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 Poet
 
 
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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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.
 

 
amparoamoros
 
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.
 
 
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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.
 
 
 
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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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Marvin Gay is Dead. A Poem by John Kaniecki

 
 
Papers
Honorable discharge
Serial killers some serial rapers
Thanx for the fun sarge
Heroin pulsating
All the while hating
Everything about everything
And survival
Has no rival
Except those who persist
And reenlist
And if I didn’t give a damn
I would not be writing
I would not find it exciting
To lay my treasures at your feet
Delicate and sweet
My dear madam
Take your wars
Cold and hot
All your scores
Never forgot
Write them in a big black book
Bury them in Egypt or Saigon
Then dig em up to take a look
And see what’s going on
 
 

IMG_3276

 
My name is John Kaniecki, I have been published by Struggle Magazine, The Blue Collar Review, Burning Books, Jerry Jazz, IWW Newspaper, Protest Poems, Flute, Black Magnolia, Left Curve, She Mom, Whisper, Vox Poetica and others. Though political or moral in nature I write in various forms. My poems have appeared in over fifty outlets.
 
I have a chapbook of poetry published on Cavalcade of Stars. In addition I have a poetry book entitled ”
Murmurings of a Mad Man just out this September.
 
I have two stories published one in Struggle Magazine and the other in Cavalcade of Stars. I have a story The Sin of A.D.A.M. published by Witty Bard. I have a book of science fiction stories entitled ” Words of the Future” published by Witty Bard in.
 
My chapbook “The Second Coming of Victoria” was a quarter finalist in the Mary Ballard chapbook contest in 2014.
 
The artist I most admire is Woodie Guthrie because he lived what he wrote and what he wrote was wonderful.
 
I also recently won the Joe Hill Poetry Labor Prize where I read my poem Tea With Joe Hill, in front of a crowd of over six hundred people in Banning Park , Los Angeles .
 
I currently serve as secretary for Rhyming Poets International and I am a member of the Revolutionary Poet’s Brigade.
 

 
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Schizophrenic Love Fugue A Video Poem by Nordette Adams

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MrIz0LeEMo
 
 
nordette-n-adams-BAM
 
 
Nordette N. Adams is a published poet and published fiction writer. She grew up in New Orleans, moved away at 20, and returned in 2007. In 2013, at the invitation of then Louisiana’s State Poet Laureate Julie Kane, she participated in the reading “Just Listen to Yourself” at the Louisiana State Library. She is also a contributing editor at BlogHer.com. You may read more about her at writingjunkie.net/info
 
Producing poetry videos once in a while fulfills me in some way. I do it knowing that my poetry videos don’t draw a slew of hits (with the exception of Misery which did better than average for original poetry). Also,Break Up Notes Recovery . At the end of August I also produced a video of another poet’s work, “An Angel for New Orleans,” for the 9th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.
 
 
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A Pet of your Own. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
 
Stray dog on the straw wind –
Heaven & earth are ruthless,
 
Yelp, yelp –
Where’s your tag, tab & chip!
You’re not even an exile,
You’re banned,
Perhaps you’ll get rabies & infect us.
 
This is my seat, my place, my corner,
I’m here, I’ve got my coat & bag
Next, see, when you get on,
I’m next to the window.
 
Get back to your kennel, with a number on.
Running loose. So we know where you are.
Maybe someone will leash you in.
Leash you from the lash.
Going to make it to the hill!
Borders are patrolled here.
 
A few chickens in the backyards
On the way. No way.
Our helicopter’s sniper
Will take you out & kill, kill, kill.
 
Poor thing, looks about all in,
What a shame, that beggar
Down the road looks as if he’d eat it.
I wouldn’t be surprised,
Poor thing.
 
What, sit here?
The bus is full?
Really, Oh well, if you must,
You must.
Mutter, utter,
(My Space:) ((so small)).
 
Here we are, at least, aren’t we.
Pets, but a stray’s a stray.
It’s raining cats & dogs.
 
Straw dog on the stray wind.
& treats the myriad creatures as straw dogs.
 
