SPRING 2020 "FANTASY & FAIRYTALE" ISSUE

Spring 2020 "Fantasy & Fairytale" Issue

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Editor-in-Chief

Steven Wittenberg Gordon

Art Editor

Jason Artemus Gordon

Associate Editor

James Frederick William Rowe

Assistant Editor

Terri Lynn Cummings

Featured Frequent Contributors

John C. Mannone & Charles A. Swanson

Other Frequent Contributors 

Ross Balcom, Gene Hodge, Karla Linn Merrifield, 

Vivian Finley Nida, Howard Stein, Tyson West, & Alessio Zanelli
Biographies of our editorial staff & frequent contributors may be found in the "Our Staff" page 
http://www.songsoferetz.com/p/about-our-editor-frequent-contributors.html.
Cover Art:  "Long Tailed Gull" (Watercolor & Ink on Paper)

Unless otherwise indicated, all illustrations are the work of our Art Editor or taken from "royalty-free" open internet sources.

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"Book Fairy" (Digital Photograph) by Tracy Whiteside

Table of Contents
A Letter from the Editor
Featured Poets

John C. Mannone
“The Horned Turban Shell”
“Flowersong”
“A Valentine's Day Play”
“Words Can Kill”
Charles A. Swanson
“Countryman in the Grotto”
Guest Poet Jane Dougherty
“Children of the North Wind”
“Ophelia”
“Andromeda Dreams”
Other Fine Poets

Ross Balcom

“Fairy Food”

Guest Poet Kim Malinowski

“Tempting Persephone”

Guest Poet Sharon Cote

“Ghost Dancer (Attempts to Communicate)”

Guest Poet Christina M. Rau

“Like Clockwork”

Returning Guest Poet Gerri Leen

“Going Under”

“Elemental Uselessness”

Special Guest Poet Mary Soon Lee

            “How to Destroy a Dragon”

Returning Guest Poet R.S. Mason

“Might”

Shlomo ben Moshe HaLevi

“Oseh Shalom”

New Frequent Contributor Tyson West

“Spinning”

“Hansel's Choice”

Guest Poet Colleen Anderson

“Three's the Charm”

James Frederick William Rowe

“The Conjurer’s Chastisement”

“An Act of Will”

“The Gods are Mad”

Karla Linn Merrifield

“Cum Toccoa”

“I, Urania”

Alessio Zanelli

“Apparitions at 5 Pennine View”

"Presence"

Vivian Finley Nida

“Three Little Pigs Go Hog Wild”

Guest Poet LindaAnn LoSchiavo

“The Ash Maiden”

Guest Poet Melanie Bell

“Reaping Early”

Howard Stein

“Fly Fishing Lesson”

“Keeping Time”

Terri Lynn Cummings

“Dementia: What the Wolf Does”

Returning Guest Poet Jennifer Crow

“Iron Teeth”

Guest TOC Artist Tracy Whiteside

Frequent Contributor News

Forthcoming

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A Letter from the Editor

One thing I find most appealing about folktales, fairytales, and fantasy literature is the room they afford for the imagination to roam. By their departure from the normal, every day reality in which we all find ourselves, these genres allow writers and poets so much freedom of expression to use the magical and strange, to imagine what could have been if life had been so much different, and to draw upon our hopes and fears alike to paint a unique picture of how the world could be organized. Through these tales, we are able to part the veil from the actualized world into that of mere possibility. Shunting aside the metaphysics of whether these worlds truly are possible, I will simply be thankful that our minds are not so tightly bound to the laws of nature that we have this gift of fantasy, which allows us so rich an experience by our ability to walk through the enchanted paths that line the infinitely fecund realm of fancy. 

How curious it is, though, that these tales, so rooted in the imaginary, can somehow also be the most psychologically motivating. That is, somehow this exercise of imagining what is not can nevertheless be so powerful a tool to speak to what is, or what is part of, the human experience; that even though we are conceiving of things so different than what we experience in our lives, it still speaks to us deeply in a way that is truly timeless. I use the term “timeless” for specific purpose here, for scholars have evidence that certain fairytales go back as far as six thousand years of human history, making them among the oldest of artistic efforts. How is it that something which is, by its nature, false to life—supposing that which is not, for that which is—be nevertheless so true to it?

I cannot answer that question in so limited a space, but what I can do is present to all readers of Songs of Eretz what I take to be a superb and fine assemblage of poets making full use of their imaginations, to both retell the old tales that have won our interest from forgotten aeons past, or else to craft new and compelling ones of their own. It is through this presentation that I hope to demonstrate so much of what I was talking about before in the value of the imagination, and to show the process at work, rather than detail its workings, of how such fantasies of all sorts continue to resonate so deeply within our minds and spirits.  And with that, I invite you to enjoy the Songs of Eretz Poetry Review “Fantasy & Fairytale” issue.

James Frederick William Rowe
Associate Editor 

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Featured Poets

The Horned Turban Shell

John C. Mannone

   Inspired by the Japanese legend of the Sazae-oni

She hid in the carpet of red algae

before the divers came to steal

and sell her children in Okinawa.

her hard shell with expanding

clockwise whorls transformed

to sequins partly draping her

no-longer-mollusk body,

but voluptuous and naked

desire pulsed through the sea.

Purple gorgonia and sea whips

swayed the sexual desire; divers

on the seabed could not resist

the temptress. When close enough,

she snatched their testicles

with the horned remnants of her shell

and held them hostage. Nets dropped

from their hands. Her children floated

gently to the safe, soft grasses below.

Poet’s Notes: This poem is not a redaction of Japanese mythology, which portrays Sazae-oni as a demonized mollusk-turned-sexual temptress, but rather a benevolent undersea creature that can similarly shape-shift (every thirty years) to protect her children.  The genesis of the poem occurred while researching turban shells (Turbo cornutus) to satisfy my marine biology curiosity.

Editor’s Note: There is a nice interplay of the erotic and the imaginative in this poem that I find almost as alluring as the divers find the Sazae-oni. JFWR

Flowersong

John C. Mannone

The morning sun illumined her sinuous body

"Grassland Siren" (Watercolor on Paper)

clothed in sheer leaf-silk, almost translucent.

Her silhouette tinted lush-green like her wings

feathering the air.

This mystic creature nestled in tall grasses

rippling with breezes from the ocean below.

Her auburn hair drifted with meadow flowers.

Her breath scented the air; her spellbinding

songs seduced hearts. No one could resist

the music of the flowers. I know. I was there

as her notes sifted through the morning mist,

each dewdrop resonant with her flute-song.

She let me see her one day. Her onyx eyes,

refulgent in the light, beckoned me from rest

on a flat stone, mesmerized by her magic.

Her wings strummed the air; soft cadences

funneled through the jonquil stems. All

the flowers sang her enchanting melodies.

Her eyes spoke to me only in whispers,

yet I understood.  She once was a siren

deep in the sea before she dissolved

to vapor, turning into rain from heaven,

falling as the summer fairie I had seen.

I came to this place seeking some solace.

I was empty, my eyes wet with loneliness,

yet her song filled my heart. She left

her name impressed there for me to call

upon: a butterfly-soft kiss sweet as nectar.

Poet’s Notes: When my grandchildren were young, I’d take them hiking in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. One particular trail, Grotto Falls Trail, was magical for us; we would imagine gnomes and fairies living among the moss-covered rocks and behind the waterfalls https://www.nps.gov/grsm/planyourvisit/grotto-falls.htm. It was so full of joy and laughter that I have gone back there in my mind when I feel depressed. I think that is the genesis of this poem. The structure wasn’t based on any particular subtext, but rather I was looking for something regular that felt right. Perhaps the alternating 4-3 lines subconsciously were chosen to refer to a musical composition.

Editor’s Note: The brilliant use of language elevates the sensuous beauty of a poem that sings the seductive allure of the natural world. JFWR

A Valentine’s Day Play

John C. Mannone

            Act I, Scene 1: Our Love Affair is Cliché

  < under a lover’s moon >

 [She]    We have to stop meeting like this

 in your den, it’s too dangerous.

[He]     I know, if we get caught, what will others say?

But come away with me, my love; you give me fever.

[She]    Yes. You, too! I know a better secret place—

a hideaway deep in the woods where we can cave in

to our lusts. It’ll be like when we met in London.

Do you remember?

[He]     How could I forget! You swept me off my feet,

I was flying high. Whenever you near me,

hairs on my arms stand straight up. I claw

the walls when you are gone.

[She]    You make my blood run hot

as it courses through my veins.

And when you’re gone, my heart bleeds for you.

[He]     I love your kisses.

[She]    And I love your big brown eyes.

[He]     Making love to you under the full moon makes me howl.

[She]    And by its silvery light, my heart aches.

 Quickly now, the night is short and the sun will soon rise.

[He]     Okay, Sweetheart, my Countess, my Love.

[She]    And you, my wolf, bite me… and I will, you.

            < they embrace under her leathery wings >

            End

Poet’s Notes: This play written as a poem is rather experimental. But unlike a play, where the characters are identified, they are revealed at the end for the surprise—an affair between a he-werewolf and a she-vampire.

Editor’s Note: I am diverted beyond words by play-as-poem. I think nothing like it has ever graced the pages of Eretz, and I am pleased to bring such originality to this journal. JFWR

Words Can Kill

John C. Mannone

After “Diamonds and Toads,”

 a French fairy tale by Charles Perrault

            Those who consider themselves religious

and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues

deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless.

                        — James 1: 26 (NIV)

Julie rests on a log after a walk

in the woods, a quiet lovely girl

lonely for her mother’s attention,

her mean-spirited sister’s, too.

And below the hickory and pine

that mats the cool fall ground,

there trills a high-pitched tune—

a pulsing voice as if crying

for its lover. Julie spots the toad—

brick red on mottled brown & black

camouflaged among the leaves;

its mouth throating a balloon.

Leaning closer, she sees glitter

on its back—sun-spun gems.

For a moment she imagines

his intonations saying, “Kiss me!”

Who wouldn’t kiss a diamond

studded toad? She thinks

It’s only a fairy tale

about a prince imprisoned

in a Bufo terrestris body sparkling

with gems on each wart.

