Poetry

Fire Man

By Eric Greinke

When I see my old friend Bob

I always think of fire.  It’s not

just his red hair & beard.  It’s

something more.  He built

his first home on the ashes

of an old farmhouse that

he burned down.  I’ve seen him

start a bonfire in the middle

of a frozen lake, with nothing

but dead leaves, wet branches,

and a frail BIC lighter.

Now he lives alone with five cats

in a small cabin in the woods

that he heats with wood.

Firewood is stacked up all around it,

just waiting for a flame.

He doesn’t have electricity, or

watch television.  But

every night, when the woods

gets dark, & the coyotes howl,

Bob lights a fire.  He sits there

until the embers glow, often

in the company of refugees.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com

Informality

By Eric Greinke

Prince Chuck stood at the entrance

To the St. Larry River.  He thought

Of his parents, Queen Liz & Phil,

Who were on informal vacation

In Flo, Italy.

 

Later, back in London, things returned

To normal.  The avenues

Were pockmarked with charles-holes,

& so he sent a harry of his hair

To an electric fan.

 

He just couldn’t get the henry of it.

The whole thing was gerald-rigged.

He wanted to be completely francis.

Then, in ernie, they threatened to susan.

There was no time to robert & weave,

 

No time for thomasfoolery,

No time for patricks on the head,

No time to go to the jonathan.

It was like something he eight

Was too richard for him.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com

John The Booster

By Eric Greinke

John arose from his booster-seat & went up to
the bar.   He ordered a booster-shot.   Then, he
went  shoplifting  in  a  jon-boat.   He  brought
some  johnny-cake  along  for  a  snack.    After
that,  John  went  home  &  watched  television
through  a  booster-cable.     A  show  about   a
robbery  gave  him  a  boost.    He  went  to the
john.  Still later, he hired a hooker.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com

Novel T

By Eric Greinke

The  toughest task was  keeping tabs  on Tom.
In  his  tight, Teutonic tunic,  his breath tainted
by  tabasco,  Tom   blended  in  like  a   broken
thumb.   Nothing  was  taboo  in  Tom’s  tablet.
He  put  it  on the  table, technically.  But when
the  table  talk  started,  Tom  became  taciturn.
He’d say he thought that type of talk was tacky.
He  was  frequently  tactless.   Or,  it could have
been  another  of his tactics,  tenacious  as cold
taffy.

 

We tagged along, all the way to Tahiti and back
to  Toledo,  until the  whole  thing  became too
tedious.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com

Four pages from Cunning Punctuations

By Richard Kostelanetz

Help someone else get a job.

Help someone else, get a job.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Henry James and I played golf together.

Henry, James, and I played golf together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He ate a half-fried chicken.

He ate a half fried chicken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happily they left.

Happily, they left.

____

Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz’s work appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers, Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of LiteratureContemporary Poets, Contemporary NovelistsPostmodern FictionWebster’s Dictionary of American WritersBaker’s Biographical Dictionary of MusiciansDirectory of American Scholars, Who’s Who in America, NNDB.com,Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories.

Ten Poems—Fall 2017

By Simon Perchik

*

A jacket could trick my arms

help me forget once they leave

though what I become

 

has lips and around each shoulder

both sleeves fit the way skies

still overflow, break free

 

settle down, neatened

as if this mirror was still looking

could hear, I don’t see you, louder.

 

 

*

You hover the way each memory

stands by –the faintest scent

breathes down your brain

 

till its dust reeks from moonlight

and you cover your arms with air

holding them down, drag this table

 

more than enough for clouds

and though nothing falls

you’re sure it’s safe to exhale

 

making room in your heart

for the smell from skies

and what they too wanted back.

 

 

*

Heated by sand each word

gathers up another

one teaspoon at a time

 

–your fever can’t be found

though the address was written

from salt and glass –you don’t see

 

the envelope :the bottle

crowding you from inside

has to be taken by mouth

 

as if a lull made any difference

without the pieces to settle down

and already your throat tastes bitter.

 

 

*

Once it reaches this sink

the sun takes nothing back

lets you place water

 

and forever it’s your shadow

wandering the Earth

the way all twins are born

 

already cold –you rinse

as if moonlight were leaving it

damaged, a scar would come

 

so this cup you hold you hold

twice, gropes alongside

as darkness though the faucet

 

still leaks, flows through your arms

draining hillside after hillside

from riverbeds and almost there.

 

 

*

A single charm and the air

slows though what you breathe in

is clustered with stones

 

falling into stones –even here

you use the ruined

to anchor between one miracle

 

and another –shoulder to shoulder

with no place to go these graves

are opened for stars

 

half coming back, half

the way your breath covers the dirt

takes hold and lifts from under.

