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Carnelian Self-portraits... so many small fragments of the larger puzzle. We find ourselves appearing and disappearing in snippets of line, patches of color, bits & pieces of sound and light; the poem, the painting, the carving— all part of our leaving some tiny mark of our existence, our resistance to oblivion, entropy, chaos... it's a losing battle, a lost cause, a cry in the darkness that soon fades to silence. All the more reason then, to strike a match, light a candle, and open our eyes... The Editor
On the cover: Self Portrait As A Wounded Man (detail) by Gustave Courbet oil on canvas 1844
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Volume 4 Issue 3 July 2004
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
Dear Virgo Iris Appelquist Kansas City, MO
Poem Rustin Larson Fairfield, IA
Poem Removed
Night Thumps Its Pelvis Michael Paul Ladanyi Clermont, GA
Leaves Miriam N. Kotzin Philadelphia, PA
Incomprehensible Moment Jill Sommers-Scholl Kansas City, MO
Paper Trail Aliya Whiteley Lincoln, UK
Child Of The Canal Tom Sheehan Saugus, MA
Where Do They All Come From Donnie Cox Watertown, MA
Crayon On Foolscap Taylor Graham Somerset, CA
The Story And Its M.O. Corey Mesler Memphis, TN
Sojourn Jeremy O'Neal Kansas City, MO
Poetry All Stars
Legend Hart Crane
somewhere I have never traveled... e. e. cummings
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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:
Send 1-3 original poems, any form or style, no longer than 100 lines (per). Author retains all rights. Cut/paste poems into the body of an e-mail (not as attachments or links to URLs). Simultaneous subs okay; previously published okay if you hold copyright; poems accepted/rejected (generally) as is. Include name/city/country; no screen names please (use a pseudonym if you prefer to remain anonymous). No homework assignments or therapy exercises, thank you. Please query concerning poems over 100 lines, translations, or articles for On These Premises.
Submissions which
do not conform to these guidelines will be discarded unanswered.
Send to: carnelian@sidewalkpress.net
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POEMS:
Dear Virgo by Iris Appelquist traveling every bendy line through the deep seas of sentiment that I would breathe into your ears in breaths not wet or heavy, but tinkling, and in words that rattle on together like mountain ranges and of the best enunciation I have ever uttered... given just fractions of your patience, I could breathe the entire world into your ears... it may appear that I just talk a big talk, but... do you believe in the sort of magic that has never nor will ever be seen by any discerning human eyes...? the kind which is only manifest through the most subconscious of acts... the kind that would turn flowing blue streams into a rushing crystalline rapids, tumbling all over itself again and again all the way upstream, yes, upstream I say. its the kind of magic that glints gold in your eyes, and which would wink silver in mine. I think you might know what I mean. I have a lot of hope. earth and water can build houses or wells, ovens, ceremonial chalices, together they can build art. I hope the leaps in logic are fleeting enough for you to see how it's all one thing, all of this saying just one thing: I anticipate your arrival.
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Poem by Rustin Larson Those who call themselves artists draw lines around spots of light falling on a page. What began as water was soon known as autumn as the forgettable petals died with their stems.
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Poem removed
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Night Thumps Its Pelvis by Michael Paul Ladanyi this city has opened, a reverse bark scratching, a burnt dog lapping smoldered sidewalks. streetlights thaw blue trees, building corners dirty peach, sideways bird perch cave walls, hollow bastards— my brothers, snake belly driftwood haters, empty lot dwellers, thorn-shivered and thought empty things that do not matter. yellow coma night thumps its pelvis to ring its literature; a sigh of what was once dangerous. windows of stacked white houses are clean violence, chatter of cigarette arm kissing. i am a fish monk visitor, clumsy beautiful bedroom storm, outside gripping handfuls of things that were never white.
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Leaves by Miriam N. Kotzin
When the first leaf fell,
it did not ride the wind,
but drifted, in a slow spin
from limb to ground. Now
leaves dip and swoop,
waltzing like finches.
Dry oak leaves scatter
light like spilled glitter.
Leaves tick against the
window. All around
us, light and flutter.
* * *
Along the woodland path,
a few final flowers:
here, fall's violet aster
and the last of summer's
pale gold touch-me-not,
jewel weed— and there, light
yellow swamp candle
and pink lady's thumb— and
there, white snakeroot.
I fumble, wanting to give you
their names, anything,
to remember.
