Catapult to Mars

Napoleon in the Family

2012-01-27T15:58:00.000Z

Chainedin the castle bowels

ofa volcanic rock

Bonaparte soldiers

dregsof a losing war
sculpt life
from parts of bone.

Inthe Canongate
the first son of a shoemaker
is christened

NapoleonBonaparte;
the Auld Alliance
lives on.

A 19th century French prisoner-of-warbone vase, carved with a castle and foliage, 18cm high

Davide Trame - Catapult Poet of the Month

2012-01-23T11:56:00.000Z

Davide Trame is an Italian teacher of English. He was born in Venice and continues to live and work in Venice.

Davide has been writing poems exclusively in English since 1993. They have been published in around fivehundred literary journals since 1999, in the U.K, the U.S.A., New Zealand and elsewhere.

His poetry collection, "Re-Emerging," was published as an on-line downloadable book by Gatto Publishing in 2006.

David Treme's blog can be read at Tommaso Gervasutti. T.Gervasutti was a joke he started in the seventies with a friend, he wrote some poems under this name then, in Italian and he was the only one who read them. Then he decided to use this name for this blog because it seemed it was the only one the blogsphere could accept without much trouble.

SOME WINTER POEMS

TORCELLO

A few metres of palered

mud-splattered,fishbone patterned stones

and further on, aftera detour

into a just paved,pale orange path,

the same Devil’sbridge with no railings

with its two, threeworn out grey steps.

Then, gravel and mud,and the cathedral,

a massive harmony ofneat old ochre bricks,

time’s rich skinperspiring.

And the squarenakedness

of the bell tower’stop,

a gaze in the haze ofnowhere.

Behind, a few fieldsand a path of frosted grass

corralled by nettles andbare trees.

You stand in the light

of deep winter’sbruised blue

and its silvered hush.

Before stepping backon the boat

you sense the pulse

of the minutes justpassed,

the touch of the heartof silence,

the very mud underyour feet a marvel

in the unsheathedcheeks of the air.

When the boat leavesyou are caught

by thin sunbeamscrisscrossing the sandbars,

banks pencilled bylight

like running diamondedges

and a breath skimmingyour irises.

Through the boatwindow you once more gaze

at the light in whichyou want to be buried.

TO THE ISLAND

The boat purrs on thestill lagoon water,

one with the sky, thehaze

has swallowed thehorizon-line

and it’s a mutualstare now, yours and its,

a single glow withonly

the cabin window inbetween.

Sitting you are aking, cruising

on slowly strewingweightlessness,

breathing fingers ofemptiness,

yes, you feel touchedas if

the air’s gaze had theconstancy of skin.

A row of polesappears, three, four,

suspended in theblue-grey and on top of each

a cormorant withslightly open wings,

none of them takes offin a skimming rush,

beaks tilted on high,they just stand and breathe.

Meditation. Sittingcross-legged, breathing,

learning to donothing.

Not for you. You havenever learnt.

But in the boat crossingthe stretch

it can be like that.

You get off now andyour heart

is naked.

Like the silver andblonde

winter grass of thesandbars.

Elated by simplemotion

you behold them withthe bare

rhythm of your steps.

WINTER TREES

Through them

the naked line of thehorizon.

What will remain

after the flourishesof your heart and mind.

They can reveal

life in its innerpattern, with tendrils

of smoky grey andmauve shades transpiring,

the memory of blood,the still

streaming trails ofyour will glowing.

On the garlands of theislands

they frame the stagefor the cormorants,

for the straight linesof their flights

that brush thewater-skin

and your breath,

wings beating inrhythmic frenzy,

resolution dashing off

in its native hue.

Keep your gaze still

on a sky filled

with these fewbrushstrokes,

on days of brightdusks

and floweringpencilled lines,

your eyes will begently sandblasted

by heaven’sessentials, their X-rays pulsing

through the ashes ofyour wish.

BEGINNING WITH THEMOON

You opened theshutters at dawn,

the weather was clearand it was very cold,

you took in the still

mountains’ diamondoutlines,

jagged edges likeblades,

Moon and Venus hangingthere

just above the top.

Bright, round moon’sface like

a cat’s, or a child’s,when they stare

stunned by their ownpresence.

You called me to thebalcony

so I could see thoseessential shapes,

radiant rotundfullness

above massivestillness.

For some reason Imissed Venus,

I was shivering andcouldn’t locate it,

you were surprised athow easily

one can lose sight ofdots

as of directions andthe plain

presence of things.

Later we walked, ordaydreamed,

on the narrow road tothe deep north,

that was a railroadonce, and at once

everything was bothpresent and past,

our crackling steps onthe freshly raked snow,

the rocks carved intothe aching blue,

the instantaneousneatness of frost

after skiing in thewood, frost

on our guide’seyelashes, on skin

slightly burnt by it,and the very words

frosted too, swarmingaway on the snow

like flashes of spunsugar,

or encrusted like theice on my beard

of thirty years before

when I had firstknocked on your door

on the last night ofthe year.

So, we began with themoon

above knuckledmountains,

like a meaning

simply unveiled.

Memory’s countenance

slashed by thepresent’s blade.

FROST

Tendons and hooves.

And the shiny circlesof horse-shoes.

Their clankingfour-steps of a rhythm

on the hard ground,the gravel’s stare.

-Much better walkingnow, and walking only-

our legs plastered totensed ribs

while we whistled andbreathed trying to emulate

the hills and sky’saloofness.

Going downhill we evendismounted,

the road becoming aslippery glitter,

a blade brushed byearly sunshine.

Then, the softerground on the plain, by the river:

it almost sang

to the longed-foroutburst of legs and lungs.

It’s not different nowfrom the train window

this stretch of muddy,pasted white stubble,

a sparkling bareness,a tense, taut skin.

With air and heart ina clap, undistinguished.

The enduring mantle ofmemory.

Swan With Pierced Wings

2012-01-20T11:29:00.000Z

Marshmeadows

chokethe river

intospasms.
Theswan throws off
herponderous overcoat.

A continental silvermounted blue glass salt, in the form of a swan with hinged pierced wings,import hallmarks, circa 1910, 13cm high

Longships and Napkin Rings

2012-01-16T14:27:00.000Z

Mistynapkins

drawnfrom stirrup rings

mutecoracle ripples

andlongship waves
embracemoon-chipped tombs
andsheath sharp voices.

Onan island formed
inknotwork by the wind
timewhispers like hourglass sand.

Heartsplanted in Iona’s silhouette
leavetheir own shadows
onthe elastic shoreline.

