"Single-Malt Soul" by James Frederick William Rowe

Single-Malt Soul

James Frederick William Rowe

Upon retirement of a lifelong labour

Do our guardian angels

Imbibe a quaff

From the well of our soul?

We are after all

A fine aged spirit

Matured for years

In the cask of our body

Well made for sipping

The water of life

Would that mine would say:

"Single-malt soul

I shall take you with water

For you, undiluted

Are far too strong for me."

Poet’s Notes:  I take my Scotch whisky neat. That way, I can enjoy it by itself and savour the flavours of the dram in a pure form.  This poem celebrates that love of Scotch and plays upon the double meaning of spirit--as a soul and as the distilled essence of the alcohol. The poem shouldn't give too much difficulty in interpretation but it concerns a guardian angel’s drinking of the speaker’s soul as if his spirit were, in fact, well, a spirit—in this case, a single-malt Scotch.

“Whisky” in Gaelic means “water of life”, and this is likewise reflected in the poem as a play on words given that I am referencing the soul, which endows the body of life with, of course, the “water of life” of the Scotch. In the second stanza, the speaker wishes for the angel to be so impressed by his life that he has to take the dram with water, else the flavour would be overwhelming.

The poem was written rather quickly, but I cannot remember where. There is nothing especially ornate or complex in its structure, but I rather like how it came out.

"Shooting Fish" by Lauren McBride

Shooting Fish

Lauren McBride

When the wind is calm, I like to look

in the glassy pools of Shady Brook.

I'll cast no fly to the fish gliding by,

caught with my camera, not a hook.

Poet's Notes: My father was an avid fisherman. I used to fish with him when I was little. Then I began to enjoy watching fish swim around in the water and felt less inclined to catch them on a pointy hook. Years later and miles away, I started snapping pictures of various fish so I could ask my dad what kind each was.

Somehow, fish photos became the subject of this poem using a form new to me, the gwawdodyn, which I first saw posted on Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog in 2013. Welsh in origin, I became eager to try this form after the Editor introduced me to another Welsh form, the englyn penfyr.  An example of this form may be found here http://www.songsoferetz.com/search?q=englyn+penfyr.

The gwawdodyn is composed of quatrains that require nine syllables per line and hard rhymes for lines 1, 2, and 4. Line 3 must have ten syllables and a different internal rhyme. I started by picking words with lots of rhymes like: fish, fin, tail, cast, glass, but nothing worked until I thought of "hook" then "brook" and "look," and my poem took shape instantly.

"Those Who Seek Nature" by David Pring-Mill, Poet of the Week

Those Who Seek Nature

David Pring-Mill

There are those who seek nature

to set beauty on their irises

with the hope that fantastic views

will be absorbed within,

swirling down their pupils' vortices.

They believe

a sensory bombardment

of clear water, steep stones,

sun-lit crests and foreign cultures

will drive out what is in their minds,

expelling any inferiority

or empty state.

In this fervor for nature,

there is a transparent desire

to make their own beings transparent,

so that nature will be seen through them

and its grandeur will be theirs.

Above my path,

a pumpkin sky was carved,

with slits in clouds.

The orange of these masked heavens

almost seems to hang on the hill.

Brightness remains

on the road, light and dust

becoming silver,

with pretty plants noting

asphalt borders,

in the way an airport at night is seen by

white and blue runway markers.

Here I see Menzies’ Larkspur

with stems dispersed and dried

in deep purple and rich blue,

advancing towards

the burnt-out mountains,

our scorched edge.

I live now, breathless,

for the closing of this day,

with its final enormity.

The enormity of nature

requires a reevaluation of oneself.

The altered sense of scale,

the drunken measurement

of everything, means that the soul

cannot account for itself.

Then the mind becomes

an inspired mathematician

fighting after a new formula.

There is no way around the self,

in the middle of nature, no way

to separate the hike from self-reflection.

Those fleeced nature-lovers

with their Instagram mountain selfies

expose the wild-eyed, insecure

narcissistic streak that runs

deep within man’s search for meaning,

trickling out of philosophical pages;

It is the call of awe

and reimagined purpose.

This world tumbles and smooths

rocks and people alike.

On the edge of a cliff,

I stop, holding

my fingers apart

against the wind and its aroma of pine,

with the narrative of my life

somewhere back

in the right-angular land

and pulsating streets,

where people are trying

desperately to drop

into the depths of the present.

Past lovers allow for an alternate reality,

A plausibility that can’t be challenged.

The smell of hair and sweat

can become sweet things,

sweetened by love or nostalgia.

Past lovers came with different smells,

even different types of clothing and accessories

texturing the half-seen sights of each day,

and certainly would have brought

different conversations full of ideas,

words and consequences.

And yet, within nature, time is mocked.

The wind is deaf to each

history declared.