(Lao Tzu)

 
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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.
 
 
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B.W. (Before Wireless) A Poem by Joseph Farley

 
 
The cycles of the moon
have been with us
since man first crawled
out of the trees.
 
 
Staring up through branches
or from the grasslands
our ancestors saw
a common glow,
a friendly face.
 
 
Poets and travelers
were and are
never far from home
so long as that satellite
hovered above.
 
 
Though it sends
no messages on its own
we can bounce thoughts
off of it.
 
 
Some of those feelings
and ideas have surfaced
in like minds in every age
without the need
of a cell phone.
 
 
There is no signal tonight.
Do not wait for my call.
Just look out the window,
and know I am thinking of you.

 
 
on the road 029
 
Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory from 1986 to 2010. Farley writes poetry, fiction, plays and essays. He also performs with Improv on Rye. His books and chapbooks include Suckers, For the Birds, Longing for the Mother Tongue, Waltz of the Meatballs, Her Eyes, and Crow of Night. His work has appeared recently in Bellview Park Pages, Bewildering Tales, Beyond Imagination, BlazeVOX, Crack the Spine, Danse Macabre, Concrete Meat Sheets, Thunder Sandwich, Horror Sleaze Trash, Schlock, T. Gene Davis Speculative Blog, US 1 Worksheets, Verse Wisconsin, Visions and Voices, Whole Beast Rag, Ygdrasil, Literary Hatchet, and the anthologies One Hell of a Christmas, Thirteen O’Clock Press, 2014, and Night Walkers, Thirteen O’Clock Press, 2014.
 
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Breakthrough 1. Ekphrastic Poem by Neil Ellman

(after the lithograph by Robert Rauschenberg)

Breakthrough-1

 

Penetrate the impenetrable.
Permeate the impermeable.
Breach the unbreachable.
Pry open the tight-fist grip of time
    and split the atom to its soul.
Break through to the other side
    where stars, grown dark,
    have left an empty space.
Puncture heaven itself
    and insinuate your dreams
    where none had ever been
then carve out a Zodiac with an image
    of yourself
    to lord it over the universe
    as if you can.

 

 

Neil Ellman jpg

Biography: Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey. More than 1000 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. His first full-length collection is Parallels: Selected Ekphrastic Poetry, 2009-2012 (Omphaloskeptic Press).

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The Best Tlacoyos in Chickasawhatchee. A Poem by R.W. Haynes

 
 
Back before he was extinct, I mean, of course,
The Great Common-Sense Woodpecker, bless his heart,
You could sit here on the porch, sober as a judge,
And watch pterodactyls chasing the bugs
Back and forth around the glowing moon.
 
Back then, that is, before it all went to hell,
That boy from Bacon County, what was his name?
His daddy drove a log truck, it finally caught fire
And burned down the Primitive Baptist Church,
But the pastor’s German Shepherd barked in time,
And they saved the parsonage. I’ll remember his name,
The boy’s, not the German Shepherd’s, here in a little,
But anyhow, he played the mandolin, not the dog,
Of course, but the kid from Bacon, pretty well,
And he’d park his butt on the steps and play old songs,
“Pretty Polly,” “Darlin’ Corey,” and “Watch Out, Young Ladies,”
And Grandmama, who did watch out pretty well
When she was young, according to her, anyhow,
Would tap her foot as if arthritis was a song.
 
And up in the sky, the constellations danced,
And passenger pigeons flowed across forever,
And old songs fused together like aqueducts,
Washing all the grief away that any of us ever had.

 
 
 
On the Savannah River 2013
 
 
 
R. W. Haynes has taught literature at Texas A&M International University since 1992. His recent interests include the early British sonnet, and he is completing a second book on the Texas playwright and screenwriter Horton Foote (1916-2009). In his poetry, Haynes seeks to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness without sounding any more dissonant notes than he has to. In fiction, he works toward grasping that part of the past which made its mark on his generation. He enjoys teaching drama, especially the Greeks, Ibsen, and Shakespeare, and he devoutly hopes for a stunning literary Renaissance in South Texas.
 
 
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