Friday, November 30, 2012

Call to Oz



Now that the bushfire winds are here, the cicadas are beginning to chirp, and our cricketers are on the verge of reclaiming number one Test ranking (it will happen, believe me!), I have a yen for more poetry from this scorched isle. I don't see enough of it and would like to see a lot more in my inbox. As usual, pay close attention to the submission guidelines in the sidebar, especially the bit about the speed and nature of my responses. May you all get through this heatwave a few kilos lighter but otherwise brimming with Yuletide cheer and inspiration!

Thursday, November 29, 2012

New Poetry by Holly Day









After the Phone Call

my husband crouches in the bathtub, arms
around his chest, knees drawn up, folded so small
I could fit in the space of water behind him
wrap my arms around him, put my head
against his back, I could climb into that space
so easily
but I don't.

my husband huddles on his side of the bed
curled so tightly around himself he barely
makes a knot in the blankets tossed over him
for warmth, for extra camouflage. he lies there,
eyes open, staring at the wall, I
can only hear his breathing
when I hold my own breath.



- Holly Day 2012



This Guy I Saw Sitting in a Car

He was parked in the lot at Thrifty's Drug buck naked save for
A big white cowboy hat and a pair of dark sunglasses he was
Holding onto his erect penis and grinning proudly and happily 
                                                                                    like his penis
Was a prize he had won as a bowling trophy or at a carnival 
                                                                                    ring-toss
Or like it was something a teacher had given him for being
A real good boy in school instead of a gold star or one of those
Phony certificates of accomplishments that can be traded in
For a cheeseburger at McDonald's with the purchase of a
Large drink.


- Holly Day 2012




Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai'i Pacific Review, The Oxford American, and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her book publications include Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, and Music Theory for Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, German, Spanish, Russian, and Portuguese. 

Friday, November 23, 2012

New Poetry by Phillip Ellis










"Ut pictura poesis"

The turntable taps as it hisses,
one for the spirit of dead music,
over and over again
like a rap against an empty door
behind which there is no truth hidden,
and when I have entered the room,
battered the night with what's recessed,
and cast it outdoors
where it taps on the windows
in fingers ringed with beetles,
I do not contemplate
the uselessness of all that is art.

There is no time for that.



- Phillip Ellis 2012

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Bluepepper comes a close second!

OPEN MIC VOICES

PRESS RELEASE 
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
contact info.: omvpr@openmicvoices.com

GOOGLE CROWNS OPEN MIC VOICES #1 POETRY
Sharing More Than Poems Makes Open Mic Voices Most Popular Poetry Social Network In The World


Willimantic, CT November 13, 2012 -- OpenMicVoices.com the world's poetry social network, responded to the latest news about Google ranking Open Mic Voices the best poetry social network on the planet.

"We have only just begun," smiles Henry Hunter, Founder and CEO of Open Mic Voices, "Google is the world's most popular information resource, by far, on the internet, 80% of all people on the web get their information from Google. So, being ranked by Google as the best poetry social network in the world is extremely rewarding and will keep us focused on uniting the world through the common language of poetry. It's incredible to see your idea come to life and the world embrace that idea. Open Mic Voices is about people, from all over the world, who speak one language on Open Mic Voices: Poetry." 

While earning Googles recognition for being the best poetry social network on the planet, Open Mic Voices is more focused on meeting it's goal of getting people to share poetry, worlwide. It is free to join Open Mic Voices and everyone is welcome. Members of the popular poetry social network write poems, share feedback, share poetry website links, share poetry events and places for poetry. Members, also, upload audio poetry and video poems right from their home computer. Open Mic Voices encourages socializing and sharing amongst members, so there are no limits on how many friend requests that a member may send to other members of the site.

Open Mic Voices members range from Ivy League professors to high school dropouts, published poets to novice poets, with traffic to the site coming from over 180 geographical countries, and 80% of Open Mic Voices members are female. "We are all inclusive, " states Henry. "People love to share all things poetry and we are playing a major part in poetry's growth on the internet. Poetry can't grow unless we all share it. We invite places that feature poetry, educational institutions, poetry groups, book publishers, and so on, to create a profile in our community and help bring poetry together." Open Mic Voices has a Page rank of 3, an amazing rank for a 9 month old website, and it is listed by the internet's foremost authority on website traffic, Alexa.com, as the highest ranking poetry social network in the United States.


