Willow Tree Night and Snowy Visitors
Winter is tapping
on the hollow willow tree's trunk--
a four month visitor is about to move in
and unload his messy clothing
and be windy about it--
bark is grayish white as coming night with snow
fragments the seasons.
The chill of frost lies a deceitful blanket
over the courtyard greens and coats a
ghostly white mist over yellowed willow
leave's widely spaced teeth-
you can hear them clicking
like false teeth
or chattering like chipmunks
threatened in a distant burrow.
The willow tree knows the old man
approaching has showed up again,
in early November with
ice packed cheeks and brutal
puffy wind whistling with a sting.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He has also published two chapbooks of poetry and is presently looking for a publisher for two more. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 240 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request.
He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:
http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/
http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/
http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/
Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Christopher Barnes
Sterile Surfaces
Away from the lab-bench’s proving ground
The naked eye’s lame.
The moon’s heart
In an impulse swirls.
Triple-check – it’s far off,
Wide of the mark
Of swabbed feelings.
If the love-gene’s spliced
There’ll be a syringe
In the throat,
A hitch to swallow
Like fish-scaled GM apples
Or the troublesome underbreath
Of Dolly, the sheep.
Christopher Barnes: in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection Lovebites published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
On Saturday 16th Aughst 2003 I read at theEdinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
I also have a BBC webpage www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not work click on SECTION 28 on second site.
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gulbenkian/gulbenkian.htm
The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem "The Holiday I Never Had", I can be heard reading it on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456
REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Away from the lab-bench’s proving ground
The naked eye’s lame.
The moon’s heart
In an impulse swirls.
Triple-check – it’s far off,
Wide of the mark
Of swabbed feelings.
If the love-gene’s spliced
There’ll be a syringe
In the throat,
A hitch to swallow
Like fish-scaled GM apples
Or the troublesome underbreath
Of Dolly, the sheep.
Christopher Barnes: in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection Lovebites published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
On Saturday 16th Aughst 2003 I read at theEdinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
I also have a BBC webpage www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not work click on SECTION 28 on second site.
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gulbenkian/gulbenkian.htm
The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem "The Holiday I Never Had", I can be heard reading it on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456
REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Linda Graham
burn my heart[1]
for george wallace
yesterday, i was reading K-PAX[2]
and i noticed Prot or should i say prot
doesn’t use capitals for names
and neither do you
your poetry and you are both lower case
and you say
that’s ok sugar
in that rich full bodied aromatic
coffee sounding new york tone
that reminds me
of tennessee williams plays
and hot nights in the deep south
(because i’m english and have no sense
for american accents)
and i read in your introduction
how you write from dreams
and i wonder how you write
so vividly from dreams and i say
you must have marvellous dreams,
more vivid than everyone else
and you reply no different
from anyone else
so i think about my dreams
but all i see when i sleep
is blood and shit and black
everything black
and every night i’m running
in worlds i recognise and don’t
in streets i recognise and don’t
with ghosts i recognise and don’t
trying to dodge the bullets they spit at me
trying to stop my knife blades slicing skin
trying to stop the devil striking me down
trying to stop my lover saying he doesn’t no he doesn’t
his spent cock in his hand and behind him she’s smiling
and every night I moan in my sleep
moan over and over in my sleep
wake me up wake me up
please someone wake me up
____________________________
[1] George Wallace, Burn My Heart in Wet Sand, (Troubadour, Leicester, 2004)
[2] Gene Brewer, K-PAX The Trilogy, (Bloomsbury, London, 2004)
Born in 1971 in the seaside town of Cleethorpes, England, Linda Graham organises arts festivals and programmes spoken word and literature events in the beautiful Lake District. Her poems have appeared in magazines and newspapers in the UK and US as well as online, and her first collection will be published by Bluechrome Press later next year.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
for george wallace
yesterday, i was reading K-PAX[2]
and i noticed Prot or should i say prot
doesn’t use capitals for names
and neither do you
