"Apparent" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

Apparent

"Parent & Child" Watercolor on Paper
by J. Artemus Gordon

Eric McHenry

In memory of Evan, four or five years old

If it had been an open

window you would’ve kept

walking, but because

it was sun-puzzled glass

you saw me through, you stopped

halfway across the yard,

and squinted through the glare,

and waved, and seemed to wait

for something else to happen,

and finally it became

apparent that it had

already, and that you

were being kept from what

you’d been about to do

by nothing, and you gave

me one more gentle wave —

I’m here, you’re there —

and left me in my frame.

Poet’s Notes: I don’t think I’ll ever write a poem that successfully conveys the broken-openness and vulnerability of being a parent but I plan to keep trying. 

Editor’s Note:  I enjoy how “apparent” is a clever play on “a parent”.  “Apparent” was first published in Seattle Review. 

"How to Steal the Laptop of Your Childhood Nemesis" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

How to Steal the Laptop of Your Childhood Nemesis

"Sneak" Watercolor on Paper, by J. Artemus Gordon

Eric McHenry

She keeps a spare key in a hollow rock

outside the kitchen door she doesn’t lock.

Her lights are on. Her sheltie is all talk.

You shouldn’t need the code for the alarm

(1234) because she tried to arm

the thermostat again. You’re getting warm.

Her master suite smells like a Hallmark store.

Her vanity is huge. Try to ignore

the fact that everything’s a metaphor

and that I’ve let you walk right into it.

Blow out the Yankee Candles she left lit.

Take in the master bathroom. Take a shit.

Flush resolutely. Agitate the handle.

Refill the Softsoap. Light a Yankee Candle.

Her MacBook Pro is hiding, like the Grail,

in plain sight; anyone but you will fail

to realize it’s not a bathroom scale.

Open her desktop. Close her Yahoo! Mail.

She keeps her recent photos in a folder

called “Photos.” Click a thumbnail and behold her

in sunlight, in a champagne off-the-shoulder

sheath wedding dress, fussed over by attendants.

She’s forty and has come into resplendence

like an inheritance, like heirloom pendants

flattering ear and flawless collarbone.

I should have told you, or you should have known,

that she has changed the most and aged the least

of all your enemies, her face uncreased

by laughter, worry, shame, or self-denial.

Those are her cheekbones. That’s her cryptic smile.

Those are her footsteps on the kitchen tile.

Poet’s Notes: One day I asked my students to pretend to know how to do something (land a helicopter, restore a painting, fillet a stingray) and then write a poem that gives the reader instructions. As it was an in-class assignment, I started writing one of my own. This was the eventual result.  “How to Steal the Laptop of Your Childhood Nemesis” was first published in Slate.

"The Darker Grass" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

The Darker Grass

Eric McHenry

You hate the easy things to hate:

new buildings and the weird materials

they’re made from (gypcrete, carbon fiber, foam),

5-Hour Energy, four-dollar gas,

"Blight" Graphite and Watercolor on Paper by J. Artemus Gordon

the newness of the sacrificial grass

in medians, the new arterials

that in another month will narrow

to two lanes so that crews can widen them

to six lanes so that you won’t have to wait

your turn to wait your turn for a turn arrow.

You’ll drive an extra mile to do your driving

through parts of town that pose no threat of thriving,

which means you’ve started seeing more

of your old neighborhood, which makes you wonder

if architects are ever paid to render

houses in hypothetical decline,

because that might have helped prepare you for

the seeding lawn, the 6 that’s now a 9,

the deposed mini-dish, the single shutter,

the notice Scotch-taped to the door,

the doorless frame, the deviating gutter,

the misaligned and multicolored shingles,

the spraypaint flourishes, the altered angles

of everything including your old block

and your old house, which now looks like a stock

photo from an Economist article

on houses that are worth less than the cost

of razing them. If there’s a troubled ghost

that haunts that groaning storybook, it’s you.

How many midnights have you drifted through

its seven rooms? How long do you intend

to keep your vigil at that particle-

board windowpane before you apprehend

the lost colonial across the street,

the one that overlooked the neighborhood

paternally and got out while it could,

its front walk still advancing through the grass

in concrete increments to meet

the darker grass where the foundation was?

Poet’s Notes: This is another poem I wrote after moving back to my hometown. A front walk leading to a house that had been demolished was the image that got it going. 

Editor’s Note:  Housing and neighborhood “blight” is a real and pressing issue in many cities, including Kansas City, the major city closest to my home.  For a sad but true article on this growing problem, see http://www.kshb.com/news/local-news/battling-blight-in-northeast-kansas-city-one-house-at-a-time.  “The Darker Grass” was first published in Salamander.