About OpenMicVoices.com:

Open Mic Voices launched February 01, 2012, by brothers James and Henry Hunter. is a poetry social network connecting people who enjoy poetry, worldwide. For more information:

Visit www.OpenMicVoices.com

Or email: omvpr@openmicvoices.com

Monday, November 19, 2012

New Poetry by William G. Davies Jr.










December

In the dirt cellar
panes of glass
show light
in Milk-Of-Magnesia.
A steamer trunk
like a sarcophagus
closed then opened
at Christmas
as if the grave
is never sacrosanct
but born anew
through centipedes, spiders
apples and potatoes.
Inside, cedar- redolent
thin as drum skin,
adamant as the
Innkeeper at Bethlehem.


- William G. Davies Jr. 2012

Saturday, November 17, 2012

New Poetry by Michael Keshigian






APPLESAUCE

On the seventh day
there really was no rest.
It was the serpent
who approached God
with an apple,
crushed it with his powerful abs.
“Applesauce,” he muttered,
but God told him to keep it to himself.
The snake curled into a question mark,
slithered over to Eve
who rubbed it all over her body,
called over Adam
who licked off every tasty drop
but left Eve panting.
“Don’t go,” she cried, but Adam
had a shelter to build.
The serpent snickered
until Eve grabbed him
and showed him a wild time.
God told Adam,
who despondent at the news,
tried to hang himself
with a vine in the garden.
The serpent attempted to explain,
but the sauce
and Eve’s choke hold
gagged his syllables.
Eve, finally satisfied,
started stomping on the snake.
Now every time the snake shows up,
she winks at him
until Adam smashes it with a club.
God is pleased,
though everything still goes to hell.


- Michael Keshigian 2012


Michael Keshigian has been widely published in numerous national and international journals and appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications. Recently, his collection of poems entitled Lunar Images, was set to music for Clarinet, Piano, and Narrator by Boston composer Dennis Leclaire and premiered at Del Mar College in Texas on November 5, 2010. A Boston premier took place on March 7, 2011 at the Berklee College of Music and a September 2011 performance occurred in Moleto, Italy. (michaelkeshigian.com).

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

New Poetry by Kathryn Guelcher









Kinship

Once love has been established
there is always someone else
who ignites anxiety. Not the,
are-you- having- an –affair
sort of worry. It’s more the,
if- his- wife- and- I- were- both- hit- by-
buses-you- would- remarry- each-other
kind of concern.

For my part, there is only one
named Brittney.
(since Lauren with dead eyes is out of reach)
Brittney is barely twenty-something
with a figure.
She is nice and thinks my husband is funny.
And he teases her.
And she loves him
almost openly
because she can.
When, one Friday, he asked her
what the work drama was there,
she placed a sure hand on his hip
and suggested they create some.

This makes me like her. Sort of.
It makes me remember fondly
the aching enchantment
that is hers
but mostly mine.

I went there once in the heat of summer
to be analyzed, apparently.
Under her youthful, sideways glare, I felt
the weight of motherhood and envy and age
also confidence and contentment.

Mostly I felt glad that I had gotten
there so many years earlier,
twenty-something myself and glad also
that there were no buses
in sight on that long stretch of back road



