"Hesitance At Camlann" by Alessio Zanelli

Hesitance At Camlann

Alessio Zanelli

Blunt is the edge,

Pointless – the blade,

Aeruginous – the hilt.

Vanished – the brilliance

Of the steel forged

By sage and benign hands,

When time was puling

Inside the cradle.

Dissolved – the glitter

And the fury of the eyes,

Exhausted – the vigil

For the crunch, that be

With nobody but ourselves.

We like to believe

That outside in the mist

Mordred’s dusky ranks

Eagerly await us.

The combat is lost

Even sooner than fought,

Should we not admit

That our only sacrilege

Was but that of sticking

To our enemy’s figment,

Of reputing ourselves undying

In our deeds’ recollection,

And of disowning in the end

Our ordinary caducity.

A long time we will wait

For a chief who does exist

But within the powdery coffer

Of our time-worn vagaries.

Our aimless arms and banners

Will taint and crumble

To imperceptible dust.

Our certainties will fade away

Like shadows at nightfall.

We will be left alone

With our extinct, sterile ardor.

Mordred and his evil troops

Will have been awaiting in vain.

Poet's Notes:  According to Annales Cambriae and later chronicles, at Camlann (an uncertain place somewhere in England, maybe today’s Queen Camel in Somerset) King Arthur allegedly fought his last battle, against the troops led by his treacherous son of incest Mordred, during which they wounded each other mortally. I’ve always regarded the Arthurian Saga as a monumental allegory not only of the struggle between good and evil but of human existence in its entirety. In turn, I took inspiration from this momentous episode, Arthur’s final epic deed, using it as a metaphor for our continued struggle against doubt and fear, and for our endless battle against imaginary or unidentified enemies. So many times we think we’re fighting something real, be it opposing people or adverse circumstances, only to discover little by little that we’re just chasing ghosts, and that if enemies actually exist, they often hide inside ourselves.

Editor’s Note:  This one reminds me of one James Rowe penned in 2014, "Everywhere the Serpent Slain" http://www.songsoferetz.com/2015/06/everywhere-serpent-slain-by-james.html, one of the best and most important poems I have ever read.  The United States are facing this challenge right now, starring Donald Trump as the faithful, fearless, but tainted King Arthur with the faded Declaration of Independence as his shield and the tattered Constitution as his sword, versus progressivism--the Constitution’s incestuous love child.

"Take a Minute To Not Breathe" by Lauren McBride

Take a Minute To Not Breathe

Lauren McBride

Please take a minute 

to not breathe.

One minute of your day -

sixty seconds.

Now three deep breaths - 

inhale, exhale, again and hold . . .

lungs full, diaphragm strong, heartbeat steady.

1,2,3 starting off easy

            croup, asthma, cystic fibrosis

4,5,6 seconds speeding by 

                 pertussis, pneumonia, tuberculosis

10, 15 seconds ticking slower 

                      pulmonary edema, emphysema, COPD 

             

20, 25 straining now

                                lung cancer, idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis

30, 35 heart racing

                  coughing, choking, short of breath, respiratory arrest

40, 50 lungs burning, diaphragm twitching 

            inhaler, bottled oxygen, ventilator

60 seconds 

Now breathe!

Inhale. Exhale.

Again. Breathe deeply 

in and out,    in   and   out

and be grateful

that you can.

Poet's Notes:  My father died of IPF, Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. From diagnosis to death: five years, exactly on schedule. The death rate with this disease is 100%; there is no cure. The treatment is a lung transplant, not without its own risks, and not for the elderly. 

Several conditions and diseases can cause a daily struggle for breath or the frightening feeling of suffocation. There is even a word for it: dyspnea. Some diseases are curable, some chronic, some deadly. All are debilitating. 

I hope my poem made you think about breathing, something we typically take for granted. If so, please consider donating to a respiratory disease charity of your choice.

Editor’s Note:  This poem is a departure for Lauren or for anyone for that matter--quite original.  The differential diagnostic scheme as expressed in the poem may or may not be accurate--I honestly am not sure.  I can say I was definitely not taught in medical school to count the seconds that a patient takes between breaths or to complete a breath as a way to come to a differential diagnosis for dyspnea.  However, attention to a prolonged inspiratory or expiratory phase of respiration is advised to come to the broad conclusion that something is wrong with the respiratory system.

