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 Leland Jamieson lives and writes in East Hampton, Connecticut, USA. Recent and forthcoming work appears in numerous magazines. His first book, 21st Century Bread: Poems, can be previewed and is available at http://www.lulu.com/lelandjamieson. Major influences on his work, after Shakespeare, are Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, William Stafford, and Timothy Steele. |
LELAND JAMIESONAQUARIAN ON A QUIET RANT (After
reading Zecharia Sitchin’s Earth Chronicles.)
In Memory of G.M.P. He gazed at me, his eyebrows all awry, profuse as blooming bridal wreath come May — eyes brown as sprouted acorns squirrels mislay. He reached out, touched my hand, let go a sigh. “You think that I at sixty nine should try again, on dithering canes, the social fray? It’s not enough I’ve met, to my dismay, a belly-full of bastards by the by? I’ve not got much forbearance left at all. The Christian God would have me burn in hell. Our Anunnaki forebears would appall the toddlers playing at Iraq’s deep well. No doubt we might much differently have planned it were we not mole slaves on a gold-mine planet.” A GOLD-MOLE MALE (After Zecharia Sitchin) Then Three hundred thousand years ago, our ape forebears played freely ’til abducted by the Anunnaki astronauts to rape Earth of her gold. (Theirs was in short supply. Without gold-halide lamps they’d not get by since they relied on food grown underground. Sunshine, on Nibiru, did not abound.) Their gold-moles, brought to mine, had all walked out, exhausted by the burden of the work. We, hybridized from their genes, made bright, stout and estrus-free (and thus our males berserk for sex) — we dug Earth’s gold, in mines’ deep murk . . . . The Anunnaki scoffed at Cosmic Rules and Murphy’s Law, and left us with O’Toole’s. The eyestrain in the darkness underground — “Just rock? Or is this gold-ore fills our gaze?” — was quite enough to make our crazed heads pound. Sun’s glare? We shut our eyes against its rays which pained us, as did infrared’s hot blaze. All other spectra just escaped our sense . . . we could not “see” Sun-Earth’s Intelligence. Now I’ve sought to ease the pain in squinting eye by scribbling verse, if you can read my scrawl. These poems, you may say, only certify I’ve mounted page on page of caterwaul. From them you may gauge I’m Neanderthal. What good’s another book to stash? Who looks at “hash-brown-scrambled” by short-order cooks? To sell a book of poems one must become, it’s said, a big “celeb” folks rush to see! I can’t imagine how I might benumb my smile, and eyes, and sensibility pretending hard to be what I can’t be. “Too bad you’re such an introvert,” folks say. Okay! Then it won’t sell . . . ! So, what’s the play? The poem exfoliates my consciousness, makes me more bold, and all who feel the clutch rehearsing Mother Earth’s ripe wakefulness. When outer eye and Inner get in touch and twin their force — collapse wave forms — by such awareness we old gold-mole males build heart beyond an Anunnaki slave’s jump-start. NOTES:
The Anunnaki were astronauts long predating the Great Deluge, as implied in Genesis 1:26, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness...” (RSV). The Planetary Rule in question: “Respect all life, especially genetic code, you find upon another planet.” See Zecharia Sitchin, The 12th Planet (Bear & Company, Rochester, VT, 1976, revised 1991) and The Lost Book of Inki (also Bear & Company, 2002). Sitchin translates and interprets the cuneiform and Akkadian texts which underlie the Genesis accounts — and much, much more! Murphy’s Law states that whatever can go wrong will. O’Toole’s Rule states that Murphy was an optimist. SOUL BREAD Responding to Dana Goia’s Can Poetry Matter? “Make
it new....” — Ezra Pound
The birth of poetry was measured speech rehearsing tribal histories before the time of feathered prose-quills’ deafening reach. Its inner chimes and end-rhymes made it more easily called to mind, performed on tongue, and heard by ears attending tribal lore. The music of its measured lines drew young and old into a larger, longer view of what it meant to share their lives among their kin — modeling life on what was true as they had lived it — and, lived it again by flickering cook-fire’s flames of orange and blue. The poem’s near-death eclipse was book and pen and prose, and silent reading it is said Archimedes was first to do back when . . . . Speed-reading’s now a goal in “Adult Ed.” The smile, the frown, those muscle-memories — gone! We’ve swallowed hard our yen to be well-fed. The modeling on TV’s a violent yawn. Most flagrantly, it teaches us to kill our neighbors — imitating Genghis Kahn. More subtly, it can reach beneath one’s will. It’s worse than Frankfurt’s Bullshit. It unzips us with a hologram of chlorophyll. Might rhyme and footed line escape eclipse? If readers sight-read poetry out loud (or murmured it) — let go stiff upper lips . . . . If they sailed verse as straight as prose — unbowed by meter — tacked for speech-stress, hoisted sense, tautened a sing-song reading’s flapping shroud . . . . If bards would quit their broken-prose, condense and probe the Void with rhyme, compose for ears, restore a storyline with sights, sounds, scents . . . . Yes, poetry might matter to our peers and reunite our heads and hearts — replete with new bread reaped, milled, baked and served to “Cheers!” c.
