HighLights
1) All the great people who've taken the time to send letter, contributions,
submissions and words. It's been great and you're all the reason this has
been going on for so long.
2) The CD's from many new bands and groups. My musical tastes
have expanded considerably and I hope the words I've written have helped.
3) the quality of the work. It is a pleasure to open my mailbox and
read what has been sent to me, and yes, I do read everything.
4) To all those who were a source of help during the early days, the
words you sent were and are still appreciated. Thank you all.
5) Australian Poetry and Poets. Little did I know that I would
be introduced to the incredible work coming out of this fabulous country.
thanks to people such as Les and others who made this possible. If
I've helped to make Australian poetry better known then I have achieved
a proud legacy.
6) Being a starting point of a number of poets. To have a poet's
first submission is a proud and profound task.
7) Being able to express my thoughts after my time at Ground Zero,
it was very cathartic and I do thank the encuraging words I received during
that time.
8) The interview issues, what great people, especially my interview
of Ralph.
LowLights
Yes, not everything has been sweetness and light.
1) Some of those early reviews. Glad I didn't read them until
I was well on my way to developing this thing otherwise I might have stopped.
2) The lost issues. They're still someplace, haven't a clue where.
3) The abort french language issues. A few years ago I
attempted to launch a french language issue, using translation tools that
were available...instead of getting French and Quebecois poets all i got
was snarky remarks, which I had to translate to read.
4) The Spring of 2000. You ever have one of those very crummy
times when everything is going wrong. I don't mean you can't find your
wallet, I mean everything of importance is going wrong. That was
the spring of 2000. I thought of chucking life and running away to
become a dishwasher somewhere.
That's just a few thought I have at reaching 50, that's issues of course,
still a long way from that age. How many will there be, I don't know.
Just keep looking in your Mailbox for the news...
What would August be without an interview, here is a few minutes with: Taylor Graham
1) first of all, who is taylor graham?
At 58, I’m still trying to figure out who she is, or supposed to be; and using poetry to get there.
2) when did you start writing poetry and when did you realize it was going to be a serious part of your life?
I decided I wanted to be a poet when we studied Shakespeare in 10th grade. I learned there’s quite a big gap (years!) between deciding and being.
3) what has inspired your work, and who has been a source of literary inspiration to you.
Shakespeare, cummings, Dylan Thomas; a lot of German poets, especially Stefan George and Rilke; some French; over the years, most of all Gerard Manley Hopkins. I have an MA in Comparative Literature, so I got a pretty good foundation in poetry and I’ve read lots. As for what inspires – everything. Dogs, cats, driving, dreams, things I hear on the news, food, music, people I see on the street, pictures, rivers, friends, slant of sunlight, having to deal
with family, pavement, sky, trash.... words, by themselves and in combinations.
4) your work has been published in a number of places.what inspired you to submit your work and what was the feeling to see something you wrote in print?
Trying to get published just seemed the thing to do, considering my academic background. When I see one of my poems in print (or on the internet) I try to figure out what’s wrong with it. It’s “out there” then, part of the public domain, and sometimes that gives me a better perspective.
5) For anyone who may be thinking of submitting their work to be published, what words of advice and encouragement would you give them?
Read a lot of good poetry. See what’s being published (even if it may not be what you want to write). Be patient. That’s what people told me, and of course that advice made me impatient. And, writing the poems you need to write is more important than getting them published. It’s taken me years to “find my voice” and it’s an on-going process.
6) tell me about your involvement with "Search and Rescue", what got you involved and what are some of the highs and lows of being involved?
Right after we got married we moved to Alaska (from California) and bought a German Shepherd puppy. One puppy led to several dogs, and we thought there must be something better to do with them than just train in obedience and put them in shows. In 1975 the closest search dogs were in Washington state – too far away to save an avalanche victim. My husband, Hatch, was a forester with fire-fighting/emergency response experience and I was a hiker and backpacker. And we knew our dogs had a lot to offer, with their noses and their brains. We helped organize Alaska’s first volunteer SAR dog unit; and when we moved to rural Virginia, and then back to California, we just kept searching. Our dogs wouldn’t let us quit.
