Mnemosyne

Feature: T.M. Göttl Day 6

2010-01-29T18:30:00.001-05:00

Memory of the Tree Falling Apart

“A-bra-ham. Lin-coln.”
“My. He-ro.”

The slow recitation, bad poetry,
I repeat into the receiver over and again,
these, the unlikely passwords to freedom.
I never thought it would begin like this.

“Beige. Rug.”
“Black. Cof-fee.”

They came with stones, boxes, reams of heavy-weight paper.
They came with box-cutters, paintbrushes. They came with
crowbars and chisels and afghan blankets.

“A-bra-ham. Lin-coln.”
“Beige. Rug.”

Remember the day when it wouldn’t rain?
That day, holy, just as every day is holy,
holy like the 60 watt bulb
hanging from a chain above my desk tonight.
I ran home with a brown paper lunch bag
full of Orion’s Belt,
because it was the only constellation
that I could name,
and constellations will remain wild
until you can call them by name.
Do you remember that day?
Shoving unbloomed buds of plastic roses
among your incense-lined shirt pocket.

“Beige. Rug.”
“My. He-ro.”

I hate to disappoint you
but now that it’s over, there won’t be any songs
about rainbows and fireflies, no
blossoming love sonnets about German chocolate.
I want to be held in the arms of the sun,
and I want to sleep in the arms of the rain.

Let it burn, that early morning late night fast food poetry,
let it burn.

“Black. Cof-fee.”
“A-bra-ham. Lin-coln.”

And where are the pigeons and the war cries?
What about the ancient Hebrew psalms
escaping from the countertop stereo?
Who are these people, pushing lightening anthems
of mountains and lighthouses
into a six-by-eight window, while
the faucet leaks a gentle copper cadence.
I don’t want to step back
into that puddle of purple vertigo.
But for today, we dance. Today,
we dance.

© T.M. Göttl

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Q&A

Q: If you could meet any famous writer/poets or historical figure from the past or present who might they be? And why would you like to meet them particularly?

A: Two of my literary idols immediately come to mind. The first, the late Czeslaw Milosz, who is hands-down my favorite poet ever. I discovered his work in the summer of 2005, while getting new tires put on my car. The shop was going to take 3 hours to do the work, so I took a walk down the street to the shopping centers in the area to kill some time. Lo and behold, the temporary location for the Medina Library (which was being remodeled at the time) was taking up residence behind one of the shopping centers, so I strolled in. I turned down the literature aisle, Milosz’s collected works popped out at me, I grabbed it, sat down at a table, and the next thing I knew, three hours had passed. I went home, immediately thinking that I wanted to write this man a letter and tell him how his words had touched me, but I was crushed to learn that he’d died the year before, on my birthday. Really, I’d just like the chance to tell him thank you.

The second literary figure I’d like to spend time with is Neil Gaiman. I spent an hour waiting in line in the cold to hear him speak at the Cleveland Library this year, and he was incredible. I already loved his work--Neverwhere changed my life. But listening to him, I felt like he was speaking directly to me, even though there were a thousand people there. And even though he’s a novelist and graphic novelist, he spoke very passionately about poetry and the role it played in his life.

Q: What are your favorite rock bands?

A: Minus my local favorites…U2, seeing them live was a religious experience for me, and I have plans to see them again this summer. Friends have turned me on to a lot of not-so-mainstream artists, like Dave Barnes, Matt Wertz, Andy Davis, Trevor Hall, Griffin House, Katie Herzig, Nathan Lee, Tyrone Wells. I recently got more into Prince. I enjoy Coldplay. Marc Broussard. Regina Spektor. I grew up on a combination of classical music (which made me a fan of Tchaikovsky) and the music my dad listened to, like CSNY, The Doors, Harry Chapin, Elton John…but I still consider myself pretty “culturally inept”, a term my best friend in high school coined for me, and then proceeded to make it her mission to educate me in pop culture. It’s an ongoing process.

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Study in Hot Chocolate

Feature: T.M. Göttl Day 5

2010-01-28T18:30:00.000-05:00

Today,

in a fit of desperate, doily-embellished passion, all chrysanthemums and body-strewn streets, I hammered out sixhundredwords to the worship of the muse, the dedication of the monk and nun, sixhundredwords that only I could offer up, the only words I had to offer up, to a grey and disinterested deity, such inkandpaper lips and tongues that would never chance the grace of a pontiff’s eyes, the bishop’s mitre, the scholar’s hood, such lies and stolen requiems to only ever curl in the corners, shamed into shedding their colored plumage and their ornamented claws, trading a quasi-reliquaried existence, their own familiarity, in exchange for the long-fingered extraction of fear as it climbs into beds, between covers, absorbed into the threads before sailors’ wives even bleached them into linen sheets, the sapling fluff and seed that laughs in the loop of every technological firing, each extermination closer, one toe-length beyond a thirsting howl, pulling year after year from ages, ticking slowly upwards in the evaporation of the emperor-owned water clocks, younger hands and younger clothing, rolling, rolling, rolling down the satin hills and clover, the chalk-lined walls, the mason jar serving to germinate stray grains of sunlight, the stalks budding white-hot coral-colored husks, peeling, sloughing off hardened excuses, revealing, at last, the cooling, breathing honesty.

© T.M. Göttl

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Q&A

Q: You’ve also written lyrics for music. Is that similar or different from writing straight poetry for you? And where can we find your work?

A: Terrifying! I adamantly do.not.rhyme, so the first time a friend asked if I’d put some words to his music, I balked. It ended up being a fun project, because I figured there were no expectations on me—although it took probably six months before my thoughts came together and I came up with something adequate. That first lyric-writing venture was “Funky Chiropractor,” in collaboration with Zach. It was more of a joke really, which worked out for me, because just about anything I rhyme tends to fall in the not-so-serious category.

A more challenging bit came this past year when another local musician and friend, David Ullman, asked if I’d like to collaborate with him and write some lyrics. David has a very different style than Zach, and I knew the ridiculous would be out on this one. But David and I are both very happy with the results and what each of us has brought to the piece to make it something very special—a song called “Everyone is Somebody Else”.

Thus far, neither piece has been recorded (except for various live versions of Chiropractor that are out there on YouTube and my MySpace page). We’ll see what happens. Now and again, I’ve written something that’s song-like and sent it off to a songwriter-friend to see what becomes of it. No other finished results yet. But again, we’ll see what becomes of it all ?

Feature: T.M. Göttl Day 4

2010-01-27T18:27:00.002-05:00

Heartbreak and an Empty Hotel Room: Tax Day

Today, the morning broke, from black to grey,
just like every other morning
on every other day
in this town where the noon-time scarecrows
burn away all the hope
by afternoon, along with all the iron
and a canvas of fumes.

I heard the dwarrows in the woods,
conferencing with faeries, and howling:
“We only have two options:
the slow crawl of the coward,
or the shotgun exit of the brave!”

A blue dove
sat above my head,
mocking me from an aspen limb,
because I mumbled about building roses,
while holding a rusty, eleven-year-old knife.
And I’ve been holding that knife for eleven years,
just in case I needed it again.

Because you might see silver spiders
falling across my face,
but there’s no magic me. I’ll never see
Ezekiel’s green-wingéd angels, and I’m afraid
to break the silence of your stone.
I want to be everywhere tonight.
I want to eat dinner in an attic with your ex-girlfriend,
reading tarot cards and talking about
anonymous movie theaters.
I want to climb the windows
of every downtown office, arms opened up
to the honey waiting on your fingers,
to the golden eggs, and the golden eyes,
and the golden halos, kicking around your ankles.

But mostly, I want to sit
at the top of a cast-iron spiral,
watching, down,
because even when you’re not around,
they’re talking about
NPR, and the Mayan calendar, and
the last of the American Bison.
Why can’t you just see me?!

See me!
drowning in the
afternoon caldera
of wildflower wine!
There are no more timepieces,
pulling fleece from the irony
of an apple blossom rain,
the warp and the weft of a diamond riot.

See me!
with the asphalt and quartz in my hair and
under my palms, cracked,
like the bell of an ivory horn,
sounding the call of the vagabond messengers.

See me!
falling to my knees
because no one will hold me up
anymore.
You never learned how to bring your own sun,
so how much brighter must I shine
before you can see?

See me.

And tell me, when will you write a song for me?
About how brave and stupid I was on Good Friday?
About how I scheduled a resurrection
while the swallows and pigeons shot arrows across
the unfiltered sky?
About the clover above my head?

I’m leaving, tonight.
I filled the back seat of my car
with sleep and doorways, but no ceilings.
I tucked Nike’s crown under my arm,
scratching psalms into copper collars, and
chasing blue lights down the highway,
chasing my enemies, chasing every
herald and beacon, and running with the army
of blue-coated angels. Just
see me.

© T.M. Göttl

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Q&A

Q: What aspects of poetry and its performance/sharing do you like and which do you fear or dislike?

A: I think performance and presentation are just as important as the writing of the piece. Poetry existed long before the written word, and I believe it still is, at least in part, intended to be an oral tradition. That doesn’t negate the value of the word on the page, but too often, the way that a piece is read and presented, I feel, takes a back seat to the writing of it. I think all art should be experiential, for the creator and for the audience. If you can’t climb inside of your art—be it a painting, song, or poem—and take your audience by the hand and invite them to climb inside and dance around in it with you, I believe you lack as an artist. I know that I don’t always achieve that, but that’s the ideal for which I strive in my work.

Q: You are sold out of your recent poetry book… or nearly sold out. Can you give us an idea of what you’ve got planned for your future projects? Any sneak peeks you might be able to share?

A: I’m in the process of compiling a manuscript for a second full-length collection that I’m hoping we’ll be able to put out in the first half of 2010. Other than that, I don’t want to say too much, for fear of having to eat my words later. Stay tuned for now!

Q: You’ve recently taken on some journalistic writing. Do you find it different from doing poetry? And do you enjoy it? Does it help or compliment your other writing or is it very different for you?

A: My journalistic pieces and opinion essays came naturally, because I’m already attending all these poetry events around Northeast Ohio, so it made sense to write about them. I think it helps keep my writing fresh. Blogging can get sloppy, but when you’re putting something out there for someone besides your friends to read, you take more care. Poetry helps with that—paying attention to word choice, getting the idea across in as short a space as possible. But of course, it’s very different. I haven’t done much straightforward writing since college, and it’s good to keep those muscles in shape again.

Feature: T.M. Göttl Day 3

2010-01-26T17:29:00.004-05:00

Time

Time, and the march
of army boots,
and metal chairs, and the
midnight howl of a panther train.

Time, and the sea lord
calling back the herds,
and the seventh breaking
of the hardwood stair.

Time, and a white coat,
cigarettes, and coffee.

Time, and the refrigerated
cellular automotive
facsimile liquid crystal
satellite malfunction.

Time, and the lack of confidence,
reflected in faded
cathedral glass.

Time, and aluminum eagle wings,
and the painted skydivers, and
the telescoping highways.

Time, and a minted peace
and a pinecone rustle,
and a chipmunk soul.

Time, because everyone’s written
a poem about heartbreak
and an empty hotel room

Time, and the concrete lions, and
telephone poles, and the copper, copper
saxophone strings.

Time, and the burning pages,
the empty bottles, the distorted
static music. Time, and the black keys,
white keys, gray keys, colored keys,
computer keys, car keys,
house keys, major keys,
minor keys.

Time, and the red ink, and the
black water.

Time through a glass,
around your neck,
under your feet, and
in your pocket.

Time, and a house without ceilings
a front lawn full of hands,
and a basement
full of feet
and folded prayers.

Time, and a red, paper kite,
hunting through the starshine.

© T.M. Göttl (previously published in a Saturday Night with the Poet's Haven PodCast and in Stretching the Window, (c) 2007)

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Q&A

Q: Following on that question (yesterday): where do you find your inspiration for your poetry?

A: The cop-out, canned answer that everyone gives is “everywhere”, but it’s true. I find that a lot of poems begin to take shape while I’m driving, or late at night in those moments before you fall asleep but can’t because a poem is keeping you awake. Or, while I’m driving late at night.

Q: Can you tell us a little bit about your writing style. Where and how you like to write. Your favorite workspace, etc…

A: I carry notebooks and pens everywhere. If someone says something in conversation, if I see or hear something that brings an image to mind, if a word or phrase pops into my head and I think “I need to use that in a poem”, I jot it down. I have notebooks full of fragments. I used to have loose slips of paper everywhere—which still happens from time to time but not as often—which were a nightmare to keep track of. Eventually, I’ll go back into those notebooks with a particular idea in mind and pull out all the fragments that apply, and sit down at the computer to edit it all together in something more or less coherent. And then, of course, there are the rare pieces that flow out in almost perfectly completed form within fifteen minutes. Those are blessings from the muses.

Q: What are 3 things you really think you’d like to try in your lifetime you’ve not done yet?

A: This sounds like a college entrance essay question! Traveling to Alaska has been a lifelong dream. I’d like to climb a mountain (hiking that is—if pulleys and other equipment were required, I think I’d be scared). I’ve desperately wanted to go out west and see the national parks for years now.

Other than that, I’d really just like to be able to drive around the country, reading and writing. If I could make that work for a living, I think I’d be happy. There’s a special kind of joy for me in being able to go somewhere far away with a certain purpose in mind.

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fashion clock 3

Feature: T.M. Göttl Day 2

2010-01-25T19:51:00.003-05:00

Out of the Desert

A liar and a cheater,
like a crayon-painted road sign
melting waxy puddles through
tomorrow afternoon, I
never quite believed
in men with wings—
big and great golden eagle wings,
growing from their shoulder blades—
no. I never quite believed,
although I said I did.

Because I always watched my brothers,
carrying the weather on their backs,
past the blue welding light,
scouring the steam-loving cranes
until they burned and bled and
cracked all the gunmetal nightlights,
lifting iron ladders, girders
crossed into star-shaped flowers
worshiping a dead and contrived
second sun.

And I said no.

I painted neon pink and silver
over all the attic drywall,
called it Heaven, climbed those eighteen stairs
every afternoon at four o’clock,
said my prayers, almost
thought I heard the saints
talking back to me.

And then I stood on the crystal jukebox
declaring, in forty different tongues
like a knighted prophet in
leather sandals and a corduroy tunic, that
yes, I believe
men can grow
glossy wings from their backs,
crossing canyons and vaulting the rapids.

I had to believe.
But I never quite believed.

And the doubt? I knew it,
a chewing nest of carpenter vermin
drinking the ink out of prayer books
and clipping black eyes to the curtains.

They chased me from the cathedral,
from the railroad, from the statehouse.
They chased me from the school and
from the grocery, from the park.

They chased me to an old garage
underneath an old factory.
And there, without fish-tail testimonials
or a porcelain-faced audience,
there, I found
a man, with wings,
who showed me how
to find my own, auburn and burgundy-feathered,

crossing lakes and vaulting
the heroic moon I’d never met.
And finally, finally, I believed.

© T.M. Göttl (previously published in a Saturday Night with the Poet's Haven PodCast and in Stretching the Window, (c) 2007)

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Q&A

Q: When did you discover you loved to write? And is this something you’ve done since you were young or something you discovered as you got older?

A: I actually started writing creatively in kindergarten or first grade. I don’t know if it’s still in existence, but there was something called the Young Authors, where kids in grade school could write, illustrate, bind and submit a “book” that they’d written. Writing has always been with me.

I started writing poetry in high school—the angsty kind of stuff that teens write. Then in college, I took a poetry workshop, and it completely altered my approach to poetry writing and the way I think about it. It’s been with me ever since.

Q: You have a very deep affection for little furry creatures. Where does that come from? Do you think maybe you may have been a squirrel in you a past life?

A: The squirrel affinity actually grew out of a conversation several years ago when I was trying to explain the way that I think in comparison with a squirrel. A squirrel will run half-way across the street, hesitate and turn back. He might eventually get to his destination, but it takes him a while to get up the nerve to go all the way. It seemed to be a good metaphor for me at the time, and the squirrels have kind of stuck with me.

I also had pet rabbits when I was younger, and I have a Syrian, long-haired hamster now, named Zora.

Q: You have very clear themes that appear in your writing and poetry. Can you tell us a little about that?

A: I’d like to think my readers would be better at telling you about that. So often I’ve heard that artists are the worst people to interpret their own work, and I know it’s true in my case. But since you asked, I’ll give it a quick attempt.

The most common response I’ve had to my writing, especially in Stretching the Window, is that I’m “searching”. For a while now, I’ve felt like I’ve been in a very transitional phase of my life, and whether consciously or unconsciously, that’s worked its way into my poetry. And I think most people can relate to that. We are all searching for something, because if we’d found it, we wouldn’t have a reason to be here anymore.

Feature: T.M. Göttl Day 1

2010-01-24T18:30:00.001-05:00

This week's feature is T. M. Göttl. T.M. is a very talented open mic performer in the Cleveland area and a poet we admire very much here at *Mnemosyne*. We know you'll love her too! Q&A questions provided by our co-editor, Christina Brooks. :-)

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BIO

T.M. Göttl is a member of the Buffalo ZEF Creative Community, writing and performing her poetry throughout her homestate of Ohio, and beyond. The first time she entered a slam-style poetry competition, she won first place, and she won a Wayne College Regional Writing Award, as well as a Franklin-Christof Poetry Prize. T.M. Göttl's work has appeared in numerous online and print publications, including The Hessler Street Fair Anthology, Deep Cleveland, The Mill, The Poet's Haven, Opium Poetry, as well as appearances on 91.3 WAPS The Summit and 89.7 WOSU radio stations. Her first full-length collection, Stretching the Window, was published by Buffalo ZEF in 2008.

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Cheese

This is a poem about cheese.
Parmesan, camembert,
brie, pepper jack, provolone.

Grilled cheese, string cheese,
Swiss cheese, shredded cheese,
sliced cheese, E-Z cheese
(which never had any integrity anyway),
macaroni and cheese,
the cheese that my vegan friends
don’t eat anymore.

All the commercials
telling you to buy cheese,
to go to the store, aisle after aisle,
carefully selecting wheels and blocks,
reading the labels to indulge our
may-contain-trace-amounts-of-
Made-in-China-fears.

Because this poem
is also about failure,
about trusting too much to the people
who let us eat poison, who let our children
eat poison, and who then sell us little
every-colored pills that may cause
liver failure, blindness, cancer,
blood clots, hang nails, acne,
birth defects, and flu-like symptoms.
But don’t worry; your sinuses
will be perfectly clear.

Because this isn’t about cheese at all.
This is about all the addictions
to alcohol, nicotine,
coffee, tea, television,
online gaming, YouTube,
MySpace, romance novels,
Chapstick, The Home Shopping Network,
and Facebook.

And meanwhile,
there’s a lotus blossom
pounding on the front door
because the neighbors all
gathered on the front lawn,
circle-singing Gregorian chant and changing
all the words to the Creed.
The demons crowd our voicemail boxes,
and we throw away stardust with
the junk mail and the ads.
We don’t bother noticing
when the trees stopped singing,
when the streets filled with slush,
and the skies filled with gray.
We count words as if they mattered
anymore than a grade point average mattered
after graduation.

Meanwhile, the pendulum swings,
a pine tree ticks like a
falling clock,

and I’ve been lying.

Because this poem never really was
about cheese.

© T.M. Göttl (previously published in a Saturday Night With the Poet's Haven PodCast)

Marc Mannheimer's Feature Links

2010-01-24T09:02:00.003-05:00

Marc's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro / BIO / Poem: "open mic night"

Day 2
Poem: "the no blues blues" / Q&A / Photo

Day 3
Poem: "tandem" / Q&A/ Photo

Day 4
Poem: "stolen illumination" / Poem: "my scream" / Q&A / Photo

Day 5
Poem: "the crust" / Q&A / Photo

Day 6
Poem: "feel it" / Q&A / Photo

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Find Marc elsewhere on the net:

Catastrophe and Bliss

Another Week in Hiatus

2010-01-17T17:25:00.001-05:00

Our apologies for being on Hiatus once again, this time due to a death in the family. Thank you so much for your patience. We will be back next week with the talented T.M. Göttl.

Feature: Marc Mannheimer Day 6

2010-01-15T18:30:00.000-05:00

feel it

total acceptance
of the moment
and everything in it,
feel it,
know it,
glow it alive,
inside out with your heart,
blow the flame
into the glass,
make it drip sweat
and sear with end of steel rod,
seeing red, sparks golden,
metal molten,

and blame no outside agency
no person
or institution
or idea
or convention for what you find here;
blame nothing,
just be with it,
blazing light into your secret, sodden places

© Marc Mannheimer

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Q&A

Q: How has poetry changed your life?

A: In a sense, it’s lined up all of my inner processes, or it has at times. It’s put the emotional and intellectual and sexual and spiritual all in synch.

Q: What is your view on self publishing?

A: I think I’m kind of biased on this question, because the only books I’ve done have been self-published. Well, the two books were self-created, and then printed by a printer at cost. It was suggested to me a couple of years ago by a local poet that the way to go at first is to print up a whole bunch of poetry and staple it together and get myself out there. That was the inspiration for the two books. Looking back, I think that was pretty sage advice.

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Photo © Marc Mannheimer

Feature: Marc Mannheimer Day 5

2010-01-14T18:30:00.000-05:00

the crust

the plains,
where the wind and
the wild coyote
meet in Outbreath,
crow, crack of night,
hackle,
HOWL –
the crust of the Earth knows these places.

and the tides that sweep
over and retreat
that wash over us,
inside of us,
granting release
from our silt, from our shock,
they are known in their own way as well.

we know not where we go;
we see not the underlying,
its movements, its rising even unto malady,
nor its Holographic healing,
the science for our times.

but we will be pushed
as far as a man or woman can be pushed,
into the plains to fend for ourselves,
into the sea to sink or swim;
we will feign escape what the crust
offers us as fate
--the path of least resistance
--the path of insurmountable struggle,
--the path of waiting, of letting go and letting be,
of grace and singing for the unsheltered.

© Marc Mannheimer

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Q&A

Q: Who are your favorite writers/poets?

Well, my proxy teacher Natalie Goldberg. I’ve been digesting her “Writing Down the Bones” for months. But poets? – William Carlos Williams may be my all-time favorite, Kenneth Rexroth, Pablo Neruda, Lorca, Dylan Thomas. I had never read Dylan Thomas until a couple of months ago. He surprised me by being so modern.

Q: How do you deal with writer's block (any tricks to keep yourself writing)?

A: By reading Natalie Goldberg, by doing her free-writing exercise. I have a history of mother-transferences – I think I need a Mom to tell me it’s okay, and to just sit down and write a page. “No editing!”

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Photo © Marc Mannheimer

Feature: Marc Mannheimer Day 4

2010-01-13T18:30:00.002-05:00

stolen illumination

dharma readings,
heart murmurs, heart bleatings,
blaze of sunlight,
hard through
balcony doorway
harrowing down
on my two close friends --
Aloe and white African violet plants,
petals and potions,
stalks and stolen moments,
beauty and chastity and clarity
shining back up out the doorway,
filling the face of the sun.

© Marc Mannheimer

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my scream

my scream these days
is -- RRAUGGGGGHHHHHH!,

I am frustrated that this life
is not a straight line
but a tender
self-disassembly.

I just want to walk to the horizon,
I just want to take a walk,
enjoy a nice walk
to a nice sunset,
or to a nice sumptuous meal,
or to bed with a someone akin to desirable.

but we're not here to
get what we want,
are we?
some of the time?
weeeellll, never what you REALLY want!

