Other Poets Nov08


	Poets November 2008 (2) This page contains poems by: Esther Cameron, Shaun Hull, Roni Kadish, Yvonne Nunn, Ricky Friesem, Ruth Sabath Rosenthal, Bernice Lever,Jenna Luksetich, Tirzah Ben David, Margaret Eaton, Michael Stone, Sharon Neeman, Rena Lee, Iris Dan, John B. Lee, Bonnie Enes, Trish Shields, James Deahl, Miriam S., Pat Durmon, Zvi Sesling, Jerry Breger, M.J. Iuppa. Go to Poets Page 1 The following works are copyright © 2008. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the authors. Esther Cameron Esther Cameron was born in 1941 in New York and grew up in Madison, Wisconsin. She received her B.A. in linguistics from the University of Wisconsin in 1964 and her Ph.D. in German at the University of California-Berkeley in 1973. In 1979 she came to Israel, where she lived until 1990. In 1983 a chapbook of poems, Or Mudrag (A Gradual Light), translated by the late Prof. Simon Halkin, was published by HaKibbutz HaMeuchad, which in 1987 also published her memoir Tsade: Nituach ‘Atzmi shel Golem (or the Autoanalysis of a Golem), translated by Ruth Blumert. In 1985 she received the Peter Schwiefert Prize from the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. In 1996 she founded the poetry magazine The Neovictorian/Cochlea, which in 2007 changed its name to The Deronda Review. Her epic poem The Consciousness of Earth was published in installments by Bellowing Ark, and in book form by Multicultural Books. She also edits a website, Point and Circumference With this Stone I saw a building-site in the unknown With lines of workers toiling from afar To lay on the foundation each her stone -- The whole resembled an enormous star. And when I questioned one of them, she said, "This is the temple of our common pain, The house of common memory of our dead, And of the loves that we have loved in vain." The structure still lay open to the weather, But every hour the walls were rising higher, And I would see it roofed and them together Inside, could hear the singing of their choir, Singing of fair things broken and made new. That's where I'm going with this stone: you, too? A Further Season Weary and self-dissatisfied, I walked, between one visit and another visit, some hundred paces on the unbuilt domain beside the Monastery of the Cross. The autumn crocuses were gone; instead, I found one winter crocus, then another, each snow-white cup, no bigger than my thumbnail, filled up with yellow pollen. As I counted six petals to one flower, and noted how each tapered to a point, I heard the stillness and in that, the faint cheeping of a bird, and just for a fraction of a second was outside myself. And later on at twilight over the roofs in deepening sky the crescent moon with her pendant of a single star -- almost one could forget what one had learned about our satellite and sister-planet -- the burning whirlwind and the airless waste -- and see only irrefutable beauty. I saw it, and I strained to see the sight through veils of weariness, of memory and fear, against that in my breast which knows my errand, and the path I must pursue, and which had urged my inner sight away before I passed again beneath the trees. -- So, that world is still there: no nearer now, nor farther, than when struggling youth obscured that shining-forth, as ebbing years do now. Youth, with its high hopes and its mighty words, has passed; its wine is spilt, and tears will not refill that cup; there is at best one spring in which we figure as participants. Yet stepping to the borders of their lives, I've heard, the wisest find a further season, not numbered in the cycles of the Four, where, wandering in a world that is not theirs, they are the guests of everything that is. They being motionless within themselves receive and transmit motions from the stars and with sage courtesy, whenever met, through one another greet that world again. Sunset From the High Field for Ruth Blumert Beyond the next ridge, the next valley, the dissected plain recedes in blue unmoving waves, ridge beyond ridge beyond ridge. Five. Six. The earth seems to hold still, the sun seems to be falling very slowly toward a slot in the horizon until another day is in the bank. Another day. The Messiah did not come, the word was not spoken, nor the riddle solved, nor any denouement arrived at. Soon daylight tugged away will reveal above us the unchanged scoreboard of night. What time is it now in our home? On the Eve of War White snow, you fly To meet me as I drive from friend to home, From warm to warm, Upon a night when many wait to die. A self, enclosed In temporary comfort, contemplates The diverse fates Of other selves to the uttermost exposed. There is no prayer To bind this snugness to that misery Nor keep from me The evils which I soon or late must share. White snow, you fly And vanish in the beam of my headlight As on this night The thoughts, the hopes of all who wait to die. Shaun Hull Shaun Hull is an engineering technician by trade; a guitarist, singer, songwriter, poet by nature. He has been displayed in Voices for Africa, Poetry Super Highway, Winning Writers, New vs. News, Very Bad Poetry and several others. Shaun lives in Cocoa, FL. with his cat Skanky and tons of stuff he can never seem to find…music from his CD is at: http://www.soundclick.com/shaunhull tomorrow morning tomorrow morning i believe i shall or maybe i shan't but if i shall i will share me with my friend zoë if i still am able to share tomorrow morning i would wish to write a poem to zoë if my chary digits oblige broken and torn how awkward they present they laugh at my challenge they cry so when put to "good use" tomorrow morning i should tend zoë's hair if zoë's hair still lives (on top of her head silly) or perhaps tomorrow morning i shall rise with the smoke of souls i would take zoë if zoë is able if I can find zoë she may have already melted tomorrow morning Roni Kadish For a photo and bio of Roni, see the Genesis section. If Pillows Could If pillows could talk Mine would whisper words of love. Patterns of tears would thread Their way across the embroidered flowers Entwined with butterflies. They'd weep across the night. I rest my head on dreams. My pillow twists, Like an envelope it empties secrets, Opens wounds, Or hides what I feel. When you lose a loved one Days pass like dreams, Become reality, Pillows