SONGS OF ERETZ POETRY REVIEW
FALL 2021 "RELIGION" ISSUE
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Front Cover: "Heavenly Gull" | Ink on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon
TOC: "Charaacter Builder" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon
Back Cover: "Visions" | Oil on Canvas | Vincent Heselwood
Unless otherwise indicated, all illustrations are the work
of our Art Editor or taken from "royalty-free" open Internet sources.
Editor-in-Chief
Steven Wittenberg Gordon
Art Editor
Jason Artemus Gordon
Associate Editor
Terri Lynn Cummings
Featured Frequent Contributors
Tyson West
John C. Mannone
Additional Frequent Contributors
Karla Linn Merrifield, Vivian Finley Nida, & Howard F. Stein
Biographies of our editorial staff & frequent contributors may be found on the "Our Staff" page.
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Table of Contents
A Letter From the Lead Editor
A Letter From the Editor in Chief
A Letter From the Art Editor
Featured Poets
The Poetry of Tyson West
The Poetry of John C. Mannone
Frequent Contributors
Art Gallery
Guest Poets
Anushka Nagarmath
“The Woods are a Religion in Themselves”
Goddfrey Hammit
“Baptizing Anne Frank”
Pinny Bulman
“hagar”
“statue”
Louis Girón
“Fra Timoteo”
Lorraine Jeffery
“The Taste”
Carla Sarett
“The Subway Searchers”
John Delaney
“Walking the Beach in Winter”
Mark Tulin
“Disguise of Goodwill”
Linda McCauley Freeman
“What I Learned In Catholic School”
Anita Jawary
“Calling Your Name”
Marc Janssen
"Angels Are Good At Excuses"
Frequent Contributor News
Forthcoming
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A Letter from the Lead Editor
Yet when well informed and well
described, the easier a connection opens between the speaker and reader. A step
is taken toward the common ground where new ideas breed. And when actions
follow, hearts lead the way.
The theme of religion is a first for Songs of Eretz Poetry Review. Here, connections form within the frame of poetry where religion mirrors the minds, the times, the peoples. Poems in this issue dissent, mend, portray, transport. They connect, divide, challenge, reveal.
Some relate to political or social issues such as abuse. Others explore loss, fear, or absolution. From the universe to a mailbox, this issue delivers an array of messages for you to consider.
Terri Lynn Cummings
Associate Editor
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A Letter from the Editor-in-Chief
We usually publish toward the beginning of or just before the coming season. This time, a perfect storm of illness within the editorial staff (we have all recovered, thank God), unusually high demands of our day jobs, and an unforeseen necessity to travel overseas resulted in the publication of this issue a bit later. Fortunately, I had the foresight to offer our quarterly e-zine by the season rather than by the month, so I was not bombarded by queries, except from Howard, may his beard grow ever longer!
The tail end of summer and beginning of the fall season brought with them the Jewish High Holidays, and the later than usual publication of our fall issue allowed me the opportunity of enjoying some of my editor-in-chiefing outdoors in my sukkah and near the grave of Lana the Poetry Dog, whose howling during my blasts of the shofar and steady companionship I still (and always will) dearly miss. The timing of this religion-themed issue is now also nicely sandwiched between the contemplative Jewish holidays and the coming of Christmas, which I find somehow fitting.
Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD
Editor-in-Chief
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A Letter from the Art Editor
No matter your religious background, I trust that you will be impressed by the poems in this issue, as was I. There is a diverse array of perspectives and interpretations of this theme, and I felt honored to make artwork for some of these. I only wish I had time to make artwork for even more! I am hoping to make one of the pieces in this issue, “Slumbering City”, one of the first of many pieces in a series.
I am also revamping my social media. At present, I am sorry to say that I have no website or anything for you to check out, other than my neglected Instagram site @JasonArtGo. By our next issue, I hope to have those up and running!
My artwork in this issue (and past issues!) is for sale! The purchase prices are in my notes for each piece. If you are interested in making a purchase, please contact me directly at JasonArtGo@gmail.com. I can offer you prints, the original piece itself, or even the piece framed with or without the poem that it accompanies. You may also talk to me about commissions!
Jason Artemus Gordon
Art Editor
Featured Frequent Contributors
The Poetry of Tyson West
The Syndics of the Drapers Guild
(As Below So Above)
Tyson West
I first met the old boys at the corner bodega
where I bought nana bread,
Uncle Jimmy Chesterfields and Charleston Chews for me.
Unsmiling on the cigar box lid Heer Janz
in the act of rising broke
their horizontal plane of silent serenity.
Since I burned no cigars nor yet worried Protestant gods
I chronicled not their gaze save noting
the careful composition and universal veracity
of grey men in black and white.
Fathers Keating, Ciola, and Vinca too modeled
black cassocks and white collars at St. Mickey's on the hill
though deity demands his men and boys at times
pose in vestments periwinkle, crimson hats or dress blues just
to keep up the magic of Oz.
When I noticed Cynthia, muse of my sweven, made manifest
in curves as subtle as Satan
we already felt the ecstasy of debate
spiced of Plato, Parnassus, and images on which our fathers frowned.
As above, so below.
Our innocence ground
in arrogant red and yellow grit of Velasquez ―
too real portrait of his pope ―
we marveled Titian's glorious corrupt collage ―
Pope Paul III with his grandsons.
But Cynthia's organics bloomed of bible fables Rembrandt illustrated.
While I admired "The Abduction of Europa" and "Andromeda Chained to the Rocks"
she averted my eyes to "The Supper at Emmaus", “The Return of the Prodigal Son" culminating in "The Baptism of the Eunuch".
Ticks and tocks and trips for treasure forked our future ―
eyes time blurred more sharply see
beyond the veil to text with Lazarus to
truth in triangulation on canvas.
My perspective point, frown of Pope Julius ― relic of Rafael's fingers
he kept warm kneading flesh folds of La Fornarina counter reformed
to the singularity of Cynthia's rose wreathed tombstone
quoting her grey boy Saul of Tarsus' rap to his Roman Posse.
As below, so above.
Black and white syndics with Bel, their skullcapped servant, forever
seated silently against the taupe wooden wainscot,
her Protestant gods ruled by committee.
Five greying masters opening their swatch book
weigh the hand and color of each soul's weave then
press leaden seals to judge levels of perfection.
Deity by democracy far duller than
the pope's infallible freedom
to petulate, procreate, and make war
but also commission those sinners with vision
to fresco perfect imperfection
for our generation to love.
As behind, so ahead ― as above, so below.
Poet’s Notes: This ekphrastic poem is based on Rembrandt’s “Syndics of the Draper's Guild”. As a child, I absorbed this image of six aliens in black and white from the lid of a Dutch Master’s cigar box. Southern Catholic painters lived not only in different climates than the northern painters, but their secular works present two different versions of Christianity. The Protestant version is an oligarchy where senior males gather to craft dull dogma as a committee. The Catholic Church, on the other hand, functions as an aristocracy, with the pope on top of a pyramid of sometimes corrupt bishops and priests. Artists paint each society’s idea of deity in portraits of powerful males.
Editor’s Notes: Almost always, I walk away from West’s work with a line stuck in my head. This one is /eyes time blurred more sharply see/. TLC
Editor’s Notes: There is a brilliant weaving of the ekphrastic into this one, with an undercurrent of teen love and the powerful, often corrupt, sway of organized religion. The poem works with and without direct viewing of the well-known fine art pieces. SWG
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When Saucers Land
Tyson West
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| "What You Want to See" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
Each night I watchtower for the wedge of light
foretold among soundless stars and machine roaring floods
crisscrossing grey blocks of flats afloat
above tidal flats of mud masticated
as so many toadstools trivet in a forest of some
mad architect's monochrome hallucination.
Sumerian seerlike I seek among the static
my special flash of metal ellipse shiner
grailing my predestined oblique of order.
I long for faces gestalting in ovals like mine but
with messianic smiles, sloughs of tempered teeth,
and ears that point and preen
eyes wheedling sacrificial scars.
Sharing tones and modulations
whose love will absorb my enigmatic isolation ―
words transcribed of hands who prayed
broke bread and masturbated are lost no longer in a monastic maze.
Someday my truth will come
though I lose my midnight slipper
metal doors will unmaterialized then blossom
for beams of light to choose me in elongating love.
I raise my anchor to
caress the muted metal ramp.
These ancient friends will carry me from the grime
and gravel of this grit ball gravitationally bound
where I wilt doomed for decay long
before our star swells to swallow
this landfill of ancient stumbles at truth.
Against the filth of change I watch, wonder,
wait for the sword smear on my shoulders
blessing me of alien oils
superiority of sight
fearlessness of faith.
Poet’s Notes: As human males compete over absolutely anything, another trait in our species is that anyone can formulate a religion out of any story. I ran into believers back during the New Age Era of the 1980s who were convinced that flying saucers would land godlike beings that would reform the human race and bring a golden age to the earth. Many of the believers I met at the new age bus stop seemed to have issues dealing with economic reality and life and were quick with a divine explanation and solution for their relationship and financial difficulties.
