Weather or Whether by Howie Good

The night was riddled with peculiarities, mistakes, contradictions, and historical inconsistencies. I wasn’t familiar with all the science, but I couldn’t ignore the evidence anymore, a black drape over the photographer’s head. I began to suspect that Chekov and other bearded nineteenth-century authors were just long strings of ones and zeroes. A tornado touched down in LA, after which Panzers rolled down the street under the broken lights. There were reports that Chinese hackers may have been responsible. A balloon dog stood in for the real thing.

Lights and Kisses by Christina Murphy

She crossed the street wearing glass slippers. People thought she was odd, and traffic stopped to look at the sunlight glinting off her slippers as she passed by.

She was not odd, of course. She had recently been shod by a prince who put the most beautiful slipper on her foot and pledged undying love. And a second slipper, while claiming his heart had never known such desire.

She was most proud of her glass slippers and of her prince. He was an excellent prince with a high sense of honor, and he looked into her heart, past the everyday trappings of the life she came from, and into her soul that wished to have all the traffic in the world pause to be dazzled by her—glass slippers and all.

The attention she attracted when crossing the street was larger than the sun burning brightly, larger than the moon shining bone-white in the evening sky, and larger even than her dreams that she, a lonely, misunderstood former char girl and unappreciated stepchild, might find a prince who knew what grace resided within her from head to toe, heart to heel, and who kissed her feet, her lips, with the passion of one who understood that a woman who walks through life in glass slippers reveals the most ethereal light of all.


Christina Murphy is an American writer who lives in Huntington, West Virginia. Her most recent work appears in the anthology Let the Sea Find Its Edges edited by the noted Australian poet, Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke.

Am a by Vimeesh Maniyur

Am a sentence

Without a noun

Not a plant

-Bloomed

Not a rat

-Moved

Not a cat

-Voiced

Not a cow

-Milked

Something bigger than this

For a long time I am a verb

Within a noun

Vimeesh Maniyur is an established bi-lingual poet, novelist and translator from kerala, in India. He has two volumes of poetry and a children’s novel in his credit. He has also penned stories and dramas.  He has bagged for many prestigious awards such as Culcutta Malayali Samajam Endownment, Madras Kerala Samajam, Muttathu Varkki Katha Puraskaram etc. for young writers in kerala.

December Thaw by Steve Klepetar

Today she walks to town in a December thaw.

Snowmelt puddles everywhere, gutters dripping,

impenetrable sky, an ocean upside down, gripped

with mist. He was awake all night, heavy steps

creaking on the bedroom floor. Now it’s after ten

and he is still in bed, formidable lump, tossing 

on his dream clouds. Bedclothes heave and swell.

Her new boots splash as she goes, but her feet stay

dry. No light glistens on the wet streets. Dirty

snow recedes. What a picture to remember –

black branches scratching at the sky, and shrinking 

drifts. Beneath this unaccustomed warmth, smell 

of earth and worms, as if she could be made whole

again before the swirling wind and coming storm. 

Note de lecture de Cathy Garcia: Philip Pullman, Contes de Grimm

Contes de Grimm par Philippe Pullman, traduit de l’anglais par Jean Esch, images de Shaun Tan, Gallimard, 23 octobre 2014. 496 pages, 35 €. 

Quel superbe ouvrage, se dit-on aussitôt que l’on a cette "bible" entre les mains, bible par son format et son épaisseur mais aussi par la sensation que l’on tient entre les mains un livre sacré. La beauté des œuvres qui l’illustrent y est pour beaucoup. L’artiste Shaun Tan s’est pour cela inspiré des sculptures de pierre des Inuits et de statuettes en terre de l’art précolombien. 

Tout art traditionnel sachant insuffler pouvoir et magie à des matériaux à la fois brut comme la pierre et la terre, et comme le sont les innombrables contes, ici recueillis par les frères Grimm et donc puisés au terreau de l’imaginaire européen, taillés dans le roc de l’imaginaire collectif universel et polis au cours des siècles de mains en mains et de bouche en bouche. Ici on en retrouve cinquante, des plus célèbres aux plus méconnus, dont Philippe Pullman s’est emparé pour les faire passer par sa propre langue, l’Anglais donc, puis retranscrits pour nous en Français par Jean Esch, qui a conservé au plus près les couleurs et le ton particuliers de l’auteur.

Des notes à la fin de chaque conte, apportent un éclairage érudit et approfondi à chacun, c’est donc un ouvrage qui n‘a pas de limite d’âge, les enfants aimeront écouter ces histoires intemporelles qui ne vieillissent pas mais refleurissent comme un arbre immortel pour offrir des fruits toujours aussi savoureux à chaque nouvelle génération, et les adultes les redécouvriront avec joie, encore qu’un bon nombre d’entre elles soient tellement peu connues, qu’ils feront eux aussi certainement de nouvelles rencontres. Tous ne pourront qu’apprécier la qualité d’écriture et de l’ouvrage dans son ensemble.

Dans l’introduction l’auteur retrace le contexte historique de la collecte des Frères Grimm et donne un aperçu de sa propre démarche: "À l’instar du jazz, raconter des histoires est un art de l’improvisation, comme l’écriture." et de son rapport tout particulier et personnel avec le conte de fée: "Quand je travaille, je suis extrêmement superstitieux. Ma superstition concerne la voix à travers laquelle naît l’histoire. Je suis en effet persuadé que chaque récit est accompagné par son propre lutin, dont nous incarnons la voix quand nous racontons cette histoire, et que nous la narrerons avec davantage de succès si nous traitons ce lutin avec respect et courtoisie."

De même, en postface, l’artiste Shaun Tan s’exprime sur la façon dont sont nées les œuvres qui illustrent les contes et donnent à l’ensemble cette aura mystérieuse et vraiment très singulière.

Couds l’ourlet et tire le fil

Frappe sur le clou en plein dans le mille….

Cathy Garcia

Philip Pullman est né en 1946, à Norwich, en Angleterre. Son père, pilote de chasse de la R.A.F., est tué en février 1954, au large du Kenya. La mère et ses deux jeunes fils, installés en Rhodésie du Sud, reviennent en Angleterre. Les deux frères sont élevés par les grands-parents maternels dans le Norfolk, tandis que leur mère travaille à Londres. Les garçons grandissent dans une atmosphère religieuse et paisible. Le grand-père, pasteur anglican, passe ses soirées à leur raconter des récits de la Bible. C'est en découvrant à l'école la «Ballade du Vieux Mari» de Coleridge, que Philip Pullman commence à être attiré par l'écriture. Mais une vie de voyages prend le relais : sa mère s'est remariée avec un pilote de la R.A.F. et elle emmène les deux jeunes garçons avec elle en Australie. Philip, âgé de neuf ans, découvre les magazines illustrés –«Batman» et «Spiderman»– et les émissions radiophoniques, qui stimulent son imagination : le soir, il improvise la suite de ces aventures à l'intention de son frère. À l'âge de dix ans, il retourne en Grande-Bretagne, au pays de Galles, et emménage avec toute la famille, agrandie de deux autres enfants. Il passe son temps à lire, à écrire des poèmes, à peindre et à jouer de la guitare. À treize ans, il rencontre un professeur qui le soutient dans son désir de devenir écrivain et lui permet d'obtenir une bourse pour préparer l'examen d'entrée à Exeter College, à Oxford, en 1965. Déçu par le niveau de l'enseignement, il envisage de suivre un autre cursus l'année suivante, en sciences politiques, philosophie et psychologie, mais sa requête est refusée. Il passe l'examen final avec la mention passable. Lors de sa dernière année à l'université, à travers la lecture du roman de Mikhaïl Boulgakov, «Le Maître et Marguerite», Philip Pullman découvre le genre du réalisme fantastique. Il commence à écrire un premier roman mais, appelé en Ouganda pour s'occuper de sa mère malade, il ne le termine pas. Après divers métiers, dont celui d'apprenti bibliothécaire, il mène à bien un nouveau projet de roman, un «thriller métaphysique», qu'il publie et pour lequel il obtient un prix. Il suit ensuite une formation pour devenir instituteur pour des élèves de neuf à treize ans, à Oxford. C'est en préparant des représentations théâtrales pour son établissement qu'il se met à écrire lui-même des pièces qui seront la première ébauche de ses romans pour enfants. Ses premières histoires policières fantastiques, qu'il écrit à raison de trois pages par jour, lui permettent bientôt de prendre un emploi à mi-temps à Oxford. Il devient formateur pour de jeunes professeurs en animant un atelier de conteur qui insiste particulièrement sur la mythologie grecque. Les romans s'enchaînent. Dès 1985, il commence une série policière dont l'héroïne, Sally Lockhart, doit beaucoup au célèbre Sherlock Holmes, et dont l'action se situe dans l'Angleterre de la fin du XIXe siècle. Mais c'est avec la trilogie «À la croisée des mondes», qu'il a mis sept ans à écrire, que Philip Pullman connaît son plus grand succès.

