2016

 

 

 

MAY CONTRIBUTORS

 

 

 

Mara Buck, Anthony Costello, Robert Klein Engler, Alan Harris, Sinead Keegan,

S. A. Leavesley, Marie C. Lecrivain, Jennifer A. McGowan, John L. Stanizzi,

 Lois Greene Stone, David James Sundahl, Pamela Vandall

 

 

 

 

 

MARA BUCK

 

On Age

 

Here sits a moment. 

And another.

Trite the moments.

Tick the moments.

Talk the moments.  

How? Now they go,

elastic,

stretching and

expanding, contracting

too and springing

back when least

expected, but some,

like worn elastic

cease to contract or

expand when lived

over and over and

sag, fray and

finally break down

to be no longer themselves,

but something

much else.

 

Strange knots these

Gordians make.

 

When I am old

I shall have tea

and small cookies

that smell of things

exotic that they are not.

I shall be Alice,

large and small like

the cookies that disappear

when dunked in hot tea

in a cup of Mother-china

and to be old as that

is far, far away,

and today’s tea is

strong yet somehow

never hot enough to

melt the small hard cookies.

 

 

Mara Buck writes and paints in a self-constructed hideaway in the Maine woods. Awarded/short-listed by Faulkner-Wisdom, Hackney Awards, Carpe Articulum, and others. Published in Drunken Boat, HuffPost, Crack the Spine, Blue Fifth, Writing Raw, Pithead Chapel, Apocrypha, Maine Review, Tishman Review, Linnet’s Wings, The Lake, Whirlwind, plus numerous print anthologies.

 

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ANTHONY COSTELLO

 

Missing in Action

 

I arranged a meeting with myself
but didn't turn up. I took a walk instead
and drank Columbian coffee
in the Blue Mountain Café
and read The Sorrow of War
using a hundred baht note
as a bookmark. I thought of the book
and the journey Id made,
that rendezvous I hadn’t kept,
as part of a roll of film
jumbled up in chaos,
but couldn't figure out
whether or not necessity
had a role to play;
or if street vendors and tuk-tuks 
and the terror I heard
in the jungle were part
of one continuum?

 

If I ran back to the meeting point
my scenes along the sois
- bunting-strewn, congested –
could then be filmed
from a mid-field position
of panoptic surveillance,
the horror in seeing someone
who looked like me
interrogate someone
who looked like me
in a case of mistaken identity
as told by Bao Ninh in
The Sorrow of War.

 

 

La Postina

 

We live in a post-Neruda
age of love & forget John Keats,
the old emblems of male desire:
green cape, parasol, blue flower, 
superseded by images
of arse, the modern derrière,
and so, it transpires, the postgirl
is less Pearl Earring
more Dragon Tattoo,
more Bubble Butt, Huge Ass, Booty, 
less love sonnet, less 'Bright Star'.

 

Anthony Costello is a writer, editor and poetry event organiser. His first poetry collection,The Mask, was published by Lapwing Publications in 2014. His second, Angles & Visions, (High Window Press) was published in 2016. “Missing in Action” and “La Postina” first published in Angles & Vision. He is currently working on a non-fiction book about Artists and their Physicians.

 

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ROBERT KLEIN ENGLER

 

Springtime in the Old Neighborhood.

 

it’s just a day in early spring where sunshine 

falls bright and billowed clouds pass like

random thoughts until they reach a memory 

 

of days in the old neighborhood across from 

Strands Coal Yard and the overdue mortgage   

a widow 4 kids one unruly because poetry 

 

was rising on his brain and he did not know 

the names of spirits or how springtime turns 

the world to green and he would be since 

 

then wondering why the couples sighed

like when mother took his sister to Earl’s

daddy’s friend   who lived alone off 63rd

 

a block from the Golden Pagoda Chinese 

restaurant    where he would sit and wait  

for takeout and study a painted screen    

 

to see an old pagoda set upon a foggy 

mountain peak and cartoon clouds drawn 

like question marks floated above jagged 

 

cliffs and then suddenly the dragon lady 

would hand over chop suey in a brown 

paper bag folded with a queer pleat 

 

and he would take it home warm against 

his chest  yes Earl’s bungalow was near 

the Golden Pagoda so his sister never went 

 

for takeout because she had to sit still 

on Earl’s couch that was arm worn and 

itched like scabs sit while mother went 

 

to the back room with Earl and she heard 

moans not unlike the moans of a wounded 

animal and she would imaging the sky above

 

the old neighborhood filled with soft clouds

and we had enough to get by if just barely 

that spring whatever bloomed   bloomed dearly

 

 

Robert Klein Engler lives in Omaha, Nebraska and sometimes New Orleans. Mr. Engler holds advanced degrees from the University of Illinois in Urbana and The University of Chicago Divinity School. Many of Robert’s poems, stories, and paintings are set in the Crescent City. His long poem, “The Accomplishment of Metaphor and the Necessity of Suffering,” set partially in New Orleans, is published by Headwaters Press, Medusa, New York, 2004. He has received an Illinois Arts Council award for his "Three Poems for Kabbalah." Link with him at Facebook.com to see examples of his recent work. Some of Mr. Engler’s books are available at amazon.com. He is represented by Connect Gallery at 3901 Leavenworth St, Omaha, NE 68105.