hold visions of what might have been. Yvonne Nunn Yvonne Nunn was born on a ranch in Dunn, Texas, USA, where she presently lives with her husband of 55 years, Carl Nunn, a retired Methodist minister. She spent the first thirty years of marriage with her husband serving churches throughout the Panhandle of Texas. She started writing poetry in 1990 and holds the titles of 2005 Pissonneteer of the Year, and 2006 Texas Senior Poet Laureate, conferred by Amy Kitchener's Angels Without Wings Foundation, a non-profit literary society in Springfield, Missouri where she currently serves as Dean of Online Education and is 2008 recipient of a Scribe's Scroll, the equivalent of an honary master's degree. Yvonne is the founder of the unique 6-member Bards of a Feather with six participating poets from South Africa, Malaysia, and from Ohio, Oklahoma, Arizona and Texas USA. All six members write winning poetry. Their most prestigious works are a crown of sonnets and a triple verse Rondeau. Spring In Pantoum As tulips nod, close buds in sync we greet the Hummer’s toothpick beak who tastes first nectar from the pink of bubble heads as spring winds streak. We greet the Hummer’s toothpick beak poised like a straw for ice picks’ thrust of bubble heads as spring winds streak a peal of petals cloaked in dust. Poised like a straw for ice pick thrust a plant is born from warm dew drops. A peal of petals cloaked in dust join iris beards in quartz vase tops. A plant is born from warm dew drops who tastes first nectar from the pink, join iris beards in quartz vase tops as tulips nod close buds in sync. Summer In Pantoum We greet the hummer’s toothpick beaks in days of warmth and soaked up light. We share with lunar’s magic tweaks as orbit moves it out of sight. In days of warmth and soaked up light from blossoms’ perfume, nighttime speaks as orbit moves it out of sight. The planet twirls ‘round blued mystiques. With blossoms’ perfume, night time speaks, albino beams may heal life’s woes; the planet twirls ‘round blued mystiques, an artist’s dream of nature’s pose. Albino beams may heal life’s woes. We share with lunar’s magic’s tweaks an artist’s dream of nature’s pose. We greet the hummer’s toothpick beaks. Fall In Pantoum In days of warmth and soaked up light, confronted feeders garnish decks, allow the swift to sip the drink distilled by sun’s fermented wrecks. Confronted feeders garnish decks hold sugar water masked in red distilled by sun’s fermented wrecks yet leave the tiny ones well fed. Hold sugar water masked in red. It grants last sips before the frost yet leaves the tiny ones well fed for migrant trips. Fall’s tempest-tossed And grants last quaff before the frost, allows the swift to sip the drink for migrant trips. Fall’s tempest-tossed in days of warmth and soaked up light. Winter In Pantoum Confronted feeders garnish decks as tulips nod, close buds in sync, and shed dried petals by the peck, meet gardener’s discard of red drink. As tulips nod, close buds in sync they hibernate for next year’s show , meet gardener’s discard of red ink when Spring again melts Winter snow. They hibernate for next year’s show beneath the soil in fertile bulbs when Spring again melts Winter snow. They sprout new growth in windbreak shrubs. Beneath the soil in fertile bulbs they spread dried petals by the peck. They sprout new growth to windbreak shrubs. Confronted feeders garnish decks. Ricky Friesem Ricky Rapoport Friesem is a poet and an award winning documentary filmmaker. She has also written two cook books: Fruits of the Earth (Adama Books, 1985) and Joy of Israel (Steimatzky, 1976). She headed the Communications Department at the Weizmann Institute of Science for over a decade. Her poetry has appeared in numerous poetry journals and her recent poetry collection (Parentheses) was awarded First Prize in the 15th Annual Writer’s Digest International Self-Published Poetry Book Category. Back to the USA Another nowhere town With a string of nowhere malls Could be Dayton, Sacramento Cedar Rapids or Sioux Falls What's the difference? Same old shopping Same old Big Boy, Home Depot Toys 'R Us and Circuit City Pizza Hut and food to go The motel room, same old carpet Patterned to conceal the stains Complimentary tea or coffee Could be either, tastes the same Same old wake-up call recorded Cheerio voice to start the day Followed by the same old breakfast Plastic cereals, bread like clay Eaten while the same old sound bites Stir the air with gusts of news Blasts of ads ad infinitum Background music, background talk "How'ya doin? Ya-da, ya-da Have a nice one. Come Again." Wish I could, but I have changed and Here’s not what it was back then Oh, America I loved you, Love you still but I can't stay. Gone too long and seen too much To fit into the USA. The Nest She built their nest of strands pulled from her British past. The warm pine planks, the rocking chair the linen-shaded lamps, the shelves of books lining the walls and here and there a touch of Wedgwood blue to match her foreign eyes accustomed to a paler light, and so she sewed thick drapes and drew them tight to block the fierce hot sun and keep her loved ones cool and safe from this harsh land, and thus they lived on Earl Grey tea and cakes and jam and cheddar cheese imported and the young ones grew up strangers and soon spread their wings and flew far far away and they were left the two of them, and now she’s dead and he sits silently all day alone and stares as all around the ties she tied come loose unraveling the fraying nest. He doesn’t seem to care. Perhaps he never did. How to Fold a Sheet Sheets were meant for two to fold in a ritual minuet grab the corners move apart pull it taut then over right then look up and over left come together change your grip back again and snap it straight closer now hand over hand Smile and let your glances meet That’s the way to fold a sheet. Afterlife It’s strange to think that this chipped teapot will live on long after me and someone else will pour the tea and maybe for a fleeting moment see my image think of me there pouring tea and then the talk will flow and wash away the flotsam thought and there they’ll sit drinking their tea around my teapot without me. My Town My town’s a dirty town a garbage in empty lots urine in dark corners potholes in unlit streets town I love it My town's a