 

 

 

*

You expect more from rain, point

though cupped in your hand

there’s no sign when these stones

 

pulled it to the ground

as mouths broken open

devouring the Earth

 

–all that’s left standing

is the way moonlight enters

with just enough darkness

 

to touch down everywhere at once

and not have to remember –the sky

owes you, should stick

 

cover your skin with a toss

made from a single name

coming to a close –splash

 

is what you count on

–place to place watering

the small door that opens at night.

 

 

 

*

Not yet certain, half stone

half held back –wave after wave

rattles it, makes it start over

 

louder, distracted by the sound

that is not your shoulders

gathering around this grave

 

no longer facing the fragrance

riverbeds become once they dry

by calling out to each other

 

clog your mouth with salt and nearby

–what you hear is edging closer

has doubts, lost count

 

the way these rocks are winded

and one by one broken up

as flowers and your arms.

 

 

 

*

Dragging one leg you dust

the way sunlight changes colors

once it touches down and this rag

 

spreading out along the limp

that carries you away

wiping off weeds, winds

 

and those webs spiders are taught

to listen with just their shadow

for distances –you smother

 

as if one death would point

where the others let you

and cover the Earth

 

with mouths that never close

though you tug, taking root

in wobble, losing hold

 

strutting into these corners

pulled by a closeness

that is not dirt or moving.

 

 

 

 

*

Inside this glass its sand

flowing between the hours

and shoreline –you drink

 

waves, not sure one grave

would pull you under

give in to the small stones

 

you swallow twice

covering your mouth

with beach grass, harbors

 

and sea birds flying toward you

no longer keeping track

bringing you more cries

 

and expect an answer –you water

rock that never ripens
though your shadow

 

is rotting on the ground

pouring from these dead

as moonlight and left behind.

 

 

 

*

And though you dread the mail

this note is used to her arms

folding over your eyes

 

brushing aside the dust

that’s unimportant now

–you can’t make out the name

 

floating up as salt, empty

with some small sea beginning

clings the way every envelope

 

is carried along, half evenings

half sinking back into darkness

and word after word while they last.

___

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Osiris Poems published by box of chalk, 2017. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

10 Poems—Summer 2017

By Simon Perchik

*

Even the colors are anxious, carried

as if its new home above ground

would skimp the way all rows use dirt

 

cut in two with nothing in between

–you suddenly bring it a darkness

use one hand to comfort the other

 

though you’ve done all this before

have no faith in mornings :clumps

that want only to forget, just lie still

 

holding one end close, for a long time

sorted out and unfamiliar fields

taken place to place in flowers

 

in ribbons, string, thread, something

feeble, tied to the dissolving Earth

by this shadow and your arms.

 

 

*

This rotted log yes and no

longs for the stillness

that is not wood though you

 

are already inside, seated

at a table, a lamp, clinging

the way all light arrives alone

 

except for the enormous jaws

once shoreline closing in

without water or suddenness

 

–you lay down a small thing

and the Earth is surrounded, fed

slowly forehead to forehead again.

 

 

*

Though it gets dark earlier and earlier

you were already weakened at birth

–without a shrug let go things

 

the way each grave is graced

used to being slowly moved along

blossom and in your mouth

 

a somewhat pebble half fruit

half sweetened, not yet

broken apart in your throat

 

–you can’t make out where in the turn

you are clinging to its path

that led you here, not yet strong enough

 

or longing for some riverside or rain

or the night by night, warm

still falling off your hands.

 

 

*

You fold your arms the way this pasture

gnaws on the wooden fence

left standing in water –make a raft

 

though it’s these rotting staves

side by side that set the Earth on fire

with smoke rising from the ponds

 

as emptiness and ice –you dead

are winter now, need more wood

to breathe and from a single finger

 

point, warmed with ashes and lips

no longer brittle –under you

a gate is opened for the cold

 

and though there’s no sea you drink

from your hands where all tears blacken

–you can see yourself in the flames.

 

 

*

You drink from this hole

as if it once was water

became a sky then wider

 

–without a scratch make room

for driftwood breaking loose

from an old love song in ashes

 

carried everywhere on foot

as that ocean in your chest

overflowing close to the mouth

 

that’s tired from saying goodbye

–you dig the way the Earth

is lifted for hillsides and lips

 

grasping at the heart buried here

still flickering in throats and beacons

that no longer recede –from so far

 

every word you say owes something

to a song that has nothing left , drips

from your mouth as salt and more salt.

 

 

*

Before this field blossomed

it was already scented

from fingers side by side

 

darkening the lines in your palm

the way glowing coals

once filled it with breasts

 

and everything nearby

was turned loose to warm the miles

the pebbles and stones brought back

 

pressed against her grave

–you heat the Earth with a blouse

that’s never leaving here.

 

 

*

These crumbs are from so many places

yet after every meal they ripen

sweeten in time for your fingertip

 

that shudders the way your mouth

was bloodied by kisses wrestling you down

with saliva and rumbling boulders –you sit

 

at a table and all over again see it

backing away as oceans, mountains

and on this darkness you wet your finger

 

to silence it though nothing comes to an end

–piece by piece, tiny and naked, they tremble

under your tongue and still sudden lightning.

