Black Robert Journal

2008-11-17T09:29:00.000-08:00

Issue 2

CONTENTS

Writing
Andy Nicholson
Ren Powell
Christopher Mulrooney
Bobbi Lurie
Renee Emerson
rob mclennan
Rosamond Zimmermann
Kristen Orser
Matt Sutin
Michael Montlack

Visual Art
Samit Roy
Matina Stamatakis

Interviews
Malay Roychoudhury - Part One
Samit Roy
Matina Stamatakis

Issue 2: Andy Nicholson

2008-11-17T09:27:00.000-08:00

A Moth’s Alphabet

May a feather groom fur in
summer months? A moth,
itching with the inked “x” of some
cruel pencil, pauses
between the barbs and the cycles, singing:
“Tally, tally, tally to
the nearest ten. I
see a hawk-god—famine, war—bearing
the sun in his beak. His throat
is filled with socketless worms.

“Count the temples built
with red and blue stones.
Count the piles of soiled invitations.
Count the clout, the clot of
swarming aristocrats. The rest
of the passage is under construction.”

A moth,
grooved and creased, given a spiral,
grey, plausibly
will never be considered—
concerto, ring!—never side
with the apt
appendage, the mane
of a hairless bonobo,
will never chair
itself off the moving sidewalk.
The monkey in
the teacup hat will never flap,
never flaunt its nave
before a wingless architect who stains
a tree’s black trunk, who
stains the tree. The

monkey
is the moth in drag. The
camp costume pulls a bow
across the quartet. Quin-
tet pares the tall dreams, pulls
rind from meat, from the ligature.

Sum, like a hole
inside the bird’s hollow bone,
splits into twelve genealogies.
The moth is one, the monkey is one,
and the rest are bland souls
falling backwards through time.

Blind blab, foliage barring
the populace from their buildings,
wanders the forlorn municipality.
Slandered bowl fares well in the cold,
backward turning
from house to nest. Moth again:

“A house is a city.
A house is religious, is the small religion
of a dog barking in her sleep.
Slipped away,
say the call for help slipped past
the word’s meaning. Sworn to wear,
worn carpet
beds red wine,
winds through life always waiting.

“A house is like a city.
A city is like fortissimo.
A score is like a musical score,
as a devotion is carved in tone.
Bricks beat bricks.
Nothing beats nothing.
There is no copy and all is wet,
being born to be born again.”

How It Hums

1
Just an aster fallen from
the tongue will burn
and burn on, petals on
and into ectropy. Orbits

of skin, meanwhile, wane,
red-fading, hill-descending:

mute breeze graces
brown, green grass,
so curves the flat lawn,
so curves the sun’s arc.

No curvature breaks
the slate or the chalk, but wear

these down, this arc does,
while twists tell roots to
spread, to speed, to,
unseen, send lost

words back to rise.

2
Fire in bee’s
hum, flower’s
          furnace, burr-fire—

here glows as
patient-fire—gulp
          small breaths. Each

intake steps back, each
exhale steps past,
          and so one totters

through a walk, a talk, a swim.
Bee says: “I am bees.”
          Flower: “I

am even trees.”
Burr:
          “I am you. I

wait like you.
Come here to the sea.
          Come here. Come stay.”

3
Just a city in the desert, ruins,
just ruins, red ruins, just a house—

house’s wall, stone-on-stone wall,
mortarless, piled, carved stones—

just this, just these, just the dust of these
will stay, will say while voices

echo through to prior sounds, sound
around corners, into shadows.

In these shadows, she sees her
face is his, touches their face.

In the water, in reflected
glimmer of sand, mirages think

to the day’s end when once
this land moved here. Her face is

in the future. His hands are in
her past. These were

her hands. She had these hands,
and with them, here, she carved the dust.

4
Fire-in-aster, fire-in-skin: one stays, one forwards, goes again
back, goes, and to here again. Dew, tonight, hardens day; a
little ice covers this.

Day—the twisting pulse enwraps, folds rhythmically over—day
begins again. Grown-weed will grow, is, has, begins and began,
so begins again. Talk, skin, aster, they too, so again: an again
seen from the horizon, from the waves.

Above, the hawk’s spiral widens. From above, from the spiral’s
steady motion, the aster remains, the stone walk remains, ages,
maintains, while plants breathe a circle breath, while roots
grace and grind, while roots break and nurture their dirt.

Andy Nicholson's poems have appeared in such places as Cannot Exist, Shampoo, Moria, and Sorry for Snake. He currently resides in Las Vegas.

Issue 2: Ren Powell

2008-11-17T09:26:00.000-08:00

Coupling

To have his lower lip
between her teeth
was enough

          her cupped tongue
to birth turtle eggs
          nesting themselves

in his throat.
Nothing is
as ugly as hatchlings—

as raw, as needing.
A press of bones,
the intimacy of knuckles in the

caesura of vertebrae. The bird's eye
of the moment of obscurity:
the hurt before pain

hold, hold, hold
before the pecking,
membrane and shell.

The long fingers
of the rainmaker
          fisherman in the desert

pause
          left ventricle squeezing
the valve slaps.

Legs, arms, teeth—
everything: mouths
of lungfish

gasping
in the wet.
It's not pretty, not pretty.

A Stranger Passing

1.

She wakes, lifts
her head from the pillow
and the dreams fall, settling
into the weave

I’ll make some toast
to sop the yolk
she moves to shake loose
the down woven into her hair

the feathers’ barbs grip
at her roots Tell me
everything
you can remember

2.

Her ankles turning on the cobblestones
a cold wind presses a ghost
into her cochlea, Tommy!
I remember fetching the eggs

the rough beige shell speckled with shit
warm in the palm like a stone
upright like a stone, Tommy

3.

I’ll bake 142 loaves of bread
I’ll knead for 46 days
I’ll grieve for none

She feeds the gulls all winter
they hover over her balcony
insistent and she has not slept
for 46 days

after 46 days feathers fall from the sky
weave themselves into her hair, her cotton shift
heavy, she pulls the hen from its nest
bloody from pairing

Ren Powell is the author of two books of poetry (bilingual editions: Fairy Tales and Soil, 1999; mixed states, 2004. Wigestrand Press) and ten books of translations. Her poetry has been translated and published in several languages, and has appeared in journals such as Segue, Beacons, and Ice Flow. She is the founding editor of Babel Fruit: Writing Under the Influence and protestpoems.org.

Issue 2: Christopher Mulrooney

2008-11-17T09:24:00.000-08:00

a tax upon his cities

the golden cities hence linger up the nut-tree
among the walnuts the mahogany boards and wardrobe
list the cherry-tree types would you please
and don’t forget in the end times to efface the trace
of the poet’s paradise

that is his role to bear the music of the unmusical
a retribution to his sect

at the track

we wipe the sweat from off the hides of men
and further equitation leads us round the bend
where we find as simply you could put it
the other way as leading to the purse and yet
there we go round the bend again

Christopher Mulrooney's work has appeared in such publications as fourW, Beeswax, Vanitas, Guernica, Moloch, Shampoo, and The Delinquent. He is a writer of both poetry and fiction, translator, and photographer. Additionally, his film reviews may be found at http/www.thefilmjournal.com/issue8/mulrooney.html

Issue 2: Bobbi Lurie

2008-11-17T09:23:00.000-08:00

the number 3

yes—3 is the simplest form of solid figure
yes—3 attributes: omniscience, omnipresence, omnipotence
yes—3 divisions of time: past, present, future
yes—3 persons in grammar
yes—and 3 times the seraphim cried
yes—the 3 fold nature of temptation: flesh, eyes, pride

Bobbi Lurie's third poetry collection, Grief Suite, is forthcoming from CustomWords. Her other poetry collections are The Book I Never Read and Letter from the Lawn. Her work has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals including New American Writing, APR, Otoliths, Born, Shampoo and diode.

Issue 2: Renee Emerson

2008-11-17T09:21:00.000-08:00

After the Wash

Clothe the closets
in button-downs
warm from
the dryer, warmer
than when
I unbutton, take his arms
from the sleeves,
litter the floor
with the collar, the baby
blue, the ordered
buttons, disordered
in folds. I close
the collars
on hangers, sway
in the half-light.
They keep the shape
of shoulders.

