IN THE DESERTED HOUSE
In the deserted house
I find my solitude.
From time to time the noise
from the backyard becomes
a comfort to me. I
seek out the stars at night
from the deserted house’s
window. I find the noise
from the backyard. It is
a small bird who sings in
comforting tones. It lifts
my spirits to the stars.
* Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal says "I work in the mental health field. My new chapbook Overcome is a collaborated effort with photographer Cynthia Etheridge and the published by Kendra Steiner Editions.
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Friday, July 31
Luis Berriozabal is in a deserted house
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 31 Jul 2009 11:45 PM BST
Thursday, July 30
John Irvine is trying out new gear
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 30 Jul 2009 03:00 PM BST
Here's a little bit of Anglo Saxon alliterative verse…
Trying out the new gear I cast my line very carefully over beach clutter, way out past the kelp line. Squid tied securely on shiny hook, the bait plops daintily onto the water. Then slinks and sinks and slithers below. The still pewter sea swallows it whole. I screw the silver cup slowly off my thermos flask; percolated coffee smells so sensual and rich. The rod is resting against a rewarewa log. The line shivers in anticipation, I check the tension and my peaceless mind plays games while I pour a generous measure of the Niuginean coffee. Strike! The line screams out, streaming ocean-wards. I lurch for control as the rod bends double. In seconds I surmise I’ve hooked a shark. The rod twangs from its log, snakes across the sand. I run after rod and reel down the beach, dive desperately to catch the handle But to precious little purpose as the rig plunges into the sea, leaves a faint V-wake behind. My new tackle is taken and I shed a tear. I only bought the things a week ago. Then fifty yards from the foreshore a fin appears and a jagged mouth grinning, seems unfazed by the filament now floating from a corner of that terrible mouth, or the fine-honed suicide hook which is hanging from its rubbery lower lip. He dives splashing, dragging my gear to the depths. But I count my Piscean loss far more keenly. * John Irvine is a regular IS&T contributor – and the editor of the Anomalous Appetites anthology. Wednesday, July 29
Colin McGuire is sitting on wooden chairs
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 29 Jul 2009 03:00 PM BST
Wooden chairs
God, I've been sitting on this chair for ages. Simple egg in a cup but chairs grow uncomfortable, unbendable and suddenly a large duvet with inviting plump cushions would do. Wooden chairs do not attend funerals, but they should they are stern watchers; objective stony men, stalwart sitting there, supporting us laughably upon their frames. What does a chair want with the luxury of our grief? * Colin McGuire says "My name is McGuire: A thin 26 year old Glaswegian man, touch giddy in the head, sometimes poet of mangled form and dirty prose, sporadic drummer, drunken grammarian, waffler, painter using crayons, lover, hater, learner, teacher, pedestrian, provocateur, wanderer, confronter of shadows, irritating whine." Tuesday, July 28
Nigel Pickard is walking up that hill
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 28 Jul 2009 03:05 PM BST
RAIN
After weeks of long heat I wake to rain and a cool breeze through the open window. I lie here, listening: that unforced, muffled encore, your careless breath across my chest. Your first smile has the gentleness of rain after long heat, your fingers are rain, falling. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ THAT HILL the sun sets behind is like a man sleeping on his side, who might in a million years or two, (or three, or four) wake up one day, get off the floor, stretch, stand tall, and walk slowly, very slowly, away. * Nigel Pickard is a regular IS&T contributor. His first collection Making Sense was published by Shoestring (2003) and his first novel One was published by Bookcase (2005). Friday, July 24
Arun Sharma tells how the laughter rang out
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 24 Jul 2009 05:51 PM BST
Oh how the laughter rang out...
when Tony had the forth digit of his left hand ripped off while he was nippin’ over a 10ft, barbed-wire fence, evading capture by the police for chuckin’ petrol bombs. He says he didn’t even know it was gone till he was halfway down the road; how we laughed. Or like when Mackal lost a bollock on West Street When a rubber bullet hit him during a riot. He said the peeler aimed it to bounce off the ground just in front of him; we were in fits. And then there was that time Johnny got lifted with all them E’s. They were stuffed in a Chelsea teddy-bear stuck on the window of his Nova. And he kept sayin’ ‘The bear did it. I’m not the boss of him!’ ...the bear did it; brilliant! And d’you ‘mind the time Magoo’s brother tried to make a blast bomb by stickin’ together 9 aerosols and throwin’ it in a bonfire? And that wee pregnant girl got so shocked, so shocked she had to go have her baby early. Magoo’s brother was only eight – cheeky shite! You’re bound to remember that guy in The Circus who was tryin’ to sell trips. and the U-ffers caught him and made him eat them all? And he ended up walkin’ around like a mongoloid all night. I hear the dickhead’s in a care unit now. You just have to ask yourself sometimes: what’s wrong with people? Imagine turnin’ up to a bonfire when you’re pregnant. * Arun Sharma says "I am a 34-year-old teacher living in Bristol but was born and bred in Northern Ireland , the son of Indian immigrants." Wednesday, July 22
Ray Morgan wants us to take her hand
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 22 Jul 2009 03:04 PM BST
Take me by the hand
