lyricism

Three Poems by KJP Garcia

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Three Poems

by

KJP Garcia

Stop By

Did you ring the doorbell?

This house is your house –

so to speak.

 

Open so long as you let yourself be heard.

But locks must be engaged, shutters closed

–there are some

that do harm –

 

Villains are not simply storylines, costumes, secret identities, powers

but will and win if not on guard

Feel free to come by, as (is) possible, you’ve come by before so unknown

So entrance was removed.

Time, this, as always will be different.

 

Afford

If on verge then do well to continue

Ceiling leaks, drops break in.

Mattress steals space from living.

 

And this teetering persists?

Make a go of it

– rest doesn’t go well

Fall, jump, get pushed

-expire-

afford a balance to repair’s value.

 

Which Side

Which side of the Hudson is for Verlaine

And which for Rimbaud after the break-up?

Not world enough / strong enough

to open petals

lay out

lyricism

illuminations

the way New York

can

with all the best pharmaceutical grade . . .

And two rivers and upstate to run to and Jersey

ready to back pocket

the written

on train out of here

to calm down.

 

So, Seine, which side is for Warhol and which for Basquiat

When done / decorated enough

to have back what is held close /

unwanted?

 

Poetic Statement: Experience is a plurality of convergences, interruptions, digressions, departures. These occurrences are the fragments which create larger memories and the narratives one attempts to convey to others. The closer one comes to examining the past, the more one notices how the present constantly interferes. The narratives one creates from the keepsakes of yesterday are shattered and forged again with new data – sensations, perceptions, insights, exemptions, the heard-words, the read-words, the thought-words, the dream-words, the images and ideas of having been inserted into a life of disturbances.

Bio: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education, ROBOT and Yawning on the Sands.

The Parisians by AJ Kaufmann

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The Parisians

A Chapbook 

by AJ Kaufmann

Bio: I am a Polish poet and songwriter. I have been around the small-press poetry scene since 2008. “Siva in Rags” is my most recognized piece of work when it comes to English-language poetry, I think. I have been published in the USA (Kendra Steiner Editions mostly) and UK. My work has been also translated into Bulgarian, and I recorded and released 2 solo albums with self-penned songs. I also have a band.
Here are some links, where information about me can be found.

Glass Houses by Molly Wilmes

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Click here to read the chapbook

Glass Houses

by

Molly Wilmes

Glass Houses

Molly Wilmes, is a BFA Sculpture candidate at the Art Institute of Chicago. 

This Chapbook is about grieving the loss of a friend, I work from my honesty, using a particular narrative voice to touch on something universal about grief.

Deep Within the Ravine by Neil Ellman

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Deep Within the Ravine

by

Neil Ellman

(after the painting by Hans Hofmann)

Below the surface

what never was

creation

it never was

the sseduction of flesh

by skin to bone

to

feet fins wings arms

                                                    the maw

of the creator

creating its own

repeating itself

never was

never was

never was

deep within

the hallows of the earth

never was

never will

where it began.

 

Bio:   I live in and write from New Jersey.  Many hundreds of my poems appear in print and online journals and anthologies throughout the world, including Alba, Anastomoo, The Camel Saloon, Counterexample Poetics, ditch, Fowl Feathered Review, Haggard & Halloo, PressBoardPress and Otoliths,among others.  I have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and the Rhysling Award.

Poetic Statement: Mine is a poetry of big ideas in small, singular packages.  I want the meaning to come through in accessible form–but with a slant, and always with a musical quality.

Three Poems by Arthur Turfa

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Three Poems

by

Arthur Turfa

 

Late Afternoon: the Pilgrimage Church

You asked me to explain to you a past

the always-correct Party had chosen

to hide from you. Yet in a new place now

you wondered about the saints and angels

within and without of Maria im Sand.

Willing I went with you over the

hills on that grey day, October fading,

winds bringing in clouds into the valley.