pungent town a guava ripe in season steaming sweet corn on the street falafel frying fresh bread baking town I love it My town’s a technicolor town an open market rainbow outfits rugs and bales in gypsy colors bougainvillea growing wild town I love it My town’s a noisy town a street musicians radio blasting hawkers talkers children babbling horn honking loudmouth kind of town I love it My town’s a walking town a crowded sidewalks bustling busy baby stroller wheelchair pushing high heel low heel on the move town I love it My town’s a dot on the map town a can’t believe I’d ever end up here no one has ever heard of not even a decent concert hall or park town I love it My town’s a familiar faces town a stop to chat outdoor café greet me by name know what I like feel at home full of life people town That’s why I love it. Ruth Sabath Rosenthal For a photo and bio of Ruth see the Genesis section. Keeping Busy She rolls bits and pieces of paper, secures each with a rubber band then peels the band off, unrolls, flattens the scrap, rolls, places the band back on, peels it off… She shuffles from drawer to cupboard looking for something to busy herself. Muttering. Always muttering. Something unintelligible. Something unsettling to hear. Pencil in hand, this bookkeeper of old jots down numbers, adds and subtracts them without error. On one sheet of tattered paper, she pens no alphabet known—linear, uniform, her scribble fills the page. In her chair, bib in place, she eats expressionless, except for ice cream. Riding in the car, she stares at passing license plates, reads aloud each letter and number bell-clear. She sleeps like a baby. Does she dream the dreams of a woman who’d led a full life? If I Could Go Back to June 1939 After Sharon Old’s “I Go Back to May 1937” I’d see my father relentless in his courtship of my mother, hear him sweet talk her into marriage, lay her fears to rest. I’d try to wake her, get her to speak up, get him to dig up his qualms, both face up to what it will take to be loving parents. I’d shake them back to their childhood, to the wanting, beg them to be the mother and father they always wanted. Bernice Lever For a photo and bio of Bernice, see the Genesis section. Random Random acts are more common than deliberate ones. Mostly, life is all acting, puzzling over whether you have the right script or not. Mirroring parked car windows or crowded stores reflect some shattered or scattered aspect of your face or dangling limbs. Your body seems as disjointed as your desperate thoughts that seek a pattern, if not a script with exits and entrances marked. You can accept this location as a random setting, but you wish someone would help with your costume, even makeup. You flail and flounder about your life, wondering if all your actions are just random muscles and nerve endings guiding your body. Are your ideas just random firing of neurons and synapses? How can you measure the minutia, that chaos of trivia, of your daily doings or grind? Only later, do causes and/or reasons get invented. Everything is justifiable - with enough research or imagination, - with enough intelligence or skullduggery. Maybe you every jerky movement or speech fragment is an act of some deception, befuddling viewers and listeners, but mostly yourself. Does random exist in a preprogrammed universe? You are frozen in your choices: follow the deaf or the blind? Yin and Yang circle you forever. No Anti-Toxins Please! I want to be toxic so crammed with rage ready to burst barely believing this polluted, over-crowded maze this world too full of starving and diseased children -for decades now I want to be toxic so my scorching eyes can melt luxury cars, private planes, toys beyond needs -just for a week I want to be toxic so my searing breath can ignite fancy yachts and cruise ships -just for a day I want to be toxic so my flaming words can burn closets of excess: clothes, shoes, accessories -just for an hour I want to be toxic so my cutting poems can attack western gluttony -just for a minute I want to be toxic so my very thoughts can scare greedy consumerism -just for a second No, I want to be a deadly fury forever. Jenna Luksetich For a photo and bio of Jenna see the Genesis section. The Uniform Worn by the Infantry Man The uniform of an Infantry man, The vibrant blue, the shining gold, and the fading tan. Differing from the Artillery or Cavalry man. The uniform worn by the Infantry man. The different kinds of moving ways, But the heart and the mind all in the same. Marching through what they can, And finding joy in what they cant. Ah, the uniform worn by the Infantry man. His brogans and his neck stock chaffing his skin. His buttons of glory shining Though through much they have been. His bayonet ready for his gun in hand. Oh, the uniform worn by the Infantry man. Marching to the beat of a drum, And a flittering fife. Entering a battle, long fought into night. The gunfire of both Yankee and Rebel, Heard throughout the fight. The tails of the battery seen in the sky, Like that of a kite. Stained on the blue is that of red, Wearing the blood of another man. Tis the uniform worn by the Infantry man. Standing tall and standing true, The poise of the man who wears the valiant blue. Suffering through death like no man ought, Wishing to make his mark, Should he, in the future, be forgot? The heavy burden of moral pressed hard against his back, Carrying it and his homeland like no other can. Shout Huzzah! Huzzah! For the uniform worn by the Infantry man. Time Cinquain Ever The true passing How time does flow through day Eternally ticking on while I stay Tirzah Ben David For a photo and bio of Tirzah see the Genesis section. God's Apprentice For the years of your life, For your mother’s vow, For as long as the words last And on into the silence Learn to listen or die Gravity dragging the helpless down Hunger nudging the universe on The same flesh falling Day after day Learn to catch it or die Horned heads Howling heads Death as quick as childhood Delivered raw and steaming On the slab Learn to eat it or die This is the gratitude This is the test, The old man’s wisdom From the pit ‘Son’ he says While he squints down the blade, ‘Never turn your back on Fresh meat.’ Margaret Eaton Margaret is the author of Seeking Grace: A journey through bereavement, grief and beyond, (2006) and with artist, Angelica De Benedetti, Painted Poems: Inspired by the natural beauty and history of south-east New Brunswick (2008), and the editor of Fundy: Jewel of the North Atlantic Coastline (2009 release). Her poems have been published in Canada, Israel and the U. S., and won four Honorable Mentions in the Ontario Poetry Society Competition in 2008. Website: www.eaglewingspress.ca Vibrations One ancient, nameless hunter, pleased by the sound of his bow-string vibrating in the air, beats his weapon into a ploughshare to feed his soul with music. Young David, shepherd, watching over lambs, plucks his three-stringed harp, winging psalms of praise. Antonio Stradivari chooses the finest woods and carves soft pine for belly, sycamore for ribs and back, maples for head and neck, ebony for fingerboard. then listens: his strings sing Con brio, Con energia, Con fuoco, Con spirito! Timeless, universal language of harmony, Alpha waves, string theory, electro-magnetic fields merge, and the double helix, stuff of life, vibrates. The heart beat of the hearer resonates with the music of the spheres. Herb Garden Secrets The healing begins with the planting, sowing the intention to soothe stress with lavender, migraine with feverfew, sleeplessness with chamomile, heartburn with meadowsweet and heartache with trowel and rake: preparing the dark earth for spring’s greening. There’s therapy at work in the herb garden, long before the picking and chopping and drying and distilling and infusing begins: something that gladdens the spirit and boldly defies bleak February’s frigid landscape. Asleep in the good earth are sage and thyme, promise of peppery-purple chives, aromatic basil, curly parsley, rosemary, marjoram, spicy tarragon, cooling mint – un bouquet garni of grace for table, blessing for health, balm for bruised heart. Michael E. Stone Michael Edward Stone was born in Leeds, UK in 1938. He grew up in Australia and moved to Israel in 1960. He was educated at Melbourne University (BA), Hebrew University and Harvard University (PhD). He has taught at the Hebrew University since 1966 and is Professor of Comparative Religion and Professor of Armenian Studies. He translates medieval Armenian religious and lyric poetry into English. His major translation, Adamgirk': The Adam Epic of Arakel Siwnec'i appears with Oxford University Press this spring. This is the first English translation of an Armenian biblical epic. Nacreous Layers Time lays down pearly lime layers around hurts, intrusive irritants over time hurt becomes part of us, pain is layered into time past with shells of nacreous beauty of which we build ourselves, and iridescent lustre and depth encrustations of enfolded pain laminated past life and the present perspective tense. Sharon Neeman For a photo and bio of Tirzah see the Genesis section. Guard of Honor It seems a thousand years ago, the day We sat and waited for the train, we four: His mother and my daughter, he and I. The hall was crowded, wintry, close and dank; We sat there waiting for three hours or more On rationed sandwiches and tepid tea. (We were to join our husbands, far away.) They had three toys between them: a toy tank (Camouflage-marked), White Horse and Velvet Cat. We sat and knitted, fretted, knitted, sat; They played among our feet. A sudden cry Turned heads to look among our feet: "No, no!" (She was just seven; he was rising nine.) "You can have White Horse. Velvet Cat is mine!" Ah, yes, it seems a thousand years ago... And when the train had come, and we were seated, Our children squirming on unwanted laps, I realized the tank had stayed behind, Lone, lost and unbeloved in the hall. I told my friend; she barely smiled. "Perhaps In ten years' time there won't be tanks at all; In ten years uniforms will be for show; In ten more years we'll have forgotten war." Now, ten years gone, we meet a slower train: His father and my husband, she and I. Not twenty yards away, a young man, blind, Not twenty-five years old, sells souvenirs. "These are the last," my husband says to me (His uniform is folded up at home); "Peace has prevailed, and war has been defeated; The train today will bear the last of all." The train that bears the last of all the dead; The train that bears the body of the boy, Rising nineteen... "Be proud," the letter said; "He saved three of his wounded tank crew's lives..." A thousand-year-old memory survives: The four of us, White Horse and Velvet Cat, The station and the train – and yes, the toy Tank left forgotten, lost among the years... I think of that; and of my daughter's room, Where she and White Horse weep with lowered head, And Velvet Cat stands stiff with unshed tears. Rena Lee For a photo and bio of Rena see the Genesis section. Captive of Jerusalem: Songs of Shulamite Prologue I come from a summer country where days, hot, dry, and slow-dying plod like camels' caravans in desert sands. In their humps, a hidden future, chains of bells around their necks. In some prehistoric cave of my being the metallic echoes persist. I come from a country of ancient sorrows, where merciless sun is remolding a nation, melting crowds in sultry streets. The scarcity of water can be matched only with that of peace, and a weary soldier in dusty khaki is perpetual reminder that this isn't just a borderline case but a question of life and death. I come from a country pregnant with hope, and dreams. Juicy ones, sweet and heavy as those watermelons wheeled to a sheltered shade, where they lie round and green, bursting with expectation. At the height of my palate the taste lingers - Back and forth I go to Jerusalem, to look once again for traces of a youth buried in the hills. They say the nights in Canaan are beautiful, yet how can one bear that awesome beauty alone? I was raised on pines' resin in the mountains of Judea, but all the pine-needles of Jerusalem failed to sew up the pieces of my torn love. From time to time tear-cones are falling down to kindle the bonfire of a poem. Perhaps in many years, words and pain may crystallize into golden amber. Oh, my love, thou art in the clefts of the rock If I forget thee, if I forget thee I carry you with me wherever I may be as one carries soil from the Holy Land. I come from a summer country, where the sun is a lion roaring, its curls billowing fire. There is always some terrible danger lurking