Tuesday, January 31, 2006

TWO POEMS by Kirby Olson


Mussolini in polka-dotted undershorts
Sits near the cathedral of Milan.

The river stands next to the city.
The zebra stands next to the barn.

The wife next to the giraffe,
The peacock next to the glove,
The sewing machine next to the umbrella.


Us to invite your grandmother to come and join ours.
But last time your grandmother moon-walked into the house,
She was holding an olive in her naked ass sphincter
While chanting a Gregorian hymn to a 4/4 beat.
It is less than enchanting to think of your grandmother
Again joining in as our grandmother takes the Cadillac to play
checkers with the denizens of the Lutheran Home.
There are so many normal games they could play:
Parcheesi, Monopoly, even Twister would be fine.
But unless your grandmother is willing to play such games
& wear suitable attire
She is Unwelcome.

Kirby Olson is the chief spokesperson for the avant-garde literary group Lutheran Surrealism of which there are currently two members. He is the author of three theoretical studies - Andrei Codrescu (McFarland 2005), Gregory Corso (2002) and Comedy after Postmodernism (2001). He is also the author of a novel called Temping (2006) - a voyage into love and/in Finland.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

FOUR POEMS by Eileen R. Tabios


The white street
an obscenity

when haloed ascetics
can't remember
a wash in hot water

There must be another light

than this wind stuffing
headless birds
--and spermatozoa--
into fragile craters
of a trapped moon

until even onions
cease to make you cry


Could our two miseries
into one opulent being?

Men simplify
before slinking back
to antediluvian burrows

Baby priests
turn away
to cast profiles forsworn to Donatello

But she is clutching lilac print
within a shadow burning
salvation's seedlings


....and passing a poet banging stones against my mountain because lightning is fun to play with, except lightning also hurts....and I still have to roll my own boulder up the mountain.....how to remain standing when one has paused to stop lightning with the left hand, while the right hand props up a boulder so heavy so heavy so heavy....

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

…..and cobalt-winged crow slits sky, something wriggling between its beak, black diamonds for eyes….and I still have to roll my own boulder up the mountain…..how to persevere with palms now bleeding from rock shards embedded through the pushing towards cloud-covered sky, even as the valley of men below possess a gravity inserting iron weights in the hem of my skirt….

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

... and look, you're all wet as the towel couldn't protect you and I'm sorry your shirt's all wet and your pants are all wet and still you just have to sit there and suffer the flow of more tears more tears more tears more tears and now your room is flooding and, oh dear, all your papers are wet and you have deadlines but your printouts have become tracks for black rivers….

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

…..your curls are wet…..I'm sorry your curls are wet…..and I'm glad you'll ignore this too…..but so sorry about your curls…..

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

.....and then I thought the flow stopped and for a while I was happy because sunset eyes can't help but hurt but then it's winter here so why would I think the rain would cease and now I'm wet and crawling back for your shoulder and now I'm wetting you again and I'm so sorry and yes please do be careful to make sure I don't harm your printouts or books or other pieces of paper that flood your writing space because I'm so wet and now chilled and….I apologize that you're now sodden because I just couldn't keep peeking out from behind the hair I'd tried so hard to grow as a veil…..and now you're wet too and I'm sorry but I can't leave yet I just need your shoulder just a little bit longer and there, there....

[.....the towel on your shoulder is sodden now, so I'll go to sleep now....]

.....okay I go to sleep now ..... dreams, defer thy selves.....


One man, Pygmalion, who had seen these women
Leading their shameful lives, shocked at the vices
Nature has given the female disposition
Only too often, chose to live alone,
To have no woman in his bed. But meanwhile
He made, with marvelous art, an ivory statue --
from Ovid’s Metamorphoses

These are my last words
before I become stone

the same color as the ivory
virgin known as “Beauty”

defined by crumbling pages
gasping, “Her name is Galatea”

A god stopped playing
(for once) to manifest mercy

A god blinked long lashes
for a statue to step down

from a pedestal also carved
by my withered hands

The statue blinked long lashes
She whispered her name: “Galatea”

Her mother was her father was
my instrument carving her curves

Who could have foretold
she would transcend my grief

over the women she -- that is, I --
emulated through ivory and stone …

She reddened her lips into roses
She revealed her breasts for moons

She opened eyes fearlessly at the sun
She laughed as she spread her thighs

These are my last words
before I sculpt myself into limestone

a chateaux as moonwashed
as the ivory whose purity I formed

into the virgin I desired. But
I accept her departure from my

opened hands as the price for tasting
human lips before they now proclaim

“Poems make stones breathe. Within my eyes
poetry, nature, art and wine converge

for a life beyond stone.” I live beyond
stone by immortalizing her within my fold --

an embrace formed by stone walls
as white as she on a pedestal

mythologized as “the perfect woman”
even as her flesh wrinkles, then cracks,

for living in the world, becoming
of the world, forming the Real.