your poetry and you are both lower case
and you say
that’s ok sugar
in that rich full bodied aromatic
coffee sounding new york tone
that reminds me
of tennessee williams plays
and hot nights in the deep south
(because i’m english and have no sense
for american accents)
and i read in your introduction
how you write from dreams
and i wonder how you write
so vividly from dreams and i say
you must have marvellous dreams,
more vivid than everyone else
and you reply no different
from anyone else
so i think about my dreams
but all i see when i sleep
is blood and shit and black
everything black
and every night i’m running
in worlds i recognise and don’t
in streets i recognise and don’t
with ghosts i recognise and don’t
trying to dodge the bullets they spit at me
trying to stop my knife blades slicing skin
trying to stop the devil striking me down
trying to stop my lover saying he doesn’t no he doesn’t
his spent cock in his hand and behind him she’s smiling
and every night I moan in my sleep
moan over and over in my sleep
wake me up wake me up
please someone wake me up
____________________________
[1] George Wallace, Burn My Heart in Wet Sand, (Troubadour, Leicester, 2004)
[2] Gene Brewer, K-PAX The Trilogy, (Bloomsbury, London, 2004)
Born in 1971 in the seaside town of Cleethorpes, England, Linda Graham organises arts festivals and programmes spoken word and literature events in the beautiful Lake District. Her poems have appeared in magazines and newspapers in the UK and US as well as online, and her first collection will be published by Bluechrome Press later next year.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Laurie Cook
Proud
part of me
part of you
anyone can be
will shine
will be
craaaaazy
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
part of me
part of you
anyone can be
will shine
will be
craaaaazy
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Dimitris Lyacos
Z213 Exit (extracts 11-12)
Translated from Greek by Shorsha Sullivan
11
I think of you but not as I used to. My eyes open in
sleep, a hand seizes me. And in the sweetness of
somebody’s touch. I am falling, and the same dream
again of a child’s breast that a woman holds in her
arms. Lips on it, wet, blood-soaked her lips. I start
upright. The others are sleeping. Days walking uphill,
view of an evergreen plateau, stay there. Quiet.
Except when the wounded mumble close to your ear. I
took something that made me get over my fears and then
I didn’t care about anything. I did not care about
anything. I couldn’t care about anything, a knife cut
took off my finger, and I couldn’t care about stopping
the blood. Nothing to stay for. The daybreak of a Pel
re dawn without light. And around one side and
the other monasteries empty nests and a whole crowd
there, a river between. And there were a lot. They are
singing, the bridal chambers are filled, holding
hands. Below bodies the stream hustles along, on the
bank a row of them fallen face upwards, I run around
like a madman looking for you, a woman presses her
daughter to her, poor, we haven’t eaten for days.
Gleam without hope still gleaming. In the dreams
jostling the one in my other. As then a boy on top of
his mother, help me to lift her, he was holding her
tight by her soaked rags, have you got matches strike
one, as if in her hands. Shows me black avenues and a
door at the end. My name that I saw written on it.
First time I felt this kind of pain, like a bite. I
saw, yet another soldier fallen nearby. Tears in his
eyes, called out where are you. Could not see, black
with the soil, don’t drink from this water, couldn’t
hear, the march past blanked it out. And it was the
memorial chanted for us. On our backs, above us the
poplars all round. For what was lost, country and
youth we had lost. For the horses rolling in blood.
And then their carcasses rest under the olive trees.
When the sacrifice starts and they pour something over
us. Where are you. And they are all gone there are
only the gods that off their jackets and give us
cover. Dead holding on to images scattered until they
too fade forever away. And I see the others, do not go
near leave them get up by themselves. Like the bare
ramrod hitting you in the stomach, a saw, an empty
water-bottle. I recall. New Year’s Eve. And deep down
a knot. Sleeping beside me, who. As if to my words he
whispers an answer. Now it grows dark, I am a child, I
encounter the gypsy. Who takes by day to the roads and
sings. In distant villages, in the graveyards for
charity. They said he was dead. And during Carnival,
in the squares roaming about. Comes and asks us to
light a cigarette for him. Deep down a knot, memory,
poor girl. Working all night, ruffling through
uniforms. In the cloakroom of travelling players,
should you find something to change. Your face fading
again, to hold your head for a while, and your body is
warm and when you are bending to kiss me you hesitate
for a moment, as if you catch the sound of them
coming. Or the sound of water or wooden fingers on
drums. Beside me late flowers on your mouth and it is
your kiss. The eve of the lights do you remember? On
the day itself I dig into the stone wall and bury
there the crown of a fir tree. Scapegoat, then, then
we were together.
