New Poetry by Sean Wright

Black Snake Driving

We drive

north to the next town;

pass fields of stubble, grey

in late summer heat.

The road slows and stretches out;

a long black snake

basking in the morning sun.

Straight, the ride lulls us

to a meditative state.

Sheep so still, a quick

glance sees them stone;

small granite boulders nosing through

the lee side of the hill.

We drive

north to escape the sense

that standing still

is one foot out of six

beneath the ground.

Road side’s littered with plaques

that mark the resting place

of towns half remembered in

the double barreled names

of the district football teams -

Premiers ‘06,

‘07 and ‘13

We drive

north, the vista

never seems to change

but ruined farmsteads

claw up from the scrub;

each year sees them less

above ground than before.

Limestone monuments

forestalling the end of a dream.

We drive

north and the next

town feels just like

the one we left behind.

Familiar looks in faces

resigned to settling down.

Dusty streets, shriveled

grass, young children marched

off to a school

that bears family names

on halls, fund raised

playground sets

and clay-brick memorials

We drive on

and on, that long black snake

to feel it curve back
upon itself.

- Sean Wright 2016

SB Wright was born in Nhulunbuy, Arnhem Land, though most of his life has been spent in Alice Springs. A graduate of NTU he has spent his adult working life as a security guard, a martial arts instructor, a trainer in an international gaming company and as a secondary school teacher.

His work has been published in Tincture Journal, INDaily Adelaide, Eureka Street,  A Hundred Gourdes and the Anthologies: The Stars Like Sand, 50 Haikus and the forthcoming Poetry & Place (2015).

A Selection from "Engraft" by Michele Seminara

Dog

Pulled forth by a line
of scent, the dog’s snout snakes
through hissing grass —

I jerk his neck, master 
to slave, and drag him
from shit’s wonderment.

On brighter days he’s free to sniff:
when the wind’s not wet 
and the ground’s not mud 
and the children snooze 
and the drudge is done
and my mind’s been set free —

When my head’s
been buried long enough 
in the cool green strands 
of its siren-muse, 
burrowing to inhale
the prized and pungent self.

Pulled forth by a line
of scent, my furtive soul craves 
closet verse —

World jerks my neck, master  
to slave, and drags me
from word’s wonderment.

- Michele Seminara 2016

Michele Seminara is a poet and managing editor of online creative arts journal Verity La (http://verityla.com/, @VerityLa). Her first poetry collection Engraft (Island Press, 2016) was recently launched in Sydney by Martin Langford and will be launched in Newcastle by Anne Walsh on Feb 29, 7:30pm, at Poetry At The Pub (Wickham Park Hotel, Cnr of Maitland Road & Albert St, Wickham). She will also be reading (along with the other Island Press poets — Les Wicks, Mark Roberts, David Gilbey and Lauren Williams) in Melbourne on Saturday 19 March, 2pm, at the Dan O'Connell Hotel (225 Canning St, Carlton).

Michele blogs at TheEverydayStrange (http//wordpress.com/stats/micheleseminara. Wordpress.com) and is on Twitter @SeminaraMichele.

Copies of Engraft ($20) can be purchased by cheque from http://islandpress.tripod.com/ISLAND.htm or directly from Michele via Paypal or direct credit by contacting micheleseminara@hotmail.com.

New Poetry by Thomas Lequin

Solitude

I let her in for the

winter, Solitude.

She arrives in December

and stays till May.

She likes the basement best,

seated by the wood stove

in a rocking chair.

Wind, ice storms, nor’easters—

below twenty degrees

she seems more present,

more quiet.

Every so often

she falls asleep.

When she wakens thereafter,

startled and chilled,

more wood is needed.

- Thomas Lequin 2016

Thomas Lequin is a priest in Maine, who is also a farmer, Maine Master Guide, hunter, fisherman, and poet.  His work has recently appeared in Iodine Poetry Journal, Anglican Theological Review, Iconoclast, Echoes, The Whirlwind Review, The Daily Bulldog, Church World, A Parallel Universe, The Alembic, and an anthology of contemporary animal poetry, The Wildest Peal (Moon Pie Press), 2015.

