February 2009 page 2

Content Links Links by contributing poet: Renee Dwyer Will Hames Don Schaeffer Dianne Borsenik Sadiq Rahman Dubblex Stu Hatton John Burroughs Joy Leftow Don Coorough Paul Niziol Tanuj Solanki Bernard Alain Links by accepted submissions: Prince of Persia  To Aunt Sylvie and Sister Annie I will not carry Mid-city meditation For Edwin PEACE IN QUEUES PET THIS MR. PENSIVE FIRECRACKER Blowing Horns the truth about Truth (d.2) a poem about zen. THE PEREGRINE Violet Brown Fridge Poetry BLUES PART II Starry, Cloudless Nights To Greet a Warmer Dawn Free Style Spitting Rant Manhattan Forest or Zoo... Ninety Seconds at KP Oliver Twist's Friends out near the curb Submissions Two poems by Renee Dwyer Renee Dwyer writes while working at her job as a purveyor for the Transit Authority of Dreams. She will graduate from Ramapo College in 2009 with a degree in Literature. Originally from South Korea, she now divides her time between New Jersey and Elephant Island, Antarctica. the truth about Truth (d.2) It’s like last night’s dinner left out on the counter overnight in the morning it could poison you and you could end up in the hospital even though you can’t afford it and even though you keep trying to leave the nurses keep pushing you back down see, it starts out real good like potatoes and steak and A-1 sauce except it’s not always good to the last drop and later you get indigestion and end up sitting on the toilet for an hour Truth is like that, sometimes. and sometimes there are warning signs cramps in your gut and you know to be making your way to the bathroom and sometimes you get caught unaware like in the middle of Target while you’re standing there looking at the Tupperware and suddenly your intestines are aflame. if it smells funny, throw it away. that’s the number one truth about Truth. all the rest of it’s just shit. a poem about zen. this is how you become empty: take the glass and turn it upside down. i have just as much compassion for potted plants as i do for human beings. what is the sound of a heart collapsing if no one is around to hear it i meditate upon the breath during sex and forget to orgasm. the amputee in the corner claps with one hand. Two poems by Will Hames I'm a full-time carer with a lot of time on my hands but hardly any freedom to go out of the house. Fortunately, I am able to keep in touch with my fellow poets through Facebook and long, rambling phone calls. I would describe myself as an amiable lunatic. Violet Brown Violet Brown was known in this town For the tartar that tainted her teeth Her hobby, of late, was directing her hate At the folk in the flat underneath Clues there were none, as to what they had done To make her so bitter and twisted But she'd fume and she'd squint at the tiniest hint That the people downstairs still existed They didn't deserve all the loathing she'd serve up Each day at the drop of a hat But Violet Brown had a need to look down On somebody, the nasty old bat She was ugly as sin, without and within This evil-intentioned old harpy With a stoop and a hump and a face like the rump Of a recently-rogered okapi She'd hated her Mum, 'til the Reaper had come The loss made her bile even stronger And her husband, it's said, had preferred to be dead Than to live with old Vi any longer He'd worked like a slave to make her behave But that hadn't done any good So, shouting "Oh, f*** it!" he'd gone to the bucket And kicked it as hard as he could Now lone and aloof, she'd stand on the roof Surveying the pavement below And screeching, "Just die!" as the neighbours went by It was her way of saying, "Hello" One day, letting loose with more verbal abuse She'd picked up her tomcat's excreta To throw at their car, but she leaned out too far And the pavement came rushing to meet her Now, up in the sky, I'd swear I could spy A cloud with old Violet Brown on She'll be happy at last, with her pain in the past And the rest of the world to look down on Fridge Poetry A while ago, at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden, I picked up a little box of random words printed on fridge magnets. I thought my children might find them fun, and for about five minutes, they did. Five minutes was about the amount of time it took for them to establish that there were no swear words in the mix. I've just found the box stuffed under a small mountain of teddy bears and boldly aromatic socks in my son's bedroom. Nobody was watching, so I took the box down to the kitchen and started fiddling around, sorting out the nouns, adjectives and