RENOVATION
Blisters of her green paint ruptured wet
under my nail like fat
bladders of seaweed.
The God of all Mildew had blown
bird's egg speckles and flown.
Whoever dressed her, has left her he said.
Sea licked the beach beyond
as I watched them take down
For Sale.
Puckers of wallpaper fell
to the flash of our knives like
flakes of her skin.
An angry nettle army bent its head
passing news of incomers and
the dead
to the salt wind.
Be sure to hack away her past, he said.
Make sure nothing survives.
Skeleton children laughed in every room.
We danced to the music of bones
and stroked each warming wall,
loving it all,
Hoping not to finish too soon.
Then we laid on paint
thick as a geisha ritual.
Pressing seeds into fresh soil,
those imprints of us.
Small hands will
one day touch her, we said.
The sea still kisses the curving coast
and I sweep whispers of dust from
lofty unloved places
as our own whispers fade.
At night we listen to settling sighs,
shiver about children that might have been.
There is nothing else to do.
All is well here
except us
with nothing left
to do.
• Julia Bohanna says "I'm new to this poetry lark, but I have fooled people into believing I am a good short story writer. Enough to give me prizes!" and adds "Making it up is the best way to be… spontaneous, that rush of panic that makes you feel alive. Planning is for duller, less creative souls!"
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« June
Wednesday, July 23
Julia Bohanna is carrying out some restoration
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 23 Jul 2008 08:55 AM BST
Tuesday, July 22
Frances Gapper engages in some light conversation
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 22 Jul 2008 04:24 PM BST
LIGHT CONVERSATION
Fiona over the road asked me would I please stop shining a light (my reading lamp) through her bedroom window. She said, it's like a searchlight and these new lamp-posts are the wrong ones she added the council will have to replace them. It might be the angle you're shining it at. Thanks for letting me know, I said. • Frances Gapper writes very short poems and stories. Monday, July 21
Vanessa Gebbie is watching the reeds
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 21 Jul 2008 04:09 PM BST
REED
There are babies growing in the reed beds again. They grow in cocoons like the nests of harvest mice, a little looser in the weave. The cocoons have been swelling since the spring; the first frosts have come and gone but the cold will be back. I feel it on the wind. The welcome boards at nature reserves have posters attached, headed ‘Advice’. Should you stray off the path, do not make eye contact with the foetuses. Of course, I’m still walking there. I did yesterday. I stopped a while in one of the hides. Many cocoons had burst; the air filled with thistledown. Below me, the water was as still as glass. And under the water, babies. Curled up tight, thumbs in mouths, floating under the surface, turning lazily as though breathed on by an unseen current. Then I strayed from the path. A cocoon was bursting. A male child grasped a reed with one fist. Crying, a high sound. Below him, the water. Waiting. I’m far, far too old for this. But it is done; I did not let him drop. I put him under my jacket, naked against my skin. And on the way home, I sang. • Vanessa Gebbie's debut collection of short fiction is longlisted for the Frank O'Connor Award. Sunday, July 20
Review: Drop, Anchor - by Ben Barton
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 20 Jul 2008 06:14 PM BST
 drop, anchor is the new chapbook collection by Ben Barton. Although the author is described as 'a queer poet from Folkestone' this is not a collection of gay poetry. True, there are some that deal with aspects homosexual relationships but essentially this is a highly accessible – and readable – collection of 21 shortish (in some cases very short – there's even a haiku in there) poems about love and life. And lovers and family. And even encounters in supermarkets. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. Although I suspect one of the key poems for Barton is The Re-Birth Remembered – about his still-born twin brother, which manages to be tear-inducingly sad without resorting to the usual cliches, the piece I found the most moving was Commandment No.5. This deals with the equally painful – but far more prevalent yet never seriously addressed – issue of the strained relationships that appear between fathers and sons as both grow older. Here's the opening stanza My father is a stranger to me. He never turns-up uninvited. Sitting cautiously on the sofa Genteel He waits – never asks, for a mug of tea. • drop, anchor by Ben Barton is published by Erbacce Press (ISBN 978-1-906588-18-2). The price is £3.99 and you can order it direct from Ben Barton or, via PayPal, from Erbacce. www.erbacce-press.com www.benbarton.co.uk Saturday, July 19
It's Saturday – time for another haiga
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 19 Jul 2008 04:38 PM BST