in clouds of smoke. And always, always this hard unbending love - I come from a country that never lets you. Iris Dan For a photo and bio of Iris, see the Genesis section. The Alchemist’s Wife I. Transmutation Transmutation is not what I’m after. What good would it do me if where I now have a lump of lead I had a lump of gold? What I would like is (by whatever means – physical, chemical, magical) to ease, from core to surface, the specific weight of the lead to work in an array (fractals, perhaps; it would be nice to have a pattern) of fissures, tubes, canals, and other communicating vessels. To fill them with water. And then to put in some fish. II. Conjunction This you call the height of mystical love: sun and moon squeezed together in the neck of the retort fusing (for lack of space) into a two-headed, three-legged creature good for nothing but sinking to rot at the bottom while you sit there idly expecting this pitiful mess to turn into gold III. The Alchemists’ Lane (Zlata Ulica, Prague) When the women’s work and the children’s play are done, I like to slip into the street to listen to the ages a defenestration now and then and sometimes the smell of charred flesh (the old Jan, whom they burnt as a heretic and the young one, who set fire to himself when the tanks came into the city) clay crashing upon clay, I hear the steps of the Golem he does an excellent job, they say, by day drawing water and chopping wood by night collaring evildoers never tiring, never complaining (one day, let me tell you, he will rise against his master) the Castle above, and the Emperor asking for gold (not spiritual gold, but gold); as yet, the alchemists have failed to deliver every now and then, the man from the Castle threatens to throw us out of this house when the night solidifies into glass insurance agent Dr. K emerges: his gaunt and ghostly body has gone through all the alchemical processes; he dies daily and takes all the ages with him; at midnight he goes home to his father Yet I wonder - John B. Lee John B. Lee's work has appeared internationally in over 500 publications. He has over 60 prestigious awards to his credit including being the only two-time winner of the People's Poetry Award and winner of the prestigious $10,000 Candian Literary Award for poetry (CBC Radio/Saturday Night Magazine). He has over 40 books in print. A recipient of letters of praise from both Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu, he was made Poet Laureate of Brantford in perpetuity in 2005. I Wonder at the Spirit Gone I wonder at the spirit gone I’m almost lost to look within the living mind as with the grazing of a dead man’s horse I know there’s fire in the ash that burned the house white powder wants a window warming in the light opacity and gloom brought doors against the ground unlocked by flame and darkened at the jamb and strange with smoke go climb a vanished stair go walk the ghost-worn hall the rain-swept roof’s all shingle-was the eaves have wells in waterlines of willow thirst ask those who never saw nor ever knew description of a mist accounts of fog the clean horizon’s sun-clear lines defy recall, saint Joan my immolated father and three dogs of ash have sadnesses and life’s a time-fueled thing what’s shoveled dust or flower-born particulates the hazy conflagration of a female saint who once laid siege against a city wall in silver exoskeletons of war on ladders arrow dashed by politics and law, that’s Cupid’s hurtful twin I’ve unimportant living yet to do I fail the mystery in language-poor heroics of this futile want that dreams a flickering wind an absent window closed a bold rung-shadow gripped by shade where memory of heart is flavoured by an apple-darkened light Strange Beautiful On the deck of the Port Dover Fishing Museum men are working one with a grinder one with a wire brush both rubbing rust from the red-black railing and I pause in the noise and notice within the belly of a hollowed out iron sculpture of a fish suspended as if swimming a nest containing two open-mouthed robin fledglings and I stop in the loud rasp of worker’s wheel and brush bristle to watch life swallowed in its thatched circumference like an old dark-strawed garden hat eaten by ancient ichthyology that small leviathan that living worm-want baited by birds the man with the brush tells me when the mother comes she flies in at the mouth like a meal and she worries her wings as birds do dying she flutters against danger and feeds her sky-startled young waiting in the rain-eaten oxidation of this ferruginous fish cleaned to the bone by the fire in which it was forged while the gut-red rust of the world weeps in wet weather “and soon they’ll be gone” he says though the man with the grinder never stops working he’s kneeling into the noise as if he were praying, he shouts about birds at a world gone deaf in his hands What Two Hearts Make an epithalamium for Jonathan and Julie on the event of their wedding July 19, 2008 What two hearts make when they are four hands true one palm might slake a double thirst or hold twin hungers in a single grain or tell the earth a shape in them conjoined or measure out the age of light or touch in common prayer along the pulse line of each quarter path of life where words take breath and work has ease go trace the stars in names of night or shelter darkness in abundant shade-cool rest like water-fingers on a sun-dry stone what briefly stays as only moment-marked is ever-present in eternal watchfulness of love Bonnie Enes Bonnie Enes of Bloomfield, CT, USA has poetry published in many anthologies and e’zines. She was Connecticut’s first town and South Windsor’s first Poet Laureate, and won first place awards in the The Windham Area Poetry Festival for 1998, 1999, 2000, 2002 and The Maine Poetry Fellowship Award. Her short story, The Hillsboro Garden and Literary Guild, was published and rewritten as a play winning awards in Maine and Connecticut and her flash fiction pieces Why Cassandra Chicken Cross the Road was published in Country and Abroad and Con-temporary Love was published in the Rose and Thorn. A former, reporter, art & theater critic, humor columnist and editor, she teaches her poetry course, The Who, What, When, Where, Why and How of Poetry to any group of 3 or more people who will sit still long enough to listen. Memories as a