Janeiro | Dezembro de 2021
Neste número:
Evocação: «Erva» de Carl Sandburg, traduzido por Vasco Gato
The Prettiest Girl | Série poética de John Dorsey
Smashing Spiders e outros poemas | Victor Clevenger
Slow e outros poemas | Danny Ford
Inéditos: três poemas | Tohm Bakelas
The State of Moving | Ensaio e ilustração de Lucia Sellars
The Barbed and the Beautiful de John D. Robinson e Marcel Herms | Recensão de Mark Anthony Pearce
Poema afinal: Me too, calenda grega | A. Dasilva O.
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Evocação
Erva
Amontoem os corpos em Austerlitz e Waterloo.
Enterrem-nos às pazadas e deixem-me trabalhar:
Eu sou a erva que tudo tapa.
E amontoem-nos em Gettysburg
E amontoem-nos em Ypres e Verdun.
Enterrem-nos às pazadas e deixem-me trabalhar.
Dois anos, dez anos, e os passageiros perguntam ao revisor:
Que sítio é este?
Onde estamos?
Eu sou a erva.
Deixem-me trabalhar.
Carl Sandburg | Antologia Poética (2017)
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The Prettiest Girl | Série poética e nota biográfica de John Dorsey
John Dorsey grew up in Greensburg, Pennsylvania and lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw’s Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016), Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Press, 2017) and Your Daughter’s Country (Blue Horse Press, 2019). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and the Stanley Hanks Memorial Poetry Prize. He was the winner of the 2019 Terri Award given out at the Poetry Rendezvous. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com. (Ler mais poemas de John Dorsey no # 16).
J.D.
The Prettiest Girl in Hastings has the face & body of a ravaged lion & is eighty lbs soaking wet her bones clinging to a dirty pair of skinny jeans for support as she writes song lyrics along her arms she has slept rough & hidden her inner beauty under the stars where nobody will ever look.
The Prettiest Girl in Reno, Nevada worked as a nurse at the university hospital more than 80 hours a week she smelled like a tumbleweed made of rubber & grease rolling through a busy strip mall in the middle of winter where the hills had stopped her car in its tracks just to hear her laugh.
The Prettiest Girl in Fort Collins, Colorado had her head half shaved to beat the summer heat & would come to my apartment just to talk & read me a poem on a couch that was missing most of its cushions surrounded by garbage bags & dirty dishes in a room that tasted like sweat & inspiration the spit that came off her lips when she read was pure music that proved that punk rock wasn’t dead.
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Smashing Spiders e outros poemas | Poemas e nota biográfica de Victor Clevenger
Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry. Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print magazines and journals around the world and have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Sandpaper Lovin’ (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2017), A Finger in the Hornets’ Nest (Red Flag Poetry, 2018), Corned Beef Hash By Candlelight (Luchador Press, 2019), and A Wildflower In Blood (Roaring Junior Press, 2020). Together with American poet John Dorsey, they run River Dog.
V.C.
