"
head to Molly's for a quick pop,
maybe three. The barstool feels fine, like my ass tethers one
world to another, one life to hundreds
who've swiveled this seat, knocked back smoky shot glasses
of bourbon, felt heat course into
their flabby but always-hungry stomachs. Molly's sympathetic,
still easy on my eyes, and my ass
is reluctant; as I spin from the perch, lurch for the door,
it puckers up in an effort at tightness,
tries mightily to overcome the gravity of mozzarella.
-previously in The Innisfree Poetry Journal
Georgia Ann Banks-Martin
After Seeing Agostina Segatori in the Café du Tambourin
I dropped my robe
checked my thighs,
the stretch marks are still there,
so are those twin freckle-size moles,
dark brown ink spots on my deep tan skin.
I skip my navel, I know the ring is crooked
four years of eating pizza, chips, cheese cake
will do that.
I think. If I go to one more spinning class
pump a little more iron, each week,
by Christmas I will be skinny
a little closer to forty
a little closer
never to being the girl
wearing her dark hair beneath a head rag,
alone at a too-small café table,
cigarette half-smoked
half-smothered away.
Grand Central Station
I am leaning against a wall
watching people disappear
into the tunnels that return them to trains,
familiar beds.
A tall, thin man with a package in his arms
looks like my cousin Seneca
who spent one day of each month,
waiting for trains to carry him from the suburbs
to bring me a sack of nickels, dimes and pennies,
always saying,
“If you put these in the bank you will have money
for college.”
The man in a wheel chair is
reading a crime novel,
like a boy I used to date,
he had Spina Bifida,
he loved to read about serial killers.
A woman wearing a plain white scarf
reminds me of my best friend from high school
who dutifully wore her veil, tunic and pants.
While I sported tight jeans and an occasional
cleavage revealing V cut shirt.
But every morning with outstretched arms,
we greeted each other declaring:
“Darling, you look marvelous!”
Ballet Dancer
My jewelry box plays Swan Lake
while the ballerina turns without noticing
the soda stained sheet music beneath her;
hymns to play Sunday at Mt. Zion,
next week New Hope Baptist,
maybe St. James AME the week after.
Mother insists I play for choirs,
music will give me security,
a skill that will always be needed,
I might even open my own studio,
fill it with students, she says.
Some measures are blurred,
but my fingers know the keys
just as my mind knows a dancer
satin ribbon holding loose braids,
fitted top fastened with fabric buttons
like a bride’s gown,
tulle skirt, milky pink tights,
back arched, arms locked behind her,
feet in fourth position.
Madame X
X, letter, not last name,
a substitute for a name
no longer wanted.
Madame, French for Mrs.
drop the e and in English
she’s a whore.
Sargent dropped the left strap
of shiny gems off her shoulder,
plunged the neck line,
laid bare the full chest,
cinched the already small waist,
had her coyly twist her arm.
When scandal ensued,
he returned the jewels
to their place,
kept the name,
maintained the portrait
was the best he’d ever done.
After Seeing Agostina Segatori in the Café du Tambourin
I dropped my robe
checked my thighs,
the stretch marks are still there,
so are those twin freckle-size moles,
dark brown ink spots on my deep tan skin.
I skip my navel, I know the ring is crooked
four years of eating pizza, chips, cheese cake
will do that.
I think. If I go to one more spinning class
pump a little more iron, each week,
by Christmas I will be skinny
a little closer to forty
a little closer
never to being the girl
wearing her dark hair beneath a head rag,
alone at a too-small café table,
cigarette half-smoked
half-smothered away.
Grand Central Station
I am leaning against a wall
watching people disappear
into the tunnels that return them to trains,
familiar beds.
A tall, thin man with a package in his arms
looks like my cousin Seneca
who spent one day of each month,
waiting for trains to carry him from the suburbs
to bring me a sack of nickels, dimes and pennies,
always saying,
“If you put these in the bank you will have money
for college.”
The man in a wheel chair is
reading a crime novel,
like a boy I used to date,
he had Spina Bifida,
he loved to read about serial killers.
A woman wearing a plain white scarf
reminds me of my best friend from high school
who dutifully wore her veil, tunic and pants.