Auteur et dessinateur de bandes dessinées pour la jeunesse, Shaun Tan, né en 1974, grandit à Perth, en Australie. Déjà sur les bancs de l'école, il se distingue par sa taille, plus petite que la moyenne mais surtout par un sacré crayon. Diplômé en arts et littérature anglaise, il débute sa carrière en travaillant en freelance pour illustrer des livres d'images. Puis il dessine pour des magazines de science-fiction et d'horreur destinés aux adolescents. Au bout de quelques années, son travail est récompensé par de nombreux prix dont The Picture Book of the Year Award. En 2001, il reçoit le prix du meilleur artiste aux World Fantasy Awards de Montréal. Cela lui ouvre les portes des Studios Pixar («Toy Story», «Nemo», «Cars», etc.) et des studios Blue Sky («L'Âge de glace») pour lesquels il participe à plusieurs réalisations en tant que concepteur graphique. Au même moment, il commence à publier ses bandes dessinées : «The Arrival», «The List Thing», «The Rabbits» ou encore «Memorial». Ses dessins oniriques conquièrent ses lecteurs. Ayant plus d'une corde à son arc, Shaun Tan peint également de vrais tableaux d'où il puise l'inspiration de la réalité, une rue, un homme et sa canette de bière, une marée noire... Par ailleurs, il peint également une fresque géante pour une bibliothèque ou illustre des pochettes de CD. Shaun Tan a illustré plus d'une vingtaine de titres, jouant de toutes les techniques, crayon, encre, peinture, etc. Shaun Tan a aussi collaboré à un film d'animation et à des adaptations théâtrales et musicales de ses œuvres. En 2011 il est récompensé à Bologne par le jury du prix Astrid Lindgren (le prix le plus important de la littérature jeunesse) qui le proclame lauréat de l'année.

Vispo by Volodymyr Bilyk

Volodymyr Bilyk is a writer, translator.
His book of visual poems was recently published in the series This is Visual Poetry (thisisvisualpoetry.com/?p=1151) and another book of asemic short stories CIMESA whiteskybooks.blogspot.com/2013/07/volodymyr-bilyk-cimesa.html was published in White Sky Books, book of poetry Casio's Pay-Off Peyote published by Red Ceilings Press http://redceilings.blogspot.com/2013/11/casios-pay-off-peyote-volodymyr-bilyk.html , visual poetry collection SCOBES published by No Press http://derekbeaulieu.wordpress.com/2013/10/27/new-from-no-press-two-fom-ukraine/, visual poetry collection THINGS published by Unconventional Press issuu.com/unconventionalpress/docs/volodymyr_bilyk_-_things and Laugh Poems (undergroundbooks.storenvy.com/products/8859579-1-ub-book) (Underground books) and Vispo Ay Ai Ay (allofmypantsareblack.files.wordpress.com/2014/09/volodymyr.pdf) published by Blank Space Press.

A Knock in the Night by A.J. Huffman

demands.  No answer?  The moon must
be waning.  Indifference glows, a ghost
without a shadow.  I staple it to mine,
walk backwards towards a door that isn’t
there.  My fingers fight against fisted
response.  There is a method to the madness
of Morse Code.  It speaks broken.  A word
I remember all too well.

A.J. Huffman has published nine solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com

Untitled I by Bekah Steimel

Untitled I

I was not designed for longevity
or fidelity
I’m a speed horse
that can’t handle the distance
of either
sprinting past
the steady gallop
of the homogenous herd
they set the pace
but I set the record
turning the journey of existence
into a race without reward

Motionless by A.J. Huffman

I lie awake in bed, eyes unfortunately
open, watching night revolve
around me.  Human moon dial,
painfully aware of every glaring
second’s tick, I talk to the hourly
change of shadow-guards
that blindly stripe ceiling and wall,
appropriately mimicking cell.
The sun is the key I covet.
I dream its teeth devour me, burn
me, turn me into effigical outline:
sole victim of time’s maniacal onslaught.

A.J. Huffman has published nine solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com 

Six Little Monkeys by Carolyn D. Elias

We drink wine from soup bowls
and laugh at our purple faces.
Six little monkey face giggle on the floor,
waving our arms like bat wings,
tumbling over ourselves.
We are busy making up secrets
until someone gets tummy ache.
It is late, the stars are yawning
we straggle home in pairs
forgetting mittens along the road.

Carolyn D. Elias is a poet who lives with her husband in Hancock, Minnesota. Carolyn's work has appeared in Sassafras Literary Magazine and East Jasmine Review. Her poems will soon be published by Lunch Ticket and on the Apeiron Review website. You can learn more about her at www.carolyndeliasauthor.squarespace.com or follow her on twitter @CarolynDElias.

Paris by David Beckman

light   cathedral towers straining west   gardens where trees wear scarves and people plant themselves deep  
putting out roots and leaves that
fall   come fall   Streets matrix at corners   buses troll   daring history  
in the metro below rue Monge an old man in tattered sweater


birdwalks
toward me to say   monsieur votre écharpe est sur le sol
then bends to retrieve it for
me   we resist all history here   all
light for fear it has more to say than we and feels it more
and will far past when these words wash away toward
Argenteuil

we can’t get enough of your river   as if finer life were flowing here
and we tourist-lemmings head for it day
and night looking for some truth awash
near Pont Neuf since 1607 when men sharpened quills   dreaming
under scudding clouds that beauty was only here   and
art.

beauty is here and art and forgotten hands that strained to be a part of it    at the tip of ile de la Cite   randy Henri IV established
a pubic bone of land where he dallied long
and named a narrow cobbled triangle opposite   the clitoris of Paris    oh, le mot just    we walk there now thirsty for meaning and a glass of red Bordeaux.

Soul Patch by Subhankar Das

I was at a poetry reading.

My name was announced

and I got up and moved towards the stage.

Then all of a sudden

This short man hair thinning

groped up on stage and started reading.

For a few seconds me and the guy who was conducting

did not know what to do.

Then of course he was stopped

in the middle of his poem

and was asked who he was?

He said he was me.

My god a con selfie I thought.

Still he was allowed to finish his poem

before I took over

and thankfully also collected the cheque

which I almost missed.



Today I get a long distance phone call

congratulating me for a poem

in a commercial magazine

which I never wrote.



Now how am I to prove to my readers

that this is not the big man with long hairs

with a soul patch to go with.



Everyone appreciates the patch

but nobody looks for the soul

as if it did not exist.

The Scorpion Priest by Steve F. Klepetar

dies and is reborn in a city
we once knew.  All his heads

have grown back, his terrible
blue eyes.  Scribes assemble

in the dark; torches are lit; shadows
tease the temple walls.  All night

bats whirl around the ziggurat,
people sing of heat and sand and rain.


Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Three collections appeared in 2013: Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications), Blue Season (with Joseph Lisowski, mgv2>publishing), and My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press).  An e-chapbook, Return of the Bride of Frankenstein, has just been published by Kind of a Hurricane Press.