so on into different areas of our magnetic notice board. This is what I came up with: TROLL FANG Somewhere in the mysterious forbidden forest I found a cold newt potion Yet there was no rainbow fire carpet No giant lizard for a troll fang Ask a small screaming hobbit to leap & dance These owls of gold are bloody fierce It must have flown beneath my dragon house I think I'll leave this up on the board to remind me not to waste so much time. My children think I'm a mystic. Two poems by Don Schaeffer Don Schaeffer established Enthalpy Press and has published 5 chap books including "Time Meat" and "The Word Cow and the Pig O' Love." ISBN series: 0-9687017 Recent poetry has been published in The Writers Publishing, Lilly Lit, Burning Effigy Press, "Understanding Magazine," "Melange," "Tryst," "Quills," and others. His first book of poetry, Almost Full" was published by Owl Oak Press early in the summer of 2006. He holds a Ph.D. in Psychology from City University of New York (1975) and lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba with his wife, Joyce. Ninety Seconds at KP The little girl friend takes a leap out of the bus with her wirey fingers, bare pale flesh against the cold. Then he comes out tall with his hoody almost biblical. She takes a toke of his cigarette and vanishes jaywalking skillfully across the avenue. Then he turns and I get a look at his face. He is tall and lean and those eyes seem so unchanging, still young but eternally old, pupils sunk low in the eye-display as if resting. Nothing was ever really right, his eyes say. And nothing will ever change. I must be cautious, his eyes say. I must be dangerous Oliver Twist's Friends When you wait for buses in the cold you have time to contemplate wanting. Come to think of it, there was only one of us in the orphanage who was able to ask for more. Don't worry, I know that we have become a bunch of want nebbishes. You look at us and say nah, it's not worth the trouble. Three poems by Dianne Borsenik I am a former flowerchild and a current redhead, and I co-produce/co-host (along with John "Jesus Crisis" Burroughs) the monthly Lix and Kix Poetry Extravaganza in the historic Tremont district of Cleveland, Ohio. My poems, lyrics, and modern haiku have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies, including Slipstream, Nerve Cowboy, The City Poetry, Zygote In My Coffee, The Magnetic Poetry Book of Poetry, Haiku World: An International Poetry Almanac, Modern Haiku, and Naturally. Actor Jonathan Frid used three of my poems in his performance "Genesis Of Evil". PET THIS What a mess this is! Your passive-aggressive tendencies and my latent insecurities slugging it out smack in the middle of our stressed relationship's squared circle! What a brawl! But I must confess that my hair-trigger temper was to blame for throwing that first punch, after your overblown ego jabbed its hard elbow into the yielding flesh of my trusting nature, and left an oh, so ugly bruise. Of course, that pissed off your brooding resentment, which then tackled my emotional outburst at the knees, and wrestled it screaming to the ground. It then became a free-for-all, nasty imprecations against injured pride, smoldering doubts against unreasonable expectations, withheld affections against mounting suspicions, pained expressions against lack of communication, and a massive roundhouse blow by chauvinism that decked the hormonal surges with a shout-- Now, all of them are down-- the count is one two three and out! Tell me, my dear-- are you ready for the next bout? MR. PENSIVE he's pensive in touch with his feminine side penis inoffensive pen in hand a poet a political warrior a new age man intense open-minded an intellectual penthouse and sensitive he's restive a festival of carbon black and fulsome blues emotionally undressed faith a little rusted used, tomorrow's confessional news tried and tested yin is love and yang is lust pending the outcum of trust mister pensive penetrated by a data storm of contradictions his insisting on taking a path of least resistance a pent-up send-up but... no bars, no fences bubbling over like a bottle of Dom Perignon opened, uncorked ex-pensive FIRECRACKER such a temptation this thick fuse of yours oh god I want to set my match to it I want it to sizzle spark and burn sensation climbing the length of it tension building the width of it I want to fill you with flame moment by moment until you detonate into a universe of technicolor sparkles mirrorball fractals fireflies, snowflakes each one a tiny piece of