While I sported tight jeans and an occasional
cleavage revealing V cut shirt.
But every morning with outstretched arms,
we greeted each other declaring:
“Darling, you look marvelous!”
Ballet Dancer
My jewelry box plays Swan Lake
while the ballerina turns without noticing
the soda stained sheet music beneath her;
hymns to play Sunday at Mt. Zion,
next week New Hope Baptist,
maybe St. James AME the week after.
Mother insists I play for choirs,
music will give me security,
a skill that will always be needed,
I might even open my own studio,
fill it with students, she says.
Some measures are blurred,
but my fingers know the keys
just as my mind knows a dancer
satin ribbon holding loose braids,
fitted top fastened with fabric buttons
like a bride’s gown,
tulle skirt, milky pink tights,
back arched, arms locked behind her,
feet in fourth position.
Madame X
X, letter, not last name,
a substitute for a name
no longer wanted.
Madame, French for Mrs.
drop the e and in English
she’s a whore.
Sargent dropped the left strap
of shiny gems off her shoulder,
plunged the neck line,
laid bare the full chest,
cinched the already small waist,
had her coyly twist her arm.
When scandal ensued,
he returned the jewels
to their place,
kept the name,
maintained the portrait
was the best he’d ever done.
About Art - Animaline
A group of pricey sculptures outside the Los Angeles Police Department's new headquarters downtown are turning heads. The statues have also stirred controversy because of their $500,000 price tag, especially because of the city's budget crisis. The sculptures, six ballooning forms held up by two elongated, vaguely quadruped creatures on either end, were created by Peter Shelton, whose well-known work usually abstracts human body parts, distending them in space in ways that make us supremely self-conscious of our own imperfect, slightly ridiculous assemblages of flesh and bone, has here turned his talents toward powerful animals associated with the untamed wilds of Asia, Africa and the Americas.
Cast in bronze and coated with a rich, black patina, the figures create a formal promenade along the Spring Street side of the new edifice. Between the sidewalk and the conventional but imposing new building, their mostly rounded shapes soften the hard edges of the street-scape. The corpulent forms are sheltered beneath a freshly planted alley of London plane trees. As it matures, the bower will further cushion the pedestrian space between the busy traffic artery and the swank architecture.
An alumnus of UCLA’s master of fine arts program, Shelton has had a three-decade career, with works in the permanent collections of three dozen museums, including the Getty, LACMA and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Yet he has completed only a handful of public art projects. As for his first in L.A., Shelton says, “I’m really excited to have a public work in my hometown.” Find out more about the artist at his website: http://petershelton.net/
A group of pricey sculptures outside the Los Angeles Police Department's new headquarters downtown are turning heads. The statues have also stirred controversy because of their $500,000 price tag, especially because of the city's budget crisis. The sculptures, six ballooning forms held up by two elongated, vaguely quadruped creatures on either end, were created by Peter Shelton, whose well-known work usually abstracts human body parts, distending them in space in ways that make us supremely self-conscious of our own imperfect, slightly ridiculous assemblages of flesh and bone, has here turned his talents toward powerful animals associated with the untamed wilds of Asia, Africa and the Americas.
Cast in bronze and coated with a rich, black patina, the figures create a formal promenade along the Spring Street side of the new edifice. Between the sidewalk and the conventional but imposing new building, their mostly rounded shapes soften the hard edges of the street-scape. The corpulent forms are sheltered beneath a freshly planted alley of London plane trees. As it matures, the bower will further cushion the pedestrian space between the busy traffic artery and the swank architecture.
An alumnus of UCLA’s master of fine arts program, Shelton has had a three-decade career, with works in the permanent collections of three dozen museums, including the Getty, LACMA and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Yet he has completed only a handful of public art projects. As for his first in L.A., Shelton says, “I’m really excited to have a public work in my hometown.” Find out more about the artist at his website: http://petershelton.net/
About Books:Title: The Kongdom of Possibilities
Author: Tim Mayo
Description: Meditative, fierce and direct, these poems explore what constitutes identity in our contemporary society. Mayo takes us on journeys across the globefalling off a motor bike and finding refuge with Italians, honeymooning in Athens, and discovering an ammo belt in St. Jean de Luz. Each of these poems reflect the complications of understanding oneself with charm and wit.
