January 16th, 2010

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Alan Fox

ALL SEASONS

Was it Thomas Becket?
My memory at two in the morning isn’t clear,
But whoever it was I thought him a fool
To sacrifice his life for principal.

You will die soon enough, Thomas.
Why rush the process.
You died too soon, Thomas.
You let the aggressor win.

I can only suppose you were caught
In the cloying web of your own self,
Assured, self-righteous, indignant.
I can only suppose you were caught.

And now you or my own self or both
Have caught me closing the candy jar.
I, too, choose duty over expedience,
Belief over comfort, though not as fiercely as you.

What a gift this life is.
This booby-trapped, dirty-veined gift
Which, like a gift card from some merchant
Comes with conditions

And some uncertain date of expiration.

from Rattle #31, Summer 2009

January 15th, 2010

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Review by Valerie Martin Bailey
Breath-Life by Juanita Torrence-Thompson
BREATH-LIFE
by Juanita Torrence-Thompson

Scopcraeft Press
Post Office Box 1091
Portales, New Mexico 88130-1091
ISBN 978-1-8-8160478-5
2009, 56 pp. $12.00
http://home.earthlink.net/~poetrytown/breathlife.html

With breath comes life, and so it is in breath-life, the sixth collection of poetry by Juanita Torrence-Thompson. Part I, titled “Word Play,” is indeed playful, and the first poem “Alphabet Soup #1” takes the reader on a merry, tongue-twisting romp through the alphabet in a delightful style that is as fanciful as Dr. Seuss for grown-ups with alliterative treats like:

…licorice-licking lecturers laughing and dancing the Macarena, munching mincemeat and mayonnaise at Mobil malls….

The poem, an extended abecedarian form, is written as prose, but with its bouncy rhythm and crisp alliterations, there is nothing prosy about it. The first section features twenty-three additional short poems that are equally innovative. I had the sensation of flight as I dipped and twirled from poem to poem like a butterfly on “lime-tinted wings” to sip the nectar from “dreamy dahlias,” while “tweaking ascending roses” in a “whirling garden of verbs”—these poems are “syncopated dollops of color” in a world of blue that “surrounds and surrounds.”

My personal favorite in Part I is “Winds of Flowers.” I was particularly charmed by the imagery of this poem that assigns gentle, pleasing attributes to various “heavenly” elements of nature: wind, sun, moon, stars, and clouds. Only the second stanza has a slightly negative feeling, as the sun “bleaches homes like an unwanted visitor.” The sun could have scorched or shriveled the homes like an invading enemy, instead there is a slow, quiet process of bleaching by a more benign unwanted visitor. The sun uses its mighty power to slowly change and lighten rather than destroy. Stanzas one, three, four, and five soothe the senses with metaphors that comfort the soul and evoke memories of sensual pleasure.

Warm winds
dance a smooth fandango
while the world sleeps

Morning sunrise
bleaches homes
like an unwanted visitor

Moonlight bathes the earth
like an innocent belle
at a masked ball

Stars shower the sky
with rotating sprinkiles of chocolates
for lovers to wish upon

Cloudes hug the heavens
like fluffy balls
at a sprightly carnival of gems

Life is rich and savory in Part II, titled “In This Heat,” and Juanita Torrence-Thompson is the “Iron Chef” of poetry, using language with a bold creativity that declares this poet is not afraid to experiment as she dishes up fresh, unexpected metaphors and whimsical imagery that has no echo. breath-life is the full-meal-deal—soul food for those who hunger for new taste sensations in the search for the human soul. The poet makes an urgent search for her soul in “African Absurdity”:

a young woman from Zinkatoobee, Africa,
walked across seven continents in search of her soul.