New Poetry by John Swain

The Threaded Loop

Gown of salmon and mantelet

over the coast

she shoulders with the winter sun. 

I finger a pearl clasp through

the threaded loop

and then her back shows, descending

into the sea. 

Running with a chasing wind

behind the elk,

her death day split my tongue

into ribs and flint

to give the timber wolf 

of the forest and mountain cloud

bleeding the fawn on the ground.

The wild light shines

without our prayers or offering,

I will still keep hers

in a metal box of smooth beach stones

and torn cloth and knife teeth

singing to the killed

we will be alone. 

- John Swain 2016

John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky, USA.  Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.  

New Poetry by Michael Keshigian

Settling

They did what they desired,

pursued a dream until it evaporated,

relinquishing then

to the arduous commerce of acquisition,

allowing sorted perspectives

and temperaments of trophy representations

to infiltrate an idyllic affection

that long ago dwindled

behind the guise of co-existence.

And now, they are here,

at a table of ruin,

years of routine impossible to amend.

Dinner is served,

the baked salmon drowns

in the clear glass lake of the plate,

the wine’s bouquet has wilted.

It has been decided,

the present has its promise,

it yields a blessing,

no expectation, no loss,

yet a place to go,

vague reasons to remain.

Creature comforts have

no hearts to break.

- Michael Keshigian 2016

Michael Keshigian’s tenth poetry collection, Beyond was released May, 2015 by Black Poppy.  He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals, appearing as feature writer in over a dozen publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations.

New Poetry by David Ades

Whether or Not They Will Ever Understand

The man tries to solve himself.

He breathes himself in and out, full of being.

He speaks the stories of himself,

shares them, listens to their echoes returning,

folding and unfolding himself

over and over like a worn map.

The woman picks at locks, listens

with her inner ear, looks with her third eye

but cannot reconcile herself to her reflection,

the way a stranger peers back at her,

image not conforming to the image

in her mind. Strangers to themselves,

they can only be strangers to each other,

each one a puzzle, an enigma, unsolvable,

and oh, their children, their burdened children.

- David Ades 2016

David Adès is a Pushcart Prize nominated Australian poet living in Pittsburgh since 2011. He is the author of Mapping the World (Friendly Street Poets / Wakefield Press, 2008) commended for the Anne Elder Award 2008, and the chapbook Only the Questions Are Eternal (Garron Publishing, 2015). David’s poems have appeared widely in Australia and the U.S. in publications including over 20 of the Friendly Street Readers, and numerous literary magazines and have also been widely anthologized, most recently in Verse Envisioned: Poems from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and Works of Art They Have Inspired. In 2014 David was awarded the inaugural University of Canberra Vice-Chancellor’s International Poetry Prize and was also shortlisted for the Newcastle Poetry Prize.

New Poetry by Gregg Dotoli

Approach

Relearn the approach toward word
Like the bread-handed child coaxing a bluejay
For the feather and blue close-up
to satisfy his curious nature
to get peace-close
to observe not cull
that child is pure in objective
and sincere in goal
but becomes polluted and eco-aloof
time sheds innocence
instills neglect towards nature
like our empty approach to climate-wreck
animals and plants wordlessly weep
Nero fiddled while Rome burned
and we look away as nature dies
Relearn the approach toward word
get peace-close to word
accept waning nature , man as viral polluter
Earth
this is our circle, every point
words deny, nature never lies


- Gregg Dotoli 2016

Gregg Dotoli lives in New York City area and has studied English at Seton Hall University. He works as a white hat hacker, but his first love is the arts. His poems have been published in, Quail Bell Magazine, The Four Quarters Magazine, Calvary Cross, Dead Snakes, Halcyon Magazine, Allegro Magazine, the Mad Swirl, Voices Project, Writing Raw and Down in the Dirt.

New Words and Images by Wayne H. W Wolfson

 Splinter

The stairs wound tightly and to the left but doing so at their own tempo. The fact that they were not quite narrow enough prevented anyone from describing them properly as winding.