Product Details:
Printed: 6 x 8 inches, 78 pages
ISBN: 978-0932412-768
Copyright: 2009Language: EnglishCountry: USAPublisher’s Link: http://www.mayapplepress.com/
Product Details:
Printed: 6 x 8 inches, 78 pages
ISBN: 978-0932412-768
Copyright: 2009Language: EnglishCountry: USAPublisher’s Link: http://www.mayapplepress.com/
About Music - Hindi Zahra
Of Berber origin, Hindi Zahra was born in 1979 in Khouribga, a mining town in southern Morocco. Her father was in the army and her mother a housewife, occasional actress and singer of village repute. Among her uncles were musicians, into the post-psychedelic Moroccan scene of the time. She grew up to the sound of divas, raï and châabi, like Cheikha Rimitti, and the great Egyptian Oum Khalsoum, between traditional Berber music and desert rock’n’roll, with the blues of the great Malian Ali Farka Touré and the sensual folk music of Ismaël Lo in the wings. All this before she set out across the Mediterranean to join her father in Paris. She left school and got her first job at 18 in the Louvre. She passed her baccalaureate and worked in a series of small-time jobs with the sole ambition of developing her song writing skills.
”A fan of “the Afro-American groove”, she singles out Aretha Franklin, James Brown, 2Pac, and Tribe Called Quest, she learned her chops doing backing vocals on hip-hop flavored soul before embarking on her solo career. Starting in 2005, the self-taught composer was soon etching in the contours of the music that would reflect her personality, turning out some fifty songs in just one year. From these, two gems emerge. The first, Oursoul, is a tantalizingly ambiguous word play: what looks like English is in fact a Berber word meaning “bygones”. Against an arrangement evocative of American folk, the song tells the unfulfilled dreams of a young girl destined for marriage. Then came Beautiful Tango, a ballad rich in timeless nostalgia, a hymn to love, a sad thought with the power to pull tender heartstrings. “I had no doubts about the tune, so it was a relief when the words came naturally”, she admits. Beautiful Tango got serious kudos from The Wire, the reference in Britain’s “adventurous music” press, which heralded her as a worthy successor to Billie Holiday, no less. “Jazz is the only place where I can hear notes from my homeland. Jazz equals freedom to create.
She has a tenacious, free-spirited character, allowing her to create her own world through the sheer force of her convictions and intuitions. The result is Hand Made, with its handful of themes, one of which is herself as a "self-made-workin’-woman.” Hence the album title, which she justifies with a touch of humor: “handcrafted, made in Morocco!” Before adding on a more serious note: “The musicians play with their hands, and I play percussion and mess about on bass.” She demonstrates a fine-tuned sense of melody, with a touch of melancholy, but with some swing to it as well. The music serves as a perfect foil for her lyrics. The album reflects her personality: eminently seductive on first listen, and yet subtly fragile under the surface. This born wanderer has an imagination that is solidly anchored in real world, blending a variety of styles: there are jazzy tracks, dashes of Middle Eastern blues, tips of the hat to trip hop, tango, gnaoua rhythms, gypsy guitars. It is adored with her art work, which includes miniature portraits of colorful eccentric characters, part-surreal, part-naïve. Find out more at: http://www.hindi-zahra.com/
Of Berber origin, Hindi Zahra was born in 1979 in Khouribga, a mining town in southern Morocco. Her father was in the army and her mother a housewife, occasional actress and singer of village repute. Among her uncles were musicians, into the post-psychedelic Moroccan scene of the time. She grew up to the sound of divas, raï and châabi, like Cheikha Rimitti, and the great Egyptian Oum Khalsoum, between traditional Berber music and desert rock’n’roll, with the blues of the great Malian Ali Farka Touré and the sensual folk music of Ismaël Lo in the wings. All this before she set out across the Mediterranean to join her father in Paris. She left school and got her first job at 18 in the Louvre. She passed her baccalaureate and worked in a series of small-time jobs with the sole ambition of developing her song writing skills.
