Clemente Padin was born on 8th October, 1939, in Lascano, Rocha, Uruguay. Poet, graphic artist, performer, videomaker, multimedia, networker and art critic. Graduated on Hispanic Literature at the Republic of Uruguay´s University. Edited the magazines Los Huevos del Plata (The Silver´s Eggs), 1965-1969; OVUM 10 and OVUM, 1969-1975, Participación (Participation) 1984-1986 and Correo del Sur (Southern Post), 2000.
Had published some books and booklets in France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Venezuela, United States, Holland and Uruguay including : Los Horizontes Abiertos, two editions, 1969-1989; Visual Poems, four editions: the first "OVUM",1969 , the last Xexoxial Ed., Madison,Wisc.,U.S.,1990 and http://www.thing.net/~grist/l&d/padin/lpadin1.htm ; Angulos, Amodulo, Milano, Italy, 1972; De la Representation a l´Action, Doc(k)s Ed.,Marseille, France,1975 ; Omaggio a Beuys and Sign(o)graphics, I.A.C. Ed.,Oldenburg,Germany,1975-1976; Happy Bicentennial, Daylight Ed., Holland,1976; Action-Works, three editions 83, 88 and 1992 ; Peace=Bread, (Ed.Fluxshoe, New York,U.S.,1986; Art & People, Light and Dust , Wisconsin, USA, http://www.concentric.net/~Lndb/padin/lcpcont.htm (1996); Experimental Poetry, Factoria Merz Mail, Barcelona, Spain,1999; La Poesía Experimental Latinoamericana, 1950-2000, Información y Producciones, Madrid, Spain, 1999; La Poesía es la Poesía, Ed. Autor, Montevideo, Uruguay, 2000; PAZ/PAN, poema interactivo, CD Rom, Montevideo, Uruguay, 2001; Poems to Eye, The Runaway Spoon Press, Port Charlotte, FL, USA, 2002; Spam Trashes, CD Rom, Montevideo, Uruguay, 2002; Visual Poems, Ed. Visual World Poetry, Saint Petesbourg, Russia, 2002, etc.
Had exhibited collectively in more than 207 expositions and in more than 1.500 Mail Art Shows, from 1969 to 2002. Had exhibited his works individually in Montevideo, Uruguay, 1973; West Berlin, Germany, 1984; Hyogo, Japan, 1986; Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1988; Chester Springs, Philadelphia, U.S.A., 1989; Edewecht, Germany, 1989; Seoul, South Korea, 1996; Hasselt, Bélgica, 1997; Barcelona, Spain, 1997 & 2002; Verona, Italia, 1998.
Was especial guest in the XVI Sao Paulo Biennal, Brazil,1981; special mention in the I Biennal of La Habana, Cuba,1984; fellowshipped by German Academy of Arts and Literature, DAAD, West Berlin, Germany,1984; admitted in the II Video Biennal of Medellin, Colombia,1988; The XI International Congress in Aesthetic, Nottingham, England,1988 ; rewarded in the Posters Concourse to XXIV Seoul Olympiad, Korea,1988; Actions, multidisciplinary artistic event in Chester Springs, Philadelphia, USA,1989; rewarded in XXXVIII Montevideo´s Municipality Saloon,1990; V International Biennal of Visual/Experimental Poetry, Mexico City, Mexico,1996, where was distinguished by his pionnering activities joined to Edgardo Antonio Vigo and Guillermo Deisler; Eye Rhymes (conference on visual poetry, Edmonton, Canada,1997; VIII International Festival on Poetry, Medellín, Colombia,1998, Literature out of the Books, University of Barcelone, Spain, 1999, VII Biennal of Havanna, Cuba, 2000, etc.
Has been published in tenths and tenths of magazines and publications in all the world. His notes was translateds to English, French, Italian, Portuguese, Hungarian, Dutch, German, Russian, etc. Has worked actively in internet projects since 1992. For more information see :
Has personally participed, among others, in the following encounters: - International Expo of Propositions a Realize, Buenos Aires, 1971 - XVI Sao Paulo Biennal, Sao Paulo, Brazil, 1981 - First Seminary of Contemporaneous Art, Rosario, Argentine, 1984. - 34th Annual Meeting of PCCLAS, Mexico & U.S.A., 1988. - XI International Congress in Aesthetic, Nottingham, England, 1988. - Actions, Chester Springs, Philadelphia, U.S.A., 1989. - II Latinoamerican Encounter of Fine Arts, Porto Alegre, RS, Brasil, 1990. - TOMARTE,First Alternative Encounter of Art , Rosario, Argentine, 1990. - International IX Symposium of Literature: Modernism - Modernity - Postmodernity, Montevideo, Uruguay, 1993. - International Coloquium on Hispano-American Poetry from 60s., La Habana, Cuba,1994. - XXXIX Congress of SALALM, Salt Lake City, Utah, U.S.A., 1994. - I International Conference of Latinamerican Literature 1945-1995, Mexico, 1995. - V International Biennal of Visual/Experimental Poetry, Mexico City, Mexico, 1996 - I & II Euro-American Exposition of Visual Poetry", Bentos Goncalves, RS, Brazil, 1996-1997. - First Buenos Aires Conference on Experimental Poetry, Argentine, 1996. - Art, Ethics and Human Rights, University of Tucuman, Argentine, 1996. - Eye Rhymes, University of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, 1997. - STOP, National Museum of Contemporary Arts, Santiago, Chile, 1998. - Intersigns Poetry, Paço das Artes, San Pablo, Brazil, 1998. - VIII Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín, Colombia, 1998. - Belo Horizonte Biennal of Poetry, Belo Horizonte, MG, Brazil,1998. - The Literature out the Books, University of Barcelone, Spain, 1999. - Trienal of Visual Poetry, Porto Alegre, RS, Brazil, 2000 - VII Biennal of Havanna, Wifredo Lam Centre, La Habana, Cuba, 2000 - Encontro Internacional de Literatura Latino-Americana, Belo Horizonte, MG, Brasil, 2001 - Le Dernier Festival, Ventabren, Marsella, France, 2001 - IV Salon of Digital Art, Havanna, Cuba, 2002 - VII International Biennal of Cuenca, Ecuador, 2002 - Perfopuerto, Festival on Performances, Valparaíso, Chile, 2002
The beaten urn, dug up… The trace of sun in a garden shed, Through hair, on hands----- How rich this, this minor Chord played well, with distinction. If the gleam could become a sweater Who would not find the fit right, Feel that all-over-touch & pull Such shape closer Little caring how it might sag? So our bodies, our baggage, Pounded, refined & worn For the wearing can still Cast a light With the wrinkles vainly saying: "Look at us, us crags of stars!" & we must look, touch, anoint Because the glow is everything Good darkness is known by
For Otto Levi