“Why not,” she says while closing

her eyes and kissing the toad.

Julie lets the toad go and runs

home to tell her mother and sister

what she had done. They curse

her for not keeping the valuable toad.

And as they rail on her, their words

fly out of their mouths like hornets

swarming straight for Julie’s heart,

stinging her kindness. She cries

as her family’s vile words turn

around and sting them over and over

until death quiets their screams;

tongues swell with remorse.

Julie ducks into the woods, her tears

streaking down cheeks to her lips,

turning every word into honeysuckle

petals as they slip off her tongue

scenting the air. “I’m sorry, Mother,

I love you,  and you too, Angie.”

And no sooner said, she finds

herself embraced in the arms

of a prince standing by the log

with a diamond necklace and gold

wedding band in his hand. He says,  

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Poet’s Notes: Subverting fairytales is something I like to do or at least let them inform a different story or sometimes simply poeticise a fable. The quatrains were chosen to resemble a ballad structure, which is perfect for storytelling. The fairytale can be read here: https://fairytalez.com/fairies-diamonds-and-toads/.

Editor’s Note: Wouldn’t it be nice for those who spew venom to receive the poison themselves? Perhaps that isn’t the moral of the story I’m supposed to take, but then again I am liable to such interpretations. JFWR

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Countryman in the Grotto

Charles A. Swanson

I.  The Treasure of the Cave

How far the flicker of rock-roof-

reflected sunlight will extend,

he can only guess, poling away

on nothing more than a few lashed

arm-thick bamboos.  The greenish

water swirls against his staff,

and he stands with legs spread,

arms tense, holding something

solid, as he searches the dimness

of uncertainty.  Back here in this cave,

so his map says, back in this belly

of the whale, Poseidon’s grotto,

is the talisman he seeks, shaped

like an amphora, around the neck

of a skeleton.  He wonders, as his

jeans slog from the splashing current,

how his foolhardy streak, as strong

as it is, should bring him here,

alone, far from the Texas sun,

to this Caribbean coast, how two sheets

of parchment covered with spidery

script, the confessional of a buccaneer,

with map full of lines, old place names,

and skull-and-crossbones for an “x,”

how something found in the garret

of a western ranch house could get

his wild blood pumping for adventure.

He wonders, as he pushes on against

the jade green of darkening water.

II.  Man Up

La Tortugas, water-locked caverns,

water dripping down limestone,

stalactite and stalagmite crystals,

all of it so otherworldly, as he

pushes away from sunlight, around

a corner.  He flicks on his headlamp,

halogen bright, and he marvels.

His map to gold and jewels, booty,

man-fashioned treasures, to the charm,

like an anchor now around the neck,

the charm left as a warning to looters,

the charm shaped like an amphora, but

inset with a watching eye, an evil eye,

the charm he wants so badly, settled

on a dead man’s bones, and yet

all around him, this interior world,

shining with natural wonders, as if

the cavern’s folds were diamond

mines.  “Man-up, Big Man,” he says

to himself.  “Get your head in the game.”

Yes, here he is, Emmanuel Countryman,

a guy with two “man’s” in his name,

a kid his dad called “Little Man.”

A football player his classmates jeered at,

“You call yourself a man!” as he fumbled,

or was stopped short inches from the goal.

“Man Man,” so he went through life,

as his friends—jerks—shortened both names.

“Man!” When he said it, he meant himself.

III.  Into the Awesome

Like a third eye, the headlamp shines,

centered, above his two bluebonnet

irises.  A gift, just like his last name,

the eyes of his Anglo father, his freckled lean

father a true Texan, Baptist born and raised.

His mother, she who cherished the name

Emmanuel, gave him his warm-sand skin

tones, his full hair falling over his brow,

dark with just a hint of his father’s red.

He pushes the pole against the bottom,

looking among the reflected sparks,

his beam a searchlight, but one confused

by the fireflies of rock crystals.  Each

movement of his head, his third eye,

causes the crystals to take flight,

It is like a kaleidoscope, mesmerizing,

a land of pendants and fire drops, of

opals and pearls and diamonds.

His wonder begins to bubble prayer-like,

not exactly addressed to God, but

expressive of something elusive,

something hitting him like a flush,

an overwhelming sense of awesome.

The crucifix around his neck, the one

his mother gave him, the one she whispered

over, telling him about Emmanuel,

the child who was born Prince of Peace,

he touches the crucifix as he eases

the pole, stops the raft, and breathes.

IV.  Vaya con Dios

And there, finally, around a bulge of blaze,

ice-cold shimmering rock formation,

sits the skeleton, bones white as the white

of eyes, perfectly intact, with a shred or two

of dark cloth hanging still, but all flesh

gone.  The chain Big Man hoped to see

hangs in huge links around the neck.

The promised amphora is there, too,

but in some tarnished metal, dark as canker.

He had feared the evil eye, superstition

like arthritis in his own bones, but he

sees the dim pattern on the talisman,

and it strikes a chord like a tuning fork.

He’s taken back to childhood days—

he and his mother making God’s eyes

of two crossed sticks and yarn.  This

is no evil eye, and he approaches

the grinning frame, jaw fallen open,

in less fear.  When he unstoppers the flask,

and turns it gently sideways, a small drop

of oil oozes forth.  Olive oil?  It is then

he notices a second charm on the chain,

a small box.  Inside, still preserved on fragile

parchment, the dead man’s last message

to the world.  My friend, my buccaneer,

you are a man to find me. I praise you,

for you have seen, better than jewels,

the original hand of God.  I leave you no

baubles, only the blessings of this cave.

Poet’s Notes:  I like the burden of writing a poem every day, although I do not subject myself to such rigor often.  National Poetry Month (April) is one period of the year when I challenge myself, and sometimes I sneak in another month of intense writing. 

The task of writing consistently opens the doorways to possibilities, especially of the imagination.  I step further away from my own world, and from the many subjects that interest me, and start into fantasy, the realm of “What if?” for a story line, and “What is he (she) like?” for a character sketch.  Usually, in the midst of that is the additional fascinating question, “Where?”

This poem started on a raft, with a man standing and poling.  It started with the semi-darkness of a cave’s mouth, and with the translucent green of swirling waters.  From there, the image had to take additional flesh.  Who is this man?  Why is he here?  What is he looking for?  What will he find?  All of these are just basic questions of a story.  The answers can be surprising to the writer as much as to the reader.

Editor’s Note: A poem about a treasure hunt that turns and twists into a tale of a man and what he can discover of himself in the pursuit of the legendary. What a unique and special idea, presented so ably and with such poetic aptitude! JFWR

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The Children of the North Wind

Jane Dougherty

Listen to the music falling,

brambles singing,

tanglewood and rowanberry,

they have caught up the moon in a silver net.

Listen to the laughter

of the children of the north wind

with the gold hair of the northlands

and eyes as green and narrow

as strands of riverweed.

Listen to the sighing

of the west wind on the mountain,

as the sickle moon leaps, a fish-arc

from their thrice-clapped childish hands

into her deep pool made of night

in the dark behind the sun

and splashes them with stars.

Poet’s Notes: The children of the north wind are the children of the Aos Sí, the mythological other side of human nature, the wild and the dangerous, but never cruel. We have turned our backs on the wild and the magical side of humanity and we have made a poor bargain.

Editor’s Note: The vivid imagery of the magical play of the fae children evokes a rich vision of the scene so described. This poem opens a window to the fantastical. JFWR

Ophelia

Jane Dougherty

Take me to the river, she said, and her mouth filled with tears,

blossoming hot and red as heart’s blood or never-never flowers.

He smiled and took her in his arms, carried her to the narrow

boat and set her down. This will be better than the dark, he said

and filled the boat with flowers. He never asked if she saw

his dancing demons. Never considered she had thoughts at all.

Take me to the river, she said, where sunlight dances in golden

points and damselflies hover, gaudy jewels. Take me through

the veil of grey sorrows to where hares leap and bees blossom-dip.

She looked into his eyes where no light shone only the grinning,

maggoty core and turned her face away, saw beauty in the green

water smiling, for a moment at least, before he brought the dark.

Poet’s Notes: The world is still full of Ophelias, the silent victims who have the life squeezed out of them by fathers, brothers, uncles, sons, who know so much better than they do what is best, respectable and customary.

Editor’s Note: I always remember the cruelty of Hamlet, and Ophelia as the chief victim of the “kindness” engendered by his misanthropy. I love this poem in many respects, with “And her mouth filled with tears” being a particularly evocative description of Ophelia’s sorrows. JFWR

Andromeda dreams

Jane Dougherty

My fingers riffle through fabric folds,

Soft as feathers, while sandalled feet

Pace silent rooms bedecked in gold.

I recall waves’ broken roar

On rock, as black as ravens’ wings,

And cold as deeps where dragons soar.

They tied my hands and bound them tight,

I played the part of helpless maid,

Pale as foam and feather-light.

I saw him break through stormy cloud,

Crowned with sun, his golden hair,

His horse was winged and feathered-proud.

His eyes, I saw them from afar,

Were cold as dragons’ sea-damp wings,

His sword, a brilliant, bloody star.

What saw this man with feathered horse

And sword so bright with dragon’s blood—

A woman-prize to make blood course?

He plucked me, helpless, where waves played,

So light, he thought, spindrift for thoughts,

Night comforter, a foam-pale shade?

He took his prize, I would or no,

To roll me in his ocean bed—

The years once fleet now run so slow.

I languish now among rich drapes,

Folded away until I die,

A pinioned goose in farmer’s yard,

That calls to the winds of the wild March sky.

Poet’s Notes: Andromeda was the expendable offering, then the offered prize, then the unasked bride, the booty of a heroic and manly exploit. She existed only to be used, much like lob worms—to be stuck as bait on a fish hook.

Editor’s Note: The depiction of Perseus here in all his heroic coldness, a bloody instrument of conquering violence against so many supernatural foes, strikes me as underscoring the lack of agency Andromeda experiences throughout the tale, as she, too, holds no hope against the hero’s destiny. Always the toy of fate, Andromeda, in so overlooked a feature of the tale. JFWR

About the Poet: Jane Dougherty lives and works in southwest France. Her poems and stories have been published in magazines and journals including Ogham Stone, Hedgerow Journal, Tuck Magazine, ink sweat and tears, Eye to the Telescope, Nightingale & Sparrow, the Drabble, Lucent Dreaming, and the Ekphrastic Review. She has a well-stocked blog at https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/.

