Sunday, November 1, 2009
Editor's Note:
Welcome to Issue Thirty Four of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my child likes tomatoes in its Serengeti spaghetti and hates hip-hop hula-hops. It craves shoehorn gravy in its plaster of Paris and makes cute little sounds when the valve hisses hailstones of fruit loop licorice. Baby has an uncanny ability to husk cornflakes then add a tablespoon of sugar. We both like hic-cup cough drops in our stamp collection. Issue This issue rings both our bells. It is filled with hybrid needles and jars of mustard greens in the art. Add to that, a group of sword-swallowing poets, intriguing woodwind toenails and a template book review and you've got the possibility of a perfect cork screw. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll long to bed down with a health-care reformer. Or bed bugs. Either way, this issue will make you itch. So forget about online degrees and get busy...
Welcome to Issue Thirty Four of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my child likes tomatoes in its Serengeti spaghetti and hates hip-hop hula-hops. It craves shoehorn gravy in its plaster of Paris and makes cute little sounds when the valve hisses hailstones of fruit loop licorice. Baby has an uncanny ability to husk cornflakes then add a tablespoon of sugar. We both like hic-cup cough drops in our stamp collection. Issue This issue rings both our bells. It is filled with hybrid needles and jars of mustard greens in the art. Add to that, a group of sword-swallowing poets, intriguing woodwind toenails and a template book review and you've got the possibility of a perfect cork screw. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll long to bed down with a health-care reformer. Or bed bugs. Either way, this issue will make you itch. So forget about online degrees and get busy...
CSR: Issue 34 Contents/Contributors
Michael Estabrook
Fiona Wright
Gordon Purkis
Sam Agnew
Rachelle Arlin Credo
Vince Gullaci
Simon Perchik
About Art - Driftwood
Colleen Wallace Nungari
About Books
About Music - Les Nubians
Anne Lombardo-Ardolino
Emily Kendal Frey
Contributors Biographies
Michael Estabrook
Fiona Wright
Gordon Purkis
Sam Agnew
Rachelle Arlin Credo
Vince Gullaci
Simon Perchik
About Art - Driftwood
Colleen Wallace Nungari
About Books
About Music - Les Nubians
Anne Lombardo-Ardolino
Emily Kendal Frey
Contributors Biographies
Michael Estabrook
My Wife Bailing the Garage During Hurricane Hanna
Standing in the pouring rain,
in Robin’s soaked-through soccer jacket
and her own loose-fitting beige slacks
and black sandals, soaking wet,
her new short hair-do dripping, pasted
to her head. She bends over
scoops up some water in her bucket,
pours it into the larger trash barrel.
Then we drag it up
to the street and dump it over.
She stands for a moment,
her face in profile, strong and shining,
slippery from all the water,
hands on her hips, like her mom used to stand,
catching her breath, before heading
back down the driveway to repeat
the process. “I’m so sorry
you have to do this, Honey,” I say to her.
“Well, we’re in this together,”
she responds. Yes, I suppose so,
but I hate her having to do
such heavy labor,
hate her standing there soaking wet
in the rain, clothes sticking to her
as if they were sprayed onto her lush body,
her face all wet and shimmering,
shining in the moonlight.
My Wife Walking in Her Black Dress
She’s walking with her friend
ahead of me, shopping,
going in and out of quaint shops
and little stores.
Her soft black dress swirls
in endless motion around
her smooth white legs
like the tide lapping
pretty peaceful pilings
along the shoreline.
The soft silky material
follows her legs
in perfect uniform motions,
in unison with her motions,
like shadows around the stars
at night, enraptured
as my eyes are too,
completely mesmerized
by the beautiful synchronicity
of the thin black fabric flowing
with her legs, trying
to keep up with her legs
as she walks and stops, stands still
and walks again,
the material easing forward
then back again in perfect
rhythm with my heart.
Such a happy dress, I think,
to be so completely enwrapped
around my wife’s beautiful legs.
My Wife Kissing Me on New Year’s Eve, 1968
Her long, shiny-brown hair,
her river of hair, parts
at the shoulder of
her sleeveless red dress
(like the parting of the Red Sea ),
her arms reach up around my neck,
one hand clasped calmly,
so naturally, over the wrist
of her other hand,
holding me in close,
pressing her slender,
sure body against me,
her back slightly arched.
Her mouth, her beautiful
pure, sweet mouth
is attached to mine,
so comfortably,
as if it belongs there,
was made to be there.
Her eyes are closed,
as they always are
when she kisses me,
but she certainly knows
what she is doing, providing
me another perfect kiss, soft
as a summer cloud, sweet
as a new spring day in May.
My Wife Doing her Fingernails
After rubbing polish remover
over her nails with a paper towel,
she pokes and digs at her cuticles
with a thin, silvery cuticle remover.
Concentration strains at her brow
as she pokes and scrapes,
then holds her hand
under the light for a better look
before poking and scraping again.
She doesn’t talk. She’s not watching TV.
She doesn’t notice me staring at her,
jotting down my observations
of her leaning forward intensely,
the tip of her pretty, sweet, pink tongue
peaking slightly out from between her lips.
She’s a delicate white dove preening herself
at the end of a long and windy flight.
“This is too dark,” she declares abruptly,
holding her hands with their new
shiny, cranberry-colored nails up for me to see.
Before I can respond she pours
more polish remover onto
the paper towel and begins rubbing
her nails again, oblivious to me
even being in the room with her.
My Wife Buying Shoes
Her arms are crossed
across her chest,
fingers rubbing her chin.
“This shoe looks too narrow
for my foot,” she declares,
holding a shiny sandal-like shoe
out at arm’s length.
“I don’t think so,” says the clerk.
“OK, I’ll try it,” she says.
And it fits rather perfectly,
two bow-like straps holding
a classy little shoe onto her foot.
She tries another style,
but rather than her entire foot
out there open for the world to see,
only one toe peeks out.
“Honey, you shouldn’t hide
your pretty foot inside
that shoe,” I say.
The clerk sighs,
“I’m glad you said that,”
he says, looking on a little sheepishly.
“The first one you tried on
is very sexy on your foot.”
And yes, yes that is the best word.
Her shapely little foot makes
that shoe look very sexy indeed.
My Wife Bailing the Garage During Hurricane Hanna
Standing in the pouring rain,
in Robin’s soaked-through soccer jacket
and her own loose-fitting beige slacks
and black sandals, soaking wet,
her new short hair-do dripping, pasted
to her head. She bends over
scoops up some water in her bucket,
pours it into the larger trash barrel.
Then we drag it up
to the street and dump it over.