Night can be the best time, Unless it is too clear. Then we can't use flashlights In case of overhead planes. Also, when it is winter The cold can interrogate & There's no leaves for camouflage. Smoke is the best insulator, But can be seen, smelled & The snows, melted, Burn, cramp. All in all, for sustenance One only has skin, skin & Animal senses. Thinking Is a byproduct if danger Doesn't turn desperation To fuzz…
Once I was in such thick, Feverish from a bullet & The nightmare of how it came. That happened at night too. That happened but we managed To cobble back health real as Terror's hunger Is necessary for revolutions
Or so I keep repeating Since hope must
Have a reason & the feet of life
Waiter On The Water
The night you became a messiah I started to notice more. The first thing was this path, Your basic slab, fairly short & made Of how many poured stones? Anyway, it shone incredibly Where you stood, where you left, The dark wet grass on either side Composed of city clover, small tufts With white buds, hundreds Apparently
Stars, in fact, a perfect Match where I laid down, Where I was raised up. There was a soft rain drifting, that kiss Of mist one could live in Quite comfortably admiring Traffic lights, their celestial glow & Distant buses & yellow cabs passing
Except you waved your palms over, An al most touch, the fingers so open, The skin so close & I rose towards your face,
That embrace of waiting eyes
Stephen Mead is a freelance artist/writer living in northeastern N.Y., over the past few years I have exhibited art both throughout N.Y., and in Provincetown, M.A. In the early 1990's I was also published in several little literary magazines, stopped to pursue visual work, and in 2001 began seeking publication again.
Woods, the girl is hidden stream, cold and hurt the boy listens, guilt-stricken waiting for her to call his name, alone eyes from the black turn mystical the paths are soon to meet the girl cries head bowed in silence she weeps softly onto her mind she needs somebody to run with holding waiting for the embracing arms the kissful gesture the clothing stained with the cloud's blood.
The ice cream liquors in the sun rays which thin out the rush-frisk street are me etc. and not me. In a dip of laminated conversations "just like the song," she said "did you ever see a dream walking?" I pricked - the anticipation of his shadow in the blackout of an eye.
Statue-still I stand surrounded by undulating turquoise. I wait.
Gulls cry overhead, geese honk, Purple Martins eat on the wing.
Hungry, I fish.
Dave Ruslander lives in rural Virginia. True to the sweeping-generalization that Southerners are slow, he didn't get around to writing until he was fifty. Since then he's written poetry, short stories, and one novel. His work has been published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The Green Tricycle, Cenotaph Pocket Edition, Mipo, Melic Review, Snow Monkey, 2Avant, and many others. Dave has bipolar disorder.
heat            a daisy lays unfolded. an open secret the honey flees deeper
Tips against tips as when the tow driver checks the battery for a charge knocking the jump cable terminals together, blue spurt flash between the tapping
I in another for a while, not caring or minding       freedom from mind            unthinkable
so what was it? I dunno
rawer, sunnier, hotter, touched but other from - antelope quite wild, as yet unnamed            gestures
lope, lope, lope
ripping gulping broken throat water fountain high arching silvery lawn sprinklers some
twists into mist, never comes down
Why saturday is better than sunday
"to have peace in a life of pain" - Eckhart
To sit here, in the morning and hear a few birds outside.
To sip coffee, to hear
the low horn of the train.
My old friend Nietzsche arises from his rented bed in Turin, he glances at his face in the bathroom mirror. Not too much headache this morning.
In Strasbourg, Germany, Eckhart passes sparrows hopping in a dry spot under an awning. In his mind, he thinks of the word "endurance," crosses it out, replaces it with "acceptance."
Amichai looks out across Jerusalem. He sees two dresses hanging on a clothesline, in his mind, replaces one of the dresses with a man's shirt, brightens the color of the other dress, changes "hanging" to "flapping in a breeze," and continues to chew on his toothpick.
And let us not end this poem without a mention of Ryokan sitting in his thatch hut in the woods, yawning, cold - the hearth fire's out.
meeting years later
It was a long time since they had last met. Both of their faces were a little bit broader. The sun ruffled red feathers on a blunt-beaked cardinal.
While she made tea in the kitchen with a sound of clinking and steam,
he walked through the apartment, stopping to bend down and appreciate a small jade maple, two tiny porcelain cats.
A sound of wind chimes somewhere.
He noticed a book that looked familiar nestled between Freud and Schopenhauer. He opened it, saw pages he had dogeared years before.
Well, at least there were no pretentious notes in the margins.
She came out with the tea. They sat and discussed relatives, weather, occasionally old things, touched on lightly like air on skin once a bandaid comes off or cold air on the roots of teeth.
They laughed, the sunlight played on the table. They felt the calm which only those who have suffered much can feel.
When their joy becomes too full, brimming over each sensitive edge unendurably, who will be first to accept it, who will be first to walk away?
In the morning, I prefer coffee. At night, some "Sleepytime" herbal tea.
In music, generally Nick Drake or Hendrix, in scenery, passing North Carolina fields.
In women, blondes, in men, not myself; in books, Meister Eckhart and Ryokan;
in food, Heartland granola and big fat oranges.
In clothes, black t-shirts and black pants.
In weather, summer. Hmm, it used to be fall.
Who said there was no order in my life, no choice, or no changing.
the lesson of ben
I didn't know he wrote. He was just a guy who did some odd jobs around the office. Open-faced, unassuming, white guy, mid-20s.
Clearly, he'd had some experience with pain and uncertainty, and yet maintained a certain youthfulness -- this, in itself, gave him the innocuousness that made him someone I could talk to -- he wasn't trying to get anything from me -- or even give anything.
