Month: May 2014

Two Poems by Arthur Turfa

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Two Poems

by

Arthur Turfa

 

The Conversation

 

Several years after the break

we stood together near the house

early on a summer evening

as the sun slid into western skies.

There we reflected on past years,

expressed mutual remorse

(at first so tentatively)

because the wounds had been healed.

 

Searching the wreckage of it all,

we salvaged enough to move onward

along separate but often parallel paths.

 

Thousands of miles behind me,

tens of thousands awaiting me,

we started the process of becoming

the people we were intended to be

even though the horizon was hazy.

 

Times and places slip away

softly and inexorably from us.

At times several chords on an acoustic

bring back walking over hills

or a sprawling campus.

For fleeting moments we are again

as we were but did not remain.

Far better to be who we have become,

to realize that it was better because

we stood together near the house

early on a summer evening

as the sun slid into western skies.

 

Precession of the Equinox: Polaris Shifts

 

Slightly tending westward, gradually

the lodestar  yields to its successor

as a new Astrological Age begins.

A residual memory, following me

from the Planetarium in Junior High.

Polaris’ replacement will then

give direction to new future stargazers.

 

One of the last young people to escape

from Kensington’s web of snarling streets

and elevated train lines, you seized your chance.

You became our Polaris, colorful in action

and attire, caring and cajoling, steadying

us to be the people you knew we could become.

 

Across the county or continent, we returned

and you greeted us, gloried in those returns.

As colleagues we spoke when storms neared,

and I kept your counsel in sight toward calm waters.

 

Now I know you began your precession,

stepping aside, though not then out of view.

Some of us search for you, exchanging pieces

that do not always fit together.

Second-hand accounts, some leading closer,

others in contradiction, point to a lodestar

that no longer shines in our heavens.

 

Every so often I scan the spreading stars

for our Polaris, until comes the realization

we are now lodestars for ourselves,

for stargazers we need to steady, for those

who receive the light as we did once

while scanning skies for our Polaris.

Four Poems by Jesse S. Mitchell

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Four Poems 

by

Jesse S. Mitchell

 

Yorba Linda’s Cephalopod Blues

 

So, screech the cyanide strings

And glow the Baba Yaga shine

And love the lemon yellow sun

And dance the barbed wire whirl.

And always

Always

More and more

More sang rouge than Khmer Rouge

Because that’s blood

Blood

It’s heintei  twister girls

All cyclone breathing and never sleeping

Hot and heavy, until you cannot imagine calm.

Makes a hollow in the center, all the stirring, the churning, in the heart.

Just keep you spinning

Spinning

Like a rotating planet (big hairy knuckled rock) in orbit

Orbit

Orbit

Until you read your name in the obit.

 

gringolandia

 

I believed myself awake then but only half-drowsy and half-dreaming, oh merciful God, a certain kind of violence written across my brain, curved cursive handwriting and between the etched and entwining loops and spaces I saw a pause and for a moment the silences replicated stingy threads like DNA (proteins stuck clinging to each other, pornography) and through the pauses I saw visions, heaven help me.  There I dreamed of Mexico but no black Madonnas or border towns but Chiapas, Emiliano Zapata, there revolutions, honey spun, a thin strand of spider silk that connects to every corner, shaking like candy floss along the coast from Cardiff to Bristol or home Atlantic, some beach drenched lovers surely cryptic, in the sun, breathed too the same air in my lungs, fueled by similar oxygen and other molecules.  And all over my body I felt a breeze, a cool breeze from the north, an all over wind, a numbing that means complacency for I am on the rung American…but reaching upward always, grasping for the next.  So, all I know is smothered .  I cover my wounds with grease and ash and leave the faintest footprints, carrying away the rest.

 

Cartagena

 

And rainy streets that stumble down and sudden downpours that drench your feet and back alleyway-drifts that spring up in hectic fits

Fits

and corners stuffed with this independent business,

Tempting-changeling like bower birds, trying to make a go of it. Carnival barkers and newsprint shills, broken off words and movie deals.

