Professional Documents
Culture Documents
OC T O B E R 2 0 1 0
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CA R T I E R ST R E E T RE V I E W OC T O B E R 2 0 1 0
Editorial group:
Joy Leftow, principal editor
Dubblex, assistant editor
Brad Eubanks, staff
Thomas Hubbard, staff
Mike Finley, layout
In this issue
Book Review: New and Selected Poems by John Yamrus...........................5
Phone interview with John Yamrus by Joy Leftow....................................11
Slow Lurches..............................................................................................15
Study in Synecdoche..................................................................................16
At Your Kitchen Table................................................................................17
To The State Electrical Worker Killed…
by Robert Masterson, spotlight poet of the month.....................................18
Hello! Hiroshima? Hello?
(Los Alamos calling)..................................................................................19
Book Review of Robert Masterson’s Artificial Rats and Electric Cats......20
The Aqua Sky, by Orna Ben-Shoshan
October's spotlight artist.............................................................................23
Mr. Black ................................................................................................24
Plastic Coyote .......................................................................................26
Sally Said ...................................................................................................27
A Precarious Blend ...................................................................................29
Blue Balcony, by Orna Ben-Shoshan.........................................................30
With Mermaid, by Henry Avignon ............................................................31
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The Excess Road .......................................................................................32
To the Kingdom of Aries, by Ashley Christudason....................................36
midnight music...........................................................................................38
The Prophets Dance by Orna Ben-Shoshan...............................................39
Clapham Junction.......................................................................................40
Useless........................................................................................................42
High Drifting Alarm...................................................................................43
Wake up on your own.................................................................................46
You Should Grow a Moustache..................................................................47
Time is Running Out, by Christopher Woods............................................49
We all die ...................................................................................................51
Broken Concrete, Lilacs, Thunder..............................................................53
Global Warming..........................................................................................54
Street Lamp and Red Leaves by Christopher Woods.................................55
Todd Moore’s latest collection, Reviewed by John Yamrus.......................56
Writers’ Guidelines.....................................................................................58
Old Friends.................................................................................................59
Ex-husband in Tennessee............................................................................61
The Rose, a video.......................................................................................62
another woman’s blog.................................................................................63
Better, by Frances Raven............................................................................64
Diane Bowen's eclectic art..........................................................................66
What the Devil will say in Spring: ............................................................67
Mumbai – Marine Drive.............................................................................68
from saxophone this breath.........................................................................69
When I Say I'm Tired of Writing................................................................71
He would have............................................................................................74
Mr. Antolini, #2..........................................................................................75
Groupthink..................................................................................................77
A Roman Laborer Counsels His Son..........................................................78
Life is too short for small talk....................................................................79
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"8 x11 Sheet"..............................................................................................81
The Measly Subtraction..............................................................................82
The Traveling Show....................................................................................83
Facebook.....................................................................................................84
Killing the Cat............................................................................................85
The Eleventh House, by Orna Ben-Shoshan..............................................86
Interview with spotlight artist Orna Ben-Shoshan
by Thomas Hubbard...................................................................................87
I’ll weep like Karamchedu!
Essay by Narender Bedide..........................................................................91
The Golden Navigator, by Orna Ben-Shoshan.........................................101
Dream Casting..........................................................................................102
Solitary Whiskey Tonight.........................................................................103
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Book Review: New and Selected Poems by John Yamrus
Reviewed by Joy Leftow
John Yamrus’ poetry is very humorous. Not expecting that I was caught by
surprise. While reading his book, New And Selected Poems published by
Lummox Press, I found myself laughing out loud and laughing so loud that
people nearby turned to look at me. Yamrus laughs at himself and us, the main
theme being, we’re all in this together. He uses his humor as a tool to wipe away
the artificial boundaries between us. He laughs if his muse is around or not
around and will sit and write even if his muse is late. The trick of it is ~ if you
want to be a writer you have to write. There’s no way around it.
the trick of it is
to be there
waiting
at the typewriter
when it happens.
then
shame on you.
Yamrus’ poetry is about the little everyday things that take us through a normal
day, like where the dog is sitting and what he’s thinking while taking a dump or
when he’s annoyed at his hemorrhoids.
The doctor
Want me to have
Surgery,
But I’ve been
Putting it off
needless to say,
It’s a real
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Pain in the ass.
How can any writer not examine himself? In my book that’s one of the
prerequisites of being a writer, like it is for a therapist or social worker. If you
don’t know your self how can you write about others with knowledge and
insight?
Aside from Yamrus' annoyance about people who 'wanna be writers' without
writing, there is his accompanying frustration with people who compare him to
Bukowski. In the poem, Bukowski's property, Yamrus writes:
this poem
isn't mine...
nothing
I do
or think
or write
is mine
it's all filtered down
through you
Mr. Bukowski...
and I wish
you'd
come here
and
take it
back.
Yamrus knows he's not Bukowski and doesn't want to be, or try to be. He can't
help being compared because he's taken a style and made it his own. There are
more poems too that deal with this poignant issue. In the poem, “Did I ever tell
you” ...
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She said that i was good,
but i would never be great ...
because I wasn't mad
Bukowski (she said) was mad...
and he was
great.
i wrote back
saying that she was right...
Bukowski IS mad
and Bukowski IS great,
but if one of the qualifications
for being mad
and being great
was having to put up with the likes of her,
Now that's funny and reaches out to everyone. We all want to be accepted for
who we are without being judged.
In the poem “now that Bukowski’s dead,” Yamrus takes this further to sum up
the aftermath for where we’re all headed, our final destination as the universe
continues through its revolutions.
now,
they’ll pick his bones
like they did
with all the others
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and look for reasons
where there were
none…
and explanations
where there are
none…
there’s
no mystery at all..
really…
just
ask
Bukowski.
On a recent Youtube video, Yamrus reads a recent poem about a person who
writes to him and asks him to write without discussing poetry or poets. This
poem is also in the book, “Dear John:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BpZu1scma8
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Well yes, what else does a writer have to contend with that has meaning other
than our-selves, our reflections on our interactions and the stories in our heads.
Yamrus watches himself watching the world and reports his view, a view made
seeable and more agreeable by the threads of humor running through. By the
same token, many academics may not like Yamrus’ style poetry because his
deviation from what we’ve been taught “real poetry” is and I really relate to that.
“I have my concerns,” he said authoritatively but never clarified what they were.
What he did say was that I couldn’t take classes. Usually non-matriculated
students are accepted. I got the name of the Creative Writing Chairman and
spoke to him. He asked me to send a folder containing fiction, poetry, academic
writings, articles, literature reviews, brochures, and more. I did. The folder had
about a hundred pages all together. Three more of these overnight folders were
all “lost” and I hand delivered one with no response. Finally I made an entirely
new application for matriculation and sent ten pages of a story under my married
name, Lambert and was accepted within a week. Prejudice may have been at
work on several levels since my last name is clearly Jewish and when I used an
Anglo name with the same writing sample I was accepted quickly. Otherwise
someone should’ve recognized the story. I got my 2nd masters degree there only
because my options were limited in what I could pay and CCNY is still the
cheapest deal in town. I admit I left out the poetry and I also admit some people
hate my poetry, and in that way my work is similar to John Yamrus’.
I guess that’s why Yamrus’ poem stories about what people say about his poetry
really hit home after my experiences.
Yamrus also confronts his inner conflicts with humor. In dear anita;
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it’s got
everything
my poetry seems to lack
please
don’t write to me again
…
you’ve done it so
much better than me
…
I don’t need
The competition
If you write to me again
i’ll refuse to open your letter
…
From here on in
i’m only going to read
Writers who have been dead
40 years or more
The poems may appear very simple but that’s the trick. Many may say, “Oh I can
write like that,” but they don’t. Someone who is an expert at doing something
always makes it look easy to do but that doesn’t mean it is easy. His early
influences are Bukowski, who wrote narrative poetry also and Gerald Locklin
who also used self-effacement effectively. Yamrus may have been influenced but
he isn’t trying to be anyone else in his poetry. He takes risks, exposing himself
and the reader and that’s what it’s all about.