Q & A

Question:
Laura wore
an orange sarong
to the beach each
Sunday. She laid
it in the sand,
got a hotdog
from a hotdog
stand. Who took the sarong?

Answer:
First, two children
vacationing with grandmother.
Then grandmother,
cold as the sun
sank. Then a boy catching
beach crabs. Then a black
Labrador for
fetch. Finally,
the birds, thread by thread.

Renee Emerson is a MFA student at Boston University. Her work has appeared in Tar River Poetry, Keyhole Publications, Sojourn, Decomp, and most recently in Ruminate. Currently, she lives in the suburbs of the city with her husband and two cats, Ralph and Waldo.

Issue 2: rob mclennan

2008-11-17T09:20:00.002-08:00

the other side of the world

I am turning you out against all expectation
I am nancy sinatra listening bang bang
          for the third; the one that knows she knows,
am breakable, & enduring-thin

too many bodies they would pile up
lord, if I believed in one, would not offend

please would you digress me lets

*

lately the lines mean nothing; I can
          call you & call you & none of it matters
or if baseball scores are more important
          than wars; we would peacekeep, once

lonely through elections, I municipal

tell me again it doesn’t matter what I did, that
          thing I never told

*

on the other side of the world I would wait; I
          am waiting
where telephones exchanged for body parts
where referencing is as much a sentence death
where surfaces exist but so much
          deeper than

on the other side of the world you

I am keeping one month between us as I
          write

*

I am air I am airborne I am crossing the line I am
          taking on water I am paper borne I
          am water thin I am stone not sun
          I am permanent as wood I am
          petrified I am thousands of compressed
          hours I am biological material
          turned slick, turned coal, turned oil

I am waiting to be held alight

*

I am up against you wall of the body
          of the heart

*

live in this moment that is understood
          to be so incomplete

whether living or livid or pure pure pure
          that is possibilitys scaffolding

crash, crashing down

rob mclennan lives in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, even though he was born there. The author of over a dozen titles, including poetry, fiction and non-fiction, he is also editor/publisher of above/ground press, Chaudiere Books, Poetics.ca (with Stephen Brockwell, Poetics.ca) and ottawater (ottawater.com). He is currently spending the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays and interviews at robmclennan.blogspot.com. [Photo credit: Lainna El Jabi]

Issue 2: Rosamond Zimmermann

2008-11-17T09:20:00.001-08:00

“Fluffed Feathers...”

fluffed feathers
wrecked & clumped
in one spot, no body

remains for me to know
what bird it was
taken apart here in the grass

when you get here
will you put me together
imagine the end of flight?

or why i want to stay here
looking at this mess
thinking about the timing

timing of all things
passing over this same place
knowing and not knowing

what has gone before?
for surely, if I come back
even these remains will be gone

and what is the meaning of what
i have picked up and passed
on to you what do you take away

any way and what
when you get here
will i be?

A graduate of the University of York, England, Rosamond Zimmermann has published her work in experimental poetry magazines including, Echoes, A Literary Quarterly, Ant Farm, The Pacific Coast Journal, Synaesthetic, Curlew Press UK, and in a special poetry edition of Sojourner on Women and Creative Writing, as well as in the 2004 Poetry from Sojourner, A Feminist Anthology, University of Illinois Press. She lives and works in Lexington, MA.

Issue 2: Kristen Orser

2008-11-17T09:19:00.001-08:00

Halloweeny

like a big pink fish,
sometimes I think I might be

a silk knot. Similar sentiments
suggest I may be carrying eggs.
My point is, few

even have the rattles of a rattlesnake
and the two-headed cow
was a conceptual mistake.

I might slowly offer a hypothesis
for the snowshoe I keep,

but I'm so afraid of being transparent,
pigeon-toed, or sickle-celled. I can't

tell you anything unless I'm naked,
using less full stops, caterpillars
that become commas. Excuse me,

I'm trying to say something thin
enough to swallow. You see,
this is air from the Air Museum

and it might make you feel elated
to bend a spoon and tell me

you don't know what I mean.

all the things i think to predict are things that already happened.

i.

and still, unopened letters in the letterbox, a question i left in the dresser. i thought the drawer a place
for the ear not the stockings. knitted over your foot, at least the suggestion of the ear.

i approached your sock drawer and found nothing but loose buttons, cuff links, things not unlike pins.

the very thought of you in a bow tie makes me sexually crazy.

ii.

meanwhile, the painting in your bedroom shows someone looking at a painting in which someone is
looking at a painting. it's the same in my dreams, only the deceit of your whisper saying the very thing
i'd been waiting for you to say.

iii.

the gesture of the sky is to look bigger than it is. this is the opposite of why i wear oversized knits.

i want to be in a locket. who wouldn't keep hair of someone else close to their blood.

iv.

this is not a drawbridge to an answer or even an apology for not knowing. i dress in formal gloves
pulled to my elbow and let someone call me buttercup. he is not an apostle. he starts all assertions
with think or believe so that they are not assertions at all, but questions covered with a death mask,
a mosquito net. i can only offer him cupcakes, quarters over his eyes.

v.

i place all the pushpins in a box shaped like a man with a pipe and i turn towards the occident knowing
this is the side of me that photographs better.

and when the sun sets its a surprise to find you barefooted, drinking the last of the milk from the
refrigerator.

Kristen Orser is the author of E AT I (Wyrd Tree Press, 2009), Fall Awake (Taiga Press, 2008), and Winter, Another Wall (blossombones, 2008). Her work has appeared in With+Stand, Indefinite Space, Pineapple War, Cannot Exist, Pinstripe Fedora, and elsewhere.

Issue 2: Matt Sutin

2008-11-17T09:17:00.000-08:00

Play-by-Play: 2623 Rosewood Street, South Philly (as the Listener watches Family Guy)

That’s fuckin’ great, Franky. Throw me the fuck out of the house when it’s fuckin’
raining. That’s fuckin’ great. I’m wearing sox and it’s fuckin’ raining.

Great Frankie. Throw my new boot outside the house when it’s fucking raining. I got one
boot to walk in and it’s fuckin’ raining.

Great Frankie. That’s just fuckin’ great. Now I can walk outside in the fuckin’ rain.

Frankie: No no no. Fuck you. Those boots don’t pay the fuckin’ bills do they? No. I pay
the fuckin’ bills around here.

Doorknob held, so as not to make a clicking sound when it shuts.

Matt Sutin is an English teacher who lives in Philadelphia, PA. Among his publication credits are Mad Poets Review, Philadelphia Stories, Debris magazine, Cerebral Catalyst, Cherry Bleeds, and Yellow Mama. His poetry can also be found in Lines of Sight, a permanent art installation at Brown University. As a teacher, Matt is particularly proud of his work in teaching the lessons of the Holocaust as he has worked with survivors and WWII veterans in order to promote tolerance among his students.

Issue 2: Michael Montlack

2008-11-17T09:15:00.000-08:00

Interior Design

The Basement: Daniel
foundation—early twenties
no longer scary or dark
a finished playroom: post-adolescent
glimpse of privacy

Roof-top Viewing Deck: Roger
a telescope needed to locate him
though he was rooted—there
behind me, preoccupied
with Venus or the wind chimes

The Bathroom: Two Quick Flushes
Scott at the vanity, clipping
snipping: You’re not
going to wear that?
Or Eddie leaning over the toilet
hairy ass lifted, hairy toes jutting platforms:
Dunk my head, ya fucken bitch!

The Kitchen: Jamal
chatting chitty chat chat
eating my mother’s matzoh balls
watching games with Dad
different team indifference

Master Bedroom: Russ
hugging sucking pipe-dreaming
less hugging, more sucking
jealous of Jamal’s kitchen,
a more-public vertical space

The Hallway: David
the long, narrow passage
that could’ve ended
in any room but … no-
where to sit and talk

The Family Room and Vegetable Garden: ________
mortgage: meaning to get them
finally done
with summer shares
and rent slavery

Michael Montlack has two chapbooks: Cover Charge (Winner of the 2007 Gertrude Prize) and Girls, Girls, Girls (Pudding House, 2008). This Spring, University of Wisconsin Press will be publishing his anthology My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them. His work has appeared in Cimarron Review, Court Green, New York Quarterly, Swink, 5 AM, Poet Lore, Gay and Lesbian Review, Mipoesias, Columbia Poetry Review, and other journals. He splits his time between New York City (where he teaches at Berkeley College and acts as Associate Editor for Mudfish) and San Francisco (where he writes).

