The bad news. Predictable. Never-ending.
The good news buried under sensation
…..,,,,,,,and, ,,,,,,they mentioned that man again.
…..Sigh! Too late for miracles.
[Did someone prescient write that between the two world wars?]
Yet the new year burst into bloom,
full of mettle and vision and a
singular aspiration …
– be the peace – be the peace – be the peace
“Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them to be, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be.” Thomas à Kempis,The Imitation of Christ
What is on your mind and in your heart as you start the new year? Tell us in a poem or poems and leave your work or a link to it in the comments section below.
All poetry on theme will be published here on Tuesday next. You have until Monday, January 8 at 8:30 p.m. PST to respond. All are welcome to come out and play no matter the status of your career: beginning, emerging or pro. Thank you!
This may be one of our finest collections yet, poetry written and/or shared in response to Ecce Panis [Take This Bread], Wednesday Writing Prompt, December 6, “What event or experience or time in your life (doesn’t have to be associated with religion) birthed for you the freedom to explore beyond the boundaries set for you?” These poets have certainly risen to the occasion. Much thanks to Denise DeVries, Paul Brookes, Mike Stone, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov), Gary W. Bowles and Sonja Benskin Mesher.
Join THE NEXT WRITING PROMPT, JANUARY 3, 2018. Once I put The BeZine to bed on the 15th, I’ll be offline for family time and taking a rest until January 3. Many blessings for joy in this season that is sacred to so many and for your peace of heart in the new year.
Thank you for your support, kind comments and sharing through The Poet by Day site this past year. In a world gone mad, you are the hope, the grace, and the voices of sanity. Poetry is the flagpole around which we gather in compassion and acceptance. You are valued.
All are welcome to come out to play for these writing prompts no matter the stage of your poetry career: beginning, emerging or pro. It’s about sharing and friendship, discretion not judgement.
A Town Where Nothing Ever Happens
I lived in a small landlocked town
and would probably never go anywhere.
My parents rejected the foreign
language teacher’s offered lessons.
They didn’t like the looks of him.
Something could happen…
Years later, I find myself
in Central America, in a town
where nothing ever happens,
except me, trying to speak Spanish.
In the market, the black
head of a calf stares up at me.
A tiny tiny old woman in
native dress embraces me
and kisses my hand, speaking
a language I’ve never heard before.
Beggars wait on cathedral steps
for the priest to finish asking God
in his North American accent,
“Quita los pecados del mundo.
Danos paz.” The children want
to know why I am crying.
That I know what my wife is feeling,
That my love will be enough to protect her
From the lovelessness around her,
That my particular being might have some worth
In the eye of the Grand Schemer of Things,
That the sun will climb over the eastern mountains tomorrow,
That the ground on which I walk
Is as solid as any reality,
These are small beliefs I think
That won’t hurt anyone else,
At least I don’t believe so.
But there are grander beliefs
That grow stronger
With every man and woman who believes them,
That only the grandest edifices
Can house them,
These beliefs,
Like who’s a chosen people
And who’s a virgin, an only son, or a true prophet,
Beliefs that hurt those who don’t believe them.
These are the beliefs I don’t believe
Are any good for anything
That’s not a building.
“An Agnostic’s Prayer”
(Raanana, January 23, 2014)
Just for the record
I don’t believe in you
So there’s no point in capitalizing, is there?
That doesn’t mean I don’t wish you were
Here, there, somewhere.
God knows I do,
Well, maybe not the you
Of everybody else.
You know exactly what I mean,
Someone who’s not always
Making clever excuses
Why he’s never around
When we need him.
I’d like to see you try that on my wife.
She wouldn’t fall for it.
She’d tell you
You’re either here or you’re not here,
So don’t bother trying to be
Somewhere in between.
She’d say if you want someone to believe in you
Then be there, front and center,
Instead of hiding behind the guy
Who’s hiding behind the curtain
Hoodwinking the true believers.
Then tell them they have only
One life in this godforsaken universe
And that one life is so gut-twistingly precious
That they should get up off their knees,
Walk out into the sunshine,
And smell just how blue the sky is.
Frozen shards of light litter the dusty ground and
The moon-colored skulls of creatures whose blood
Once warmed the earth and sated its thirst
If only for a moment.