NEW AND SELECTED POEMS is John Yamrus' 18th book. He has now
published nearly 1,100 poems in magazines around the world and selections of
his poems have been translated into several languages including Spanish,
Swedish, Italian, French, Japanese and most recently Romanian. His newest
book is available on amazon.com.
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Phone interview with John Yamrus by Joy Leftow
After reading Yamrus latest poetry book New and Selected Poems, I asked to
interview him and he agreed. I wanted to interview him to understand how he
came to write poetry that makes me laugh out loud, as does much of his work.
CSR: How old were you when you were first published?
JY: I was 19 when my first chapbook came out. Young and stupid. Now, I guess
I’m just stupid.
CSR: How did you come to use humor as a device in your poetry?
JY: It didn’t start out like that. At first I was writing the same straight-faced
somber quiet poetry that most poets write. I wasn’t happy with it and felt
unsatisfied with my work, like something was missing. The humor part of it
comes naturally to me, and it’s an honest open way for me to communicate. It’s
also more interesting. I mean, god, there’s just way too many so-called writers
out there who take themselves and their poems way too seriously.
CSR: What’s the one thing you want people to know about your book?
JY: My poetry is real. There’s no unicorns in it. No dappled daisies…nothing
but blood and guts and bone. And with the humor added to it, I can make the
same points as I could in the serious stuff, but it was different. Easier to take. I
think the real breakthrough for me was when I figured out how to cross that gap
that exists between the writer and the reader…once I figured out how to make
THEM feel they were part of the poem, it was pretty easy after that.
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and it’s not a mystery. The only secret to the whole thing is you’ve got to do it
every day. Do SOMETHING. Write a poem. Write a letter. Submit something
somewhere. Just DO something. That’s the whole secret to the thing. There!
You now owe me a million dollars.
CSR: I say the same thing on my blog –I love to write when the muse strikes
and if she doesn't strike, I write anyway and then, invariably, my muse joins
me.
JY: The important thing is writing. A writer writes. But, I’m not a writer. And
I’m certainly not a poet. I think if I were to put a label on myself I’d have to call
myself a song and dance man. Or a tight-rope walker.
CSR: Yes like you say in your poem – the only subject matter you have is
you, because everything you see is filtered through who you are.
JY: Absolutely, and this is also where I made the breakthrough – once I figured
out that I’m the only subject I have…and once I figured out a way to make that
subject relatable, then I was home free. And hell, if I could make someone laugh
along the way? It doesn’t get any better than that.
CSR: Would you choose one poem from your book NEW AND SELECTED
POEMS and riff about it?
JR: Normally I hate doing this and hate especially going into an explanation and
introduction that will be longer than the poem. I've always felt that if you've got
to explain it, or set it up, then the poem's a failure. But in this case, since I'm
having such a good time with this interview, I'll make an exception and make my
explanation longer than the poem itself. Here's the poem:
after work
i come home,
walk into the kitchen
and throw my wallet
on the counter.
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then my pens,
my cards
and finally
my keys,
which
slide along the counter,
spin,
do a little dance
and finally
come to a stop.
some day
so will
i.
The poem (for me) kinda illustrates what I was talking about...making a
connection with the reader. Crossing over to their side of the street. This is an
example of one of those poems that clicked for me. I started out, like everyone
else, trying to write the great poem. The one, memorable poem. And it took me
years and years to learn that the great, big, memorable poem doesn't exist
anymore. Once I figured that out, that's when I switched gears and decided that I
was going to take my entire body of work and transform it into that great, big,
memorable poem. Kinda like how one drop of water doesn't really mean much,
but an ocean's a powerful thing.
Well, this poem just happened just the way it was written, but the kicker...the
part that takes it (in my mind, at least) from prose to poetry, is the illumination at
the end, where the speaker has that aha! moment where he puts it all together.
Out of a pretty mundane moment, a bit of a universal truth emerges, something
that we all sooner or later figure out. That's when I feel I'm doing my job with
my poems...when I'm keeping it small. Keeping it real. You'll never find any
dappled daisies or unicorns or babbling brooks in my poems. You'll find
everyday events that we can all relate to. Crossing the street onto the reader's
side. It was such a simple concept...but it took me 20 years to figure it out.
CSR: Wow – I’m so impressed but what I’m most impressed with and this is
what I want CSR readers to know – what I’m most impressed with -is how
much time I spent laughing out loud when I read the book. I laughed
reading on the train, in doctor’s offices and at home. Laughing is good for
the soul and healing. This book did it for me. Thanks much John. I had a
great time doing this interview. Any other words for CSR?
JY: Only a thanks to CSR for making it enjoyable, no pun intended. Oh, and I
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think we forgot to mention the name of my new book. It’s NEW AND
SELECTED POEMS. It’s available on Amazon. Christmas is coming. I’m
kinda prejudiced, but I really do think it’d make a great gift for any of the
readers in your life. There! That’s my shameless plug and I’m sticking to it!
I’ve always made it a point to push for sales on my books. I’ve always felt that I
owed it to those publishers who are crazy enough to shell out their hard-earned
money to put my stupid poems in print. So, we’re back to stupid again. I guess
that’s where I started and it’s as good a place as any to end.
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Slow Lurches
She watched him grow brutish when his outside affairs
ended. No other women. No other anger.
~ Ray Succre
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has
been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others
across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion (2008) and Amphisbaena (2009),
both through Cauliay, are widely available in print. A third novel, A Fine Young Day, is
forthcoming in Summer 2010. He tries hard.
http://raysuccre.blogspot.com
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Study in Synecdoche
Outside,
a tee-shirt leans beneath a hood of a Mustang,
an old gingham dress bends patiently
to pick up the rolled newspaper.
Nearby a lawnmower cuts its straight rows of grass.
Loose sounding wheels skid to a stop on the street.
Boots disappear around the sides of houses,
return with metal cans.
Slowly mailboxes fill with letters
to be unfilled in the night.
Inside,
slippers pad from stove to counter to table.
Orange juice flows from the carton spout.
The chicken breast defrosts near the toaster.
Butter melts, water boils.
Water runs in the bathroom—shrill and busily.
A hand opens a bedroom door.
For a moment the hallway is reminded of music.
Later, the music will disappear
like a good pair of socks.
~ David Breitkopf
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At Your Kitchen Table
Last night you said friendship
has its own meaning, its own rhythm.
You reached across the kitchen table,
with all its piles of papers and books,
and stroked my hair to remind me of our ages
and you laughed as if to say
(even as we averted our eyes)
our love was something that occurred years ago
and that now we were simply embellishing the facts.
~ David Breitkopf
David Breitkopf has been a reporter and editor for daily newspapers for many years,
most recently with the American Banker. He also teaches tennis, and in the 1990s
performed professionally as a standup comic—filling out his eclectic background.
His literary works have been published in Poetry Miscellany, Sequoya Review,
Manhattan Literary Review, and the anthology “Tokens: Contemporary Poetry for the
Subway.”
dbrightcough@nyc.rr.com
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To The State Electrical Worker Killed …
by Robert Masterson, spotlight poet of the month
To the state electrical worker killed while working on a giant steel pylon
supporting the massive power lines spanning the Wei He River north of Xi’an,
Shaanxi Province, the People’s Republic of China, in the fall of 1985.
Who knows, who will ever know what caused your fatal spark,
the brilliant arc that clenched you tight, convulsed in one long spasm when
everything inside you jammed up with electricity rampant and when
you began to smolder, I wondered
if you even noticed you were on fire.
~ Robert Masterson
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Originally published by Sotto Voce (2009).
~ Robert Masterson
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rm505@aol.com
Like many Westerners, China has been and remains an inscrutable country to
me. From its language, culture and long history, there’s too much of everything.
To get your mind around it is like trying to photograph the entire Great Wall with
one roll of film.
Robert Masterson’s memoir “Artificial Rats and Electric Cats” (Camber Press,
Inc., 2008), provides a roll of unusual snap shots from his time as a student there
when the communist country was in its early stages of economic liberalization,
and just prior to The Tiananmen Square Massacre, which looms at the book’s
margins.
