Month: December 2013

New Work by J. J. Regan

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Click Here to read Verse

by J. J. Regan 

 

Bio:  John Regan is from Glasgow, Scotland. He currently works as a research fellow at the University of Cambridge.

Poetic statement:  These poems only exist if they’re read aloud.


		
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Tracing Papers by A. M. Soteria

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Tracing Papers

by

A. M.  Soteria

Submission to ALTPOETICS_Page_1 Submission to ALTPOETICS_Page_2 Submission to ALTPOETICS_Page_3 Submission to ALTPOETICS_Page_4 Submission to ALTPOETICS_Page_5

Bio/Poetic Statement: I am a poet/writer/editor. I was born and educated in the northeastern states, but ran away to California some 7 years ago. I now live in the Santa Cruz Mountains with my girlfriend and our two dogs. I am an active member of Kelsey Street Press in Berkeley.  I fill a variety of roles for the press—from bookkeeper to promoter to production editor.

In his H.D. Book, Robert Duncan describes the poetic process he observes in H.D.: “as the artist works to achieve form, he finds himself the creature of the form he thought at first to achieve.” For me, that quote is apt, and serves as a homing beacon. I am sensitive to form, but I find form to be organic, dynamic, and always on the verge of transformation. To continue to be attuned to it, I must submit to being altered by it. For that reason, my poetics won’t sit still.

On Being an Angel by Stephanie Kaylor

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On Being An Angel

by

Stephanie Kaylor

 

“Be wary.” Your fears I read like braille, goose bump code on a body I knew long before I first reached yours. Even the endless may have a beginning, a split second we will never understand. Where then would you hide?

 

Where are the black crows tonight, the broken glass, the omens? I blink once to clear my eyes.

 

Thermoluminescence dating, the determination of the time elapsed since a material last saw the sun; how I know I love you, the moonlight bather who will not pose as savior in my battle scene or his own.

 

(though I had the dream again last night, the house was burning brightly, the dinner party uninterrupted as the butler fanned the flames. I was the only one who ran out and you held me back as I stood naked on the warehouse roof, from a salted sea breeze beckoning me to fly).

 

He said there would be something else, some whiskey-breathed revelation. I like him like this, when he doesn’t say a word and I can fall into the soft-lipped void, and I fall proudly in the new fragility he has helped me craft to help me break. 

 

The 2:58 am clawing of a telephone like a strangers back, like complacency when the double speaks to herself and I, the total I, the unsure shape shifter. My inner lives crave completion: my searching a transfixation; my avoidance, divination. I know why the telephone does not ring. 

 

I will borrow his utensils. The teeth, the feet, the words collected like medallions. They will be dirtied by my touch but I shall cleanse them with the same.

 

(was I ever in your words? Was I a ghost, a spool of yarn unraveled, a baby’s skull?)

 

I am not frightened of the things you say but the things that shrivel before they reach your tongue, how they coexist.

Bachelorette by Stephanie Kaylor

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Bachelorette

 by

Stephanie Kaylor

1. I never much cared for hosting parties.

Always, it seemed, in the morning there’d be broken glass.

 

2. I’d crack abstractions into the glass until I could recognize myself, a hundred eyes searching back at me for what, they did not know.

 

3. I offered a bandage to a broken mankind.

I forgot the antiseptics, said I’d be back within the hour.

 

4. Once a man took me to the river.

We could only stare at it through all the barbed wires and their proclamations: turn around, there’s enough of a mess for you to swim in there.

I thought myself Bathsheba, but I couldn’t even dip my feet.

 

5. I thought myself an enlightened convict but they wouldn’t give back the key. “We said it would only be on my conditions,” but he’s gone and he can’t hear, and he didn’t say he’s coming back.

 

6. Blissfully illiterate, he never read my notes.

He’d fold them into origami, flowing into another world on the breathe of every kiss.

 

7. In the corner I recalled my grandmother’s warning like a prayer.

Do not heed the sun. The moonlit reveries & their daytime retrieval is the only way to stay unburned.

 

8. The reminiscent complex,

the sugar-titted histories overflowed from my nursing bottle every time I tried to heat it up.

 

9. The mattress is grey.

Not grey in indistinguishable soot, but the led of pencil etchings we could dream then erase. I like to lie here with you at my side.

 

Bio: Stephanie Kaylor is an Albany-based daydreamer currently working enrolled in two graduate programs: an MA in Media Philosophy at European Graduate School, and an MA in Women’s Studies at the University at Albany. She is a staunch advocate of ecriture feminine, but won’t shy from admitting to being seduced by the female beats. Stephanie is also currently working with Reginald Lewis, an incarcerated writer whose information can be found at facebook.com/reginaldsinclairlewis.