Opening Words


       Poetry Noir, words based upon the concepts and ideas of the film noir movies of the forties and fifties.  Rather then me writing out a full definition of the concept, I invite you to follow the link to the Wikipedia article it will give you all the information you need.  I am glad to see a few took up the challenge and submitted in the spirit of the theme.
    Before I continue, may I recommend a few things, first is one of the latest book by Douglas Coupland Eleanor Rigby.  If you know the Beatle's song you have an idea about the person who is not Eleanor by rather Liz.  Her rather non-descript life is transformed by the reunting with her son, a child she put up for adoption when she was a high school student.  This is not a regular story, but that's the appeal of Douglas Coupland.  Find it and read it, if you want to discuss the book, my email address is at the bottom.
    The second item, is the latest Moby CD, Hotel .  The two CD contains both electronica and ambient sound.  While some have criticized the introduction of ambient, I personally think it works.  Take a listen for yourself and again, tell me what you think, my personal favourite is the tract "Lift Me Up", a great dance song.  I've listened to it a number of times on my Apple Ipod Mini, yes I broke down and purchased one, perhaps the day will come when I do my own abovegroundtesting podbroadcast.  Look for it.
    Well with all that said, on to the poetry


Poetry




Fog

 

Pale blue,

shapeless hue,

stalks our town,

streaks the eve,

and does not permit

the crew to leave

 

 

Reel to Real


For the price of admission

I can see the future

or revisit the past,

mingling with the beautiful people

in suspended perfection,

between palpitations of cheap light

and priceless shadow.

Reconciled in the dark

to a million worlds without end.

 

Then turn out the stars,

fleeting glamour fades,

with only lobby cards and torn ticket stubs

to frame my collective memories.

 

For those trips never taken

and roads yet to be traveled,

with the clackity-clack shutter

set to twenty-four dreams per second,

American cinema,

I thank you.

 

 

On Taquato Lake

 

He sits beside a shade of himself,

tortured cogs

working through the grinding

of early decay and pine dust.

Her death mask leering,

inside his brain.

Watching languid gasps of flame

cannibalized the tender vestiges,

of breathing flesh.

In the pit of exhilaration

he blends in,

escaping to carry on.

What can they possibly find?
The dry stench of char and gasoline,

a remnant lock of hair attached

to the cinder flake of crispy scalp

or, perhaps the engraved honour ring he used as lure

for her fiery cessation at midnight

on Taquato Lake.

 

 

Girl With No Secrets

 

Eyes glassy,

a fan of lurid 8 x 10’s,

no closer to any truth.

Curdled twine of fumes stuck between his teeth.

Cancer stick in an ashtray at arm’s length.

Limp overcoat drizzling pools

under the mild squeak of castors.

 

“Leave me alone”, he hears a whisper.

Then silent echoes.

Barely conscious.

Except for the pinch of his suspender clips,

and lulling neck,

overdue war horse in gumshoe harness,

Crunched between shoulder slopes.

Nose a few lucid inches

from that well exercised bottle of cheap bourbon.

 

Stubborn bend in his elbows,

knuckles ground against both cheeks.

They keep him from kissing leather.

“Hey pal. Put out the fire.
Enough midnight’s been spent.”

It’s the end of the line,

minus pay-off for the girl with no secrets.

A cold case file

nagging the empty relic of his mind.

 

Nick Zegarac


Nick describes himself this way:

In brief I will simply add herein that I have just graduated from the University of Windsor with my MA in Communications, 
have for sometime been working as a freelance writer or articles on the arts, DVD and film reviews, and have several 
screenplays circulating in both Canada and the U.S. Currently, I am also looking for a full time job to help buffer the debt 
incurred by a very expensive liberal arts education. That latter bit of info falls under the banner of 'artist in distress',
known throughout the creative world under the more tongue-in-cheek affiliation of 'starving artist'.