Despite its subtitle, Communications from Transitional China, 1985-1986, the
stories/essays and poems in the book dwell on the miscommunications between
Westerners and Chinese, the lacunae that prevent any true communion between
East and West.
Masterson and his friends know just enough Chinese to get by and describe if
not quite fathom some of the country’s enigmatic customs. The struggle and
yearning of Chinese and Westerners to cross these impasses provide humor and
poignancy. At a nightclub where the band might follow “The Blue Danube
Waltz” with “a surreal version of Madonna's forbidden "Like a Virgin,” a
number of street toughs attempt to flirt in English with some Western girls. One
of them begins, "Hello…I am a boy."
"Hello," I answer, verbally interposing myself between the girls and our new
friend. "I am a boy, too."
"We are boys."
"We sure are. That's true. We are boys."
There we pause to take drags from cigarettes and to drink from green bottles.
"Hmm...I am…a table."
"Yes. Table. Absolutely. You are a table."
Officially, China considered western culture degenerate, and citizens could be
severely punished, even put to death for conduct or activities that were deemed
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Western such as “convulsive dancing.”
Yet the Chinese we meet in these pages are willing to take risks to experience
Western culture: a Chinese woman prisoner catches the narrator’s eye for a
moment as she is led away in a truck to her execution. The placard around her
neck states that her crimes were “excessive fascination with foreign videos, and
prostitution.” She appears to be in a drugged stupor, but when she sees the
narrator, she registers surprise.
“It was if somewhere still inside her some part of herself was still able to
exclaim, "Oh, look! A foreigner.”
Westerners, though, don’t appear to register the same surprise or yearning in
these chance encounters. The narrator “felt an urge to wave,” to the condemned
woman “to move my arm and my hand together in a synchronized and friendly
gesture,” but the urge was neither organic nor spontaneous, but mechanical and
too late.
In another story two foreigners encounter a woman selling ice cream. They opt
for “Face ice cream,” which most closely approximated their Western tastes.
The vendor is thrilled to have a chance to speak to them.
“I speak English,” she declares. But the two women foreigners dismiss the
vendor’s yearning, “Terrific…May we have the ice cream?”
Even in instances where Westerners initiate the rapprochement, the gap yawns.
The narrator and his friend attempt to advise a Chinese colleague who is having
difficulty impregnating his wife. The 22-hour trip back and forth from job to
home over the weekends leaves him exhausted. The foreigners suggest sleeping
on the train and having sex with his wife during the day. The man laughs
uproariously over such ludicrous ideas.
The book’s title comes from one of the longer pieces, which deals with a vermin
quota rule that required students to kill 6 rats per week, and produce 6 rat-tails as
proof. In a solution worthy of Philip K. Dick, students invent the dian mao, or
electric cat, a crude trap made of exposed wire. When a rat steps on the dian
mao, it explodes. But “since only the tail was required to pass inspection, the
subsequent mess was considered worth the extra work on clean-up days.”
Masterson’s writing can be concise, hard-edged, and funny. It also can veer to a
more florid, Beat style. It didn’t surprise me to find in his bio that he had an
MFA from Naropa University’s Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics in
Boulder, Colorado.
The book includes near the end a short news article written by a reporter for the
Miami Herald describing Masterson’s run-in with a number of Chinese who
severely beat him over a dispute following a bicycle accident. Masterson doesn’t
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write directly about the incident, nor explain why he doesn’t.
He notes in a postscript how much China has changed in the 20 years since he
was there, how it has become a more industrial and modern nation. Masterson
daydreams about leading a field trip of students back to the country to point out
some of his memorable snap shots that include things he couldn’t squeeze into
the main book such as “a naked Chinese boy asleep” on the back of a water
buffalo standing in paddy of rice shoots.
Masterson admits the meaning of his China experiences continues to elude him. I
suspect a new field trip would provide new snap shots and equally new
miscommunications.
David Breitkopf has been a reporter and editor of daily newspapers for many years. His
literary works have been published in Poetry Miscellany, Sequoya Review, Manhattan
Literary Review, the anthology “Tokens: Contemporary Poetry for the Subway,” and
most recently in the online magazine, “The Cynic.”
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The Aqua Sky, by Orna Ben-Shoshan
October's spotlight artist
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Mr. Black
I often think of two driveways
That once wrapped around a small house
A garage on the right side
An old rusted boat of a Buick Century parked just before it
1975 most likely, ranch green
And I think how at one point they broke it at the bend
Dug a hole, and filled it with a swimming pole
Reduced the man, old Mr. Black had become
Skin stretched tight over bones, breathing heavy, mechanical assisted by tubes
and tanks
From whole house, to a room with medical equipment, bed, T.V.
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Growing old can be painful
Not as painful as your own flesh and blood
Caretakers, slave drivers, architects, interior designers
Very careful they are to weed out the junk
Not the boxes of their old moldy clothes or baby toys
Pulled out of paid storage
More like the vintage subscriptions to Saucy Movie Tales and classic rusty cars.
Just drive Mr. Black
Don’t look back.
~ Mathew Vincent
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Plastic Coyote
Scary son of a bitch
Back arched ready to pounce
Teeth blinding like headlights at night
Ears back preparing for flight
~ Matthew Vincent
Matthew Vincent was born and currently resides in the suburbs of Philadelphia. He has
been actively writing poetry and music for over ten years.
matthewvincent@comcast.net
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Sally Said
Sally said that my knee bones stick out too far so that means I’m chicken footed.
She also said my family is dirt poor cause we got plastic wrap in the windows
instead of glass but momma said that plastic wrap costs more than glass so we
actually got more money and we change the plastic a lot and people with glass
only change it when it is broke. Sally said we’re friends but only sometimes
when nobody’s watching cause her mother sez that my momma’s trash cause
she’s got loads of kids but no husband and no money. And Sally’s mother said I
wouldn’t be no better ‘cause the apple don’t fall too far from the tree and Sally
don’t need no friends from that side of the track. Sally said she likes me anyway
but she hates my sister ‘cause my sister picks her nose and doesn’t wipe it with a
tissue when she sneezes. She also said my sister’s always got a scab on her knee
and it’s always bleedy because she picks that too and eats it but I never noticed.
Sally always asks me about my dad but I don’t know. When I ask momma she
sez he died in a war in England before I was born but Sally said that’s not true
‘cause her mother said there ain’t been no wars in England and my brother and
sister are younger than me. My momma said Sally’s mother don’t know what
she’s talking about ‘cause she ain’t worked a day in her life.
Momma told me I don’t need a friend like Sally and I should stick with my
brothers and sisters ‘cause they’re the only ones I can count on in the end and
she heard Sally’s mother was making a stink at the school ‘cause people like us
was moving into the neighborhood. I told Momma ‘bout Maria’s nose always
running and her knee always bleeding but she said she never noticed it neither.
I like Sally even though momma told me not to ‘cause she’s the only one at
school who lets me borrow her pencil and she sez that even though I’m chicken-
footed I got nice hair ‘cause it’s blond. She said if I wash it more often it might
be blonder but momma said that’s a load of crap and Sally’s just jealous ‘cause
she’s got mousy brown hair and her eyes are too close together. Momma said
that Sally’s mother is prejudiced against us cause our clothes are old and one day
Sally’d be just like her and I don’t need no friends if they’re gonna have their
noses up in the air.
Sally said she saw Maria kissing some fat boy behind the school and that Maria’s
27
probably pregnant because of it but she said her mother said my momma
wouldn’t even notice ‘cause she’s already got so many kids and they’d all
probably become tramps like her. Sally’s mother said my momma’s ignorant
‘cause she’s got holes in her shoes and does other people’s laundry but don’t do
her own.
One day I told Sally we probably shouldn’t be friends no more since her mother
don’t like my momma and my momma don’t like her mother but Sally said it
was okay because she didn’t mind. Sally said she felt sorry for me because her
mother told her people like me never get anywhere ‘cause even if I’m smart it
costs money to get an education and money is something that people like me just
don’t got. Sally said maybe if I washed my hair her brother would marry me but
her mother said she didn’t raise her son to marry trash and besides people like
me ain’t for marrying. Sally said she still thinks I got a chance but Maria don’t
‘cause of her knee and her nose and ‘cause of the fat boy and all. Momma said
it’s okay ‘cause you can’t depend on nobody anyway and Maria can’t get
pregnant from kissing.
