2022

 

 

JUNE CONTRIBUTORS

 

 

Edward Alport, Sara Backer, Phil Dunkerley, Pat Edwards, David Henson,

Judith O’Connell Hoyer, Ronald Moran, Sarah Dickenson Snyder,

 J. R. Solonche, Jeffrey Thompson.

 

 

 

 

 

 

EDWARD ALPORT

 

How to Wite a Hymn Tune

In contemplation of performing Stainer’s Crucifixion

 

To start, keep it simple. Take just ten notes

Maybe twelve, because the congregation

Does not have the range.

The choir can manage two full octaves

But they have been trained

And they can be expected to read staves.

 

Don’t put in any accidentals.

Nothing in faith happens by accident

But by the will of God.

But when you come to write the harmony

They do add a certain piquancy,

To gently spice up the argument.

 

Always bear in mind tradition.

The people like to tread down a well-trod way

New things to them are too strange.

Save your desire for experimentation

For the harmony, or choir only section.

You can trust the choir not to go astray.

 

Never try to shock or startle them.

The Church knows its people, what they tolerate.

What they want is certainty and safety.

There is an element of entertainment

But, what the Church wants, tradition or novelty,

All ends up as money in the plate.

 

 

The Place Of The Oak In History

 

Count the rings with care. This tree

Has seen a lot of history

These times, those times and many times before

Right back to the Napoleonic War.

 

When the acorn fell, split, rooted and grew

While the redcoats fought at Waterloo

As the Hearts of Oak manned the fleet

This old heart of oak began to beat

And, season by season, leaves unfurled

While the pink fire spread across the world.

 

Then, when it was higher than a lighthouse tower,

At the pinnacle, the zenith of its power

A man with a red coat and a chainsaw leaves it lying

In the sweet, clean, clinical scent of its dying.

 

Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry, stories and articles published in a variety of webzines and magazines. He sometimes posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse and generally fails to maintain his website at https://crossmouse.wordpress.com/

 

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SARA BACKER

 

This Sooty Darkness I Know Well

The Stove in the Studio by Paul Cézanne

“With God-knows-what seething away in its belly”—Ciaran Carson

 

Painted scraps of ideas

that came to nothing

are nailed to utterly dark

walls. The black stovepipe

goes straight to hell

or heaven—either way,

ashes pile beneath the iron stove

which an embarrassed canvas hides

behind, its face to the wall.

The cauldron is burnt out, empty,

dry. (Why do I even try?) This

is where artists labor. Not in sunny

sparkle of warm galleries, but cold

decrepit sheds too dim to see all

of the half-formed objects there.

The stove is barely lit

with orange embers.

The painter’s name smolders.

 

Sara Backer’s first book of poetry, Such Luck, follows two chapbooks: Scavenger Hunt, and Bicycle Lotus, which won the Turtle Island Chapbook Award. Recent publications include Lake Effect, Slant, CutBank Online, Poetry Northwest, and Kenyon Review. She lives in New Hampshire and reads for The Maine Review.

 

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PHIL DUNKERLEY

 

Hill Wall

 

This wall is an extinct animal crouching on bedrock,

a reptile of loose stone older than dinosaurs.

 

This wall is climbing the hill, a freeze-frame, stilled a lifetime.

Its feet cling to the earth, its spine is a broken cord.

 

This wall’s skin is spalled slabs, scabbed and scarred with lichens.

Birds pick their food from its teeth; its heart is broken rubble.

 

This wall is a forgotten thing, angular, erratic, impassive.

It lies lost in the landscape. It was not made by man.

 

 

Scarlet Roses

 

He sits at his computer while the girl

relaxes on the sofa with a book.

Sipping a glass of wine he sees the time;

it’s later than he thought. An old black cat

is lying by the fire and on the table

a vase of scarlet roses scents the room.

 

He notices an aura in the room,

he knows it is the presence of the girl.

Glancing at her, there beyond the table,

he sees her turn the pages of the book.

The muted breathing of the old black cat

quietly marks the slow elapse of time.

 

He often works from home, but now its time

to finish for the day and cross the room.

He passes by the sleepy old black cat,

and moves towards the sofa, and the girl

who’s lying there distracted by the book.

Heady, the scent of roses on the table.

 

And standing by the roses on the table

a bottle of Rioja from the time

they holidayed in Spain but didn’t book

and had to settle for a single room.

He takes the bottle to the waiting girl

and fills her glass; she stretches like a cat.

 

A petal from a rose falls near the cat.

Lazily it looks towards the table,

then slowly turns its head to where the girl

and man are drinking wine. And somehow time

slackens within the aura of the room.

Reaching out the girl puts down the book.

