November 30th, 2009
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Review by Gerry Cobb
AN URGENT REQUEST
by Sarah Luczaj
Fortunate Daughter Press
Box 7887
Huntington Beach, CA 92612-7887
ISBN 978-1-893670-36-5
2009, 31 pp., $10.00
www.fortunatedaughter.wordpress.com
An Urgent Request, a chapbook by Sarah Luczaj, is the first publication from Fortunate Daughter Press, an imprint of the California-based publisher Tebot Bach. As stated in the front of the book, “The Fortunate Daughter mission is to publish, annually, one chapbook by an exceptional poet who has not yet published a chapbook or book.” Sarah is an English poet, translator and therapist who has lived in Poland since 1997. Many of the poems in the chapbook have been published previously in journals and online.
Sarah has been writing poetry for many years and this publication is long overdue. An Urgent Request encapsulates several different poetic themes—death, love, language, transcendence, transgression—in a variety of approaches and voices which are somehow unified by the depth of spirit which binds them together. Poems about death, such as “For Jose Druet” and “Missing the Dead,” are shot through with loss but also move beyond personal anguish to poetic awareness: “If I could catch some daylight/as I catch/the snow melting from the roof/I could bring a bucketful/inside/and pour it out until it fills the room/in the middle of the night” (“Missing the Dead”). The poems of love for children and family (“Oh My Girl,” “Thaw,” “Postscript”) seem to be the most “personal” but one needs to be cautious: I suspect that Sarah adopts different voices and examines the observed situations of others with a semi-detached curiosity. Another word for this is imagination! The poems which deal with language and understanding represent the struggle of a writer living in a foreign country (e.g., “An Urgent Request”), a theme also reflected in the dream-like nature of the world inhabited by “Holiday”: set in Morocco, with French and German tourists, the whole scenario is at once narrative and slightly fantastic.
Further poems emphasize that the understanding of, and curiosity about, the world are rooted in a deeper sense of transcendence, meditative almost, where the daily concerns and joys of the world are seen from the distance of detachment, the knowledge that life is ripples upon the surface of a calm and silent sea (“Blaze,” “What More Can I Ask For,” “The Soup Needs Attention”). And finally, the injunction to her readers not to blithely accept what they’re told, either by parents or teachers (“How to Take Control of Your Life”) or by yourself and the constraints placed upon one by society (“Barking Back”).
At times the poems resonate with a wry humour, often underscored by a deadly serious point (“I was not sentenced to death for infidelity/blasphemy, murder/or not having put enough salt in the soup” from “My Life is Brilliant”) or a sense of irony, as in “Here is a List of Things I Ate Yesterday.” A poem such as “Imperative” starts off as if it is to be another rejection of social constraint, but morphs into a Buddhist lesson on the self, what one needs to shed in order to reach the essence. One of these is words, and for a poet, that is a supreme irony: the struggle to verbalise the unsayable, to give voice to silence.
An Urgent Request is the work of a poet who has found her own voice and who is eloquent, thoughtful, distant, sympathetic, questioning and inspiring at one and the same time. One could find influences and resonances from other poets and artists here but that misses the point; this collection is the work of a poet who has synthesised and moved beyond such influences. The book speaks with diverse voices and from varied viewpoints. We should not assume that all the emotions and feelings written here were actually experienced by Sarah Luczaj. It is enough that she has taken them into herself and recreated them in ways which have different meanings for all her readers.
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Gerry Cobb is English and was a postgraduate student at the University of East Anglia, Norwich, Norfolk, UK where he met Sarah. He has worked as a freelance drama teacher and currently works with people with learning difficulties in Norwich. He writes poetry, prose and songs. He can be contacted at: gerrycobb@tiscali.co.uk.
November 29th, 2009
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Val Conder
THE AIR IS COLD
9:20 AM Israeli time, and
we step out of the hotel, into
a beautiful bright (they mostly are)
day. The streets of Haifa are thronged
with people coming and going, and
all seems well…for about 30 seconds.