That search is satisfied as she writes a celebratory poem, “My Soul”:

My soul, a rhapsody
plays melodies at each stanza
each insatiable syllable

My soul, an epistle,
reads chapters of memories
recites ebullient phrases

My soul, a firefly
sparks the planets
with scathing fragments

My soul churns
sings rhapsodies
recites epistles
fuels the storm that blows me down

This poetic feast includes a number of deliciously wry, tongue-in-cheek humor poems, including “Police Begin Campaigning to Run Down Jaywalkers,” and my personal favorite, “Computer Gossip” featuring an overworked Macintosh computer that never gets any sleep:

just when I enter Sleep Mode
On goes the light
Snap goes the power strip
W-o-o-s-h-h-h goes the printer and I go CLICK

I’m sure I identified with this poem because I mercilessly overwork my own Macintosh computer. Fans of Torrence-Thompson will not be disappointed with this new offering from her prolific pen. Her poetry is a paradox that leaves you satisfied, yet longing for more.

____________

Valerie Martin Bailey is editor of Encore, the anthology of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies, Inc. and a frequent judge for state and national contests A founding board member of the Laurel Crown Foundation, a non-profit organization for the promotion of literary arts, she is director of their “Awaken the Sleeping Poet” festival and editor of their anthology, The Dreamcatcher. An award winning poet, she is president of the San Antonio Poets Association and seven times poet laureate of that association. She is a councilor for the Poetry Society of Texas and a recipient of their President’s Award. She has published two books of poetry, A Gathering of Roses (Castle Hills Press) and Spinning Straw into Gold (Castle Hills Press) and has been published in the Poetry Society of Texas’ Book of the Year, the Texas Poetry Calendar, Lucidity, Mobiüs, The Poetry Magazine and many other anthologies and magazines. She owns Rhyme or Reason Word Design Studio, a small desktop publishing company, in San Antonio, Texas.

January 14th, 2010

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Sally Doyle

SKINNING A CHILD ALIVE

A whole bunch of mothers drank brandy in our basement
plotting the best ways to skin a child alive. These were our
creepy mothers who we listened to night after night as we
sat on the cellar stairs. In the daytime our mothers looked
normal. They buttered bread and ran vacuums over the
carpets. They didn’t look into our eyes. Gradually the
holes in our mouths closed over like scars until we never
said another word. Our skin evaporated so we could no
longer be seen in public. We hid in the bathroom. Then
one day we stopped waiting. It was like it had already
happened.

from Rattle #31, Summer 2009

January 13th, 2010

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Danusha Laméris

THE LORD GOD BIRD

Sixty-two years since the last sighting,
ornithologists say they’ve spotted one
somewhere along the lip of the White River
its pale beak, red crest, black and white featured tuxedo,
the last of the ivory-billed woodpeckers.
Could it be, they wonder
that the birds have gone deeper,
nested in the southern bottomland?
People kept killing them
to show in museums
nailing their bodies to planks.
Now the town is buzzing with tourists
armed with binoculars.
Isn’t this how it is? We want back
what we’ve taken, the way a child tries
to set the head back on a doll.
Jesus risen in white robes,
standing outside the door to his grave,
Houdini underwater, escaping the chained suitcase.
We want to know there is something
more powerful than destruction
so we destroy what we desire:
the lithe and fearsome tiger,
humans adorned in feathers and the skins of bison,
entire forests, quiet as cathedrals.
And then we want it back,
that thin strip of green, lush again,
the Lord God bird, as it was known
set back on its branch,
scaling bald patches into the rough bark.

from Rattle #31, Summer 2009
Tribute to African American Poets

January 12th, 2010

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James Doyle

GODLY

The preacher cornered me in the dark
vestibule of the church and whispered,
“Be Godly.” Okay, then. I hurried
right out into nature for the usual

surrogates. Leaves, a vineyard half
in rot. A creek, trying to wax poetic,
kept getting snagged in backwater
ponds only flies would find appetizing.

So there I was, made in God’s own
image, which apparently wasn’t enough.
Walk Godly, dream Godly? Obviously,
marriage and raising children didn’t

much emulate a Supreme Being sufficient
unto Itself. So I tried geography:
Zen gardens, maybe even Zen nations,
big spate of cathedrals across Europe.

Northern Lights for the transcendental.
I thumbed history, but it was too
much like me and everyone else.
I grabbed the preacher by the lapels,

shook him from side to side, shouted:
“What do you mean, be Godly?”
But he had died long ago, which accounted
for the bony smile, the echo, and the ants.

from Rattle #31, Summer 2009

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