Editor’s Notes: West hits on a timely topic here. TLC
Editor’s Notes: Tyson dares to compare cults and Scientology and astrology to the accepted great faiths. His borderline sacrilege really makes one think! SWG
Art
Editor’s Notes:
It’s a fairly well known theory that Michelangelo, when painting “The Creation
of Adam”, purposefully drew God in a brain-like object to imply that God is
made up. Quite the bold move to paint that in the church with which he already
had a poor relationship!
I took some inspiration from that in this piece, though I think I failed a little in my execution. I meant for the alien creature to be a bit more within the subject’s head. However, as it turned out the alien is more coming out of the subject’s head, which gets the point across just fine.
This piece is 15" x 11" and is available for purchase for
$125 + shipping, or as a print for $10 + shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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| "St. Stephen" | Ink on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
My Favorite Saints
Tyson
West
bear beautiful names ―
Paul Ibaraki, Felicity, Serena, Aphrodesius...
with the sketchiest hagiographies
lots of death details, sides pierced, crucified and flames
smooth breasts one longed to caress
ripped raw blood blotches
over the chiggers soaking into sand.
Dull edged iron blades even duller cops
raised to bust bones
into a progression of pain opening
for maggots to do their magic
recycling flesh as flies so bones be
polished into first class
shards for first class relics.
Foolish kids sentimental guards
hung over from last night’s honky tonk
would let slip away in silence pain free ―
kids mixed up kids
so surfeited with time, beaming bodies they squander to belong
to the high of newfangled faith.
Even the toga clad capi of the warders and their block brained butchers
would wish most of the Bobby socksers and Jesus boys
shimmy away to the crowd standing to senate bright banners and anthems
leaving but a few to the myth their flesh will
float up eternally young
to a city celestial with no plagues or
offal covered mud ways arace with rats.
The old man and grey haired wife
lounging on the divan crowning their dais
cuddle their privilege close and weep.
A few fools must meet the lions to preserve position
ordained of deities du jour.
The teen mother lingers
before passing her daughter’s milk dribbled chin
off to lanky Aunt Lucy confused at the babe's sudden sobbing.
Hair coiffed in ringlets and
eyes colored in the trendiest pattern of kohl
step before the jeering mob washing down coarse sausage with cheap wine.
Smooth skin never grasps the power of wrinkling quietly for truth
flashes brighter than dying dramatically
for the dream of today’s young team.
Poet’s Notes: I read Father James Martin's book about his life and his favorite saints. The act of martyrdom can be a dismal way to die. Early martyrs, in many cases, could have easily escaped, as their executioners were not interested in putting young fools to death on the order of Roman officials, who were trying to maintain political and social order.
Teenaged Christians acted as foolishly as teenagers do today just to be part of the gang. Human adolescents will form tight groups as soldiers to fight for their country or some cause, or as gang bangers battling over turf. This behavior and martyrdom can have little to do with God and truth and everything to do with youth and hormones, which in turn are gifts from God.
Editor’s Notes: West packed a lot of thought into this one. Here is the line that stayed with me: /Smooth skin never grasps the power of wrinkling quietly for truth/. TLC
Editor’s Notes: The parallels between the martyrs of today and of yesteryear do give one pause. SWG
Art
Editor’s Notes:
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Last Supper at Endor
Tyson West
It comes off weird really―
a soap opera saga of a third string gang
of sheep herders and money changers who always fielded a team―
mostly a sucker's bet to not get their asses kicked―
straining for Coach Yahweh’s jealous baritone among
bellows of mute golden statues.
The flash fable of the Endor séance has got to be
bizzarro’s master meme.
Our handsome captain gets ghosted by God himself.
As usual, the Old Man is pissed, so…
you'd think they would slap around a pep talk
in cold wind on mount something or other
then Saul would come down chasten but fired up
to upset the big game against the tough Philistine line―
but no―
Yahweh don't text or call or send flowers.
So after Saul follows 98% of big boss man's edgy orders
and OG Samuel checks out,
Saul has his homeys find some fake ass fortune teller
whose schtick includes shootin' the shit with dead prophets.
Since our quarterback kicked the carnival card readers from the hood,
as if they weren't providing valuable service,
the old lady at first shivered too scared to put on a show.
Still her gut held some stone of faith to hang deep
and deep she reached
into some dark alley of her soul she never dreamed lay open―
even when she realized the trick whining in front of her
was hiz honor himself.
If Saul had not the faith to feel this shimmering image
was telling him truth
then I wouldn't be rappin' to you today
and Martin Luther and gaggles of theologians and artists
wouldn’t have worried why
their one true capo di tutti capi used a wrinkled bleach blonde fraud
in a shabby shop to kiss both cheeks of the king boy
he once had smeared with sacred oil.
This spirit’s rising shot generated lots of memes―
still no one dresses like Saul or Sammy or the old lady for Halloween,
but what happens next rocks it real.
She begs our boy to let her feed him and his posse
who all knew their fine tatted skin
was gonna be chopped and ripped in tomorrow’s rumble
and their blood would mud the dust of Sheol.
She slit the throat of the fatted calf to barbeque
kneaded and baked bread and all the fixin’s
to set a spread before them.
So maybe they weren’t rocking or rapping but she at least gave
the spirit and strength
to believe they could die like men in the morning.
They split that night
not even leaving
two dollars on the dresser.
Poet’s Notes: My favorite bible story is the “Witch of Endor” in 1 Samuel, Chapter 28. When I run into a sincere Christian who is confident he or she has resolved all the inconsistencies in the Bible, bringing up this story produces some tortured explanations. Here a low level gangsta, one of the unreliable narrators hanging in my posse of characters, takes a stab at its religious significance.
Editor’s Notes: Nice take on the saga, and West’s ‘gangsta’ voice is spot on. TLC
Art
Editor’s Notes:
I had to try not to think about Fry’s dog from “Futurama” while making this
one.
This piece is available for purchase for
$25 + shipping, or as a print for $10 + shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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A Plague of Funerals in COVID Time
Tyson West
I. Prologue
Wordsworth and Keats may have cozied in eye of
skylark or nightingale flight over
mossy remains
of Tintern Abby zamani
but never popped pixels of drone digital camera
soaring over Eastern State Hospital.
Do wraiths of Mike and Eric,
cherubinic souls now sailing free from flesh,
swallow virtual vistas of us mourners near these two shallow lakes―
glacial scratches in long cooled lava flow
frosted with cheat grass and bull pine
locked into semi desert loess
gift of katabatic wind?
II. Atheist Architect
Even as he assailed our Chinook winds
and infrequent waterings with houses built of straw
I felt his soul housed symmetric dreams
of earth domed with geodesic certainty amid chaos.
He hand cupped and compressed his dream in foothills north among
stump farm constitutionalists, redneck ranchers of carmine spotted kine
and sheersman of fine Colville bud
under sativa shadings of aurora borealis.
We gathered at his brother’s house stick built grey
on the northeast corner of Medical
ducks dodging kayaks of barbless fisherman
his flipflopped friends and Peace and Justice Action Leaguers milled
all Hawaiian shirted for their first post pandemic party.
White beards and long grey hair sipped chardonnay as Mike’s daughter teared her eulogy
echoes from her iPhone’s loudspeaker app bouncing back from basalt cliffs
across water uncut of internal combustion engine.
Ex wife memories swirled their coparenting cooperation
around trays full of Jack Daniels thimbles
toasted back to his brother’s salute―
one ladyfinger pop off the end of the dock.
Mike mourned often the role of US Marines
pulling over dictators for driving dark skinned and
not honoring property rights of our power men’s political donors.
Monica, league president during Mike’s decade long interim treasurer stint,
casually appendixed her recollection
our flesh absent guest of honor spoke hospiced that
human body weight
after the moment of death is infinitesimally lighter
as if a butterfly lifted away.
Palms raised to the sky we swim through so freely
she prophesized as truly as any Bible imbibing elder:
Each butterfly must find fresh flesh
to flex its wings anew.
III. Staff Sergeant
US Marine draftee―happiest I had heard him recollect
his service decades ago
when he glowed Trump himself bestowed full disability
for cancer claimed from water at Camp Lejuene
on his stint stateside during the Tet Offensive.
Often I watched his left hand cradle Coors as
his right clawed the Marlboro smoke he exhaled
on top of each plot the powers we slaved for laid
to carry us darkly.
His alcohol never abandoned him
nor did Carolyn enduring drams of drama for
swirling barroom skirts all fell away in time.
Once treads of enough beer breached
his rationality’s pill box he admitted
he served only because his father’s silver beaver would’ve decreed
him less a man―
his quest for Eagle Scout pubescented dead
to smoke and drink and pursuit of female flesh.
Our last phone call ice cubes tinkled no retreat
he wasn’t going to get no god damn Democratic COVID vaccine.
Fuck ‘em―
China virus carried his steel grey casket
to a three gun salute popped of frumpy VFW drinking buddies
while two crisp young dress blues white gloved
folded old glory on a heat domed July morning.
Prerecorded taps from the fake bugle
echoed across standing uniform stones
north of West Medical outboards
of good ol’ boy anglers.
He would’ve loved the crisp salutes and
90° pivots awarding Carolyn her red white and blue triangle.