”A fan of “the Afro-American groove”, she singles out Aretha Franklin, James Brown, 2Pac, and Tribe Called Quest, she learned her chops doing backing vocals on hip-hop flavored soul before embarking on her solo career. Starting in 2005, the self-taught composer was soon etching in the contours of the music that would reflect her personality, turning out some fifty songs in just one year. From these, two gems emerge. The first, Oursoul, is a tantalizingly ambiguous word play: what looks like English is in fact a Berber word meaning “bygones”. Against an arrangement evocative of American folk, the song tells the unfulfilled dreams of a young girl destined for marriage. Then came Beautiful Tango, a ballad rich in timeless nostalgia, a hymn to love, a sad thought with the power to pull tender heartstrings. “I had no doubts about the tune, so it was a relief when the words came naturally”, she admits. Beautiful Tango got serious kudos from The Wire, the reference in Britain’s “adventurous music” press, which heralded her as a worthy successor to Billie Holiday, no less. “Jazz is the only place where I can hear notes from my homeland. Jazz equals freedom to create.
She has a tenacious, free-spirited character, allowing her to create her own world through the sheer force of her convictions and intuitions. The result is Hand Made, with its handful of themes, one of which is herself as a "self-made-workin’-woman.” Hence the album title, which she justifies with a touch of humor: “handcrafted, made in Morocco!” Before adding on a more serious note: “The musicians play with their hands, and I play percussion and mess about on bass.” She demonstrates a fine-tuned sense of melody, with a touch of melancholy, but with some swing to it as well. The music serves as a perfect foil for her lyrics. The album reflects her personality: eminently seductive on first listen, and yet subtly fragile under the surface. This born wanderer has an imagination that is solidly anchored in real world, blending a variety of styles: there are jazzy tracks, dashes of Middle Eastern blues, tips of the hat to trip hop, tango, gnaoua rhythms, gypsy guitars. It is adored with her art work, which includes miniature portraits of colorful eccentric characters, part-surreal, part-naïve. Find out more at: http://www.hindi-zahra.com/
Barbara Jane Reyes
Asking
there is ghazal swimming inside of her, wanting to be born. on
the matter of foretelling, of small miracles, cactus flowers in bloom
on this city fire escape, where inside your tongue touches every
inch of her skin, where you lay your hand on her belly and sleep.
here, she fingers the ornate remains of ancient mosques. here,
some mythic angel will rise from the dust of ancestors’ bones.
this is where you shall worship, at the intersections of distilled
deities and memory’s sharp edges. the country is quite a poetic
place; water and rock contain verse and metaphor, even wild grasses
reply in rhyme. you are not broken. she knows this having captured
a moment of lucidity; summer lightning bugs, sun’s rays in a jelly
jar. this is not a love poem, but a cove to escape the flux, however
momentary. she is still a child, confabulating the fantastic; please
do not erode her wonder for the liquid that is your language. there is
thunderstorm in her chest, wanting to burst through her skin. this is
neither love poem nor plea. this is not river, nor stone.
Going Outside To Find The Sky
It is much higher at high noon, and I have to stand on my tiptoes to
touch it with the tips of my straining fingers. In Chinatown, firecrackers
jumping in sunlight like glinting pistols tell me it is time for old ghosts
to rest. The boy version of me once said he would ride a carabao cross
country because only I know where to place the “h” in him. I am still
waiting for his poem to tell me he is on his way, closer to the Pacific’s
salty embracing roar. I will allow myself a moment of susceptivity and
remember a time when I collected pretty rocks and felt them clicking
against one another in my pockets as I skipped barefoot into the ocean’s
froth like soda fountain root beer floats. Today I sit with knees together,
swinging my legs to and fro. Today I’ll hum a little song, and maybe I’ll be
out of tune.
State of Emergency
To honor movement in crescendos of text, combing through ashes for
fragments of human bone, studying maps drawn for the absurdity of
navigation — what may be so edgy about this state of emergency is my
lack of apology for what I am bound to do. For instance, if I dream the
wetness of your mouth an oyster my tongue searches for the taste of
ocean, if I crave the secret corners of your city on another continent, in
another time, in series of circular coils extending outward, then it is only
because I continue to harbor the swirls of galaxies in the musculature
and viscera of my body. You will appear because I have mouthed your
name in half-wish, reluctant to bring myself to you. You will appear for
me, because you always do, with earthen skin outside the possibility of
human causation.