starstuff each one a tiny piece of me Two poems by Sadiq Rahman Sadiq Rahman is 24 years old. Apart from being an Academic, he is a poet, short film maker and a Radio Jockey. He was born on the 29th of October 1984. He completed his graduation from Calcutta University where he studied English (Hons). He completed his Masters in English from Jamia Millia Islamia where he was a topper and a Gold Medalist. Sadiq is Fulbright Scholar and taught in the Asian Studies Department of the University of Texas. His first book of poems The Dream Seller was published in 2003, when he was only 19 years old. Dreamseller got wide reviews from leading Newspapers of the country. The then Governor of Bengal,India Mr.Viren J.Shah inauguarated his book. He was later invited by the chief minister of West Bengal Mr.Buddhadev Bhattacharya for a brief audience at his office in Writer's Building. He was later invited in the University of Texas' presitigeous Poetry on the Plaza to read his poetry. Prince of Persia Steal me from myself, O! Persian Prince Rob me of all my love… Lock me there - in the deep, Dark corners of your soul, Where you hide your million conspiracies. (And then) with cold, shining eyes Like the moon over desert nights - watch me Plunder, O! Persian Prince, take me there To that distant land. Make me your slave girl, I have lost it all… Give no reason, have no cause (my Lord) Kiss me with the sword, paint my body With Bridal red… And as I drown in a river of blood Hold me, I want to die in your arms Lines …these lines Those marks on your palms, crooked Straight, intersecting lines - like Grids on a graph, disect your life Into grief and heath Loss and wealth. How they trap your destiny Inside your fists And you with stones and strings Metals and rings Control your stars…. With wrinkled face, You chase your happiness And curse your Gods in defeat! Do not worship these lines of your hands As they distort your dreams Destiny is pre written. Even for those without arms! To Aunt Sylvie and Sister Annie (Dedicated to Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton) I talk’d to trees, fought with sound When kids dance, cycle around I played too. With Angels in the grave Where Jim and Joe would never go. And I went there too To the doctor who screamed. Dad felt bad Mom wept. And they laughed at me But I am fine, there is nothing wrong with me. Jane and Lisa, got Barbie dolls Santa brought me a chair With wheels to play and run on They call me crazy girl, don’t play with me. But I know I’m fine. There is nothing wrong with me. Then Mom brought me “A Birthday Present” It was you - Aunt Sylvie. Alone no more, I had you, and a new life And we sang, we thought, we laughed ,we wept With Sister Anne Beautiful poetry you wrote Every night. Wasn’t I your Mad girl? The Insomniac, Paralytic in Plaster? You gave me life after Aftermath Cinderella out of a cripple Not the other I am your Metaphor. Monologue, your morning song No more a bed Or dead – on wheels I cross Atlantic now Go beyond the Purdah! I am Courage, I am strength I see my little world with you Annie, Which no one can! Rock me in your arms Silvie Fill those eyes with color and ducks Make me a child Say nothing is wrong with me. I believe there is nothing. Two poems by Dubblex DubbleX currently resides in New York and has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools. Free Style Spitting Rant Addicted to rap like a stockbroker making bank On the NASDAQ when I hear a fat track it’s like heroin To a junky getting finished on smack shine The spot light on the stuff I write It’s as hot as a laser shocks like a taser rips like a razor sees the flames rise cause this ones a blazer hot like a microwave examined with x-rays sit back and wonder while I amaze my tail still unravels like rims over gravel this case is not closed till the bank of the gravel I blast off my rhymes from Cape Canaveral in the Space Shuttle me and the microphone huddle the other mics left without rebuttal go home with their girls and just cuddle because when I be kicking verses nothing is subtle My ammunition is my vocabulary By all means necessary It’s a metaphoric snow flurry If music were food this would be Nutriment Even anorexics don’t regurgitate what I create bulimic beats give rail girls weight Too many kids on Ritalin It’s belittling - turning pre-teens into pharmaceutical drug fiends you got a hammer I got a nuclear warhead set that sucker off and we’ll all be dead so go ahead and shoot It’s self-destruction black on black crime a government