tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90822057449661153652024-03-05T19:46:51.946-08:00YBA Journal of New PoetryRose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-56974916674436572072011-03-12T18:47:00.000-08:002012-01-08T04:17:16.536-08:00Hi! Check out YB's brand new home, <a href="http://ybpoetry.wordpress.com/">here</a>.<br />
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The first three issues will continue to be housed where you are now. Check them out too!<br />
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Thanks for stopping by.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-74438029493422043292010-05-28T12:05:00.000-07:002010-05-28T12:46:47.959-07:00Issue 3: IndexJune 2010<br />
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<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/molly-gaudry.html">Molly Gaudry</a><br />
<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/commentary-interview.html">commentary (interview)</a><br />
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<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/kyle-hemmings.html">Kyle Hemmings</a><br />
<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/commentary.html">commentary</a><br />
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<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/frederick-jackson_28.html">Frederick Jackson</a><br />
<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/commentary_28.html">commentary</a><br />
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<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/jeff-klooger.html">Jeff Klooger</a><br />
<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/commentary_7473.html">commentary</a><br />
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<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/dorothee-lang.html">Dorothee Lang</a><br />
<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/commentary_3855.html">commentary</a><br />
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<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/sherry-okeefe.html">Sherry O'Keefe</a><br />
<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/commentary_7703.html">commentary</a><br />
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<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/sergio-ortiz.html">Sergio Ortiz</a><br />
<a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2010/05/commentary_5473.html">commentary</a>Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-60620190498487921452010-05-28T12:04:00.000-07:002010-05-28T12:04:11.407-07:00Sergio OrtizTransparency<br />
<br />
What are you made of, <br />
mime with painted palms <br />
and sweaty bare <br />
feet? How much longer <br />
can you take in the air<br />
all that empty space, the caiman <br />
leaves for you to breathe? <br />
Frail frame, proceed <br />
and tune the white organza <br />
mesh for the screen-painting <br />
your imagination seeks. <br />
When the canvas dries <br />
don’t forget to wipe<br />
the crowded cell <br />
in which you’ve <br />
always lived.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-21121003292186872192010-05-28T12:00:00.000-07:002010-05-28T13:16:39.425-07:00commentaryThe poem “Transparency” is a reflection on how little input most of us receive from others to help us form ideas about ourselves, and boost our self-regard. So much is overlooked by family, friends and colleagues, that we are often left with the sensation of being locked up in a cage, an animal reminiscing about the freedom of the wild. We populate that cage with our imagination; an imagination that struggles to find a balance between fiction and reality. For some this sets into motion the creative impulse, but for others this struggle can lead to true isolation, apathy, and danger. Our imagination is both artist and predator. I believe the question that can help us keep a vigilant eye on this is: How transparent do we really believe our motives to be?<br />
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<strong>Sergio Ortiz</strong> is an educator, poet, and photographer. He has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His photographs will appear in <em>The Neglected Ration</em> and <em>The Monongahela Review</em>. He has been recently published, or is forthcoming in <em>The Battered Suitcase</em>, <em>Zygote in my Coffee</em>, <em>Right Hand Pointing</em>, <em>Temenos</em>, and others. Flutter Press published his chapbook, <em>At the Tail End of Dusk</em> (2009). He is from Puerto Rico.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-4381097506343142842010-05-28T09:30:00.000-07:002012-01-08T04:00:39.746-08:00Sherry O'Keefe<div>Five White Pickup Trucks<br />
<br />
I made a deal with myself when I saw five white pickups<br />
in a row stopped at the Lake Elmo traffic light. My kids<br />
say I don’t notice things. (But I am aware of patterns in<br />
the street.) Four blue jeeps, three purple bugs strung out<br />
at the light means I drive to work along a different route.<br />
<br />
To notice things. To pay attention. Break up my routine.<br />
This time I drove over the Rims, down into the valley on<br />
a tore up road. I waved to the flagman with a pink ribbon<br />
on his hazard-yellow vest. The dozer was carving so close<br />
to Yellowstone Kelly’s Grave I shivered, yet noticed<br />
<br />
the earthmover had rubber tires and a 12 foot wide blade. When<br />
I worked in trucking, I was paid to pay attention. Oversize<br />
