From East To West: Bicoastal Verse

from east to west: bicoastal verse
Table of Contents:
p. 3 chicken bone mojo – poetry, Mark Hartenbach, & art, Jeff Filipski
p. 14 cellophane rain – art & poetry by Eve Anthony Hanninen
p. 22 word gardens – various poets & photography by Cheryl A. Townsend
p. 39 praise the turning world – poetry, Michael Macklin & art, Jenny McGee Dougherty
p. 47 every beer, bud and cigarette – poetry, Bart Solarczyk & art, Ron Davis
p. 55 Contributors
edited by PJ Nights and Ray Sweatman

cover art by Pamela Perkins
all works © 2009 by each individual poet and artist
2
poetry by Mark Hartenbach & art by Jeff Filipski
a mind-boggling nom-de-plume is in stitches
naiveté kicked it up to even less sophisticated

sold as nostalgia after quick coat of paint
as an heirloom after a good shellacking
given a catchy new slogan, another sound bite
leaving perfectly matching plates
with the exception of a few enamel stains
that couldn’t be scrubbed off
an inability to untie the knots which dim the sun
which give permission to pour lemon juice
& grain alcohol in the summertime blues
a bracelet that belonged to a girl i never knew
only her name was engraved, in a jittery script
that suggested there was something important at stake
in the transaction, possibly one last chance
to spell it like it sounds, if she were standing there
or rhyme it with a word for beautiful
while february melts under shy tongues
a chest cavity form-fitted to give it that extra ambience
that can double your money in a heartbeat
or maybe it was innocence
when i get shook up like this
grammatical errors are inevitable
find myself submitting to whatever name comes up
a plastic i.d. wristband has taken her place
i need to correspond in some way
express my undying love, pierce the veils
but all the screaming in the world
will never make it out of purgatory
if only we were birds, perfect little metaphors
than we could go quietly, without incident
trading personas back & forth
giggling at how ridiculous we look
3
Mark Hartenbach, Jeff Filipski
meditation on the value of seemingly nothing
a rhythmic restoration is in the works

asphalt steaming signaling tempting curvature
glittering like a migraine in early afternoon sun
every moment must be accounted for
not understanding the importance of silence
to any composition, thelonious monk
was a master, as was franz kline
stockpiling samples to be laid on thick
like a teenage boy willing to say anything
in order to get into a sweet little something
though sum of parts is often much less
than the itching to overwhelm grand finale
sixty-four tracks to cover all bases
all reactions, all emotions
but if it takes that many shots
perhaps it’s time to reconsider methods
maybe it’s not worth saying
splitting headache, despite ingesting
350 milligrams of gray spackle already
which hasn’t cut the pain at all
instead of closing eyes, laying back quietly
insisting on headphones jumping
my neck cramped from staring down
at a notebook for two hours
attempting to catch my racing thoughts
suffering for my art would be a nice wrap up
however, it doesn’t ring true to me
the only audience i write for
slivers of light taunt me
too thin to slide a piece of paper through
yet i can’t patch them quickly enough
4
portrait of the artist making love to the red flower goddess
your eyelids are heavy with poppy, & dream softly on my forehead
-georg trakl
even thick mascara eyes give away true nature of goddesses

who speak neither greek nor italian, but with a hillbilly patois
a guitar string snaps & must be restrained
until the numbers can be jimmied back to normal
a stain which could pass for a miracle in a perfect world
or maybe an alternate universe, which doesn’t seem as far-fetched
not even steel-wool elbow grease can remove
or maybe a reminder in my dresser
which i no longer wear, but it makes me smile
to reminder the last time i did
an abstract-expressionist period piece
created one night on her couch, riding me to completion
while telling her son might come home any time
which only heightened the excitement for me
caught by surprise at time of the month
white t-shirt now a work of art
a bach sonata played in cut & paste arrangement
a counter punch that tastes like a kiss, & doesn’t feel
like a warning that i should step back & rethink my strategy
dosed with a faith i’ve never felt
that no matter how many milligrams before
which had never conjured up
visions of maybe i underestimated her power over me
a couple hours of everlasting love
not a misnomer, but packed so tightly
an imploded light the size of a fist
never leave us waving frantically to our angels
to not leave so soon, it’s still early
that disappear as quickly as they appeared
an ejaculation that kicks both our heads backward
though i asked her to keep eye contact when i came
but that can wait till next time
never can be extinguished, regenerated by the very acts they produce
fueled by perpetual motion & unconditional love
disregarding any greased-palm legislation
which says circular logic isn’t valid
tachometer gave up the ghost, tie rod cracked
no way to steer so-called delusional thought to safer ground
which is nothing but a mock-up of the valley of death
5
quarter moon plywood purgatory spooked

barely lit brittle wintery branches, only cranky silhouettes
an unforgiving scene designed to put the fear of god in us
which is nothing but fear of ourselves
fear we can’t harness what comes naturally
a postcard from florida, see you in the spring
as in blooming eternal we wonder, or should we take it literally
no distinction when it’s this juicy, this ripe, this ready
when there’s no fucking question what we’re feeling
& isn’t it arrogant to expect god to always come to us
no matter how deep in the pocket we happen to be
6
a rampaging ad infinitum not interested in shock value
as lucid as i’m capable of coughing up

