Sunday
May182014

Poetry by Alesha Aris, John Bray, Brennan Burnside, Faten Gharbi, Howie Good, Carolyn Gregory, Christy Hall, Joy Rainey King, Steve Klepetar and Jude Marr

Angel Diaries

By Alesha Aris

 

At rising dusk,

I hear the voices whisper.

Beckoning, pleading,  beseeching, wails, to hear their tongues ask for his aid.

And when I don't hear them I watch.

Eyes wide open to merely watch and it does not take much to rise above. Escaping self morning noise but then I pity  and soar back.

To casually sit among the beings that he favors beyond his needs.

It amazes me these human decrees to swear their lives then fail their own creed. I think it is help they need

Hindsight I should extend

Maybe offering my hand.

But it is so easy to become attached.

But I’ve come to like the little ones.

Such pure compositions of joy

Overwhelming love, unconditional love

I think I should protect this one

It is still a little blind, unable to see the darkness looming.

I must protect, guide even.

 

The Price Of Vengeance

By John Bray

 

Before his long and storied voyages

Had ere begun, Prince Odysseus then lived,

Content with farm and flocks and peaceful home.

But when his lonely ship-borne wanderings

Were o’er, and his vengeful blood-lust sated,

Grim Fate would launch him once again asea.

 

From war-like Sparta came a joyous call.

The King Tyndareus’ daughter, Helen,              

Her golden beauty known in far-off realms,                                          

Achieved an age when a royal marriage

Would then befit her regal destiny.                               

Heralds dispatched from that hilly land,

To every corner of Achaia,

Proclaimed the king’s intent to offer

His child in wedlock to the man who proved

The worthiest to take her as a bride.

 

From mountain isles scattered across darkling,

Deep and wave-capped seas, from Attic forests,

From Thebes, Thrace, rugged Macedonia,

Nobles thronged to plead their cause, their goal to gain

The love of such a prize whose charm and grace

Bestowed at birth by Aphrodite,

Olympian goddess of womanly

Virtue and of amorous love itself.

Kings came in haste, high-born Dana’an chiefs,

Offering as bride price, kingdoms, riches,

Endless fidelity, thrones wrought of gold.

 

Tyndareus saw at once his quandary,

A surfeit of stalwart men to woo his

Young daughter, unsurpassed for loveliness.

Thence came Lord Odysseus, heir to the throne

Of Cephallonia and Ithaca,

Prince once destined to rule with gentle hand,

To cast his lot for the coveted maiden.

The Spartan king sought wisdom and wise counsel

From the Ithacan prince: how, when Helen

Made her choice, would peace then prevail among

The many suitors who failed to win his child.

Youthful Odysseus, sage beyond his years,

Proposed an oath, sworn to by all who lost:

Their pledge: all band together against any wrong

Done to whom fortune and the gods would choose, 

The man whom Helen took to be her mate.

The Fates soon declared Menelaus victor

To keep Helen his wife in lifelong bliss.

 

To reward sly and cunning Odysseus,

Tyndareus, bestowed Penelope,

A dark-eyed maid, upon the clever prince.

He took her for his bride, brought her home to

The windswept isle of Ithaca. There he

Grew to love her beyond his dreams of joy.

Their son Telemachus, a lusty babe,

Soon born of their union, made Odysseus’

Life a true beneficence from the gods.

 

But ominous clouds began to gather.

Paris, Prince of Phrygia, a guest in

Menelaus’ Spartan palace, defied

Olympian decrees of proper conduct

With capricious Aphrodite’s help,

Dishonored his welcome when he seduced

The now bewitched and spellbound Helen.

Sailing off by ship with his new-won love

And her marriage dowry, Paris fled to

Far off Asia and incurred the wrath

Of the vengeful Spartan, Menelaus.

 

King Priam of Troy, to his great regret,

Imperiled his kingdom, harbored

Paris his lustful son and the woman

Unfairly stolen from her bridal bed.