Le Rahamsahadajda (suite) de Jan Bardeau

Anastase Burnichon de Hauteclocques, en édile prudent & féodal attentif au maintien de ses privilèges, visitait souvent la populace, célébrant chacun de vive voix, serrant des pognes, apostrophant les unes & les autres, & s’exhibant décidément amical envers tous, hormis ceux, bien sûr, qu’il n’aurait su voir ; Burnichon, dans ses soixante-dix printemps qui viraient à l’hiver nucléaire, grâce à ses efforts et à ceux de son esthéticienne, filait comme une torpille, toujours bronzé, toujours cintré, une pépite de détermination favorisant l’action, l’action, & l’action, qui s’illustrait généralement, en ce qui le concernait, à enrouler des discours emberlificotés, sans trop de queue & irrémédiablement décapités ; après son passage, comme l’habitude tente de réinvestir sa place après la violence d’une tornade, des mots virevoltaient toujours, bulles de rien si fragiles, qui explosaient vivement au contact de la rugosité, la tristesse déployait son cours serein. Ploutocrate par principe, Burnichon ne se reposait pas sur une légitimité censément concédée par le vote des citoyens, tant il l’appréhendait comme une imposture, et se protégeait par un cordon de zélés fonctionnaires, les mêmes fonctionnaires qu’il méprisait en bloc, puisqu’ainsi le commandait son idéologie. Le plus terrible, le plus fidèle et retors de ceux-ci, fut souvenu par la postérité sous le nom du Boson de Hickx.

A suivre...

Jan Bardeau est né en janvier 72 du siècle précédent, ce qui en fait désormais, enfin et à sa grande joie un vieux, il s'abstient donc d'être cool, sympathique ou de débiter avec passion des âneries, à la place il s'évertue à grogner des inepties en roulant des yeux méchamment. Personne ne le prend au sérieux, personne n'en a le temps, et puis les grimaces du marginal pas très original n'amusent plus elles s'usent ; lui non plus ne se prend pas au sérieux, par conformisme essentiellement, souhaitant par dessus tout ne se démarquer pour ne pas se remarquer. Il écrit pour la gloire, comme Ajax combattit sans se ménager la station Mir et comme Saint Marc évangélisa les sceptiques de la rue de JaveL. Étant entendu qu'un professionnel, dans tous les corps de métiers, s'efforce d'optimiser le temps qu'il consacre à son ouvrage, ainsi que la qualité du produit fini, avec le revenu qu'il espère en tirer, la plupart borne son ambition, à défaut de sa prétention, à un minima qui contribue pour une large part à la verroterisation de nos cultures ; c'est pour cela que Jan Bardeau revendique son amateurisme, doublé d'un plouquisme confinant à la beauferie, et triplé du provincialisme ridiculement anachronique et désuet de ceux qui estiment que la littérature peut encore créer du sens, même pauvre, et déverser sur le régime amincissant de la transparence le bon terreau de la complexité. Jan Bardeau aimerait ajouter qu'il adore parler de lui à la troisième personne, tout en kiffant grave par ailleurs se parler à lui-même, ce qui lui offre le très précieux avantage d'être écouté, mais que parfois il s'y perd ; quoi qu'il en soit, et nonobstant les parce que donc, il vous salue, vous bise, et pourquoi pas ?, en profite pour se biser lui-même, ce dont il se remercie chaleureusement, y a pas de quoi. 

Lights and Kisses by Christina Murphy

She crossed the street wearing glass slippers. People thought she was odd, and traffic stopped to look at the sunlight glinting off her slippers as she passed by.

She was not odd, of course. She had recently been shod by a prince who put the most beautiful slipper on her foot and pledged undying love. And a second slipper, while claiming his heart had never known such desire.

She was most proud of her glass slippers and of her prince. He was an excellent prince with a high sense of honor, and he looked into her heart, past the everyday trappings of the life she came from, and into her soul that wished to have all the traffic in the world pause to be dazzled by her—glass slippers and all.

The attention she attracted when crossing the street was larger than the sun burning brightly, larger than the moon shining bone-white in the evening sky, and larger even than her dreams that she, a lonely, misunderstood former char girl and unappreciated stepchild, might find a prince who knew what grace resided within her from head to toe, heart to heel, and who kissed her feet, her lips, with the passion of one who understood that a woman who walks through life in glass slippers reveals the most ethereal light of all.


Christina Murphy is an American poet whose work appears in a range of journals and anthologies, including most recently in the anthology Let the Sea Find Its Edges edited by the distinguished Australian poet Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke.

Blues for Beginners by Howie Good

It’s summer, a bloody ax seen sunbathing. A man in line for Acoustic Kitty holds an umbrella over his head despite the cloudless weather. “Ticket,” the ticket-taker says. Ushers must wear white shirts and black pants and stay for the entire show, just as a painting isn’t considered finished until it’s been sold. The opening act entails Priscilla the Fastidious Pig doing things like vacuuming. To shock audiences is to connect. You have the right to sing the blues only if you’re blind or ever shot a man in Memphis.

Pizza hunt de Perrin Langda

quand
femme
avoir
faim  
homme
partir
vers
collines
de béton
armé
chasser
petit cerf
métallique
rougeoyant
homme
rester
caché
derrière
rochers
fleuris
près de
rivière
d’asphalte
homme
parfois
trouver
attente
longue
et traque
trop difficile
mais lancer
multiprise
comme bolas
électriques
quand cerf
cracheur
de brume
dévoreur
de bitume
passer enfin
et quand
homme
rentrer
sous soleil
pourpre
avec
disque de
pain
enduit
de sauce
tomate
femme
heureuse
car aimer
nourriture
italienne


Perrin Langda est né en 1983 et vit à Grenoble. Il a publié de nombreux textes dans des revues de poésie comme Métèque, mgversion2>datutura, Traction-Brabant, Comme en poésie, Cohues… Son blog : http://upoesis.wordpress.com.

Disparaître de Cathy Garcia

Je la connais par cœur cette sensation, ces lames qui tournent, qui forent, qui me découpent et puis soudain comme dans un cauchemar psychiatrique se transforment en géante gomme qui m’efface. Comme ça d’un coup, ou parfois en frottant un peu, là où ça fait mal.

Je la connais par cœur cette sensation de froid, de puits qui s’ouvre en moi, et je tombe, et je tombe, mais nul pays des merveilles ne m’attend au fond, il n’y a que chute et néant, il faut juste attendre que ça passe. Attendre que ça passe. Vertigineux, ce trou en moi.

Je la connais par cœur cette sensation du « on regarde ailleurs, on ne sait pas quoi dire, on fait comme ci, on t’aime oui », mais pas au point de te voir, pas au point de te prendre là dans nos bras, de plonger nos yeux dans les tiens et te rattraper avant que tu ne t’écrabouilles sur le macadam du désamour.

Je la connais par cœur cette impression d’être la plus vilaine chose que la terre ait portée, de ne mériter rien et surtout pas une attention quelconque.

Je la connais par cœur cette impression de devenir folle de solitude, de douleur dans l’indifférence la plus totale, alors je la bouffe la gomme, je l’attaque avec les griffes, avec les dents, je la bouffe votre gomme de merde, je n’ai pas besoin d’elle pour disparaître.

Disparaître, c’est juste paraître distant hein ? C’est ça, l’art du magicien, hop hop, passe passe, j’étais là, je n’y suis plus, oh le joli lapin, oh la belle colombe et hop ! La boite magique où s’enfoncent les lames. Disparaître, paraître dispersée, en morceaux, en lamelles, en lambeaux.

Indifférence m’a tué. Mais je ressuscite toujours. C’est le jeu du martyr. Tue-moi et tue-moi encore, regarde, parfois je le fais pour toi. Je me tue au ridicule.


Ancienne artiste de rue, artiste plasticienne http://gribouglyphesdecathygarcia.wordpress.com/ et http://imagesducausse.hautetfort.com, poète http://cathygarcia.hautetfort.com/
Une vingtaine de recueils -voir ici : http://cathygarcia.hautetfort.com/biblio-d-un-seul-coup-d-oeil/ et publiée (et traduite) également dans de nombreuses revues en France et à l’étranger. Elle réalise également des livres d'artiste et illustre des revues et des recueils de poésie.

Fondatrice de la revue Nouveaux délits (en 2003) http://larevuenouveauxdelits.hautetfort.com/ et de l’association du même nom (en 2009) ainsi que du blog Délit de Poésie : http://delitdepoesie.hautetfort.com/.

Rédactrice de notes de lecture (littérature et poésie adulte et jeunesse) pour divers sites et revues, dont la Cause Littéraire.

Jan Bardeau -- Le Rahamsahadajda,

...ou l'authentique odyssée de Bruno le bonobo & comment jamais il ne parvint à adjoindre à ses élans ceux de sa Pénélope, telles les chimères d'icelle l'embringuaient sans cesse ou soucis en trips & treks sans trac loin des traques du soupirant malconduit, à moins qu'on ne conte une tout autre histoire.