AND SO SHE BECOMES LEGEND

He swears she wore both
shoulders bare, the nape
swept clear from C3

all the way down her back
as far as T11, the clasp
of that gown

that flashed like Sunset
& Vine. And when she stepped
out in moonlight,

she only went to meet
her black shadow.
She only left

these sparks of red
glitter, the print
of one spiked heel.


SCRUBBED WALLS

In the chrome of the autopsy room
a vividness emerges, light falling
in flakes on the linoleum,
reflecting each blank face 4.7 times,
which is the birthrate somewhere
in the world. Forget
the frozen sideways glance, no longer
termed seductive or exotic,
just layers of skin and muscle
divesting themselves of languages
and veils, of inner curtains
which, scalpeled, reveal nothing
but the mortgage, birth to funeral,
on flesh. Forget the blind
fleeting glimpse from a rolling
gurney. Forget the bagpipe wail –
these corridors pump their own
ritual falling note of emptiness,
of souls to go.


THE LONG DARK HALL

Black & dark-white flick
of my childhood, how often I sat
in uncomprehending
despair
for the slow footsteps
down a corridor
out of light.
What matter
if the good word
arrives just in time?
A child dies
at every footfall.


Taylor Graham



April rain!

And the kind rain will arrive!

(or: And the kind rain will pour down!)

he will wash away all bad thoughts

And will tenderly whisper,

" Forget about sorrows. "

And you will understand:

Already is SPRING!

And to live, certainly costs,

That to see this world

And to speak with a rain.

2.

Be happy!

You must forget,

That we had a bad lucks

We self chafed our wounds.

Inhale SPRING!

Be happy

in spite of all troubles ,

because winter

has finished for us.

Quickly buy of snowdrops a bouquet!

And at your home

a few different ice creams at once

sprinkle with raisins.

- Ah, what dessert!

It is medicine

for depressions and troubles!


Sometimes

I must go away very quickly,

So you would not meet with me

In the morning, during day or at night.

Sometimes

I shall come to you with the sky and rain,

I will be nowhere, and everywhere.

Sometimes

Into windows with moonlight I shall shine

Or, with a warm wind I shall knock.

Never

You will not see more of my tears,

And you will not hear my reproach or question.

I am not a beggar, I can give you myself -

Belief and hope and my poems...

Again, again all evening

Your TV is crying. -

Have you relaxed?

Well!

(In a good hour! or -"Godspeed"!)

It is a pity, you do not hear,

How I pray for you.


Dina Televitskaya

And now some work from your editor



Meditations of Pantyhose

Rainy day meeting
not even the view out the boardroom window
can pique my interest
as the speaker goes on and the arguments start
I want to be anywhere but here

i let my eyes wander the room to see the equally bored faces
and glazed over eyes, why are we all here?
I'm sure that's what we're asking

I look around and stop
she sits with pantyhose crossed legs
away from the table so I can study her ankles and  the bracelet
I follow the shapely legs to the hem of her skirt,
I pause wondering if she'll uncross her legs
  Yes I know, I attended all those classes and this is so wrong
but still I look and then proceed to the rest of her shape
imagining for a moment
    then I reach her face
our eyes lock and I almost expect a frown
  but instead I get
                    a smile



Fedora for sale


her perfume sat on the empty barstool
     before her body did
wild orchids cut through the smell of cheap booze, cheap cigarettes
           and cheaper clientele.

she sat and I glanced
    quite a looker from my quick look
but I'm a pro so I know how to gather all I need in a short period of time

"tell me mister", the perfume spoke "what's good to drink"
            "the best thing to order" my voice replied " is two blocks over"
as I emptied my shot glass and felt the effects hit my liver.
I raised a finger to the bartender to put another glass in front of me
 when she said "order me the same", and so a second finger went up.
   the glasses appeared and I turned to meet my new drinking buddy
    she smiled, raised her glass and knocked the shot down fast
she smiled "you're right, that's one horrible shot of whiskey"

I chuckled and asked "you've heard this before, I'm sure, but
   "what's a nice gal doing in a place like this?"."yea I get asked that a lot
but the truth is mister, I'm really not that nice.
        I'm looking for some help a problem ya know came up
and you look like you're the type of guy, that can deal with problems like mine"

I turned and lifted up my own glass and knocked it back as well
 "helping attractive women is the work I do the best".
  "good" she smiled "and reached down for her purse
             "you want me to tell my problems or will $200 answer all your questions?"