knocked off rapid-fire suggestions
is probably as close as you’ll get to seeing me
as i am, in the moment, in the act of improvisation
even then mistaking my poetry for demands
or eight miles high, a perfunctorily nod
rambunctious, playful seen as unfocused
purposely leaking information as misleading
all boils down to another’s perception
multiplied by how quickly you blow past the world
which means if your inclination is spontaneous riffing
people will give you a lot of leeway
then close ranks the minute you pass through
dragging a life raft across the red sea
or sinking the eight ball on the break
wild ride or impossible to harness behavior
depends on what textbook you’ve been reading
ornette coleman or home on the range
shoenberg or you are my sunshine
captain beefheart or hush little baby
an easy touch or an authentic silk kimono
is it necessary to tag it an issue
why not take it all as it comes
push it against the wall, kiss it hard on the lips
slide palm down belly, undo top button
rotate fingers in opposite direction of lip service
black & white sit-com kitten purring yes
though she has no idea what you’re talking about
but loves the way you say it
7
portrait of the artist from ground control
i will not know my own death-gregory corso
intercepting signals i’m sure are meant for someone else

because they make no sense whatsoever to me
i have no clue who they’re intended for
or i would gladly pass them along
my economic situation prevents me from moving
to another location where the reception is less clear
in the meantime, i deflect them the best i can
though there’s a nagging uncertainty
concerning how much my mind is absorbing by osmosis
possibly instilling a stranger’s strengths & weaknesses
into my own psyche, more so, because lately
i’ve been exposed to little external stimulation
old silver fillings would be the most obvious culprit
that alone is enough reason to rule them out
demonic possession is possible, but improbable
since my personal demons hit & run
are gone before i can ask for absolution
power of suggestion seeping through my headphones
part of a corporate conspiracy, which seems unlikely
since i’m listening to a compilation of the shagri-las
which a friend burned for me today
far-fetched, though they were the queens of melodrama
another suggestion could be swimming through the fluid
where my brain bobs, to get to any solid gray matter
which is still firing on a regular basis
often they’re bad ideas which i can blow off rather easily
but they’re never commands from an alleged higher power
or seductive demands teasing me closer
so they’re not holding a gun to my head
only a potentially grave error in transmission
which shouldn’t reflect poorly on me
though this can be difficult to determine
since i don’t always immediately recognize
who’s staring back at me with those frightened eyes
8
9
10
a poem which crashed before i could finish it
a freakish curiosity wheeled through the back door

to applause at minimalist intervals
which can best be described as apprehensive
though if you hold on, we’ll see what we can do
unless one is familiar with lamonte young or terry riley
the moment suspended in a vacuum, flailing about
unable to touch genuinely another time
approval ratings aren’t consulted—it’s too far out there
a soundtrack of free-period coltrane & albert ayler
played at almost imperceptible muzak level
which makes it quite disconcerting
like a shotgun blast at point blank range
less than a second to grasp the reality of the situation
no time to turn it over to see if it means less than nothing
spiritually speaking, it’s zero gravity
which can’t be dubbed in later
only elaborated on after forty years
or a thousand years, or ten thousand
according to moses, nils bohr or lao tzu
never breaking the surface, if there is a surface
it’s all speculation at this point
all points in between imagination, without reservation
& a very special psychotic episode
sprinkled about liberally after disinfected & air-brushed
until it appears to have been varnished several times
though it tastes like sugar-coated hard facts
barker builds to the wrath of god
then takes it back down to a harmless prank
an audible sigh brushes through the crowd
though a perfect ending
isn’t necessarily a happy ending
11
a favorite song which skips in the same place every time
or at least it feels like the equivalent

of something i may have lost
memories are sometimes too democratic

for their own good, & more importantly yours
an identical modus operandi

pulled from a group of strangers
by a woman who swears she knows me

not only knows but understands
it’s not a pickup line, she honestly believes it

or else she’s an incredible actress
i would think i’d remember

but i can’t say with certainty
she asks me if i’ll buy her a drink

i wonder if she remembers what i don’t
if so, then shouldn’t it be on her dime

but i’ll shell out the cash
though i’m aware the cost

could easily escalate out of hand
i could find myself in a place

i feel i should remember
though i’ll swear

it’s my first time
12
an insatiable hunger for that which is open to all possibilities
a chicken bone mojo caught in my throat

while another shyster with hand in my pocket
renders my confessions null & void in flowery language
a monkey wearing a tuxedo, draped in affluence

which looks ridiculous on any primate
whether deftly making circus catches or all thumbs
a hallelujah destructs without fear of restitution

after all, certain words can get away with murder
no counterclaim with any validity can change this
there’s nothing in this stain glass to induce devotion

to wrap our head around, no beads of sweat or blood
or a cheap pasted pearls of wisdom
hanging above is a bubblegum card of the holy madonna

surrounded by saintly skulls grinning madness
a troubled cast of characters cleaned up for consumption
gathered together for what seems to be my benefit

though i’m delusional, & have never taken charity
so it’s highly unlikely, but not entirely impossible
13
art & poetry by Eve Anthony Hanninen
Procrastination
Push it back from whence it came, that tiny urge

to face the great horned owl with its conch-curved beak
and talons curled, a rude rat-cage. Stand your ground
as it swoops down to prey
on all that’s yet undone —
from unendurable sloth to tasty litter
of mewling incomplete — on all that’s diffident
and disdaining and that scurries along
the fence-rail with intent to become but shadow,
blending form with space
and desperate squeals about injustice.
Push it back, quell its quavering face,

shove it down beneath the sighing guilt,
the soughing duties; it’s just a storm
of feathers, burdens beaten aloft —
a field of rodent femurs, half-eaten corpses
strewn, unburied and forgot: your tasks
and worries, the torsos of malformed thoughts
you abandoned in pursuit of ease. Thrust it all
away, niggling offal beneath your notice;
it will remain, gristle, down and ragged sinew,
a frisson on the plain of someone else’s expectation.
14
Eve Hanninen
Farewell, Amergin, Hallo, Mabinogion

