ROCHELLE HOPE MEHR Rochelle�s poetry has appeared in IdioM, Joey and the Black Boots, Liquid Ohio, Daniel Crocker's Dirty Dishes, Score, The Brown Critique, The Moonwort Review, Pink Cadillac, Tyro's Pen, Poems Niederngasse Online, Charlotte's Web Page, Futures, Hidden Oak, Journal of Modern Writing, Poetry Art & Word, The Writer's Hood, Concrete Wolf, A Little Poetry and other publications.

The World Trade Center © Rochelle Hope Mehr It's not the symbolism I miss as much as the place itself. The defined space. The edifice housing the humming efficiency of the nation's largest business communities. Escalators shooting up and down. I, ensconced in a book in a bookstore mind drifting away in my cabriolet dreams -- But feet rooted firmly. Soles soldered securely to the ground. Apart from the mercantile ebullience which animated the place. And yet a strange, insignificant part of it all As I purchased my book And sat down to read it in the food court Munching on a hot, salty, store-bought pretzel. Holy Ground © Rochelle Hope Mehr Is this how history is relayed? Like the passing of debris from hand to hand, bucket to bucket? Events occur in real time -- maybe seconds it takes for a building to collapse. For lives to crumble to the ground. For the dust to occupy the interspace between us. How objective is my eye fifteen miles removed from the scene? The TV screen frames the wrecked guts of the place but reduces it in scale -- this is writ large: This is a Dantean landscape, sprawling and unwieldy, teeming with monstrous cranes chewing up huge chunks of concrete and metal seeking the beast to tame as rescue workers doff their helmets bow their heads freeze the frame In Memoriam © Rochelle Hope Mehr Isaac Stern cherubic emissary of music and light must have died of a broken heart as his beloved metropolis picked apart its twisted steel and concrete his finger lifted sternly to his lips listening for one last breath from the depths Surreal © Rochelle Hope Mehr There is no longer any distance between virtual and real: Bin Laden, a screen saver for genteel prep school boys, transformed into an icon issuing specific commands. His operatives, learning to fly on simulator systems in American flying schools, claiming frequent flyer miles online. Eluding metal detectors at airports with box-cutter knives. Ramming airplanes into American military and economic icons. Killing flesh and blood human beings -- Just blips on our screens as we edit out the screams. Misrepresenting God © Rochelle Hope Mehr Both sides - two foes - speak to, appeal to God - find God revealed in their exploits. To whom does He listen? Whom does he choose as his avatar? Which bloody corpse conceals His seal? God appeals to the best in us. What infernal prism of night skews His light? [email protected]

KRISTY BOWEN Kristy's poetry has appeared most recently in Stirring, Poetry Midwest, Moon Journal, Prairie Poetry, Eclectica, and Half Drunk Muse. After studying English and Theatre at Rockford College, she received an M.A. in English Literature from DePaul University. She has written book reviews for Midwest Book Review and Curled Up With A Good Book, and serve as Contributing Editor for the "20th Century Women Writers" topic at Suite101.com. Her latest project is launching the online literary zine Wicked Alice . She lives and writes in Chicago. Click here for Kristy's personal website.

Atlantis © Kristy Bowen The sea does not give up its dead. Words drown there, heavy Like pale children In the wet air between us. We sift love for what remains, The odd photo or token, The silver tea set, a set of spoons. A sofa, the bed, a busted lamp Hearts stored in objects Caught between ocean and land. We reach among refuse Old shoes and rusty pipes, Our voices worn old from listening, Small against the rush of waves. You surface, but I sink The thin thread of memory Holds fast then slips Like a fish from our arms. Undertow © Kristy Bowen It only has to happen once. You almost drown, slipping Like a minnow, easy, from Watchful, protective arms, Small and white, weighted, In the greenish dark of the lake. After that, all is forgetting. The strangers searching the horizon, Your father's wave as the last Finger dissappears at the surface, Open-eyed and sinking. You could never go back completely, Though you tried, escaped that Primal well of rock and sand. Like Lancelot, you were always dreaming Of open caves and terrible depths, That endless watery mother. [email protected]

DAVID BARNES David Edward Barnes was born in Australia - 1943 - Paddington, New South Wales. He began writing at 18 years of age when he took up folk guitar, song writing, and performing at folk centers around mainland Australia, and Tasmania. He worked as a carpenter in Melbourne, leaving for the bush in the early 60's, finally settling in Perth in 1972. He worked as a Real Estate Agent for 24 years until the death of his wife; becoming a fulltime writer poet in 1996. He has been an active Internet poet and has been published in Australia America and England. Recently he was published in the Paris/Atlantic, an International Journal of Creative Work. Spring issue: 2000. He is also the Publisher of Poetry Downunder an online poetry site in Perth Western Australia. Recently some of his works were published in an Empowa Issue 1. Anthology released in Perth W.A. November 2000, with further publication of his work in Firefly MagazineTennessee U.S.A Volume 29 - 2001. more of his works are to be published in an Empowa Issue No: 2. - 2001 Anthology, due in Perth Western Australia.