permits, special routes, small red stop signs for the pilot car.<br />
It was good to feel in synch again, to be present in the moment.<br />
My change from the Burger King lady was warm in her cold hand,<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
little kids in the crosswalk skipped instead of walked. I pulled<br />
into work, feeling vibrant and alert; joined the men looking out<br />
the windows at our parking lot. Did I notice, they asked,<br />
the circus was in town: three gray elephants being watered<br />
50 feet from where I parked my truck.<br />
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</div>Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-29263935778884578202010-05-28T09:28:00.001-07:002010-05-28T13:19:53.792-07:00commentaryWhen I drive, I travel and when I say travel I mean my mind takes off. Almost always with music going on. Often I am right in the middle of a good song right before I arrive at work. <br />
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I drive past work and make a series of right hand turns (I am personally against left-hand turns. As this poem indicates, I was once a safety director for a heavy-haul carrier so I know Left Hand Turns Are More Risky. Plus I have an inner scaredycat issue going on) until the music stops. <br />
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Sometimes, the music never stops. <br />
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If the good song is still going on when I drive home, I park my ride (aka Derby but now we call him Jack on account of his punched-out left headlight area, as in one-eyed-jack). I sit inside and listen to the music until the traveling stops. <br />
<br />
Inside my house, my dogs and my kids visit about what song they think Sherry/Mom is still listening to and when it might be that she will finally come into the house. I understand my cattle dog is sure I listen to “Inagodofdavida” nonstop, but the shepherd votes for “Avamariaohmeingott”. My kids know me best though; they know the radio was never even turned on.<br />
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<strong>Sherry O’Keefe</strong>, a descendant of Montana pioneers, a mother of two, sister to four, cousin to dozens, credits/blames her Irish upbringing for her story-telling ways. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in <em>Switched-on Gutenberg</em>, <em>Terrain.Org</em>, <em>Barnwood Poetry Review</em>, <em>Avatar Review</em>, <em>Fifth Wednesday Journal</em>, <em>Babel Fruit</em>, <em>Main Street Rag</em>, and others. Her chapbook, <em>Making Good Use of August</em> was released in October 2009 from Finishing Line Press. While her manuscript, <em>Loss of Ignition</em>, is making the rounds, she blogs <a href="http://toomuchaugustnotenoughsnow.blogspot.com/">here</a>.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-90078522802005147282010-05-28T09:28:00.000-07:002011-11-04T01:08:54.908-07:00Dorothee Lang<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfG8lad19n7y1_gzcFToTpD62lhk8Z_2wFZLx03crNuJkFJFjpaoICc-mZEAQGXwQMOWqCva_KbokJi7lL6oV70rOXJkpaR-SBmN83ctqL_fq3-r0tzbRG7ZiU4Qv8BwLAxMy7GpqrO1z/s1600/bodensee_schwa%25CC%2588ne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfG8lad19n7y1_gzcFToTpD62lhk8Z_2wFZLx03crNuJkFJFjpaoICc-mZEAQGXwQMOWqCva_KbokJi7lL6oV70rOXJkpaR-SBmN83ctqL_fq3-r0tzbRG7ZiU4Qv8BwLAxMy7GpqrO1z/s320/bodensee_schwa%25CC%2588ne.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Society of Swans<br />
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She had drifted <br />
into this place before, <br />
many times, her head ducked low, <br />
her thoughts surrounded <br />
by a spiral of options <br />
they bestowed her, <br />
drew her into their ring<br />
then left her <br />
forlorn<br />
like a new species<br />
raised by the world<br />
in this bed of feathers, <br />
eyes covered<br />
by a folding so warm <br />
& blindRose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-77405966360418082422010-05-28T09:27:00.000-07:002010-06-23T18:46:44.809-07:00commentaryFirst there was the swan photo. When I took it, I was just a few steps away from the two swans. I am sure they noticed me, but they had this distanced, unimpressed air around them. There was something peculiar about that moment; one of the swans floating in the water, the other standing at the edge of the lake, and me, standing at the lakeside.<br />
<br />
I knew I wanted to write about this mood, this edging in. I didn’t know where to start, though.<br />
<br />
Fast forward a week, another waterside. Me there, with Virginia Woolf’s novel <em>Mrs Dalloway</em>. <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mrs-Dalloway-Penguin-Popular-Classics/dp/0140622217">The green Penguin edition</a>, with two penguins on the cover. I read the first thirty pages, then later browsed them again, noting down words, half-lines, in word play: even now, at this hour; beauty was behind, making it up, all this one, the motor car with its blinds drawn, passing invisibly.... <br />
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The next day, I read on. And came across this line: “There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room. Women must put off their rich apparel.” <br />
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It was this attic room that took shape. And a woman. In a society of swans. That’s how the poem unfolded. <br />