A Requiem of Atmospheric Condition
Not likely that a stroll in the misted morn’s pasture will kick
over lost dobbie stones, with their smoothed hollows for offerings,
though the milk flows aplenty in the dairy barn and red clover
nectar stirs the bees to euphoria in the east parcel. West points
the way to Sumas River and the turbulent flow of your emotions,
so says the Celtic shaman of my woolgathering, he who would read
the half-buried divining stones if they turned up, scorched
by firedrakes, scuffled by the bull’s hooves. But it’s far
to the south, past maples in flame, where the grieved bard-poet

voices marrow and spleen, masters the elements of rain and heat
by weaving their prevailing notes in a dirge, doing honor
to her own feelings, this time and finally, over yours.
15
Eve Hanninen
Marshfield
Lost several rolls of film

beneath the cramped seats of flight
301: cranberry bogs like Merlot lakes,
canary lichens crowning ivory
granite against lapis skies
and guardian-druid white pines frowning
over new roads along Puddlewharf Lane.
Lost—trembling Lindsey from Boston Aquarium

and her slivered smiles of Bridle Shiner,
of Minnow, the rustle of her quill-thin fingers
scratching ciphers into my (also lost) sweater
pockets, the quiver of her hoped-for
confessions and salvation flowing
away in the jet-stream.
16
Eve Hanninen
Still Running
Back to Spring,
before you, before the hawk flew
by, back to two cups
black tea, one cup red
and hours spent, either safely scribbling
homage to clean thoughts,
or in chaste domesticity
where
Austin heat and Tampa
salt are distant charms,
the medallions you wear
in the photographs hidden
between old maps and letters.
17
Eve Hanninen
Burro’s Tails and Other Stigmas
Mr. Rupert writes about Time. Or is it Tim? Tim with a veneer

and a metaphor of loss saddled to his behind. In this depressing way,
Rupert shines his dildo-sized flashlight on our shortcomings;
we students all fiddle with pens, retractable, fountain,
felt, some chew tenderly on the tangy metal
caps covering ink erasers.
Time was, Tim was the joy of my flat, fingering

his maidenhairs and burro’s tails, keeps on Rupert,
watering weekly with his long-snouted can,
but by then I have lost the pathetic whine
in Rupe’s remembrance to another noise, busy
poking about my own bushes for dirt.
If any had left me, as time left him, I’ve forgotten their eyes,
their excuses, their pieces de resistance: I’m seeing
someone else. No, none of them have names.
It’s the others, named but now unmemorable—
I left them all and I’m not sorry
anymore. They each may recall when,
time was, I was aphrodisiac, their summer harvest,

lychnis to their fertile gardens, passion’s seedheads popping.
I was the flickering candle perched on a clawfoot tub, and the burr
of washcloth on their backs. Might still wonder why I’m gone,
but not a one has ever asked what they have left
me to remember about them.
18
Eve Hanninen
Lummi Princess on Moses Lake

—for Malcolm
Late evenings after sun has eased

its gently broken yolk over Alpine Lakes,
after its yellow spills and pools
over the Cascades and onto Skykomish roofs,
your trawler washes a’dock, the mess
of bluegills urging a quick clean
of guts and fluids, a not-so-gentle break
of scaled skin, fine arc of bones
splaying like sails.
19
Eve Hanninen
Still Life with Carrots and Balm
I buried my dear Calico

along the fence rail in the stretch
where only stunted umbels fan,
squat lace-kerchiefs draped atop
rosettes of whorling, feathered leaves.
Daucus carota,
the wee diced darlings of Mirepoix.
10th-Century treats
from Asia and Afghanistan.
Anthocyanin purples or carotene orange
for your carrot-honey pleasure,
for carrot jam.
Neither shallots nor potatoes grow

in this crust which must embrace
holly roots, chicken wire
and dull grey stones like dead teeth spit
from a grumpy earth golem.
Near the gate live still the tenacious few:

spritely lemon balm and blue catmint,
Russian comfrey, all— loving a dry wit.
They mock a dig deep enough
to strike soil rich again and ready

to bring life to the surface full
of sugary sediment and teeming
as a Chantenay’s broad core.
20
Eve Hanninen
Through Cellophane Rain
Oily drops spatter between cherry petals

shocked into falling by the impertinent cold
breath of early Spring. You want a warm kiss,
but these tentative mornings reel
in the gelid aftermath of vitreous nights.
You have closed the blinds

against new life — scarlet tulips crook to light
and away from shuttered windows. You sleep
as if no sun would heal you,
and I don’t wake you anymore.
21
various poets, photography by Cheryl Townsend
Flowers
I awoke to morning, or
was it evening with a rose?
The sun became itself suddenly
as the mists cleared and blossomed.
Well, that's it, I said, nothing

more can happen between then
and now, but you came, and the day has
become lilies in amber.
~Lewis Turco
22
“garden” poets, Cheryl Townsend
a poem for jack
did you know, we have no fireflies?
they're gone, the way of brown trout, safe to eat, hooked off a pole
without a reel, dipped
into the icy water of lake ontario in june