A pair of Alexander Ritchie Iona silver napkin rings, decorated with Viking longships and knotwork, marked 'A.R. Iona', ICA hallmarked Birmingham 1936, 5.5cm long

Uisge beatha

2012-01-11T19:00:00.002Z

theangels’ share

isa silhouette

petrified against the sky

ahint of cold
impassive over wings of snow
a first grey hair

asthe tale falls asleep
a topiary tower
of invisible cumulus

andin the condensation
I draw a languid lochan
the angel's mirror

image - art by Avril Paton

Uisge beatha (Gaelic for'Whisky')

Lot 192

2012-01-09T15:21:00.001Z

A Chinese jade carving of ashishi with a fruit branch clenched in it's mouth, 4.5cm high, 19th century

vegetarian

onlyberries fear

the lion

Pause (Pausa)

2012-01-06T19:37:00.000Z

timeis a raptor

inthe sky not moving

waitingto strike

tiempo es una ave de rapiña
en el cielo que no mueve
esperando para golpear

image - Flickr Creative Commons - evblogger

***** 2012 ‘Catapult’ will change (2012 ‘Catapulta’ se cambiará)

2011-12-10T16:33:00.001Z

Formany months, I have been putting my writing of poetry into third place behind actingas ‘editor’ for submissions for the Catapult and translating poetry.

Iwant to get back to producing poetry myself again, so I have decided that from2012 I will continue to publish other poets on the Catapult but on aninvitation basis. I am envisaging onepoet per month with a selection of poems from their pen.

Thanksto all of the poets who have submitted poetry to the Catapult over the lastfour years. Many of you will be invitedback!

Durante muchos meses, he estado poniendo mi escriturade la poesía en el tercer lugar detrás de actuar como "redactor"para las presentaciones a la Catapulta y la traducción de la poesía.

Quiero volver ala producción de la poesía a mímismo otra vez, así que hedecidido que a partir de 2012que continuará con la publicaciónde otros poetas en la Catapulta, pero en forma de invitación. Estoy contemplandoun poeta por mes,con una selección de poemas de supluma.

Gracias a todos los poetas que han presentado la poesía a la catapulta en losúltimos cuatro años. Muchos devosotros serán invitados de nuevo!

Gravestones by Jason E Hodges

2011-12-09T15:16:00.001Z

The Nightingales sing their lullabies
Through moon cast shadows of darkness
Their black eyes fall on the graves of the sleeping
Comb over the eternal resting
The headstones of the dead stand together
Like jagged teeth in an unsmiling mouth
Markings of memories
Chiseled in stone by the Masons
Letter by letter, number by number
Stories of lives that were lived in this world
Some long and full
Some cut short by fate with all of its calling
Age, sickness, and betrayal
All play a part in this card game of life
For Ace’s and Eights are drawn by the living
But always collected by the dead
For in this land of gravestones
The raven patiently waits
Perched atop with his crooked hooked talons
He stands gazing to the gateway for the next to arrive
Throwing his dark calls of sorrow
Breaking the silence of first morning light
And the Iris drips blue colored sadness
As the sun climbs in a cloudless sky
Thistles spot the meadow in the distance with purple
These colors now melt in the afternoon heat waves
As the widow weeps and cries to the heavens
For the angels of marble surrounding these gravestones are unable to cry

　
　
　
　
　

Jason E. Hodges began writing in 1989. Shortly after he began, he saw the movie Drugstore Cowboy with William S. Burroughs. After reading his books, he was hooked. He would go on to discover Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, Anais Nin, and Anne Sexton. His most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes, Books On Blog, The Second Hump, Poetic Medicine, Catapult To Mars, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview he did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - col_and_tasha

Fading Village Church by Rick Hartwell

2011-12-08T17:32:00.001Z

Noted through the open doors --

Slanted shafts of raw morning sun

Reflecting off old, oaken pews;

Another orthodox dawning casting

Sad silhouettes of sedentary souls;

Stained glass windows depicting the

Old new word amidst wounded panes;

Edges worn on pew seats by the

Ups and downs of life and prayer;

Initials of part-time lovers carved

Into seatbacks and bible holders;

Worn hymnals, smudged by fingered

Torn pages, dog-eared by repetition;

Carved stone baptismal font, calked,

Cracked, and slowly leaking holy water;

Statues of sainted, brooding ancients,

Marbled robes, chipped and faded;

Steeple bells tolling calls to service,

Emptiness from a looped recording --

While plastic lilies on the alter gather dust.

(image - Old Gilroy Presbyterian Church)

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher living in Moreno Valley, California, with his wife of thirty-five years (poor soul, her, not him), their disabled daughter, one of their sons and his ex-wife and their two children, and ten cats! Yes, ten. He has previously been employed as: apprentice carpenter; dairy ranch hand; plywood mill worker (twice); plastics manufacturing plant; newspaper delivery; armed security; facilities analyst; telecommunications analyst. supervisor (twice) and manager; business manager; US Army - infantryman, legal clerk (twice), legal clerk instructor, Warrant Officer and law office manager; and, high school teacher for the emotionally disturbed (twice).

Morning Heads by Kevin Ridgeway

2011-12-06T19:41:00.001Z

one hand obscuring
its owner’s face
in a photograph
the malaise of the subject
seeps right out of
the faded color and into
the fingernails of the observer
handling this
temporary encapsulation of a
framed miniature universe
a breakfast of lemon slices,
cheap wine and a broken baguette
litter the white tablecloth
among the ruins
of a sugar cube castle
the shock top of hair
indicates an all-nighter
glancing at European city lights
and excessive
smoke inhalation staining
the mind yellow and green
the eyes of the observer
and the subject meet sleepily,
unattached
one a poet photographed
forty years ago,
the other a sickly boy shaking
into a new simmering
real time moment of
senses and imagery

Kevin Ridgeway is a writer currently residing in his native Southern California. Recent work has appeared in Mad Swirl, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Electric Windmill and Thunderclap! Magazine.

Sand Dunes by Rick Hartwell

2011-12-05T14:27:00.001Z

Undulating carpets of quartz grains,

granulated shells and ice plant,

russet and verdant fingers laced together

coating windswept dunes,

visual evensong at a high water mark,

detritus providing camouflage,

cover and feast for opportunistic shore dwellers,

a temporary rest for the pale body

embalmed by crabs yet enshrouded

in an identifiable Aran sweater.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - cheetah 100

Beacon by Sandy Sue Benitez

2011-11-25T18:40:00.001Z

The damp air hung around our shoulders
like a freshly wrung cotton sweater.
The blue sky streaked silver halos
above our heads as the scent of rain
dispersed itself on our bodies.
You wrapped your arms around me
as an angel would with heavy wings.
I waited for a fog that never appeared,
anticipating a trespass into some netherworld
only read in books or dreamed about
in rapid streams of unconsciousness.
The white sail of a boat caught my eye
and I wondered what light house
had bid the boat farewell to continue on
and drift safely through salt clouds and mist.
I felt the pull of voices chanting in the reeds.
The glint of coins beneath the water.
But there was nowhere or no one to lay claim
as we were merely ghosts of ourselves,
floating in limbo towards any beacon of light.