She stands for a moment,
her face in profile, strong and shining,
slippery from all the water,
hands on her hips, like her mom used to stand,
catching her breath, before heading
back down the driveway to repeat
the process. “I’m so sorry
you have to do this, Honey,” I say to her.
“Well, we’re in this together,”
she responds. Yes, I suppose so,
but I hate her having to do
such heavy labor,
hate her standing there soaking wet
in the rain, clothes sticking to her
as if they were sprayed onto her lush body,
her face all wet and shimmering,
shining in the moonlight.
My Wife Walking in Her Black Dress
She’s walking with her friend
ahead of me, shopping,
going in and out of quaint shops
and little stores.
Her soft black dress swirls
in endless motion around
her smooth white legs
like the tide lapping
pretty peaceful pilings
along the shoreline.
The soft silky material
follows her legs
in perfect uniform motions,
in unison with her motions,
like shadows around the stars
at night, enraptured
as my eyes are too,
completely mesmerized
by the beautiful synchronicity
of the thin black fabric flowing
with her legs, trying
to keep up with her legs
as she walks and stops, stands still
and walks again,
the material easing forward
then back again in perfect
rhythm with my heart.
Such a happy dress, I think,
to be so completely enwrapped
around my wife’s beautiful legs.
My Wife Kissing Me on New Year’s Eve, 1968
Her long, shiny-brown hair,
her river of hair, parts
at the shoulder of
her sleeveless red dress
(like the parting of the Red Sea ),
her arms reach up around my neck,
one hand clasped calmly,
so naturally, over the wrist
of her other hand,
holding me in close,
pressing her slender,
sure body against me,
her back slightly arched.
Her mouth, her beautiful
pure, sweet mouth
is attached to mine,
so comfortably,
as if it belongs there,
was made to be there.
Her eyes are closed,
as they always are
when she kisses me,
but she certainly knows
what she is doing, providing
me another perfect kiss, soft
as a summer cloud, sweet
as a new spring day in May.
My Wife Doing her Fingernails
After rubbing polish remover
over her nails with a paper towel,
she pokes and digs at her cuticles
with a thin, silvery cuticle remover.
Concentration strains at her brow
as she pokes and scrapes,
then holds her hand
under the light for a better look
before poking and scraping again.
She doesn’t talk. She’s not watching TV.
She doesn’t notice me staring at her,
jotting down my observations
of her leaning forward intensely,
the tip of her pretty, sweet, pink tongue
peaking slightly out from between her lips.
She’s a delicate white dove preening herself
at the end of a long and windy flight.
“This is too dark,” she declares abruptly,
holding her hands with their new
shiny, cranberry-colored nails up for me to see.
Before I can respond she pours
more polish remover onto
the paper towel and begins rubbing
her nails again, oblivious to me
even being in the room with her.
My Wife Buying Shoes
Her arms are crossed
across her chest,
fingers rubbing her chin.
“This shoe looks too narrow
for my foot,” she declares,
holding a shiny sandal-like shoe
out at arm’s length.
“I don’t think so,” says the clerk.
“OK, I’ll try it,” she says.
And it fits rather perfectly,
two bow-like straps holding
a classy little shoe onto her foot.
She tries another style,
but rather than her entire foot
out there open for the world to see,
only one toe peeks out.
“Honey, you shouldn’t hide
your pretty foot inside
that shoe,” I say.
The clerk sighs,
“I’m glad you said that,”
he says, looking on a little sheepishly.
“The first one you tried on
is very sexy on your foot.”
And yes, yes that is the best word.
Her shapely little foot makes
that shoe look very sexy indeed.
Fiona Wright
The Driver
Oh, he can’t speak English
Mrs says when I ask for his name.
I wake to
his stiff sweeping, the white gravel garden
bared to the first sun. Loudhailers writhe
with morning prayers,
the taximen blessed
over the smokesong of their engines.
He pulls her aging BMW
through cowsome backstreets,
the corrugations of fences
barely squeezing past side mirrors,
Cliff Richard crooning through her tapedeck.
His questions fall soft, and askance.
The afternoon heat,
he busies in the garden, burning
rubbish, painting windowsills,
resetting shards of glass along the wall.
Sometimes, I see his gaze absent
through the slatted windows
of the main house,
where Mrs moves her dark outline
from kitchen, to table, to easy chair,
the ceiling fan
struggling at the waist-line frill
of her ossariya.
Crossing
First, the dust cross-pollinates.
Guards in saggy khaki scratch
their noses, phlegm-spit
before their stamps rubber
onto our watermarked papers.
The road is thick. Wads of paper money.
Laundry bags,
and swift exchanges,
the litter of planky rickshaws
and the speeding limbs of cobble-chested boys.
They drag past crates of cigarettes, munitions
and pickled pythons, their bulb-like elders
broadly beam and sweep their hands
at pink casinos.
Ribby women swagger under gemstones
and rub their tongues over their teeth:
Perhaps there is no law but human enterprise, the
thick illicit and a price for everything.
Fruit Market
Vast bald marrows, frilled mushrooms
make us marsupial. We scamper,
the greens hustling from the woodwork.
Wheeled baskets stalk. Their leathery muscle
snaps at careless ankles.
The whiplash of green bins, cornsilks
and macheted heads of cabbages, we duck
and weave our way, as the small teeth
of asparagus grate.
Knobbled and gossiping fingers
pull at thin bean strings. The backpacks
are bulbous, sometimes sprouting.
The crate-jawed men compere, their howls
reverberate and crash against the foliage:
one dollar one dollar cheapest
cheapest cheapest
try sweet lady, sweet sweet
sweet pear, try before you buy
The smell of fish curls on the edges.
We gather, alertly herbivorous
and chew on cherry tomatoes.
The seeds burst like blood in our mouths.
-three poems all previously published at Mascara Literary Review
747
I've heard that air hostesses
get paid cosmetic leave
if their skin becomes contentious
and the resulting pustuled pimples
can't be magically made over
with a blob of black eyeliner
into a beauty spot.
The march, pink-lipped, high-heeled, dry-cleaned
down the narrow aisles
and I can't help but think of a cloned army,
robotic, ice-maiden cold, and deadly
advancing behind their drink-cart artillery
ready to clobber any caught
smoking in the shoebox toilets.
Their incessant battle cry echoes and amplifies:
"Chicken or beef?"
"Chicken or beef?"
"Chicken or beef?"
-previously published at The Red Room Company
The Driver
Oh, he can’t speak English
Mrs says when I ask for his name.