 

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ALAN HARRIS

 

If Stephen King Wrote Poetry

 

it still goes on
those little things
that annoyed me about you

the casket’s closed
but the kitchen cabinets remain open

it’s like you’re here
going through the junk drawer
leaving the toilet seat up

the dog wags its tail
at your Laz-Z-Boy

your favorite beer
fills my fridge
your socks lay on the floor

 

our grandchild
still talks to you

your aftershave
calls my name from
hand towels and pillow cases

the damn lawnmower
refuses to start without you

along with the old Ford,
barbeque grill,
and the sump pump
 
which leads me to
your photo on the wall

as I wonder if those eyes
are asking me to follow
or simply saying good-bye

 

 

Opposites

 

The old woman asked
What is the opposite of poor?

 

Rich
I replied

 

The opposite of poor
is justice she responded

 

I don’t understand
I said

That’s why we’re opposites
she sadly smiled
 

Alan Harris is a 61 year-old graduate student and Hospice volunteer. He writes poetry, short stories and plays based often on the life-stories of older adults. 

 

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SINEAD KEEGAN

 

Living in Language

 

My first day at school my mother told me to find my ‘r’s

we don’t drive cahs in this house

still she went from Mammy to Mom

 

born to a failte on the banks of the Liffey

welcomed with the grá of family where the Nurney passes the Barrow

rerouted to the Charles to chase that elusive “opportunity”

 

fully immersed in wicked pissah trips to the Muddy River

and shouted rounds of “Yankees suck!”

at home it was dún an doras and go raibh maith agat

 

swept north to the St. Laurent

be careful to ask for poutine not putain

working in a new language here, eh?

 

stop at the dep on the way home from work

Mélissa rapes the cheese

as I open the lights

 

to a new familia south of the equator

teaching niños in the desert called Chorillos

Mama Giuli cooks papas in their native country

 

now to the Thames, where I’m asked what it’s like to be back

back where, mate? Home

home is where you know the language

 

Sidewalk cracks

 

The boy in the yellow house calls

himself God

his prophecy protests are lost

in the afternoon

bus noise like his fingers in his brown curls

hanging low over eyes

that trace the sidewalk cracks

of the steep hill.

His knees bend outward in splayed genuflection

as he walks.

His brother is Attila call me Atti like the Hun.

They are Romanian Hungarian not from here

perfect English speakers. God will not speak

to me even though I bow my head

whisper soft and offer a smile.

He is handsome in a way that I cannot remember now

a way that blurs his face but sharpens

his silhouette in my door

the day his unknown unseen

mother needed an ambulance.

 

Sinead Keegan lives in London, where she teaches writing at Kingston University and in her local community. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and her poetry and short stories have appeared in several publications. She is working on her first novel and blogs at www.sineadkeegan.com.

 

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S. A. LEAVESLEY

 

Two poems from Lampshades & Glass Rivers

 

IX

 

Babcia’s metal lampshade

throws petal silhouettes

at pale blue walls

of not-quite sea or sky.

Her past an unknown place

of water, air and blown flowers.

 

Uciekaj, myszko…little mouse,

little mak…her half-sung

offerings: the lost poppies

of a faraway life, long before

this small square room,

where she knits things right.

 

Purls of soft wisdom slip

from her needles; fast fingers

click shadow moths into flight.

They cast off lace ghosts

to pattern Ada’s dragon wings

from this faint foreign light,

 

with its shoreless tidemarks.

 

 * Babcia – Grandma in Polish

 

X

 

Afterwards, she tries to trap snapshots,

to funnel light into the blinded hall,

to patch back the stubbled grass.

 

Above the ragged stone wall:

a bent tree cracked open, broken.

Sun dazzling the dazed skyline.

 

A haze of horizon, cloud ghosts

and sky veins: bare tree capillaries.

Their tally of days gouged in the door frame.

 

Memory stalls on how to say goodbye

to a place that is her first waking moment,

whose minerals strengthen her bones.

 

Night is falling. Below the soon stark dark,

a vixen’s bark to her cubs. Roots burrow

upwards through the earth’s damp skin

 

into the skeletons of scarecrows,

shivering. In this cold: the spark

of beaded eyes, watching the light’s

 

walls crumble to a scattering

of unseen stones. These secret lives

visible only to those who know,

 

like the puddles of tumbled stars

that the days never notice

darting beneath their feet, then off,

 

disappearing to underground streams.

