It might be dirty, bloody and wounded,
but at least its honest
at the end of the day
after working in the graveyard
to bury all the bones
that the others so quickly forget.
It might be scarred, numb and broken,
but at least it sleeps soundly
for a few hours after midnight
once the dirt is piled back
atop the six foot hole
that the worms will soon be swarming.
It might never have a lover,
it might never smile at a sunset,
it might never taste of passion,
but at least it gets the job done
no matter the conditions,
doing what no one else is willing,
it’s only reward the ash and dust.
Scott Thomas Outlar lives a simple life in the suburbs, spending the days flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River, marveling at the intricacies of life’s existential nature, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Siren, Section 8, Midnight Lane Boutique, Dead Snakes, Mad Swirl, and Dissident Voice. His debut chapbook “A Black Wave Cometh” is forthcoming from Dink Press. More of Scott’s writing can be found at 17numa.wordpress.com.
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A Poem is a Useless Thing. A Poem by Ian Irvine (Hobson)
A poem is a fragile thing like a life — so ephemeral, so moved by the random laws of the cosmos the elements, gravity ... A poem is a useless thing, like a wasted life — all its meaning in the living, the rending, the interpreting. Begins and ends with the blinkers of the observer. A poem is but a small fragment of a larger thing, obscured in the making (like tonight’s mountain moon) by clouds and drizzle. Writing a poem may seem pointless Who will read it? Who will understand it? It disperses to the elements even in the writing even in the sounding We do it regardless — a gesture in search of a purpose.
Ian Irvine is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer:
His work has featured in many Australian and international publications, including Fire (UK) ‘Anthology of 20th Century and Contemporary Poets,’ (2008) which contained the work of poets from over 60 nations. His work has also appeared in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies, and he is the author of three books and co-editor of many more (including Scintillae 2012, an anthology of work by over 50 Victorian and international writers and poets). He currently teaches writing and literature at Bendigo TAFE and Victoria University (Melbourne) and lives with fellow writer Sue King-Smith and their children on a 5 acre block near Bendigo, Australia.
Links related to his work are as follows:
http://authorsden.com/ianirvine
http://www.scribd.com/IanHobson
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Lament of Maria Maresciallo at the funeral of Veronica Franco. A Poem By Marie Marshall
I recall our hand-signs in carnival,
the silver rings on your white gloves,
your fingers making to me –
you are daytime, Wooden Mary,
these are evening and small hours.
That was your name for me, and with it
you hurled stones and rotten fruit
when our friendship became tedious;
but at other times you rested your head
against my shoulder and sighed,
often a lover’s name, a Saint’s name,
but still it was I who felt your sacred breath,
its scented play on my cheek.
Tintoretto and Titian worshipped you, you know,
and your lover the Saint, he adored you;
but I was your sister, the only initiate of Berenice,
I wandered your depth and breadth, nave and aisle,
danced in your wake, walking on water by your magic,
swam in your subtle flow, submerged, miraculous;
I traced the letters of A M O R E in the air
while you were lost and looking away, inspired,
made kisses inside my mask, daydreamed of you.
A single balotina, a single mourner,
her hand resting on your coffin
where the wreck of your beauty is caught,
I look around, above – the planes still fly,
the vaporetto is full of Japanese,
the world somehow has not stopped,
and under my breath I say:
Ite, pensier fallaci e vana spene… *
Your house has fallen, the Ca’ Franco overthrown,
in secret it has crumbled away, it is dust,
forgotten, your pages have been torn from you,
ripped from your gold-chased spine,
the book of your life is defaced;
be written on me still, Veronica –
while I live let them read you in my plain face,
all the words of love, the true looks,
the eyes behind the mask, verità;
and when a flourish sets the fine to me,
let me close and lie beside you,
book to neglected book, closer in this finality
than we have been in life.
* Editor’s Note: Leave me, foolish ideas and useless hopes
attributed to the sonnet of Veronica Franco/or Veronica Gambara.
Marie Marshall is an Anglo-Scottish author, poet and editor. Her first collection of poems, Naked in the Sea, was published in 2010 and reviewed in Sonnetto Poesia that same year, and her second collection, I am not a fish, in 2013. Since 2005 she has published over two hundred poems, mainly in magazines and anthologies, but the most extraordinary places in which a poem of hers has appeared include on the wall of a café in Wales, and etched into an African drum at the New Orleans Museum of Art. Her first novel, Lupa, was published in 2012. She is well-known in Scotland for her macabre short stories. Her web site can be found at mairibheag.com. Of writing poetry and sonnets she says, “I did not start writing until 2004, so I am very much a twenty-first century writer. I write anything, any kind of poetry that I feel the urge to tackle ― sonnets included.”
