Profession: Poet

September 14, 2021 Brooke Palma

Profession: Poet is a new monthly blog feature exploring craft and identity in poetry by Hanoch Guy, who writes poems in both English and Hebrew.

Writing Poetry of Fantasy and Dreams

You may want to go back and read the previous blog, as it will offer connections with this one.

This post will offer you prompts and methods to stimulate your imagination for creating new poems.

Set aside a quiet hour during a time you won’t be interrupted.

Get together a drawing pad or pieces of paper, crayons, markers, and inspiring music.

Consider Fantasia, the movie, to get your creative juices going, or another movie you can bring to mind that has a fantastical storyline and a magical landscape.

Look at surrealist paintings from artists such as Magritte, Klee, Dali, Leonora Carrington, Remedios Varo, and others who create imaginative, dreamlike worlds.

Have your drawing pad or paper ready.

These writing exercises may help you to break out of the style of poetry you usually write.

They provide an opportunity to concentrate on fantasy and dreams and use that imagery, terrain, and sensation in your poetry.

Remembering the last blog about the limbic brain, which houses the language of poetry, below are some prompts to start with.

Focus on the following phrases and write what comes to you with each one:
- Wonder
- No common sense/no logic
- Put aside the judge (your left brain)
- Mix up time and space
- Omit lines and words
- Surrealism
- Daydreams
- Imagination
- Symbolism
- Synesthesia (blending senses)
- Non sequiturs
- Incongruence
Here are some other methods to consider to open up your imagination and limbic brain.
- Read a foreign language poem aloud.
- Think about distant lands.
- Experiment with signs and symbols such as flags, banners, and runes.

In order to understand more , I suggest looking at the poetry of the great Indian poet, Kabir, especially his hilarious upside-down poems. Here is an excerpt from one:

The cow is sucking at the calf’s teat,
from house to house the prey hunts,
the hunter hides.

. . .
frog and snake lie down together,
a cat gives birth to a dog, . . .

You may also enjoy this excerpt from e.e. cummings:

in the middle of a room
stands a suicide
sniffing a Paper rose
smiling to a self

I would like to offer you a poem of mine where I used some of the above devices. This poem was published in Springtime in Moldova, by Kelsay books.

The house on Mill’s corner stretches its walls, yawns,
slides on mud to the creek.
The basement trades places with the attic.
Kids’ beds hang upside down.
They travel to Israel in their sleep.
The wind puts a French sign on 259 rue Ashbourne door.
Hydrangea in the front switches
with the azalea in the back.
The deck is stuck to the side wall.
Burglars get confused and surrender.
The owner is cited by the township
for numerous infractions.

In closing, I leave you with the following prompts and bid you creativity, play, and inspiration.

A pink elephant------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------in the black river
Purple wooden bird------------------------------------------------------------
A star split--------------------------------------------------------------------
Yes and no--------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------powerful blow-------------------------------
Red mud covers----------------------------------------------------------------
Sad painting-------------------------
No seams---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------sliding trees
A sad gorilla ----------------------------------------------------
Heart and lungs----------------------------------
Why because------------------------------------------
Icy fire------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Write a 4-6 line poem.

You may use the prompts.
Borrow any line from the poems we read above.
Mix up lines without thinking.
Or use guided visualization as a spring board :
- Close your eyes and imagine yourself on a mountainous road
- The wind blows hard
- Horses fly
- Elephants dance
- A pink crayon draws giant purple clown hats

I always welcome your questions and feedback.

Hanoch Guy Ph.D, Ed.D spent his childhood and youth in Israel. He is a bilingual poet in Hebrew and English. Hanoch has taught Jewish Hebrew literature at Temple University and poetry and mentoring at the Muse House Center. He won awards in the Mad Poets Society, Phila Poets, Poetry Super Highway and first prize in the Better than Starbucks haiku contest. His book, Terra Treblinka, is a finalist in the North Book Contest. Hanoch published poems in England, Wales, Israel, the U.S., and Greece. He is the author of nine poetry collections in English and one Hebrew book.

Mad Poet of the Year - Ray Greenblatt (September 2021)

September 13, 2021 Brooke Palma

The Mad Poet of the Year blog posts share the poetry of a long-time Mad Poet. This year-long appointment provides readers with a deep dive of the writer’s work and thoughts on poetry. We are thrilled to have Ray Greenblatt serve as the inaugural Mad Poet of the Year for 2021.

ROBINSON CRUSOE LIVED THERE

by Ray Greenblatt

At first he was stimulated by his nakedness. He ached for mirrors. After some time he wore his skin as a suit to filter the sun . . .

Sometimes he would sing and dance. Observers might think him crazy. They never did . . .

Wind was his friend cooling him, making shadows slide and shimmy. He would translate what the wind said . . .

He studied the minutest things. On the beach a tiny sand crab appeared out of a hole. Then he reentered his tunnel pulling it after him and disappeared. Ants in a spaced row carrying leaves like coolies to build a thatched hut. Birds with brilliant plumage forever flitting. They all held magic . . .

Every day he exercised his memory. Scraped up every speck and smudge of the past. For the future each word, letter, diary, tome would have to be stored on a specific shelf in his brain . . .

We all need gods. He shaped his god in the form of a ship. What if his savior arrived. Grew larger and larger on the horizon. Would he be awed or terrified . . .

At night he would float on his isle in the sea, on his own planet among the stars.

The fictional Robinson Crusoe lived on a desert island for 28 years. The real castaway—Alexander Selkirk—upon whom Daniel Defoe’s novel (considered by some critics to be the first English novel, 1719) is based lived there for 4 years—long enough! However the length of time, what would you do? I wanted to get inside a stranded person’s head and imagine. This piece turned out to be a prose-poem, because there is such a strong narrative line running through it.

Ray Greenblatt has been a poet for forty years and an English teacher longer than that. He was an editor of General Eclectic, a board member of the Philadelphia Writers Conference, and is presently on the staff of the Schuylkill Valley Journal. He has won the Full Moon Poetry Contest, the Mad Poets Annual Contest, and twice won the Anthony Byrne Annual Contest for Irish Poetry sponsored by The Irish Edition. His poetry has been translated into Gaelic, Polish, Greek and Japanese.

Review of Alla Vilnyanskaya's Void

September 8, 2021 Brooke Palma

Review of Alla Vilnyanskaya's Void

Void

Thirty West Publishing House

$14.99

You can purchase a copy here.

Reviewed by Abbey J. Porter

Definitions of “void” include “the quality or state of being without something”; “a feeling of want or hollowness;” and, for the verb form, “nullify, annul.” It’s possible that poet Alla Vilnyanskaya had all these definitions in mind with the title of her recent book, Void.

The debut collection of the Ukranian-American Vilnyanskaya, Void tackles sobering themes, from conflicted relationships and violence against women to the fragility of life itself. Vilnyanskaya is unsentimental in her presentation; indeed, one perceives from her a sort of distance, a detachment. Yet her poems can stir and disturb, fascinate and haunt.

I’ll admit to finding Vilnyanskaya’s poems challenging. They take unexpected twists and turns, sometimes achieving a stream-of-consciousness quality. As a reader, one has the sense of peering through a hazy window; you have to work to untangle many of the poems’ intended meanings. But what’s clear are the poet’s intellect and wit, which shine through her work’s complex layers.

Vilnyanskaya announces the gravity of her content with her opening poem, “#2666,” which describes, in part, a woman’s murder and sodomy. “A numb sensation takes over/Nothing at the bottom of evil,” she concludes. The poem’s title adds to the sense that the murdered woman is an anonymous one among many.

The opening poem also introduces one of the book’s themes: the treatment of women. Rape is a recurring topic. In the prose poem “Pink,” Vilnyanskaya says,

I said no and it sounded like “Yes. Yes. Yes. Please take me, right
here. In fact, I would prefer it if we didn’t wear any clothing.” There
is a certain way that after a rape the sound of a woman’s voice
changes. She becomes an angel.