- Kathryn Guelcher 2012

Monday, November 12, 2012

New Words and Pictures by Wayne H. W Wolfson


Blue Absinthe

The waitress told me they were having a special for today on it. The cynic in me assumed that either no one was buying it and they were trying to bleed off their stock or that a vendor had given them some sample bottles for a trial run and they just wanted to get rid of it. I had my head down in "Toilers of the Sea" and so passively shrugged my shoulders. She lit a cigarette, her gaze traveling down the street looking for the cat whose territory this area was. The drinks came, it was really blue not the wraith like pastel blue as one would have supposed. I drank it anyways, it was a little sharper than the usual stuff, i popped peanuts from the little white bowl to counter act it. Finishing my drink at first I felt a coolness akin to when one steps outside on a cold winter night, then my body involuntarily shuddered...we were right down the street from home luckily...passing the Hemingway plaque I saluted it as I did when in a good mood. My shoes were cutting into my feet..my shirt was pulling tight across my back. Oddly I had to duck my head to get into the door which was not usually the case. I asked her to help me get my shoes off they were killing me with their tightness now. She laughed saying I was lazy as I had drunk much more than this before, I was just being dramatic. My body shuddered again...I got my clothes off just before my height shot up to what I estimated to be between 12-15 feet. I was not used to the change in perspective nor the extra weight involved in my growth. "We have to cancel dinner..." The only thing that fit was my bathrobe and that covered nothing up, I kept knocking into furniture and bumping my head, I was becoming wound up like an animal from the wild who accidentally finds its way indoors. She petted my hand told me to calm down and suggested I just get into bed as I would be more comfortable and it was safer. I got in bed, she put some Jelly Roll on to further calm me. I was told;

"Ok now breathe in...breathe out...."




The panic stopped. Unless I was on my side or bent my knees I did not fit fully on the bed. The thought of the physical mechanics of us, with me in this state popped into my head. I said her name and was about to give her my look when a railroad spike went right into my forehead killing the mood and causing me to yelp. She said that she would make coffee and if that did not help she would run back to the cafe after to ask the waitress how long the effects lasted. 
I drank the coffee which was too hot for my taste out of the little doll cup. I felt tired now.
"Want me to go?"
"You should run down and check, don't mess things up for me there, they just started pouring for me with a heavy hand and throwing free rounds my way, I do not need you ruining a hang out by breaking the waitress's heart. "
Were it not for the rest of the situation she would have pulled more of a face but right now things dipped in my favor on the scoreboard, there was always tomorrow though..


- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2012

Wednesday, November 07, 2012

New poetry by Ivan Jenson










You Noticed

Sometimes
I just disappear
into the patterns
of the tablecloth
and wallpaper
and at other times
I am the floral
centerpiece
sometimes I
am the embarrassing
coffee stain
but sometimes
I am the
vintage wine
sometimes
I am the
apple cider
of your eyes
and then
suddenly
I am as far
away as
the man on the
quarter moon
taking a cold
meteor shower
a sight only
a geek
with a telescope
would be
interested in
and sometimes
you give me
one hundred
percent of your
attention
and I am
a crowned
prince of
infinite
possibilities
and ruler
of your smile


- Ivan Jenson 2012



Scripted Lines

After negotiating
with the big boys
of Hollywood
I am now signing
with my barely legible
John Hancock
a finely printed
contract
which
stipulates
that my dreams
made of American
idioms, and
cute colloquialisms
with roots in
ancient latin
slurs and peppered
with up-to-the-minute
expletives
(to add that
authentic street cred)
will be transformed
into a glamorous
love and gorefest
a virtual visual feast
complete with
an A- list drama queen
and king
and I hereby hope
that this is the beginning
of my ragged riches
because my jagged journey
filled with speed bumps
has tired my spinning tires
and I would much prefer being
sun-glassed, spray-tanned
and jaded
in a window tinted
Jaguar


- Ivan Jenson 2012


Ivan Jenson’s Absolut Jenson painting was featured in Art News, Art in America, and Interview magazine. His art has sold at Christie’s, New York. His poems have appeared in Word Riot, Zygote in my Coffee, Camroc Press Review, Haggard and Halo, Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Underground Voices Magazine, Blazevox, and many other magazines, online and in print. Jenson is also a Contributing Editor for Commonline magazine. Ivan Jenson's debut novel Dead Artist is available as a paperback and on Amazon Kindle and Nook. His new novel a psychological thriller entitled Seeing Soriah is now available as an eBook or in Paperback on Amazon.


Monday, November 05, 2012

Ray throws a party


Littlefox Press warmly invites you to the launch of Ray Liversidge’s new poetry collection
no suspicious circumstances: portraits of poets (dead) 
with illustrations by Kathryn Bowden.