"take yourself apart --
your pride,
your lust,
your anger,
your selfishness;

examine each one
and understand how
it builds fortresses
around your true fulfillment."

well, excuse me,
but your “true fulfillment”
is cramping the shit out of my
true fulfillment.

for me, I'd rather walk a straight line
any straight line,
a straight line into a brick wall, let’s say,
or into heavy traffic,
or round and round in circles
until they come to get me.
RRRRRAUUUUUGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

© Marc Mannheimer

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Q&A

Q: Do you have rituals or habits when you write?

A: More like a compulsion. I will often read a page of a meditation book and then write a poem, read a page of something else, write, etc. Though I enjoy writing most when it’s spontaneous, when a thought hits me or something I see strikes me and I pull out the notebook and write.

Q: Where does your inspiration come from? (Family? Nature? Music? Friends? Famous Poets?)

A: Nature, street scenes, friends, my schmo-mantic life (love-never-found), my own psychological processes, and, yes, famous writers.

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Photo © Marc Mannheimer

Feature: Marc Mannheimer Day 3

2010-01-12T18:30:00.001-05:00

tandem

two
cottonwood seeds,
floating,
in tandem, arm in arm,
attracted by
my resolution to try something
daring
for a change;

and I watch them land
in my palm,
and me,
I had been dreaming all day
of finding her.

© Marc Mannheimer

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Q&A

Q: Tell us something about yourself that not many people know about you. :-)

A: Well, I used to pick up garbage as a hobby. It started in college. I might spend an hour wandering and putting stuff into trash bags.

Q: When did you first have an interest in poetry?

A: After I had a psychological crash in 2003. I decided then to get out of my shell and create and socialize and work. I wanted to write more music and do open mics, but was too nervous to do that. So I turned some of those songs into poems and began slowly getting into writing and then doing readings.

Q: Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important?

A: Ambiance is very important for me, although I have to say I’ve been writing a great deal in a certain corporate coffee shop. It’s quiet and homey there. But I write in a small group of settings – I’ve written about 30 poems on the rapid transit landing or on the rapid itself, but most in coffee shops, which can be a hub of ideas. I also like to write at my kitchen table, especially when I am working (I am a hotline operator – there can be up to 15 minutes or so between calls). If I go to the park, I always write there.

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Photo © Marc Mannheimer

Feature: Marc Mannheimer Day 2

2010-01-11T18:30:00.000-05:00

the no blues blues

no blues
is not good blues,

-- never taking
the reach
for that
cinnamon and sugar sweet
romance,
that one in twenty chance
to get your ass out on the dancefloor and dance,
to inject your mind with that sickly swoony
illness that fills your thoughts
with her adorable likeness

no, no blues
means and means no more
than --
you never stood to
lose
nor gain
a thing...

not to die or live
receive or give the sunlight of your love,
not to exercise your heart,
the muscle that's strongest
and strangest in your life-vessel,

and now that you lie
at the end of your lonely days
in a bed in a nursing facility,
ossified, fossilized, refusing to participate
in what little life you have available to you,
your heart could stand to run around the block a few times,
to be stepped on, cheated on, to soar with wings,
to open and close,
to be broken and healed and broken again whole --

to open
and close......

.......and there is a little old lady who sits in the back of the dining room
and she has her eye on you
and there is a little old lady who sits in the dining room

and you see her once
and something flutters,
but no, "No! No! NO!! NOOOO!!!"

and that is the no-nonsense news
you can use or abuse or project and accuse
-- that is my future should I choose,
that my friends is the no blues blues.

© Marc Mannheimer

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Q&A

Q: How does your spirituality influence your writing/poetry.

A: I often seek to uncover the magical in the ordinary in my poetry. Because of my interest in the world mystical traditions, I’ve come to feel that the “God-stuff” – call it Chi or Shakti or Shekinah, etc., has manifested this Universe out of itself. So the magic I seek, to me, is really there, not the product of an imaginative poet.

Q: Do you have any other artistic/creative interests/talents?

A: I am a musician -- have been since I was a teen. My first writing experiences, in fact, were writing songs. I also dabble in drawing -- from any old picture I can get my hands on.

Q: How do you define poetry in general?

A: Poetry is a creative impulse expressing things seen, felt, intuited and thought in words that are "ordered" according to ones aesthetic sense. One develops that sense from reading other poetry, but eventually falls into a sense of rhythm that is his or her own.

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Photo © Marc Mannheimer

Feature: Marc Mannheimer Day 1

2010-01-10T18:30:00.003-05:00

Please welcome this week's feature, Marc Mannheimer. Marc is a Cleveland poet that bumps into Christina and I every once in awhile as we mingle in the local poetry scene. He is another very talented poet we think you will enjoy.

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BIO

Marc is a mental health worker with his own issues. His poetry is born out of a need to create and express and be acknowledged. (I mean, really, to be acknowledged. What a load of crap.) He can also be quite harsh with himself.

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open mic nite

music,
muses married
to grains of sound,
shattered shards ,
melodies assembling in sequence.
the green light, and
right red rectangles
flashing
on/off
climbing up the sound system...
young lions, lionesses,
long tresses, unkempt, curly,
darting in and out of faces,
on/off
red light,
bright song,
siren call
they sing the sirens,
but this night
for ships
to come in
to safety.

© Marc Mannheimer

Doug Tanoury's Feature Links

2010-01-10T10:50:00.002-05:00

Doug's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro / BIO / Poem: "A Trick of Sophocles"

Day 2
Poem: "Perfect Morning" / Q&A

Day 3
Poem: "Bell Tolls" / Q&A

Day 4
Poem: "Breakfast at Banamex" / Q&A

Day 5
Poem: "Patron Saint" / Q&A

Day 6
Poem: "Study in Black & White" / Q&A

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Find Doug elsewhere on the net:

The Poetry of Doug Tanoury
Funky Dog Publishing

Feature: Doug Tanoury Day 6

2010-01-08T18:25:00.002-05:00

Study In Black & White

The Plaza de Torros
Is painted in light and shadow.
The sol seats ablaze
In a hyper-illuminated haze
That paints over color
With the washed out white
Of overexposure.

The air over the
Sombra seats is grainy,
Sprinkled with a graphite
And charcoal dust
That floats lazily and lingers
And never quite settles
On a long Mexican afternoon.

© Doug Tanoury

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Q&A

Q: How has poetry changed your life?

A: Yes, it has changed my life. I have been writing poetry all of my adult life and it has been the one constant. When I have not been anything else, I was always a poet. Before I had a career of a family I was a poet. When I have been nothing else, I was always this. It is very fundamental. I look back at some of the transitions and phases in my poetry and I am always amazed at how they capture the emotional landscape. My poetry is a detailed record of my emotional life and whenever I look back and read it I am touched as I relive key moments. I am so fortunate to have that. It is quite a gift.

Q: What advice would you give beginning poets/writers?

A: I would advise beginning poets to seek out the company of other poets. They should find a writer's colony or poetry workshop and begin writing with other poets. I think this is a critical first step that is often overlooked.

Feature: Doug Tanoury Day 5

2010-01-07T17:14:00.001-05:00

Patron Saint

I found a wooden Santo in an antique shop,
Without hands and it called to mind a passage
From the New Testament,
Where Jesus encourages that offending eyes
Be plucked out and tempting hands
Be severed by their owners.

This Santo with tempting hands removed
And paint peeling from his clothes was
Keeping the company of sinners
Who owned the shop and other lesser Santos
With both hands still attached, so I asked:
“¿cuánto es este santo?”

The shop owner thought for a moment and
Slowly replied: “tres mil quinientos”.
I paused, then complained: “pero él no tiene las manos”
And I thought how much are a Saint’s hands worth
That have done such good work, and I said
To the shop keeper: “dos mil, no mas”.

So now “San Nolasmanos”
Keeps the company of a new
Even greater sinner, but for me
It remains an object of deep devotion,
A Santo with tempting hands removed
Is one that I can pray to.

© Doug Tanoury

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Q&A

Q: What is your writing process? Do you write every day?

A: I usually wake up quite early when the house is quiet and begin to write. I have been writing poetry with a computer since the mid-1980's. I have recently had a period of time when I was writing poetry every day. The creative process is wildly cyclical with periods of high and low productivity. I am currently on the upswing from a productivity standpoint and I am really happy about that. I have no idea how long that will last, but I am counting my blessings.

Q: Do you have rituals or habits when you write?

A: I often listen to baroque music when I write. I find that it inspires me and I think it finds is way into a poem by help shaping its tone. My favorites are Bach, Scarlatti, Telemann and Buxtehude. I love a good cantata and it helps me create.

Feature: Doug Tanoury Day 4

2010-01-06T18:22:00.002-05:00

Breakfast at Banamex

Wearing a tight black dress and
Very high heels with sharp pointy toes,
The woman standing in line says: “Huevos Rancheros.”
The sounds the words make as she says them are sexy.

“The oven must be very hot,”
Says a woman in a white huipile
Standing behind her, “At least 500 degrees.”

“Celsius?” A man in a navy blue business suite standing
in front of the woman wearing the tight black dress and
Very high heels with sharp pointy toes asks,
And a woman in a grey dress standing in front of him
hisses “Idiot” and slaps him on his belly.
There is laughter up and down the line.

“You must use corn tortillas” a woman's voice says
From the front of the line.
She is out of sight
Near the bank tellers windows.

The line is long now and loops, twists and snakes
back upon itself and there is a man in a red guayabera
near the end of the line that is standing
Across from the woman wearing the tight black dress and
Very high heels with sharp pointy toes,
And he says, and it is not quite certain,
But he seems to be talking to someone
Who is not there or perhaps to himself:

“Breakfast is the saddest meal to eat alone.
It says so much about you, like your lover has left you.
You sleep alone at night. You have no one.”

The woman wearing the tight black dress and
Very high heels with sharp pointy toes looks at the floor and
Pretends she does not hear the man wearing the red guayabera.
The line falls silent and no one speaks.
A teller through a window calls,
“Next! Next please!

© Doug Tanoury

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Q&A

Q: What is one thing you want to be remembered for most as a writer/poet?

A: I just want my work to live beyond me. I want it to have a life of its own. I think that is what every poet wants. I have been writing long enough to have accumulated a large body of work and I have been fortunate enough to have a large percentage of it published, online and in print. I would like that process to continue. If for some reason, I cannot write poetry any more, I just want what I have already done to continue to published and read. That is the only legacy I hope for.

Q: When did you first have an interest in poetry?

A: I began writing poetry in grade school. I went to a small Catholic School in the inner city of Detroit. I found that reading and writing was a great way to escape. I always found poetry entertaining as a boy. I remember being enchanted by Edgar Allan Poe, John Masefield and Robert W. Service. These poets influenced me a great deal as a boy. I also remember my 7th grade poetry anthology entitled: Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle. This book was delightful and I still remember many of the poems. This was my first interst in poetry as a boy. I began writing poetry seriously as an adult in my early 20's, so around the late 1970s I began to write and publish poetry. I was mentored and encouraged by a number of other poets and this helped me establish myself in this craft.

Feature: Doug Tanoury Day 3

2010-01-05T18:18:00.003-05:00

Bell Tolls

The big bells of San Sebastian ring,
The first round are long gongs
That resonate in the morning air
And only with great reluctance
Do they slowly fall into full silence.

The small bells of San Sebastian ring,
The second round are short peals
Of high pitch, that cut the morning quiet
With excited and anxious rings
And quickly fade and evaporate.

The bells of San Sebastian ring,
Reminding me of the Mass I am missing,
The prayers not said, promises unkept,
And all the transgressions and sins
For which I have not sought
Full forgiveness.

© Doug Tanoury

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Q&A

Q: What are your goals as a writer/poet?

A: I have always held modest goals, first and foremost it was to write poetry. It is what I have always loved to do. Beyond that goal, everything else just isn't as important. A poet's first goal should be to write and in doing so hopefully takes some chances along the way. I think it is really quite simple. Poetry will not make you a commercial success or a household name and there is usually not much money involved in it. That has a positive effect, believe it or not, of keeping this art form pure and uncomplicated. This should be definitive proof that every downside has an upside.

Q: How do you know when a poem is complete and needs no more revisions or do your poems continually evolve and change?

A: I do very little revising of poems. I have always worked that way. When I have finished it, it is finished and I usually have resisted the urge to revise extensively. I have equally resisted editorial changes. Many editors have held out offers to publish a poem I had submitted, if I would change this or that. I have always told them that changes are not possible. I always felt such offers were fundamentally unfair, and I have always regarded them as an intrusion into my poems.

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San Sebastian sunset - Atardecer en Donosti - BahÃa de La Concha

Feature: Doug Tanoury Day 2

2010-01-04T18:37:00.003-05:00

Perfect Morning

It seemed like a perfect morning on the balcony of an apartment
In Achrafieh, against the crazy and irregular skyline
That is Beirut, where cable wires and television antennas
Slash and stab the placid clouds
That drift peacefully across the summer sky,
Chaos and disorder rule, and stand as proof
That the old Phoenician gods have dementia
And have sunk so far down into their geriatric funk
That they no longer care about anything.

In that perfect morning she stood there with me on the balcony,
The two of us leaning on the railing and looking out over
A drunken geometry and a cacophony of shape
That is the cockeyed landscape of East Beirut.
She standing in stark contrast
With both earrings and necklace
Color coordinated with blouse and skirt,
A picture of fashion and personal perfection,
The queen of everything in its place.

What I remember most of that morning,
Was how I blended so totally with the skyline,
How it embraced all my flaws and imperfections
Both great and small, my mismatched clothes
My unkempt hair, my slovenly habits and careless ways.
I became a part the cityscape that day,
High above the streets, in the choking fumes
From traffic below that formed a nimbus around me,
That celebrated and sanctified
My own inner disorder.

© Doug Tanoury

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Q&A

Q: How do you define poetry in general?

A: I wrote in a poem once that "Lust is to love, what poetry is to prose." I'd define poetry as literature that possesses a high level of emotional intensity that combines certain devices and techniques. It has a great deal in common with dreams. In fact metaphor, simile, irony, symbolism comprise a language that both dreamers and poet share. Everyone is a poet in so much as they dream. They create a rich world of color, fantasy, symbols and populate this nocturnal landscape with people, animals and spirits. There is something basic and primordial about dreams, and I think that poetry uses many primitive and instinctive modes of communications. I could talk about this for a long time, but I had better stop here.

Q: Tell us something about yourself that not many people know about you. :-)

A: I don't have any formal education or training as a poet, so I don't have an English degree, but rather a Business degree. I was not trained by academics, but by working poets. I was trained by other poets in writer colony and workshop fashion. I found this so rewarding and I have been lucky to have worked with some very talented and brilliant poets. I spent 10 years writing with the Macomb Fantasy Factory and another 10 years writing online with a group of international poets in a group I founded called Athens Avenue.

Feature: Doug Tanoury Day 1

2010-01-03T18:07:00.004-05:00

Please welcome our first feature of 2010, Doug Tanoury!

BIO

Doug began writing and publishing poetry on the Internet in 1996. He founded Athens Avenue, a international group of Internet poets that write together and support each other in writer's colony fashion. Doug's work has been featured in the New York Times Online, Yahoo Internet Life, The Detroit News and the Detroit Metro Times. His publications credits include electronic as well as traditional ink and paper publications. Simply tying TANOURY into any Internet search engine returns results that reveal a large amount of Doug's recent electronic publications.

Doug is the founder of Funky Dog Publishing that specializes in poetry publication in both electronic and traditional media.. Funky Dog Publishing has published both electronic and paperbound poetry chapbooks. Doug's publication credits include Writer's Digest, Poetry Magazine, A Small Garlic Press, The Denver Quarterly, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Zuzu's Petals, Pif Magazine, Plum Ruby Review as well as many others. Doug has published 17 electronic volumes of poetry that are featured on this site. He is currently working on two new collections of poetry that will be published next year.

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A Trick of Sophocles

She enters a play
Transcendent,
With robes flowing and
Swinging high above the action
Suspended by wires
And a swivel boom
Activated by a fulcrum,
A deus ex machina,
That stops dramatic progress
And the plot plodding toward
The dark and inevitable.

She descends from above,
From a painted backdrop
That is the sky high above the stage
To touch the hero
Who is plodding into
Truly tragic depth,
And by this godly entrance
Of divine intervention,
She extends one freckled hand,
To a mere mortal.

© Doug Tanoury

Happy New Year!

2009-12-31T16:01:00.005-05:00

2010 In Discesa Photographer: Francesco Marino

Happy New Year!

We would like to thank everyone who featured on *Mnemosyne* this past year for sharing their creative passion with us. It has been a delightful year full of excellent music, poetry, short stories, and artwork! It has been fun getting to know each feature through their interview questions as well. And thanks to all our readers who help make our blog successful by leaving thoughtful and friendly comments throughout each feature.

The coming year will bring some new changes our way. Look for reviews (book reviews, site reviews etc...) provided by our co-editor Christina Brooks. There will be a slight format change in the near future as well. We look forward to sharing a new year of artistic vision and creative personalities with you. We wish you comfort, love, happiness, security, and prosperity in 2010 and beyond!

2009 Features

Carlton Smith
Charles C Brooks III
Cheryl and Janet Snell
Christina M Brooks/Rune Warrior
Dianne Borsenik
Donna Gagnon
Douglas C Pugh
Ernest Williamson III
Jim Benz
John Burroughs
Heather Ann Schmidt
Lisa Vicious
Michael Henson
Mike Finley
Nabina Das
S. Thomas Summers
Stephan Anstey
Tikuli Dogra
Tim Buck

Charles C Brooks III's Feature Links

2009-12-13T20:06:00.003-05:00

Charles's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro/ BIO/ Poem: "launching"

Day 2
Poem: "Nights at the Plantation" / Q&A

Day 3
Poem: "Pilgrimage"/ Q&A

Day 4
Poem: "Saturday Night in Athens" / Q&A

Day 5
Poem: "the cotton club and shootin’ for you" / Q&A

Day 6
Poem: "On a Train" / Q&A

Feature: Charles C Brooks III Day 6

2009-12-12T00:13:00.005-05:00

On a Train

Train-traveling was a cabaret,
and youth made me depend on it.
Small-town lights smeared
and an infant always fussed.
From my seat, one row up,
a Nefertiti in blue jeans
read Neruda.

Near the rear a man, lost,
stared out with tired, yellow eyes.
Another couple made out,
moving hands beneath a checkered blanket.
I passed them,
swaying like a drunkard
to the smoking car.

The ride rushed me towards a girl.
Three days later we wept
on the same platform
with desperate good bye’s.
It was an innocent Casablanca.

Ticket turned in,
a suitcase was taken
up the stairs.
Like a cylindrical parent,
that Appalachian Express
rocked me back to Georgia.

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Q&A

Who has had an impact on your writing style\career?

I was mentored by Larry Fagin for about six months. He worked closely with Allen Ginsberg and taught me how to write poetry free from old modes of thinking. Larry Fagin helped me hone my words in order to maximize impact. He never liked my sprawling poetry, but no relationship is perfect.

Feature: Charles C Brooks III Day 5

2009-12-10T19:03:00.004-05:00

the cotton club and shootin’ for you

his need to pull out of a splendid hole put him in a barely better home,

a city that allowed quasi-happiness, money, his shows

that moved from london to chicago while technique and velocity became nuance

armstrong smoked weed before shows, after shows, with coffee

catapulted by the mob to open doors, to revenues and fame

so movies would reel out

with his trombone tone everyone knew and showered in

his blessed madam calming came out of a club

and into a waiting taxi

‘pops’ bumbling over himself and bass players to make room for love,

his heart completely hers, joyous confetti, she, that louisiana princess,

the last wife was a detail,

the halls, in new york, in germany singing to hear eisenhower wasn’t

ready to kill jim crow as europe never blinked, africa suffered,

everyone saw blood,

a million eyes looking forward, his bare-chested affection for the south,

a pale nemesis

he shoveled so much of himself out, gone, given, free-for-the-most-part,

an anti-tommy hiding as a rebel

with this broad, intelligent smile, beauty bowing before royalty,

making governments call out communist while his music won the war

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Q&A

Q: Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important?

Poetry comes to me anywhere. I carry small notebooks and if some nuance grabs me I’ll write it down immediately. Yet, I do all the refining in my study. Especially with my more involved, lengthy pieces I have to be in a place that’s designed around me. I envy those who can compose in their cars or while working a day job. There’s never a time I write without music. Even outside I am plugged in. Music made me want to be a poet.

Feature: Charles C Brooks III Day 4

2009-12-09T18:30:00.001-05:00

Saturday Night in Athens

Autos are boarded then dissolve.
Painted faces and pressed slacks,
couples are cabbed together.
Small parties primp and flirt
with childish anxiety.

Their voices are exaggerated,
accepting, and tipsy.
They come, leave, then come again.
All the same, swooning on freedom,
sliding towards 1:00 am.

I lean, loaf, and feel
from this point of view.
Staring off, sober,
I’m a voyeur
watching for her.

© Charles C Brooks III

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Q&A

Q: What is your writing process? Do you write every day?

A: My writing process starts with me removed from the world. I’ll start by finding a poem or short story I haven’t seen in a while and try to catch that moment again. A majority of the time there’s a poem that’s haunted me all day at work, and it’s the first thing I do once I get home.

I try to work on a creative writing project every day, but on occasion I get in too deep and have to walk away for a while. When I don’t write verse or prose, I keep a journal. The act of writing is better than therapy.

Feature: Charles C Brooks III Day 3

2009-12-08T17:43:00.008-05:00

Pilgrimage

In Lúnasa I went for a stroll
to buy peanuts and a Coke.
Alone except for dust and loose stones,
pines cut a cool line ahead.
Their shade was a friend
against summer’s hard stare.

I rambled, rambled, rambled on.
Looking beyond lazy cattle,
a pond dotted by cattails
and dragonflies
soothed turtles on warmed rocks.

To my left spread out a buddleia.
Two Monarchs sifted through
its ivory-bundled blossoms.
I spied the randomness in their routine.

I neglected to notice until then
the scarcity of these ballerinas.
Spring Azures,
Swallowtails, and lacework Whites
were late.
Maybe a deluge
washed away too many cocoons.
Perhaps they overslept.

Ahead, an old trading post;
commerce off a rarely-traveled road.
The exterior, like its attendant,
was weathered.
A cigar store Indian stood guard
over this magnanimous, God-fearing man.

“Hot enough for ya’?” he asked
from under a hat
that’s logo had long ago faded.
“It’s not so bad”, I nodded in return.

Back outside, drinking Coke
with the salt of peanuts,
I decided to hide in shadows,
scuttling away from the flames.

© Charles C Brooks III

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Q&A

Q: How do you know when a poem is complete and needs no more revisions or do your poems continually evolve and change?

A: I have two kinds of poetry in my arsenal. I have what I call “snapshot” poems that come out fast and usually take up no more than 10 lines. Those generally get a once-over for technical corrections, but then they go untouched. Then there are the longer pieces that I work on for years. An epic I started eight years ago will be in my book, but I’ll stretch and condense it for the rest of my life. I skate the line between “getting it right” and “beating a dead horse”. I pay close attention to my inner ear when I read poetry aloud. Once it clicks I put it down.

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Dragonfly by Jen Pezzo

Feature: Charles C Brooks III Day 2

2009-12-07T19:00:00.002-05:00

Nights at the Plantation

At eleven-years-old
my great-aunt
gave me coffee.
Staying overnight
I slept on the screened porch,
cool in that gentle dark.
Waking, breakfast,
it felt like the life
of a prince.

Extracurricular criminals
we plotted on leather couches,
smoked where Civil War
soldiers once posed for a picture.
These are unmentionable evenings
made from semi-automatic weapons
and Maker’s Mark.

A blue lady filters through,
then saunters across
the room. Dead come here.
A house breathing,
the unfeeling brick
speaks at night.
Ghosts watch us sleep
and whisper
gibberish.