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Incomprehensible Moment by Jill Sommers-Scholl I want I want To sip lips and relish the flavor in tasting you, Of eyelash brushing eyelash, Shampooed hair softly saying "You must touch me now" and your fingers, small saboteurs, trace in circles to that tangible shadow. Knowing, They betray the facade, They rat you out, The planets realign, proverbial thunder. the most beautiful flushed sigh Eagerly recants the secret The whistle's blown, an empty retraction... An awkward silence. But, for that infinite breath of time— You and I panted like lovers in the moment that never ended.
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Paper Trail by Aliya Whiteley Ballet— the art of the swift turn, the arched foot, the pas-de-bras; first, third, fifth, and when that's mastered dance may start. Dancer dips her toes, encased in blocks, in emerald paint, and stands on sheets to begin the art of the swift turn, the green spray, the splatter, twist and patter at her heart.
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Child Of The Canal by Tom Sheehan With cold iron we pulled her up through a mouth of ice, the pale blue and white dress twisted as if some unearthly god had fouled her further paleness, eyes hammered shut, her hair caught in one final sweep. Night too trod silver on her face where a faint star shone. Parents, rooted, twined, came part of the moaning adrift on darkness, wind and water at turmoil. This was her great step forward, escape from smaller joys, a mouth of water at elsewhere sears away the parching, leaks down through the dry scars of July, a throat driven arid by August with its harsh fistfuls. At another time she ladled the worn pewter cup at well, cooled her lips with a moment of deep rock, roots shifting underground, years of sediment from up this other rocky throat. Stars shine there, passing softly through the bucket handle, where the Seven Sisters see Seven Sisters in that low field. Oh, we raked her in from the stars.
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Where Do They All Come From by Donnie Cox “Then this morning I went to the bookstore and bought The Catcher in the Rye. I’m sure the large part of me is Holden Caulfield, who is the main person in the book. The small part of me must be the Devil.” – Mark David Chapman He lies, face-up, on the floor of a hotel room he can’t afford. His eyes are closed. On his chest, a closed paperback moves slowly up & down— marking time. The plan is clear. Everything he wants to say, reduced to a single blinding point. A warning message to false prophets. A Technicolor caution sign to purveyors of empty noise, & meaningless bullshit. A .38 special delivery from a real nowhere man, to the used-up hero who haunts Dakota halls, & hides behind elegant walls, that cannot save him. Lost to himself, hopelessly slipping into some half-assed parody... He opens his eyes & checks his watch. Almost time to rock & roll, lock & load, cross the street, & disappear into the faceless New York hum— “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?”
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Crayon On Foolscap by Taylor Graham Such awkward wings. The child has drawn a wig on the elfin figure with pointed chin and narrow shoulders. Wings like wild feathered hands. You'd say a self-portrait, except for the blazing orange wisps and curls, the head's on fire. And the yellow wings. Flames for the sake of warmth, and burning, the possibility of flight.
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The Story And Its M.O. by Corey Mesler In more ways than one the story involves me even as I deny it. I, who only write what I am forced to write, am victim, too. You are my last listener. The story, like a suckhole, will try to draw you in with me. Be quiet. Keep listening.
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Sojourn by Jeremy O'Neal The gnaw of nature Calls to my chilled whole, With viney, tendril summons Shifts the grayed cloak From my wintering eyes, The green sprinkled among Earth's brown and dun patchwork Belies a transmuting of Frostbitten loam's warding To the neglected bed's Beckoning warmth— polymorphed, Listening to a lark on the breeze Causes me to rise— serpentine, Charmed to mimic The perennial shoot's thrusting course, Piney, furred evergreens Play herald to the flux in scenery As in welcome to brethren's return From a lengthy sojourn, Compelled, I join in gleeful rejoice, Sensing remorse slide astray And become absorbed, as I, In the vision of a tree Snowing perfumed flakes, Lost in the shower of a redbud's attention, Distracted by the dogwood's shed, So rapt as not to note The wrinkles smoothing away From my mother's Weathered face.
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Legend by Hart Crane As silent as a mirror is believed Realities plunge in silence by... I am not ready for repentance; Nor to match regrets. For the moth Bends no more than the still Imploring flame. And tremorous In the white falling flakes Kisses are,— The only worth all granting. It is to be learned— This cleaving and this burning, But only by the one who Spends out himself again. Twice and twice (Again the smoking souvenir, Bleeding eidolon!) And yet again. Until the bright logic is won Unwhispering as a mirror Is believed. Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry Shall string some constant harmony,— Relentless caper for all those who step The legend of their youth into the noon.
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somewhere I have never traveled... by e.e. cummings somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which I cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fagility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
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Carnelian V4 Iss3 July, 2004