 • Alexis Rotella is a regular contributor of haiga to Ink Sweat & Tears Friday, July 18
The lady likes them young - by Louise Halvardson
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 18 Jul 2008 05:23 PM BST
The lady who borrows youngsters
There are no items to satisfy her request talking books about contemporary life don’t exist She walks down the high street pulls youngsters from queues invites them for tea and line them up on her sofa in alphabetical order She wants to be told everything her eye-sight is too bad to read about DJ’s, graffiti and raves the life of her grandchildren if she’d had children When it gets dark mobiles makes an alarming noise the youngsters have been reserved for someone more important they want to be discharged back to their lives She takes the phones off them asks their families and friends if she can renew the loan she doesn’t mind paying the fine if she can keep them for just a little longer But the reminders are piling up on the hall mat her license to borrow has expired. • Louise Halvardson was born in Sweden on a cold winter's day in 1982. When she was old enough she escaped to England and ended up in Brighton which inspired her to write a novel. It's called Punkindustriell hårdrockare med attityd and was published in Sweden last year. She's also active, going by the stage name of Lou Ice, as a performance poet. www.myspace.com/louicepoetry82 Thursday, July 17
New prose by Mandy Pannett
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 17 Jul 2008 02:30 PM BST
PATINES
She often walked along the waterfront in Venice. On a clear day she could see Belmont, high on its hill, mist-clad as usual like the fairy-tale it wasn’t. There were more stalls in the market these days – packed with bodies and sweat. One stall was selling monkeys, gibbering chain-clad creatures like the one she’d exchanged for the turquoise ring in the loving years. A horrible thing that gibbered and whimpered and chucked its wet faeces all over the place. Sometimes she’d bring Leah to this rat-hole, but it was such trouble keeping an eye on the child and so near the water as well. ‘Leah’ – she’d never forget the row there’d been when she’d insisted on christening the baby with her own mother’s name. ‘A Jewish name,’ her husband said and spat. His cronies, all as drunk as skunks, backed him up of course. Their wives just gave her funny looks, drawing close. As they always did. Still, she got her way. She did, from time to time. Faintly, from the Jewish quarter, came the dreaded, mournful sound. Sunset with its prayers for recent dead. ‘Who is dead now?’ she wondered, ‘Is it him?’ She wished it could be her. Runaway daughter, disgrace to her faith, thief − that was the bit that stuck in her throat – not the theft of the ducats but the ring, her mother’s ring. Sold for that perishing ape. She’d been told how her father had cursed her and wept. Well, all was a wilderness now. She shoved her way along the water front. Soon be dark and a full moon. The floor of heaven, Lorenzo had called it, in the loving years Inlaid with patines of bright gold. She shrugged. ‘What heaven? What gold?’ There’d be none of that for her. • A regular contributor to IS&T, Mandy Pannett runs an arts cafe, supports two local writing groups and enjoys giving readings and running writing workshops. She has two poetry collections from Oversteps Books – Bee Purple and Frost Hollow. Wednesday, July 16
Two new poems by Colin Cross
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 16 Jul 2008 09:20 AM BST
TOMORROW
sometimes I wake up in the morning and wonder what day it is but I always know that the next one is tomorrow ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ PIGS although Anne is twelve years younger than me we were both born in the year of the pig which I reckon makes us both piglets Anne collects pigs which is maybe why she hangs out with me and why maybe one day I'll find myself hanging on her wall like some kind of bizarre trophy • Colin Cross is a regular IS&T contributor Monday, July 14
Carl Abt is writing
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 14 Jul 2008 04:29 PM BST
Writing
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The time has come for letters. Two toed, Three toed, Four toed, Letters. The time has come for words. Two booted, Four pawed, Six bird-clawed, Words. The time has come for sentences. Crisscrossing, Overlapping, Hunted, Sentences. Winter’s fresh blank page chills the Earth So all may write and not be Forgotten when unseen. Crunch, crunch, crunch. • Carl T. Abt is an English major at the Ohio State University where he says he has entirely too much fun. This poem was first published in November 2007 by Expressions, a division of Sam's Dot Publishing. Saturday, July 12
New haiga by Alexis Rotella
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 12 Jul 2008 06:36 PM BST
 • Alexis Rotella lives in the US and is a regular contributor of haiga to Ink, Sweat & Tears Friday, July 11
