Christine Klocek-Lim Photographs The Heart

A wonderful poet and editor, Christine Klocek-Lim, has published her latest chapbook, How To Photograph the Heart. You can find out more here:

http://www.thelivesyoutouch.com/touchjournal/Publications/Klocek-Lim.html

Klocek-Lim is an award winning and well-published writer. From her bio at the above link, it is clear that she has been intrigued and involved with the sensuous crafting of language for much of her life. Although young, she is a sage.

Not only that, she has mastered the art of poetic-aesthetic ambience. To understand what I mean, simply go to her website. You’ll understand immediately, or after a few clicks of the mouse: www.novembersky.com

If that link doesn't work (site under construction), try:

http://www.novembersky.com/NovemberSky/NovemberSky.html

She’s very giving of her time and has run an excellent journal called Autumn Sky Poetry for years (accessible through her website). As this journal has evolved, it has become more and more a gift of wonders for the senses and soul, without in any way distracting from the power of the verse, both free and rhymed.

There’s a Zen-like touch to the beauty that manifests in Klocek-Lim’s multi-layered website. Photographic and color effects highlight everyday yet stunning aspects of nature. A mysterious doorway into a tranquil setting materializes--somehow. The reader sees that nature’s simplicity is actually exquisite and vast. Miracles are fresh.

By the time you reach the poems, you have passed many gateways, and are ready for the words, which were carefully chosen by passionate hearts to be ready for you.

Below is a poem of mine that Klocek-Lim generously allowed into Issue 9 of Autumn Sky. If you enjoy it at all, or even if you don’t, go to November Sky and you will see much greater and more absorbing works.

OWL

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Joan of Arc

like a stung monk,
nurtured by solitude not ears,
she rose up among wattle,

not daring to respect
the eyes foaming around her,
white as death cups.

"a prophet! a prophet!" they cried,
lips like shiny scales
on a hamlet-wide snake
that squeezed her in its midst—

pressured her to sing
like a doomed thrush,
until the beast writhed with divinity,

crushing Saxons, salting fields—

and she,
discarded in the spattered coils,
spread her half-real wings,
escaped.



(Published In Autumn Sky Poetry, Copyright of Owl Who Laughs)