Tenderly
what is your flow to where inside your body do you recoil during full
moons who will remind you to restore the shards of you to wholeness
when everyone has been driven away and if these shards of you could
speak would they tell you they would rather not be restored in what
fractured language do you dream when you sleep alone i have been
tenderly cautioned memory is retained in my hair now flowing in heavy
black cascades below my diminishing waistline i have been warned i
must take care to worship and guard memory fiercely for even the most
comfortless of these have given me flight
-all poems previously published in From The Fishouse
Asking
there is ghazal swimming inside of her, wanting to be born. on
the matter of foretelling, of small miracles, cactus flowers in bloom
on this city fire escape, where inside your tongue touches every
inch of her skin, where you lay your hand on her belly and sleep.
here, she fingers the ornate remains of ancient mosques. here,
some mythic angel will rise from the dust of ancestors’ bones.
this is where you shall worship, at the intersections of distilled
deities and memory’s sharp edges. the country is quite a poetic
place; water and rock contain verse and metaphor, even wild grasses
reply in rhyme. you are not broken. she knows this having captured
a moment of lucidity; summer lightning bugs, sun’s rays in a jelly
jar. this is not a love poem, but a cove to escape the flux, however
momentary. she is still a child, confabulating the fantastic; please
do not erode her wonder for the liquid that is your language. there is
thunderstorm in her chest, wanting to burst through her skin. this is
neither love poem nor plea. this is not river, nor stone.
Going Outside To Find The Sky
It is much higher at high noon, and I have to stand on my tiptoes to
touch it with the tips of my straining fingers. In Chinatown, firecrackers
jumping in sunlight like glinting pistols tell me it is time for old ghosts
to rest. The boy version of me once said he would ride a carabao cross
country because only I know where to place the “h” in him. I am still
waiting for his poem to tell me he is on his way, closer to the Pacific’s
salty embracing roar. I will allow myself a moment of susceptivity and
remember a time when I collected pretty rocks and felt them clicking
against one another in my pockets as I skipped barefoot into the ocean’s
froth like soda fountain root beer floats. Today I sit with knees together,
swinging my legs to and fro. Today I’ll hum a little song, and maybe I’ll be
out of tune.
State of Emergency
To honor movement in crescendos of text, combing through ashes for
fragments of human bone, studying maps drawn for the absurdity of
navigation — what may be so edgy about this state of emergency is my
lack of apology for what I am bound to do. For instance, if I dream the
wetness of your mouth an oyster my tongue searches for the taste of
ocean, if I crave the secret corners of your city on another continent, in
another time, in series of circular coils extending outward, then it is only
because I continue to harbor the swirls of galaxies in the musculature
and viscera of my body. You will appear because I have mouthed your
name in half-wish, reluctant to bring myself to you. You will appear for
me, because you always do, with earthen skin outside the possibility of
human causation.
Tenderly
what is your flow to where inside your body do you recoil during full
moons who will remind you to restore the shards of you to wholeness
when everyone has been driven away and if these shards of you could
speak would they tell you they would rather not be restored in what
fractured language do you dream when you sleep alone i have been
tenderly cautioned memory is retained in my hair now flowing in heavy
black cascades below my diminishing waistline i have been warned i
must take care to worship and guard memory fiercely for even the most
comfortless of these have given me flight
-all poems previously published in From The Fishouse
Guy Kettelhack
Snapped
Sharp absence – drop –
no dream: just blank.
This glass of milk –
this mother’s brew she drank –
less strengthened than effaced her.
What had she ever been?
Where had it gone? –
she felt no blast, no spin –
no remnant quivers of a unity.
Something seemed to steal it.
She had to have had life,
but couldn’t feel it.
Remembering His Alzheimer's
Personify his fractured
bits of thought –
elfishly caught
in cartoonish sticky
fly paper – not quite
breaking through, like
so much daffy taffy –
cute. Make it seem
like it was not
his being going mute.
Impending Impact
Life sits there like a grand poobah,
feather-fanned,
wondering whether to drink
the blue drink.