And what heaven acquires…

Overcome and drowsy down, hazy trace and spirit bound.

Hell loses…

And tastes like blood-spit

The sort of thing that happens with busted lip.

And what Hell loses…

All sensation

And all gone.

Earth regrets…

And looks blurred green sky

The kind of distance that comes

With hard-crossed eyes.

And what Earth regrets…

Or with falling down and smacking face

Knocks you brutal all over the place.

Dazed

Man forgets.

From careful tedium, strolling soaked

Through tepid wet Cartagena

 

 

Pazzia

 

I had a dream that was the same as Romeo and Juliet.

Except in this case the hero of the story was a small coiling spiral

Of double helix DNA

And it was a tiny lump of highly protein encrusted couch fluff

To which it was conjoined.

And they floated together on hot air currents

Billowing around the world

Looking for a simple pool of their own in which to self-replicate.

And thoughts traveling wildly across their minds (what minds you could speak of, little synapse and sparkling little cell-buds and ganglia)

like how different would  Cabaret have been

If David Mamet had written all the lines for Sally Bowles

And how much they both hated the work of Paul Theroux,

And how much of the history of the human race on Earth

Is basically a big iron screw jammed in the middle

Of a large misshapen clay ball.

And how we all could use some more productive occupation.

 

Bio: Jesse S. Mitchell writes books, has a wife and kids, and dislikes
the slow disintegration of time, immensely.
Poetic statement: I mean to make noise, a great deal of noise, so much
noise it will be impossible to ignore.

Bear Dance by Wilna Panagos

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Bear Dance

By

Wilna Panagos

[found objects from Modern Mythology by Andrew Lang, 1897 & a message from Jesse S. Mitchell, 2013]

 

sun and moon are spoken of by their unmistakable names

so here is no disease of language
Lettish chants & Mr Max Müller turns to Mordvinian mythology
he is guided by material survivals: ancient arms, implements, and ornaments
he finds his relics of the uncivilised past in agricultural usages, in archaic methods of allotment of land, in odd marriage customs, things rudimentary
one might as well attack the atomic theory where Lucretius left it
both, of course, agree that myths are a product of thought
rivers run, winds blow, fire burns, trees wave as a result of their own will
this mythology is a philosophy of things – early Greek philosophy recognised the stars as living bodies, all things had once seemed living and personal
everything is alive

if the Greek myth arose from a disease of Greek, very little ingenuity is needed to make it indicate one or other aspect of Dawn or Night, of Lightning or Storm, but the myth may be older than the name, say, the story of Zeus, Demeter, and the Ram
but we now study myths in the unrestrained utterances of the people & I did not abstain from the weapons of irony and badinage
regarding bees, for instance, as persons who must be told of a death in the family. Their myths are still not wholly out of concord with their habitual view of a world in which an old woman may become a hare – these men are living in Ovid’s Metamorphoses
even the prevalent anthropological theory of the ghost-origin of religion might, I think, be advanced with caution till we know a little more about ghosts
did a kind of linguistic measles affect all tongues alike?
everybody knows that stories of the growing of plants out of the scattered members of heroes may be found from ancient Egypt to the wigwams of the Algonquins, but these stories seem hardly applicable to Daphne, whose members, as far as I know, were never either severed or scattered.
that was what I had not said. I had observed: As to interchange of shape between men and women and plants, our information is less copious than in the case of stones
in Ovid the river god, Pentheus, changes Daphne into a laurel. In Hyginus she is not changed at all, the earth swallows her, and a laurel fills her place
it leads us to imagine that we have learnt something when we really are as ignorant as before