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<strong>Dorothee Lang</strong> is a writer, web freelancer, traveller and gardener. She lives in Germany, edits the <em>BluePrintReview</em> and Daily s-Press, and keeps a sky diary. Sometimes she dreams of having wings. Recent publications include <em>HA&L</em>, <em>elimae</em>, <em>Spiral Orb</em>, <em>a handful of stones</em>, <em>The</em>, and <em>eclectica</em>. For more about her, visit her <a href="http://blueprintreview.de/index.html">website</a>.<br />
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Addendum by the Ed: more about Dorothee's poem, <a href="http://virtual-notes.blogspot.com/2010/05/yb-society-of-swans.html">here</a>.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-61614469012987107162010-05-28T08:07:00.000-07:002010-05-28T11:55:50.105-07:00Jeff KloogerAnother Day<br />
<br />
A mist of sand sweeps off the dunes. <br />
Outside the lonely shack with the rattler’s tail <br />
spinning in the desert breeze and slapping a tune <br />
on the king of hearts, a bike leans on its own. Two more <br />
will soon arrive, and the riders, hard men <br />
with wild, flowing hair and death-dealing eyes, <br />
will join their friend inside. That cop looks like a man <br />
but talks like a woman. What does that mean? He/she will die soon <br />
just the same, punched clear across the room <br />
by a single round straight to the chest. <br />
His/her partner too will die. Such things are <br />
unavoidable out here, beyond the reach <br />
of civil laws and customs. Later the cops will get one back, <br />
blasting a bowser and a suspect together <br />
in a cloud of orange flame. The burning man stumbles a bit, <br />
confused at his strange fortune, then sinks down, <br />
a heap of blackened evidence. <br />
<br />
The next victim sings to his own tune, relaxed <br />
and free at last in the back of a prison bus. In no time <br />
the bikers arrive, shattering the day with hungry bullets, <br />
tipping the bus into an oncoming truck, the twin behemoths <br />
waltzing across the highway in a flurry of dust <br />
and debris. Who would have thought our hero <br />
could survive; but he does, he did, he will, <br />
all the way to the sweet (not bitter) end, when he and his partner <br />
will solve the whole damn mess with a few deft moves <br />
and a shit-load of ammunition. It’s like that here <br />
on the mean and hilly streets. <br />
<br />
Elsewhere in black and white, a woman imagines <br />
she’s in the presence of God, prays and dances and writhes <br />
on her lonely bed. She blows a kiss, peers back <br />
at her feet, trembles and rocks, tears off her clothes, <br />
arches her back and sighs. It only ends <br />
when the voice stops, when the apertures <br />
that let the men observe her torment <br />
slide shut. <br />
<br />
The truth is we are all voyeurs, recording <br />
the symptoms of night’s untreatable disease. <br />
A convoy of limousines will close the deal <br />
and lead us at last towards tomorrow’s thrill-packed instalment, <br />
armed with a raft of brand new hopes and dreams, some pale regrets<br />
and a brain-pan full of old obsessions.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-48732631672586430792010-05-28T08:06:00.000-07:002010-05-28T11:54:10.370-07:00commentaryThis poem is one of a series of television poems. It began life as automatic writing, a real time recording of what the television shows and what this viewer thinks and feels in response to what he sees. Then some time later, when all that watching and recording is over, rewriting begins. This is not so much a case of undoing what is already there, but of taking up, extending and developing themes that are already present, whether in the images themselves or the mind of the viewer, and also making what I hope is good poetry. I am not concerned about how much is imposed by me as viewer and how much is interpretation of the material viewed. It is probable that something of both will be revealed.<br />
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I find it is best to watch with the volume down. Switching channels when bored is inevitable, even if the practice may have deleterious effects on one’s concentration span if indulged in too habitually. In English we call this practice ‘channel surfing’; the French call it ‘zapping’. The philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis has coined the term zapanthropus to designate the sort of human beings who give themselves up to and are characterised by this habit.<br />
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I wonder whether all viewers are driven to make some sort of unifying sense, even if subconsciously, of the montage of story and image that they consume and in part construct. I wonder whether viewers should attempt to do so, or whether the more liberating approach is to allow the disparate and disjointed to remain disparate and disjointed. What sort of liberation would that be, and liberation for whom? And if we do endeavour to construct a meaning for the whole, can we be sure that this meaning is ours and not imposed upon us by others who only seem disparate but in fact have the same agenda, the same world-view, the same all-pervasive sensibility?<br />
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<strong>Jeff Klooger’s</strong> poetry has been published in his native Australia and internationally. Recently his work has appeared in <em>The Liberal</em> (UK), <em>The Stinging Fly</em> (Ireland), <em>Sketch</em>, <em>dotdotdash</em>, <em>Cordite Poetry Review</em> and <em>Otoliths</em>. His other interests are music and philosophy. His book on the ideas of the Greek-French philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis was published in 2009.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-46196291061308636022010-05-28T07:46:00.001-07:002010-05-28T13:24:21.064-07:00Frederick Jackson<em>Las Hormigas</em><br />