But some of the aggression toward women described in this collection is more subtle. The prose poem “Tennis Ball” includes the lines, “I was locked in a basement and forced to take the blame/for isolating myself. Women’s emotions are fraudulent.” Here, Vilnyanskaya suggests that women are made to internalize guilt for wrongs committed against them, and that their feelings—perhaps their objections—are invalid.

These various offenses against women are committed amid a troubled landscape, in which relationships are fraught. “Anniversary Gift” begins with “It’s like he is happy for me/He just loves me” and changes course, until he is “Sleeping alone/next to some new girl.” The poem concludes:

You shouldn’t have said five years.
You should have said tomorrow, or fifty.
Try saying tomorrow.

These lines seem to speak to the ultimate fragility and untrustworthiness of romantic partnerships. In “Cinderella: Master Class, Practicing on the Violin,” this fragility is echoed everywhere:

It takes special skill
to discern
that almost anything
may be ruined.

Indeed, in the world Vilnyanskaya describes, life itself is exceedingly fragile. She gives a nod to the effort required to sustain anything alive in “Homerun”:

I’ve always hated
plastic flowers,
but as I grow older
I realize that one
does not always
have the time
or patience
to sustain
a living thing

One of Vilnyanskaya’s skills is showing us just a glimpse of something and managing to imbue that glimpse with inordinate power and story. Perhaps the best example of this minimalism comes in the four-line poem “Encounter,” one of my favorites of the collection:

A boy bounces
a tennis ball in the street
he sees a car
turning

It took a few readings of this understated poem for it to reach its full impact, perhaps because it leaves so much for me, as the reader, to fill in. But once that happened and the poem sank in, it produced a haunting effect. I feel caught in the moment with the boy, poised on the edge of disaster.

This poem provides but one example of Vilnyanskaya’s sometimes-unsettling prowess. Anyone looking for a complex work that explores gender violence, the mutability of relationships and life, and much more might do well to enter Void.

This 96-page book ends with several pages of poems by Anastasia Afanas’eva in translation from Russian.

Abbey J. Porter writes poetry and memoir about people, relationships, and life struggles. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Queens University of Charlotte, an MA in liberal studies from Villanova University, and a BA in English from Gettysburg College. Abbey works in communications and lives in Cheltenham, Pa., with her two dogs.

Source: http://madpoetssociety.com/blog

Profession: Poet

August 9, 2021 Brooke Palma

Profession: Poet is a new monthly blog feature exploring craft and identity in poetry by Hanoch Guy, who writes poems in both English and Hebrew.

The Wings of Fantasy Brain

Before we delve into the fantastic right hemisphere, let’s explore the left hemisphere a little more. You have to decide how structured you want your poems to be. You can choose a very strict format or no format at all.

We consider again that the capacities that are offered in the list below are metaphors and brain activities are migrating and may be present in different areas of the brain. The faculties of each brain are not exclusive to that particular brain. According to researchers, reading poetry stimulates the right hemisphere.

The Julian Jaynes Society views poetry as right hemispheric language.

Among the many aptitudes of the right brain are:

Creativity

Imagination & fantasy
Intuition
Holistic thinking
Art & color
Visualization
Drawing
Rhythm
Memory
Daydreaming
Emotions
Spatial intelligence
Exploration
Pretense
Association
Figurative devices such as metaphor, image, simile, and symbol

This list is partially based on The Human Memory website.

Below are a few prompts you can play with:

I imagine…..

My dog is….

Sea colors are….

Earthworms remind me of…

Morning feelings are…..

My daydreams…

You turn right and left, and you get…

I like to draw…

You can also review your poems and become familiar with ones that uses a great deal of right hemisphere devices.

The next blog will offer ways to write poetry of fantasy and dreams.

Mad Poet of the Year - Ray Greenblatt (August 2021)

August 9, 2021 Brooke Palma

THE ICEHOUSE FIRE

by Ray Greenblatt

The entire neighborhood came out
          infants in diapers and carriages
          aged on canes wrapped in mothy blankets
          gambling men rolling craps in their heads
          churchgoing women sending up puffs
                    of gray hope into sodden air
the crowd turned upward dark pools of eyes
          waiting for the queen
          mother ship to land
          challenger to be ko’d by the old champ

somehow in that burning building
          was his father’s chronic fury
          oldest sister’s terror vented
                    in the backseat of cars
          fists and chipped teeth of the Poplar Street gang
something of the power of trains
which rumbled roared behind their row-house
smashing through serenity
slicing through sensitivity
          hid also in the blaze
a cool moon would no longer satisfy

night was crisp with cold
          crisp with heat
elemental combustion
          fire vs water
          while air watched from above
          earth from below
                    rain from fire hoses
                    fell into the building’s maw
                    and was absorbed
now the crowd began to focus
on the abandoned icehouse roof sign
          beginning to list

as if tantalizing the inferno
leaning down to tweak it
          but it was too big for its britches
snaky arms reached up
to curl flaming chains around it
and slowly
          letter
                    by letter
the sign heaved and sank

was the gasp—or—sigh from sign or human
at that the total body
          of people grew cold
lost interest
saved by firemen’s hoses
they turned toward home
          as a smoky wet dawn emerged
          a lingering stink of loss
                    of what they were not sure
          to last for weeks or longer.

Yes, I did have relatives in West Philly. There were gangs and we watched trains passing nearby. Yes, the vacant icehouse did catch fire one street over and did threaten my cousins’ block. But there the reality ends and the characterization takes wing.

Review of City Poems: A Selection of Poems by Mbarek Sryfi

July 21, 2021 Brooke Palma

July 21, 2021

City Poems: A Selection of Poems

L’Harmattan

$14.17

You can purchase a copy here.

Reviewed by Sean Hanrahan

Mbarek Sryfi’s collection, City Poems: A Selection of Poems, illustrates the speaker’s intense, almost visceral, connection with humanity. Whether the poet is observing classes of people that society generally ignores or a tender moment between a loving elderly couple, Sryfi crystallizes moments in sparse, yet eloquent, lines. This is the work of an insightful sage who takes the time to observe the world around him. This book is divided into two sections: The Trace of a Smile, originally published as a chapbook by Moonstone Publishing, and City Poems.

In perhaps one of his most memorable tercets, “The Autistic Child,” Sryfi writes, “He stood there gazing/His tongue helpless/But words dripping from his eyes.” In this short, haunting poem, Sryfi poetically gives voice to a voiceless boy. Since this poem is located in the City Poems section, I wondered whether this was an observation from a stroll around the unspecified city, perhaps a city in Morocco.

He also has a poem titled, “The Flâneur” (French for stroller or idler), where he observes, “The yearning body in blue/trying to steer clear of the blueness of the cloth in vows of chastity.” Blue is a color especially prevalent in Morocco, and the reader can picture the poet walking past a woman in a hijab. This moment could occur in any city, such as Paris or Philadelphia. Sryfi’s city becomes a place built by finely wrought moments and connection to or isolation from humanity.

A moment that illustrates Sryfi’s empathy and enviable ability to encapsulate a specific moment occurs in “Witnessing a Senior Moment at a Diner.” These supple, dreamlike lines begin this poem (my favorite in the book),

like a firefly, on borrowed time,
towards the light, he drifted away
seated on the chair across from her
she can’t take her eyes off him
for fear he’ll never come back

This moment touchingly captures a moment between a wife patiently waiting for her senile husband to return to her and their shared present. Sryfi goes on to make the astute observation that “love is life affirming/she refuses to see him/leave, never to return.”

Realizing that the world is not just about connection, but also about its opposite— isolation, Sryfi pens the poem, “Café La Estrella,” about a man alone with his cell phone in a “café coming alive.” He writes “I might forget my phone/Here.” He leaves to go to a train station, perhaps to return to friends or family, and realizes he did in fact leave his cell phone. He had previously observed “The wide street was empty/Swarming with drunks and whores swaying in different/directions.” He comes to the realization that life too can be an wide, empty street, and he takes “pity on the drinks and whores, and on myself/“How lonely I am/Without my phone.”