production penitentiary and cemeteries too many young brothers names filling up obituaries you can hear me but you don’t understand me It’s genocide a slow homicide this epidemic is systemic While government controls our consciousness Let’s condemn government all our forefathers were killers and robbers too bad the Indians couldn’t finish off the pilgrims it’s our chagrin I am not commercial I’m controversial Manhattan Forest or Zoo... I walk through the enchanted forest of tall office trees with small bushes of brown stones fresh concrete grows daily and smothers all life underneath it it grows square and gray and rigid alongside steel trees wild criminal animals roam and attack until caged in the local zoo keep the animals locked in the city zoo they lock up us humans too my cell block is Manhattan every where I go shit happens my job is my prison they keep me locked in institutions giving me their solutions they tell me this is the home of the free but people around me report everything they see because I live as I believe that I am free to be me so institutions looks at me funny as a matter of fuck this job they can keep their money A beautiful mist of pollution hangs over Manhattan’s chemical rain forest Mercurys SUVs Fords Toyotas and Mitsubishi all add to it Cry out in horn chirps and other species vehicles for emergencies screaming sirens EMS FDNY and NYPD Race over tar covered postmodern dirt roads Saving us from fire and death is their goal This city terrain is slighted and a jagged edge covers the horizon Our streets covered in human daytime congestion The forgotten get swallowed with gassy ingestion Few stop and colorful lights to question This city life is an unseen obsession Three poems by Stu Hatton Stu Hatton is a poet, freelance writer and editor based in Melbourne, Australia. He teaches creative and professional writing at Deakin University. His work has appeared (or will be appearing) in hutt, Mascara, Otoliths, Verandah, Poetry SZ, Voiceworks, Bambikino, Unusual Work, Page Seventeen, Frame Lines and elsewhere. I will not carry I will not carry bad blood because it corrodes, spreads, leaves us exposed with too many entrances and exits. I will not carry awkward, bulky items like red carpets (for off-chance dignitaries) or restless dogs or heavy corpses. In fact I have decided to carry nothing at all. I will find water on my way, and the words left to say (I have no pocket for a script). Mid-city meditation I take off my shoes so the grass can imprint abstract designs on my ankles can't see any other meditators in Alexandra Gardens a precious day sun gushing, pooling on gemgrass; river metallic cars on City Rd sounding like the ocean (peaceful cars) I slow & stop thinking for some seconds then I remember to take off my sunglasses & it becomes a lot brighter behind closed eyes I notice this, then revisit the breath an easy breeze stroking my face I revisit the breath, revisit the breath until half an hour later I hatch from my trance-shell, look over at my shadow, my head made of grass 8pm that night I meet Monica on the bridge we gaze through the sci-fi city, make new pledges, smile out… a 4x4 crushing a skater's stray deck jolts us back to the wheel For Edwin "If we continue in our mindful observation there will no longer be a duality between observer and observed." - Thich Nhat Hanh We have always been as weightless as this. Our modest collection of questions. Holes full of nets; nets full of holes. No waiting: all things are present. Eye observes itself. One poem by John Burroughs I am a Buddho-Taoist, poet, musician/composer, teacher, philosopher, and webmaster/blogger. In 1997, I held the official title of "number one blogger" on MySpace. As "Jesus Crisis", my nom de blog, I maintain my own website http://www.crisischronicles.com, which includes, "The Tao, The Ow, The Wow, and The Ka-Pow of Jesus Crisis" blogs, the burgeoning Crisis Chronicles Press, and a free Online Library of both classical and contemporary poets' works. My poems and reviews have appeared in various journals and newspapers, and most recently, in two issues of The City Poetry. At one point, I spent eleven years in prison for a crime I did not commit and I am writing a book about the incredible but true stories leading up to and including my incarceration. I am very involved in the vibrant Cleveland poetry scene. I am co-producer and co-host (along with Dianne Borsenik) of a monthly show, The Lix and Kix Poetry Extravaganza, in the historic district of Tremont in Cleveland. Next week I