So, then, when he said "I heard you're a poet," and emailed his prose, I was amused, but not surprised. As time goes on, I get better and better at identifying these people: inevitably they are damaged, a little, they take great joy in simple things, they don't have a lot of money, and they actually have a sense of hope in reality.
Whether what they can offer is a chapter of a novel, a good or lousy poem, or just some leftover bread. (Once, Ben told me there was some leftover home-baked bread in the kitchen of our office. I was starving, and it was good).
This February morning, I glance outside the window, pulling back the venetian blinds.
Cold brown grass. Overcast sky.
I've had enough sleep; I can't stay in bed anymore, can't dream the natural way.
So I heat up some water, make some Red Zinger, sit cross-legged on the mattress and peruse a couple pages of Safranski's bio of Nietzsche, not really understanding much of it.
Then maybe a little Buddha, or Rilke in french,
and maybe I write a little bit myself.
This dreaming is also natural, nor is it an escape from reality. It sits inside life like the white of an egg, nourishing and surrounding - the brittle shell is almost an afterthought.
Your own hand is a history of the universe: claws retracted back to make way for fingertip sensitivities, cobbled wrinkle-creases like elephant folds, open palm a shade slightly lighter
- some of the places for holding things are clean, pure and pale, like the gaze of a tired man who still laughs at your joke. These little things
help, in the dusklight of the evening, when February highway sounds shroud the trees dimmed behind buildings and the rain mist is just enough for the wipers to be on.
Open faces, open palms: in this way, you survive.
It seemed like a giant sun, white and sprayed over with opening moments which did not, however, destroy the spherical being of itself - I touched what felt like curdled milk or the opening of an animal
pulled myself out of the egg
There are hopeful people everywhere. Two miles from me in this city a mother tucks her baby to bed. She brushes his black hair off his forehead and presses her palm to it, feels its coolness. His white brow is untroubled and smooth. He is hopeful, too, in his dreams.
A dreadlocked man working the checkout hums a pop song to himself. He does not know that the reason for all the plateglass, for all the stark lighting is to reduce the incentive for theft. The bright light gives him some hopefulness: the things in the store are clear and detailed. The air is clean. It's a good pop song. The shift doesn't last forever.
There's a hispanic family up the street from where I sit here typing this. The man, rugged, short, stocky, long brown sideburns. The woman walks out of kitchen steam the phone crooked to her neck. Little papi, four years old, zigs and zooms fat blocks of red, green, yellow Lego while the TV plays a DVD, J Lo movie. There is hopefulness in this household.
But one gets suspicious of a man who describes hopefulness, who makes a point of assigning it to certain people or situations. One wonders what his motives are. One senses that he might be desperate or that he is trying to portray things as they are not.
And there's a hopefulness in doubting him this way.
when summer wind presses and wishes against the tops of fields, making long lazy zigzags and snakelike indentations, as if an invisible giant walking across.
When the man invited the woman out onto the porch where a bottle of wine and two glasses stood on the railing, and a single rose, and they poured the wine and sat on the porch steps, watching the stars above the field.
When, nearing sleep, he felt a feeling inside of himself as deep and wide, as quiet and calm as the fields which one passes by in North Carolina on any of the highways.
When, commuting to work from her house, he glimpsed the fields anonymous and distant in their seasons - white with new growth in the springtime, dark-furrowed with plowing, in the summer, heavy and green, in the fall. Once,
stopping to get gas in a small town, he let the pump run, and wandered slowly around to the back of the country store, where cracked concrete gave way to honeysuckle bushes, scattered sunflowers, and the beginnings of a field - he saw a fat garden spider swinging in its web.
But chiefly the dreams of fields, the sense of coming close to sleep and finding it to be peaceful, and wide, and calm, and perhaps he places his leg over hers and now falls asleep.
I start to think of it more as my home as I start to recognize my own inner sad distortions, emptinesses in the scenes around me:
whoever thought those rocks would look good in front of that house, had to be kidding; the bleakness of the state government buildings in downtown Raleigh, is second to none;
and the hazy days of dump pop songs and mealy corndogs slowly obscured my youth like grime at the edges of cash register keys. The woman who worked in the silk plant store
was beautiful - high legs and high cheekbones - but I never met her. Except
if you want to call this looking, and wondering, every day, a meeting . . . .
In this way me and the landscape were similar. The frightening air inside the hospital doors.
All the same, the herbal tea that they served in the hippie coffeehouse was good, it tasted good.
When I returned to Chapel Hill they had shut down the persian teahouse - which figured - it was a place that I loved, so it had to be fragile.
But the used bookstore remained in business, so I went and sat in the poetry section, on one of their funny chairs, and looked at a dome-headed photo of Allen Tate.
By the time I wandered back out onto the street, it was dusk, some sounds of drums were coming from the Mexican café, and I saw little red and green lights, strung through the shrubs in back of a tiny three-piece band.
Many students, walking to and fro.
I left my car parked behind the McDonalds and slowly walked up Franklin Street, looking at the bottlecaps and butts in the gutter, the crystal green of the crossing light,
the white-shirted kids working at Kinkos.
A smell of sour beer in the alley to He's Not Here. We were always too nervous to go there, in college.
Down past the Carolina Café, I sat on the stone hip-high wall in back of which rolling grass and giant old trees took you back toward the university buildings. Indeed, I was surrounded by beauty in my youth. Smell of perfume, as painful as ever. I walked back to my car, tears in my eyes.
how I hope to grow old
The old man treated the cancer as his friend. He thought of the little DNA codes breaking down inside of his cells, like the mottos on gravestones -
sweetly beautiful as they slip away into a smoothness of rain-softened stone.
And anyway, others deserved to know the world, from their own youth.
One can be a twilit being. He tried to have that effect on others, to carry himself that way, around them: the effect of dusk:
so that they might muse a little bit to themselves, sip their coffee slowly, and not even know he was here.
It was simple, really. You watched, and listened.
You mentioned the dead husband's name quite gently. You brought up a couple of the old songs. You pointed them toward something they could be proud of
and let them remember it for themselves.
the poet's prerogative
how beautiful it is with you, here, in the moonlight. I do not have my own phone number memorized. I can't even tell you the number of my apartment - 303? 305? But I can tell you that you are beautiful and I know this, by comparing you to Nefertiti, and Cleopatra, and Julie, even though I've never met any of them. This is the poet's prerogative: this memory.