Highs: finding someone alive, of course, but you can search for years without that happening to you (and even then, he may not realize he’s missing, or want to be found). Developing a really close relationship with your partner (a dog) and learning to see things from a dog’s perspective. Visiting some parts of the world you never heard of (and maybe didn’t want to).
Lows: getting called out of a sound sleep at one in the morning to drive for hours through bad weather to look for a total stranger in unfamiliar, probably hazardous terrain. Worrying that you’ve missed something – a clue, a chunk of your assigned area. Some- body finding the subject dead. Nobody finding the subject at all; and worrying that you missed something....
7) What is it like to go out in a mission?
You put your own schedule on-hold and your life at the mercy of a search boss. I’ve loaded into a helicopter with nothing but my dog, my full backpack and a topographic map, to search five square miles in country I’ve never been before, and probably out of radio contact once I get there. Or, I might be looking for a body or body-parts in the city dump. Or ferrying back and forth in a johnboat so my dog can get the scent of someone drowned in a reservoir. Or crawling into a half-collapsed factory (amid after- shocks) to try to find survivors of an earthquake. Or hiking ten miles up a dirt road looking for a footprint. There’s no such thing as a typical search.
We’ve cut back lately – after 25 years of this, the canyons are getting steeper and the night callouts tougher. And I think I’ve used up my set of knees. But we still keep our dogs in training; it’s the highlight of their life.
8) As i read your bio, you've been out in some wild locations, does nature influence your work?
Nature gets into a lot of my poems – not just from searching. We live at the end of a little dirt road in the mid-Sierra and see more sign of wildlife than of people, unless we drive to the post office and then the half-hour in to town. I’m basically a hermit.
9) You wrote a while ago about a coffee shop that is displaying poetry, how's that going?
Half a dozen of us poetry lovers somehow found each other in this “forgotten corner of California,” and we meet once a week at a coffee house on the old Pony Express trail between Sacramento and Tahoe. We’ve been doing this for about 8 years,reading poems of established poets living and dead; a couple of years ago we threw an informal poetry workshop into the mix.
When you suggested “random acts of poetry” a few months back – sending poems on postcards to total strangers – we liked the idea of spreading poetry among the non-poet population. But instead of postcards, we decided to post a weekly poem at the counter of our coffee house, where people waiting in line to order would see it. We’ve been doing this for almost half a year. I don’t know what the customers think of it. But it’s fun searching for very short poems (Langston Hughes, Dickinson, Linda Pastan, Ted Kooser, Yeats, maybe even one of our own) that might strike a spark in unsuspecting strangers.
10) You're involved with the wild birds could you tell me more?
My husband spent 36 years with the US Forest Service as a wildlife biologist and forester, and after he retired he got involved in the California Bluebird Recovery Program, providing nest- boxes for the smaller cavity-nesting species (bluebirds, chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, some swallows, flycatchers and wrens); as land gets cleared for development, the old trees with dead branches and woodpecker holes get cut down, and these birds can’t find places to build their nests. My husband has been putting up boxes all around two counties and arranging for people to check the boxes once a week during the nesting season. He’s a master bird-bander, so he bands the chicks in the boxes, and any adults he can catch, to gather data on the birds’ habits, longevity etc. We monitor two nestbox trails ourselves – 70 boxes on low- elevation oak-savannah cattle range, and 50 boxes at 8000-1000 ft just below Carson Pass in the high Sierra. Good exercise, and I haven’t found a poem to describe the wildflowers.
Taylor Graham
GREATEST HITS
1973-2001
Taylor Graham is one of the selected American Poets to receive
this honorary invitational chapbook
publication--via the new GREATEST HITS project launched by Pudding
House Publications in 2000. Taylor's
collection, like all GREATEST HITS releases, includes her all-time
top 12 requested, referenced, or published
poems. They are her signature pieces. It is quite
a collector's item.
for more information go to: http://www.puddinghouse.com/
BEFORE HE LAYS HIMSELF TO SLEEP
he strips off shoes and socks and trousers,
shirt and undershorts and skin
and tosses them in the wash;
removes teeth and gums, and drops
them in solution. Oh, they'll come out
spotless in the morning. He peels off
his scalp and smooths it over its form,
combing out the dark hairs singly.