There is a trail I must follow
Through this forest dark and mordant
That snakes its wending way from
The womb of my first love
To the parched throat of my last.
I think sometimes of the ancient ones
And the things of their world
Of which they were certain.
It is not so hard to believe in a God,
An animus for every animal
Or a hoary herald above the spheres.
But a monstrous God
Who plots to devour our innocence
And rend our hearts with the cruel beauty of its beings,
Indifferent yet demanding our prayers and oblations;
Such a God I believe in:
A God of holocausts and broken promised lands.
There is a certain silence
On a day like this
That carries you on its wide wings
But only those whose souls are weightless
A silence that muffles the shouts of children
And banal chatter of adults on mundane matters
But only for those whose souls are transparent
A silence that vows to be true
Even when we live among lies
But only among those
Whose souls are consumed by other souls.
The Repentant Peter (El Greco c. 1600 Spain), Phillips Collection, Washington D.C., U.S., public domain photograph of the painting
Repenting Peter (El Greco)
since as
everything is Uttered
a land to even up
the eye
you touch grope about
the walls
more and more high
(on) cracks
the third road is the hardest
nowhere somewhere
the third road is the easiest
am I
I
cursed
cursing
swear
in net
(Peter)
“that the mighty angel tugs
along with net of fishermen”*
A legend has
A courier
Who ran and ran
And told, and died,
Per Lucian,
Pheidippides’
“We win–rejoice!”
The dying words
Of this young man.
A summer day
In ’84
Ten thousand ran
On Market Street,
And skirted San
Francisco Bay,
And saw through fog
The Golden Gate,
And past its Park,
And up a hill
So steep a man
In wheelchair
Went but four in-
Ches at a time.
We crossed the thrice-
Blessed Finish Line
At Union Square
To cheering crowds,
To honor dead
Pheidippides,
Who, truth be told,
Did not exist,
Or, if he did,
Not quite the way
The legend tells.
But there WAS strife
In ancient Greece,
And Persians died
At Marathon,
The site now known
As the event,
A footrace long
and arduous.
And when I ran
In ’84,
I briefly WAS
Pheidippides,
Defiant of
Impossible,
Horizon breached,
My battle won,
And I rejoiced
And did not die.
GRAPHIC DESIGN BY Dale Houstman (c) Diaphanous Press
Diaphanous Press was founded in February 2017 to publish contemporary, cutting-edge poetry, short fiction (under 750 words), and art in the online journal, Diaphanous. As a poet, literary fiction writer, scholar of postmodern literature and poetics, and wannabe visual artist (my predilection as a child was to be a painter first, then a writer), I wanted to provide a free, high-quality, e-journal to showcase and promote the creative work of writers and artists—and in turn, offer a wide audience free access to the best contemporary literature and visual art that I can find.
logo (c) Diaphanous Press
I chose the title “Diaphanous,” as the word evokes an image of a light, gauzy material (such as gossamer); a veil or dress draped elegantly over a woman or the semi-sheer, wind-tossed curtain covering a window or storm door. The word “diaphanous” often elicits images of a fragile, intricately-constructed spiderweb that can be destroyed with the swift swat of a human hand or a broom. The word and its image have also been thought of historically—as a filmic layering over one’s vision, the ancient Sumerian, Hindu and Buddhist Veil of Maya that prevents humans from perceiving “true reality” or representation; reminding us, as philosophers have, that perception; experience; emotional, intellectual, psychological responses to art and life; and the meaning we confer upon all of these human facets—are subjective and take place in the non-transparent, human medium of language that is a bi-product of civilization and one that evolves in its historical and cultural contexts over time.
As the title “Diaphanous” implies, I’m interested interested in writing and art that is slightly opaque or hazy, like language itself—that invite the reader/viewer in to experience the process of creating the specific text/image that is embedded in the final product–and to ascribe/construct possible meaning(s) and values to/for the linguistic/aesthetic experience. My hand-picked, small editorial staff and I gravitate towards a postmodern poetics and aesthetics that, as aforementioned, engage the reader/viewer in the experience the texts and images offer each, subjective reader. We are interested in language-centered poetry that foregrounds the medium of literary texts as slippery at best versus traditional, “I-centered” lyrics or straight, narrative poetry. Similarly, we value short fiction with challenging uses of language, composition, and condensed plot.