His little sister’s husband haytruck driver called by the Lord
recited his notebook eulogy
grinned our sergeant was never shy about his politics
before dweebling off in a blockchain of Bible numbers―
chapter and verse―
assuring us afterlife while a cliché called Jesus
reflected on bald headed echoes of testamentary drone.
IV. Soaring
Nitrogen, carbon, calcium, and trace elements of both these boys’ last breaths
pulse in water and soil of this globe
souls soon to soar with those of hatchery stocked trout
coyote, deer, and ringed bill gull
leaving bones beneath numbered stones of the mental hospital cemetery
as caregivers bury or burn
flesh that encased altruism, alcoholism, and odd mind out spectrums
far away families struggle
to select some prophet’s rant
to unseal the stones of graves
for those sasha kinship commands us: “Love!”
Poet’s Notes: In late June and early July 2021, I attended two funerals about ten days apart. One was for a friend who died of ALS, and the other for an associate who died of COVID-19 who stubbornly believed in not getting vaccinated. Both outdoor funerals took place within less than a mile of each other by two parallel lakes in Medical Lake, Washington where Eastern Washington Mental Hospital is located.
Although these two dead could not have been more different in life, a similar phenomenon occurred in both services. At most funerals I have attended, someone speaks of afterlife. Science, politics, and economics have nothing to say about an afterlife that any of us want to believe.
Personal and societal eschatology remains firmly rooted in the realm of religion. I have incorporated the terms, “sasha” and “zamani” in this poem. These are African concepts of time based on memory for the dead. Sasha are souls that someone living remembers knowing personally. Zamani are those souls no one living recalls knowing their flesh in life. As we herd of humans turns over, sasha fade into zamani.
Editor’s Notes: West’s incorporation of Sasha and Zamani raised this poem to a higher level. Excellent imagery and sharp observations throughout. TLC
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All Saints' Day 1950 Sun Dance
Tyson West
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| "Distant Miracle" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
My first year finished that Sunday
fattened on condensed milk and karo syrup into
a bloated wingless cherub crib crying
out crisp New England All Hallow’s dawn.
Mother large with brother David and the terrible truths of Catholic church
spun too busy to obligate mass that Wednesday.
Dad sipped black coffee hot
twixt his mattins in grey shadow scrying x-rays of cancers at Boston City Hospital.
We reposed far from Korea
where charging Chinese quilted uniforms
posed with 30-06 full metal jackets of the 8th Cav ―
the commie infantry in turn
punctured our boys’ olive drab uniforms woven
of cotton black hand plucked under blue Mississippi sun.
Dan Peek, one third with Dewey and Gerry of 1970's America
cried in harmonies with the sun's solo.
Eugenio after his black morning espresso
cloistered in the Vatican garden raised
his eyes to sol's boogaloo choreographed as
the Fatamia trio vowed.
Too bad Mary chose Francisco and Jacinta to channel her motivational speech ―
after a gig like that all these kids could encore was to die young.
Grandpa Pete, hung over in his toolbelt, missed the miracle of the sun
as did mom lunching on macaroni and milk,
changing my didie then
feeding me baby cereal, condensed milk
and strained peas.
Robert B. Laughlin sucked in his first lung full
of California air pollution predestined
to the 1988 Nobel Physics Prize
way too young to formula the sun’s dance.
Two Puerto Rican commies suicided their way into Blair house hoping
to free their island’s legend by whacking Harry.
Griselio shot good cop Leslie who quickly capped him
both souls assumed to heaven that day.
Oscar failed to rack his Luger, God thus
spared him for the miracle of Jimmy Carter's pardon.
Eugenio, meanwhile, passioned away from the year's last flowers
tiaraed up and slapped on pancake and rouge into Pius XII
to dogma Mary's perfect body and singular soul
soaring to her son framed in putti while
radioactive fallout wringed the blue sky.
That Indiana evening, Chuck Cooper dribbled
his warmup worries for the Celtics loss at Fort Wayne ―
first time black hands in the NBA
would rubber the rim to a chorus of white jeers.
Another envelope of light was licked and
sealed to mail off to the miracle of the future.
Believe it or not.
Poet’s Notes: Although the doctrine of papal infallibility was articulated in the 1850s at the first Vatican Council, it has been invoked only once. When I was a little over one year old, the Miracle of the Sun supposedly occurred on November 1, 1950 as the three children at Fatima in 1917 had foretold. Pope Pius XII, whose given name was Eugenio, saw the sun's odd movements and decided to invoke infallibility for the first and only time, declaring that the Virgin Mary's body was assumed into heaven uncorrupted. Meanwhile, the rest of us who were too busy to witness this miracle went on with our lives.
Editor’s Notes: I had to look up some of the narrative references but loved doing so. This poem would challenge just about any reader, but it is worth the read. TLC
Editor’s Notes: Tyson is irreverent in his reverence in this riveting poem about an obscure phenomenon. His characteristic tone and style always hold my attention. At times, it is difficult to follow the narrative here, but I enjoy the challenge. SWG
Art
Editor’s Notes:
This piece is 12" x 9" and is available for purchase for $125 + shipping, or as a print for $10
+ shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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The Poetry of John C. Mannone
Celestial
John C. Mannone
The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance
—Pablo Neruda
Whenever the night is quiet, not loud
with city glare or moaning from light
intrusion, I look into its eyes, see myriads,
sparkles of Milky Way swathing
southern skies—an arc of nebulous
glitter giving peace to the emptiness.
Longfellow spoke of the light of stars
being a psalm of life. Not just a hymn
I say, but a praise of the creator
of the universe, an evening prayer,
a vesper whispered inside my heart—
that’s what this poet does. When I read
the sacred words, I swear
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| "Slumbering City" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
through desperate darkness,
an angel with a message for me.
Wherever the galaxy blooms
thick with stars, I sense promises
spoken by the One
who fashioned me—a poem
from stardust.
I ask the stars
burning with all their glory the same
questions as Robert Frost did, listen
to the same answers
about elements and temperature.
But I’m not frustrated; they’re not
as taciturn as supposed, I read
between the lines
of a spectroscope—so many
secrets revealed in ripples of starlight.
I hear that still small voice.
Poet’s Notes: Science and religion come bundled together in many of my poems. And in those poems, like this one, I wax metaphysical.
The poems by Frost and Longfellow that provided me with inspiration may be found here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/144423/the-light-of-stars and here http://blueridgejournal.com/poems/rf-star.htm.
Editor's Notes: I enjoyed reading the poems by Frost and Longfellow and appreciate the nice blend in "Celestial". In particular, I appreciate the beautiful imagery. Manonne knows how to set the scene in all of his work. TLC
Art Editor’s Notes: This piece is 11" x 15" and is available for purchase for $300 + shipping, or as a print for $10 + shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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Final Approach
John C. Mannone
Putnam County Regional Airport, 1998
I fell asleep as autumn-cold rain
turned from drizzle to heavy
drops with relentless clamor.
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| "Surviving the Ice" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
They say that rain on tin
sings a lullaby but in my dream
its thunder rattled windows
of my heart, rain guttered in
my fears. The aluminum roof
of my plane pinged with frigid
hard rain. Indiana air waved
its winter spell enshrouding
my plane in ice. Soon I’d fall
through clouds stacked deep.
Avionics, my only umbilical,
should mother me to a safe
approach, to solid ground.
But I grew weary and heavy
with rime. Clouds hid the runway
until the very last moment,
before the missed approach,
before ice would swallow me.
In my dream, prayers would not
melt the frost or spread open clouds.
Lightning flashed through
windows, in and out of sleep
and nightmares that I didn’t want
to relive. The pilot in my dream
could not fly as well as I had
and perhaps did not believe
in a God who saves.
Poet’s Notes: In November 1998, about one year after I surrendered my life to Christ, I learned the power of prayer. I was piloting my private airplane when I encountered un-forecasted icing conditions. Unfortunately, my plane was not certified to fly in icing conditions. I uttered a prayer as I was forced to make an emergency instrument approach into the nearest airport. While still in clouds at around 550 feet, and rapidly closing in on my Missed Approach Point, I squeezed in another prayer. At the last instant, the clouds cleared, allowing me to land safely--nothing short of a miracle!
Editor's Note: Nice use of figurative language in this narrative poem. I appreciate the 'twist of faith' in the final stanza. TLC
Art Editor’s Notes: This piece is 12" x 9" and is available for purchase for $95 + shipping, or as a print for $10 + shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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Rain
John C. Mannone
The vessel tears loose from its moorings,
Angry anvil clouds wedge sky, spit hail.
Zigzag-lightning flares before the thunder
And the ship slips through green waves
With no gyroscope to keep her steady,
To not founder. Flat bottom boat designs
Only safe for quiet rivers, a real gamble
In severe thunderstorms and heavy seas
Curled with breaking crests, foam sliding
like spent hope.
When the sky cracked open, a star fell
Into the sea; swells transformed into tidal
Walls of water—tsunami—supersonic
Punch to port, the roll, timbers creaking.
Fish had already dived below the rogue
Weather. Wind-howl drowning the cries
Inside the ship: high-pitched primate calls,
Bird-squawk and macaws’ laments, timid
Roars of cowering lions, elephant thumps
On wet planks, and the muffled plaintive
prayers of Noah.