© Charles C Brooks III

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Q&A

Q: How do you define poetry in general?

A: Poetry is like jazz. Poetry is the blues. Poetry is math. Poetry is prayer. As a prose writer I can say that poetry is the ethereal sister of art. It’s metaphysical and common man. It doesn’t deserve superiority or disrespect. Poetry is an island.

Q: Tell us something about yourself that not many people know about you.

A: I wrestle bears to stay in shape.

Q: What are your goals as a writer/poet?

A: I want to keep doing something I love. I have a book coming out, “Whirling Metaphysics”, and that alone is a major goal of mine. Next I’m switching gears back to a novel-in-progress. I hope that both get a foothold in this fickle game of literature.

Feature: Charles C Brooks III Day 1

2009-12-06T19:01:00.006-05:00

We welcome another talented poet to our family. We think you will enjoy Charles's offerings this week!

BIO

Charles Clifford Brooks III has been published in The Dead Mule, Eclectica, Gloom Cupboard, Cerebration, Underground Voices, Alba, Deep South, Zygote in My Coffee, Prick of the Spindle, Conversations, Unlikely 2.0, Scythe, and The Cartier Street Review. He's currently Poetry Editor for Literary Magic Magazine. His poetry has been featured on the Joe Milford Poetry Show. Charles Clifford believes every artist should join the Guerilla Poetics Project. His first book of poetry, Whirling Metaphysics, will be published by Leaf Garden Press.

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launching

on the edge of new life, the rain, starfish,
a lucky pair touching fingers,
there is this bullshit silence.
worrying the fates would intercede with cruelty,
she barely speaks.
i do not wear it well.

on our fringes there’s no mystery.
this undeniable force was fought
and failed,
miserably.
we’re breaking two hearts to be happy,
scheming our way together.

the battle is that pretty face
twisted by tears and abandonment.
herculean grief stomps hard,
zeus’ appetites shove harder, half divine,
this is a blood curse.

a road from washington
has stolen her closeness to me.
the door is flung open
with nothing outside but rain.

the smaller vices, the nights glittering
with words that made her feel beautiful,
are outcasts
between an accountant and shady gentleman.
sex is on the verge,
or passing into death.

© Charles C Brooks III

Michael Henson's Feature Links

2009-12-06T18:43:00.005-05:00

Photo (taken by Dianne Borsenik) of Michael Henson featured reader at Lix and Kix, Nov 17th 2009

Michael's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro/ BIO / Poem: "Spring"

Day 2
Poem: "The Window at Quaker Meeting" / Q&A

Day 3
Poem: "Sycamore on the Ohio" / Q&A

Day 4
Poem: "Winter" / Q&A

Day 5
Poem: "A Woman at Kroger's Explains her Tattoo" / Q&A

Day 6
Poem: "Lot's Wife" / Q&A

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Find Michael elsewhere on the net:

Facebook

Feature: Michael Henson Day 6

2009-12-04T17:27:00.003-05:00

Lot’s Wife

Again,
the smell of gunsmoke drifted up from the valley.
She knew the smell
from the smell of it on the jackets of the men
when they came in from hunting.
But now it drifted up in gusts.
And the sound of guns rolled up in ragged volleys.
And now, a pounding at the door.
A man with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
It was barely dawn.
She did not know this man
and she would not open, so he shouted through the door.
No time, he shouted. You must go, he told her.
Into the mountains, he told her. Take the children.
Where is my husband?
No time, he told her.
Take the children. Please take the children.
Where did they take my husband?
But the man was gone to the next house,
pounding at the door, shouting,
Go. Go now. Take the children.
The least of the children was crying in her bed.
Mama, the others called. Mama. Mama.
Hush a minute. Let me think.
She put her shawl across her shoulders
and stepped into the lane.
Other women stood, also in their shawls.
Her neighbor stood with her big white feet
on the bare black frost.
She would have asked her,
Where have they taken the men?
But the guns spoke first.
The little guns spoke
and the big guns answered
and she knew she could not wait.
To the oldest, she called,
Dress the baby.
To the middle one, she called,
Dress yourself. Help me pack
Some clothes.
Some food.
The pictures. Only the pictures.
Nothing else. We are going to the mountains.
Quickly now. Quickly. Papa come to us later.
Do not argue with me.
Do not cry. Quickly.
And so they left.
The children cried they were hungry. They were cold.
Hush, she told them.
Do not argue with me. Do not cry.
The small guns popped and the large guns sputtered.
Do not look, she told the oldest.
We have no time to look.
The smoke of the guns gusted to them,
but they did not stop to look.
She asked herself,
Where can we go that they will not find us?
Wordlessly, the women hiked
and the children hiked the mountain road.
An hour, another hour
and the woman did not dare look back
until she reached the crest of the road.
There were paths, here,
that would take her deep into the mountains.
But she glanced back, quickly.
The small guns were nearly silent now.
The smoke that rose now
was not the gray smoke of the guns.
The cloud she saw, that black torture of cloud,
rose, she knew, from her village.
She stared,
only for a moment,
she stared.
And the salt of her tears
ran into her mouth.

© Michael Henson

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Q&A

Q: Share with us an experience that has enriched your writing/poetry/creativity.

A: I’ve always been inspired by the outsider artists, people who are not employed as artists, who must create under circumstances which don’t say “artist.” My grandfather, Homer Leander Henson, was one of these. He was one of those powerful uneducated people Whitman speaks of. He worked all his life at various trades, but he also played the fiddle, the guitar, the harmonica, and the mandolin and he and sang “My Darling Nellie Gray.” He’s always been an inspiration to me. But the most enriching experience was that of seeing my mother and father create common objects. My mother knit sweaters and my father built cabinets with a great deal of care and attention to craft. I have a bread box my father made and it’s a wonderful piece of craftsmanship. All the joints are secure, it’s lovely to look at, and it keeps my bread fresh. It would be nice to think a poem I write could be as lovely and useful as my father’s bread box.

Q: What advice would you give beginning poets/writers?

A: As if they’ll listen! I actually have an essay on this which I will gladly forward to anyone who wants to see it. The gist of it is to pay close attention to the craft. That means discipline; it means study; it means practice. It means a lot of reading, a lot of writing. But it also means spending time with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and the mothers of children. It also means telling the truth, as near as you can find the truth. This calls for discipline and courage, which is the stuff of heroes. My heroes are nearly all writers.

Feature: Michael Henson Day 5

2009-12-03T17:57:00.002-05:00

A Woman at Kroger’s Explains Her Tattoo

Long story short ---
her grandbaby didn’t live.
A net of veins gone wild
rare disease
operations
procedures
runs to the hospital
internal bleeding.
Four years old
and he drowned in his own blood.
She turns her leg to show me:
his perfect image
inked into her calf.

© Michael Henson

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Q&A

Q: Where does your inspiration come from? (Family? Nature? Music? Friends? Famous Poets?)

A: I’m inspired most by people. I will see something or hear something out of that great daily flow of human drama and I will want to capture that bit of drama, I will want to honor that struggle in the words of a poem or a story. I work among people who are not much honored by the world ---ex-cons, addicts, prostitutes, working-class people--- and I want to honor what they bring to the world, even if the world denies them.

Q: Who are your favorite writers/poets? Who are your writing influences and what was it about them that inspired you?

A: James Agee, the authors of the King James Bible, Whitman, Whitman, Whitman, Neruda, Lorca. Gwendolyn Brooks. Robert Bly. Tom McGrath. A.P. Carter and the anonymous songwriters whose work he appropriated. Did I mention Whitman? Anton Chekhov, who sits at the right hand of God and William Blake, who sits on the left. They all have something to say, they all employ precise and resonant language, they all seem to know that what you say in words merely gives us a glimpse of what cannot be captured in words. But also very important are the people I meet every day. If you want to touch the living language, stay away from highly educated people. Whitman –did I mention Whitman?—said, “Go freely with powerful uneducated people & with the young & with the mothers of families.” And so I try to learn equally from the canonical poets and from the people who live close to the ground.

Feature: Michael Henson Day 4

2009-12-02T18:09:00.003-05:00

Winter

Season of silence.
Snow drops through the empty halls of air.
Silence builds
sedimentary seam upon seam.
By day, by night,
the white screen falls.
Tomorrow, the slush of labor.
Tomorrow, the rasp of blades.
Tomorrow, the clatter of silicon.
For now,
the loud,
the hard
are smothered in the fall of snow.
The white mouth
swallows sound.
A shotgun,
a man chopping wood
the vigilant cough of a buck
fall and die
in the bonecold air.
The truck that rattles the bridge floor
The hish of cars on the highway
A shout in argument
fall and die, fall and die.
All sounds rise to fall and die.

Now

listen:

sibilant lisp of the universe

© Michael Henson

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Q&A

Q: What is your writing process? Do you write every day?

A: In a sense, I’m always writing, even when I’m not “writing.” I work two jobs and have an active life, but there’s a space in my head that’s always working on whatever writing project is in front of me at the moment. I work incrementally, a little bit at a time. It’s slow, but I keep at it steady. I’ve written whole novels at the rate of one hundred words a day.

Q: Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important?

A: I write everywhere. I always have. I rarely have time to block out more than an hour to write, so I carry my writing with me and I work wherever and whenever I can. I love boring meetings. I can get a lot done in a boring meeting. People think I’m taking lots of notes, but I’m really at work on a poem or a story.

Q: How do you think your writing impacts the lives of others?

A: People tell me they are moved by my writing, and that helps keep me going. I publish a lot of my work in StreetVibes, the newspaper of the Greater Cincinnati Coalition for the Homeless, so there’s this wonderful team of formerly homeless men and women who are out on the street peddling this great newspaper with my stuff in it. I’d rather be there than in the pages of the Partisan Review, because that way it gets to people who live close to the ground. I’d like to think that my writing moves people toward greater compassion and understanding.

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April Snow by Jen Pezzo

Feature: Michael Henson Day 3

2009-12-01T17:47:00.003-05:00

Sycamore on the Ohio

Gaunt and precarious,
a sycamore leans out
over the winter Ohio.
In the flood season,
when the waters tear at the banks,
the black reptilian bodies of oak, cottonwood, catalpa
float downstream, half-submerged.
But this sycamore holds fast, for now,
its place in the earth.
The roots on the eroded river side reach out,
dig their mottled heels in the sand,
and brace themselves
among the beds of the mussels
and the gravelly nests where catfish spawn.
Stripped bare by the floods,
these roots are like the granite buttresses of cathedrals
or, like great vegetal pythons,
or, like the knees of gods at rest.
Behind them, the bank side roots, curtained in silt,
set out to explore the interstitial corridors of the subsoil.
They cast their nets wide in the darkness.
They pass along the stations of the mole
and follow the paths of the worm and the nematode.
They sift with their white fingers
through the mineral amalgam
of sand, leafmeal, shell, fish scale,
rusted hook, and chips of mica.
They penetrate the caskets of clay
and tell no secrets.
They press into the crevices of the layered limestone
and trace the flutes of the scalloped fossil.
They pore over shards of the Adena,
splinters of brick,
and fragments of broken glass polished like discarded jewels.
They pry among the bones of the hanged man
and touch,
as if it were a relic,
the pierced heart of someone’s drowned daughter,

© Michael Henson

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Q&A

Q: How do you know when a poem is complete and needs no more revisions or do your poems continually evolve and change?

A: One test is when I can finally read a poem aloud without flinching. I once heard a poet talk about trying to get his work to the point where it would sing. That’s the moment I’m looking for, when the words stop speaking and begin to sing.

Q: When did you first have an interest in poetry?

A: I think it started with song. My father and my grandfather were both singers and I can’t imagine life without singing. I’ve always written the occasional poem, but as a writer, I thought of myself first as a journalist in my early twenties, then later, as a fiction writer, and then, finally, after my friend Buddy Gray was murdered, as a poet. It was kind of late in the day, but I think that was the moment I began to see myself primarily as a poet because the only way I could get words to come out that would express what I was feeling was through the words of a poem. But no matter what I’m writing, essay, story, or poem, I want it to have the bones of song.

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American Sycamore - Wikimedia

Feature: Michael Henson Day 2

2009-11-30T18:07:00.002-05:00

The Window at Quaker Meeting

I sit in the quiet
to wait for the Inner Light
and I see
out the window
a man who lopes across the lawn
in a diagonal
from the parking lot toward Naegle Road.
He is the picture in our picture window
(and I see
mine is not the only head to turn).
He wears loose blue jeans
and a black hooded sweatshirt
and he bears a red and white
bag of chips in his hand
and he looks a little
shabby and
un-suburban.
I am looking for an inner light
and what I see is
this Outer Distraction
and since I am ever so
easily distracted
I follow him with my eye and I ask,
Could he be the Messenger
I was meant to meet today?
This transitional man, this
in-and-out prepositional man
short-cutting through
the frame of our vision,
across our lawn,
and into a life
which is his entirely
and is no metaphor
or business of mine.
In a moment he is gone
I ponder him
for the rest of an hour
and see
he has taught me
nothing that I need to know.
And the nothing that I need to know.

© Michael Henson

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Q&A

Q: How do you define poetry in general?

A: To me, a true poem has a mission: to move the soul, either the soul of the poet or the soul of the reader, from a consideration of the mundane, narrow, and trivial toward the center of truth and solemnity. A true poem speaks of something that is really unspeakable, a truth which cannot be captured in words, not even the words of the poem, which are the doors to that truth. All the arts do the same thing in their way. The way of the poem is through precise and resonant language. By resonant language, I mean language energized by the elements of rhythm, image, metaphor, and story. So a poem, a true poem, is a thing crafted to move the soul by the means of precise and resonant language. There are a lot of things out there calling themselves poems, but they aren’t all poems.

Q: Tell us something about yourself that not many people know about you. :-)

A: I just passed first kyu in Aikido, which is a Japanese martial art organized around the principle of protecting yourself while doing no harm to your attacker. First kyu is the next level before a black belt, so I’m bragging a little. And I love to play the guitar. My secret dream is to become the lead singer in a Bluegrass band.

Q: What are your goals as a writer/poet?

My first goal is to write a true poem, one that tells the truth of a poem and is built of precise and resonant language. I also sometimes have a goal of saying something, though what I say often gets changed in the writing of the poem. If having something to say becomes more important than making a true poem, then I need to say it in some other form. I have nothing against political poems or poems of social concern. In fact, I honor them. I do have something against writing that pretends to be a poem but does not honor the craft and mission of the poem, which is to move the soul.

Feature: Michael Henson Day 1

2009-11-29T18:25:00.003-05:00

I was very honored to be one of the featured readers at Lix and Kix, Nov 17th, with our next feature, Michael Henson. His feature was a treat to observe and learn from. I enjoyed hearing him read very much and now we are honored to be able to feature him here on *Mnemosyne* this week. Enjoy!

--- Jen

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Photo (taken by Dianne Borsenik) of Michael Henson featured reader at Lix and Kix, Nov 17th 2009

BIO

Michael Henson is author of Crow Call, an extended elegy for his friend, the murdered homeless activist Buddy Gray. He also has a novel, a book of stories, and a chapbook of poems. His column, "Hammered: Essays on Poverty and Addiction," appears regularly in StreetVibes, the newspaper of the Greater Cincinnati Coalition for the Homeless. He is a member of the Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative. He lives in Cincinnati with his wife Elissa Pogue.

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Spring

First hints:
A red haze among the maples.
A great clutter of branches thrown down by a storm.
A row of daffodils that raise their baffled heads
out of the cold beds of the garden.
The light,
stretched back by the black fingers
of the trees at the horizon,
stretched back by the rooftops
at the head of the alley,
ekes out the lingering days.
The winter rains become the spring rains,
cold and persistent.
The rivers rise to their banks;
they darken with silt.
They boil coldly
in their drive to the Gulf
bearing downstream anything loose in their path.
Then, a day that ignites
green fires at the tips of the sycamores.
A day when the earth shimmers
with a dim mammalian pulse.
After the million deaths of winter,
partisan births,
clandestine cadres,
in tens and twelves,
here, and here, and in the hedges.
Everything swells.
Everything grows more numerous.
New hungers arise,
some small as the belly of a vole,
some neatly small as thought.
Others large as a field of wheat.
Still others larger than we dare name.
Everywhere the hungers assert themselves.
They stretch among the root hairs in the compost.
They call from the nests tucked in the branches of the cedars.
They quiver on the dark floor of every pond.
They weep themselves known in the houses of the poor.

© Michael Henson (You can find a video of Michael reading "Spring" (mis-titled as "First Tense") posted by John Burroughs on his Crisis Chronicles Library.)

Tikuli Dogra's Feature Links

2009-11-29T12:36:00.002-05:00

Tikuli's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro / Bio / Poem: "The Grand Banyan Tree"

Day 2
Poem: "Dream Weaver" / Q&A

Day 3
Poem: "Drama in the Sky" / Q&A

Day 4
Poem: "untitled" / Q&A

Day 5
Poem: "The Spirit of the Night" / Q&A

Day 6
Poem: "The Mob" / Q&A

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Find Tikuli elsewhere on the net:

http://www.associatedcontent.com/user/416660/tikuli_dogra.html
http://tikulicious.wordpress.com/ (Spinning a Yarn Of Life)
http://tikuli.blogspot.com/

Feature: Tikuli Dogra Day 6

2009-11-27T17:18:00.005-05:00

The Mob

She watched the mob with vacant eyes

Tied for last five hours to the tree

Blood tricked down in a steady flow

On her tear streaked cheeks

The tattered remains of

What were her clothes

Hardly covered her broken frame

The evening sky resembled

The color of her bleeding soul

She glanced sadly at her teenage son

And the husband she had so loved

They had headed the mob

The hysterical crowd was getting impatient

"Kill the bitch"" teach her a lesson"

Someone yelled

More shouts, abuses, accusations,

Contempt burned her soul

With shame and fear

A flash of blinding pain

Shot through her head

A sharp rock hit her forehead

She winched and shuddered

But drank all the pain

Hurt and sorrow

The blood oozed from the gash

And flowed on the pile of rocks

And stones near her feet

The mob began to become a blur

Her body ached and so did her heart

The breath came slowly

And soon her eyes closed

Relieving her of all the miseries

Of being a woman

The police like mute spectators

Watched the "mob justice"

Rooted to the ground

Her crime, supposed infidelity

Her silence, the sign of guilt

Her punishment, to be stoned till death

© Tikuli Dogra (Published on Associated Content)

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Q&A

Q: How has poetry changed your life?

A: Writing poetry is therapeutic for me. I mostly write for my own pleasure and it is very recently that I have started to learn the technical aspect of poetry writing. It has opened new doors for me as a reader and as a writer. Poetry writing helps me connect with myself. It has brought tremendous change in me as a person and I consciously respond to this change as it unfolds. Writing poems brought me into contact with new friends, poets, writers and it has helped me to learn to think rationally and more deeply about the world and my own experiences. I have become more confident and willing to graduate from pleasure writing to actually writing for a wider readership. It has also helped me explore new dimensions of writing, to allow myself the pleasure to soar beyond the limitations of mind.

Q: What advice would you give beginning poets/writers?

A: Be open and receptive to criticism, advice, suggestions and learning is all I would like to say.

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Great Asby Scar Limestone Pavement - freefoto.com

Feature: Tikuli Dogra Day 5

2009-11-26T18:30:00.000-05:00

The Spirit of the Night

The spirit of the night swept across

The marbled floor of the sky.

Her scintillating black robe,

Studded with sparkling zephyrs.

The unclouded moon brilliantly shone,

like a tiara on the bride's cascading hair.

Graceful, radiant and burning with desire.

Aroused by her lover's call.

Casting a spell on everything she passed

making her majestic presence felt.

The handsome sun stood draped in his glory,

waiting in breathless impatience.

For the love of his life to come,

And merge in nuptial bliss.

Two young lovers, mesmerized by the

intoxicating revelation,

Lay intertwined the wild vines about the tree,

their lips locked in fiery kiss.

Their hearts beating as one, a moment held in time

Unrestrained, ecstatic, intense.

© Tikuli Dogra (Published on Associated Content)

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Q&A

Q: Where does your inspiration come from? (Nature? Music? Friends? Famous Poets?)

A: Nature is my muse, from the little grain of sand to the planets and stars everything in this universe inspires me. Apart from that music, art , people who have been and still are a part of my life, my mother, friends, fellow poets, writers, especially the love of my life has been a strength behind my writing. I gather even the smallest of experiences in my life and treasure it for each moment is an irreplaceable miracle. All of life inspires me The beauty of the local language certainly captures the flavor of the place and culture. India has a rich cultural heritage and it has influenced me immensely. Since childhood I have been reading very prolific writers of Hindi, Urdu and also translations of Sanskrit literature. Every little thing about my homeland has a story to tell. I get my inspiration from it’s vast cultural spiritual and historical heritage and even the social customs, rituals, folklore and mythology have influenced me.

Q: Who are your favorite writers/poets?

A: I read the Indian poets regularly from the Ancient ones ( Kalidas)to the modern ones( Maithilisharan Gupt, Mahadevi Verma, Dinkar, Amrita Pritam etc. Rabindranath Tagore is one of my most loved poets. Rumi has been a great inspiration. Poetry for me crosses all the barriers and I read everything that I get my hands on. I never limit myself to one poet or writer.I love to read the works of Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, Jose Marti, e.e.cummings, Edgar Allan Poe, most of the Romantic and Victorian poets like Blake, Coleridge, Browning, Emerson etc. I also love to read the Urdu shayars like Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Ghalib, Firaq, Gulzar, Kaifi Azami.

Q: Who are your writing influences and what was it about them that inspired you?

A: I am a student, a learner. I do not call myself a writer, poet as yet. There is still time for that to happen. My writings may have some flavor of my reading of Romantic Poets , Poet seers or the ancient Indian Poets till now but I do not follow any specific poetic style of any one poet.The brilliance of language, the subtle humor or sometimes the simplicity or narration in some poets inspires me.

Feature: Tikuli Dogra Day 4

2009-11-25T18:30:00.001-05:00

(Krishna with Radha, 18th Century)

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Keshava has returned
And the sky is brimming
With pure elixir of life

The thick monsoon clouds
Make my heart dance with delight
Lightning and then the thunder

A welcoming sign
For the swollen heart
To merge into my lord

The rain descends
Seeping into my very being
The cool breeze brings forth
The intoxicating fragrance of
The living pulsating earth
Fills me with you
O Krishna
we thrive in the passionate embrace

Of you and the life itself

The month of "shravan" is here
Pregnant with love's sweet whispers
I have waited long
O dark limbed lover
To sing my songs and
Dance to the divine tune of
Your flute

My liquid eyes tremble with joy
The full berry lips await yours
Your fragrance drifts as I dance
In trance of your eternal love
O nimble footed Krishna

Your sensuous beauty
And our love
Spins me around with desire
And sends blood rushing
Through my veins
Yearning for your joyful touch

We draw into each other's arms
Passion fills the universe
As I behold the face of my
Divine lover

© Tikuli Dogra (published on Associated Content)

(Keshava is one of the 108 names of Krishna and it means the one with matted dark locks. Shravan is the monsoon season. An auspicious month)

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Q&A

Q: What is your writing process? Do you write every day?

A: There is no such rigid writing process. I do write every day. It is an integral part of my daily routine but I am not bound to it.

Q: Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important?

A: Ambiance does matter at times but I write where ever I get my inspiration.

Q: Do you have rituals or habits when you write?

A: None. I write freely, unchained by any habit or ritual.

Q: How do you think your writing impacts the lives of others?

A: I have just began to find my footing as far as writing is concerned so I don't know if I have made any impact by my poems or other works but there have been times my readers have appreciated a couple of my poems and prose.