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They pour though this tiny hole<br />
No larger than a pinhead<br />
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Down the tile grouting <br />
And out across the countertop they flow<br />
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A tidy stream of living dots …<br />
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***<br />
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“WHAT DO ANTS HAVE TO DO WITH ART?!!!”<br />
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Yells dragon lady, top heavy<br />
With bust, bangles, hairdo and makeup<br />
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Nearly knocking me out of my chair<br />
And wrecking me for a week<br />
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***<br />
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Now I see this line of tourists<br />
Filing down Matamoros Street<br />
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The block is short, the sidewalk narrow<br />
And hewing to the wall they seem<br />
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The Word made Flesh, the providential <br />
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A… r…<br />
n… t…<br />
s…<br />
w…<br />
e…<br />
r… <br />
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To the Lady’s questionRose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-22378163053461798812010-05-28T07:45:00.000-07:002010-05-28T13:26:25.500-07:00commentary"<em>Las Hormigas</em>" developed in stages exactly as indicated by the hiatuses in the poem. First a fascination with the ants themselves, then the unhappy meeting with the dizzy matron-of-the arts in which I foolishly mentioned my latest endeavor, and then finally the surprise message from the beyond. It is interesting that had not this all occurred, I probably would not have in the end been able to follow through on the original impulse to write a poem just about the ants.<br />
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<strong>Frederick Jackson</strong> was born in San Francisco and grew up in and around New York City. In his early 20s while studying for a degree in physics and working summers as a merchant seaman, he discovered a passion for poetry. A volume, <em>The Stem of One Colossal Flower</em>, self-published in 1966, sold in several bookstores in Greenwich Village. One poem appeared in the poetry quarterly <em>Athanor</em> (New York, Spring, 1967). The author went on to receive a PhD in physical oceanography and had a several decades long career in science. After an early retirement in 1995 he returned to writing poetry. His collected work can be found <a href="http://www.tisaraphoto.com/FrederickCJackson/">here</a>. He currently lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-16290458776009825572010-05-28T06:43:00.000-07:002010-05-28T11:54:50.588-07:00Kyle HemmingsThe Colonel's Younger Lover <br />
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Among other things, all her lovers are stale, imitations of imitations. They hold umbrellas over Paris & have no sense of blue fifth jazz. When it rains, it doesn't necessarily pour a healthy broth. All wars are on hold. At the window, she is cabbage-patch sad and confides in toy dogs. Memory is a polka of exhausted I-told-you-so's. In the distance, there are insipid pinwheels that upon squinting turn out to be the neighbors. She turns. The maroon dress, one-piece and bought at a bargain, falls to the floor. Today, she gets naked for no one. The windows stay neutral like Switzerland. She's a demure alp of fog, a slip of misplaced vanity. At the knock on the door, everything will be alphabet clear, reassembled with the old stiches. The corners of the room recede in their erogenous dust. Sure.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-46278367950286782662010-05-28T06:42:00.000-07:002010-05-28T11:44:09.981-07:00commentaryThe piece came about while thinking of two books I reread recently - <em>The French Lieutenant's Woman</em> by John Fowles, and <em>A Moveable Feast</em> by Hemingway. I tried to work with this tension, the feeling of nothing coming out right, of being trapped in a vapid boring existence but still searching for that elusive blue fifth note of jazz, of life itself. And of course, I thought of Paris because everyone thinks of Paris when they think of love and rain. Or maybe not. At the poem's end, logic and routine take over, everything will become crystal clear and distant and that last word for me was a kind of echoing doubt that everything will fall into place.<br />
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<strong>Kyle Hemmings</strong> lives and works and dies in increments in New Jersey.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-73214650148502555692010-05-28T06:35:00.000-07:002011-11-03T16:07:50.341-07:00Molly Gaudry<div><br />
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Happy Easter, Meg<br />
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<div>for <a href="http://bluemoonnortheast.blogspot.com/">Meg Harris</a></div><br />
<div>You'd think, if your balloon lost</div>all its float, that maybe you'd be<br />
sad, but look here, take note:<br />
there is a lesson to be learned;<br />
this girl's rising might be seen<br />