~ Regina Walker
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A Precarious Blend
~ Beatrice M. Hogg
Beatrice M. Hogg grew up in western Pennsylvania. Her illiterate coal miner father
would have considered her MFA in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles
to be a major waste of time and money.
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Blue Balcony, by Orna Ben-Shoshan
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With Mermaid, by Henry Avignon
Henry Avignon is a photographer and writer in Rochester, New York. In March Howling
Dog Press will release his first dual collection of poetry and photography, Dirty Poem,.
Selections of Henry's poetry can be found in the April issue of Ygdrasil.
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henryavignon@gmail.com
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sunlight begin to burn away the haze. The unrelenting waves are not easy to
wade through still being half-drunk, half-asleep and out of breath from scorching
my lungs with two packs of cigarettes a day. As I shuffle along, visions of
Elyssa in an alabaster sundress twirl in front of me. The daydream knits a veil
over my focus and in what seems like seconds I have crossed the entire campus.
I ache. My broken tooth throbs.
The metal fire proof side door to my dorm is unlocked. Everything is
unlocked but there is nothing to steal anyway and for the first time in weeks I
have my card key on me but it doesn’t matter. I yank on the handle and cool air
floods me as I enter. The metal fire door slams shut and seals as an echo bounces
up the stairwell and stays around for a few unnatural seconds longer than it
should. Things are louder when there is nothing around.
My calves quake as I strain to push my way up. The grated steel tips of
the stairs clack like tap shoes as I step on them. A deep sigh descends down
upon me from the second story landing. My landing. I know that sigh. It’s Jack.
My ever diligent RA. The last person I want to see. Jack’s narrow face, fixed
bird eyes as serious as a fire and brimstone preacher’s, and erect posture remind
me of my father when I was a little boy and he'd kneel down, grab my shoulders,
squeeze a little too hard and say, “You must clean the mess you make.” My
father didn't practice as he preached. He left lots of big messes but Jack cleaned
up messes. It was his specialty.
Hobbling up the last few flights, I lift my head up to stare him down.
Dressed in his Sunday best, he glares at me, through me, with his arms across his
sunken chest. He sighs again. I was numb but now I’m annoyed. Pity pisses me
off and I feel my ears getting hot.
“Joaquin, remember what I told you. Help is available. You’re a good
guy who got caught up in things out of your control. We all did,” Jack says.
“Control is an illusion. We never had control. You must've missed that
philosophy class Jack,”
With my last burst of energy, I bound up the last two stairs.
“I don’t believe that. You don’t believe that. We have control over our
choices,”
“Also illusion.”
33
“No, God gave man freewill, the ability to choose,” Jack said.
“I'm not going to get into the freewill thing now. It's not the time. Why
are you even up?” I ask.
“I always get up at this time. If you ever happened to rise at a reasonable
hour you might know … I’m sorry. You’re right. This isn't the time or place.”
he said slightly bowing his head.
“How very adult of you,” I nodded.
“I just wanted to tell you again you're a good person with tons a' talent. I
heard you and George play. You got a lot going. Don’t let it slip away,” he said
rushing forth to hug me. He smells like mint toothpaste and I probably smell
like a seedy bar to him.
“Thank you Jack. Goodbye.”
The tight embrace ended with him stepping back, his eyes welling up.
“Good bye Joaquin. Remember God has not abandoned you. I'll see you
next year. I hope.”
“Only a matter of time Jack.”
With that encounter, a memorial memory is invoked setting fire to my
synapses. This distraction is going to make getting ready harder. I hope it
doesn’t spur an attack. Sliding by, hands in my pockets, I stumble to my room
that only a few days ago was just a laundry hamper but now is clean as the day I
first stepped through the door. It greets me with cool fluid darkness.
Along the bare walls, my luggage consisting of black and green garbage
bags, moving boxes, and two suitcases are packed and stacked. I plummet down
onto my mattress dented with soft divots as the coils cringe and rebound with
metal squeaks and creaks. My shoes won’t slide off and I reach for the sheet that
is normally at my feet but it’s on the dirty floor. I’m too tired to pick it up and
flash to sleep.
A barrage of slamming car doors wake me up. After counting ten door
slam I stop. My jeans are twisted around my waist cutting off the circulation to
my groin as my beer stained t-shirt wrapped the other way chokes me. Both
dingy garments spin back into place as I roll out of the central pit of my bed to
go investigate.
34
Through the bug splatter on the outside of this second story hallway
window, I watch a mob of reporters assembling below. The parking lot of this
brick dormitory is full of strange news crews running around battling for space
under the morning sun. I wonder why they're here now? It’s been a while since
the shootings.
Joshua Lee Andrew Jones resides in coastal Connecticut near New York and works as a
freelance creative consultant. Currently he is working on a novel, a poetry collection
and a screenplay. Contact him at jonesian74@gmail.com
editors note: The above excerpt is from a novel in the works. The Excess Road is a
chronicle of Joaquin Chandler’s descent into the drug subculture of a small Virginia
party college.
35
To the Kingdom of Aries, by Ashley Christudason
36
Front page art and preceding page by Ashley Christudason.
An art piece may be layered 100-150 times. Pieces with more layers appear vastly
different from the images initially collated, for example we won’t discern there is a
picture of the 'Earth' used in it. In more intricate pieces, the layers are fused into ONE.
AC’s fans claim he’s an artist who channels higher sources, such as Hindu deities,
Extraterrestrials and a strange figure resembling Jesus Christ – images he never used
to create or layer the piece with!
37
midnight music
~ Kevin Eberhardt
Kevin Eberhardt has worked at a restaurant, shipyard, golf course, group home for
delinquent boys, a runaway shelter (boys & girls), been a civil servant / never been to
college / is married w/two kids / plays mediocre drums & harmonica / reads profusely /
loves music / and is an ex-recreational drunk / semi-hermitical / He was once born again
but it didn't take / plus he has a dog named Bob and plans to retire in 2 years.
www.roundingofthestone.blogspot.com
ke767@hotmail.com
38
The Prophets Dance by Orna Ben-Shoshan
39
Clapham Junction
Later on,
we reached Clapham junction
and I started to shuffle about in my seat.
She asked me if I wanted to get off.
I said no
and asked her if she wanted to get off.
40
I am sure that her eyes lit up as I looked away
and that was the end of another conversation.
~ Marc Carver
Marc Carver was born in England some forty odd years ago. In the last year he has
produced some two or three hundred poems. He has had thirty to forty poems of these
published in America. Some have been included in his first collection of poetry called
PURE which can be purchased at Amazon. He is currently working on a second
collection. When he is not writing he is performing his work, mainly in London. Please
go and see him and say hi.
kronski669@yahoo.co.uk
41
Useless
Yesterday,
a man told me
that he hopes to have maybe another twenty years of usefulness
doing his job.
I stared into his eyes
to make sure that he was being sincere
And knew that he believed in the words that came from his mouth.
~ Marc Carver
42
High Drifting Alarm
The train sways unsteadily, and
rolls over yet another high-stilted trestle.
Couplings clang, whistles blow as
my nervous stomach does a swan dive
splashing into a silver string of boiling water
a mile or so below.
43
pressed into the impression of a landscape.
And in this moment, I wish to be him.
44
someone without these damn darkling thoughts.
~ Steve De France
Steve De France MFA hitch-hiked across America, rode rails on freight trains, worked as
a laborer with pick up gangs in Arizona, dug swimming pools in Texas, did 33 days in
the Pecos city jail as a vagarant, fought bulls in Mexico, and dove for salvage off a small
island on the coast of Mazatlan. De France has won writing awards in England and the
United States.
defrancepoetry@yahoo.com
45
Wake up on your own
Little unknown birds
make curves on the sky canvas.
A squirrel desirous of a longer look,
skips heartbeats in a play of proximity.
