Acceptance: Melusine

VISIT MELUSINE


From the first poem I read at Melusine, I was stunned. My excitement still runs around in my head like a happy sage, never finding any boundaries. The poem was “Equinox” by Leah Silvieus. Honestly, it is as good as anything in the three journals I subscribe to, all of them in the category of “the best.”

“Equinox” transcendentally wows by leaping the jaded barriers that my mind has accumulated against the incursion of awe. But don’t stop reading there: a euphony of talented writers awaits in the current issue (Spring/Summer 2012). This is one of the best collections I have seen on web or paper, all the more impressive because the editor, Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom, is going at this without affiliation, no university or any other type of organized support. She recently, in fact, gave birth to a daughter, and yet continues on with this magnificent journal. It is more than reasonable to infer in her a virtuous stamina and driving passion, fine allies of her uncanny perspicacity.

The variety, skill, and depth of the voices in Melusine validate its radiant goal. The full title is: Melusine, or Woman in the 21st Century. From the description:

An online journal of literature and art by women (but not only women) about women (and just about everything else.)

It is a bold endeavor, perhaps, to be so sweeping; and yet there is no hubris here, but rather a vibrant, eclectic drive to celebrate, lament or explore aspects of the human condition. The eternal debate over the meaning of “woman" is fruitfully bolstered by Melusine. It is an unbowed, sensitive, and cadenza-rich venue, and in proportion to its success in these senses it also offers philosophical insights, disarmingly nuanced in the incessant literary excellence.

As someone with a PhD in philosophy, I can state with authority that reality is very much a creature of narratives and metaphors, of irreducible lyrics and dithyrambs. Go to Melusine to find these. It is a very rare place.

Owl

PS: The poem accepted, “The House,” concerns abuse and “gaslighting,” a frequent theme of mine.

Poem: Lying In Bed

Originally published in Wilderness House Literary Review, by one of my favorite editors, Irene Koronas.

Fly Well In the Dark,

Owl

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Lying In Bed

the ceiling knew the curse of sand,
slithered as he stared back
and spoke in stony jests.
it bared or hid its peekaboo runes,
no peace in the lobotomy,
salad of gestalts,
straitjacket of stucco.

febrile ants
battled germs of a gawking plague.
and the boiling skullmeal, and the screamless oatmeal,
spiced from infant to hearse.
dismembered sins
latched onto each other
so none of them could repent
or even cry.

it was a seduced waltz
that burst into cobweb roses.
shreds of petal and mask
forming scrappy jaws,
which thrusted like wolves:
everyone eating everything,
all of them in fact murderers,
victims and kitchen knives
trading place.



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Acceptance: The Germ

VISIT THE GERM

The Germ is a new magazine, sprouting some time this month to bring you revivifying poetry, haiku, fiction and more. Editor Sara Bickley describes it this way in the guidelines:

We are seeking work that is fresh, sincere, and authentic, with moods and details that are drawn from the author's own experience even if the work is set in a distant time or place.

On the home page, she writes: “The germ of an idea . . . the central living part, good to eat and better to plant.”

I’m quite honored that my poem “Bay Glide” was accepted for the inaugural issue. For years, I’ve been fascinated with sizeable bodies of water and the strum-like effects of ripples. The iconic image of a single bird gliding a smooth expanse, leaving a lovely yet ephemeral train--akin to visual music, an exemplar of the basic fidelity of the universe--is mesmerizing. In “Bay Glide” I think I finally represented my awe, a little of it anyway, with grace.

Thank you, Editor Bickley, and best of luck to The Germ in ’13!

Owl

Do not expect to be hailed as a hero when you make your great discovery. More likely you will be a ratbag ... Do not doubt that in our enlightened age the really important advances are and will be rejected more often than acclaimed.

Sam Warren Carey, Theories of the Earth and Universe

Christmas Underbelly

The blood buoying the Empire's throne.