and pulled up from the black rocks by the pier
the fish, caught and
twisting in the half light of the evening, the time when the sun is pulled down,
swamped by the tide of a purple gray sky
in carolina,
the pines stand so straight, chapel walls holding up the vaulted ceiling of its nave
but here, the trees grow in whorls, twisted

and cracked open by winter ice, dense as grasslands on the high plains of the front range
a great burst of riotous power when they all bloom pink, white, lavender
for a small time of days or hours who can tell? not i with my
daily constitutional
of sorrow
when I watch my love now a lost soul trailing in a wilderness of partial light, diminished
light
this is a old tale, age

which once was supple as well worked leather
now brittle as the thinnest crystal glassware

blown blue
no, make that
now a candle burning out, still sputtering in protest, still hot
with melted wax. ~T. Birch
23
Shaking It Off
Today I pulled scalps of sod

from the drift where the plow
had tumbled them,
broke up
chunks of rutted ice
in the driveway
working shivery,
shirtless,
in the April sun.
On the crusted lawn

no grass shows yet,
robins scavenge the barberry bush,
the daphne blooms and sends

exquisite sweetness
on the air,
the burning bush,

exposed,
unbends upward,
and the forsythia

is yellow
in the kitchen.
Seven ranks of winter-cut maple,

split and stacked,
flank the woodshed.
We hang suet, scatter seed

for doves, jays, finches.
One woodpecker taps in the woods,
and our terrier curls on the porch.

We are shaking off winter,
slowly breaking loose.
~Tom Moore
24
Tiptoes of Rain
I am an apple in the pocket

of this old coat of yours. Honest
and round, you feel me

blindly with rough hands.
You dare take me out and examine me--

the deep wine bruises, the garnet wounds.
What green is left reddens quickly

in your palm. You twist the stem
between your fingers until it snaps then

lay me down on the pine table.
Split me open with your sharpest knife.

Your tongue draws out each seed--
dark eyes that want to grow in you.

Place this slice between your lips.
One bite to remember an orchard.

This sweet crunch knows the rain.
~Lois P. Jones
25
The Gardener
In spring the blooms began shooting up

patch by patch as he had planned
around the sunken 'water feature'
an old bath tub and the
shooting up snowdropsandsunflowers
sitting side by side kept growing and were surrounded
by a careful combination of fuschias, geraniums and
dandelions.
They told me that he loved his garden, he loved gardening,
yet he decorated it with sunken baths,
muddy green plastic chairs
and one of those parousels which pubs used to use;
(until they realised they looked like shit).
In summer there were sometimes dancing flowers,

Peeping over our fence that wasn't a fence,
Their heavy heads drooping and dropping,
Off
Like headless nightmares he tended them
Sunken bathwater for breakfastlunchtea.
A hardy ambition made him splint them, stroke them,
sing to them?
He loves all the flowers, from sunflower stalks to dancing orchids.
Yet he surrounded them with tin can rockeries.
At night he danced with the orchids.
On the last day of autumn,

when the jungle turned barren
He wept into his tin bath,
Filled it with tears and grew a new garden.
~Bethan Townsend
26
under stars
The wind has lost the smell of dusk.

Dawn is out of sight and out of mind.
Rhododendron blossoms
Gather under arbors;
So many flesh-soft castoffs
Adding their accent
To the musk of the wood
And the piquant leaf.
Running is natural.
Hooves spike a pliant loam,
Avoiding every root or buried stone.
Water scent fluoresces its presence
As dotted lines of hooks and bounds;
Connected by delicate kinematics :
Hydraulic power and four place precision.
How beautiful I am!

The trees of me, my graceful arms.
Winding through their whispers
My antlers never tangle;
Guarded by cloud cover
And driven by earth spin.
The taste of tongue and teeth

Fed on the sweet herb.
The bright berry sees my eye
And winking offers up its life;
So are we satisfied.
All told the tale

Is greater than we know :
My hills, my creeks.
Our shared silences and joys
Repeated and forgotten.
Never worn in the wearing
Each night
Under stars.
~Neil C. Leach, Jr.
27
Ache
My neighbor has invited me

To pick tomatoes growing around his deck.
It's drizzling as I approach

The wooden terrace. Plants flourish
red as Monet's poppies. I walk toward
the vines with an umbrella in hand.
The artist let his wife trail the flowers,
a parasol overhead and a boy's shadow
imprinting her skirt.
I envy Camille, the design

of a son's frolic on her dress, mine
is strapless cotton
soaking up rain. You might say a shroud
draping a body over-ripe
from dreaming too much
of sunlight and summer fruit.
~Wendy Howe
28
beneath the green
take a turn in an REM ramble,

one step up onto a plateau
between all asleep and all awake.
no need to move quickly no need for haste.
walk with eyes closed,

ears alert, nose fully engaged.
fragrance is ripe with untamed familiarity.
mist on the skin cools and calms.
the isolation is subterranean.

the foreignness is submarine.
an undeniable life says that all is well;
walk as you will and enjoy.
stop at leisure and stand.

fingers move toward anticipation;
met by tree-skin, press palm against it.
the faintest vibration hums in the bark.
both hands now, arms at full length,

embrace a vibrant girth.
cheek meets the mighty texture,
and here is something for the ear.
touch and smell add their intuition.