"two hundred goes a long way, in answering all kinds of questions
            the details I'll need and then I got to think it over"

she handed me an envelope, it felt thick it felt full of cash
        and as she spoke I realized
this was the start of something good
  when she finished she said "here's my card, let me know if we can do business"
   "what about the money"
    "Oh that" she said, "that's for listening, if you're interested there's more to come your way"
             
she got up and left and put on quite a display, a walk like that is illegal you know        
                and so the body should be

i took a look at the card the envelope of cash
             and then  another shot
before going out into the night



Email through Yahoo!


You quote Shirley Temple
    ha, you googled

 I spoke Italian
     you poseur, you babelfished didn't you

we argue then talk about
    weird emails from afar
 you will NOT believe what I got
 tales of publishing incest affairs
        never speak or divulge
the secrets you share
    if I could talk, wonder what Star would pay

news of the day
             the week, the month
little lines and emoticons
   funny faces we make at each other

electronic dada surrealism via the keyboard
   to keep and tell
         no I promised you remind me

and then you go off and have
                       a nap.


Poetic Noir

Words based upon
 thirties films of starlets with red lips
             and questionable morals
not of sex but rather,
            they'd sell you out for a nickel and then keep the change
for themselves

of private eyes and cops
        trying to find the same thing
and keeping out of the way
           knocking back drinks
and slugging out the gangsters
      but never a gun to use
fast mouth and faster fists sometimes the best course of action

it's usually dark and
   I'm wearing a raincoat
because with this weather mister, you can never be too sure

dames in high fashion
         and low scruples
everyones out for some action
          and trying to get one over before they're found out dead

the film noir
      the poetic noir
a voice, a gesture
         world weary morals
that thought there was some good
         but now sure it's in short supply

what can you do
          when it all comes down
but
 light another cigarette
      and be glad you've lived through the night.





Spring Haiku

 Canada goose flies
   in formation of the v
the herald of Spring


Femme Fatale Dream

You were supposed to be by the pool table
 wearing a striped knit top, very continental
        and one of your berets

the dream of every gumshoe, a dame, a real woman
with a pool cue in her hand
       and red lips, always red lips
tight dress too, I can imagine
  looking like trouble and an angel in distress
all at the same time
with eyes that plead
  and lips that curl into a sneer

yeah you're looking for help
   and the same time you look like trouble

It would be best to keep away from the likes of you
         but the case is too appealing
and your perfume smells too good.

Paul  Gilbert



  Another new poet to these pages, two fascinating works for you to enjoy.

I Climbed The Granite Mountain
(a Korean War memory)

I was climbing the granite mountain
The freezing wind  and shell craters
I scaled the near vertical slope
A 5-gallon can of water on my back
For those upon the ridge

No tear but sweat in my eye
No fear but pounding in my heart
Just watchful of each foot hold
Just careful about each loose rock
One slow step at a time

When would the enemy fire mortar shells?
Would they come screeching and land near me?
Would I roll down with a shrapnel in my guts?
Each question was a blurred fairy tale
Unspoken with each laboring breath

I kept climbing the granite mountain
A 5-gallon  can of water on my back

 

At A Funeral


a funeral
in a cold winter day

eloquence of the eulogy
silence of the dead

which are you listening to
in this cold winter day?