Feature: Tikuli Dogra Day 3

2009-11-24T18:05:00.005-05:00

Drama in the Sky

A Gloomy day, definite nip in the air

The wind, strong and chilly

Golden yellow leaves of the poplar

Cling desperately to thin haggard branches

The silence is uncanny

Murky mist seeps through

The very core of my being

My thoughts are frozen in time

Memories close in like a blizzard of snow

The drama in the sky unfolds

A flash of lightning marks the brilliant opening

With thunderous applause it begins to pour

The trees, their heads bowed, cry ceaselessly

The wet sun struggles to release itself

From behind the heavy cloud cover

The spell is strong, possessed, I drift into a trance

The sounds of thunder & flashes of lightning cease

The curtain falls

Complete silence follows

Nothing moves, not even a single leaf

© Tikuli Dogra (published in Guntur National Poetry Fest Anthology and Associated Content)

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Q&A

Q: What are your goals as a writer/poet?

A: I have not yet set any goals as a writer/ poet.I do want to better myself and one day have a global readership and interaction. Right now it is just a way to express myself and reach out to people with similar interest.

Q: How do you know when a poem is complete and needs no more revisions or do your poems continually evolve and change?

A: I feel the moment my thought transforms into a verse my poem is complete. I do make revisions in it if it is meant for publishing somewhere. Those are basically technical changes. A better word, a captivating phrase, some change in rhythm, rhyme and so on but the thought remains the same.

Q: What is one thing you want to be remembered for most as a writer/poet?

A: I have a long way to go as a writer/poet. For this moment in time I just want to be remembered as someone who has tremendous passion for learning , reading and writing.

Q: When did you first have an interest in poetry?

A: I was introduced to Urdu Hindi poetry at an early age and since then there was no turning back. During my college days as a student of English Literature I expanded my horizons and began to read poets from across the globe, that's when my interest grew and I started writing too.

Feature: Tikuli Dogra Day 2

2009-11-23T18:04:00.004-05:00

Dream Weaver

I am a tale weaver

I spin the words to make

colorful yarns

merging loose and broken ends

dissolving the knots

to create the cloth of dreams

and I owe it all to you

my weaver friend

who taught me the knack of

how to weave the rhythm of life

into tales of the soul

to write songs and verses

with all the smoothness

of my silken thoughts

to bring color texture and feel

to my work just as hers

to infuse the joy and sorrow

laughter and tears

known and unknown

mysteries of life

to merge the nostalgia of youth

with the grace of old age

to combine , compare and define

what's old and new

to blend haunting memories, broken dreams,

love's promises, passions and desires

To see what no other eye can see

to create

lyrical images

magical yet meaningful patterns

and weave an exquisite garment called life

© Tikuli Dogra

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Q&A

Q: How does Hindi poetry differ from other types of poetry?

A: Hindi Poetry that we read today is still relatively very young. The literature written before Khari boli (Modern Standard Hindi) in the Devanagari script was mainly in Sanskrit and then in regional dialects mainly Braj and Awadhi . It was only in the middle of 19th century that the actual Hindi poetry began to take shape in the wake of social awakening. I think the main difference between Hindi or any other poetry is the works of Devotional poets in 'Bhakti kal' during medieval time. The Bhakti or devotional movement was unique in itself. Those who laid emphasis on the importance of knowledge for the realisation of the Omnipresent were called ' Saint poets ' like Meera Bai and Tulsi Das. There have been poet seers and poetry written in praise of the God in literature around the globe but Poetry entirely devoted to Gods as a moral duty of the poets is only found in Hindi Literature.

Q: How do you define poetry in general?

A: Poetry for me is a spontaneous flow of life and emotions in all it's myriad hues. It's an expression of self. A way to connect and strike a balance with your inner and outer self. Any piece of writing which makes me reach out to it , involves me, holds me captive, makes me ponder, stirs the depths of my consciousness or just makes me all dreamy eyed and gives me wings releasing me from the mundane is poetry for me.

Q: Tell us something about yourself that not many people know about you. :-)

A: My writings are a window to my soul and heart. Most of them touch some aspect of my life. I wrote my first poem in Spanish and translated one of Jose Marti's poem from "Versos Sencillos" for my collage magazine. It was an overwhelming experience to be part of the 'Jose Marti' Celebration Month.

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Woven Sunset Dream - Photo Collage © Jen Pezzo

Feature: Tikuli Dogra Day 1

2009-11-22T18:30:00.001-05:00

Please welcome our feature this week, Tikuli Dogra. I met Tiku on facebook and have been following her blog and writing for some time now. We think you will enjoy her offerings.

BIO

I was born in an enlightened free thinking family where we were assisted in discerning for ourselves and finding paths.

A mother of two teenage boys, I live in Delhi, India. As a young girl I wrote little verses and tucked them under my pillow. Writing filled the empty spaces of my life in and out. Social issues especially women related issues haunted me and I wanted to do my bit so they became an important theme for my writing. Writing for me is therapeutic and a way to be myself. It is a passion. Barriers of caste, gender and nationalities do not hold any place. I feel that we all are part of a bigger scheme of things and must do our bit to justify our existence on this beautiful planet. Adventure, nature walks, travel, reading, music are my other interests.

After graduating in English literature from the University of Delhi and getting a diploma in Spanish Language I settled down to look after my home. Somewhere all my creativity got buried under layers of responsibilities. I felt caged. Something in me wanted to break free but did not have an escape route.

Three years back internet opened new vistas for me and I decided to start my blog, join writing sites and participating in various poetry challenges etc. Since then I never looked back. It became my school for learning new things every moment every day. I am a learner, a student as far as creative writing goes.

Now I try to write about things that matter to me. Curiosity, sensitivity towards everything and my love for nature began to flow through my pen. Everything I write reflects some aspect of my heart and soul. India's rich cultural heritage has influenced me immensely. Two of my poems have been published in an anthology and one titled " Marijuana Dreams" in the The Smoking Book (web anthology from Poets Wear Prada press.

I write on these sites.
http://www.associatedcontent.com/user/416660/tikuli_dogra.html
http://tikulicious.wordpress.com/ (Spinning a Yarn Of Life)
http://tikuli.blogspot.com/

you can also find me on Facebook

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

The Grand Banyan Tree

At the banks of the river Yamuna
a banyan tree stands tall
spreading its mighty arms
to touch the earth
take root and put forth again

Centuries old Tree of Wisdom
A sage
in perpetual spiritual trance.
A sentinel
guarding the ancient Kali temple,
its Ariel roots hang like
the entwined locks of

Lord Shiva.

A tree beyond deaths and births,
it's roots deeper than our lives,
A witness to the city's growth
from its conception to what it is now.

The awe inspiring ancient guardian
of our historic past
withstanding all the storms
and turbulence of life
it holds a universe
under the vast expanse of
its glossy verdant canopy.

An epicenter of life for
tiny insects, snakes,
birds and humans

It has given shelter& shade
to weary travelers
devoted pilgrims
tired workers
who came for their midday slumber
under it's cool cover against the
scorching Indian summer
for as long as the time itself.

Children play on the rope swings
hanging lazily from
its strong branches
And women, who came to
bathe and fill pots in the river
gather, laugh, chat and worship
under it's serene shade

They tie sacred threads
around the age old trunk.
A symbol of love, hope and longevity
it is not just a Landmark of the city
of rich cultural heritage
But also a Landmark
standing between the bygone eras
and the times yet to come.

A small world, a cosmos in itself
revolves around this harbinger of life

Nothing has changed
since I saw it first
my little fingers clasping
my father's hand

The only thing
which seems to have changed
with time
is the Time itself.

(The Banyan Tree is considered scared and is revered in Hindu Mythology. It can grow up to 400 years or more and can have a perimeter of 60m and above. Also known as the Indian Fig tree, Kalpavriksha(the wish fulfilling tree) and the Bodhi tree ( the tree of enlightenment).)

© Tikuli Dogra

Donna Gagnon's Feature Links

2009-11-21T18:16:00.003-05:00

Donna's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro / Bio/ Poem: "Notes Scribbled on the Back of the New York Times, September 12, 2001"

Day 2
Poem: "My Dad" / Q&A

Day 3
Prose: "Lost" / Q&A

Day 4
Poem: "Con te partirò" / Q&A

Day 5
Poem: "Virginia Wolf was Fricken' Dreaming" / Q&A

Day 6
Story : "Lost in the Cold"

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

Find Donna elsewhere on the net:

Fib Carver

The Write Idea

TheRightEyedDeer

Feature: Donna Gagnon Day 6

2009-11-20T17:10:00.004-05:00

© Donna Gagnon

This piece was written by Donna during a 12 hour writing marathon to raise money for the following:

Cottage Dreams Cancer Recovery Initiative Inc
http://www.canadahelps.org/GivingPages/GivingPage.aspx?gpID=5048

Lost in the Cold

© Donna Gagnon

PART I

my
wife
hasn't
come back from
Christmas shopping and
she's never late; can you please send ..
look
find
darling
love of my
life who is always
here in my pounding, frightened heart

PART II

The poached eggs were perfect. Not too runny, brightly white and rounded. Annie carried two plates into the dining room.

“Breakfast is ready, hon.”

“Mike's still sleeping.”

Annie smiled. “World of Warcraft.”

“He spends a lot of time on that computer.”

“And he works hard, Bob. You spend a lot of time watching hockey.”

Bob kissed the top of his wife's head. “Shopping today?”

“Three more gifts to buy. I'll go out for a while after I've done the dishes.”

“Leave 'em for me. Mike'll want to eat whenever he rolls out of bed.”

Annie was a Christmas fiend. She loved pulling boxes down from the attic at the end of November, gently unpacking delicate tree ornaments that had such sweet history. Remembering the long, quiet morning of the first Christmas with her husband. Warm candlelight that always shone in Grandma's living room, the glow that picked out red glitter patterns across the pointed beaks of glass peacocks on her Balsam Fir tree. A talking Big Bird that kept Mike mesmerized for days when he was three. The tiny, carved wooden animals that her father tucked into her stocking each year.

“Thanks for cleaning up.”

“Good breakfast, sweetie. Be careful out there. Watch out for the crazy old ladies in the mall parking lot, okay?”
“Robert Forder, is that a dig about my driving?”

“Ummmm ...”

“I'll be back in a few hours, you silly old goat. Love you.”

PART III

my
mom
left her
plate on the
table, coffee in
her big yellow mug, one piece of
toast
with
orange
marmalade
everything getting
cold 'cause Dad won't clean up until
she
comes
back from
buying things

she's been gone for three
days and tomorrow is Christmas

PART IV

In the crisp morning cold, Annie blew out and watched the small cloud-breath hang in the air. Maplegrove Mall's parking lot was nearly full and she'd had to park quite far away from the main entrance.

“Note to self. Finish Christmas shopping earlier next year.” She made that note every year. One of those holiday traditions that just wouldn't budge, no matter what. There was still a scarf to buy for Aunt Norah, a Future Shop gift certificate for Mike and heavens knows what for her sister Madeline.

“Hey. Is this your glove?”

Annie headed towards the mall and tapped her coat pocket for the fourth time to make sure the car keys were still there. She'd locked them in the Subaru last week and Bob would bug her about it forever. All in good fun, of course.

“Lady! This yours?”

Fingers wrapped themselves around Annie's wrist. She gasped.

“I'm talking to you.”

A young man with watery grey eyes stared at her.

“What?”

“You dropped this.” He waved a brown leather glove in her face.

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

She took the glove but the man would not let go of her wrist. Annie pulled back and he pulled forward.

“Let go of me.”

“I did something for you.”

“Yes. My glove. Thank you.”

“No. Words don't buy nothin', lady.”

“Oh. Well. If you let go of my hand, I think I have ...”

The man squeezed harder and leaned down to whisper harshly in her ear. “Just give me your purse, lady. Don't scream. DON'T 'cause I'll make it worse.”

Annie closed her mouth. With her free hand, she reached for the keys in her pocket.

PART V

the
call
came in
Friday at
nine p.m., husband
reported that his wife had gone
and
not
come back
paperwork
duly filed, I went
home, fed the dogs, had a few beers
slept
and
dreamed of
blowing snow,
nothing visible
except two red blinking tail lights

PART VI

The worst thing that had ever happened in Annie Forder nee Griffin's life had been a kitchen accident that involved a freshly-sharpened carving knife and a medium-sized turkey.

“I want that leg, Daddy.”

“Wait, Annie.”

“No, I want it ...”

Her father had always felt guilty about the scar on top of her right hand. He would stroke it sometimes, after the stitches had come out and it had healed into a thin white line that looked like a smile. “Good night, Annie. Good night, scar.”

At the far end of the Maplegrove Mall parking lot, she unlocked the Subaru, got in, started the engine and turned the heater on high. Her hands gripped the steering wheel and she stared at that scar on her right hand. “I'm scared, Daddy.”

The keys were sticking out from between her fingers when she'd quickly pulled them out of her pocket and thrust them into the man's face. He'd yelled a few swear words, let go of her wrist and she'd run.

Before the bleeding, would-be thief could find her, Annie reversed out of the parking space and drove for the exit. Her eyes darted everywhere, waiting for a body to come hurtling towards her door, expecting to hear the sound of pounding on metal, glass breaking, mad spit spraying across her windows ...

But the man did not reappear. She turned right out of the parking lot, braked in the line up of traffic waiting at the first set of stop lights and began to cry.

PART VII

it's
been
snowing
I've shovelled
the driveway, talked to
Marge next door, she's as baffled as
any
one
who knows
you, Annie
where have you gone, love?

“Dad! The phone. It's that policeman.”

PART VIII

There were many things Annie should have done earlier that day, in retrospect. She should have gone to the bathroom before leaving the house to go shopping. Sobbing, she'd driven away from the mall, turning randomly at intersections until she realized she was driving on a country road and didn't recognize anything. That old barn looked familiar but where had she seen it before? She desperately needed to pee but there was nowhere suitable to stop. No one had built a Tim Hortons or a McDonald's this far out in to the country yet.

She also should have checked the weather forecast. It had begun to snow. Annie wasn't the best driver around and didn't have a lot of confidence in her ability to control the car on slippery roads.

And she should have unplugged her cell phone from the charger in the kitchen and put it in her purse.

PART IX

car
found
south side
Stonechurch Road
yesterday's blizzard
has obscured any sign of tracks

IS
IT
ANNIE'S?

License plate
PRX48...

OH GOD, ANNIE, COME HOME, IT'S COLD

PART X

The world through her windshield turned white and began to narrow. She'd decided to turn into the next driveway or the next sideroad, whichever came first, before her bladder burst. But the road disappeared and the horizon disappeared. Annie blinked, hard, and opened her eyes to ... nothingness. Wind buffeted the car. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, started to ease off on the gas and felt everything go sideways. Or was it upside down? The car and Annie went dancing in the blizzard, twisting to the rhythm of whoosh-slide-whoosh-slide. And then ... THUD.

Annie tried to drive forward, went into reverse and then forward again. The car was stuck. She turned off the engine and pushed open the door. The wind nearly took her head off. Pulling the hood of her coat up over her bare head, Annie faced the car door while she tightened the strings of it under her chin. She got back into the car, grabbed her gloves off the passenger seat and then she began to walk.

Head down, hands in pockets, feet pushing through growing drifts of icy snow, Annie intently moved towards a farmhouse she'd seen in the distance just before the storm got worse. Her pants were wet and she realized she didn't really need to pee any more.

PART XI

she's
lost
let's go
fast ... NOW, Dad!
we've got to find her

not in this storm, Mike ... the police ...

she'll
freeze
to death
before then
no way I'm sitting
here watching you pace around, Dad

stay
here
wait just
a little
bit longer, okay?
say a few more prayers for her

* * *

god
damn
fucking
hell blasted
snow, you know Mom can't
drive worth shit in the winter time

God,
don't
blame me
for swearing
or sleeping too much,
okay? I'm just really scared now

* * *

please
God
keep her
safe, lead her
home to me and Mike
let me hold her tightly again

and
God
forgive
me for not
being good enough
bring her back and I will pray more

PART XII

Lost in the cold, Annie saw God. She'd been talking to him for years and she thought it funny that he chose this time and this freezing cold stupid day to finally appear.

“You're fatter than I thought you'd be. Or is that just because you're wearing such a big coat?”

“Heaven's not just a place,” God said. “It's a state of mind.”

Annie shivered. “Yes, I think I know that. Can we go somewhere warmer and discuss this? A coffee would be nice.”

“There are flames in hell.”

“Not sure hell is the place I had in mind, God. Starbucks, maybe?”

“They do speak kindly in there. But I'm not sure I agree with some of their policies. Pay rates, for one. Hold up your hand, Annie.”

“Why? It's in my pocket. I need to keep warm.”

“Just hold up your hand.”

She pulled her right hand out of her pocket and raised it in front of her face.

“Good. Now, touch your thumb with your little finger.”

Annie frowned. “I can't.”

God nodded. “Stage 2 already. Do you feel sick?”

“No. Well ... I did. I was scared. And I've been walking out here for a long time.”

“Mike says hello. He wanted to come and join you but I thought it was best for him to stay in his room. He did use some pretty nasty swear words the last time we talked.”

“My Michael? I've never heard him swear. Heavens. Gee, it's getting warm now.”

“You should sleep now, Annie.”

“Wait a minute. I've got to get this coat off. It's too hot here all of a sudden. Why do women get hot flashes, God? They're really not fair, you know.”

“I only give my children as much as they can handle. Here. Lie down. Sleep before you cross the water.”

“Water? Oh. You mean we're going for a boat ride?”

Annie spread her coat on top of the snow, sank down into the softness and curled up next to God. “I've only ever slept with one man, you know.”

“Yes. I've been watching,” God whispered. “You've been very, very good.”

“I'm in a heavenly state of mind,” Annie giggled.

“Shhhhh.”

“Sing me an angel's song, willya, God?”

“I can't sing.”

“C'mon. Everybody can sing. What about 'Silent Night'? Or 'Little Drummer Boy'? You wrote those, right?”

Annie fell asleep in the midde of a blizzard, smiling to the sound of God's 'pa rump pa pum pum's'.

PART XIII

we
spent
all day
looking, sir
there's no sign of her
and this storm makes things difficult
get
some
rest, we'll
start again
tomorrow morning
there's nothing more you can do now

* * *

eggs
have
hardened
on your plate
I have worn a trail
on the living room carpet and
do
not
believe
that God will
disappoint us now
you cannot die ... you will come home

* * *

no
way
Mom could
survive this
if she's lost out there
hypothermia will kill her
please
do
something
Dad, you can't
let her stay out there
to die all alone in the snow

PART XIV

What the hell Annie Forder was doing driving on Stonechurch Road, way out in the middle of nowhere, heading in the opposite direction of her home in a blinding snow storm, was a question Sgt. Peters knew would probably never be answered.

“Female. Aged 55. Left home at 1000 hours Friday indicating that she was going to do some Christmas shopping. Missing person's report filed at 2100 hours that evening by her husband. Her vehicle was found by Constable Adams, who was off duty at the time, abandoned in the ditch on the north side of Stonechurch approximately two kilometres east of Concession 14. A search crew was dispatched but had to be called back near midnight due to extreme weather conditions.”

By noon on Saturday, Peters had repeated the same speech 32 times to local reporters.

“Storm systems are still passing through this area. We have been unable to find any sign of Mrs. Forder. High winds causing blowing snow are causing a number of difficulties. We will continue the search to the best of our abilities.”

* * *

slow
breath
gently
melts one flake,
ten flakes, forms a hole
in this accidental igloo
where
God
comforts
Ann Forder
dreaming of pine cones and laughter

* * *

“I'm sorry, Mr. Forder. Our crews will go back out again tomorrow morning. The storm should ease off overnight. We can only hope ...”

Sgt. Peters actually had very little hope that the woman could have survived two days out there. More than 25 centimetres of snow had fallen. The wind chill was at -20C.

“Sarge. What about my dog?”

Peters hung up the phone. “You have a dog, Lambert? Need to go take it for walkies or something?”

“I have two dogs. Couple of purebred labs. Rescued them from a shelter. Been training Binky for months now.”

“Binky?”

Ronnie Lambert sighed. “Yeah. Guess I shouldn't have named her after my teddy bear, eh? Seriously, she's a pretty good tracker.”

“You took the call from Bob Forder, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you think?”

“About the husband? He's concerned, sir.”

“No sense that there's more going on here than a lady going off the road in a snowstorm?”

“Not at all, sir. I had a dream ... oh, never mind. Look, can I go out there with Binky tomorrow and see if she gets a whiff of anything?”

“Yeah. Can't hurt. Christmas Eve tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

They stood silently for a moment.

“How's 800 hours, Lambert?”

“We'll be there, sir. Thanks, Sarge.”
PART XV

sniff
car
metal
no ... sniff seat
flowers, heat, urine
yes ... nose to ground and follow fast

* * *

There were voices in her head. A young man, snarling. Bob calling to her from upstairs: “Where's my yellow sweater, hon?” Grandma reading from 'A Christmas Carol'. Dad saying: “Sorry, sorry, sorry ...”.
An infant, crying.

“Sing me another song, God.”

There was no answer.

Annie tried to turn her head but couldn't move. At some level, she knew this wasn't right but didn't seem to care. She was warm, oh so relaxed and she was very, very sleepy.

* * *

Ronnie followed Binky as she bounded across the snow-covered farmer's field. The dog was on to something.

PART XVI

Sgt. Peters called out to the search team. “They've found her!”

Lambert pulled Binky back from digging in the snow. “Stay, girl. Peters, get the ambulance.” He knelt down and began to enlarge the opening. “Mrs. Forder? It's okay. You're going to be okay.”

Annie had one eye open. She muttered something.

“Don't talk. The ambulance is on its way.”

“You've lost weight.”

Lambert frowned. “Do you know who I am?”

“God. Right?”

“No, Mrs. Forder. My name is Ronnie.”

“I've been here a long time, haven't I?”

“Yes. Yes, you have.”

* * *

My wife came back to us on Christmas Eve. Well, not directly back to us. Not then. Not for a long time, actually. The doctors had to put her in a chemically-induced coma for a while so she could recover from hypothermia. I saw her in the hospital soon after they put her back to sleep, told her I loved her, held her hand for the last time. They couldn't be saved, you see. Her hands ... her feet. She'd been buried under the snow for three days. It was a miracle, Annie coming back, that dog finding her.

God held her, kept her safe, brought her back to us alive. It was everything I had prayed for and I give thanks every day.

* * *

mom
wheels
around
bumps into
things, talks about God
and how he got to be that fat
she
seems
happy
teaches Dad
how to poach the eggs
and sometimes I wish Binky had
not
found
her 'cause
God drove her crazy,
took her hands, and now she can't hug

Feature: Donna Gagnon Day 5

2009-11-19T18:10:00.000-05:00

Virginia Woolf was Frickin’ Dreaming
('a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction')

don’t give me one of those tiny little buttoned things
with the predictive text capability
I need a real keyboard, elbow room,
space where my fingers can fly
in a room of my own where
nobody can keep up with 120 words per minute
when I’m on a roll and the house is quiet and
nobody needs my ear or advice or food on the table
it’s just me and the screen and the clickety clack
of letters and words and all the screams
that I have not been given permission to let out
of my lungs or release from my heart
since I was old enough to do laundry, have sex, give birth,
type memos for old men and scrub dried pee off the bathroom floor

today
I
typed
a word
and then
the dog puked

poetic license I may have
but the personal liberty’s lacking

(who moved the bleach, dammit?)

