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.
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
afford a balance to repair’s value.
Which side of the Hudson is for Verlaine
And which for Rimbaud after the break-up?
Not world enough / strong enough
to open petals
the way New York
with all the best pharmaceutical grade . . .
And two rivers and upstate to run to and Jersey
ready to back pocket
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 /
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.
Molly Wilmes, is a BFA Sculpture candidate at the Art Institute of Chicago.
Deep Within the Ravine
(after the painting by Hans Hofmann)
Below the surface
what never was
it never was
the sseduction of flesh
by skin to bone
feet fins wings arms
of the creator
creating its own
the hallows of the earth
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.
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.
Kite flying in an arctic gale.
The Moon is a Hoax.
Truth a Trope.
A mistake dangling
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.
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
Wring my wait
Standing pandering fool
A wrung Chimera aside.
Or a mountain of blue un re-totemstone
Blue luster cast bleeding
Cracked grey lids for seeing
Lips in favored breathing night…night
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
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?”
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.
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
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
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.