Sryfi also turns his observation eye upon himself in the lovely final poem in this superb collection, ”Just Hanging On Waiting for Things to Happen.”

I flumped into my chair
Yeats’ Collected Poems opened on
Sailing to Byzantium
It was still dark outside
It took me by surprise when I
Suddenly caught a glimpse of myself outside

The poem takes place at 5 A.M. where he is alone with Yeats and his thoughts. With precise language, he takes the reader to that “dead silent” time where one recalls “long forgotten moments.” The time when you use music, perhaps Mahler’s Ninth Symphony, to fill up that silence. The time where one, drowsy, feels inside and outside of themselves at the same time. A beautiful endpoint to this book that celebrates life, yet finds time to explore its heartbreaking melancholy as well. Time with this book and Sryfi’s enriched, evocative language is time that is well spent.

Sean Hanrahan is a Philadelphian poet originally hailing from Dale City, Virginia. He is the author of the full-length collection Safer Behind Popcorn (read review here) (2019 Cajun Mutt Press) and the chapbooks Hardened Eyes on the Scan (2018 Moonstone Press) and Gay Cake (2020 Toho). He is currently at work on several literary projects as well as teaching a chapbook class. He currently serves on the Moonstone Press Editorial Board, is head poetry editor for Toho, and is workshop instructor for Green Street Poetry.

Local Lyrics - Featuring Brit Marshay

July 20, 2021 Brooke Palma

Polarities between self
by Brit Marshay

I’ve been wondering the difference between you and I, the distance between us..

The difference between us is when I see a fallen tree in the middle of my path, it becomes a table for two, a footstool for giant forest dwelling trolls and refuge for frogs to safely sing their evening tune, a home for fairies to roam between the hollow wood and fabric of time.

You see that same tree as rotting rubbish, blocking you from a fragmented finish line desperately seeking a “good job” in the end.

Lately, I’ve been wondering about the distance between you and I..

It has become apparent that the distance between us is aching to be understood.

I come back to that fallen tree deep in the wood behind my ribs and I remember,

I am exactly where I need to be.

What are your muses? What gets you revved up as an artist?
This is a great question, I often find inspiration in nature, the beauty as well as the destruction. Death, rebirth, the challenges that cycle can bring forward. I am passionate about creative expression. Oftentimes, the idea of clowns and uncomfortable spaces provoke my inspiration as well as painting my face and dancing to avant-pop or anti-music. A few of my favorite artists, The Space Lady and the great Daniel Johnson influence my naivety. I often pull from my own life experiences such as losing my parents at the age of 15, surviving cancer and living and navigating those losses on my own.

Much like the first question, what really brings me to life is pulling deep from the core of painful experience. Bringing forth unspoken emotions and translating that into art, that’s my jam. I love the duality of life. I consider myself a maker and so collaborations of all sorts whether that’s in conversation, singing, dancing, working on a project with others, that really gets me going. I strongly believe we are all artists so what really turns me on to the arts is when it’s accessible to everyone.

Your poems have strong emotional cores and often feature the fantastic. What’s your relationship like with fairies and other woodland creatures?
I have always used escapism to cope with my life, I am a dreamer, it’s in my blood. I found mystic beasts and folklore later on in life and immediately felt connected to the stories and creatures that I’ve welcomed into my world. The thing with fairies is they are tricky little things, they’re quick and mischievous, they can be bribed with treats, and they play on their terms.

Those are qualities of mine that I have also embraced over the years. We can learn a lot about ourselves by diving into other worlds and admiring the mysterious.

In addition to writing poetry, you have a traveling boutique and Etsy shop called City Pixie Shop. Are there similarities between making jewelry and writing poems?
You know, City Pixie Shop is a passion of mine for several different reasons. just like poetry. It’s sort of a reclamation and celebration of my life lived. When I decided to get sober, City Pixie Shop was my way of working through years of neglect, using my hands to create has helped me work through so much mentally. Similar to poetry, when I write, my goal is to express my rawness, to really be in the moment, it’s meant to give hope and shed light on dark places in hopes to influence others to express and honor their pain/creativity.

What is your process like when that all possible blank page is in front of you?
I love this question, my process is a bit scattered when it comes to creation and writing. There isn’t much thinking when I’m in my flow. I find that I write best when I’m full of unprocessed emotion or if I’m pulling from past experience. I write to heal myself.

If I’m feeling romantic, love, genuine connection, or sensual the words seem to flow out onto my page.. when I’m angry, frustrated, full of fire, these are the moments I can go to my blank page and spill my guts.

Where can readers find more of your work? Check out City Pixie Shop?
I would love to start a website and blog this winter to compile the likes of all my creative outlets for City Pixie Shop and my personal writings. For now, you can check out my instagram @Citypixie_shop and my etsy for jewelry. I occasionally post poetry on my personal page @S.oftdust on instagram as well.

Brit Marshay is a Philly based artist/maker. She has been creating and writing all her life from making earrings out of paper clips and staples in grade school to now owning and operating an online jewelry store based out of her downtown studio apartment. Mixed media and the power of spoken word have healed her in many ways. Art and free form writing are two of her favorite ways to celebrate creative expression and to honor the life she’s lived.

“Catfish” John Wojtowicz grew up working on his family’s azalea and rhododendron nursery in the backwoods of what Ginsberg dubbed “nowhere Zen New Jersey.” Currently, he works as a licensed social worker and adjunct professor. He has been featured in the Philadelphia based Moonstone Poetry series, West-Chester based Livin’ on Luck, Mad Poets Society, and Rowan University’s Writer’s Roundtable on 89.7 WGLS-FM. Find out more at: www.catfishjohnpoetry.com.

Review of Katie Budris’ Mid-Bloom

July 14, 2021 Brooke Palma

Review of Katie Budris’ Mid-Bloom

Mid-Bloom

Finishing Line Press

$14.99

You can purchase a copy here (pre-orders ship August 13, 2021).

Reviewed by Abbey J. Porter

Katie Budris’ recent chapbook, Mid-Bloom, is about survival—survival of the narrator when, as a young teen, she loses her mother to cancer, and survival of the narrator herself when she too faces a cancer diagnosis.

In this 19-poem collection, South Jersey resident Budris explores the shape of loss and change brought about by disease, in part by looking to the natural world.

Budris opens the collection with “5:00pm, Weeknight,” a glimpse of the narrator’s life at 13—presumably, before her mother became ill. In this world, the narrator’s biggest concern is dealing with pre-algebra. Her mother, a piano instructor, taps out time in another room—an unseen but nonetheless comforting presence. Here, we can count on small pleasures and rituals:

Dad will mash the potatoes
just the way I like them, serve dinner on
Mom’s floral china, placemats, oak table, grace.

Budris introduces the frailty of life in “Keeping Things Alive,” in which she describes the plants lining her window ledge—"bamboo shoots, devil’s ivy, an elephant bush,/two cacti, one orange, one yellow.” She details the efforts made to meet the plants’ needs: new pots, different windows. But among the stems and leaves, Budris finds her blue Betta floating dead in his fishbowl—a discovery that shakes her. She scribbles a note for her sleeping partner: I’m afraid all the plants are dying. Her sentiment suggests that the Betta’s death heralds a larger, systemic failure.

In perhaps the most baldly confessional, unabashedly grief-shocked poem of the collection, Budris shares the immediate aftermath of her mother’s death in “The First Morning.” Her voice is frank and vulnerable:

I know it’s almost noon,
but I don’t want to get out of bed.
You are not here…

I’ve never done this
before. Said goodbye
forever.

Nature is a recurring theme in Budris’ poetry. In “How to Survive a Blizzard,” she observes how a family of cardinals reacts to a winter storm:

They know
the best protection from a blizzard
is not to fly, but to burrow, escaping
the elements by surrounding themselves
in a cave to keep warm, wait out the storm.

One feels these lines speak also to the “storm” Budris weathers, and that the birds’ method of sheltering in place applies to her as well.