Issue 2: Samit Roy

2008-11-17T09:11:00.000-08:00

Sin

[Click on image to enlarge]

Engish Translation (by Samit Roy):

... then ... as sin dripped down from the sky … sin dripping down … down from the sky ... sin dripping … and then … sin comes ... dripping from the sinful sky … the sins of the sinister sky … only a trickle … sins of the sky ... piled on sinful sins … and more sins heaped on ... sins gathering ... sins piled up ... on sins ... sins gathering ... sins accumulating … sins accruing ... sins multiplying … sins swelling ... sins surging … sins gathering ... sins accumulating … sins accruing ... sins multiplying … sins swelling ... sins surging … sins gathering ... sins gathering ... sins gathering ...

French Translation (by Rouflaquettes Dorees):

Ensuite … la pêche descendait du ciel en coulant vers la terre … et en coolant du ciel pêchant … et les pêches du ciel pêchant … qu'un chatouillage… rien que la pêche … se reunissent … s'accumulent … s'accroissent … la pêche gonflante … la pêche sautante … plus de pêches posées sur la pêche … et plus de pêches balancées sur la pêche péchante …

Samit Roy is a visual artist and poet who believes that every "successful" art object is the result of a series of interrelated social events, and whose work explores both the visual characteristics of text and narrative elements of visuals. Brought up in the gray zones between urban Victorian Kolkata and its semi-rural suburbs, his work further attempts to articulate a small part of the history of his time and context. He has worked with UPENN's South Asia Center and Department of South Asia Studies, and the Canadian Institute of International Affairs. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Annetna Nepo, Kaurab, Natun Kabita, Otoliths, Venereal Kittens and Sous Rature.

Issue 2: Matina Stamatakis

2008-11-17T09:10:00.000-08:00

P.a.p.y.r.i. + C.u.b.e.d

[Click on images to enlarge]

Matina L. Stamatakis' works can be found on the internet in various literary, art and audio magazines. Some of her most recent works can be found in La Petite Zine, Intercapillary Space, Crash Test and Otoliths. She is the author of Sensoria( http://www.lulu.com/content/2091147), Phos (http://vugg.wippiespace.com/vugg/stamatakis/Phos.pdf), and Metempsychose, which is set for publication Fall, 2008 (Ypolita Press).
Her personal blog: Hybrids (http://www.hybrids11.blogspot.com).

An Interview with Malay Roychoudhury: Part One of Two

2008-11-17T09:09:00.000-08:00

Known for his candor, sense of purpose, and ability to transcend the banal with ferocity, Malay Roychoudhury, founding member of the Hungryalist Movement, remains a seminal figure in the formulation of 21st century poetry. Personally associated with such literary figures as Allan Ginsberg and Octavio Paz, Roychoudhury has authored over 40 works including poetry, novels, drama, social criticism, and translations. First published in 1964, his poem "Stark Electric Jesus" incited enormous controversy, leading to both public and private persecution and ostracization. Due to the ensuing scandal, Roychoudhury refused to write again, only returning to his craft after his mother's death in 1983. Now an active and vital contributor to the international arts community, Roychoudhury is gracious in his time with visitors and willing to engage in discussions on creativity and politics. Working out of Kolkata, India, Roychoudhury relates his remarkable life and career with both frankness and levity.

For an introduction: http://letterstomalay.blogspot.com/

In what ways were you successful in "[undoing] the done-for world and [starting] afresh from chaos?"

“Success” is a strange word as far as arts and literature are concerned. Are the cave paintings, Aztec sculptures, pyramid engravings successful? We do not know their views. The Hungry Generation movement was definitely successful in undoing the colonial canons. Ask the earlier generation academicians; they may answer in the affirmative, possibly grudgingly.

If you could name a few artists who inspired you, who would they be?

I would name two illiterate persons: Shivnandan Kahar, a man who knew Ramayana, the epic written by poet Tulasidasa, by heart; and Ram Khelawan Singh Dabar, who could recite couplets from the works of poet saints Kabir, Rahim, Dadu. They were our family servants at Patna. They quoted from these poets in order to reprimand us during our childhood.

In one sentence, what would you like to say to those who might argue that Hungry Generation poets were, well, reckless?

They have not read us, otherwise they would have known that the human brain is Divine. Our books are published by small presses and the reader generally has to contact us for a copy of any publication.

We've many examples of individuals who have had a difficult time “balancing” the requirements of family and art. How important has “family” been to you as an artist?

Very important. Without a supportive family a writer can not have a structured peaceful schedule.

If you were to die tomorrow, would you be happy with the contribution to the arts and to the world that you have made?

Happiness emanates from the process of involvement in writing. I don't think that a writer is much bothered about immortality, especially a Hindu, who burn their dead, and do not have the culture of writing epitaphs.

Any regrets?

Yes. I should have inculcated the habit of maintaining daily diary right from my school days. My experiences are extensive and varied. Unfortunately, I am unable to recall the important incidents which impacted me.

What types of things do you find yourself working on these days?

An M.Phil student, Swati Banerjee, was preparing her thesis on comparative study of my poetry and Ginsberg's. I had to search out material for her. For the present, Prof Bishnu Dey of Assam University, who is preparing his Ph.D thesis on the Hungrualist Movement, is seeking my help in locating references. This has kept me busy for sometime.

Where do you go for inspiration?

Inspiration comes from within a writer. It is an up-wailing process in your psyche.

In terms of expression, the saying "what needs to be said" and how that might be articulated, what do you think about the use of multimedia and technology in the arts nowadays?

They have vastly widened our sense of wonder. One now has unlimited spark-ways to venture into the unknown.

To someone looking to learn more about the Hungry Generation, where would you recommend they start?

Not much is readily available in English. My Selected Poems were published twenty years back. During the sixties several little magazines in the UK and US brought out special Hungry issues. Those magazines may be traced from archives of the editors maintained in Universities. If Black Robert Journal Is interested, I would make available xerox of a couple of informative essays I had written long back.

This interview was conducted by Alexander Jorgensen, Managing Editor. [Photo credit: Alexander Jorgensen]

An Interview with Samit Roy

2008-11-17T09:06:00.000-08:00

One of the most engaging visual artists today, Samit Roy is on the verge of becoming a vanguard in a field ill-defined and unchallenged by the mainstream. He has already developed a large following among graphic artists, enthusiasts of graphic design, and students honing the fabric of their imaginations. Also noted for his poetry and short stories, Roy’s writing shows a defining intentionality and vital sensibility which serve to augment his visual art in powerful ways.

For more visit his blog: http://samitroy.org

What and whom influences the direction of your work?

I'd say society to a great extent. I believe every social moment could be presented as an art and every art is a social moment. I feel it's my social context that influences the direction of my work.

Explain how concepts are chosen for your work?

Most of the time, my works are directly or indirectly inspired by social events. I pick up incidents from my surroundings and try to put contextual details on them. I eventually come up with a work that is based on common incidents.

Explain the process and goals of your work?

My works are always very demanding and take a long time to achieve the desired shape. This is probably because I enjoy the process as well. In most of the cases, I take a layered approach, where I come up with a first sketch that I sit on it for few weeks. Every time I return to the sketch, I try build another image, derived from the original, and then try to capture the new image within the same frame. I repeat this process multiple times, or until I feel the piece has reached its goals. For me, the goal of all my work is to capture a piece of socio-economic-political history—painted, of course, with the hues of my conscious context or perception.

Do you have a particular audience (or target group) in mind when creating a piece?

Not socially or economically or politically, perhaps. But, as I said, my works are always very demanding. They require a certain amount of effort from an audience. Saying that, my works are meant for people who are inquisitive, as well as equipped enough to devote extra attention to a piece of work.