12
Cruel the evening again in the station the train and
another station silent and the train tail of an animal
somewhere ahead, and another station alien eyes not on
you yet you want to hide again, a long narrow passage
that flows away in the rain covers you. Sitting still
you can’t manage your thoughts cannot make you stand
up you cannot go forwards or backwards. Socks wet,
take off your shoes, not yet, you stay still, almost
as to abandon the world, the lights go by, nothing but
lights, nothing exists besides this. No thought moves
your body not even a pain. One by one all those that
fled all those you left, pieces, pieces like ice
breaking and falling in front of your feet. And it
melts before you can move. The rhythm of the metal
draws you with it a shadow out in the corridor
lighting a cigarette the same tree that had passed
before you so many times. You smoke too. You take off
shoes socks lie down. Cramp in the stomach, the usual.
You cover your feet with the pullover, fall face down.
Chilly berth that sticks on your face. You wear the
pullover, you put the Bible under the jacket for a
pillow. Her breast, her half-opened mouth. Some life.
You unbutton your trousers put your hand in. A hand
that holds you a body you stretched on top of. She is
there you almost touch her and she is gone again,
saliva, pale light and the listless pulse of the body
powerless almost. You hold your breath, her breasts
come, you press it hard, comes inside you, from inside
you squeeze as many drops as you can, from inside you.
Stay still, calm, empty, darkness hides you, then
sleep. A nudge, you slip all but fall, you put out
your hand, below the palm crumpled paper, a dog-eared
book open. Turn over the cover: The First Death. You
would smile. This too for a pillow, on top of the
Bible. When you wake again two bodies entwined, the
flesh between them in pieces, that melt, breast onto
breast, that fades one into the other, fading out when
you decide to stand up.
Dimitris Lyacos was born in Athens in 1966. His trilogy Poena Damni (Z213: Exit, Nyctivoe, The First Death) has been translated into English, Spanish, Italian and German and has been performed extensively across Europe and the USA. A sound and sculpture installation of Nyctivoe opened in London and toured Europe in 2004-2005. A contemporary dance version of the same book was showing in Greece between 2006-2007 culminating in a performance at the Athens Concert Hall (Megaro Mousikis). Lyacos' work has been the subject of lectures and research at various universities, including Amsterdam, Trieste and Oxford. The German translation of The First Death is due to appear by J.Frank Verlag in the forthcoming months. For more information on the author visit www.lyacos.net.
Shorsha Sullivan was born in Dublin in 1932. He studied Classics at Leeds and has spent most of his working life in England. He has an interest in Modern Greek theatre and poetry.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
Translated from Greek by Shorsha Sullivan
11
I think of you but not as I used to. My eyes open in
sleep, a hand seizes me. And in the sweetness of
somebody’s touch. I am falling, and the same dream
again of a child’s breast that a woman holds in her
arms. Lips on it, wet, blood-soaked her lips. I start
upright. The others are sleeping. Days walking uphill,
view of an evergreen plateau, stay there. Quiet.
Except when the wounded mumble close to your ear. I
took something that made me get over my fears and then
I didn’t care about anything. I did not care about
anything. I couldn’t care about anything, a knife cut
took off my finger, and I couldn’t care about stopping
the blood. Nothing to stay for. The daybreak of a Pel
re dawn without light. And around one side and
the other monasteries empty nests and a whole crowd
there, a river between. And there were a lot. They are
singing, the bridal chambers are filled, holding
hands. Below bodies the stream hustles along, on the
bank a row of them fallen face upwards, I run around
like a madman looking for you, a woman presses her
daughter to her, poor, we haven’t eaten for days.
Gleam without hope still gleaming. In the dreams
jostling the one in my other. As then a boy on top of
his mother, help me to lift her, he was holding her
tight by her soaked rags, have you got matches strike
one, as if in her hands. Shows me black avenues and a
door at the end. My name that I saw written on it.