Nature was injured by people

proclaiming progress

and that idea of progress is rooted in time.

But forests are the same now as they were then,

with ecological adjustments, but still

those trees stand with their superior height,

Still those mountains loom with their craggy might,

And so time disappears within nature

And your own timeline is reconsidered

before dissolving, too.

Poet’s Notes:  Many poems have been written about nature. Artists of all stripes frequently depict nature, the source of boundless inspiration. Tormented people go to nature to be healed. In this poem, I wrote about the psychology underlying those relationships.

Recently, the New York Times published a dual book review written by Charles Petersen, which made interesting commentary upon the history of hiking and the varied motivations of hikers. 34 million Americans go hiking each year. Peterson notes that many authors of works about hiking “take this experience as the occasion for an anguished excavation of [their] past.” Peterson’s article “Take a Hike!” can be read here: http://www.nybooks.com/articles/2017/08/17/take-a-hike-american-trails/.

Editor's Note:  This is David's final appearance in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review.  I am sure that I speak not only for myself that his poetic gift will be dearly missed.  I have invited him to keep us apprised of his future achievements and hope to keep the readers of Songs of Eretz informed of them.

"Soft & Smooth" by David Pring-Mill, Poet of the Week

Soft & Smooth

David Pring-Mill

 

She is soft,

not only

in her body

but throughout her whole presence,

the way she moves and speaks.

The softness of her blonde hair

is also in her voice;

It’s a uniformed existence.

That voice, at times,

comes with a sudden upswell

of pitch, bringing with it

the erratic pressures

of her accent.

After a passionate kiss,

her pale blue

eyes grow wide

and lost in feeling.

Poet's Notes:  "Soft & Smooth" is one of those poems that come most directly from my personal life. As such, it's really just a record of observation, vaguely similar to my poem "Today," which recorded my miscalculation in carrying around an umbrella http://www.songsoferetz.com/2016/06/today-by-david-pring-mill-frequent.html.  Obviously, this poem is romantic whereas "Today" was not, but both works could also have been diary entries if I kept a diary. 

"Is Empathy a Form of Imagination?" by David Pring-Mill, Poet of the Week

Is Empathy a Form of Imagination?

David Pring-Mill

I see strange symmetry

and broken forms:

the processions

of people,

the tombs

of haphazard art.

A cerebral engineer is at work,

rethinking cogs of the world

to assemble it anew.

But do the farthest reaches of mind

also allow for the reaching heart?

Is empathy a form of imagination?

If you can't imagine,

how can you empathize?

If rooms are boring

with fixed forms

and surface feelings,

how can your mind wander

into another perspective?

We imagine, in part

so that we can empathize.

If we accept this as true,

it's ironic

how schools discard

arts and literature,

prescribing other fields

as more practical.

Practical?

How can anything be practiced

if people, trapped in their own heads,

cannot work and dream together?

Poet's Notes:  Many artists are characterized as "bleeding hearts." Perhaps an active imagination leads to a heightened sense of empathy. Of course, artistic passions and empathic causes may also co-occur because people are trying to conform to the mores of existing social groups. This latter explanation is admittedly cynical, suggesting that artists' displays of empathy are disingenuous, whereas the former explanation provides both causality and aggrandizement.  With this poem, I intended to pull at the threads of interesting questions, without entirely unraveling these interwoven psychological yarns.

Editor’s Note:  This is a thought-provoking, activist but not in-your-face treatment of an important subject, especially in these polarized times. 

"Smile" By David Pring-Mill, Poet of the Week

Smile

By David Pring-Mill

Translators struggle to carry

meaning from one language

to another,

Trying to grant justice

to the beauty in words

that bubble up

from the authorial heart

and fizzle in the mind.

How can they ever

achieve this?

Even a smile can be read incorrectly,

with its intentions muddled 

by context, culture, history,

worry, fear, pain!

This messiness is all

we can hope for. 

It is impossible to truly know another person, 

given that we do not truly know ourselves

and exist within a vastness of unknowing.

A person is only regarded and loved

By impressions evoked.

Poet's Notes:  "Smile" is about unknowability and unattainability. Instead of going beyond the limits for revelation, this poem acknowledges the existence of limits and it is this acknowledgment that produces clarity. 

"Bleak" by David Pring-Mill, Poet of the Week

Editor’s Note:  It is with a heavy heart that I must announce that David Pring-Mill, a charter member of the Songs of Eretz Frequent Contributor group, has decided to resign his status as a Frequent Contributor.  Worse still, he told me that he does not expect to write any more poetry in this lifetime--maybe some prose or rhetoric that feels poetic, but not pure poetry.  David intends to channel his creative time and energy toward completing a political documentary and to devote his creative expression to writing persuasive essays and making films.