as fearlessness, her toes, pointed<br />
as they are, as arrows leading<br />
the way, and the simple fact<br />
that her skirt's hem isn't<br />
fluttering, as proof that miracles<br />
do happen and a yellow balloon<br />
can act, in times of need, as an<br />
anchor -- a bright bit of stability.<br />
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What is the Story of Legs?<br />
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for <a href="http://perverseadult.blogspot.com/">Tim Jones-Yelvington</a><br />
<br />
<br />
What do you think is happening here?<br />
To what extent is this image doctored,<br />
<br />
posed, fabricated, and why? For what<br />
reason? Or do you think it might be<br />
<br />
a picture of some rare, beautiful truth?<br />
I love those yellow shoes. That's no lie.<br />
<br />
Who do you think these legs belong to?<br />
What are the stories of those legs? How<br />
<br />
did they get so golden-hued and strong?<br />
How many others' legs have touched<br />
<br />
those legs? What is the story of legs?<br />
Have you ever considered your own?<br />
<br />
I can't say I have, truth be told. But I<br />
imagine this is not the case for many,<br />
<br />
especially those who do not have them,<br />
or do not have the use of them. What <br />
<br />
does it mean to use? I am probably<br />
guilty of abusing my legs, at one time<br />
<br />
or another. And for this I feel ashamed<br />
of my own impossible and meaningless<br />
<br />
methods of destruction. These legs will<br />
outlast me. The stories they could tell<br />
<br />
you about who I am, was, might want<br />
to be some day soon. Just ask them.</div></div>Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-70209543155423137492010-05-28T06:34:00.000-07:002010-05-28T13:31:44.352-07:00commentary (interview)"For $1.00, I Will Write You a Poem and Post it Here"<br />
<br />
Let's not call this desperate. Let's not call this self-serving. Let's definitely not call this sad. Instead, let's call this "enterprising, exciting, intriguing."<br />
<br />
Click <a href="http://greencitynews.blogspot.com/2010/03/for-100-i-will-write-you-poem-and-post.html">here</a> for the facts....<br />
<br />
And here's Molly, answering some of my questions, via email:<br />
<br />
me: I've included a link to the page on your blog describing the project (above), but I was wondering if you could tell me how you first came up with the idea. There must be easier ways to make a buck?<br />
<br />
<strong>Molly</strong>. Let's see; I'm not quite sure where the idea came from. I'm sure it was all very sudden and "inspired," in a goofy sense of the <span style="font-family: inherit;">word</span>. I know I was disappointed and poor, and I knew that I might sit around and wallow, so rather than do that I thought, Hey, why not ask people for prompts? The most important thing at the time was to kickstart a creative time during which I could refocus on the writing; asking for a buck was a whim, but shortly thereafter I decided to add a PayPal button at the prompting of <a href="http://amyking.wordpress.com/">Amy King</a>. <br />
<br />
me: I was interested in your project initially because it seemed like a terrifying thing to attempt. Poetry to me has always seemed like something I do out of an internal, rather than an external, necessity. (Perhaps this is because of my lack of experience with writing classes or workshops.) I've since revised that viewpoint a little, and I think watching you go about this project may have had something to do with it. But still, I was wondering whether you had moments when you thought, well. I've got nothing to say about this. Nada. Zip.... If so - what did you do, if anything, to get past it? <br />
<br />
<strong>Molly</strong>: Oh yeah, totally. There were a few that really stumped me. But I found those images from the FFFFound blog and just started writing, mostly by beginning with the image I saw. I never revised a poem; I wrote them all in the Blogger window; and as soon as it was done I hit "publish." Sometimes I found some of the poems the prompter had written and used those for inspiration. As to the other part of your question, about terror, I should add that I feel pretty free with poetry because my education is in fiction. Plus, these aren't poems meant for publication or revision--at least not when I set out to write them. <br />
<br />
me: I picked the two poems I did for <em>YB</em> of course for subjective, private, personal reasons of my own. (And maybe a leg fixation that day?) Anyway, I notice that sometimes the stuff of mine that other people pick out is not necessarily my favourite stuff. Do you have any favourites among the poems? <br />
<br />
<strong>Molly</strong>: My favorite is <a href="http://greencitynews.blogspot.com/2010/03/is-to-love-imperative-infinitive.html">"Is to love an imperative infinitive?"</a> I also like <a href="http://greencitynews.blogspot.com/2010/03/bug-car-man-triptych.html">"A Bug, A Car, A Man: A Triptych."</a> <br />
<br />
me: When you started the project, did you have any idea you would get the response that you did? <br />
(There are 65 poems to date - 28 May.)<br />
<br />
<strong>Molly</strong>: I absolutely had no idea that so many people would respond. I noticed, too, that the more I posted in a big group or bunch, the more orders came in. It never failed: post ten poems, get five orders. Post one poem, no orders. <br />
<br />
me: I think these poems, with the explanation of how they came about, would make a great book. Any offers? <br />