Too much to think
about. A silent rout
of unconsidered slaves behaves –
enacts the necessary lifts and saves.
Ground is cracked.
Maybe the Day is a Dream
I have to have some Edgar Allan Poe
in my Emerson. I have to have the thing
that patently will never go next to
the thing that always will. I have to have
some bars upon the window sill
through which to see the bluest freedom.
I have to know the worst and best,
and see them. I cannot not transgress
and always will pursue a blessing.
Sexually I am irredeemable: and
in my heart I laugh as lightly as a baby.
Maybe the day is a dream. Blinding
bright to make exciting contrast with its
darkest seam. Look at it gleam!
Snapped
Sharp absence – drop –
no dream: just blank.
This glass of milk –
this mother’s brew she drank –
less strengthened than effaced her.
What had she ever been?
Where had it gone? –
she felt no blast, no spin –
no remnant quivers of a unity.
Something seemed to steal it.
She had to have had life,
but couldn’t feel it.
Remembering His Alzheimer's
Personify his fractured
bits of thought –
elfishly caught
in cartoonish sticky
fly paper – not quite
breaking through, like
so much daffy taffy –
cute. Make it seem
like it was not
his being going mute.
Impending Impact
Life sits there like a grand poobah,
feather-fanned,
wondering whether to drink
the blue drink.
Too much to think
about. A silent rout
of unconsidered slaves behaves –
enacts the necessary lifts and saves.
Ground is cracked.
Maybe the Day is a Dream
I have to have some Edgar Allan Poe
in my Emerson. I have to have the thing
that patently will never go next to
the thing that always will. I have to have
some bars upon the window sill
through which to see the bluest freedom.
I have to know the worst and best,
and see them. I cannot not transgress
and always will pursue a blessing.
Sexually I am irredeemable: and
in my heart I laugh as lightly as a baby.
Maybe the day is a dream. Blinding
bright to make exciting contrast with its
darkest seam. Look at it gleam!
Contributors Biographies
Felino A. Soriano
Bio: he is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He has authored 32 collections of poetry, including “Construed Implications” (erbacce-press, 2009) and “Delineated Functions of Congregated Constructs” (Calliope Nerve Media, 2010). In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. He resides in California. Find out more at: http://www.felinoasoriano.info/.
J. V. Foerster
Bio: her poetry has been published in Kimera, Niederngasse, Southern Ocean Review, Horsethiefs Journal, Eclectica, Agnieszka’s Dowry, Red River Review, Midnight Mind, Premiere Generation Ink , Fickle Muse, Oak Bend Review and Women Writers Online to name a few. Recently she moved from Alaska to Meeker, Colorado and will be moving to Escanaba, Michigan in fall to work on starting an artist colony. Contact her at: jvfoerster@hotmail.com
Joy Helsing
Bio: she is an ex-salesclerk, ex-secretary, ex-textbook editor, ex-psychologist, ex-college instructor, ex-New Englander, and ex-San Franciscan. Her work has appeared in a variety of journals and she has published three chapbooks and one book, Confessions of the Hare (PWJ Publishing). She lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills of Northern California. Contact her at: jhhelsing@sbcglobal.net
Zeno Chen
Bio: he is a poet, and creative artist who uses photography to present graphic esthetics that describe his point of view. His subject is themes from everyday environments which he enhances with visual emotion and feeling. His basic premise is that a photograph should be a work of art. But instead of using Painter or Photoshop software, he creates his own technique, one which merges various photographs to create a captivating piece of art that is something between a painting and a photograph, a "poem of graphics" is what he calls it. The result is stunning. He lives in Taibei in the Republic of China. Visit him at: http://www.pbase.com/zenoble
Amber Nelson