Suchoon Mo
suchoon@aol.com

Essay

With the controversial nature surrounding  this essay, I going to invoke the following: 'The opinions expressed belong to the author and do not necessarily belong to the editor, the publisher, the staff or sponsors of this ezine.'     Read and ponder


Life Beyond Life, and Life Beyond Death
by Len Bourret (Copyright 2005)
A person with intellect may not be able to see, feel, and touch the spiritual abstract--that
which cannot, necessarily, be seen, felt, or touched. Yet, if you ask a spiritual person, one
can see beyond what the eyes can see, one can feel beyond what the hands can touch, and
one can hear beyond the ears audible range. Many people, within our universe, believe in
Angels, in God, or a Higher Power--a greater, positive power voice beyond (which can be
distinctly felt and heard), and a face which can be seen, that beckons them. There is a self
beyond the self but, for those with faith and trust, there is a force beyond the self. Native
Americans, and others, believe that there are even colors in the wind. And, non-believers
cannot provide concrete evidence to the contrary. There are multiple-choice answers to
spirituality--beyond true or false, and none of the above.
Research and literature seems to indicate that at least some people, who have been in a coma or a
so-called "vegetative state", have re-adjusted to life and have recovered after long periods of time,
with no mental or physical damage. Their bodies and minds temporarily shutdown, and appear to
be dead, but they are only dormant (much like a tree in the midst of a harsh winter). Like people,
trees eventually die. For the duration of their lives, however long or short a period that might be,
they sleep for various periods of their fall and winter, and awaken completely refreshed and
regenerated in their spring and summer.
Most people possess some degree of "intelligence", an "innate ability to assess information, in order to
evaluate what appears to be". But, this process is not complete, without being able to integrate both
"intellect" (an "intelligence beyond intelligence") and "spirituality" (a "belief, requiring faith and trust,
beyond that which cannot be seen, felt, or touched").
I have reason to believe that an accurate and complete evaluation cannot be derived, without both
intelligence and spirituality. Intellect appears to be like our Ego's Self. Spirituality appears to be like
our SuperEgo's Conscience. And, when people try to operate without Spirituality, it appears that
they allow their Id's to go into Over-Drive. This is not to say that there is not a place for intellect,
but there is a distinct difference between intellect and spirituality. While intellect gives a person an
intelligence beyond intelligence, it does not allow a person to go beyond that which can be seen,
felt, and touched. We can see nature through the environment (through a noun's person, place, or
thing, or objects like a tree, the sky, the sun, the moon, and stars) but, without faith and trust, we
cannot see beyond their surface. Our intellect, with only concrete data, cannot perceive that which
is, or appears to be, abstract. There is life beyond death, but does a human being have the right to
choose its season?


Closing Words

    This has been an interesting issue for me to consider.  The concept of film or poetic noir can be challenging.  I wonder if part of it is due to the anti-intellectualism of our culture.  To be honest film noir at its best was as much a psychological thriller as action.  There was fights, but there was also the use of the brain to think through and find the truth in the midst of lies.  It's been fun. 
    What's upcoming, well, more of the same, I think May will be a spring issue.  I was listening to a celtic radio program on Michigan Radio,  the host mentioned that time time of year of under the aegis of the goddess Bridget, upon further research I discover that Bridget is the goddess of poetry.  She is now considered the foster mother of Jesus, perhaps more the godmother of Jesus, so we don't have to fear the re-introduction of celtic gods and goddess.  Perhaps any of you of celtic heritage would like to send some Bridget inspired poetry?  Also whatever the season where you are, how about a few photographs?  Send some of your community in either spring of if you're the other side of the Equator, your autumn photographs.  Let's have a number of contributors and contributions. 
    Whatever inspires you, send it along and I will include it. 
    It was good to introduce two poets who are new to these pages, thanks for the submission.  They are always welcomed.   If you wish to contribute or even send a note saying 'hi', then email me at abovegroundtesting@yahoo.com
    Back issues of the ezine are available at the National Library of Canada
    This ezine supports the Creative Commons, all work is copyrighted by the various contributors, respect their rights. I also blog you can read my rants and other writings by going to http://paulg57.blogspot.com