You bent your legs back till they tapped the headboard.
Later, we each drank an imported pilsner and watched a silly show.
You fell off to sleep on the couch.
I turned, and looked at you:
blue shadows from the TV splashed on your face like a rainstorm.
When we met again, years later, as I touched your body and felt it move,
the echoes of other men
felt themselves against me
After a long, happy day cooking Christmas treats,
in bed, your shoulders smelled of flour and honey.
You sipped your beer, we kissed and I kept kissing you till I kissed all the beer taste off of your sweetness
In springtime, the air smells like the water tastes.
I jog down the chilly hallway naked into the steam-bloomed bathroom.
Drying off, I smell coffee from the kitchen.
There is no difference between how I am now and how I was then, except, perhaps, that I won't let you know if I cry, a little, for joy and loss - it no longer matters to me if things in my life are remembered.
When he was young, once, he took an assortment of golden pocket watches his grandfather had given him and took them all apart, marveling at their little works and bevels.
A silvery spring, delicate, that rose and fell like a fly's heart.
Older now, he had a geode someone gave him.
It was not open - a dull gray ball, it sat on his bookshelf.
He left it closed.
if you think you're saved, you have forgotten the one just like you who hasn't been saved, whose effort has come to nothing, whose car won't start, whose shoe sole flaps, whose wife talks differently to him than to the others, whose vision seems flattened.
If you think you've failed you forget the one who is almost like you except they have connected, watch as they get lifted, taken away, into where wherever is.
To say something good, and also real - years ago, I would've said
"To say something good, but also real" -
but contradictions have worn me out.
In reality, all the mage could give him was a bowl of herb to smoke and a blue crystal ball to gaze in. But that was enough.
They sit there, watching particles of strawdust circle and drift in the candlelight. Outside, through the open window sounds of horses stamping and snoring. They pour a little more wine from the bladder that hangs from a nail.
"Let me show you this," the old man says and, tiptoe on a stool, takes down a massive book hidden above a shelf.
Their two faces close, they turn the heavy pages. The young man marvels at the glinting goldleaf halos in back of the tiny faces of saints and virgins, delicately sketched.
The old man marvels too. There are some things in this world which bring us all the same way from ourselves.
Let none of this be lost.
Sunlight mixed with a woman's voice, dandelions with thick green stalks. Fingers scented of honeysuckle.
A sad man thinks of these things in winter
a happy man holds these things in summer
I miss Venice Beach, Los Angeles - the crowds of folks on the promenade in front of the beach; the elegant bald black man rollerskating while another man tends the portable P.A. setup blasting Madonna and eurodisco . . . . I miss the little head shops, the hippie apartments, the rasta flag hanging over a sunbleached porch, the fragrance of palms, the way late afternoon plays across stucco walls. I miss the tea house a couple blocks in from the beach, where I could sip chamomile tea and write things in my notebook, as I watched young people come and go from the front door of the hostel. I miss the late night bar scene when ridiculous men in bright white blazers and women whose faces define loved and lost sit with light-blue colored drinks in peculiar glasses. I miss the gentle entrance to the Rose Bud Tavern, where poor, sickly men nurse their longnecks, saying little. Also the candle dealer and the man displaying his surrealist paintings, and the mime in the grimy Blues Brothers outfit and the man on roller skates playing Hendrix through an electric guitar hooked up to a tiny amp strapped to his back.
I saw him there one year and I saw him again another year thus showing that the place allows eccentricity to endure.
Which gives me hope for my own mind. And I even miss some patches of Santa Monica beach, up the way - though not as much - the bums in their sleeping bags, the ferris wheel out on the pier . . . .
Strange, how with places and people I love, I miss them, it seems, even in their presence, and seem to forget where I am as if I was there, in my heart as well as my body.
How beautiful this sunlight is, in Los Angeles where my parents walk through rolling streets of Westwood, back from the university. Even the colossal Mormon complex
does not look too awful, in this light which plays on glinty little planes lifting and circling above the downtown spires
and plays on the sleek black curls of the man who works the checkout at Starbucks - who knows, maybe a would-be actor or playwrite -
and at night, there's a delicious warm coolness in the air. That's when I like to drive down to Sunset and walk slowly up and down the strip looking at the clubbers, the CD store displays, the theme bars with their booming music suddenly silenced when a door shuts.
There's even a bookstore, up toward one end of Sunset, where you might find a used Allan Watts, or beatnik bio.
If I love this earth it will force me to grieve.
I like to sip tea, and watch the cats sun on the porch.
I sit here on my bed naked in my tiny duplex apartment at the end of a working class street not far from downtown Raleigh.
I left my glasses at work and don't feel like wearing my contacts so I walk around, myopic, making a cup of chamomile tea, fighting, shrugging or sleeping off despair or embracing it in which case it goes
as I sit here naked on my mattress, listening to a Nick Drake bootleg, still recovering from last night's bender. Those friends of mine really do drink too much.
On one of Nick's songs recorded on a tape deck at his parent's house, I think you can hear some birds chirp in the background.
If you were here, I'd clean up a little, put on some clothes, I suppose, and we'd talk about this and that.
A flash through the venetian blinds on both sides of my bedroom - crack, the lightning is close.
The step back to square one just before you arrive is not the same as never having moved.
Today there is rend & clash, bent fortitude reaped of holding two ideas powerfully singular like two thumbs in separate holes of a slipshod dam.
What you covet is the possibility of leakage even though it appears you do everything in your power not to let that happen.
It's a good thing you think that those who care about you can't see what you're really up to.
The pandering after a clutch that was the trigger, the found poem, the surprise - bow-legged bravado & all that hope for deep erotica shimmering - yes - candles burning next to the radiator melting wonky into flaming trees of good & evil & the love on the wood floor a shoehorn splinter of love - man/woman - mortally seeming last chance though really not.
The woman's later kisses are a murmur of ecstatic condolences. The man, prettily alive, strokes shoulders & falls summer-thriving asleep.
You'd keep him if you could you think at the same time not even believing yourself.