© Donna Gagnon

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

Q&A

9. What next? More plays? More poetry? More dead voices?

Ever since my play 'Deception' was chosen for production next spring in Port Perry, ON, I've been thinking it's way past time to get another written. I've still got editing work to be done on 'Imagine', a story I wrote last fall and more bits to write for 'Various Dead Voices' ... if I didn't have to work for a living, they'd all get done a lot faster.

10. The forum you run -- The Write Idea -- does that inspire any of your work? What do you hope to achieve with it?

The Write Idea has been an online writers' haven for me since 2005. It has inspired me on many occasions and through it, I've become friends with quite a few of the other writers. We moan, we celebrate, we create, we argue, we share ... it's a great place. Since its founder, Helen Whittaker, asked Doug and I to take over the site in the spring of 2008, I've found myself stepping further and further away from my writer-persona and have become more of an administrator. It's a job I like. We run a number of writing competitions throughout the year which allows me to organize a lot of stuff and then wield my editor muscles while compiling anthologies.

We're hoping for growth over the next year. More members, more activities, a better web site.

11. Thorntons Dark Gingers? Why those? I have heard that their Cappucino Truffles are wayyy better ...

Yeah, those truffles are yummy. I wouldn't pass if you were offering a few. Those Gingers, though ... oooo, spicy, rich and complicated. Ya know, they kinda put me in mind of Leonard Cohen ...

12. And just for a giggle ... sum up your past, present and future in three stanzas of fibonnaci poetry ... (there, that'll keep her occupied for a while).

The 99-Year Fib

black
spots
on my
soul, so said
Mother Gabriel

too many sins for a small child

look --
laugh,
life full,
love-wrapped
chocolate happy

dark only comes when you choose it

swing
on
porch, glass
raised high
singing to the sun

it's been another lovely day

© Donna Gagnon

Feature: Donna Gagnon Day 4

2009-11-18T18:21:00.000-05:00

(a photo Donna took at Disney World, 1990)

Con te partirò
(Time to Say Goodbye)

Just keep sitting there. Yes. Like that. Like you always do. Passive. Waiting. When the star is ready, she will open her mouth as if to scream, move an arm carefully … like this [slash] … you will be momentarily blinded by the stage lights glaring off metal and the action will begin.

As my blood drips, staining the boards, I will hear your breath held so stupidly in check. Trust me. I know, better than you do, what needs to happen next.

My mouth will open wider, my vocal chords will tighten in the way they’ve been trained to and a sound will issue forth, filling this space with pain, heartbreak, regret and your tears will flow freely tonight.

You call me Divina. In your pedestrian memory, I am the exhilarating, brown-eyed Tosca and my heart nests in yours alone. You dream at night about my Elvira, hearing that clear, high E when you ejaculate under the sheets. You know fuck all about me. My real name, my true being, has been lost beneath all of your adulation. I have spent my life trying to please all of you out there. And I’m damned if I understand why.

I can be everyone but never myself. My life onstage is the only real thing, all else is artifice.

I could blame Jackie for my lingering depression. For bringing me to this final performance. That savage way she moved in on Ari when I needed him most … but it wasn’t her fault. He would have turned to anyone after I lost our first child and then couldn’t manage to successfully brew any more of them with him. I deserted my husband and gave myself up to another. Completely and oh so foolishly. Battista? I know you are out there and love me still. With my final breath, I will beg your forgiveness.

Yes, dear audience, this is only the first act in tonight’s opera. But it is my last. Mea culpa. Refunds may be requested at the box office.

I am feeling very weak and must now make my final exit, stage left, whispering my real name. The one none of you could ever pronounce. I am Mary Anna Kalogeropoulos..
Sogni d’oro. Good night.

© Donna Gagnon (from a collection-in-progress entitled Various Dead Voices)

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

Q&A

6. You always seem to prefer short, concise writing, almost a specialty of yours in both poetry and prose, whereas in your early pieces you wrote longer stories. Is this because you have less to say, or just say it better these days?

I look at what I wrote years ago as practice pieces. Those stories never found a market. They lacked tight focus and were too loosely structured. In 2004, I read some amazing flash fiction written by an American writer named Bob Thurber. That turned on the proverbial light bulb for me. I saw the growing market for short fiction, started paring down to essentials and editors began to accept my work for publication. I certainly don't have less to say but hope I've learned to say it with the fewest number of well-chosen words.

7. Your husband reckons the strict formula of the fibonnaci poem is an attraction for you because of your OCD tendencies. Is this true? Or does that just say something about his observational skills?

'Order' is definitely one of my favourite words. When there's too much chaos in my world, I freak out. And, since childhood, I've loved numbers. I used to count the steps ... one, two, three ... whenever I went up or down a staircase. Excel spreadsheets actually turn me on. When I read about Gregory K. Pincus and his 'new' form of poetry, it was a no-brainer that I was about to become addicted to writing Fib poems.

8. Where do you find inspiration? Is it the cause of perspiration? Your hubby says you sweat out every word ...

The things that happen to people and how they cope/react is what inspires me to write. The sweat pours when I struggle to find the right words to describe what's going on with these complicated characters in my head. The OCD thing kicks in when I write. If the words aren't right, I can't keep them. My backspace and delete keys get worn out pretty quick.

Feature: Donna Gagnon Day 3

2009-11-17T18:30:00.001-05:00

(sky over Haliburton, Ontario)

Lost

We walk slowly through the night, you and I. Holding hands tightly, sweating hard in this topsy turvy landscape of madness.

When we were young, the early autumn days were full of gentle promise, fallen leaves reflected bits of waning warmth up into our toes. Evening’s breath was cool and refreshing. Midnight would often find us immersed up to our necks in lake water as comforting as a bath. That liquid’s now all boiled away and we step carefully over the widening cracks in the earth. I do not know where we are going.

The polar bears have become extinct. They could not travel quickly enough as the ice melted. Your face resembles the dry land we traverse and I am thirsty.

Tonight, when we sleep, I will dream of rain and shine. I will turn and tuck myself against you, in the hope that you are also remembering the world we used to share. And when we are nearly awake, I will pray to a God that never existed that clouds will have returned to the sky and that we will be blessed by a change in season. And I will pray that you have brought a map.

© Donna Gagnon

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

Q&A

4. 'Con te partiro' is a powerful piece. Now, though you don't boast about it, you were a trained opera singer too. Did this help in your empathy for the character?

A lovely ex-opera singer gave me lessons for a few years. Not sure that makes me a trained opera singer! I do love voices, though, and have always found talented and tortured artists to be extremely fascinating. Perhaps that fascination is due to envy. The road I've taken in life thus far is the 'safe' one ... work, marriage, children. Part of me thinks I'd rather be bohemian, living in a cold garret and focusing only on producing great works of art. That's most likely not going to happen so I write imaginary stories about people who did live that way.

5. I have heard that you like to listen to the dull groan of Leonard Cohen while you write. Doesn't this really depress you and lead to fraught emotional situations in your writing? Ever considered writing to the jollity of say the chicken song to conjure something light and frivolous perhaps?

The Chicken Dance? C'mon, that's just silly. I'll dance to it at a wedding and laugh my fool head off but could never in a million years use it for background music while I'm writing. I need Leonard's sexy poetry and rhythms or songs by The Tragically Hip, Blue Rodeo, Joan Baez, and Jacques Brel to spur on my words.

Feature: Donna Gagnon Day 2

2009-11-16T18:30:00.005-05:00

(Donna and her dad, 1958)

My Dad

a soft brown teddy bear and a
green crocheted blanket
are the only real things
in this hospital room

oh yeah
my dad’s in the bed
but the man in that bed
has never been real

not to me

he never said

never looked at me that way

never touched me lightly

I got his toughness
he taught me how to smoke and drink

and play cards and stay out all night

I got his temper
he taught me anger and how to put on the gloves and smack

without damaging my hands

when he’s dead
I want my bear and my blanket
back

© Donna Gagnon

(appeared in Issue 201 of Bewildering Stories http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue201/index.html)

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Q&A

1. Your choices of writing for this week and your biography cover quite a range. Do you think of yourself as versatile, or do you tend to get bored with a certain genre, like plays, and move on?

I'm definitely versatile (you should see my work resume!). But I wouldn't say I get bored easily. I relish challenges and am always looking for the next one.

2. Who influences your work? I know you're a fan of Timothy Findley. Do you try to emulate him in any way ... or other people for that matter? Your husband is obviously a lunatic, does he influence you in any way?

Timothy Findley is my literary hero. He was one of the nicest people I've ever met and a real inspiration, not only through his writing, but through the way he lived and encouraged other authors. I don't think I emulate him in my writing, although I definitely hear his 'voice' frequently and hope that I treat others as kindly as he did. The most important things I've learned from reading Findley's work is: pay attention ... always ... and write about what is most deeply personal to people.

The very first thing I ever wrote (when I was 12 years old) was an obvious knock-off of a Nancy Drew book. I don't think I've done anything like that since.

My husband, the lunatic, is the only person in the world who can effectively peel me off the ceiling and pin my feet to the floor when I go off on one of my frequent emotional whirls. He and I met through an online writers' forum and I will be forever grateful to MSN Messenger and Skype for allowing us to talk daily for three years while we tried to figure out how to be together in one place. Doug and I are very different kinds of writers. Words pour out of him (novels, for heaven's sake) while my writing proceeds always at a snail's pace. It's good that we're both different in oh so many ways. We complement and encourage each other. One day, maybe I'll even be able to teach him how to edit and punctuate.

3. The poem 'My Dad' ... is that really based on your father?

'My Dad' was written many years after my father passed away. He was a challenging person. We had one of those intense and distressing father/daughter relationships that happen between stubborn people. He's been gone for eight years now and I often find myself examining what went down between the two of us. The blanket (and the teddy bear) in that poem were real. I gave them to him when he was dying in the hospital. At the time, I thought they would give him comfort. In retrospect, the person who needed the comfort was me.

Feature: Donna Gagnon Day 1

2009-11-15T17:28:00.004-05:00

This week we welcome Donna Gagnon to our family of talented writers and artists. Donna and her husband Doug Pugh (already part of the *Mnemosyne* family) are both fountains of creativity. Doug has provided in depth interview questions for Donna's feature. Join us as we get to know her this week.

Welcome to *Mnemosyne*, Donna!

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BIO

Donna Gagnon (a born and bred Canadian) lives in a bright blue and yellow house in a small northern Ontario town. She writes poetry, short fiction and plays. Her work appears at The Fib Review, SmokeLong, Every Day Poets, Short Story Library, Rumble, Bewildering Stories, Pen Pricks Microfiction, Smokebox, Wingspan Quarterly, Twisted Tongue, Gold Dust Magazine, in Gatto Publishing's Short StoriEs e-anthology and in three anthologies published by The Write Idea. A collection of interlinking prose poems, Two Double Beds in a Comfort Hotel, appears in New Writings in the Fantastic, edited by John Grant (aka Paul Barnett), published by Pendragon Press. Her one act play, Deception, was presented at the Toronto Fringe Festival in 2005. This play was recently chosen #1 out of 35 entries by Borelians Community Theatre, Port Perry, Ontario and will be produced during their first-ever Canadian Play Festival in May 2010.

With her husband, Doug Pugh, Donna co-administers the international online writers' forum The Write Idea and co-edits TheRightEyedDeer, a quarterly literary ezine. She thinks regrets are pointless but does wish she'd brought back WAY more Thorntons Dark Gingers from England in 2007.

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(photo taken in Churchill, Manitoba by Donna's daughter, Gillian Ottley)

Notes Scribbled on the Back of the New York Times, September 12, 2001

once
this
heart was
spongy soft
pomegrante red
sweet with healthy juice, fortitude

and
once …
(yesterday)
this muscle
trembled with hopeful
anticipation, knowing that

once
your
plane landed
we could laugh
beats would synchronize
tucked together, we’d save the world

the
phone
rang once
you told me
there was no power
left, no way to kill the bastards
once
this
evil
had taken
hold in the air, clouds
of angels descended, but they
could
not
stop you
or Satan
or anyone else
from this inexplicable fall
from
grace
into
grassy fields
splattered with wings and
blood and all of God’s intentions

once
this
heart was
full of you
now it is empty
waiting for the pain
to
be
erased
negated

… tell me it’s a dream …

by words from somewhere
that I can hear above this roar
of
rage
as I
read the Times

once upon a time

our hearts were immaculately
pure
safe
open
trusting but
that was yesterday
today, all is smouldering ash
that
will
soon choke
everyone
unless you come back
so we can start over again

© Donna Gagnon

(appears in Issue 3 of The Fib Review http://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/issue3/index.html)

Ernest Williamson III's Feature Links

2009-11-14T16:29:00.004-05:00

Ernest's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro / Bio / Poem: "Voices From The Quickening Quicksand" / Artwork: "The Wonderment of Creative Power"

Day 2
Poem: "The Impatient Lover" / Artwork: "A Lady of Preparation" / Q&A

Day 3
Poem: "Spilled Mattering" / Artwork: "Lady of Pulchritude" / Q&A

Day 4
Poem: "The Gray Areas Between You & Me" / Artwork: "The Giving of Genius" / Q&A

Day 5
Poem: A Seeping Sense of Communion" / Artwork: "The Professor" / Q&A

Day 6
Poem: " Today, Afternoon & After Class" / Artwork: "African American Pregnant Actuality" / Q&A

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Find Ernest elsewhere on the net:

http://www.lulu.com/content/640601

http://www.yessy.com/budicegenius/

Feature: Ernest Williamson III Day 6

2009-11-13T18:30:00.000-05:00

Today, Afternoon & After Class

spilled along the chalk board
were your letters
hints of hemlock
stained the garrulous feud
frozen
in gray marble
beneath my feet
students were transfixed
like inward taste buds
accustomed to numbness
as whenever the teacher
uttered
words
salient expressions,
built with alacrity
smoothly
yet irregularly
along
faces
dead faces,
moved with faint pulses
for the sake of something
beyond
bland
something
captive
like Africa
today
afternoon
and after
class

© Ernest Williamson III

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Q&A

Q: How do you deal with writer's block?

A: I don’t deal with it. I don’t get writer’s block.

Q: How has poetry changed your life?

A: Poetry has revealed to me what truly makes me more than just an entity with an uncertain lifespan. Poetry reveals the pulses of mind and spirit.

Q: What advice would you give beginning poets/writers?

A: Write with a passion and DO NOT let rejection letters discourage you from writing. All writers get rejection letters.

Q: What makes your writing unique?

A: My writing is unique because I am unique. Every person is unique in terms of physicality, mentality, and spirituality.

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African American Pregnant Actuality © Ernest Williamson III

Feature: Ernest Williamson III Day 5

2009-11-12T18:38:00.005-05:00

A Seeping Sense of Communion

I've layered the lush lavender soap for you
and the wine is cold and resting
like our inventions
aside our water-bed
your smile now
is my delight
as I marvel at your listless look in gray silk cloth
but I cry because of what I have not
my body is a corpus until a sloth
my wrinkles dance with serendipity
and my heart fades into death
every other anxious thought
voices seep into my marrow
molesting it
trying to rip my honesty
to ash and silence
all that aside
I want you to take this glass
and this wine
and this bread
do these things
as they were done
so long ago
past,
present,
and
future

© Ernest Williamson III

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Q&A

Q: When did you first have an interest in poetry?

A: Poetry has been an interest of mine since age 10.

Q: What is your writing process?

A: I write poetry when I’m urged to do so. I tend to listen to Gregorian Chant when I write poetry.

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The Professor © Ernest Williamson III

Feature: Ernest Williamson III Day 4

2009-11-11T18:31:00.003-05:00

The Gray Areas Between You & Me

splattered treble clefts
left in A minor
major chords
left to the kiss of yesteryear
have dallied in the waste
of forced rhythm
rhyme
is
time
elevated with galosh
in other words
next to these
shadows
remnants
of B
flats
bulging
with melody
for well-wishers
of piano paint
black, white, and
red
with being read
through translation
I know not
what I mean
though hands are
held
frequently
between
you
and
me

© Ernest Williamson III

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Q&A

Q: How do you define poetry?

A: Poetry is the organization of unconscious nonsense.

Q: Tell us something about yourself that not many people know about you.

A: I’m single and looking! Hello ladies!! LOL!

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The Giving of Genius © Ernest Williamson III

Feature: Ernest Williamson III Day 3

2009-11-10T18:10:00.003-05:00

Spilled Mattering

there are woven gray tapestries
aligned with malt and insecurity
amongst the collective banter
breathing upon me
I've survived the shackles
the inveterate
blood
posing
on the ground
before and after the election
of Obama
poetry
left in a ruddy cup of purity
is a lie
a festering boil
posing
as a balm
blanched
like a confused
Afro
or like a budding beard
reaching for sunlight
a warmth
a cover
to mast the trading
sins
lingering
in the bow of a careless
ship
be it Amistad
or in the ignored
souls
swimming above
and beneath
fettered
ground.

© Ernest Williamson III

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Q&A

Q: How does music influence your art/writing?

A: It doesn’t influence my visual art or poetry. Music is a whole other world for me. My creative endeavors are like separate rooms to a house.

Q: What makes you passionate about teaching?

A: I am an English Professor and I love my students more... so when they show signs of progress during a semester and beyond.

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Lady of Pulchritude © Ernest Williamson III

Feature: Ernest Williamson III Day 2

2009-11-09T18:28:00.006-05:00

The Impatient Lover

I don't know you
even though the rain stopped last night
and melded with the dew of the morning
like love
unlike love
it's still an unknown variable
lying in wicked
contortions
twigs
with hints
of fading green
moss
delightful to see
but love
definitely
more than
one time
a few days ago
earlier today.....

© Ernest Williamson III

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Q&A

Q: When did you start painting?

A: I began painting at the age of 19; however, my 2nd grade art teacher recently told me that I always had talent. I didn’t see it! When I was 12, I drew a picture entitled “Filling His Shoes”. The painting was about how difficult it would be to fill Magic Johnson’s shoes after he retired from the game of basketball. I appreciated it, but one of my classmates couldn’t even make sense of the drawing, and he laughed at it.

Q: Does your painting influence your writing or does your writing influence your painting?

A: No and No.

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A Lady of Preparation © Ernest Williamson III

Feature: Ernest Williamson III Day 1

2009-11-08T17:54:00.006-05:00

We would like to welcome this week's artist/poet, Ernest Williamson III. He offers us a mixture of his own paintings and poetry this week. We think you will enjoy his offerings.

Welcome, Ernest! It is an honor to feature you this week. :-)

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Voices From The Quickening Quicksand

spin from the wayward watchmen
the tyrants of yesteryear
who bludgeon Black men with
large schemes
delaying dreams
in the seams of America's promise
unknown though frequently digested
like wasteful air
good and bad
so why thrive or
pretend to leap above the dull minds of the East and West
united in print
yet torn and bleeding
in minds unaffected
as the black skins
encasing them
wither with the seasons
annulled
until the harvest
of a growing lily
mature and healthy
for the world
from a world
there and here
though lasting
awhile too short
in a hymnal
of shame

© Ernest Williamson III

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BIO

Ernest Williamson III is a 32 year old polymath who has published poetry and visual art in over 200 online and print journals. He is a self-taught pianist, painter and PhD Candidate at Seton Hall University. Buy his latest book "Sword" at this link http://www.lulu.com/content/640601
and visit his gallery at http://www.yessy.com/budicegenius/

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The Wonderment of Creative Power © Ernest Williamson III

S. Thomas Summers's Feature Links

2009-11-07T18:30:00.001-05:00

S. Thomas's Links

Day 1
Intro / Bio / Poem: "Eden's Fangs"

Day 2
Poem: "Second Coming" / Q&A

Day 3
Poem: "First Memories" / Q&A

Day 4
Poem: "And I am Made Small / Q&A

Day 5
Poem: "Bad Kids" / Q&A

Day 6
Poem: "And Fame I'll Covet Not" / Q&A

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Find S. Thomas elsewhere on the net:

The Lint in My Pocket

Feature: S. Thomas Summers Day 6

2009-11-06T18:30:00.000-05:00

And Fame I’ll Covet Not

for my boy

Is this the poem I’ll be known for?
Must it detail the death of a pregnant deer
and the ravine that becomes her grave?
Or should it capture the toils of silent spiders,
their silk gently threading moments to memory?
All I possess now – anticipation.
Soon, we’ll splash through pools of deep shade,
crouch behind tree trunks like children
cowered behind God’s legs – but we’ll spring
when light trickles through tangled boughs,
dabbing our skin with warmth. And then,
as if sparked by fire, we’ll dash around beech
and maple as quickly as frightened squirrels.
You’ll dare me to catch you. These bones shall try.

© S Thomas Summers

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Q&A

Q: How do you deal with writer's block?

A: Never had it. I write. Every day, I write. If I have a block to overcome, that block is time. I possess small quantities of free time. Therefore, writing takes place at unusual times: in between classes, driving to and from school, playing with my son, laughing with my daughter, holding my wife’s hands. I’m always writing. I just don’t always have a pen in my hand.

Q: What advice would you give beginning poets/writers?

A: Write, write, and write. Don’t stop. Don’t doubt. Write. Look for what everyone sees, but fails to notice. That’s where you’ll find poetry. Look again, and poetry will begin to find you.

Feature: S. Thomas Summers Day 5

2009-11-05T18:30:00.001-05:00

Bad Kids

step off school grounds, cross the street,
and loiter in the shade of ash trees – puppies
crowding against a mother’s belly, scraping
for milk and warmth. They lip cigarettes
like teats, spew smoke against caterpillars
hidden between wrinkles of bark, laughing
as each worm curls around its death. They walk
in the rain, wed to apathy, drag its stones –
tin cans behind a limousine. They need
these streets to hear their clatter. Noise –
all they possess. Morning brings its light,
spews its reminders as bad kids, hidden between
wrinkles of linen, curl around their deaths.

© S Thomas Summers

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Q&A

Q: Where does your inspiration come from?

A: Where doesn’t it come from? In find inspiration hidden under a fallen leaf, in the well of a coffee cup, in the wrinkled skin of an old tree. Poetry is everywhere. It simply asks to be noticed. Look. Inspiration follows.

Q: Share with us an experience that has enriched your writing/poetry/creativity.

A: Breathing. Living. All things enrich. Each moment is a savored spice. Windows are key. Sometime, I stand at a near a window, fixing my eyes at something seemingly insignificant – and I stare. Soon, poetry begins to seep into my vision.

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emrah's cousin by baÅ?ak from Flickr.com

Feature: S. Thomas Summers Day 4

2009-11-04T18:03:00.003-05:00

And I Am Made Small

A toad capping the stone
beneath the birdbath like a verdant
dollop of cream fails to share its name.
Its eyes, bubbles within bubbles,

fix on something above me:
black ant scaling the house’s shingles,
thin branch bobbing, having released
its burden-sparrow. A toad turns

from me into the weed –
the thin line of its mouth,
its skin speckled like stone.
For the first time today, I am alone.

© S Thomas Summers

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Q&A
Q: How do you define poetry?

A: Poetry is a process: looking, seeking, wondering, feeling, discovering, losing, tasting, sweating…it allows me to develop a keener appreciation of breath. The more I experience, the more I witness, the more I write. As I write, I experience and witness more. It’s a cycle I never hope to escape.

Q: Tell us something about yourself that not many people know about you.

A: Often, I daydream that I am Superman. Clouds taste good. I also hope that my students’ children might one day write a research paper on the poetry of S. Thomas Summers. Ever hear of him?

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Toad by Jen Pezzo

Feature: S. Thomas Summers Day 3

2009-11-03T19:13:00.005-05:00

First Memories

1

A beige bowl heavy
with cottage cheese
and a dollop of grape jelly.
A strange, solemn eye.
On a counter speckled gold,
it considers me.