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Other Fine Poets

Fairy Food

Ross Balcom

assaulted

by fairies

swarming

like tiny stars

stripping

flesh from bone

skeletonized

in the park

run, run

from the fairies

terrorized

by the tiny

eaten

by the wee

skeletons

litter the green

blood,

blood and screams

run, run

from the fairies

carnivorous

and unstoppable

fairies

gone feral

consumers

of human cattle

stampeding

blindly, crying

run, run

from the fairies

from the fairies

run

Poet’s Notes: If you are interested in fairies, I recommend becoming a member of the Fairy Investigation Society www.fairyist.com/fairy-investigation-society as I am.

Editor's Note:  “eaten / by the wee” has somehow managed to be trapped in my mind since I first read this. JFWR

Editor’s Note:  This poem ranks with Ross' best, signature combinations of satirical fantasy and horror. I know Ross eschews allegory, but, oh, the political symbolism one could draw from this gem!  If James had not taken it for his "Fantasy & Fairytale" issue, I would have snapped it up for my "Political" issue, forthcoming in September.  SWG

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Tempting Persephone

Kim Malinowski

She wanted to lick the forbidden.

Hades held the pomegranate,

juice sliding down his fist.

Beguiling scent—the fruit or his?

Demeter thundered ice somewhere—

but here, darkness cocooned.

He leant back—her in—six seeds

tapped her tongue.

She clutched Hades,

lips returned them with kiss.

He plucked seeds from between his lips.

Snow fell, death remained death,

but Persephone was his.

Poet’s Notes: I was always taught in art and literature of “The Rape of Persephone.” I do not want to take away from that narrative of consent or lack of it. I do want to offer an alternative perspective. I want Persephone to have agency and choice—power over Hades. In the end, I want her to love willingly and be loved equally back.

 
Editor’s Note: There is a profoundly erotic element to this poem, where a passion is catches fire between captor and captive who finds herself now so willing to give in to the ripe fruit on offer. Such a passion is well celebrated, even in the face of Demeter’s wrath. This breathes new life into one of the best of the Greek myths. JFWR

About the Poet: Kim Malinowski earned her B.A. from West Virginia University and her M.F.A. from American University. She studies with The Writers Studio. Her chapbook "Death: A Love Story" was published by Flutter Press. Her work was featured in Faerie Magazine and appeared in Mythic Delirium, Mookychick, Calliope, and others.

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The Ghost Dancer (Attempts to Communicate)

Sharon Cote

(I am) the shadow silhouette glissade

the dove-wing dip of vaporous arms

(if you see) the pirouettes of fog at dawn

(will you join) my sempiternal dance(?)

(you’re) the skeptic sunlight shadows

the daily worldly blind intent

(my love!) un-timeless tired march of motives

(Let me break) fell mundanity’s spell

Poet’s Notes: This poem began for me with the image of a spectral dancer, both beautiful and eerily compelling, but it only really took shape when I allowed this spirit to have thoughts and feelings, to present and represent a more sympathetic struggle—the struggle to explain our art (and hearts) with ordinary words.    

Editor’s Note: The most avant-garde of all the poems in this issue, and one which I think is brilliantly and uniquely composed. I can picture the ho-hum world shattering before the dancer. JFWR

About the Poet: Sharon Cote teaches linguistics and speculative literature. Her poetry has won Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge and has appeared in Songs of Eretz, Star*Line, Deep Water Literary Journal, and Avocet, as well as in other journals and anthologies.

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Like Clockwork

Christina M. Rau

Quiet, the moss the deep woods fill.

A blinking blur twinkling after day,

the nymphs frolic as fairies will

fly down low, unseen, a thrill

for them as they tinker away.

Quiet, the moss, the deep woods fill

with buzzing, subtle, almost still

as only the keenest ear can say

the nymphs frolic as fairies will.

Luminescent, gossamer, a magic drill

of wonderment—they giggle, won’t play

quiet. The moss, the deep woods fill

up with daffy zipping zooting skill.

Under the moon, an impish soiree,

the nymphs frolic as fairies will.

They simmer down only when sun breaks ill.

Then they rest in delight but only a bit. Stay

quiet! The moss! The deep woods fill!

The nymphs frolic as fairies will!

Poet’s Notes: I wrote "Like Clockwork" when I immersed myself in all things critters, creatures, and other worldly. I wanted to challenge myself to write in a form, which I rarely do, and I thought the daily routine of the woodsy world would lend itself to the structure.

Editor’s Note: I find villanelles tremendously difficult to compose, and here language is used to musical brilliance, with the refrain a most harmonious and well-tuned choice. I marvel at the poet’s achievements in so difficult a form, which I further find so well adapted to the content of the poem. JFWR

About the Poet: Christina M. Rau is the author of the Elgin Award winning sci-fi fem poetry collection, Liberating The Astronauts (Aqueduct Press, 2017) and the chapbooks "WakeBreatheMove" (Finishing Line Press, 2015) and "For The Girls, I" (dancing girl press, 2014). Her poetry has appeared on gallery walls in The Ekphrastic Poster Show, on car magnets for The Living Poetry Project, and in various literary journals. Find her links on http://www.christinamrau.com.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Going Under

Gerri Leen

The water, warm, sucking you down

You would've drowned but for me

I held you up, I pushed you out

Did I fall in love too fast? Of course

This is a fairytale; love's always instantaneous

And not always requited or requested

I may have been a stalker but still

I was willing to give everything

For you, my prince, my beautiful one

But I had it backwards

Your life belonged to me

If a debt was owed, it wasn't mine to pay

Why did I have to become like you?

Why couldn't you become like me

What would the sea witch have wanted for that?

But there I go again

Inflicting my desires on you

You didn't even know I'd saved you

I had a voice, the most beautiful voice

Why didn't I think to use it?

To woo you, to seduce, to turn affection to true love

I lacked a soul, but would you have cared?

Your beautiful princess may have been your first waking sight

But it was I who ensured you could still see at all

And about that soul, just because I didn't have a human one

Do you truly think I lack any?

That heaven is only for your kind?

Actually, now that I've lived this long

I know it's just for humans because none

Of the rest of us want to spend eternity with you

We have the sky, the stars beyond this word

Infinite avenues to explore

And you have your little section, sequestered

Prisoners, as it were, in a paradise

Of your own making

While the rest of us are free to roam

To swim eternity as I once did the sea

The air maidens thought I had to stay with them

To serve man to earn my chance for heaven

But the whispers of other creatures, mystical

And beautiful and terrible lured me away

And I have never looked back

You and your princess are long dead

But not by my hand—I had a choice

And I chose to let you live

If those are the actions of a soulless creature

Then perhaps souls are not so critical

You two fell out of love, after all that

My death was for nothing—but at least

I'm finally free, neither cloistered in heaven

Nor foam on the sea

Free to roam eternity

As whatever I want to be

For however long I wish to be it

Poet’s Notes: As I prepared to write a new poem for this call, I reread "The Little Mermaid" to refresh my memory of what was Andersen and what was Disney, and as usual when I read HCA's original work, I became angry on so many levels.  The loss of a voice, the perpetual pain with each step, the problematic choices, the human-centric view regarding souls.  And, as happens when I get a little enraged, a poem just poured out.  They say anger isn't the best emotion for our overall health, but it sure is beneficial for my muse.

Editor’s Note: Embrace your anger, o poet! if it will give us poems such as this. As a philosopher, I love the metaphysics of this poem, and the intriguing thoughts on the nature of the soul and its purpose for a creature so different from mankind, who suffers so much all in vain. Perhaps indeed the wilds beyond the ken of human souls are beautiful in their terrible freedom. JFWR

Elemental Uselessness

Gerri Leen

Skies open, winds pulled down

By my murmured commands

The ragged sails fill and the plague ship is forced

Into open ocean, away from this coast

I wish the story were over, I wish I'd arrived

Before the sick and dying had jumped into the shallows

Desperate animals seeking escape

From a foe that had already defeated them

Some fell after only a few steps on the sand

Resembling dolls strewn by a bored child

But a few reached the settlement

Enough for critical mass

I can work the elements but for this we

Need a first-class healer, and he died

In the first wave of sickness

I seek advice from the elements

Wind's already employed, eventually stirring

Waves so water can drown the ship before it

Lays waste to another town

Fire will immolate this town's dead, earth waits

To receive the ashes

But to stop this illness?

I can do nothing

I can only hope that some are fated

To survive, to go on

As I sink to the sand

And monitor the progress of the ship

I feel a tickling in my throat like

Dust raised by my winds

A growing warmth when I haven't

Yet reached for fire

Am I sick too? In body or just heart?

Manifesting sympathetic symptoms

So these people won't suffer alone?

I invoke water to moisten my throat

Earth, to stifle the perhaps-fever

With the sensation of cool loam

And wait for what will come

Poet’s Notes:  Even the most powerful can fall to disease.  She did everything she could to help.  Hopefully, that doesn't end up as her epitaph.

Editor’s Note: This poem seems strangely prophetic in uncertain times and the looming threat of coronavirus, yet even shunting aside its timeliness (and indeed—if things get worse, this poem will reflect circumstances eerily!) I loved the hopelessness of it all. Sometimes a looming defeat is so romantic, and the failure of the narrator to affect a change, and perhaps indeed to be cut down by the same foe, just tickles my love of a sad and miserable ending. JFWR

About the Poet: Gerri Leen lives in Northern Virginia and originally hails from Seattle. She has poetry published in Eye to the Telescope, Star*Line, Dreams& Nightmares, Songs of Eretz, Polu Texni, The Future Fire, and others. She also writes fiction in many genres (as Gerri Leen for speculative and mainstream, and Kim Strattford for romance). Visit gerrileen.com or kimstrattford.com to see what else she's been up to.

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How to Destroy a Dragon

Mary Soon Lee

Dragonpox blankets.