 

Lampshades & Glass Rivers follows a young woman’s love, marriage and attempts to conceive. Ada’s experiences are set against the background of her grandmother’s fleeing from Poland during the war.

 

S.A. Leavesley is an award-winning poet, short-fiction writer and journalist, published in Financial Times, The Telegraph, The Guardian, Magma and The Rialto. She has four poetry collections published under the name Sarah James, including plenty-fish (Nine Arches Press, 2015) and The Magnetic Diaries (KFS, 2015), which was highly commended in the Forward Prizes and staged at The Courtyard, Hereford. Her debut, Into the Yell (Circaidy Gregory Press, 2010), won third prize in the International Rubery Book Award 2011. She is also editor at V. Press. Lampshades & Glass Rivers won the 2015 Overton Poetry Prize and is reviewed in this month’s reviews section. www.sarah-james.co.uk

 

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MARIE C. LECRIVAIN

 

Why I’m Not a Parent
No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings - William Blake

This was the fundamental problem
between Icarus and Daedalus, and although
the former tried his best to walk the line,
he knew enlightenment was not a heritage.
Can you imagine the words, I told you so,
dying on Daedalus' lips as he watched Icarus
plummet like a comet into the sea,
broken wings askew and breath
sucked away by the west wind? Do you see
the clever life jacket Daedalus designed
- specifically for this occasion -
left behind in a corner of his workshop
because time and tide wait for no man?
Can you sense the momentary pride
that swelled in his breast as he
watched Icarus ascend to heights
no one dared to go,
his heart caught in his throat,
and eyes wide open in wonder?
 

Marie C Lecrivain is a poet, publisher, and ordained priestess in the Ecclesia Gnostica Catholica. Her work has been published in Nonbinary Review, Orbis, Spectrum, and many other journals. Her newest book, Grimm Conversations, is available on Amazon.com

 

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JENNIFER A. McGOWAN

 

Cloister

 

A patch of green.  A square of stone.

The certain sort of silence that comes

when existence centres around—

and only around—the passage of breath.

 

Alveoli inflate to the full; there is no room

for sorrow.  And so in quiet inhalations

I let go, and begin.  Autumn wraps around me

its falling mosaic of colour.  Time rustles,

 

drifts in gold and red.  Memory eddies

at the walls’ feet and the decades-old beehive

bows the stone, threatens to tumble its precision.

I imagine the drip of honey in interstices,

 

its slow glow in the dark.

Somewhere beyond my sight

the river rolls rocks which have never

taken root. 

                   This is the start of everything.

 

It is November.  In the stone arches

the choir starts to sing.  Magnolias burst

into bloom; their petals drift like snow.

What strange alleluias.  What shows of faith.

 

 

Columbine

 

Three weeks she spent at my oriel,

staring in.  I stared out.

At last I was deemed not a threat.

She rotated.  Watched the tree,

unresponsive to other considerations,

choosing.  Began to bring sticks too long to manoeuvre,

tried to force them through the branches,

this way, that; not wise, merely wanting.

 

She was patient; I was not, got on

with more clamourous aspects of life.

Later, leaves blocked my view.  From below

I saw her try to settle in all directions,

silent, spinning, graceless.

                                      Gales came:  she sat

till wind bent the tree, tapped the glass,

then she fled.

                   Months I was empty

till she blurred,  pastel pink and brown,

into my sight.  Collared, her mate

anchored nearby.  The sky flooded.

She made a small noise.  He

shifted feet once, twice.  Stood still, watching. 

Everything soaking through.

 

 

Despite being certified as disabled at age 16, Jennifer A. McGowan has published poetry and prose prolifically on both sides of the Atlantic, including in The Rialto and Pank.  She has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and been highly commended in many competitions.  Jennifer’s chapbooks are available from Finishing Line Press; her first collection, The Weight of Coming Home, is from Indigo Dreams Publishing. Her website is http://www.jenniferamcgowan.com 

 

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JOHN L. STANIZZI

 

Wish At First Snow

 

If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men. St. Francis of Assisi

 

first snow of winter

soft and light

just enough

to cover everything

 

it falls silently

through the  lovely branches

and onto the silent ground

 

tonight I am filled

with a kind of peace

that touches

the top of my head

so faintly

it might be snow

 

it says stay    relax

embrace the breeze

that swirls calmly

through your self

 

and I do

 

snow falls

out of the blackness

and through the flames

of my little fire

miniature falling stars

or lightning bugs

seeking refuge

from the tiny cold

of their own

small light

 

I add 3 logs to the fire

then four

 

I know they are watching me –

fox     skunk

possum and squirrel

raccoon and coyote

birds

swaddled in their elegant wings

 