Sandy Benitez is the founder and editor of Flutter Press and Red Poppy Review. Most recently, her poems have appeared in Symmetry Pebbles and Subliminal Interiors. Sandy resides in California but yearns for the cool Seattle weather and walks along the pier with her family.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - Andrew J Sutherland

Walking to Jerusalem by Elizabeth Rimmer

2011-11-17T17:34:00.001Z

Footsore and hungry, our hands full

of cockleshells, crucifixes, wayleaves,

distracted by forest hermitages,

by abbeys and basilicas, and archetypal

marshes and wilderness.

Next year, next year, and the wine in the glass cups

thin and sour, and no honey left.

The dogged one foot after another,

driven or drawn. We lost sight

of need behind us, desire ahead.

The road, the dust, cold at night, the shade of olives.

Scents of resin, hyssop and sage,

holm-oaks in the courtyards and the sound

of fountains behind white walls.

The dogs at the road ends.

Dreaming of water in the green grass,

mud and sap and leaf back there, the white

and yellow honey scent of meadows,

cress and the flicker of willow leaves.

City of light, city of slaughter.

Not one stone standing on another.

Not this, not that; neither here nor yonder.

The place where God lives. Shalom.

Salaam. The place that breaks your heart.

Elizabeth Rimmer is a poet, gardener and river-watcher, Catholic, radical, feminist and green, born in England of Irish origins, and now living in Scotland. Her work is inspired by weather, landscape and tradition, the work of craftsmen, gardeners, foresters and musicians, language, legends and heritage. Or anything else that appeals to her magpie mind. Her first collection of poems, Wherever We Live Now was published by Red Squirrel Press in 2011.

Elizabeth has a blog at Burned Thumb at Lúcháir.

Lot 2 by Gordon Mason

2011-11-16T20:00:00.001Z

An Edwardian silver half hunter pocket watch, makers S. Smith and Sons,London 1907, cased, 7cm long

Chasedby painted riders

acrossa neck of black water

allI got was a click of goodbye.

Asilver flash, a fragment

inthe people-less hour,

lazystatic on the radio

lickedthe sap from parted words.

Ilistened to the hunter watch

chewingtime like forgotten music

innight’s black limousine.

This poem appears in my chapbook 'Last Call for Casablanca' published by Flutter Press

The Bitter End by Christopher Hivner

2011-11-12T15:46:00.001Z

Like birds on a power line

my enemies stand shoulder to shoulder.

The morning sky is gray, hard as slate,

silencing pleas before they are made.

Blood-letting into open mason jars

and stacking them neatly on the shelf

so Grandma can use them this winter,

I finally feel weak,

without resolve.

The birds remain above

chatting amongst themselves,

straddling a razor wire

in perfect balance.

Christopher Hivner is from a small town in Pennsylvania in the United States. While he writes primarily horror and humour, he dabbles in other styles mainly because he likes the word "dabble". A collection of horror stories, "The Spaces between Your Screams" was published in 2008 and a poetry chapbook, "The Silence Brushes My Cheek like Glass" is available online at Scars Publications. He can be visited at Ragnar's Saga.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - fdecomite

Her by Joan McNerney

2011-11-03T16:20:00.000Z

Did you see that woman falling
from the escalator at Grand Central
Terminal? Lying in dark circles of
blood? Begging the police not to
tell anyone? She would be alright
when she got up.

What about her?

Did you see that woman screaming
in front of the newsstand? Hear
those screams of hatred spewing
from her face? Notice her eyes....
burning slits of light? Maybe
she can't be tranquilized anymore?

What about her?

Did you see that woman walking
across the street? Wearing those
special shoes? All the toes
on her right foot cut off? Isn't
it awful? Watch her getting on
the bus, all that pain on her face.
How much longer can she keep going?

What about her?

Did you see that woman? Ashen
and still as a corpse. Lying
by the side of the Palisades
Highway? Her hair so grey,
her legs so straight. Lying
in the short grass. She was
always running off schedule
Always trying to be on time.

What about her?

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, 63 channels, Spectrum, and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies. She is nominated for Best of the Net in 2011. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - proimos

Lot 321 by Gordon Mason

2011-10-30T19:11:00.000Z

a rare Wemyss ware powder boxpainted with fishing boats at dusk in yellow, red, pink and black, impressedmark, 9cm diameter

Duskseeps through

thecreak of masts and sails

intothe stammer of the sea.

Iwatch silhouettes

standup to be counted

fromthe silence-lashed shore.

Whispersof an old tune

idlein my head.

Iam not one year older.

This poem is in my chapbook Uncle Salvador's Cigar

Out of Books by Rick Hartwell

2011-10-29T15:53:00.000+01:00

Once again I’m out of books.

Shivering, I enter withdrawal.

What if it means I must converse,

Hold discourse with my neighbors,

Make decisions in the here-and-now,

Rather than retrospect on the there-and-then?

Not holding with those who say it’s not addictive,

My body, mind, and soul are so habituated to reading,

I’ve become mentally numb, physically agitated and so negatively

Introspective there is no logical reason that can deflect my intoxication.

I did not plan ahead or pace my reading pleasures,

I assumed my wealth of books was never ending.

Amazon™, Thrift-Books™, Daedalus-Books™,

Expedite my shipping and my return to sanity,

Please fulfill my order without delay.

Although shaky, I selected Captions On,

But found nothing worth “reading,”

Nook™, Kindle™, I must decide!

Edward Lear's House in Corfu by Morelle Smith

2011-10-25T18:37:00.001+01:00

I walk down a flight of steps,

through a narrow passageway,

come out on the waterfront

where the houses look towards the sea.

In the house with yellow walls

Edward Lear lived, painted,

traded insults with his manservant, the Souliote,

made wicked sketches of his neighbours -

learned Greek, wrote rhymes and nonsense,

made up words, wrote funny stories

so his friends would smile,

hid his afflictions, wept in solitude,

wrote about owls and pussycats

and pea green boats -

looking out over a sea of palest green -

Perhaps he too woke in the night

to hear the squalling cats, the barking dogs,

the seagulls and the nesting herons -

The house beside the waterfront

has lemon yellow, slightly peeling walls,

closed shutters and an empty look -

in the evening the shadow of the little lamp

is thrown against the wall

Morelle Smith writes a lot about nature. In a recent article about disappearing languages by Robin Lloyd Jones [on http://scottish-pen.blogspot.com ] he talks about hunter-gatherer cultures which see themselves as part of [nature], not something separate from it and their languages reflect this making nature the centre of attention before placing a person in its midst. That's Morelle's aim when she writes about nature - that it should be the centre of attention. The same goes for other so-called inanimate objects. Travel is not just an inspiration for her, but a necessity. So she writes about the places she spends time in, other people who also lived there, dreams, and all kinds of fiction.