I wake to
his stiff sweeping, the white gravel garden
bared to the first sun. Loudhailers writhe
with morning prayers,
the taximen blessed
over the smokesong of their engines.
He pulls her aging BMW
through cowsome backstreets,
the corrugations of fences
barely squeezing past side mirrors,
Cliff Richard crooning through her tapedeck.
His questions fall soft, and askance.
The afternoon heat,
he busies in the garden, burning
rubbish, painting windowsills,
resetting shards of glass along the wall.
Sometimes, I see his gaze absent
through the slatted windows
of the main house,
where Mrs moves her dark outline
from kitchen, to table, to easy chair,
the ceiling fan
struggling at the waist-line frill
of her ossariya.
Crossing
First, the dust cross-pollinates.
Guards in saggy khaki scratch
their noses, phlegm-spit
before their stamps rubber
onto our watermarked papers.
The road is thick. Wads of paper money.
Laundry bags,
and swift exchanges,
the litter of planky rickshaws
and the speeding limbs of cobble-chested boys.
They drag past crates of cigarettes, munitions
and pickled pythons, their bulb-like elders
broadly beam and sweep their hands
at pink casinos.
Ribby women swagger under gemstones
and rub their tongues over their teeth:
Perhaps there is no law but human enterprise, the
thick illicit and a price for everything.
Fruit Market
Vast bald marrows, frilled mushrooms
make us marsupial. We scamper,
the greens hustling from the woodwork.
Wheeled baskets stalk. Their leathery muscle
snaps at careless ankles.
The whiplash of green bins, cornsilks
and macheted heads of cabbages, we duck
and weave our way, as the small teeth
of asparagus grate.
Knobbled and gossiping fingers
pull at thin bean strings. The backpacks
are bulbous, sometimes sprouting.
The crate-jawed men compere, their howls
reverberate and crash against the foliage:
one dollar one dollar cheapest
cheapest cheapest
try sweet lady, sweet sweet
sweet pear, try before you buy
The smell of fish curls on the edges.
We gather, alertly herbivorous
and chew on cherry tomatoes.
The seeds burst like blood in our mouths.
-three poems all previously published at Mascara Literary Review
747
I've heard that air hostesses
get paid cosmetic leave
if their skin becomes contentious
and the resulting pustuled pimples
can't be magically made over
with a blob of black eyeliner
into a beauty spot.
The march, pink-lipped, high-heeled, dry-cleaned
down the narrow aisles
and I can't help but think of a cloned army,
robotic, ice-maiden cold, and deadly
advancing behind their drink-cart artillery
ready to clobber any caught
smoking in the shoebox toilets.
Their incessant battle cry echoes and amplifies:
"Chicken or beef?"
"Chicken or beef?"
"Chicken or beef?"
-previously published at The Red Room Company
Gordon Purkis
Parked in the shade
For as long as I remain here
I must be parked in the shade
Performing the business of
Now-you-see-me now-you-don’t
So put away the whiskey and the gun
And let me learn how to be soft and easy
On gray days
On gray days
Like today
I need your love
I need your love
To stay alive
So on better days
On brighter days
I can exist
Without it
And be a little prouder
Than on my knees
Begging the sky
For a hint of your smile
Loving a stone
I can see clearly now
Why it was
That I wanted to drown myself
In the hooch over you:
Your beauty hideous
Your gracefulness rigid
Like loving a stone
And I like water
I only washed against you
Always wear sunblock
And cool shades
Gorgeous day
Pretty girl in the corporate neighborhood
Walks by every day at the same time
Smoking
Carrying mail to the box
Skinny girl but dresses nice
But let that not defeat the day
Let us allow the day to breathe
And carry on
So that others may find joy too
A better chance
Art comes from a pond of knowledge
That’s of no use to anyone
Except maybe the artist
Who stops to appreciate it
In the gray and sullen afternoon
As birds flutter
And folks jostle in their automobiles
Vying for a better chance
Than the one they were given
Parked in the shade
For as long as I remain here
I must be parked in the shade
Performing the business of
Now-you-see-me now-you-don’t
So put away the whiskey and the gun
And let me learn how to be soft and easy
On gray days
On gray days
Like today
I need your love
I need your love
To stay alive
So on better days
On brighter days
I can exist
Without it
And be a little prouder
Than on my knees
Begging the sky
For a hint of your smile
Loving a stone
I can see clearly now
Why it was
That I wanted to drown myself
In the hooch over you:
Your beauty hideous
Your gracefulness rigid
Like loving a stone
And I like water
I only washed against you
Always wear sunblock
And cool shades
Gorgeous day
Pretty girl in the corporate neighborhood
Walks by every day at the same time
Smoking
Carrying mail to the box
Skinny girl but dresses nice
But let that not defeat the day
Let us allow the day to breathe
And carry on
So that others may find joy too
A better chance
Art comes from a pond of knowledge
That’s of no use to anyone
Except maybe the artist
Who stops to appreciate it
In the gray and sullen afternoon
As birds flutter
And folks jostle in their automobiles
Vying for a better chance
Than the one they were given
Rachelle Arlin Credo
Morning Glory
the sun breaks through the eastern sky
peeping through the soft fleecy clouds
it stifles a yawn and gently simpers
then blows a kiss to the sleeping world
the somnolent mountains spring to life
like the dainty flowers in bloom
little birds perched on tree branches
chirp in unison to greet the royal sun
the sweet scent of red rose blossoms
fill the morning air with heavenly perfume
while bees hum seductive tunes to the flowers
as they flap their wings with the butterflies
the sun gives a lazy wave of greeting
as i walk through the little heaven
anticipation consumes my senses
as nature unfolds its pristine masterpiece
Homeward
After swaying on the wings of dreams
In satisfaction of vaulting whims
I was finally headed back to our abode
Into the forgotten zone beside the road.
As I trotted the all-familiar path
I remembered my li'l bro - oh, that brat!
Yet my heart was wrenching down to my soul
I guess I did miss that brat after all.
Countless trees lined up the aisle
One after another, they ran for a mile
Reminding me of Little Miky, Fran and Camy
Queuing in line to wait for Daddy's candies.
The morning breeze blew against my face
Sending shivers through my spine to base
Oh, how I missed Mommy's delectable cuisine
Of chicken soup, meatballs and mmm, ch'ao mien!
Counting past five houses and one old bridge,
My anticipation grew and all excitement merged
A few more steps and a turn to the right
I'd finally be facing them all sound and bright.
I finally arrived and walked through the door
Then the lights went on and everyone roared
"We all miss'd you!" they bawled with cheer
I simply cried, I just couldn't be happier.