 

There might have been a story in the book

about a prince and princess and a cat

who spent an evening in a magic room

with scarlet scented roses on a table.

It really happened once-upon-a-time,

a loving time of wine, a man, a girl.

 

After, she takes her book from off the table

and calls the cat. It goes in its own time

across the room and settles with the girl.

 

Phil Dunkerley takes part in poetry groups and open-mic events in the South Lincolnshire area, where he lives. His poems have appeared in a fair few publications, including Poetry Salzburg Review, and he is a reviewer for Orbis.

 

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PAT EDWARDS

 

All the colours are forbidden fruit

 

He has stared at countless women,

paint box faces a gallery of glamour.

When they send angry daggers back,

he quickly drops his gaze, presses lips

to his pint, his mouth for a moment moist.

 

And let’s just say he is on his way home,

climbs the stairs to a room, a drawer.

And let’s just say, hidden at the very back,

are silver bullets. He loves the slide of them

as he twists the base. He loves the smell

of them, the waxy pinks, the riot of red.

And let’s just say he has a steady hand

as he sweeps across his top lip, parted

ready as a girl. And let’s just say he

finishes on his lower lip, slides one

across the other, lifts his stubbled chin.

 

He has stared at countless mirrors,

paint box mouth a gallery of the grotesque.

When his reflection has thrown daggers,

he’s taken the back of his hand, wiped

away the juice of plump forest fruits.

 

And let’s just say he has arrived home,

opened the door to a dowdy room.

And let’s just say, sullen at the very back,

are sisters, his mam. He loves the slide of them

as they make space. He loves the smell

of them, the soap on hands, their hair.

And let’s just say he has a steady hand

as he pours the tea, cuts a wedge of bread,

fat as a girl. And let’s just say he

tells his mam the blackberries are ripe

as he wipes his mouth, lifts his stubbled chin.

 

Pat Edwards is a writer, reviewer and workshop leader from mid Wales. She hosts Verbatim open mic nights and curates Welshpool Poetry Festival. Pat has two pamphlets: Only Blood (Yaffle 2019); Kissing in the dark (Indigo Press 2020).

 

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DAVID HENSON

 

Rose Petals

 

The engine grinds and grinds

and grinds, turns over.

The hadit, rust-ate

Buick backfires, lurches

forward, backfires again,

dies

and coasts to a stop

in the funeral

parlor parking lot.

 

A guy jumps out and punches

his fist through the headlights.

 

They say by the time

he gets to emergency,

he looks as if he’s clutching

a handful of rose petals.

 

David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for two Pushcart prizes and has appeared in various journals. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter handle is @annalou8

 

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JUDITH O’CONNELL HOYER

 

Heirloom

 

For 40 years

the Limoges serving piece

rimmed with tiny pink roses

sat out-of-round behind

the breakfront’s glass doors.

Whenever my foot landed

coming or going

between dining room and kitchen

it would be my Great Aunt Liz rattling on,

I was at a party

sitting on a man’s lap and

he squeezed me so tight

he broke one of my ribs.

No placing it this way or that

no matchbook cover nudged underneath,

no amount of coaxing made the story cease.

I kept that platter used for

sliced white and dark, legs, wings, and the pope’s nose,

that part of the bird’s behind

she’d claim every Thanksgiving Day,

her fingers and mouth all greasy

with the pleasure of it.

 

Judith O’Connell Hoyer’s 2017 chapbook “Bits and Pieces Set Aside” was nominated for a Massachusetts Book Award by the publisher of Finishing Line Press. Her full-length book “Imagine That” is forthcoming from FutureCycle Press in March 2023. Her poems can be found in publications that include CALYX Magazine, Cider Press Review, The Lake (UK), Southwest Review, The Moth Magazine (Ireland) and others.

 

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RONALD MORAN

 

Directions for Starting Out

 

To get there on a clear night,

look at the stars

for absolute confusion.

 

To get there on a cloudy night,

follow the lead of one

of your windshield washers.

 

To get there on a day full of sun,

wear dark glasses and reconsider

why you left when you did.

 

When you get there,

try a different way back

and hope you will never find it.

 

 

On Leaving a Fair Gratuity

 

Check the size of the dinner plate.

Be alert to one with a cupped rim

casting a shadow.

 

Examine the tableware for smudges.

Then rate the tenor of the menu

by assigning it an octave.

 

Note the posture of the server

when leaning over

to place a meal before you.

 

Ask your teeth about the meal.

Leave a tip,

even if your phone is ringing.

 

Ronald Moran lives in Simpsonville, South Carolina, USA.  His last six collections of poetry were published by Clemson University Press.

 

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SARAH DICKENSON SNYDER

 

Creation Myth

 

When my daughter was old enough

for words, I asked, Where were you

before you were born?