More about Morelle's books of both poetry and prose can be found on her blog Rivertrain. The publications include Deepwater Terminal, a poetry collection published by Diehard; Streets of Tirana, Almost Spring a short story collection published by Ora; The Way Words Travel, a poetry collection published by UK Author Press; Time Loop, a novel published by Playback Editions.

Gold Tracks, Fallen Fruit, a collection of poems and images, will be published next month. It is composed entirely of 5 line poems, (which she has called quintas, for obvious reasons) many of them with images that go with them. Publication date is 1/11/11! Launch will be on 17th November, 8 pm at the Cross Keys Hotel, Chester, if any of my readers will be in the vicinity Morelle says that they'll be very welcome!

The Writer Dreamer by Sarah Gamutan

2011-10-22T19:04:00.000+01:00

You can't beeverything they expected. Once, we

condoned howoften you missed some details

which did notmake the piece right, that you just

didn't forget toget elated on every line you read
because you saidyou already belonged in the world
of writing.There were instances you had brain debate
with your fellowdreamers whether peoples should be

people or notshould be nay. I knew you raised an eyebrow
on comments andcriticism left on your piece, that I knew it
was a punch onyour ego. But I saw you getting enamoured
and encouraged.I even envied how you gave enormous
time to excel onyour chosen field, which you dreamt once

would put you onthe lives of Anne Rice or Lois Lowry. You
were sodetermined your brain nerves got used to it, that it
already knew ithad to look for love each day, explore things,
brighten andtouch lives of men who read its creations. I also

appreciated yourinterested in almost everything- from the
knuckleheads tothe sober, the earth itself. I knew you put
joy and tears toyour readers. I hoped to be like you, the one
who thought shecould make all things happen, though
not at the sametime, she thought it would all turn right.

Sarah Gamutan, 19, hails from Philippines. Her poems are scheduled to appear in Ygdrasil, Daily Love and Isles Review of Poetry. You can find her at facebook.com/sarah06142010.

a review of Uncle Salvador's Cigar

2011-10-19T19:41:00.001+01:00

My thanks to Gwilym Williams who has posted a kind review of my recent chapbook Uncle Salvador's Cigar on his blog Poet in Residence:

This deceptively light collection fairly sparks off the page.

Gordon Mason is best known to me through his multi-lingual poetry website 'Catapult to Mars'. You can visit 'Catapult to Mars' via my 'updated blogs' link (as many 'Poet-in-Residence' visitors will already be aware).

Gordon's latest offering Uncle Salvador's Cigar is appropriately a limited edition collection. It consists of 30 poems (or Lots) arranged in numerical order and bound in handsome cigar wrapper orange. It is published by Red Ceilings Press. It's about the size of a cigarillo packet and it's probably much better for your health than smoking.

Some of the poems have previously appeared in Red Ceilings, Menagerie and Raven Images.

Lot 26

a Mandolin Cantali labelled 'Alfredo Albertini'.

Albertini's mandolin

plucks roses from woodsmoke

that clings to a balcony
as an unfurled plaque.

String vibrations
ebb and flow, yes and no.
Notes tremble
under a naked blue sky.

Most mornings would stop
for a coffee to be killed.
A mandolin morning
drinks its own caffeine.

Unlike Literature by Christopher Hivner

2011-10-18T15:03:00.000+01:00

The painting hung

for decades,

the eyes of the girl

fixed on the title of the book

that was unreadable,

known only to the artist,

but I stared hard,

unflinching and belittling

of the brushman’s vision,

angry at a secret held,

a revelation

that may have changed lives,

allowed me to sleep

without dreams of the child’s eyes

fixed on me

with a message

that I cannot comprehend.

Unlike the literature of my life,

she haunts my steps

toward Heaven,

a diamond on the path

that I can’t pick up

nor relinquish.

Christopher Hivener is from a small town in Pennsylvania in the United States. While he writes primarily horror and humour, he dabbles in other styles mainly because he likes the word "dabble". A collection of horror stories, "The Spaces between Your Screams" was published in 2008 and a poetry chapbook, "The Silence Brushes My Cheek like Glass" is available online at Scars Publications. He can be visited at Ragnar's Saga.

image - (Entre les Trous de la Memoire by Dominique Appia)

Dunblane Station by Elizabeth Rimmer

2011-10-17T16:46:00.001+01:00

After the worst days, the days

when strangers stopped you in the street

to tell you what they knew, when

Provost Pat cried for all of us,

when the numbed shocked week was over

and years of anger not yet begun

came the day for counting up

the tokens and ephemera

of helpless, unclaimed compassion;

came a quiet seep of children

moving down the hill from school

with armfuls of purple, pink and yellow

irrelevant soft toys.

Elizabeth Rimmer is a poet, gardener and river-watcher, Catholic, radical, feminist and green, born in England of Irish origins, and now living in Scotland. Her work is inspired by weather, landscape and tradition, the work of craftsmen, gardeners, foresters and musicians, language, legends and heritage. Or anything else that appeals to her magpie mind. Her first collection of poems, Wherever We Live Now was published by Red Squirrel Press in 2011.

Elizabeth has a blog at Burned Thumb at Lúcháir.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - Brian M Forbes

Analyzed Depictions 9 by Felino A Soriano

2011-10-16T19:14:00.000+01:00

“Jazz is there and gone. It happens. You have to be present for it. That simple.”

Keith Jarrett

(for Keith Higginbotham)

Of the dissipation mantra

rhythms

released into rewound acclimations

praise

portended verbs atop

stagnant tongue (prior to the immobility, praise leapt, creation-paradigm of escalated

vocals)

unfastened charcoal of night’s enlightened slants

the

serenading spheres of horizontal halos

blending here with

an absent foray simplistic

causational muster

bridging wing with the walking discretion, heard then reheard

analytical

reaction of

committed articulatio.

Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. He has received the Gertrude Stein “rose” prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Over 3,100 of his poems have appeared in places such as BlazeVOX, Otoliths, infinite space, Poetry, Yes, and Fact Simile. He has had 48 print and electronic collections of poetry accepted for publication, including Compatible Aspects of the Disparate Endeavor (NeoPoiesisPress, 2011), Differences of the Parallel Devotion (Desperanto, 2011), and Identities —Upon Variations (Moria, 2011). For information regarding his published works, editorships, and interviews, please visit: www.felinoasoriano.info.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - psd

Time to Admit by Stephen Jarrell Williams

2011-10-15T16:44:00.001+01:00

Something wrong
with all of us

time to admit

we can't stop
the suffering

too far gone
spin of our sins

web of machines
pressed to our flesh

underworld pulling strings

needing to look up
falling to our knees.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzle down behind the dark horizon. He is the editor of Dead Snakes.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - alancleaver

Lot 55 by Gordon Mason

2011-10-13T15:12:00.001+01:00

French Art Nouveau stained horn fishbrooch, by P Lucas, signed 'P. Luca (s)', 5cm long

Inmy sleep I collect

clamsand pearls

asphilosopher fish

ponderthe meaning of existence.
Ilower my ears
tothe undercurrents

blanchedby the moon.
Luca,
forit is his gospel,

hasstained horn
withthe pollen
ofhis imagination

andI am part of this message.
Iwonder how to take
mynext breath

andthe sea picks up my words
toraft me to an island
thatlasts an instant.

This poem appears in my chapbook Uncle Salvador's Cigar published by Red Ceilings Press 2011.

Renaissance Denied by Ben Nardolilli

2011-10-12T19:24:00.000+01:00

[Due to copyright
Restrictions, we
Are unable to include
The poem “Renaissance
Denied” by Ben Nardolilli.
We apologize
For the inconvenience.]

Ben Nardolilli is a twenty five year old writer currently living in Arlington,
Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana
One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, Super
Arrow, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and
Yes Poetry. Recently, a chapbook of his Common Symptoms of an
Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He
maintains a blog at Lo Specchio e La Spugna and is looking to publish
his first novel.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - mikeblogs

The Poem, The Poet by Jason E Hodges

2011-10-10T19:30:00.000+01:00

What is a poem?
It’s a highway into the soul
A freeway of twisting and turning emotion
Twisting inside oneself
Right down to the core of what’s really important
A poet is born when one finally turns away
Away from a world that says how you should feel on the inside
And how you should act on the out
Yes a poem is as much there for the living as it is for the writing
As much for the feeling, as it is for the reading
It’s there for the expressing when tears no longer satisfy
For the scratch of a pen connecting words in rhythm last longer than drops from the eye
Sharing your innermost thoughts with others with a soft whisper to their hearts
Awaking their minds with lines from your soul
Unconditionally giving more than you’ve taken is a poem all in itself
Poets are seen by so few, yet life saving for many at just the right time
Like the lighthouse seen by the mariner navigating desperately in a rain swept night
A lost man at sea on the verge of drowning is saved by the act of another
The poet, the light keeper, speaking through a shining bright beacon
Yes poems are more than the textbooks will ever tell you
Or the teacher will teach you
For they are alive and living all around us
Good, bad, or unwanted
Stories and story tellers
Poems and poets
Life clicking through the minutes of time for all us to see
　

　
Jason E. Hodges began writing in 1989. Shortly after he began, he saw the movie Drugstore Cowboy with William S. Burroughs. After reading his books, he was hooked. He would go on to discover Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, Anais Nin, and Anne Sexton. His most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes, Books On Blog, The Second Hump, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview he did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.

He has a blog at The Dirt Worker's Journal

image - Flickr Creative Commons - marcusrg

Charlie Horse by Joan McNerney

2011-10-09T20:48:00.002+01:00

Gambling everything: bank book
insurance policy frame house.
He bought into the business.

Now he was superior could push
us around. Brag about being
management. Wasn't I lucky
to have such a nice boss?

There's no wishing him away.
Charlie was something definite
like that charlie horse tearing
you out of sleep at 4 a.m.

He told some personal stories
making me feel all covered with slime.
How he'd never finished high school,
been a drunk, got divorced, beaten
up dogs, kicked his kids out.

Impressive. He affected everyone.
Some to tears. Others to screaming.
Certain bosses sort of stared
at him puzzled, smiling slightly.

Day after day, he hammered in ideas.
The old ways were best. He never
made mistakes. Nobody works anymore.
It had something to do with
America and obedience.

Malignant sweat grew through his
heart and became putrefied. Charlie
dropped dead one day from a heart
attack and somebody buried that horse.

JoanMcNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as SevenCircle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, 63 channels, Spectrum,and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies. She is nominated for Bestof the Net in 2011. Four of her books have been published by fine smallliterary presses.

Lot 563 by Gordon Mason

2011-10-07T13:50:00.000+01:00

Avril Paton (b.1941)
Two Ladies Visiting the Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh
Gouache and egg tempera, 122cm x 70.5cm

Itis pensioners’ day

atthe Gallery of Modern Art.

When they were young

modernart was wallpaper
covers on schoolbooks
and chalk on a blackboard.

Thetaller lady, hair in a bun,
is stiff from Latin
and her companion, hair in a tourie,

isriddled with arithmetic.
Now they climb the stairs
two feet by one

wonderingif
they are in an exhibit
or what is for tea.

Sections From The Psychedelic Screen by Christopher Barnes

2011-10-06T12:51:00.001+01:00

BLUE

lashing waves

ephemeral smoky space

between Billie's bluest day

and the ghost of the Prez of tenor sax

BROWN

clay skinned man-tree

glissading slowly

as a cossetted greased worm

through the salt of sleeping-bag earth

PETREL

swells

a sea of brush strokes

streaked for sleep's direction -

in my empty bed

indifference is a lumpy pillow

Christopher Barnes won a Northern Arts writers’ award in 1998 and has debuted at Newcastle’s Morden Tower. His poetry reviews often appear in the pages of Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine, and 2005 saw the publication of his collection LOVEBITES published by Edinburgh-based Chanticleer Press. The South Bank Centre in London recorded his poem "The Holiday I Never Had", he can be heard reading it on poetrymagazines. He lives in Newcastle, England.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - meripage

Midnight Stupor by Pravin Nair

2011-10-05T19:46:00.002+01:00

Andheri station* at 12 in the night (or morning, depending upon how you look at it) resembles a cloth so badly wrung, it might be wrinkled forever.

Beneath the glaze ofthe indicator, which tells you not much time is left,

(for the last train,of course)
a man lies,
- but his stance doesn't.

Most surely he is drunk and most probably he is
- or is he?

The station is soon deforested,
the crowds gradually thin
and the air becomes infested
with the smell of fear settling in.

Nobody wants tohelp, it seems.

Even the clock hungabove,
its arms folded in a namaste,
does not display any leaning, for the moment.

A sign of the times?

It is too late

in the dreary night
- no the time to test your fate
or to do what is right.

So I do

what I've been trained to.

I turn away.

The journey backhome,

weighs on me like a boulder,

with his ghost perched on my shoulder.