“Mid-Bloom” is another poem that looks to the natural world. Budris reflects that “My whole adult life, I have failed to keep/ a plant alive beyond a few months.” She goes on to reminisce about planting flowers with her mother when she was a child.

I’m not sure where in the last thirty years I lost
my green thumb. But there
in the backyard, my mother knew
I was capable, nurturing, and strong. As if
she knew I would be on my own
much too young when she left this world
much too soon, a flower mid-bloom

The poet also writes of her own experience with breast cancer, from diagnosis to hair loss. In “If Things Were Otherwise,” this experience brings her closer to her mother as she imagines an alternate reality in which her mother still lives. She contemplates the effects of the disease that she shares with her mother, to whom she has “never felt closer,/connected by cancer.” She concludes, “This time, we’re both cancer patients./This time, I’d understand.” Ironically, the disease that took her mother’s life also binds the two women.

A poem that stands out to me is “Waiting for the Blue Line, Chicago.” Budris describes toeing and leaning out over the colored stripe running along the platform, meant to warn passengers to keep back.

She wonders whether
she could see the train coming better from down there—
white cyclops barreling
out of the darkness

The narrator balances, literally and figuratively, pulled by an impulse that reminds me of Poe’s “Imp of the Perverse”: “There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge.” I admire the subtlety and shiver-inducing quality of the poem. In addition, “Waiting” strikes at the heart of the survival issue, asking whether the narrator can withstand the most dangerous force of all—the one that vacillates within her.

These accessible poems share the writer’s pain and hard-won wisdom with a quiet ferocity, and their impact lingers like the scent of a summer bloom.

Source: http://madpoetssociety.com/blog

Profession: Poet

July 13, 2021 Brooke Palma

Profession: Poet is a new monthly blog feature exploring craft and identity in poetry by Hanoch Guy, who writes poems in both English and Hebrew.

The “Law and Order” brain

In this blog post, I examine the neocortex/new brain, which is the new kid on the block.

The origin of the neocortex is surprisingly recent, evolutionarily speaking. It dates back to reptiles of the Carboniferous Period, about 359 million years ago. It emerged then as “a uniform, six-layered sheet consisting of radially deployed neurons” in the first small mammals who appeared during the transition of the Triassic and Jurassic periods. (Mental Floss: November 17, 2016. Read this article here.)

The cortex comprises two-thirds of the brain. It sits over and around most of the brain. It is highly developed and responsible for thinking, perceiving, producing and understanding language. The new brain has six thin layers of gray matter, folded like a wig. Familiar with Hercules Poirot and his little gray cells?

The two hemispheres of the neocortex work in concert, so for clarity, I will write about the left hemisphere first.

It should be emphasized that the capacities should be viewed as metaphors, as many actions and capacities are present in the different parts of the brain.

For now, let’s talk about the left hemisphere.

From a long list of attributes of the left hemisphere’s functions and capabilities, here are a few:

Linear
Rational
Objective
Precise
Concrete
Exact
Punctual
Sequential
Mother language
Rules
Judge
Order
Cause and effect
Counting

This is quite a list and it is incomplete!

So the main question we can think about is, what do any of the traits on the list have to do with poetry?

Inspiration and spontaneous ideas are part of the writing process, and it can also be beneficial to be aware of how the previously mentioned capacities strengthen planning, organizing, and mapping while editing a poem.

Take a look at the list and pick some of the left-brain skills you can use more consciously to enhance your poetry.

Sonnets, sestinas, and ghazals require application of a specific order, counting, and sequencing.

Putting together a manuscript is not a haphazard process. You need to evaluate, arrange in order, choose which poems to include according to a theme.

All of this is a call to action using many left-brain capacities.

Can you come up with more examples of the use of left-brain capacities in poetry?

Next month, we will talk about utilizing the magnificent and expansive right hemisphere to enhance our poetry.

Mad Poet of the Year - Ray Greenblatt (July 2021)

July 12, 2021 Brooke Palma

ON THE PARIZSKA

by Ray Greenblatt

It is close and threatening today,
I feel as if I must push
through the crowds of ectoplasm
in dark robes and cloaks
gold circle on the breast
or high gilt hat perched,
on what is now a fashionable
avenue of upscale stores
once the dirt-rich street of
kosher butchers, bakers, cobblers
a Ghetto surrounded by walls.

          In the Prague cemetery
          moss-draped
          pock-marked
          lightning-split
sometime cedar fused with rock
the gravestones lean
together for balance
huddle for comfort.

When the clock tower tolls the hour
the astrological signs
suggest the future,
through an opened window
one-at-a-time pass
the Disciples looking down
indifferently or
with a scowl prickling beards,
into the town square where throngs
of tourists are lectured in
Czech, French, Chinese
among many others
the babble of the world.

          And I in my high-tech hotel
          in my spacious suite
          of paneled rosewood
bath of Carrara marble
in full weight cannot
hold down history
vitality, the wailing.

A mere eighty years ago, most of Europe looked away as the Nazis attempted to wipe the Jewish people off the face of the earth! Ironically now in recent years all over the continent, certain tourist destinations are fashionable: Jewish synagogues, Jewish cemeteries, Jewish streets or neighborhoods, any piece of Jewish history— now have shiny brass plaques attached. Where was humanity when it was most needed?

Review of Amy Laub's What Water Says by guest blogger Anthony Palma

July 9, 2021 Brooke Palma

What Water Says

Parnilis Media

$10.00

You can purchase a copy here.

Reviewed by Anthony Palma

At first glance, Amy Laub's What Water Says is a collection of poems that explores the theme of water, but beneath the surface it is a lot more than that. From the first standalone poem, from which the collection gets its name, we see that this book is a meditation on a lifelong elemental love affair. Laub examines water in all its forms, with each section of the book dedicated to one of its different manifestations. Water comes in the form of a storm, one that a young Laub experiences as the bringer of days off. It comes as a pool enjoyed by young girls that Laub witnesses as an adult. It departs as the casualty of a broken marriage, and then returns as a quiet creek of peace enshrouded by a forest and its trees.

In less able hands, a collection like this would be nostalgic and cliché. However, Laub's deft pen and singular voice make this collection a masterclass in control and craft. Each poem seems to have just enough language to leave us intrigued yet satisfied. We are shown what things and emotions are there, and we are left to fill our heads with the wonders of what Laub delicately presents to us. This book may be about the relationship between the author and water, but I am thoroughly in love with this book.

Anthony Palma’s work attempts to bridge the gap between poetry and other forms while addressing issues of social justice, identity, and existence. His work has appeared in publications such as Rue Scribe, Oddball Magazine, and the Show Us Your Papers Anthology. His debut collection of poetry, flashes of light from the deep (Parnilis Media), is now available on Amazon. Be sure to look him up on social media at anthonypalmapoetry.

Local Lyrics - Featuring Kailey Tedesco

June 21, 2021 Brooke Palma

nursery rhyme
originally published in The Journal
by Kailey Tedesco

there is loss in the haus of loss—all of us
embroidered in horror, twigs coming up

from the back of our throats. i don’t want to know
what is on the other end of the telephone. all of my parents

become motherships. my favorite mother UFOs
to me from her haus of tea—cups & saucers, hand-painted,

gable her a-frame. i wake bruised in crop-circle, all
my flesh a runway of inexplicable. there are woods

in the haus of wood. all the trees woozy, teasing
a fall. when the murderer comes from the grave

with matchsticks, we will tell him to take everything
he wants, but only if we are not there to see or hear him.

there are dreams in the haus of dreams. i fight
sleep & wake to find myself sheared, stuffed

with stones. my gut fauna surrounds me in a vigil,
all my sweet demons. there is a flood in the haus of flooding.

the lake waltzes, but doesn’t wave. i wake when my body
won’t, scarleted in nightmare, pins & needles

in my ears. there is sleep in the haus of sleep,
but so little.