 

In my other life,

the purple world.

 

A remembering of slipping

from there to here when our blood

starts its honeyed flow

when our lungs begin to grow

when we must forgive ourselves.

 

How the start of us begins

after the nothing of no

fingernails with faint moons,

no mole on a cheek,

no cheek to touch.

 

This morning I see the winter sky

against the snow-lined branches,

the mountain-edged silhouette

and there: Venus, its welcome

glint in a wash of purple.

 

 

Pieces of Paradise

 

The pomegranate seeds

on salads at rooftop restaurants—

a city with decorated blue tiles

like sky in every mosque.

Sometimes each detection of light

feels like a note from a god,

words stitched across the page,

when the pen is something to clutch

like the mane of a wild horse,

moving with the cadence of breath

as if my fingers remember

my religion professor saying, Numinous,

his voice narrowing and softening.

How everything can move

to another realm: autumn pulling

down the numinous leaves,

the numinous air,

the numinous end-of-day light.

This world, where we can be

windswept and emptied, a husk and then

sense the numinous. That light

on each faceted edge

of a pomegranate seed, part star.

 

Sarah Dickenson Snyder’s collections include The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), and With a Polaroid Camera (2019) with another coming in 2023. She’s had Best of Net and Pushcart Prize nominations. Recent work is in Rattle, Lily Poetry Review, and RHINO.

https://sarahdickensonsnyder.com/

 

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J. R. SOLONCHE

 

A Saturday Conversation

 

Frank came to clean the place,

pick up branches, blow leaves.

My mother died last week, he said.

Oh, I’m sorry, Frank, I said.

She died in her sleep. She was 89,

he said. She lived a full life, I said.

It was peaceful in her sleep, he said.

That’s the best way. In your sleep,

I said. She lived a full life, he said.

I saw her more in the nursing home

than I saw her for thirty years,

he said. I understand. The yard

looks good, I said. But you have

to do something about this, he said,

pointing to the bare ground in front.

The rain coming down the back

is washing away the soil and the grass.

I see that. I should tend to that, I said.

You really need to or you’ll have

no lawn this summer, he said.

Thanks. I’ll tend to it. Sorry about

your mom, I said. Thanks. It’s okay.

I’m okay. We’re okay. She was 89.

She lived a full life. She died in her

sleep. Real peaceful. I hope I go

like that. In my sleep. Don’t forget

the lawn. And the garden needs

work, too. Don’t forget the garden,

he said. I won’t forget, I said.

 

J.R. Solonche has published poetry in more than 400 magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s. He is the author of Beautiful Day (Deerbrook Editions), Won’t Be Long (Deerbrook Editions), Heart’s Content (Five Oaks Press), Invisible (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize by Five Oaks Press), The Black Birch (Kelsay Books), I, Emily Dickinson & Other Found Poems (Deerbrook Editions), In Short Order (Kelsay Books), Tomorrow, Today and Yesterday (Deerbrook Editions), True Enough  (Dos Madres Press), The Jewish Dancing Master (Ravenna Press), If You Should See Me Walking on the Road (Kelsay Books), In a Public Place (Dos Madres Press), To Say the Least (Dos Madres Press), The Time of Your Life (Adelaide Books), The Porch Poems (Deerbrook Editions), Enjoy Yourself  (Serving House Books), Piano Music (Serving House Books), For All I Know (Kelsay Books), A Guide of the Perplexed (Serving House Books), The Moon Is the Capital of the World.

 

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JEFFREY THOMPSON

 

Homeopathy

 

1.

After an inning-ending third strike

Jerry Grote, the Mets catcher,

would roll the ball out

to the far side on the mound

on the theory that the opposing pitcher

would tire that much more

from the few additional steps.

 

2.

The documentary Bird on Wire

follows Leonard Cohen

on his ’72 tour of Europe and Israel.

At the final concert, in Tel Aviv,

we see the singer, distraught

at what he perceives to be

the poor quality of his performance,

and perhaps feeling the effects of LSD,

quit the stage mid-song.

Bandmates’ entreaties failing to move him,

he decides what he needs is a shave.

It works. Now in sunglasses

he finishes the set

with “So Long, Marianne.”

The audience weeps.

 

3.

Watching The Execution of Private Slovak

about the World War II deserter,

I asked my dad why

one of the rifles

was loaded with blanks.

Nothing has ever made more sense

than the answer he gave.

 

Jeffrey Thompson was raised in Fargo, North Dakota. He was educated at the University of Iowa and Cornell Law School. He lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where he practices public interest law. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Neologism Poetry Journal, North Dakota Quarterly, The Main Street Rag, Passengers Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Tusculum Review, FERAL, and Unbroken. His hobbies include reading, hiking, and photography.

 

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