I pointed out the Virgin’s deep blueness,

the smooth apostolic face at the cross,

the font, pulpit, altar, sunless stained glass,

the mixture of styles, depending on time.

In the cemetery an old man spoke

about previous warfare’s heavy toll;

we exchanged a glance thinking of new deaths

and walked the streets of the closing-down town.

Interest does not always lead to belief.

But each November you light a candle

for your mother. You are a pilgrim

pursuing an uncertain goal as you

seek for answers to your unvoiced questions.

I think back to this day, and wish you peace.

 

Sunday Morning at Beech Island

Sunny morning on the crest of the hill,

Slightly-cold wind in this January

Blowing down the slope toward the Savannah.

Red-doored neo-classic chapel readied

For weekly glimpse of transcendent grandeur.

Uncertainties hover here over us,

Somber occasions, enduring concerns.

During flow of familiar devotions

Light transfixes heavenward-pointed Host

Suffusing unveiled glory over all.

Some linger later outside on the porch

Viewing the landscape with improved vision,

Savoring the moments they wish would endure.

 

A View Backward from the Bend

Every now and then, my path will bend.

If no mists fill the valley, if cloudless

Skies permit, I can gaze where once I went.

On ribbons of path straddling the ridge

Were elusive apparent destinies

Downward sloping toward sunset beaches,

That so thinly disguised a cul-de-sac.

Stretching to the sky, several towers,

Some unfinished, others now collapsing,

Their classrooms with closed windows preventing

Fragrant air to alleviate the staleness,

Not knowing the land where lemon trees bloom,

Scholars scour the text repeatedly

For some non-existing enlightenment,

Refusing to look at the external.

Occasionally a face that I see,

Or a song wafting melody to me

Reminds me of my travels on that path,

Reconnecting me to what I had loved

Even if no longer can be found

Even if it no longer can be loved.

As quickly as it comes, it disappears

And I follow the bend to straighter paths.

 

Bio: Arthur Turfa lives in the South Carolina Midlands, but his poetry contains influences of his native Pennsylvania, California, Germany (where he has also lived), as well as other places. He is working on an e-book of his poetry, scheduled for release later in 2014. Published in the Munyori Literary Journal and South Carolina English Teacher, he also maintains a personal blog, Some Poetry at aturfa.blogspot.com

Poetic Statement: Essentially I think Wordsworth had it right, although I do not always find long-lasting tranquility. Something or someone grabs a hold of me, and lingers until I recapture the moment, the glimpse, or the time from my life. My poetry attempts to include the reader into what I experienced, rather than telling the reader all about it or me. At times I strive for a sense of closure, at others I want to preserve something (more as a Symbolist than an Imagist). Whom do I read; Eliot, Auden, Rilke (in the original), Frost, Updike, Shakespeare, Bukowski, and others.Language that sings is more important that language that rhymes.

Three Poems by Ankita Anand

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Three Poems by

Ankita Anand 

Fillers

Interlinked fingers
A face buried in the hollow of a neck
Lips tracing the meanders of an ear
The swirl of a tongue around a navel

An embrace erases the gap between arms
An entry swallows up the chasm between legs

 For love is all about filling the void

As is sex

Roman Holiday

 

They were accosted on the gondolas of Venice

The honeymooners, and asked, ‘Why must you love, if you please?’

They hemmed and hawed, made much ado

And then decided to do as Romans do,

Finally declaring, ‘Let it suffice, O Rome

That we think of each other when we think of home

And if the home and the heart live together

It means we have homes everywhere.’

 

Quarter-Life Crisis                                                                                                                                             
when the years

spent

in

making

frantic

efforts

at

self-realization

finally begin

to throw up

results

that show you

are so full of

stuff and nonsense

that

to make

an altogether new

you

you

need

to begin

a-new

beginning

to

start

all

over

a-gain

Bio: Ankita Anand has been secretary, National Campaign for People’s Right to Information, editorial assistant, Penguin Books India, coordinator, Samanvay: IHC Indian Languages’ Festival and member, People’s Union for Democratic Rights. She is the co-founder of a street theatre group called Aatish, which produces plays on socio-political issues. As a freelancer she writes and edits. Her primary interest lies in working for the prevention of violence against women.