Whelk Shell Convex exterior White as the straw Panama hat you wore on a summer day while we danced up and down a city street after finding an engagement ring having been married for 20 years. Concave Interior Beige and lavender whorls flowers entwined on the dress I wore on our son’s wedding day. We danced. Vessel Blush pink rainwater reservoir tears on our daughter’s wedding day. I danced with strangers. Inner helix Music of salient aqua tides, in, out, in, out, of those we love, dances along the shores of our lives. Rain Thunder storms like kettle drums bang on into the night, sit between the hills circling Norwich, cleanse my third story windows, shine sienna-hued brick buildings, streets run streams— a coolness long absent. The storm hovers over the harbor, cracks light, flares again again. Nothing like a summer storm to rid a city of a few sorrows. Fred Cat and I wake, get up to pee. I run water into the coffee pot, he laps water from his bowl. We climb back into bed watch listen as fierceness buckets around us. I tell him, Only so much water water recycles itself. What earth began with is what earth has to offer. Rainfall snowfall are on the decline glaciers melting, summer ban on washing cars, watering lawns. Earth’s vegetation is drying up, blowing away. We inhabit a world evolving into one desert with cacti, tarantulas, scorpions, tumbleweeds. There will be a few remaining souls wandering over sand dunes recalling wetness. Fred Cat licks a paw, lays down, falls back to sleep. Woman in the Helga Painting, 1989 Intensity—painting emotion into objects— is the only thing I care about. —Andrew Wyeth, A Secret Life The woman in the Helga painting, on loan to The Brooklyn Museum, a nude on the bed, a shadow drapes her shut eyes [another reclining nude—always bored], black blanket pulled up to her breasts, rose petal nipples, her head on a pillow, strawberry blond braids, a black satin ribbon shackles her neck. The museum guide relates a brief history on the Helga series of over 240 pieces. Amused, the woman in the Helga painting hears the buzz—Andy did this, Helga did that, Betsy did this ... Dear Lord, she wishes she were back home in Leonard’s den. At times, the woman in the Helga painting wonders if Betsy has forgiven Andy, forgiven Helga, and recently heard [from a museum visitor]: Helga has been hired as Andy’s companion. Do you think it was because he stopped painting when Helga was no longer his model and Betsy was worried he would never paint again? Now he’s back painting— Betsy is fond of silver, you know. The woman in the Helga painting touches people, especially women whose husbands have been unfaithful or women who have been unfaithful with other women’s husbands. She recalls what Betsy said when informed— I focused on the dip in the road. The woman in the Helga painting understands why Betsy sent that nasty Christmas card. She cries out, Helga was a victim—I should know I was there! The woman in the Helga painting has heard it all before— before she was the woman in the Helga painting. When, exactly was that anyway—when she was Mattie in the novel with Ethan, Zeena and Mattie or before that, in the true saga of Edith, Edward and Morton and she was Morton. Or when she becomes Patricia Arquette playing Mattie with Liam Neeson as Ethan and Joan Allen as Zeena. The woman in the Helga painting sighs, her memory and foresight just aren't what they used to be. Safe Haven Teen-ages, we were sunning ourselves on my friend’s lawn, reading Lady Chatterly’s Lover with the cover of Ethan Frome pasted on the front. Her father was pushing the mower, cutting the square of lawn between the front of the barns, side of the garden and backside of the historic red house. He tucked the mower under the lilac bush. We heard, Holy Shit! Looked to see bits of hide, bone, splatters of blood spew out of the machine, some onto him. He jigged around, tried to wipe it off, tried to get away from what he had done. We screamed, ran to find remains of baby rabbits. The mother rabbit wasn’t there, perhaps in the garden, eating? She had been through this last year. In the hushed forest, she crouched, quivering. Heard the snap of each neck, saw a paw hold fast each baby rabbit, heard the ripping of hide, the chewing, the swallowing. This year, traveling on a spark of memory, she came to the vegetable garden, the cool shaded lawn, the lilac bush— a safe haven, she thought, for a nursery. Seasons 1. Spring Vernal Equinox notes of a redwing blackbird weave like threads through their nest drift like feathers on spring-freshet stream drop like rain into a vernal pond sprinkle over a garden like bone meal seep through open windows like angels. 2. Summer Solstice Earth’s axis tilt’s towards sun I float faint imprint in space and time pluck a few flowers harvest a few vegetables hang a few pieces of wash pen a few words. 3. Autumn Equinox shadows lengthen leaves translucent webbed skeletal cold breezes ripple water on the lake a lone motorboat tears across catches last wisps of the departing season a woman sweeps summer laughter off her porch rests in a wicker chair vacantly watches maple leaves float away wonders. 4. Winter Solstice Earth’s axis tilts away from the sun a blank white slate horizon line on which to finish spring summer autumn poems. Trish Shields Trish Shields was born in Saskatchewan, Canada, but grew up in Europe. 'Soul Speak', a book of poetry published by Troubadour Books, was nominated for a Lambda Literary Award in 2001. Trish has two books of poetry published and her work has appeared in numerous anthologies. Her first fictional novel, ‘Inferno’ is published by Baycrest Books. Trish’s poetry and short stories have been published internationally. Her first chapbook, Coast Lines, is co-authored by Katherine L. Gordon, released in February 2007. Her new book, Ribbons of Fire, published by Skywing Press, is due out in late 2008. corridors beneath a mackerel sky clouds cleave the mountains chasing dust demons trailing as a promise never fulfilled blue skies dirt poor and blanched lie open and bare stretching a net against teasing cumulus splotches of red attract a variety of insects dredging each molecule of moisture from the sand as the sun's cold heart beats down impervious to folly lacking empathy for the swarm of mankind bleating pointed slogans currying