Your poems have a gothic/horror/occult flavor to them. As popular as Edgar Allen Poe’s work is, there surprisingly aren’t a lot of poets working in this genre. What drew you to it?
My favorite thing about these genres are that they often are based upon a truth that is difficult to explain, and then through the lens of horror or the occult, the creator can seek to explain something that may, in the end, actually be unexplainable. That’s the magic in it all. This journey is often what I seek in my own writing, but in my reading and other media as well. Nearly all of my poems begin as straightforward confessionals based on something personal or truthful happening, and then they sprawl into something more illogical or fantastical or gothic as I crack them open wider and wider. For example, I’m in my second trimester of pregnancy now and at the same time working through some serious mental health issues for the first time. I’m absolutely nowhere near the first writer to explore pregnancy and mental health through the lens of horror, but I found myself surprised, nonetheless, by how easily these real life experiences lent themselves to these genres. My baby’s tiny hand running down my abdomen is beautiful and real, yes, but also the more I think about my body not being totally my own at the moment, the more disturbed I get. I strive for my poems to exist in these moments of disturbance and bewilderment, where things are both very beautiful but also very frightening.

One of the qualities of your work I really appreciate is that the worlds you create are breathable. They have that strange but hauntingly familiar quality. What are your strategies for grounding your poems?
Thank you! I teach a first-year writing course at Moravian College called Folklore and Legends: The Narratives we Choose to Believe, and one of the first things we look at when examining folktales as a genre is how these stories often begin in the realm of truth and then expand into the make believe. I like to apply that general narration style to poetry which is why I often begin with a more straightforward confessional or something very matter-of-fact. I love hauntings—the word haunting, the experience of being haunted, hauntings as a genre trope, a haunting cup or tea or bottle of perfume—the whole entire deal. And I think the coolest thing about hauntings is that they are, in all of their forms, so palpable and ubiquitous. I’ve never not been haunted, and the most unsettling thing about that feeling is that it’s already grounded in everyday experiences more than we might initially think. This is what makes authors like Shirley Jackson so fantastic—she writes about how ghosts and the occult mingle with the rigamarole of the everyday. A jar of jam can be haunted just as easily as a Victorian murder house can be. Those familiar hauntings are more or less what I hope to explore in my own writing.

How do you humor and explore poetic fascinations and preoccupations without getting too self-indulgent?
I think I’d say that I’m of the mind that self-indulgence in poetry is okay. I’m going to be careful with this statement because I’m certain there are exceptions, but I tend to be all about indulgences in poetry. There’s a line between arrogance and self-indulgence though, and I think this is usually pretty easy to detect. But I usually crave gaudy and gem-dripping and lush and wordy and excessive and sometimes even campy. And that especially applies when I find myself fascinated by something. I want to explore every facet and attempt understand how each of those facets applies to my own lived experiences. I’m also of the mind that the self is often the most important part of the poem, even if the poem isn’t “about” the self at all. It’s what gives poetry originality. I spent so many of my younger years trying to write and live like so many other authors, and I think that, more than self-indulgence, this showed up in and hindered my writing. If I’m into something and it is meaningful to me, I’m absolutely going to milk it.

I saw on your website you practice automatic writing. Can you describe this process and your experiences with it? Did this practice inspire Lizzie, Speak?
Yes, definitely! While in my MFA program at Arcadia University, I kept trying to work off of assigned prompts or set deadlines for myself to try to be more organized and studious about my writing. When I did this, everything felt extremely forced. I didn’t enjoy writing this way and my cohort was also picking up on how contrived my poems felt, because they truly were. I distinctly remember sitting down one day with the phrase “she used to be on a milk carton” playing over and over in my mind (which later became the title of my first book), and from that phrase, more words just oozed. I didn’t stop or question it—I just let the poem pour. This was the first time I felt energized by and connected to my writing in a very specific way, and so I kept exploring the feelings and environments that led me to this experience. I started reading about automatic writing practices, and later I attended a psychic retreat where I learned about working with the vibrations of names. This is what I do with a lot of my poetry; I begin with a word or phrase or image and then let the associations pour in while more or less in a trance state. This isn’t always easy to achieve and it’s not something I can plan, but it’s the method of writing that I find the most magical and enjoyable. I wrote a pseudo-craft essay about this exact thing over at Luna Luna Magazine for anyone else who might be interested in how this process works for me!

By the time I was writing Lizzie, Speak, I knew that I wanted to step outside of my own consciousness as much as I could and into Lizzie Borden’s. I used various divination techniques throughout this book to achieve this, including the IOS text predictive which strangely ended up being the most fruitful. I wrote this book faster than any of my others and I think a lot of that is because of how tapped into automatic writing and divination I was throughout the process. I loved the experience of stepping outside of myself, and I’m hoping to do something similar with my next project.

In addition to being a writer, you are an editor at Luna Luna Magazine. What excites you in others work? Are there qualities you see as quintessential to a successful poem?
Before I was on the staff at Luna Luna Magazine, it was already one of my very favorite publications. I would literally refresh the page over and over until new work popped up. So, it is such a huge honor to be able to contribute to and curate for the mag now. My aesthetic was already so aligned with LL’s, but I think the cool thing about that is how open our aesthetic actually is. I have such a hard time articulating what I find exciting in poetry, but I think that’s because I’m often most excited by what I didn’t previously know a poem could do. I love invention and I love strangeness. I also love poetry that is illogical, in the general sense of the word. I don’t want my favorite poems to “make sense” or operate under the realm of rationality. I think this ties to my philosophy on self-indulgence and just indulgence in general. My favorite poems indulge completely, and they’re totally unapologetic about it.

Where can readers find more of your work? Buy your books?
I’m finally getting into the habit of updating my website somewhat regularly, so readers can always check out my list of publications on kaileytedesco.com. My first book, She Used to be on a Milk Carton, is available for purchase on April Gloaming’s website. Lizzie, Speak and FOREVERHAUS can both be purchased on White Stag Publishing’s site as well as independent bookstores like The Spiral Bookcase and A Novel Idea, both based in Philly. My editor also created and curated some beautiful goods inspired by the poems in FOREVERHAUS like candles (made by Marvel + Moon), corn husk dolls, teas, and more. All of this can also be found on White Stag’s site.

One day, I hope to begin a newsletter, but in the meantime the best way to keep up with any of my goings on is on Instagram: @kaileytedesco. I post a lot of my writing here, but not anywhere near as often as I post pictures of my dog.

Kailey Tedesco lives in the Lehigh Valley with her husband and many pets. She is the author of She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publishing), Lizzie, Speak (White Stag Publishing), and FOREVERHAUS (White Stag Publishing). She is a senior editor for Luna Luna Magazine and a co-curator for Philly's A Witch's Craft reading series. Currently, she teaches courses on literature and writing at Moravian College and Northampton Community College.

Profession: Poet

June 15, 2021 Brooke Palma

Profession: Poet is a new monthly blog feature exploring craft and identity in poetry by Hanoch Guy, who writes poems in both English and Hebrew.

The Limbic System Has Got Me Figured Out

I speak of fear, sheer limbic,
Reptilian fear, and there’s the rub:
Obliterate thought and all that’s left is fear…

- from “Sheer Limbic Fear” by Giuseppi Martino Buonaiuto (2015)

**The title of this blog post is taken from a poem, published in 2016, by Arlo Disarray.**

After the demise of the giant reptiles, mammals started to populate the planet. They developed a new brain, named the limbic brain, about three hundred million years ago.

Mammals took care of their young, contrary to most reptiles who did not.

For me, the limbic system is the most fascinating one. It is a treasure trove, a housing of major critical life functions. Reviewing the different centers, we can be amazed at the variety and powers of this brain.

Talking about the limbic system, “the cold world of reality formed into a bubbling cauldron of human feeling, the forces of fear, elation, anger, and lust arising from this primitive region of the brain.” (Time-Life, Washington, D.C. (1980: 91))

It looks like two half-moons floating in brain fluid. It is also called the emotional feeling brain. It may also be called the poetic brain. It holds quite a few pathways to poetry.