<br />
<strong>Molly</strong>: There are tentative negotiations with Flatmancrooked, but I'm not sure the poems are strong enough for a collection, and I'm not sure they should be revised. I have to keep thinking about it. <br />
<br />
me: Since I'm big on place, can you describe your view at the moment? <br />
<br />
<strong>Molly</strong>: I'm looking at a brick wall, which is about fifteen feet beyond the kitchen window, which is about three feet before me. I'm sitting at the table with a coffee and a half-eaten bowl of cereal. Good morning!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Molly Gaudry</strong> is the author of the verse novel <em>We Take Me Apart</em> and the editor of <em>Tell: An Anthology of Expository Narrative</em>. She is Googleable.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-84179893669955060192009-11-30T21:13:00.000-08:002009-12-02T06:30:19.067-08:00Issue 2: IndexDecember 2009<br /><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/lindsay-walker.html">Lindsay Marianna Walker</a><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/lindsay-walker-commentary.html">commentary</a><br /><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/marguerite-scott-copses.html">Marguerite Scott-Copses </a><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/marguerite-scott-copses-commentary.html">commentary</a><br /><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/david-prater.html">David Prater </a><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/david-prater-commentary.html">commentary</a><br /><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/sherry-okeefe.html">Sherry O'Keefe </a><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/sherry-okeefe-commentary.html">commentary</a><br /><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/corey-mesler.html">Corey Mesler </a><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/corey-mesler-commentary.html">commentary</a><br /><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/jeff-crandall.html">Jeff Crandall </a><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/jeff-crandall-commentary.html">commentary</a><br /><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/ryan-w-bradley.html">Ryan W. Bradley </a><br /><a href="http://ybjournal.blogspot.com/2009/11/ryan-w-bradley-commentary.html">commentary</a>Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-13101081581610811082009-11-30T21:04:00.000-08:002009-12-02T06:30:56.385-08:00Lindsay Marianna WalkerThe Josephine Game<br /><br />Port Maurice, April 1796<br /><br /><em>Josephine,<br />By what art have you learnt how to captivate all my faculties,<br />to concentrate in yourself my spiritual existence—<br />it is witchery, dear love, which will end only with me.<br />To live for Josephine, that is the history of my life.<br /></em><br /><br />I one you on Thursdays and at both elevens, and often<br />around dinner time.<br /><br />I two you during evacuations<br />and afternoons when it rains. But not on Sunday mornings<br />or days when ladies<br />play Euchre.<br /><br />I three of myself while you are thinking of food,<br />or the army, or a hidden switchback<br />trail back over the mountain.<br /><br />I four to hate you like a steam piston hates. Though later,<br />love again, and the engine block.<br /><br />I five someone with your kneecaps!<br /><br />I six like the woman of another, though it’s probable<br />most of my days aren’t spent in pursuit<br />of the gardener.<br /><br />I seven like a cattle catcher cow-powers<br />down train tracks.<br /><br />I eight the slump that was in the ice chest<br />since Labor Day weekend. I feel old<br />and delirious and purple.<br /><br />I nine all the bubbles in a bar of soap.<br /><br />I ten you with holly-hocks. I ten you<br />with holly-hocks. I ten you<br />without remedy.<br /><br /><br /><br />Josephine in the Tower<br /><br />“The danger, on the contrary, lies in the subtle instant that precedes the leap…”<br />--Albert Camus<br /><br /><br />Heights frighten me, or rather, I’m afraid of myself<br />at heights. I know why the road chicken crossed.<br />It’s what puts my palms to the stove burners,<br />my tongue to the blade. Not a question<br />of danger, but a call to the edge.<br />The fact of the cliff. Its<br />simple imperative,<br />jump.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-68856302929690462632009-11-30T20:53:00.000-08:002009-12-02T06:29:31.985-08:00Lindsay Marianna Walker Commentary6 Things I think when I think about "The Josephine Game:"<br /><br />I used to make my parents play this game over and over when I was a kid and we lived near Chicago. Me: "I one the Sears Tower." Dad: "I two the Sears Tower," "blah blah blah" Dad: "I eight the Sears Tower." Me: "You ATE the Sears Tower? Hahahahaha." And every time it was hilarious. It still hasn't gotten old, in fact.<br /><br />Euchre is a fun game. I wish more people played it everywhere.<br /><br />Jaime Sabines<br /><br />In stanza 8 "Slump" = "plums" (anagramish stanza from William Carlos Williams's "This is just to say." I stole it cause I love it.)<br /><br />I knew a lady here in Mississippi who, during the Civil Right's movement, went down to the polls to vote. She had to "take a test" before casting her ballot. The question the city officials asked her was: "How many bubbles are there in a bar of soap?" Seriously. Needless to say, she didn't get to vote. There were some other crazy ass questions she got asked, but I've forgotten them now, sadly.