New flash fiction by Mike Montreuil
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 11 Jul 2008 05:27 PM BST
MORNING RUN
Mary-Jane always believed that her morning run was the perfect way to start the day. Her husband, Malcolm, thought otherwise and soon began to resent those early morning intrusions into his sleep. This morning was no different. Mary-Jane heard the music from the radio alarm clock. 6 o'clock. Malcolm groaned from his side of the bed. A weak "Fucking clock" was heard. She ignored the comment and began dressing. Within minutes, Mary-Jane was out the door; her run underway. Now awake, Malcolm stirred under the blankets, scratching his balls and thinking about how to make his wife interested in a morning of sex instead of those fucking runs and work. Minutes later he was in the kitchen preparing coffee and his breakfast. Twenty minutes passed by and Malcolm began writing in his journal. But, the words would not come out and he decided to have another coffee instead. Forty minutes had elapsed and Malcolm began to wonder why Mary-Jane hadn't returned. He finished his now cold coffee and began his morning bathroom routine. Looking in the mirror, Malcolm saw that his gray hair had invaded his chest. Age was catching with him and he knew it. If only they had succeeded in having children. Then, he would have a son to play catch with or even a daughter to give away at her wedding. He sighed knowing it was not to be in this lifetime. Almost ready to dress for work, Malcolm noticed that the TV converter clock showed 7:25. Where was Mary-Jane? For no apparent reason, he decided, then, to have a look around the block. After putting on an old pair of work jeans, Malcolm began to tie his running shoes. As the clock on the fireplace mantel rang 7:30, Malcolm became part of an exploding two story house. Fire and rescue crews never found Mary-Jane. • Mike Montreuil lives in Ottawa (Canada) and although he is a regular IS&T contributor, he has only recently begun writing flash fiction. Thursday, July 10
AT gets physical
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 10 Jul 2008 06:02 PM BST
Physical
How? How do you manage to do this? I knew you were there – rather I was there... It was me and the joy at the first watch dad bought at the first terelene shirt he got at the first touch of her breast it was me... it has become a you now – the magician's trick of disappearance without a trace like the traceless movement of the gentlest of breezes the touch, the body, that kiss of life – physical where... where... only memories... were they your's even at that time? wordless bloody silence end • A.Thiagarajan, postgraduate in English, taught in colleges in India, before joining the the finance sector. He has been writing in English and Tamil since college days. His work (poems, haiku, short stories and articles) has appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines including Subtle Tea, Poetic Diversity, A Little Poetry, Poetry Canada, pwreview, poetrysuperhighway, betterkarma, Indolink, The Heron's Nest, Haiku Harvest, Roadrunner, Simply Haiku Meghdulam, and Mainichi. He says the nuances of relationship between individuals, mental pain and the cruelty we inflict on each other and ourselves are his obsession. He lives in Mumbai, India with his wife, Rama. Wednesday, July 9
Two poems by Sergio Ortiz
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 09 Jul 2008 07:29 PM BST
Simple Things
I say goodbye to simple things like trees in autumn peel their leaves. Melancholy is the sad slow death of simple things that ache. Stay for a while, beneath my noontime sun. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Gothed Tina painted my lips black, paleness on the cheeks foggy in layers of transparencies. I gave so much to anger it ached like a scared hitchhiker blowing a trucker in traffic on Interstate 95. You shook my hand, offered beer. I said: Whiskey, and lit a cigarette. By 4am you were trapped in the undertide of Mata Hari’s tongue. You didn’t remember my name: Sam. But it wasn’t because of the snake shaped ring, with emerald eyes, eating its tail, wrapped around my finger. You left a rose in front of my door every day for a week. I took off the mask and smiled. We’ll have to get a larger coffin. Sergio Ortiz grew up in Chicago, studied English literature at Inter-American University in San German, Puerto Rico, philosophy at World University and culinary art at The Restaurant School in Philadelphia. Among other titles, his work has been published in and The Cave, Origami Condom, Poets Ink Review, FlutterSilenced Press. Tuesday, July 8
Two cinquain - or near cinquain - poems by Michael Lee Johnson
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 08 Jul 2008 06:08 PM BST
Snowflake