"The Song of Stationary Nathan" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

The Song of Stationary Nathan

Eric McHenry

AfterYeats

"Berry" Watercolor & Acrylic on Paper
by J. Artemus Gordon

I went out to the maple tree

because a riot was in its head,

and flung a Frisbee at the noise,

but brought a starling down instead,

and laid it in a shoebox nest,

and put some twigs and Skittles in,

and struggled up, and set it back

where I imagined it had been.

As I was shinnying down, I felt

a Skittle windfall on my head.

A skinny girl in red capris

was pelting me with green and red.

She swung her legs and laughed my name,

then disappeared into the crown.

I followed her until the swaying

and broken sunlight brought me down.

Though I am old with waiting here,

and she has grown up and away,

I’ll watch the tossing of those boughs

and catch her silhouette someday,

and we’ll walk lightly up the boughs,

and gather, in eternal June,

the Nilla Wafers of the sun,

the Necco Wafers of the moon.

Poet’s Notes: I love Yeats’ “The Song of Wandering Aengus” so much that I decided to write it again, or to translate it from English into English. 

Editor’s Note:  Yeats’ poem may be found here https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/song-wandering-aengus. “The Song of Stationary Nathan” was first published in Salamander.  

Artist's Note:  Poeticize the rainbow.  Taste the rainbow.

Lana the Poetry Dog Featured in Pet Magazine

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce that our own Lana the Poetry Dog has been featured in Petsmart magazine’s annual “Beauty Issue”, and her glam shot was chosen for the issue’s cover (pictured).  Our editor could not be more proud of his Airedale terrier and was inspired to compose the following haiku to mark the occasion:

my poetry dog

what songs swim in your beast brain

the winter wolves know

"How to Write Autobiography" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

How to Write Autobiography

Eric McHenry

"Pitch" Watercolor on Paper by J. Artemus Gordon

Avoid fried meats which angry up the blood

says Satchel Paige in his memoir, with all

the daffy precision of the troubleball

that left left-handers corkscrewed in the mud.

Presume Kingfish’s innocence. Who’s bringing

the allegation but the alligator?

And who’s that writing? John the Revelator.

Don’t interrupt the blind man when he’s singing.

When writing, say or sing. Improvisation

was your whole life. Authentic is a game

that favors those who throw like trouble, name

like Adam and pronounce like Revelation.

Or fake it. Look at these italics, leaning

hard with the weight of someone else’s meaning.

Poet’s Notes: There’s a famously eccentric series of quotes from Satchel Paige’s autobiography that begins, “Avoid fried meats which angry up the blood.” When I noticed that that was a perfect pentameter, I started writing this poem. It also refers to Amos ‘n’ Andy and the song “John the Revelator” by Blind Willie Johnson. Non-standard English is where all the brilliance is.  “How to Write Autobiography” was first published in Poet Lore.

"Ether Monument" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

"Monument" Watercolor and Graphite on Paper by J. Artemus Gordon

Ether Monument

Eric McHenry

Because he can’t drink at the supper, Shane,

whose habits are the pain they palliate,

is trying not to drop a paper plate

of ravioli, garlic bread, and rain.

Because he can’t drink at the shelter either,

tonight he plans to lay his burden

down like a bedroll in the Public Garden

beside a fountain to commemorate

that the inhaling of ether

causes insensibility to pain.

Poet’s Notes: I remember the poet David Ferry who with his wife Anne used to run a free weekly supper for street people in a Boston church basement, telling me that many homeless alcoholics won’t sleep in shelters because they can’t drink there. At the time, I lived in an apartment near both the church and the Public Garden where the Ether Monument stands — a fountain and statue built in the late 19^th century to honor the development of anesthetics. The inscription on the monument is comprised of the poem’s final lines. 

Editor’s Note:  This poem reminds me of another interesting and ironic fact about the homeless--the value they place upon clean socks.  I once read an article about an activist for the homeless who always carried pairs of new socks with her in her purse and car.  When approached by a homeless person, she would offer a pair of socks.  The street vagabonds, grifters, scammers, con artists, and drug addicts would refuse the gift.  Once one even betrayed himself by saying, “I have plenty of socks at home.”  Real homeless people, this activist found, would gratefully accept the socks and put them on their feet immediately.  “Ether Monument” was first published in Poetry International.

Artist's Note: Pictures of the Ether Monument were used as reference material for this piece. This is the first time I've really combined graphite with my watercolor. I enjoy the effect and may use it more later.