EILEEN R. TABIOS recently released the multi-genre collection I Take Thee, English, For My Beloved (Marsh Hawk Press, New York) which features poems, an experimental novel, an art monograph, play, and poetics prose. In 2006, she will release a new poetry collection, The Secret Lives of Punctuations, Vol. I (xPressed, Espoo). She performs THE CHATELAINE'S POETICS blog

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

THREE POEMS by Christopher Rizzo


You want to say I want to want and say you
what I is to want and confluence.
A genealogy of the cat's meow, a flossy
before bingo, a jackpot in shorts.
The word you gave me fell apart, Skippy, and now
all is but bling, noggin bloopers
and erasures, sweeps for clashes,
my honey radiator went rabid
and minor, lappers pour squat in quash.
Washington looks confused.
Poppies in ozone glorify O,
shush fens the face, the you there in turn,
lined, a fission code afloat—
prickly the ups in temps, quadrilateral
the pings, crossroads at square,
Cambridge years a cambric for boo.
The Glock is mightier than the Cross?
Who inks, and when?


Fracas and blurb, wacko mufflers lingo blah,
claim the lay to aye an I, a wigwam
for a Wookie, wayward soda fizz
shipping grin, green oil in tins,
gilt blazons, chipped cedar for drops,
magnet jumpers, the boxy of box
say reliquary the query what?
Economy rhymes with sodomy.
A lone flapper takes yip and keeps it up
the steeps, boots, mumblings,
joy hangs in the bubble a question,
the wild-man from Borneo back from Pluto
for five card stud in Bayonne.
"Did you understand a word of it?"
Know when to walk away.


Fandangos at 11 and the Groucho origami,
for the masses the money licks,
work the work that works
in June, all the tapers red at the release,
the Prick of Rochester with his pants down
cardinal flights. Kill your Pater
Noster, Walter in the breaks,
quay yolks on the flats, the hush
laves to face, a well peopled
Zanzibar. Twang husky in shop,
shatters and compounds
the heavies, Orion in cipher,
your nape seized. Juju the squalor
of the horns and pronto.
Maynard G. Krebs.

Christopher Rizzo lives in Albany, New York, where he is working on aPh.D. in English. His poems have appeared in Art New England, Carve, Pettycoat Relaxer, and Shampoo among others. He published a chapbook, Claire Obscure, with Katalanché Press in 2005 and has a new chapbook, Zing, just out from Carve Editions.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

TWO POEMS by Andy Gricevich

tinny buzz
after factory


louder as the pay’s
turned down

where birds fled
from paper mill’s steam,
now empty sky

doubles itself
against the ground:

the silence,
hammered from the ear

the teeming
thin-spread dollar’s

echoing blare

making meaning
far from here


the world turns out
to be a tinny buzz at
the edge of poetry. barked

or embarked. teenage
bip-bap in the mouth.
a sheen of spectacles

thrust into the flash
denuding attitude. leans
to “affect modules”

recommended by his
counselor’s daughter
who, he imagined,

seduced him in a
film, reel five, the
one nobody gets to.

he’s paid well in personal
satisfaction, would like to take
your sponsor for a walk,

to wing a world
of noise into stands
of the dead silent.



a word
over the ivied

a gang
of arbor

as sheep

in witnessed

they were in the pay
of homeland security,
operating in voltages
on foreign shores

mirrors all the same


a hot dog
of concentration:

bits of roach

fill out the time

and the news

side by side
they face the onrush
of ongoing days

we don’t know what to make of it
but we’ll make something

not as bad
and worse
than we expected


Admittedly the shad
wore undergarments to the ball. Premonitions of
the Cenozoic woke the pitcher from his daydream. Tide
but no sea. “It’s dark in the fort,”
cried the pets, in terror or delight we couldn’t tell.
Secretly annoyed, I gave up on the luminous project. On the luminous
edge. Ghosts were unhelpful, or unimpressed. The menu
could barely say “eggs,” faded as it was by
years of mother-complexes, discounted for students.
Fuck! I’m so credentialed I could wash!

The general, a computer programmer, a stern look.
The realization: so much fails to depend
on reason. The retention of reason. The bulbs
underground, showing themselves in phenomena.
The ego, rice cakes, literally talking.
The flames, the prison camp, page B39.
The Beatles, the Stones, the freedom to pass
“defense of marriage” laws.
The sexiness of gangrene, a reversibility. The anti-theory,
the love of ones place, the delicate
catheter of participation by absence.