Regardless of whether it was day or night, there was little light to be had so that were any of the tenants asked, each would give a different answer as to what color the plaster walls were.

There was one point where the stairs, shortly before the first floor truly began their curve, happening immediately before the landing.  It created an almost optical illusion, a cracked plaster wall jutting out to block any further progress.

 In general I never took the stairs too fast but years of living in the same place had taught me to maintain a steady, set motion as to not feel the effects of my ascent until at my door.

Immediately in the spot after the illusion was where Nadjet had decided to sit, one step below the first of those to creak, “night out on the town” shoes in her hand.

I had almost actually almost tripped over her. She had taken her shoes off in the foyer. The hour being late, heels on the stairs informing all of her return as she passed each floor being preferably avoided.

 A splinter had painfully lodged itself on the underside of her big toe. It was not that she was going to remove the wood here, the hour and alcohol mixed with the initial surprise so that she had taken a seat to momentarily catch her breath.

She started to say something, witty banter eluding her. She instead let out a gentle purr like sound. I reached down my hand to help her up.

 I knew that I always looked best in bar light. Night, its’ cousin did not want to play favorites, her in the stairwell, she looked good, someone’s heart’s desire.

We both once again began our climb. I took the lead. Several times her palm found the small of my back by way of preventing herself from face-planting. I knocked my shins on a few steps and was sure that tomorrow would find a trail of my palm prints on the wall where I had righted myself.

 Her door was opposite mine. Once again to save money on light bulbs the concierge had “accidentally” turned off the light on our landing so that my key could not find the door.

Nadjet laughed.

“C’mere, I have some matches.”

She lit one to open her door first.

“Come in for a drink?”

Our apartments were the same size but hers was in a perpetual state of disarray which made it seem smaller.

She let her dress fall to the floor. Now only in a cream colored slip so worn out that there were shiny spots marking where the once soft material had given up, she crossed the living room. Two steps and she grimaced as her big toe reminded her of its invader.

 I was asked to help her. We went into the bathroom. I sat on the lip of the tub, using the sink to balance herself, she extended her barefoot towards me.

“Do you see anything?”

I did. There was a thick muted brown streak. My fingertip tickled the spot but felt nothing but skin, it had burrowed. Opening her medicine cabinet she found a safety pin. Running the hot water for a moment the pin was slowly passed back and forth under the tap before violently shaking it dry with several flicks of her wrist.

 She switched positions. Now, putting the bad foot up on the sink, bending forward so that chin almost touched knee and the ghost of Degas’ ballet dancers were conjured up. I had to guide her hand to the top of the streak.

 She began rooting around with the pin. Distantly, it reminded me of a childhood surgery.

“Jesus, look at you, you’re white as a sheet. Got it, let’s get those drinks.”

She let the water blast her toe for a moment and this time it was my turn to follow her.

I was handed a glass. She peered over the top of hers at me. Her lipstick was perfect for the shape of her mouth, its color the same as that of petals about to fall off a flower.

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2016

www.waynewolfson.com

New Poetry by Carolyn Gelland

AMBULANCE

Magician, how

did a silk scarf

hide in the hollows

in my heart muscles,

a magic carpet

that eased from its echo chamber,

sparks here and there.

An angel with

whistles for wings

is going nowhere fast

as the ambulance speeds up

to make

telephone poles

a solid valley

of burning crosses.

- Carolyn Gelland 2016

Carolyn Gelland’s two collections of poems are Dream-Shuttle (2013) and Four-Alarm House (2012).  She grew up in Europe and in New York City where she worked as a translator from Norwegian and ran a small art gallery.  She and her husband, poet Kenneth Frost, moved to rural Maine to focus on writing poems.

New Poetry by Martin Christmas

Beach Collection

Into the oily swell

the sun drops

it’s day end heat.

A kite’s rustle sound manoeuvres

wheeling and soaring

like a colourful eagle hawk

tethered to the sand.

Overhead, a lone gull flies

out of touch, calling . . .

until again, the flock

connects.