and there it is
scarce louder than the heartbeat in the ear;
another heartbeat
incredibly slow,
and moving massive volumes.
delighted, but not surprised;

stay awhile and drink in all that awes.
this awe without electric excitement,
far deeper and much more sure.
29
breathing now in perfect rhythm;

from within sight branches up and down.
each fingertip now ends in leaves,
and legs far underground stretch forth
to find the touch of others
in the forest.
~Neil C. Leach, Jr.
30
Cuba Out Back
It’s unhappy in Pennsylvania ,

so I water my Cuban hibiscus,
sing, dance the Macarena as I weed,
get a few blossoms, like red brooms
sweeping a floor made of
bee’s wings. But mostly

she just stands, a security guard
for a dead Tropicana rose. Maybe
she dreams of Havana . Or
feels cramped by waves of petunias
creeping too close. When winter nears,

morning frost etches her leaves.
By late afternoon she shines
in deep sun. I could dig her up,
place her on the overcrowded
bay window, a cactus to the left,
a Calamondin to the right--
six creaky months,

weakening light. Or
should I let winter’s sharp claws

set her free? She can’t speak.
Like a sick cat,
unable to say what’s wrong.
~Kenneth Pobo
31
Orchard
The blond apples

feel moist and smooth.
Her hand rubs each one

as if to touch
the skin of a ripened womb.
Along the grass,

her dress floats like cream
just separated from the fog;
and she kneels

thinking both season and girl
shine unblemished
in this orchard north
of the river and coal mines.
~Wendy Howe
32
Digging In
Suddenly I realize
that this is the last time
I will do certain things,
years before I expected.
Today, a new digging fork
to replace one with a broken handle
and tines bent moving too-heavy rocks,
one that lasted twenty-five years,
even when occasionally neglected and ill-used.
Am I going to be buying one

at seventy-six? Not likely.
My hope is to still be strong enough
to use this one a few hours each spring,
just to remember the smell of soil moist
from just-released frost,
to catch sight of worms moving
deeper into their burrows,
to pull a few feet of quackgrass roots intact
in the never-ending contest of the years.
But buy another digging fork?

No, probably not for me.
But for others, yes,
so they too can lift a forkful
of life and see how it coheres,
how the microscopic pieces hold together
even as it slides off the tines
and shatters on the ground.
~Russell Libby
33
Gardens
Having desired nothing,

Or very little, as the west wind
Sank homing into the sunset,
I thought of all that
Had not been thought of
Until that moment,
And in the gardens

All over the city
Little things were happening
That I haven't thought of still
And likely never shall,
Though not because one hasn't tried.
~Lewis Turco
34
Blue Himalayan Poppy
Your logic won’t impede me

this year--I’m ordering
a blue Himalayan poppy
which you say will surely die here
in sweaty Pennsylvania . What if
this blue Lazarus resurrects

to provide even a single blossom?
Sure, it would prefer living in
the Pacific Northwest . So would we,
but we can’t drop our jobs off
like a stork dropping a bundle

on Washington . So, I’m getting one,
and it’s final. Blue petal waves
will find our yard’s shoreline,
break and break all spring long.
~Kenneth Pobo
35
Amusement Park
You are lost in a faraway land

Of your own stupidity.
You want her to know it’s not about
Your erection.
It’s just middle age, that old
Roller coaster, the standing in line,
The waiting for a thrill
That comes ever more
Infrequently. The family
You never had. A boy, a little girl,
The nubile young wife.
Playing with them over and over
At the beach. Building
Sand castles with bits of broken shells
And sharp pieces of driftwood
Mixed into the parapets.
But you sit in the same old

Ferris wheel, watching another
Young girl
Take off her clothes, not really
Listening to you. It’s raining
But she had no umbrella
To shield her on the way
To your hotel room,
And her mascara is running
Down the long drop
Of her cheeks, smearing
The moment. You lie
There naked, your mountain
Falling and rising with the tide
Of your own anxiety, floating,
A butterfly in the air over a shrine
At a Japanese garden.
36
After a while she lifts her head

In a huff, says
“Is there anything special you want
Me to do?” but big boys
Don’t cry. Your mother
Told you that when she died.
She was … thirty-six, You
Were twelve, old enough
To know her laughter was all foam.
Old enough to know that sperm
On a bed sheet solves nothing.
You look down at the girl, her lovely
Scrawny ass swaying, hands grasping
At straws. And tears form,
But you left your umbrella
At home.
~T. Birch
37
Quiet as evening
Quiet as evening
slows the day
the mock orange fills the yard

with hundred foot circle of sweetness
hummingbird chooses pink of red clover blossoms
for day's last energy, not purple-red of weigela
scarlet tanager checks cherries for ripeness
small berry-seeds of serviceberry
draw a flock of cedar waxwings (which perch on the maple betwixt food)
flickers nesting in broken-top poplar

more flickers nesting in ancient maple stub
parents busy feeding
chattering continues after they're fed
quiet as evening slows the day
~Russell Libby
38
poetry by Michael Macklin, art by Jenny McGee Dougherty
How It Dawns On Us
The sun leaves its coat

in the closet,
stumbles to the door.
Outside, the smallest birds,

chickadees and sparrows
begin the heavy lifting,
tugging a reluctant day

over dark hills
past the fading stars.
The young light has no mittens,

rubs its palms until the wind
sings us from our rumpled beds.
Oh, tired eyes, open.