First time I felt this kind of pain, like a bite. I
saw, yet another soldier fallen nearby. Tears in his
eyes, called out where are you. Could not see, black
with the soil, don’t drink from this water, couldn’t
hear, the march past blanked it out. And it was the
memorial chanted for us. On our backs, above us the
poplars all round. For what was lost, country and
youth we had lost. For the horses rolling in blood.
And then their carcasses rest under the olive trees.
When the sacrifice starts and they pour something over
us. Where are you. And they are all gone there are
only the gods that off their jackets and give us
cover. Dead holding on to images scattered until they
too fade forever away. And I see the others, do not go
near leave them get up by themselves. Like the bare
ramrod hitting you in the stomach, a saw, an empty
water-bottle. I recall. New Year’s Eve. And deep down
a knot. Sleeping beside me, who. As if to my words he
whispers an answer. Now it grows dark, I am a child, I
encounter the gypsy. Who takes by day to the roads and
sings. In distant villages, in the graveyards for
charity. They said he was dead. And during Carnival,
in the squares roaming about. Comes and asks us to
light a cigarette for him. Deep down a knot, memory,
poor girl. Working all night, ruffling through
uniforms. In the cloakroom of travelling players,
should you find something to change. Your face fading
again, to hold your head for a while, and your body is
warm and when you are bending to kiss me you hesitate
for a moment, as if you catch the sound of them
coming. Or the sound of water or wooden fingers on
drums. Beside me late flowers on your mouth and it is
your kiss. The eve of the lights do you remember? On
the day itself I dig into the stone wall and bury
there the crown of a fir tree. Scapegoat, then, then
we were together.
12
Cruel the evening again in the station the train and
another station silent and the train tail of an animal
somewhere ahead, and another station alien eyes not on
you yet you want to hide again, a long narrow passage
that flows away in the rain covers you. Sitting still
you can’t manage your thoughts cannot make you stand
up you cannot go forwards or backwards. Socks wet,
take off your shoes, not yet, you stay still, almost
as to abandon the world, the lights go by, nothing but
lights, nothing exists besides this. No thought moves
your body not even a pain. One by one all those that
fled all those you left, pieces, pieces like ice
breaking and falling in front of your feet. And it
melts before you can move. The rhythm of the metal
draws you with it a shadow out in the corridor
lighting a cigarette the same tree that had passed
before you so many times. You smoke too. You take off
shoes socks lie down. Cramp in the stomach, the usual.
You cover your feet with the pullover, fall face down.
Chilly berth that sticks on your face. You wear the
pullover, you put the Bible under the jacket for a
pillow. Her breast, her half-opened mouth. Some life.
You unbutton your trousers put your hand in. A hand
that holds you a body you stretched on top of. She is
there you almost touch her and she is gone again,
saliva, pale light and the listless pulse of the body
powerless almost. You hold your breath, her breasts
come, you press it hard, comes inside you, from inside
you squeeze as many drops as you can, from inside you.
Stay still, calm, empty, darkness hides you, then
sleep. A nudge, you slip all but fall, you put out
your hand, below the palm crumpled paper, a dog-eared
book open. Turn over the cover: The First Death. You
would smile. This too for a pillow, on top of the
Bible. When you wake again two bodies entwined, the
flesh between them in pieces, that melt, breast onto
breast, that fades one into the other, fading out when
you decide to stand up.
Dimitris Lyacos was born in Athens in 1966. His trilogy Poena Damni (Z213: Exit, Nyctivoe, The First Death) has been translated into English, Spanish, Italian and German and has been performed extensively across Europe and the USA. A sound and sculpture installation of Nyctivoe opened in London and toured Europe in 2004-2005. A contemporary dance version of the same book was showing in Greece between 2006-2007 culminating in a performance at the Athens Concert Hall (Megaro Mousikis). Lyacos' work has been the subject of lectures and research at various universities, including Amsterdam, Trieste and Oxford. The German translation of The First Death is due to appear by J.Frank Verlag in the forthcoming months. For more information on the author visit www.lyacos.net.