All poems by Leland Jamieson, 2007.
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 Steve De France is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in both 2002 and 2003. A few recent publications include The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, and The Sun. In England he won a Reader's Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem "Hawks." In the United States he won the Josh Samuels' Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem: "The Man Who Loved Mermaids." His play THE KILLER had its world premier at the GARAGE THEATRE in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most recently his poem "Gregor's Wings" � has been nominated for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity.  |
STEVE DE FRANCECHAOS AND THE COMMON MAN Drinking morning coffee. Out my front window I watch a man standing in the rain--- stolidly cleaning rainwater off his car's windshield. Stoically he disregards the weather as traffic flows about him. Everywhere there are people like him executing a superfluous rite, exacting an extraneous task partaking of some kind of human ritual. Performing some private ceremony that tells the mind I've cleaned a scrap of dirt off my little piece of this world... I've done something! I am not part of the chaos. I look back out the kitchen window And he still stands like a stone in a stream Yes, he has the audacity, the balls, to stand cleaning his God Damned wet Windshield, as if he has all the friggin' time left in creation. I have a second cup of coffee. Well, it's days like this that just piss me off. Days full of endless lines of well-meaning chaps down on their knees cleaning a smudge off the carpet, old crones sweeping the alley, Park Rangers picking up leaves in the forest. Watching TV--- I pour a third cup of coffee. CNN is showing citizens blown apart---bodies smoking in the streets of Iraq. Telling myself that caffeine facilitates all thoughtful people into reflecting on chaos. I decide to consider uncertainty, Then the lilies of the field, Then the Aurora Borealis I pour the remaining coffee into my cup. Here we are on a one-way trip pushing into a perplexed cosmos, a cosmos spinning into, or out of, some scientific fiction---a fictive thing called an unknowable black hole. Feeling philosophically vulnerable I speculate--- then extrapolate on a black hole in space, a rip in the universe...sucking all of us into an eternal vortex. The rest of us stare from our respective windows at the devastation of the ignorant. We see a world mortally wounded----broken. The death cock crows---as by fading light the Savage Armies of Darkness race across barren ground where they crash into a thing called eternity. Even now souls are being weighed against a feather. I finish my coffee---the old man drives off. Even now Chaos is much closer than I thought. A LITTLE BACKGROUND MUSIC A surge of French horns---a clash of cymbals. Passion squeezed into a single down-stroke of baton. Overture to Romeo & Juliet Beauty pours over my senses. Cast out on a sea--- tossed on a tempest, love & anguish abound. Musical passion bleeds through my speakers. Waters filled with blood. The string section explodes with a soul hunger. The phone rings: "Yes" "This is the City Sanitation Department" "Yes" "Do you live at 429 W. 10th Street?" "Yes" "We are unable to pick up your garbage." "Why?" "Your car is parked closer than three feet to the garbage bin." "This a joke?" "No, it is not a joke. You are in violation of city ordinances. Are you having a loud party Mr. De Franzie?" "It's De France. No I am not. You hear this music---its by Tchaikovsky." "Yes, I hear it. It's too loud." "Can't you feel Peter's angst?" "His what?" "Angst---his angst!" "What is this angst thing? Some kind of lewd remark? Some kind of pornography?" "No, no. . . it's more like Weltsmertz ----" "What?" "Like a weariness of the soul--- that's what it is" "I am turning your case over to my superiors." "That's just about anybody---right?" "Kiss my ass, Mr. De Franco." "Its De France and you," I said, "have a nice day too." DANCING First he used to do it in the house. Right in the middle of the living room, or sometimes in the kitchen. And go through his routine. My mother would stare absently at the floor. And I would usually smile and clap my hands. Later on, he started doing it in restaurants. Sometimes on sidewalks, too. I remember once he did it in the middle of a crosswalk. Some guy honked his horn and called him a name. My mother grabbed Roy by the arm and pulled him all the way over to the corner. It was August, so it was a hot day. And when we got to the corner, he had really started sweating. My mother took out a lacy handkerchief and tried to mop his brow with it. As she cleaned him up, he stopped moving for a minute, until she was done. And then, as we waited for the crossing light to change, he took hold of her hand. The light changed. And we walked back across the street. When we got to the other side, he bent down looking at me, put his index finger to his temple, and made a quick stirring motion. And in a startlingly clear voice said, while pointing at his temple, "All gone." Then he smiled his kind of foolish smile, and made a pistol with his hand and pointed it at his head. And as we walked down the street he kept saying: "Shoot me. I wish somebody would shoot me." I was away when he died. But it was not long after this happened. c. All poems by Steve De France, 2007. |