Bio: she likes pie, camus, blueberries, and cows, but doesn’t much care for weed whackers whacking at 8am in her neighborhood. Her poetry has appeared in Nibble, H_NGM_N, Coconut, I Can't Be Your Girlfriend, Taiga, Tarpaulin Sky, and elsewhere. She is the poetry editor of Alice Blue Review and at this particular time resides in Washington state. Read more of her poetry at: http://thecheesestringery.blogspot.com/
John Hoppenthaler
Bio: he has two collections of poetry are Lives Of Water (2003) and Anticipate the Coming Reservoir (2008), both at Carnegie Mellon University Press. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in West Branch, The Laurel Review, Waccamaw, and Tygerburning, the anthologies Making Poems (SUNY Press, 2010), Poetry Calendar (Alhambra Publishing, 2010), The Sound of Poets Cooking (Jacar Press, 2010), and elsewhere. For Connotation Press: An Online Artifact, he edits A Poetry Congeries. He in an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Literature at East Carolina University and lives in Greenville, NC. Find out more at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Hoppenthaler
Georgia Ann Banks-Martin
Bio: her poetry and book reviews appear in many journals and magazines. She earned her M.F.A. of Creative Writing at Queens University Charlotte in 2009. Her poetry collection Rhapsody for Lessons Learned Or Remembered will be published later this year. She lives with her husband, two cats and dog in Montgomery, AL. Visit her at: http://georgiabanksmartin.com/
Annette Labedzki
Bio: she attended Emily Carr College of Art and Design, and UBC. Early on, she decided to make a significant change from her previous figurative work to a more personal, intuitive and almost exclusively abstract art. She says that abstract art gives her more freedom of expression, and an unfailing sense for color and design. She consistently experiments with new techniques, using an limitless range of supplies, from pastels, oil and acrylics to a large variety of paper types and dimensions. Her work has no premeditated subject. What is done is irreversible. A line, color, composition and intuition at any particular time will influence the next move until the complete artwork emerges. As a result, her work captures a true “instant”, an almost imperceptible space of time. She lives on Vancouver, Canada. Visit her at: http://www.absolutearts.com/netschka/
Babara Jane Reyes
Bio: she was born in Manila, Philippines and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. She received her undergraduate education at UC Berkeley and earned an MFA at SF State University in 2005. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Asian Pacific American Journal, Chain, Interlope, North American Review, and Tinfish. She is the author of Gravities of Center (SF: Arkipelago Books Publishing, 2003). In September 2005, Reyes was awarded the Academy of American Poets Prize for her second collection of poems, Poeta en San Franscisco (Tinfish Press). She lives in the Bay Area. Visit her at: http://www.barbarajanereyes.com/
Guy Kettlehack
Bio: he has authored, co-authored or contributed to more than 30 nonfiction books. His poetry has appeared in over 25 print and online journals, including Van Gogh’s Ear, Melic Review, New Pleiades, Malleable Jangle, WORM 33, Das Alchymist Poetry Review, the PK list, The Rose & Thorn, Heretics & Half-Lives, Desert Moon Review, Hiss Quarterly, Juked, Anon, Umbrella Journal, Mississippi Crow and The Chimaera. Several of his poems have placed in the IBPC competition over the past few years. In April 2009 he began wedding his drawings to his poems – producing roughly one hybrid enterprise a day. He lives in NYC. Visit him at: http://guykettelhack.blogspot.com/
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 Dec. 1st. Copyright 2010 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my poetry blog: http://www.chantinghead.blogspot.com/
Felino A. Soriano
Bio: he is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He has authored 32 collections of poetry, including “Construed Implications” (erbacce-press, 2009) and “Delineated Functions of Congregated Constructs” (Calliope Nerve Media, 2010). In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. He resides in California. Find out more at: http://www.felinoasoriano.info/.