Her poetry has been chosen for publication by The Indian Review of World Literature in EnglishThe Riveter ReviewPapyrus-The Poetry JournalFirst Literary Review-EastEm Dash Literary MagazineSugar MuleThe CriterionWriters Asylum,LabyrinthLakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts and DeltaWomen Magazine. Some of these can be read at anandankita.blogspot.in. She wants, through her poetry, to make the felt read.

Poetic Statement: My poetry occurs when multiple layers of feelings simultaneously get entangled with each other, when I am feeling, and strongly so, but do not know what, why and how. In the process of putting my finger on the spot, poetry happens, as it does when I experience beauty and am compelled to share it, to reassure the word that it shall exist as long as we do. The hope is that as poetry helps me define my self and feelings, it will create connections and identifications in the readers’ mind and help them understand and articulate their own feelings better.

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.

Three Poems by JD Brayton

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Three Poems

by

JD Brayton

 

Zen Snowcone

Kite flying in an arctic gale.

The Moon is a Hoax.

Truth a Trope.

Sentient Sneezing.

A mistake dangling

accidentally

Out of God’s nostril.

(here’s a whisper from the Buddha)

Fuck The Man

For He Is Wise

In Giving His Cash

To Sleeping Artists.

FELLOW CHAMPION

POWER CORRUPTS, OR IS IT THE

STRENGTH OF ONE TRILLION SUNS

AND LETTERS TO THE INSANE

YOU CAN’T CALL IT CANDY

OR ROSES FOR THE QUEEN MOTHER

IT’S SIMPLY THE SCENE YOU PAINTED

LIKE TEMPRA PILLBOX SUNSET SPEARS

USE THE PAWNS LIKE PICKETS ON A FENCE

KEEP THEIR EYES WIDE OPEN AND LEARN THEIR NAMES

LAMBS WHO EAT IVY SURELY WILL DIE

BUT ONLY AFTER A SECOND TRY

IT IS HUMAN NATURE, THIS WILL IN BATTLE

THEY SHOUT FROM ONE MILLION ANGRY THROATS

AND POINT TOWARD THE ARMOR SHIMMERS

WHISPERING JEALOUS POEMS

TO ARMS ALONE

WHO NEEDS AN ARMY?

THE UNISON SOUND BREAKS QUIETLY

TOWARDS THE FRONTIERS OF DELUSION

THERE WAS NO BATTLE

THERE IS NO FOE

YOU TASTE BLOOD BECAUSE

YOU BIT YOUR LIP

 

Chimera Bombinians In Vacuo

ssss-ssss-ssss-sss
Wring my wait
Standing pandering fool
A wrung Chimera aside.
Unscathed.
Unscaled.
Or a mountain of blue un re-totemstone
Blue luster cast bleeding
Cracked grey lids for seeing
Lips in favored breathing night…night
Old tasted..tasting
Crazily (ME)-bite
Crazily (ME)-bite

Here’s a callous rubberstone
Bouncing, prancing, chewedly bone
Glissading dogmouth kites
“ Ah, Youth! You glide like God-Dog water.!”
(I’ve watched from my perch..)
Yes. I’ve sat and set
Drooling petrified
Down
In
Ice.

Down in silver trails unheat
Spattering cowbones at my feet
I eat more stone in hand
I smell beauty
Assuredly( ME )-seat
Assuredly (ME )-seat

“ The Chimera has a riddle, soft man..
~young             *              man~
who scars stone in a moaning sun?”

ssss-ssss-ssss-ssss

My poetic statement- has to reside with the words committed to blank pages. Though it may, (at times), seem so -these poems are not limned in blood. Racing thoughts and automatic writing are the stuff of whispering ghosts. And I’ll be damned if I don’t listen between candybars.  Pass the salt and it had better be worth it, pilgrim.