Take me by the hand and I will show you the creases and fine lines that frame my eyes. We barter; your dimples reveal themselves, in exchange for my smile and smile-lines. My hand in yours, you tell me it is small, I shrink in self-consciousness until reassurance. We exist in a secret world, where no-one else is heard over the clashing din of heartbeats. Between my back and yours we can breathe easier, say what we are scared to say and realise this is it. No doubters here, they exist only on the outside, unable to see in through the frosted glass. If they could only see, we could be without prejudice but for now we only worry about who is going to make the tea. * Ray Morgan is a performance poet, has a degree in creative writing and is a creative producer for independent arts organisation Sundown. She is currently working on a novel and works for the Society of Authors. www.raypoetry.blogspot.com Tuesday, July 21
Ken Head is attending a tea ceremony
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 21 Jul 2009 03:11 PM BST
Tea Ceremony: Hangzhou
for Shiao Wei After twenty years, my mislaid past falls unexpected from a book. The photo of you says it all: still lovely, self-possessed and elegantly young. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Hot August Night The window at the end of our apartment’s best for watching evening gather in the light, the sun drift down behind those feathery aspens on the edge of town that screen us somehow from the motorway. Looking out, I can see across the neighbourhood, rooftops, gardens, cars and people, everything that’s mattered all these years. But it’s hot and humid tonight, enough to have silenced the birds. Not a breath of air, the feel of a downpour on the way. A few wasps, their nest in our roof exterminated just the other day, dangle lifeless from cobwebs on the wall outside. They’ll be washed away in no time once the storm that’s coming hits. * Ken Head lives in Cambridge, England, although for many years he lived and worked in South-East Asia. His poems appear regularly in a variety of print and online publications, as well as in such recent anthologies as Anomalous Appetites (www.lulu.com) and Ink, Sweat & Years 2008. Ken’s work also featured in material developed by the Exeter Phoenix Arts and Media Centre (UK) for their 2008 exhibition of the work of Iranian-born artist Akram Rahmanzadeh and in Poems in the Waiting Room, Summer 2009. Anyone interested in hearing him read his own poetry will find him recorded online at Poetcasting and Non-Euclidean Café. He has published one chapbook, entitled Long Shadows, which is available to read or download at Snakeskin and his first full-length collection Listening For Light is on sale at www.poetrymonthly.com and www.amazon.co.uk Monday, July 20
Mike Berger is out among the sand dunes & dust
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 20 Jul 2009 11:53 AM BST
DUST
Undulating hills glistened in the sun. Sand dunes rose to a hundred feet tall. Walking was difficult. The sand shifted with every step. The sand absorbed the afternoon sun and waves in the air distorted the view as it tremble in the heat. Ominous dark clouds in the West sent waves of chills down our spines. A stiff wind came up in the sands began to shift. A dark brown cloud hugged the Earth only a few miles away. A dust storm was coming our way and fast. The wind became fierce and the sand before us mounted to the sky. There was no place to take shelter. We hunkered down with our backs to the wind and pulled our tents over us. The dust pelted our backs. The rustle of nylon being scraped sent dark chills through us. Loose nylon flapped until it was covered with sand. It became difficult to breathe. As quickly as it started the wind stopped. All of us were encased in the sand. We struggle to free ourselves. We were astonished the scene before us was entirely changed. Our photographers snapped a dozen stills of us as we did our best to dust ourselves off. We had just survived one of natures raths. What did she had in store for us next as we gathered our gear and moved on. * Mike Berger lives in Utah and says "I am 72 years old. I was a practicing psychotherapist for 30 years and am now fully retired. I have authored two books of short stories. I have published in numerous professional journals. I have freelanced for more than 20 years. My humor pieces Clyde and Goliath, Good Grief Columbus and If Noah Built the Ark Today have won awards. I am now writing poetry full-time. I have many pursuits which include sculpting, painting, gardening and baking bread. My forcaccia is to die for." Friday, July 17
Mather Schneider is struggling to reach spiritual perfection
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 17 Jul 2009 06:36 PM BST
KRISTY AND SAM
The new age lesbian lovers come into the bar sit down at the end and immediately open their hardcover copies of The Celestial Prophecy. I guess today they will not save the world or correct our grammar or tell us how to raise our children. They are too busy making use of this perfect reading environment even turning their pages at the same time. They have quit smoking too and in every way are shining examples for all of us. They realize to reach their level of spiritual perfection is a difficult thing for clods like us but they are patient as we struggle as holy people should be. * Mather Schneider says "I am a cab driver in Tucson. I came upon Ink Sweat & Tears while googling Justin Hyde." Thursday, July 16
David LaBounty has written a poem about Third World babies
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 16 Jul 2009 06:47 PM BST
on the way
to the boss’s party and darling let’s not talk about foreclosures and failure let’s just smile and blend in with the rest of our demographic as the liquor and laughter flows with the shit stream of small talk and I-agrees we’ll just nod our heads and pretend that we belong ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ another poem about third world babies and they are on the TV screen with their bulging eyes and bloated bellies surrounded by swarming flies that are fanned by a mother’s cracked and bony hand. almost haunted I get up go to the kitchen & grab another Diet Coke * David LaBounty's third novel Affluenza – a tale of debt, consumerism, sexual addiction and pyromania told through the financial rise and fall of an insurance executive who lives beyond his means – will be published late in 2009. |
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