More correctly you'd keep, if you could, the self that you become here lying all there next to him.
This has nothing to do with committing emotional fraud.
Years later in one of those dreams where all the players have the wrong names, wrong faces
you recognize his hand holding a tea pot from Tibet extending out of the sleeve of a homeless woman who hasn't allowed touching in a decade.
You have the most intense urge to kiss her, drink the limp green tea straight from the spout spent leaves & all.
Lisa Gordon: I'm a schizophrenic, but a lucky one, meaning my pills work at least for now, I have strong love in my life, I can function, I've mostly learned to deal. As far as writing goes: Well I always loved something that Margaret Atwood said many years ago when she was asked why she wrote. Her answer: Why doesn't everybody? Yes, that is it - natural as drawing breath, & everybody knows how difficult that can get at times, at the very very least metaphorically speaking.
Newfangled ten thousand tenfold device that brannacks forth a solution: the hair of the pintofolded woman or Edna proclaiming her hate with kisses ten thousand ten folding two brannacking beaming forth a nude conversation with arousing tools of social flesh gouging more of what it intended or twenty thousand five folded that face in the grocery crowd that singular creme devil to resist no speak no look but atonement made mother brannacking a twentythirtyforty
spaces or shes what's left after the udder is milked brannackbefolding tenfold fifty measure nano-machine where is her on button
edna eye give you meye gumption       iu?
Jan Savanyu: I am a 24 year old student in Richmond, VA. I am heavily influenced by the likes of Dickinson, Cummings and Corso. all I can say is that you must keep positive thinking and no illness in your body and mind can destroy you.
"War has colored all of our lives for a very long time."
Is casualty notification at all casual?
Instanteous haplessness =+= with new technology comes earsback pinning anxiety = you pine.
Generic enbed, embed, in bed those angels dancing on the head of a pin winning the battle we are
"They [we] have been monitoring listening posts and flooding the internet". polling advertisees
I hate that it happened to him,                                                    he who "indoctrinated" us into the Marines way
our media mediated immediated knowledge of war
headlines creep under, crawl along inexorably relaying the underlying messages quick [or better, as quickly]
3/27 Embedded media Terminalized Frag news crawls along at camel's pace under the TV picture of.... Akhbar
TV has Crawling once more under the screen Along the banks of the Tibris Clouds billow over Baghdad Phones on the cutting edge disconnect
Regarding the Pain of Others
Nearby plaque commemorating Grant- Land Rice's birthplace, Condoleesa Rice lays out options, shopkeep, Kurd out of Jerusalem, carefully handles Camels out of Winston-Salem out of baccy from nearby fields as encroaching Vietnam vet fondles neck of Bud Light shimmers through on shockandawe headline. Camera shifts to SUV mall miles off. Sex y ad sublimes isms MONSTER.COM AMAZON ATLAS shrugged.
"in Bklyn over the last 2 weeks a lone African-American has murdered 4 Muslims and a few other shop keepers...extropolate that..."
The show will go on tonight
"Invalid option" the computer announced (snickered, spit out, bellweathered, cajoled underhandedly a soft lob I could, I thought, wham outa the park but overcut down into the ground) today via BellSouth (Cricket, Clickit, Verizontally) the SSI Disability Examiner stated (uttered, actually he saw the irony as well).
Could be the name for a new school (flock, coterie, collab) of poetry
[but would have been truer before 9/11 and the latest discovery of the ability to rejoin (at least in one sense or maybe even enjoin) the trumpets of war].
War is a real danger or a brief bickering TV flicker.
NEEDS A VISCERAL DIMENSION
and then you wonder one day if the word is really the way i wrote it
interesting. had this thought last night "and then you wonder one day If the word is really the way I wrote it? the word is really the way I write it? they write it? we write it? this pen writes it? this computer writes it? this ami,ation program zips it?"
Then I got your message and thought of Lu Chi and brush meditators and something Dmitri Buatov said about the roots of visual poetry and Pennebaker's research which might say the how you 'say' actually determines what you say as in process determines content.
i think aan has done some things along this ine and a lot of people don't see it.
food for thought, but for now I'll pick up my train of thought and write my world and wonder how well off Johnny Paycheck would have died had he not done 'Take This Job and Shoved It"?
Their madness, their badness
60 and still
60 and still kiCKing
In the air Everywhere These days. Unsaid                                Unspoken                                               Retracted Contracted for e-publication if you would contract it or                                     polish it some
It may be Mayday, Mayday. But say Ing is by far the more difficult Op            ti                 on.
"I find it harder and harder to keep track of everything I don't do." - John Cayley in private email,
"I wonder; we seem to love poets and poetry for they can express in writing so well how they feel, which we can often relate to.
That may be part of the problem?" - response posted to a self-help bulletin board.
"Or part of the solution" - response to response.
suppression of poetry helps me digest the way the world rumbles on?
Tom Bell is a psychologist in private practice and a widely published poet. He currently has diagnoses of irritable bowel syndrome and major depression.
Fracture! My mother, 20, own house, she leaves a perfectly strong man, 100 miles drives to Hawthorne place of great-grandmother deposits me in dirty diapers, like a bad check. She on to become worldly educated.
Terrified of stern, three, missing my dad, never smiling grandmother no matter what grow eat, poop, lie, listen talk, the radio, you fight, cry, learn to shoot a sling-shot, bird names, little sad songs, fly kites. Some direction. School. Sticks. Steps.
Saw dad, mom occasionally, mysterious tide flow on varient schedules different goals and means. He found one day hill overlooking Burbank airport, said, "Be strong." He great war leaving to go far oceans. Nations needed us. Fracture!
I, 5 cried and continued cried life mostly, cry fills eyes black blobs dizzies me every life day. Tears throb like seasons random crazy.
Unloved growing burden on who cares me feel some evil child deserving nothing. God punishes crimes I ignorance commit.
Do all wars forever? would my dad. would my mom. would warmth and bounty... i question -- i never the war, never. nothing ever went. destroyed i like London, i bombed Berlin, i Hero-She-Ma cloud-dark. i core my life. child wrong parents. wrong war world. wrong.