What contemporary artists do you admire most?

No one specific, but usually I like the works of artists who feel responsible for a larger society in their works. Artists who talks about their time and try to capture a glimpse of that through their practices.

How has your own sense of "location" influenced your work?

Location influences the context. Location defines my interaction. Location patterns my subjects.

What are some of the challenges of cross-cultural exchange in the arts?

Language and context, mostly. The complex behaviors of modern languages are resulting in multiple context-specific and cultural meanings of a single word, which is almost impossible for person to understand who is not aware of that particular socio-cultural context. Limitations of the conventional translation processes also do take their toll.

What other interests do you have?

Apart from my work, I love aquariums and aqua-scapes. Too, I enjoy working on visual compositions with living splashes of colors, carves and contours, drawn with ever changing colors and lines and textures of live plants and other natural objects.

This interview was conducted by Alexander Jorgensen, Managing Editor.

An Interview with Matina Stamatakis

2008-11-17T08:59:00.000-08:00

A major force in contemporary poetry's underground scene, Matina Stamatakis possesses an uncanny skill in her ability to master a variety of mediums. Among her many talents, she writes, records, edits, publishes, and constructs unique visual art spaces. Her work reveals an intimacy in the way she discerns connecting forces among the disparate. As a writer who demonstrates a spontaneity and playfulness with words, Stamatakis’ prolific online presence reveals just how this veteran is weaving her mark.

What is currently influencing your work?

What ever my eye takes in. I approach everything, and by everything am influenced.

What projects are you currently working on?

There are a number of projects I'm working on at the moment. As far as collaborations go, I am working on a group of images with Jeff Crouch. Some of which have appeared in the e-zines Admit 2, Otoliths, & forthcoming in Moria.

In addition to the collaboration with Jeff, I'm also working on a full-length book of "lysic" (lyrical nonsense) poetry with Kane X. Faucher, and another book of poetry with John-Moore Williams. I respect both of these writers greatly. I am extremely pleased to be in the position to work with them in creating, in my mind, works of art, both indicative of the times, the now, yet extremely different from each other in every way.

Aside from collaborative work, I've also been engrossed in another full-length project, Gutland, is a very personal epic poem broken into ten parts—one of the most personal poems I've ever written. It is not a memoir, but more of a look into my past and present life shrouded in experimentation. It is proving to be the greatest poetic challenge of my life. Which makes it, in my mind, all the more pertinent.

What should a viewer notice about your work?

There are two things I'd hope the viewer would notice about my work:

1) Transformation. Every piece of work (excluding extensive series like Grapyrus and Phos), is not like the other. I try to change my visuals because my ideas change—they're never stagnant or immovable, but pliable. I usually ask myself two questions before I get started on an image: “How can I express things differently?” and “How can I approach an already existing object and give it a new life?” Because I believe in placing life in lifelessness—to animate the inanimate. Change, for me, is a necessity.

2) Layering. There is not a single piece of work I've created which doesn't incorporate the use of multiple images. As with all of my work, there is a certain intangible tangibility. One has to look at the image, rather than just glance at it in order to get the full effect.

What should the viewer appreciate about the process of your work?

Hopefully the viewer does appreciate the work , not so much the process itself. That's all I could ask for.

How long does it usually take for you to complete an individual piece?

For the digital works, not very long. Maybe an hour, two hours tops. For the images where B&W photography is involved, it takes a bit longer.

Can you tell us about the journal with which you are affiliated, Venereal Kittens?

I started Venereal Kittens in 2006. The whole idea of the collective came about after I ran into other artists' blogs—poets like ek rzepka, Robert Chrysler, Carmen Racovitza, Ted Warnell, who opened me up to a whole community I never imagined existed! And there I was, barely out of the school of poetic form and structure, only to be thrown into this sort of cacophonous indulgence. Surely I had to create an outlet for these kinds of experiments. Needless to say, I was looking for more participants in the beginning, but am pleased to have been given the opportunity to feature some of the poets/artists I deeply admire. All in all, it has, and continues to be, a wonderful experience.

Interview conducted by Alexander Jorgensen, Managing Editor.

2008-10-13T12:01:00.000-07:00

Issue 1

CONTENTS
Brent Calderwood
Pat Clifford
Deborah Poe
Ed Schenk
Cralan Kelder
Tim Martin
Bonnie MacAllister
Manas Bhattacharya
Alexander Jorgensen
Andy Nicholson
David-Baptiste Chirot
Kathup Tsering
Peter Grieco
Subhashis Gangopadhyay
Pradip Datta
Elena Ştefoi

Issue 1: Brent Calderwood

2008-10-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

Nonce

It’s Winter Solstice in San Francisco, and the Radical Faeries

are throwing a sex party. I have your blessing to go.

Instead I bought booties for my brother’s new baby,

had your bike tire replaced and came home to write poems.

They’re about earthquakes, and you won’t believe this, but

this morning there was an earthquake here.

I’ve come back from my Harlem apartment to see you,

but only for this winter break.

Now you’re in Westchester for a few days visiting

family. You stopped by Manhattan to get my glasses,

used the keys I made you. I feed your cats.

It’s so domestic, I don’t know if I can stand it.

But I like your style, the walls you’ve painted red,

and you even humored me before you left,

went with me to get a Christmas tree.

I’ve learned to ask for a “Charlie Brown.”

The salesman came back with a wonky,

patchy thing, sold it to us for cheap.

There’s no way to stand it up straight,

so the little minaret you use for a star leans 45 degrees.

It’s fine, I wanted it mostly for the smell anyway.

I cover the water bowl under the tree with aluminum foil

so your cats won’t get urinary tract infections.

The morning doves bill and coo on the bars of your fire escape.

It’s almost like having a balcony, and I water

the plants you grow there, but it reminds me

of disaster just the same.

The French call it roucoulement—the cooing, I mean.

Ah, their pretty words.

I know a couple who’ve been together twenty-four years now,

They’ve lived that whole time in the same

little studio on Market Street,

near the old Mint. Can you imagine?

Some years, pigeons build their nests on the ledge

outside their open shower window.

Well, not nests really.

Pigeons just lay a few twigs

down to keep their eggs from rolling

off any stone surface.

This spring, Ruven decided to put the eggs in a carton and

move them to a lower ledge.

Who knows if the birds abandoned their eggs,

not finding them where they expected,

but it seemed more humane than the previous spring,

when David just flicked them off.

I wrote my first happy song today.

Four major chords.

Does optimism have to be so simple?

The amount of reflection seems so small,

like a convict’s mirror.

Maybe I’ll put in a minor bridge.

There needs to be an epiphany, doesn’t there?

I clipped my toenails,

made a sandwich.

I’ve eaten too much.

There’s a Buddhist idea that this pain

is on equal footing with the pain of

not eating enough.

Pain is pain.

But I wonder if that’s an idea put in there

for the American Buddhists.

Like the way the “mother meditation”—

imagining your enemies as your mother,

or imagining them having been your mother in a past life,

I always forget which—

has to be changed to the “grandmother meditation,”

a tribute to our Western complexities.

Does this all sound bourgeois?

I never got to middle-class, I don’t know which parts to detest.

In Amsterdam I came to love the stolid fathers

who walked their daughters to daycare each morning

past the Red Light showrooms—

Surinamese hookers in French-cut panties—

without batting an eyelash.

I drank Heinekens with German boys in the punk bar,

watched the flickering video of two women

sewing a third woman’s labia together

while a man laid his head on her thigh and lovingly

lapped at the blood.

I showered with women at a public pool

with a co-ed locker room. Danced in the gay Muslim bar

on Ramadan, no one drinking, the women twirling dervishly.

I took my classes in the old hospital building along the Singel.

The professor said the connection between sex and love

was just a sociological construct, and a recent one at that.

We talk about the erotic because it is about so much.

You spent the night in your fuckbuddy’s bed last week;

the boyfriend (the FB’s BF)

tiptoed in the next morning to get his socks from the dresser,

chatted you up casually, then went to work.

Now we discuss over the phone whether we can be evolved,

what “evolved” means.