Shorsha Sullivan was born in Dublin in 1932. He studied Classics at Leeds and has spent most of his working life in England. He has an interest in Modern Greek theatre and poetry.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
Steve Dalachinsky
another cloud poem (sunset)
i bruise easily
these days come hither
to the underbellies of (the) clouds
this sunset too true to be
good
the bruised to a cinder
clouds
the gulls have found something
to squabble about
& fill their bellies with
down there just below the water's
ripplin surface
little mountains of eruption
moving against eachother where i banged
my knee (almost) & it burnt
like the orgasm i had this morning
that spewed forth nothing but
smarted more than this bulbous sun
as i walked into it &
burnt like the underbellies of these clouds
2 ticks of a rereflection
or myriads of 'em
bonifide doowop (g)list'nings
& short of what double means
& the new trees planted around my feet
i kissed 'em all the other day
& bade them grow
in good spirit
then walked to the river
tied a rope around my bruises
& threw 'em in
the gulls went diving & squawking
all the way under
then spit when they discovered there
was nothing there to
nourish them
& as it turned dark
the bellies of the clouds turned
grey again
& i rose up &
blinked.
coda:
the lights of the other city
came on unnoticed
& my footsteps became
water.
steve dalachinsky nyc 4/14/08
steve dalachinsky was born in 1946, Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared extensively in journals on & off line including; Big Bridge, Milk, Unlikely Stories, Xpressed, Ratapallax, Evergreen Review, Long Shot, Alpha Beat Soup, Xtant, Blue Beat Jacket, N.Y. Arts Magazine, 88 and Lost and Found Times. He is included in such anthologies as Beat Indeed, The Haiku Moment and the esteemed Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. He has written liner notes for the CDs of many artists including Anthony Braxton, Charles Gayle, James "Blood" Ulmer, Rashied Ali, Roy Campbell, Matthew Shipp and Roscoe Mitchell. His 1999 CD, Incomplete Direction (Knitting Factory Records), a collection of his poetry read in collaboration with various musicians, such as William Parker, Matthew Shipp, Daniel Carter, Sabir Mateen, Thurston Moore (SonicYouth), Vernon Reid (Living Colour) has garnered much praise. His most recent chapbooks include Musicology (Editions Pioche, Paris 2005), Trial and Error in Paris (Loudmouth Collective 2003), Lautreamont's Laments (Furniture Press 2005), In Glorious Black and White (Ugly Duckling Presse 2005), St. Lucie (King of Mice Press 2005), Are We Not MEN & Fake Book (2 books of collage - 8 Page Press 2005), Dream Book (Avantcular Press 2005). His books include A Superintendent's Eyes (Hozomeen Press 2000) and his PEN Award winning book The Final Nite (complete notes from a Charles Gayle Notebook, Ugly Duckling Presse 2006). His latest CD is Phenomena of Interference, a collaboration with pianist Matthew Shipp (Hopscotch Records 2005). He has read throughout the N.Y. area, the U.S., Japan and Europe, including France and Germany.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
i bruise easily
these days come hither
to the underbellies of (the) clouds
this sunset too true to be
good
the bruised to a cinder
clouds
the gulls have found something
to squabble about
& fill their bellies with
down there just below the water's
ripplin surface
little mountains of eruption
moving against eachother where i banged
my knee (almost) & it burnt
like the orgasm i had this morning
that spewed forth nothing but
smarted more than this bulbous sun
as i walked into it &
burnt like the underbellies of these clouds
2 ticks of a rereflection
or myriads of 'em
bonifide doowop (g)list'nings
& short of what double means
& the new trees planted around my feet
i kissed 'em all the other day
& bade them grow
in good spirit
then walked to the river
tied a rope around my bruises
& threw 'em in
the gulls went diving & squawking
all the way under
then spit when they discovered there
was nothing there to
nourish them
& as it turned dark
the bellies of the clouds turned
grey again
& i rose up &
blinked.
coda:
the lights of the other city
came on unnoticed
& my footsteps became
water.