With venom and vengeance boiling in his

Heart, Menelaus turned to his brother

Agamemnon. Then together, they

Summoned a vast, well-armed Achaian host

Bound to enforce the pledges exacted

Should wrong or treachery befall his house,

When he wed the much beloved Helen.

 

Odysseus, now reluctant to heed the

Call to arms he’d sworn, and feigning madness,

Yoked his oxen team to plow the sea strand.

He scattered salt to mimic fertile seed

Lest he be compelled to sail away to

Fight in mortal combat far from his realm.

Then Menelaus sent forth the envoy

Palamedes, who journeyed with all haste

To Ithaca to bid Odysseus join

The throng aboard the fleet for Ilios,

Priam’s tower’d city, Paris’ refuge,

Walled citadel on the Bosporus.

 

With threats to kill the babe Telemachus

Before Odysseus’ anguished, fearful eyes,

The messenger uncovered the vain ruse

Of false plowing and useless sowing.

Unwilling Odysseus soon left for war.

Then he in turn unmasked brave Achilles,

Whose womanly disguise created by

His mother of no avail to escape his fate:

Heroic death before Ilium’s walls.

 

 Long siege, treachery and slaughter became 

The price of betrayal. A city sacked

And burned, temples of the gods defiled.

Endless sorrow for the vanquished Troy,

Priam murdered before the statue

Of Apollo, Ilium’s patron god.

Leaving the devastated citadel,

The victors’ fleet set sail again for home.

 

Poseidon angered by base sacrilege

When Odysseus used his sacred symbol,

An equine ploy to sack the hapless town,

Bade the sea to scatter the armada

To the corners of the Ocean, ere the

Shores of Hellas rose to their home-sick eyes.

Odysseus, ship-wrecked, often hostage

On foreign lands, then wandered asea,

Despaired of e’er seeing his isle again.

 

Far-seeing Athena intervened,

Became his mentor, guided him homeward

Once more to hold Penelope and save

His realm, his hearth, his home, his son, his flocks.

Many nobles he slew by force of arms.

Odysseus’ boundless fury roused by men

Who would despoil his goods and take his wife

Ere he had survived his long wanderings.

 

Revenge begets revenge, and best left to

Deities who grant judgment from above.

More bloodshed, when allies of the evil

Suitors sought justice for their fallen sons.

Odysseus and his friends attacked,

Further cruel butchery ensued apace.

Divine Promachos, Athena herself,

Interceded to stop the senseless brawl.

Even the goddess of battle could not

Bear the slaughter and wanton loss of life.

 

Neoptolemus, King of Epirus,

Who fought at Troy at Odysseus’ behest,

And slew Priam in Apollo’s temple,

Became the arbiter of the blood feud

Between Odysseus and the families

Of those slain whom Penelope spurned.

The King decreed, as final recompense,

Odysseus exiled from his island home,

Doomed then to roam aimless and again adrift.

 

Three Poems by Brennan Burnside

 

Andy Kaufman’s Bomb Shelter 

 

Four lead walls 10’X10’ painted in red and white

candycane pattern, linoleum ceiling with escape hatch

in center bolted legged brass table, glass vase of black

dahlias, crack in bottom, dripping water, window in

center of east wall with trompe l’oeil of West Hollywood,

sunset, north wall brown Philco Seventeener III television

set on a 1’X3’X3’ platform of 180 red air bricks, Howdy

Doody 4/1/52 episode repeating at 22” ad infinitum, glass

of milk on top of television set, 2’X2’X2’ wooden crate of

chocolate chip cookies in north west corner of shelter,

vase breaks, low shuddering thump from above.

 

 

 

 

  

Kurt Vonnegut’s Sun Room 

Semi-circular white wall 10’X20’, pane-less window

4’ from floor and 2’ from ceiling, window covered by

linen cloth, 1 pm on Sunday, back wall 10’X18’ of bamboo

weave core panels, cork flooring, hollowed out 2’X2’X4’

red Holy Bible bird feeder on carbonized tre gai sanded

bamboo pole in center of room, mobius strip crucifix

hanging by white string of yarn 1’from ceiling, 7’X3’ door

way, jade beads in place of door, white and black men’s

Oxford New Balance shoes sideways on floor stuffed with

smoldering Pall Malls.