Poppin’ out babies: the comfy liberal’s caviar. By now the bases are loaded
with soldiers of color held illegally beyond the terms of contract, while time

itself has become a new excuse for resentment. Boats are boats.
We could have asked whether there was anything in particular we wanted
to win. Rather than say what it means, the father confessor casts a stern look
over the rails. Raked but not sown. Belief versus knowledge
versus thinking; still there are these spots in his field of vision, into which
anything could fit. If the mind is a wax, the brain wanes, given the nurture
of habitual speech (“terror,” “responsible,” “justice,” “positive,” “habitual”).
More soup? Body suits or bags that? Identity makes men mean.

Andy Gricevich, a poet, actor, and musician, lives in Madison, Wisconsin. His poems have appeared, or will appear, in Mirage #4/Period(ical), Unlikely Stories, and the Spineless Books Flat Books series.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

THREE POEMS by Regina Derieva
Translated from the Russian by Frederick Smock


Black Mirror


Polish a piece of hematite,
and the black mirror that emerges
mirrors the window
from which each Chinese emperor watched,
as he borrowed the throne.


Polish a piece of hematite
into a black mirror
by which widows
of Chinese emperors watched,
as they borrowed the thrones.


A Difference of Perception

After a number of years
it's not so good to see
and hear. This is not a surprise.
I look on the world
through the eyes of others,
I listen to the world
through the ears of others,
repeating all the time my question.
I'm asking those around me
to explain this or that stain,
and to greet someone on my behalf.
In addition,
I force myself to not answer letters
and to not answer the telephone.
One names my condition
as boorishness, another as wisdom.


Buying second-hand clothes
is easy and convenient.
You are not responsible for them,
since they already had an owner,
who did with them what he wanted.
These clothes always go out of fashion.
But here's an article
whose price is a bargain:
having a previous smell,
and a previous mood,
this clothing in essence has died,
but has not turned to tatters,
having been renewed,
having been filled by others,
having been forced to live.
As new emigrants are forced to live,
a very old Syrian woman
after their children.

Regina Derieva (1949) has published twenty books of poetry, essays, and prose. Her books in translation include Alien Matter (Spuyten Duyvil, 2005). Derieva's work has appeared in Modern Poetry in Translation, Poetry East, Ars Interpres, Salt, Projected Letters, Notre Dame Review as well as in many Russian magazines. Regina currently lives in Sweden.

Frederick Smock is poet-in-residence at Bellarmine University. He has published three books of poems with Larkspur Press. The Iowa Review,Poetry, Shenandoah, The Southern Review, and The International Quarterly are among the many American journals to have published his poetry. His newest book, Poetry & Compassion: Essays on Art & Craft, is forthcoming this spring.

Monday, January 16, 2006

FOUR POEMS by Amy King

The Playground Bandit Plays Back

JFK Atlanta International gives coffee
to tv on the radio's asylum studios
in conjunction with corporate
cooperation completely: comes
apart altogether while the rest remain
blessed buried in Christmas if
my fragmented existence coheres,
especially by the blanket
of soft forgotten
shaved sunsets on purr
makes me want
to see everything
fade: band-aid science.
Breathable ailments lie
beneath this soluble skin;
there's no way out unless
it's useless. An abuse began one way
as concerned instruction
until an end of brilliantly left out.
Bury the cat for future
bones of a spell to cast
by the beat that skipped a heart.

Always an Ant

Lilacs sang where nightingales
stood in tiny rows above the ground

The boy carried with him closely
a bearded toothless body

And claimed we are in a state of nature

He notes the heat of noon in afternoon
rising and puts away his dreaded blessing

His life thus far presents a series of tripping
over fences hardly in the way

Long now he’s had tiny phrases hemmed
into the seams of his undersleeves

Removing one he reads, I’ll be white all winter
and no one will bury my twin

Always an ant looks down from its crystal
chandelier to a world

Where time turns to perpetual relic

Even now we separately read the same book
together, the communion of one story’s person

Just when the boy looks up from the grass

How to Go About the Universe

He sent me a secret I can’t discuss,
so much so it does no good to touch
each other in this condition. The tummy
sags. A bathing suit bag bends with-
in his eyes. An invisible fence surrounds
the still in us. Or opens a door
to handshake gratuities—
like your forever trembling limbs
fall forever-after off. The wind-up
doll-head from moonshine submerges
with drink. Let the salutations begin.
Invite the key grips in. Say we passed all
tests in this next trans-Atlantic franchise.

Love’s Lost Dew

Like someone lost to mercy,
I fail inherited speech.

I am the exit in wound
you meant to execute.

I am the one you attend
in a blue orchid’s sleep.

I am the sepulcher closing,
burying your dreams.

