Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine

Julia Bohanna is carrying out some restoration

Charles Christian — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 08:55:00 +0100

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!"

Frances Gapper engages in some light conversation

Charles Christian — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 16:24:00 +0100

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.

Vanessa Gebbie is watching the reeds

Charles Christian — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 16:09:00 +0100

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.

Review: Drop, Anchor - by Ben Barton

Charles Christian — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 18:14:00 +0100

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

It's Saturday – time for another haiga

Charles Christian — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 16:38:00 +0100

• Alexis Rotella is a regular contributor of haiga to Ink Sweat & Tears

The lady likes them young - by Louise Halvardson

Charles Christian — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 17:23:00 +0100

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

New prose by Mandy Pannett

Charles Christian — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 14:30:00 +0100

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.

Two new poems by Colin Cross

Charles Christian — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 09:20:00 +0100

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

Carl Abt is writing

Charles Christian — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 16:29:00 +0100

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.

New haiga by Alexis Rotella

Charles Christian — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 18:36:00 +0100

• Alexis Rotella lives in the US and is a regular contributor of haiga to Ink, Sweat & Tears

New flash fiction by Mike Montreuil

Charles Christian — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 17:27:00 +0100

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.

AT gets physical

Charles Christian — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 18:02:00 +0100

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.

Two poems by Sergio Ortiz

Charles Christian — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 19:29:00 +0100

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.

Two cinquain - or near cinquain - poems by Michael Lee Johnson

Charles Christian — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 18:08:00 +0100

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/

Andi Kato has a houndstooth hat

Charles Christian — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 14:26:00 +0100

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

News & Reviews catch-up

Charles Christian — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 18:24:00 +0100

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.

An Amy Winehouse poem by Kezia Green

Charles Christian — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 07:44:00 +0100

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.

Padrika's staying in to watch TV tonight

Charles Christian — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 10:32:00 +0100

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.

Agency Workers by Pat Jourdan

Charles Christian — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 16:50:00 +0100

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.

Jim Carson says its a Gemini thing

Charles Christian — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 16:42:00 +0100

A Gemini Thing

It’s a Gemini thing
My secret world
Opposites attract yin and yang
Angel devil lecher priest
Each made more by the other’s being
Hooded serpent fur and fangs writhe
In deadly dance knowing no other way
No mercy for second place
Hungry pack snorting steam claws pawing
Frozen ground the smell of fresh blood
Circling the wounded prey and then
The kill
Cruel nature’s way
But one can’t exist without the other
It’s a Gemini thing my secret world
And I think I like it

• Jim Carson is an architect and aspiring poet and composer living in Atlanta.

Nigel Pickard's seen This Couple

Charles Christian — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 09:04:00 +0100

THIS COUPLE

who, ten years ago,
were so well known
in local circles –
both feared a little,
sniggered at only
behind their backs:
we were very young –
this couple pass us
in a fashionable
restaurant. They’ve

eaten early and,
as we arrive,
are on their way out,
him with his stick, her
her own grandmother.
We don’t recognise
them till they’ve gone.
“But they knew us!”
you say. “You should’ve
seen them look!”

• Nigel Pickard's first collection Making Sense was published by Shoestring (2003), his first novel, One, by Bookcase (2005).