Poet’s Notes: I wonder about the first Passover, even the ones before the time it was instituted by Moses. It is interesting that specific days of the Hebrew calendar are mentioned in an era before their inception—during the time of the Great Flood as narrated in Genesis (chapters 6-8). From that data, I quickly deduced that the flooding rains could have been during what would be called Passover. That’s the genesis (pun intended) of this poem. The block symmetry probably has something to do with the Ark, but I am not certain, for it evolved subconsciously.
Editor's Notes: Manonne tells an old story with refreshing imagery and similes, such as "foam sliding like spent hope". And since I am a land-locked individual, I particularly liked the imaginative idea of a star falling into the sea to create a tsunami. Great image. TLC
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Come Fly With Me
John C. Mannone
We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another.
—Luciano De Crescenzo
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| "Lily" | Ink on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
This solemn place, this grave is now
for the lilies of the field and the white
clover with its promise of happiness
but this bouquet that I bring sweetens
the air with the magnificent incense
of all your prayers when you lived.
Come fly with me, I’ll leave this stone
as sentinel to watch over your bones.
Our Creator waits, it is a day to rejoice.
Poet’s Notes: The Etowah Arts Commission & Gallery had posted artwork and invited the public to write poetry inspired by that artwork. The image of a cemetery angel intrigued me. I wrote “Come Fly With Me” in the voice of an angel. In researching angels as gravestone markers, I found that Luciano De Crescenzo (August 18, 1928 – July 18, 2019), an Italian writer, actor, and director, would have liked his grave marker to read as noted in the epigraph, which fit the image perfectly https://www.facebook.com/EtowahArts/photos/a.4370969779609965/4370976426275967.
Editor's Notes: Mannone's ekphrastic poem is relatable without the artwork. The epigraph and first stanza capture the mood and set the scene, which I particularly enjoyed. TLC
Editor’s Notes: John captures a magical moment here. I enjoy his treatment of angels. The flower motif is nicely done, moving from wild, renewable nature, to the ephemerality of cut flowers and living memory renewed by visiting the grave and perhaps made eternal by the angels. SWG
Art Editor’s Notes: This piece is 9" x 12" and is available for purchase for $50 + shipping, or as a print for $10 + shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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Frequent Contributors
“And the people bowed and prayed”
--Simon & Garfunkel, “The Sound of Silence”
By Shlomo ben Moshe HaLevi
It was Neil Gaiman who first noticed
How worship has shifted from tradition
In favor of new gods of metal and plastic
Of radio waves and screens. Why Fi-
Has replaced God the Father, 5-
G-sus the Son, and Sprint Sanyo
The Spiritu Sancto, and so we say
Amen into our handheld devices
Divert our minds and souls from the crisis
Of faith. Five hours per day we spend
Away from family and friend
Wrapped and warped with rapt attention
Into the new religious dimension.
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| "D1stant L0vers" | Ink on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
Poet’s Notes: Simon & Garfunkel (“The Sound of Silence”), who anticipated Neil Gaiman (American Gods), inspired this poem. Our tech devices have become like unto gods to us, objects of worship, sources of “truth” for us, pillars of iCloud by day, and firewalls by night.
Editor's Notes: Our Editor-in-Chief picked a timely topic for this issue. I enjoy the enjambment on the word "Fight". Nice use of the modern sonnet form with the overall metaphor and a strong couplet finish. TLC
Art
Editor’s Notes: Technology
is a double-edged sword. It can connect us like never before in human history,
but it has also enabled people to be more isolated than ever. Not only that,
but insidious companies and our governments use technology to spy on us and
sell our data to the highest bidders. Discussions about the benefits and
detriments of technology are important ones to have. Like most things in
life, the solution will likely require balance.
This piece is 12" x 9" and is available for purchase for $45 + shipping, or as a print for $10 + shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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Ritual Illuminated
Karla Linn Merrifield
Rimming Casa Rinconada,
fifty gathered
totally New Age dude, bearlike,
thick-bearded, thick way hair to his butt
in road-worn jeans, chatting up
a Navajo bro of like do
the nouveau riche duo gone hippie
in their idle years, his pony tail
knotted as he blankets his squeeze
in his grungy serape
two little girls with their mother
and a grandfather with his knee-high
granddaughter out for a morning
stretch and history lesson
the long-distance old girlfriend,
Atlanta-Santa Fe, treehuggers both,
still crunchy in peasant wear
after all those years since grade school
among many long-married pairs, a Latvian
couple alongside the New Yorkers, seniors
obviously lovers, cuddled in fleecies
to their chins and each other
and Ranger Cornucopia,
priest in shades of green wool
and cotton, straw-hatted,
officiates the moment
we watch Sky God shed
His solstice light through the eastern
window and march that glowing golden square
into its proper kiva niche
the honorary Chacoans
in a grand circle
honor their Anasazi ancestors
and are dusted by the ancients
Editor's Notes: Brava! Nicely crafted beat poem with excellent imagery and use of language. TLC
Editor’s Notes: My rarely seen hippie side delights in this Kerouacian trip Karla has sewn together here. The nod to the Pueblo Indians is a nice touch. SWG
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Visitation
Karla Linn Merrifield
For Andrea Watson and Joan Ryan
Among young Reina’s oldest heirlooms, I catalogued
a bulto of St. Jerome, its skull hollowed out
with a crude tool; and where the figure’s cerebellum
would be a mezuzah was embedded.
With latex gloves, I fingered gingerly
the girl’s ancestral talisman of rough wood, filigreed
silver housing fragile sheepskin scroll in Hebrew,
all painted over with the blood of the Conversos.
Here before me was the singular artifact to be
the centerpiece of my exhibit interpreting the short-lived
Jewess who died of breast cancer and was buried
in the Catholic habit of a novice.
Deo! Elohim! Here is the virgin’s living proof:
The Inquisition has been survived. Amen. Amain.
Editor's Notes: Merrifield weaves religions into her own poetic artifact. TLC
Editor’s Notes: What a poem! Love the twists and turns. The image of a Catholic totem as a secret mezuzah is breathtaking. SWG
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Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus
Roman Senator (317-359 AD)
Vivian Finley Nida
The oldest Christian-themed sarcophagus
embraces Testaments, both Old and New
First Adam, Eve with serpent, treasonous
Next lions’ den, where faith sees Daniel through
Poor Job, in pain, all lost, keeps faith sublime
Then angel halts the knife of Abraham
preventing Isaac’s sacrifice in time
which leads to Jesus, sacrificial lamb
whose miracle of loaves and fish is shown
To Peter, Paul, Christ hands a Gospel scroll
Triumphant, He stands trial. His fate is known
No crucifixion’s carved. That’s not the goal
These scenes light path to heaven all can trod
Poet's Notes: I chose the sonnet, a traditional form, to match the traditional carving on this 4th-century marble sarcophagus. It is one of the oldest and most ornately carved sarcophagi with Christian scenes from both old and new testaments. Its message of Christian salvation makes it different from sarcophagi in the 2nd and 3rd centuries, which note conquests and military power.
Roman Emperor Constantine (280-337 AD) accepted Christianity, converting Rome’s elite by the middle of the 4th century, including Junius Bassus, who was from one of the most elite families. He was a senator in charge of the administration of Rome, and his sarcophagus records that he became a new convert shortly before his death. Originally placed in or under the old St. Peter’s Basilica, it was rediscovered in 1597 and can be seen today in the Museum of St. Peter’s Basilica, Vatican.
Editor's Notes: Vivian shows her skill when she blends ekphrastic with a sonnet form that opens eyes and mind to the scene. Well done! TLC
Editor’s Notes: I had never seen the sarcophagus, but this poem really brings a picture of it to life. After reading the poem, I looked up images of the sarcophagus and found that the poem helped me understand what I was seeing. This is a well-done ekphrastic piece in that it can stand alone without the image. SWG
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Longing for a City, a City Not Made by Hands
Charles A. Swanson
There is a river whose streams make glad
the city of God,
the holy habitation of the Most High.
Psalm 46:4, RSV
“A train they call the City of New Orleans,”
Arlo Guthrie, James Dean dreaming,
my cousin with a pool stick,
and his green felt juke-joint basement.
It was much tamer,
and transient, (do you remember that song?)
but let me get on the train
and go to the city, that gospel train, that glorious city.
Maybe some young guy today
entertains his cousin with Tim McGraw
cycling endlessly “Drugs or Jesus”
on his CD, playing a computer game of dim destinations.
We build earthly cities
longing for the city foursquare
jasper, topaz, carnelian, chrysolite,
imagination gleaming because we’ve seen the sun’s reflections.
Will we enter that city
with tambourines shaking, alleluia,
or settle beneath towering skyscrapers
lost in our James Dean time, or just stay on the train and ride?
Poet’s Notes: The teenage years were full of angst—or so I interpret them, based not just on my own experiences, but also on my years as a high school teacher. Two guys getting together, or four or five guys, can find common ground over a game, over a song, over an endless number of juvenile jokes and hyperbolic stories. They thinly veil a longing that is stretching toward a destination, something that resembles adulthood, but feels more like an ephemeral macho posture. I testify that heaven is also in their view, somehow bound in the music, somehow bound in the longing, somehow bound in the change in their bodies. The teenage years are a time of angst and also a time of dreaming.