There is a blue here
who should not be
forgotten.
39
Michael Macklin, Jenny McGee Dougherty
Shopping for a Map
I think I am not
looking for god
only a place in me
where divine beginnings live.
In the crowded aisles

of a Kmart Saturday
I find myself
looking through plastic
containers with locking tops

for something large enough
to hold all my leftovers,
but find instead a child
busily opening and closing

Gladware, happy with the snapping
lids and a bowl of nothingness.
40
Eighty Acres
Lewie’s father bought the farm

to escape the clatter and slash
of city life, not that that was living.
The farm owned Lewie from the first

touch of crumbled earth, the first
morning mist kissing his forehead.
He fell into a love deeper

than the bogs in the northeast corner field.
He sweat days together
turning dirt into grasses, following cows

across the face of the pasture
that became his lover,
holding him
from sun up to moonrise,
singing him to sleep
filling him with the loamy smell of furrows

where he planted himself
again and again.
41
Before the Iron Age
It must have been

so quiet
that if you forget the honks
of migrating geese,
the collective sighs
of woods at wind-rise,
the snores of flea-infested
couples exhausted
after hunting and mating,
any of those living noises
that are not mind-shattering,
do not become an incessant din
of iron on iron or manifold screams
of belts and pulleys
that tear at our now
bleeding ears,
that leave no room
for the soothing voice
of the world, how softly she sang
before we entered.
Where is the small oak
chest containing those notes and silences
hidden so that we might
never forget? The cave that holds
them all?
42
Stealing the Names Before Dark
I participate in the good breathing of the world…

where tree and man mix. G. Bachelard
Outside Koberce, farms,

dark water under light snow,
fallen limbs on frozen rivers,
a narrow path along the water
.
Gray day colored by sweaters
stiff on their iced lines flashing
as if caught struggling to flee,
the small brick barn waiting quietly
for the whisper of the passing train.
Trebova huddled by the track,

a woman sweeps onto the train in fur.
Small orange lamps of the dining car
push feebly against the weight of clouds.
At the next station a man pulls a wooden cart.

Nothing is automatic here,
empty cars on the siding become grafitti galleries
for the night artists..
Near Opatov the day and the fields

widen, whiten toward the black pines
where blue bicycles shiver in their rusting racks,
the train barely slows.
Even the lonely highway moves

like a winding meditation toward Svitavy,
Brezova, Letovice, Bilovice,
Brno, Malomerice, Bratislava.
Small garden cottages line the strip

of land between the track and town
as though it were the final frontier,
the last truly green place before the concrete.
43
Vines hold solitary grapes in November.

Pears, apples, cherries, vatted and hidden
brandy themselves into winter.
Dark Slovakia, broad and open-faced

but for the orchards
and cypress-lined lanes to far off granaries
rising, dragging the small towns to their feet.
A black- winged hawk passes-

I do not know its name or recognize its plumage,
see only a dark flame in the sky-
hunger rising above the field.
44
Voice
From under the fallen churches,

the rubble of quaking towns,
From behind white crosses

at the high sides of sharp curves,
all the rows of stones under mothering oaks

and the featureless hummocks flowering
with prairie grasses, it comes.
Up from clanking wells of memory,

the upturned lips of craters,
from the shadows of former houses,

from the vapors of Hiroshima, it comes.
Out of the photos at Begunje,

between the eternal bars of Dachau,
all the plagues, wars, accidents,

incidental reports of local papers, it comes.
Though the howling has worn paper thin,

there is a whisper at the water’s edge,
mumbling behind locked doors,

an accumulation of ash-dusted voices
coming as a low, hollow chant

to lift me above this bloody, stone-bound world
into the star-splattered night. It is coming

to remind me how full my life is, how deep
the night becomes beyond the light

of flares and gunfire. The round mouth
of hope is opening. Listen.
45
Gift
Deep in the wood

a cellar hole,
tumbled stone.
An ancient lilac
with one blooming limb.
We could mourn
the lives that passed
through the fallen gate
or sit nearby on a sun-warmed stone
resting in silence and

the skitter of squirrels
among the spring-tender leaves
new to this place
as ourselves.
All of us rising like the sun

to greet the sentinel posts
then passing through
into some wide clearing
drawn to the growing light.
Place a small pebble at the post.

Praise the covering grasses.
Praise the permission of gates.
Praise the passing through.
Praise the turning world.
46
poetry by Bart Solarczyk & art by Ron Davis
If I Fell
If I fell into a poem

would you read down to the bottom
or abandon me half-stanza
as I break against each word
to tumble hard & fast

to bleed & still be lonely
when a nod, a simple yes
can give an oaf wings.
47
Bart Solarczyk, Ron Davis
Love Dreams A Dream
Sunrise scrambles me
cracks the shell & stirs
I lift like fog

& find you in my beard.
48
How We Come To Speak Poetry
Every beer, bud & cigarette

a part of the story
blood given & blood drawn

fantasies & sometimes sex
dreams counted on abandoned

an alphabet that lies
& salt we lick like beasts

to clean our tongues.
49
Walt Whitman's Watching
We sweat & we wipe

work the world's rhythm
sway with the grass & leaves
we drink the day's end

ignore the astronomer
gazing the stars in our cups
we speak what we will

across cyberspace
bold water, flesh & air
so snuggle up
take off your clothes
let me write a poem on you.
~first published in Lilliput Review
50
Pickled Tongue
It's a random universe

but something plopped us here
why wait for love

when an ugly kiss will do?
51
I Met This Poem
I met this poem

she had good dope
I bought the beer
we started in
I wrote her down
she said I had her all wrong
we hit it harder
nothing worked
someone had to go
a man dies anyway

but the right poem
is a shadow of forever.
~first published in Meat
52
Miracle On 14th Street
The sun broke