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Light Somewhere. A Poem by Ben Nardolilli.
Beauty is unfortunately beauty
And beauty is unfortunately everywhere,
In the marches, the parades,
The uniforms, and the way flags blow,
In the barbs of wire set out
Against mountain landscapes,
The orderly rows of stone crosses,
But worse is beauty and the sublime mixing
To show up together wearing horrors
Stitched into their skins,
Hiding under the gunfire music,
Or the impressionist clouds,
It can emerge in the delicate hands
Of concentration camp children,
Frail palms combined in black and white
To form the shape of a heart,
The mix will not come here so easily,
Out to these belts in and around the cities,
It will not settle on top of the stores
Blocked together in neon and cement,
Here everything is practical,
Efficiently wasted and exhausted,
No song comes out the car horn,
No poetry comes out the nearby speakers,
But sometimes the pair can thrive here,
And not just framed in a gallery,
They might settle down beside the corpse
Of a suicide completed after a fall
From an observation deck to a car roof,
Leaving a face at rest in a sea of twisted metal.
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine,Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, THEMA, Pear Noir, The MinettaReview, and Yes Poetry. He has a chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, from Folded Word Press. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel. Thanks for reading,
Adventures of the Dialectic. A Poem by Frederick Pollack
While you sit at a blank page or screen
for hours, brain-dead, something
madly inspired is filling
that whiteness and more. You may be
its hero, your impasse its theme
or only mentioned in acknowledgements;
but rest assured, its work
is brilliant. While you’re dancing
(in one of those scenes I don’t believe in,
having only seen them on television:
flared armpits, flying sweat, the desire
to be a machine and break),
the dialectic is lying
on an unwholesome couch
that subtly fills the sky, your whole era
trying by any means to stop it moaning.
A peasant girl favored,
migrating to the city, by employment
in sex or electronics may perceive,
handling parts, a fine curve linking
them with earlier dung, her secret
sigh a word the future mispronounces.
(Meanwhile the hobbits reveal
their secret plan, their true malignancy,
riding orcs into battle.)
Cleverness grows with time. Now
I’m clever enough not to buy
“the individual” from discount racks,
or anywhere. After several bad hours
you walk out
into context. But context leaves a void,
around which it disposes
cars, humidity,
disordered passing kids, other props and prompts,
the rising seas, fractured storyline.
One only fails into some greater triumph.
You might end there. Not.
Author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS, both published by Story Line Press. A collection of shorter poems, A POVERTY OF WORDS, forthcoming in 2015 from Prolific Press. Has appeared in Hudson Review, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Die Gazette (Munich), The Fish Anthology (Ireland), Representations, Magma (UK), Iota (UK), Bateau, Fulcrum, etc. Online, poems have appeared in Big Bridge, Hamilton Stone Review, Diagram, BlazeVox, The New Hampshire Review, Mudlark, Occupoetry, Faircloth Review, Triggerfish, etc. Adjunct professor creative writing George Washington University.
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Adobe Motel. A Poem by Mitchel Krockmalnik Grabois
Each room number
in this adobe motel
has a symbol
Our room number
107
has a yellow quarter-moon beside it
and some black stars
Next door
the number106
is pierced by lightning bolts
My wife and I spend a quiet night
snuggling
and watching evangelical TV for its comedic value
It is far funnier than Comedy Central
Many of the jokes are stale
but not as stale as Leno and Letterman
while the neighbors in
106
scream at each other
as if there was never anything in the world that they hated more
than each other
The next night they begin again
My wife and I look at each other
Without saying anything
we nod in agreement
I knock on their door
at first quietly
then more vehemently
as if I were a cop
and had the right
The husband comes to the door
wearing a wife-beater
a tattoo of a marijuana leaf on his left shoulder
Who the fuck are you? he asks
I motion with my head. I’m next door, I say
TV too loud for ya, he asks, in a threatening voice
I can hear perfectly well—there’s no TV, only him and his wife
I hear her grumbling
as if angry at their being interrupted
My wife and I, I say,
were wondering if you’d like to change rooms
He looks at me, suspicious. Do you have a fridge, he asks
A little one. A hotel fridge
Does it work?
Yeah.