<br /><br />If my love life had a footnote it would be stanza 2 of "Variations on a Theme By William Carlos Williams" by Kenneth Koch:<br /><br />We laughed at the hollyhocks together<br />and then I sprayed them with lye.<br />Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.<br /><br /><br />4 things I think when I think about, "Josephine in the Tower:"<br /><br />1. I used to watch a lot of Road Runner and Coyote cartoons when I was little - a lot.<br /><br />2. Once a lady yelled at my little sister for horsing around near the edge of the Grand Canyon. My mom got mad at the lady. I observed the whole scene from a reasonably safe distance.<br /><br />3. I am fascinated by people who lick peanut butter off the knife.<br /><br />4. My little gas stove and its hand-sized burners.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Lindsay Marianna Walker</strong> is a Ph.D. student in English at the University of Southern Mississippi. A finalist for the 2009 Walt Whitman Award for her manuscript, <em>the Josephine letters</em>, she has served as Poetry Editor for the literary journal, <em>Juked</em>, since 2005. Her poems have appeared recently, or are forthcoming, in: <em>The African American Review</em>, <em>Valley Voices</em>, <em>West Branch</em>, <em>The Southeast Review</em>, <em>Gulf Stream</em>, and others. Winner of the Center for Writers 2009 Joan Johnson Award for Fiction, she has published stories in: <em>Smokelong Quarterly</em>, <em>Pindeldyboz</em> and <em>971 Menu</em>. Her play "Boy Marries Hill" is included in Gary Garrison's guide to playwriting, <em>A More Perfect Ten</em>.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-53798191005100377882009-11-30T20:44:00.000-08:002009-11-30T20:52:21.467-08:00Marguerite Scott-CopsesNo. Final Answer.<br /><br />A single sun, all else was orbit;<br />Spanish class was the back of his neck.<br /><br />He'd have done me such a favor<br />To grab my wild arms, to make me toss the paintbrush,<br /><br />the baton, the penning-it-even-now story<br />I wanted to write in his name's sake.<br /><br />Had he held my hands, not in love,<br />but in earnestness, and said, "no,"<br /><br />"no.... I don't"<br /><br />I might not have believed in magic,<br />might not have insisted I could come back<br /><br />from the next in a series of sad moments,<br />like the one, in my room, studying for pre-cal,<br /><br />while we listened to the Smiths,<br />and drank Italian soda,<br /><br />the back of my palm casual against his knee,<br />and how he picked it up, placed it back<br /><br />in my lap, and mumbled, eyes on the page<br />"I can't concentrate with you touching me."<br /><br />How hard to know then, what I still<br />don't know now, did he ever love me?<br /><br />And how I still want to disguise that line,<br />to say it some other way--<br /><br /><em>Alguna vez me amas? </em><br /><em>Que el nunca me amas?</em><br /><br />What if I'd been brave enough to ask<br />yes or no, plain as this poem?<br /><br />What if I'd been brave enough to listen<br />The sun, so silent in its sky.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-40777006775568110782009-11-30T20:38:00.001-08:002009-11-30T20:43:14.435-08:00Marguerite Scott-Copses CommentaryI recently submitted a packet for the much-dreaded "third-year review" process at my university, and I put my current manuscript in what's called the "supplemental binder." It included this poem, and many others about adolescence and early discovery/loss. After having turned it in I felt so vulnerable...like I'd put my childhood wounds on display for the entire department. I talked to a good friend and colleague about this, and he joked that "Come Visit My Childhood Wounds," was the almost-title of his first book. I guess there are some things we just can't get over about those years. I'm fascinated by the ways in which adolescence is such a blur, something like what Virginia Woolf calls "being blown through the Tube," but how, also, time becomes so crystallized by key moments that roll over us again and again. I wonder about what our emotional memories do to these moments, how distorted and energy-charged they become through time. "No. Final Answer," is about one such memory. Cue the Smiths, "Well I wonder..."<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Marguerite Scott-Copses</strong> is a native of Charleston, SC where she currently teaches composition and poetry at The College of Charleston. She earned her Ph.D. in Creative Writing from The Florida State University and her work has appeared in <em>Feminist Studies</em>, <em>The Journal of Poetry Therapy </em>and <em>The Green Hills Literary Lantern</em>. But, she thinks these career facts much less important than her role as a new mother. Her days are spent, mostly, juggling classes, jotting down new surprises on scratch pieces of paper, changing diapers, and laughing at the absurdities of love intersecting with stress.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-9568498131907439382009-11-30T20:25:00.000-08:002009-11-30T20:35:27.971-08:00David PraterThe Germ! The Germ!<br /><br /><em>Love episode of a strange nature;<br />as usual, with badluck [sic] to meh.</em><br /><br />- Bernard O’Dowd, writing to Walt Whitman.