Morning seeps into my heart with a smile,
as you drool in my bed
with your tiptoe-friendly sleep.
I gaze beyond the balcony,
and then look at you,
'Simplicities' of the world pour inside me.
I blink slower,
I walk softer,
I smile brighter.
~ Tanuj Solanki
Tanuj Solanki is a poet from India. He is 23. He writes when he has nothing on his mind
and also when he wants to say what is on his mind.
tanuj.solanki@gmail.com
46
You Should Grow a Moustache
You should grow a moustache to twitch
and stroke when dark ale bottoms out
in your pint glass. You should comb
your hair to conform to the sine wave
47
no one cares. Have a good trip,
and think about growing a moustache,
a tough, abrasive one like Stalin’s
to both tickle and rule the world.
~ William Doreski
William Doreski’s most recent collection of poetry is Waiting for the Angel (2009). His
work has appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Notre Dame
Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Harvard Review, and Natural Bridge.
48
Time is Running Out, by Christopher Woods
49
Christopher Woods is the author of a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a
book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. He lives in Houston and in
Chappell Hill, Texas. More of his photos can be seen in his gallery, MOONBIRD HILL -
http://moonbirdhill.exposuremanager.com/
50
We all die
I keep running from death
But it stays on my right and left
It follows me daily
Drains me of energy
I can’t escape the day
When I'll be in the grave
Subjected to decay
Each sunrise I wonder will be the last one I see from my eyes
I can’t stop my demise
As gray hairs and wrinkles accumulate
I know time is getting late
So I try to create as I wait for my fate
There once was a time I wasn't here
And once again I'll disappear
This day I fear
I don’t know how far or near
Death follows us like shadow
Like red laser beams like poison tipped arrows
The clock's always ticking
Time's always running
Chasing us displacing us erasing us
So put on your best running shoes
Put the petal to the metal as you try to out run that bitch
There's no way to hit the off switch
As you realize this is it
Time is almost done and what have you done
We run and run and run but it still comes
It strikes some silently others violently
Everyday is filled with its scent
It's so unpleasant
Coffins and funerals
To the highest numerals
Is daily and usual
Wish there could be some way to slow down or stop time
It’s like that on coming train rolling on down the line
Death gets us all
Wealthy or impoverished we all get finished
From junkies to kings
Death takes its toll
Young and old
Let’s live while we got time
51
Before that train comes down the line
Running out of time running out of time
Everybody wonders how they're going to die
That’s why we slow down when we see an accident on a drive by
We all wonder how we'll end
Be it cancer, heart disease or suicide
~ DubbleX
DubbleX has been writing & playing music his entire life. He's been published by Street
Literature Review Magazine (paper) The Cartier Street Review, the Nov. 3rd Club,
Polarity, Mad Swirl, readerjack.com, and wheelhouse magazine. DubbleX writes & plays
music to stay sane.
52
Broken Concrete, Lilacs, Thunder
She and I dipped our rhubarb in jar lids of sugar
crunched stringy sour and sweet together
puckering our love-hungry tongues
eyes blue as flax flowers
hair slippery as corn silk.
seven potato
more
~ Diane Gage
Diane Gage tweets 50s-style haiku on Twitter from her 50s-era neighborhood known as
Birdland. Other recent publications include “Ode to Gravity” in Breathe: 101
Contemporary Odes (C&R Press).
www.publicaddress.us
53
Global Warming
White
offspring
emerge
long claws.
adapt to a world
with diminishing
ice
and
snow.
~ Diane Gage
54
Street Lamp and Red Leaves by Christopher Woods
55
Todd Moore’s latest collection, Reviewed by John Yamrus
All right, then, let me make this clear…over the last several weeks I’ve
sat down and started to write this review any number of times. I’ve got sitting in
front of me right now eight pages of notes that I’ve taken. The thing is, I want to
be objective. I don’t want the review to come off sounding like I’m an
unabashed fan of everything Todd Moore writes…but I just can’t help it. For my
money, he just happens to be one of only a handful of the current writers of
poetry who can seriously and honestly be considered great. There! My opinions
are out in the open. You know how I feel and so I can proceed with my review.
In a world filled up with copy-cat poets and writers who mistakenly try to
move their work forward by looking back over their shoulders, Todd’s work is
unique. He has a very definite voice all his own, and (more importantly) he has
something to say. That being said, in THE RIDDLE OF THE WOODEN GUN,
the latest installment of his now legendary and elusive Dillinger Series, he brings
the famous Depression Era Outlaw to life on paper like no one ever has or ever
will.
At the center of this poem is the famous wooden gun that Dillinger did or
didn’t use in his famous escape from Crown Point Prison in Indiana.
Interestingly, the legend of the wooden gun is the only thing in the whole
Dillinger tale of enough importance to be able to compete with John Dillinger
himself. But, in this current entry of Moore’s, it’s not only Dillinger who has a
wooden gun, practically everybody and his brother has one, knows a story about
one, or has come into contact with one. On the surface, this may sound like the
dumbest idea in the world for even a short poem…don’t even mention an entire
144 page book-long poem. But that’s exactly where Moore’s talent comes into
play. He not only manages to pull it off, but in doing so, he also turns it into
compelling, page-turning poetry of a very high order. This quirky, unsettling
poem is filled with violence and raw emotion. It is also brilliant in its
conception and execution.
There really is no “story” to the poem per se, at least not in any strict
linear sense, there’s just this whole alternative reality to the thing that jumps
56
back and forth in time and location, constantly toying with the idea of Myth as a
force in and of itself. This myth (and the gun associated with it) seems to
somehow be rooted at the core of the entire Dillinger saga. It doesn’t matter one
bit that practically every scene in this book is made up out of whole cloth. It just
doesn’t matter, because it only ADDS to the myth.
For me, one of the most interesting things about this book from a
technical standpoint is the way Moore attacks his subject and lays his words out
on the page. Sure, this is a poem/novel…or a novel pretending it’s a poem…but
Moore’s lines and the way he uses his page come across as lean and hard as the
Great Depression and as deadly and mean as Dillinger himself. The question
you’ve got to ask yourself is a book-long poem about the Depression relevant?
Read your newspapers. Is John Dillinger relevant? Ask Johnny Depp.
The coolest thing about all this is Todd Moore’s known all this for 30
years. We’re just catching up. If you’ve never read any of the poems in the
Dillinger series, this is as good a place as any to start. After all, at the end of the
day this may only be a poem about a mythical wooden gun, but be forewarned…
this one’s a real killer.
John Yamrus has been publishing poetry for 40 years. His newest book of poems,
NEW AND SELECTED POEMS, is available from amazon.
JYamrus@aol.com
57
Writers’ Guidelines
(found poem in the listings of Poet’s Market)
We want experimental concrete cut-up post-syntactic poems
skillful language strong images and sense of place
no sappy greeting card stuff
no children in sexual situations
no wicked mothers or fathers
no right-wing hate-mongering
~ Joan Mazza
58
Old Friends
Terraced on a hillside, weather weary houses stand
like people posed on tiered bleachers for a portrait.
Gable
to gable and glassily peering at each other from
across
the street, they’ve passed tens-of-thousands of
days together. Rain lashed, wind battered,
snowed-in and sun blistered, they recall horses
tethered to porch railings,
long-silenced factory trip-hammers rattling their
windows,
the knock of the ice man, and lively step of daily
milk deliveries.
59
families, sheltering them like orphans. Landlords
and banks be damned,
the time worn dwellings demand immortality
granted
by residents who devoutly build homes by painting
clapboards, shingling roofs, repointing chimney
bricks,
and glazing windows.
~ David K. Leff
David K. Leff is a freelance writer from Collinsville, Connecticut. His essays and fiction
have appeared in newspapers and magazines. His nonfiction book, The Last
Undiscovered Place, was published by the University of Virginia Press and was a
Connecticut Book Award finalist. A second nonfiction book, Deep Travel, was recently
released by University of Iowa Press. A volume,The Price of Water, was published by
Antrim House. Leff graduated from the University Of Connecticut School Of Law and
was Deputy Commissioner at the Connecticut Department of Environmental Protection
from 1996 to 2006.
onktaadn@comcast.net
60
Ex-husband in Tennessee
~ Joan Mazza
61
The Rose, a video
Mike Finley of St. Paul helped with layout for this issue of CSR. He has busied himself
the past year creating spooky videos to go with his poems. Mike is a Pushcart awardee,
and a one-time talk-show host.