I know because my wife had put some cuties—little tangerines—in there to keep cool
Ours is broke, he says, I hate warm beer
So we switch rooms
As soon as we get in, my wife and I
feel our tempers rise
It’s not a Stephen King thing
a cursed car, a cursed hotel
we’re just ready to let go
to get in the spirit of
America
the intersection of madness and violence
The previous couple
had left an old metal cowbell on the bed
I’m thinking, a cowbell?
as my wife picks it up and hurls it at me
I don’t know if she’s trying to hit me
or is just performing a symbolic act
but in any case I duck
and it misses
and smashes into the wall
the wall our room shares with 107
our former room
We hear the couple stop making love
They’re noisy fuckers and when they suddenly stop
I hear the Sounds of Silence
as Paul Simon put it
I was trained in the Israeli martial art Krav Maga
the deadliest fighting form ever invented
The last time I used it was when I was in the Israeli army
when I was eighteen though twenty
I killed two Palestinians
When I got out of the army I decided not to immigrate to Israel after all
even though I had been so enthusiastic after the 1967 War
which occurred when I was still in high school
Facing my wife, her hands free of cowbells or other weapons
I feel the old Krav Maga training churning through my muscles
My wife looks around for something else to throw
She decides on the TV but it’s bolted to the table
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois’ poems and fictions have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He is a regular contributor to The Prague Revue, and has been thrice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for 99 cents from Kindle and Nook or as a Print Edition
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When You Were There. An Audio Video Poem by Sara L Russell
Sara Louise Russell, aka PinkyAndrexa, is a UK poet and poetry ezine editor, specialising particularly in sonnets, lyric-style poetry and occasionally writing in more modern styles. She founded Poetry Life & Times and edited it from 1998 to 2006, when she handed it over to Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide; Robin now runs it as Editor from Poetry Life & Times. She is currently founder and Editor of the daily paper.li journal, Poetry Lifetimes ; which is a sister publication to Poetry Life & Times. Her poems and sonnets have been published in many paper and online publications including Sonnetto Poesia, Mindful of Poetry and Autumn Leaves a monthly Poetry ezine from the late Sondra Ball. Her sonnets also currently appear in the recently published anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. She is also one of the first poets ever to be published on multimedia CD ROMs, published by Kedco Studios Inc.; the first one being “Pinky’s Little Book of Shadows”, which was featured by the UK’s national newspaper The Daily Mirror, in October 1999. (Picture link for Mirror article)Angel Fire
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Creatures of Joy . A Poem by Amparo Amoros. Translated by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide
This work comprises in an excerpt from the anthology on contemporary Spanish female poets entitled Las Diosas Blancas. Madrid, 1985. Copyright Ed. Ramon Buenaventura. Hiperion. This is an original and unpublished English version of the original poem written in Spanish. Translators Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide would like to thank Casa del Traductor, in Tarazona and the British Literary Translation Association, East Anglia University Campus.
From this Spanish anthology –compiled by the well-known scholar and translator Mr. Ramón Buenaventura, whom we contacted earlier– a few selected authors were chosen for our joint translation work: Amalia Iglesias: Te buscare para decirte (I Will Find You To Tell You) ,Ana Rossetti: Triunfo de Artemis sobre Volupta (Triumph Of Artemis Over Volupta) and Isolda (Isolda) , Blanca Andreu: Para Olga (For Olga) , Isla Correyero: Los Pajaros (Small Birds), Amparo Amoros: Midas (Midas) and Criaturas del gozo (Creatures Of Joy) , Rosalia Vallejo: Horno en llamarada (A Furnace In Flames) , Maria del Carmen Pallares: Sisargas (Sisargas), Margarita Arroyo: Era el mar lejos del mar ( It Was Sea Away From Sea).
We would like to thank Mr. Ramón Buenaventura and the above name poets, in advance, and let them rest assured that their work is protected by a legal Creative Commons Licence, by virtue of which the above named translators are willing to provide excerpts from their original translation work, provided that readers agree to use it under the terms of such licence. We strongly recommend reading the entire work and the poets’, who have continued evolving during these decades.
To Edith Zipperich & Antoni Marí.
It would be useless for us to wonder
why the summer joined us as a nest
of woven hair between its bright hands
to decipher the emblem of the name
over fields of wheat,
to open in branches
to the wakes of chance,
or the fated date,
which summoned us there
or by whom.
To know? What for?
To feel, know and no more!
Everything still lives
and is sufficient now
because the skin of this truth
makes the word and time translucent.
The dovecote. The island. A bonfire of honey
where only we listened to the murmur of the light.