They fly low across the sand

caught in silhouette

against the failing light . . .

seasoned travellers

on the beach run.

The twin helix trails

spew across the

sun spent sky . . .

flashing beacon lights . . .

passengers sipping wine. 

- Martin Christmas 2016

Martin Christmas has an M.A. in Australian Cultural Studies and is an Adelaide based performance poet, photographer and professional theatre director. He was a Friendly Street Poets mentored poet in 2012 and has been published in several anthologies. He teaches presentation elements to young spoken word poets and established poets. 

Vale Stevie Plunder (1963-1996)

Twenty years ago yesterday the Sydney music scene lost one of its most dynamic performers and talented songwriters. I am referring, of course, to Stevie Plunder, aka Anthony Hayes, who left us suddenly only a short drive from where I am writing. Stevie hailed from a large Catholic Canberra family who still punch well above their weight in the local music scene, with brothers Bernie, Pat and Justin all continuing to carve out a special niche in an increasingly crowded space. As one of the founding members of Newtown outfit The Whitlams, Stevie was thrust for a time into the pop limelight, a situation he was never completely comfortable with. But my memory of him will always be perched on that rickety stool beside his brother, Bernie, Tuesday nights at the Sandringham Hotel in Newtown under the moniker "The Gruesome Twosome". The song, "Pass the Flagon", that I have posted in the sidebar was a staple of those wonderful evenings, and I am merely one of hundreds of people who were lucky enough to be there and who continue to cherish the memory. Thank you Stevie my friend!

Although people continue to speculate why this shining, warm, funny, generous soul left us when he did, I hope you will indulge me, dear reader, while I celebrate this unique presence in the Australian (and more particularly the Newtown) music and arts scene of the 1980's and 90's. Vale Stevie! May your spirit prevail!

New Poetry by Peter Venable

Slow Motion 

A shadow sliding on an afternoon wall is slow 

Slow is glass flowing in colonial houses 

A sixty month stretch at Riker’s is slow 

Slow is squeezing an ice cube until it melts 

A food line at a refugee camp is slow 

Slow is a man on his walker at the Y indoor track 

A kidney stone squeezing through a duct is slow 

Slow is seven cycles of chemotherapy 

A dusk to dawn vigil in candlelit sanctuary is slow 

Slow is 21,600 seconds skewered on a cross

- Peter Venable 2016

Peter Venable, the author has written poetry for over 50 years and some are inspired out of (his) "monsters of the Id", a Forbidden Planet line. 

 

 

Break a leg, Michele!

We get a lot of flyers at Bluepepper, often from poets who seem to regard us as some sort of free community billboard. It isn't, at least not for poets from whom we otherwise never hear. 

Michele Seminara is emphatically not one of these. Not only is she a regular contributor, but she is also one of those rare beings, an effective and no fuss literary facilitator through her work at the august Verity La, while also being a very very good poet. We don't tend to encounter these in the poetry wilds too often. Oh yes, and she is, by all accounts, a damn nice person to boot. 

Thus it is with the greatest pleasure that we post the flyer for Michele's inaugural book launch below....

Dear friends,

 It’s been a steep learning curve but after a year of furious scribbling, editing and proofreading my first poetry collection, Engraft, is finally a reality! I’m honoured to join the stables of Island Press, Australia’s oldest surviving poetry imprint, which for forty-five years have been publishing some of Australia’s finest poets.

 As we all know, financially, writing and publishing poetry is a thankless task, fuelled primarily by passion. That’s why the support of readers is so important!

 It would great if you could come and celebrate the launch of my first book, and in the process support the continuing activity of Island Press. If you can’t make it, copies of Engraft can be ordered using the form below.

 A free copy of a previous Island title is yours with every book purchased at the launch. Children are more than welcome to attend so long as they are under the direct supervision of an adult.

 Hope to see you there!

 Michele

 (Invite and details below. Feel free to pass it on!)

ENGRAFT

Michele Seminara’s first poetry collection Engraft explores the darker aspects of the human psyche and relationships. This debut collection by a strong new poetic voice is being launched by distinguished poet Martin Langford. 