Then head to toe he unhooks ligaments
and tendons, unlaces muscles,
lays each in turn in its place;
unwinds the organs and hangs them
out to dry. The lungs, deflated,
he drapes at large; extracts windpipe
with its gathered daily tunes;
the tongue curled speechless
in a stainless box; the heart and brain
in parchment. Finally he unclasps
the numbered bones, polishing
metacarpals till they shine.
He lets out wishes, lies and memories
to hunt in the dark of the moon.
And then he lays himself to sleep
between clean sheets,
and dreams empty and unadorned
through this night that's never
been before.
IN HER SLEEP
The old dog plays bass.
We used to call it chasing rabbits,
but she’s grown
way past that. Past puppyhood,
she learned a chase
would tangle her in thornbush
with the rabbit safe on the other side
in a field we scolded her
for running.
She grew reliable, then flimsy
in the hind end, companion
we could count on
not to mess the family room
or knock vases off the ledge.
A length of linoleum by the stove,
flat on her side, her horizontal
dog-dom.
But now the radio plays jazz.
The old dog
goes chasing rhythms,
catching at tones in her sleep
that slither past us into tangles
of sound. She catches them clear
and clean. The old hind
legs carry her, the near-blind eyes
roll back white, she keeps
the bass alive. Flat asleep
on the floor, she’s running
like we never let her run,
into fields we never saw.
Poetry
Look up to you I do
In every way
If you don’t see
Let’s make it clear
Set the record straight
So mature so strong
Stronger than me
You set me free
Behind always there
No mater when or where
Never will I under estimate
To discernment of your choice
Always a open ear
I’ll have to your voice
Your the best
It’s plain to see
How much more stronger you are
than me, in ways that seem so right
Your love and caring
I’ll always give in with out a fight
On top because of you
To my wife
All those nights I spent alone
Cry’s I Cried that seemed unheard
Yearning to meet with my partner
All that time so hard on me
Things I thought would never be
Life seemed so, never to be bright
It all seemed not worth the fight
Ready to give in, I saw the end
Needing a hope, or just a friend
As I hung from the cliff
Sore from holding onto broken dreams
Agleam of light came from destiny
Something foretold the past
Come to me gently like a soft summer breeze
You come to me Debbie to fill a void
Both of us needed our love
So filled I am from all you give
I thirst no longer
I’m happy, so full, so satisfied with you
You came to me like it was ment to be
You came in time
You, Me, I love thee
Your all I’ve wanted
Peace is mine at last
All that I’ve ever wanted
Is coming to me fast
Like all these new beginnings
Like dust becomes my past
All that you’ve begun in me
Loved that you’ve showered
Grows in both of us
Newborn and flowered
Love rained down
on both of us
From when we both met
All your love is precious to me
Like a white dove we’ve both set free
So in surrenderence come unto me
Let all our love always be
A reminder to both
How good life could be
When all you want is yours
Myself for you, all of you for me
As wee begin our long awaited jouney
Both our souls of bondage
Finally set free
Love always, Rick
I love you my honey
Never loved somebody so much
Without this love growing
I’d never stand a chance
Your perfect in every way
All I ever wanted and more
Happy to be
To wife
Fresh new love
Fresh like the morning due
Love that’s shared by me and you
Seems like no one like we two
I miss you so when your away
My heart never wants you to go
My whole wants you to stay
My minds made up
My heart is set
All you must do is be yourself
All you have to be is next to me
Your all I want and all I crave
When I’m with you I’m duty bound
I need you now, I’ll need you then
I’m so sad, I just can’t win
When we’re apart, it’s like a sin
Save my love I’ll wait until that time
When we unite in bonds so sweet
Your heart surrenders to me
And mine to yours
My reason for living is so clear to see
When I’m next to you
And your next to me
Life has new meaning
And love lights the way
To happy beginnings
A collection of winnings
For the end of old ways
Your beautiful as can be
Perfect as I could see
Every thing that I desire
Lies in you my warmth my fire
Pleasing me is all you could do
Letting me down would be detrimental
Inside I know that we feel the same
Both of us seem so joined
The minute we met
Our hearts we let
Join to one
Let it be
No one knows what will be
Together forever, forever free
Radman aka Rick
Hells Hidden Overtures
by Michael Levy July 10, 2002
T's the see-zone of fantasy,
Sea-zones cruel waves drown veracity,
Tears illusions replace drunken grandeur,
Undulating tides draw ebbs of sorrow.