Première partie

Mèèmèère, la chèvre angora, se convia la première à habiter mon lit ; un petit matin tandis que je trébuchais titubais pour rejoindre le havre qui contiendrait ma fatigue mon ivresse ma douceur à échapper au réel. Elle croassa, coassa, sourit coite, et je l'entraperçus d'un revers de regard, avant que de dodo, oui gros, gros dodo, pouce en bouche et doigts de pieds éventés. Mèèmèère est une gentille compagne, pas de ces horribles mégères qui bouffent et avalent vos choux vos salades et tous les draps qui traversent pour leur malheur devant elles, elle s'emploie sans regimber aux tâches ménagères, guerroie littéralement la poussière ou les poils que sa condition lui fait semer, pas pousser, et nous rigolons souvent, pour rien, seulement le plaisir d'ouïr nos dents s'entrechoquer, joyeuse et bonne Mèèmèère. Survint l'arrivée de Foufouine la rouquine, terrible combattante des gouttières aux oreilles mangées de trous de mites, à la fourrure toujours grasse de ses sempiternelles échappées dans les coulisses citadines, où l'urbaniste ne s'immisce, maestro sans gloire des officines climatisées et chasseur patenté de subventions ; Foufouine, lala, ah lala, que de soucis tu m'ulcérais, pourtant ta place chauffait toujours dans cet autrefois désert de mon plumard, je t'aimais bien Foufouine pas jolie. Taupette, enfin, exhiba un bout de museau, une frimousse faite de truffe et de malice, rampant tel un ninja Border Collie, furetant furtive les recoins de la chambre, pour, l'air de rien, sans bordures, franche du collier, balancer sa masse sans scrupules inutiles entre deux épaisseurs de couette ; elle s'ébrouait, se roulait, agitait ses pattes hilares et nous l'adoptâmes immédiatement.

Longues heures de promenades, ensemble, entre matelas et sommier, à construire notre monde, ainsi qu'en bâtissent tous les animaux pour asseoir leur subsistance, Foufouine miaulait complaisamment en chassant la moindre haridelle perchée au faîte de sa baignoire sabot, Taupette à la fête lorsqu'elle dénichait une chaussette dérivant sur les flots de la literie et l'incomparable Mèèmèère qui jouait à saute-moutons avec un troupeau de brebis dont le pâtre murmurait sans doute de vibrantes odes à sa dulcinée sous une pluie battante mais bien intentionnée. Oh, ces instants de bonheur, nous voudrions en déclamer la perfection mais celle-ci glisse entre nos doigts si maladroits ! Rien ne se déroulait qu'une succession de contentements, jusqu'à ce que nous abordions cet endroit, un véritable endroit, fabriqué de murs et de greniers, de portes et de trottoirs, de passants et de cheminées, un endroit en somme, pas incurvé ni branlant, dont l'identité très clairement plastronnait sur un panneau, Le Rahamsahadajda. Nous nous avançâmes afin de nous enquérir des tenants et des ressortissants du lieu.

L’entrée nous circula directement sur un couloir de jaspe orné de jasmin en grappes et parsemé ici ou là ou là ou là de jéroboamiques sculptures martelées dans une brique de paille crue sans doute locale. Des centaines d'hôtes en arpentaient les parquets finement vernis, devisant dans une tenue exemplaire, dignité polie, courtoisie étudiée à peine rehaussée de quelque éclair de méchanceté ou d’une fulgurance de jalousie, on se toisait, se méprisait aussitôt, occultant le modeste sous l’indifférence, courbant la colonne jusqu’au crac, arrondissant le jarret sans arrêt, femmes qui saupoudraient séduction et dédain, hommes piqués au parterre qui cabotinaient avec une mesure toute règlementaire. De sinistres larbins louvoyaient ce au milieu, complotant de ourdissantes intrigues qui se reflétaient en haine dans leurs prunelles butées. Regrettable engeance trop bien apprise à respecter le sifflet, dont la veulerie pourtant n’occultait tant l’attrait pour la rigolade ou la joyeuseté effrontée, seuls là, là et là, les presque puissants aspergeaient tous de venin afin, uniquement, de revendiquer leur puissance, tristes bouffons disgracieux d’exemplarité, caricatures d’assassins pas assez fous ou courageux pour tuer.

Trônait cependant au plein centre sans lucarne un être comme une explosion de prestance, claquant aux ventilateurs qui le rafraîchissaient les rubans foulards turbans et bannières qui déclamaient sa gloire aux alizés de l’univers, une entité de sagesse dont le regard sombrait en sa propre profondeur, une galaxie de mansuétude qui rayonnait ses mouvements pour apaiser la fébrilité de cet homo sapiens éjecté de ses songes d’innocence. Abandonnant mes camarades quadrupèdes, bien disposées à piller les buffets croulant sous ces étranges victuailles inconsistantes qui d’ordinaire parent de leurs pâtés et cakes et autres je-ne-tromperai-personne-en-admettant-ne-que-couiquer-rien-aux-raffinements-bien-modiques-de-ces tablées les cocktails mangeatoires, je galbai timidement mon maintien pour présenter ma coiffe et ma tonsure au sérénissimement brillant étalon des prodiges de la création :
« Monseigneur, Votre Grâce, j'abjure ici à vos pieds pantouflés ma fierté déplacée mon orgueil dépassé et j'accole à mes courbettes quelques larmes d'extase que votre munificence, comme un gros oignon, me décolle de la mirette. Quelque amabilité légère vous inclinerait-elle à susurrer en mon pavillon votre auguste nom ?
— Par pitié, me réjouit-il d'un ton bise-biche, rajustez vos pans de serpillère, rien ne justifie de s'abaisser devant quiconque, encore moins devant le puissant qui profite déjà de tant d'avantages immérités, et d'un plumeau curieux époussetez les tranchants si stériles de la pyramide des civilisations, j'exaspère tant encore depuis si longtemps à écrouler les bêbêtes hiérarchies, les concons organigrammes, les podiums ou les classements, et épuise mes soins sur leur matériau de chimères, et je vous garantis qu'on ne me baptisa pas Salomon ibn Khayyam ben Samsahandra el-Albinoso ben Bernardson van Ulm, mon blase, que l'on décline BenBer pas par praticité, par ravissement. »

Un magot !, un terme guère usité, honorons-la pour cela, voici le reflet qu’elle me projetait la donzelle, emmitouflée dans la protection du groupe, et d’autant plus forte que loin ; nous bullions sévèrement, BenBer et moi, dans les ruelles des faubourgs du Rahamsahadajda, muets sur toutes les bêtises que nous dissimulions en nous, lorsque l’interjection m’avait lacéré, pas plus qu’une cicatrice supplémentaire, et comment expliquer à ceux-là que le conformisme modelait jusque dans l’intime que ma laideur m’enrichissait de la satisfaction de ne jamais intégrer leurs rangs ?, ces trop jojos jouets travaillés patiemment depuis leur précipitation à l’air, au froid et au dur, ces produits manufacturés de l’industrie médicale dont encore celles pétrochimique et textile étayaient les malfaçons de postiches approximatifs ; comment les persuader de ma sincérité si je promettais me délecter d’une solitude gourmande à l’ennui si facilement compensée par la fantaisie ? cette fantaisie désormais interdite en souvenir de l’esprit de sérieux bourgeois, camouflé dorénavant sous une prétentieuse doctrine de la santé mentale, abjection glacée et meurtrière qui sous des dehors bonnasses enferme et détruit celles et ceux qui ne s’affublent du costume de la normalité, cette fantaisie qui crible de ris la monotonie, et que les uniformes sombres de l’inculture punissent d’un vilain froncement de sourcils, effarés, atterrés, le couteau, le leur, ou plus sûrement celui d’un affidé, s’obnubilant de visions de sang ; comment, comment pulvériser les cailloux incrustés sous leurs paupières ?
« Oh !, Foufouine nous a dégotté une belle friche, de l’ombre et du silence pour y éteindre votre altération » se ravit BenBer, et la matière nous accueillit.