<br /><br /><br />i have a germ inside meh (love i have a gun<br /> inside meh (bang i have a truth inside meh (<br /><br />death i have a life inside meh (born i have<br /> a seed inside meh (tree i have a leaf inside<br /><br />meh (air i have a girl inside meh (oh i have<br /> a heart inside meh (boom i have two germs<br /><br />inside meh (blood i have a ghost inside meh<br /> (peace i have a dream inside meh (depth i<br /><br />have a charge inside meh (light i have a man<br /> inside meh (shame i have a coup inside meh<br /><br />(stop i have a breeze inside meh (chain i<br /> have a fire inside meh (road i have a bomb<br /><br />inside meh (we i have a past inside meh (no<br /> i have a watch inside meh (yes i have a but<br /><br />inside meh (worm i have a mole inside meh<br /> (shock i have a plane inside meh (sky i have<br /><br />a scene inside meh (egg i have a sun inside<br /> meh (ah i have a you inside meh (love i have<br /><br /> a germ inside meh (love i have a germ!Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-49764842010572182932009-11-30T20:20:00.000-08:002009-12-01T09:23:18.593-08:00David Prater Commentary"The Germ! The Germ!" is from an unpublished MS called <em>Leaves of Glass</em>, which is loosely based on correspondence between Walt Whitman and the Australian poet Bernard O'Dowd in the 1890s. In these letters, O'Dowd revealed much about his inner desires and passions. The title of the poem is taken from O'Dowd's poem "Cupid" in which he concludes:<br /><br />"So that it live The Germ ! The Germ !<br />It matters not to me<br />If sheep or tiger, man or worm<br />Earth's victor-captain be."<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>David Prater's</strong> publications include <em>The Happy Farang</em> (self-published, 2000), <em>We Will Disappear</em> (papertiger media, 2007) and <em>Morgenland</em> (Vagabond Press, 2007). He is managing editor of the online poetry journal <em><a href="http://www.cordite.org.au/">Cordite Poetry Review</a></em>.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-14556365703078978502009-11-30T20:12:00.000-08:002009-12-01T09:26:42.926-08:00Sherry O'KeefeLeave it to Floyd at the County Ranch Supply Store<br /><br />Because nothing changes in the back of Big R,<br />I come here to listen to the century-worn<br />floor creak each time a customer walks in,<br />mid-stride in ancient conversation. The merits<br />of a rabbit hutch, which pastures are short on salt licks,<br />temptations of sweet mix for a colt, bottles for orphaned lambs<br />Floyd’s name tag is peeling from his May-I-Help-You vest,<br />black marker on surgical tape, the ‘D’ no longer visible.<br /><br />He sorts tomato packs, talking with a man<br />whose fishing hat says “Salmon, the other pink meat.”<br />He needs food for a rescued baby woodpecker,<br />and is worried it cannot see. Happens that Floyd<br />wrote a paper in sixth grade, he remembers<br />those babies are blind for thirty days. I envy that his past<br />is still with him today. When I was twelve I wrote a paper<br />about Twiggy with Jane, the girl with a dark space<br />in her house where all the boys went to kiss her. I sat<br />at the table, writing the paper for both of us.<br /><br />Maybe if I had written about calla lilies<br />I’d understand now why nothing blooms<br />next to my kitchen sink. I’m reading<br />the bulb packaging when Floyd stops by<br />to help. He considers me before he tells me nothing<br />grows without contrast in its life. He says we all need<br />the night time cold, some daytime sun. Now<br />and then - a wind to toss our stalks.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082205744966115365.post-76948545582134193082009-11-30T20:07:00.000-08:002009-12-01T09:28:32.913-08:00Sherry O'Keefe Commentaryevery winter i plant a bulb in a pot and place it on my kitchen table. my kids were raised with blooming bulbs in the middle of winter. we would even bet when the plant would bloom: before <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">christmas</span>? after new year's? one winter, the bulb would not bloom. i was in a new home and thought perhaps i hadn't discovered the right pool of sunlight for it, so i moved the plant (with 28 inch stalks!) from here to there in my kitchen, but still no bloom. i could relate. i was not exactly blooming where i was either. the ranch supply store in this poem is in an old part of town. the ceilings are low and the floor groans. i love the sound of boot heels on the wooden floor— it's as though you've gone back in time and at any moment you'll hear the stage coach roll to a stop outside, with a bag of mail for the tiny post office across the street. if you linger in the store, you will gradually realize that you are not the only person in the store who has come to the store for a sense of comfort. this year, i have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">paperwhites</span> from the store— the bulbs handpicked by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">floyd's</span> nephew. guaranteed to bloom. want to bet we'll see blooms before the third snowfall?<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Sherry O’Keefe</strong>, a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">descendant</span> of Montana pioneers, a mother of two, sister to four, cousin to dozens, credits/blames her Irish upbringing for her story-telling ways. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in <em>Switched-on Gutenberg</em>, <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Barnwood</span> Poetry Review</em>, <em>Avatar Review</em>, <em>Babel Fruit</em>, <em>The High Desert Journal, Main Street Rag</em>, and others. Her chapbook, <em>Making Good Use of August</em> was released in October 2009 from Finishing Line Press.Rose Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04691897685793948889noreply@blogger.com0