mindless favour chasing wet shadows never fulfilled the earth continues to turn burning life on a spit grist for the future for the whim of transient gods James Deahl James Deahl (born 1945) is a Canadian poet and publisher. Born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Deahl moved to Canada in 1970. He is a founding member of the Canadian Poetry Association. Deahl has taught creative writing and Canadian literature at Seneca College and Ryerson University. He is currently the publisher of Unfinished Monument Press. Deahl lives in Hamilton, Ontario. He is the author or translator of 16 literary titles, most recently When Rivers Speak and The River¹s Stone Roots: Two dozen poems by Tu Fu. He serves as National Chairman of Poets for Peace. He and his late wife Gilda founded the Mekler & Deahl Publishing Company. Before Winter Comes The extraordinary is implicated in the ordinary — Andrew Motion The sumac near the Rail Trail blazes into autumn, each vein lined in green, spilled blood, and cordovan as though birth and death married in a single pulse. A day polished as hammered metal, the escarpment circling around in its blue orbit. This land was forged, then hardened before Adam drew breath. I stand half in, half out, of this world at the juncture of past and future. Not quite alive, nor truly dead, I record the play of light on wind. Layer after layer, history interrogates our present; fleeting moments, each shimmering like a bell above water, anchor and sustain. Azaleas In Winter The new year opens like a rose, every ice crystal a thorn piercing the land. In the harbour a black ship sinks. Ducks swim where discharge thaws iced water. Flower petals fall, shattering on stone. Each bright shard’s a new world being born. Without an animal body, the soul lives forever: an azalea blooming in winter. In The Marvel Of The Sun Since death is there in the marvel of the sun coming up — Carl Sandburg Since death is always present in the birth of each new life, of each new day, we welcome the mourning dove of the willow and the grieving heron of the bay. In the barley dark of the east long before the innocent blue is hoisted above grove and field day’s song is a lament drawn out like a final breath lost in stars. In the tower of words passed down the generations, summer’s shadow darkens the honeyed kiss where a sigh of grasses hangs suspended in day’s clear air. For these are the lowlands swept by a sweep of compassion and the circle of a woman’s arms into the old light of stars where the lives of Andromeda and Perseus are ever reconjured in darkness glowing. Since death is never absent, our heroes perish crying in their marriage bed with dawn’s cold fist breaking. Two Kinds Of Grace Victoria Day on the wrong weekend; the sun bright, but too cold to sit under my vines. Only the silence seems real; the silence and a slight wind in the opening leaves. Could life be any different? Living too long in exile, only darkness enlightens, only the stilled voice speaks. Perhaps a song without words like an act of love as evening floods the trees — perhaps footsteps on the sidewalk in a late hour. Time stops in that held breath before fireworks. I await the arrival of total blackness when the lit fuse sizzles toward a final gasp of ecstacy or death. Miriam S. Miriam S. was born in Scotland and now lives in the hills outside Jerusalem. She worked as a book and magazine editor in London and as a foreign language teacher in Greece, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and the Open University, Israel. She also teaches literature and runs poetry workshops wherever and whenever she has the opportunity including for Voices Israel. She has written children's stories and published poetry in Seven Gates, Jerusalem, Voices and Ariga on the web. Poem – after a fashion “Fool” said my muse “What makes you think your heart’s a fit topic for the higher reaches of Eng. Lit? Sydney must be turning in his grave. ‘Old rag and bone shop’? That’s fine if you’re Yeats and even he lied – loss somehow transcended, sorrow somehow transmuted to the wires and gyres of a do-it-yourself spirit kit. He didn’t have much to say admirable romantic about those suppurating rags of malice down there under the counter nor the sticky slop in that old paint can labelled (popular brand) ‘self-interest’ It won’t do – poetry from the quarrel with ourselves. ‘The quarrel with God’? Good God! (if you’ll pardon the expression) No sense of timing, that’s your problem. We already know it was Crow who rose on the third day black bullet head silhouetted against the rainbow bringing word that God made the Lamb especially for Sunday lunch. Now, if you were Crow, or let’s not be unrealistic, if you had a small part even of the malignant sheen, steel curve of muscle, blue-black cackling joy, you might aspire to be, why a fly in the ear of the tiger. But you haven’t the physique old boy Any other ideas? You tell me For Hanna Amit Music roots in feeling poetry in pain, and I wanted amnesia, anaesthesia, soul silence thick as bandage heavy as plaster cast to hold up, hold together, hold tight for cell’s first, reluctant tickle roots’ blind remembered fury for light Meanwhile, I dust the piano, You write. Latecoming Miracle they cried miracle when I was born so late the coming; and the syllables entered, like love like a melody, for as I grew wind sang in the sun’s heat branches swayed in the wind’s stillness everywhere that other miracle - beckoning And I reached out, entranced followed after, a child of Hamelyn sure there was truth – sure there was joy – till the sun slipped and cooled and I hardly noticed leaves yellowed and stayed unstirred I hardly noticed, only old bones hold me up, old skin holds me in, old hands weave the wind as heart cries miracle, miracle minutes revolve the earth gray-bellied clouds grim the horizon and now, something unclenches – my foot takes root, leaves sprout about my ears, my eyes petal, I hear the shadow of a wind as of something glance to the corner of an eye or felt as warm breath on the flaccid cheek – a momentary heart’s ease, a balm Is this, the miracle? Metaphor Whenever I think of the sea, a powerful ambivalence invades me. It is my symbol of creative energy in which creation and destruction are fused. It is a truth I do not wish to look at, a law of the universe