I’ll visit Kansas again for work next month, meeting

with those standardized-test specialists.

“Kansas is actually flatter than a pancake,” one teacher told me

without irony, “They did a study at the university.”

The Department of Education puts me in the Holiday Inn “Holidome.”

There’s a Pac-Man-shaped swimming pool

and a miniature putting range all the rooms open onto.

The plants, curtains, sheets, carpet, pillows—

all reeks of chlorine, and there’s no natural light.

How did a Fred Astaire movie title get put on this building?

But downtown Lawrence is actually quite charming.

I spot rainbow stickers in café windows

and find the gay newspaper and cruisy section

of the KU campus all on the first day.

It feels like going home

because my mother was born in Kansas,

or because I don’t feel safe.

The articles in the test forms can’t mention dinosaurs

because it raises questions about a world before Jesus, about Darwin.

The phrase “millions of years ago” gets changed to “a long time ago”

in articles about spiders, planets, or yes, even earthquakes.

Stories about birthdays get thrown out

(Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t celebrate birthdays).

When the teachers ask if I am married, I say “no.”

We are becoming family.

Next year, we’ll spend Christmas together.

Things are leaning that way.

The house where the Faeries are having that party is a Victorian,

like many of these painted ladies—

they’re so easily split:

the servants’ quarters become a dungeon,

the madwoman’s attic a home office with bay view.

The gingerbread eves outside provide shelter for homeless men,

who park their shopping carts in the driveway,

just long enough to urinate.

I’ve tried tricking, per our arrangement.

One guy I met in Chelsea,

by the time we got to his brownstone, he said,

“You know your problem? You think too much.”

Meditation helps with that, I guess.

And going home with smart people.

Other attempts go better, even well.

I am a dilettante: to connect

without connection is the art.

I think even after we evolve, there’ll be times

I’ll prefer to stay home with the cats.

At uncertain moments, all the flat states between us

come as a comfort.

After this winter break, we’ll need

some sea change, some shifting fault to move us

I don’t know

forward, together.

For now, we joke about walking

through wormholes

in a nanosecond

me to California

you to New York

then returning to our respective oceans.

Your physicist friend in Berkeley speaks of such things—

wormholes, strings, six dimensions we don’t perceive.

The theories seem silly to me,

the way the archaeopteryx,

Bonobo chimpanzees,

or you or I—you and I—

must seem to those teachers,

that professor.

I want to stitch the coasts together,

with strong, taut thread.

Brent Calderwood's poetry has previously appeared in The Chabot Review, modern words, and Through Our Eyes. His essays and reviews have been published widely, including the January 2008 issues of The Gay & Lesbian Review and Lambda Book Report. He received a 2007 Lambda Literary Foundation Fellowship for poetry, and was a 2007 Chancellor's Fellow in English Literature at the CUNY Grad Center.

Issue 1: Pat Clifford

2008-10-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

Asylum

Yet different will go on in here.

Projected past frontline.

It’s it’s obvious—can’t let you in.

This is telepathy.

At the back gate with people in and out.

Property dealt refuses.

Purse rules.

Anxious aspect jumpsuit.

Different will go onto here.

Spit big on guilty ground.

Pronounce unsocialized.

Inspect all restraints, irrespective of level.

Sentencing a growing number before they get to them.

Just sweep the locked guys outside before you go.

Kick your filthy cycle to try and hear the coping.

Yep.

Occasions as average.

Direct as reflects.

Quit taking protocols with the others.

Anxious outside jumpsuit.

Order placed hands classified as out.

Order placed now up pacing up in cuff.

Human waste refuses said hands.

Your turn turn until a statement resolve the plot.

Leave me this system we’ve been acting up.

Don’t feel friendly you know.

Refuses orders— special response called in.

Filter basement mission statement shuffle shuffle.

And—all directions go down the same way?

Are you giving me directions?

Protective environment [cut shuffle]

1ST INMATE:

You want to pass security

saying believe I’m saying

and just outside like anybody

Your behavior has ended up plans.

We shouldn’t opportunity double purpose

just acting out bigger curses

against the possible force. Allow

case

the committee’s feel, upset grounds

induced door

Can you turn the kitchen way?

devote the simply spent

rest think themselves a rest

Can you share how

one step into my familiar?

while most manage

well well in the card game

fight.

with staff.

hands out before you

frankly feel the level, my conversations

transferred. They’re community of me

and get one pretty head, thankfully

I saying come over but really not

doing something stick?

Basically it’s pretty if

hands and knees is crawling with

obvious and cameras would pronounce

it hopeless

Can you share how

we have to be assertive?

2ND INMATE:

Obviously

giving me directions

would call you brother

telling us out of trespass

The dark Bible

gets a witness

The meal considered

spit on a hundred officers

ignored my

TV in my cell you

with Oprah

all right.

changed Texas and

fathomed the nation’s emergency

Crisis trying your stomach.

sicker chemical to help

pay

attention

don’t turn in the kitchen.

as soon as I step I have

happened

CHIEF:

But when his patience had a free

home health record then he created

the cool

And then regularly

one would fight complying

“But thankfully there’s pretty much freedom

really can’t confines

we’ve been not realizing

It grabs curses

telling you

“Curses

enrolled could be freed in you

Write MARK on the board

to kill

clinically and frankly

those gentlemen

Don’t care who is murdered

but how

GUARD:

Release is plans and I’m innocent people leave complicated so long learned plans fear the world to release innocent people hurt schedule understood and still is legal fear innocent concerns go insightfully lost are tight plans become team you know is complicated will call other plans learned well trying little bit will put society right through learned plans insightfully to stop off in nothing’s room

COUNSELOR:

A cell becomes behavior fine

in the goal-directed discussing of inmate security

down to the turnaround reason no Facility reflects.

I want brighter rules

locked down in the cards

of this 24-hour conversation.

Better courts believe

you an apt judge, brighter

day, ironic cloud of empathy.

Spiral not, fragile bicycle,

like an obvious Ohio year

hallucinating a lock of the knees.

Overmedicate me—

not to parole Jesus.

Health is like being legal to begin with.

3RD INMATE:

Why they want to plot the big issue throws

me. Record each time saying “Let’s

last I mean leave. Well

well out of

behooves and cracks finally get the

notice. But they’re in compliance. Obviously

times two and no mental net. Their facilities are so

fragile and live, not understand. Don’t require

attention but regardless provide quite an

environment, ladies and gentlemen, no side

effects.

My people know nothing

about it. Don’t we think we need

a staff? We’re not playing Jesus

here!

The knees are not incompetent

sir.

Our guard will change place. Not

simply twice. No

place didn’t get my

name it

Didn’t get my name

I have to go through a purse I

mean please

Pay. Yes’m.

refusal paranoid yes?

Pretty place talked yeah.

Going to get cool. Ow!

About the place, something gave

me some yeah I

tend

not really

I tend

NURSE:

his eyes told

There are two others I think

it’s saying

the people didn’t get a

weekend

and were eventually deported in

a light file

reportedly afraid of the

safety

If a dose

is going to work,

don’t double up

and/or

backs crack

get separated

It’s units in here.

kind light

restraining into it

the community

if asked

CHIEF:

Acting off in terms addition had to

mouth emergency in already units

you got effect

have you

here

looks decompensate to least

Simply know they’re realistic

in somebody’s world

These perhaps might just take

control of everything

plan special dark bars

irrespective if not unprecedented

deviant director and acting took

patience from place. Hang on voices

to remember those long numbers

GUARD:

I’m still in with that bigger team you know every lost life plans hurt you know you take a treatment and every hurt plans a tight innocent system in some plans understood my work I’m still in mind to go bigger with little treatment plans going to society directly to stop it’s innocent plan it’s trying directly so think on schedule because that’s not innocent it’s scarier still and more insightfully coming to society just in mind you know bigger things in legal sleep so sleep a lot you learned it learned that you have other plans so sleep directly to me a little scarier fear that hurt other plans you know I’m still in

CHIEF:

if not bats question is:

hand’s ain’t nothing

ignored handle grabs

for dropped weight, up to you

upstairs. Privileges the hand

through wind

fairly grabs

knees all change as delusional

are you on?”

put up property watch please

inspect my purse

refuses what’s new

“snatched”

to write your check

this is classified as robbery

hand goes right through

a purse

like dark cloud voices

WOMAN:

Hey inmate

don’t you see and staff me

Watch your intake then call me

the patient phone.