if then the white kernel had been called Tuna’s brain, we have only to remember that in Mangaia there are two kinds of coconut trees
and we shall then have no difficulty in understanding why these twin coconut trees were said to have sprung from the two halves of Tuna’s brain, one being red in stem, branches, and fruit, whilst the other was of a deep green. In proof of these trees being derived from the head of Tuna, we are told that we have only to break the nut in order to see in the sprouting germ the two eyes and the mouth of Tuna, the great eel, the lover of Ina, and she was the daughter of Kui, the blind
Tuna was an eel, and women may not eat eels and Ina was the moon
on the other hand, the story that marmalade (really marmalet) is so called because Queen Mary found comfort in marmalade when she was sea-sick
Mr. Lang, as usual, has recourse to savages, most useful when they are really wanted. He keeps Tuna in hand but all the authorities are late
in addition, there is this circumstance, which was not mentioned by that gentleman: each of the “passers” carried one or two lemons
real scholars know what Mordvinian divine names mean or that the Dawn is not as great a factor in myth as Mr Max Müller believes himself to have proved it to be

more Mischiefs of Comparison:
My first is a boot, my second is a jack
What is the Rooky One that swallows?

there must be some other explanation

still more Nemesis: Why are the legends about men, beasts, and gods so wildly incredible and revolting?
The Fallacy of Admits:
What is the Dark One That goes over the earth, Swallows water and wood, But is afraid of the wind?
What is the gold spun from one window to another?
Heidrick answers:
what the philological method of mythology needs is to prove that such poetical statements about natural phenomena survived in the popular mouth and were perfectly intelligible except just the one mot d’énigme that says: Dark One
Thy riddle is easy Blind Gest To read!
she says that the conjurer often begins by whirling rapidly before the eyes of the spectators a small polished skull of a monkey, and she is inclined to think that the spectators who look at this are in some way more easily deluded

The Chances of Fancy:
we are then told the old story of Lykâon, the King of Arkadia, who had a beautiful daughter called Kallisto. As Zeus fell in love with her, Hera, from jealousy, changed her into a bear and Artemis killed her with one of her arrows
he next compares the strange Arcadian cannibal rites on Mount Lyceus – a modern student is struck by the cool way in which the ancient poets, geographers, and commentators mention a startling circumstance
they even in archaic ages wore bear-skins
then a great fire was made, which Thangbrandr hallowed, and the Berserkir went into it without fear, and burned his feet
Leaf and Myers, my old friends
‘and’ where I wrote ‘or’
twice only had Europeans been fortunate enough to see the masáwe cooked

Beast Dances:
How odd! The moon, the nocturnal sportswoman, is Artemis, bloodshed, bear and all, nothing could be more natural to a savage, they all do it
men before the moon may be… Bears

Bear Dance:
we have a bear Callisto
we have a mass of nature pictures
we have, we have also the authority of Théodore de Banville
holder of the first footstep! Everyone drinks of the water

everyone has heard of Mount Soracte, white with shining snow, the peak whose distant cold gave zest to the blazing logs on the hearth of Horace
we have wolves came and carried off the entrails of the fire
when the grave of Feronia seemed all on fire, it suddenly grew green again
the Brethren of the Green Wolf select a leader called Green Wolf, there is an ecclesiastical procession, curé and all, a souper maigre, the lighting of the usual St. John’s fire, a dance round the fire, the capture of next year’s Green Wolf, a mimicry of throwing him into the fire, a revel, and next day a loaf of pain bénit above a pile of green leaves