Smashing Spiders the spiders all have short legs climbing up damp window glass with swiftness crooked lines like rustic roads body low belly dragging counting four of them on the outside spread out the stretch of two adult hands they are small & she is less phobic these days when younger though she would kill every spider she saw said after school once only seven years old at the time a neighborhood kid killed a dog in an alley it was his mother’s dog & he used his father’s pistol to shoot the last bullet in the box that day said they all heard the bang but never heard the reason why he had done it said they all had their guesses though & that she was just glad that killing a spider didn’t involve digging a deep hole into the dirt beneath an old oak tree in the backyard
Sexual Seasons we bitch about how beauty loses its luster within the added layers of comfort i tell you about how i’ve not seen the marks that stretch across this city’s stomach in weeks then you say screw you october & november & december & i say screw you january & february too it’s march thru september that we love when the cold winds refuse to blow every day down the boulevards we travel like wild animals chasing each other
Amy #2 i fall asleep watching cold case files hoping that when i wake they will have discovered just what you have done with all the | young love that i gave to you
Chorus of a Death Song when i was young i tried to rescue a small bird that had been abandoned put it in a shoebox in my bedroom & it lived for only six days crooning a version of the very same song that these hatchling robins are singing right now from the belly all sitting against a ground level window the chorus of a death song echoing off a weathered board affixed with rusty nails to fill a void when the stained glass shattered years ago a young jesus was never resurrected passing by i listen to them & look around as they go silent shhhh . . . a yellow cat with hungry eyes creeps slowly around a bush not ten feet from the nest & their mother will return soon to sing that familiar song all afternoon
Hot Things Are Just Cold Things with Heat you say love a strange strange thing i say it’s like a frank standford poem beautiful & wanting more like small doves in stew pots without vegetables when starving i give you my portion & watch you smile picking through tiny bones like diamonds scattered on a paper plate
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Slow e outros poemas | Poemas e nota biográfica de Danny Ford
Danny D. Ford has had poems, illustrations and photography published in various print and online titles including Analog Submission Press, Ancient Heart Magazine, Black listed Magazine, BS Poetry Magazine, Lazybox, Dark Lane Quarterly Collaborative, Bare Hands, Coronverses & Winamop. In 2020 he co-wrote the poetry collection Perforated By Sirens (Analog Submission Press) with Mark A. Pearce. ‘The Unfolding Head’ is co-founder & compère of Dust Your Broom in Bergamo, Italy, where he lives and works as an English teacher.
D.F.
Slow His house smelled like old piss and oven chips one year he invited a few of us round for a birthday party when his mother put the tray of frozen nuggets on the table siblings of all sizes eagerly grabbed at tiny brown pucks they were dirt poor he seemed half a step behind in his head always looking off somewhere he was kind they all were his house sat at the end of a terrace right on a sharp corner a sign outside read ‘SLOW! Accident Hotspot’ after a small cake & song we all went outside to look at the blood stains on the pavement where a woman had been clipped by a lorry earlier that week
56 Days Robert Pattinson fucks a mermaid on my spare bedroom wall and I go to bed thinking I should watch more James Dean The following week I draw something about cunts and sit up in bed sweating brushing frantically virus off the quilt mushrooming tentacles reach into my neck like Travis the chimp shaking me awake and I remember again oh yeah, oh yeah that thing the BBC said about times like these bringing out the best in me
Friends of Saint Alex You’re going to write about all our new neighbours aren’t you, she says but I keep thinking about the old ones about the Cuban revolutionary loving house husband looking after his dementia ridden mother-in-law forever tapping him on the head about the accountant downstairs too fat to walk his moped to the gate daily clouds of engine exhaust hanging in the stairwell but mostly about the balcony diva tall, tattooed and time for anyone with a cigarette and a story who fell from the second floor and into a coma just before we left
The Boy Next Door I used to hear him having sex she used to scream right through the wall one day he invited me in said he had something to show me it was a matchbox full of ecstasy this one is speckled and this one has the logo of a car and this one is best left till you’re ready I didn’t mind any of it he was always just trying to be a good brother
North End Ave Awoken at 3am by a barking dog at your bedside not looking at you though instead snarling at darkness beyond the open bedroom door Startled by a jar heavy glass full of pens leaving the shelf above your head for no discernable reason crashing hard into the desk Your brothers’ yarns heads at the feet of beds children playing on the landing by the loft yes there was something more to that house than just a sloping driveway & a divorce
Penguin Dave had a unique method for running his newsagents picking his ass and scolding paper boys he had a doppelganger we all knew well Devito’s Penguin from Batman Returns at night the sounds from the top shelf escaped tiny windows above the shop blue lights licking a bare light bulb mouthfuls of hot chips laughing out steam below
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Inéditos: três poemas | Poemas e nota biográfica de Tohm Bakelas
Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He is the author of several chapbooks and his work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He intends to conquer the small press and exclusively publish within.