Jerry Hicks also appeared in Issue 8. His poems have been published in Rattle, Red River View, Anthology, Dan River, VeRT and others. Hicks hosts literary workshops, poetry events, and slams. He received the Excellence in Literary Art award from the City of Torrance in 1999. Books are "Even Weeds have Flowers," "Instructions Included," and "Blind as Bullets in a Crowd."
In the Fall we'd gather the family together the annual harvest of birds. To clean and freeze some of our chickens, as food for the coming year.
With the lawn the colors of Christmas we pulled the entrails out. We'd catch their legs with stiff wire snag while they pecked the ground for food.
They'd flop on the grass for what seemed like days; blood spurts shooting from severed necks as their thumb-sized hearts slowly stopped.
We'd scald them in a huge iron pot with a wood fire for the heat. Pluck the feathers (save them for pillows) and pull the insides out. Find the liver, gizzard and heart and save them with the rest.
For washing and rinsing we'd use zinc-plated tubs, rolled from the wash-house to lawn. We'd cut some up into legs thighs, and breast, others we'd simply freeze whole.
And this is how it was done: Daddy would grab them, head in his fist and with two quick twirls pull it off. I was too small, without the strength to twirl them in the air. So I'd hold them down my foot on their face and pull till the silence began.
Kenny A. Chaffin has written poetry and fiction for over 10 years and has published poems in Vision Magazine, Array, Esc!, The Bay Review, The Caney River Reader, poetandwriter.com, WritersHood, Star*Line, MiPo, 14-4-30, and Melange. He lives in Denver, Colorado where he works as a Software Engineer to supplement his poetry income.
Q: You recently completed a book with Sandy Jeffs called Voices From the Dark which explored mental illness and creativity. What, for you, is the most important thing you found out working on it?
A: I discovered I had chronic PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) after I suffered a minor breakdown and ended up in the Emergency ward at Darwin hospital with an acute panic attack and a dose of shingles. After accidentally viewing a special on PTSD on a small motel television where I had been hiding out and then researching on the internet, the pieces of the puzzle of 36 years of living with a neurological disorder and not knowing what the hell was going on inside myself fell into place in less than an hour. This was all a result of the Sept 11 crisis.
I wanted to put some of the trauma I had suffered over the years into words for the first time. I trusted Sandy because of what she has gone through over the years with schizophrenia. This allowed me to speak. For years I had known that there was something wrong. I remember as a child I used to hit myself in the head with my hands as if trying to knock the problem out. This was an act frustration. Working on the book with Sandy Jeffs was a satisfying way of claiming success over a very challenging life.
Q: And what was the process of putting your traumatic experience into words like?
A: When I create it is often an unconscious action, so I am unable to answer questions about creative process. I usually know what motivates me if I think about it afterwards, when I go back and analyze the work and wonder what motivated me to write or photograph. I guess it's like when I travelled out to the drought stricken country a couple of days ago in order to hand feed the cows. For some reason one of the most pleasurable things for me is standing among their huge dark heads as they burp and snort, gulping and tossing up the hay. I walk away in a euphoric daze, not knowing anything.
Q: You write poetry. Do you remember what motivated you to write your very first poem, how you came to write it? Under what circumstances was it written?
A: I was thirteen years old and the poem was called The Rainforest. I wrote it about Minnamurra Falls in southern New South Wales. It was a description of a dark moist landscape and included moss covered boulders and a lyrebird at dusk. How dark can a rainforest become without perishing? The motivation was power. It felt good to describe this place that had touched my life. I was probably trying to explain my own psychology to myself. It was the moment before the traumatic separation of my parents where I lost everything and was in fear for all our lives. It felt so good to write that I wrote hundreds more poems throughout my teens. There was a sense of achievement but mainly it was about trying to establish a sense of place and self. To quote the US poet Elaine Schwager, it was about "living in the falling apart."
Q: In relation to living with PTSD, how dark did it get? What did you have to overcome?
A: When the light is edging out of a rainforest darkness can be very peaceful. The psychosis that one experiences during a PTSD relapse is comparable to a state of terror, war, apocalypse or natural disaster. A majority of people respond to these real life situations accordingly and get over it once the threat has passed. In my case the threat did not pass. My problem is that my neurology is so well adapted to living with trauma that it stayed that way. To this day I suffer nightmares involving combat, crisis, war, secret agents, murderers etc. My sleeping patterns are distorted. I become edgy in social situations or where I feel exposed to threat. I am hyper vigilant and when in the grip of PTSD related stress I think I can hear animals in distress or people sobbing and whimpering, or those I cannot get to in order to assist. It is most often a case of mistaken identity rather than hallucination. I simply revert back to a time when certain responses were necessary in order to ensure survival -- which in my case was long term exposure to domestic violence that involved threat and torture. I could compare a number of my responses to situations to that of police, army, firemen etc. They are prone bouts of PTSD as well. My perception is often of a world in crisis. My response is one of fight or flight and I am always ready for an emergency.
Q: What have you done to cope? I imagine your writing, your photography, your drawings, all are part of ways of dealing with this?
A: Perhaps my entire life has merely been a series of coping mechanisms. Humour, drug use and abuse, the car I drive, the sex industry, where I chose to live, my creativity, animal rescue, obsessive travel, avoidance of intimate relationships, prayer and contemplation, workaholism, what I chose to wear, my politics, adrenalin addiction, escapism and the many qualities and layers these mechanisms involve.
For example; in order to cope with an acute 4pm anxiety I involve myself in outdoor activities. In order to cope with a fear of the dark, I may sleep with a bright light shining into my eyes. To cope with a world that is in crisis, I work harder in order to rectify the situation. There are dozens of things I do in a myriad of different circumstances that would seem complex, mysterious and even eccentric to some. But I now understand what motivates me. I am a lot more simple than I ever imagined.
While I have over twenty different creative projects I am working on at present, it has been more than just art for me. When I look back at how I have lived my life, I see a person coping not only within extraordinarily harsh environments, but with a brutal and unusual psychology to match. I believe that one of the reasons that I am doing so well today is my belief in myself and in love or god. I have always been a minimalist and these days I chose to live out of several suitcases. When I am asked why I point to the sky and say, "I'm on 24hr call or in my case, probably 24hr Emergency Service!"