62
another woman’s blog
~ Liz Pressman
Liz Pressman is a poet, a playwright, a journalist and a Wiccan priestess. She writes
and spells underthetrees, underthemoon in New York City.
http://lovefoxglove.wordpress.com/
foxglovelove@yahoo.com
63
Better, by Frances Raven
64
65
Diane Bowen's eclectic art
During a two-hour set, the band and I converse using music and drawing,
responding back and forth without actually watching each other but simply
listening and feeling our way. By using a clear plastic tarp I unfold and
eventually surround my self completely continuously drawing, using various
wax and oil sticks. In this way, the music and lines exist on the same plane "in
the air".
diannebowenstudio@gmail.com
www.diannebowen.com
66
What the Devil will say in Spring:
Entomb me in your garden,
next to the sound of water.
Tie blue filament around me,
hang me from a bridge.
And sing.
~ Helen Vitoria
Helen Vitoria was born and raised in Greece, and now resides in a country cottage in
Effort, PA. She studied creative writing at NYU. She facilitates the Poetry Workshop of
the Pocono Writers. Her work has appeared in The Dirty Napkin and is forthcoming in
PANK. She is currently working on her first full length collection of poetry entitled Corn
Exchange.
hvitoria@msn.com
67
Mumbai – Marine Drive
Mumbai’s majority
live in slums.
~ Dave Besseling
Born and reared in Canada, Dave has apparently set out to expropriate the Jack of all
trades. He has exhibited his art with the likes of H.R Giger, designed furniture at the
behest of Thai royalty, and written for Rolling Stone. He has no idea what comes next.
68
from saxophone this breath
this admission. valves formation routings
~ Heller Levinson
NOTE: The fourth line, “... to fit the horse,” refers to the fact that Adolphe Sax designed
the saxophone so that it could be played by a soldier while riding a horse. Sax felt that
the introduction of the saxophone to the military orchestra would enhance its efficacy.
Heller Levinson lives in NYC where he studies animal behavior. He has published in
over a hundred journals and magazine including Sulfur, Hunger, Talisman, First
Instensity, Laurel Review, Omega, The Wandering Hermit, Jacket, The Jivin' Ladybug,
etc. His most recent publication, Smelling Mary, is newly out from Howling Dog Press
and has been nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize.
www.hellerlevinson
69
Graffiti photo above taken by DubbleX in Washington Heights, New York City
70
When I Say I'm Tired of Writing
71
dense cotton air of Orangeburg whose history I can’t
unwrite; an heirloom undesirable as a fetus, an
aborted memory caught between Nanna’s grief
and the dead-weight of my pen.
overdue.
~ Amber Atiya
Native Brooklynite Amber Atiya has read and performed at venues including the Cornelia
Street Cafe, Lehman College, and the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Her work has appeared in
print and online publications such as the 2009 Brownstone Poets Anthology, Coloring
Book, an anthology of poetry and prose, and Word Riot. Her writing tackles issues of
race, sex, and sexuality, among other things, with honesty and wit.
s_mecca@hotmail.com
72
graffiti photostaken in Washington Heights, New York City by DubbleX
73
He would have
~ Kush Arora
74
Mr. Antolini, #2
How clumsy climax is,
for too much is still confused,
like a lingering fever.
75
but understandably you fidget.
In time you will know the heart's exaggerations,
but not from this teacher.
~ Louie Crew
Louie Crew, 72, an Alabama native, is an emeritus professor at Rutgers. He lives in East
Orange, NJ, with Ernest Clay, his husband of 35+ years.
As of today, editors have published 1,940 of Crew's poems and essays. Crew has
edited special issues of College English and Margins. He has written four poetry
volumes Sunspots (Lotus Press, Detroit, 1976) Midnight Lessons (Samisdat, 1987),
Lutibelle's Pew (Dragon Disks, 1990), and Queers! for Christ's Sake! (Dragon Disks,
2003).
76
Groupthink
A neon-yellow fish steps out
of its vehicle and, not noticing
the absence of water, strides to the mailbox
and deposits a letter. A bird swoops by and,
with its waxy black feathers, catches the fish's
attention. The bird and the fish
have the same thought about each other:
“Where is your flock?” “Where is your school?”
~ Andrew Christ
Andrew Christ was born in Buffalo, New York, on October 6, 1966. A Midwesterner all
his life, he now lives in Midland, Michigan, where he's produced several videos featuring
poetry for public-access television. One video, the award-winning "Where Do the Roots
Go?" features Saginaw residents in an introduction to Theodore Roethke, the only poet
from Michigan to win a Pulitzer. In June 2005, he joined with other members of
Saginaw's poetry group, the River Junction Poets, and started Poets Birthday Readings
at the Saginaw Barnes & Noble bookstore.
riverjunctionpoets@gmail.com
77
A Roman Laborer Counsels His Son
Son, I want to tell you:
I am full of Rome. I am Rome.
The confidence of Rome escapes my mouth
here, now. The road I'm building, it is Rome.
The Greeks never built such roads. The Greeks built
statues and buildings. They built
philosophy and art and music and war
and excellence, always excellence.
They wanted excellence so much they tore
themselves apart trying to get it.
And then Rome conquered. Now Rome has them
and Rome has their slaves. We will fill the world
with Rome. I am an old man, and I
will not see it. For me it is a dream.
But the roads I build, they will live to see
the world full of Roman roads with Romans
traveling over them from Asia and
from Gaul, from Africa to all places
ships go. The Hebrews go over
Roman roads. The barbarians go
over Roman roads. Asians go.
Romas all. Filling the world with Rome.
They can call themselves whatever they like,
but when they live with Roman laws
and Roman customs, they are Roman.
They work for Rome. They pay Rome's army
and Rome's army goes and gets more like them.
There is no end. It cannot be otherwise.
~ Andrew Christ
78
Life is too short for small talk
for Larry Rivers
79
The end of Bohemia in East Village
The ghost of Larry Rivers,
~ Valery Oisteanu
Valery Oisteanu is an internationally flavored writer and artist born in Russia (1943) and
educated in Romania. He adopted Dada and Surrealism as a philosophy of art and life.
Immigrating to New York City in 1972, he has been writing in English for 37 years.
Oisteanu is well known to downtown NYC audiences and performs frequently in
theaters and clubs. He specializes in his original Zen Dada multi-media poetry and
music, his unmistakable style and show of "Jazzoetry."
80
"8 x11 Sheet"
~ Sonia Halbach
Sonia Halbach, originally from Devils Lake, ND, is currently finishing up her BA in
English and Communications at Augustana College in Sioux Falls, SD. In 2007 she had
the opportunity to read one of her poems before the poet Maya Angelou and a crowd of
3500. Her poetry has been published in Chronogram, The Taylor Trust, Main Channel
Voices, and Breadcrumb Scabs.
81
The Measly Subtraction
Cab drivers will lie about anything,
especially money.
“I made two grand last
week.”
As if this explains
the holes in their
shoes,
the fact that they can’t afford
a razor
and have breath like
a maggoty rhinoceros.
I always wonder why it is so important
to impress the rest,
when we all have
to go home alone
and count our greasy bills
and do the measly subtraction
of rent and electricity
and food and beer.
They lie and lie and the
world goes round
like godless miles through
the city
only to end up back
in the same hole-
home.
We all want to be respected
even by those we do not respect
and even those who nobody respects
want the same thing and
feel the same pull,
the same strange question
of the self:
what will
my brother
think?
~ Mather Schneider
82
The Traveling Show
Mama Cat brings her three kittens
around in the mornings.
I watch them play in the bushes
for a while.
They attack each other and Mama too
who sometimes remembers
what it was like to be young.
Mostly Mama just eyes them proudly or
indifferently and
smacks them if they get too rowdy.