 An artist of many facets, DL Mullan not only creates art, but designs, writes, and publishes books, calendars, chapbooks, and novels. Ms. Mullan has many projects in line including a trilogy of chapbooks, novels, and a memoir. The artist speaks and exhibits at conferences, conventions, and organizations about a variety of topics. DL currently resides in the Southwest with her family and feline associates. Visit the Artist's homepage: http://www.dlmullan.com |
DL MULLANTranscendence I have this little place in me that will always be alone. No matter the circumstances -the outside world, or anything given to me- it will forever be there. It’s that part of me you can never touch. Never be healed. Never feel redeemed. A place so isolated from the rest of my life, it keeps me hungry, destitute- it’s a fragment that lacks belief. Don’t try to heal me, or know this place; this longing need keeps silent. Without this solitary eclipse that creeps into my life, I could never find any kind of peace. This curse cuts me deep. Penetrates my soul. Reveals me. Liberates me. The one place that keeps me from being whole -is the one place you cannot reach. Without this lone embrace, my life, your love would be meaningless. Last Time I promised myself I wouldn’t go back. But, I hear the clicking of your heels in the hallway. And, the smell of your cologne on my clothes. I told you it doesn’t work. I didn’t need you. We just woke up on my bedroom floor. I tried not to see you, But your life is as empty as mine. I said I never wanted to see you again. This was the last time. But, that’s what I said before. The Wanderer Axis revolve- as the beginning and end cascade into a whole and unveils reality. Stationary gyration carries me through the ages until I cannot be remember what I’ve done before. Only to realize what is: lives past and future still carry my soul into the eternal motion of heaven’s sphere. Repetition evolves-- as I complete this life and glance into the next incarnation to manifest. I can see myself wandering forever. c. All poems by DL Mullan, 2007. |
 Joseph Lysaght is a poet from Newbridge Co Kildare, Ireland. He has written several poems and short stories and but only recently made his debut as a published poet. His poems filter intense personal emotion through rich imagery and metaphor. In Future Pain and Women with the White Towel he explores the intense relationship between love and hurt, joy and pain, present and future. Joseph also addresses Nature as a theme: he has spent time trekking through areas of America and Europe of great natural beauty and inspired by recent trips especially to Alaska, illustrate the power of Nature to humble Man (Enigma) |
Joseph LysaghtWoman with the White Towel Wrapped Round Her The night before I had found her funny bone We’d laughed and laughed then cried at home Her sister bringing forth her tears Cathy cried for times missed out, cried for creeping fears And cried because of old age then cried for younger boys Cried that they had used them up, discarded like toys. Cried because they had left just a little Grace behind And cried because a straightjacket of love still forever binds. We held hands and empathy’s sympathy lent sincere ear. It was just the slightest touch at the end of a night in beer. Then in clear morning light I catch a glimpse You strolled from the shower and you wear White towel wrapped around dark wet hair White towel wrapped around light wet skin Tones warped true around weft left in Your glance and feel render this blush Was there more than friendship in that touch? All too soon the weekend weakened week was done The year flown by On friendships fastened in that house of fun On New Years Eve we laughed again Inadequacies explained in pain and sin And old stories swapped for new Told for fun…… just because they’re true And as I drive on home on New Years Day My heart remains unsure Is true touch tough enough? Tough enough for you? Future Pain Should I pray to be with you? Will it hurt to lay with you? Will my tongue sense your soul? Then lick it clean? Explorations best left unseen? Will hot breath tumble on tempting breasts, And heavy pulse pound in this dreamy