| January 2005 | Café Society's Poetry News Update |
| January 2005 | Café Society's Poetry News Update |
|
Anne Cunningham
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Anne Cunningham is a seasoned word
surgeon/medical transcriptionist by day, while doubling as a brooding
poet and mixed media/textile artist by night. In Anne's world, there is
always some sort of work in progress. Anne's major influences include
rain, tears, blood, ice, mirrors, the moon, swimming and very nearly
drowning (literally and/or figuratively) as these words/images riddle
her work.
Aside from poetry, Anne dabbles in short stories and has one completed
novella. When she tires of putting words to the page, she relaxes by
ripping up paper and other odd things to create her original collages.
Anne's poetic work can be found on the web, in order of appearance:
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Poetry has grown leaps
and bounds. There are all these social and web situations that can keep
that community going, but this same community can sometimes be riddled
with the Sally Field-y need to burst out with, "You like me, you really
like me." I wish in this vastly
growing poetic community, that we could all just be, or be beatniks! …
and just keep on with it. The same way in which
themes and strains show up in my poetry, the same themes and strains
show up in my art which has left canvases, by the way, and has started
to cover functional objects, vintage lampshades, travel cases, wallets,
journal covers, picture frames, a pumpkin and maybe even the dog. I am currently working on
launching my web page/online art "Torn To Be Wild" which is a slow-go,
since at the same time I'm tearing up paper/other and working on the
pieces I intend to showcase. I have many pieces completed, several
pieces ongoing, some flat to canvas and others clinging and
transforming various other objects. All of this seems
abstract at the get-go, but when the pieces are done, it’s all very
clear, even if I’m not sure where it’s all going. In the meantime, and it
can be a mean time, I am plan to continue loving at all costs, writing
of course, continuing my art, and see where this can take me, taking
notice of everything along the way, ripping stuff up, only when I'm
sure people are truly done with it, and making something new out of
what I’ve been given.
Poetry L & T:
How and why did you
first start writing poetry, Anne?
Anne:
Always
a hard question, just the same as, When did you first realize you were
a writer? But, truth be told, I didn't think I would or could write
poetry, until I started writing it, which I thought was 5 years ago,
but then when I keep looking back, I see my poetry everywhere,
including in my prose and in my art, and I have trouble finding the
beginning of the timeline. It might have been the umbilical cord, but
who knows what came before that. I’m always looking for the end of the
beginning.
Poetry L & T:
Who are your
favourite poets?
Anne:
Neruda,
Donne, Batavia (if I can find him translated, but will stare at his
words, if I can't), Sexton, Bukowksi, Plath, Dickinson (but of course),
Langston Hughes (but you can't deny Ted either) Dear Gwendolyn Brooks,
Sarton, Kunitz, Sandburg, Frost (because everyone starts there in the
woods), but you go further with Whitman, the poet who I've said ”
tastes most like dirt, but always leaves me hungry.” The list is
endless and would burden this page, much like the poetry section of my
home library, sagging, back-stacked shelves, and that still won't cover
it, as I'm on a continual search for more.
Poetry L & T:
I enjoyed your poem "Nature Burned The Leaves"... the imagery
is very vivid. Is fall a season which particularly inspires you?
Anne:
Fall,
to me, has always felt like the season of renewal, what Spring probably
feels like to most people. I definitely feel more inspired, more vital
and motivated when Fall moves in to collide with Winter. I see it as a
clearing away of what's old and must go back to the dirt. Don’t get me
wrong, I plant all sorts of stuff in the Spring and activity my way all
through Summer, but I like the fire and the fury in which Autumn strips
this all away, the high winds that annoy my face, and swirl hair into
my mouth when I'm trying to hike or bike, but the power of this same
wind seems to have more staying power than the promise of Spring and
the bold splash of Summer.
Poetry L & T:
Your poem "Documenting Moving Day, Thus Far" has a
very visceral edge, and many readers will identify with some of the
feelings under the surface of lines like:
...I would like
to know more about your grandmother, if you are happy to talk about
her, also the house she lived in. I wish I'd documented it all,
before they started taking it apart,
hauling away the tangible memories
of all our childhoods, each well-spent.