 

 

 

 

Kurt Cobain’s Larder 

 

Four cedar wood walls, north wall, casement window 5’ from

floor, one window swung-in, three 3” ceramic gnomes on

window sill, respectively red green and blue, afternoon light,

chartreuse at 3pm, quarry tile flooring newly refurbished, west

wall 7’X14’, nine 10’ long 2X4s attached to wall with cement

nails, south wall 7’X5’, three 3’ long 2X4s attached with cement

nails, lowest 2X4 1’ from floor, west wall 7’X14’, white General  

Electric chest freezer 22"X37"X33.25", plastic container of angel

food cake, top slightly molded, 6”X1’ garden plot in middle of

floor, bordered by 1” thick cedar wood blocks, three zinnias

growing in single line, respectively yellow orange and pink,

copy of Williams Burroughs’ Naked Lunch ripped into small

pieces and scattered over soil, page three nailed to floor 6”

from north wall, “I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out

their making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool pigeons”

and “Young, good looking, crew cut, Ivy League, advertising exec

type fruit holds the door back for me” underlined in red Sharpie,

20# bag of Royal Basmati Rice on floor under window, torn open

on top of 2” pile of rice.

 

 

 

 0n the Snow Covered Banks

                        By Faten Gharbi

 

 

On the frozen dim waters,

An inert body floated,

Opaque haze emanated,

Mortuary Halo enveloped it.

 

On the waters abandoned,

Puppet excruciatingly emptied,

Well-passably slid;

A slight breeze propelled him

Far from the bridge which had murdered him.

 

Angel with Red Wings sailed up

The murderous dark waters,

Lazily sink

Into the abyss of forgotten.

 

On the snow-covered banks,

A glossy shadow looked at him,

Diamond tears of his eyes pearled,

Drops to drops starry crashing

On the pristine white carpet.

 

Pallid spirit was prostrate,

Showers of sparks spurted out,

Tears in the past Flash,

Wounds opened of sufferings past.

 

On the snow-covered banks,

Impotent rage haunted it,

Eternally waiting

That the rest should be granted.

 

Five Poems by Howie Good

 

After Phrases by Huxley

 

The gendarmes

approach

with dicks

hanging out

and small,

hooded eyes,

 

so that people

will have

their liberties

taken away,

but will rather

enjoy it.

 

And this

seems to be

dictatorship

without tears,

 

an epigraph

from Anonymous,

 

legs shriveled

and twisted

by childhood polio 

 

and half-covered

in snow.

 

 

 

 

 

One of These Things Is Not Like the Others

 

A woman screams.

Another was alive just a few days ago.

 

Everyone else looks dazed

except Nussbaum,

 

who turns his collar up

& furtively appraises

the mortal brilliance of blood.

 

Context means a lot.

You can’t know how much

 

until you know that Nazis,

possibly allegorical figures,

 

stand as if waiting

to push off in a small boat.

 

 

              

Smile Empty Soul

 

1

I take one pill a day for my head. She takes two a day for her heart. What seems faded or completely broken to others seems like authentic Americana to me. Year by year, the frequency of disappearances multiplies. Even the simple task of passing from point A to point B requires an extra degree of cunning. The three-legged black dog that lives out back whines all night in sympathy. “Quiet,” I hiss under my breath, “the baby’s sleeping,” though, in fact, there is no baby.

 

2

Sleepless and out of pills, I set off for the jetty, the beach suddenly crowded with boys and girls and the playful shrieks of gulls, but the waves dying out before ever reaching shore. Two fat shirtless men sitting directly on the sand laugh in Japanese. The story of my life can be reduced to three lines, like a haiku, the first line of which is the purple horizon. Overhead a plane tows a banner that says, SMILE EMPTY SOUL ALBUM IN STORES NOW! I think back to the darkness and rain and the Z that stands for nothing.