Editor's Notes: This poem shakes, rattles, and rolls its way into many of today's religious services. TLC
Editor’s Notes: Yeah! And those whippersnappers with their rap music could use a bit more religion, I reckon! Love this poem! It captures the conflicted relationship many teens have with religion. SWG
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Emmanuel
Charles A. Swanson
For Alyssa
He heals the brokenhearted,
and binds up their wounds.
He determines the number of the stars,
he gives to all of them their names.
Psalm 147: 3-4, RSV
The mailbox is more a threat
the more I age. Once the mail moved.
My wife, thinking bee, took a twig,
pried up the corner of the stack
to see a copperhead. No buzz,
no rattles, no telltale danger sign.
Just intuition and a small sti
that said, things are not the same,
move with caution. Why would a snake
be waiting in our rural box?
We crossed out the friendly mailman,
believed we had no enemy.
The mailbox’s lid did not quite close.
A careless push left a gap,
so we thought the evil nothing more
than malicious circumstance.
Christmas brings mail upon mail,
laploads full of circulars, cards.
Each day is like Christmas morning
or Pandora’s box.
Newsy form letters from old friends
are like jousting matches—
what have they accomplished, what
laurel leaves, brass rings,
and their children!—what prestigious
governor’s schools, scholarships,
graduate programs. What exotic
educational trips
or honeymoons. (White sands,
waters of tourmaline,
sapphire, natives brown as
coconut shells.)
Our own Christmas circular
competes, boasts as a fellow
crowing rooster—the sun is up
on yet another glorious day!
Russell, my high school buddy,
sent letters the way he testified—
an outspoken athlete, a driven,
proclaiming Christian.
He was not what I am, moody,
testy. He didn’t see mountains.
Mountains were for climbing,
miles for running.
Last Christmas, he said little
about what they felt,
his daughter fighting cancer,
his wife had left the workplace
to give the child continuous care.
In their family picture
the girl looked thin and pale,
a teenager.
This year, Russell’s card
at the drive’s end, coiled to strike
in the winter mailbox, didn’t
appear venomous.
When my wife gathered it,
it bit her hand, right through
the envelope—one nondescript
letter in a nondescript pile.
Its bland exterior innocence
opened to more innocence—
a grade-school girl
in blue-garlanded halo
with blue-garlanded wings—
an angel from a Christmas play
holding a large star sign,
“God is with us.”
The caption boasted God’s grace,
and I don’t know whether
her death or Russell’s faith
struck through the winter air.
Poet’s Notes: This poem was written close to the time of Alyssa’s death. Since that date, I have experienced the loss of a dear granddaughter, Addi. My good friend, Russell, wrote recently of the Alyssa Community Walk. Those who wished to participate met at the Alyssa Smelley Memorial Park in Las Barrancas, California, and after the walk, everyone was invited to the Smelley home for refreshments and fellowship. Meanwhile, in Virginia, we celebrated little Addi Austin’s life on the day of her birthday. Her parents released balloons in her memory with messages of hope and grace tied to the balloon strings. Alyssa, Russell’s daughter, died when she was a teenager. Addi, my granddaughter, died at the age of seven.
Russell has been a long-time friend. We went to the same high school, worked together in tobacco pullings, and played softball on the same field. The friendship has spanned years and a continent, as he moved west after college to take a position as a track and field coach. Recently, Russell emailed me with the words, “I wish we did not share in the loss of a child.” Yet, there is strength in the fellowship of mutual grief. We are drawn closer to each other and drawn closer to the suffering of our Lord and Savior, whose death on the cross becomes more immediate through our personal struggles with sorrow and redemption.
Editor's Notes: Swanson crafted a heartfelt elegy. TLC
Editor’s Notes: This poem is rich and gorgeous, from the (a bit obvious, admittedly) snake metaphor, through the venomous description of the fortunate "blessed" braggarts, to the heartbreaking elegy for the lost daughter of a dear friend. The poem is all the more powerful knowing that its author shares such a loss.
I believe that Satan tried to break the faith of the two families by flaunting the deaths of their girls, as though the Lord does not grieve with them, as though the Lord does not know what it means and how it feels to lose a child (as the Christians believe He does). But the Lord now has two more angels, the Christians believe his son sits beside Him, and the faith of the survivors is all the stronger. Take that, Satan! SWG
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Riot of Roses
Howard
F. Stein
A sign of G-d’s repentance
For last October’s ice storm
That paralyzed the city,
Split trees like celery stalks,
Snapped branches from ice’s weight;
Followed in February
By a Siberian siege
Of bitter cold and more ice
That wrecked an entire region’s
Electrical grid, with death
And dread chaos in its wake?
Punishment? Meaninglessness?
What kind of sense can I make
Of miles of disfigured trees,
That bled their pain into earth?
A Darwinian struggle?
How many times have I asked:
“Where was G-d when . . .?”, and waited
In silence and despair for
An answer that never came?
Is my riot of roses
A paltry consolation
From somewhere or from someone
To persuade me that beauty
And horror are some cosmic
Balancing act that takes turns
In inflicting grief and then
Offering salve for its wounds?
Or is this island of grace
A joke without a joker?
My endless stream of questions
Offers no relief to my
Frightened, erratic heartbeat.
Questions have become my trap.
Solutions are now problems.
Spring is when all roses bloom.
No mystery about this.
Seeing my unhappiness,
My roses try to speak now . . . .
“Sit with us, and breathe with us;
Look closely at our petals –
Try to see far into them.
Go where they wish to take you –
It is a place behind us
No one can see, only sense.
You speak the wrong language here.
Here you will not find answers;
Here you will not find logic.
But here you will find our G-d –
And you will find gratitude,
Not only that we exist
And have bloomed again after
So much peril, but also
That your eyes can recognize
New life after so much death.”
Editor's Notes: Stein beautifully personifies the roses. TLC
Editor’s Notes: The questions asked by the speaker are universal. Howard’s use of personification of the rose is nicely done and quite refreshingly original. Best, he actually answer the questions posed by the speaker, rather than leaving the reader to do that--bravely done! The metaphor "bloomed again" in the final stanza is simply marvelous. SWG
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Blessings of the Torah Reading
Howard F. Stein
His request granted, he struggled to climb the carpeted steps from the sanctuary floor to the Bimah. Several congregants sprang to their feet, gently but firmly grabbed Jacob’s shoulders and arms, then steadied him as he haltingly walked to the ornate wooden table cradling the opened Torah scroll.
Standing securely, he stretched out his arm and touched the Tzitzit of the prayer shawl at the place where the master reader would chant the sacred text after the blessing, then kissed the end of the fringes.
Jacob’s once resonant baritone voice was now barely audible. The first
words, Borchu es haShem haM’vorach scratched
out from his throat. The congregation responded with its own brief chant. Jacob
stood motionless. He forgot the next words and the music he knew by heart. The
reader, the rabbi, and the cantor encouraged him, softly
prompted the next few words with their melody. Jacob brightened, sang into
the microphone. Then stopped again – each word, each phrase, insuperable.
A few congregants joined the liturgical leaders, then a few more, until a
groundswell of faint voices spread throughout the congregation. Their unison
wrapped Jacob in a giant prayer shawl, restored his memory. Then together, as a
single voice, they completed the Torah blessing.
When the prayer ended, everyone stayed standing, but in silence, in wonder, and in awe, to bless G-d Who had given them such a precious gift.
Poet’s Notes: I am deeply grateful for Frequent Contributor John C. Mannone’s generous help with transforming my original poem into a prose poem.
Editor's Notes: Stein's prose poem shares a touching story and metaphor. TLC
Editor’s Notes: This piece was first presented to me in traditional verses with explanatory footnotes and parenthetical translations of the Hebrew, all of which I felt disrupted the flow of the narrative. For further consideration, and with no promise for eventual acceptance, I asked that Howard reconstruct the piece as a prose poem, leave out the explanatory notes, and look to John Mannone if necessary for some pointers.
The result is this beautiful and memorable poem. I was verklempt upon reading this final version. The story is inspirational and universal, suitable for members of any religion and even for atheists.
I would also like to thank John for helping Howard here. Sadly, we poets can often be petty, territorial, and closed minded concerning editorial suggestions. Howard and John have shown us what a little collegiality, congeniality, and cooperation can do. SWG
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In the Garden
Terri Lynn Cummings
Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me:
for of such is the kingdom of heaven.
—Matthew 19:14
Quiet
and I hear your ribs hum
happy in their work
Though I strum beside you
you lie next to River Styx
that surges down cracks
to earth’s hungry mouth
Child, your eyes know
the unspeakable
like a tree cracked by ice
Yet spring thrives
outside this room
and new leaves cup
tomorrow in their palms
Lungs fill
your light thins
Soon you open to soil
and birds’ sacred hymns
debut in the
slow waltz of fall
So this garden
oh this garden
nourished with ash
and the wisdom of life
brings you back to me
Poet’s Notes: After thirteen years, I still feel the presence of our son.