In spring Last snowflake falls Temperature is rising If it knew how long it lasts, why bother? ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Nothing to Do Summer As the world burns, Nothing else to do, but Step into liquid cool waves And swim. • Michael Lee Johnson is an Illinois-based poet and freelance writer. He is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom, as well as two chapbooks of poetry and has been published in a wide range print & online poetry magazines. For more details visit http://poetryman.mysite.com/ Monday, July 7
Andi Kato has a houndstooth hat
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 07 Jul 2008 02:26 PM BST
Houndstooth Hat
I am going to wear the houndstooth hat you gave me at the airport when I think of the night we went to eat Chinese food with my brother and I drove my ex- boyfriend's van and you were shocked and appalled at how fake and dark that woman's tan was. I am going to wear the houndstooth hat you gave me when I think of the first time we hung out and I smoked salvia in the backseat and laughed a lot then I stuck my hand in your strange armpit to steal your heat. (Or maybe it was your heart?) We wanted to go to the hookah bar, but then you got really pissed off, so we went to IHOP or Denny's or Village Inn instead. My brother slept in your big bed that night, and we slept on the floor. You and I watched The Little Mermaid from 1975, and held hands platonically for a few minutes. You told me I was surprisingly tactile, and asked me if I agreed I told you yes because I couldn't have told you then that I didn't know what the word meant, so I just pretended, but I do now though, in case you're wondering. Seriously. I do. I am going to wear the houndstooth hat you gave me today when I think of the first time we kissed - we were in a small patriotic bed in my grandparents' basement and my brother was obligatorily present when we touched each other for the first time and your hands made little earthquakes on my skin and your kiss was like food and I never thought I would be so turned on by another person and you said: I've always wanted to be this close to you. I am probably going to smell your houndstooth hat, too, until every chemical remnant of you is sucked up into my olfactories, and I'll think of how I like it when you're mean to me, because my father was mean to me, and because I like everything that you have and how I wish I could be addicted to you, but how I won't be able to because I can't call myself a heroin addict if heroin is the dust on the moon that makes it white. I will wear your houndstooth hat in Denver, Colorado, Phoenix, Arizona, and San Jose, California, and remember how good it felt to moan when we fucked drunk on your floor after drinking vodka and eating white rice & I'll also wonder what other women sound like when they're that drunk and fucked do they sound like horses? I will think of the different ways I could get to your apartment on the bus and how peanut butter makes you sick and how often you seem to need to say, "I'm not gay." Fasten seatbelt while sedated what I am trying to say here is: I will be thinking of you a good deal and I hope that you will be thinking of me, too. • Andi Kato lives in San Jose, California where she works as a sushi waitress. http://self-intoxication.deviantart.com/ + http://myspace.com/andikato Sunday, July 6
News & Reviews catch-up
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 06 Jul 2008 06:24 PM BST
And now for a quick catch-up on various stories that have landed in out in-box that don't quite fit into the normal publishing scheme of things...
• Poetry – it's grim out there... The organisers of the Ledbury Poetry Festival report that of the 972 poems entered for their annual competition, the largest single category was 'sadness' (incorporating death, decay, despair and disillusionment) which accounted for 33% of entries. We know how they feel, our hearts sink when we receive yet another piece about changing the sheets that still carry the smell of the narrator's recently departed lover, brother, mother, significant other. However in terms of high crimes and poetry misdemeanours, we think poems containing the words 'shards' and/or 'motes' should be banned. • Reviews – it's taken a while but can we mention regular IS&T contributor Rachel Fox's new collection More about the song. Without doubt it is the most enjoyable new collection I've read this year. Reflecting her performance work at folk clubs around the country, it is also one of the few collections that name-checks Donny Osmond, Simon Cowell, Robert Plant, the Eels, Nina Simone, Bjork, Radiohead, George Bush, MySpace and PR consultants in one volume in a fashion that is totally natural, unforced and unpretentious. This is what she has to say about MySpace... Spacing When you die, what happens to your MySpace profile? Does it jam, does it crash, do your friends get told? Does a bulletin post all the funeral details? Does 'about me' blur as your body goes cold? The collection cost £7.00 for a generous 80 pages of poetry – and its printed on recycled paper and card. You can find full