Anne:
I
do thank you for asking about Charlotte Mary, my maternal grandmother.
Speaking of her, keeps her very much alive in our hearts. She was a
very strong woman, whose greatest joy was her family. Her strength was
off the charts, in the way she simply remained present and able to
count her blessings. She had her own sense of style, very Pearl S.
Buck-y, and so every house, downsized to apartment, downsized to senior
citizen complex carried with it her oriental flare for decorating, the
methodical way in which she made comfort foods, and really the way she
just was. She trusted. She did not judge. She loved, straightforward.
She was classic, full of grace, hard working, and "all there" right up
until her final "night-night."
Poetry L & T:
How did you get the
idea for your poem "The Snowman In The Moon"
(which is possibly my favourite of yours at the moment)?
Anne:
Thank
you for putting it on your personal favorites list. This poem
definitely touches on the love/hate relationship I have with Spring and
Summer. I adore those seasons, watching them unfold, and I love how
path and trail open up for bikes and feet, how the rivers give up the
ice and will give me their fish, but I also like the way in which those
seemingly better seasons give release to what's really coming, the best
seasons of all, Fall and Winer. It’s this gradual, beautiful transition
of dying and beginning again, painless if you don't fight it,
empowering if you just let it be ... or as I am inclined to say, "let
it snow." While that poem is somewhat of a lament over the passing of
Summer, it’s also a reminder of what’s coming, and that’s where I felt
the “take pause” nature of this poem, as in, “Okay, Summer was cool,
but you can’t deny what is up ahead?"
Poetry L & T:
Do you have any
favourite places to go, to write poems in peace and quiet?
Anne:
There
are times when I think, What a damn pity, I'm not getting any writing
done !! … because I'm working, or two people are talking to me at once,
the phone is ringing, the dog is barking, or I'm stuck at the grocery
store, or waiting in line for stamps or otherwise "stuck!” However,
when all is said and done, I realize that I am writing all the time, in
all these chaotic places, in that peaceful and quiet space inside me,
or I'd go crazy in the loud places.
Poetry L & T:
You write short
stories as well as poems. Do you sometimes find poetry appearing in
your prose?
Anne:
Pardon
my French, but all the f'ing time! It's very much like my answer to,
When did you start writing poetry?? (question above). It's like when
did I start seeing this, in this way, in this style in this form, in
this thought pattern, was it there all the time, or did I put it there,
and while it's there, in that bigger piece, if I pull just that little
piece out, won't it fit somewhere else too, like in a poem, or is this
my grocery list? This poetry stuff is everywhere!
Poetry L & T:
Your poem "pulling from somewhere" intrigues me. Is
it about God, a ghost, or someone you have yet to meet?
Anne:
I
think that's the beauty of this poem, and the healing nature of it as
well. It can be all of those things, and for a person reading it (or
for me in writing it), even when you don't feel you have quite grasped
that person, place or thing that is going to make you feel sheltered
instead of burdened, you must cling to the hope that it must still be
out there.
Poetry L & T:
What, in your
opinion, makes a poem memorable?
Anne:
I
most definitely think what makes a poem memorable has nothing to do
with the poet. I write to a flat page. It's my feelings, my thoughts,
my creative spin that hits the page, and it is usually covered in blood
and all kinds of gunk because all of this “stuff” has been rolling
around inside of me. It’s a living thing in process, and it splashes
all over the page, but when the ink dries, it loses all dimension,
becomes calm, remains still and waits for the reader, who can breathe
new life into the work, own it for a time, make it memorable.
Poetry L & T:
Is there anything in
modern poetry, or poetry forums online, which annoys you?
Anne:
I
wouldn't say that it annoys me, but I wish poetry could be as
empowering for the writer as it can be for the reader. I wish in
finding an audience, whether it be a poetry speak or an online forum,
that poets would just get the words out, let them go, don't preface
them with stuff like, "This is what I wrote one night when I was sad,"
just write some night when you are sad, and realize that feedback is
not about doing a really good job or getting everyone to like your
stuff.