Coral Hull was born in Paddington, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia in 1965. She is the author of over thirty-five books of poetry, fiction, artwork and digital photography, and is an animal rights advocate. She is the editor and publisher of Thylazine, a non-profit biannual literary and arts e-zine focusing on Australian artists, writers and photographers in the areas of landscape, animals and in other areas of special interest, with a strong emphasis on indigenous Australian culture. She lives in Sydney's west.
I wouldn't canooty
The bundy of clout
Even if I knew
What I was talking about
I wouldn't connect him
To a collatelly tin
For the simple reason
He wouldn't get in
He might have the panthines
He might have the skid
How would I know
If he didn't or did
So the safety check measures
In place in the morning
Are alright all day
For the likes of these
But if a blister pouts up
Like a black bottled nitrate
I'm leaving immediately
I can't cope with that
The Emotion Stone
The emotion stone
Emotion of stone
Hard cold and brutal
When it bangs on the bone
Does just to break it
And bring it on home
To a family just like it
With emotion of stone
Gives a cold cup of tepid
Then leaves it alone
So you go to your cave
For more emotion of stone
Then you're all on your own
Like a bat that's a bookmark
In the dead book of drone
Dreary in its template
Old cold through its spine
Mad in its matter
Thought twisted like junk
Every third and fourth page
Is hoary and bleak
And the book stinks like rat rotten
And your mind glows bright blank
Till you turn off its engine
And put it back on its back
And curl up beside it
And go to sleep in its space
Till the images crawl like beetles
Up to holocaust hill
They've just come to look now
But they'll soon come to kill
As your nightmare crackle
With burning black flame
And your emotion stone
Drops like a pallet
In a wet water pool
As the ripples move towards you
You just can't go on
So you curl up death donut
And loneliness too
In the thin iron pond
As they put the emotion stone
Down gently beside you
You hear them whisper
He's through yes he's through
As they move you in deeper
To make sure if you are really that dead
Or doing a pos sum or two
A fake phoney death
That doesn't become you
Then back in the township
They shuffle through your four quarters
Looking for gadgets and gold
The plastic's put over you
And you're wrapped in its crisp callous cold
Packed in your packet
Of the envelope grave
One step from renewal
And ten steps from your birth
And the emotion stone
Cold soburied in the desperate despicable and dilettante earth
Spike Rotundo: I work as an artist, poet, musician and performer. I found my love of arts as a small child and have been persecuting my local community ever since with my genius for being quite average. My achievements are too numerous to mention on the back of a Catholick postage stamp, so I'll sigh off now.
The social worker
thought I was cactus
a dead loss
a blight on the world.
The social worker told me
I had: reached the end of the line,
and I believed her
thought I was history
a story with a crappy ending
a nobody who
walked in the shadows of others
and cast none of my own
a witch who made others miserable
a carbuncle on my friends' lives.
I festered and oozed
and sealed the puss of my madness
in the scab of my life's retreat
which had: reached the end of the line
so the social worker from Hell said
condemning me to another Hell
which had nothing to do with being mad.
is only a breath
shallow at times
the myriad faces
that glide the ways
barely giving comfort
never taming the ghouls.
is only a breath
that fades into
asylum of beggars
When they frame
the shadows of
the nether world
in a golden cage,
into which I come
and from which I leave
angry and mad,
let them say:
she was the maddest of all.
And I shall say:
is only a breath
its hush speaks words
falling as a crescendo
upon the mad world's deafness.
Sandy Jeffs has had four books of poetry published. Her poetry invites the reader to experience the agony and humour of madness, the tragedy of domestic violence and the trials, tribulations and celebrations of midweek ladies tennis. Sandy often speaks to community groups, GP's , schools and university students about mental illness, hoping to raise awareness about the myths that surround this misunderstood phenomenon. Sandy lives on the outskirts of Melbourne with her friends and animals.
to avalanches as they rumble
down adjacent faces. head towards
the canyons that they have
fallen into. stop as the day
sets. cook whatever is
left over flames.
eat vegetarian meals. consider
snow angels during the wet season,
snow with breath, us
alchemists of the soul. eclipse
the ground we stand on. shimmering
life diamonds float
away before us. go on
from there. drink from glacier
manuel with cowboy hat
claudio with adidas cap
and me lacking tunic
stare at the sun.
yellow no. 5
triple cola pronounced treeplay lists artificial
colors as an ingredient. preservatives also. i
drank some in huaycachina
on a restaurant patio. on the street,
tourists from all over the world carouse
locals, some longlegged
with real bright shirts, too. its summer
in paradise. a dog with ripped orange tee shirt,
ribs protruding, big cock hanging out, saunters by.
im pretty sure hes from the bronx.
down a sanddune behind
the oasis, a boy does cartwheel back handspring
back flip back flip back flip
down to the water and gets nothing
in return for the fact
that it happened. somewhere im sure
some chicken makes real
shiny with piss a red wheelbarrow.
(a la noche)
the shadow of a donkey
comes to life from a painting
and chases beer
of a donkey
comes to life
from a painting
my throat. everyone
Michael Furs was born in Bridgeport, Connecticut. He has suffered with anxiety disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder, and he has had a nervous breakdown. Despite this, he has worked as an Emergency Medical Technician and Rehabilitation Counsellour for schizophrenics, as well as spending much time volunteering in the United States and in Lima, Peru.
Clues were left
Hit-or-miss, seemingly in a random sporadic display
a verbiage unending in mindscarred careful disarray
the magascope astounds a perspecuity of conscious detail
Mare Island: one scene
Bryce Canyon National Park: another
All dress as garbed to a fancy ball
Parenticide avante garde mon derrier!
Clients perdu regained in San Juan
A tall bee tree
And we drink in the honey of each dripping syllabic.
He only wrote with conscious detail about the football field
The lives of his characters captured on the film
Of book bark encountered and tree trunks enfolded.
I wish I had that spaciousness inside myself sometimes.