Un autre soleil, ailleurs, nous devisions lentement dévissions préjugés grippés tant que pouvions nous échinant à ne pas emplir leurs offices leurs orifices de turpides substituts ou de rachitiques mièvreries, un marché bariolé nous valdingua son agitation à la face & l’apparition m’empoigna, un ange, certainement, chorégraphiait un charme de danse, le corps très présent, cordial & suffoquant, une basse de voix me berçait, rooooh, rooooh lanfando ; je me perdis quelque moment, brûlé par le rayonnement d’une dentition sans défaut, réchauffé par tout le sérieux vestimentaire, puis j’avisai l’objet que la céleste entité brandissait sous mon immodeste tarin, une création nul doute, d’une extraordinaire extravagante laideur, indiciblement & supérieurement à gerber, j’évacuai l’inopportune entremetteuse & son étron, déclenchant une rafale verbale « Bien sûûûûûr ! Vous, les gens vous panez rien, vous vous vautrez, misérables porcs, dans votre abyssale imbécilité, oooooh comme je me repens d’être des gens !, moi, je fais briller le crade & le puant, je vous conchie sciemment, gens, gens !, parce que j’éructe & je pète & mes créations reniflent très fort de dessous leurs bras & mes culottes que je soufflette sur vos joues hâves plombées par la rationalisation outrancière de votre prison se quadrillent de traits vifs & tirés à l’excrément, gens, gens !, vous ne saisissez rien !, comme je vous méprise gens, comme vos semblables salissent la noble idée d’humanité, gens qui tuez, gens qui anéantissez, gens bourreaux, je rêve que les gens victimes se lèvent ensemble & vous étripent réciproquement, gens, gens ! », vite suspendue par l’attrait d’un badaud badin & putatif client.

BenBer, ancien commis voyageur, représentant en valises pour une respectable firme de maroquinerie algérienne, bourlingua par monts, par vaux & par chameaux, ses légères babouches frôlèrent d'innombrables sols aux matières exotiques, et sa paume caressa des étoffes & des peaux, toutes nouvelles & sœurs au toucher ; BenBer, que retins-tu de tes incessantes équipées ?
« Que l'espace ne se mesure pas, qu'il s'impose à nous, que si tu en retires tout, il demeure lui, ta conscience & ton mollet douloureux, que les distances tuent moins que leurs habitants, & que la maison de nos cousins nous recueillent souvent, pour baigner notre fatigue, étancher la soif celer momentanément les cris de la faim, & satisfaire confortablement à nos flux d'intestins, car telle est la loi du chemin, que lorsque rôde le danger s'éreintent les philosophies libérales, celles-là vaillamment qui nous proposèrent d'être individus, mais individus égoïstes & malheureux, car pour l'exilé, même volontaire, rien ne protège, ni traditions, ni codes, ni lois, qu'ils nous restreignent à une identité ou nous pourvoient le pouvoir de l'invention & nous infligent l'isolement, rien ne protège, sinon la fraternité. »
Ainsi retranscrites sonnèrent les paroles de BenBer, tocsin puissant & flûte au gazouillis trop mimi, & je m'inclinai devant l'évocation, lorsqu'une mine basse & un front très proche du plancher annoncèrent un impromptu du gardien de la convenance, une mise en demeure du concierge de la respectabilité, l'effroyable & grotesque Boson de Hicks.
« Dites, vous croyez vraiment que le lecteur s'intéresse à tous vos discours, là, si vous voulez refaire le monde, allez ailleurs, on est sérieux ici, on travaille, enfin on essaie parce que cette fiction-là, ça tient pas du tout debout, on divertira pas les gens avec ça, je vous dis, rien n'a été fait correctement, il aurait fallu définir des objectifs, construire un plan avec un planning précis, tout ça c'est ni fait ni à faire, alors on va essayer maintenant d'être efficaces, je vous invite donc à établir une date de réunion afin que nous puissions évoquer tout ça et mettre au clair les différentes problématiques dans l'organisation de cette fiction. Merci. »
Cocasses, épouvantables, créatures qui hantent cette réalité parallèle, édifiée sur des amoncellements de formulaires contradictoires, de statistiques non nécessaires, & embecquée continûment de jargon cryptique, le tissu fœto-maternel qui nous enveloppe, l'administration.


à suivre...

Jan Bardeau est né en janvier 72 du siècle précédent, ce qui en fait désormais, enfin et à sa grande joie un vieux, il s'abstient donc d'être cool, sympathique ou de débiter avec passion des âneries, à la place il s'évertue à grogner des inepties en roulant des yeux méchamment. Personne ne le prend au sérieux, personne n'en a le temps, et puis les grimaces du marginal pas très original n'amusent plus elles s'usent ; lui non plus ne se prend pas au sérieux, par conformisme essentiellement, souhaitant par dessus tout ne se démarquer pour ne pas se remarquer. Il écrit pour la gloire, comme Ajax combattit sans se ménager la station Mir et comme Saint Marc évangélisa les sceptiques de la rue de JaveL. Étant entendu qu'un professionnel, dans tous les corps de métiers, s'efforce d'optimiser le temps qu'il consacre à son ouvrage, ainsi que la qualité du produit fini, avec le revenu qu'il espère en tirer, la plupart borne son ambition, à défaut de sa prétention, à un minima qui contribue pour une large part à la verroterisation de nos cultures ; c'est pour cela que Jan Bardeau revendique son amateurisme, doublé d'un plouquisme confinant à la beauferie, et triplé du provincialisme ridiculement anachronique et désuet de ceux qui estiment que la littérature peut encore créer du sens, même pauvre, et déverser sur le régime amincissant de la transparence le bon terreau de la complexité. Jan Bardeau aimerait ajouter qu'il adore parler de lui à la troisième personne, tout en kiffant grave par ailleurs se parler à lui-même, ce qui lui offre le très précieux avantage d'être écouté, mais que parfois il s'y perd ; quoi qu'il en soit, et nonobstant les parce que donc, il vous salue, vous bise, et pourquoi pas ?, en profite pour se biser lui-même, ce dont il se remercie chaleureusement, y a pas de quoi. 

Black and White Blood by Walter Ruhlmann

The remembrance, the reminiscence of this little boy, hands up with his skinny legs and wearing a cap too large for his little weary head, wrapped in a coat that cover most of his frail body, anxious, hopeless, desperate, in Warsaw. I see in him and the whole photograph the blood running from an axis to another.

Black and white – the non-colours of a people I support and shelter in my heart, the syndrome of the headsmanhanger of the most fragile birds of prey.

An executioner

despite the gap between the times

epochs.

The blood has to be cold and unconscious,

it is definitely black and white, both shades are found elsewhere in the far east

as yin and yang mean

duality,

neutrality,

hypocrisy,

killing
in the name of” made part of a black and white collection that yelled the rage against the machine

machine gun ex machina

For sixty bloody years the then victims of barbarians became vultures and carrions, carnal carnivorous

criminals, unexpectedly claiming clutters of land the carelessness of coward cowboys did not prevent from

harm, from drama, tragedies and corruptions. Executions, excruciation, crucifixions and exterminations.

From Carmine Carnival, Lazarus Media, 2013

Eyebrows by Aditya Shankar

On a night when I cook fish for dinner,
my eyebrow grows fins and slips away
from our hollow midnight into a tear
mistaken for an ocean – alone in bed
and the diner, alone while together in
a movie theatre, an escape is always
on the card for the ignored. I see how
booze works on you, a slow rising
tempest keen to flood my shores, as
you turn your brow into a fishing boat
hungry for its prey, and I the eternal
optimist, swimming in a sandwich:
between days of thankless house-
hold chores.


Aditya Shankar is an Indian English poet living in Bangalore, and his work has been published in Shot Glass Journal, Asiawrites, Munyori, The Pyramid, Poetry Chain, Chandrabhaga, Meadowland Review, CHEST, and Vox Humana among others. His poetry collection Party Poopers is forthcoming.

The Islets of Langerhans by Max Krockmalnik Grabois

Tim says he’s a leg man. He likes them long, like on the pin-ups Vargas did for Esquire during WWII. Gilbert proclaims he’s a tit man. He doesn’t have to mention it. He spent too much time in our high school shack jacking off to old copies of Playboy. As for me—it’s Della’s pancreas that slays me. It’s the geode blue cells of her Islets of Langerhans, only 2% of pancreatic mass, but there’s millions of them, an endocrinologist’s dream, that make her glow with good digestion.
When we dine at UberSausage, there’s no question she’ll get through three or four, starting with Cajun Pork and Crawfish, followed by a Wisconsin Brat, then a Spicy Southwest Buffalo, with beer brewed as micro-scopically as the cells of those wonderful Islets, the Islets of Langerhans, blue and spacious and as full of music as the Isle of Skye.
Della’s a sixth of a ton of fun and, with no help, can lift the engine out of my ‘55 Chevy pickup. She ain’t fluffy, as she’ll tell you herself. Born of nine mothers, all of them mechanics, she toils in grease and oil. Like Thor, she wields hammer and wrench with divine authority, and punches no time clock, serves no master, works outside of Time, works up an appetite.
So, honeypie, I’ve ordered you another Chili Lemongrass Pork Sausage and a couple pounds of slaw. I love you and will love you forever, and we will walk on the bluffs overlooking the sparkly sea, and yell greetings to the sojourners on the Islets of Langerhans.