Like that morning
seeping through the earth today was music
its white aroma canvass in the arc
of memory
that recognizes an identical space
yet distinct
in which dwelt the miracle:
here grew an ivy
veins of surprises,
the bay a burst
in a clamor of quartz
and the still pool grew
yellow flowers.
Now, we will never die.
In spite of the pain we will never die.
Even though surrender is a flight
of full hands and nimble feet
and even though the world scarcely lasts
the absolute caress
of transparently winged truth.
How sad temporal chords of perfection!
But listen to the voice
born discarded
in the cave:
we cross its moss green lips
and descend laughing into its dark spring
of desolation.
Destiny left the door half-open
and we learnt from its hinge
the rusted song of complaint:
rags of charity initiated us.
But outside, the buzz of burning crickets calling us,
sunflowers unanimously crackled
like a diaphanous chorus of splinters
and an amber bird
suddenly crossed the sky.
We were simply creatures of joy
freed of pain for an instant,
not intact, but unharmed
from so many occurrences,
full and surrendered
to the flame which momentarily sates
shortage of excess,
to the branch which wreathes the crown of joy,
and warm dates smiled upon by evening’s
apron splashed with handfuls of water,
in the fresh innocence
of what has spilt its measure
and brimming overflows
by the grace of this truce,
which at times life gifts us:
to be and to be us, merely
and to be everything
to justify the universe.
AUTORA: AMPARO AMORÓS
TíTULO: CRIATURAS DEL GOZO
A Edith Zipperich y Antoni Marí
Fuera inútil ahora preguntarnos
por qué el estío nos reunió entre sus manos claras
como cabellos que trenzaran un nido,
descifrar el emblema del nombre sobre campo
de trigos,
abrir en gajos
las estelas del azar
o la cita acordada
y ¿por quién?
que allí nos convocaba.
¿Conocer? ¿Para qué?
Sentir, saber, y basta.
Todo está vivo aún
y es suficiente
porque vuelve palabra
la piel de esta certeza
y traslúcido el tiempo.
El palomar. La isla. Una hoguera de miel
donde sólo escuchábamos el rumor de la luz.
Como aquella mañana
hoy trasmina la tierra y era música
su blanco aroma a lienzos en el arca
de la memoria
que reconoce idéntico el espacio
y tan distinto
en que habitó el milagro:
aquí creció una yedra
de venas asombradas,
estalló la ensenadaa
en un clamor de cuarzos
y el remanso crujió
de flores amarillas.
Ya nunca moriremos.
A pesar del dolor ya nunca moriremos.
Aunque es la entrega huida
de manos llenas y de pies ligeros
y apenas dura un mundo
la caricia total con que nos roza
como ala transparente la verdad.
¡Qué triste es el acorde fugaz de lo perfecto!
Pero escucha la voz
que nacía empozada
de la cueva:
franqueamos sus labios de verdines musgosos
y bajamos riendo al manantial oscuro
de la desolación.
Entreabría el destino la puerta
y aprendimos en su bisagra
el oxidado canto de la queja.
Pliegues de caridad nos iniciaban.
Pero afuera, cigarras calcinadas llamándonos a gritos,
crepitaban unánimes todos los girasoles
como un coro diáfano de astillas
y un pájaro de ámbar
cruzó de pronto el cielo.
Éramos puramente criaturas del gozo
a salvo del dolor por un instante,
no intactos, sino indemnes
porque al regreso ya de tantas cosas,
entregados y plenos
a la tea que sacia momentánea
la escasez del exceso,
a la rama estañada que corona de dicha,
a los dátiles tibios que sonríe la tarde
con el mandil cuajado de manojos de agua,
en la fresca inocencia
de lo que ha derramado su medida
y grávido, rebasa y se concede
por gracia de esa tregua
con que a veces la vida nos regala:
ser y sernos tan sólo
y serlo todo
para justificar el universo.
Amparo Amorós was born in Valencia, Spain, in 1950.She has published articles and poems in literary magazines such as Insula, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, Cuadernos del Norte, Litoral, El País, La Vanguardia and others. She was awarded an accesit to the Adonais Literary Prize in 1982, for her poetry book Ludia (1983). Other published books include Al rumor de la luz (1985), La honda travesía del águila (1986), El cálculo de la derrota, La cicatriz del agua, Quevediana (1988), Visión y destino, poesía 1982-1992 (1993), Árboles en la música (1995) and Las moradas (2000) as well as her essay La palabra del silencio (la función del silencio en la poesía española a partir de 1969) (1991).Her books have been translated into several languages.
Robin Ouzman Hislop Editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at Poetry Life and Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at The Poetic Bond and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine from 2008-2012
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