Editor’s Notes: Terri shares a lovely poem with us here. I especially like the ice-tree metaphor. The garden conceit, while hardly new, works well in a poem recalling The Garden. SWG
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Art Gallery
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| "Contemplation" | Photography | Michele Ivy Davis |
About the
Artist:
Michele Ivy Davis is a freelance writer and photographer whose stories and
articles have appeared in various magazines, anthologies, and newspapers. Her
young adult novel, Evangeline Brown and the Cadillac Motel (Penguin
Random House), has won national and international awards. Visit her website
at www.MicheleIvyDavis.com.
Artist's Notes: While in Hualtulco, Mexico, I stopped by a old church. As I was leaving, I turned around and saw this man through the open side door. He seemed to personify what religion is all about.
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About the Back Cover Artist - Vincent Heselwood
Vincent Heselwood is a writer, poet, and visual artist from Manchester, England. His visual work, mostly in pencil or pen and ink, usually incorporates a high level of detail and dramatic use of shadow. A teacher of English Language and Literature for over a decade, Vincent is currently signed with a small publisher to produce three volumes of short stories "In the Style of" famous horror authors. The first collection, Nightmares and Nevermores, in the style of Edgar Allan Poe, is available now.
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| "Devotion" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
Art Editor’s Notes: I don't think that any creature is more devoted than penguins while they are huddled for warmth during the entire Antarctic
winter to protect their young. The way they stand together in that frigid cold, it's almost like they're praying.
This piece is 12" x 9" and is available for purchase for $35 + shipping, or as a print for $10 + shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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 |
| "Pagoda" | Ink & Watercolor on Paper | J. Artemus Gordon |
Art Editor’s Notes: This piece is 15" x 11" and is available for purchase for $95 + shipping, or as a print for $10 + shipping. Email JasonArtGo@gmail.com if interested. JAG
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Guest Poets
the woods are a religion in themselves
Anushka Nagarmath
look —
brave leaves spread themselves open
their soft, green bodies curved
like hands clasped together
in a hopeful plea
revealing dew-damp flowers
blooming with grief
still greeting the dawn eagerly —
petaled pilgrims surviving the long night
just to meet the sunrise of faith
one more time
when the angels pick up fragile twigs
to play their lullabies on
the violin strings of the breeze
each note is caught within
the first cry of the rooster
the cock-a-doodle-doo of a hymn
making its way towards the sky
echoing in the surrounding melodies
as other birds awaken with
wings furled into the shape of harps
creatures of feathers and hollow bones
uniting in prayer
heaven does not ask the trees
to endure endless drought and rain
just to deserve its grace
here, devotion begins with just
a single wooden soul longing for
the gentle redemption of daybreak —
its infinite bright hands digging into
every filthy crevice of the soil
only to carefully pull out
the tender buds of new beginnings
because god lives inside the humming of the bees
the flutter around the golden combs
and the tiny lullabies of each insect
scaling mountains of pebbles
with its brittle legs
god dances with the splinters of grass
waving their flimsy torsos
to the tune of the wind
god sits under the sweet shade of the pine
dropping cones over weeping faces
just to hear throats bubble with laughter
making a home inside it too
some temples are built
with just sticks and stones and skin
where there are no doors
just earthen roads welcoming all feet
leading towards endless room for growth
where you can climb down the ladder of branches
breaking every single one along the way
and still kiss the palm of mercy
where sinking to your knees
is also worship
and touching the light is enough
to become holy
Poet’s Notes: I wrote this poem for an assignment just before my final year of college in 2020. With the whirlwind that the last year and half has been, I hope these words will carry a steady sense of warmth and safety for anyone who stumbles across them--a reminder to breathe and be gentle with ourselves.
Editor’s Note: Nagarmath fills her poem with imagery, metaphor, and simile as a tree fills its shape with leaves. Many beautiful lines here. TLC
About the Poet: Anushka Nagarmath is a poet and writer from India. Words have been the one constant for her through all the changes of growing up. She has had the honor of being published in Wingword Poetry Prize 2019's Winners' Anthology as well as in Liminality: A Magazine of Speculative Poetry. You can follow her @anu_writes_dreams on Instagram.
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Baptizing Anne Frank
Goddfrey
Hammit
After
the headline “Anne Frank baptized by Mormons after Death."
Most of us would have assumed that even God,
capital-B bureaucrat though he is,
capital-S stickler,
would have made certain exceptions and
let the Girl into heaven anyway,
or let her wander freely between the multiple heavens
that are surely necessary to keep the peace,
flashing a passport as she moved between
Jewish heaven and Mormon heaven and
whatever heaven the good but unaffiliated are
filed away to--those regions of the afterlife,
which is not a borderless place but, evidently,
as closely watched as any border we
know.
Though she was probably used to the feeling
of being tugged from one place to another,
and out of the arms of her mother and father,
still, what a shock, to be sitting on the safe side
of the finish line and feel, suddenly, cold water wash over you,
like the cooler upturned over the coach after a winning game--
and then to squeeze the water from your eyes and find
an equally confused George Washington and some old pope
(who had been enjoying his Catholic heaven)
blinking at the faces of these
unasked-for samaritans.
Could it be heaven if, on arrival, one has to ask,
Where am I now? And could it be heaven
if one has to then ask,
Can I go back, back to the other heaven,
Editor’s Note: Hammit uses irony to good effect in his response to the headline. TLC
About the Poet: Goddfrey Hammit was born and raised in Utah and lives in Utah still in a small town outside of Salt Lake City. Hammit has most recently contributed work to Neologism Poetry Journal, The Loch Raven Review, and Riddled with Arrows, and is the author of the novel Nimrod, UT. Website: goddfreyhammit.com.
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hagar
Pinny Bulman
listen closely
in this landscape birth or death can sound like laughter
listen
it is said that the night cackling of the striped hyenas
is absorbed in this rocky ground
evaporating each morning in the desert sun’s sear
blurring the horizon’s edge
as a girl i swam with the crocodiles
nile drenched
in a god’s blue
here the blue has been desiccated
pulled tight against the sky like a tent flap tied taut
like the skin of a clenched fist
my son
there will be no ram foolish enough to venture here,
as you lay beneath this bush do not stay silent
wail loudly to the fiery god of this place
but not to me
please
i can no longer listen
i am already walking the distance to where the past
can no longer be heard
a distance that can be measured only in bowshots
so train well my son
and i will await the day your arrow comes
to enter me like water
Editor’s Note: Bulman’s use of space on the page is spot on. His powerful imagery and metaphors draw the reader into the scene. TLC
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statue
Pinny Bulman
the fire escapes here were all painted
copper green
a reminder
that liberty’s surface can change
corrode, like the old pennies
once thrown at me
in an insult i didn’t
yet understand
but my grandparents knew
about always looking to find the nearest window to exit
about the way time could turn loss
into patina, a hardened shell
whose hollow interior i once climbed in grade school
to the crown where i stood looking east
from where we fled
on the ferry ride back i held tight
to my kippah shaking furiously
in the salty harbor wind.
Poet’s Notes: This poem is dedicated to my grandparents, all Holocaust survivors who immigrated to America to rebuild their lives. They lost so much, yet never stopped giving.
Editor’s Note: Bulman’s subtle imagery, metaphor, and simile engages the reader. He surprises and touches the heart throughout. TLC
About the Poet: Pinny Bulman is a Bronx Council on the Arts BRIO award-winning poet. He has been winner of the Poets of NYC Contest, recipient of several ADR Poetry Awards, and a finalist for the Raynes Poetry Prize. His poems appeared in the 2020 anthologies Undeniable (Alternating Current Press) and Escape Wheel (great weather for MEDIA) and were published in Korean translation for Bridging the Waters III (Korean Expatriate Literature & Cross-Cultural Communications). Pinny’s poetry has also appeared in a variety of other literary publications, including Muddy River Poetry Review, Artemis, Pressenza International, Red Paint Hill, and Poetry Quarterly.
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Fra Timoteo
Louis Girón
The Oneness and Its visions once ignited me.
Like the falling sickness, my storms of
ecstasies
followed days of contemplation, fasting, and prayer.
I have been no less diligent now than before,
yet seasons have passed barren of that rapture.
My supplications and devotions, once sovereign,
lie like bent coppers in the lint, griming green and black,
idle in the pouch of myself, unspent.
Unredeemable.
I recall that exaltation. By my soul, I can do no other,
but memory fades, as if it were a passing dream,
or yesterday’s soured confection of curdled froth and fancy.
My memories to that transport as are the soiled
threads of beggars’ rags to the gold of papal robes.
Must it be, like fortunes and worldly vanities, —or worse,
like the bodies of those fallen from the plague and their clothes,
thrown into the bonfire, consumed,
scattered by winds or ground into the muck?
Let the birds speak. Let the rocks sing.
I would see you again, Sister Moon.
And — I would be touched again by Thee.
In fevered meditation, I have knelt from night to night and to night again in my cell.
As I know each verse of the Word and the face and name and wont of every brother of my order,
I know the shape, place, texture, damp, and impress of its every cold, unsinging stone.
I have fasted two weeks and a day. I was shriven.
Just after, my confessor was stricken by palsy and fell mute
—whether from anger, envy, awe, or fear of my intent I cannot say.
The hairshirt has become my second skin.
The scourging and the festering sores have gained me naught,
Not a candle lightens my melancholy. No respite tempers my longing.
Sweet chords bring no sleep. And I have neither flagons nor apples.
I love and would be loved. I rage to love and to know love beyond that of mortals’ love.
Thus, have I taken counsel of the Kabbalah, consorted with the Roma,
during nights bereft of stars, supped with the alchemists,
bargained with the Saracens, and, yes, trafficked with the forbidden magickers,
and, by that last, damned my eternal soul for that same starved soul’s sake.
Which path can I take? To be in that Oneness again, I risk loss of paradise.
Solomon’s scales cannot call this balance; my tares are mad, inconstant in virtue.
The bar between the baskets swings like penitents’ whips in this damning holy wager.
Certès, damnation awaits me not on one, but on both sides of this reckoning.
By my transgress, I have pushed the balm of Gilead beyond my reach.
In truth, I have set my sails before this hour.
But now the tide goes out. The stars nod.
For I would know that rapture again,
even if I have chanted my last Compline on these shores.
I have just poured the Moor’s elixir
through muslin into the wine. Smoke
escapes from the unstoppered vial.
The husk of a scorpion falls on the cloth.
The wine burns my tongue, inflames my nose.
This vintage had been noble and sweet before.
I must be persuaded too that these cards
of telling hold the power to open
the closed path to that communion I seek.
I lift them in shaking hands, bring them to my lips,
breathe and sign on them, and shuffle.
My fingertips dark and tingle with each tremor,
with each pulse, and with each toss and pass of the cards.
My breath quickens, my heart hammers.
My throat is dry. My mouth, sand.
I am borne down by my cassock, a millstone of sweat.
The sweat is sour.
…Tene! What does this first upturned card portend?
It bears the glowing image of the Hanged Man.
It hails —I hear trumpets, drums—not death,
that my faith tells me is a Satanic illusion,
—but always change of fortune.
A sign I take that Providence blesses this my soul’s quest.
…Look! As it did before, the moon shimmers where it was not.
It shines within a growing halo, a jagged, gold-hued rainbow. Glorious.
I smell rank incense burning though the thurible has not been lit. Odious.
I taste sulfur, demon’s droppings, carrion, and iron. Foul. Most foul.
A cataract roars about me. My shaking grows constant, more violent.
Jésu! I am come.
The world I left cannot know, nor could it ever withstand
Your Light, this Light that I see through closed and bleeding eyes
and then only in reflection.
In compare, the sun of noon in the Sinai is a cold, powdered, and sickly moon.
And the powers and the terrors of the wells of hell
in weight like gosling’s feathers to the mountains of Lebanon.
I turn. I spin. I fly.
Clouds drift beneath my feet. Stars beckon.
Hello again, Sister Moon. Greetings, Father Sun.
I would commune with the saints. The music, angelic, draws me.
Yes! Yes! I am the canticle of the Little Rose.
Birds speak in praise, the obdurate stones now soar in song,
and I—and the world entire are in chorus.
This rapture is of my flesh, and of the flowering and tearing of the flesh,
and beyond that that mortal flesh can bear.
Take me, my God. I am both the fire and that that is consumed by fire.
I am the vessel and the blood and the very wounds of laud.
I am pierced, rendered, empty, …
I…
Poet’s Notes: This dramatic monologue emerged from my fascination with the mystical experience, with whom may have that experience, and from an imaging of medieval monastic life at the beginning of the Italian Renaissance. I stole shamelessly from St. Francis and from Dante. I wanted to show obsession, conviction, and conflict, as well as what could happen at the extremities of those experiences.
I hoped to show a believable tortured believer. Paradox and irony confound: at the end of his journey, the speaker sustains as much curse as blessing. Lastly, from a neurological point of view, he could just as well have been experiencing a focal seizure with impaired awareness.
Editor’s Note: Girón maximizes first person POV to dive into the speaker’s character and draw the reader into his poem. TLC
About the Poet: Louis is a neurologist/clinical pharmacologist. He grew up in San Antonio before coming to Asheville, North Carolina. After a completed poem dropped without warning into a budget for a research proposal, null hypotheses morphed into villanelles; dose-response curves into sonnets; and action potentials into palindromes. What began as a curiosity continues as necessity.
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The Taste
Lorraine Jeffery
Sitting on wooden benches,
in Buckwheat Church
we heard the thud of walnuts
on the shake roof as we listened
to traveling preachers or
retired farmers, who had taken
up the cross; speak about a
God who cared about harvests,
mortgage payments, sick
people and kids playing
down by the creek.
Our churches,next to unpaved roads,
had names—
St. Mary’s of the Seven Sorrows,
Wellsprings, Sweeten’s Cove,
Mother of Good Counsel,
Road Run.
The black walnut trees with their
fern-like foliage and hammer-hard
nuts were there before the churches—
or people. Early settlers crushed
husks under boots, used hammers
and pliers to wrest out the nuts.
For them, it was worth the effort.
Now driving back roads, I see
abandoned churches—
Blue Springs, Our Lady
of the Pine, Old Judy,
bereft of bells.
Congregants died off
or walked off, left the shell
of the buildings for mice, birds
and snakes—God’s creatures all.
The taste of the nut
no longer worth
the effort?
Editor’s Note: Jeffery’s walnuts and trees make an excellent overall metaphor and pose mankind’s question of faith. TLC
About the Poet: Lorraine Jeffery delights in her close-up view of the Utah mountains after spending years managing public libraries. She has won poetry prizes in state and national contests and published over one hundred poems in various journals and anthologies, including Clockhouse, Kindred, Calliope, Canary, Ibbetson Street, Rockhurst Review, Naugatuck River Review, Orchard Press, Two Hawks, Halcyon, Healing Muse, Regal Publishing and Bacopa Press.
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The Subway Searchers
Carla Sarett
My mother called them fanatics,
wearing beards, wigs, and long black coats
in late summer's heat. Searching under-
ground for all the Unbelievers,
even Kafka's mournful ghost. One
marsh-skinned young woman
hovers close above me in
the squalor of our secular rush.
like the local death camps I feel
buried deep beneath these tracks.
I'm not one of you, I almost cry.
Her Golem gaze finds mine.
Light a candle tonight, she whispers.
It turns dark between stations,
then no thing divides us.
Editor’s Note: Sarett’s strong opening leads the reader “underground” in this search for “Unbelievers”. TLC
About the Poet: Carla Sarett's recent poetry appears in Naugatuck River Review, Blue Unicorn, and San Pedro River Review. She awaits publication of her debut novel, A Closet Feminist (Unsolicited) and her first poetry collection, She Has Visions (Main Street Rag) in 2022. Carla lives in San Francisco.
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Walking the Beach in Winter
John Delaney
I walked some miles on the beach today.
The tide was easing out but would crawl back.
The sky was almost cloudless. Though the sun
was shining brightly, what little warmth
there was the wind kept whisking it away.
They say that stars outnumber grains of
sand
on all the beaches of the world. My mind
can barely comprehend the mind, never
mind the volume of an infinite space.
Sandy beaches, though, my feet can understand,
and how the ceaseless washing of the waves,
that will remove all traces of my walks,
keeps refreshing the shore, for more staging
of shells and stones, and other soles’ impressions.
But a world without end, life that faith saves? —
if you believe the reason (sometimes rant)
from pulpits and philosophers, who vow
they sell a term-less kind of life insurance.
But for the life of me, I can’t, I can’t.
The thought of spring will have to do for now.
Poet’s Notes: Port Townsend has typical northwest rocky beaches. I try to walk on one every day at low tide when expanses of sand are available. Estimating the number of grains of sand is, I’ve learned, futile.
Editor’s Note: Delaney deftly uses macro and microcosms as he ponders the unfathomable. TLC
About the Poet: In 2016, John moved to Port Townsend, Washington, after retiring as curator of historic maps at Princeton University. He’s traveled widely, preferring remote, natural settings, and is addicted to kayaking and hiking. In 2017, he published Waypoints, a collection of place poems. “Twenty Questions”, a chapbook, appeared in 2019, and Delicate Arch, poems and photographs of national parks and monuments, is forthcoming in 2022.
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Disguise of Goodwill
Mark Tulin
Was it because of my religion,
a stranger punched me in the belly?
I dropped to my knees and muttered
damn gentile!
It was my christening of sorts,
introducing me to hate,
a reminder that persecution still exists
How a nameless man with an angry face
could take out his rage
on a small boy
throwing a ball against a step
After I caught my breath and dried my eyes,
I wanted to run in the house
and tell my mother,
please take me in your arms
and assure me people aren’t like this
Instead, I kept the pain to myself,
concealed it from others,
wrapped it in a disguise of goodwill
and made believe
the world was different.
Poet’s Notes: This childhood memory only became clear to me at age sixty-six. It takes a long time for trauma to take root in a poem.
Editor’s Note: Tulin’s language is immediate yet keeps the reader at bay. TLC
About the Poet: Mark Tulin is a former family therapist who lives with his wife in Palm Springs, California. Brian Geiger of Vita Brevis Press wrote that Mark Tulin does not just write of deprivations but of its acceptance in the way that Edward Hopper once put on canvas.