2

Daddy wears his gold bars,
his fancy hat with an eagle.
A gray-blue ship takes him away.
He waves with the other men.
The air feels thick
like the air above my bath.
Tastes like pretzels.

3

A bird – frantic
in the fireplace.
Its wings bat against
a chain curtain
separating my afternoon
nap from its prison.
I stash scarlet
feathers in my Bible.

© S Thomas Summers

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Q&A

Q:
How have comic books influenced your writing?

A:
Comic books were my first adventures, my first escapes. I still enjoy sinking into a comic book: Superman, Batman, etc. I also love wielding a light-saber, piloting a starship, and running through a jungle with Indiana Jones.

Q:
Name your three favorite pieces of literature and why.

A:
Frankenstein – I wept for a monster. In doing so, I decided not to become an accountant and became a literature lover and teacher.

The Hobbit – I am Bilbo Baggins. We all are. I am nobody, the quiet one who can do great things. I can fly, gripped in an eagle’s talons, and chat with a dragon. Guess that means I can do anything.

The Bible – I have a tremendous faith in Jesus Christ. He is my father, my brother, my friend. Spending time in the Bible is spending time with father, brother, and friend.

Feature: S. Thomas Summers Day 2

2009-11-02T18:30:00.000-05:00

photo © S Thomas Summers

Second Coming

Rain moves across the yard with the patience
of shade. Near the shed, grass blades resign
themselves to the coming shadow, tucking their
heads into a cool dark that fogs the air above
root and earth. If I place my ear to the ground,
listen to their whispers, neighbors would stare,
command children to drop favorite toys and hide
in the still air of bedroom closets – but each blade
beneath me stiffens, reaching for the warmth
of my thoughts: soon the trumpets of Zion will sound,
clouds will swirl, curling in the wake of angels.

© S Thomas Summers

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Q&A

Q:
What makes you passionate about teaching?

A:
It makes me feel like a kid again. Diving into a poem, a story – it’s like diving into adventure. As a teacher, I get to take a classroom full of students on that adventure. It’s a tremendous rush. Believe it or not, most of my students want to share that adventure with me – even a bigger rush.

Q:
What is the one thing you want your students to walk away with, if they learn nothing else from you?

A:
I hope that every now and then each one of my students will get an urge to open a book. Then, and this is vanity speaking, I hope they all wonder what Summers would have said about it.

Feature: S. Thomas Summers Day 1

2009-11-01T18:28:00.000-05:00

Please welcome this week's feature, S. Thomas Summers. We think you will like his offerings this week. If you get the chance, you will want to check out his blog (listed in his bio below) as well.

Welcome to *Mnemosyne*, S. Thomas Summers!

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S. Thomas Summers

- Teacher of English: Wayne Hills High School -
- Adjunct Professor: Passaic County Community College
- Author of Death Settled Well and Rather, It Should Shine
- English/Literature Education Workshop Leader

Web Address: www.thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com

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Eden’s Fangs

I’ve been meaning to build a nest
in your hair, map your body’s contours.
The bedroom floor needs a blanket
of soft earth. How else will we cool
the skin between our toes? Let’s
wet the sheets with sweat, spread
our seeds. Gardens grow. Vines twist
about bedposts. Flowers spread their
silks – pestles as alluring as Eden’s fangs.
Lay with me, until the sun tears,
with a sigh declares us banished.

© S Thomas Summers

Hiatus 10/25/09-10/31/09

2009-10-24T08:53:00.003-04:00

spider web by Jen Pezzo

Unfortunately we need to extend our hiatus another week while Jen recovers from the swine flu. All features have been moved back by one week. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

In the meantime, if you have missed any of our past features please feel free to peruse our archives. Links to our past features are on the right hand side. We also have a wonderful list of poetry and blog websites that we highly recommend.

Hope to see you all back next week for our next feature, S. Thomas Summers. He is a high school teacher of writing and literature as well as an adjunct writing professor in NJ. We think you will enjoy his offerings next week. :-)

Hope everyone stays healthy during the flu season!

Hiatus 10/18/09-10/24//09

2009-10-18T18:31:00.001-04:00

*Mnemosyne* will be on Hiatus this week to get reorganized, caught up and a bit ahead for the upcoming holidays. Thanks for your patience. Have a great week!

Heather Schmidt's Feature Links

2009-10-17T18:30:00.000-04:00

Heather's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro / Bio / Self Portrait / Poem: "Paper Dragons"

Day 2
Poem: "Bat's Lovesong to the Moon' / Artwork/ Q&A

Day 3
Poem: "Backyard Kingdoms" / Artwork/ Q&A

Day 4
Poem: "Chasing Lou Hoover" / Artwork/ Q&A

Day 5
Poem: "il piu nell' uno" / Artwork / Q&A

Day 6
Song: Dreaming with Angels / Info on Heather's current and future projects

Feature: Heather Ann Schmidt Day 6

2009-10-16T18:30:00.002-04:00

Heather leaves us with a song this week. You will love her gorgeous voice!

It has been a pleasure having you as a feature this week, Heather! We will certainly keep track of what you are up to in the future. :-)

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Dreaming with Angels

© Heather Ann Schmidt

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More info about Heather and where you can find her elsewhere on the internet:

Heather Ann Schmidt is a singer and songwriter in addition to being a poet. Her first EP, Crushed Dandelions was released on ITunes last year. Her latest EP, Early Snow, will be out later this year. You can find out more about her music at http://www.myspace/tinfoildresses

Heather is the founder of Recycled Karma Press, a publisher of ecoconscious books made out of 100% recycled materials produced by hand in limited quantities. E books are also available for free on the website:

http://www.recycledkarmapress.synthasite.com

Heather also is the editor of tinfoildresses poetry journal, an online and print journal that just celebrated its one year anniversary:

http://www.tinfoildresses.synthasite.com

Heather has two upcoming readings:

Lix and Kix in Lakewood Ohio at Bela Dubby on December 15th, 2009.

Snoetry, Wordsmith Book Shoppe in North East, PA on January 16th, 2010.

Feature: Heather Ann Schmidt Day 5

2009-10-15T17:58:00.003-04:00

il piu nell' uno

Emerson said that the Italians define beauty as the many in one.

It is the layers human lives fold over one another

that create the flowers,

the light--

and when a petal falls, its color, scent are slightly muted
because it has become unconnected.

© Heather Ann Schmidt

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Q&A

10. Who are your writing influences and what was it about them that inspired you?

Frank Montesonti is my biggest influence, I studied under him at National University. His writing puts a microscope on the ordinary so that his readers see the world in new colors that there are no names for. There is really no way to describe what it is about his writing that gets to me--it just makes me want to write.

I am also heavily influenced by Lucia Perillo, Sharon Olds, Frank Bidart and Rainer Maria Rilke.
In Rilke's book Letters to a Young Poet , he has this quote about writing that says it all:
A work of art is good if it is sprung from necessity. In this nature of its origin lies the judgment of it: there is no other. Therefore, my dear sir, I know no advice for you save this: to go into yourself and test the deeps in which your life takes rise; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create....For the creator must be a world for himself and find everything in himself and in Nature to whom he has attached himself. (Rilke, 17)

11. How has poetry changed your life?

It has saved my life because it heals me from the inside out.

12. What advice would you give beginning poets/writers?

READ EVERYTHING!

13. What impact do you think online social forums have had for artists, writers and musicians? (positive, negative, etc...?)

As wonderful impact because writers from all over the world can come together and share their work.

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© Heather Ann Schmidt

Feature: Heather Ann Schmidt Day 4

2009-10-14T18:30:00.001-04:00

Chasing Lou Hoover

I am surrounded by
Tientsin land mines and
20-something girls
in shift dresses
whispering across the atrium at the DIA.
Acoustics aren't backing up lip reading.

Lou Hoover, is on the screen
in her linen tea dress, crackling.
Strong arms hold the umbrella up.

And I am down here
reciting poetry to
astronomers and geologists
who can't decide whether
we come from stars
or if Gamma Ray Bursts
are close enough to burn Earth.

What is a woman?

Self taught Mandarin and the ability to shoot a riﬂe?

or drinking coffee with angels
who see heroin turning their veins
bluer then ﬂat...

we all collapse sometimes...

Simone de Bouvier and Sartre
always missing each other on trains.
Parchment letters about the
menage et trois from last night,
berths hiding masturbation.

I'm running through the mine ﬁeld
in dotted swiss,
Lou Hoover's voice booming down:
keep running and donʼt look back.

Walk like a lady, Heather.
My mother and the white debutante dress
that doesn’t quite ﬁt.

I don't use handkerchiefs or
keep them in my purse.

It's 1899 and I get
on the boat to China.
I've packed enough linen and bullets.

© Heather Ann Schmidt

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Q&A

6. What bookstores/poetry venues do you recommend in the Detroit area? (We know you can't name ALL of them; just give us two or three!)

My favorite book store is Crazy Wisdom in Ann Arbor. I also love John King Books in Detroit--it has, like, nine floors of every kind of book imaginable!

7. If you had to choose one specific font to express who you are, which font would it be?

Mona Lisa

8. When did you first have an interest in poetry?

When I was seven and we read it in school. I loved the sounds of the words when I heard them.

9. What is your writing process?

Music and poetry are very connected for me. I usually always have some sort of music on when I am writing--Joni Mitchell, Innocence Mission, Led Zeppelin, or Swell Season--music fuels my spirit. Also, I read a ton of poetry on a regular basis. I gained this habit from my mentor, Frank Montesonti, who told me that reading poetry fuels writing. He is right!

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Feature: Heather Ann Schmidt Day 3

2009-10-13T18:20:00.006-04:00

Backyard Kingdoms

1.
My daughter chases
toads down our driveway, catching them
& they climb up her
forearms-- initiation
into her backyard kingdom.

2.
My son creates art
under a stand of pine trees--
twigs, leaves and needles
become tall buildings, creatures
chasing him into the wind.

© Heather Ann Schmidt

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Q&A

3. Do you favor one school of haiku (i.e. modern or traditional) over the other, and if so, why?

I don't have a favorite--I love it all. There is as much brilliance in Issa's haiku about nature as there is in Kerouac's American haiku.

4. What turned you on to bats, as is evidenced by your soon-to-be-published Crisis Chronicles chapbook: "The Bat's Lovesong: American Haiku".

In my studies of Zen poetry and learning Mandarin, I researched a lot about the Chinese perspective on things such as bats and fell in love with the idea that most things considered evil in the West are lovely and sacred in the East. Bats are considered symbols of fortune and happiness. Also I think they are romantic because of the fact that male bats woo their loves by singing intricate and complex songs. This world is a fascinating place and is filled with poems waiting to be discovered!

5. You've had several chapbooks and collections published- how involved do you like to be in the editorial process, and how do you choose your publishers? I.E., what made you choose Crisis Chronicles Press for your most recent chapbook?

I am not very hands on with all the editorial stuff because I trust the publisher. I have had my artwork used for the covers of most of my books, so I get involved in that way. As for why I chose Crisis Chronicles--that's easy--John Burroughs is brilliant and takes tremendous care with poetry he comes into contact with. Also, he really understands my work and it is an honor to work with him.

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Feature: Heather Ann Schmidt Day 2

2009-10-12T18:17:00.006-04:00

artwork © Heather Ann Schmidt

Bat's Love Song to the Moon

As you kissed me goodnight,
bats left their houses
and flew toward the moon

and their breeze came down:
whirring,
two blades of grass bending toward one another.

© Heather Ann Schmidt

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Q&A

1. If you could invite any 5 persons, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would they be, and why?

I would invite His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, Lou Henry Hoover, John Lennon, Bono, and Jack Kerouac. There are two reasons. First, I think it would be fascinating to see the interplay between them. Last, I have such admiration for the bravery and stance for peace that the Dalai Lama, Lou Hoover, John Lennon and Bono have displayed in their lives. As for Jack Kerouac...I just love his philosophy about writing and think he would liven up everything.

2. What poem or poet piqued your initial interest in haiku?

I heard an interview with poet and professor, Lucien Stryk and immediately fell in love with the idea of Zen poetry. Stryk has a lovely translation of Basho's haiku called On Love and Barley that everyone should read!

Here is the interview:

http://www.poetrypoetry.com/Features/LucienStryk/LucienStryk.html

Feature: Heather Ann Schmidt Day 1

2009-10-11T18:30:00.001-04:00

We would like to welcome the multi-talented Heather Ann Schmidt to the *Mnemosyne* family this week. I was lucky enough to meet Heather in person recently at the Autumn Moon Festival event that Christina Brooks emceed a week or so ago. Heather has an extraordinary voice for reading and singing. Her poetry and art are gorgeous. We know you will enjoy her offerings this week.

This week's interview questions are provided by our good friend and supporter, Dianne Borsenik. Dianne is a past feature of ours and the co-emcee of Lix and Kix where Heather will be one of the feature readers in December.

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self portrait © Heather Ann Schmidt

BIO

Heather Ann Schmidt is an adjunct professor at Oakland Community College. She edits tinfoildresses poetry journal and is the publisher for recycled karma press . Her poems can be found in various online and print journals. Her chapbook, Channeling Isadora Duncan, was recently released from Gold Wake Press. She also has a full collection of poems forthcoming from Village Green Press and a chapbook: The Bat's Lovesong: American Haiku, coming out in November 2009 from Crisis Chronicles Press.. She received her MFA from National University. To find out more visit http://www.heatherannschmidt.synthasite.com

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Paper Dragons

You are cherry blossoms
spilled all around me
in the middle of winter

and when you move in me
I become the paper dragon
during Chinese New Year--

red and fire and gold thread
brocading my spirit,
dressing me in silk.

My cries of joy
reach up to the constellations
and come back down
showering firecrackers all over these streets...

yes when you move in me,
I become the part of the universe

before questions were born,
before sadness came to visit.

© Heather Ann Schmidt

Tim Buck's Feature Links

2009-10-10T18:30:00.000-04:00

Tim's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro/Bio/ Song: "When I Fell"

Day 2
Song: 10,000 Girls / Q&A

Day 3
Song: Spirits / Q&A

Day 4
Song: Diamond in the Rough / Q&A

Day 5
Song: Just a Scream / Q&A

Day 6
Song: Retro Rails / Q&A

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Find Tim elsewhere on the net:

The Gothic Rangers
My Dripping Brain
Facebook

Feature: Tim Buck Day 6

2009-10-09T18:30:00.002-04:00

Tim offers up one last song for the last day of his feature and more interview questions from Nabina Das. If you've missed any of his feature so far, you'll want to go back and catch up on some good music.

Tim, we have enjoyed having you as a feature very much this week - what a treat! Thank you so much for sharing your fun music and awesome lyrics with us. We look forward to hearing more from you in the future. :-)

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Retro Rails

I wish there were a train I could ride,
a locomotive wheeling back in time.
A determined engineer and a stoker of desire
to shovel all my regrets in the furnace fire.

I think that it must have a plush smoking car.
I'll puff on anticipation's long cigar.
A porter to call out each lost town's past.
A loud whistle blowin', steamin' out a passion blast.

Gathering speed, we'll go in reverse many miles.
Gathering speed, the caboose will lead the file.
Gathering speed, we'll hit the station round midnight.
I'll disembark on cobbled streets lit up by dream light.

Retro rails, throwin' bright sparks.
Retro rails, runnin' from my heart.
Retro rails, layin' down tracks,
a-curvin' space-time front-to-back.
Retro rails, a-leadin' to her.
Retro Rails, hear that engine purr.
Retro rails, burnin' fairy coal,
a-takin' me toward my goal.

I will buy my ticket from an agent at the desk.
He will smile at my destination request.
I'll conjure him up so everything will be complete.
Soon, I'll dream of her in my upholstered seat.

On the platform, I'll purchase an enchanted bouquet.
I hope when I present it, the fragrance will amaze.
I hope it will remind her of me from time's Möbius loop.
The pollen of forget-me-nots might prompt her to approve.

Gathering speed, I almost see her face so fair.
Gathering speed, a dark-red rose is in her hair.
Gathering speed, she's reading beatnik poetry.
Gathering speed, I'll ask her to enlighten me.

Retro rails, throwin' bright sparks.
Retro rails, runnin' from my heart.
Retro rails, layin' down tracks,
a-curvin' space-time front-to-back.
Retro rails, a-leadin' to her.
Retro Rails, hear that engine purr.
Retro rails, burnin' fairy coal,
a-takin' me toward my goal.

I won't be too old nor she too young.
Her wild heartstrings will still be unstrung.
I hope my one chance this night won't be for naught.
I hope that she will fall for me in my thoughts.

We will ride the carouseling creatures.
We'll laugh on seahorses with pastel features.
I will reach out shyly to hold her hand.
I hope to be redeemed in midnight-special land.

A strange moon will hover in dark velvet sky.
She'll walk me to the train now geared for forward drive.
One gentle kiss I think she would me allow,
before I board and head back to the here and now.

Retro rails, throwin' bright sparks.
Retro rails, a-woundin' my heart.
Retro rails, everything a blur,
returnin' things to what they were.
Retro rails, leavin' her behind.
Retro rails, a train in my mind.
Retro rails, stretchin' out her kiss,
a-takin' me from the one I miss.

Music & Lyrics © Tim Buck

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Q&A

10. What are your thoughts on experimenting with or creating music that was absolutely a new discipline for you -- like Australian Aboriginal music, Indian Classical tradition or Tibetan Monastic chants?

It would come out as a garbled monster. I'm too saturated with American and British rock music to ever be able to break into such new creative space. It would end up as a synthesis. Dang, Nabina, you picked some dandies there, didn't you? Aboriginal, Indian, Tibetan. A mad scientist would have to completely rewire my brain before I could enter those subtle musical worlds and make creative use of them. Oh, one type of music I'm drawn to and would like to learn is Hungarian-style gypsy music. Maybe I could play tambourine or something. :)

11. If you had to pick a contemporary poet for setting her/his work to music, who would it be?

Hmm...that's another astonishing question. I think you should replace James Lipton on the Actors Studio, when he retires. :) I don't keep up with and am not familiar with the big-name contemporary poets. A poet I know on Facebook is Connie Stadler, and I think she's on her way to becoming a big-time poet. Her work is so good, so striking. I would pick her. Besides the stunning vocabulary energizing her poems, she has an evocative “voice.” And she doesn't write in a single emotional furrow. She's not monochromatic. One poem will have a certain theme and “coloration,” and the next will be completely different. That opens up a wide field for musical inspiration. My daughter has remarked that so many of my songs are different from one another. So, I feel a natural affinity for that aspect of Connie's poetry. Though you will be assured that every poem of hers is infused with quality, you'll never know what the next one will be like. I think she has a deep heart and a complex, wide-ranging mind. I'm not sure I would be successful in setting her actual words to music. But, yeah, I'd pick her...maybe I could conjure some guitar chords and a melody for one of her poems. Having said that, I still think poems are different creatures than songs. Maybe an instrumental based on one of her poems would be best. And here's how I would do it: I would hum a melody and its variations into a recorder (after patterning out a rhythm guitar background) and then let Robin bounce off my zombie moaning...take it into those special, eccentric worlds he conjures up on lead guitar.

12. Which singer/songwriter/poet is your greatest inspiration? If it is Bob Dylan and Beethoven, you may name another and tell us why they are important.

Dylan and Beethoven are in another dimension. I could never make use of them for creative production. They are both too far beyond me. But they remain personal inspirations. Dylan for his astonishing lyrics and tunes...his not caring what anyone thinks about what he comes up with. Beethoven for his perseverance through emotional injury and for his music, which is the greatest music the world will ever know.

As far as inspirations for making my own music, I have to cite the melodic emphasis of the early Beatles and all those crazy-rockin' garage and roots bands of the sixties. I just can't zero in on a particular person whose style inspires or even energizes my output. I suppose in a way, I'm old enough to be my own inspiration. I was trying to write songs at the same time those early garage bands were emerging. I've been writing songs ever since, creating my own eccentric genre and answering to my own strange muses.

But this reminds me of something. Just the other day, I rediscovered Doug Kershaw, who I really liked 30 or 40 years ago. But I lost track of him. I found on YouTube what appears to be a fairly recent performance of him doing his song “Diggy Liggy Lo.” Blew me away. I posted it on my Facebook page, and I can't stop listening to it. I've heard no new song in well over a year that comes close to that wonderful chestnut. Its primal exuberance, its dancing swing, and its simple melody set it apart from today's too-knowing cool and dark, electronic pretentiousness. So the aesthetic of Kershaw inspires me to keep future songs simple, direct, and toe-tapping.

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Find Tim elsewhere on the net:

The Gothic Rangers
My Dripping Brain
Facebook

Feature: Tim Buck Day 5

2009-10-08T18:14:00.003-04:00

The Scream by Edvard Munch (in the public domain for US)
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Just a Scream

Hey, did you hear that the world has no intrinsic soul

Just an emulsion of gravity and strings

Just a blind computational stroll

Ain't that such a scream

Hey, did you hear me howling at the stars last night

It was so cold and the wind very hard

My soul was flailing like a rudderless kite

A torn sail with no yardarm

So strange to be breathing in this spiral galaxy

Strange how you’re only real with opium tea

Strange how love becomes a calamity

Ain't that just a scream

Hey, all these days are falling like drunken dominoes

The end is stalking like a leopard in the trees

Every joy has a forlorn underglow

It’s enough to bring you to your knees

Hey, set me up with a bottle of hot, red wine

Light a candle, let me stare into the flame

Tonight I'll touch God or lose my mind

Or maybe those are both the same

So strange how love takes you deep into the dream

Strange how the riddle has skeleton keys

Strange how nakedness becomes a thing to flee

Ain't that just a scream

So strange to be breathing in this spiral galaxy

Strange how you’re only real with opium tea

Strange how love becomes a calamity

Ain't that just a scream

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Q&A

8. What's your opinion of the present day music scene -- three sentences please.

A. With online networking sites like MySpace and with digital delivery, the scene is robust and exciting. So many bands springing up and all these new voices being heard.

B. As far as what's out there in the big leagues, not much interests me at all. I find myself listening more and more to the real old stuff, when melody was ascendant and cynicism not the zeitgeist.

C. In-between the emerging bands and the obnoxious big acts are some alternative artists that make an impression on me. And I owe my knowledge of them to my cool daughter: Neko Case, Golden Smog, Great Lake Swimmers.

Oh, a dirty little secret: I like Paramore! The music -- the songs.-- ain't my bag. But her voice! OMG...she can really belt out a song. I love Hayley Williams's singing.

9. Can all songs be called poetry? Yes or no, why?

Oh, no. Songs – the words and music – are a separate specie from poetry. I suppose one could loosely call anything poetry, but I think a poem must be experienced on its own terms. I'm eying your next-to-last question below, and I'm just not comfortable with mixing species. Rock or pop songs have a certain DNA, stemming from their origination in blues, gospel, and country music. It's more about the body than the mind. About movin' and groovin'. Dance is implicit in popular music, and I can't quite picture anyone dancing to a poem...maybe a ballerina and a...umm, what would you call a guy ballerina? A ballerino?

This question reminds me of a Facebook discussion I had recently with someone about Leonard Cohen's books of poetry, one of which I had read a long time ago. As good as his poems were, they still had a hybrid quality to them. Didn't hit me like pure poetry. But if anyone's songs could be called poetry, it would be his, for sure, no doubt. But as I said, it's been many, many years since I read his poems. I might have a different appraisal now. I even try my hand a writing pure poems. I like to think I can keep the aesthetic between song and poem distinct. And if I could pull it off, no doubt the wonderful Mr. Cohen can.