The accuracy of the differential diagnosis scheme does not matter here for the poem to have a powerful impact.  The various diagnoses and treatments, for the most part, escalate properly and are quite effective in conveying a sense of impending doom to the reader who may even be holding his or her breath as he or she reads.  This is a brilliant poetic conceit and certainly conveys an important message.

The white spaces in this poem are of supreme importance, as they correspond to the time intervals indicated in the poem as well as to the increasing blankness of the mind and body that occurs with increasing respiratory distress.  The Art Editor and I made the editorial decision not to include any artwork so as not to interfere with this aspect of the poem.

Those interested in donating to a respiratory disease charity should consider these:

http://www.lung.org

https://www.blf.org.uk

https://www.copdfoundation.org

http://www.pulmonaryfibrosis.org

A Poem for Pittsburgh and All of Us by the Editor-in-Chief

Pittsburgh in Memoriam 

Shmuel ben Moshe HaLevi

The gunman did not pick and choose

As he killed eleven helpless Jews

And when the law surrounded him

He turned his deadly gun on them.

This hateful man I will not name

To do so would increase his fame

May the memory of him be erased

His life forgotten and disgraced.

Instead let us commend the corps

Who bravely stormed the temple door

And fought the gunman to the floor

Though four of them were wounded sore

And pray for the community

Of those killed with impunity

May their memories a blessing be

And hatred yield to harmony. 

THE FAIRY'S CAVE Part IV "The Bad Boy Effect" by Charles A. Swanson

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “The Bad Boy Effect,” the fourth and final installment of The Fairy’s Cave, an epic fantasy narrative poem by Charles A. Swanson.  The poem was published as a four-part series on successive Fridays in October. The first installment, “Elf Bolts,” and a biography of the poet were presented on October 5 http://www.songsoferetz.com/2018/10/the-fairys-cave-part-i-elf-bolts-by.html.  The second installment, “Purple Polka-Dotted Mushrooms,” was presented on October 12 http://www.songsoferetz.com/2018/10/the-fairys-cave-part-ii-purple-polka.html.  The third installment, “Dark Disposition,” was presented on October 19 http://www.songsoferetz.com/2018/10/october-19-fairys-cave-part-iii-dark.html.

The Fairy’s Cave
Charles A. Swanson

"Yin and Yang" Ink & Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

IV. The Bad Boy Effect

There they were, boy and girl, she light,
he darkness. That boy could speak no word,
no word at all, that sounded kind.
Claudius knew, for the wee elf practiced
sarcasm, satire, hyperbole, understatement,
double entendre, tongue-in-cheek,
equivocation, white lie, pun, speciousness,
prevarication, duplicity, dissimulation,
double-talk—well, you get the idea.
Claudius knew the facility of language,
also, the wink, the nod, the shoulder shrug,
the look away, the grin, the gesture
to say that the words meant something else.
Brat-boy spoke vituperation, scorn,
disparagement, ridicule, outright insult.
And the more he said, and the blacker
he looked, the more she beamed,
fascinated. All this work, all this work,
all this subtle turning of the screw, all
this to make him detestable, and she loves
him all the more. It was then the fairy knew
he would never understand humans.

Poet’s Notes for “The Bad Boy Effect”:  Sometimes a title should announce the poem.  We understand the irony of the bad boy effect.  We may ask, “Why is the teenage girl attracted to all this hot-air bravado?  Why does the wife-beater-wearing boy get the girl?”  But we know the phenomenon.  We even pray the girl through it, if we can.

For all his facility with language, this fairy with his kingly and supercilious name of Claudius, doesn’t understand human nature.  Perhaps, here, the fairy seems the most like we.  Though we understand the bad-boy effect, we still shake our heads in disbelief.  Who is wise enough to understand such a thing?

Editor’s Note:  I hope you enjoyed the serial presentation of The Fairy’s Cave.  The comment on the nature of adolescent human romantic love at the end of this epic poem is simply delicious, isn’t it?  Poor Claudius!  And may God protect our daughters...

"You Are Not Fine" by Aparna Sanyal

You Are Not Fine

Aparna Sanyal 

Delhi, you are not fine.

Your wrinkles are now splotches on 

your over-made-up face.

I’ve never minded your loud throated 

cackles, your lusty guffaws, 

your broken-pitched stridency, even.

But this reedy phlegm is your voice now,

and my heart is in shards. 