I lean down like a falling
statue
and pour milk into the
dirty bowl in the shade.
They bounce up to me like
new tennis balls
and I can touch them sometimes
like this
as they are lapping it up
I can touch them
they let me if I’m careful and
gentle
they are small and soft
like trembling flowers.
When every drop is gobbled up
they tumble away
through the fence
a traveling show
bidding farewell to the local
suckers.
~ Mather Schneider
Mather Schneider is a 39 year old cab driver living in Tucson, learning Spanish,
sweating. He is a writer and painter and my work has appeared in print since 1995. He
has a full-length book coming out by Interior Noise Press soon.
matherschneider@yahoo.com
83
Facebook
And there is always
Someone I may know
Someone I am advised to contact.
Some twit
On tweeter
Want to meet her?
~ Doug Holder
Doug Holder is the founder of the Ibbetson Street Press. His work has appeared in the
Long Island Quarterly, Poetrybay, Main St. Rag, Paradigm Journal, Poetica, Cyclamen
and Swords, and many others. He is the author of the poetry collection "The Man in the
Booth in the Midtown Tunnel" ( Cervena Barva Press) and recently released a collection
of interviews: "From the Paris of New England: Interviews with Poets and Writers." He
works as an adjunct professor at Endicott College in Beverly, Mass.
ibbetsonpress@msn.com
84
Killing the Cat
~ Lorie Allred
Lorie Allred received an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Alaska Fairbanks
in 1995. Her poetry has appeared in journals such as The New York Quarterly, Orbis,
The Sun, and The Evening Street Review. She just finished writing a novel for young
adults, and currently works as a librarian in North Carolina.
85
The Eleventh House, by Orna Ben-Shoshan
86
Interview with spotlight artist Orna Ben-Shoshan
by Thomas Hubbard
TCSR: As you speak with us from your home in Raanana, Orna, will
you look around you and describe to us what you see?
TCSR: You're in Israel now, but didn't you live in the U.S. for a
while?
ORNA: I'm back in Israel for twelve years now, but I lived in the U.S. for
a long time, maybe fifteen years. I liked it there, in Massachusetts, but it's good
to be back home. I was born here in Israel. I grew up in the desert, in big,
empty spaces.
ORNA: Spare time? Spare time? There is no spare time when you are
doing something you love. I take time occasionally for the beach, or my
friends. But mostly I work. I love my studio and my work. That's how I spend
my time, what I want to do.
ORNA: I taught myself. I was trained in graphic design, and I've been
painting now for thirty years. Over this time I've learned how to articulate the
scenes that come to me, images I channel from some other reality. It's important
to me that other people see these, that other people feel the peace and comfort
and joy in them.
TCSR: Orna, the scenes I see in your art are unusual and for some
reason, somehow familiar at the same time. Can you say something about
87
the genesis of these images?
TCSR: So you paint the visions that have come to you. But they must
be fleeting, and it takes time to paint them, I'm sure.
TCSR: Why is it important to you that the public see these images of
yours?
TCSR: How do folks usually react upon seeing your art, Orna?
ORNA: They are attracted to it. Let me tell you — recently I had an
exhibit in town. It was hot, a summer week and the air conditioner wasn't
working. I was worried people wouldn't stay, but they stayed anyway, to look at
all the paintings. These images give people something. Observing metaphysical
art induces lucidity and reduces stress, I think. People who view my artwork
often comment that they can deeply connect to what they see, even though they
do not necessarily understand it. For others it simply evokes positive and
uplifting feelings as they are influenced subconsciously. I am especially pleased
when I succeed to channel this knowledge and create a positive impact on the
viewer.
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painted — live inside one of your paintings — which one would you choose?
TCSR: Your art has a huge online presence. So Orna, we both know
that many artists are very private persons, and it occurs to me to wonder
how do you feel about having your art online.
ORNA: It makes me
very happy, because without
my website, without my online
presence, most of the world
wouldn't know about my art.
TCSR: Well your website is huge and amazing as nearly as I can see.
And I note your King Solomon Cards. Are they something like Tarot cards?
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perhaps enthralled by your art, perhaps you have some advice?
ORNA: I can only say, be serious about what you do. Do it as best you
can; be a perfectionist. Express yourself in the best, most professional way
possible. And put energy into what you do — a lot of energy. It's not easy to be
a pro. My advice to other artists is: you must be willing to invest a huge effort
like I did in order to bring out your artwork to the public - it's a matter of
believing in what you do and realizing the importance of what you can teach
people.
Note to publishers: This material is copyrighted by Thomas Hubbard. The Cartier Street
Review is hereby granted one-time serial rights for electronic and print versions.
Ownership remains with the author, who may re-publish it elsewhere.
Thomas Hubbard, retired writing instructor: Published in Red Ink, Arabesques Review:
International Poetry and Literature Journal, ToToπos Poetry International Fall 2006,
Albani: Indigenous Poetry and Other Voices International Poetry Anthology as well as in
numerous other print and online publications. He has read for the Distinguished Writer
Series in Tacoma; Presented Workshop at Whidbey Island Writers Conference;
Featured for Whatcom Poetry Series, Seattle Slam, Olympia Poetry Network, and
numerous other venues, and reviews books for Square Lake and Raven Chronicles. He
serves editorially on Raven Chronicles and Cartier Street Review. He writes poetry,
fiction and book reviews in a cabin on Blanchard Mountain, in the Washington
Chuckanuts.
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I’ll weep like Karamchedu!
Essay by Narender Bedide
A television news report I'd seen a few years ago captured this strange tale of a
small clan of people living atop trees less than five hundred miles from my desk.
They ate, relaxed, slept and lived on the branches of peepul trees in a farm
adjoining a village. They belonged to a community of swineherds, people who
normally live inside villages or on their fringes. They interact with other
villagers every day and have a role to play in village life. They are not a part of
pre-history who forgot to erase themselves or evolve.
Their story illustrates the ineffable nature of reaches of marginality in Indian
society: the abyss of marginality could be lurking outside your door. A single
mis-step, and you could drop off the horizon.
Land and caste are dominant themes in poetry in Telugu, by poets from the Dalit
Bahujan (or the ‘lower’ castes) communities, because land, as little as a quarter
of an acre, means a firmer hold on rural economic life and caste determines your
chances of inheriting or acquiring land.
anytime
anywhere
land's the problem
the problem's only land
a little land for food
or for your death
the problem's wholly land
The problem of land plagues rural India: nearly half of its residents don't own
any while less than one-fifth own more than three-fifths of all arable land. Land
reforms after independence became a farcical exercise with large chunks of land
mysteriously disappearing from government records. In a land where space
scientists pray at temples before they launch satellites or missions to the moon,
those who don't own land are doubly disadvantaged. The rural economy centers
around agriculture, offering limited scope for regular jobs or livelihood choices
outside of farming. The caste ordering of society completes the job of
disenfranchising the poor from the Dalit Bahujan communities who form the
overwhelming majority of landless, leaving them with little say in the local
community, its religious and secular institutions. Political democracy has never
realized its fullest potential in rural India, with elections being the only visible
sign of its shadowy presence. The vote, not surprisingly, is the only entitlement
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that the marginalized are familiar with and they make the best use of it in the
only way they know. Demand for labour peaks during harvest season and that's
the only time when farm workers can negotiate wages which are equal to or
higher than the minimum wages prescribed by the government, and that's the
knowledge that the lower caste voter uses during 'election season', trading his
vote for short term monetary or other gains. Vangapandu Prasada Rao, a
Maoist poet, calls upon people to shun this toothless ‘democratic’ ritual and join
the course of armed resistance:
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the guns hidden in the Tulasikonda ravine
I give you my brother! I give you my brother!
But the face and the voice of the Naxalite armed resistance movement across
Telangana and India has been the balladeer Gaddar who sings:
The scriptures of the Hindus expressly forbid the shudras, the fourth varna in the
varna system of stratification, and the panchamas, or the fifth varna (which
actually fall outside the four varna system but is considered the lowest order in
the caste system) or the former ‘untouchables’ or outcastes, from reading or
writing, from any but the most rudimentary education. This proscription had
worked so well in the last two millennia that very few of the ancient and
medieval texts now available in Telugu, recently anointed a Classical Language
by the Government of India, were written by writers and poets belonging to
castes fitting those two varnas.