Date:
Thursday 22 November 2012

Time:
6.00pm for 6.30pm

Place:
Bella Union, Level 1, Trades Hall, Cnr of Victoria & Lygon Streets, Carlton South (Enter off Lygon Street)

Launch speaker:
Kevin Brophy

If you are unable to attend the launch but would like to buy a copy of the book please contact
christine@littlefoxpublishing.com

Margie's Back


THE WORLD LAST NIGHT

by MTC Cronin

Poetry | ISBN: 978 0 7022 4951 8 | November 2012 | B Paperback | 200pp | RRP $24.95


From one of Australia’s most daring poets, MTC Cronin, comes her eagerly awaited new volume of poetry The World Last Night. Rich, polished and delightful, the collection has confidence and grace as it moves from wit to whimsy, encompassing profundity with the lightest of touches. It is intellectually invigorating but wears this erudition lightly – there is a vital sense of joy running through the poems, and a beautiful evocation of the possibilities of a joyful life.

‘I can stick to straightforward words of praise, such as brilliance of technical address and originality of utterance, when describing her verse.’ Peter Porter, Age

‘These beautiful, contemplative poems are questions asked at the brink of the abyss.’ Rodney Hall




Friday, October 26, 2012

New Poetry by Robert Demaree










RENTAL PROPERTY

An old apartment,
In someone or other’s mews:
Years of cooked vegetables
Linger in darkened grout.
Screwing a curtain rod
Into soft wood:
Too many people
Have already lived here


- Robert Demaree 2012



IN THE CHAPEL

1.
A funeral today at Golden Pines,
The chapel full,
Amber afternoon light across
Crimson-cushioned pews.
The elderly receive familiar texts,
Celebrate a life, mourn a loss.
We knew almost everyone there,
Which was part of why I wept.

2.
A year later, at 92, he wed again,
Perhaps as she had planned,
His bride a widower’s widow:
To affirm a way of living,
To affirm the act of living.


- Robert Demaree 2012



CARRIERS

Morning walk at Golden Pines:
Late February sky deep blue
Through trees for now still leafless
But about to change their minds.
A moving van packs up the contents of a cottage,
Fewer since her husband died,
And takes them to Assisted Living,
As if there were some other kind.
Across the pond, the hink and honk of geese,
Heading north, programmed to care for their own.
An ambulance pulls slowly away
From the Health Care Building,
Siren, blue lights turned off.


- Robert Demaree 2012

“Carriers” first appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal Winter 2009.



Robert Demaree is the author of four collections of poems, including Fathers and Teachers (2007) and Mileposts (2009), both published by Beech River Books. The winner of the 2007 Conway, N.H., Library Poetry Award, he is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire in the eastern U.S. He has had over 600 poems published or accepted by 125 periodicals in the U.S., Australia, Canada and the U.K., including Cold Mountain Review, Red Wheelbarrow, miller’s pond, Bolts of Silk, Louisville Review and Paris/Atlantic, and in four anthologies including the 2008 and 2010 editions of Poet’s Guide to New Hampshire and Celebrating Poets over 70.. For further information see http://www.demareepoetry.blogspot.com

Sunday, October 21, 2012

New Poetry by William G. Davies




The Farmhouse

The wheelchair leaned
Into the finials
Of the porch,
Apparently left behind
Like the vacancy
In the windows
After everything
Was packed
And loaded into
A U-Haul truck.
So someone made
The decision it
Was no longer needed
Because like a child
Mistakenly left behind
No one intentionally
Forgets A wheelchair.


- William G. Davies 2012



Out To Pasture

The grasses around the barn
Are red, pearlescent pink
As if in homage
To the dilapidated workhouse
Like the costume jewelry
On a grandmother.


- William G. Davies 2012


William G. Davies Jnr. has had work published by The Wilderness House Review, Gloom Cupboard, Jellyfish Whispers, The Blue Lyra Review and others. He has been married to his wife, Theresa, for 38 years and lives in rural Pennsylvania where they make their own wine, "Rooted Womb." They have three grown children and four grandchildren who live in Florida. This is William's second appearance at Bluepepper.


Theory of Everything

Hello Good People

Us folks at TOE Magazine are excited to announce a little thing we're calling the Fifty-Two Sundays Project.



The idea is this: A poet is selected to write a poem a week, for every week in 2013, in return for AUD$10 per poem, and the publication of a chapbook of all 52 poems at the year's end.


Send us your entries! Spread the word!