Never one to curb excesses,

I’ve watched you smoke entire chillums dry,

all the while waving bejeweled fingers 

in animated delight.

The purple gem on your finger is plush—

swollen with lavish royalty.

In my night’s sleep, it is a diadem that

encircles my heart, 

pulses light and unfiltered joy. 

You’ve regaled me with tales, woven

a carpet for my dreams to fly on, 

and through it all, your orgiastic 

unashamed beauty 

has stunned me.

Now, you need a tube 

to breathe.

And I sit, hushed by your bedside,

awaiting the next fantastic

tale to fall 

from your fading crimson,

pout-seeping lips. 

Poet’s Notes:  A recent trip to Delhi to visit an ailing relative made this poem write itself. This beautiful city is in shambles. Growing up, I spent my summers there at my grandparents’ home. And just like my grandparents, who were larger-than-life figures, this city too was a grand old dame. But now, there are smoggy streets where once there were abundant trees, and snarls of traffic where there was birdsong. It breaks my heart.

Editor’s Note:  Many cities and towns share the fate of Delhi that Aparna so poignantly and poetically describes here in this moving piece.  I am sure many readers will see a metaphor for grand cities and towns that they once knew that have changed for the worse. 

"Mourning Abbey" Terri Lynn Cummings

"Abbey" Ink & Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

Mourning Abbey

Terri Lynn Cummings

Too sentimental some say

Maudlin over the loss of a dog

eyes large and sharp

fur silver and gray

like stones of an ancient abbey

I say no one laments a moth

or a spider. Ants gather no tears

Flies don’t either. Turtles 

make the cut, sometimes cats

Dogs, almost always

She wasn’t my daughter

but dug a home in my heart

tender as a newborn. Without her

I am blind in the dark. Cannot 

shed the heavy coat of being human

Poet’s Notes: We adopted Abbey soon after our son died. She strayed into our lives and over ten years she patched the gaping hole torn in our hearts. When we lost Abbey to the same bleeding disorder that killed our son, we were overwhelmed on many levels. My husband and I knew the addition of another dog to our household would help--not to replace Abbey, but to help fill the new hole in our hearts.

Review by the Editor-in-Chief of Tai Chi by Master Lam

While not exactly poetry, Tai Chi is a kind of poetry in motion.  Hence, I thought that readers might enjoy my review of Step-By-Step Tai Chi--The Natural Way to Strength and Health by Master Lam Kam Chuen, which may be found on my personal blog, Steves Of Grass, here https://stevesofgrass.blogspot.com/2018/10/review-of-tai-chi-by-master-lam-kam.html.

--Steven Wittenberg Gordon

"Copyright" by Gene Hodge

Copyright

Gene Hodge

Before you awaken . . .

     before the morning

     steals the smell of your skin,

the way your hair

swirls across your neck  

and caresses your breast; 

      let me bottle your fragrance,

photograph your beauty

      and copyright this moment.

Poet’s Notes:  As an entertainer/singer and artist, I am aware of copyrighting one's creations.  This poem's intent is not to own but to hold the passionate beauty of the moment in a personal copyright.

THE FAIRY'S CAVE Part III "Dark Disposition" by Charles A. Swanson

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Dark Disposition,” Part III of The Fairy’s Cave, an epic fantasy narrative poem by Charles A. Swanson.  The poem will be published as a four-part series on successive Fridays in October.  The first installment, “Elf Bolts,” and a biography of the poet were presented on October 5 LINK.  The second installment, “Purple Polka-Dotted Mushrooms,” was presented on October 12 LINK.

"Swoon" Ink on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

The Fairy’s Cave
Charles A. Swanson

III. Dark Disposition

They came again, the little girl, auburn
tresses dancing like sunlit butterflies,
the dark-eyed boy. The fairy-elf watched them,
first dim against the cave mouth’s morning,
then merging with shadows in the grotto.
As Claudius so hungrily hoped, the boy spied
the polka-dotted mushrooms, but he turned away,
not tempted. He continued the words
he was already darting at her. Why was he
speaking crossly? Why was she smiling?
Eat some of the mushrooms, you rude brat,
Claudius willed. His fairy power held both
check and scope—he could not force
the boy, nor lay a hand upon him. Breathe
he could do, and he sent out that breath,
magic like pollen, magic that suggested,
magic that tempted, magic that made
the wartiest toad into a precious gemstone.
Take me up, the mushrooms crooned. No
treacle is half so sweet. The fairy willed:
Eat them. Become so baleful she’ll turn
with loathing from your dark, deep eyes.