Feature: Tim Buck Day 4

2009-10-07T18:14:00.005-04:00

Nearly octahedral diamond crystal in matrix (in the public domain because it contains materials that originally came from the United States Geological Survey)
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Diamond in the Rough

I’m looking for a diamond under the ground

Every day I go down into the mine

Digging with a pick digging with a shovel

I want to see it glitter in the bright sunshine

I’d be grateful enough for a diamond in the rough

I’m looking for that love down in her heart

It’s got to be hiding there

So every day I work a little harder

Got to find that solitaire

I’m faithful enough for a diamond in the rough

Sometimes it gets so lonely down in this cavern of love

But I have lost all interest in that world above

I’m searching for a diamond, I’m digging every day

When that treasure’s mine I will keep it real safe

She plays it aloof and so hard to get

A sparkle in her eye might dull just as fast

Sifting through her moods I work up a sweat

I’ll keep on a-siftin’ while my energy lasts

I’ll be grateful enough for a diamond in the rough

I know she doesn’t want me at least not right now

It will take some time and a few hard defeats

But I know one day she will come around

When she’s persuaded by volcanic heat

I’m faithful enough for a diamond in the rough

Sometimes I get discouraged and my lantern burns low

When I think she’s just a figment, a gem I’ll never get to hold

I’m searching for a diamond, I’m digging everyday

Those jewels in her eyes, I want them flashing my way

Music & Lyrics © Tim Buck
Diamond in the Rough -- featuring Robin Willhite on lead guitar and bass

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Q&A

6. Do you first create the song in your head and then go ahead to write the lyrics down or is it the reverse?

It's almost always simultaneous. And I rarely have ideas for songs. I have moods for songs, and something usually emerges from the psychological perturbations. And it's not pretty. Squeezing out rhythms, melodies, and lyrics is a lot like psychic surgery – you know, those weirdo hands-on healers who somehow “reach” into your stomach and pull out a gory hunk of tumor or something. Yeah, it's like that. The words do not flow thoughtfully or rationally. It's a trance state, and as I say, it's not pretty. Most times, you would hear me moaning or groaning toward the musical mood. And slowly those moans will transform into a few actual words. Once those real words, dripping with emotional gore, come out, then a theme begins taking shape, with more words following.

7. What genres of music are your favorites and in which genres are you comfortable performing?

From the sixties, all those great garage bands and Motown. And of course Dylan, The Beatles, The Who, CCR. Later, British pub and punk, Springsteen. So, pop and rock are the genres, though with the Gothic Rangers, I've had fun and exploring some country and folk veins. Yeah, I think I could pass as a kind of alternate-country singer, on occasion.

Feature: Tim Buck Day 3

2009-10-06T18:30:00.000-04:00

Butterfly and Chinese wisteria flowers by Xü Xi (in the public domain, expired copyright)

Spirits

Sentience rides in a chariot reined by an illusionist.

Something within decides before you've thought of it.

Everything in the body movin' like a fugue of Bach.

Every nerve in the brain pushin' toward the crunch.

Every memory like a ghost from Pandora's trunk.

Ennui, sweet ennui, won't you bring a melancholy funk?

I dream about floods, non-plussed, how'll I brook that enigma?

I wake up to consciousness of being swallowed like Jonah.

When the crisis leads to all of your cards being trumped,

and you think you hear faint calls from the shell of a conch,

it is way past time for a subtle thirteenth month.

Ennui, sweet ennui, won't you bring a bittersweet pungency?

Spirits moving in the mist of morning

like Japanese blossoms a-floating,

like strange laughter in the wind chimes,

like a waterfall singin' old rhymes.

Spirits moving in between the seasons

like the origami art of creasing,

like oblique flight of black butterflies,

like the shadow's edge holds a hundred sighs.

Spirits, spirits, I will no longer turn my back on you.

Spirits, spirits, I'll wade in your waters that are dark and cool.

The dead shall be spoken to in cadential conversation.

The days shall be slant like the poems of Emily Dickinson.

I'll walk the Street of Crocodiles, listen to Schubert.

I'll fall in love however I wish, even flagrantly tendered.

I will gaze at the stars and think about all mortal creatures.

Ennui, sweet ennui, won't you be my tearful teacher?

Spirits moving in twilight of evening,

in the plumage of a peacock's preening,

in the rhythm of two lovers dancing,

in the eyes of that girl reading tea leaves.

Spirits, spirits, I will no longer turn my back on you.

Spirits, spirits, I'll wade in your waters that are dark and cool.

Music & Lyrics © Tim Buck

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Q&A

4. Has it ever happened that when you're recording your songs, your neighbor/roommate/family came banging at the door complaining of noise pollution?

I live in the middle of nowhere, so no problem with neighbors. So far, no problem with family. The only “noise pollution” complaint I get is from my Siamese cat. He absolutely loathes the sound of a harmonica. He tries to kill me whenever I play it, whenever I forget to close him off on the other side of the house. I don't think I play that badly. It must be a deep, primal instinct that comes out. That sound – maybe like a wounded sheep or goat – seems to turn him temporarily into a hungry, rampaging lion or tiger.

5. Some of us poets want to wear a Druid robe while writing. What's your preferred costume while singing/songwriting? Provide a photo if you are dressed in one at such a moment.

My recording costume is the same as my everyday costume: half the year, T-shirt and jeans; half the year, sweatshirt and jeans. If I could arrange it, though, I would really like to play guitar and record while wearing aluminum coveralls...sort of like those crinkly, platinum-looking jump suits that astronauts wore back in the day. For obvious reasons, I'd forgo the bubble helmet. But hey! Moon-walking astro-boots would be cool, too!

Feature: Tim Buck Day 2

2009-10-05T18:30:00.003-04:00

Sarah © Tim Buck

10,000 Girls

When my mind is wandering far,
drifting out of the present tense,
So far from the milling crowd
bumping by on sidewalk bricks,

When I would not expect lightning
to strike in an azure day,
I'm stunned out of my stupor.
My breath is stolen away.

What is this kind of strange thing
happening to me over and over,
that sweeps me off my feet?
I fall like a granite boulder.

Eyes touch eyes in a flash of time,
a trembling moment then it's gone.
A meeting of two spirits
comes to nothing but my longing.

10,000 faces alluring.
10,000 fantasies float.
10,000 traces enduring.
10,000 nebulous hopes.
My mind is haunted by 10,000 girls.
10,000 girls.

What would happen were I to speak?
Would that un-charm the space,
that ether between glances,
where dreams have forlorn grace?

Better that we pass like soul ships
on this liquid boulevard.
Better that this evanescence
be like a rainbow's arc.

10,000 loves at first sight.
10,000 minds unexplored.
10,000 quixotic lost kites.
10,000 vanishing doors.
Is there a multi-verse for 10,000 girls
10,000 girls

10,000 faces alluring.
10,000 fantasies float.
10,000 traces enduring.
10,000 nebulous hopes.
My mind is haunted by 10,000 girls.
10,000 girls.

Music & Lyrics © Tim Buck
10,000 Girls -- featuring Robin Willhite on lead guitar and bass

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Q&A

1. How long have you been singing/songwriting? Have you performed at public venues?

I've been writing songs since I was 14 or 15, since around 1967. In high school, I fronted a garage band, and we played out a couple times. Then in the late eighties, I formed a rock band, The Actuals. We played a couple club dates in Little Rock and performed once on the campus of Hendrix College in Conway, Arkansas. Early last year, Robin Willhite and I got together after 20 years to form The Gothic Rangers. Robin played lead guitar in The Actuals, and he was good back then. When I brought my new batch of songs to him, I was stunned by how his good playing had become phenomenal. We recorded the songs for our Omen CD (released in June of last year) and had hopes of playing out. Robin lined up a drummer and bassist, but things haven't worked out so far to play in public venues. We live 150 miles apart, but we still hope to eventually do some performing.

Oh, here's a plug to our website: http://www.myspace.com/thegothicrangers

2. How much technical effect do you think is "cool" (I know your despise for the word!) for that right feel in a song? And how much of that "effect" can spoil a composition?

I assume you're talking about the recording process? I don't care for over-production in a recording. For our Gothic Rangers songs (and the demos I've recorded this year doing all the parts), I like only vocal, drums, bass, rhythm and lead guitars, and an occasional harmonica. No keyboards. No effects, other than standard reverb to “wet” the vocals some. I suppose the closest I come to violating my principle is the layering of rhythm guitar parts, to create a nice, full background wash. I'm a relic, from the days of sixties garage bands, so today's hyped-up production values by the big-name artists makes me want to bite rocks in half. :)

3. If you are asked to sing without a guitar and instead choose another instrument, what will you choose? Why?

What an interesting question, Nabina. And a tough one. You're going to make me have to think.................................hmm.............Well, I think I would pick Hammond organ. See, I'm not a “real” singer. I could never sing a capella. I need a musical surround to ease my voice into, to punch my way into the melodies I come up with. So, the full sweep of an organ would act like a supporting band for me. Yep. That would definitely work.

Feature: Tim Buck Day 1

2009-10-04T18:30:00.004-04:00

It has been my extreme luck to have met and become good friends (via Facebook) with this week's feature, Tim Buck. Tim is an eloquent and frequent commenter on our site. He is a warm, friendly and extremely talented person that I am happy and fortunate to get to know. Tim has offered up some toe tapping music for you to enjoy and his interview questions are provided by one of our previous features, Nabina Das. You won't want to miss a day this week!

Welcome to the *Mnemosyne* family, Tim!

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BIO

Tim Buck, the condensed version: he landed on Earth in 1952, grew up, and is presently riding the Calliope of Doom.

Extended version: started writing songs when he was around 14 or 15, went to work, kept writing songs, worked, was in a band in the late eighties, worked, kept writing songs, worked then retired, formed The Gothic Rangers with Robin Willhite in 2008, released a CD that year, went off the deep end last December, kept writing songs, swam over to Facebook and met groovy souls...

So here he is, riding the Ferris Wheel now, up and down, up and down...occasionally waving at bemused, uncomfortable onlookers, as he rotates through existential perplexity and heart-on-sleeve discombobulation. The end, almost.

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Icarus, engraving by Hendrick Goltzius (in the public domain, expired copyright)

When I Fell

I can't recall the day it happened
or the exact circumstance.
It's in the nature of infatuation
that details melt in the mad dance.

I fell for you like an anvil
dropped in the vortex of romance.
Was it the way you smiled that made me gamble,
or was it a coy, flirtatious glance?

You didn't break my fall
when I fell for you
through gravity's law
without a parachute.
You didn't cushion the come down.
You didn't lighten the let down.
You didn't break my fall when I fell like a fool.

In Hollywood the heroes are so stoic.
Frankly my dear they don't give a damn
whether or not a woman loves or leaves them,
but I suspect pretense and flim-flam.

That old Charlie Darwin hit on something.
Survival of the fittest seems so true.
I feel myself fading out of existence
since you rejected my peacock plume.

You didn't break my fall
when I fell for you
through gravity's law
without a parachute.
You didn't cushion the come down.
You didn't lighten the let down.
You didn't break my fall when I fell like a fool.

music and lyrics © Tim Buck

Cheryl and Janet Snell's Feature Links

2009-10-03T18:30:00.000-04:00

Self Portrait with Blue Lips and Portrait of Cheryl Snell © Janet Snell

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Cheryl and Janet's Feature Links

Day 1
Janet and Cheryl Intro / Bios / Janet's Artwork: "his heart blooms for her" and Q&A

Day 2
Janet's Artwork: "After Schiele" and Q&A

Day 3
Janet's Artwork: "he looks with his good eye" and Q&A

Day 4
Janet's Artwork: "head on stem" and Q&A

Day 5
Cheryl's Short Story "Closure"

Day 6
Cheryl's Interview Q&A

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Find Janet and Cheryl elsewhere on the net:

Scattered Light
Shiva's Arms
Flickr
Beau Blue's Cruzio Cafe
Youtube

Feature: Cheryl & Janet Snell Day 6

2009-10-02T18:30:00.000-04:00

Cheryl's Day 6 Q&A

Q:
Tell us more about your collaborations with your sister. How has it flourished and what do you think makes you a good team?

A:
I think one of our strengths is that we resist the temptation to merge. We respect one another’s boundaries in genre and pov, so our collaboration reaches beyond me telling what Janet shows. Our surface sensibilities may seem different, but, like siblings who sing together, there is a twinship at the core.

Q:
When did you first have an interest in poetry/writing?

A:
I had always scribbled for my own pleasure, but began to take it seriously in my early thirties.

Q:
What is your writing process?

A:
I start with an image, a phrase, or an idea, writing on those long yellow legal pads. Then I switch to the computer, where I work for a long time on several poems at once, revising and shaping them until I’m empty of ideas. Then I switch to prose.

The change energizes me. I’m always amazed at the way a switch of focus can untangle a particular difficulty.

I write until my concentration frays. Fiction demands a different type of attention from poetry. There’s a sense of urgency to get the story told. The poetry feeds the fiction, though, gives the language color and character. “In the novel or short story you get the journey. In a poem you get the arrival,” May Sarton once wrote.

Q:
Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important?

A:
Not as much as comfort! My bed serves as my desk, but my walls are covered with Janet’s art, and there’s a big bay window overlooking the woods.

Q:
Do you have rituals or habits when you write?

A:
I begin every day by playing Bach, either at the piano or on a CD. His harmonies ground me. That’s the good habit—the bad one is that, once I’m at the computer, I surf way too much.

Q:
Do you do poetry readings, if so how do you prepare for a feature poetry reading?

A:
I no longer read in public, but when I did, I prepared like mad. I rehearsed like it was for a piano performance. I even wrote my patter down. Once in front of the audience, though, I ad-libbed a lot. Good times.

Q:
How do you think your poetry/writing impacts the lives of others?

A:
We never think that it does, do we? I found out recently that someone had pinned two of my poems on his office bulletin board “for inspiration”, he said. And a waitress at the neighborhood coffee shop quoted a chunk of one of my poems to me.

Q:
How has poetry/writing changed your life?

A:
It gave my life back to me. I had a head trauma in my late twenties that left me with aphasia. Writing poetry helped me relearn how to choose the right word.

Q:
Where does your inspiration come from?

A:
Many things! Nature and science and situations and behaviors. Words themselves, watching them play. Old music and new art. Music and writing have many elements in common, and mastering a piece of music is not unlike getting a piece of writing right.

And ever since Janet showed me how to see, I have loved modern art. Looking at it loosens my ability to make connections between disparate things. Did I just define a poem?

Q:
Who are your favorite writers/poets?

A:
Alice Munro for her wisdom, Tolstoy for how he weaves the social fabric of a time and place into personal drama. The poets Levertov, Merwin, Rich, Emily Dickinson, and Tomaz Salamun. The essayists and storytellers: Kundera, Stegner, Maxine Hong Kingston, Louise Erdrich, Italo Calvino, Arundhati Roy. I respond to anything that ignites the imagination with respect to ideas.

Q:
Who are your writing influences and what was it about them that inspired you?

A:
My husband, a mathematical engineer, is a great influence. He communicates a reverence for how things work that is very inspiring. His explanations of scientific principles are the underpinnings of both Prisoner’s Dilemma and Multiverse. He was raised in India, and details from that culture have given me lots of material for my novels Rescuing Ranu and Shiva’s Arms.

Janet continues to influence my writing, both directly:

Vein

She draws brush across canvas.

Her eyes go to her hand, which is shaking slightly.

The image takes shape anyway,

rising by layers out of surrounding space.

Is it the hand that creates it, or the eye

that gives it life?

What’s buried beneath: alizarin, vermillion, cadmium red

wings beating everywhere at once.

© Cheryl Snell

...and indirectly. We share books and music and pictures as well as DNA and history. My tastes have broadened thanks to her. I owe her a lot.

Q:
How do you deal with writer's block?

A:
Somebody once told me that writer’s block is a hoax. I don’t know about that, but personally I don’t get blocked. Maybe it’s because I’m willing to “kill my darlings.” I’m a big fan of the revision.

I really like the computer for that, the ease with which phrases can be moved around, sparking new ideas and fresh connections. These endless possibilities can lead to other problems, of course. Ralph Ellison couldn’t finish his second novel, and it grew to thousands of pages.

Q:
What advice would you give beginning poets/writers?

A:
Write every day, and read more than you write.

Q:
What is your view on self publishing?

The new publishing paradigm in which a poet hires an independent editor for a manuscript they subsequently self-publish has possibilities. If the poet has mastered craft, and some of the poems already been vetted through publication in journals, I don’t see why there should be a stigma. Perhaps it would give rise to more varied voices, and less homogenized work.

When the late lamented Lopside Press went under soon after Prisoner’s Dilemma was published, Janet and I expanded our book and republished it under the Scattered Light Publications imprint. We found the act empowering. Then, we put out a collection of new poems and paintings, Memento Mori. We were encouraged by the good reviews and general response, so we went on to publish Nanette Rayman-Rivera’s full length collection, shana linda~pretty pretty. We aim to publish one female poet per year under our imprint.

Q:
What impact do you think online social forums have had for artists, writers and musicians? (positive, negative, etc...?)

A:
The community, especially the workshops, is an effective bridge for many people. But there’s a glut of traffic now, everyone vying for eyeballs. Writers have to be mini-moguls, with publicity campaigns and platforms and branding, in order to be heard. The voice gets strident, or else hoarse.

Q:
How do you feel about the old saying "Write what you know"?

A:
I’m more in Flaubert’s camp, when he said, “I never know what I think about a thing until I’ve written on it.”

Feature: Cheryl & Janet Snell Day 5

2009-10-01T18:30:00.001-04:00

Closure

© Cheryl Snell

Dad was not dead, but Mom decided to give him a funeral anyway. “He’s dead to us,” she said. We were sitting in the back yard at the ragged end of the day, watching the darkening sky toss up handfuls of stars. Mom shook her red halo of hair, and gathered the edges of her blouse together with her fist. “I’ll stuff a coffin with clothes and fake-books. I’ll slap the lid shut with some double paradiddles.” She drummed on her glass.

“He’ll get tired of her.” I offered it like a prayer, prayed without faith. It had been two weeks since he’d taken off, and it didn’t look like he was coming back.

“Not this time,” she whispered. “Look, a liar’s moon.” A hoarse laugh died in the long, smooth throat that always smelled of lilies. She stared with her wide green eyes at the badminton net Dad had put up the summer before last. My friend Carrie and I had played every evening as our parents watched us, drinks in hand. Dad kept his sunglasses on the whole time. He was hiding something, and we all knew it.

He had taken up with other women before, disappearing backstage to call his latest, past caring that Mom was in the audience. The musicians took advantage of his absence, filling in all the spaces around her, vying for the privilege of fetching her drinks. Something in her movement, in her long-limbed body, encouraged them, and they elbowed each other out of the way, snarling insults you’d have to be a musician to get. Their interest had a smell, and it made me dizzy.

“They act like they have a chance,” I scoffed, one night. “But you love Dad, right?”

“It’s complicated,” Mom answered slowly. Her green eyes bore into my blue ones. “Some day you’ll understand.”

The one night she let one of the men I’d called Uncle all my life lead her to the stage, changed everything. She’d been a singer when she met my father, but he shut her down as soon as she got pregnant with me. She bloomed under that spotlight, her hair on fire, the sound coming out of her throat low, sultry, hypnotic. It brought Dad out from behind the black curtain, and suddenly he was hovering over her as if the song was all his idea. Bronze curls grazing his forehead, the cords in his neck strained as he blew into the swinging brass fish.

The last note had hardly died when Dad turned his back to his wife, and cued the musicians for the next piece. The applause meant for Mom was severed like an artery. She stumbled back to our table, tripping on a step, and I rose from my seat to help her. I caught Dad’s eye for a second, and didn’t like what I saw.

Through the smoky haze, Mom and I pulled each other into the ladies’ room. “Don’t ever fall for it,” she cried. “Love is only what you see in yourself, reflected in his eyes.” Her theories had never made sense to me. Other people were happy together. Sometimes she and Dad were too, the seethe of soft murmurs under their bedroom door proof enough of that.

Tears finally dried, Mom repaired her beautiful face, becoming even more beautiful in the mirror. She rolled mascara on her already thick lashes, reddened her already red lips, pinched her already pink cheeks. She hummed a few bars of “Satin Doll,” then asked, “How do I look? Better than your Barbie?” I thought of the doll with the scale stuck at 105, and nodded. Mom fluffed her orange hair out over her shoulders and opened the black-painted door to the place where she always came in second.

Her moment onstage marked the end of her marriage, but she didn’t know that yet. Dad left the following week, and Mom took to her bed. She wouldn’t move. She would not get up. A layer of dust settled on her bedside table thick enough to draw an SOS in. A bag of capsized potato chips listed on Dad’s side of the bed. Curled in on herself, she stared at her shelf of boxed Mattel dolls. She had often joked about her “dowry,” but determined long ago that “These dolls will pay for your college.”

There were Barbies and Kens and Skippers and Midges. Some had Dream Kitchens, others had careers. My favorite was Astronaut Barbie, although I had never been allowed to touch her. Babysitter Barbie was the only doll let out of the box for me. Losing value, I suppose.

“I read once that ‘the overriding desire of most children is to get at and see the soul of their toys’,” Mom told me when, at seven, I asked why she didn’t let me play with the others. “Some writer claimed that when children realize that their dolls are inanimate that their toys have no souls at all, they grow disgusted with them. I’m trying to spare you that disappointment.”

Who would spare her? Every evening, when I eased her into the tub filled with pink bubbles, she looked exactly like one of those dolls, staring from behind a cellophane window, messed up from some little brother’s abuse.

Mom’s eyes had burned out in their sockets. There was no light in them anywhere, and I couldn’t bear to look anymore. The way her hair fanned out from her head, the color of lit matches, fascinated me for some reason, so I kept my eyes there. “I’ve wasted my life,” she whispered.

I sat on the edge of the tub and washed her back. When she had enough of that, she sank below the surface of the water. I began to count. When I reached four, she burst through the bubbles with a gasp. How was I to know that she held a safety razor in her fist? I had hidden all the sharp things---scissors, nail files, razors, knives--- and locked them in a drawer. When had she broken in? She began to saw the dull blade across her wrist as if I wasn’t there. I grabbed it away from her, too horrified to speak. “What the hell?” I said.

“Is she nuts or what?” my neighbor Carrie said. She had come over with some groceries, and we were unpacking them.

“What am I supposed to do now, commit her?” I was only half serious.

“Well, if you tell anyone, they’ll have to cart her off. Why don’t you try to distract her? Come to dinner.”

“Want to?” I asked Mom a few minutes later. She sat up against the headboard and nodded a little, so I picked a pink dress from her closet that would make her skin look less dead. She raised her arms, keeping her wrist thickly painted with iodine away from the fabric as I dropped it over her. She looked fragile and doomed in the dress, like Monroe in that famous photograph, pink pooling around her, bare feet, toes- in.

While I rang the neighbor’s bell, Mom yanked up some of Mrs. Smith’s own tulips from the side garden before I could stop her She was still shaking earth from the roots when Mrs. Smith opened the door.

The vandalized flowers might have started the evening off roughly, but Mrs. Smith repotted her red tulips while the roast overcooked in the oven. “Tulips communicate with pheromones,” she said, fluffing the lipstick petals. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me, or just talking. “They send each other warnings about hungry deer or rampaging hands.” She carried the flowers to the table, patting the pot like a child’s back.

Mom sat still and erect in her chair, a knife in her hand. She had not yet uttered a word. “How are things at the cafe?” Mrs. Smith asked me, sawing through a piece of meat. Both Carrie and I worked at the Ugly Mug Cafe, where my parents used to take me after gigs. All through my childhood, I’d lean against Mom’s shoulder, only half awake, listening to the tired musicians rehash the night’s performance. Once, a vandal broke in and painted the ceiling black, studding it with stick-on stars. I remember looking up at the damage and wishing on those stars: make everything stay.