will perform as featured reader at Mac's Backs in Cleveland. PEACE IN QUEUES Pralines in Eden, Apples in Cream, Ecstasy In small packages, Nursing a dream, Queer little ripple Under the skin, Elated by nougat, Urgent and thin- Eat life, Speak food. One poem by Joy Leftow “Poet Laureate” of Washington Heights, Joy Leftow is a double alumna at Columbia University and has her second Masters from CCNY in Creative Writing. Joy’s style is - in your face reality. When Joy is not busy doing people & cat rescues, she meets her muse & reflects on relationships with more sarcasm than you’d get in an entire season of Seinfeld. BLUES PART II The who am I lost & found in who I am, a contradictory introspection of a delusion of who I want to be mixed with who I already am, the me that is so deep it transcends lucidity the me that fires synapses constantly. I am the me with no home inside, listless, desolate, discontent, abjective, retrospective, lost in grim moments of lost wishes and dreams of who I could be if Clinton was my family, or even Obama would be better for me, I love color. I’ll sell myself for a less, I promise I’ll settle. You can't always get what you want You can't always get what you want but if you try sometimes - well you just might find you get what you need, oh baby Let me sing the blues for you again today like I sang for you yesterday My eyes run misty blue for you The holiday a passed disgrace I saved no face my eyes stay misty blue for you An outcast jew singing outcast blues, my mother sang them before me. I want to sing misty blue for you this season. Freshly showered I emerge to sing the blues for you, to bring you back to where I want to be I go back in time to rhyme with you, keep my flow to your flow, the glow of my flow keeping rhyme to your rhythm. You go Charley Brown; come back to hear me sing misty blues Your eyes shine misty in return I see beyond your armor, sing misty with me Come in, stay a spell, let me sing misty blue for you. I put a spell on you I’m a give you some real life southern comfort, a few pecans, flow the red river stills your mind without forgetting the questions, I falter, our laughter fills volumes of silent banter, I stand before you, my sensibility turning chill while I wait for the lantern of my soul to light this space Make this day holy, my life skips an Eartha Kitt beat my mind feels my heart sing for rain is misty blue I’m sensing changes maybe I’ll wait for you, what if I don’t know all I claim to what about you do you play misty blue and know more than I know. Inky blue, dusk settles a cool blanket on the sky glimmers of silver clouds shimmer remain Do you see the same inky sky I see when I see what you see when I look for you to see if you’re looking where I’mmm looking for you, I want a raspberry sky to roll its toll onto golden unplowed fields of ripe green wheat Common Daddy let the good times roll Common Daddy let me fill your soul Common Daddy don’t you be late I think I may have a date with fate I’ve got this date for old time’s sake, just let me fill your plate Let the good times roll for old times, for old soul’s sake Sing me those old time blues give me a taste of those old soul blues A blue eyed soul girl singing the old soul blues for you Daddy Two poems by Don Coorough A freelance writer for 10 years, Don had articles published in Log Home Design Ideas, and his poetry has appeared in edificeWRECKED, Eleventh Transmission and Blood Moon Rising Magazine. Don currently writes for and publishes his blog, Shoreline Driftwood. Involved in multiple artistic endeavors, Don has 15 years experience in animation, managing, producing and occasionally directing commercials, television specials and CD-roms, as well as 27 years in music, performing in clubs and concerts on guitar and bass. Don also possesses 24 years experience as a songwriter/composer, and his song, "They Died Young," was recorded by The Tooners on their CD "Rocktasia" with both available on iTunes. Starry, Cloudless Nights The old black dress no longer fits. It's too tight, outgrown. Unsewn, intuition hints through de-spooled, rainbow threads unwound on cold, tiled flooring haphazardly, unconcerned with any mannequin's silent deception. Pre-conception of objective formulas severs creators' minds from hearts. Art's fathomed in the breath, in the spaces between, where unconscious intuition breathily whispers on glimmering, starry, cloudless nights. To Greet a Warmer Dawn Into a still, dry silence Venus descends, unthreading her honey-scented, tightrope like a