Torn
Pang vanquished all my emotions
Clutching my heart causing unbearable pain
Tearing my past behind desperation
Refusing to halt its wrath leaves me forsaken.
I struggled away from the sad reality
But I ended up distraught and desperate
As I wait for the old pomp to revive with victory
I was left in an ebbing crave's state.
With poignant memories casting a light of endless gloom
The incessant mourning eventually drives me insane
Only to break in a lonely ember's doom
I find myself cowering in so much pain.
A Friend
Someone who makes you happy when you're blue
And keeps your company wherever you go
Someone who's there when things go wrong
To give you courage and keep you strong
If you are tired, weak and weary
He is a refuge of comfort and sympathy
And if you're weighed down by great despair
He's always there to lend a shoulder
His presence makes everything else easier
His wisdom to help, his laughters to cheer
Indeed he's the one whatever you'd call
A companion, guide and counselor - one and all!
You
You are a silhouette, hazy and gray
But a vain creation of lover's memory
A fair illusive vision everywhere displace
With a shady luster away from my yearning embrace.
You are a lamplight glimmering with a flicker of surprise
A semblance of beauty that surpasses the azure skies
Endowed with a charm with a form of airy grace
Embellishing the black immensities in a peculiar maze.
You are an innocuous moonlight angel
With the loveliness exceptinally real
Across the cold and misty moonbeam
Where no twinge of conscience can deny in any theme.
Oh, you're but a being matchless to compare
A creature so alluring, how I love to touch your hair
But alas! You glided away and faded out from my vision
And only the whispers of your heart beats in slumbrous fashion.
In the nocturne rhythm of the night
Where my perception was deceived by my sight
I was swept by the waves of realization -
You are just a dream, a product of my imagination...
- all poems previously published at Poets Haven
Morning Glory
the sun breaks through the eastern sky
peeping through the soft fleecy clouds
it stifles a yawn and gently simpers
then blows a kiss to the sleeping world
the somnolent mountains spring to life
like the dainty flowers in bloom
little birds perched on tree branches
chirp in unison to greet the royal sun
the sweet scent of red rose blossoms
fill the morning air with heavenly perfume
while bees hum seductive tunes to the flowers
as they flap their wings with the butterflies
the sun gives a lazy wave of greeting
as i walk through the little heaven
anticipation consumes my senses
as nature unfolds its pristine masterpiece
Homeward
After swaying on the wings of dreams
In satisfaction of vaulting whims
I was finally headed back to our abode
Into the forgotten zone beside the road.
As I trotted the all-familiar path
I remembered my li'l bro - oh, that brat!
Yet my heart was wrenching down to my soul
I guess I did miss that brat after all.
Countless trees lined up the aisle
One after another, they ran for a mile
Reminding me of Little Miky, Fran and Camy
Queuing in line to wait for Daddy's candies.
The morning breeze blew against my face
Sending shivers through my spine to base
Oh, how I missed Mommy's delectable cuisine
Of chicken soup, meatballs and mmm, ch'ao mien!
Counting past five houses and one old bridge,
My anticipation grew and all excitement merged
A few more steps and a turn to the right
I'd finally be facing them all sound and bright.
I finally arrived and walked through the door
Then the lights went on and everyone roared
"We all miss'd you!" they bawled with cheer
I simply cried, I just couldn't be happier.
Torn
Pang vanquished all my emotions
Clutching my heart causing unbearable pain
Tearing my past behind desperation
Refusing to halt its wrath leaves me forsaken.
I struggled away from the sad reality
But I ended up distraught and desperate
As I wait for the old pomp to revive with victory
I was left in an ebbing crave's state.
With poignant memories casting a light of endless gloom
The incessant mourning eventually drives me insane
Only to break in a lonely ember's doom
I find myself cowering in so much pain.
A Friend
Someone who makes you happy when you're blue
And keeps your company wherever you go
Someone who's there when things go wrong
To give you courage and keep you strong
If you are tired, weak and weary
He is a refuge of comfort and sympathy
And if you're weighed down by great despair
He's always there to lend a shoulder
His presence makes everything else easier
His wisdom to help, his laughters to cheer
Indeed he's the one whatever you'd call
A companion, guide and counselor - one and all!
You
You are a silhouette, hazy and gray
But a vain creation of lover's memory
A fair illusive vision everywhere displace
With a shady luster away from my yearning embrace.
You are a lamplight glimmering with a flicker of surprise
A semblance of beauty that surpasses the azure skies
Endowed with a charm with a form of airy grace
Embellishing the black immensities in a peculiar maze.
You are an innocuous moonlight angel
With the loveliness exceptinally real
Across the cold and misty moonbeam
Where no twinge of conscience can deny in any theme.
Oh, you're but a being matchless to compare
A creature so alluring, how I love to touch your hair
But alas! You glided away and faded out from my vision
And only the whispers of your heart beats in slumbrous fashion.
In the nocturne rhythm of the night
Where my perception was deceived by my sight
I was swept by the waves of realization -
You are just a dream, a product of my imagination...
- all poems previously published at Poets Haven
Vince Gullaci
The War Zone
Bodies unburied
strewn
by a careless force
a fierce wind
plays over splayed limbs
and arms akimbo
carries the assailing smell
of the tip
where the waste is human
and great beasts
devour flesh
from unyielding bones
frozen in time.
Hard Wired
I knew
the sound
of sad songs
even before
I was born
the fresh milk
turned rancid in my mouth
scouring rivulets
of acid
hard wiring the brain
to self destruct on cue.
On The Park Bench
Better those drinking beer
vocalizing
on life
than the philosopher
analyzing
the minutiae
of fluff
in his navel.
In Love
I'd rather
catch a ride
on your coat tails
than be left
alone
in your wake.
The Riddle
To whom
would he
bequeath
a dot
to join
the many
others
a pattern
to remain
a puzzle
a little man
in a huge
universe.
-all poems previously published at Strange Road
The War Zone
Bodies unburied
strewn
by a careless force
a fierce wind
plays over splayed limbs
and arms akimbo
carries the assailing smell
of the tip
where the waste is human
and great beasts
devour flesh
from unyielding bones
frozen in time.
Hard Wired
I knew
the sound
of sad songs
even before
I was born
the fresh milk
turned rancid in my mouth
scouring rivulets
of acid
hard wiring the brain
to self destruct on cue.
On The Park Bench
Better those drinking beer
vocalizing
on life
than the philosopher
analyzing
the minutiae
of fluff
in his navel.
In Love
I'd rather
catch a ride
on your coat tails
than be left
alone
in your wake.
The Riddle
To whom
would he
bequeath
a dot
to join
the many
others
a pattern
to remain
a puzzle
a little man
in a huge
universe.