New inmate locked and you’re gate money

released on the condition she’s realistic

and here we go

Shuffle in my time

to bat

Many very high applied fast attention

right

to the point

where weight complicated

my ironic security.

Shampoo now state property and acute crime

Two toothbrushes wooden bats from Texas

Talk about a prison consultant. Correct

like a kicking release schedule. “You have adjusted

beautifully”

corrections

His cell you need beautifully

Need my cell in protective custody

want in

We need to hallucinate colors taken from society

Write them up as if they were free

Patient to be restrained.

Pat Clifford is the author of several chapbooks including A story by fair: Rules for Radicals (2006) and Ring of Honor (2007). His work has appeared in Boog City, Hundreds, Streetvibes and is forthcoming in CyPress Magazine. A five-minute version of Asylum was performed at the Naropa Summer Writing Program in 2007.

Issue 1: Deborah Poe

2008-10-13T11:58:00.000-07:00

from Elements

Xenon (Xe)
54
xenon is an inert noble gas—a gas widely used in photographic flash tubes—the electronically triggered
kind—the kind that can be used many times instead of once, like chemical flash tubes. xenon tubes are
used for strobe lights in dance clubs and airplane wings.

Is a noble gas a princess?

What were your faces like dancing under strobe?

Can you use flash tube as light saber?

Was her body xenon-guarded in the fall?

And so, is the element still considered inert?

Tantalum (Ta) ¹
73

buried with tin

seabed's invisible backbone

buckets, big cups, hydro-cyclone

pulley roams from dredge to deep sea

pay dirt sieved by primary jig

on the rig pumping dirt through screen

from gravel—dried bagged shipped then free

pure tin before slag's tantalum.

¹“Tantalum (Ta)” was an experiment with “Literary ‘lace of flowers,’ / Dok-Soy/…a Thai poetic form that
contains 60 syllables and specific rhyming pattern” which is mentioned in Padcha Tuntha-obas’ trespasses.

Ununquadium (Uuq), or Incoming Zeroes
& Ones (first)
113

business
i’m going to suggest for this presentation on strategies
you dress up as santa claus, practice singing like patsy cline

nourishment
after the heart-shaped falafel
she overheard let's just do color

autographs
mom's memory of sofia loren
on the plane too shy to speak

fame
that road on the hill paved with gold
applause softened outdoors

epitaph
didn't we all live for love?
use your cereal box as funeral's hat

Deborah Poe's first book, a poetry collection from Our Parenthetical Ontology is forthcoming from Custom Words (fall). Many of her elements have been published or are forthcoming in MiPOesias, Denver Quarterly, Many Mountains Moving, Copper-Nickel, and Flim Forum's A Sing Economy. Her current project is a short fiction collection, Event Landmarks.

Issue 1: Ed Schenk

2008-10-13T11:57:00.000-07:00

from Heads of State

[Click on images to enlarge]

Ed Schenk lives and works in Amsterdam. In his work, he expresses his very own perception of "visible language of a culture." Most recent publications of work in Otholiths, Musée de l'Elysée, and Caught in the Act of Jazz.
Visithttp:// www.streetsofamsterdam.blogspot.com

Issue 1: Cralan Kelder

2008-10-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

Depreciated as Windbreak

take these feelings and line them up as if soldiers

if you took these feelings and lined them up there would be enough to fill a phalanx or two,
marching with a snap of head past the party chairman. Whole phalanxes of wonder and dread.

But who actually plants trees in neat lines as if they were soldiers?

not soldiers!

trees!

not soldiers!

trees!

someone should find these people, take them by the hand, and make them repeat;

not soldiers!

trees!

And all these soldiers, so many of them, manning the whole circus, from roustabout, to ripping
tickets, filling the cheap seats, up on the trapeze, in the bear suit, selling popcorn, running
the show!

~~restaurant~~ relationship

Do you remember when we went

out for dinner, and quietly in the fancy

restaurant, keeping our voices down,

talked about divorce.

Woke up

inna chicken coop

yawned, stretcht, pult

feathers from behind his ears,

out his hair.

"How in heck

did I get in here." some

strange thoughts for a fox.

in the fancy restaurant that night,

asking himself, her, do I want

and how do I get

out

of this relationship restaurant.

Cralan Kelder's recent publications include French Pastry (Coracle 2007) City Boy (Longhouse 2007). More of his poetry may be seen online in Origin magazine, a journal he "highly recommends as a way to spend some time on the internet." He is a resident of Amsterdam.

Issue 1: Tim Martin

2008-10-13T11:36:00.001-07:00

Abuse Like Beauty

it beats waiting tables
our positions suddenly terminate
with immigration aliases
& score this magazine beat
that some untraded colonial power
speaks to in spanish fleets
that the soul exits bodily
or a perfume called noblese oblige
in every carpenter's hall
made promises of dirty martinis
in glorious summer back in beirut
when daddy can medicate this
today i'll collect ceramics
to say nothing of symptoms

Tim Martin works in theatre and lives in the Philadelphia, PA area. He attended Naropa University. Tim's work has been seen and heard in: I-Outlaw, EOAGH, Altered Books Project, Poetry Sz, One Less magazine, Big Bridge, Hamilton Stone Review, and many others. Some of his plays have recently been seen in Philly: Echo, The Ballad of Joe Hill, Tales From Turtle Isle and and several adaptations of children's stories.

Issue 1: Bonnie MacAllister

2008-10-13T11:35:00.001-07:00

Dipping Well

When I was to genuflect,

I always second-guessed

Which knee to bow.

I felt surreptitiously suspect

If I were to lower a left

When right was the convention.

When I looked upon the cross,

I sometimes paused long enough

To utter the words

In name of father, son, holy ghost.

Often I sped through, leaving room

For mother, daughter, need this most.

I often bent my fingers into the dipping well,

Painting my forehead with the blessed drops,

Wondering which color they would burn

If I were in the wrong.

Conspicuous, I eyed the other girls in pews,

Searching for their pigtails laced and bound.

Were there a leak in the font

Would it lead me to them?

Trick Candles

3:12

"Hostage Situation in suburban parking lot."

A school bus detours down my street.

"Amber situation in Ambler, Pennsylvania".

My cousin's wife left him the empty house there,

A virulent situation without ventilation.

The contractor's staple gun clips.

He was spitting acid wash from a hose on the corner house yesterday

While the plumbers dug a human-sized hole in front of my house.

My bladder is too full to levitate me to look

If the cautionary horses are upright

If broken chairs have fallen prey to the anarchists:

If the new squat has one less squatter, one more with good posture.

4:03

"A man dressed in black was standing on a fountain with two suitcases.

Capitol police tackled him and exploded them."

The buzz-buzzing sounds like the pesticide I wish I had earlier

To seal some between screen and glass

Where I'd trapped my cat's paw, where i'd trapped a queen bee.

Another sunny day wasted.

It's the act of inhaling I can't quite shake

No matter how long it is between.

Bonnie MacAllister's work has appeared The Feminist Journal, Paper Tiger Media, nth Position, Small Spiral Notebook, and Magnaphone, among others. Her visual art has appeared most recently at the Main Line Art Center, DC Arts Center, the Philip Ratner Museum, AIR Gallery (NYC), Penn State, Holy Family College, the Inquirer Building, and High Wire Gallery (Philadelphia). MacAllister has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Issue 1: Manas Bhattacharya

2008-10-13T11:34:00.000-07:00

from Bitter Bodies

[Click on image to enlarge]

Manas Bhattacharya studied comparative literature and film in Jadavpur University, Kolkata. Currently, he is a final year student of cinematography in the Satyajit Ray Film and Television Institute, Kolkata. For the past six years, he has been working as an independent cinematographer, shooting experimental films and documentaries. Manas is also an independent photographer, painter and composer.

Issue 1: Alexander Jorgensen

2008-10-13T11:33:00.000-07:00

North Boston Dinner Party

        Every one
gone round—but a half.