details on Rachel's website at www.crowd-pleasers.net – in the meantime, to quote the poem on the back cover of the collection... Exposing Does a blurb ever lie? Can it tell what's inside? Go on, open me up I have nothing to hide • Competitions – finally, news of two competitions... Café Writers Open Poetry Competition 2008 Entry Fee: £4 per poem; or £10 for 3 poems and £2.00 per poem thereafter. Closing Date: 30th November 2008. Prizes: 1st £750 2nd £300 3rd £150 also £150 Book Vouchers awarded to best poem from a permanent Norfolk (UK) resident. Judge: Penelope Shuttle. Cafe Writers is a Norwich-based group that runs monthly readings and open mic sessions. Entry forms available from www.cafewriters.org.uk First International Erotic Tanka Contest Deadline Postmark: Dec. 31st 2008 Eligibility: Open to everyone + MUST BE AT LEAST 21 YEARS OLD Subject matter: Erotic, sensual/physical tanka. Tanka that expresses love in all its manifestations. Please NO pornography!! Prizes: First Place $100 Second Place $50 and Third Place $25 (Prize monies maybe reduced if there are insufficient funds due to number of entries.) Entry Fee: $1 per tanka No limit on number of tanka submitted. Cheques, money orders, made payable to Pamela A. Babusci, or cash. Foreign entries CASH ONLY, US MONIES. Rules: Submit tanka on 3x5 index cards. One card with just the tanka on it and the second card with your tanka and your name, address, telephone number, and email address on the front upper left of the card. Entries MUST be typewritten or printed legibly. Entries that cannot be read be will destroyed. Enclose an SASE, with sufficient postage (or 2 IRCs for international entries) if you desire contest results. ONLY unpublished tanka will be accepted. NO tanka that is being considered for publication or entered into tanka contests elsewhere. NO tanka that has been published on-line or in on-line tanka workshops should be entered. TANKA IN ENGLISH ONLY. The contest will be judged blindly. Karen Shiffler will receive all entries and send ONLY the blind entries to the judge. Send entries to: First International Erotic Tanka Contest, Karen Shiffler, 1464 Lake Road Webster, NY 14580 USA. Questions: email moongate44@gmail.com – subject line: Questions: Erotic Tanka Contest. Friday, July 4
An Amy Winehouse poem by Kezia Green
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 04 Jul 2008 07:44 AM BST
Should Amy Winehouse ever stay in a caravan by the sea
After looking into the pan of a Dudley Diplomat, Amy heads, barefoot, for the shore; past Rajah, centre stage at the Animalarium; his spots stagnant in the big-cat cage. On the sand she takes a boy’s kite: starstruck, he stares at ‘Valerie’. Fighting the string’s heavenly tug, she runs backward in saturated steps; tilted face hoarding sunshine for dark days. Then, as the sea approaches, reproaches, she retreats to join the high-tide-line of burnt shoulders and rainbow synthetics; extended families of sandwiches and folding chairs, all waiting for the water to wash away their sins. She rises from the salt baked pebbles to buy a 99. The man at the booth says, "Have this one on me, love." And the sweet creamless cream that drips on to her wrist is divine. • Kezia Green provided the following profile "A short lady with dark hair" – we'll be publishing another of her poems next month. Thursday, July 3
Padrika's staying in to watch TV tonight
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 03 Jul 2008 10:32 AM BST
Tanka for a Thursday night
the television jams the corners of my room with tiny, scared ghosts. They crowd the dark with questions and flickering, fearful smiles. • Padrika Tarrant is a regular contributor to IS&T – her latest collection of short fiction – Broken Things – has been long-listed for the Frank O'Connor prize for short fiction. Wednesday, July 2
Agency Workers by Pat Jourdan
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 02 Jul 2008 04:50 PM BST
Agency Workers
We sit on New York-style chairs, stainless steel on cloudgrey carpet. Here in the heat and light is our morning's ration of luxury as the register fills up. Each name a strengthening of each, conspirators together, muffled from the cold. Another working day. We are processed away from our real selves and into this working-person-thing. There is no room for Elgar-like regrets; we snatch a new day's scandal from The Sun. Our driver arrives last, his own worries hidden in his nonchalance. Lizzie and Stella and Annie and Sue, Maureen and Jean and Joan and Dot, Carrie and Angie and Brenda and Cath, Denise and Mary and Sal and me hurtle along the country lanes to where the factory waits beyond the fields. Today's payment: one entire sunrise, spanning all the window of our racketing van. • Pat Jourdan's latest collection is The Cast Iron Shore from Erbacce Press. Trained as an artist in Liverpool, she has spent many years in Ireland, which shows in her work. |
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