like a bloody egg
we watched through
pin prick eyes
Sister Peter saw

the Blessed Virgin
I saw everything
they didn't want me to.
53
With Soft Footprints
I was born
I grew big
in a space
that grew small
I kicked outside
& ran the dream
close enough
to bite
but we all get tired

the wheels fall off
so much works
to break us
now I'm shrinking

walking backwards
with soft footprints
almost home.
54
Featured Poets
Eve Anthony Hanninen is an American poet, writer, editor, and illustrator who resides
in the weather-lashed, Kaien Island harbor-town of Prince Rupert, BC, Canada. Her writing
often typifies her observations of how environment impacts human experience, and explores
the combined results in poetic form. Recent publications include 3 poems in the new
anthology edited by Lynn Strongin: Crazed by the Sun (2008); another appeared in Trim: The
Mannequin Envy Anthology (2007). Poems may be found in Sein und Werden (print and online),
Moondance, Wicked Alice, Origami Condom, Shit Creek Review, The Barefoot Muse, and The
HyperTexts, among numerous journals. A limited artist's-edition chapbook, as well as a
collection of poems under 15 lines are both in the works. Eve's latest bookjacket
illustrations adorn Ellaraine Lockie's Blue Ribbons at the County Fair, and Patrick Carrington's
Hard Blessings. Artwork was also contributed to Lana Ayers' Late Blooms Postcard Series. Eve
is Editor of The Centrifugal Eye Poetry Journal.
Mark Hartenbach battles intellectual confusion, existential malaise & clinical demons--
mostly to a standstill. he lives in a dying rust belt town along the Ohio river where barges
slice silently through the debris & trains wail in f minor.
Michael Macklin works as a carpenter to feed his body and as a poet to fee his soul.
He is an associate editor for The Café Review. He published his first chapbook, Driftland, with
Moon Pie Press and has had work in Animus, The Café Review, Rattle and other journals and
various anthologies. He holds an MFA from Vermont College. He is supported in his
writing by his wife, Donna, and his yellow dog, Murphy. There is no better lunch than a new
poem on rye with mayo.
Bart Solarczyk lives in Pittsburgh, PA with his wife, dog and three cats. He has been
publishing poetry in various small press mags & anthologies the past 26 years including eight
chapbooks. His most recent, Walt Whitman's Watching, is available at www.puddinghouse.com
or from him (mailto:bsolarczyk@comcast.net).
55
featured artists
Ron Davis is a native of Louisville Kentucky currently sharing a home with Toby Press
author, Crystal Wilkinson in "Historic Midway"—America's favorite one-traffic-light town.
He is a graphic designer by trade who applies those learned skills thru his craft as a visual
artist. He's designed chapbooks and cd covers for various artists and has exhibited in solo
and group showings in Cincinatti, Louisville, Lexington, Clarksville and other cities, having
received a merit award recognition at the African American art exhibit at Louisville's Actors’
Theatre. If you are interested in purchasing artwork or are in need of his graphic design
services, then contact him at upfromsumdirt@yahoo.com.
Jenny McGee Dougherty is a visual artist who has planted her roots in Portland,
Maine. She is fascinated by the displaced, decaying and disappointing elements of her
environment. Pieces of rusted metal, a neon fiber resting in the mute grass, the death of an
organism, her work investigates these subtle narratives. Within these narratives emerge traces
of traditional textile weaving patterns, Buddhist adornments, third world shanty towns and
urban landscapes. Her work calls attention to ideas of progression and its effect on an
environment or a people. You may see more of her work at jennymcgeed.com.
Jeff Filipski has been writing and painting for thirty-five years. Throughout this time
his work has appeared in several venues from the Jazz Poetry ensemble of E.B.M.A in
Buffalo New York, to independent small presses such as The Hold, Mipo, Oranges and Sardines.,
Thunder Sandwich, Impetus, Lucid moon, rank stranger, non compos mentos, pure light, Fubbles press, In
word out, and others. Some of his paintings have made it internationally. He is currently
Unemployed and defying foreclosure
Cheryl A. Townsend is a poet and avid photographer. She is the co-founder of the
Women’s Art Recognition Movement (W.A.R.M.) and keeps active in the local arts scene. In
her own work, she looks for the unseen, the overlooked and the ignored to evoke an
appreciation for the not-so-accepted beauty, be that a spent bloom, a rusty slab of metal or
the blur of one’s imagination. She hopes in doing so, trash will truly become treasures and
recycling/reusing the status quo.
56
cover artist
Pamela Perkins has spent her entire life working in the arts, primarily in
administration and marketing. An avid beachcomber, she has made many, many pieces of art
using materials found on the Maine and Massachusetts coastlines. In 2003, she was inspired
by a pile of old windows headed for the dump. Since then, she has concentrated on what she
calls "recycled glass collage," expanding her materials to include leftover shards of flat glass
and exploded blown glass from a local studio, among other found objects. She says her work
is about recycling, regeneration and renewal...presenting the public with a kind of history of
trash from several centuries. Although her work has been exhibited, and several pieces reside
in private collections, she is proudest of publicly installed work in healing environments.
One of her larger pieces resides in the Patient Education Room at the North Shore Cancer
Center in MA. She is delighted to be a part of the Spring 2009 issue of from east to west. If you
would like to contact her or join her mailing list, please email her at
pamela@pamelaperkins.net.
“garden” poets
T. Birch began writing poetry in 2001 after retiring from work due to a disability. Her
poems have been published online in various poetry journals over the past eight years,
including from east to west for which she is very grateful.
Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives with her life partner
and teenage stepdaughter in Southern California.
Lois P. Jones was raised in Chicago, IL, home of primo baseball and blues. She
discovered poetry in Geneva Switzerland in the very best way--from a Frenchman who
broke her heart. Her work has been published in Rose & Thorn, The California Quarterly,
Kyoto Journal, Prism Review and other print and on-line journals in the U.S. and abroad.
She is co-editor of A Chaos of Angels (Word Walker Press) with Alice Pero and a recent
documentarist of Argentina's wine industry. In 2008, she was the recipient of IBPC's first
prize honor judged by Fleda Brown. You can find her as co-host at Moonday's monthly
poetry reading in Pacific Palisades, California and hear her as guest host on 90.7 KPFK's
Poet's Cafe. She is the Associate Poetry Editor of Kyoto Journal.
57
“garden” poets
Neil C. Leach, Jr. began writing poetry October 6, 2002. Neil is 55 and has been
married to Denise most wonderfully for 28 years. While writing almost exclusively for his
own pleasure, Neil has written for/about Denise, his Mom, his Dad, his stepMom and
stepDad, his sons Marshall, Andrew and Darin, his friends at the PROJX, his friend PJ
Nights and his cats. The driving force behind Neil's writing and his hope for every potential
reader is "Have a good time. Write when you can ." Neil is retired and lives with Denise and
nine cats in sleepy Charlotte, North Carolina.
Russell Libby writes from Three Sisters Farm in Mount Vernon, Maine, where he's
been planting seeds for the past 25 years. His first book of poetry, Balance, A Late Pastoral,
was published by Blackberry Press in 2007.
Tom Moore lives in Brooksville, Maine. His poems have appeared in Worcester Review,
College English, Gob, and Ribbons. He has poems forthcoming in Wolf Moon Press Journal and
Bangor Metro. His essays have appeared recently in The Ellsworth American, The Bangor Daily
News, Maine Times, and NEATE's The Leaflet. He was a finalist in the 1975 Worcester Review
poetrycontest, and received an Honorable Mention in the 2009 Maine Writers Contest.
Kenneth Pobo had a new book of poems published in 2008 from WordTech Press
called Glass Garden . Also, his online chapbook, Crazy Cakes, was published and can be
accessed at scars.tv. Catch Ken's radio show, "Obscure Oldies," each Saturday from 6-8pm
EST at WDNR.com.
Bethan Townsend is 21 and plans to stay that way for the rest of her life. She is still
(unfortunately) a student but doesn't like to admit this and in an ideal world she'd be based
in Ireland writing for a living. Her favourite writers have been Allen Ginsberg and Dylan
Thomas for a very long time, but Charles Bukowski is rapidly catching up.
58
“garden” poets
Lewis Turco's most recent books are The Museum of Ordinary People and Other Stories,
published in the fall of 2008, and Satan’s Scourge: A Narrative of the Age of Witchcraft in England
and New England 1580-1697, May 2009, both published by http://www.StarCloudPress.com
of Scottsdale, Arizona. He lives in Dresden, Maine.
~Pamela Perkins
59

