SONGS OF ERETZ POETRY REVIEW
Theme: Something you can hold in your hand
FALL ISSUE 2024
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Unless otherwise indicated, all art is taken from "royalty-free" Internet sources.
Chief Executive Editor
Steven Wittenberg Gordon
Co-Editors-in-Chief
Terri L. Cummings
Charles A. Swanson
Guest Art Editor
Clayton Spencer
Associate Editor
Clayton Spencer
Frequent Contributors
Terri Lynn Cummings
Steven Wittenberg Gordon
John C. Mannone
Karla Linn Merrifield
Vivian Finley Nida
Howard F. Stein
Charles A. Swanson
Tyson West
Contributor
Clayton Spencer
Biographies of our editorial staff & frequent contributors may be found on the "Our Staff" page.
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A Letter from the Co-Editor-in-Chief
Charles A. Swanson
Featured Frequent Contributor
Vivian Finley Nida
“Circus Equestrian”
“Circus Bareback Rider”
“Summer with Eggs”
Other Frequent Contributors
Steven Wittenberg Gordon
“Beretta”
Howard F. Stein
“In My Grasp”
“A Flower in My Hand”
Tyson West
“My Private Idaho Huckleberry”
John C. Mannone
“I Am a Poet”
“Hands”
Charles A. Swanson
“Wild Gatherings: A Hard Nut to Crack”
General Submissions:
Karla Linn Merrifield
“.###”
Guest Poets
Christie Taylor
“Peach”
Jean Janicke
“She gathers stones to keep her daughter safe”
John Guzlowski
“My Hands”
Wendy A. Howe
“Lazarus”
Mantz Yorke
“The Bergen University Umbrella”
April J. Asbury
“inventory of daughters without mothers”
Frank William Finney
“Zen Salon”
Piper Durrell
“To Hold Beauty in My Hand”
James Penha
“Forest Ashes”
Llewellyn McKernan
“The Long and the Short of It Is”
Susan R. Morritt
“Amulet”
Lorraine Jeffrey
“In the Antique Shop”
Frequent Contributor News
Forthcoming
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A Letter from the Co-Editor-in-Chief
For the theme of “Something You Can Hold,” a few questions arose as I read submissions. As poems about small things came to us, I wondered, Must a hand appear in the poem, and I decided, No. A corollary to that question, What if the poem is about hands themselves, arrived with a poem where the hands were not holding anything, and I thought, Surely, such a poem has to qualify.
Thus, as with any theme, a poet can push the elusive boundaries of a loosely defined set of parameters. Then, the editor determines if he (she) can agree with that interpretation. Therein lies the risk. The safest course for a poet who wishes to have a poem accepted is to stay close to the theme. But safest doesn’t always thrill.
In short, write your best work. Send us your best work. And, whether we accept your poem for a particular issue or not, take joy in your best work. And keep sending us work, for we value you and what you are attempting to do. We are writers, too, and we want to be your cheerleaders.
Charles A. Swanson
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Featured Frequent Contributor
Equestrienne (At the Cirque Fernando),1887/88 painting, public domain, by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec
Circus Equestrian
ekphrastic sonnet
Vivian Finley Nida
In Paris, France, at Circus Fernando,
Monsieur Loyal, sharp eagle eye of ring,
cracks whip to spur on steed for trick in show.
A female, riding bareback, waits to spring.
Gray horse with spots on stolid rump keeps pace.
His head points down, left hind leg’s raised—fast clip.
No saddle, just a blanket takes its place.
Ringmaster focuses. Nothing can slip.
The rider’s red lips press. Her dark eyes stare
at Monsieur Loyal, waiting for his sign.
When clown holds paper hoop high in the air,
she’ll stand on horse, leap through. Both must align.
Equestrian’s bold act reflects her style.
The audience sits still. They dare not smile.
Poet’s Notes: Toulouse-Lautrec and I share an attraction to circuses. My hometown is the winter headquarters for several, and I went to school with Lucy Loyal, a sixth-generation member of the Loyal-Repensky family. They came to America from France in 1932 and were one of the best bareback riding acts in America. “Loyal” was a common name in France, so the ringmaster in this painting might not be her relative, but her family is related to a Loyal who trained horses for Napoleon. After successful campaigns, Napoleon rewarded these men because horses were critical in winning a battle. That relative requested canvas, made a tent, and started the Loyal family’s bareback riding act.*
Knowing the performers makes the circus more exciting. Toulouse-Lautrec’s painting, Equestrienne (At the Cirque Fernando), includes people he knew—the famous ringmaster, Monsieur Loyal, who holds a whip, and the rider, Suzanne Valadon, a painter, and former circus performer, who agreed to model for the painting. A clown in the ring is partially cropped, so the hoop he holds is not shown, but it was a standard part of the act. The artist captures the fast motion of the horse in the ring, which is this sonnet’s goal also. Iambic pentameter mimics the sound of the horse’s hooves, the rhyme scheme rounds the curve that horse and rider follow, and the set number of lines completes the act in the brief time allotted.
*For interviews with Lucy, search online for Luciana Loyal interview conducted by Tanya Ducker Finchum and Juliana M. Nykolaiszyn, June 30, 2011, Library of Congress (loc.gov). A second interview was conducted with her on September 19, 2011 (See: afc2012003_00288). Luciana Loyal was born in 1949 and passed away June 23, 2012.
Editor’s Notes: Although I associate sonnets with love poems, I don’t expect them to be limited to love between lovers. Here, love does fill the poem: the love of performance, the love of the circus, the love of capturing a moment—both in painting and in poetry—come through. CAS
This poem took me back to my childhood, sitting in a circus tent and watching a daring young lady perform that trick. Thank you for the journey, Mrs. Nida! TLC
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Circus Bareback Rider
ekphrastic haiku
Vivian Finley Nida
Leap from horse through hoop,
then back on horse, nerves jangling
like a tambourine.
Poet’s Notes: On a tambourine, Toulouse-Lautrec painted At the Circus: The Bareback Rider (Au Cirque: Écuyère). The painting shows the moment after the bareback rider has leapt from the horse through a hoop and landed on the horse once more. The circular tambourine allows viewers to imagine they are looking through the hoop. The painting was made to complement Equestrienne (At the Cirque Fernando), which shows the moment before the bareback rider leaps. Both paintings are on view at The Art Institute of Chicago.
Editor’s Notes: A repeated slogan on a reality television show is “expect the unexpected.” I know the canvas for the painting is a tambourine, yet I don’t expect the last line of the haiku to contain the image of the tambourine. The tambourine should not have been unexpected, but because I am surprised, I am also pleased. CAS
I imagined the jangling sound of the tambourine in Nida’s haiku. It's a nice use of the senses. TLC
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Summer with Eggs
free verse
Vivian Finley Nida
Before air conditioning,
commercial fans clatter
like crashing dishes,
as Sheila, teenager,
works at family’s
egg processing plant.
She stands close to
a conveyor belt with
a flat of thirty-six eggs,
sees them washed,
then scrutinizes them
candled by bright light.
Hands go crazy,
pull cracked eggs and
fertile ones with dark spots
She deftly puts them on shelf above.
Conveyor does not stop.
Eggs roll into single line.
Scales weigh, tip, sort into bins—
small, medium, large, extra-large.
Each hand dips down, lifts three,
puts in carton, repeats,
secures lid, builds speed.
Her mother, supervisor, clocks time.
Five seconds a carton.
Thirty cartons a case.
Four hundred cases a day.
Sixty days of summer with eggs
comes to an end,
but Sheila’s hands still go crazy.
Dexterity proves essential
to twirl, toss, and catch a baton.
Stadium cheers do not stop.
Poet’s Notes: The poetry prompt, “Something you can hold in your hand,” reminds me of my friend Sheila, who worked summers in her family’s egg processing plant. She had to be fast to keep up with the conveyor belt, and she could put 12 eggs in a carton in five seconds. The training came in handy when school started. She was a majorette, grades 7 through 12, and had no trouble twirling a baton!
Editor’s Notes: The world deserves a poem about candling and crating eggs. I am also pleased to have a poem about something a person can hold in her hand, and that something be a thing held almost like a hot potato, held just for an instant. This is a poem about the hands’ dexterity. CAS
This poem features an unusual story, at least in my mind. A perfect way to show the hands’ dexterity. TLC
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Other Frequent Contributors
Beretta
free verse
Steven Wittenberg Gordon
I hold the clip
Insert the bullets
Feel them click into place
Fifteen rounds
Cold
Smooth
Shiny
Sexy
I hold the pistol
Insert the clip
Feel it lock in place
Safety engaged
I rack the slide
One in the chamber
I eject the clip
Add a bullet
Reinsert
Fifteen plus one
I hold the pistol
Snug
Sure
Comfortable
Comforting
I align the sights
Dot dot dot
Safety disengaged
I move my right index
From guard
To trigger
Poet’s Notes: I learned my way about the 9mm Beretta when I was a flight surgeon in the United States Air Force. Most doctors are barred from carrying a firearm, flight surgeons being the exception. I was allowed to use it only to defend myself or to defend a patient. Many, many things would have to go wrong for a flight surgeon to have to draw a pistol in war.
Everything about a pistol is cold and hard. Everything about handling a pistol must be methodical, cold, and hard. I used short lines and stanza breaks to create a sense of method and foreboding, cool calculation, detachment and dread.
The above notwithstanding, there is an undeniable sexiness to handling a gun. I tried to capture that strange feeling with words such as insert, reinsert, snug, and of course, sexy.
Editor’s Notes: Guns can be quite triggering. I am not proficient with a gun although I spent many hours in the eastern woodlands of Virginia hunting deer. The care required in keeping the weapon clean, ready for service, and safe was not lost on me. Neither lost on me was the love of guns, not just for their usefulness, but also for their quality. A fine gun is like a fine pocketknife is like a fine guitar. Each becomes a cherished companion. CAS
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In My Grasp
free verse
Howard F. Stein
At the base of a tall mesa, *
I noticed a small,
Inconsequential rock,
Bent over, picked it up,
Then gently clasped it in my hand –
Why, I cannot remember,
As I was so seized
By the scale of this
High desert place.
I leaned my head as far back
As I could without falling,
Stood face to face with
A ruddy sandstone cliff
That dwarfed hikers
Upon its flat top.
What a dizzying escarpment
In this land of giants!
Buttes, canyons, and pinnacles,
Formidable neighbors
In a community I could not
Hold together with my eyes,
Let alone encase in words.
Who needs speech,
When awe is quite enough?
I had found my
Good enough forever –
Grateful even for
The relentless
Work of water and ice
That had given me,
After all, the gift
Of the minor stone
I claimed for myself.
Eventually, I had to leave –
A mere temporary
In this seeming permanence.
What home could beckon
With voices like these?
Still, I did not depart
Entirely bereft.
In the small rock
I took with me,
I could at least hold
250 million years
In the grasp of my hand.
*Ghost Ranch, Abiquiu, New Mexico, US. “A mesa is a flat-topped mountain or hill. It is a wide, flat, elevated landform with steep sides. Mesa is a Spanish word that means table.” Mesa (nationalgeographic.org)https://education.nationalgeographic.org/resource/mesa/
Poet’s Notes: The poem is a fantasy steeped in cherished reality. For over 25 years, I have attended at Ghost Ranch in northern New Mexico, the annual fall retreat of the High Plains Society for Applied Anthropology. It has remained the most spiritual place I have ever been. I do not require Aristotle, Anselm, and Aquinas proofs. Presence is the essence of the place. Each time I leave, I long to return. Every leave-taking rends my heart.
Early in 2024, as I began to anticipate the retreat, the fantasy came to me of finding a small stone at the foot of a giant mesa, picking it up, holding it in my hand, and putting it in my pocket. The poem took me the rest of the way – from presence and beholding, to absence and loss, and finally to a tiny imaginary symbol of continuity amid rupture. I could at least take with me a reminder of my sense of awe.
Editor’s Notes: The line “Good enough forever” speaks to me. The paradoxical quality of being only good enough, yet being supremely good enough, so that no other “good enough” needs be found—that is an intriguing and somewhat unsettling thought. I think, indeed, of our nation’s (USA) settlers who looked for that spot of land that seemed “just right,” but perhaps settled for a place that seemed “good enough.” Perhaps they then grew to love that land so much that the “good enough” became a forever love. CAS
In this poem, Stein shows us that presence is the essence of a poem. TLC
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A Flower in My Hand
free verse
Howard F. Stein
I nest a flower
In my open palm –
A dainty buttercup,
A scrubby chamisa,
A tender daylily,
A sensual orchid.
I savor their full
Bloom of fruition. . .
All my forevers
Are so short-lived,
My eye must catch them
More swiftly than
A butterfly net,
Before they depart
For places they never tell.
Oh, cruel flowering!
If only I could hold you
And entice you to stay! –
Help me remember, at least,
That once you were here.
Poet’s Notes: The theme of transience or impermanence is a bane of poets’ creative life. Who dares approach it! Clichés are lethal. Yet I seem to be drawn to trying to revive the dead! In early 2024, when the image of a flower gently resting in my open palm came to me, I wondered how on earth to make it into a fresh poem.
Over my lifetime, I have held many flowers in this way, examined them, even cherished them. Somehow my mind wandered to a kind of story-arc of receiving, holding on, letting go, and remembering. Whether a flower or anything else I think I “have” or “possess,” its days are numbered. In grieving its departure, I can at least hold onto its memory. Writing the poem about a flower led me toward this unfolding.
Editor’s Notes: Great beauty can sojourn in ephemeral things—such as in flowers and in butterflies’ wings and in the web-woven orbs of the garden spider. We see the ephemeral all around us, and, gradually, we come to realize that we, too, are ephemeral. CAS
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My Private Idaho Huckleberry
free verse
Tyson West
Just as I cannot lick an ice cream cone
without bemoaning my first communion wafer,
so I cannot savor a huckleberry
without mourning Mary.
We once hiked jagged edged August afternoons
gaining altitude on rutted logging roads
above Priest Lake's boat wake braided waters
seeking ancestral berry patches
at the edge of decades' old wildfire scars.
When we reached the leaning larch where her father
had carved once a heart and not her mother's initials,
we lingered and leaned into our limits.
To me, post solstice sun forever diminuendos
in scents of balsam and lodgepole pine―
bear bell jangles in sun glare
on bright green bushes
concentrating flavor into tight blue balls.
My legs no longer climb granite steps cut
of jet stream storms whose wind gusts
scatter all ashes.
Worrying our return before moonrise,
her sister―jam brewer and pie alchemist―kept watch below at the lake cabin
too timid to chance broke back mountain cliffs
or risk a mother grizzly.
Mary's long legs forged furiously forward
as my neurosis radared any rustling ahead.
Her fast fingers filled pails for me
to pack out our sweet and tangy treasure.
And, if alone, our blanket spread in light checkered shade
from the firs and larch breeze blushed
to concentrate our sweet berries of time sweeping our souls past
cubist light blocks and ghosts of children we would never share.
Our intimacies of sustenance, flesh, and wildflowers
ferment to fill dreamtime left
between a berry the color of the night sky
and icy cirrus clouds astride the jet stream―
heralds of looming fall tempests.
Poet's Notes: When this poem began, I was contemplating huckleberries, something that can be held in one's hand, from several different angles. I wrote three different poems, of which this is the first, and planned to put the three together in a suite, but my edit angel intervened. Huckleberry Finn, the phrase "I am your huckleberry" from Doc Holiday in the movie Tombstone, and the song “Moon River,” each speak to the multifaceted symbolism surrounding huckleberries. Berry growers have been unable to domesticate huckleberries, so they can only be picked wild. My huckleberry friend about whom this poem was written and who also was never domesticated died in 2019.
Editor’s Notes: I’ve picked huckleberries many times, and I’ve reached as far as I could reach, but I didn’t lean into any other limit. West takes us into a wild, western range of emotions, climbing a little higher and yet a little higher. CAS
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I Am a Poet
free verse
John C. Mannone
ποιέω τó ποιηµα
A man who works with his hands is a laborer; a man who works with his hands and his brain is a craftsman; but a man who works with his hands and his brain and his heart is an artist.
—Billy Graham
I can always do the hard work of words with the back
of an envelope, and a pen to plow and plant something
that might grow. But if I fail
to think about it, I would be not better than an artificial
intelligence, a straw man on a yellow brick road. The best
I could do is mimic rapidly.
I might be a smart man, waving my hands to the cadence
of the words, but if they only touch your ears, what good
are they? Who cares?
However, what I hold in my hand is not merely the pen,
not just an almanac of words. But I hold your heart
in my hands. And I pray.
Poet’s Notes: This poem arose while I was searching the Internet for quotes about hands (and I admit, I might’ve had a Cento in the recesses of my mind). Almost right away I found Billy Graham’s quotation, which in turn led me to the Greek New Testament because I marvel at the depth of meaning in the original languages that gets lost in the translation or at least not conveyed with additional words. I vividly remember St Paul speaking of the Christ that we are his workmanship (Eph 2:10). The insight the Greek provides is the word translated as workmanship is (transliterated) poiema. Clearly, this is the etymology of the word poem. The epigraph can be translated as “to make a workmanship.” The infinitive form of the verb “to make” is ποιέω (phonetically pō-aý-ō). However, there is a wide semantic range of that word, so “to craft” or “to fashion” fits better when the noun, ποιηµα (phonetically poi-aý-ma) is translated as “poem.” (τó is simply an article). When I think of that passage in Greek, I can’t help to feel that I am a piece of poetry fashioned by my creator, so the translation of the Greek in the epigraph that I prefer is “to fashion a poem.” All of this led me to think about creating poetry by my hands, and what is needed. That’s how this turned out to be an ars poetica. The translation of the title, I think, works better in a note like this. The added mystery also adds a little tension, or at least curiosity.
Editor’s Notes: I hear echoes of I Corinthians 13 in Mannone’s Ars poetica. As scripture stretches language’s limits on a spiritual scale, poetry stretches language also, and sometimes speaks to the spirit as significantly as it does to the nerves and the heart. CAS
An artist speaks in this poem. TLC
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Hands
free verse
John C. Mannone
After a photograph of a sculpture (Clay Hands)
by Heshani Sothiraj Eddleston
The artisan charcoals
a grisaille of our hands
then sculpts our fingers first,
carves stone away, leaves
only touch, a trace of pulse
before my heart crumbles.
I am pulver in his hands.
Imperceptible movement
of my fingers over yours,
me, in the palm of your hands,
lifelines intersecting in clay
layers. We, etched into each other.
Stone of my stone, carved from
my heart, how could the Sculptor
know that stone is softer than flesh,
each heartbeat still creviced in rock?
I rise out of dirt
that once was a grave, but you,
you were fashioned for me.
Poet’s Notes: There is something sensuous about holding one’s lover’s hand, each person ever so gently moving fingers over the other’s. This is what informs the poem, the creator, giving life to stone, which in turn acts as a metaphor for lovers in the flesh. The narrator is one lover to the other. The poem braids the concepts of a human sculptor and the Creator Sculptor, the ambiguity at times is intentional but is no more demanding in suspension of disbelief than animating a stone sculpture. One could even read it as the Sculptor inspiring the sculptor, or simply an allusion to Genesis and the Creator-God of fleshly humans.
Editor’s Notes: What can poetry do? What can it not? Not every poem reads like a map to meanings. Sometimes, blurred lines and liminal spaces open potential territories, landscapes, human sculptures, if you will. CAS
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Wild Gatherings: A Hard Nut to Crack
Shakespearean sonnet
Charles A. Swanson
The greenish hulls, a darkening yellow brown,
stained shoes and fingers. Scores of walnuts plunked
like tiny cannonballs as they came down.
The drive was full of them. They spun and clunked
against car tires, but friction battered free
their hulls. My mother raked them into heaps
and let them cure. Now, I see the leafless tree,
the black-grooved nuts. These are things I keep.
I keep as well the rough, corrugated shell,
the way it felt. The way it pressed against
my fingers when I gripped it tight. I held
the hammer handle firm, and muscles tense,
I tried to crack the thing. Like many thoughts
the nut freed once I beat the hard shell off.
Poet’s Notes: This poem about black walnuts is one in a small poem cycle about gathering wild foods. I forage a bit, and I enjoy the variety that nature offers. Each wild food presents its own challenge, from difficulty of harvesting to difficulty of preparing. Perhaps one might claim that little tension exists in these events, but I find that every episode of gathering has its own battle—whether small or large. CAS
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Art Speaks: Measuring Stick
--a Stick Figure Man poem
free verse
Charles A. Swanson
I have no rights. He can use me,
and he can abuse me.
Here I am on a T-shirt, my trunk
in another man’s hands,
and that man says, “I’ve got your back.”
Now, what am I to do
without a back? And then he draws
me sarcastic, a wise ass,
and then a dumb ass, and he doesn’t
ask if I like the word.
I don’t, by the way. Just saying.
Where’s the respect for art?
I could be so much more, and am,
when I’m in noble hands.
I sing. I dance. I kneel. I pray.
I lift my arms in praise
to my maker, and I don’t mean him,
the one who trashes me.
There is a holy ruler. A yardstick.
I want to measure up.
Poet’s Notes: I keep writing Stick Figure Man poems, and in some of the poems, the artist talks about art, and about how stick figures can be artful and evocative. In other poems, the Stick Figure (the art) talks back to the artist. As Stick Figure Man begins to emerge from the page, a bit like Pinocchio, he finds his own words. Sometimes, he speaks with sensitivity, sometimes with irritation.
Editor’s Notes: I enjoy Swanson’s Stick Figure Man poems. The reader always has something to take away from them. This one ‘measures up.’ TLC
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SAND
free verse
Alessio Zanelli – Cremona, Italy
Under the feet, through the fingers,
on the skin, in the eyes,
what will remain of the bones,
a result of the aging of living planets,
born of rock and water,
the primal parent of dust,
from one bulb into the other,
then back, over and over again,
the time-made maker of time,
there forever to remind us
how gazillions of grains construct the world
as the world is contained in one grain.
Editor's Notes: Zanelli’s skillful manipulation of microcosms and macrocosms broadens and narrows the theme and meaning. TLC
Editor's Notes: I like the places the poem takes me--especially to the desert or beach, to outer space, and into the hourglass. CAS
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The cross
free verse
Terri Lynn Cummings
A friend said
the world he unfolds
is a flat map
easy to examine and probe
between here and there.
He highlights a highway
that splits like two wings
positioned
where they shouldn’t be
where people shuttle along
without realizing
that’s what wisdom is--
what is learned
on a long journey
to the end of the line.
Though I cannot hold
the map of his life
or mark an X where
his journey ended
I stake a cross
into red earth
near the ravine
where we parted.
Poet’s Note: This is a fictional poem inspired by the many crosses placed along roads and highways as memorials. Each one I see always moves me.
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General Submissions
.###
free verse
Karla Linn Merrifield
It's like, ya know, fellas,
it's like she smacked
hard into a wall harder
than bricks. I know this;
we veggie bros are
capable of breathing
in her anguish, hear
her profound sigh,
and I do quote in proof:
"Nevertheless, I feel so
diminished."
Diminished? Among
the saddest words.
"I'm so doubtful I
can survive."
My lordy, oh my, such
a tragic term.
I would like to
inspire my companion,
be able to tell her
to switch gears
into first, reduce speed,
and watch my fave
The King and I.
Yul Brenner would
say in his dishiest
role ever--ever!
"Yo, Bruce, she sez,
"you are my metaphor
for sweet perseverance"
###
Poet’s Note: FC Karla Linn Merrifield, who is continuing to undergo chemotherapy for ovarian cancer, has unfortunately, had to put her blog (The Muses Refugia; karlalinnmerrifield.org) on hiatus¾but the past four years of posts remain accessible. She’s been astonished how much creating new poems regardless of her health (and very few of the ones she’s written this summer) concern her health. What a marvelous escape and superb medicine.
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Bruce the Plant Sighs
free verse
Karla Linn Merrifield
Just breathing in
the ambiance
of southwest Florida's
butter hour--it's glow
so pleasures her
as evening comes.
This cross-species
vegetable/animal
gig is trippy, my
friends, sharing
the same POV .
My lady is--
a sentimental
cougar poet who
listens to tree
frogs and only
this morning
a mockingbird
in full mating-
season mode
who performed
his arias not
ten feet away.
She then swam;
I watched from
the Condoland lanai.
But, later, she's sayin':
"Saturday nights
are the hardest."
She breathes of
her loneliness.
And the barred
replies, "Who,
who, who
croons for
you? I do."
Poet’s Note: FC Karla Linn Merrifield, who is continuing to undergo chemotherapy for ovarian cancer, has, unfortunately, had to put her blog (The Muses Refugia; karlalinnmerrifield.org) on hiatus--but the past four years of posts remain accessible. She’s been astonished at how much creating new poems regardless of her health (and very few of the ones she’s written this summer) concerns her health. What a marvelous escape and superb medicine.
Editor’s Notes: How does one speak of her own pain and weakness? Some do so outright, telling a tale of sorrow, limping along with moans and sighs and woes to me. Others dress duress in jester’s robes, not letting the mask drop. A hint, a wink, a play on words serve to let the world guess that all is not as jolly as things seem. CAS
Both poems speak of ‘a diminishing’ as the fall season begins to fall in many ways. TLC
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Peach
free verse
Christie Taylor
I hold a globe —a peach in my hand. Continents
ablaze with wildfires, oceans yellow hot.
Slice it longitudinally | ten times | around the world.
Then, one cut——————— across the equator.
The Earth falls apart into fiery sunsets.
About the Poet: Christie Taylor lives on Maryland's Eastern Shore after 40+ years owning an art gallery in North Carolina. She stays on the hunt for imagery and resonance in her writing and painting and enjoys romping through fields with her dogs. Recent poems have appeared in orangepeel literary magazine; the tide rises, the tide falls: an oceanic literary magazine; Still Point Arts Quarterly; and Milk and Cake Press, Dead of Winter III Anthology. Taylor has been awarded visual artist residences at The Ballinglen Arts Foundation (Ireland), Cove Park (Scotland) and Tyrone Guthrie Center (Ireland).
Editor’s Notes: The small evokes the large. Taylor has a peach and the Earth in her hand at the same time. What is of the earth is the Earth. CAS
I enjoyed the image of Earth in her hand and “fiery sunsets.” TLC
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She gathers stones to keep her daughter safe
For Aysha
free verse
Jean Janicke
Each day’s find: a talisman
casting a spell of protection
while the other explores distant
terrain. A round rock peeking
behind a tall blade of grass means
jungle vines will shield from snakes.
A stone glinting on white sand
keeps polar bears at bay in snow,
as if curling fingers around the shiny
orb in her palm narrows the stretch
between Suffolk and Arctic.
Each pebble an elemental message
from a star written in rare minerals,
or a small sun warm in her hand
and shining on a mountain peak,
or a bubble from the earth’s crust
gushing up for a shared breath.
Poet’s Notes: My sister-in-law told me of the practice of gathering stones that inspired this poem. Starting in the fall of 2024, you will be able to watch the daughter she protected in Secret Amazon: Into the Wild.
About the Poet: Jean Janicke lives in Washington, D.C. She works as an economist and leadership coach and finds her creative outlet through poetry and dance. Her work has appeared in Yellow Arrow Journal, MicroLit, and MockingHeart Review.
Editor’s Notes: Taylor’s poem (above) strikes me as an evocation. I see the peach in a new way because she presents the likeness of the peach to the Earth. Janicke’s poem strikes me as an invocation. Each stone the speaker picks up becomes more than a worry stone. It becomes a prayer stone, as her mother’s heart reaches across distances to her daughter away from home. CAS
“… the small sun warm in her hand” image stays with me as I look for a stone for my son. Thank you, Ms. Janicke. TLC
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My Hands
free verse
John Guzlowski
I open my hands
And see only my hands
The lines in my palms
That some say speak of fate
And love and misery
And the wonder to come
Some quiet morning in December
When the cold will silence the birds
And the asking in my palms.
So I close my hands
And see only my hands
The palms lost in them
The fate and love and wonder
Lost in this quiet summer morning
As I turn to watch the leaves
Moving slowly in the wind
The birds are silent
The crows here last week are gone
Gone to somewhere where they hope
to find some sun.
And me?
I sit and watch the trees
As if they were my open hands.
About the Poet: John Guzlowski’s poems about his parents’ experiences as slave laborers in Nazi Germany appear in his award-winning memoir Echoes of Tattered Tongues. His most recent books of poems are Mad Monk Ikkyu, True Confessions, and Small Talk: Writing about God and Writing and Me (available at snakenationpress.org). His novels include Retreat: A Love Story and the Hank and Marvin mysteries: Suitcase Charlie, Little Altar Boy, and Murdertown, all published by Kasva Press. He is also a columnist for the Dziennik Zwiazkowy, the oldest Polish newspaper in America. A collection of these columns appears in the book Who I Am: The Lives Told in Kitchen Polish.
Editor’s Notes: Guzlowski captures end-of-life forebodings in the simplest words. This poem reminds me of his collection, Mad Monk Ikkyu, a volume of poems that breathe the air of an Eastern world, poems that seem written by a Japanese poet, not one born in a World War II displaced person’s camp. CAS
A fine-tuned poem that I wanted to read over and over again. TLC
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Lazarus
free verse
Wendy A. Howe
Puppets exist in a state which is both alive and dead at the same time.
~ Late Puppeteer, Christopher Leith
Leaf light
flickers in the Autumn wind
and the motion
in his arthritic hand
transfers to the strings
of the puppet's corpse.
His fingers hold
the splintered cross
trembling as he takes charge
of cords that tie
his wooden doll
to the language of movement,
the gravity of coming alive.
Its carved stutter
eases into a jaunty gait
and character's voice;
the unraveling skein
of his breath that rises and falls
while his grasp feels the burden
of goodbye, relinquishing
a craft he has mastered
for decades, The hurt
penetrates deep
(beyond the bone)
like the sound of wind chimes
calling down the last
moments of a season's gold.
Poet’s Notes: When I wrote Lazarus, I was inspired by the life and legacy of Christopher Leith, who had risen to great fame in the world of puppetry. I asked what does such a skilled and visionary person hold in his hand. And after some reflection, I thought he holds the power of life and death, to bring a creation alive and to put it down to rest. This is the constant cycle of stillness and animation the puppeteer controls. His craft is more than a craft, a vocation in which he is called to awaken/interpret characters and stories with his own voice, hands, and soul. And in his final days when the flexibility in his fingers was fading from arthritis, he realized he had to relinquish not only his art but an integral part of himself. The sadness was immeasurable. A bittersweet melody that echoed throughout his mind and spirit, aching more than the terrible pain of his condition.
About the Poet: Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free-lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, women in conflict, and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: Strange Horizons, Liminality, Coffin Bell, Eternal Haunted Summer, The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Silver Blade Magazine, The Orchards Journal, Indelible Magazine, and Eye To The Telescope. Her latest work will be forthcoming in The Acropolis Journal later this year.
Editor’s Notes: As Howe plays with life and death, with artistic life and retirement of artistic talent, she dangles me. I feel suspended at one moment and jangled at the next. Even the beautiful ending of the poem resonates with the sadness of glorious autumn leaves. CAS
/… the language of movement, /the gravity of coming alive./ Howe knows how to move the reader with her dance of words. TLC
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The Bergen University Umbrella
free verse
Mantz Yorke
Two decades in the trunk of my car:
the umbrella’s become a grubby white
Each time I take it out, you tell me to chuck
this memento of Bergen’s rain, but I like
the connotations of the four Minerva owls
and the spring that jerks it into a spread:
why junk an umbrella that does its job?
Last autumn, I used the handle’s crook
to pull brambles down from the banking
of a disused track. Then, standing
precariously on the steep slope,
I jabbed the point into the soft ground
to make a tripod-leg whilst my free arm
reached upward to pluck the fruit.
Overbalancing, I bore heavily down
on the crook, bending and splitting
the tubular shank. ‘Just bin it’, you insisted,
but some wooden dowel in the shank
and resin-toughened fabric round the break
have given me, with luck (and, no doubt,
some further grumbling), another year of use.
Poet’s Notes: Some years ago, I visited Bergen University before taking a driving tour around that part of Norway. There was quite a lot of rain, so I bought the umbrella. When I said it would be a memento of Bergen’s rain, I received a rather sour look from the woman behind the counter.
About the Poet: Mantz Yorke is a former science teacher and researcher living in Manchester, England. His poems have been published internationally. His collections Voyager and Dark Matters are published by Dempsey & Windle.
Editor’s Notes: I like poems about useful objects. Here is a poem that shows me the owner’s idiosyncratic feelings about an umbrella that many others would consider only trash. I am drawn into the world of the speaker, as if his life were both propped up by and expanded by the tattered umbrella. CAS
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inventory of daughters without mothers
free verse
April J. Asbury
cookbooks with split spines
moth-wing shimmer on gray bulbs
saucers with no cups
cups with no spoons
tea leaves dried hard and dark on porcelain
spice patterns scattered on stained tablecloth
dusty strings of red peppers from the ceiling
blackened onions knotted in hosiery
cracked cutting boards, scarred and gray
knives worn thin and curved as fishbones
wet lashes stuck wishless, finger and thumb
shush dolls with smeared marker smiles
tongues turned to stone at the root
Poet’s Notes: This poem grew out of a writing workshop hosted by Melissa Helton during the 2023 "Appalachian Writers Workshop" at Hindman Settlement School. While experimenting with form, we studied Danez Smith's heartbreaking and transcendent poem, "alternate names for black boys." I love writing with lists--the potential for rich detail, the wonderful play and music of words, the surprises of what is included and what is not. I began with my own grief, webbing images and memory together. I wanted to describe grief beyond words in sensory and personal ways.
About the Poet: April J. Asbury teaches writing and literature at Radford University. She earned her M.F.A. from Spalding University and M.A. from Hollins. Her poetry and fiction appear in Artemis Journal, Still: The Journal, Gyroscope Review, and The Anthology of Appalachian Writers. Woman with Crows, her first collection, is available on apriljasbury.com.
Editor’s Notes: Each poet who earns her way into this journal with a fine poem becomes, as it were, a new-found friend. In April Asbury’s case, I welcome a friend of many years. I’m glad to present one of her many remarkable poems in this issue. CAS
I, too, am pleased to welcome Ms. Asbury’s poem into this journal. TLC
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Zen Salon
free verse
Frank William Finney
Snip by snip
the locks
drop down
to the sound
of one hand
snipping.
About the Poet: Frank William Finney is a retired university lecturer based in Massachusetts. A recipient of the Letter Review Prize for Poetry, his work has appeared in numerous publications in print and online. Recent work appears in Blue Unicorn, Persephone Literary Magazine, The Wise Owl, and elsewhere. His chapbook The Folding of the Wings was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022.
Editor’s Notes: In the quietness of this poem, I am transported to a hair salon. I’m also caught by the kinesthetic images of the hand’s deft movements and the strands of hair slipping off the scissors and down to the floor. CAS
Nice use of the senses here. TLC
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To Hold Beauty in My Hand
free verse
Piper Durrell
I leaned down to pick up
a small object, translucent
edged in pale blue
still against the asphalt.
Peering closely, then squinting, with my old woman eyes
I saw a leaf, a feather, a flower,
wilted by the sun? melted by the rain?
No, a wing, a glassy wing, an insect wing
veins and lines and spots no longer in motion
now inert delicate filigree layers
like handmade lace still pinned on a wedding dress.
Yet with nature’s subtle precision,
flawless both in construction and purpose.
Name it magic, call it science, label it beauty
whether a sliver on the ground
a flicker in the air
or a childhood memory.
Why this slice of color?
A hue as vibrant as a robin’s egg
as calming as the sky on a perfect day.
Is this stripe your calling card?
A badge of honor, of age, of clan-
without it, would your mate
not recognize the Morse code of your garb?
A tint meant to allure innocent bystanders to gaze at
and desire the grace of your lost wing?
Nothing haphazard in this pattern-
Dots and dashes, the weight of veins-
the symmetrical back and forth stroke
of a hovering insect requires its own
equation to explain the flow of fore and hind.
A sequence of numbers cannot express
the lightness of this wing in my hand
or long-ago evenings when you arrived right
before my eyes -fairy dust meant to be chased
across green grass and rocky driveways but
never to be touched because your destiny was to
fly up and down, backwards, forwards
side to side and linger where you choose.
One solitary wing was in my hand
the mere pressure of my fingers needed to
place the wing into the open palm of my hand
had left an imprint that I dared not touch again.
Beauty is fleeting, desire remains…
And, suddenly, my hand was empty.
About the Poet: Piper Durrell fell in love with the mountains, rivers, and music of Appalachia when she moved to Blacksburg, Virginia, in 1977 to begin her career as a Legal Aid attorney. Poetry is her way of expressing the joy she finds in the wonders of the natural world. Playing with words has been a lifelong hobby and, as long as she is able, she will continue to hike, explore, travel, and try to reflect what she sees/feels in her poems.
Editor’s Notes: “Nothing haphazard in the pattern,” Durrell claims. She convinces me! She also convinces me of substance in the most fragile of life’s creations. CAS
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Forest Ashes
haiku
James Penha
I raise my hand full
of forest ashes and ask:
who will pay the bill
About the Poet: Expat New Yorker James Penha (he/him) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his work is widely published in journals and anthologies. His newest chapbook of poems American Daguerreotypes is available for Kindle. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Xwitter: @JamesPenha
Editor’s Notes: I am not bothered by “forest ashes”—or, not at first. I see them as the natural decomposition of leaves. Suddenly, by the turn in this poem, I’m jolted awake to the aftermath of raging wildfires. CAS
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The Long and the Short of It Is
free verse
Llewellyn McKernan
The pencil's
the rough tough good luck
a tree leaves
for the human hand to touch
just enough for
an invitation to dream
and tell
what's already there
in the sweet salty sweat of thumb
and fingers
digging deep down
into the blood-red, red-hot
drumming organ-deep
(yet fathomless) universe
of the heart, budding
and bursting wide open in
words that provoke,
evoke an early everlasting
spring-green growth
in thought and feeling
in the reader.