I will add extra logs tonight

so the fire is warm enough

that they may come out

and lie with me

and the birds will land on the ground

and on my shoulders

and we will share the warmth

 

oh please JahJah

let them come out now

so that I may scratch

the skunk under her chin

until she purrs

and the chickadee will perch

on my finger

that I may kiss his tiny beak

 

I’ve made the fire

nice and warm tonight

 

please                    let them come out

 

if not now

later

and I will dream of

leaving my chair

and lying down among them

thankful for the warmth of the fire

and for each of their small bodies

warmed by the comfort of trust

 

 

John L. Stanizzi -- author of Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall), After the Bell, and Hallelujah Time!  His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, The New York Quarterly, Rattle, and others.  He teaches English at Manchester Community College.

 

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LOIS GREENE STONE

 

'tis nobler in the mind to suffer” 

 

I was leery about teaching Lear

wondering what my students

might understand about dynamics

of family life.  Young faces found

dreams and fairy dust appealing but

“Midsummer Night’s Dream” 

seemed silly as a Puck, to them,

 is a hockey item.  And Hero 

definitely would be “Much Ado

About Nothing” since comedy

has four-letter words spouted by

jeans-clad entertainers.  “Hamlet”

tragedy isn’t as terrible as a broken

cell-phone or wondering where is

a wi-fi hookup.  1603.  Sounds like

a zip code with missing numbers.

“O, blood, blood, blood!”, “Othello”

more suited to students television

preferences.  “To be or not to be” 

teaching Shakespeare, “that is

the question.” 

 

 

A barren stretch of land

 

As an undergrad,

a philosophy class

made me wonder 

what two books

I’d take to a

deserted island.

I decided quickly:

the Bible because

it would set up 

social norms to

re-create society,

and “The Prophet”

just because I

appreciated the

work’s words.

Ask me today:

a flash drive

containing personal

photos, writings,

and wait for a

rescue team

who’d see me

via satellite.

 

 

Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.

 

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DANIEL JAMES SUNDAHL

 

Rabbinical Legends:  I-II

 

Simplicity Following in the Steps of Cunning

 

Note how smoke rises

Straight and plumb.

 

Never interrupt

To mention the Hittites.

 

Let the bushes overgrow

The pasture.

 

Cover your dead

With quicklime.

 

Leave gaps between

The seedlings.

 

Interrupt Me

To name your children.

 

When the moon is new

Look for the beginning of longing.

 

After church,

Linger.

 

Cunning Following in the Steps of Simplicity

 

Pick berries when the dew is fresh;

In day's heat, place them on the tongue.

Instead of argument, offer her one.

 

Keep commonplace books;  promise her

Fidelity;  once in your life, pirouette.

In winter, walk on ice

 

To see if fear returns;  in summer

Dive completely under and think

Of drowning in a country lake.

 

Learn to whistle two notes:  one harsh,

One clear;  to calm yourself, breathe

Through your skin, thinking of horses.

 

When speaking, notice the sound of vowels.

When spring comes, be wholly willing

To touch a cow's udder,

 

To walk barefoot in the mire;  dream

Of boats sailing on the bay, each one

A dancer;  teach boy children

 

The beginnings of sadness, the practice

Of beauty;  in the fall, if a barn

Burns jump in, do everything you can.

 

Remember that evening is wiser

Than morning, that morning is the life

Beyond the body;  glide softly there.

 

 

Daniel James Sundahl is Emeritus Professor in English and American Studies at Hillsdale College where he taught for 32 years.

 

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PC VANDALL

 

Snow in Paris

After the November 2015 Paris attacks

 

Snow falls on deaf ears. We only hear

the deadening silence eddying down

in soft swirls, an illusion of peace

sugar coating the landscape in frosted

 

flakes. Too many people in snow globes shake

it off, watch the world through venetian blinds,

and veil it under a clean sleet of snow.

Winter is always white before it’s black

 

and no one cares about the gray, smoke stacks

in-between. Even snowflakes must stick

together to survive. When snow strikes

water it detonates. Soft explosions

 

break beneath the surface erupting

a cacophony of noise amplified

in the crashing waves. Grenades the size

of granules emit sound like gulls shrieking,

 

subway trains coming to a screeching halt,

and sirens in the towering darkness.

Imagine the racket beneath the skin

of sea, the weight of snow without a branch

 

of light to land on. Like fluffy pillows

ripped from a starry sky they fall softly

as angel feathers drifting underfoot,

in hopes of finding some peace and quiet.

 

 

PC Vandall is the author of three collections of poetry: Something from Nothing, (Writing Knights Press) Woodwinds (Lipstick Press) and Matrimonial Cake (Red Dashboard). When Pamela is not writing, she's sleeping. She believes sleep is death without the commitment.

 

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