beam of light which knifes through the darkest hour. Cricket chorused chirps crescendo as the moon hides behind the garden maiden's shawl - her cloaking embrace wards off frozen fingernails scratching down my spine. Dew-moistening Venus' wet tongue kisses my cheek breathlessly, anointing this fragile human flesh in her ancient yet eternal rite, wrapping me with the sticky scent of oleander. In the moment before the first mist rises, the purple-robed lady sculpts out from deformed clay a new, serene countenance to greet a warmer dawn. One poem by Paul Niziol Paul Niziol is not a critically acclaimed and award-winning creator of anything....yet! An avid fan of the written word, especially science fiction and fantasy. When not busy expanding on the human condition, Paul lives an ordinary life in Ontario, Canada where he ages with all the grace of a hippo in orthopedic shoes. THE PEREGRINE If I could be born again I'd like to be a peregrine, On wings so swift: I would be gone To soar above the rising dawn. Above the rooftops, quiet, dark, Above the silent sleeping park. Id' see the twinkling city lights As the morning woke the night From dark slumber, while far below The streets and cars become a glow; And climbing higher still I fly, Pre-natal colours would fill my eyes Swirling greys & misty pinks, Solitude, my place to think The winds so strong I would not fall The problems of our world so small And far below & far away Would not belong to this new day! ...Ah! If I could be born again, I'd like to be a peregrine! One poem by Tanuj Solanki Tanuj Solanki hails from Ahmedabad, India. He plays the rational management student in the day and the irrational poet in the night and claims to be in love with both roles. At 22 years of age, he considers himself a beginner poet and he finds that writing poetry makes him feel very fulfilled. Tanuj's work has been accepted in Tin Foil Dresses. Blowing Horns A certain death versus an existence dabbling with the lower fragments of the poverty line, the line of poverty. My government and My parents made the obvious choice They call me a minor girl, and I wash dishes with gutter water-- just a part-time job. A shoe factory employs me for more hours though. Each day is insanely long, with pushes and shoves and slaps from knowns and unknowns. Crevices of my heart are now filled with a shaky jelly of fear and pain But (smiles) little whiffs of joy do come in childish and childlike fashion, scattered in occurrence and reminding, me of my age. And about three months back, boys at the factory touched me-- some weird places. The fear of this night somehow seems to have started there My father, feverish forever ordered me to please the insides of this monstrous black car where two gentlemen blow their horns I know how. I know why. The generation you are proud of, is full of knowledge. One poem by Bernard Alain I am a canadian poet born on the east coast and now residing in the nation's capital Ottawa. I am always looking for new influences and ideas by interacting with my fellow poets. Currently I am the editor of The Cartier Street Review and administrator for The Ink Blot poetry forum. I have been published and/or featured in a few online journals recently such as the Orange Room Review, Madswirl, Pirene's Fountain, Mississippi Crow Magazine/RiverMuse Press, International Poet, The World Poets Society Electronic Catalog, Bywords, Bywords Quarterly Journal and others. out near the curb the city can be a pernicious snake somedays and I have no idea how it got in front of me it's the narrow streets with longer articulators swinging their vulcanized hips backs flex crowds compress I swear the sleepers of the next headline terrorist attack are going to come from this town not Yarmouth, dressed in blue uniforms hiding behind reflective shades, and hissing hydraulics will signal a beginning to the massacre, bystanders lapped up by the treads of 'gotta stay on time' and 'this lane is mine' and the second wave genocide as misplaced suburbanites make the final [c]rush into the last express, singing 'thank god it's friday' and 'seeya at the pub', one more time, shoulder to shoulder, as they sink into the opiate of slower middle lanes they started to widen Bank street the other day, with sidewalks gone, a labyrinth of gravel paths, peeking in from behind the construction barricade I can see the gaping hole, quite obvious it's going to take some time again I and the other supermen are powerless, little we can do but rest our capes and wait wait for it to move along