Poetry L &
T:
I was interested to
read, in your bio, that you are a collage artist. Do you ever put
symbolic meanings into your art, or is it mainly used to decorate
functional objects?
Anne:
My
collage art is a fairly new undertaking, because I swore off drawing
and painting years and years and years ago, only to realize while I'm
collaging with torn paper and using other mediums that I am still
drawing and painting! Yet, two seconds later, as I get really into the
work, I realize I'm still just playing with words.
Poetry L & T:
Finally, Anne, what
are your main ambitions for the future?
Anne:
To
live until the Fall of my years, so I can experience that glorious
Winter that we're all going to get, and I fullly intend to stick it out
until I get there. The women in my family live to be in their late 80s,
beyond 90 and at times past 100. This empowers me, realizing that there
is always a little bit of life left if you need time to mend things and
begin again.
Poetry L & T:
Thank you for the
interview, Anne.
Anne:
Thank
you so much for asking, Sara. Love your pages. Best to you this new
year.
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| Dear Poets,
Welcome to the January 2005 issue of Poetry Life & Times (For those of you reading this on a mirror site and not poetrylifeandtimes.com, click here). This month's interview features Anne Cunningham, poet and mixed media/textile artist. Featured Poets include: Amparo Arróspide , Esther Cameron, Michael Paul Ladanyi, Tom Riley and David C. Kopaska-Merkel. We now have a new Resident Poets section, featuring Robin Ouzman Hislop, Richard Vallance, Jan Sand and Sara L. Russell* (*Editor's work to appear until we find more women poets to be Resident Poets). See below Featured Poets for the link to this new page. |
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In the Vallance Review for January 2005, Richard's Review No. 41 features two Renaissance sonnets on the subject of sleep, the first by Samuel Daniel (1562-1619), "Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night", from his sonnet collection, Delia (1592), and the second by his French contemporary, Pontus de Tyard (1521-1605), "Père du doux repos, Sommeil, père du Songe" (1573). Fans of The Perils of Norris cartoon: You can buy Norris merchandise for home and office, including apparel and stationery... Click here to visit the store at CafePress.com. More goodies will be added as soon! Also available: Poetry Life & Times logo merchandise. My own poetry can be found on AuthorsDen, these days. The links in the left-hand column of my pages include books and articles as well as poetry. Some of the articles give advice on making chapbooks, or finding publishers - and there is even an item on ghosts. My latest e-book: Worlds Inside The Head, is now available, featuring animated html poetry pages, short stories, video & audio recitals, plus pages in PDF format. Click here to scroll down to the animated ad at the bottom of the page, and click the link to find out more. The animation shows images from the CD. NEW - Poetry Life & Times Mobile Phone Pages + Free Ringtones & Wallpapers! We have started a series of new mini-sized Poetry Life & Times supplement pages for mobile phones, which include information on the main site, occasional interviews, short poems + free ringtones and wallpapers. If you have a WAP-enabled mobile phone with a colour screen, point your mobile's browser at these pages (on your mobile you can usually omit http//:): www.poetrylifeandtimes.com/pltmobile/index.htm Ringtones are both classical and new original music (my own). Wallpapers are mostly from The Perils of Norris cartoon. Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to me on the link at the bottom of the page. Announcements are always welcome (brief if possible), you can also promote poetry books here. Poetry submissions should be in plain text in the body of an email, with a small jpeg author picture attached, also a bio, with the URLs of any ezines mentioned, so that they can be shown as links. This increases the chance of inclusion, especially for late submissions. Pictures are best at a maximum of 520 pixels across, otherwise they take ages to arrive by email, especially in bitmap or TIFF format. I recommend that poets click the submissions link on our main page, for full guidelines, and please, always use a spellchecker. Poets can submit previously-published work here. If another editor likes it, there's a chance we'll like it too. Best Regards, |
Click title below for this month's Vallance Review
feature
Richard Vallance reviews
sonnets, both classic and modern.