The Orchard © David E. Barnes Revised: 26th Sept. 2001 Such sweet fruit held all in hand, eaten from the tree caressed by the gentle pith cover of the peach on my lips, juices melt on tongue a taste never felt, never touched never to be forgotten; passion adrift in light, twilight, flesh smooth down, mellow pliable tender, open to all; pain pleasure trickles dew soaked skins soar down in to indivisibility. Dewdrops sparkle on the peach a window, a soul, holds you captive pledges sensual electricity, an ecstasy of perpetual hunger under the leafy cover of the orchard; shaded from life forever floating in the void spent immersed, you and I fleetingly the fruit of the tree such sweet fruit to ripen. Thoughts in winter © David E. Barnes July 3rd 2001 In autumn I always thought you would never leave... but now its winter. The Wisteria has shed all its autumn leaves a carpet down the driveway ... against the verandah beam, the creeper is shaky at the far end. You told me autumn would never end ... that I should stop smoking that it would kill me. Words, still in my head, recollections of middle age. The Carpenter © David E. Barnes 27th January 2001 The truth of it: he looks on softened palms these days, no longer calloused- calloused hands, which once shaped, planed the rich surface of a life cut down, fashioned, carved into an intricate corner cabinet, hanging somewhere. Against the shed wall, Queen Anne stands incomplete, naked, awaiting her finale; he knows that someone else... will have to dress her. He sees yesteryears. blackened bloodstains, scars embedded in the worn workbench: carved barley twists lie half finished. The truth of it: glue, clamps and nails do not gather here anymore, his tools lie idle. All that remains is the fragrance of wood; the memory of calloused hands. Offerings © David E. Barnes Sept 22nd, 2001 I wish it were spring or summer; but I know your game. Taking autumn's burnt offerings, ashes; gray streaks my hair I see which season shall win this sly life, I know your changes as I know well my own. I offer ashes to the one who has claim to me. White hair lies breathless upon the pillow. For Daniel © David E. Barnes 13th March, 2001 If the door should ever abruptly close between us, do not grieve at my passing. Rejoice, in having known me: do not fear the coming; let go, in good spirit: do not mourn the loss of touch of these aged wiry hands, words said, unsaid: in you I am well rewarded. Do not fear the coming, or where I go. Companions who I have loved, and still love, tell them my song... If the door, should ever close. [email protected]

DEBORAH P. KOLODJI* *Featured in this month's Vallance Review Deborah P. Kolodji is a divorced mother of three who uses her career in information technology to fund her poetry habit. Her work has appeared in scores of small press magazines and webzines, including Star*Line, Dreams and Nightmares, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Stirring, Red River Review, and Twilight Times. Two of her poems appeared in the recent anthology, "Envelopes of Time", published by Electric Wine. Other recent publications include three poems in Keith Allen Daniels landmark science fiction poetry anthology, 2001: A Science Fiction Poetry Anthology, which is available from Anamnesis Press, as well as a true life story in "Charity, True Stories of Giving and Receiving", available from Red Rock Press.