Sapper mice to mine its lair.

Counterweight trebuchets.

M1 Abrams battle tank. 

Poet’s Notes: this poem is one of many that I've written based on the September 14th prompt in "The Daily Poet" by Kelli Russell Agodon and Martha Silano, a prompt that suggests writing a "How To" poem. As you can see, not all of the resulting poems are serious and weighty. 

Editor’s Note: KABOOM! I can think of no better dragon slayer than a sabot round. I laughed aloud when I first read this poem. JFWR.

About the Poet: Mary Soon Lee was a Charter Member of the Frequent Contributors to Songs of Eretz and served in that capacity from January 1, 2016, to December 7, 2018.  She was born and raised in London but has lived in Pittsburgh for over twenty years. She writes both fiction and poetry and has won the Rhysling Award and the Elgin Award. Her latest book is Elemental Haiku, containing haiku for the elements of the periodic table, published by Ten Speed Press.  Visit her website at http://www.marysoonlee.com.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Might

R.S. Mason

All I ever wanted

was to keep you safe.

We were always surrounded:

enemies without, traitors within,

monsters prowling the wilds,

but so long as I was there

(and I would always be there)

with my sword in hand

you would never come to harm.

Not from them.

And I did fight for you, didn't I?

Didn't I earn my place as your knight?

How many of them tried to stop us?

How many broke against me?

Eventually it seemed

they were afraid of my strength.

I thought we had won.

When the whispers started you asked me

to let it go. As if I could.

I tracked them down, and I

did what I know how to do:

I fought. I won. They died.

Could I have known the whispers

would become shouts?

I could not read your face

when you exiled me.

I took my sword

and wandered

and no matter how I searched,

I could never find a way

to put it down.

Poet’s Notes: My poem is a narrative meditation on a theme I've always found fascinating. Our narrator finds that he is trapped by his nature: so proficient with violence that he had perhaps become to believe that he needed no other skills, so devoted to his charge he is unable to react appropriately to a threat. And now that he has had the revelation that this path leads to destruction, he is unable to find a way out, even after it's too late.  

Editor’s Note: Our destiny can lead us astray when what our heart most yearns for is destructive of our joy. Yet what is life without being what you were made to be, even for all the tears that will follow? A hero earns his sorrows. JFWR 

About the Poet: R.S. Mason draws inspiration from the many beautiful environments of the Pacific Northwest, from the windswept desert highland east of the mountains to the temperate rain forests of the coastal lowlands.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Oseh Shalom

Shlomo ben Moshe HaLevi 
For my father, may his memory be a blessing.

The once scrappy Holocaust survivor,

now an old man in a hospital bed,

let out his final breath with a sigh.

His had been a long, hard life,

but he left it surrounded by his wife and sons--

sons whose very existence

was his ultimate revenge against the Moustache

and the Nazi thugs who had made him an orphan,

who had made his childhood a living hell,

and who had haunted him until this, his dying day.

With the words of his eldest’s recitation of

the Mourner’s Kaddish echoing sweetly in his ears,

the shade of the old man rose,

took the hand of Elijah the Prophet,

and the two made their way toward Heaven.

With each step, age and sorrow melted away.

By the time the two reached the Gates,

the Prophet was holding the hand

of an innocent boy of about six years of age.

The old man’s parents were there to welcome him,

 whose faces, in life, he could never quite picture in his mind.

“Welcome, Moshe,” his mother said with love.

“We have been waiting for you, my son,” said his father.

“But you are long dead,” replied the old man,

his high-pitched voice sounding strange in his ears.

“The Nazis, they killed you, the whole shtetl, they...”

Elijah the Prophet placed a finger over the boy’s lips,

erasing the nightmare of the Holocaust from him forever.

“Go to them, my angel!  Go to them and live your life

as God had intended it to be!  There are no Nazis here.”

Poet’s Notes:  The Holocaust forever scarred my father, the scrappy, brave orphan boy who survived against the might of the Nazis, against the death, against the destruction, against the pestilence, against the starvation, against the despair--against all odds.  Ironically, after surviving all of the horrors, he died of complications of bacterial endocarditis caused by a dental infection, perhaps ultimately caused by the malnutrition that the Nazis forced upon him in his childhood.

In this fantasy, I picture the old man, finally at peace, being led to the Gates of Heaven by Elijah the Prophet, perhaps still able to hear me reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish over him as he takes the Prophet’s hand.  Upon reaching Heaven, I fantasize that my father is given the chance to relive his life as it might have been had the Nazis never existed.

All records of my father’s little village, or shtetl, were destroyed when the Nazis overran it.  Only one photograph of my father’s mother and not a single photograph of my father’s father survived the war.  I often asked my father to describe his father’s appearance to a professional artist so that his likeness could be recovered in that way. Finally, after asking him for the umpteenth time, he told me that he could not remember what his father looked like.  The expression on his face when he told me that broke my heart. 

Editor’s Note: When met with such a powerful, personal poem, I was actually at first taken somewhat aback. It's difficult to formulate a response to a poem that is so spiritually rich and grabbing. In fact, I even wondered whether it was the right fit for the issue, not because of its quality, but because what it sets out to portray—the homecoming of a Holocaust victim to the parents who were robbed of him—is so poignant and emotionally demanding upon the reader, that I felt that it almost transcended the notion of "fantasy" as expressed in the other poems. 

In the end, though, the sheer emotional power of this depiction of a spiritual hope that God might not just revenge the past, but resolve the harm itself, transcends any reservations I might have, and I am quite proud that such a poem that speaks to the greater justice of a wise, and loving deity, and the potential to wipe the tears from our souls and make right what once went wrong, was featured in this issue. I feel enriched for having read it and I hope our readers will feel the same. JFWR

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Spinning

Tyson West

Oh Honey, I just love your hair –

natural curly honey blond, my favorite flavor –

not to mention lice free unlike that certain countess of …

well we need not mention her family’s bar sinister coat of arms.

Oooh! We don’t need a magic mirror to tell

your skin is the fairest foundation of them all.

Just between you and me, the problem with this nobility thing is that

we artists end up working on a lot girls who,

quite frankly, do not have your natural talent.

It takes a more than threads and accessories plus hair and makeup to style my girls into a fantasy.

Debutants really believe, if you’ll pardon my French, their own bullshit.

A commoner with good bones and brains like you fakes it smartly

To become the sickest of them all.

I just love this shade of azure – the crystal color of a July sky

just after a raging thunder storm.

I’ll smear some on the back of my hand so you can see

this eye shadow with kohl eyeliner will make your baby blues pop,

Simply gorgeous!

Honey, you were lucky when your mom was whacking on you

because you knew your aesthetic had grown beyond spinning,

and doubly lucky when she lied to the queen who just happened by,

and who bought your momma’s fairy tale

that she could not keep you in flax.

You had a low spot, Honey, when the queen stuck you in those three rooms

with their Matterhorns of flax expecting you to reduce it all to thread.

Yes, you have what we call a smoky eye in blue

it looks great with your beachy hair after we add a touch of product

I conjured up just for you.

You don’t need fake eyelashes after I apply this.

I know you don’t want to be her spinning monkey and came up with a good excuse

but a glib tongue is not always enough to get by – even with your luck.

The greatest gift of all, Honey, and all of us servants love you for it,

is your willingness to trust us to do our jobs.

Oh my stars and sunshine, let me work on those eyebrows, Sugar

just a little bit of plucking, I am so sorry this will hurt a teensy bit but

once I shape and darken them just a smidgen, the sting will be worth it.

Then you have sprezzatura, so natural you seem

as you effortlessly calculate your every curtsey and wink.

A lot of duke’s daughters should have it

but spray out a mist of arrogance instead like cheap perfume.

Honey, you remember we are here to help

for a bed and bread and cheese and a warm place to play with our art.

We love you for inviting us all to the wedding

including those three maids who spun all that flax.

Even with Jane’s fat lip, Liza’s great thumb and Anne’s big foot

you claim them as your aunts and call us all by name.

Nobody cares about the lie, Sweetie,

just how kind you are when you tell it.

Keep doing this when you are queen

and every one of us will spin for you forever.

Oh my stars and garters! Let me try a subtle flash of blush on those fabulous cheek bones

although at your age you hardly need it.

We elves have the charms to spin commoners like you

Into an A list princess, but

it takes your sense to know magic when you see it and

to run with it long and hard and, above all,

not to let anyone see you sweat.

Editor’s Note: I can’t help but love the hairdresser here. I can picture a salon for fairy tale princesses. It would be every bit as delightfully bitchy as this. JFWR

Hansel's Choice

Tyson West

The first time father walked with Gretel and me into deep forest

we were lucky I had a pocket full of pebbles to light our way home.

We could not understand why father seemed so cold as we greeted him at the gate.

He must have gotten distracted by step mamma’s worries of turnip blight.

This trip they had us wear our most threadbare clothes,

but father and step mamma were kind to give us these crusts of bread.

I left mine in bits along our trail just in case we were lost again.

There must be a dozen ways to die in these woods.

Jack Frost’s fangs seemed bared for us as the sun fell behind the mountain.

At moon rise we tried to distance the howls of wolves.

Werebears may linger by craggy cliffs waiting for our stumble to smear

our flesh before them.

Was it father’s quirky love to lead us to this candy cottage

and the old lady with her big oven?

But she did not as father does with swine

strike my head then hang me by my heels and slit my throat

to catch blood to make sausage.

Her mistake leaves me free to turn

so Gretel and I may force her into the fire.

Pockets full of fudge and wrapped in the old lady’s winter cloaks

we reach the fork in the forest path as the snow starts its fall.

To the right the meadow lies where father farms with step mama

to the left a long dark thread where Gretel senses a town lies open.

We need no magic mirror now to tell us

father thinks it time for Gretel and me to move on.