Poet’s Notes for “Dark Disposition”:  Whose nature is the more corrupt?  That of the elf, or that of the boy?  Or, perhaps, the darkest mind is that of the girl, who seems to like the boy no matter how rudely he speaks?

The elf, as in many stories, cannot harm directly, but he can tempt.  The charm in this case also would not maim or kill, but it would make the ungracious boy yet more detestable.  Who will be able to stand such an arrogant churl?

Surely, Prince Charming did not win the day by being Prince Hateful?  The fairy has no doubt about the efficacy of his plan.   After all, he does live in a fairy-tale world with fairy-tale endings.

Editor’s Note:  Readers should plan to return to Songs of Eretz Poetry Review next Friday, October 26, for the fourth and final installment of The Fairy’s Cave, “The Bad Boy Effect.”

"Paleontology" by Terri Lynn Cummings

Paleontology

Terri Lynn Cummings

I wear my father’s hands

hold histories in them 

like drops of water

delicate, easy to lose

Like students hunting fossils

boulders bend their backs 

in the Arbuckle Mountains

wizened Precambrians 

over a billion years old

Below ancient seas 

brachiopods, bryozoans

graptolites and trilobites 

inhabit Oklahoma 

before mankind exists

   I stand and stretch

breathe summer’s green

crunch grit between teeth

wipe arm over brow

watch classmates collect shells 

and imprints of remnants

glance at my feet

Hair snaps awake

Chill chases spine

Eyes hone, again, again

Silence, white as a stone

erases the world

A trilobite, long as my hand— 

the find of a lifetime

Poet’s Notes:  Sight, smell, touch, taste, and sound probe this planet for answers about existence. Our senses translate history, rousing the buried, famous and forgotten. Imagine speaking a person’s name, unheard for the first time in centuries, or reading a poem written on papyrus; playing a children’s game carved on a boulder in ancient Ephesus; placing fingers over fingerprints imprinted inside a Grecian terracotta urn while drawing the urn’s earthen aroma into your lungs. Such power sparks time travel.

In the mid-1970’s, I majored in Anthropology at Oklahoma State University. Naturally, geology and paleontology dazzled my senses. The courses helped me understand the context and dating process of archaeological finds. I devoted as many weekends to archaeological digs as possible, including a summer in Caesarea, Israel. One long weekend, I accompanied sixty or more paleontology students and our professor to the Arbuckle Mountains where I “discovered” (almost stepped on) the trilobite—the largest trilobite recovered in the area until then. I donated it to the university museum.

"I Can Stop Time" by Ross Balcom

I Can Stop Time

Ross Balcom

The long-awaited messiah

hanged himself in the closet.

The house groaned.

In his bedroom,

the Boy Scout slashed his wrists

with his prize arrowhead.

The old parrot was blind.

He could only repeat,

"Scout's honor: I want to die."

The debutante had coffin breath,

unusual in one so young;

but everyone agreed that death 

had marked her at an early age,

when the shadow of the jump rope

fell on her the wrong way.

(One day, she will wake to find 

her head replaced with a headstone,

and no one will kiss her R. I. P.)

"Let's face it: we're talking 

about the procession of the days and hours,

about time and sorrow and the inevitable death

of everything,"

said the little boy

as I stole his crackers.

Please, God, send us a messiah who can face life

with a winning smile.

You see, our previous messiah

hanged himself with a jump rope

in the closet.

I hide in the house.

Its shadows are mine.

A blank-eyed clown,

escaped from the circus,

stands at the front door. Speaks.

"I can stop time."

Poet's Notes: I was thinking about astrology (as I often do) and spinning the wheel of the Zodiac in my mind. I stopped its spinning and thought, "I can stop time." That was the origin of this poem, which has nothing to do with astrology.

A Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

Dear Contest Participants,

Thank you for rallying and making the 5th annual Songs of Eretz Poetry Award Contest into a modest success.  I won't kid you--it was looking pretty grim until the last two days when a flood of submissions was received.

Our coveted Duotrope sponsorship brought us little if any additional contestants.  Shouts out to Poets & Writers magazine whose free ad brought in the majority of our contestants, and to our Associate Editor James Rowe who inspired almost two dozen of his (college) students to throw their hats in the ring.