steve dalachinsky nyc 4/14/08
steve dalachinsky was born in 1946, Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared extensively in journals on & off line including; Big Bridge, Milk, Unlikely Stories, Xpressed, Ratapallax, Evergreen Review, Long Shot, Alpha Beat Soup, Xtant, Blue Beat Jacket, N.Y. Arts Magazine, 88 and Lost and Found Times. He is included in such anthologies as Beat Indeed, The Haiku Moment and the esteemed Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. He has written liner notes for the CDs of many artists including Anthony Braxton, Charles Gayle, James "Blood" Ulmer, Rashied Ali, Roy Campbell, Matthew Shipp and Roscoe Mitchell. His 1999 CD, Incomplete Direction (Knitting Factory Records), a collection of his poetry read in collaboration with various musicians, such as William Parker, Matthew Shipp, Daniel Carter, Sabir Mateen, Thurston Moore (SonicYouth), Vernon Reid (Living Colour) has garnered much praise. His most recent chapbooks include Musicology (Editions Pioche, Paris 2005), Trial and Error in Paris (Loudmouth Collective 2003), Lautreamont's Laments (Furniture Press 2005), In Glorious Black and White (Ugly Duckling Presse 2005), St. Lucie (King of Mice Press 2005), Are We Not MEN & Fake Book (2 books of collage - 8 Page Press 2005), Dream Book (Avantcular Press 2005). His books include A Superintendent's Eyes (Hozomeen Press 2000) and his PEN Award winning book The Final Nite (complete notes from a Charles Gayle Notebook, Ugly Duckling Presse 2006). His latest CD is Phenomena of Interference, a collaboration with pianist Matthew Shipp (Hopscotch Records 2005). He has read throughout the N.Y. area, the U.S., Japan and Europe, including France and Germany.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
Carrie Hunter
The Unicorns
47.
A unicorn for Iyanna,
with an 80's asymmetrical haircut.
If I had any power.
Luck twists itself out of me.
My insistence on.
Red buttons drop like seeds.
I may have entered.
Everything I see is.
49.
Orange cones in snow.
One or more bound variables.
Crystal seer.
"What you need to know."
"What you need to know."
Yell it louder.
50.
Every constellation is not made of stars.
Stairs that turn,
I want to be them.
What my mother would tell me
if she were here.
The windowsill hurts.
Every fear protecting you from what is feared.
Apple. Jacks.
51.
Putting things away.
A wish for stories
and stones to throw.
Glinted gift you carry back.
A smile in poverty,
but not amongst.
Having never learned to can.
What he said about what I could not understand.
There are no bumblebees here.
Yellow laughter could be what you wanted.
Carrie Hunter has been published online in Moria Poetry, Eratio Postmodern Poetry, Aught, Turntable & Blue Light, Dusie, Parcel, and Sawbuck, and in print in SCORE magazine, CRIT Journal 2, and Small Town XII. Her chapbook Vorticells was published by Cy Gist Press, and an e-chapbook Kine(sta)sis was published by Dusie, a portion of which is also featured in Jacket 35. She received her MFA/MA in Poetics at New College of California, edits ypolita press (ypolitapress.blogspot.com), and lives in San Francisco.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
47.
A unicorn for Iyanna,
with an 80's asymmetrical haircut.
If I had any power.
Luck twists itself out of me.
My insistence on.
Red buttons drop like seeds.
I may have entered.
Everything I see is.
49.
Orange cones in snow.
One or more bound variables.
Crystal seer.
"What you need to know."
"What you need to know."
Yell it louder.
50.
Every constellation is not made of stars.
Stairs that turn,
I want to be them.
What my mother would tell me
if she were here.
The windowsill hurts.
Every fear protecting you from what is feared.
Apple. Jacks.
51.
Putting things away.
A wish for stories
and stones to throw.
Glinted gift you carry back.
A smile in poverty,
but not amongst.
Having never learned to can.
What he said about what I could not understand.
There are no bumblebees here.
Yellow laughter could be what you wanted.