Editor’s Note: Doesn’t this poem underscore how screwed up Hansel und Gretel really is? It really is quite the horrifying story. JFWR

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Three's the Charm

Colleen Anderson 

The first time someone kissed her

beyond familial fealty

was to bestow protection

The good witch laid her charm

lips like a cool dewy tear

from the northern lands she nurtured

in her winter years, advice and patience

a crone’s wisdom she hoped to confer

staining Dorothy’s forehead

But that brand worked in opposition

as spells of complimentary magic often do

It sparked an ember burning softly

through the farm girl’s vision

firing her to find a way home

She had not yet discovered

that every path that’s left behind

can never be traced again

each step changes who you were

propelling you from the familiar

The next kiss in the Emerald city’s

blush, ripe color flushed everything

in promise and growth Dorothy viewed

the girl clothing her in silk

a dress prettier than gems

She kissed the maiden on the lips

a butterfly’s flutter alighting

in the castle for several days waiting

their fingers explored the summer of their youth

blossoms opening amidst indolent sighs

She said it was for goodbye

yet was stingy with her kisses for anyone else

who had guided her to the golden road

but gave freely to the girl

who pressed garments and food

and heat into her hand

She thought more of that girl

as the first kiss still permeated

impregnating her heart with thoughts

that shivered her limbs ‘til she was torn

between going back to Kansas or on to Oz

She was never sure in years to come

if it was her wish or her desire

kindled by a kiss that spurred

her fingers pressed her lips

rooting for an imprint, a memory

to stir to life her motivation

The last to kiss her in that enchanted place

Glinda, a fit ending to journey’s start

The southern witch oversaw her departure

like a mother bird, let Dorothy find her wings

beat them against her kiss-warmed breast

The kisses three from crone and maiden

mother all magic brimmed Dorothy

brought to her womanhood’s glow

she clicked her heels and set out to complete

the circle, learning that it’s sometimes best to say

goodbye to one life before moving on anew

She waved to Aunt Em and the farm

set her back to the gray Kansas sky

then went in search of the kiss

that had released in her a maelstrom

Poet’s Notes: I’m fascinated by symbolism, myths and fairy tales. In many of these women must fit a particular role as role model, and while The Wizard of Oz was a newer fairy tale where a girl was the main character, she was still at the mercy of others. I saw much that could wind down another road where a young girl’s innocence dissolves and she finds her strength and self.

Editor’s Note: I never thought I’d read a subtly Sapphic poem about Dorothy of Oz. I am most intrigued by this unexpected take on the story, and the way her journey is framed by magic evoked in a kiss. JFWR

About the Poet: Colleen Anderson edits and writes fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in over 250 publications with some recent and new works in Polu Texni, On Spec, Thrilling Words Really System, and Nameless. Her collection, A Body of Work, is published by Black Shuck Books. She has edited three anthologies and will be the 2020 Creative Ink Festival guest of honor in Vancouver.   Find out more at www.colleenanderson.wordpress.com.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Conjurer's Chastisement

James Frederick William Rowe

On wings

On wings

Of airy gauze

Of wool-spun dew, of airy gauze

The Sylph passed through a stormy cloud

Bound

On her path to the Alchemist's home

Upon

Upon

A bubble bed

Undine slept upon a bubble bed

Waking to the beckoning shouting

Pouting

She ne'ertheless swam the currents swift

Within

Within

Deep dark earth

In vaults of stone and deep dark earth

Gnome amidst precious treasures kept

Leapt

To answer the summoning call

Beneath

Beneath

A log he burned

Bathed in flame, a log he burned

Salamander emerged black and smoldering

Shouldering

A burden of fuel for the trip abroad

They came

They came

All four in number

The elementals all four in number

And standing before the summoner proud

Bowed

The alchemist to the spirits assembled

For what

For what

Have you called to us?

To what purpose have you called to us?

You have brought us here at your command

Demand

We all an answer to what end you have in mind

My goal

My goal

Is to know all things

For knowledge supreme, to know all things

So that then I might within my grasp

Clasp

The power of the world as mine to own

But say

But say

What have you done?

To merit this reward what have you done?

Have you faced the torrent's splashing

Crashing

About you as you struggle for breath?

Have you

Have you

Met a blaze?

With dauntless resolve met a blaze?

While all around you the inferno flamed

Tamed

Your fear and emerged from it unscathed?

What heights

What heights

Have you climbed?

Past the clouds have you climbed?

Gaining the summit were then you shouting

Flouting

Your supremacy before the raging wind?

What depths

What depths

Have you plumbed?

Through caverns cramped have you plumbed?

And in chthonic theatres was your singing

Ringing

Amidst the riches hidden in the earth?

All this

All this

It matters not

That I have not, it matters not

For through my magic I am master

Caster

Of spells of might and grandeur!

But see

But see

You are so wrong

In this matter you are so wrong

For it means much to we the elemental four

More

You will learn this lesson now in our wrath!

And so

And so

He was punished

By the elementals he was punished

That he might be taught that wisdom is earned

Learned

He the lesson well by their chastisement

First he was dropped from a height:                                                                     Much to Sylph's airy delight

Next was Salamander's turn:                                                                                Suffered he a grievous burn

Undine conjured waves to crash:                                                                  Several bones of his were mash'd

Then the earth consumed his home:                                                                By the workings of the Gnome

They left

They left

With mocking laughter

Heaping scorn and mocking laughter

Leaving the alchemist broken and alone

Atone

He must now in his agony

And now

And now

He saw his folly

Through anguished tears he saw his folly

But far too late came this revelation

Desolation

Was just desserts for his hubris

Poet’s Notes: This poem is about unearned power--about a reckless desire for knowledge in one lacking the experience necessary to gain such knowledge, and by extension, the power that comes with it. The alchemist thinks he is above the need to prove himself, to master the elements before commanding them, but learns by their wrath that power cannot be so arrogantly gained. The harsh and degrading punishments are just for one who demands power, rather than gaining it by right of knowledge and experience.  

The structure of the poem follows my own scheme that I first introduced in "Ever and Anon this Way with Shades" (http://www.songsoferetz.com/2017/05/ever-and-anon-this-way-with-shades-by.html).

Each stanza is 7 verses long.

The first two verses are two syllables long and are repeated.

The 3rd and 4th verses are related to one another, with the 3rd verse being repeated, or at least partially incorporated, into the 4th.

The 5th verse is longest and the concluding word is rhymed with a single-word 6th verse.

The 7th verse concludes the stanza and continues from the single-word 6th verse.

This metrical scheme is retained except for the paired couplets, which are separated by a large break to draw the reader's eye to the complement of each verse and to emphasize the difference in metrical scheme with the rest of the poem.

I love the song-like quality the scheme imposes on the verses. I also chose the last verse of the ultimate stanza specifically to end the music, ending flatly in line with the humiliation of the alchemist.


An Act of Will

James Frederick William Rowe

There is a name for every demon

And a description

For all afflictions

That your soul is tormented with

But the conjurers were wrong

Their Goetia is a lie

There is no power in their names

This knowledge is impotence

Cast your circle with salt

Your tears shall supply all that is needed

And your sobs and sighs

Shall suffice for your incantations

Sorcerer!

You are a fool!

The only spell is to endure your suffering

To overcome it the only magic: an act of Will.

Poet’s Notes: The names of demons external to oneself are as nothing. The real demons are internal to us—our afflictions and sufferings—and the real act of will—of a sovereign, conquering will—is to overcome that, not to impose some artificial will on some other being.

The Gods Are Mad

James Frederick William Rowe

"The gods are mad"

Indeed they are

To ask of us such a thing as this

Two lovers yet unwed

Their love unconsummated

To feed the waves their blood

And we to join our tears

The oarsman took them to sea

Upon waves far unequal

Of those that warranted this act

Standing at the bow

By their ankles they were tied

Their garments stripped

And made to embrace

When it is done we shall feast

Drink wine, sing songs

So must we celebrate our sorrow

For the priests say that the Lord of the Dead

Presides over their nuptials

And the wrath of his wife of the waves is assuaged

A knife to filet fish

Now to slit throats

A single slice to sew

A smock of their blood

To cover their nakedness

And to sanctify the salt of the sea

Plunging into the water

They sank with the stones

But died before they could suffocate

As their bodies were lost to the deep

The froth became pink

But then returned to white

Poet’s Notes: The idea of human sacrifice is something I have explored in multiple works of mine.  I return to this theme, because it is intensely horrifying yet so profoundly and fearfully human. Sacrifice has been with us since the dawn of time.  This instinct to be willing to sacrifice everything in fear of the forces that seem to hold no care for our lives and purposes, is within us all; thus, I think that treating it explores a dark and twisted, yet sadly understandable, part of the human psyche. 

This poem contrasts the need of the sacrifice with a strong appreciation for what it entails in the emotional lives of those who are party to the sacrifice. The narrator is sorrowful, yet he does not oppose what is done, nor do the victims, who are deliberately not mentioned as struggling. Everyone seems resigned that this is what must be done.  This resignation is thus a condition of the acceptability of the practice, with succor provided to the survivors by the tale told that the gods will accept this sacrifice gladly--a comforting lie, perhaps?  
 
The poem consists of five stanzas of six verses each, chosen with no metrical scheme specifically in mind, but presented in such a way that I thought most suitable to the poem and relying on my aesthetic intuition to make it work.  The poem’s title is a play on words--the gods being both mad in the sense of angry and also in the sense of being insane.  The gods so referenced here are drawn from my fantasy world, not from any actual figures in practiced religions, despite the disturbing parallels to actual historical practice.

Editor's Note:  I find this poem to be quite sobering and disturbingly thought-provoking.  Afterall, consider the three "great religions." Judeism began with the near human sacrifice of Isaac--the fact that God ultimately intervened to prevent it takes nothing away from Abraham's willingness to perform human sacrifice and Isaac's willingness to become a human sacrifice.  Christianty began with the willing human sacrifice of Jesus, however "divinely" ordained the Christians might suppose it to be.  Then, of course, there is Islam, many of whose adherents willingly participate in human sacrifice every day in the name of their religion, and few of whose adherents publicly condemn it.  SWG

            

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Cum Toccoa

Karla Linn Merrifield

            after Wang Wei, “A Green Stream”

I have sailed the River of Yellow Flowers

into northern Georgia in a Blue Ridge valley

where the blossoms are daffodils tossed

into green waters far upstream by a woman

much like me who then floats the course,

tumbles through the gentle rapids,

heading down, down to eddy out

onto the shore below a cabin in the hemlocks.