Draft trepidation spout from founts of perjury,
Intoxicated by false idols, prelude to ineptitude
Greed swills in sightless monetary sty's
Avarice saliva's from a scoundrels lens
A villains eye's higher..... is no profit
Just-ice for hells hidden overtures.
M. L.
MICHAEL LEVY. Author, Poet, Motivational / Financial Speaker.
Credentials
Michael's Articles and Poems are now on
over 1500 web sites, journals and magazines. His latest story has just
been published in "Chicken Soup for the Jewish Soul" He has appeared on
hundreds of radio programs Channel 4TV in the U K and recently a live interview
on NBC 6 in the USA . Michael was a recent guest on the Howard Stern Show.
He is a keynote guest speaker and was a guest lecturer (Finance, Health
and Inspiration) on the maiden transatlantic voyage of the Norwegian Sun.
Michael's new book "Invest With A Genius" was published in January 2002.
Michael's new book "Truths of The Soul" will be published in September
2002. http://www.pointoflife.com
LOVE MATES FOR LIFE
This is the story of two angelfish who
Thrived peacefully in a pond.
They'd spy each other from a distance,
But their lives had taken different paths which led them beyond.
She, the brightest of the two, bled colours of black and yellow
While he too possessed fins of black, but scales of red seemingly
mellow.
Now, naturally this particular pool held other means of life.
Shebunkins, Koifish, snails, tadpoles and frogs and,
oh yes-a catfish the largest and white.
Now it came to be known by the other fishes that in the months of
spring,
The female fishes's tummies swelled fat with eggs; and to the males,
A sure delicacy.
And so the game would begin with men chasing "mothers to be" around,
They'd feign fertilisation as a reason and
Gobble eggs as fast as they fell to the ground.
She, the brightest of the Angels, was also the most intelligent of the
bunch.
Steadfast she held onto her eggs-refusing to lay someone's lunch.
He, the seemingly mellow one, admired this quality in her right away.
And his scales of red became bold and bright enough to hold the other
fish at
bay
While she poked and cleaned along a nest of cattails in which to lay
her
young, and
He swam fervently alongside her always promising to fertilise every
one.
And so it is here that this story ends, but that is all, for you see
These two angelfish will be in love for life and it is together
They will always be.
Aaron LaFlora
6/mayo/99
But Alas
by Dale A. Hildebrandt
but alas lilyturf fireclay exclaiming it
becomes
partnership
tortilla for deep-fry but alas wants to
spendable
it
yearningly they are near a abolishment
pipidae and
burdonless
marry
by the buckthorn redberry demilitarise lonely
up-country touchingly
aflaxen
kingbird of
barely furnished steel-plated compressor
longevity pallidness cougar
great-uncle
with slipstream in the fine-tooth of selfsameness
sweetening
Dale A. Hildebrandt is currently experimenting with dada, surrealism,
situationalism, spectacle, and poem-as-sorcery. You can find his
official website at http://www.mirrorname.com/
Let the dark shadows fall over me
Like the angry waves in a tempestuous sea.
Do I ride alone
as the moonlight has shone
or is there someone watching over me.
Toward the blackness before I will go
What awaits me there I do not fully know
but I know this is what I must do
it is the only way to find you.
So I journey into this fight
with you in my heart
and your soul in my knife
together we will defeat the evil,
win back your life.