We are huge fans of writing that blurs the boundaries of genre (prose poetry, hybrid, flash fiction, micro-fiction) and subsequently, choose to feature experimental writing or writing that “leans toward the experimental,” as I like to say. Our Art Editor, Dale Houstman and I, solicit visual images that like the writing we value, are postmodern, experimental, and for the most part, non-representational. At the end of the day, we appreciate and choose to publish amazing, arresting, and haunting works of art. We have featured paintings, photography (acrylics, watercolors, and mixed media), digital art, mixed media collages, visual poetry, collage poems, text-based art, asemic writing, communal calligraphy, architecture—and seek to incorporate sculpture into our 2018 issue.
In terms of submissions, we receive a ton of poetry, a lot of art, and some fiction (not enough yet) due to the tagging of members of our facebook community and creative peers, direct soliciting from writers and artists, and now–as a result of our incredibly well-received inaugural Spring 2017 and Fall 2017 issues, people who have seen what kind of writing and art makes us swoon as well as the high-quality of our journal. In addition to the continued flow of poetry submissions, we would like more art and fiction submissions as well as more submissions from non-US writers and artists.
In our first two issues, we have published writers and artists from Australia, Tunisia, South Africa, Iran, Macedonia, Hungary, Italy, and England. We would love to represent talented writers and artists aligned with our mission statement in even more geographical locations across the globe. We are proud of a balance of male and female, established and new contributors—and the inclusion of diverse contributors in the context of ethnicity, race, and social status. Well, let’s face it, many artists and writers, yours truly included, are a bit financially-challenged due to the life choices we make that enable us to create and work in creative and academic environments, when possible. Many of us hold non-creative day jobs or temp when needed to support our art. Others, like Dale Houstman, are “gleefully retired” per his facebook bio description.
It is critical for me to note that this labor of love would not have been possible without the beautiful website design of my dear friend and writing colleague, Michael Dickel (Meta / Phor(e) /Play). A shoe-string volunteer staff who are all passionate and talented writers and artists, including, Art Editor, Dale Houstman; Poetry Editor, Thato Andreas Mokotjo; and Managing Editor, Meg Harris–assisted in the stunning, well-received first two issues of Diaphanous. Dale will remain as Art Editor and Thato as Poetry Editor for our third, 2018 issue.
Due to time constraints with my own writing, the intense workload, and unfortunately, my own battle with a cluster of serious autoimmune diseases—beginning next year, Diaphanous will be an annual publication instead of biannual with a new, small staff in place working alongside Art Editor, Dale Houstman and Poetry Editor, Thato Andreas Mokotjo.
Our reading period and release date for our 2018 issue of Diaphanous is to be determined. We will update our Diaphanous Press facebook page and our website, as soon as we know.
I thank all of those involved with this amazing Diaphanous journey and look forward to reading and showcasing more of the highest-quality, cutting-edge, and exquisite poetry, short fiction, and art from around the world.
HOURGLASS STUDIES / XI
1. Sleeping close to the reef, the traveler holds a teal cup to the ear to hear the blue-green kelp gone lazy and dry, lost from the ink [stomach].
2. The chair in the suitcase packed to find the third shore, [w]here another narration varies.
3. In the dirt lit with Chinatown, the refrain apprehended in part; the loss of the second hand.
4. Send for the sample only to be plagued by more questionnaires.
5. The contents of the bag turned inside out. Borrowed and given back: a loose tooth, address book, bit of red mountain in a jar.
6. The lover’s eye spinning estuary coin.
7. Pulled out of slumber across the daybook filled to echo formulas for [sw]allowed halos.
8. The clock in hand the confused woman swallows the key to a diary the pages disappear waiting for the trump finale.
9. The [n]arrow boatride toward daybreak before the mountains crumbled [into] sound.
10. Pendulum’s dialectic of true and false, and all those shades of gray in between conspire hungry.
11. To prove the best design, the tincture couldn’t be documented to ensure the singular.
12. The hemlock given with an even hand, the logician attacked in the folds of a proposition, knotted in the tide’s undercurrent, wakes to find everyone missing–all of the main beams.