quest, With clasped hands held in crucifix poised prying pose, Closing, greedy, grasping, gasping, sex’s rhythm rose, And your skins sweet sweat and tears, Tempered laughter through sensuous fears, Melt mingled moisture on red rumple sheeted reek, The scent of sea salt and after-shave, in a sticky seek, Embedded fleshes heaving, tingling, pulsing, guttered moan, Wet fingers flexing, flowing, fluttering, fleeting feelings fleeing towards oblivion. A shuddered, stuttered, sputtered stop, a muttered groan. Hold together as ragged breath escapes And sexes own sigh unto this heated high? An emotion designed to make us cry? Should ever I lay beside you I will find you, for you. However I lay beside you I will kiss you, for you. Would ever I lay beside you I will mind you, for you. Whenever I lay beside you I will miss you, for you. If ever I lay beside you, My greed for you, Would overwhelm us, And eat us both, Jealous woman. Jealous man. Enigma The sleek humpbacked whale wheeled downward into dark silk still water. Stunned we watched. Fins, flukes, tail, gone. Silent as snowfall, dark as the depths. Moments later a sharp exhalation as she reappears. Our gasp echoing her song for air. The whale wheels again. Her tail the last true exclamation point we’ll see of her. c.
Joseph Lysaght, 2007.
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 Ian Thorpe is a regular collaborator to PL& Times. This month we are very pleased to publish his review of 5 Degrees to Separation by Janet Caldwell. * Further reading: *Review *Interview with Janet Caldwell *
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Ian ThorpeSceadugengan (shadow walker) I’m hiding, in the shadows when the faulty streetlights strobe, between bits of information that are flying round the globe. I’m the presence in the silence looming on your telephone, the voice that softly whispers when you know you are alone. You thought I’d gone forever, at last I’d set you free, but oh my love, you know my love I would return one day. I would return to claim you and tame you after death, I swore to you before I died you’d face your nemesis. My death, not caused by human hand but by your will and wish. I was surplus to your witches brew and so you had to banish one who loved you too intensely, with all the love I bore but will my decease buy you release? Will it? Can you be sure? The swiftly moving shadow at the corner of your eye, the amorphous but so real threat you cannot identify. I’ll be hiding, in the shadows when the faulty streetlights strobe, between bits of information that are flying round the globe. Chimera (This month’s PLT interviewee in her role as muse) You take my hand and kiss my lips then like a starburst you are gone; flown on psyche's coloured wings to outshine the dazzling sun. And when I find you once again where, as night's dark mares hold wake, you rest; mysterious as moonlight reflected on a still, deep lake. And sometimes like a timid deer and sometimes like a butterfly you change, fearing to know yourself while I must love you constantly. Though you may come as summer's nymph, clothed in colours of Lammas - day or as a sullen silent shade cloaked and cowled in sorrow's grey. In memory's dark, cavernous fears where monsters haunt your sleepless head whispering with voices from the past, wearing dead faces that you dread to drive you a million miles from the sanctuary of my light, love's timeless, purifying flame will always guard you through the night. Myth
references:
Chimera: A shape - shifter, a fabulous creature, an impossible fancy.There are other definitions but they do not apply in this context. Lammas day: The old Lughnasad festival formerly held in England on Aug. 1, when the grain harvest was celebrated was Christianised as Lady Mass or Lammas, when bread baked from the first crop of wheat was consecrated at Mass. Mare: though we usually think of nightmares as simply bad dreams, in old English mythology a mare was any kind of monster thus night's dark mares here are the monsters that prowl the dark world when we cannot sleep. The Sceadugengan is one such. The Cave Buffalo Two hundred centuries dead, yet somehow more alive than those who stand and gaze in awe, the buffalo lowers its great head, tenses, prepares to charge. Two hundred centuries have passed and yet these faded, ochre marks still catch the essence of the beast. No photo-realism here, just a line, a curve of muscle, oval of an eye, a twist of horn. And yet in each stretched sinew, each extended joint, energy flows. There is no likeness here of any buffalo that lived, but simple lines depict the movement and the heavy grace. The artist painted with the hand and eye of one who knew the essence and the spirit, things that are a buffalo. c.
Ian Thorpe, 2007.
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