Poem: Not There

Recently published in Pyrokinection, along with another (see my recent post).

Fly Well In the Dark,

Owl

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Not There

noon found her frozen
in the snakes
of her own veins.

she had married her own medusa,
commemorated
the fatal event.

to look inside
and turn to shocked stone,
could any pain

squeeze worse?

to show in eyes
a wound so bright
that blood reliquished fire?

to go down, to seek
a twin in a steep pool,
unaware she is dead

until she kisses you.


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Acceptance: lingerpost

I’m honored and excited that my poem “Desert Cliff Prayer” was recently accepted by this absorbing journal. Reading an issue is kind of like opening a gift. The contrib’s names are listed as links, and you don’t know what will pop up when you click one. It could be a fierce serenade, or a solemn ode, or an startlish photo, or a psychedelic work of art ...

This technique fits well with the eidos of the journal, which revolves around its mysterious name. According to Editor-in-Chief Kara Dorris, the work in lingerpost:

exists somewhere between crossroad fingerposts directing travelers and the idea that poetry, as Emily Dickinson said, lingers and “makes [the] whole body so cold no fire can ever warm [it].”

This quality site lives up to its mission, providing adroit variety and a stunning new journey with every recherché signpost. There is a dark edge, too, validating Dickinson’s appeal to the frigid frisson.

The poem that perhaps best sums this up in the latest issue (#4) is Charlene Langfur’s “The Garden Seems Far Away Today,” which speaks with earthy sensuosity and yet ends “I know we are always in need of saving.” Dickinson, often inspired by her garden, would approve.

Be sure to give this fantastic journal a read or two--or twenty!

Owl

PS: The Assistant Editor has a cool name: Adam Crittenden :)

Two Sad Poems at Pyrokinection

TWO SAD POEMS

Read "Not There" and "Heroins" at Pyrokinection, run by the diligent and resplendent A.J. Huffman.


In the Wake of the Latest School Shooting--

Humanity feels like a huge, dark ugly beast, gnashing itself, as it grows more restless and violent. Here's the thing: How many stories about good acts have received significant time in the media lately?

We reinforce our descent into the kingdom of demons, and dare not look at the stairway that could lead us into a dance with angels.

"We" ...

"We?"

"We" is really complicated. It means a lot of us in slave houses, a lot of us playing the good obedient sheep, a thin layer of elites at the top, a bevy of dreamers and idealists, both wise and wrong--and all of this taking place in a petri dish of toil, war, greed, hope and love. All of us taking on multiple roles as we shift masks and routines.

The messy maze of 21st century culture runs amok, beyond any competent control.

It is impossble not to be sickened by how dreadfully flawed it all is.

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Poem: Pinecones

Originally published in Offcourse, a zine associated with SUNY-Albany.

You can read this poem in situ, if you wish, along with another:

Go to Offcourse

Enjoy!

Owl

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Pinecones

a midden of fainéants,
progeny of giants
angling for soily wombs.

more skull than virile imp.
smirking little slits
that dream of susurral green
vocal chords.

but most won’t trade
their skullness for genesis;
won’t sink to succeed
with the grace of fetal tombs.

they’re too selfish,
freed from umbilicals,
happy-go-lucky
on a pine needle bed.

fraternal dukes
whose heritage will never be,
sneering over their ruffles,
proud not to strive.


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Release: Negative Suck, Winter 2012

VISIT the WINTER ISSUE


Negative Suck zooms out of nowhere like a stalactite overbite to tug that collar or strap so dangerously close to your throat; and in you go, pulled by the mentalicious force, that inhale of spectral teeth fierce with dark pep. The attack was sudden, brutal, breathless. And now you have soul-sharpened poems in front of you, urging unavoidably from the void.

So many prisms in the slithery vortex of the negative suck. The key question is, Can you not be hypnotized?

Five of my best pieces in this wintery issue!

Fly Well In the Dark,

Owl

PS: See my review here:

Owl In the Void