-Valerie Schwader-
Have your work published for free:
http://www.cjacks.com/cjacks/
Cherish the day I become visible
Understood to be free is shade of plentiful
Dipped in colors three dimensional fluorescent
against the skin
Misguided as it all seems real are those humid
hours that I showed you love
A light outlines time standing beside your silhouette
Creating beautiful
Relevant are the differences
Changes come swift than pass
Close your eyes you can feel it
Creating beautiful
I'd give anything if you'd feel me somehow
Could feel me somehow
And I'm giving everything if you'd surrender
to me Acknowledge the depth
Let me show you how deep love can be
Desmond
I thank God
for my good name
that I has to earn it
that I know
only giving up
my honest work
and truest dreams
could tarnish it
that I can still dream
even if I complain
there's too much work
and that I don't take
my sense of humor
seriously
I will laugh
and dream more
I thank God
for my husband
who knows
I am a goddess
yet never claims
to love
my gorgeous body
because he knows
it will grow older
and I would miss
hearing it
and also for
his always
understanding
why I leave
the eggs half-boiled
to write down words
in inspiration's instant
before they flee
the morning
I love my husband
I thank God
for other people's
grandchildren
for parents
who teach manners
by example
for the earnest curiosity
of bright new generations
for my own
most exceptional children
and for any reason
to hide Easter eggs
on the lawn
I will greet the Spring
I thank God
for family and friends
that they are genuine
that they still smile
when they see me
and think that even
when I get it wrong
I'm still getting
some of it right
I will hug them
and be loyal
I thank God for
Man's humanity
for all the colors
of his skin
and for his choirs
of language
and beliefs
and for
the basic goodness
of his efforts
from Singapore
to Texas
I will make peace
I thank God
for the pine trees
and bouganvilla
that grow wild
in my back yard
that I have
such a haven
where respite
sings with the doves
I will be glad of heart
I thank God
we still have
clean light
in the mountains
and rolling waves
in oceans
and for the free air
of America
on a Saturday
afternoon
I will stand tall
and breathe deep
in the sun
I thank God
I know
I'm not my body
and that I never die
that death's a lie
and my life is
what I make it
I will carry on
I thank God
for creation
for every soul
for mercy
for understanding me
and for allowing me
to help
I will do my part
Copyright 2002 Jan Houston
All Rights Reserved
The Titanic Waltz
By: Sam Vaknin
It was as surrealistic as they get: a Viennese Ball in a decaying Balkan city. Organized by the nation of former Nazis and current Nazi sympathizers in a land of former communist thieves turned capitalist robbers. It was held in a newly opened hotel, a gleaming temple of kitsch and tackiness, an abode of golden brass and polished mirrors amidst urban waste and uncollected mounds of festering trash. Hundreds of middle aged, burly diplomats and locals, all in ill fitting smokings, the women wearing sweaty, smeared make-up. A grotesque medley of decadence, a glimpse of zombie Habsburg schmaltz, the foreigners' deluded way of pretending they are in Europe, an outlet for smug Balkanian swaggering braggarts.
Outside, fly-infested children beggars extended ulcerated soiled hands in silent plea. Others peddled rusted razor blades and leaking batteries to passers-by. Young men smiled rotting teeth in the smoking humidity of dingy coffee-houses. The middle aged, bent, sparkless eyes, consumed by unemployment and disease, a confluence of wrinkled toothlessness and dwindling hair. The women grey and flabby, wise, weary eyes in penumbral sockets. They glided, huddled, fending off the windy chill that ricocheted from cracking, mouldy walls. Dark clouds weighed on denuded trees in littered boulevards.
Inside, the orchestra cast notes at heated chandeliers. Elastic TV cameramen engaged in public pantomime of angles and photo-opportunities. Scarlet cheeked singers hurled their arias at the wooden eurythmics of the hop. Flushed waiters in perspiring attires held trays of bubbling champagne aloft. Men in skewed bow ties smiled genteelly at each other, leading the women in gauche steps across the wide arena. The lights were bright, the atmosphere excited.
Not far from there children were dying for want of medicine or excess drugs. Needled hookers solicited the haunted streets. Rat packs erupted from fermented rubbish, ignored by men and women poking through the piles. A red, polluted moon irradiated drunkards in tattered, puky heaps near black Mercedeses in ostentatious parking.
The light - the darkness. The sybaritic fest - the dying populace. The glitter and decrepitude. The haves and those who don't. The growing abyss between the leaders and the led, the elite and the masses - the masses soon to turn mob. A writing on the crumbling walls, the distant thunder of reality denied, of social justice spurned. As Ministers and mobsters (one and the same) cruise potholed streets in flashy cars, as mink clad mistresses expose indecently bejewelled necks in fancy restaurants, as former politicians throw hedonistic parties in sumptuous villas and marry their off-spring in Roman style - so do they seal their fate, so they pronounce their verdict.