-all poems previously published at Strange Road
Simon Perchik
*
Half woodland, half rising --6
for a dollar --hurry, hurry!
And the number is 2
straight between the eyes
--the girlfriend hugs the bear
--the sailor watches it die
though he knows even the claws
are stuffed with a wide, heavy wheel
that leaves no tracks
mauls everything in front the kill
till the booth, number by number
spinning apart, steered by a wind
that's hidden between the spokes.
He thinks he sees that wave
chosen at random, the others
following on water --jumps the rail
tells the cops, Let go!
They come from nowhere.
It takes just minutes to make a calm
--already the waves are invisible
--all afternoon calling man overboard
and the girl bathing the bear
the eyes and the healing.
*
The shirt kept lifeless, tied
by its neck, pants torn, worndown shoes
held tight with string --I bring along
hot cocoa and the usual sleeping pill
though a withered song gets me in sooner.
With each visit, before anything, I ask
for someone remembered only as sky
and combing for rain, slowly one side
more than the other --where else
can a song --by morning the rain
reshaped and my whisper is filled
with your eyelashes
as if you were there and lost the way.
Where did I begin this singing
while the warm cup, barely a mouth
or your breast held by a cold, white sleeve
--before anything! closer, closer
a man without hands, without memory
--there's still a trace
a now-and-then sheer from some primordial sea
--a senseless off-center where rest
is needed most, and light --all night
till I almost drown sorting the rain
and kisses gone back to your throat.
*
Or paying off someone :each funeral
once only at night, the hearse
still black and along side
another shadow :the witness
closest to the wheels, holding fast
swells then withers
then stretches out :each breath
begins with a few words in your ear.
You dead contradict only in whispers
are still in doubt about these trees
and the soft sound falling into snow
into those small stones
already taking root, that grow
only in winter, in mouths.
Everything you do is whisper.
There are no wings on birds anymore
and everything falls into this ground
as if it were a sea and your shadow
set adrift among the calls from seabirds
one behind the other --you dead
go everywhere in crews
and though I rode with the others
I leave unprotected, afraid which shadow
is yours, slowly from its continuous night.
*
A plain paper bag yet in its night
this popcorn needs more salt
--a fragrant grip and I am Hercules
muscle-bound, shaking the screen
the actors giants, grotesque
--each finger has its own cry
huddles beside the others
the way mass graves are opened
reach out for a voice --lips move
and the floor slopes toward that mouth
till nothing can stop the fall.
I pound my seat the way all light
stops its wandering, dims
waits to be rescued, then devoured
--count the emptied rows
and the same red, unshielded bulbs
lit over those two doors
where for the first time
fire is expected, the ceiling
drifts closer, smells
from stars left out to die :blooms
are forbidden here --in this dark
I take hold some great arch
that exploded , one half
slumped over the other
as if they hear a faint sound
no one has heard before.
*
Four in the morning and the dog
wants to talk about her dream
afraid to stop in the middle
--the barking smells from salt
wants to be brushed and the sky
made ready, shown to someone
before morning arrives --I calm her fur
to lay down the way an echo
is trained to retrieve, waving
to something I can't see. It's no use.
I need a glass, a spoon
but the tea no matter how near
darkens with each goodbye --I need
to set the dog adrift :an island
on all sides left facing a great sea
warning me where sleep is treacherous
and the mist, louder and louder
wanting to come home.
*
Half woodland, half rising --6
for a dollar --hurry, hurry!
And the number is 2
straight between the eyes
--the girlfriend hugs the bear
--the sailor watches it die
though he knows even the claws
are stuffed with a wide, heavy wheel
that leaves no tracks
mauls everything in front the kill
till the booth, number by number
spinning apart, steered by a wind
that's hidden between the spokes.
He thinks he sees that wave
chosen at random, the others
following on water --jumps the rail
tells the cops, Let go!
They come from nowhere.
It takes just minutes to make a calm
--already the waves are invisible
--all afternoon calling man overboard
and the girl bathing the bear
the eyes and the healing.
*
The shirt kept lifeless, tied
by its neck, pants torn, worndown shoes
held tight with string --I bring along
hot cocoa and the usual sleeping pill
though a withered song gets me in sooner.
With each visit, before anything, I ask
for someone remembered only as sky
and combing for rain, slowly one side
more than the other --where else
can a song --by morning the rain
reshaped and my whisper is filled
with your eyelashes
as if you were there and lost the way.
Where did I begin this singing
while the warm cup, barely a mouth
or your breast held by a cold, white sleeve
--before anything! closer, closer
a man without hands, without memory
--there's still a trace
a now-and-then sheer from some primordial sea
--a senseless off-center where rest
is needed most, and light --all night
till I almost drown sorting the rain
and kisses gone back to your throat.
*
Or paying off someone :each funeral
once only at night, the hearse
still black and along side
another shadow :the witness
closest to the wheels, holding fast
swells then withers
then stretches out :each breath
begins with a few words in your ear.
You dead contradict only in whispers
are still in doubt about these trees
and the soft sound falling into snow
into those small stones
already taking root, that grow
only in winter, in mouths.
Everything you do is whisper.
There are no wings on birds anymore
and everything falls into this ground
as if it were a sea and your shadow
set adrift among the calls from seabirds
one behind the other --you dead
go everywhere in crews
and though I rode with the others
I leave unprotected, afraid which shadow
is yours, slowly from its continuous night.
*
A plain paper bag yet in its night
this popcorn needs more salt
--a fragrant grip and I am Hercules
muscle-bound, shaking the screen
the actors giants, grotesque
--each finger has its own cry
huddles beside the others
the way mass graves are opened
reach out for a voice --lips move
and the floor slopes toward that mouth
till nothing can stop the fall.
I pound my seat the way all light
stops its wandering, dims
waits to be rescued, then devoured
--count the emptied rows
and the same red, unshielded bulbs
lit over those two doors
where for the first time
fire is expected, the ceiling
drifts closer, smells
from stars left out to die :blooms
are forbidden here --in this dark
I take hold some great arch
that exploded , one half
slumped over the other
as if they hear a faint sound
no one has heard before.
*
Four in the morning and the dog
wants to talk about her dream
afraid to stop in the middle
--the barking smells from salt
wants to be brushed and the sky
made ready, shown to someone
before morning arrives --I calm her fur
to lay down the way an echo
is trained to retrieve, waving
to something I can't see. It's no use.
I need a glass, a spoon
but the tea no matter how near
darkens with each goodbye --I need
to set the dog adrift :an island
on all sides left facing a great sea
warning me where sleep is treacherous
and the mist, louder and louder
wanting to come home.