T.B.
forgetting a book never mind forgetting my watch at home, forgetting a book always shakes my day for the worst. it’s this slippage of memory that will do me in. forget all the women the empty days the broken nights, forgetting a book to read knowing that the current book is almost finished that is how it will end. one poem to nothing one chapter to nothing me, living, to nothing
i always hated new york she stares me in the eyes and i look back— two souls unbroken and never to be touched— the line is severed and it’s nothing more than a passing glance. i see the sorrow, she sees the misery. tonight when the moon says nothing, remember my eyes said something
lifeburn living alone in a square room with green walls and a white ceiling, having little money to eat only ever enough to drink, strung out on recurring thoughts starving on screaming silence at night the bed was magic, the final platform for the madness hours to unwind and quiet down and in those mornings that always followed lying in the bed with the sheets pulled up was all that was needed and in rolling over to escape the sun, the bed balanced the body as the mind tried balancing the hangover and the world.
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The State of Moving | Ensaio, ilustração e nota biográfica de Lucia Sellars
Lucia Sellars plays with text, fine art and moving image. Her writing has been published in poetry magazines and anthologies such as Utopia (Hesterglock Press) and Repeal the 8th (Sad Press). Her film work has been selected and screened in many Film Festivals around the world. You can see more of her work at www.luciasellars.org.
L.S.
The motion of poetry is like juggling. You pick a set of feelings and images, then raise them into the air, into the randomness of infinity. Then grab two realities and one ethereal substance
As the blue planet rotates with a synchronised rhythm amongst the astral bodies of the Milky Way, and beyond; so, our hearts palpitate in a rhythmic configuration as we live in a world, that is – to live. That is to say, the action of movement from one step to the other, one second to an hour, is ´key´ in being, who we are and what exists. Newton´s Third Law of Motion states that “for every action (force) in nature there is an equal and opposite reaction”.
Here, in terms of poetry, the art in itself as art can trigger a reaction in both the source and the receptor to the force. Were the source is the poet and the receptor the reader. The ´movement´ is not only experienced by the receptor but is also part of the creative process of transforming the poets´ imagination into tangible matter. We could say that movement is equivalent to ´a pathway´, a bridge, a tunnel, a river, a vein, that takes you from A to B.
Movement is a constant, just like energy constantly transforms itself and never dies. The illusion of stillness, and for things and beings to be at rest, it´s almost as a moment of reflection caught in the intervals of movement itself. For example, the spaces between the steps, the breaths, the thoughts, the drops of rain, of which we become aware of, and self-conscious about. The mountain may seem still, but its essence is the reflection of movement. Stillness, is just movement at its slowest, a micro-movement, that nevertheless could produce a considerable large reaction or subsequent force.
Poetry moves emotion; emotions are the movement of feelings – to be moved. There are perhaps, two apparent pathways experienced through poetry. First; the pathway that is encountered by the poet itself through the pivotal moment of drifting in thoughts, progressing into the future such as dreams or wishes – the unknown, regressing into the past such as memories and facts – the known or just the present moment. Second; the pathway that is experienced by the reader or listener or viewer; who would be moved into boredom, epiphany, inspiration, understanding, questioning, anger, sadness, gladness, joy, or complete indifference.
Poetry could be categorised as an external force (when received in text and/or sound), however, it carries embedded internal forces that connect with the unconsciousness of the poet and/or the subject who experiences it. The dictionary states that poetry (n.) is the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative or elevated thoughts. It can be added that rhythm, same as arrhythmia, could be out of pace, and the antagonist of beautiful could also generate pleasure.
Essentially – poetry moves.
However, its own movement and the movement it triggers on the other (the poet and receptor) cannot be modelled or mapped in a mathematical parabola. The source of poetry, the seed in the poets mind, doesn’t follow rules, schedules, set patterns; the source of poetry is a number of coincidences that reach a balance in itself: of thought, pattern, rhythm, or other characteristics, that bring an equilibrium of understanding. An understanding that is mainly aesthetic or spiritual, not necessarily regarded only to knowledge itself.