Featured Poets this month include Amparo Arróspide , Esther Cameron, Michael Paul Ladanyi, Tom Riley and David C. Kopaska-Merkel. Many thanks to all contributors. See below Featured Poets' page 2 link for our new Resident Poets page link.
AMPARO ARRÓSPIDE Amparo is an award-winning poet
and literary translator with a Master's degree in
Philosophy. Amparo has extensive experience in
educational publishing. She is a masterful translator of prose and
poetry, and she writes original poetry,
rhymes, stories, and songs in Spanish and English.
Under her pen-name Amparo Arróspide, several links
give more details and allow extensive reading of her
works in e-zines such as The Barcelona Review, Wakan,
El Otro Mensual (Eon), Especulo... Article available on-line: Espéculo
Numero 13 Articles on literature, short stories and original
poems and translations online: Revista
Espéculo, de la Universidad Complutense de
Madrid "Margaret
Atwood en el Corazón de las Tinieblas" (artículo
publicado en la revista Espéculo, de la UCM) Ensayo
sobre Cristina Peri Rossi en Throughout her career she has also translated scripts
for movies such as Basic Instinct, The Madness of King
George, and Medicine Man, as well as a book of Margaret Atwood's poetry
still unpublished due to
publishers' policies.
She is not weeping…
© Amparo Arróspide, 2000
1)
A chair
a carbon copy of a chair
in this instant void of presence
a mirroring echo
your solitude
you gaze on persons absent, not things
you listen for a whisper in the dark
a moon sits on a chair
you are watching that reflection
in an instant suspended in no time
you are vanishing
2)
Not a witch
but forever burning within
wet branches won’t catch fire
properly
only add salt to your suffering
who is the audience? can’t recognize
anybody’s odour in this room
but yours
The very instant you forget about my being
torture starts again
bound never to know who your tormenters are
or were
or will be
bound never to know
if pain is balancing evil
or just pleasure
responding to screams
turning the corner of nights
cornering mouths
sleeping comets
or fireflies or whatever has just shot up
ablaze
from your soul
3)
Your vanishing might be an act of faith
what then is your awakening to this side
where things recover their temperatures
molecules, particles and atoms
their specific weight,
you are petrified in time
turned into stone
stoned in the wake of a gazelle
no wonder you prefer the other side
4)
no music has come to awake you
no unspoken words of a charm
silence knows how to weave the cobweb
of your slumber
if you would only let me breathe gently
on that end of the whisper
to tenderly lie by your side
GHOST SHEFFIELD
© Amparo Arróspide, 2000
(
After Brian Patten)
Mercy on us, who ramble down the streets
of fair cities dressed in blue and skies
without more destination than a whim
or 3 coppers in our pockets,
following signs left by strangers
or loose words whispered by passerbyes
Mercy on us, who are but future ghosts
dressed in a rainbow morning,
nothing left behind
but our bones & flesh & toil
our passions blown out of all proportion
John, Mary, Peter, Paul:
Mary sitting for endless hours at her cashier's chair
offering her soft pump moon face to shoppers;
Paul standing guard at newsagents'
busy with ropes & packages, wrapping up sales;
John the Homeless ever cycling
all seasons gone like innocence...
Peter, dark immigrant from Yemen
as brownie warm as yearning
for one's home: "There is no home"
-- says the Wandering John.
"There are no sweets" or
"You don't need them"
-- replies grand mom...
And all this time has come to no end
no elapsing minutes, stand-still
among cheap handcrafted cards
'cos Christmas is approaching
bringing home old ghosts
of buried towns and incandescent memories:
all burbling up, becoming real
touchable edible readable
flesh & bones again, ad hoc languages
disposable items, their shopping bags
blurred from sight, scattered by the wind.