Fall Treasure © Deborah P. Kolodji My friend in Vermont says there is no Fall in California, land of palm trees missing the riot of colorful leaves brush strokes of amber, orange, and crimson call vacationers east to New England towns quaint antique shops and apple cider mills hints of frost in the air swirl around hills as the wind sings cheers of college touch downs. Subtle signs of change in shortening days aren't obvious here in Los Angeles when the schools reopen and beaches miss summer crowds, tourists soaking up sun rays. My gingko tree turns radiantly gold. Rare fall color, a treasure to behold. After the Spell Ends © Deborah P. Kolodji Enchanted, he sleeps in the noontime sun a pond rock replaces his one-time throne waiting, yes waiting, for a kiss upon his amphibian cheeks, for this alone will restore his human form and as time goes by, he finds peace in the still water and in the dances of the dragonfly, forgetting palace life, sounds of laughter, the music of the bards, the witch's spell that placed him here. In time, a princess came to fulfill the prophecy and he fell back in his old body, naked in shame. Riding back to his castle, he wishes for lost carefree days swimming with fishes. Originally appeared in Electric Wine Ghost of the Lussibruden © Deborah P. Kolodji Lighting up the longest cold night, she glides over icy lakes and snow covered hills wearing white robes, a blood-stained sash hides the fatal wound, lost in the winter chill over a land the sun forgot once more. Dark shadows linger as she moves through town bringing coffee, saffron lussekatt or ginger cookies to the poorest poor, crowned with seven bright candles on a green wreath worn with proud duty, an oldest daughter carrying the platter tradition believed served her own plucked-out eyes. She was slaughtered by the Romans so very long ago. No one remembers. Just her face. Aglow. First published in Dreams and Nightmares #58 Feather Fever © Deborah P. Kolodji Longing for flight, she collected feathers. One thousand iridescent peacock eyes watched her lose to gravity's cruel tether again and again, falling from the skies. Failing engineering, no Daedalus, she continued pasting with her glue-gun, designing beautiful new wings, jealous of birds silhouetted against the sun. The rush of the wind, the view from above haunted her dreams. She was a spell victim ignorant of her own wings of a dove at birth, until transformed back one autumn. Always knowing her land-locked legs were wrong, she smiled, bursting heavenward into song. [email protected]

Click here for November 2001 Featured Poets page 2 -->

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Welcome to the WEB's newest bilingual Canadian poetry E-Zine:

Bienvenue chez la toute nouvelle revue bilingue canadienne portant sur la posie sur l'Internet:

Poetry in Emotion
la posie s'mouvoir

Volume 1, no. 1, Autumn, 2001
of this Quarterly E-Zine is now online (See link following parallel French text):

Vous pouvez enfin lire le tout premier numro de cette revue trimestrielle (celui de l'automne, 2001).
Pour vous y acheminez, vous n'avez qu' cliquer sur le lien suivant:

http://poesieinemotion.homestead.com/

The featured artist for our first issue is the American poet, Mykael-Eagleton Mize.

L'artiste en vedette de notre premier numro est un pote amricain, qui s'appelle Mykael-Eagleton Mize.

Should you have any comments or suggestions,
please feel free to sign our Guest Book.

Si cela vous pique de nous faire des commentaires ou des suggestions,
n'hsitez pas signer notre petit Livre d'or!

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The 14th St. Y of the Educational Alliance
The Center for Cultural and Performing Arts
Wendy Sabin-Lasker, Director WhY Women Poetry Series,
Veronica Golos, Artistic Coordinator for Literary Programs

Presents:

UPCOMING EVENTS:

WhY WOMEN POETRY SERIES*

Thursdays 7:00pm

The Feeling of Flesh - Nov 8 - $7
With Cortney Davis and Sondra Zeidenstein;
music by Rhythms of Aqua.

Ceremonies of Light - Dec 6 - $7
With Enid Dame, and others TBA.

Something Understood... - Dec 20 - $12
With Phillis Levin introducing her new anthology,
The Penquin Book of the Sonnet, with special quest, BILLY COLLINS and
(readings by contributors, and gift books for sale). Music by
Sarafina Martino and James Smith on lute.

* These programs are made possible in part by grants from
Poets and Writers, Inc.

and...

INVITING ARTISTS SERIES
The Inviting Artists Series invites publishers, project coordinators and
curators to utilize the Y's space to present their work.
For information on rates and event dates call Veronica Golos at
212-780-0800 ext. 255.

For more information about events in the fall, or to join the mailing list, write to:
Victoria Golos [email protected]

344 East 14th St.
New York, NY 10003, USA

Phone:
212-780-0800 x255

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Time is running out to get your work noticed in the

MILLENNIUM DAWN

anthology, by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press, coming soon!

Enquiries to Elaine Davis at [email protected]

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THE PERILS OF NORRIS cartoon, #7 - last in the current story. Spot Reginald The Rat and win a prize! Email [email protected] and say where he is and what he is doing...

The Perils of Norris started in August 2000. To catch up on past episodes, click the links below, then your browser's Back button to return.

#1  #2  #3  #4  #5  #6  #7  #8  #9 #10 #11 #12 #13 #14 #15

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Click here for BACK ISSUES page

Mail me on: [email protected] with poems, letters or poetry news,
by 24th November (latest) for December issue

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