About Art - “Driftwood”
"Driftwood" was designed by level 2 students as part of the annual Architectural Association Summer Pavilion project. It is built from a plywood spruce structure provided by a Finnish timber merchant, with the cladding consisting of 28 layers of 4mm thick plywood and put up in Bedford Square in London. The flowing, heavily computer-aided design, which the designers say is inspired by Britain's relationship with the ocean, also takes a lot from the conceptual work of AA alum Zaha Hadid.
The school describes it as "neither art nor architecture, science nor ecological adventure, but a sculptural installation and prototype that defies classification". All very well, but why have they gone and labeled it a pavilion? Our trusty Oxford Dictionary describes a pavilion as "a summer house or other decorative shelter in a park or large garden". You won't be getting much shelter under Driftwoods open form, nor is it really a place to relax and unwind -- it offers nothing in the way of seating.
As a piece of art, Driftwood has some aesthetic merit. That the cream of our graduating architects designed and built an ephemeral sculpture that fails to engage in the actual practice of architecture should, however, be a cause for concern, and instead of making a contribution to the built environment, Driftwood will probably end up a trinket in some collector's garden -- if all that wood doesn't begin to rot in the British damp before. It is because of that dampness, that the structure was only put on display until July 26th of 2009. You can visit the school online at: http://www.aaschool.ac.uk/
About Books:Title: Verge
Author: Morgan Lucas Schuldt
Description: The poems in Morgan Lucas Schuldt’s debut collection, Verge, speak at once both brokenly and reparably of the body, of its lusts and devotions, its violence and “satisflictions.” Schuldt’s lyrics exploit the phonetic suppleness of the English language in a way that teases out (mischievously so, earnestly so) an ecstatic, carnal, tender kind of poetics that pays homage–in both name and spirit–to poets like Hopkins, Celan, Crane and Berryman, as well as ekphrastically to painters Francis Bacon, Joan Miro, and Hironymous Bosch.
Product Details:Printed: 68 pages
ISBN: 978-1-60235-036-6
Copyright: 2007
Product Details:Printed: 68 pages
ISBN: 978-1-60235-036-6
Copyright: 2007
Language: English
Country: USA
Publisher’s Link: www.parlorpress.com
Publisher’s Link: www.parlorpress.com
About Music - Les Nubians
An unconventional female duo that came out of Bordeaux, France, in the 1990s, Les Nubians offered a jazzy, sophisticated style of R&B that combined French lyrics with the influence of Sade, Soul II Soul, hip-hop, and African pop. The duo consists of sisters Helene and Celia Faussart, who were born in France to a French father and a Cameroonian mother. After living in France as children, the siblings moved with their parents to the African country of Chad in 1985, when Helene (born 1975) was ten and Celia (born 1979) was six. The sisters lived in Chad for seven years before returning to France as teenagers.
Helene and Celia had been singing most of their lives, and when they first formed Les Nubians, they were an a cappella group that specialized in covers of R&B, reggae, and African songs. Eventually, they started working with bands and performing original material. They absorbed a variety of music along the way, and they have expressed admiration for artists ranging from Ella Fitzgerald and Abbey Lincoln to the Fugees and African icons Miriam Makeba and Fela Kuti. Their promising debut album, Princesses Nubiennes, was released by Virgin worldwide in France, Switzerland, and Belgium in June 1998 before coming out on Omtown/Higher Octave in the U.S. in September of that year.
It became America's most successful French-language album in more than a decade, and Les Nubians also graced recordings by Talib Kweli and Black Eyed Peas, as well as a Red Hot tribute to Fela Kuti, Red, Hot & Riot. Sessions for their second album brought the pair to Jamaica, Cameroon, London, and Paris, including a host of intriguing collaborators: top underground rapper Talib Kweli, fellow Cameroonian Manu Dibango, pianist Ray Lema, and broken-beat maestro IG Culture. The results appeared as One Step Forward, released in March 2003 by Higher Octave. Find out more at: http://www.lesnubians.com/
Anne Lombardo-Ardolino
"Old Habits"
So
You wanna see my humility
get down on its hands and knees
eh baby?
Well
it ain't gonna happen
cause if I ever learned anything
anything at all
it was how to fall
gracefully.
"Mango Moon"
(haiku)
liquid mango moon,
rubs her smooth, silken fingers,
on midnight's forehead.
"Guilt"
(haiku)
Watch out for those folks
Who would do bad things to you
they'll hate you for it
"Too Damn Hot"
(haiku)
The desert cactus,
shows God its middle finger,
To tell him thank-you.
"The Old Marble Cemetery"
I see him out my sad window,
The thin Winter crow,
Stamping his feet in the graveyard,
To the tombstones,
He complains.
"Old Habits"
So
You wanna see my humility
get down on its hands and knees
eh baby?
Well
it ain't gonna happen
cause if I ever learned anything
anything at all
it was how to fall
gracefully.
"Mango Moon"
(haiku)
liquid mango moon,
rubs her smooth, silken fingers,
on midnight's forehead.
"Guilt"
(haiku)
Watch out for those folks
Who would do bad things to you
they'll hate you for it
"Too Damn Hot"
(haiku)
The desert cactus,
shows God its middle finger,
To tell him thank-you.
"The Old Marble Cemetery"
I see him out my sad window,
The thin Winter crow,
Stamping his feet in the graveyard,
To the tombstones,
He complains.
Emily Kendal Frey
#3
You did this thing where you'd attempt
to catch the spit I spit out in the shower.
I'd never been that close to anyone.
I felt you wanted even the extra bits
of me. You would cherish my run-off.
Sometimes it was alarming—you kneeling
on the kitchen floor to kiss my hips
as I cooked. The clunky misshape
of adoration. But other times I let
myself be navigated—so what
if you saw my sluff or sorry awkwardness?
There was a time when I thought
you might be able to hold it right.
#31
When you wrote songs
I knew they weren't for me.
You were singing to a woman
who wasn't there.
I'd sit in my white nightgown
like a ghost, watching you.
Eyes rolling back
as you sang,
it was obviously better
than the real thing.
Still, we made it over and over,
me half off the rotting couch
or falling from whatever it was
that held us in place.
#55
Winter softens me.
The snow blues with anti-slip crystals
and I'm too busy keeping warm
to stay angry.
The long rectangles of memory
are shortening and you come more
as you were, in bursts—
tall, antsy, full of vigor.
In the paper there's an article,
a pair of skeletons
unearthed in an embrace.