As other brains, the following centers can be viewed as metaphors, as brain capacities. Sometimes these are in different parts or are migrating.

Among other centers, the limbic brain contains:

our pain and pleasure center

the hippocampus, which controls long-term memory and breathing
the olfactory bulbs - very potent and rapid activators of memory
the thalamus or the affection center
the autonomic nervous system
activators of hunger and thirst
control of the intestinal and digestive system
control of the immune system
control of the lungs

Here are some ways to connect with the limbic system capacities:

Write down the first feeling of pleasure you think of.
Write another sentence.
- What comes up when you think of pain?
- What else comes up about pain?
- What is the first smell you remember?

I am going to expand on the limbic system, memory, and poetry in a future blog.

If you want to read an extensive analysis, check out The Limbic Brain by Andrew L. Lautin.

Mad Poet of the Year - Ray Greenblatt (June 2021)

June 14, 2021 Brooke Palma

WHAT IS FRENCH?

by Ray Greenblatt

It’s the lips!

Brigitte Bardot                     B . . .   B . . .
Moi . . . Moi . . . Moi . . .
She stretched her lips around the world
spurring every cosmetologist
every plastic surgeon,
want to be more hippy
          which Mother Time would provide for free,
reconfigure your boring navel
          into a mandala,
but Botox became as common
          as Bromo-seltzer . . .

It’s the lips!

Bent toad of a man
Monsieur Hercule Poirot,
spats and monocle
gleaming gold watch chain a yard long
with a sapphire fob like a third eye,
mumbling beneath his moustache
mysterious mantras . . .
magnifying glass
and pursed line of lip
to discover recherché clues . . .

It’s the lips!

To read Marcel Proust aloud
“A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu” . . .
inside a cork-lined study
          and at the same time
inside a white chateau
surrounded by a bright black spiked
          fence of wrought iron,
Swann reading
”Les Trois Mousquetaires” . . .
while the elite munch madeleines
          lisp café au lait . . .

It’s the lips!

Baguette on the back of a bicyclette . . .
to break the warm, crisp bread
          and taste fresh, pure, fragrant softness;
brie warm in the sun
dribbling over the table
          a la Dali;
blood of the vine
          bloodline of the country
tasters sloshing Malbec, Muscadet
to measure vintage, body, je ne sais quoi . . .

fois . . . bois . . . foie gras . . .
It’s the lips!

I have been fond of France and things French from the time I was a youth. I like the literature (Camus, Daudet, Montherlant), food (especially the wine and cheese), cinema (Truffaut, Chabrol, Malle), classical music (Ravel, Debussy, Milhaud), art (Monet, Braque, Vuillard), Paris, the lush countryside, etc. I studied French throughout high school and took a minor in French literature in college. But I especially like the sound of French; I frankly admit that I love to watch a woman’s lips when she speaks French!

Mad Poet of the Year - Ray Greenblatt (May 2021)

May 31, 2021 Brooke Palma

SPACE AND TIME

by Ray Greenblatt

SPACE I

He sits at a metal table
trying to imagine
mesons at play in the box
dreaming of things so miniscule
and unpredictable
beside the plasticized salami-on-rye,
then he mounts the steel circular stairs
tartan scarf flying
cracked briar puffing
rings round his cranium
in frosted air,
the dome begins to split
like God’s eye opening
or a monster’s maw yawning
while he squints through the telescope
at helixed galaxies
brown dwarves, imagining
gravitational tides, black holes.

SPACE II

The wall stands thick and tall
with bunkers and pillboxes
every few yards.
Sentries stare down
at the long valley
where mountain slopes are still umber
even shadows the shade of ashes
even though it’s fecund spring.
The females are distinguished from males
only by the way their contoured hair
flips out from under the helmets.
The young soldiers giggle together
now passing cigarettes and whispers
sometimes asleep while at attention.
Longitude merely stops at the Pole,
they stand on a parallel which turns
round and round the world,
degrees measured to the enth
invisible beneath their feet.

TIME I

Starter’s gun glistens and sparks,
cinders kicking up
and nipping like no-see-ums
heat but a shrug
opponents phantoms,
as she traces her ovate route
past the sand pit
stacked hurdles
row of 12-pound shots
all milestones,
javelins stuck in the ground
as those flung by Achilles
against Trojan walls—
then before her
in the final stretch
a band of fog above the brook
a white tape along the horizon.

TIME II

Calendar pages flip
as if caught in a dirty breeze,
he has become a legal autodidact
an unofficial barrister
(he knows that word too).
No longer necessary to chew
the chip of balsa wood,
listen to sighs down the hall,
reread news clippings
about the murdered family.
But all the TV’s, computers, iPods
don’t add up to jack.
He can feel the vaulted corridor
with dim recessed lights
gray damp stone
doors clanking shut
odor of baking or a roast.
His epitaph: Monday, 8 A.M.
the eternal day.

Space and time can be relative, as Einstein posited; space and time can be eternal, as seen in an observatory. However, at the other end of the spectrum, a certain space—say, crossing a nation’s border—can mean war or peace. And a split second can mean the win or loss of a race—or life.

Review of Christien Gholson’s The No One Poems

May 26, 2021 Brooke Palma

Review of Christien Gholson’s The No One Poems

May 26, 2021

The No One Poems

Thirty West Publishing

$11.99

You can purchase a copy here. A limited edition with alternate cover, sewn with 100% hemp or bamboo cord, is also available.

Reviewed by Chris Kaiser

The No One Poems, the newest chapbook from Christien Gholson, is at times an homage to the four greatest poets of the Tang Dynasty (618-907): Han Shan, Li Bai, Wang Wei and Du Fu. These poets are known for their focus on nature and friendship, but also politics, everyday events and humor. Gholson follows their example, with the poems exuding a kind of bleak enlightenment.

In the opening poem, “No One’s at the Cash Register” (After Han Shan), a poem in 10 sections, we find the titular character working the cash register at a convenience store. In his first line, he boldly states: “If you’re looking for a / peaceful place, this is not it.” He then ticks off a litany of indignities he is subject to on a daily basis from his boss and the customers, including:

They say: smile more,
you’re scaring the customers.
They say: smile less,
you’re scaring the customers.

Han Shan was also known as Cold Mountain, a place where he supposedly lived (historians are not entirely certain he actually existed) and wrote about. In the poem, No One says:

No
use for words on Cold Mountain.
So, why come down? The moon
asked me to pick up some
bananas for her. And cash. I
needed the cash.

I laugh every time I read those lines.

No One came down from the mountain 20 years ago and has worked at the store ever since, which I guess goes to show you, stay in your comfort zone.

Gholson has many beautiful images and lines in this collection of 13 poems. In the second poem, “Shadows, Wandering” (After Li Bai), for example, the narrator hears news of a death. He wonders when the last time he had talked with the deceased was. Ghosts of the unknown haunt every nook and cranny. He says: “Everything, absolutely everything tonight, is porous. / My fingers touch the cold, the reflected light, other shadows.”

Even when the poet writes about shootings, he does so in a way that is stark as well as gentle. In “Seven Songs Sung at Reservoir No. 4” (After Du Fu), a poem in seven sections, the narrator notes: “One dead, two dead, a dragonfly’s / wing-song leads me to my first song sung here.” But his anger also comes out when he says: “Fuck your Prayers is my third song sung, to drown out the dead who feed on the dead…”

No One also comments on the doublespeak of politicians whose endless words “tumble out of [their] mouths. Insects / sucked dry” (“No One Watches the Men Talk Behind Podiums”). For his sanity, No One has to leave the press conference, and “watches the hummingbird / moths in the lavender.” This only soothes him momentarily, for “When the moths speed / off” he “feels the dead words stir the air… / the dead words stir and stir…”

Gholson is the author of two poetry books, several chapbooks, and a novel. It is obvious that an experienced hand wrote The No One Poems. He dances between heaven and Earth, goes deep inside the flesh, reminisces about the amorphous past and contemplates the undefined future.