Max Krockmalnik Grabois’ poems and fictions have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He is a regular contributor to The Prague Revue, and has been thrice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for 99 cents from Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition.

Conclusion by Klaus J. Gerken

sometimes the truth is out there
plain for all to see
sometimes it remains hidden
a perfect mystery

sometimes the cupboard's empty
sometimes it is full
sometimes fruit grows rotten
when we leave it in a bowl

sometimes the tide is gentle
sometimes a raging storm
and the sunshine by the shoreline
doesn't keep you warm

i know i've had adventures
like everyone has had
no regrets i gather
even for the bad

so wish me well i follow
the path to its clear end
there will always be a morrow
i cannot comprehend


Klaus J. Gerken lives in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. Editor/Publisher May 1993 to present Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts Founded in May 1993, Ygdrasil is the first Literary Journal to be published on the internet.

Tiny Dreams by Meg Sefton

There were lots of people she used to sing for but now with the thyroid surgery, her voice had changed. She could talk, and whistle, but she couldn't sing which was why the song of the caged parrot down the street inspired a sense of loss she would not have been able to describe had someone cared to ask. Whenever she walked her dog she would hear it. She had always wanted birds - finches, or even a parrot or cockatoo, - but now it looked likely, because of the cancer invading her body, any bird she may adopt now might outlive her.

A man in town sold pet health insurance and she was beginning to make her plans. She wanted her son to have her little white dog and knew he would need money to take care of her. He was not old enough to pay these expenses on his own. And a parrot was out of the question at this point. They could live to be 100 or more and she would be dead at 46. She felt it, no matter what people said, no matter how much they told her to have a positive mindset. Buying a parrot now was an act of faith bordering on the ridiculous.

Every morning the parrot chirped from the third floor balcony down the street where she walked her dog. The bird was a part of how the real estate company was staging the property, he was part of their plan to sell the new orange painted homes. Not far away, a woman was mauled by a black bear as she walked her dog. The cancer was about the same thing. What difference did it make, she would be gone, taken by something - whether it emerged from the forest - a madman or bear - or a malignancy in her body that grew until she succumbed. She hoped, at least, in the case of the woman confronting the bear, the dog managed to get away.

Which was why she sat across from the desk of the pet insurance agent. She signed every paper. She paid. She set up a plan for payments. The agent had no ring. She asked him to lunch. They ate nicoise salad in a restaurant where unlit chandeliers and stained glass panels hung from the ceiling. He said he had old movies on reels at home they could watch. He said they could dance to music on his jukebox.

A shaft of light poured in through the basement window where they were dancing. She was not expecting this. She considered asking him to draw up a separate policy for a parrot. The agent had nice leather shoes, smelled of bergamot oil, had a curl against his ear.

Meg Sefton lives in central Florida with her son and little white dog "Annie" a Coton de Toulear. She blogs irregularly at Within a Forest Dark and also appears on-line under her Scandinavian pseudonyms Gry Corvin and Quenby Larsen.

Emotions by Paul Beckman

     Mother Abromovitch cried making dinner—so happy her whole family would be together. Father cried during dinner because his wife cooked one of his late mother’s recipes, his favorite, flanken and borsht—Sadie style.

     Annie and Jake cried when the family oh-oh-ed over little Aaron. I cried from all the fucking tears around me, and my girlfriend, Margo, squeezed my hand as tears slowly spread down her cheeks.

Do you have any idea what a toll it takes coming from a crying family? You can’t possibly know unless you’re also from one.

     My friend, Anthony tells me I have it good because my family cries from happiness. His family, he says with much rancor, finds the men yelling at their wives and daughters and being free with the swats to them and the boys.

     Anthony loves to have dinner at my house. My mother makes such a fuss over him his eyes tear up and he struggles to get control of himself. I, on the other hand, when I go to Anthony’s house, as infrequently as possible, never cry but I feel a sadness envelope me when his father and grandfather yell at their women for more potatoes or water and never ask for anything and never say thank you or what a fine meal.

     I want to drug those bastards and while they’re drugged spirit the innocent family out of their New Jersey flat and to the mid-west where they will be treated humanely, but Anthony tells me they wouldn’t feel loved or appreciated if they lived in a quiet and polite atmosphere. “They learned from previous generations,” he says. “Accept it.’

     “Are you going to turn out like this when you get married?” I ask him knowing full well it wouldn’t be likely.

     “Probably,” he says. “I’m all ready starting with Marie and the “fuck yous’ go flying back and forth during our time together. And not only at dinner but sitting watching TV or taking a drive. A little pushing around goes a long way in a relationship.”

     “Why?” I ask him.

     “Who else could I model myself after—you’re family? C’mon, Italians are screamers and Jews are criers.

      We both wear our emotions on our sleeves but in different ways. I accept your family; you have to learn to be less judgmental of mine.”

     Me and Anthony saw less of each other and never again over dinner at the other’s house. I went to his wedding and stood by as two fights broke out—one during the ceremony and one during the reception toast. He came to mine and left early, without even making an excuse or saying goodbye, as my bride and I were held aloft on chairs with families singing and crying with joy.

We Walk by Amber Decker

along the Potomac River at sunset,

his fingers dipping under 

the hem of my t-shirt,

tracing circles on my back.

Turtles bubble up 

to the surface in the brown water,

red and black-swirled shells reflecting 

the soft glow of lights 

from the Interstate bridge

suspended above. 

As the dark settles in 

and the rush of traffic slows, he 

slips his hand into mine, pulls me 

down next to him

in the mud and grass

and suddenly we're kissing,

making out 

like horny teenagers, 

lips and tongues and hands

frantic and everywhere,

until even our speech

has dissolved into wordless

animal warbles, 

with nothing but the water

and the sky

and the turtles

left to tell anyone how

sweet the night air feels

running loose 

across plains of bare skin

and how even the coyotes

in the fields nearby 

fall quiet

and leave the moon for us

to sing to.

Amber Decker is a poet from West Virginia who has been published extensively in both print and online venues. She is a lover of horses, hooded sweatshirts, dark chocolate, fantasy novels, werewolf movies and red wine. She also spends a ridiculous amount of time at the gym working on her anger management issues. Her most recent chapbook,True North, was released in September 2013 and is available from Maverick Duck Press.  

Flower Hustlers by Subhankar Das

Don’t buy those roses
sitting in your car
waiting for the lights to go green.
They hustle those flowers
from the Park Street graveyard
and often paint it fresh.

Of course it doesn't matter really.
It is just a show of love
for a living or a dead
and it's few bucks cheap as well.

mgversion2>datura: mgv2_77 | 07_14 Pen is Envy Cover Revealed

mgversion2>datura: mgv2_77 | 07_14 Pen is Envy Cover Revealed: Coming pretty soon...

Cover illustration New York Ira Joel Haber

Inside illustrations by Alexandra Bouge, Sophie Brassart, Ira Joel Haber, Flora Michèle Marin & Norman Olson

Contents

Paul Beckman, Alexandra Bouge, Sophie Brassart, Chloé Charpentier, Denis Emorine, Ron Fischman, Mathias Jansson, Steve F. Klepetar, Roger Leatherwood, Karla Linn Merrifield, Peter O'Neill, Norman Olson, Emeniano Acain Somoza Jr, J.J. Steinfeld, Marisa Urgo, Yvette Vasseur, Walter Ruhlmann

Interview series: Those who have something to say -- Guest : Marie Lecrivain

Daniel N. Flanagan's debut poetry collection Stale Angst, introduced by Amber Decker,
three excerpts

Alexandra Bouge's novella La peau, introduced by Walter Ruhlmann,
three excerpts

Walter Ruhlmann's poetry collection Post Mayotte Trauma, introduced by Patrice Maltaverne, three excerpts

Untitled II by Bekah Steimel

Under the microscope of self-pity

every injury is amplified

and mutates into excuse

simple is the conjuring of justification

difficult is the trick without illusion

the truth without illusion

sobriety is the hat

addiction is the rabbit

watch me wave my wand

and saw my life in half

Bekah Steimel is an internationally published poet living in St. Louis, MO (USA). Find her at www.bekahsteimel.com

Flash Burn by Tamara Fey Turner

Waited for the ring
Eternal never-ending band
To come home with him
After every trip even
Looking once so certain
To find it tucked away
Safely in some luggage or
Briefcase as he couldn’t
Re-pack quickly enough
Get away from me quickly
Enough going on next trip

Tamara currently lives in southern California with her favorite grey tabby, Gus. 