Warmest regards,
Kuba

Friday, October 19, 2012

New Poetry by Nathanael O'Reilly



Six Poets

Six poets drinking wine
in Jimmy Watson’s
discuss poetics
submission strategies
other poets’ latest books
the likelihood of acceptance
by Publisher X
the ideal amount of time
between composition
and submission
whether one can publish
too much too soon or too often
(one labels it “the Kinsella effect”)
stimuli and imagination
revision and editing techniques
the need for varied experience
John Leonard’s unerring eye
and who will be read
fifty years from now


- Nathanael O'Reilly 2012


Nathanael O’Reilly was born in Warrnambool and raised in Ballarat, Brisbane and Shepparton. He now resides in Texas. He is the author of two chapbooks, Suburban Exile: American Poems (2011) and Symptoms of Homesickness (2010), both published by Picaro Press, and a recipient of an Emerging Writers Grant from the Literature Board of the Australia Council for the Arts. His poetry has been published in journals around the world, including Antipodes, Cordite Poetry Review, LiNQ, Blackmail Press, Harvest, Transnational Literature, Mascara Literary Review, Windmills, Postcolonial Text, Prosopisia, Page Seventeen, Red River Review, Correspondances Oceaniennes and Social Alternatives.

New Poetry by Betty Johnston









Gleanings

Mayhem in Hanoi’s old streets
in Vientiane
a confusion of voices
next door.

Wall hangings in the market
all look the same
as do the infinity of Buddhas
in the mountain cave.

There must be a way
to cross streets in Hanoi
the man with baskets on a pole
threads calmly past families on motor bikes.

At the markets they tell me, I see that
these hangings are fine silk, these
less so, these
cotton embroidered with silk.

Some Buddhas it seems bring rain.

Next door in Vientiane people
laugh
and through my bedroom window in the heat of the evening
I hear, I
hear
sa bai dee, hello.



- Betty Johnston 2012


Betty Johnston is a former mathematics educator, who lives in Sydney and writes poetry and short stories. She has several stories published, one in Room to Move, an Australian anthology of women’s short stories, and poems published in a number of collections – Illumina 2007, Minute to Midnight - and online.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

New Poetry by Claire Roberts



VISIT
Elevators rise like bubbles in a wine glass
and the blue-grey linoleum floors
shine like water.

He’s attached to a drip
that bubbles with dull music;
I kiss his shaking hand and his smile
appears and flees like a mirror-light. 

- Claire Roberts 2012


AFTERWARD

The fluorescent lights turn on
and blink like someone waking

I take my backpack and pass
through the automatic doors
into the shivering night

and intersecting stairs
that descend to the lawns
where I see raindrops


cling to shrubs and glitter
like ornaments on a chandelier.

- Claire Roberts 2012


Monday, October 15, 2012

New Poetry by Stuart Barnes










Bear Hill

Evening, he’s alone atop Bear Hill,
no longer ‘Bear’: no barbered beard, no buzzcut.
Moonlit bats renew him with a squeal.

Three years back he flushed his crystal
meth, his skunky crack pipe down the dunny.
Evening, he’s alone atop Bear Hill,

supine, arms a crosspiece, eyes ascensional.
Tawny Frogmouths mimeo his wonder.
Moonlit bats renew him with a squeal.

I tried to make myself so ill, so ill,
horny as a cane toad for nine months.
Evening, he’s alone atop Bear Hill

where the darkened musky grasses fill
his lungs with larks that can’t be shushed.
Moonlit bats renew him with a squeal.

Far too many weeks of vinous meals,
that Godlike quack—I should be cuckoo, nuts.
Evening, he’s alone atop Bear Hill.
Moonlit bats renew him with a squeal.


- Stuart Barnes 2012


Tuesday, October 09, 2012

The last refuge (e)



Last week I signed the on-line petition calling on Alan Jones' advertisers to account for their continued support of one of the most bellicose and least-informed public figures in this country. And while not completely regretting my decision to do so, I see now that the 100,000-odd of us who signed the petition have been complicit in one of the classic fall-back positions of the venal.