Riding the Storm
sky of jet silver black as light
faded dreams fleeing along a forlorn song
violent clouds stirring quickly
streaking the sky out of a perspiring sorrow
a .22 and still a child
held the bicycle up to my head
and hit the road
the sky bleeds red
saw it in the catalogue wanted it
just that colour, cherry cool
begged for it
had no money
begged for it again
wanted it more
got some pain
got it one day
a sky that stirs
an anguish spiring
darkening ever like a fever river
never abating, breaking
a feminine shape slipping behind the masks of ether
stepping windswept lady through the gods' old war
to dream you wish for something other
to want is what the will considers reason
the thing which you desire
Icarus and the sun so cloaked in naked red
a youthful material-maternalistic virtue scrubs over
persistent pestilent in the naturalistic impasto
some definitions pertaining to two circular rubber objects
some link these together by metal adornment
generally having a chain, a steering apparatus,
pictured with a seat, rider donning a parasol,
well here's the picture:
They call her the town bicycle --
because everyone in town rides her
and she's that way
two at a time you know,
on to the next
take it down fast, pump and blow
onto the next wheel before the last is over
under the sky open with sin
bend her over rover
take it all in
The sky is riding from the stars
who cloak her bosom in tempestuous might
with their skinshade shady swarthes of taunting nothingness
deeper violences of shadow percolate still and heavy swarms
biting out chunks of a relentless gaseous aura
into the fleeing sun
She has the road
She has the vehicle of progression
She has no openings for you
Mike Katzberg, originally from Australia, lives and writes in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, with a roommate and a cat. He is in the process of writing a vampire novel, and deliberating over his first book of poetry, among other endeavours.
Didn't you know eccentric women
Repeat the pattern of madness?
Didn't they tell you that we comb our hair
Then stare into darkness?
I'll tell you then. I'm the eccentric woman of
Who talks to the rain that falls
And ask my plants why they don't grow
Into strong little boys and girls
I'll tell you then, I'm the quaint woman of yesteryear
Quintessentially mad to the masses
But to the legion that guards my brain
I'm not insane
Didn't you know eccentric women
Repeat the pattern of madness?
Shamed by our Condition
My wrists were small
but the cuffs were smaller
as they bit at my skin
Shoved into the car head first
my body contorted to fit
in a space not fit for small children or wildlife
CLANK went the door of the holding cell
Piss scented air engulfed me as I sat
alone and cold on the hard metal bench
(chipping paint and artful profanity)
Cries of women
echoed through the corridor
and out the window
falling on merciless ears
I would not cry
for anger caressed my lips
He took away everything I had
He took away my freedom
He was used to the cage
but prison is no place for a woman
We were round up
an assortment of motley women
chained together by circumstance
I was not a criminal
just a woman and a mother
who would not submit to the will
We were led out like dogs pulling a sled
Heads down and shamed by our condition
My cellmate was a crack addict
though she preferred the term "diabetic"
Her long, crack-eaten body draped over the entire
I studied her features
There was no doubt she took her insulin through a
Elizabeth Kelso is a native New Yorker who has been writing poetry for 17 years. She won 2nd prize in the 2000 "No Experience Required: A Literary Magazine Contest for her poem "She Fed Me Kimchi". Her work can be seen at zuzu.com.
Crazy is a mean place to be -
piranhas swim through saliva, teeth
pressure your tongue to tell a son
you wish he were never born, that your eggs
should have caught fire, burned black
like the ones he tries to make, ruining all the skillets,
before that drunken cum staggered its way
into your fucked-up Easter basket.
There is so much blood in the daydreams.
His and yours run together, a dysfunctional river
that covers baby pictures making cowlicks glisten,
making his Sesame Street romper orange.
In the night dreams, you cry.
How you've neglected the knife set!
The one from four Christmas' ago - they've dulled
like your hair, your eyes. Flat. Matte like the shadows
you wear as disguise. People don't look into them now,
and you know the men you'll never have.
Things like making toast and manicures become projects,
make you think of slots that pop out what you are so hungry for,
and fingernails small as sprinkles, so you drop the bread
to the floor, leave the polish open to dry.
With dead eyes it all seems funny.
Crazy is an interesting place to be, if someone notices.
Then there are pink and blue pills that you line up
on the counter like pairs of eyes winking all is well,
and doctors you picture naked with hairy balls,
which makes you laugh, and laughter is
the best medicine. If someone notices,
maybe sons will see the error of their ways,
become priests or even love you again, hold your hand.
But crazy is usually alone, going to six stores to find
the Schick straight razors dad used to use. Then you see
him shaving at the sink, nicking his cheek, sticking a piece
of tissue on it. Oh, how you fretted! The worst worry
in your life was his wound. You wonder why
he doesn't answer your prayers.
Crazy is a place where the doves never come home.
Breaking Down, Making Soup
A pockmarked life, ugly and filled
with flimsy notions of altered states
is reason enough to shed skin dead
a while, since the year full of holes.
Hung on bone (tired), teasing
like a tongue that circles pouting lips
and misses the point.
Fifteen thousand three hundred thirty
mistakes atoned for - promises, deals,
firstborn son. Like a pot of soup they simmer
until the whole schmear becomes something
with a name. Carrot shavings
and chicken feet are nothing on their own.
Sometimes he listens and forgives
but we pay with our sanity,
going crazy as we slurp poison
that does not quite reach the heart.
Lori Williams: Just your typical depressed poet from New York. I think I've had some sort of depression for most of my adult life, maybe even since childhood. People were always telling me "snap out of it", " you're so moody" and the worst one..."smile!". At age 43, I have finally put a name to it, stopped thinking I was just a miserable person. My poetry has been published in over 30 print and web zines and journals, including The Melic Review, Niederngasse, The Dakota House Journal, BlueFifth Review and is upcoming in Wicked Alice and Unlikely Stories. I've used poetry as my therapy for many years, but it's not quite enough anymore.
Drops of rain
Glisten on the wooden steps.
The wind blows
And the field answers
As everything else listens.
At the edge of the pond
It is like that dip and then tug
Into the darkness.
The line runs with that shiny scaled dream
That can never be fiction.
Danny P. Barbare's poetry has appeared in Pittsburgh Quarterly, Writing Ulster, Santa Barbara Review, California Quarterly, and many other publications and journals. He has struggle with manic-depression since his early teens. He started writing at the age of 20 and has written a poem everyday for the past 20 years. He works as a custodian and attends Greenville Technical College when able. He has a deep Southern accent, having travelled very little from the area where he was born.