We are constantly juggling our realities against our expectations. For example, we could say that life is like walking on a tightrope; balancing pleasure and pain, and constantly feeling vertigo. The dictionary states that to juggle (v.) – is to keep (several objects as balls, knives,…thoughts, worries…,plates, etc.) in continuous motion in the air at the same time by tossing and catching. Certainly, the jugglers’ tasks to keep the motion going and in equilibrium, mirrors the ailments and essence of poetry, which is to move the other as a result of a found aesthetic, spiritual and/or knowledge understanding. Were vertigo, is experienced as the unknown chance to find such balance of understanding.
Ironically, to reach an equilibrium, is to reach a ´state of rest´. This perceived state of rest, would just mean a slower movement, which gives the illusion of order, unlike its antagonist, chaos. If we think that chaos is a complex set of movements, then a state of rest, or balance of understanding is just a close look at its microscale reality. Slowing the process of speed of such movement. Simply said, poetry is a game of chance and probability and it does with us what it wants, and sometimes, what we don’t expect.
The movement that is discussed here is the creative process, the pathway, a creative transformation of different mediums to express conscious and/or unconscious thoughts, feelings, fears. Most times, we don’t necessarily know what to do with feelings we experience, moments that are awkward or joyful, sometimes ungraspable and just physical. The fact that poets write about them or to them. The fact that poets ask their unconscious, questions in search of understanding, or balance, despite pain or pleasure. Explains that to let go of them and so to speak, ´toss´ them away from us, liberates us somehow.
We stop taking our selves so seriously, and thus, not holding our emotion so tight that we sink with it. Consequently, gaining a cathartic freedom because of it, because of letting go. The poet perhaps will scribble words and definitions with cryptic or evident symbolism to itself or the experience of the other. The poet may think that the poem is speaking about something in concrete, but the receptor could be an antagonist of the sources feeling. Just as love can generate hate, and vice-versa.
The quote of this article has three elements; however, it goes on stating what type of word should be chosen, or if a word at all. It says “grab two realities and one ethereal substance”. The number in sum, three, is irrelevant. The recipe in itself is trying to imply to “make” a poem, not to “write” a poem. It’s the fact that it has the words realities and substance. The motion of poetry and the overarching state of motion in which we are knitted into is not just a collection of words, but it’s a consequence, a set of coincidences that are moving, transforming itself, from one emotion to the other. Just like a domino falling after a domino or a chain reaction. It can go very fast or very slow. Nevertheless, always moving.
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The Barbed and the Beautiful de John D. Robinson e Marcel Herms | Recensão de Mark Anthony Pearce
Writing Poetry, Short Stories and as well being a Painter, he lives reclusively with his cats listening to Classical Music. He writes a lot about alcohol which he refers to as his Diablo.
John is the poet of sex obsessed cyclists, bingo hall ladies known to exchange blow jobs for cans of beer.
He’ll tell you about waking up next to an old lady in a house with absolutely no idea how he ended up there.
He is a poet of a battered nose, ENT examinations, messy love affairs and memories of the dead.
Poems of those damaged from drugs, booze and sexual abuse.
A cold naked reality for so many.
In The Barbed and the Beautiful he collaborates with Dutch artist Marcel Herms.
Herms art fizzes with a spontaneity, vitality and vibrancy. His images are always veering towards nightmares and the dark night of the soul. They also have a sense of humour, something he has in common with John’s writing.
In this collection we are reminded that truth will tell you that you’re screwed, a timely assertion perhaps.
Love drifts into the void and the sun becomes just another dying star.
Half forgotten, stoned, post coital tristesse utterances march towards a union of heaven and hell.
Tough guys decide not to fuck as one takes a piss in the urinal.
A mother sits in a hospital waiting room praying that her daughter will survive an overdose.
The politicians are damned yet again and lovers wait after exhausting themselves for the final good bye.
A body hangs from a tree.
Apologies are accepted. Drunks shake hands. We came to the conclusion we were dead long ago.
The Art and Poetry in this book is very tough meat but well worth sinking your teeth into.
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Poema afinal: Me too, calenda grega | A. Dasilva O.
Sobre o autor e outros poemas, ler no # 8 e # 10.
Inefável 