that washes through my bones – birth is personal, death is personal but the sea tells me they are undifferentiated and insignificant. Yet I cannot think of the sea without the word ‘seaside’ slipping into consciousness, sibilants echoing distant places, distant times, when pleasure was the drawing in of breath, creativity the impulse of the moment – death, a going away of others whom one loved. Thoughts on the Destiny of a Salmon Do you think God knew what he was doing when He created life up-stream all the way? Fish eating fish (birds eating fish too) land predators partial to salmon skinning it alive to aid digestion and fishermen – hook in the mouth to grace – as centerpiece – a gourmet's table There must be some transcendent reason (unfathomable to the mind of a salmon) for having to swim halfway round the world only to reproduce and die What is He (mercifully) preparing us for? I was always a lover of allegory finding significant meaning in everything Do you think I should give it up? Pat Durmon Pat Durmon grew up in the South (Arkansas) and lives with her husband in the Ozark Mountains. She taught English and Creative Writing on the high school level before she retooled and became a mental health counselor for the next twenty years. She is now retired from that world and writes poetry. Pat loves miracles that come into our common daily lives. She enjoys flower-gardening— maybe because it feeds her soul. Her poems have been published by Rattle, Edgz, Lucidity, The Same, Thirty-Seven Cents, Storyteller, Pegasus, Encore,The Mid-America Poetry Review, and she has a poem forthcoming in Main Street Rag. Blind Curves, her chapbook, was published this past year by Pudding House Press. Esophagus It burns like a wildfire that takes my house if I don’t swallow a little brown pill on wake-up. If I eat tomatoes chocolate or donuts, it will blaze up like a bonfire. At times I strive to put it out with spit drool and dribble. It has absolutely nothing to do with my brain, my heart, my eyes, or my ears. It has everything to do with a flapper-dapper-doo not closing. . . so, a flaming fire ensues. If I take a peek at what’s down there, it’s sugar and spice and everything nice; but honestly, I can’t see past the regalia patio ceiling fan inside me where another whole world begins. Zvi Sesling For a photo and bio of Zvi see the Genesis section. Requiem For Max Jacob Max Jacob had four strikes against him before he got started. 1: he was a Jew. 2: he preferred men to women. 3: he was French. 4: he was a poet. When the Germans entered Paris they rounded him up schnell. His friends in the literati who were busy saving themselves abandoned him, the harmless man with the wistful look we see in a photo dreaming of free days in the past yet knowing what lies ahead: the cramped narrow gauge wooden train, the hungry ride, the cold hungry days in gray barracks and the final solution on the road to immortality. Hunger The rose by another name does not smell as sweet the honey seeking bee sting does not discriminate the hungry frog can tell the difference between the fly and the bee. Its tongue lashes out like an angry wife, victim gone, the frog moves on like an army in search of the enemy. Jerry Breger Dr. Jerry Breger is Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Economics at the University of South Carolina. He retired in 1993 after holding faculty positions at several southern universities. During his years at USC, he taught management and economics courses and served as Director of the Bureau of Urban and Regional Affairs and Director of the Center for Economic Education. Why? Ask a question of a tree: Ask it of the sky: Ask it of the roaring sea: Bid them tell you why? Yesterday is always done: Tomorrow always nigh: Every day has come and gone: Who can tell you why? Infinity is infinite: Zero is less that i : The stars swarm in multitude Can wisdom tell you why? Beautiful the blessed land, Pleasing to the eye, Sustaining all that live and grow, And none can tell you why? There is birth and there is death, A smile and a sigh: Laughter and a fallen tear: And still you know not why? If there is heaven and there is hell, Surely when I die, The awesome truth will be revealed: Then will l know why. M.J. Iuppa M.J. Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Recent poems in The Comstock Review, Iconoclast, The Puckerbrush Review, The Hurricane Review, Miller’s Pond and The Centrifugal Eye; in the following anthologies: From the Other World: Poems in Memory of James Wright, edited by Bruce Hendricksen and Robert Johnson, Lost Hills Books (2007); and forthcoming in Eating the Pure Light, Poems honoring Thomas McGrath, edited by John Bradley, Backwaters Press (2008); The Poets Guide to The Birds, edited by Judith Kitchen and Ted Kooser, Anhinga Press (2008); Beyond Forgetting: Poetry and Prose about Alzheimer’s Disease, edited by Holly Hughes, Kent State UP (2008); a lyrical essay in Gulf Coast and a poetry review in Tar River Poetry. She is Writer-in-Residence and Director of the Arts Minor Program at St. John Fisher College. End of Autumn Once again, tuning up the garden with black compost and bags of neighbors’ leaves, we work all afternoon preparing raised beds to hold anonymous spring bulbs, bought in bulk, lying in a scatter on the barn’s cement floor, skins glowing silver in the approaching twilight. These bulbs will mostly be forgotten. Beyond our windows, beneath snow’s insulation, they’ll sleep one season into the next, until the earth warms and they quicken to blossom, bright and fragrant, thrilling in their given names– tulips, hyacinths, daffodils– and we’ll be shocked by their vivid presence, loving briefly. The View Never sat this high before, a quiet window seat, 34 floors above Manhattan, looking North on Central Park on silhouettes of skyscrapers glowing silver in December’s smoldering light, and realized that this city has survived on architecture’s oldest lines, language is the conversation of a hundred native cities spoken street to street, so is the steel, brick, and mortar– something completely human – an arterial map rooted in this island’s bedrock, an undercurrent of life transfixed in the steady rush of traffic that doesn’t yield to silence in its daily course, but rises up in decibels and muscle to pass through every noon’s hour.