*Andheri: an important railway junction in Mumbai

Pravin Nair is a brand researcher whodoubles up as a blogger and poet in his spare time. He is a new entrant intothe poetry journal space and has only recently started exploring. Ever sincethis adventure began, his poems have been published in a few journals such as GloomCupboard, Fried Eye, Mused Bella Online Literary Review, The Brown Critique,Asia Writes

image - Flickr Creative Commons - madpai

Covering Up Your Tracks by Ben Nardolilli

2011-09-25T19:48:00.002+01:00

Today, unafraid, they let you handle
The expensive machinery,
The beast that spits out
Your words in its own blood,
You bring it your dreams,
The little stories, the verses,
Those collected sighs,
The cold iron pills you grow,
A few nice affects can add emphasis
Or shoot importance at your words,
Within limits
You can start and stop
Where you want, and change color,
You can almost smell the wax
On your hands again.

Ben Nardolilli is a twenty five year old writer currently living in Arlington,
Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana
One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, Super
Arrow, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and
Yes Poetry. Recently, a chapbook of his Common Symptoms of an
Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He
maintains a blog at Lo Specchio e La Spugna and is looking to publish
his first novel.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - petersiroki

Lot 503 by Gordon Mason

2011-09-22T20:39:00.000+01:00

John Byrne (b.1954) ARR

A Sunshine Life

Signed Patrick, Watercolour, 29cm x 21cm

Horizontal

a flake of his Aberdeen moustache

balanced on his chin

he sees his life through
the glass of his shades
the glass of his Curaçao

the glass of the bar window
the glass of the sea
So this is sunshine

where the blues
float the day
and come to him

on visiting days
with the only sound
the blink of his eyes

Lot 293 by Gordon Mason

2011-09-20T11:52:00.001+01:00

Three ostrichfans and a Victorian parasol

Silks have split
ata twist of her lipstick.
Hermouth shapes words
shewill tell to no-one.

One hand reachesto the sky,
an explosionfrom a crypt
of ostrichteathers
fanned like asilver fog.

In the flash ofa strobe
the bird takeswing.
She keeps hersecrets
behind aspinning parasol.

Rockin at the Alaska Native Brotherhood Hall by Vivian Faith Prescott

2011-09-14T17:34:00.001+01:00

Daddy dressed ina blue suit

hummin of Old Spice

twirlin us lil hunyuks

cross the ole plank floor.

Daddy's curlin black hair

slicked topof his head

our pony tails iza floppin

doin the bounce-n-whirl.

Rock-steppin inr shiny shoes

spinin purple-cord jumpers

to the hippy-haired boyz

Benjamin Bros Band.

We're skiddadlin hoppin

to Jerimah's Bullfrog

doin the jive-n-jump

shiftin ona balls-of-r feet.

Daddy iza paddin back,

step-n-go, touch-step-n-touch

folks leanin ovr the balcony

hootin-an-hollerin

watchin Daddy zippin

ana dizzin his girls

while wezu all thinkin

aint-r Daddy groovy.

Vivian Faith Prescott is a fifth generation Alaskan and she lives in Sitka and Kodiak, Alaska. Her poetry has appeared at Scotland's Biggar Poetry Garden, Turtle Quarterly and Yellow Medicine Review. She's the Co-Director of a non-profit called Raven's Blanket, designed to perpetuate the cultural wellness and traditions of Indigenous peoples through education, media, and the arts. Her website is Vivian Faith Prescott and she blogs at Planet Alaska

Soldier Boy by Christopher Barnes

2011-09-12T20:44:00.000+01:00

Gossipy Miss Molotov

bashes wildfire

into the canteen,

does the revolutionary round

(and round)

with gypsy violin (olay).

Ivan though

is grit-nerved

shrugging at lickspitting Party ants

with tank-tempered skin.

Brickbats nor sneer-taunts

pang him to stoop.

No hurly-burly

ever fussed his spine.

Wrongdoer, rascal,

incendiary damp.

He's kindled outrage:

on a day without love,

stopped short of rallying

her smouldering handkerchief.

O he troubles fire (boom boom)

in the heart

and on parade.

He's fresh as red paint.

She rattles the matches.

Christopher Barnes won a Northern Arts writers’ award in 1998 and has debuted at Newcastle’s Morden Tower. His poetry reviews often appear in the pages of Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine, and 2005 saw the publication of his collection LOVEBITES published by Edinburgh-based Chanticleer Press. The South Bank Centre in London recorded his poem "The Holiday I Never Had", he can be heard reading it on poetrymagazines. He lives in Newcastle, England.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - nerissa's ring

In Memoriam (for Matt Coleman) by Howie Good

2011-09-11T19:31:00.000+01:00

I climb the thirteen stone steps.

Sharpshooters pick off stragglers,

the air so faded and dirty

that pity seems horribly wrong.

My father used to say it’s OK

if someone hits you to hit back.

Something worse eats away bone in secret.

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011), as well as numerous print and digital poetry chapbooks, including most recently To Shadowy Blue from Gold Wake Press and Love in a Time of Paranoia from Diamond Point Press.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - Horia Varlan

Empty by Devlin De La Chapa

2011-09-10T20:15:00.000+01:00

Mi querida

my lover whispers to this tragic girl
within the darkened corner of our kiss;
passionate forbidden tongues
plowing around to a beat
of silenced love buried within the dead of winter

Eres mi cielo
Eres mi sueno

my hands sway beyond his naked body
rhythming sensual winds across
fields of Sunflowers blooming
beneath the brilliance of stars;
only I can begin to imagine

Eres mi corazon
Eres mi amor-por vida

the tips of my fingers
read his silhouette in brail
tracing the patinas of his foreign skin;
a facsimile of colors rich in gold
basked beneath an imaginary sun

Eres mia
Eres mi fin

my eyes stare vacantly into his
the restrain in my breath, and
the stagnant of my beating heart
plunges beneath blinded ecstasy;
only to be awakened empty on a bed.

Devlin De La Chapa has been featured in Mademoiselle, Fangoria, Bloodlines, Orion Headless, The Camel Saloon, The Rainbow Rose, Catfishgringoriver, PostCard Shorts, The Carnage Conservatory, Black-Listed Magazine, and is scheduled to appear in Horror Sleaze Trash, Daily Love, Weirdyear, Drunken Absurdity, and Raven Images. She was recently awarded Editors Choice at The Camel Saloon. Devlin edits at BoySlut

image - Flickr Creative Commons - Brad.K

Lot 162 by Gordon Mason

2011-09-09T19:54:00.000+01:00

A Galle overlaid glass table lampcarved with rhododendron and foliage in red shades, signed, with bronze branchmount, 26cm high

Redfires of foliage

crispenrhododendron baubles.

Thereis no shade
against oncoming autumn

whichtumbles from spring
with summer barely noticed.

Septemberdesires fallen leaves
with its teasing frosts

oftissue paper and white gloves
tight round the flames' throats.