SUCH IS THE SNOW
© Amparo Arróspide, 2000
Such is the snow
so white that it burns your hands
your burnt white hands in a shroud
a silver shawl for witches
while wizards dance:
they like all kinds of dancing
if flakes keep silently falling
making them scream loud screams
of joy as wild as nature
They keep dancing so silently
like furtive terrorists
disturbing traffic& all kinds of transport
but using your feet under a sky
for once turned our accomplice
in the crime of pure joy
Such is the snow
where white witches burn their ivory hands
where dark wizards scream their loud screams of joy
a silver coffin for automobiles
such is snow: its anti-social behaviour
will not be punished
children's merriness will not be punished
disturbing traffic& all kinds of transport
but using your feet under a sky
suddenly turned our accomplice
(El 18 de noviembre cayó la primera nevada
invernal en Sheffield).
Song of Guantanamo Base
© Amparo Arróspide
We have come back from hell
Back from Guantanamo Base
We were tortured night & day
Back in Guantanamo Base
Till our eyes dropped from their sockets
And our hearts missed their beats
As time melted in eternity
Back in Guantanamo Base
Which awful crime had we committed?
No one answered no one said
No one near no one human
Back in Guantanamo Base
Still we prayed in utter silence
Back in Guantanamo Base
Could not touch nor feel
Could not walk nor smell
Could nothing but pray
Back in Guantanamo Base
How we cried in utter darkness
In our bright red overalls
No one near no one human
Back in Guantanamo Base
In those cells or senseless shells
As time melted in eternity
No one answered no one near
Damned in Guantanamo Base
Were you made of flesh or stone?
Were you human, was this Earth?
Executioners passed by
Back in Guantanamo Base...
Some returned alive and kicking
Out of Guantanamo Base
But we're dead and still remember:
Damned be Guantanamo Base
ESTHER CAMERON
Esther Cameron is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared in Bellowing Ark, The Antigonish Review, Poetry, Hunger, The Lyric, The Blue Unicorn, American Writing, Troubadour, and many other journals, as well as on the Poetry Porch and Iambs And Trochees websites. Her blank-verse epic on the ecological crisis, The Consciousness of Earth, was published in installments by Bellowing Ark. Bellowing Ark has also published Cameron's The World's Last Rose, which is currently the Featured Work on The HyperTexts (www.thehypertexts.com). The Antigonish Review’s website has archived several of her essays, including “‘Earthwake’ and Its Sources,” at www.antigonishreview.com/bi-126/126-esthercameron.html. She also edits a poetry magazine, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, and a multifaceted website, Point and Circumference (www.pointandcircumference.com).
© Esther Cameron
Come sit with me and be my friend
And we'll tell stories without end
From far and near, from books and life,
Interweaving without strife.
The dreams I've dreamed, the lands I've known,
Why should you not call your own?
The friends you've had, both false and true,
Shall I not know them all through you?
Let the unenlightened talk of spite
And envy among those who write!
The faster shall our friendship grow,
The livelier shall our verses go.
Two's company, three's company,
Six constitute a poets' bee,
Ten, a council of the wise --
No end to what we might devise!
And whether all eggs or few may hatch,
This present good at least we'll catch,
If (as our favoring signs portend)
You'll sit with me and be my friend.
(first publication: Mobius)
ON THE ROAD, DECEMBER 21
© Esther Cameron
The light like some huge unfelt hand
Remolds a world from dark and glare,
A world with woods and snowy land
And fogs suspended in the air
Like boas of a sorceress
With woodsmoke's grey outfloated tress.
Now, after signs for food and fuel,
An empty main street stretches wide:
A cemetery, then a school
With children standing round outside;
Snow and white clapboard wall absorb
Rose tinct from the low-lingering orb.
And now with the advancing day
We're swept into the freeway stream,
The rushing lanes, billboards' display
Still seem to grapple in a dream
With lowland fogs that creep abroad
And lay white arms across our road.
At last between dimmed paper mills
We glide, and down a mansioned street
Whose air a sulphurous vapor fills.
Perhaps -- who knows -- the scent is sweet
To those it tells of their own wealth,
Although not good for others' health.
We find the address, we do our stint
Before a group that does not warm
To hear of want's predicament,
Nor mind the pains we took to come.
