July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
It is winter
a street sweeper sweeps
leaves up from Main Street
I’m sitting with my notebook
writing a poem about the symbolism of phlegm
remnants of furtive strategies
the morning tries to wake me
the cars to support me
the cold ground to go around me
an idea passes by about a man
addicted to self-help–he reads two
to three books a day
paralyzed by memories
I stop to wipe my nose on my sleeve
*
It is winter
the Post sports a picture
of a boy juggling kiwis
before I enter the office
a dwarf steps out of the drugstore
someone suggested he came from the subconscious
I argued he was a messenger
I ask him if he tends bar
request his business card
*
It is winter
and fall
I’m not degenerating
actually, almost fully marinated
I flex out my fingers
squeeze into a fist
unhitch the gate
unscrew the top of a baby bottle
squeeze in some carcinogens
insert my bristle brush
twist and tug
with only a tinge of despair
by Alan Katz
Alan attended the Tupelo Press Writers Conference on Barter’s Island, Maine, where he studied with Jeffrey Levine. He writes at the Brooklyn Writers Space, a collective in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
My Enemies
on W.S. Merwin
My enemies slide through the crowd oily as snakes
They are Death dressed in a coat of smiles
My enemies are part of the war in which they
do not care for the enemy
but kill their comrades in the trenches
My enemies continue to live
undisturbed in darkness
gently they inhale and
exhale
My enemies are suffocated by the obscurity
chasing them everywhere
upon the seven continents and
the dirt is afraid to pronounce their names
If Krakatoa erupts – those are their ovations
The shaking of Japan turns wild the cheering in their souls
My enemies without faces live inside the stone
in the speech of the water where they try to talk to eternity
before they turn into dust
My greatest enemy has many names which he goes out
in the night to practice
My enemies have never been loved
with tiny steps like Japanese prostitutes
they enter the rooms one after another
In these empty houses they are bloody clots in the corridors
My enemies all of them came out of the paper mill
where I produce matches
for their paper hearts
they are the nightmares of the people I dream about
in those nights when my soul
takes a break
My enemies in their dreams fly in the sky
the cocaine lines of the airplanes are their
smiles
My enemies pronounce words resembling worms
which dig deep in the dirt of the wasted lands
and they wander blind
In the morning the sun rises only for their half-shadows
At the end their skin will begin to bark their fingers will bloom
under the gravestones
without names
She
She loves to play with my feelings.
Without any obvious reason she acts insulted,
unwilling to give me any explanation.
She looks at me for hours with that air of superiority,
then she walks across the room and when I reach out
slowly, she quickly moves away.
Sometimes we do not talk for days.
I ask her what have I done to deserve this?
Was I checking out another one of her lovely sisters,
did I kick her out of my bed, or maybe because
we no longer take baths together?
Silence. She looks at me and turns her head.
She turns her back on me, too, then walks to the window
and for hours observes the trees outside.
What should I do? Well, I left it at that.
Eventually she will come to her senses. After all
she is just a stupid cat.
by Peycho Kanev
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Gravel
I should have let my hair go gray,
the color of plain river rocks,
which either sit or roll
with currents rolling them.
I can’t stand upon a stump
of old and worn eraser heads.
Walk/dissolve have equal signs
between the words,
between the efforts tied to them.
I swallow gravel spits of pills, dreaming
moss in blankets over aging brick—
undress myself while I still can.
Two surgeons spend the afternoon
trying not to break the news.
There’s nothing left that we can do:
three diseases in your back;
your shoulder’s shot, unfixable.
I tell myself it’s just a squirt gun;
bullets in my flesh aren’t real—
avoid by husband’s lowered eyes,
the sad reflection, sand in mine.
Both his knees are dribbling like basketballs.
He knows I’m now a water glass
slipping from his soapy hands.
Everyone is stuffing tears the size of plums,
even nurses I don’t know.
There’s no such thing as Holy Grail,
not here, today, not in this place.
I play the stone, swallow gravel carefully—
pretending it is only ice, that it will melt—
play the hose that saves the house
when flames are licking at the door.
by Janet I. Buck
Autumn Sometimes Comes in June
I am weak old grocery bags—
jealous of the Calla Lilies,
thick and strong, waving
green accouterments,
bulging scarlet saxophones.
I’m the anxious Chevy truck,
stalled at stop signs, sitting here.
Bulging at the wishing seams,
wanting to be whole again,
fondling the garden soil.
Beatitude grows paper thin, photos torn
too quickly from the album’s page—
the snow of scraps, now freezer burn
from hanging on, white knuckling.
Remember breaking chicken wings?
Giving up the bigger part, so one of us
who needed luck the very most
could sack it for a stormy day,
hold it in a cross of gold.
Sisterhood should be the wind behind a back.
I made that up, merely felt
the hint of breezes in my sleep.
I’m awake, curled up like going shrimp
beneath the blankets piled high,
the tail of a squeaking mouse,
its stringy fabric caught between the door and jamb.
Yesterday, I tried to walk, failed
with old batteries that disappoint a ticking clock.
I slipped on last year’s autumn leaves.
I’m broken and I break again
each time I sense I’m pepper flakes,
something to dislodge or dodge—
hornets at a barbecue.
Like lovers dumped, I stare at voids,
twist a curly lock of hair until it snaps.