I have visited that Temple to the Earth

where lives the mountain monk who would

instruct me as a novice in the ways of elves

and fairy creatures – he would make of me

his sprite so that we both may take delight

in the metamorphosis of the seasons, as beings

partly human, partly wild little beast, Pan’s

children.  For the lessons learned are beneath

His soughing boughs in spring when the

Yellow Flowers runs clear and we see its way.

Poet’s Notes: Here is yet another poem inspired by one of my greatest muses, poet and friend Beau Cutts. He now dwells in the great beyond, but his lively spirit-of-a-sprite in the Georgia woods brought a sense of whimsical fairytale into my poem. Toccoa is a small river in northern Georgia whose voice you could hear from Beau’s secluded cabin.

Editor’s Note: I, too, feel as if the current takes me on the journey, so composed is the imagery of this poem. JFWR

I, Urania,

say this is so: that I, a celestial body,

neither angel nor goddess, but a simpler spirit,

traveled improbable distances to this planet

to take a woman’s form.  I, Urania, followed

a single cone of night to arrive in time

on Honey Island.  I found myself floating

from a tussocked prairie just east of the source

of Bee Creek, to arrive on shore inevitably

in the groin of the prehistoric Okefenokee.

The quaking earth awoke to my quick tracks.

You awoke, trembling.  By starlight, I, Urania,

lay with you.  By a sliver of moon reflected

in the waxy leaves of a dahoon holly –

your Ilex cassine – by the Milky Way, a sheen

on the watery corridors beyond the lip of land,

we rested.  You sang to me of your home;

Taxodium ascendens, Taxodium districum,

you intoned.  Mine was more the music

of the spheres.  You folded your body

around mine.  You named my breasts, named

my hips, named my thighs.  All of the strange

human shape I had taken was flesh.

Oh, so this is what it is to be warm-blooded.

Here are my bones; burn them.  Like one

among the flora of that swamp, you knew me.

Later, I, Urania, remember dreaming with you

of cypress domes and blackgum coppices.

And you, my beloved, dreamed the birth

of the universe.  Together, we slept.

It was I, Urania, who gave you a memory

in return as I was supposed to do, so that

the next morning, when you returned

by foot, by canoe, in full sun, destined

downstream on the Suwannee River

to the estuary at the Gulf of Mexico,

you could bring back with you our fantasy.

--Karla Linn Merrifield

Poet’s Notes: This poem was inspired by friend and poet Beau Cutts, sadly now gone to the great beyond. He was a veteran stargazer who helped me find my way across the night sky on many a night in his native Georgia, opening my eyes to the wonders of our Universe with stories as well about the naming of stars, planets and galaxies. Those tales led to these lines.

Editor’s Note: The lucid and eloquent depictions of the natural world are artistically matched only by the intense eroticism of the verses.  Who would not want such a celestial visit amidst Southern swamps? JFWR

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Apparitions At 5 Pennine View

Alessio Zanelli

Phantoms. Whether from the ceiling,

slanting, or from the floor, standing.

Greedy of heed, livid-faced, shades

neither light nor darkness will black

out. Me, spectator, expectant in awe,

not fear. Fear is of the dead. I am one

who can descry. On all fours, groping

in a corner, the eyes sealed, William,

after a vision, the missing one, fails

to recognize himself as it. Damned

like all accusers. Agape, the face

against a wall, unlike his mate the

eyes wide open, Edgar Allan shakes

with dubiety. The shadow or the soul,

the genius maybe, what he has always

obsess'd about. More and more unsure.

A widow's cap still on, afloat overhead

amid the room, not the Prince but the

crown Victoria's looking for. And her

cherished nickname, rather than the

Empire. Somber. A regular since he was

gone, I was but five, mad about his teeny

nephew, Uncle Lino pays a visit wherever

I am, provided there is a curtain through

which to peep. Static on the interior sill,

he watches over me, unseen. Happy.

Afraid of the others, perched on the

chandelier, skinny Alfredino grunts

he hopes some stronger hands will

pull him up, out of the well. Genuine.

None are funny, it's said. Untrue. Take

Neil, for one. He hovers higher than the

nanny, asking why on earth he has been

left alone to wander on the moon, where

his two comrades are. Disconcerted. And

there is Jon, who quit a few weeks before,

sitting on my bed, inquisitive-gazed, as if

wondering where the bloody keyboards

are, the Hammond above all, but never

speaks a word. Blue and angered. The

eighth and last of them, lying at my side,

silent all the time, really constitutes some

mystery. His quite old visage calls to mind

no name. I like to think that they can travel

either way, so that he could be simply me.

What they claim isn't clay, nor a passage

back, but something they were forced to

leave behind, or unfinished business of

some kind. Spooks seek no revenge or

redress, solely help and human touch.

Poet’s Notes: Most of the ghosts can be easily recognized, but some are strictly personal, and there needs a bit of explanation.

So the apparitions, in order of appearance, are those of: William Blake, Edgar Allan Poe, Queen Victoria, my uncle Lino, Alfredino Rampi, Neil Armstrong, Jon Lord, and myself.

I had been dreaming of all these people over the two to three nights preceding the day I wrote the poem, some of them quite understandably (for example, I had read an article about the Apollo 11 Mission lately), some others really inexplicably (for instance, I can't remember the time I had last read something about Queen Victoria, mysteries of the oneiric realm...).

Uncle Lino died at thirty-four, when I was just five. He used to live with us, so his premature death impressed me a lot--to say it in a familiar way, he's a "frequent visitor" of my dreams.

Alfredino Rampi was a six-year-old child who tragically died back in 1981. His sad case kept the Italians paralyzed in front of their TV screens for three nights and two days.  He'd fallen into an abandoned, unmarked artesian well, and the Italian state television covered the whole event. They tried everything to rescue Alfredino from the hole, but eventually he died, alone, in the dark and the cold of the bowels of the earth, fifty-five meters below the surface. I still see his smiling face in my mind, the only picture they ever showed of him black and white.

Jon Lord is the unforgotten, legendary keyboard player of Deep Purple, a classical music composer and the inventor of the hard-rock organ, distorted using a device for guitars. Curiously, he died in 2012, about a month before Neil Armstrong.

5 Pennine View is the address of my parents-in-law, in a village in South Yorkshire, near the barren moors of the Peak District, where my wife Jane and I use to spend a few weeks in the summer, and where I experienced the apparitions.

Up there, during my solitary runs over the deserted moorland, having no one to talk to and share the road with for longish hours, every now and then I happen to come across the last one of the ghosts--myself, back from some point in the future. Sometimes he follows me home and, seeing how exhausted I am, accompanies me to bed.

Editor’s Note: I love a good ghost story, and this achieves a marvel of referencing so many tales whilst not at all feeling cluttered or without purpose. JFWR

Presence
Alessio Zanelli

Their whispers draw near gentle, melded

with the low rumble of thunder, incessant

although still distant. All of them. From a

really long way. A twofold, circular one.

It takes just space for time to lapse, elapse

for memories to persist. Time of return, and

time of turn. Of quick reckoning, stern but

dispassionate. The future put aside for once.

Judgment arrives like a storm. There’s no

reason to bolt, as there’d be no escape. I’ve

dreamt of faces, sound of voices, weight of

phrases. A peaceful but inexorable parade.

Remembrance hasn’t got evoking

force enough for life to summon

death. A harsh head-to-head, but

straight. Terrific, but liberating.

And under long-awaited lightning, as

the sky slakes the earth, on my turf at

last, I’ll obtain a fair verdict. I’ll dispel

all doubts, or I’ll get over it. Untried.

I’ll figure out what the past has taken from

me, and what it has spared me. The correct

sequence of missing events. There will be no

setback and no succor, just sheer occurrence.

Come what may, I’ll rid myself

of their impalpable but relentless

presence. A pristine aura after me

from the cradle. Guilty or innocent.

I’ll let go of those blaming whispers

forever, with the clouds dissolving

behind me at sunset. Then, and only

then, I’ll turn my eyes to the horizon.

 

Editor’s Note: If only it could be so easy to liberate oneself from the past. But then again, who would we be without one? JFWR

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Three Little Pigs Go Hog Wild

Vivian Finley Nida

Hernando de Soto sails to Florida

with three little pigs, first swine to take steps

in New World. Pampered, they happily travel

with Spaniard, crossing wide river

Father of All Waters, before fever ends his life

Expedition continues, rafts down Mississippi

leaving pigs behind.    They follow custom

preparing shelter first.    One gathers straw

another sticks, third bricks.    Unfortunately

houses encroach on wolf’s territory

Next day wolf appears

His piercing eyes threaten

but pigs feel safe until he blows down

house of straw and house of sticks

Hooves clatter, hearts quake darting

to last sanctuary where pigs huddle

No other wolves in sight

This one hunts alone

Large pot of water steams

as fire blazes in fireplace

Wolf huffs, puffs to no avail

He laments living by himself, not going

north with pack, cramping from hunger

Pigs remember how wolf tricked Red Riding Hood  

They hear claws, sharp as knives, scrape up chimney

He leaps, splashes into boiling water

Spine-tingling howls explode

as pigs crack his head with cast iron lid

drag him out, gore him with tusks

Having killed the wolf, they race toward horizon

like six million other feral pigs today

roaming wherever they want

omnivorous, aggressive

ravaging flora and fauna

with no natural predators to stop them

Poet’s Notes: Two years ago, feral pigs reached our farm in north central Oklahoma. If they continue spreading at today’s rate, it is predicted that in thirty to fifty years, they will be in every county in the continental states. They are already in Hawaii.  Feral swine cause about $1.5 billion in damage each year and are moving farther north and west quickly, partially due to few natural predators and a warming climate.  Recently, the U.S. Department of Agriculture announced it will fund $75 million for a pilot program to eradicate and control feral pigs. Most of the money will go to soil and water conservation districts. To learn more, see December 18, 2019 article by Brigit Katz in Smithsonian Magazine, “Feral Pigs Are Invasive, Voracious and Resilient.  They’re also Spreading.”