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Dalits, formerly ‘untouchables’, are the most oppressed group of castes in India
along with Bahujans, who belong to the hundreds of shudra working castes
assigned hereditary occupations ranging from farming, weaving or pottery to
fishing, even such strange functions as singing/performing the ‘histories’ and
myths of the origin of castes higher up in the hierarchy! In the vast middle and
bottom of Hindu society, the practice of poetry itself represents a giant leap
across history. A freedom to imagine all other freedoms.
For the orthodox scholar this leap heralded the beginning, in Sivasagar’s words,
of the ‘chandala age’:
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through the mostly upper caste members of the first two classes.
Rejecting traditions in writing didn’t mean the Dalit Bahujans had to work in a
vacuum: they could draw upon a rich diverse reservoir of oral traditions, music
and theatrical forms that the Dalit Bahujans had accumulated over centuries.
Gaddar and Vangapandu Prasada Rao, for instance, refashioned old theatrical
traditions like the oggu kathas, burra kathas and yaksha gaanas into vibrant new
media that allowed them to sing and perform their poetry.
Song formed an integral part of the every day routine of the ‘productive classes’
as Kancha Ilaiah calls the Dalit Bahujans. It accompanied every chore, every
pain and disappointment as well as moments of celebration. In the poetry of the
Dalit Bahujans, one still hears the tambourine, the clash cymbals and the
ghungroos of the village performers, along with efflusion of raw dramatic
emotions. Joopaka Subhadra, in the following poem discusses how the Kongu,
the free end of the sari, doesn’t stand guard over the Dalit working woman: it’s a
tool, a companion, a comrade-in-drudgery. Much unlike the ghunghat (the Hindu
equivalent of the veil) draped over the head of an upper-caste woman.
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she burns her fingers
handling vessels on the stove
hugs my crying babies
like warm baby clothing
though she works cheerfully by my side all day in the quarry
she wipes the life streams
flowing from my body's sluices all night
like a cow nursing a new-born calf
she licks all dirt off my body
like a wicker wall
she hides the modugu stain spreading through my cloth
only when she becomes the snake charmer's been at my waist
do planting, harvesting, weeding and threshing
chores and songs screech into motion
in pleasure and sorrow, my dirt rag that rolls
in my hands, sweat, sides, bones, limbs
my work and songs, in crisis and comfort sticks to me
like dirt that falls on my feet, in my life path
my companion...slaving like the washerman's stone
when does she find any leisure?
she's not the patchy palloo that stands guard over my head
nor the hobbling stone... over my breast
how can i drag her into the bazaar
and set fire to her honour?
The first generation of Dalit Bahujan writers started out as members of various
left literary movements. In the sixties and seventies a great number joined the
various Naxalite factions, some like K. G. Satyamurthy (‘Sivasagar’) worked
even as active participants in armed struggles. Gaddar and Vangapandu Prasada
Rao worked in the overground cultural wing of one of the largest Naxalite
factions.
Steadily disillusioned by the upper-caste leadership many now openly question
their understanding of Indian social realities, and ridicule upper caste ideas that
caste plays no role in the continued marginalization of more and more Indians.
Ko.Pra asks the upper caste left revolutionaries:
sirs!
weren't we of the superstructure until yesterday
how would we have any base
without any foundation
how can there be any structure
true!
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leaving us with no building of our own
Now, since the early eighties, steady streams of writers from the Dalit Bahujan
communities, many following an Ambedkarite rather than Marxist school of
thought, are valiantly pushing caste into mainstream discourse. Dr.Ambedkar
said:
‘…that the Caste System is not merely a division of
labour. It is also a division of labourers. Civilized society
undoubtedly needs division of labour. But in no civilized
society is division of labour accompanied by this
unnatural division of labourers into watertight
compartments. The Caste System is not merely a
division of labourers which is quite different from
division of labour—it is a hierarchy in which the
divisions of labourers are graded one above the other.
In no other country is the division of labour
accompanied by this gradation of labourers.’
He’d foreseen that political democracy would be meaningless without social
democracy. He questioned the tenuous Hindu identity of ‘untouchables’ and
rejected it altogether calling for ‘the annihilation of caste’. The Telugu poets who
claimed a new Dalit identity, rejected their own identities and history (or non-
history) in the process, thus remained dominated by upper caste Hindus.
Dr. Endloori Sudhakar attempts to restore meaning to all the history of the
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oppressed Dalits which was never written through raising his grandfather (a
Madiga, whose traditional, caste-assigned occupation is tanning and working
with leather) to Godhood:
for having skinned the five spirits
by driving a nail into the sky
another into the patala
and soaking the hide in the seven seas you
deserve those sun and moon gods
as sandals for your feet!
Dr. Sudhakar uses the Five Spirits (the five elements), Patala (the netherworld),
the seven seas, the Sun and Moon Gods- all important themes in Hindu
cosmology, to build a grand memorial to the Madiga, banished to the fringes of
the village through all history and made to dispose of carcasses of dead animals
and other filth.
Sivasagar, in a very moving poem, laments all the bitterness and anguish
building among Dalits on the issue of periodic incidents of brutal, organized
violence and killing by upper caste oppressors in villages across the length of
India:
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All Dalits experience discrimination and exclusion especially in the villages in
some form almost every day. But organized violence also happens on a much
more regular basis than is reported by the media - on farms, schools, colleges,
places of worship and in their own homes. In Karamchedu, a prosperous village
in coastal Andhra Pradesh, a huge mob of thousands of upper caste Hindus,
outraged by a Dalit youth’s refusal to allow upper caste men to wash their cattle
in the tank used by the Dalits for drinking water (the upper castes have their own
tank) descended upon the Dalit part of the village and killed several residents.
This occurred in 1985.
The Dalits of Karamchedu refused to let the incident die, quietly, under the slow
uncaring wheels of the Indian justice system like many such horrors in the past.
Threats of more violence, badgering and bribing of witnesses, social boycotts --
they faced everything to fight for justice.
Karamchedu, a tragedy, also marked a new awakening in Dalit history:
my son's death
this isn't the first
many times in our village
he died and lived
to live he joined the army
as a corpse, he has returned alive
ayyo!
My mind's not in my mind
my mind's not in my mind
sir! In my eyes
the pyre dances
son! Yesoba! Yesoba!
Yesoba! My father!
for you
I'll weep like Karamchedu
for you
I'll weep like Chunduru
for you
I'll weep like Vempenta
I'll weep like yesterday's Gosayipalem!
To weep like Karamchedu is not to weep quietly, alone, like it used to be through
Dalit history. To weep like Karamchedu is to wail, to wake up the whole
neigbourhood and the world. To weep like Karamchedu is to make a big racket.
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Narender Bedide, 46, lives in Hyderabad, India. Has worked in the field of advertising
for nearly twenty years, or he thinks he did. Loves to blog, but caste takes over
everything he writes, and reads.
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The Golden Navigator, by Orna Ben-Shoshan
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Dream Casting
On the backs of pine beetles
burrowed beneath dense
tree bark
this journey is hidden.
…
Charles Clifford Brooks III has been published in The Dead Mule, Eclectica, Gloom
Cupboard, Cerebration, Underground Voices, Alba, Deep South, The Istanbul Literary
Review, Prick of the Spindle, Conversations, nibble, and Semaphore. He is currently
poetry editor for Literary Magic Magazine. Charles' poetry has been featured on the Joe
Milford Poetry Show. He believes every artist should join The Guerilla Poetics Project.
His first book of poetry, Whirling Metaphysics, will be published by Leaf Garden Press.
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Solitary Whiskey Tonight
A beautiful woman, too young for me, really, but
more woman than I'd seen in a long damn time, and
smart and clean and loving and just a bit irrational
about some of the things I do or say, but she said she
loved my half-breed ass as much as I loved her.
~ Thomas Hubbard
103
The wind goes everywhere, and
here it is back again, with stories for us.
But who's listening?
~th
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