 

 

Shark Week

 

There were tons of people on the grass doing circus tricks. I wondered what my face showed. My advice was always the same: Fuck T-Mobile! A Czech exchange student looked at me as if she wanted to ask, How can a mosquito fly in the rain? Then it was like a tunnel and she was going away in the darkness. I thought about going after her. Throughout the day, a procession of gaunt, exhausted pallbearers carrying empty coffins continued to enter the scene from out of the oily blue-blackness of smoke.

 

Music to My Ears

 

1

Mother as pitchfork

Black parental mysteries

They began to breathe and glitter

So I became very dark

 

But that was years ago

Tonight I will try again for the music

The deepest blue, green

 

2

Do I have any friends

in northern Spain,

central/western France,

or Ireland?

 

Anybody have a boat

and want to sail

from France to Ireland?

 

I have visions of didgeridoos

with arms and legs

running around Europe.

 

The toot comes out

nice and round.

 

Two Poems by Carolyn Gregory

 

Cleo
 

When the army floated out on the barge,

she left the sealed box with her maid

and entered evening’s purple corridor.

All Egypt slept in its yellow villages.

 

The letter held no more power over her

as she slipped from a heavy robe,

entering water to soothe her weary body.

 

What were the affairs of state compared to this luxury?

Unguents of myrrh and hyssop,

her maid’s firm touch along her shoulders,

a trellis of orchids softening the pool’s edge?

 

Antony’s deceit held no power

where the current swirled blue and silver.

Memory stopped like a sleeping horse

in its night stall.

 

In the cool water, famine and drought did not rule

and the Ptolemy dead kept silent

like coins imprinted with her head in the coffers.

 

While her maid fanned her,

she could forget about Caesar’s murder,

her sister’s humiliation.

 

Slowly, her body grew calm and beautiful

like the orchids drifting down to water.

This was before she took the asp

from its box and let it sink in.

 

 

Learning How To Sleep In Bed

 

Once fear was his master.

He lined up unpaid bills,

based on the colors of the envelopes.

They became found art

 

like the four poster bed

he made but could not sleep on.

Green ferrets tumbled

in the covers and they bite!

 

Guns blasted through the living room,

taking his father out.

The others kept secrets to themselves,

curtains drawn.

 

He ran in the rat cage of his head,

hitting all the clubs,

in college learning how to make

martinis while blindfolded.

 

Stealing cash while sweaty dancers

thundered overhead,

his heart hid under gangster clothes.

None saw his eyes below death's head sunglasses.

 

One day, someone beamed a flashlight

into his corner.

The sirens stalking night

began to break up.

 

He threw out stained photos

and started to draw a human form,

solid, shoulders emerging with chalk,

the expression troubled though keen.

 

That spring when the birds sang,

he learned to sleep in a real bed,

curtains open to the stars at night.

Slept straight through.

 

All the natural and celestial colors

brought three dimensions

to his portraits

like a life growing whole

and clear-eyed.


Three Poems by Christy Hall

 

We Drove Out to Anywhere

 

Spitting mandolins of duck breast, sizzling,

start to suggest things;

 

the coming together of ramblers,

we masqueraded as them, on a May morning,

beer-gardened and pecking

 at KP or WALKERS.

 

A slurp or two of shandy,

flat and warmed over conversation about

world-travel or mutual friends.

We could talk the fizz out of coke.

 

  The gloopy remains are onions, peppers,

    orange jus—

  forked into a corner of the slate.

 

And then on, on to a bull-field,

  empty and dog-legged under

a road-bridge.

 

We blanketed ourselves on tartan,

swapped sunglasses,

  laid back and listened to crows

  and gulls and far away

dogs bark

and are walked.

 

 

Hampstead

 

Northern line, leafy-sub—Hampstead;

the station here has lifts,

a moment, not even that, during which

I might have hooked a finger through

your loose jean loop,

or pulled a face or two.

 

Then to blow your baby hair,

knowingly annoying you,

into curls of floating S’s or O’s.