Mom said softly, “I used to order eggs Benedict, and gave you the first forkful.” I reached out and held her hand. Carrie’s dad Hank stared at us. Fat, transparent tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“There are three ways a person can change their happiness set-point.” Mrs. Smith drummed her fingers on the table to get us to pay attention. Her tone, dry and crackling, told me she was out of sympathy for her husband. Maybe he did a lot of crying, and she was sick of trying to figure out the whys and wherefores. This walk down Memory Lane was a dead end for her, a backfire. “There are exercises in gratitude, in kindness, and in optimism. But you have to keep doing them. I read it in the Scientific American.”

“Does it say anything about music and happiness?” Hank, all bravado suddenly, pulled out his harmonica and began to play “Satin Doll.” Mrs. Smith bolted for the kitchen, hands to her ears. Confused, I looked at Mom for a clue. Her smile broke out like the sun, and the sight burned me.
A moment later, Mom stood up, sending her chair crashing. It was time to go. Hank escorted us out, his elbow crooked for my mother’s hand. I turned halfway around on the porch, and caught him tracing the scratches on Mom’s wrist. Tears started in his eyes again, and she reached up to stroke his cheek.

It was Hank, not Carrie, who extended the next invitation. When we got to the house, he was standing over the stove with a ladle, ready to offer a taste to my mother. She licked the sauce off the spoon like a cat.

The kitchen was too small to hold so many people, and every time Hank met with my mother’s body or her intense gaze, his face filled up with color. When we finally sat down to dinner, nobody spoke. It was so quiet that when a bough from one of the maples snapped off just outside the dining room, every one of us jumped. Mrs. Smith went to the window to see the extent of the damage. Two of the bigger limbs cradled the broken limb. “One good wind could still bring it down,” she said.

“This sucks.” We were in Carrie’s bathroom, doing our nails Pepto–Pink to match our Ugly Mug uniforms. I felt the color was a lie. I did not feel at all pink. I watched Carrie separate her toes with cotton, and stroke her nails with polish. “Suck it up, then.” She nodded at her pack of cigarettes. I lit two and stuck hers in her face, and then slid down beside her on the tile. We had been complaining about nothing, while avoiding all mention of her father and my mother
“Did you know my parents bought two burial plots at the cemetery for Valentine’s Day?” I said.

“What kind of a Valentine is that?” she complained, swiping her toenail with a slash of color. “It’s so Goth.”

I thought it was romantic, but I couldn’t say so after that. “Here, it’s a screw top.” Carrie took a bottle of beer out of my hand and wrenched it open like a change of subject.

“Hey, did I ever tell you how Dad’s uncle went to live up in the attic during most of the eighties?” She was picking up where she’d left on the last time we talked. “He’d come home from work and go straight up there, turn up the radio and cook on his hotplate.”

“There’s no connection to a man who escapes to an attic for years because he’s depressed and a man who spends time in a basement rec room to practice harmonica.” I didn’t like it when she tried to shrink Hank for wanting to be alone sometimes.

We passed the bottle back and forth for a few minutes before I set it in the v of my legs, so I could pull a tulip out of my pocket. I’d taken it from the porch where Mom had dropped it on that first visit to the Smiths. I wanted to fix it, to give back to Mrs. Smith what belonged to her. But it was no more than a ball of shed petals now. I placed the pastel clump gently beside the bottle and unwound my body from the floor. I opened the medicine chest. “Whacha looking for?’ Carrie wondered.

“Some red nail polish to mend this tulip.”

“Omigod! She wants it to match! You’re not going to press it in a book or something corny like that, are you?” I didn’t answer. I tried to get the limp stalk stiff enough to hold up the flower head. I kept at it as if my future depended on it.

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At home, Mom had perked up. She hummed “Satin Doll” while she replaced the scissors and knives in their rightful drawers. I was glad about her progress, but I didn’t trust it. I had a sour feeling every time Hank called again to invite us over. Mom got too excited. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes glittered. It took her an hour to decide what to wear.

“What about this?” she asked, holding up a short black sheath. “Dangerous enough?” I made my face blank. I wasn’t about to encourage her.

“You know, I’m not feeling very well, “I said, touching my hand to my forehead. Mom leaned over me and touched my cheek.

“You are a little feverish,” she lied. “I’ll go by myself.”

I wasn’t expecting that. I thought she would simply cancel, but Mom floated out the door in a cloud of lily perfume a few minutes later. I watched her from my window, witnessed the yellow lozenge of light in the basement next door rise to the main floor. It was only a pale circle, but it hurt my eyes. When is the dark, dark enough?

One night, I found Mom sitting cross-legged in Dad’s chair, a score spread across her knees. She was listening to the stack of recordings he had left behind, his precious discs strewn all over the floor. She listened intently, breaking out in snatches of song from time to time. When she saw me standing there, she pulled the headphones off, and without warning, started to cry. I knelt beside her, put my arm around her shaking shoulders and said, “What’s wrong?” She jerked her finger at the CDs. It was one of Dad’s demos. He’d never had a real record made. This was as far as he had got in his life.

“How can I have denied my talent for someone so unworthy of me?” she cried. I had no answer for her. I held her for a long while, then got up to turn on the lamps, trying to snap her out of her mood. Her eyes watered in the weak pools of amber.

There was an unfamiliar book on the table, a catalogue on antiques turned to the section on Barbie dolls. “Hank tells me that Barbie in Midnight Red sells for $25000 at auction. That’s a lot of voice lessons.”

The following Saturday afternoon, I saw Mom at the farmer’s market. She was leaning over a display of tomatoes, and there was Hank, pulling her hair back so she could get a good whiff. I noticed the roses in my mother’s cheeks. She no longer looked like a person who only lived at night.

I ducked behind a crate of vegetables and followed the two of them from stall to stall. They stopped to feed each other food I had no idea my mother liked. Maybe she didn’t. She was capable of acting a part to get the response she wanted. That’s why she wanted to sing in front of an audience. “You can make people feel what you want them to,” she told me. Up to a point, I silently argued---the point where they leave you.

Mom picked out a dogwood sapling and let Hank pay for it. She wanted to carry it, and Hank, finding his hands free, reached into his pocket to pull out his harmonica. “Satin Doll” again, and my mother threw back her head, laughing. She began to sing, and a delighted crowd gathered. Hank beamed as much as he could, what with the little instrument in his face.

Later, Mom carried the thin tree over to Mrs. Smith. The two women stood on the lawn separating their houses, under a liar’s moon. “I thought you might like this,” I heard Mom say.
“I must get it in the ground right away,” Mrs. Smith said. Mom offered to help bury it, but Mrs. Smith waved her away.

That night, I was awakened by music. I went down the stairs glazed with moonlight, and looked into the backyard. The music came again---not a harmonica this time, or birdsong. It was the tinny sound of my father’s demo tape. I let the crackling melody pull me into the yard. Across the bushes that separated our houses, I saw Mom dancing in her white nightgown with Hank, barefoot on the grass. They looked as if they’d been moving together all their lives, their bodies curved into each other like an old habit. I wondered if she sensed me there, witnessing Hank fall in love with her. I watched as she turned in the direction of her skid.

A few weeks later, Mom was in the bathroom practicing scales. She had started taking lessons, and was improving fast, practicing endless vocalizations and exercises. Her voice had been soft and scratchy at first, as if she had no faith in it. But I had faith in her, and knew she would get better and better.

The doorbell rang I opened the door. There was, Hank standing on the welcome mat, grinning. “Great news!” he said, but before he could explain, Mom rustled in. She pushed in front of me, and pulled Hank inside with one hand. The other hand held her silk dressing gown closed.

Hank had managed to get Mom gigs at several Holiday Inns. “So he’s your manager now?” We were in a dingy gray Green Room, and Mom was making up her face in the wavy mirror.

“He’s not charging a percentage.” A look of confusion, or guilt, passed over Mom’s face. “But he is coming on the road with me.” Her lips stretched out in a stubborn thin line. She would not look at me while she zipped herself into her black sheath. She kept her eyes on her reflection in the mirror. The subject was closed. I was on my own.

Weeks passed, and the house needed repairs. I didn’t know what else to do, so I sold some Barbies to pay for them. I would have liked to ask Mom’s advice, but she never called. I was just about convinced that I wouldn’t recognize her voice anymore, anyway, when I heard it by chance on the radio. She was singing a song about freedom, and each word stung me.

All at once, summer came again, and the people were suddenly always outdoors, grilling on the barbecues and playing like kids. One evening, I happened to catch a glimpse of Carrie in her backyard. I waved. She ignored me. Not my fault, not my fault, my brain screamed. When she was close enough to hear me, I said, “Here, grab a racket.” She stared at me. I thought she would turn away and go back into her house, but instead, she followed me to the badminton net. I stumbled toward it with a bad serve. Carrie stood on the other side, legs apart, slapping her racket against her thigh. She let my little missile whiz past her, and all at once she was tearing at the netting, knocking the poles down, throwing fistfuls of fabric around the yard.

I tried to get near her. She waved me away. It took her a minute to calm down, and I must have held my breath that whole time. Finally, we sank into the lawn chairs, heads tilted as if we both expected the sound of a harmonica to crawl across some unfathomable distance. The stars shone on our darkening houses. “They look so small,” she whispered.

We watched the night swallow the neighborhood. There was no moon. When the dark was dark enough, I answered, “They feel enormous.”

Feature: Cheryl & Janet Snell Day 4

2009-09-30T18:30:00.000-04:00

head on stem © Janet Snell

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Janet's Day 4 Q&A

Q:
What advice would you give a beginning artist/painter?

A:
Take a page from Gorky’s book, and copy the old masters until you find your own voice.

Q:
Tell us something not many people may know about you.

A:
I play violin and when I was young I jammed with a friend who later drummed for the band Devo, another who played keyboards for the Waitresses, and a studio musician for Tom Waits. My brush with fame!

Q:
How has painting changed your life?

A:
It IS my life.

Q:
If you could be any artist past or present, who would you be and why?

A:
Munch. What I’ve drawn of psychology and depth from his work I’d like for my own.

Q:
What is your favorite color and why?

A:
I like them all.

Feature: Cheryl & Janet Snell Day 3

2009-09-29T18:30:00.000-04:00

he looks with his one good eye © Janet Snell

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Janet's Day 3 Q&A

Q:
Are there any famous (dead or alive) artists that you relate to more than others? Any local artists you admire?

A:
My old teacher, Edward Dugmore, is still a favorite. To me, his work embodied what D. H. Lawrence called "the direct utterance from the instant whole man." DaVinci, Francis Bacon, DeKooning, Nolde, Kandinsky, Klee, Gorky, Schiele, and Munch have all been influences. As for the local scene, I like what I see coming out of the Artists of Rubber City. Keep your eye on George Reuter, with whom I’m having a show in the spring.

Q:
Is there a particular period of art that inspires you or that you are drawn to?

A:
My images make me a neo-German Expressionist and the space they live in, an abstract expressionist, so I’d say the artists of the German Expressionist movement do it for me.

Q:
How do you think your art affects the lives of others?

A:
It gives them some food for thought, I hope.

Q:
What makes your art unique?

A:
In the words of my old professor, “You’ll always be out in left field.”

Feature: Cheryl & Janet Snell Day 2

2009-09-28T18:32:00.000-04:00

After Schiele © Janet Snell

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Janet's Day 2 Q&A

Q:
Do you ever run out of room to store your paintings & supplies? (Elaborate)

A:
Yes, the stuff in my studio at home has spilled out into the spare bedroom and the garage, besides the pieces on the walls.

Q:
How long have you done collaborations with your sister & how do you think that affects your art?

A:
After my first book of drawings and text, FLYTRAP, came out, my sister started to make poems to accompany my art. We began to publish these in lit journals and decided to keep going until we had enough material for a new book. I think in images and she can extend the metaphor with words, so our collaboration works like two takes on a similar idea. It’s not one art explaining the other. We each retain our own voice, but we also have a shared sense of melancholy.

Q:
Describe the area you create in.

A:
It’s a converted bedroom in the house. I like to have my studio in my living space. I like a short commute.

Q:
Do you have any rituals or a set process you go through to prep yourself to paint? If so what are they?

A:
Reading something full of images like Genet or Kerouac, or listening to music gets me in the mood.

Feature: Cheryl & Janet Snell Day 1

2009-09-27T18:30:00.003-04:00

This week on *Mnemosyne* we will be doing something a bit different. We present to you a split feature with Janet and Cheryl Snell. Janet and Cheryl often collaborate on projects together. Cheryl writes poetry that goes well with her sister Janet's paintings. They are a superbly creative duo. I know you will enjoy their feature this week.

The first few days we will feature Janet's paintings and include her interview questions. On day 5 Cheryl has shared with you a short story and day 6 will be her interview questions. Interview questions this week come from Suzanne Savickas (Editor & Founder of Le Pink Elephant Press & Co-Editor & Founder of A Trunk of Delirium) and myself.

Welcome to *Mnemosyne*, Janet & Cheryl!

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BIOs

self portrait with blue lips © Janet Snell

Janet Snell is a graduate, magna-cum-laude, of the Maryland Institute College of Art, where she studied painting with the late Ed Dugmore. She has shown her work in venues such as The Drawing Center in New York City, Strathmore Hall in DC, Asterisk Gallery in Cleveland, and Summit Art Space in her hometown of Akron. Snell is the author of FLYTRAP (Cleveland State University Press Poetry Center) and the e-book HEADS (March Street Press). She has co-authored three other poetry and art collections with her sister Cheryl: MULTIVERSE (MiPO), PRISONER’S DILEMMA (Lopside Press) and MEMENTO MORI (Scattered Light Publications).

portrait of Cheryl © Janet Snell

Cheryl Snell’s books include two novels, Shiva’s Arms and Rescuing Ranu, as well as six collections of poetry: Flower Half Blown (Finishing Line Press), Epithalamion (Little Poem Press), Samsara (Pudding House), Multiverse (GOSS 183), Memento Mori(Scattered Light Publications),and the award-winning Prisoner’s Dilemma (Lopside Press). She is a three time Pushcart nominee, and her work was chosen by Dorianne Laux for inclusion in Sundress’ Best of the Net Anthology last year. With her sister Janet, she runs Scattered Light Publications, a micro press.

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his heart blooms for her © Janet Snell

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Janet's Day 1 Q&A

Q:
Who are your favorite musicians and how do they influence your paintings? How does music influence your art?

A:
Hendrix, Dylan, and Tom Waits are some of my favorites. I listen to music every day, and sometimes I get an image in my head while listening. I do a thumbnail sketch of the image and think about it, about its psychology. Then I have to find the right space to put the image in. That’s where process comes in. The touch of the brush leads in an intuitive manner to develop the space. My portrait of Hendrix looks the way the music sounds to me.

Q:
When did you start painting?

A:
As a child I drew all the time. My mother, also an artist, tells me I used perspective at the age of five. By the time I was ready for college, I had to choose between anthropology and art. No regrets.

Q:
How do you pick your subjects for portraits - what inspires you to paint portraits vs abstracts etc...?

A:
Whenever I see an interesting face, I want to paint it. In my portraits, I use color freely to express the subject’s personality (i.e. yellow for intelligence, violet for moodiness) while the facial features remain realistic. The portraits are semi-expressionistic. They are only semi-expressionistic because I still stick to the realism of the subject’s facial features. Thus the portraits are related to my other work.

Q:
What keeps you motivated to paint? What drives your passion for art?

A:
Work begets work.

John Burrough's Feature Links

2009-09-26T18:30:00.003-04:00

Photo by Dianne Borsenik

John's Feature Links

Day 1
Intro/ Poem: "Karma Souptra" / Bio

Day 2
Poem: "I hear change"/Interview Questions

Day 3
Poem: "Mark This"/Interview Questions

Day 4
Poem: "Bier"/Interview Questions

Day 5
Poem: "John Cage Engaged"/Interview Questions

Day 6
Interview Questions/Itinerary

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Find John elsewhere on the web:

Crisis Chronicles
http://twitter.com/jesuscrisis
Lix and Kix
Covert Poetics
Troubadour 21
The November 3rd Club
issue 22 & 23 of the city poetry

Feature: John Burroughs Day 6

2009-09-25T17:50:00.010-04:00

We come to the close of another exciting, six day feature today. For John's last day we leave you with a few more interview questions from co-editor Christina Brooks as well as a listing of John's latest and greatest creative endeavors. It has been an absolute pleasure featuring you this week, John! Best of luck to you in all the things you do.

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Q&A

Q:
Where do you write most often? And what sort of frame of mind do you feel you do your best writing in? And when do you write? Early in the day or late…. When?

A:
I generally rise about 4:30 a.m. -- partly because of my wife's work schedule and partly because even if she's on vacation, my 3 dogs are accustomed to getting me up then. It sounds awfully early, but perhaps not so much when you consider the fact that I spent close to eleven years in prison, where I grew accustomed to all the lights coming on at 5:30. I like the quiet alone time I generally have only in the morning, and the lingering half-dream state that often comes with it until the chores and more of the day intrude and gradually overtake my focus. As far as where I usually write, the best answer is everywhere. I use my computer, I hand write things in a leather bound journal, I jot poems on napkins or fliers I find wherever I happen to be.... It doesn't matter if I'm at work, in bed, on vacation, at a restaurant or on the toilet. I'd even write while driving if I could do it without wrecking. I write when I'm hungry, angry, inspired, sleepy -- my state of mind is ever changing and pretty much the only thing that stays constant is the fact that I'm writing (or thinking about something I want to write or feel I should be writing). It isn't always poetry -- in fact, most of the time it isn't (except in the loosest sense) -- but the best stuff generally hits me when I have no intention of writing anything special. Like shit, it just happens.

Q:
If you were d.a. levy, and alive today… would you do public readings or not? Would you enjoy them? Would you possibly MC your own poetry event or not?

I would definitely do public readings -- even the real d.a. did that, though folks didn't take photos or generally report on the readings unless something extraordinary happened (like Allen Ginsberg in town, or d.a. arrested for using the word "cocksucker" in a poem while minors were present). Yes, he even went to jail because of a reading -- so I don't think he'd be bashful about it if he were still around today. And I can't imagine he didn't enjoy it, at least on some kind of level. MC-ing? I don't know -- doesn't seem like levy's bag. But it's possible. Then again, if I were d.a., I wouldn't be me; so it wouldn't be me who would be being d.a. And who besides d.a. would really know what he'd do? One thing's for certain: he do his damnedest to cover his city with lines. (To me, the Internet is my "city," more than any geographic location -- but that's another subject altogether.)

Q:
What are your thoughts on on-line vs. print journals for poetry? Where do you think the future of poetry might lie? (Since you publish in both you have a unique perspective to share.)

A:
I like both and think both are equally valid in their own ways. I find online journals more convenient and inexpensive to make, distribute, subscribe to, track and store. I also like to think of them as more environmentally friendly (no ink, no paper). But I wonder if that last statement's true. What's worse -- grinding up trees to make paper and stamps or burning up electricity to read online? Print journals, on the other hand, look more impressive on a shelf and (at least for now) are easier to sell. Although I see what seems to be an unstoppable trend where online journals become more and more respected and printed books become less and less necessary, I don't believe online publishing will ever totally replace print publishing anymore than great photography will ever replace arts like painting and drawing. Maybe this is my age showing. But though I love a well-conceived and exquisitely executed cyber magazine, if my eyes and hands have their way, they'll almost always opt fo a "real" printed book. Then again, if my computer were a fraction of its current weight and better designed, who knows? I remember a time when I was sure I'd never replace my vinyl records with CDs (or my CDs with mp3s), but I gradually did. So I suppose the only constant in this world is change. But as a poem you featured in a previous installment states, "try telling that / To a dollar bill."

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Here are a few future happenings I'd like to share with everybody:

October 16th (7 pm) at the Morgan Conservatory (1754 E. 47th Street in Cleveland) - The first of two days of Cleveland readings hosted by Burning River (www.burningriver.info). I will be performing poetry accompanied by 10-string guitar master JJ Haaz. Other featured performers that night include Jane Rosenberg LaForge from New York (we'll be celebrating the release of her new chapbook, After Voices), Michelle Reale from Philadelphia, Bree of Cleveland Heights' Green Panda Press, and Burning River's own Christopher Bowen.

October 17th (7 pm) at Visible Voice Books (1023 Kenilworth Ave. in Cleveland) - Jane, Michelle, Christopher and I will be reading again, as the book launch celebration for After Voices continues. I intend to share completely different material each night. Not sure yet, but I'll probably lean toward old favorites (made fresher with the musical accompaniment) on the 16th and debut mostly never before seen or heard poems on the 17th.

October 20th (7 pm) at Bela Dubby (13321 Madison Ave. in Lakewood) - Lix and Kix (hosted by Dianne Borsenik and me) break the mold! Featured poet Ralph La Charity (from Cincinnati) will weave in and out of an experimental fu@k-the-format get-in-where-you-fit-in poetic open mic free-for-all on the Lix and Kix poetry series' one year anniversary. I believe JJ Haaz will be jamming with us there, too.

November 13th (8:30 pm) - at Borders Books (17200 Royalton Rd. in Strongsville), I'll be the featured reader for the Deep Cleveland Poetry Hour. Come and see how much I can get away with without using banned words.

November 17th (7 pm) - Lix and Kix at Bela Dubby will host three fine featured poets: Mnemosyne editor Jen Pezzo (aka Kerowyn Rose), MoonLit editor (and author of the vanZeno Press collection Emergency Contact) Claire McMahon, and (from Cincinnati) novelist (and author of the West End Press poetry collection Crow Call) Michael Henson. An open mic will follow.

December 15th (7 pm) - In our last regular Lix and Kix at Bela Dubby before we go on a sabbatical of sorts, we will host three more fine featured poets. Heather Ann Schmidt will be here from Michigan to launch her new Crisis Chronicles Press chapbook The Bat's Lovesong: American Haiku. Nin Andrews (author of The Book of Orgasms and much more) will be here from Youngstown. And Cleveland's one and only Ray McNiece will be performing with his Tongue-in-Groove band. An open mic will follow.

After this, Lix and Kix will be stretching, but certainly not sleeping.

January 16th (all day til midnight) - We will be hosting Snoetry: A Winter Wordfest at the Last Wordsmith Book Shoppe (www.lastwordsmith.com) in the historic town of North East (near Erie), Pennsylvania. The day will begin with an hour of open mic at 1 p.m. then continue with live music and 30 featured poets from five states. We'll try to sprinkle in bits of open mic throughout the day as time permits. Come rain, shine, or blizzard, we'll be there!

Later in 2010 we will be hosting an attempt to bring the World Record for the longest live reading ever to the Cleveland area. Ten days and nights! Details forthcoming....

Oh, and since I mentioned Heather Ann Schmidt's chapbook, I should also mention that Crisis Chronicles Press has poetry collections by Alex Gildzen, Will Northerner, Yahia Lababidi and Kent Brown in the works as well. Keep checking back at www.crisischronicles.com for the latest on all of the above, as well as for daily additions of contemporary poetry and literary classics at the Crisis Chronicles Online Library (http://library.crisischronicles.com). I'm also planning a massive website upgrade, time gods willing, sometime in October.

Finally, if you're desperate, you can also follow me on Twitter (http://twitter.com/jesuscrisis)
Thanks for featuring my work this week. It's been a distinct honor and pleasure - and I'm proud to be a member of the Mnemosyne family!

Website:
http://www.crisischronicles.com
Jesus Crisis' Blog:
http://crisisblog.crisischronicles.com
Crisis Chronicles Online Library:
http://library.crisischronicles.com