From East To West: Bicoastal Verse - Spring '09

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edited by PJ Nights and Ray Sweatman

naiveté kicked it up to even less sophisticated

meditation on the value of seemingly nothing

a rhythmic restoration is in the works

portrait of the artist making love to the red flower goddess

even thick mascara eyes give away true nature of goddesses

quarter moon plywood purgatory spooked

a rampaging ad infinitum not interested in shock value

as lucid as i’m capable of coughing up

portrait of the artist from ground control

i will not know my own death-gregory corso

intercepting signals i’m sure are meant for someone else

a poem which crashed before i could finish it

a freakish curiosity wheeled through the back door

a favorite song which skips in the same place every time

or at least it feels like the equivalent

memories are sometimes too democratic

an identical modus operandi

by a woman who swears she knows me

it’s not a pickup line, she honestly believes it

i would think i’d remember

she asks me if i’ll buy her a drink

if so, then shouldn’t it be on her dime

though i’m aware the cost

i could find myself in a place

though i’ll swear

an insatiable hunger for that which is open to all possibilities

a chicken bone mojo caught in my throat

a monkey wearing a tuxedo, draped in affluence

a hallelujah destructs without fear of restitution

there’s nothing in this stain glass to induce devotion

hanging above is a bubblegum card of the holy madonna

gathered together for what seems to be my benefit

Push it back from whence it came, that tiny urge

Push it back, quell its quavering face,

Farewell, Amergin, Hallo, Mabinogion

to the south, past maples in flame, where the grieved bard-poet

Lost several rolls of film

Lost—trembling Lindsey from Boston Aquarium

Burro’s Tails and Other Stigmas

Mr. Rupert writes about Time. Or is it Tim? Tim with a veneer

Time was, Tim was the joy of my flat, fingering

time was, I was aphrodisiac, their summer harvest,

Lummi Princess on Moses Lake

Late evenings after sun has eased

Still Life with Carrots and Balm

I buried my dear Calico

Neither shallots nor potatoes grow

Near the gate live still the tenacious few:

to strike soil rich again and ready

Oily drops spatter between cherry petals

You have closed the blinds

Well, that's it, I said, nothing

a poem for jack

did you know, we have no fireflies?

into the icy water of lake ontario in june

the fish, caught and

but here, the trees grow in whorls, twisted

this is a old tale, age

now brittle as the thinnest crystal glassware

now a candle burning out, still sputtering in protest, still hot

with melted wax. ~T. Birch