 

I may have padded your

pokey hip bones or moved in

to force a near miss—

momentum shifts, then a hissss

  to ground.

 

 

A Deposit

 

 What of a sub-seventy quid room in Victoria, London?

The usual 2 star everything: couldn’t-swing-a-cat shower,

one pillow per-person, freeze-dried coffee sachets

and thimble-sized milk shots.

 

But there was more than that here; we needed the reckless

privacy of walls, the horizontal-ness of a bed,

even that bed.

 

It was there that we were first born, lived out our entire

existence as a formed one and then died.

 

You died gradually; curling the ball of your shoulder

inside the tuck of my right arm, stick-legs knowing the

meaty-cut of my right thigh.

 

Somewhere in the distance that night was a clouded

vision of a city airport; I am taken there

over gritty underground struts.

Ugly-green to Chelsea-blue as I cross the platform

from District to Piccadilly:

Hammersmith, Acton, Ealing, Hounslow.

 

At the terminal, our early-rise chatter gives

way to mournful silence—a knowing calm.

 

As we proceed through the usual goodbyes—

a brief embrace, a longer kiss, five or six

different promises—I’m not sure when I’ll

next touch those lips—if at all, again, ever!—

but I pad away, hoping I’ve made just any kind

of a deposit.

 

Peace Like A Melody

By  Joy Rainey King

 

When all harsh words are mended,

Then the world will be as God intended.

When the last mean word has been spoken,

And the very last heart has been broken,

Then God will declare peace,

With a joy that will never cease.

Then and only then, everything will be

The way He meant it to be.

Peace will most certainly abound,

Spreading forth and making not a sound.

Peace will finally and firmly win,

Like a soft melody about to begin. 

 

Two Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

 

How Have We Forgotten?

 

How have we forgotten stones,

little white ones

 

dotting paths to an old house sagging

in this neighborhood of flies?

 

How have we forgotten dust and oil

and rags we worked to win an orderly

retreat? 

 

Such patterns, such little, translucent mouths!

How have we forgotten knuckles

 

on rough hands?

We seem to have trudged

 

a long way through brush and weeds

until we find ourselves no longer welcome

 

here where streets bend and drop,

where roads plunge from our line of vision

 

and vanish into chasms of night.

 

Snow Day

 

Yesterday the wind blew so hard

they cancelled

everything—flags with their triumphal

stripes, all the yellow buses

with their bruised, bumblebee faces.

 

When we heard the snowplow grating

up our street, someone told me what a good

job I had done on the driveway.

 

“How did you do it?” she asked.

Proudly I showed my shovel and my gloves.

 

She shook my hand gravely, as if the pebble

in her boot would let her know the day

was still on, that sunlight glinting on drifts

could hardly be spun from someone’s malicious eye.

 

Two Poems by Jude Marr

 

 

elegy for a mother who may be dead

 

I left you at the corner of here

and there

                                    I, leaning into the wind

 

you, silent

over downtown clank and rattle

over cross streets

over hum—                 

 

the crazy woman

outside the Korean grocery

me a paper flower

 

every day for a year

 

petals fell like ash

after conflagration

 

 here

I kick through drifts

of discarded antipathies

 

are you still there?

 

 

Geography and Interior

 

A flat planet pinned to a classroom wall. Nations named and claimed.

And me, aching to be where there be dragons.

 

Earth’s a ball caught in a net. Lines intersect. I long for latitude.

For a bellied sail and a spyglass—

 

Pain’s a constant now. Dragon’s teeth tear at my concentration.

Loss, like a caged bird, sings inside my chest.

 

I am confined. My mind reduced to wordplay.

If I sail away, if I let pain take me to another place—

 

When I close my eyes against the glare I see a universe of floating worlds

black dots adrift  in crimson space—

 

I cannot rest. I cannot trace my route from here

to where the anchor’s weighed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Alesha Aris, John Bray, Brennan Burnside, Faten Gharbi, Howie Good, Carolyn Gregory, Christy Hall, Joy Rainey King, Steve Klepetar and Jude Marr
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