Slash for the Lowlands #3 by Glen Armstrong

Hang up your pants.
They should be placed soundly
in space, green against black,

away from the three-ton dog
or any voiced concerns about the gravity
of the situation.

Depending on what that means,
the size of the airport, the amount
of skin and the available combinations

of frames and mattresses,
the dignity of squares where people
used to meet

are all up for interpretation.
That mix-up between the visible
and the abstract still needs to be resolved.

•

All fables based on human interaction are on trial. The man who hangs the microphones does so for money paid by secret societies that exist to promote safety at the expense of sensation.

Glen writes, teaches and edits Cruel Garters just north of Detroit.

D-Day 70th Anniversary Anthology Foreword by Walter Ruhlmann

     

In 2012, I started this new collection of the D-Day Anniversary Anthology. That year, many contributors offered their work to appear in this first volume. For this present volume though, I did not have as many submissions as I had back in 2012. I cannot explain this. What is noticeable though is that the contributors this time gave the best quality work I had not seen for a long time. I am not saying that the previous anthology was not provided with quality work, don't get me wrong.

All I am saying is that in these almost 100 pages of fiction and poetry, to commemorate both the 70th anniversary of the D-Day landing in Normandy, and the centenary of the start of the first world war – two unforgettable slaughters, one of which was probably not necessary compared to the other, one can feel how many human lives were spared and wasted behind these atrocities.

In this anthology, you won't have the supposedly awaited bowdlerized version of the “winners” only. Not at all. T. Fox Dunham is one of the contributors who gives a German soldier's point of view, as he wrote to me in his cover letter: “I suspect you’ll be getting a lot of work from the Allied point of view.” That was quite right.

Nonetheless, the contributors did not focus on the victory, but on the human beings and the tearing apart of people, couples, lives, and history, or stories rather.

This anthology, as most of you know, is something of utter importance to me. Not only because I was born and raised in Normandy, and have always been bathed in this past wherever I was in or around Caen. It is also because both my parents lived this second world war and that both wars have always been a matter discussed and remembered many times in my family circle.

I have to thank all the contributors who shared their work with us in the only purpose to contribute to a duty – the call of memory duty – but the contributors I'd really like to thank for this anthology is its illustrator's son.

Tim Tobin sent me his father's drawings, and allowed me to use the portrait of Russ Tobin in uniform, a photograph rendering both the humanity of the times described and narrated in these stories and poems, and the dark horizon towards which these men – these boys – whatever their nationality was, were sent. Many of them never to come back.

D-Day 70th Anniversary Anthology
Paperback, 97 Pages
Price: $5.00

Order it from lulu.com

Walter Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits mgversion2>datura and runs mgv2>publishing. His latest collections are Maore published by Lapwing Publications, UK, 2013,  Carmine Carnival published by Lazarus Media, USA, 2013 and The Loss through Flutter Press, USA, 2014. Coming up in 2014 Crossing Puddles through Robocup Press, and Twelve Times Thirteen through Kind of a Hurricane Press.
His blog http://thenightorchid.blogspot.fr

The Card-player by Martha Landman

for Michael

A fearless card-player

bleeds

his furacious jonquils

his dead horse

in the Warrego River

dada’d with bloodied tenants.

He whistles prophetic rebuke and excessively petitions dead-wind circles

loses interest in the offensive pleasure and

bites honest faith.

Next door September sails

past religion,

Malaysian trees and a self-polluting Englishman

selling freedom

to a French drifter.

The card-player found betrayal

in the sticky red disease outside an Israeli house

a clash between a fallen world

a sinful aboriginal and a boat storm

angers his poetry

This is where he weaves into joggle mode

and buys healing plants

Besides his enormous unfaithful hormones

he shoots into her cabin and unfolds true love-images excessively / gradually

the water level drops

& rises

November flowers decay

like yellowing ideas

on the ground

The card-player nestles

his head between other people’s loneliness

his incredulous laughter revolutionises the French sky.

Martha Landman writes in North Queensland, Australia. Her most recent work has appeared in Jellyfish Whispers.

Jotunheim by Fred Pollack

I pass as a scholar
among my kind. Which means
they trick and trip and beat me
with less humor
than they show each other, which is little.
I make myself useful, endlessly
strategizing trolls,
cold, wolves, the Great Wolf, the World-Serpent –
our friends on the Last Day.

I also theorize the humans
we eat, rape, crush, and otherwise
ignore. They are so wearisomely
busy, having to hunt,
work, move about,
unlike us, who simply are.
There exists among them a practice:
they pretend before each other
to be other humans – kings,
beauties. Peering
unnoticed, disguised as a mountain,
at this the first time, I saw
behind these players a painted mountain
and thought it was the star.

I also – mocked, unthanked
for my advice, which is nonetheless taken –
keep an eye on our enemies,
the gods. An eye
hurt by the glare
and color they live in. They assume,
presumptuously, they too are colors –
the One-Eye’s love of knowledge,
the Hammerer’s usually justified
boasting, the kindness
of the shining-haired woman
who brings fruits, even Loki’s evil –
not merely painted props,
and thus superior to our greyness.
They will learn better at the end of this cycle
when we both march to one doom.

Author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS, both published by Story Line Press.  Other poems in print and online journals.  Adjunct professor creative writing George Washington University.

Inspection by Trista Hurley-Waxali

He comes in to discuss my mouth,
panning through my X-rays as Pandora’s new age music
echoes to ease the tension.

He knows I can’t run
from my genetic adaptation,
pointing out scars
of grounded down enamel.

He starts questioning my cleaning habits,
I’m confessional at best.

I tell him that my routine is just that, my muscles
reacting to my body’s need for sleep.
Scrubbing off the red wine
to be a clean slate to onlookers.

“Okay, smile” he demands, with an index aiming for my gums.
Latex gliding and probing, “everything looks good
from here.”
I nod, a little unsure what else to do.

But it’s the lack of flossing that ties me down from being in the clear.
I promise him I’ll do better,
I lie
and he knows it.
He smiles back and leaves me holding out
for a white-labelled toothbrush.

Concrete Angels by Jeremiah Walton

Fist fighting concrete angels
in narrow alleys of the soul.
Should be happier because of sadness
Let me preach joy and
when no ones looking
sneak sleeveless quickies
with her, Joy,
the abusive mother fucker,
insidious band-aid
serial killer, scab chewer.
The flying vision of literature
converted to a missing plane.
Plucking feathers
with pliers
till stomach empty
and there's no more puke to vomit.
Walking empty am streets
buried in mundane bullshit,
hopeless shovel screaming
about the angels,
and the mutilated wings.
Singing for freedom
to the tune of irony.
Sung myself a cage,
rattle the bars with
cigarettes and romantics.

Busted eyes,
open sores.
Busted love notes,
open road.

Apathy's frost settles.
At least rats in a maze have a goal.

Jeremiah Walton graduated high school in spring, 2013.  He is the founder of Nostrovia! Poetry, and works with UndergroundBooks. He writes at Gatsby's Abandoned Children.

.

The Bed Sheets are White by Roger Leatherwood

        The terrorists lurked outside our consciousness and we waited. And we prepared.
 We looked after government buildings. Public places. Plazas. Trains. Hubs of industry and commerce. We walked to work. Drove and played cards. We protected it all from the parking lots. The world series. United nations. The white house. The king of spain. Buckingham palace. The queen mary. World trading company. Prince albert in a can.
 And there were months and then there were years and it seemed that the threat had been choked off, eliminated, robbed of oxygen. Waylaid and predicted, undermined and subterfuged.
 Until the bomb in the local fair. Not well attended, only 910 people.