For those not fortunate enough to count themselves amongst this island's sun-kissed 23 million, Alan Jones is an ex-Rugby coach, failed Liberal (conservative) candidate for a safe northern Sydney seat and now dominant (or domineering?) mouthpiece for Sydney talk-back AM station, 2GB. The call sign owes its provenance to the great Renaissance martyr to freedom of thought, Giodarno Bruno, and Alan Jones wears it like a flag, although I would argue that his particular preoccupation lies more in freedom of speech than freedom of thought, an important distinction too often glossed over in the interminable debate about the effect such "shock jocks" are having on our fragile democracy.

Such public figures assume a position (always on the high ground and well-entrenched) and await the serried ranks of ill-disciplined "bleaters" to come. They, like much of their audience, see themselves as a fixed point on the moral compass, and their opponents as the sorry remnants of some lost tribe of moral equivocators. It is, largely, a battle between the surviving members of the boomer generation that has been spilling over from their campus days these past 40 years. None of it has been particularly fruitful. Quite the contrary. And yet it has continued to dominate public discourse in both Australia and the United States. 

Some weeks ago Alan Jones, at a private function, quipped that the Australian Prime Minister's recently deceased father, John Gillard, had "died of shame" over his daughter's lies in parliament. Whether he went on to itemise these "deathly lies" seems to have been lost in the ether of outrage and invective that followed. His public apology for this thoughtless, heartless comment was a loathsome piece of bus stop sophistry. And yet he is still on air and still ranting against those who would dare to call him to account, espousing the cause of free speech while undermining the cause of freedom of thought and expression by denigrating anyone who dares to part from the dominant paradigm of his target audience.




But it behoves Bluepepper to acknowledge the enduring grievance of this sizeable demographic of older, well-heeled Australians against the perceived dominance of a progressive slant in public discourse that in one way or another appears to threaten, not only their future prosperity, but the legitimacy of their collective past. The carbon tax is merely the latest and most salient example of a trend amongst Western democracies to unsettle those who thought they had bought sole rights to the apple cart. 

The American Tea Party movement has played on this, although inevitably the movement has devolved into a last gasp for the GOP as the party of the "white", rather than as the guardian of the values that made the US the astonishing melting pot it is today. It has been just as difficult, nigh on impossible, for Barack Obama to list his successes in this wind tunnel of invective as it has been for the federal Labor Party of Australia, the "wonder downunder". And yet the far right are able to play the victim card with impunity because they are able to project themselves as the mouthpiece of the "forgotten people", the "silent majority", that Thylazine otherwise known as the middle class.

And I blithely signed a petition confirming them in their victim hood, dear reader, oblivious to their tragic destiny as "fringe dwellers" of the cultural paradigm for the steadier part of a roiling century. Forget, if you can, Celine, Malaparte, Bukowski, Pound, Larkin, Lowell et al. Alan Jones and his ilk do not favour the nuanced thinker, whether right or left. Nor, dare I say, do his more vocal protractors who have once again played politics with my conscience. But I guess that's the point. 






Tuesday, October 02, 2012

Call out from Kit

Call for Poems for an English / Chinese parallel text anthology of Australian and New Zealand Poetry for Children and Young Adults


ASM / Flying Islands are now calling for contributions for a new project – a bilingual parallel text volume of Australian and New Zealand Poetry for Children and Young Adults. Deadline for contributions is Sunday December 2 nd, 2012. (Please feel free to send work as soon as you have it to hand!) Previously published work is acceptable, but in this case please provide the proper accompanying acknowledgements. It is hoped that selection of poems to be published will be made by the end of the year, that translation processes will be completed in the first half of 2013, and that the book will be published (initially by ASM in Macao) by the end of 2013. No payment is offered for inclusion in the volume, but if it is possible to sell it on to a Mainland, Taiwan or Singapore publisher, then payment/royalties arrangements would be negotiated at such a time.

Please send contributions to me (KitKele at umac dot mo) in word file attachments. Please identify the project (ANZ poems for the young Chinese reader) and your name in the subject line of the email and in the title of the file you are sending. Please include contact details and a short biographical note in your word file with your poem/s. It will be helpful if you can include notes for the translator to accompany the poem (though please note that it is not our intention [at this point in time] to publish these with the volume. Your notes may however be helpful in the translation process).