Editor’s Note: I love the blending of the tale of the Three Little Pigs with the real, and actually quite scary, state of feral pig populations in America. On the plus side, I will note that I could use some boar bristle brushes for my shoes and hair and I’m sure they’re fine eating. If we are to be rid of them, let’s not be wasteful! JFWR

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The Ash Maiden [La Cenerentola]

LindaAnn LoSchiavo

Her Cinderella-soul adrift, she sits

Among cold ashes, motherless, bereaved,

Repeating prayers shared with her rosary.

Her pappa, led by lust, rewed. Now loud

Lovemaking tells la cenerentola

More than she wants to know. How sad she feels

In bed when overhearing generous

Affection that is never aimed her way.

Unceasing love from mamma now lies still,

Interred beneath the churchyard’s marble slabs.

Imagining unwaking scares this child.

Observing mamma’s grave, tall oaks stripped bare

Send shadows — branches grief stricken from lost

Leaves, skeleton trees as bereft as she.

While hurrying through chores ungratefully

Demanded, the ash maiden dreams husbands.

Will hers be willing to shake the thorns off loss,

Repair hope’s broken stem, kiss hurts away?

Sweeping the steps, she’s watching birds alight,

Glide smoothly through sky blue abandonment.

Formations give the aura of a bridge.

Cold rain-soaked graves behind absorb it all.

Poet’s Notes:  "La Cenerentola" vs "Cinderella" --  Ashes, a powdery residue, can be brushed off cleanly, whereas cinders retain combustible matter, leaving the clothing and body blackened with soot. Think of a chimney sweep.

My Neapolitan grandparents grew up with an Italian fairytale whose focus is a child mourning her mother, symbolized by her sad nickname: "La Cenerentola" or "Ash Maiden."  Tears watering the mother's grave produce a magical tree that, eventually, will blossom with gifts.

By renaming his heroine "Cinderella," Walt Disney turned a grieving youngster into a dirty child covered with cinders.

My poem draws on the Italian version I grew up with.

Editor’s Note: There is something poignant about this version which so fixates on the loss of the mother. This poem conveys that message beautifully, especially in overhearing her father’s enthusiastic embrace of the new wife who treats her so coldly. The poet has introduced me to a beautiful take on a tale I thought I knew so well. JFWR

  

About the Poet: LindaAnn LoSchiavo is a dramatist, writer, and formalist.  Her poetry chapbooks "Conflicted Excitement" [Red Wolf Editions, 2018], "Concupiscent Consumption" [Red Ferret Press, 2020], and "A Route Obscure and Lonely"' [Wapshott Press, 2020] along with her collaborative book on prejudice [Macmillan in the USA, Aracne Editions in Italy] are her latest titles.  She is a member of The Dramatists Guild.  Find out more about the poet here https://www.thepoetmagazine.org/interview-with-lindaann-loschiavo

and here https://www.neonbooks.org.uk/review-a-route-obscure-and-lonely-by-lindaann-loschiavo/.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Reaping Early

Melanie Bell

Elaine:

Guinevere, she always got the good-looking ones.

I’ll tell you, it makes a woman’s chest clamp up to see life parading by

and her, waxen hand cleaved to his

on the shores of the lake where her husband got that sword.

Wasn’t too polite of them to unruffled sacred grounds

though it’s possible she never asked their story.

Guinevere:

His eyes are sealed, allowing hands of vine

to sap across my body unimpeded.

Fingers numb outside my sleeves, exposed.

Don’t ask me how it happened—

I’ll be cursed if I know.

Cursed if I don’t, either, I suppose.

Some say Fate lurks in the algae-mottled lee of the lake.

Others reckon it’s a giant squid.

But sure as dawn batters slabs of tower walls,

casting a sundial in the room where I sleep alone,

it was no squid that shut me here,

chucked a weaving loom beside me

and bid me to do as I will.

Hurl praise at him formulaic, giggle rote.

Water rises and we clasp each other as if sap were left

while sap flows strong in forests far from here.

The commands of its will are my secret:

there are none.

Only, when I knock against the windows,

a sting runs through my scalp.

Fingers stutter. Legs point one way, then the next.

Orpheus would have lived, had his heart been mute.

Neither he nor I would have looked back.

I weave the world in clumps, because

there’s nothing else to do.

The view from here slices crisper,

though I miss the proximity of song.

In the strains that carry up-forest, her voice melts to his.

I can no longer distinguish

his low notes ring flat,

her highs, sharp.

There's singing from the tower sometimes, too.

In dreams I'm looking down on fields of barley,

throat full of the keen air that means alone.

Poet’s notes: The figure of Elaine, the Lady of Shalott, has appealed to me since I first read Tennyson's poem. I wondered if she might have witnessed Guinevere and Lancelot's affair, and if each woman had something the other wanted - whether that was companionship or a "room of one's own."

Editor’s Note: There is always a spot in my heart for Arthurian legend, and this poem conveys such an interesting take on the two chief figures of Lancelot’s heart. I am especially stirred by the verses, “Orpheus would have lived, had his heart been mute. / Neither he nor I would have looked back.” JFWR

About the Poet: Melanie Bell holds an MA in Creative Writing from Concordia University and has written for various publications including Autostraddle, Cicada, The Fiddlehead, Every Day Fiction, and CV2. She's the co-author of a nonfiction book, The Modern Enneagram (Althea Press, 2017). You can visit her website at InspireEnvisioning.com. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 Fly Fishing Lesson  

Howard Stein  
In memory of Dr. Robert Young

A wheat farmer fly fishes

In his favorite pond –

The only vacation he knows –

Wades near the shore,

His fly line out fifty feet

Into the water, the deceptive fly

Floating, lazy on the surface –

A scene that could be

Lake Placid, mirror-glazed,

Still, serene, the farmer

Waits, unhurried in his reverie,

For an unsuspecting fish

To lunge at his

Hook-concealing fly.

In his zone of suspended time,

The farmer could not

Know of the drama

Unfolding beneath the surface

Of this tiny

Sea of Tranqulility.

Not far below,

An unusual fish hesitated

To leap at the apparent fly

That lay motionless

Above him.

He had studied

This eerie situation

Many times before,

As one after another fellow fish

Pounced upon the fly,

Only to disappear instantly

Straight out of the water,

A hook piercing its mouth,

Attached to some sort of string or line.

But then taken to where?  He wondered.

He imagined his fate to be theirs

If he succumbed to his appetite

Instead of to his eyes.

Though he was hungry,

He would wait.

His would be a better fate

Than that of his fellow fishes.

For now, he would sit back

Observe, and ponder

This unusual sight.

If this fish could not discern

The hook behind the lure,

He would at least

Not take the bait.

The farmer, feet firmly planted

On the bottom of the pond,

Out-waited many fishes.

After a few hours,

His vacation over,

He left for a few weeks

To work his farm,

He always returned

With a full box of flies,

Ready to resume

His calming sport of deception.

Meanwhile, the canny fish

Continued to encircle

Each new fly he saw,

Inspected it, waited,

And only went at the fly

He knew was safe to eat –

The fish knew nothing

Of the farmer

And his brief

Respite from toil –

He only knew that

Sometimes it is good

For a fish to learn

When not to bite.

Poet’s Notes: Fly fishing is a staple in the lives of countless American farming families, as well many others who love to fish. When I first arrived in Oklahoma for a new job in 1978, I soon learned of its significance. In this poem, there is an unspoken dialogue between a farmer-fisherman and an inquisitive and wary fish who swam near where the line rested atop the water.  I came to write this poem after reading an essay on an unconscious psychological process called “projective identification,” written by Dr. Robert Young, a brilliant and creative psychoanalyst and organizational psychoanalyst whom I met and learned much from at professional conferences as well as from his writing. Dr. Young also became a close friend, though he lived in the UK, while I lived in Oklahoma.

In his essay, Dr. Young used fly fishing to illustrate how the complex concept works in disturbed human relationships. One person casts out, projects, a line that contains both bait (in fishing, a fly) and hook. Another person, emotionally vulnerable to this projection, is lured by the bait and is caught by the hook!  The relationship is destructive! 

Writing and completing the poem took on special urgency for me when I learned that Dr. Young had died.  The poem is both a little memorial to our friendship and an acknowledgement of his influence on my own thinking.

Editor’s Note: This is a fine and beautiful tribute; however, it also makes me realize I’ve never gone fishing, and I must remedy this when the weather is better. JFWR

Keeping Time    

Howard Stein  

Wall clocks

Floor clocks

Table clocks

Tenor tick

Bass tick

Snare drum

Kettle drum

Cymbals

Gong

Chatter

Heavy footfalls

Steady pulse

Metronomic stroke

Pianissimo

Fortissimo

Rapturous klang

Throbbing din 

Steady pulse

Time’s heartbeat

Then

As if obeying

Some peremptory command

All clocks cease ticking

In unison

Fall lifeless to the floor

Their hands stiff in rigor mortis

Their gears locked in cardiac arrest

Their faces frozen in fixed stare

Still as a corpse

All the clocks have

Run out of time

Poet’s Notes: This poem begins with a fantasy that has recurred to me for several years in the late 2010’s.  It always begins with the reassuring concatenation of ticks and tocks in an old-fashioned clock and watch repair shop.  Then, as in a horror movie, the ordinary and comforting transmute into chilling fear. 

I have been reading William Butler Yeats’ poem, “The Second Coming” (1919), frequently in recent years.  It speaks to me of what much of contemporary life feels like. Especially the lines, “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;/ Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,” crystallizes it for me.

So, in a sense, my poem is ekphrastic. But in a larger sense, it is a meditation on our times, or at least my experience of them. From the outside, one could easily conclude that the clocks represent a metaphor and a fantasy. From the inside, as I wrote and read my poem, it felt almost unbearably, palpably real.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dementia:  What the wolf does

Terri Cummings

Breadcrumbs lose him

not the other way around

He tries to return

but fails to find his way

A curse condemns, locks the door—

drops the key in jaws of an ogre

who grinds it into slivers

spits them from clouds like sleet—

each bit a strike like a bite

from the apple of spells

Breadcrumbs fail Hansel, Gretel

Hop-o’-My-Thumb, too

Cunning and craving

not crumbs, lead them to safety

Yet his mind splutters, drains desires

without a clue to place crumb on tongue

Even strangers hunger for him to feast

when final homecoming arrives

Deceased, he never forgets our names

or bares his teeth

or tells the tale about disguised wolf—

how it tricked him. Swallowed him alive

Poet’s Notes:  Sometimes, the smallest detail in a story leads to the telling of another. This is what happened when I searched for a way to write a poem related to a fairytale. Once, I had wished my father-in-law remembered how to eat the tiniest crumb of nourishment.