THE ORIGIN OF DEATH:
How did it come?
by somebody dying first
Yama, the first who died, he was the first instance of death
Mr Max Müller, as we said, takes Yama to be a character suggested by the setting sun
the myth of Yama is perfectly intelligible if we trace its roots back to the sun of evening
but let us first establish the fact that death really is regarded as something non-natural and intrusive:
every man who dies what we call a natural death, is really killed by witches, that is his invariable habit, he is really the slave of countless traditions, which forbid him to eat this object or to touch that, or to speak to such and such a person, or to utter this or that word but there are cases, as we shall see, in which death, as a tolerably general law, follows on a mere accident. Someone is accidentally killed, and this gives Death a lead (as they say in the hunting-field) over the fence which had hitherto severed him from the world of living men. It is to be observed in this connection that the first of men who died is usually regarded as the discoverer of a hitherto unknown country, the land beyond the grave, to which all future men must follow him
Yama [together with Bin dir Woor] became the Columbus of the new world of the dead –
men and women had been practically deathless because they cast their old skins at certain intervals, but a grandmother had a favourite grandchild who failed to recognise her when she appeared as a young woman in her new skin. With fatal good-nature the grandmother put on her old skin again, and instantly men lost the art of skin-shifting, and Death finally seized them
in Greek myth men appear to have been free from death before the quarrel between Zeus and Prometheus. In consequence of this quarrel Hephæstus fashioned a woman out of earth and water, and gave her to Epimetheus, the brother of the Titan. Prometheus had forbidden his brother to accept any gift from the gods, but the bride was welcomed nevertheless. She brought her taboo coffer. This was opened and men who, according to Hesiod, had hitherto lived exempt from maladies that bring down Fate were overwhelmed with the diseases that stalk abroad by night and day. Now, in Hesiod (Works and Days, 70-100) there is nothing said about unholy curiosity. Pandora simply opened her casket and scattered its fatal contents.
But Philodemus assures us that it was Epimetheus who opened the forbidden coffer whence came Death
the Bushman story lacks the beginning. The mother of the little Hare was lying dead, but we do not know how she came to die. The Moon then struck the little Hare on the lip, cutting it open, and saying, ‘Cry loudly, for your mother will not return, as I do, but is quite dead.’ In another version the Moon promises that the old Hare shall return to life, but the little Hare is sceptical, and is hit in the mouth as before
the economical results were just what might have been expected. Qat (the maker of things, who was more or less a spider) sent for Mate, that is, Death. Death came and went through the empty forms of a funeral feast for himself. Tangaro the Fool was sent to watch Mate, and to see by what way he returned to Hades, that men might avoid that path in future. Now when Mate fled to his own place, this great fool Tangaro noticed the path, but forgot which it was, and pointed it out to men under the impression that it was the road to the upper, not to the under, world. Ever since that day men have been constrained to follow Mate’s path to Panoi and the dead
A Chinese shopkeeper told me that the man “told fortunes,” but from the circumstance of a gambling-house being close by, I concluded that his customers were getting tips on a system
CONCLUSION:
Here ends this Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms
with Juggernauts rolling through some Hindu street on a festival dawn crushing skulls and making faithful martyrs
For adversary we must consider Mr Max Müller

Hoping these notes may be of service to you,
I remain,
Yours truly,
STEPHEN PONDER

 

Bio:
Wilna Panagos’ work has appeared in New Contrast Literary Journal, Gone Lawn, Otoliths, Museum Life , Prick of the Spindle, The Undertow Review, Ditch Poetry, Psychopomp Magazine. She wrote and illustrated a few children’s books and is currently writing something which may or may not turn out to be a short, odd novel. She believes in orange and pigeons, has an imaginary dog and lives in Pretoria, South Africa.
Her Facebook alter ego is here: http://www.facebook.com/mariahelena.havisham

Poetic Statement:
I am not trying to explain the world, the world is inexplicable, I simply find fragments of the inexplicable and show it to everybody. The obscure, the insignificant, the unassuming. Unsuspected and incidental, concealed in the profusion, hiding in the dark, these orphans of perception, the small things that whisper with voices you can barely hear: here is beauty. Beauty by accident. Nihilistic oddments, existential morsels without any greater meaning other than its own existence, as Rilke called it: “the little things that hardly anyone sees, inconsiderable things”. Us, if you stand away far enough. And I find solace in these things, our tiny little relatives, and I hope that the reader will find some kind of beauty and consolation in them too, there are so many. I am a hunter-gatherer, a collagist.