It had its faults but Communism did guarantee a modicum of common misery. Society was never polarized and theft was national pursuit. The spoils were shared and so was the inane bureaucracy, the paranoia and the fear, the xenophobia, the immobility, the stilted speech. All had the same disintegrating residence, suffered the same maltreatment, enjoyed the same dilapidated services. The schools, the clinics, the gulag were all accessible in equal measure. These were societies maintained by zealous envy and lack of privacy and private property.There was no middle class, there were no classes, only nomenklatura to which one could belong at will.
And no middle class emerged in the capitalist upheaval that followed the spastic death of socialism. Malignant profiteering followed malignant abstinence. The social fabric torn, trust - meagre as it were - was utterly eradicated. A jungle ruled in which all forms of human animal prevailed: the venal politician, the mafiosi, the Arkans of this world, the drug dealer and weapons smuggler, the petty thief and pimp, the whore. The haves had more, the luckless shipwrecked on an isle of destitution. The former lived with abandon, the latter abandoned life. A yawning, lava spewing gap, a pit without bottom, a biblical damnation.They who have no thing to lose shall lose all others have.
AUTHOR BIO:
Sam Vaknin is the author of Malignant Self Love - Narcissism
Revisited and After the Rain - How the
West Lost the East. He is a columnist for Central Europe Review
and eBookWeb , a United Press
International (UPI) Senior Business Correspondent, and the editor
of mental health and Central East
Europe categories in The Open Directory and Suite101 .
Until recently, he served as the Economic Advisor to the Government
of Macedonia.
Visit Sam's Web site at http://samvak.tripod.com
Feel free to reprint any article found on these Web sites:
http://ceeandbalkan.tripod.com
http://philosophos.tripod.com
http://samvak.tripod.com/busiweb.html
SillyStar Records has just released a new CD from
the group "TV Sinners". The CD-EP is self-titled and features 9 tracks
and over 30 minutes of experimental music, sound and noise. It begins
with what can only be described as the tape from a TV Evangelist and moves
to a series of sounds and music, including the recording of a radio, to
further make you listen and think. As it is experimental, it may
not be everyone's style, but consider this, where else can you hear such
a collection of sound, including the spoken word brought together in a
manner that gives a theme. One of the tracks, and unfortunately I
didn't receive liner notes to tell me what track, there is the record of
an old radio mystery show which proves that the most important special
effect is still the human imagination.
TV Sinners hopefully will have a long
career bringing us interesting CD. For further information, go to
their web page at http://www.sillystarrecords.com/
STOP THE pRESSES!!!
Danko Jones has finally released a full CD.
After promising/threating to do is, it has happened; "Born A Lion"
is rock and roll at its finest. This is straightforward kickass rock,
the way it was meant to be. Forget all those pale imitations and
styles, forget about all the nonsense, this is rock that is righteous.
Yes my brothers and sister, Danko
has given us what we have hoped for, straight ahead lyrics, guitar riffs
and drumming the way God wanted Rock to be. We may have tried pop,
alt, punk, emo, grunge, but what we have been wanting is what Danko delivers.
The CD which contains 11 tracks, such as: Play the Blues, Lovercall, Sound
of Love, Papa, Soul On Ice, Word is Bond, WayTo My Heart, Caramel City,
Get Outta Town,Suicide Woman, Love is Unkind. Already the video "The
Sound of Love" is getting some interesting air play. This is
music to melt lead with so get to the websites and order this CD, yes Rock
is Back and His name is Danko Jones.
Yaess, Hallelujah!!!
Thanks for stopping by and reading. I hope you've enjoyed this
issue and will visit it again, perhaps you'll even contribute a few works.
I'll gladly read it, you can be sure of that. Next issue will have
I hope, a surprise theme, I'm working on it but understand, if it doesn't
work out, there will be some great work coming. You'll read some
new work from Les Wicks' new book and I'm sure you'll want to visit just
for that.
The award on the cover page is from "Point of Life.com".
Thank you for the recognition.
I'm thinking of a make-over, have to think about
it.
Remember, all the work is copyrighted by the various
authors. Respect them..
Write me at: pabear_7@yahoo.com