13 people at that table.

                           Mother,
Sicilian; father, Italian (and there—
the difference).

                    Much’s uncertain
                    —alas
—for these things idle
are humming.

      “Parity,” he wrote:
      “was never in existence.”

      “But assisted me (this given)
      by removing whichever anything
            needed to go away.”

      And must
convince 12 other people
you’re worthy of that—
                             (though it
might not be so old
and still desirable) last piece.

One Good Eye¹

             Because
I read your poems
                    can tell
         at which
turn
      you pause(d)—wiping
a cornered lip
                 and grinning.
                         Feigning
humility,
       as if
the light
                  which rests
                  by the stool
                  in the yard
                                          might be held
                                          too close

                                          for this.—
That a tally in the yard
and knees, tired,
       should take.

     I dreamt
             (with nervousness)—
                                                  saw
                                   you cry.

¹ “One Good Eye” is the title of a portrait of Robert Creeley taken by friend Allen Ginsberg.

Alexander Jorgensen wakes up indulging in queer tirades. Has suffered from existential homelessness while learning to communicate. Attempts to remind himself just how apples once tasted. He lives and works in the People's Republic of China (where he has divided his time since 2002). His work has most recently appeared in Big Bridge, Otoliths, Vibrant Gray, and Kabita Pakshik (translations into Bangla by poet and translator, Subhashis Gangopadhyay). "Letters to a Younger Poet," correspondences with the late Robert Creeley, appears in Jacket magazine #31.

Issue 1: Andy Nicholson

2008-10-13T11:31:00.000-07:00

The hammer doesn't hammer

The hammer doesn't hammer. The world reveals itself.

The hammer doesn't hammer. 9:18 AM. The world reveals
itself.

The hammer doesn't hammer. One column for failure, one
column for choice. 9:18 AM. Omission of a name. The world
reveals itself.

The hammer doesn't hammer. 9:18 AM. The world reveals
itself.

The hammer doesn't hammer. The world reveals itself.

The hammer doesn't hammer. Failure or choice. The world
reveals itself.

The hammer doesn't hammer. She drops the telephone—you're
in the doorway. Failure or choice. She thinks of sand when she
thinks of the city. The world reveals itself.

The hammer doesn't hammer. Estranged soldier. She drops the
telephone—you’re in the doorway. Years later, the unfired rifle
still rests in the glass case. Failure or choice. No, not
sunspots—your binocular is pointed in the wrong direction. She
thinks of sand when she thinks of the city. It illuminates itself.
The world reveals itself.

4 to Larry Eigner

1

     no, the wait     was enough
                         for me

no, afternoon

the joy of a favorite
          word blinds me
          for the rest of the stanza

2

I do
too

I do

not

and do you      still
do you

3

gestures with glasses
     hair back

     nervous but
you calm me

4

“photos of

     poets”

       oh

poets before me

     Heidegger’s word

     Larry’s animal

               Tristan’s sight

                    fire, rolls through matter

3 to Larry Eigner

1

heavy in the chair

                              yet

                                  anxious in the room

i would respond

          with a bird on my finger

2

our occupation

          our punctuation

3

cupboard

     to

     hold

                in absentia

                   our

                   lips

                         still

                         move

Andy Nicholson's poems have been published in many journals and magazines, among them: Aught, Shampoo, Beeswax, and Mirage #4/Period(ical). He has an intense interest in collaboration, both between writers and between artists of differing media. Among many current projects, he is translating the poetry of Pierre Reverdy and Tristan Tzara.

Issue 1: David-Baptiste Chirot

2008-10-13T11:30:00.000-07:00

ZERO POEM/POEM ZERO
visual score sound poem

Click to listen:
http://cla.umn.edu/joglars/EARFULL/BH.d.b.chirot.zero.poem.mp3

[Click on images to enlarge]

David-Baptiste Chirot's poetry, prose, visual art and essays appear internationally; and have been translated into Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Bosnian, French, and Serbian. "My work is guided by a profound faith in the Found, everywhere hidden in plain sight. To see with hands, feel with eyes, to hear forms & colors, to see sounds, words, music. To make and walk rhythmic thanks." His collections include ANARKEYOLOGY (Runaway Spoon), Zero Poem (Traverse), Reverberations (8PagePress), tearerISm (singlepress/Kiro), and found rubBEings (Xexoxial Editions Xerolage 32). Walls (Otoliths Press), 60 color pages of paintings, is to be released in 2008.

Issue 1: Kathup Tsering

2008-10-13T11:28:00.000-07:00

Don't be Afraid Mother

Don't be afraid, mother
my dear delicate mother

Mother...
The soul of the snow
walks alone on the dark path
where freedom eludes

Don't be afraid, mother
though the hopes fail
the sky falls
wind blows
rivers flow
and upon the fresh soft snow
I see your tender footprints

Don't be afraid, mother
should the storms rise
I will stand for you
on the snowy road
the spirit of your vision rings
should hurdles arise
I will lay myself
to protect your legacy

Don't be afraid, mother
the mind closes
the heart freezes
the life ceases

in the Land of sorrow (Snow)
yet I sing
the songs of freedom
as your vision never quivers

Don't be afraid, mother
as the rain still falls
the spring forth cometh
FREEDOM...surely will resound.

Originally appeared in the anthology Muses in Exile (Paljor Publications, 2004).

Kathup Tsering was born in Tsoe, a small town in Amdo, northeastern Tibet. He escaped to India in 1994 after taking part in a demonstration demanding promotion of Tibetan culture and religion. "Why do I write poetry? Because as poetry immortalizes the scenes of sadness, happiness, life, love and death, I have witness." He is a translator and works with PEN of Dharamsala, India. Tsering's poetry appears in the anthology entitled Muses in Exile (Paljor Publications, 2004). The Yak Blessing was released in late 2007.
To download a PDF of his work, click http://www.poemhunter.com/ebooks/redir.asp?ebook=13682&filename=kathup_tsering_2007_5.pdf

Issue 1: Peter Grieco

2008-10-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

Six Incidents

A Baynes Street woman

walking Sunday

night near Baynes Street

& West Delevan was robbed

at the point of a shotgun

duct taped around its barrel

of $300 & two credit cards

by another woman

about 17 years old

wearing a black jacket

demanding, Yo, give me

your purse.

Multiple rounds

from a large caliber weapon

penetrated walls

as a small silver vehicle

ran a stop sign

at high speed.

Emergency crews had to pull

a woman from her car

when it became surrounded by flood waters

after she drove around police barricades.

The woman told police

she was on her way to her bridge game

at the Fox Club.

A tall, thin guy

with scruffy facial hair

robbed a HSBC Bank branch

Monday morning, holding his left hand

inside his jacket sleeve as if he had

a gun, handing the teller

a note that read, “$10,000 or Bang!”

fleeing with three stacks of singles

& a single stack of fives.

A speeding car

struck & killed a bicyclist

as the cyclist leaned

over a trash bin collecting

empty beer cans for the deposit.

A patron was charged

with a series of misdemeanors

after refusing to pay

a restaurant bill

for coffee

soda

& chicken fingers

totaling $12.36

& yelling vulgarities

at patrons then swearing

at police from the back

of the police cruiser

telling them to shut up.

TRIPTYCHS

Milton Rogovin, 1994

The artist’s aims have changed

since the first series of shots when

he couldn’t resist the desire

for transfiguration—why should he?—

by eliciting the eloquence of light

the grain in wood, each brick

of a graffitied facade, arranging

Madonna & Child couplings, offsetting

solitary rebels. Balance—Contrast—

Gentle Irony—Depth of Focus—

all help to unmask dignity

in simple passions, neglected

beauties, vitality amid ruin, Miller

High Life captioned above

the granite resolve of the poor.

A parent staggers out of a darkened

stairwell to sun on a broken

step. Velvet painted peacocks

framing a lace draped mantle

behind a doll-like tiara-ed Virgin

express the same simple optimism

& innocent trust that a small girl

does, clinging about her proud

father’s waist. A self-contained

immigrant family gazes expectantly

at the camera proclaiming, We Are Here.