In the last poem, titled “No One,” the narrator tells us, “Becoming No One is not a choice.” I think Gholson wants us to believe that it happens when you let go of limiting beliefs:

When did he finally let go
of being someone else’s no one
and choose to be his own?

I highly recommend “letting go” and including this chapbook in your poetry collection. You will gain a sense of righteous rage and quiet awe—two of my favorite states of mind.

Chris Kaiser’s poetry has been published in four anthologies by Moonstone Press, including a tribute to Lawrence Ferlinghetti (2021), as well as in Eastern Iowa Review, The Scriblerus, and Better Than Starbucks, including “Black Bamboo: Better Than Starbucks Haiku Anthology 2020.” His poetry has also appeared in Action Moves People United, a music and spoken word project partnered with the United Nations. He’s won awards for journalism and erotic writing, holds an MA in theatre, and lives in suburban Philadelphia.

Review of Fault/Freedom by Elisha Gibson

May 19, 2021 Brooke Palma

May 19, 2021

Fault/Freedom

Toho Publishing

$12.00

You can purchase a copy here.

Reviewed by Sean Hanrahan

Unique. Confident. Lyrical. These are just three of the words that can be used to describe Elisha Gibson’s sterling debut chapbook, Fault/Freedom. This collection beautifully, painfully, yet, amazingly, also joyfully captures the vicissitudes of life.

In the engrossing poem, “A Little Thing,” Gibson writes about the speaker’s painful and formative childhood experience in almost cinematic detail:

I never asked why that man didn’t want our hands
on his window
My eyes were shining!
Lights of gold shone through bottles of green
and blue just out of reach,
a reach I never considered.

The store owner confronts the narrator and their three siblings, calls them “Dirty,” and uses his relative size and position to threaten them just for touching his window: “See, this man was tall, strong, and white.” Expertly deploying an apt comic book/film metaphor, Gibson effectively deploys a modern-day deus ex machina, “My pops swooped in,/ all superman, no cape.” The children are removed from the painful situation and their dad “started a game when just talking was enough,/I played, had fun, and tried to let this little thing go./ But if it is so little… why didn’t he want our hands on his window?” The narrator comes to a painful realization about American life, and Gibson captures that moment with a perfectly precise lyricism.

This vibrant chapbook also captures the feeling of radiant joy, especially in one of the standout poems in this collection, “Big Band Beach.” Gibson thrills with jazzy lines such as:

Piano play, discordant way, while I soak in azure sky.
Sun was high, his halo hung,
faint green,
round brilliant white,
round canary yellow,
that would bind you with delight.

“So Benign” is a haunting poem that also discusses music and its inherent power, specifically the heartbreaking protest song, “Strange Fruit.” In the right-hand margin, the word “lullaby” textually hangs suspended with one letter per line as it makes a political comment on the controlled, rhythmic language of this poem: “I’ve got strange fruit on my mind./ Bitter copper juice runs through hemp spun vine./ No words pierce my lips as they sway wind picked lines. Their feet bob and dip, ripened past their time.” In this collection, Gibson confronts the terrible legacy of racism as well as celebrates Billy Holiday’s groundbreaking song. It takes a true poet and visionary to craft a poem that tackles so much in ten perfect lines.

Another ekphrastic poem to be found in this collection is “Jerry, Know Tom.” In this poem, the speaker returns to their childhood watching cartoons, a favorite former pastime for many of us I am sure. Gibson repeats a refrain that almost becomes a mantra: “Lampshade overhead, the clumsy cat’s disguise. Cartoon and corn flakes for my youthful eyes.” Gibson jolts us out of this idyllic scene into the present reality of life in America: “You’d think we riot or get vest for the guns.” Gibson’s poetry keeps the reader on their literary toes.

This chapbook collection is an assured debut from a poet who has found their voice and undoubtedly has more to say as we wend our way through the twenty-first century. We, the American readers, will need a visionary like Gibson to show us life in all of its beauty and pain. With their precise, enviable wordcraft, Gibson will be that poet. Fault/Freedom is an exciting first step on their sure-to-be-incredible poetic journey.

Local Lyrics - Featuring Mark Danowsky

May 17, 2021 Brooke Palma

What Is Lost, What Will Never Be Known
by Mark Danowsky

The pileated woodpecker returns to the dead white walnut.

I am reminded we keep the dead with us
in memory, we replay their highlights.

When a person dies, we say we lost more
than their life. What does the pileated mourn?
My memory fails to serve and I mourn what I will never know.

There’s a mindful almost meditative quality to your work. Where do you find inspiration? What is the creative process like for you?
I cherry pick from my experience as well as from what I witness and read. What I mean is that I take what I want, sometimes out of context. I’ve always found this to be a fun way to learn and engage with texts and the general acquisition of knowledge. Poets need to stay curious, receptive. We need a touch of Peter Pan syndrome. Not everyone likes the cherry-picking concept. I’m not thrilled that I’m inclined to even mention Trump but he’s become a part our lives and we have to live with his legacy now. There was that time tweeted a Mussolini quote and, in defense, said, “I want to be associated with interesting quotes.” Taking material out of context is an easy way to get yourself in trouble, no question. A lot of people have had a lot of bad ideas. Some not so great people have had some pretty good ideas. This isn’t all that surprising. We contain multitudes – yada, yada, yada. I don’t know that poets necessarily want to be associated with the material they cherry pick from. It’s like when someone puts in their Twitter bio, “Retweets do not equal endorsements.” They do and they don’t. It’s important that, as famous thinkers have discussed, we learn to hold irreconcilable ideas in our head at the same time. We cannot default to black and white thinking. This is my permission, I suppose, to take quotes from unsavory figures and use them as you wish in your poetry. A good poet can spin anything into gold.

In addition to being a poet, you are the founder/editor of ONE ART: a journal of poetry and senior editor of Schuylkill Valley Journal. You also write a blog and have an editing service. What is your experience of being enmeshed in a literary life?
I’m in a state of constantly evaluating and reevaluating my situation. All artist types need to do this. It’s essential for time management. In recent years, it’s become increasingly important to me to become a good steward of the arts. My identity as a poet still matters a great deal to me; that being said, I feel it matters less to the greater literary community. This is understandable. As an editor, I seem to provide a more desired, more impactful service to the community. From where I am now, I can say that I’m good with focusing my energy on what I can do for the community. I don’t want to sound like a martyr or anything though. My life path has a lot to do with my choices. I would prefer to see most working poets/writers/artists focus on their personal work.

I once had the idea to create a writing schedule like a workout routine: Mondays and Fridays for editing. Tuesday and Thursday for composing new work. Wednesday for haikus. It did not end up working out. How do you juggle all the demands of being a writer? How do you find time to actually write?
This comes down to the type of person you are. Previously, I was the type of poet who wrote well on so-called “stolen time.” That is, I would be supposed to be working or editing and then a thought would pop in my head and I’d run with it on the page. This still happens from time to time. I’m not the sort of poet who is terrific at blocking off time to “be creative.” I’m not a big believer in the flow state for poets. Or, let me rephrase that, I’m not a big believer in the flow state as a required headspace for poets writing an individual poem. If you’re sitting down to assemble a collection, that’s a whole different skillset and you need to be able to hold a lot of the material in your head at once while uninterrupted. I’ve been interested in residencies and writer’s retreats for years, but I feel like most poets need something much different than, for example, longform prose writers. Poets who work on projects that require a great deal of research can probably benefit from a more traditional residency. I’m more of the type that just needs to be put in random places for little chunks of time to respond to whatever is happening to me. Not to pigeonhole myself but it feels like a form of neo-confessionalism.

Do you notice common themes emerging in your work? What are your muses?
Poets perseverate on the same themes. That’s an unusual use of that term, perseverate, but it feels accurate. We all have our special interests. Lots of poets who probably do not describe themselves as “nature poets” or “eco-poets” write about the natural world. We all have our favorite words and turns of phrase. James Longenbach once said that it takes a long time for poets to sound like themselves on the page. It sounds straight-forward but it’s not. It’s putting in your 10,000 hours. It’s incredibly difficult to sound like yourself on the page. Our voice(s), of course, evolve over time. That’s totally natural and fine. No one has to write pastiches of themselves to please some theoretical audience.