Songs of Eretz is be honored to be an archival repository of David’s poetic work.  In recognition of his brief but important contribution to Songs of Eretz and the world of poetry and by way of saying farewell, David will be featured as the Songs of Eretz Poet of the Week this week.  It will indeed be “bleak” to lose his strong, lyrical, Whitmanian voice.

Bleak

David Pring-Mill

Lost within foreign geography,

a silver arc of faith

suspends all my frailty,

with the intricate strength

of spider silk.

A bird flies above

the distillation tower

and sealed reactor —

Then onwards,

over some organized mess

of crisscrossing pipes

with endless stacks 

and filtered pressures.

Finally, it lands,

To rest on its perch.

From tips of white flowers,

green décor, and gravely bark,

this yellow-billed kite

launches itself, again

near the margins,

over the slaughterhouse,

Its feathers painted

the beautiful brown

of a rusty blade.

But it is powered by hunger,

desperate for carrion.

The bird searches

Undulating dunes, textured

by the pressures of spirited thumbs.

This desert is a sandy composition,

sung through lines of dry thirst,

with the careful dithering

of classical notes;

Ignited

by auspicious lights,

peeled off the cosmos

like a clementine's loose skin.

All of life is wrapped up

in this desert membrane.

Poet's Notes:  I originally wrote "Bleak" under the title "Jagged Against Reason." In an earlier draft, the poem was about a quarreling and privileged couple humbled by their bleak surroundings while on a foreign trip. In this final draft, the poem has been distilled into a mostly sensory experience, set in the desert, on the edge of industry. I tried to depict hidden beauty as well as the harshness of life.

FC McBride Has A Dozen Poems Published

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce that Frequent Contributor Lauren McBride has had twelve poems published in other venues.

"the neighbors' dog" haiku can be read online in The Heron's Nest http://www.theheronsnest.com/September2017/haiku-p11.html.

"with one puff" haiku appeared in print in the Aurorean, S/S issue http://encirclepub.com/aurorean/home/.

"Beneath This Blood-Red Sun They Come" can be read online in Kaleidotrope http://www.kaleidotrope.net/autumn-2017/beneath-this-blood-red-sun-they-come-by-lauren-mcbride/.

"For in that Sleep, What Nightmares . . ." appeared in print in http://store.albanlake.com/product/illumen-28/.

McBride has one poem each in the July and October issues of Spaceports & Spidersilk http://nomadicdeliriumpress.com/spaceports.htm.

Finally, McBride has six poems in the August issue of Scifaikuest, both in print and online http://store.albanlake.com/product/scifaikuest-57/. 

"Tabernacle Among Stars" by John C. Mannone

Tabernacle Among Stars

John C. Mannone

The sun, a fire-brass peg,

nails the sky dome to horizon;

the tent, stitched with zipper of pines,

shrouded with sheer blue nylon air.

I look out the dome of my great tent

windowing heaven and wonder

who forged the iron suns, hammered

sparks still embering the anvil night.

                            Who made the stars

explode, who left their silver ash

beneath my feet? I sleep to dream

the answers that my grandfathers

knew.

Poet’s Notes: I was traveling south to Chattanooga on I-75 in early November 2007 when the sun appeared just above the horizon, and the sky appeared a beautiful clear blue, while rapidly taking on the hue of twilight. It reminded me of those glorious days of tenting. 

"What He Told Me" by Mary Soon Lee

What He Told Me

Mary Soon Lee

Life is hard,

said my father,

as he apologized

for causing my existence,

for bringing me into a world of sorrow,

and I, who had met only the small sadnesses,

listened, undaunted, each time -- 

how many times? A dozen? More? --

that he said this.

Tell me if you're in trouble,

said my father,

whatever mistake you've made,

I've made worse ones.

But when I was in trouble,

he had left,

because life is hard.

Walk across the ladder,

he told me,

when I was little

and scared to cross

a playground ladder,

scared of falling,

of being hurt.

I walked across the ladder.

I didn't fall.

There are ladders everywhere,

of course, 

and though I've spent

most of my life

on the ground,

it is because of him

that I know myself

capable of climbing.

I burned the candle from both ends,

I made mistakes,

but have no regrets,

he said,

and I (me, myself) have not,

have rarely even lit

the candle.

Use the best glasses,

he said,

when I dropped one.

Don't keep them in a cupboard,

use them everyday.

Those glasses are in my cupboard now,

high up, unused,

but I am thinking

of lighting a candle,

of climbing onto a ladder,

even if it's a small one.

Poet's Notes:  My father grew up in Malaysia, part of the ethnically Chinese minority there, and then went to Dublin to study medicine, where he met my mother. He was a charismatic man, who had a colorful life. ​He was always, always a good father, but not always a good man. He was bolder, braver, and wilder than I am. His death was the first great sadness of my life. 