Some commentary on Engraft:

“Engraft is a masterwork. Seminara's deep gift lies in her fusion of the viscera of life with a transcendent poetic vision. By turns terrifying and tender, loving and lost, Seminara is a major new voice in contemporary poetry.” –Charles Bane, Jr.

“Michele Seminara’s analytic prayers, domestic fables and eloquent centos work their ludic wit and charms in the house of loss and disturbance. She is not afraid to say ‘beauty’ in the language of economy engrafted with careful flourishes.” –Michelle Cahill

"Engraft is chock-full of tender, brave poems with emotional depth. Seminara's work displays control, deft pacing, and a fierce commitment to witness with clear eyes the horrors we commit upon ourselves and each other. A book filled with variety and surprise which you will want, and need, to return to many times." –Melinda Smith

ALSO LAUNCHING ON THE DAY

Les Wicks’ Getting By Not Fitting In – the 13th book 

by one of Australia’s most well loved and respected poets.

Launched by Chris Mansell

We are having a launch for both books at:

Friend in Hand Hotel

58 Cowper St, Glebe

(upstairs bar)

Saturday 6th February 2.30pm

For details ring 0414 767 089

...........................................................................................

If you can’t make it you may wish to order a copy (or more!)

I wish to order (       ) copies of Engraft at $20.00 each.

Name & Address................................................

                             ................................................

                             ................................................

Cheques should be made payable to Michele Seminara & sent to 1 Seebrees St, Manly Vale, NSW 2093. Contact micheleseminara@hotmail.com to order via paypal or direct credit. 

You can also order direct from Island Press at 29 Park Rd, Woodford NSW 2778. 

http://islandpress.tripod.com/ISLAND.htm

New Poetry by Jim Conwell

Clearing, off Nordic Drive

The wind has picked up and

is passing through the trees like

freight on the move, whilst

a tiny sparrow works the leaf mould at

the foot of the nearest oak,

it’s dark trunk going straight up to

where the light is most abundant.

Unwitnessed, the

logs over there across

the clearing would

continue to lie,

the symbiotic processes of decay would

still move inside them. Sometimes

the wind would pick up to

a fury and another tree would

go over or simply die from

natural causes. The branch that

has fallen near the corner of

the deck would still

rear up until

its body became too soft to

bear its weight and

it fell prone on

the leaf mould, rolling

sideways a little before

coming to rest again.

Over time, and unwatched, this

clearing would slowly fill with

growth.

- Jim Conwell 2016

With an original background in Fine Art, Jim Conwell has worked in mental health for thirty years. He has had poems published in magazines in the UK, Ireland, and North America and had two poems shortlisted in the Bridport Poetry Prize 2015. He lives in London.

New Poetry by James Walton

At Cumberland River

At Cumberland River
our love burnt itself out
we fucked ourselves senseless
there where the cabins hid away
between the declining sea and track

Now Otways fires
lick around those memories
receding into themselves unquiet
like pages of tumbling favourites loose
among themselves in an unforgiving too hot wind

Blowing open blowing closed
scorched remnants have their say
dropping parachutes of silky words
trying to make a landing of pillowy remorse
where we laid bare the wide brim of what had been


- James Walton 2016

James Walton lives in the Strzelecki Mountains in South Gippsland, Australia. He has been published in The Age and Sydney Morning Herald newspapers, and many journals and anthologies. He has been short listed twice for the ACU national Literature Prize, is a double prize winner in the MPU International Poetry Prize, and Specially Commended in The Welsh Poetry Competition.  His collection ‘The Leviathan’s Apprentice’ is available. He’s been a Librarian, bred Salers cattle, and was a public sector union official for many years.

New Poetry by Ted Bookey

FOR EVA MIODOVNIK OPPENHEIM (1931-2014)

                  —Not just any death

As I have lost the previous generation, one after another,

I cried, “I do not want to be one of the elephants

left in charge of memory and the family stories,

who receives all the confidences.”  And now I am

one of the few left of my own generation.

All around us the feeling of life slipping away.