The Self by Sweta Maloo

2011-09-08T13:01:00.000+01:00

In thepit of pain, I found pleasure
Life, lover, spirits gone
I lingered in self-deception
Was I jinxed? My mouth spat red, yes.
Until one morn
someone
something
came breaking my illusions.
It leafed through my core,
fed on my grief,
crept through my skin,
and fused with my flesh,
my psyche,
and my soul.
We were one.
Little by little
we broke down
my cancer-ridden flesh
his, her, its skin dissipated
into death’s chrysalis.
Pain, pleasure, grief, joy
all gone
all numb
I died
to be born again
like an immortal phoenix rising from its ashes
I felt life coursing through me
wings grew heavy under my arms
I metamorphosed into a beautiful creature
Was I an ephemeral butterfly?
Or a celestial being?

Janeswaree Sweta Maloo is a 22 year old girl from the beautiful island of Mauritius. Having recently started writing poetry, she has been published in three magazines, namely, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes and catfishgringoriver.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - benhosking

After the Act by Andrew J Stone

2011-09-07T15:53:00.000+01:00

Lost

job.

When the car

collapsed,

the cabin

crumbled.

My wife left after

the noose dropped

cold

hand.

Andrew J Stone’s work has appeared in less than 1,000 online journals in less than 750 different countries. It has been translated into English. He absolutely adores Banana Macaroons and showering. He scrubs himself down in the shower multiple times a day with his left hand, never neglecting the deepest depth of his ass. After the water runs cold, he air-dries in the fresh LA smog perched atop his director’s chair. For more half-truths, find him at Writing is Dead.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - araddon

Left To Our Own Hands by Neva Flores

2011-09-06T11:18:00.000+01:00

We sought the faces of solitude

when the choice to battle

became our fate

until we became weary

of its demands.

Our blood passed away into

the understanding of the guardians,

who never left us alone

to our own hands.

Shadows swept into our borders,

holding a thousand

lonely caresses,

confessing patience and forgiveness

as regrets that stood alone.

Still, our hands sifted

through the golden sand

crying for the ocean

we call home.

The sound of breaking hearts

was heard in the wind,

creating rivers of blame to fill with tears.

Until a door was shut on daybreak

creating a sigh to glide

throughout the sweetness

that touched

upon our years.

Once again, we seek the faces of solitude

as chaos climbs the steps

of our tear-filled lands.

I wonder

if our blood will continue

to pass away into understanding,

if we are left

to our own hands?

Neva Flores has a blog at Changefulstorm Poetry

image - Flickr Creative Commons - denise carbonell

my new chapbook Last Call for Casablanca (Flutter Press)

2011-09-05T20:24:00.000+01:00

I am very pleased to announce the launch of my latest chapbook - Last Call for Casablanca - published by the wonderful writer and publisher Sandy Benitez of Flutter Press.

For those of you who have seen my poems on auction lots, this is a second chapbook full of such poetry. All but one of the poems have yet to feature on this blog, so you can have a first read when you ask Sandy at Flutter Press for a book!

That's two books out in two months; I must get back to writing poems again as the well is running dry!

Callander Poetry Weekend 2011

2011-09-02T12:35:00.000+01:00

Callander Poetry Weekend is famous for its entirely free and open character and for the great time poets and visitors have when they come here, whatever the weather. The events take place in Kings Bookshop, in the bookshop garden and in the Kirk Hall across the road.

Friday 2 September

4.45 start of programme

5pm Members of Grey Hen: A C Clarke, Margaret Christie, Margaret Wood, Eleanor Livingstone, Helena Nelson

6.15-7.15 Early evening: Garden Reading Tracy Patrick, Ian Hunter, Mo Blake, Wullie Pucell, G W Colkitto,
Friday evening: opening party.
Book Launches: Fred Beake, Elizabeth Rimmer.
Poems: Maureen Weldon, Eireann Lorsung
Saturday 3 September

Kirk Hall opposite shop (10am-4pm)

10 a.m. onwards: Exhibitions. Side tables may be used for displaying your books for sale. There are a lot of new books this year so there may be more competition than usual for sales - but remember, Callander is mainly about networking and enjoying the poetry.

Saturday morning: readings10.30 - 11.30: Bernard Briggs, Meghan McAvoy, Ruth Aylett, Sheila Wakefield

11.30 -11.45 Coffee

11.45 - 12.45: Kemal Houghton, Heather Reid, Joanne McKay, Jim Crumley, Colin Donati

12.45 Ian Blake : Book Launch: Remembering Falstaff And Others (diehard).

1 pm Lunch (Kirk Hall)
Illustrative material on the Book of Kells (subject of some of the poems) will be on display

2 - 4pm. Saturday afternoon: readingsMargaret Gillies Brown (Makar for Poetry Scotland)
Colin Will, Juliana Geer, Christopher Barnes, Morelle Smith, Judith Taylor, Ross Wilson, Robert Ritchie, Irene Cunninghame

4pm leave Hall4.45 - 6.30 pm Saturday Early evening readings
in Garden or Shop, Gordon Mason, Gayle Smith, Alison Craig, Rachel Cunniffe, Edwin Stockdale, Christine Ford, Nalini Paul, Hugh Mcmillan

Saturday Evening Party with performances: (in shop)7.30 pm
Book launch: Anne Connolly
Alan Gay: sea poems and adventures
Book launch: Deborah Tyler-BennettSongs and poems: Evan Jones, Sheena Blackhall, Kevin Cadwallender

Sunday 4 September
10.30-12.15 Discussion on the Disestablishment in Poetry led by Fred Beake

12.45 pm lunch and discussion of Poetry Scotland magazine with Sally Evans and Colin Will

Afternoon: readings (garden or shop)
2-4 pm Lucinda Carey, Mike Penney, Jane O'Neill, Leela Soma, Eireann Lorsung, Kevin Murphy, Magi McGlynn

4.15 pm Depart for alfresco reading at the Stones Viewpoint on the Dukes Pass, weather permitting. reading 4.45 - 5.30 (One or two poems each depending on number present

Lot 18 by Gordon Mason

2011-09-01T15:45:00.000+01:00

A Victoriandiamond parrot brooch, set with ruby eye, lacking some stones, 5cm long

He tilts a ruby eye

in a stare that will singe you.

The ultimate politician

shades his true colours
beneath a starfield cloak.
You can see the sparks

crackling around him.
His words are secret doorways
that hide bigger words

within verdigris bands.
If you walk alone
you learn to listen.

He is the listener
a repeater of lies
and platitudes

when dark seems
to press against him.
He is the eternal survivor.

Swallows by Gordon Mason

2011-08-31T12:17:00.000+01:00

As the sun falls,

chestnut trees

bend gracefully
under the weight
of a thousand swallows
in a hundred huddles.