"Ferris Wheel" by Sierra July

Ferris Wheel

Sierra July

Lighting the background sky

The great wheel spins

Suspending passengers in bliss

Speed unnoticeable

Melting into time's flow

Body and mind high off the ground

Poet's Notes:  Despite having a clown phobia, I've always been fond of carnivals--the smells of cotton candy and popcorn, as well as the gleeful shouts coming from the rides are all a big help. My favorite of the rides is the Ferris wheel, though I've never ridden one. I've always liked seeing the glowing wheel from afar, spinning like its own sort of planet. 

"Silver Maple" by Terri Lynn Cummings

Silver Maple

Terri Lynn Cummings 

Fortune stolen

limbs broken

trunk split

lightning slayed

an elder among 

the flock, fractured

Magnolia, Cherry

and Spruce, blue

sway in sorrow 

for neighbor and nest

abandoned 

to beetles, worms, and ants

All remains 

tuned 

to the pitch of Earth

and the green

tang

of release

Poet’s Notes:  Lightning destroyed a neighbor’s Silver Maple, an old gentleman who anchored their lawn. The family grieved as if the tree were human. In a way, it was, for the tree attended births and birthday parties, graduations, and marriages. The sentinel graced their lives and died, an abrupt departure that reshaped their view, yet continued in the ring of nature. 

A Letter from the Editor to All Contest Participants

Dear Contest Participants,

I am awed and humbled by the level of participation in this year’s Songs of Eretz Poetry Award Contest, our only fundraising event.  It is thanks to you and your generous support that we will be able further our mission to bring a little more good poetry into the world.  

The contest raised enough in donations for the Review to begin offering honoraria to our guest poets at a professional rate beginning in 2018.  “Going pro” should put Songs of Eretz on a trajectory to be on par with the most prestigious literary journals. Furthermore, it is sure to attract guest poets of the utmost quality and refinement to our cause.

This contest saw the return of many loyal friends from previous years as well as an unprecedented number of new voices.  The large number of early entrants, as well as the significant number of poets who entered the contest multiple times, particularly moved me.  The high quality of the work entered was remarkable as well, making my job as preliminary judge difficult--a nice problem!

I hope that all of you enjoyed your contest experience and found the personal feedback on each of your poems to be of some use.  I know that I enjoyed or will enjoy carefully considering and responding to each and every poem that was submitted (there were many last-minute entries that I still look forward to reading).

Kind regards,

Steve

Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD

Editor  

SONGS OF ERETZ CAN'T GROW WITHOUT YOUR SUPPORT!

PLEASE ENTER THE CONTEST 

OR MAKE YOUR YEARLY DONATION TODAY!

THE CONTEST ENDS OCTOBER 15 AT MIDNIGHT CST

Contest Guidelines:

http://www.songsoferetz.com/p/songs-of-eretz.html

For donations, use PayPal.com with Donations@SongsOfEretz.com as the receiving address. The suggested donation is twelve dollars per year for regular visitors to our site, but we will appreciate any lesser amount you can afford to give.

"Falling into Winter" by Lauren McBride

Falling into Winter    

Like powdered sugar

sprinkled on spice cakes -            

brown and russet leaves  

dusted in snowflakes.

--Lauren McBride

Poet's Notes: I love fall when I can fling open the windows and let in the cool crisp air instead of summer's inferno. Then I can use the oven without having the kitchen's accidental space heater overtax the air conditioner. And suddenly I feel the need to bake. Perhaps this is why spice cake came to mind to describe snow falling on autumn leaves.

"Games People Play" by John C. Mannone

Games People Play

John C. Mannone

It’s The Game of Life, but the Trouble is

that we often take Risk without having a Clue.

Silence sometimes dominates: Don’t Break

the Ice or Say Anything, that would be Taboo.

And when we finally speak, there’s no Diplomacy,

what we say to each other is often a Scrabble bunch

of words or simply Balderdash—it’s Apples to Apples

in this Game of Thrones. Why does one or the other

often have Monopoly over the conversation

while the other throws Stick & Stones?

It would be better if we threw Candyland candy canes

or even Chutes and Ladders, they wouldn’t hurt as much.

Sorry, this is a Trivial Pursuit, you can remain

the Mastermind, the Dominant Species. It’s Pay Day

I’m going to Pick Up Sticks and as quick as Jumping Jacks,

Go home. Guess Who is not going to stay

in the Dungeon anymore, no more Twilight Struggles

or night time nightmares. I got a Ticket to Ride.

It’s a game, like Chess, and I just lost my queen.

Poet’s Notes: This is about failed relationships in terms of board games (at least 25 of the 76 most popular ones), as well as a few others. The games are italicized and capitalized. See http://www.listchallenges.com/92-best-board-games-of-all-time.