J. V. Foerster
Bio: her poetry has been published in Kimera, Niederngasse, Southern Ocean Review, Horsethiefs Journal, Eclectica, Agnieszka’s Dowry, Red River Review, Midnight Mind, Premiere Generation Ink , Fickle Muse, Oak Bend Review and Women Writers Online to name a few. Recently she moved from Alaska to Meeker, Colorado and will be moving to Escanaba, Michigan in fall to work on starting an artist colony. Contact her at: jvfoerster@hotmail.com
Joy Helsing
Bio: she is an ex-salesclerk, ex-secretary, ex-textbook editor, ex-psychologist, ex-college instructor, ex-New Englander, and ex-San Franciscan. Her work has appeared in a variety of journals and she has published three chapbooks and one book, Confessions of the Hare (PWJ Publishing). She lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills of Northern California. Contact her at: jhhelsing@sbcglobal.net
Zeno Chen
Bio: he is a poet, and creative artist who uses photography to present graphic esthetics that describe his point of view. His subject is themes from everyday environments which he enhances with visual emotion and feeling. His basic premise is that a photograph should be a work of art. But instead of using Painter or Photoshop software, he creates his own technique, one which merges various photographs to create a captivating piece of art that is something between a painting and a photograph, a "poem of graphics" is what he calls it. The result is stunning. He lives in Taibei in the Republic of China. Visit him at: http://www.pbase.com/zenoble
Amber Nelson
Bio: she likes pie, camus, blueberries, and cows, but doesn’t much care for weed whackers whacking at 8am in her neighborhood. Her poetry has appeared in Nibble, H_NGM_N, Coconut, I Can't Be Your Girlfriend, Taiga, Tarpaulin Sky, and elsewhere. She is the poetry editor of Alice Blue Review and at this particular time resides in Washington state. Read more of her poetry at: http://thecheesestringery.blogspot.com/
John Hoppenthaler
Bio: he has two collections of poetry are Lives Of Water (2003) and Anticipate the Coming Reservoir (2008), both at Carnegie Mellon University Press. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in West Branch, The Laurel Review, Waccamaw, and Tygerburning, the anthologies Making Poems (SUNY Press, 2010), Poetry Calendar (Alhambra Publishing, 2010), The Sound of Poets Cooking (Jacar Press, 2010), and elsewhere. For Connotation Press: An Online Artifact, he edits A Poetry Congeries. He in an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Literature at East Carolina University and lives in Greenville, NC. Find out more at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Hoppenthaler
Georgia Ann Banks-Martin
Bio: her poetry and book reviews appear in many journals and magazines. She earned her M.F.A. of Creative Writing at Queens University Charlotte in 2009. Her poetry collection Rhapsody for Lessons Learned Or Remembered will be published later this year. She lives with her husband, two cats and dog in Montgomery, AL. Visit her at: http://georgiabanksmartin.com/
Annette Labedzki
Bio: she attended Emily Carr College of Art and Design, and UBC. Early on, she decided to make a significant change from her previous figurative work to a more personal, intuitive and almost exclusively abstract art. She says that abstract art gives her more freedom of expression, and an unfailing sense for color and design. She consistently experiments with new techniques, using an limitless range of supplies, from pastels, oil and acrylics to a large variety of paper types and dimensions. Her work has no premeditated subject. What is done is irreversible. A line, color, composition and intuition at any particular time will influence the next move until the complete artwork emerges. As a result, her work captures a true “instant”, an almost imperceptible space of time. She lives on Vancouver, Canada. Visit her at: http://www.absolutearts.com/netschka/
Babara Jane Reyes
Bio: she was born in Manila, Philippines and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. She received her undergraduate education at UC Berkeley and earned an MFA at SF State University in 2005. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Asian Pacific American Journal, Chain, Interlope, North American Review, and Tinfish. She is the author of Gravities of Center (SF: Arkipelago Books Publishing, 2003). In September 2005, Reyes was awarded the Academy of American Poets Prize for her second collection of poems, Poeta en San Franscisco (Tinfish Press). She lives in the Bay Area. Visit her at: http://www.barbarajanereyes.com/
Guy Kettlehack
Bio: he has authored, co-authored or contributed to more than 30 nonfiction books. His poetry has appeared in over 25 print and online journals, including Van Gogh’s Ear, Melic Review, New Pleiades, Malleable Jangle, WORM 33, Das Alchymist Poetry Review, the PK list, The Rose & Thorn, Heretics & Half-Lives, Desert Moon Review, Hiss Quarterly, Juked, Anon, Umbrella Journal, Mississippi Crow and The Chimaera. Several of his poems have placed in the IBPC competition over the past few years. In April 2009 he began wedding his drawings to his poems – producing roughly one hybrid enterprise a day. He lives in NYC. Visit him at: http://guykettelhack.blogspot.com/
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 Dec. 1st. Copyright 2010 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my poetry blog: http://www.chantinghead.blogspot.com/
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