Editor’s Note: There is more mercy in a wolf’s maw than in dementia’s teeth. It is an enemy worth eradicating, and one I hope to see at last defeated one day. The weaving of a fairy tale with the theme of dementia is a stroke of brilliance. JFWR

Editor's Note:  In my medical career now spanning nearly thirty years, I have witnessed first hand the ravages of dementia.  Worse still, I have seen many patients, sadly most of them military veterans, labeled with dementia who have never had a proper workup to search for possible reversible causes, common ones being hypothyroidism, subdural hematoma, and pseudodementia or depression-related cognitive dysfunction.  Dementia is a wolf, but the tendency to rush to apply the label is a pack of hyenas.  SWG

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Iron Teeth

Jennifer Crow

The season of ripe grain has passed,

insects have fallen silent, birds

sweep south, dark wings against

a sullen sky. You worship summer’s god

too late, and his chapel

stands empty, nave a mosaic

of dead leaves and broken nests.

When winter bites me, I return

wound for wound, my iron teeth

gouging bits of cloud

to reveal the cold silver bowl

of the moon, brim-full of sorrow

for the summer child.

Listen closely when the wind

stills, and you might catch

the clatter of my iron jaw

hammering out painful truths

in the flesh of the world.

I am my own wild hunt, hungering

for the give of soft skin

and the salty tang of blood.

Run if you must. My appetite

only grows with the delay,

and my altar waits

for the offering promised

by winter’s gathering darkness.

I know the planes of your face

as I know the plains of this land,

and though you cannot trick me

I might give a boon to one

so fair of heart, who does not flinch

to see my iron grin. Bend close

so I may whisper the secret of flight

in the pink curve of your ear,

and we will travel the night

together, witches born of fate’s

meddling hand, unbowed

and full of rage.

Poet’s Notes: "Iron Teeth" is about the Russian witch Baba Yaga, one of my favorite characters in folk and fairy tales. She's always appealed to me because she falls outside the stereotype of the wicked witch--though she sometimes acts with cruelty, she also helps and rewards those who come to her seeking justice, so long as they are brave enough to face her skull-lined path, her hut on chicken legs, and her strong iron teeth.

Editor’s Note: The imagery of the seasons wonderfully sets the stage for Baba Yaga’s entrance, and the poem concludes with such powerful verses that sing to the witch’s promises of satisfied wrath. JFWR

About the Poet: Jennifer Crow lives beside a waterfall in western New York in a house with a big front porch, where she can sit and watch the world go by. Her poetry has appeared in a number of print and electronic venues, including Uncanny, Liminality, and Asimov's Science Fiction. She also reads poetry slush for the latest incarnation of Amazing Stories.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Guest TOC Artist Tracy Whiteside

Artist’s Notes:  Fairies are a fantasy.  Tinkerbell, Puck, and the Blue Fairy figure prominently in our childhood.  They represent innocence.  I am drawn to fantastical, magical, dream-like images that often lie on the dark side of the imagination. I am exploring what makes us human--not our biology but our minds.  In particular, I am interested in females---our experiences, emotions, hopes, and fears that make us who we are. 

About the Artist:  Tracy Whiteside is a Chicago-area photographer with over fifteen years of experience.  She works in many genres but specializes in creative images.  Her art has appeared in over fifty different publications in just the last year.  Check out her portfolio at https://tracywhiteside.myportfolio.com. You can enjoy her irrational mixed bag of images on Instagram @whitesidetracy.

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Frequent Contributor News  

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce the following publications by current and former Frequent Contributors.

 

FC Ross Balcom

"I Want to Taste October" and "The Egyptian Splendor," appeared in Spectral Realms #12 (Winter 2020), published by Hippocampus Press https://hippocampuspress.com/.

Assistant Editor Terri Lynn Cummings

First place for adult poetry category with “The Voice” in the Santa Fe New Mexican Pasatiempo Magazine 2020 Writing Contest https://www.santafenewmexican.com/pasatiempo/writing_contest/.

Presenter/featured reader for poetry at the 2020 Southwest Popular/American Culture Association Conference, Albuquerque, NM, February 19-22, 2020.

Former FC Sierra July

“What’s the Buzz?” published in November 2019 by Harbinger Press.

Former FC Mary Soon Lee

"How to Decorate the Moon" published in Eye to the Telescope http://www.eyetothetelescope.com/.

"Jumble," a poem about King Xau, who appeared in several Songs of Eretz poems, published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly http://www.heroicfantasyquarterly.com/?p=2976.

"How to Hide the Milky Way" published in Uppagus https://uppagus.com/poems/soon-lee-hide/.

"How to Go Twelfth" published in the March/April issue of Analog Science Fiction.

Former FC Lauren McBride

"To My Shipmates at Journey's End" published in Fantasy & Science Fiction March/April 2020. 

"A Stitch in Space" published in Spaceports & Spidersilk, February 2020.

"New Jet Car" published in Star*Line #43.1, Winter 2020.

Seven minimalist poems published in Random Planets.

Former FC Vivian Nida

Village Books Press published Vivian's first collection of poetry, From Circus Town, USA.  The title comes from her hometown, Hugo, Oklahoma, which serves as winter headquarters for several circuses.

Vivian judged the 2020 Oklahoma Writing Project statewide poetry contest for grades six through twelve and teachers. Winners will be recognized at OWP’s Spring Conference on April 1, 2020.

Former FC John Reinhart

"Sestina for the Future" appeared in issue 37 of Taproot Magazine  https://taprootmag.com/collections/magazines/products/issue-37-spark.

FC Howard Stein

"Four Haiku," was published in Floyd County Moonshine 11(2) Fall 2019: p. 111.

"Four Poems by HF Stein": "Cardiac Care"; "Long Hall"; "So Welcome a Spring"; "Toward Thanksgiving" were published in Blood and Thunder: Musings on the Art of Medicine, Volume 18, University of Oklahoma College of Medicine, Fall 2019: Pp. 95-98 www.ouhsc.edu/bloodandthunder.

"Disappeared," published in The Journal of Psychohistory 47 (2) Fall 2019: PP. 154-155.

"Too Short," published in Families, Systems and Health 37(4) December 2019: p. 347.

"Trouble Breathing," published in Family Medicine 52(1) January 2020: p. 68.

"The Second Flood," published in The Journal of Psychohistory. 47 (3) Winter 2020:  Pp. 232-233.

FC Charles A. Swanson

“A Million Silver Lizards out of Snow” and “Summer Corn,” published in the Fall 2019 issue of Speckled Trout Review https://speckledtroutreview.com/fall-2019/#CharlesS. 

“Crackling Cornbread” published in the Winter, 2020 issue of Change Seven Magazine https://changesevenmag.com/. 

“Squirrel Brains” published in Floyd County Moonshine, Fall 2019, 11.2. http://www.floydshine.com/issue11-2.html.

New FC Tyson West

"Moon Garden" published February 2020 in Tales from the Moonlit Path.

"Late Arrival at the Ephrata Taco Bell" and "Airway Heights Lunch Crowd August 2, 2019" published in the February 2020 issue of Taco Bell Quarterly.

"Burlesque 1967", "Googleus Nuncius", "Deception Snow", and "Avalanche" published in Issue 35 of The Fib Review. 

FC Alessio Zanelli

Two poems in the leading South African journal New Contrast issue #189, Autumn 2020 http://www.newcontrast.net/.

His collection, The Secret Of Archery has been reviewed by British essayist, poet, critic Neil Leadbeater in the 2020 issue of Contemporary Literary Review India, available both in print and online

http://literaryjournal.in/index.php/clri/article/view/510

“The Spirit” published in issue #43, Winter 2020 of Tipton Poetry Journal http://tiptonpoetryjournal.com/& https://issuu.com/tiptonpoetryjournal/docs/tpj43.

“Cybernetics” published in Star*Line, issue #43.1 http://sfpoetry.com/starline.html.

“The Mutable Tinnitus Of Time” published in the 2020 edition of Global Poetry Anthology, published in Kerala, India, and edited by Seena Sreevalson https://www.facebook.com/pages/category/Art/Global-Poetry-Web-117139733001051/.

“The Road And I” published in the 2020 edition of The Transnational, a bilingual (English/German) literary magazine based in Germany, whose editor is Dr. René Kanzler https://www.rene-kanzler.com/& https://www.the-transnational.com/.

“Recurrence” published on the front cover of the poetry magazine The Journal, based in Wales http://thesamsmith.webs.com.

A poem published in issue #190 of Orbis http://www.orbisjournal.com/, UK.
A poem published in the 2020 edition of Phenomenal Literature, India http://phenomenalliterature.com/.

“Run’s End” and “The Cart Pusher” published in issue #40 of the British literary magazine Dream Catcher http://www.dreamcatchermagazine.co.uk/html/contributor.html & http://www.dreamcatchermagazine.co.uk/.

New Zealand Alpine Journal chose Alessio as the featured poet for the 2019 issue, publishing “World Of Dreams”, “The Climb”, and “The Mountain” https://alpineclub.org.nz/product/new-zealand-alpine-journal-2019/.

“A Trekker's Thought” published in The Lyric, Volume 99, Number 4.  Founded in 1921, The Lyric is the oldest magazine in North America in continuous publication devoted to traditional poetry https://thelyricmagazine.com/.

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Lana the Poetry Dog

Forthcoming

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review will re-open for submissions from April 10 to May 1, 2020 for our "Love" themed issue, which will be published in mid-June 2020.  Assistant Editor Terry Lynn Cummings will be the lead editor.  The Muse of Love has inspired many to compose some of the most beautiful and memorable poems in existence.  She has also "inspired" some of the worst.  Terri will be looking for poems that bring something fresh and new to this old theme.

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