Carrie Hunter has been published online in Moria Poetry, Eratio Postmodern Poetry, Aught, Turntable & Blue Light, Dusie, Parcel, and Sawbuck, and in print in SCORE magazine, CRIT Journal 2, and Small Town XII. Her chapbook Vorticells was published by Cy Gist Press, and an e-chapbook Kine(sta)sis was published by Dusie, a portion of which is also featured in Jacket 35. She received her MFA/MA in Poetics at New College of California, edits ypolita press (ypolitapress.blogspot.com), and lives in San Francisco.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
Lauren Joslin
at the grave of anne sexton
knee over knee like a maltese cross
madonna, mary of the misused.
you're thin as a stripped fence post next to squat gray graves,
your white arms like cigarettes (and how you burn, burn)
how the world loves a good-looking suicide.
her voice purrs like humming exhaust
i think about my grandmother's car, perfume and tobacco
how she bought it when she was manic, paid in cash
now the former beauty is muddy with meds.
do it the right way and it's almost like one last poem
and i told you, you write poetry just by existing
with your black dress
your black lungs
your black heart.
knee over knee like a maltese cross
madonna, mary of the misused.
you're thin as a stripped fence post next to squat gray graves,
your white arms like cigarettes (and how you burn, burn)
how the world loves a good-looking suicide.
her voice purrs like humming exhaust
i think about my grandmother's car, perfume and tobacco
how she bought it when she was manic, paid in cash
now the former beauty is muddy with meds.
do it the right way and it's almost like one last poem
and i told you, you write poetry just by existing
with your black dress
your black lungs
your black heart.
Lauren Joslin: I am a native of Melrose, Massachusetts; and I am studying History at Boston University. I have a passion for the Victorian Sensationalist Novel and pressing flowers.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
Charles Frederickson
SANCTUM SANCTORIUM
Rapturous sensual mysticism extends limits
Of human existence beyond nature
Utopia overshadowed by elliptical duality
How and Why mindfully unified
One single original source interconnecting
All things with one another
Balmy skies mirror reflections of
Who and What we are
Vast ocean engulfing life itself
Generating waves through causal actions
Moonlight reaches darkling bottomless depths
No water trace left behind
By cultivating tranquil quiet reserve
We bring flowers to perfection
Emanating seductive fragrance radiant beauty
Simultaneously nurturing our own earthiness
Morning glory dewdrops unveil hazy
Majestic cosmic spirit universal truths
Ultimately soiled imaginary garden paradise
More satisfying than metaphysical abstracts
Enlightenment hovers behind invisible boundaries
Interlocking rings of luminous infinity
Gravity field blocked out lost
Macroscopic vision refocusing newfound eyes
Eternity lies within manifest destiny
Fleeting world seemingly beyond undoing
Exposed tendril taproots craving transplant
Freshly awakened senses inspiring enchantment
A fiercely independent unbridled maverick, No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson bucks mundane routine with ticklish fancy gusto, feisty vagabond moxie and feigned hyperbolic flair. Check out PoetryArtCombo.com and AvantGardeTimes.com.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
Rapturous sensual mysticism extends limits
Of human existence beyond nature
Utopia overshadowed by elliptical duality
How and Why mindfully unified
One single original source interconnecting
All things with one another
Balmy skies mirror reflections of
Who and What we are
Vast ocean engulfing life itself
Generating waves through causal actions
Moonlight reaches darkling bottomless depths
No water trace left behind
By cultivating tranquil quiet reserve
We bring flowers to perfection
Emanating seductive fragrance radiant beauty
Simultaneously nurturing our own earthiness
Morning glory dewdrops unveil hazy
Majestic cosmic spirit universal truths
Ultimately soiled imaginary garden paradise
More satisfying than metaphysical abstracts
Enlightenment hovers behind invisible boundaries
Interlocking rings of luminous infinity
Gravity field blocked out lost
Macroscopic vision refocusing newfound eyes
Eternity lies within manifest destiny
Fleeting world seemingly beyond undoing
Exposed tendril taproots craving transplant
Freshly awakened senses inspiring enchantment
A fiercely independent unbridled maverick, No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson bucks mundane routine with ticklish fancy gusto, feisty vagabond moxie and feigned hyperbolic flair. Check out PoetryArtCombo.com and AvantGardeTimes.com.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson