A Sharp Double-Edged Luxury Object Rodia Draghincescu

A Sharp Double-Edged

Luxury Object

Rodia Draghincescu

Translated by Adam J. Sorkin & Antuza Genescu

Cervena Barva Press

ISBN 978-0-9910091-2-1  $17.00

A Sharp Double-Edged Luxury Object, poems will enchant and intrigue the reader.  Very few books use language in the way Draghincescu does. Most experimental or contemporary poetry seems to me self-conscious. Reading Draghincescu's poetry is like slipping into warm water:

“my loveliness flung her panties in the street

we made a decision to wear everything in the open

(the history of this movement and its glory can be toasted

at its memorial between the first bench in the military park

and the first bench in the tribunal

a clothesline with panties in royal black)”

The first poem, Sight Doesn't Take Everything In, the reader will take a step back and adjust their  perception. The poem's 3 D vision requires consideration and a willingness to be in the poem. At once, the sentence’s tense is part of the present and the past at the same time. It also flings immediacy into another person and syntax. Another reason to read Draghincescu's poems with an open unfettered view is to see what a poem can be and become. We find sense in certain words that help to fuse the poem into its meaning and there are many meanings in the poems' relationship with words. Word like 'military park' and 'tribunal.'  Are we about to be invited to a tribunal of sorts. The end of a relationship --that may or may not encompass everything? It will take much thought to connect the intention:

“I'll exhaust myself saying aaaaaaaaaaaaah into the gizmo

innermost essentials will prick my skin up to

and over my head among white scarves / veils

my scream thanks to which the most abstract of experiences

gets hypostatized in war rivers

will come into intimate contact with the image

of water within”

 And I love the word gizmo. Like the word contraption it confers and shutters with resentments. The poet continues using fragments, Dada deconstruction, or the ordinary as poetry, done in an extraordinary manner; the Surreal clips cut into the poem and form visions, collages, broken watches. The poem ticks. We get to envision how the poem rounds itself, winding timelessly:

“so confusingly concrete I’ll be swimming in myself

anyhow the silence outside has abandoned this place

when I write the word loneliness I write participation

in an inward fanfare of birds

in demonstrations of laid-off virginity

short words muscular pathways still remain

gray hair too (a tendency towards intellectualization

makes itself known in the synapse / thigh in debate versus buttocks)

miss photo so tall so special rendered real as much by affections

as by intelligent ideas”

Disjunction works extremely well in the poem, yet, it flows into the next phrase with the ease of polished slashes and phrases. Rodica uses contemporary images, contemporary language with great skill and confidence. I don't get the sense that Rodica is different in her use of language. I get the sense that she is comfortable using all the nuances of modern poetry and how modern poetry can be made to sound like great poetry. Rodica is not afraid of words and using tense and words in her own tongue:

“where it rains best color with fuji

so much imaginary plasma so much conscious flesh

felling the fact that it's a wrongly perceived concept

miss process with her navel thinking of an everyday brain

without the supernumeraries of mental principles

anyhow my loneliness can be said to be poetry

and poetry wears no panties”

It would be a mistake on the readers’ part to think this poem more than it is. In fact it is what it is in so many ways we get to read about anger, love, intelligent musing about our world and its trappings, its politics, its religions. I find it all there and the poet herself appears ready for the next poem, always ready to write and write she does with the brilliance of any writer I’ve ever read. Bravo:

“but deep psychic phenomena instead

where the world parades with a bare bottom

and it won't depend on sight because sight doesn't take

   everything in

in the final analysis I’m not even lonely

as I lie here under the nightlight”

This is indeed a, “luxury object,” a must buy. Writing at its best is not self-conscious. A poem need not contain the world but I think it speaks to everyone in a language the poets deems understandable. The contemporary reader will adore this universal book.

Irene Koronas

Poetry Editor: Wilderness House Literary Review

Reviewer: Cervena Barva Press

Eating Grief at 3 a.m. by Doug Holder: Review by Former Boston Poet Laureate Sam Cornish

 (Sam Cornish-Left  Doug Holder-Right)

                                 

Eating Grief at 3 a.m.

Doug Holder

Muddy River Books, 2013

Review by Sam Cornish

Doug Holder is a poet of the old city, the city of our fathers, of the 1950s and later. His most recent chapbook has been published by Muddy River Books, a new literary press. Mr. Holder writes poems like notes in a diary. I found myself struck by their economy, wit and urban melancholy. Holder is also a publisher and lecturer at Endicott College, as well as founder of the Bagel Bards of Somerville. As these poems demonstrate, he has a voice unlike that of any of his contemporaries:

There are no places anymore

Where I can sit at a threadbare table

Pick at the crumbs on my plate...

This poem opens a book with the bleak humor of early Beat writing and it is a welcome change from the evasive realism of current poetry from the mainstream and literary press. It is like reading a newspaper written by journalists who records the life of the city in the poem instead of prose. It’s like reading a white blues poem. From “Abandoned Warehouses”:

Sometimes you must follow

The rat’s path

The vagrant,

The scrawled invective of the graffiti

Doug Holder is a poet of the street and coffeehouses, an observer of the everyday. He writes of old Marxists, security guards and his relationship to his deceased father — themes of the common life. I am drawn to these poems as I am to the poetry of Philip Levine and the prose of James T. Farrell. But Holder’s poetry is deeper than that. He sees the world not for what it is, but on his own terms. He is living in the poem rather than in poetry.

It is late at night

And the fruit

Has gone bad...

These poems are to be read almost as if the reader is observing a photograph, centers the composition and the stories within stories. The poems are not only about what Mr. Holder sees, but how he feels. These are his words and no one else’s. From “Transcendence”:

You see when I am

84 floors up

my feet are still

cemented to

this goddamn floor

and I don’t know

who I am anymore.

This collection, if read slowly, pausing, will break your heart. I recommend it for its honesty and its purity.

— Sam Cornish

Review of Eating Grief at 3AM by Doug Holder Reviewed in Gently Read Literature Spring 2014 issue.

Eating Grief at 3:00 a.m.

by Doug Holder
(Muddy River Books--Brookline, Mass.)

Review by  Bonnie ZoBell

In the spare yet rich poetry of Doug Holder's book Eating Grief at 3:00 a.m., there is a symphony of voices, places, and sounds. So clear are the ambiences, the run-down settings, the often broken, yet not always unhappy people who populate these poems, it's as if you've read a novel.

You haven't, but the expanse of details encases us in thoughts and a story much bigger than some novels do. There are so few words used in this spectacular chapbook counting them wouldn't take long, and yet they create worlds.

For example, in the poem "Carpal Tunnel Syndrome," we're told:

I thought of my father

As he gripped

His left hand

Prying it open with his right

A hand curling

Into a callused fetus

Holding on to

Something

For dear life.

I know that man, though I've never met him. His tension, his frustration, his buried anger at himself and at others make me twitch. That grip makes him too uncomfortable to want to be around, and yet the idea he has to hold on so hard to keep it all together makes me want to rescue him. There are only 31 words in that stanza, and yet I am able to fully appreciate the man.

Holder's ability to create such depth of character, to show such fully-wrought human beings with his sparse and yet impeccable lexicon is enough to make any novelist envious. In "Father Knows Best-Mother Does the Rest," anybody who is ever watched the TV show—and many of us saw a whole generation's worth—will know the essence of this character in the first few words:

The bland tyranny

of the cardigan sweater.

His smile

creased in brutal condescension.

Holder's ability to portray a sense of place might be even stronger. Consistently throughout these gems the reader feels the setting and its meaning immediately. In "Transcendence," we're told:

I'm 84 floors up

but the city

only seems to

make sense

from my exalted omnipotence.

So many of us who've lived in large urban centers have felt reduced by circumstances and the anonymity that living among great masses can bring.

The old men leftover from bigger days who live in the heart of so many of our cities are elegantly depicted in "Eating Grief at Bickford's," a poem dedicated to Allen Ginsberg:

There are no places anymore

Where I can sit at a threadbare table

Pick at the crumbs on my plate . . .

The old men

Who used to spout

Marxist

Rants from

The cracked porcelain of their cups

Are gone

The boiling water

Ketchup soup

The mustard sandwich

These used to relish

Throughout this collection of a time gone by, there is a sense of a whole nation of people who used to be the carriers of big ideas and ideals, people we may see ourselves as today. Only that older set of folks are in the margins now, hidden in the crevices. Younger people march into bars and cafes, pass them on the street, and don't even see those older humans, so sure are they of their own omnipotence, of their own starring roles. A past art teacher from one of the narrators' third grade classes worked hard all her life and is now reduced to being an old, angry woman painting caricatures of angry old women, something a younger person finds completely irrelevant. A man thinks back to one of his many trips to Kentucky Fried when he tried to put the brittle-boned, old chicken back together again but now understands you can never put the bird together again for all we are bones.

Humor abounds in these poems filled with people who aren't always at the top of their game. This and the alluring use of language allow us to travel the depths of some of these narratives and not become dispirited but instead find a warm familiarity of life expressed sublimely. This is who we are and this is who we will become.

To order a PDF of the Spring 2014 edition of the Gently Read Review go to  http://www.gentlyread.wordpress.com  

To order Eating Grief at 3AM go to:  http://www.lulu.com/us/en/shop/doug-holder/eating-grief-at-3-am/paperback/product-21232327.html

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

 Bonnie ZoBell’s new connected collection, What Happened Here, a novella and stories centered on the site PSA Flight 182 crashed in the North Park area of San Diego, will be published in February 2014 by Press 53.  .  Her work has appeared in numerous publications, including Night Train, The Greensboro Review, New Plains Review, PANK, and The Connotation Press. ZoBell has been a fellow at such residencies at Yaddo, MacDowell,  and attended such conferences as the Bread Loaf Writers Conference, Tin House Summer Workshop, and the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. After receiving an MFA from Columbia on fellowship, she has been teaching at San Diego Mesa College where she is a Creative Writing Coordinator. Currently she is Associate Editor for The Northville Review and Flash Fiction Chronicles. .

Hanging Loose 103

Hanging Loose 103

Hanging Loose Press

Brooklyn, New York

ISSN #0440-2316

$11.00  2014

Hanging Loose has proven to be steadfast, with good writing, issue after issue. In order to do the magazine justice I will review one poet who I think is indicative to the flavor presented by all the poets in this particular issue; with a small review of the art work . I will try to show the reader why this magazine has lasted all these years.

JM Farkas's poem, “Nothing Makes me Think of You,”:

“Not your wife's favorite TV show with the actress you say

looks like me, but doesn't. Not the frantic, tympanic mating

dance of the Birds of Paradise. How the girl birds simply watch

with their three eyelids open, all unimpressed and blinkless. Not

the neuroplasticity of the brain or the maple syrup shortage. Not

the Ecclesiastes Equation of direct proportionality between increased

knowledge and sorrow...”

Farkas confronts us with words that may not be in our usual vocabulary. Tympanic, is a medical word relating to a particular bone. I couldn't get a complete meaning, other than from the poem.  I reread the first portion of the poem to get into the rhythm and to adjust my inner sight. In the first line another man's wife is enough to set up the entire poem and helped me contend with the poem. The poem carries us quickly to the next line, breathless, 'blinkless', like a movie star on the pause button then fast forward. And who wouldn't want to look like an actress. Not the poet. She wants to look like herself, the surreal renderer, an unimpressed watcher. The poem flowers and concocts a journey about a scorned lover or the lover as lair:

“Or the fact that female penguins prostitute

themselves for stones to build their babies' nests. Not the song

about glinty butter and hot knives. Or the words, fluster

and cinemascope. Not the hotspot between Bach and the Supremes,

“Where Did Our Love Go,” that space where two lines of music crack

together. Not drizzly fireworks or french fries covered

with gravy and melted cheese. Cheese, specifically, makes me

unthink of you. Your heart, after all, is not composed

of cheddar. Not Gouda, not manchego, not even a holey

slice. I won't stick my tongue or an anamorphic eye right...”

'Cheese and drizzly fireworks or french fries', all these phrases quickly catch our eye and the rhythm beats us into the paradise dance, word dance, sexy dance, dance about 'not.' Like a collage the poem pieces itself together with knowing or is it intuitive, then revision, which brings the poem to our eyes:

“through that moony surface, just to see if your face

is on the other side. It isn't, and I don't have to

look. Your face is already all over the face of our baby

that was never born. The one we never conceived, even though

I might have said I wanted to. Or maybe you said so, twice? Or maybe

you showed up at my apartment after a bumpy

four-hour bus ride from Boston and gave me a pizza cutter,

and proclaimed all the kinds of proclamations a girl hopes to hear

from anyone except the boy who winds up saying it.

And I said: no thanks, because I was too young and ornithic

to see. Someone once told me that it's hardest to write

a love poem, but i'm convinced it's harder not to.”

Farkas has two poems in this issue and they both epitomize contemporary verse. Farkas uses language like cheese that she cuts off small pieces from and chews on what refuses to be said. Pain is reversible. It can be seen on the outside and dwells inside with words such as, 'cutter, harder, crack.'  The poet goes gentle into the night or the poem or the song or the music. The poem contains all the information and word play we need to understand. Well done and so very very full, the emphasis is always on the poem.

Albert Kresh paints in a similar genre as the poetry submitted. He takes his historical view point, German expressions and paints in a loose thick style. The pigment strokes the surface in contrary colors, then the pigment builds up to the place where it dances our eyes and becomes a place to live with or in.

Hanging Loose 103 is magical with open verse. It's no longer experimental, in that, word and form experiments have proven to be the fore-runner to today's poetic. Poets have learned their history and are taking the previous experiments to new heights, their own voice is being carried with the help of the previous, concrete, found, and language poems. The poems form a new dictate. They are fresh and saucy, full of themselves, the poems are fearless, young, and strong. The displaced nouns, verbs as nouns, paragraphs as couplets, daring to let go of what was known, for what is to be known. Hanging Loose gives the reader the best newness, the best car wash trips, and the best relish put onto the page, the best reading, each and every time.

Irene Koronas

Poetry Editor: Wilderness House Literary Review

Reviewer: Ibbetson Street Press,

Boston Small Press,

Cervena Barva Press

Catching Up With Somerville Poet Afaa Michael Weaver

Poet Afaa Michael Weaver

Catching Up With Somerville Poet Afaa Michael Weaver

By Doug Holder

  In late April the flames in the fireplace in the back of the Bloc 11 Cafe in Union Square no longer burn. But poet Afaa Michael Weaver’s flame is very much in view. He joined me at my usual table near the fireplace, a makeshift office with a comfortable disarray of students' essays, newspapers, and the discarded skins of whitefish on my plate that once adorned my morning bagel. It has been a while since we had a chance to talk as he has been in a whirlwind of activity as of late.


 Weaver, a poet, playwright and a Professor at Simmons College in Boston has recently won the the prestigious Kingsley Tufts Award for poetry that comes with a purse of a 100,000 dollars. Big money in the poetry biz and according to the noted poet Chase Twichell (And judge of the award) well deserved. Twitchell wrote:

  " The Kingsley Tufts Award is one of the most prestigious prizes a poet can win, and I am delighted to see it go to Afaa... He essentially invented himself from whole cloth as a poet. It is truly remarkable."

 The poetry collection that grabbed the eye of the prize was The Government of Nature ( UPITT) The poems, according to Weaver, deal with:   "...the recovery of childhood trauma in the context of Chinese spiritualism, merged with my own Christian upbringing."

  Weaver has a few other things on his plate as well. Professor Enzo Surin, a colleague of mine at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston, has started a small publishing press the Central Square Press. He will be publishing a collection by Weaver titled: A Hard Summation. It will contain 13 poems that span African-American history from slavery to contemporary times.

  Weaver has also finished his final draft of his play GRIP. This is a two act play set in Baltimore( Weaver is a native son of Baltimore) in the year 2000. The play is a family drama that deals with a number of themes including: urban revitalization, the haunted past of a grandfather, race, class and gender. Weaver, years ago, studied with Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Paula Vogel. ( How I learned to Drive) at Brown University. At Brown he not only honed his poetic skills but his play writing ones as well.

 Finally Weaver will have a new poetry collection coming out titled: City of Eternal Spring (UPitt) with a striking front cover by the African-American artist Romare Bearden.


 Weaver left the café, with the lumbering gait of a big man and probably headed back to his humble apartment that he refers to as The Cave on Highland Ave. And undoubtedly in his dark and cloistered corner of the world he will be hatching his next creative plot…and that’s the way it is in the Paris of New England.

On the Passing of Heaven Sutton

In the year the Mayans said our world ends,

I sit in my basement apartment, The Cave,

my neighbors from lives different from mine.

It is a most peculiar way to be sixty, up here

from down south, no way to know where up is,

what up is or should be, only what it used to be.

Winters in Boston go inside my bones until

I feel the center of nothing, where people 

grow old singing Shine on Me in a capella.

It is the center of alien coldness, hearts naked

to ice, to a blank sun, a nakedness that says it is 

the only choice, one that owns love’s essence.

I am black because I enter that space, people

see I am the door to what they ache to know,

the long corridors and rooms of our freedom,

a place where I refuse to be told I cannot dream

my own dreams, a place where people like me

agree to offer love from an uneasy forgiveness.

Nights become deep stillness, I do a soul dance

with ancestors building a respite from history,

arguing against the hard summation of slavery,

the truth of our black wish for humanity, a seed

made from resistance, bright moments where

we teach America the song of our right to live.

—Afaa M. Weaver

from A Hard Summation

previously published in Barrow Street

Frank Bidart Reading at the Grolier Tuesday April 29 at 7 pm

Frank Bidart Reading at the Grolier

Tuesday April 29 at 7 pm

by Michael Todd Steffen

Frank Bidart, winner of many major poetry prizes in America, will be reading from his new book Metaphysical Dog this Tuesday evening, April 29 at 7 pm, at the Grolier Poetry Bookshop

at 6 Plympton Street in Cambridge. Metaphysical Dog has won the National Book Critics Circle Award, Ibbetson Street Lifetime Achievement Award,and was a finalist for the National Book Award.

Bidart was featured on December 3, 2013 as part of the Louisa Solano Reading Series at the Cambridge Public Library. The event was nothing less than a performance with the poet engaging the audience by mood and voice fully in the unflinching honesty and strange beauty of this new dazzling poetry, true to Bidart’s line from his poem in Metaphysical Dog entitled “Whitman”:

A poem read aloud is by its nature a vision of its nature.

Here’s a wonderful second chance to see Bidart read in the vein of this inspiration. I opened the book to what page it would open to, and found this to share and interest:

Inauguration Day         (January 20, 2009)

Today, despite what is dead

staring out across America I see since

Lincoln gunmen

nursing fantasies of purity betrayed,

dreaming to restore

the glories of their blood and state

despite what is dead but lodged within us, hope

under the lustrous flooding moon

the White House is still

Whitman’s White House, its

gorgeous front

full of reality, full of illusion

hope made wise by dread begins again

Comes A Blossom Poems by Joanne DeSimone Reynolds

Comes A Blossom

Poems by Joanne DeSimone Reynolds

© 2014 Joanne DeSimone Reynolds

Main Street Rag, Charlotte, NC

ISBN  978-1-59948-468-6

Sofbound, $8, 31 pages

Review by Zvi A. Sesling

This is a book about a daughter’s love of her mother who has died and a memory of a brother, also deceased . It is about the relationship between mother-daughter, the author’s mother and the author’s daughter. It is about family.  Take White Gloves: a tender, touching, reflection requiring only a few words to convey emotion.

I love a pile of sugar

stained pink

by grapefruit wedges.

But then my mother turns from the sink

to tell a story

about my dead brother,

how he ate his grapefruit

without sugar.

I imagine him

as goodness itself.

It is Lent.

I rush to brush my teeth,

to put on lace anklets, white gloves

and a straw hat with a strap under my chin.

Kneeling in the pew I’m crowded

by fedoras and feathered hats

hung with riveted black veil.

Sins are a matter of sugar

and hats.

I hold my breath through a haze of incense

and though every other head is bowed

I lift my gaze to the windows

of stained glass—

A boy,

a lamb.

In a mere 25 lines you have learned how the mother remembers her son, how the poet recalls her brother and in the end it all falls back to religion and the love of a memory.

Reynolds poems reach out to us, they capture our emotions and express not only the poet’s own mortality but she ushers us into her introspective worlds to a humanity we might not have entered previously.  These words, these emotions are which connect the poet with the reader and to a larger awareness of one’s self.

There is the finality of existence:

Mount Auburn

It is the hour the sun wearis like a child in church.

I’m in a room with leaded glass window

though this is no chapel

to attest before my mother’s lien-wrapped form.

She is at rest on her side

as if tired of all the labor

Empty now.

Pallet-ready at the bronze door of the crematorium.

I tear red from roses—

scatter by the fistful—

petals

lush and placental.

There is the opening of life: 

Comes A Blossom

As if you

tumbled through the stars, a shimmer

clings to you, the midwife

swooping in, a nurse turning from tending

to me. Gleaming too,

in a labor room pan

the dispossessed placenta

like the breast of a peony

clipped from its stem.

slightly metallic

its scent draws me in.

I could cup it in two hands, brush its ruffles

with my thumb, though I know

it is not what thrums. It bloomed

for you these nine months, but

you no longer need it—

the first of my goodbyes.

This is a brave, well thought volume of poetry executed with skill and humanity.

Zvi A. Sesling

Author, King of the Jungle and  Across Stones of Bad Dreams

Editor, Muddy River Poetry Review

Publisher, Muddy River Books

Editor, Bagel Bards Anthology 7 & Anthology 8