In your book, As Falls Trees, the poems in the collection center around the lives of trees. How did this collection come about?
Where can readers find more of your work? Buy your books?
When I lived in a particular space in West Virginia, there was a back porch that looked out on a forested area on a mountainside (because everything in West Virginia is on a mountainside). It would have been almost difficult not to write about the birds and trees because I was in such close proximity with the natural world. My personal life was very difficult at the time but I was also surrounded by a great deal of natural beauty. I think that, in part, explains how As Falls Trees happened.

If you’re interested in buying a copy of As Falls Trees you can contact me directly. I’m also available to field any questions about ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and my editing service VRS CRFT.

Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry and Senior Editor for Schuylkill Valley Journal. He is author of the poetry collection As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press). His work has appeared in Bird Watcher’s Digest, Cleaver Magazine, Gargoyle, The Healing Muse, and elsewhere.

Review of Hayden Saunier’s A Cartography of Home

May 12, 2021 Brooke Palma

Review of Hayden Saunier’s A Cartography of Home

May 12, 2021

A Cartography of Home

Terrapin Books

$16.00

You can purchase a copy here.

Reviewed by Abbey J. Porter

In her new book, A Cartography of Home, Hayden Saunier turns an inquisitive, appraising eye on the landscape around her, along with its human and nonhuman inhabitants. In vivid, concrete language, she investigates the phenomena she encounters, sharing with us a rich and subtle tapestry in which natural and unnatural, past and present, intermingle.

“Cartography” refers to map-making, but the image on the book’s cover turns the idea of conventional way-finding on its head: Cut-up strips of map, along with variously colored pieces of string and other material, intertwine into what might be a bird’s nest. The image is apt—that of human and nature, wildly woven together, as they are in this book.

Saunier introduces us to her 78-page collection with “Kitchen Table,” a poem that heralds many of the book’s themes. The past weighs heavy as she describes a table made of walls “that held /A family of six before typhoid took/Both parents and fostered out the children.” Nature enters the picture, too—a nature negatively affected by humans: “Our table’s made of old growth forests no longer forests.” She concludes with the table’s gritty imperfection—and an invitation:

Our table’s wood
Is spalted through with hard luck, grease,
disease, fat streaks of amber jam.
Our table’s make of all of it.
It’s us and ours. Sit down and eat.

The natural world takes center stage in Cartography. Saunier seems intrinsically tied to it; her poems are full of bodies of water, animals, trees. But nature here is not gentle—and perhaps not trustworthy. In “Cold Morning with New Catastrophes,” Saunier describes walking

To the still-flowing creek,

That may well be poisoned,
or maybe not poisoned, or maybe,
This morning, not yet.

There is harshness in this world, to be sure. Bitterness, too—which, when it comes to “under-ripened, overfed strawberries,” Saunier slices “into smaller bits of bitterness.”

Nonetheless, nature is also capable of offering respite. “Dirt’s/the only thing that’s telling truth today” Saunier’s narrator says as she sinks her hands into the earth in “After the Press Conference.” And even in the case of a creek that pounds and roils after a downpour, Saunier finds “enough to steady me today.”

Uncertainty stirs in these poems; there lurks at times a sense of ominous threat. “Mad fury all around,” declares Saunier in “A Brief Inventory of Now.” She goes on to say, “It’s possible this house/won’t hold … Wind raises its pitch. This could go/either way any moment, and no telling which.”

Part of Saunier’s connection to the natural world is her awareness of death. People who have died populate and inform her poems. She muses about those who have gone before, and the fact that she will follow them. In “Locks,” she contemplates the notion of ghosts having keys, “As though we, the living, are locks.” In “Inhabitant,” she thinks about the person who lived in her dwelling before her. She finds an oriole’s nest with

your hair spun
in swirls for a bed.
As, someday, I know,
so will mine.

The past is alive in these poems; past, present, and future are a continuum. Saunier seems to respect and perhaps accept the transitory nature of life. In “Making Hay,” she refers to “my momentary body.”

As grounded in nature as these poems are, something else is afoot as well, something … otherworldly. In “Forecast,” she says:

Something swift
and slender crosses the path.

Let’s pretend
it’s only animal, not sign.

Saunier often turns a critical gaze on society—subtly, as in her description of pink tags fluttering from “a grandstand full” of condemned trees in “Solo Act.” Or more brazenly in “Confirmation Bias at the Minimarket,” when the narrator and her friend—who’s “behaving/ like a walking example of organic/food privilege”—regard the store’s clerk, with her “eyes dead/ of anything but the lethal stare she sports.”

While Saunier’s narrator usually appears as a solitary character, the poet also writes movingly about human connection. In “Pantomime,” the narrator—alone in a hotel room, watching the moon—mutely communicates with another woman, outside, who’s doing the same: “I jab my finger wildly at the rising moon/and she nods and jabs her finger wildly at it too.” In “Ode to Customer Support,” she declares, “I swear, dear voice, I love you.”

Perhaps most strikingly, though, Saunier reaches out directly to her reader, drawing her into a collaborative journey. She opens “Already” with the lines, “This is not what you thought you would be reading/ and honestly it’s not what I thought I would be writing.” She talks of creating “bread to pass between us” and concludes with finding

A table where we sit down

together, take out our hidden knives, use them to spread
the slices, smooth the sweet jam, share the bread.

Thus, Saunier makes explicit the experience one has in reading this book: that of journeying with her through a process of investigation and discovery, observation and reflection. As the book’s cover perhaps warns us, our trip is not neatly plotted. Rather, it is full of unexpected turns and discoveries. The result is a flavorful and satisfying meal.

Source: http://madpoetssociety.com/blog

Profession: Poet

May 11, 2021 Brooke Palma

Profession: Poet is a new monthly blog feature exploring craft and identity in poetry by Hanoch Guy, who writes poems in both English and Hebrew.

Do Reptiles Write Poetry?

Welcome to the blog.

I always like to explore ways to expand the paths to poetry.

This time, I’d like to introduce the three brain model, called the triune brain.

A couple clarifications about the triune brain: The three brain model does not indicate that specific capacities are located only in these brains. Many activities are executed in different locations and migrate.

We can look at this model as an expansive metaphor.

The model was introduced by physician and neuroscientist Paul D. MacLean, M.D., whose main research was on Komodo dragons, the feared fierce huge lizards in Indonesia. MacLean discovered that the main capacities of what he called the reptilian brain, which is located on top of the brain stem, are the following:

imitation of patterns
repetition
rituals and habits
focus
territory
competitiveness

It’s doubtful that reptiles write poems, but you will be amazed how understanding the reptilian brain will enhance your writing.

When Dr. MacLean returned to Washington from his research trip in Indonesia, he was amazed to discover that his colleagues and students displayed the same behaviors as the Komodo dragon.

One important gift of the reptiles is imitation. It is sometimes given a bad rap, but it is the foundation for learning processes. We do not pull a poem like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. Writing emerges from what we’ve read and what we’ve learned from previous authors. Imitation is essential to poetry, provided we not go all the way and take the time to develop our own style.

The next trait that reptiles have bequeathed to us is repetition. It is a major feature in poetry and is used many forms. While it is essential, overusing it may be boring or inefficient, so discernment is important.

Ritual is a cornerstone of cultures, narratives, and poetry. Ritualistic behaviors started with reptiles. Most poets I talk to tell me they have specific rituals for sitting down to write that help them to get deeper into the zone of writing.

Reptiles have sharp focus when carrying out the actions of hunting prey, mating, and competition. We inherited this characteristic and elevated focus for use in our modern human lives. And we can utilize it in poetry. Sustained periods of focus are necessary to write quality poetry.

Okay, one part of the brain is enough for one blog.

Next month, I’ll write about the limbic emotional poetic brain.