A phoenix burns survival;
I waterfall to rise.

Jesus and the bumblebee,
a solid mass of seaweeds.

The dew extracts, competes
with your eternal outline.

My anemone settles
upon your clasping hand.

You remain incognito
without a friendly need.

Amy King is the author of the poetry collection, Antidotes for an Alibi (Blazevox Books), and the chapbook, The People Instruments (Pavement Saw Press Chapbook Award 2002). She currently teaches Creative Writing and English at Nassau Community College and is also an interview correspondent for miPOradio. Please visit www.amyking.org for more.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

D by Mark Young

To be ceased being
in the present tense
& fled. Monks beat
their heads in one
last round of ritual &
joined it. To the young
it was the stuff of
nursery rhymes; but
too much for the
superstitious who
took it pluperfectly
& saw in it a sign
that leprosy would up-
load later. They had
no out, could do
nothing more than
encase their seed
within any leaf or
left-wing poet
that was available.
Little came of it — the
appearance money
was deemed too small —
but as a mathematical
technique it was
exemplary abscission.

Mark Young is a New Zealander now living on the Tropic of Capricorn in Australia. He has been publishing poetry for more than 45 years & his work has appeared in many print & electronic journals. He recently co-edited TheFirst Hay(na)ku Anthology with Jean Vengua, & his latest book of poetry, episodes, is due out soon from xPress(ed). He maintains a couple of blogs, pelican dreaming & mark young's Series Magritte.

Monday, January 09, 2006

TWO POEMS by adam fieled


i didn't say it. that. i wish this thing.
but then. subversion. all conventional
modes. of hip-stroking. there was that
time. it's past. how the something to
decode became ourselves. what. now,
contact. now, disjunct. how i wished
to say it. to "put it out there". that if
you put out. you should. continue
to do so. then came nebraska. with
it, erasure. i was rattling off suburbia.
when we tried again. it was. mixed
like emotions. even. when. the thing
seemed relatively. clear. there was
a dancing around sense. semantics
are endless. there can be infinite
sentences, blazing. insurrected
passages. between.

"red life"

mark rothko
came to me in
a dream and said,
each color chunk is
a way of life,
you must choose.

i'm wearing a red
sweater, that's my choice.
anything not to be

adam fieled is an american poet based in philly. he has work in jacket, rain taxi, great works, argotist, starfish, hutt, boog city, cake train & elsewhere, & edits the blog-journal
pfs post

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

WOLVES (REVE(A)LED) by Jonathan Ball

[wolves reveled]
[in the garden of John's Revelation, NAB]
[seeding w o l v e s]

which of listen voice Ephesus Smyrna
whose one like voice edged sword
When of last

victor eat Smyrna
write once life victor edged sword
where of Likewise victor except Son
whose of

left victor erase Spirit
write one left victor ears Spirit
write of lukewarm voice enter sit
with on


voice earth scroll
was open lion voices elders slain
wisdom out Lamb

voice earth so
would one living voice earth sword
When open loud voice earth servants
who open like

voice every Simeon
were of Lamb voice elders spoke
Who one Lamb

voice earth

was opened like voice Euphrates So
were of like

voice ever sea
when of lies

voice enemies Seven
were of loud voices ever sat
worshiped ones lightning violent

earth stood
woman of longer voice earth sea
When of


virgins everlasting said
Worship of licentious voice ever sustains
who one looked voice earth's So
who on loud voice earth's So
wine of

last victory ever so

went out like voice earthquake such
was of Large


voice every spirit
wine of licentious voice enthroned she
will of linen voices ever slain

what of living voice established She
was of Lamb voice eat slave
was of


voice every shall
wailing or life-giving victor every sort
which One last


Jonathan Ball is a writer, filmmaker, and critic. He lives in Calgary, Canada, where he is working on a PhD and a novel called Kanada. Visit him online at www.jonathanball.com or his blog. He also publishes a weekly humour column at www.haikuhoroscopes.com.

(the one site's down now, but it'll return)

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

submission guidelines

Poetry not demanding formatting beyond the possibilities of blogger, any style or school from one (1) up to ten (10) poems, or one or two sequences.

Translations of living &, most importantly, consenting poets.

Short prose of no more than 2000 words.

Essays on most subjects not exceeding 2000 words.

Brief reviews of small/micro press or online books will also be considered.

All work should be previously unpublished.

Please, NO links to previously OR simultaneously published works.

Put texts & brief bio (three lines or so) in the body of an email & send it to: editordelaluzAThotmailDOTcom

You can expect an answer within a week. Acceptance or rejection here, like everywhere else, isn't a measure of quality but simply depends on if the editor liked it or not. Taste, in other words