Exquisite blue skies, soft breeze,
My wife is talking, when I notice
every third person is in uniform,
and every uniformed person is armed…
an M-16 with the magazine in…
Cold chills race down my spine—
these guys aren’t on maneuvers.
Something…very close, very wrong.
My hand beings to open, close, search
for the rifle I left in Nam. I listen
for the crump of mortar rounds,
explosions, sirens, gunfire, screams.
I look for cover,
get ready to throw myself
on top of my wife
who still sees nothing wrong.
A darkness that haunted me in Nam
blots out the sun… The air is cold.
–from Rattle #23, Spring 2005
November 28th, 2009
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Hannah Craig
SAVING FOR SLEEP
Night’s pitch-rolled on a deck of blight,
and hands, they call, all hands aboard.
Here’s the rigging of a dream—
you, and you, and a naked girl
before a throne of apples, gardens. A sway
in the sail—here we are, the boat
of my room, the belly, the bone stern
and prow. These gulls above me, heading south.
Oysters play cuckold to the beams,
pitch fostered to every knot and seam. The give-out-give-in
of cider press, the bellows honking incessantly.
Listen, I will make you a fisher
of men, if you follow me. The lines play out;
your hammy fist, rib-cage
catching the butt-end and bruised, the full
body of you above, swaying in earnest,
the rip-tide yanking down, the silver
scanting of your prey. I say the good hang on
long past their useful days.
Here’s the dive, the dark-skinned boys of sleep
with fistfuls of pearl, with fistfuls of deep, deep.
Now say this is my body and mean it.
Not the dark room and sailors, not a platter
of maggot and bread. Just an arm, here,
a figurehead, and you on the deck,
hauling in your catch.
–from Rattle #22, Winter 2004
November 27th, 2009
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David James
HOW TO MAKE AMENDS
He was hungry, so he ate the couch, the one with the pull-out bed. Of course, when the wife came home, she was disgusted.
“Now what will we sit on, asshole? Last week it was the coffee table; the week before, two kitchen chairs and a lamp. What next, the bed?”
He hadn’t thought of eating the bed, but the idea was appealing. It probably would taste like sleep. Comfort food. He couldn’t respond to her–she was always right, so he went upstairs to lie down. Somehow, the bed knew what was coming. It shivered in fear. The man stroked the mattress, saying, “Don’t worry. I won’t eat you. I promise.” As the bed settled down, the man fell asleep and dreamed of eating the bed, mattress, baseboard, springs, pillows. He stuffed everything in his mouth, chewing, crunching, swallowing until he could no longer stand up. He laid there on the floor in the bedroom. When his wife came home after work, she undressed, climbed on top of him, slid under some loose sheets and slept. His chest rose and fell in time to her steady breathing. Wrapping himself around her, he knew she would be next. He would eat her and finally there would be peace between them, which was all he ever really wanted.
–from Rattle #25, Summer 2006
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November 26th, 2009
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Maya Jewell Zeller
WHY WE CAN’T USE ROUNDUP ON OUR LAWN
1. As a girl, the black-branched plums
behind the far fence were mine because
a giant row of nettle and snowberry
blocked them from the cows. I’d lie in a crook
where many limbs came together
and move my tongue along the sticky tip
of a still-hanging fruit.
2. My palms have been stained
again and again
ripe blackberry pink.
I’ve pressed them to T-shirts
like silk-screened bleeding hearts.
3. Your Jesus
is thin; his eyes dark like lake.
He is hungry. Maybe he’ll drink
the milk from these slim green necks.
4. Barbed Wire and Roundup were both
bastard sons of Zeus. They were banished
to America because, as the god himself put it,
they didn’t seem to have any real
mythical potential.
5. Maybe the grass
is a weed. Then what do you exterminate?
6. My first dream of you
was while lying in a field of golden stems.
7. I don’t know how to separate my love
into categorical pros and cons.
8. The lefternmost puff of yellow lies
less than seven feet from where I want
to plant my tomatoes. Plus I think
I may be allergic to plastic.
–from Rattle #27, Summer 2007