So much loss suffered.  Wanting to hold onto

every minute, to stop complaining, reassure

all those we love.  It can all disappear

in the blink of an eye.

I stroke the dog, she wags her tail.  The cat

lashes hers.  I too would love to experience

the innocence our pets have

rather than this death-

obsessed human mind.

I think I had that innocence and sense

of certainty long ago, when people

still kept being born

into my life, instead

of leaving it.

- Ted Bookey 2016

Ted Bookey’s Collected Poems With a W/hole in One, 1970-2010 was published in 2010 by Moon Pie Press.  Originally from New York City, he now lives in Maine, where he teaches both poetry and humor in the Senior College program at the University of Maine at Augusta.  He is the author of four books of poems, translations with his wife Ruth of the poems of Erich Kastner, and several plays that have been produced in Maine and off-off Broadway.

New Poetry by Tim Staley

Today They Open the Rio Grande   

                               - for Jon

Today they open the river

dusty arteries charge

as the old farmer in coveralls

races to the red wheel

to twist his own fields

full of muddy water.

Draped in his barn

under a heavy brown canvas

is a coffin lined with velvet

plump as ripe mulberries

but Jon, that’s not for you.

The moon like a tumor

grown to be sliced away.

The current says, I'll let you be,

to the cobweb in the reeds.

Each is impressed

with the other's impermanence.

Hold today’s Rio in your brain

rolling high in the grassy banks

on the gurney when they roll you in

like the Sea of Tranquility

holds that last gist of light

in its darkest hour. 

- Tim Staley 2016

Tim Staley was born in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1975. He completed a Poetry MFA from New Mexico State University in 2004. His first full-length volume of poetry is forthcoming from Pski’s Porch Publishing. His chapbooks are available for purchase at the Grandma Moses Press online store. Journal publications include Border Senses, Cacti Fur, Canary, Chiron Review, Circumference, Coe Review, Malpais Review, Magnapoets, RHINO: The Poetry Forum, and Sin Fronteras. His hobbies include thinking, taquitos, and waiting. Actually, just taquitos.  He lives with his wife and daughter in Las Cruces, New Mexico.

New Poetry by Robert David Verdon

real

looking through a cracked window,

always in my own light

… a striped iceberg light,

a strange arpeggio

a lightning flash hissing close

in its own light

light and life is too much for me

suicide is meaningless

I wish my critics only immortality

- Robert David Verdon 2016

New Poetry by Emily Hart

1)

following the bees

they played violins
as we hunted yellow rockets
always calling us on
until we reached
a low stone wall
much worn by sitting
for concerts such as these.

2)

summer dried

long after you had gone
back
to old places
and people
whose burrs you could not pull
out of your mind
i drank tea
made from the blackberry leaves
we picked the day you pulled
a trailer of thorns
from my hair.

3)

then rise

birds make good use
of my failed baking experiments
and the loaves that go stale
before i can finish them
at my solitary table.
they cover the crumbs
like leaves covering
the ground after a storm,
then rise
as the light explodes from jewels.
next baking day
i will give the birds
my best loaf,
fresh and warm.


- Emily Hart 2016

Emily Hart's work has appeared in literary magazines such as Denali. Groundwaters, A Room Of One's Own, At The Crossroads, Fireweed and others under various pens.  In addition to poetry she has won awards in short fiction, essay, and drama. After much wandering Emily has settled in southern Oregon. Really.  Truly.

New Poetry by T.F. Rice

GRIEF AND PARKING VIOLATIONS

We use the same word
for tipping to and fro
as for a piece of
earth heavy and still.
Even rocks move.

I hear in the desert
the wind pushes them
slowly for miles.

You rock. You're the best.
You're awesome,
but don't get a
parking violation
in life.

Even rocks move.

Rock on. Keep moving,
even if only to let
the wind have you
for a while.

- T.F. Rice 2016
 

T. F. Rice lives in Western New York State with her family and with her creative clutter. Like everyone else, she is trying to find the right mix of work and play. Rice edits the long-running small press publication The Other Herald. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Earth's Daughters and Poieses.