I'll be spending the next several weeks personally responding to every one of the 170 poems still in the reading queue and determining who makes it to the semifinals.  Finalists' Contest Judge Montana Poet Laureate Lowell Jaeger will then sort through the semifinalists to determine the finalists and eventually the first, second, and third place winners to be announced in February 2019.  An additional winner will be selected by the readership for the Readers Choice Award this coming spring.

We raised just enough to pay the winners the maximum honoraria we offered plus enough for Lowell and me to celebrate over hot beverages. While Songs of Eretz will receive little to nothing in terms of money, we are proud that we will be able to recognize and promote the work of four outstanding poets--a first prize winner, second prize winner, third prize winner, and the winner of the Readers Choice Award.  This will certainly further our mission to bring a little more good poetry into the world, and THAT is what Songs of Eretz is all about.

Next year will bring some exciting new changes to Songs of Eretz Poetry Review.  For many years a week-daily mainstream e-zine, we will be going to a monthly, themed format.  In lieu of our annual contests, we will be offering monthly, themed "50-50" contests through Kickstarter (more on this at a later date).  We will also be putting more "review" into the Review by featuring at least one review of a poetry collection with each issue.  And in lieu of soliciting donations, we will be offering fun and exciting patronage options with pathways to earn fabulous Songs of Eretz-themed merch through Patreon (more on this at a later date, too).

Finally, I would like to thank this year's Frequent Contributors for the work they did in promoting the contest and for the quality of their work this year.  There would be no Songs of Eretz without them.

All the best,

Steve
Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD
Editor-in-Chief

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THE FAIRY'S CAVE Part II "Purple Polka-Dotted Mushrooms" by Charles A. Swanson

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Purple Polka-Dotted Mushrooms,” Part II of The Fairy’s Cave, an epic fantasy narrative poem by Charles A. Swanson.  The poem will be published as a four-part series on successive Fridays in October.  The first installment, “Elf Bolts,” and a biography of the poet were presented on October 5  http://www.songsoferetz.com/2018/10/the-fairys-cave-part-i-elf-bolts-by.html.

"Purple Polka-Dots" Ink & Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

The Fairy’s Cave
Charles A. Swanson

II. Purple Polka-Dotted Mushrooms

He thought, troll, but his only troll buddy,
Bones-Sniff-and-Burp, was, dare I say it,
trolling somewhere in the bowels of the earth.
The little elf admired Sniff’s gait,
somewhat lumbering, somewhat loose-armed,
for Sniff shook the rocks when he gamboled,
while little Claudius—that was, alas,
the little fairy’s name—such a name
to grow into, and he would never grow,
but as I was saying, Claudius coveted
Sniff’s ground-trembling tramping,
for Claudius barely skimmed the earth.
So, no troll; no other troll did he trust.
Clever as he was, he gathered spores
of drowsy, nightmare-inducing mushrooms.
His fairy eyes could see moonbeams,
even the translucent dreams of other fairies,
so why not spores? He puffed his palm
into a dim corner of wood-chips, sawdust,
straw, and waited for mushrooms to appear.
Before that boy, that brat-boy he hated
peeped into the cave, a fairy bed beckoned.

Poet’s Notes for “Purple Polka-Dotted Mushrooms”: The story advances with the fairy’s desire to win the girl.  That he can never have her, not in a physical way, does not stop his delusion.  

A bit of the restaurant, The Mellow Mushroom https://mellowmushroom.com, came into my mind as I dreamed how the fairy could work his mischief.  The Mellow Mushroom creates an atmosphere of the psychedelic '60s.  I breathe patchouli when I enter, whether there’s a real scent of it in the air or not.  And I have to order pizza with mushrooms.  It’s a given.

With this poem, the narrative moves further into the fantasy realm and further away from the realistic and human dynamic of a boy and a girl at play.  Trolls, purple-polka dotted mushrooms, and heightened senses of a supernatural nature all seem fair game.  Yet the boy, the human boy, is the elf’s nemesis.

Editor’s Note:  The development of Claudius' character is interesting to follow, enhanced by the speaker's sprinkling of ironic humor. Readers should plan to return to Songs of Eretz Poetry Review next Friday, October 19, for Part III of The Fairy’s Cave, “Dark Disposition.”

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