"We will work
to keep them together,"
officials claim. The final
tragedy of separation:
a body taken, bone by bone
from its resting place.
Mornings after a snowstorm
we'd lie in the bed
made light by the huge amount
of white around us. I'd keep
as still as I could, as if
our imprint were something
we could fortify, take with us
into the world outside.
Mid-February
Early rise, train rider, self left along
the highway, I'm coming! I'm coming!
Show me the salt bays and the women
hanging like birds from clotheslines.
The Work of Beauty Is Not Solitary Work God
and I sit together
by the lake.
Words scrape
at the back of my throat
as the lips of peonies
open to reveal rows
of black ants.
I wish you had not spoken
to me, I say, thinking
of a book I'd read—
one person very near,
one waiting across a river
of glowing trout.
Time slides and tilts,
high clouds squeezed like q-tips
swabbing the sky
as the blue belly of the lake
keeps rising.
The words are mine.
Holy, holy
lower me down.
The rusted anchor
drops its weight.
Holy, holy
drag me down.
Black water
monster, yellow-eyed,
I have teeth.
-all poems previously published at Coconut Poetry
#3
You did this thing where you'd attempt
to catch the spit I spit out in the shower.
I'd never been that close to anyone.
I felt you wanted even the extra bits
of me. You would cherish my run-off.
Sometimes it was alarming—you kneeling
on the kitchen floor to kiss my hips
as I cooked. The clunky misshape
of adoration. But other times I let
myself be navigated—so what
if you saw my sluff or sorry awkwardness?
There was a time when I thought
you might be able to hold it right.
#31
When you wrote songs
I knew they weren't for me.
You were singing to a woman
who wasn't there.
I'd sit in my white nightgown
like a ghost, watching you.
Eyes rolling back
as you sang,
it was obviously better
than the real thing.
Still, we made it over and over,
me half off the rotting couch
or falling from whatever it was
that held us in place.
#55
Winter softens me.
The snow blues with anti-slip crystals
and I'm too busy keeping warm
to stay angry.
The long rectangles of memory
are shortening and you come more
as you were, in bursts—
tall, antsy, full of vigor.
In the paper there's an article,
a pair of skeletons
unearthed in an embrace.
"We will work
to keep them together,"
officials claim. The final
tragedy of separation:
a body taken, bone by bone
from its resting place.
Mornings after a snowstorm
we'd lie in the bed
made light by the huge amount
of white around us. I'd keep
as still as I could, as if
our imprint were something
we could fortify, take with us
into the world outside.
Mid-February
Early rise, train rider, self left along
the highway, I'm coming! I'm coming!
Show me the salt bays and the women
hanging like birds from clotheslines.
The Work of Beauty Is Not Solitary Work God
and I sit together
by the lake.
Words scrape
at the back of my throat
as the lips of peonies
open to reveal rows
of black ants.
I wish you had not spoken
to me, I say, thinking
of a book I'd read—
one person very near,
one waiting across a river
of glowing trout.
Time slides and tilts,
high clouds squeezed like q-tips
swabbing the sky
as the blue belly of the lake
keeps rising.
The words are mine.
Holy, holy
lower me down.
The rusted anchor
drops its weight.
Holy, holy
drag me down.
Black water
monster, yellow-eyed,
I have teeth.
-all poems previously published at Coconut Poetry
Contributors Biographies
Michael Estabrook: he is a baby boomer educated first in the sciences, later studying literature and languages earning two Master’s degrees in Comparative Literature, and more recently a PhD in History and Genealogy from Warnborough University in London . He has written poetry all his life, first getting published in the late 1980s. Over the years he has published 15 poetry chapbooks, his most recent entitled “They Didn’t Leave Notes.” Other interests include art, music, theatre, opera, and his wife who just happens to be the most beautiful woman he has ever known. They live together in an “otherwise empty nest” in Acton, MA. His email address is: mestabrook@comcast.net
Fiona Wright: her poetry has been published in a variety of journals and anothologies in Australia, Asia and the USA. In 2007, she was resident at the Tasmanian Writers Centre, developing a series of poems about Australian soldiers in Sri Lanka, and in 2008 she was runner-up in the John Marsden National Young Writers Award. Fiona works as an editor for Giramondo Publishing and HEAT Magazine, and was a Project Assistant for the Red Room Company from 2004-2008. She lives in Sydney, Australia. She currently has no website.
Gordon Purkis: he is the editor of Mastodon Dentist, Nefarious Ballerina and Penny Ante Feud. His poetry has appeared in print and online in many fine magazines, many of which you can find by Googling him. A poetry collection entitled Circus Fragments and Other Poems is available at Amazon.com. He currently lives in suburban Atlanta, GA and works in sales. Contact him at: poet_clerk@yahoo.com
Sam Agnew: he says he has had a fasination with photography for a long time but only recently has began to try his hand at it. He shots with a Nikon D80 and a fifty year old Kodak Retinette and a Nikon F4s and now a Canon(!) EOS 55 with eye-control AF. He prefers the D80 but LOVES the F4 (If only film were free and scanning quick). He is currently a member of the elite online photography website Onexposure which he calls a humbling experience because of all the other quality photographers there. He lives in Doha, Qatar. You can visit his website at: http://1x.com/member/1767/sam-agnew/
Rachelle Arlin Credo: she was a medical student when she was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease (SLE). The discovery turned her life upside down and almost destroyed it. Forced to stop her education and stay at home she began writing poetry. Her work has appeared in Poets Haven and elsewhere. She lives in Cebu, the Philippines. Visit her website at: www.rachelle.co.nr
Vince Gullaci: his poems have appeared in Quill & Ink, Poem Hunter, Poetry Galore, Poets Haven, All Poetry, Strange Road, and elsewhere. He was originally born in Italy but now resides in Australia. You can contact him at: ving@optusnet.com.au
Simon Perchik: he was a pilot and 1st Lieutenant in WWII, he is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, Poetry, The Nation, North American Review, Beloit, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Southern Humanities Review, Osiris, The Small Pond Magazine and The New Yorker among others. He latest collection, Family of Man (Pavement Saw Press) will be released Fall 2009. Married with three children and four grandchildren, he lives in East Hampton, NY. Visit him at: www.geocities.com/simonthepoet
Colleen Wallace Nungari: she was born full-blooded Aboriginal in 1970 in central Australia. She is the daughter of the famous Keringke artist, Kathleen Wallace and is the sister of Gabrielle Wallace, also an accomplished artist. She started painting in 1990. Her paintings are a precise dot design with vibrant colours, and various styles, including Awelye (women's ceremonies) and Bush Yam paintings, which refer to digging sites. Colleen inherited these Dreamings from her grandfather, Kenny Tilmouth Panangka. She lives with her husband and young family at Mulga Bore Outstation in the Utopia region, of Central Australia. Visit her website at: http://www.aboriginalartstore.com.au/artists/colleen-wallace-nungari.php