KRYSIA JOPEK‘s (Krysia Jopek, poems and poetic fiction) poems have appeared in many literary journals, including Great American Literary Magazine, Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag, Meta/Phor(e)/Play, Syllogism, The Woven Press, Columbia Poetry Review, and The Wallace Stevens Journal. She reviewed the poetry of Ann Lauterbach, Michael Palmer, Anna Rabinowitz, and Rosemarie Waldrop for The American Book Review as well as literary criticism for The Wallace Stevens Journal. Her first novel, Maps and Shadows (Aquila Polonica 2010), was praised as “a stunning debut novel, beautifully written, lyrical and poetic” and won a 2011 Silver Benjamin Franklin award in the category of historical fiction. Her sequence poem, Hourglass Studies (Crisis Chronicles, 2017) was nominated for a 2018 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She holds four degrees: a B.A. and M.A. in English from the University of Connecticut, an M.Phil. in English from the City University of New York Graduate Center, and an M.F.A in Literary Fiction from Albertus Magnus. She is the Founding Editor of Diaphanous: an e-journal of literary and visual art. She can be contacted via Diaphonous Press or her author website (linked above).
Clad in blue-gray woolly plaid, black oxfords
and pressed, pristine white uniform-blouse
on the morning walk from the dorms to the convent,
past the apple orchard dripping rubescent fruit,
past long-lashed benign cows gently grazing,
walking briskly across that green pasture land
into the greener wood rich in conifers and
the piney debris that crunches amicably under foot,
in single-minded pursuit of that brass-hinged door,
on into aprons, to Sister Mary Francis, the kitchen, bread.
… we therefore beseech thee, O Lord, to be appeased, and to receive this offering of our bounden duty, as also of thy whole household …
The romance was not with bread to eat,
but with yeasts to proof, batters to mix,
and dough to knead, and rest, and grow –
that beautiful, mystical living thing you have
before the baking and dying into bread, and with
the crackling timpani of wood-ovens firing up, pans crashing,
the rhythmic swish and sway of our community,
punctuated by the clicking of Sister’s rosary as she
monitors the students and novices in silent industry at bakers’ tables.
This is the sacred work of those meditative hours before Mass and school
and the business of music lessons and art classes and
the methodical ticking of Liturgical Hours until finally Compline, sleep and
the contemplation of that final sleep and dust-to-dust.
And this being Tuesday, the day to commemorate St. John the Baptist,
and the day to bake our bread for the week to come.
…order our days in thy peace; grant that we be rescued from eternal damnation and counted within the fold of thine elect. Through Christ our Lord …
The next bake day, Thursday, commemorates the Holy Apostles.
Oh, palpable Presence, we work in the silence of Adoration,
preparing pure wafers for a week of Masses.
In a solemn alcove reserved for this task,
we mix flour, salt, and holy water blessed by Father Gregory,
then the fragile process of baking on baking tongs,
silvery antiques, perhaps a hundred years old.
… which offering do thou, O God, vouchsafe in all things …
Receiving the Eucharist
knowing it was formed by my own hand.
…to bless, consecrate, approve, make reasonable and acceptable that it may become for us the Body and Blood of thy most beloved Son,our Lord Jesus Christ…
Friday, The Cross and Theotokos (Mary),
mother of both God and man, Divine and human.
A girl, like me, perhaps a baker of breads.
…who the day before he suffered took bread into his holy and venerable hands, and with his eyes lifted up to heaven, unto thee, God, his almighty Father, giving thanks to thee …
Mysterious. Numinous. Inexplicable.
A lifetime ahead to figure it out.
Ecce Panis.
Take this Bread.
… he blessed, brake, and gave to his disciples saying: Take and eat ye all of this…
from the pastures and the woods, from the sky and the stream
from nature’s great cathedrals, everywhere present
... hoc est enim Corpus meum…
for this is my body
for this is my life
Amen.
“Where is God? Wherever you let him in.” Rabbi Menachem Mendel Morgensztern of Kotzk, Poland 1787
What event or experience or time in your life (doesn’t have to be associated with religion) birthed for you the freedom to explore beyond the boundaries set for you? Tell us in a poem and share it or a link to it in the comments below. All poetry on theme will be published here on Tuesday next. You have until Monday at 8:30 p.m. PST to respond. All are welcome to come out and play no matter the status of your career: beginning, emerging or pro. Thank you!
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 