Birdsong is gargling
water of gossip
as if each swallow
had today’s story to share.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - silverfox09

My Feet by Richard Hexem

2011-08-30T15:11:00.000+01:00

My feet failed me

miserably

I walk a broken path.

Richard Hexem is a retired, 69 year old, South Dakota dept of transportation employee. Poetry has been a long time hobby of his, and, now retired, he has time to play. His wife still works, which gives him plenty of time to get into trouble. They live on a small hill, just outside Black Hawk, SD, near Rapid City.

Richard has blogs at Dried Leaves and Dead Leaves

image - Flickr Creative Commons - brownpau

Creación o Mar (Creation or Sea) by Elisabeth Candina Laka

2011-08-29T14:53:00.062+01:00

I

Mar,
el espejo azul
de tu anhelo.
Herramienta.

II

Hay un mar chino
en la memoria de una flor.

III

Mar,
la cabeza azul
de los mitos.

IV

Mar,
el color azul de tus ojos
de agua.
Tu cuerpo azul, tus manos,
tu lengua…

V

Mar,
la flor amarga
y la libertad.

VI

Mar,
la cabeza azul
del pensamiento.

VII

Mar
de la plata
y la navaja.

VIII

Espejito, espejito,
¿quién es la mar
más bonita?

IX

Nubes de hielo, horizonte plata:
Mar, mar, mar, mar, mar, mar, mar, mar, mar, mar.
Árbol de plata, abedul, mar, mar
¡Sube, marea!

Este poema se trata de una reelaboración en forma de serie a partir de poemas más breves pertenecientes al poemario “Comunicando”.

Creation or Sea

I

Sea,
blue mirror
of your desire.
Implement.

II

There is a Chinese Sea
in memory of a flower.

III

Sea,
blue head
of myths.

IV

Sea,
blue colour of your eyes
of water.
Your blue body, your hands,
your tongue ...

V

Sea,
bitter flower
and freedom.

VI

Sea,
blue head
of thought.

VII

Sea
of silver
and penknife.

VIII

Mirror, mirror,
“Who is the fairest

sea?”

IX

Ice clouds, silver horizon:
Sea, sea, sea, sea, sea, sea, sea, sea, sea, sea.
Silver tree, silver birch, sea, sea
Rise, tide!

This poem is a revision as a series of shorter poems from the poetry book “Comunicando".

Elisabeth Candina Laka has a blog at Poesia Para Cenar.

After obtaining a BSc degree in Biology (specialization: Aquatic Ecology) at University of Hull, England she realized that aquatic ecology was not for her, or at least it was not enough. So, years later, after working on environmental projects, she decided to embark on a new career: Spanish Philology, her studies still ongoing at the UNED (completed undergraduate courses) and combining them with what she likes to do: writing.

She has written children's books, stories and poems, as yet not published. In number 38 (May 2011) of the Bilbao literary magazine Alborada-Goizaldia one of her poems from her recently completed poetry book “Comunicando” has been published. And, in subsequent issues, more poems will be published in this magazine.

Recently (number 54 August 2011) two of her poems have been published from the same collection of poems on the blog of the poetry collective La Mala Reputación.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - hisgett

Raining by Stephen Jarrell Williams

2011-08-27T15:40:00.000+01:00

I left
half my mind crumbling
in dry Iraq...

Now sending tears
in a pouch of cloud
raining down forgiveness.

I cannot help
I was a soldier for my country.

All the green trees splintering in the storm.

Stephen Jarrell Williams has been called "The Poet of Doom", "A Voice in the Wilderness", and "A Minstrel for Love". He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. Stephen is also the editor of DEAD SNAKES. Don't be afraid. Take a look at Dead Snakes

image - Flickr Creative Commons - soldiersmediacenter

Orchids by Gordon Mason

2011-08-25T20:27:00.000+01:00

we are tragic flowers

across many dawns

we hibernated
we are orchids
broken minds
slowly mend

image - Flickr Creative Commons - aussiegall

Truths of Childhood by Gordon Mason

2011-08-24T16:17:00.000+01:00

An abrupt staircase forced

into a whitewashed wall

leads to a hive of thoughts

with disappearing ink:

the truths of childhood.

A basement set of rooms,
a zinc bath in front of a range,
a football of paper and tape,
a clockwork train ticking
along the track.

Nuts, bolts and plates of Meccano,
Topical Times football annuals,
aromatic card collections
from Ceylon tea packets,
champion conkers polished.

A thrupenny bit for third place
in a three-legged race,
Fry’s chocolate wrapper
with sad boy to happy boy faces,
role of prince in the school play.

Firemen on bicycles,
marbles on pavements
from Castle Hill to Leitch’s garage,
pneumonia in the fever hospital
beside the pit winding towers.

Sartori’s fish and chips,
tender gas mantles,
Beatles cards in chewing gum packs,
fresh caught trout gutted in the sink,
a phone call: JFK has been shot.

image - Flickr Creative Commons - cosmicsmudge

Pillow Talk by Gordon Mason

2011-08-23T20:02:00.000+01:00

I turn to read your note

left on Tuesday’s pillow.

The words have pale skins
of ghosts in satin.

Tears from buds
behind the confessional grill

of my eyelids.
You are only visible in your words,

your scent, your absence.
I hold this knotted jewellery

of emotions in my hands.
I press my nose into your perfume

and read until the last sentence
takes my breath away.

published in Raven Images

image - Flickr Creative Commons - volantra

Waterfall by Rick Hartwell

2011-08-22T17:07:00.000+01:00

A one-legged goddess throws her thigh

Over the edge of the precipice,

Dangling her leg into the valley below.

A creamy calf elongates downward,

Trim ankle and delicately pointed toes

Arched into the mists above the pool.

She unwraps her billowed hair,

Letting it tumble, strand by strand,

Over her glistening pores,

Enveloping her nakedness.

Sweat and the sweet musk of passion

Sheen and slide over her quivering thigh,

Sheeting in layers over her extended limb.

Sitting on the edge, reclining backwards,

Bouldered breasts humped in the current,

Eddying the cascade over the cliff.

From deep within her mossied, hidden treasure,

Issues forth the nectared lubricant which

Draws men forth to moan and worship her.

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher living in Moreno Valley, California, with his wife of thirty-five years (poor soul, her, not him), their disabled daughter, one of their sons and his ex-wife and their two children, and ten cats! Yes, ten. He has previously been employed as: apprentice carpenter; dairy ranch hand; plywood mill worker (twice); plastics manufacturing plant; newspaper delivery; armed security; facilities analyst; telecommunications analyst. supervisor (twice) and manager; business manager; US Army - infantryman, legal clerk (twice), legal clerk instructor, Warrant Officer and law office manager; and, high school teacher for the emotionally disturbed (twice).

Image - Flickr Creative Commons - enor