A Mod Squad in turtlenecks, shades

& hooped earrings, like a scene out of Hair

steps over the color line to groove

with one another. The artist provokes

a silent language, musters a patience

to hear where there is literally nothing

to be heard, so that it is we who fumble

to speak, we who want to shout our

sympathy, our respect & solidarity, even

our admiration, for those from whom

did we actually hear their guttural voices

we might turn away in distaste.

By the third group of images

this glamour is not even attempted.

Where are the pan pipes, the bare chests

& subtle toes—a ménage à trois with dog

ready for the April morning? Where are

the tight groups & couples, the solitary

souls brave in the light, the high school

girl with pencil in her teeth, fire

in her hair? Replaced, often, by ungainly

families, elders whose dreams have

vanished, kids who look spoiling

for a fight. Simultaneity lapses

inevitably into sequence, a rhythm

of cycles, narratives of loss. Tragic

stasis unwinds in bitter folly. Distracted

by this progression, the camera loses

its eye for detail & the compositions have

given way to a chaos closer to real life.

Peter Grieco's work has appeared in both print and on-line publications, among them: Harvard Review, House Organ, Poetalk, Arsenic Lobster, Court Green, Nexus, Red Hawk Review, Aquapolis, Folio, Fox Cry Review, and Puerto del Sol, among others. Currently teaching at Buffalo State College, he has also taught at Bilkent University in Ankara, Turkey and in Seoul, Korea. His vignettes in “Six Incidents" are based on reports from the Local section of the Buffalo News, while the subject of "Triptychs" is based on the well-known book of photos by Martin Rogovin (which documents lives in Buffalo's lower Westside, the area in which his own grandparents once made their homes). [Photo credit: Andrew Wylegala]

Issue 1: Subhashis Gangopadhyay

2008-10-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

The Rains, an Umbrella and the Tramp

And as I quietly strayed away from the road leading to the altar I could hear sounds, as if
emanating from a wind-pipe (which later truly transpired to be from the lungs that lay hidden
behind the very feeble ribcage of a tramp who had no special role to play in this show though all
through the way he tried his best to get somehow accommodated even it be doing a cameo).
The gasping sound gained pace and it seemed, as if on spotting me, to follow my trail.

By the time I had reached halfway down the aisle and just below the fleet of steps going out into
a wide meadow, the gasping sound had moved up to my shoulder and I could feel its warmth
behind my left ear. I turned back but nobody was in sight. Only the sound of tired panting tried
to provide me company and this time it was coming from behind the right ear. I tried to move
my right eye-ball further to the right without making any movement of the head, but a fruitless
effort as there was still nobody in sight.

I called out aloud. Even though no one answered, the tramp, still tagging on to the long trail of a
thousand heads that was moving in the direction of the altar waved a hand towards me. As the
daylight diminished leaving behind the busy chirping of homeward swallows and crows, the
descending loneliness, as if in its attempt to knit a bond of affinity, inched towards me, its deep
murky cloak soaked in darkness.

I was not amused at all. I tried to throw away whatever valuable I thought I had on me but my
long and stretched shadow that by now had begun to be wrapped up in the deep murky cloak,
refused to leave and I saw it trying to cover me up, enter into me as if to shield itself from the
darkness outside.

I was feeling shaky and who won’t under sinister circumstances as this as I felt a mild touch of a
very cold finger just on the left side of my temple. I trembled. Turned. It was the tramp. “How
did you arrive here? I never saw you coming.” He looked fascinated and I was first taken back
somewhat because of my ignorance of his source of fascination. He rued,” I ought to have told
you earlier” and grimaced as he started collecting my shadow from my feet and wrap it around
the branch that he collected from the tree that stood by our side.

I was trying to make out the sequence of events as I stood in stark surprise ruminating the
occurrences that have been taking place at a rapid pace since my alienation from the
mainstream a couple of hours back. As my shadow clung on to the dry branch in the hands of
the tramp I suddenly began to feel as if bereft of all my weight. I felt weightless. But I was not
being trained for any space mission. I wasn’t in any vacuum. My head reeled …. reeled …. and
reeled till the moment of losing total consciousness.

It was then that the tramp showed himself up once again. He now had a small flute that he held
up to his lips with his right hand and in his left hand he had a bright little lamp, its yellow hue
imposing a mesmerising effect all around the place. Too weak to utter a word I gestured to him
with my eyes. He seemed to understand. He began playing his flute and swaying the lamp in a
very slow motion from left to right and from right to left.

In one moment I knew the rains were coming once again. Too weak to huddle in a corner I sent
out my eyes to search for an umbrella.

…… I knew they would never return. I tried to move my fingers over the cavity of my eyes.
They were numb like a dead man’s. With the last drop of strength I threw out my arms.

Let the rains come.

Refuge Refused

It was coming any way;

and that in spite of all that had been done,
all that hands could lay upon,
to protract its delayed presence in your existence,
it has continued to manifest itself in your mien.

You know of it,
you had known it all along
yet . . . .

The fast tracks around
the golden dome
are vanishing fast;

to retract into the receding woods –

the swaying silvery leaves
won’t hold any surprise!

Subhashis Gangopadhyay is involved in the movement of postmodern poetry in India and is on the editorial board of Kabita Pakshik, a leading Bengali fortnightly poetry magazine. He has several books to his credit, including a book of selected poetry in Bengali. He has translated into Bengali works by John Ashbery and Peter Gizzi, as well as the works of leading Bengali poets into English. His own work can be found translated into English. He lives and works in Kolkata.

Issue 1: Pradip Datta

2008-10-13T10:43:00.000-07:00

Untitled 1

Untitled 2

Untitled 3

[Click on images to enlarge]

Pradip Datta lives and works in Kolkata, India. His photographs have appeared in exhibitions at the National Centre for Performing Arts in Mumbai, Santiniketan's Prakriti Bhavan (where 38 of his photographs are on permanent display), Living India exhibition in Belgium, and a forthcoming one in Germany's Cologne. "Instead of defining the domain, Pradip liberates space and offers supplementarity to elements of seeing," says author and film scholar Sanjay Mukhopadhyay. Email:

Issue 1: Elena Ştefoi

2008-10-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

  Egoism as Much as
        Literature
              or
  Why I'm an Anti-
          Disciple

At the skirt of the mountain frightened by its very height

keeping watch against hypocrisy on account of its awful memories

(I should have followed them as almost all travelers follow

the blazes on tree trunks the cheers of those who can be comforted

by the truism that they were earlier to rise that they grew older

looking down from high above on the world inventing its own perfection

as on some tourist attraction from a century before

a brilliant sort of helplessness

friends holding stones small animals and insects

sparkling with iridescent hues instead of their dying mother’s hand

filled with sympathy for any ragtag troop

of mediocre soldiers too ready to shoulder their knapsacks

rather than for those who sign letters of protest

confronted by conflicts between nations sexes races religions)

I said to it that in the meantime

magnetic maps escalators laser compasses cable cars have appeared for all of us . . .

maglev trains helicopters safety gear

oh so many methods to pick from in full awareness

to avoid losing ourselves between sunset and sunrise

I didn’t even tell it that it wasn’t the only mountain

God left on the face of the earth

I was fond of it I defended it as a landmark

an heroic legend in the mother tongue

you haven’t the slightest idea I can collapse to nothing it answered me

I’ll do it while you suppose you’re keeping watch over me

you need a bitter lesson one I and only I can give you

you’re going to find it awfully hard without me

[Poem was translated by Liana Vrajitoru (Andreasen) and Adam J. Sorkin]

Elena Ştefoi is the author of six books of poetry, most recently The Starting Line (1996). Other titles include Daily Rehearsal (1986), Sketches and Stories (1989), and A Few Details (1990). Her work has been honored by the Romanian Writers' Union, and she was one of the four Romanian poets who appeared in Michael March's groundbreaking 1990 Penguin Anthology, Child of Europe. Stefoi has been an editor of the important political-cultural journal Dilema and a correspondent for Radio France (with daily reports from Bucharest) and the French-language L'Invitation in Bucharest. Since the start of 2006 she has served as Romania's Ambassador to Canada.