Yet they were locals, unimportant and all of the families tied to the land, to the place, the region. The very salt and philosophy and blood of that earth, middle america, for generations. It was a scar that was deep and could not be clayed over or shined up by any political speech or spin doctors from Hollywood. Blood ran on the pages. And then the explosion on an opening night in cleveland for the superman movie. Again not a center of commerce or politics, only regular people, about 6000 of them because there were 20 theatres, 8 with 300, another 5 were 400 and the two large ones were 900 with 2 small ones it was still more than the worldtradecenter years ago and it was "the darkest" and "the most" and "the cowardly."
 The terrorists figured out that their target was not large symbols of the west. They could never topple large enough statues, symbols and granite and empty of the ability to inflict pain if damaged regardless of the lives that may be lost in collateral damage. No they figured out that surgical strikes to critical organs, townships, middle america, the very fabric of every day life could survive the trauma of a bomb in a subway in NY, any government computer server building that linked the IRS to the pay sites - that would never be allowed to go down even if it went down they would fake something. Make the people think things were okay, everything still running, nothing was broken. Repair. Pay your taxes. But when the fair blew up, hot dogs fried in their hands, children burned on horses in the stable, rollercoaster cabs melted to glass and runny aluminum, our boys turned to ash in their cars . . . that broke the back of the union.
 Funny was the bomb had gone seriously off course, aimed for the latin quarter in new orleans, recently in the news and apparently a center of culture, realization and symbol of all that was hedonistic excessive satanic and good about US. The missiles ended up past east st. louis, at east alton in the suburbs in which the people had been laid off when the ash and tire factories closed, 80% unemployment and most had moved or been driving for 20 or 50 miles to other jobs the other side in missouri. Goddamn government.


The explosion unbuilt the bridge and the blowback ash half empty extended to house apts as well as lofts and offices and the people downtown, in the converted antique shops and quik-and-runs realized their future was longer and darker than they had been led to believe, that they were on their own, that there was no god or he was looking the other way for the foreseeable next few years and they found us they have us we have no roof over our heads and even the theatres weren't safe. And in that dark night there was nothing to latch onto and the hours flew clicking slowly by aiming only at the dawn lit by the static on the tv in the other room. Sound down, another day and the orange of the sun under the naked trees another blinding report of surviving, wondering and shivering in the dark corners of the mornings to come.

And in the murky holes of midnight we grabbed the sheets of doubt and our eyes tried to adjust in a vagrant light. No moon. We wet the bed and my shame was hidden in the dark. The twisted cotton kept us company in the thinning night and the blurred shapes distracted us from our regrets. In the wet dawn we saw the bedsheets were still white.

This Savage God by Joan McNerney

Calamity hides under cover
lurking in corners ready
to rear its head.

It lies in neat lab reports
charting white blood cells
run wild.

What is this savage God
who pushes us down to comas?

Sneaking along icy roads
daylight ends while sea gulls
circle steel grey skies.

Brake belts wheeze and whine
snapping apart as we careen
against the long cold night.

What is this savage God
who lunges us into storms?

An official white envelope
stuffed with subpoenas
waits at the mailbox.

Memories of hot words
like razor blades slash
across our faces.

What is this savage God
who rips open the heart?

So we stand on the edge
breathing mean air
smelling fear.

Fires leaping out of rooms
where twisted wires
blaze from walls.

What is this savage God
who stabs us with flames?

Syncopation by Christina Murphy

Come before
the revolution
is over!

Archipelago / Archipelagone

Oh my my, oh my my
it’s guaranteed to keep you alive

The island chain is the heart’s
favorite boogie and slide

The longing that brings tears
is the on-beat and off-beat

of an empty chamber seeking
to be filled with rhythm and groove

Whisper before you enter so that
everyone can hear you and open
the gates to the future

Oh my my, oh my my
there are so few tempos left

and even fewer clocks that
show how quickly time ticks and talks

Narcissus knew the rhythm of the pond
and the upbeat  / downbeat of the illusion

It’s got a backbeat, you can’t lose it
Oh my my!

Christina Murphy is an American writer who lives in Huntington, West Virginia. Her most recent work appears in the anthology Let the Sea Find Its Edges edited by the noted Australian poet, Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke.

Scaredy by Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

“Witches live behind those broken windows,” she whispers pointing to the older Georgian brick house on the hill.

“Not witches. Slave ghosts,” he answers matter-of-factly.

He throws a stone hitting the abandoned house’s shutter. She throws a stone smashing another window. She was always better at things than he was… a better marksman, a faster swimmer.

When she picked wild berries, she was never jabbed by the thorns. She never pulled so tightly the crushed berries oozed their insides. Her berries were always ripe, plump, and whole.

His country cousin always left him in the dust.

“Not this time,” he thought as he glared at the jagged reflections of the newly broken window.
“I am going to scare her to death…”


Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh is an author, activist and good friend keeping busy saving the world and sipping sweet tea on her front porch in Charlottesville, Virginia. She founded Peer Review, a literary and art magazine for the Charlottesville recovery community. She blogs regularly at cvillewinter.wordpress.com, a page featured in wordpress’ freshly pressed, and also guest blogs at other sites.

The Collage Handbook by Howie Good

It isn’t the paste

that makes the collage 

or even paper 

from a wasp’s nest 

but a miniature heart 

buried in February 

scraps of Hebrew 

six million dollars 

in shredded bills 

a single thread of hair 

to clearly lead us 

through nasty stains

beneath a crow-

like bird that carries

an ominous egg

Howie Good's latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work.

Experience by Steve Klepetar

“I believe in experience,” he says

regarding his half empty beer, amber

bottle dripping and cold.  “I believe

in the language of  mice, in spaces

between solid walls, melting

mirrors and clocks that tic silently

and lie.  I believe in layers 

of night, whispers beneath a steady 

hum of talk.  I believe we could 

reach between torn seams of bar 

smells and chatter, clinking glasses,

juke box tunes, put our hands 

on something in the ultra-violet range, 

a quiet heart, an invisible voice, a tongue 

made of glass.  This is your last night  

and rain batters the street, green 

and red by the garish sign: 

‘Theatre Lounge – Cocktails – Beer’

this point where our lives divide, where

threads untangle, where our letters

burst for a month, then trickle and fade 

to silence.  I believe in memories 

of taste, this bitter beer, these pretzels 

flaking salt into cheap plastic bowls, 

my ex-wife’s first, chocolate-scented 

kiss, the pea soup  laced with sherry 

I gobbled after working all night 

at the P.O., taste of rain in early May, 

factory grit in the air of this miserable town.

Beakful: a poem a day

Bee by C.J. McCafferty

This idea is not new and won't change much from other related literary blogs, here and there on the web. In fact, in 1998, two years after creating Mauvaise graine -- aka mgversion2>datura -- I launched La grainée which was some sort of neologism or pun rather, as the word actually exists, but not for what it was intended to at the time. It could be translated as seedful. La grainée was a weekly leaflet which only lasted a few months, a year maybe, I cannot even remember.

When Aurora Antonovic invited me to post poems on Magnapoets -- One Poem Taking Over the World a Day, I recognized here something I could have done, but did not. Then I found out about Ancient Heart, a poetry blog which comment box is used to submit a new poem that the editor chooses to post on the blog, or not. There is Poetry Super Highway of course, edited by Rick Lupert, in California. Many more blogs of poetry that exist.

I just wanted to add an extension to mgversion2>datura by offering a space to poets, artists, writers, essayists, reviewers who don't really want to get involved in a larger project, but want from time to time to place some of their work outside.

Start submitting your work. Who will be first?

Send one-two poems, artwork, fiction, reviews, essays to mgversion2datura at gmail dot com.
Send all submissions in a txt, doc or odt file, attached to your mail.
Don't copy/paste as formatting tends to get awkward, and hard to manage afterward.
A short biography (very short -- essential only: where you are from (city, [state/province], country), a link to your blog/website, your latest publication...) is welcome but not necessary.
Read the journal mgversion2>datura and the books published through mgv2>publishing to get a sense of what I have been publishing these last 18 years.
I don't retain any rights, your writing is your creation. You are welcome to cite the original publishing place in case you reprinted your work.
Submissions read year round. Response time may vary a lot.