"Misreading Pennsylvania" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

Misreading Pennsylvania

Eric McHenry

When the seventh salvo of silver flashes

cued the blue floaters for the seventh time,

blotting the smaller letters from their sashes,

I mispronounced “Miss Reading” — made it rhyme

"Mystic Pennsylvania" Watercolor on Paper, by J. Artemus Gordon

with “misleading.” Pissed off her press agent,

Miss Information, who steamed out to smoke.

But the style writers covering the pageant

called it an unconscious masterstroke.

So I became the Master of Near Misses.

The work kept coming. “You must be Miss Taken,”

I transproposed to the Pork Products Princess

panel, and you should have seen Miss Bacon.

They ate it up, though. It was liberating.

Within a month I didn’t even need

my malaprompter. Cheating was creating.

Believing anything I couldn’t read

I crushed my quadrifocals. People shed

their crosshairs and acquired a layer of fuzz.

Consequence came uncoupled. What I said

I saw, and what I saw was what I was.

Poet’s Notes: I remember seeing a headline that said something like “Students Accused of Cheating” and misreading it as “Students Accused of Creating.” This poem is a meditation on the ways we improve the world with our mistakes. Its speaker is the emcee of the Miss Pennsylvania pageant, and I’m not sure how that happened, exactly. My wife is originally from Reading, PA, and that fact must have had something to do with it. 

Editor’s Note:  It is no easy task to make a traditional ballad fresh and entertaining.  The sheer number of malapropisms and plays on words ensures that this ballad is the exception.  “Misreading Pennsylvania” was first published in LitRag.

Artist's Note: Cassandra Angst, Miss Pennsylvania 2017, was used as reference for this piece.

"Vanguard" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

Vanguard

Eric McHenry

Here’s what I remember: Coleman Hawkins

and I are sitting at a mahogany table

"Low Point" Watercolor on Paper, by J. Artemus Gordon

in the Village Vanguard, quietly talking.

He’s finished a set in which he was unable

to summon even one unbroken tone

from the bell of his once-clarion saxophone.

But now that’s over and he feels all right.

He’s smoking because he’s wanted to all night,

drinking cloudy cognac from a tumbler

and coughing ferociously; his voice is weaker

than his cough; he’s barely audible, mumbling

to me because he knows I’m from Topeka.

He says, “That’s where I learned to tongue my horn.”

I know, and that’s the only thing I hear.

It’s 1969; in half a year

he’ll be dead. In three years I’ll be born.

Poet’s Notes: Coleman Hawkins spent his early teens in Topeka, and in the mid-’90s I became kind of obsessed with finding his house. Eventually, I tried to write a long poem about the search. This was the last section of it and the only one that survived.

Editor’s Note:  A good poet can twist time to his advantage, creating a four-dimensional experience for the reader.  I especially enjoy the way McHenry does that here.  “Vanguard” was first published in American Literary Review.

"Randy Used the Word" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

"Diverse" Watercolor on Paper, by J. Artemus Gordon

Randy Used the Word

Eric McHenry

When Randy used the word as though

it were a word that anyone might use,

I don’t know what I thought. I flared his cape

with my forearms and shifted in his chair.

I know I didn’t think of Tony’s hair,

a hi-top fade that Randy would have no

idea how to fix. I know I said

nothing, by which I must have meant Continue

filling my ears with trimmings. Dust my nape

with talcum. Offer me impartial views

of both sides of the back of my head.

And outside, let the barber’s pole continue

its reenactment. Let the silver ball recall

the bowl of leeches. Let the helical

progress-illusion of the stripes remain

the blood, the twining bandage, and the vein.

America, and I’m about to talk

directly to the Eric in you,

you had to pay for that one, but

the man you say you mean to be will walk

out of some barbershops with his hair half-cut.

Poet’s Notes: This happened to me when I was 14 or 15: I was getting a haircut, and the barber casually used a racial slur, and I didn’t say anything. A moral test that I failed. I started reading about barber poles while I was writing the poem and was amazed to learn what their colors allegedly symbolize. 

Editor’s Note:  I had a similar experience in my mid-teens in the barbershop of the small town where I was raised.  My barber didn’t say “nigger”, but his offhand comment was racist enough.  I remember feeling infuriated and insulted that he assumed that I would agree with his opinion and wondered if there was anything about me (other than being white and from the same town) that led him to believe that I would go along with him.

I thought about leaving immediately and without paying and with my hair half cut but reconsidered quickly as I realized that my barber and the other shop barber who happened to be his identical twin brother, as well as probably all of the men sitting in the shop waiting for their turns, would take issue--and the brothers at least were armed with razors, and one of those razors was literally at my throat. I wisely chose to ignore the comment, finish my haircut, and leave without tipping never to return.  It took me a long time to find another barber, but fortunately, it was the early 80s, and long hair was in style. 