Anne Lombardo-Ardolino: she known on the Internet as Anntelope and is the editor of East Village Poetry. In I Can Sing Fire, her debut chapbook (26 poems printed by Make It New Media, 2009) we see what she's been working on for decades: an aesthetic that is base but never banal, crude and sophisticated, and counterculture in a way that embraces the poetic tradition. In short, she's brought us a book which is pure rock 'n' roll. Besides writing poetry and short stories, she plays piano and guitar, composes songs (blues, jazz, country, rock and roll), and even paints a bit in NYC where is resides. Visit the website she edits at: http://www.eastvillagepoetry.com/
Emily Kendal Frey: her recent work is forthcoming or has already appeared in Word For/ Word, Spinning Jenny, Knock Shampoo, and Sink Review. Collaborative work with Sarah Bartlett will appear in Portland Review, Bat City Review, and horse less press. Poems from Something Should Happen at Night Outside, a collaboration with Zachary Schomburg, will appear in Pilot and Diode. She lives in Portland, Oregon. Visit her at: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2084384.Emily_Kendal_Frey
Closing Note: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on Dec. 1st. Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my eclectic blog: http://www.lipterrain.blogspot.com/
my poetry blog: http://www.chantinghead.blogspot.com/
tutoring blog: http://www.miceroom.blogspot.com/
and music blog: http://www.mmant.blogspot.com/
Michael Estabrook: he is a baby boomer educated first in the sciences, later studying literature and languages earning two Master’s degrees in Comparative Literature, and more recently a PhD in History and Genealogy from Warnborough University in London . He has written poetry all his life, first getting published in the late 1980s. Over the years he has published 15 poetry chapbooks, his most recent entitled “They Didn’t Leave Notes.” Other interests include art, music, theatre, opera, and his wife who just happens to be the most beautiful woman he has ever known. They live together in an “otherwise empty nest” in Acton, MA. His email address is: mestabrook@comcast.net
Fiona Wright: her poetry has been published in a variety of journals and anothologies in Australia, Asia and the USA. In 2007, she was resident at the Tasmanian Writers Centre, developing a series of poems about Australian soldiers in Sri Lanka, and in 2008 she was runner-up in the John Marsden National Young Writers Award. Fiona works as an editor for Giramondo Publishing and HEAT Magazine, and was a Project Assistant for the Red Room Company from 2004-2008. She lives in Sydney, Australia. She currently has no website.
Gordon Purkis: he is the editor of Mastodon Dentist, Nefarious Ballerina and Penny Ante Feud. His poetry has appeared in print and online in many fine magazines, many of which you can find by Googling him. A poetry collection entitled Circus Fragments and Other Poems is available at Amazon.com. He currently lives in suburban Atlanta, GA and works in sales. Contact him at: poet_clerk@yahoo.com
Sam Agnew: he says he has had a fasination with photography for a long time but only recently has began to try his hand at it. He shots with a Nikon D80 and a fifty year old Kodak Retinette and a Nikon F4s and now a Canon(!) EOS 55 with eye-control AF. He prefers the D80 but LOVES the F4 (If only film were free and scanning quick). He is currently a member of the elite online photography website Onexposure which he calls a humbling experience because of all the other quality photographers there. He lives in Doha, Qatar. You can visit his website at: http://1x.com/member/1767/sam-agnew/
Rachelle Arlin Credo: she was a medical student when she was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease (SLE). The discovery turned her life upside down and almost destroyed it. Forced to stop her education and stay at home she began writing poetry. Her work has appeared in Poets Haven and elsewhere. She lives in Cebu, the Philippines. Visit her website at: www.rachelle.co.nr
Vince Gullaci: his poems have appeared in Quill & Ink, Poem Hunter, Poetry Galore, Poets Haven, All Poetry, Strange Road, and elsewhere. He was originally born in Italy but now resides in Australia. You can contact him at: ving@optusnet.com.au
Simon Perchik: he was a pilot and 1st Lieutenant in WWII, he is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, Poetry, The Nation, North American Review, Beloit, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Southern Humanities Review, Osiris, The Small Pond Magazine and The New Yorker among others. He latest collection, Family of Man (Pavement Saw Press) will be released Fall 2009. Married with three children and four grandchildren, he lives in East Hampton, NY. Visit him at: www.geocities.com/simonthepoet
Colleen Wallace Nungari: she was born full-blooded Aboriginal in 1970 in central Australia. She is the daughter of the famous Keringke artist, Kathleen Wallace and is the sister of Gabrielle Wallace, also an accomplished artist. She started painting in 1990. Her paintings are a precise dot design with vibrant colours, and various styles, including Awelye (women's ceremonies) and Bush Yam paintings, which refer to digging sites. Colleen inherited these Dreamings from her grandfather, Kenny Tilmouth Panangka. She lives with her husband and young family at Mulga Bore Outstation in the Utopia region, of Central Australia. Visit her website at: http://www.aboriginalartstore.com.au/artists/colleen-wallace-nungari.php
Anne Lombardo-Ardolino: she known on the Internet as Anntelope and is the editor of East Village Poetry. In I Can Sing Fire, her debut chapbook (26 poems printed by Make It New Media, 2009) we see what she's been working on for decades: an aesthetic that is base but never banal, crude and sophisticated, and counterculture in a way that embraces the poetic tradition. In short, she's brought us a book which is pure rock 'n' roll. Besides writing poetry and short stories, she plays piano and guitar, composes songs (blues, jazz, country, rock and roll), and even paints a bit in NYC where is resides. Visit the website she edits at: http://www.eastvillagepoetry.com/
Emily Kendal Frey: her recent work is forthcoming or has already appeared in Word For/ Word, Spinning Jenny, Knock Shampoo, and Sink Review. Collaborative work with Sarah Bartlett will appear in Portland Review, Bat City Review, and horse less press. Poems from Something Should Happen at Night Outside, a collaboration with Zachary Schomburg, will appear in Pilot and Diode. She lives in Portland, Oregon. Visit her at: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2084384.Emily_Kendal_Frey
Closing Note: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on Dec. 1st. Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my eclectic blog: http://www.lipterrain.blogspot.com/
my poetry blog: http://www.chantinghead.blogspot.com/
tutoring blog: http://www.miceroom.blogspot.com/
and music blog: http://www.mmant.blogspot.com/
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