Glued to silent telephones.
by Janet I. Buck
The Rocking Bench
We’re in a park where ducks
dip noses in a pond—
considering the songs of swans.
Pressed together on a bench,
stiff as terracotta pots,
I feel the cracks inside my bones.
Clouds of starched white taffeta
line an endless sky of slate.
It’s getting dark, darker than it’s ever been.
Two surgeons gave us awful news.
I dream of gophers digging holes,
crawling into all of them.
Facing this is more than
ogling double chins.
It means complete paralysis—
compared to how I penciled life.
I’m useless as wool cardigans
in summer heat, useless
as a spoon without a handle there.
My husband pats the rug burns
on my only knee. I flinch, retreat.
Just when does one ask graciously
to be the limping horse they shoot.
Brahms lullabies are crackling fires
on stereos. Embers of what used to be
are red with heat—pale as a peeled potato
headed for the boiling pot,
I can taste the ice cream cone
of leaving earth; any flavor’s doable.
I take a quarter from my purse,
whisper in my husband’s ear:
“Heads mean go; tails mean stay.”
He turns his face away from mine,
watches ivy scale a wall—
says he spots a hummingbird,
even where there are no flowers.
The silver circle on the ground
is one he plans to leave behind.
by Janet I. Buck
The Locker Room
Painted toes in neon thongs
shuffle through the locker room—
conversation: casual, a cranky child,
a manicure that drew a tiny spot of blood,
a cruise gone sour because of rain.
They spot my stump, a crayon stub,
pale peeled potato white beside
their legs of solid bronze.
Someone smacks the locker door,
my old prosthesis up against the edge of it.
Down it goes: a thunderbolt, echoes
of a hundred crystal goblets jostled off a tabletop.
They shatter, split, then crush again,
as women step all over this with gaping eyes.
No one has a broom that works, including me.
They stare at what is left of failing body parts.
There isn’t much unless they count
rows of scars, bags of skin, open sores,
bruises of deep burgundy.
I’m some disease they might have gotten,
but they didn’t. Fingers cross around the room.
I’m templates for a tragedy. Did you know
that poor girl has seven, count them, seven
joints replaced, on top of losing her leg.
What an inspirat…
They don’t bother whispering.
I can’t finish listening.
I sense their bouts of nausea—white-knuckling
the luck they own—I’m the kettle whistling dry
that ruins perfect glass-topped stoves.
My artificial leg makes noise with every step—
peach pits in disposal mouths of kitchen sinks.
I don’t mean to be the wilting centerpiece.
When I arrived the sun was out,
a lemon plopped across a cerulean sky.
As I leave, the clouds are gauze—
no tufts of sweet alyssum seeds
a quiet breeze will send away.
by Janet I. Buck
Janet Buck is a seven-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of three full-length collections of poetry. Her work has won numerous literary awards. Janet’s most recent work has appeared in BLUE PEPPER and Boston Literary Magazine; more poetry is scheduled for publication in forthcoming issues of Offcourse, Mistfit Magazine, Antiphon, PoetryBay, and other journals worldwide.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
I went wandering again last night
through the submerged trees
caught in a summer flood
half delighting in their watery feet
and though the forest was submerged
by some trick of the dream
my path was clear and bright
a winding sunny way through
wild flowers and buzzing bees
the occasional dragon fly
zooming through emphatically
like a winged exclamation mark
delighting in its own beauty and speed
and as I walked, I wondered
where my path was leading
the dream was not clear
at this point — colours fused into green and blue
my walking became floating
my hands became leaves
and my feet moved like branches
caught underwater
flowing in a weedy elegance
all emotion channeled into being
nothing more than a tree
in the flooded forest
filled with the dream of light in water
fulfilled by being –
no purpose, no hesitation
just gratitude and
leaves in prayer
reaching upward
touching the sun
by Seamus Brady
Seamus Brady lives and works in Dublin Ireland. Publications include Dark Mountain Journal and in an upcoming edition of the Trumpeter Magazine (Deep Ecology).
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
The Track
This track is bloated with the grotesque and mad
in their low-wage dresses and top-dollar perfumes,
whoring their hearts for Vegas magic
as angels trumpet perverse songs of praise
for the thoroughbreds racing through the crimson mist.
But under these halogen skies
my faith is restored by the men of the raceway
and their eternal recklessness,
carrying oxygen tanks like embattled soldiers
stepping through a nuclear blast,
kissed by the sun’s flame
and sculpted by a forgotten God
into the last lineage of the holy and sane.
Gut
Under these gaslight lamps marauders plot and pivot and hustle,
starving for the invention of disorder,
speaking with corroded tongues. Indigo bubble vests
thick as whale blubber on the stoops they perch
amidst this decaying paradise of lost souls and poverty
and lucid dreams of journeys through place and time
where men like this cease to exist and are replaced
with inanimate objects born of crest and creed. For the quest
goes without saying and such is evident by the strollers
occupying the crumbled lots and resurrecting their walls
with disdain and merry and lies through the ears of those
not born with reserves nor a gambler’s eye
but rather see this conquering of lands as a black hole
that only grows deeper for the void of life it creates.
by Rit Bottorf
Rit Bottorf lives in Brooklyn, New York with his wife and daughter.