Mark’s books include Magical Yogis, Awkward Grace, The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories, Junkyard Souls, and Rain on Cabrillo. Amethyst Review, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Disquiet Arts, The Literary Hatchet, The Mindful Word, Scrittura, and others have accepted his poems. Follow Mark at www.crowonthewire.com.
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What I Learned In Catholic School
Linda McCauley Freeman
Fold each finger over the other,
like your uniform pleats and sing out:
Good morning, Sister Mary of the Rosary,
when the principal appeared.
Never touch the host, but peel it
from the roof of your mouth with your tongue
while covering your face, pretending to pray.
Hold it in or pee in your panties
rather than risk raising your hand.
Receive a gold star on your paper: you’re smart.
(None means you aren’t.)
Make up sins to tell the priest
during confession to have something to say.
Drink spoiled milk when Sister Joan
makes you, even after you told her.
Be a good girl at home
and quiet when Grandpa comes
downstairs and touches you,
down there.
Editor’s Note: Freeman’s use of conversational language serves well in this piece. TLC
Art
Editor’s Notes:
I believe that this poem is more powerful with no image to accompany it. I do
not want to force the viewer to evoke any image in particular for this one. JAG
About the Poet: Linda McCauley Freeman has been widely published in international literary journals and anthologies, including a Chinese translation of her work. Most recently, she appeared in Poet Magazine, Amsterdam Quarterly, won Grand Prize in StoriArts poetry contest honoring Maya Angelou, and was selected by the Arts MidHudson for their Poets Respond to Art 2020 and 2021 shows. She was a three-time winner in the Talespinners Short Story contest judged by Michael Korda.
Linda has an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College and is the former poet-in-residence of the Putnam Arts Council. She lives in the Hudson Valley of New York. You can follow her at www.Facebook.com/LindaMcCauleyFreeman.
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Calling Your Name
Anita Jawary
Air is unavailable for some tonight and
blessings have turned to curse.
A digger drills and detonates dust on the road,
and I cannot distinguish
heaven from earth.
Forgotten cattle cars still carry your Name. Dare I step inside to hear its whispers reverberate and wheeze
between the cracks of the floorboards
and along their rusty door jambs?
Geographically speaking, what do fire or virus or earthquake
have to do with You?
Heavy is my house when it tumbles onto my chest
and cement dust invades my lungs.
O my Love! Our bricks were once made of confetti.
I remember.
Don’t You?
But now, Jews! they cry. Blacks! they cry.
KKK kneeling, kneeling, kneeling!
Leave us alone.
Leave us alone.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Non-persons are always alone.
Obfuscated.
Don’t dare to stand as tall as the tinsel tree in the shopping mall
lest you be felled.
Peace?
Question the peace in our time.
Rumbling and roaring tanks rolled across a flock of tardy pigeons
pecking for worms in their path.
They scored and razed the earth where once we tangoed under the stars,
vowed our love,
gave thanks
but no.
Xanadu lasts not forever, and air is unavailable for some tonight.
You too wear a mask now,
keep your distance in the foul foul air,
while down below you,
pious men and women, and even those who hardly know you, turn toward you in
the darkness
to utter your Name.
Editor’s Note: Jaway’s passion speaks within her framework of figurative language, metaphor, and repetition. TLC
About the Poet: Anita Jawary lives in Melbourne, Australia. She has enjoyed many careers, from teacher to journalist to artist. See more of Anita's work at thedickensianchallenge.com.
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Angels Are Good At Excuses
Marc Janssen
Was Job right-
Spitting his anger at a stinging whirlwind
Shaking his fist at a howling blast
Or Bildad-
With the world’s wisdom
And forearms bloody with sacred atonement?
Are you still friends?
When you pass on the street, do your eyes meet?
A life will follow you
Like the back of the bus
Follows the front.
Do you talk to your new wife
About your old wife?
Compare these kids to the dead ones?
Every word of that dust devil
Drips with arrogance.
Everything in the settlement
Says, “I’m sorry.”
Editor’s Note: Janssen’s poem appeals through the use of conversational language and the questions posed. Harsh, yet compelling. TLC
About the Poet: Marc Janssen’s poetry can be found in Pinyon, Slant, Cirque Journal, Off the Coast, and Poetry Salzburg. Cirque Press published his book, November Reconsidered. Janssen also coordinates the Salem Poetry Project, a weekly reading, the annual Salem Poetry Festival, and was a 2020 nominee for Oregon Poet Laureate.
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Frequent Contributor News
Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce the following publication credits among current and former Frequent Contributors and staff.
Former FC Mary Soon Lee
Her poems "Missing Measures" and "The Line" both appeared in I-70 Review, Summer/Fall 2021.
Her poem "Western Retrospective" appeared in American Diversity Report, August 2021, https://adrpoetry.com/summer2021/august-2021/western-retrospective-by-mary-soon-lee/
Her poem "How to Overlook Differences" appeared in Uppagus #47, August 2021, https://uppagus.com/poems/soon-lee-overlook/
Her poem "Train Algebra" appeared in the Journal of Humanistic Mathematics, https://scholarship.claremont.edu/jhm/vol11/iss2/32/
Her poem "What Cacti Read" appeared in Strange Horizons, July 2021, http://strangehorizons.com/poetry/what-cacti-read/
Her poem "Menagerie" appeared in Silver Blade, Issue 50, Summer 2021, https://www.silverblade.net/2021/07/menagerie/
Her poem "Not for Sale, Used Asteroid, One Owner" appeared in The Future Fire, Issue 2021.58, July 2021, http://futurefire.net/2021.58/fiction/notforsale.html
Her short story 'Preface to "Monster Hunter"' appeared in Daily Science Fiction: https://dailysciencefiction.com/fantasy/Monsters/mary-soon-lee/preface-to-monster-hunter
Her poem "How to Mourn Kepler's Supernova" appeared in Penumbric, Volume V, Issue 1, June 2021: https://www.penumbric.com/currentissue/leeSupernova.html
Her short story "In My Tower" appeared in Daily Science Fiction: https://dailysciencefiction.com/fantasy/fairy-tales/mary-soon-lee/in-my-tower
Former FC John Reinhart
Reinhart announces the publication of his expanded version of Horrific Punctuation - a quirky chapbook that showcases the intersection of his teaching and fascination with the dark underbelly of life. “Horrific Punctuation” was originally released as part of Tiger's Eye Press's eight-poem chapbook Infinities Series in 2017. Tiger’s Eye Press has since shuttered its doors, so he re-released and expanded the collection into thirty-two pages of poetry, including eighteen unpublished poems. Available in hardcopy for $3.99, or Kindle for $0.99 at https://www.amazon.com/Horrific-Punctuation.../dp/B09CRNQ5S1.
Featured FC Tyson West
He had three form poems published in Shot Glass Journal, including a sonnet, a curtal sonnet, and a bref double with one line added.
He had two sets of twin fibs published in the Fib Review.
"Elegy for Fay", was published in Artemis Journal Vol. XVII-2021.
Featured FC John C. Mannone
John took first place in the July 2021 Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge.
Former FC Alessio Zanelli
The longest poem he ever wrote, "The Trip", was published in the Fall 2021 issue of San Pedro River Review (Torrance, CA) https://www.bluehorsepress.com/.
His recent chapbook, “Amalgam”, was published by Cyberwit (India) a few weeks after “Ghiaccielo/Skyce” https://www.cyberwit.net/authors/alessio-zanelli & https://www.amazon.com/AMALGAM-Alessio-Zanelli/dp/9390601924/ref=sr_1_3?crid=1V51LJ7F1NF68&dchild=1&keywords=amalgam+zanelli&qid=1624892394&sprefix=zanelli+amalgam%2Caps%2C282&sr=8-3.
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| Lana the Poetree Fall 2021 |
Forthcoming
Our forthcoming winter 2021/2022 issue will have the theme of “place”, and, for the first time in our history, poems will be chosen by our editorial team rather than by a lead editor. We will open our narrow window for submissions on November 1 and close it promptly on November 15; so, as always, we encourage those who want to submit to be as proactive as possible.
“Place” is a deceptively challenging theme. While reading a good “place” poem, the reader should experience the terroir of the locale described, be transported into the thick of it, and feel as though one is actually there or has been there. Our editors look forward to reading your best.
Beginning with this issue, Charles A. Swanson will be leaving the Frequent Contributor ranks to join the editorial ranks as our newest Assistant Editor. Charles will be bringing his well-honed skills to the task, as even a cursory read of his biography will attest.
Sadly, James Frederick William Rowe, one of only two of our remaining charter members of the Frequent Contributor club (the other being John C. Mannone), has left Songs of Eretz in favor pursuing other projects. James was with Songs of Eretz since before its beginning and will be sorely missed. His unique blend of fantasy and philosophy brought a certain sophistication and gravitas to the e-zine. The void of his loss will be difficult to fill. Our winter issue will contain a farewell retrospective featuring of a small collection of James’ previously published poems hand-picked by the poet with updated notes.
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SONGS OF ERETZ POETRY REVIEW
FALL 2021 "RELIGION" ISSUE
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