Faith may be primitive, but it’s the rarest tribe I know.

Bio- J.D. Brayton is an artist and musician who can, as if by magic , transmogrify poetry into lyrics, lyrics into short stories, short stories into novels, and novels into guaranteed poverty.

Metawriting by KJP Garcia

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Deep Reflection

 

first:  deep song                                                                                                                                                     second:  deep image

currently:

deep reflection

.

lyricism                                                                                                                                                               confessionalism

everyday/mundane

POP!

.

sur                                                                                                                                                                                              hyper

realism

.

symbolism                                                                                                                                                                      futurism

DADA

.

expression                                                                                                                                                                commentary

.

VOICE/LANGUAGE

TALK/THOUGHT

* * *

pond is where Narcissus and Echo’s bond is completed.  surface is conduit and what is seen/heard is endless circuit of sensory.

* * *

reflection always contains more than merely what was presented for perception and surrounding frame is also more of picture.  ambience = experience.  atmosphere accounts for all that cannot be described.  what notes which were not played are for subconscious fairies to hear.

* * *

minutes can’t last long enough to be displayed in full.  sensation is always in translation.  heart to mind/brain to gut.

* * *

“one perception leads to another”

/

“work with mental ears”

(Olson/Prynne)

* * *

each poem dies for its own sins

its ‘withouts’

its omissions

its inabilities

which are

shut mouth                                                                                                                                                                 open eyes

/

open eyes                                                                                                                                                                   shut mouth

one foot fearing

to be in front

of another

one

* * *

if it is there it can be conveyed

if it occurs it can become

experience

if it is experience(d)                                                                                        it is shared

* * *

the glass                                                                              the eye                (5 senses)                                                 the memory

(mirror/window                                                               form one triad                                                          (thought, prediction

spectacles)                                                         upon that                                                                            fantasy)

is

camera

capturing

quick as can

        be movements in the midst

while also letting its own existence be understood not as observer but as observed

also

Two Poems by George J. Farrah

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Two Poems
 by
George J. Farrah

Peninsula

You can walk along side it

on a front of a wall cloud

moving through a town

you can move up to it on a

short sighted path longer

then imagined and colder someone

somewhere answered then

and went back

home

a forest is a lobby

a tree a sandwich

a border a forest

every thought a town a possibility    of

something someone or somewhere where

pneumonia takes you         or venom cures

you or a peninsula of any waiting at all

this is a deserted border

this is also a secure border and

you must move this is just so and

no one knows

  why really no matter what they say

  and well advanced 20 feet to know so

  or not know so

now everyone said and everyone

voted coming to an end like this

sill feels so new

this is a reparation

and a variation and yet a

captioned city

Start
Consequent
 flying of buttresses
 
over my wall I was sheltered shuddering
considering but happy
to see the spark of the back
flowering rung up & down
the arms legs and chest
brightest stitching of the
hottest flesh
in the valley of
nerves
against points of
burning trees or cars
or crows
it is even a world
it is always a word
and your are always lost to it at
first
the sense of accuracy is
redefined
challenged in the
mediums of water &
food
 to quit his or
her   time to
cry out
no salt no time
and no visors
they must leave and find a
new home now
I will cross
your words
again and begin.

Bio:

George J. Farrah received an MFA from Bard College, NY.
Book forthcoming from Ravenna Press, The Low Pouring Stars
His work has appeared in The Washington Review, Open 24 Hrs., Ribot,
BUGHOUSE, Fourteen Hills, Disturbed Guillotine, Tight, Aileron, Fish Drum, The Columbia Poetry Review; Caldron And Net, Moria , CROWD, Xstream, MORIA, Ampersand, Elimae, Blaze VOX, BHOuse vol.2, Blue and Yellow Dog,
Experiential-Experimental Literature, Los Magazine, Anemone Sidecar, truck,
Counter Example, Altered Scale and others.