 

 

*

It had an echo –this rock

lost its hold, waits on the ground

as the need for pieces

 

knows all about what’s left

when the Earth is hollowed out

for the sound a gravestone makes

 

struck by the days, months

returning as winter :the same chorus

these dead are gathered to hear

 

be roused from that ancient lament

it sings as far as it can

word for word to find them.

 

 

*

Before its first grave this hillside

was already showing signs

let its slope escape as darkness

 

mistake every embrace for dirt

though one arm more than the other

is always heavier, still circles down

 

bringing you closer the way rain

knows winter will come with snow

that was here before, bring you weights

 

till nothing moves, not the shadows

not the sun coming here to learn

about the cold, hear the evenings.

 

 

*

Though you can’t tell them apart

your tears came back, marked the ground

the way leaves go unnamed to their death

 

as the need to follow one another

one breath at a time, face up

and after that the rain and warmer

 

̶ you weep with your collar open

make room for another grave

near a sea each night wider, further

 

no longer heard the way now and then

comes by to close the Earth

with buttons and sleeves and tighter.

 

 

——————–

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The B Poems published by Poets Wear Prada, 2016. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

Singularities

By Gwendolyn Jensen

 

Lint that lines my winter pockets settles

soft the pennies there; my far-off womb

remembers its confinement; violet fish—

suspended, drowsy, netted hearts—drift

their walls of glass; stars unfurl a long-

dead fire, better than no fire at all;

the lacquered billiard ball’s unconscious of

its color as it rolls; earth may be

some other planet’s hell.

 

I have made of these a rosary,

and sit and hum and push the beads along

for commonness and gaiety, for matter

of another sort.

 

 

——————–

Gwendolyn Jensen began writing poems when she retired in 2001 from the presidency of Wilson College (Chambersburg, Pennsylvania). The places where her work has appeared include the Beloit Poetry Journal, the Harvard Review, Salamander, Sanskrit, and Measure. Her first book (Birthright, Birch Brook Press, 2011) is a letterpress edition, now in its second printing. Her second book (As if toward Beauty also Birch Brook Press) was published in 2015. Her third book (also published by Birch Brook Press) is Graceful Ghost, a letterpress edition that will appear late in 2017 or early in 2018. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Cloudy as Absinthe

by Linda Neal

 

They spent the morning.

They spent the afternoon.

They spent the evening.

Then it was time

to spend the night, but

the where and how grew

cloudy as the glass

of absinthe

that sat between them.

 

With each sip

more slur,

batons conducting bagatelles.

With each sip

a livery of tongues,

as if words mattered.

 

Their life was living itself,

becoming more unfamiliar,

growing more foreign

as the hours pedaled by.

 

What she said.

What he thought.

It was time to sleep.

 

In the night mist

the sound rose

from the roof above them,

a strange beating,

a trio of hammers

throbbed like wings,

and a light bore down

through the darkness.

___

Linda Neal’s award-winning work has been published in California Quarterly, Embers, Lummox, ONTHEBUS, Pacific Coast Journal, Peregrine, and more. Her poetry memoir, Dodge & Burn, was published by Bambaz Press in 2014. She has attended the Palm Beach Poetry Festival and Squaw Valley Writer’s Conferences among others. Neal has studied Method Writing with Jack Grapes, Healing Writing with Deena Metzger, and has taken workshops with several instructors in the UCLA Writers’ Program. Her love of words and the subtle complexities of language led her to a BA in linguistics. She lives with her dog, Mantra, in a ’40’s cottage in Redondo Beach, California. 

August 2: Homage

by Linda Neal

 

A prodigal ache sets in when the plumeria blooms

and fat watermelons lay their bellies on the ground

to escape the hot smell

of the season’s first Santa Ana wind.

 

It’s never just any hot beach of a Saturday,

August second, not just any smoggy, windy weekend,

but a day as dead as a mussel

washed up on the rocks.

 

A shell of a day that would have been

the anniversary

of a marriage that got lost

somewhere between the move from double bed

to California King.

 

Maybe between a springtime rain and

one of those Santa Anas

that comes too early,

before the summer sand and dust

can settle.

 

I picked a white rose, put it in a vase,

and wondered if he did the same.

___

Linda Neal’s award-winning work has been published in California Quarterly, Embers, Lummox, ONTHEBUS, Pacific Coast Journal, Peregrine, and more. Her poetry memoir, Dodge & Burn, was published by Bambaz Press in 2014. She has attended the Palm Beach Poetry Festival and Squaw Valley Writer’s Conferences among others. Neal has studied Method Writing with Jack Grapes, Healing Writing with Deena Metzger, and has taken workshops with several instructors in the UCLA Writers’ Program. Her love of words and the subtle complexities of language led her to a BA in linguistics. She lives with her dog, Mantra, in a ’40’s cottage in Redondo Beach, California.