Was my response a “moral failing” as Eric believes his was?  I don’t think so.  I lived to fight/write another day.  Also, in the words of a wise rabbi, “One is meant to live by the Commandments, not to die by them.” 

Finally, I would like to take this opportunity to comment on “the word”.  Used in the context of quoting someone else, in historical context (ie: Mark Twain’s works), or in a philosophical discussion or essay such as this one, it is (or should be) perfectly polite and right to use the word “nigger”.  Substituting “the N-word” or “the word” as Eric does gives the word “nigger” evil power in the same way that using “you-know-who” instead of “Voldemort” or “Tom Riddle” gave evil power to J. K. Rowling’s dark wizard.  “Randy Used the Word” was first published in Able Muse.

Artist’s Note: For this piece, I decided to focus on the aspect of keeping silent. On the outside people often need to hide their unique thoughts and feelings and put on a veil to fit in with the crowd, sometimes for their own safety.

During my experience in college, if I ever made a comment that went against the general consensus I was met with hostility and threats. This was from both my peers and professors. I eventually learned to keep my mouth shut. Sadly, I had to accept that my college was not an open environment to discuss ideas freely.

FC Reinhart Publishes Poetry Chapbook

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce that Frequent Contributor John Reinhart’s latest poetry chapbook, "screaming", is now available https://www.createspace.com/7397522.

In addition, three new poems by Reinhart appear in Man in the Street's inaugural issue https://www.maninthestreetmag.com/issueone.

FC Pring-Mill Has Been Busy

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce that Frequent Contributor David Pring-Mill has had four poems and an article published in other venues and an additional poem anthologized.

"Vast Spaces" is a philosophical poem about distances, time, and the foundations of the soul. It was published in Poetry Quarterly  https://prolificpress.com/bookstore/poetry-quarterly-c-1/poetry-quarterly-winter-2016-p-199.html.

"Solicitude" is a poem that addresses environmentalist themes. It was also published in Poetry Quarterly https://prolificpress.com/bookstore/poetry-quarterly-c-1/poetry-quarterly-spring-2017-p-214.html.

"Different You" is a prose poem about the ways in which we try to ford the chaos of a tumultuous universe. It is about finding meaning in the meaningless and redrawing the lines between truth and assumption. "Different You" urges the reader to pursue full and relentless immersion in the stuff of life. It can be read in the latest issue of Inwood Indiana https://prolificpress.com/bookstore/inwood-indiana-c-4/the-pop-machine-p-205.html.

"Discovery", a love poem, appears in California's Best Emerging Poets: An Anthology, available through Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Californias-Best-Emerging-Poets-Anthology-ebook/dp/B074LZQLST/.

"Paw Prints in a Concrete Sidewalk", which extrapolates wider meaning from a minute observation, was published in Dual Coast Magazine  http://dualcoastmagazine.com/paw-prints-concrete-sidewalk-david-pring-mill/.

Finally, The National Interest has published David’s journalistic article, "Hyperloop Projects May Be Uniquely Vulnerable to Terrorism" http://nationalinterest.org/feature/hyperloop-projects-may-be-uniquely-vulnerable-terrorism-21781. 

"Because You Asked About the Line Between Prose and Poetry" by Eric McHenry, Guest Contest Judge

Because You Asked About the Line Between Prose and Poetry

Eric McHenry

"Crows" Watercolor on Paper, by J. Artemus Gordon

I’ve seen the local news: it’s prose.

I prefer to look at the big picture

window — not because it shows

events exactly as they happen,

but because of the two recurring crows.

There’s tragic laughter in the way they fly.

Some flaw in their understructure

compensates the most emphatic flapping

with very little loft. One barely goes

over and the other just gets by.

Poet’s Notes: This poem was inspired by Howard Nemerov’s superior poem of the same title and by a big window in the apartment where my wife and I used to live. 

Editor’s Note:  The use of enjambment in the first stanza is masterful.  Splitting “picture” and “window” creates two meanings for “big picture / window” while setting up an intra-line rhyme.  Splitting “shows” and “events” continues an end-of-line rhyme, while lending “shows” two direct objects, “window” and “events”.  I also enjoy the way that “goes”, the last word in the penultimate line, harkens back to the rhymes in the first stanza.  “Because You Asked About the Line Between Prose and Poetry” was first published in Potscrubber Lullabies.  Howard Nemerov's poem may be read here https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/because-you-asked-about-line-between-prose-and-poetry.