About the Poet: Llewellyn McKernan has a Master's Degree in Creative Writing from Brown University. She has authored seven books of poems for adults and four for children. Her work has appeared in many literary journals and anthologies and has won over one hundred prizes in state, regional, and national contests. Her writing mantra is based on a statement by the French novelist, Colette: "Look long and hard at what gives you the greatest pleasure, but look even longer and harder at what gives you the greatest pain."
Editor’s Notes: Were McKernan to give us a lesson on the positive effects of music in poetry, she could show us this poem. I read poems I would describe as flat because the playfulness and the vibrancy of language is missing. Here, the play is part of the poem and intrinsic to the message. CAS
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Amulet
occasional rhyme / free verse
Susan R. Morritt
September sky
steeped in Isle of Wight blue–
My private amulet, gold vein
for the shrinking realm, chic salon
which so tenuously remains.
Each passing day a threshold crossed
with inward-swinging doors,
multiple floors to navigate.
Exhumed cache of love and hate,
so fine the line between.
September sky is seeping
into blue—oh, Isle of Wight
in my pocket, just out of view.
Poet’s Notes: This poem was inspired by a few days I spent visiting Isle of Wight while on a backpacking trip through England and Scotland. I vividly remember the incredible colour of the sky, and even now, on a sunny day, no matter where I am, I find myself looking at the sky and remembering those days in Sandown, with the white cliffs, and gorgeous sky over the water.
About the Poet: Susan R. Morritt is a writer, visual artist, and musician from Waterford, Ontario, Canada. Her work appears in numerous journals including 34 Orchard Journal, Does It Have Pockets, The Speckled Trout Review, Pictura Journal, Unorthodox Stories, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Third Estate Art Decapitate Journal, and Bronze Bird Books Love Anthology. Susan is a former racehorse trainer who has worked extensively with livestock.
Editor’s Notes: An amulet can be more than a piece of jewelry. I think of the amulet Dr. Strange wears, of how that amulet opens doorways. In Morritt’s poem, the amulet speaks for more than what it is. CAS
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In the Antique Shop
free verse
Lorraine Jeffrey
What is it? my grandson asks
as he surveys the seven wheels
and hefts the blackened iron that
weighs over a pound and a half.
He assumes I will know.
I point to the heart shaped
décor of the largest wheel and
the three metal prongs, in a
tight circle.
It’s an apple peeler I say
as I reach to turn the
wooden handle.
The entire device twists,
turns, and contorts
like a dying animal.
I wonder why it took
seven iron wheels
to accomplish the task,
when my current apple peeler
has only one worm screw
and a suction cup.
My grandson moves on
but I stand
holding the cold metal;
remembering wooden tables,
aproned women, pies,
canning jars and laughter.
On the shelves I survey
Jello molds, Pyrex bowls
egg separators and bread boxes. .
Is there room for me
on that shelf?
About the Poet: Lorraine Jeffery earned a library degree and managed public libraries for twenty years but learned more about life from raising her ten children (8 adopted, two bio) than in any university. She has won numerous prizes in national and state competitions and published in various journals. Her first book titled When the Universe Brings Us Back was published in 2022. Her chapbooks were published by Kelsay Books. Tethers, in 2023 and Saltwater Soul in 2024.
Editor’s Notes: Every time I browse an antique store (which I did only yesterday), I think of the things that speak to me from a distant generation (a generation of which I am a relic). I like the list of artifacts in Jeffrey’s poem, and I identify with her pang of nostalgia. CAS
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Your Support
Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is a for-profit entity that operates at a loss of up to $7,000 per year. It is sustained entirely by donations of time, talent, and treasure from our editorial staff, loyal readership, and family of poets and artists.
Our four quarterly issues take hundreds of man-hours to produce. That is what it takes to offer our readers a quality experience and our featured and guest poets and artists a place where they may be proud to publish their work.
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Vivian Finley Nida looks forward to presenting poetry from her book, From Circus Town USA, to an Oklahoma City PEO Club in September. In October, she will present ekphrastic poetry to a local book club and will partner with Terri L. Cummings to present ekphrastic poetry to a second local book club.
Charles A. Swanson participated in the Writers Workshop at Radford University in July. This annual event, the Highland Summer Conference, met at the Selu Retreat Center.
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Winter Issue Theme
A Dramatic Monologue
A dramatic monologue is a poem delivered by a single character (rather than the poet) to a silent listener (usually not the reader). The speech reveals the character’s personality, thoughts, feelings, and motivations. Inspiration may come from mythology, literary or biblical characters, past or present leaders, an unnamed (or renamed) friend, or a beloved pet. Be creative!
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(Please note the new submissions' address, both here and on our Guidelines page. The correct submissions' address is
submissionssofe@gmail.com)
Season Theme Submission Period
Spring Holding your breath Feb. 1-15
Summer Respond to Keats's May 1-15
“Ode on a Grecian Urn”
Fall Something you can hold Aug. 1-15
Winter A dramatic monologue Nov. 1-15
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SONGS OF ERETZ POETRY REVIEW