It is the time, it is the place,
Or so we say as we retrace
Our road through darkness once again
Past signs that could be anywhere:
"Insty-Print," "Menards," "Jo-Ann
Fabrics." Exhaustion, as we fare,
Loosens our tongues to thoughts unplaced
On the agenda of our days:
Strange dreams, and visits of the dead,
Our childhood's taste of heaven and hell,
Connections sought, connections fled,
Old books that bound us in a spell,
The fortunes of the state, in which
Are bound the fates of all and each.
How will it end, the enormous plot
That wraps the ball on which we roll,
Where each is but a pixel-dot
In the vast portrait of the whole?
Perhaps even with the threads we spin
In dark-bound speech, new turns begin.
(first publication: The Antigonish Review)
A PAPER OF PINS
© Esther Cameron
On a bench in front of Mammoth Cave one day
(history does not record whether bright or gray)
sat Jessie, from Jarvis, a small town near Toronto,
who was touring the South alone. She had studied piano
in Leipzig, only to conclude that a concert career
with all that it demanded, was not quite for her,
so back to Jarvis where her British father, defeated
by ill health, had many years ago retreated,
resigned himself to being a provincial doctor.
There he had married a farmer's energetic daughter,
descendant of Tories who had found the States,
after the Revolution, not a friendly place.
Jessie had blue eyes, brown hair, chiselled features
to compensate for a somewhat austere figure;
she was at the time in her late twenties --
*"Prettiest girl I ever saw -- and she still is,"
Nathan used to say, who saw her there.
He came from a Georgian plantation family, heir
to memories of past glory (now shame). He traced his descent
to one Hector, who, upon a voyage, bent
for Malta (that surely cannot be right?) was wrecked
on the Carolina coast. Nathan s intellect
cut him out for a scholar, but he lost an eye
in a childhood accident, so had to try
making it in business. Don't ask about that.
Anyway, Jessie and Nathan bore and begat
my father. On my mother's side, I am told
that beside a race track near New York there strolled
a French immigrant couple with their only
child, Leonie. She was twenty-five but not lonely,
she had had seven suitors but would not leave
her parents for someone she didn't really love.
Leonie wore a black silk dress that afternoon --
"Nini," the dressmaker had said, "in this you'll meet your
fortune!"
And as they were walking Leonie trod on the hem
and a ruffle came loose and they had no pins with them.
As they conferred in French, they caught the attention
of Cheble, Lebanese with a French education.
He had pins in his pocket, for he was in the garment trade,
so he courteously approached them and offered his aid,
And the family liked him and one thing led to another,
and one of seven eventual results was my mother.
So you see, I am one of the People of the Air,
whose origins are everywhere and nowhere.
A moment's rest on a bench, a paper of pins --
You see? One might so easily not have been.
(first publication: Bellowing Ark)
 MICHAEL PAUL LADANYI Michael Paul Ladanyi is a two-time 2004 Pushcart Nominee. His poetry, reviews and interviews have appeared in hundreds of print and online journals in the US and abroad. He is the author of the poetry collection Humming Riddles in Naked Seasons, Sun Rising Books 2004. He is also the author of the chapbooks Palm Shadows, Purple Rose Publications 2002, Spelling Crows of Winter, Pudding House Publications 2003, Chicken Bones, Little Poem Press 2004, All Your Picasso Trees, Sun Rising Books 2004, Art of the Dog, Little Poem Press 2004, Simple Truths and Coughing Things, Little Poem Press 2004, co-written with the poet and author Patricia Gomes and the poetry and visual art chapbook, Beautifully Thin Oneonta Moon, Little Poem Press 2005, co-written with Donna Kuhn. Michael has just completed work on his poetry collection Raindogs in the Sun. He is the founder, publisher and editor of the online poetry magazine Adagio Verse Quarterly, and served on the editorial boards of the magazines Rustlings of the Wind and Write-away-poetry! for over a year each. Additional information about Michael Paul Ladanyi can be found in his personal website: |
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WORLDS INSIDE THE HEAD
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