For issue 61 of Shape of a Box, we present three poems from Helen Losse’s newest poetry collection “Better with Friends.” We have added Helen’s blog to our blogroll where you can get further details about ordering a copy of the book.
BETTER WITH FRIENDS -in memory of Paul Cherenzia
Yesterday three friends sat in folding chairs in front of their cars,
waiting for trains.
So naturally this morning, as the fog bears down
once again on the tree line at the back of the yard,
I’m seeking that perfect phrase,
as if memory weren’t powerful enough for the capture.
A few evergreens–and rhododendron for hope–grow
on the side of a hill with the orange of the berries of the holly.
The train obediently sounded its whistle,
while diesel-smoke rose–drifting above the blue Conrail–
starting where a road crosses the track and a sign says Dendron,
blowing back toward the east, darkening a small part of the sky
like a rain cloud. We watched the engineer wave, as–
even in January–we came prepared with blankets for our legs.
Our radios talked and cameras clicked. The train chugged up
the Blue Ridge, the mountain leaf-brown, washed-out,
winter-lovely.
A SATISFIED CATHEDRAL
I considered blueberry bushes
yesterday but didn’t buy any. Today it’s
raining hard. And the gloom of winter remains.
My dishwasher will not start, and my computer
monitor makes a high-pitched shriek. I look out
my window toward evergreens, where damp air
is too warm for snow. But even in February,
hope emerges–from the glow of a candle-
flame–and my heart becomes
a Byzantine cathedral of multi-colored tile.
I am bathed in incense and song, satisfied–
for the moment–with indoor light.
PRAYER IN THE FOG for Lisa
The morning fox
at the back of the yard–
like the smoke in the mountains,
only thinner and lower–
invited. The fog dances in sun
like my feet to a proper rhythm.
The sun makes golden
the uneven weeds and the grass.
As the sun rises over the right of way,
shadows cause a false elevation
behind the familiar man-made ditch.
I embrace those shadows–
though they may be untrue–
for this is the first morning this week,
I have awakened to a fog, so penetrable
I can walk inti it and set myself free.
This week we presented 3 poems by Scott Owens, but I also filmed Scott last year for an interview. That was the first time I had met Scott. The interview is below:
And as a side note, the cover art in this week’s current issue is by Melanie Faith. Melanie continues to provide us great writing and photography.
More poetry next week, and possible additional information about our need for assistants and/or interns to help with videos as well as web design.
For issue 60 of Shape of a Box we present three poems by Scott Owens.
BIO: Author of 5 collections of poetry and more than 500 poems published in various journals and anthologies, Scott Owens is editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review, Vice President of the Poetry Council of NC, author of “Musings” (a weekly column on poetry), founder of Poetry Hickory, and a writer of reviews of contemporary poetry. His work has received awards from the Academy of American Poets, the North Carolina Writers’ Network, the North Carolina Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina and been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes. Born in Greenwood, SC, he has lived in NC for the past 25 years and currently teaches creative writing at Catawba Valley Community College in Hickory. The book, in which these poems appear, Paternity, is available from Main Street Rag on pre-order. His book, The Fractured World, is already in print and is available at Main Street Rag as well.
DAUGHTER’S CONFIDENCE
I don’t like robots, she says
and lets go the hand she’d thought
to give the picture to, a pizza shop
mouse and she sitting
together on a yellow train.
Sawyer, at 3, believes
all things have life and doesn’t
understand why this one
would refuse her heart-felt gift,
why he wouldn’t respond at all.
She knows she’s small,
but still believes she matters
enough to be acknowledged,
to merit at least a No, thank you.
It’s a quality I hope she’ll keep,
to refuse to be ignored,
shunned, judged as unworthy
by mice or men, even by robots.
DRESS UP
Fairy Princess, Sparkling Princess,
Cow Girl, Dalmation, Kitty Cat –
One by one you bring them to me,
the costumes we’ve purchased
or made for various holidays,
and I help you put them on,
making sure everything is right
for the first boy you dress for,
a three year old who finds you
so amazing he’d never criticize a thing.
I know he won’t be the last.
I know it all does matter.
I know what I’m supposed to do.
And I know I’ll never be ready.
SAWYER SAYS
Sawyer asks, Who was first?
Where were we all hatched?
Were we babies in God’s belly?
Sawyer says we don’t need to tell her
what to do, that her mind tells her
what to do. We explain that it’s our job
as Mommy and Daddy. She replies, You need a different job.
When I ask Sawyer what she wants to be,
she says, A tennis player, a doctor,
a goose, and an astronaut. She asks if I
want to be an astronaut. I tell her I did
when I was little but now I’m too big.
She says, You can still be an astronaut.
You just have to do homework even when you’re big.
Zero has become her favorite number. Do you know how much fun I’m having, she asks her Uncle Richard who refuses
to let her run up the almost vertical hill
alone. Zero fun. And hours later,
coloring, self-contained, as he sits
reading the paper, she reminds him, I’m still having zero fun.
Sawyer says, eating her Laffy Taffy
after days with a cold, I’m cured. Now I know why I was sick,
because I wasn’t eating enough candy.
Sawyer says, Aren’t you glad I chose you,
Daddy? When I was in Mommy’s tummy,
I saw you and you looked sweet, and I knew
you’d be a good Daddy, so I chose you.
From our archives this week, I thought I’d pull forward our very first issue which was published just over a year ago from now. This was a short fiction piece called “Lost and Found” by Dorothy Spruzen. It was one of our Pushcart Nominees for 2008.
So, take a peek at where we started. Have a great Thanksgiving holiday everyone in the US and just a great week to everyone everywhere else.
For Issue 59 of Shape of a Box we present a short fiction piece by Donna D Vitucci which is accompanied by photogrpahy by Jeff Schmuki
BIO: Donna raises funds for nonprofit clients in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her stories, and a few poems, have appeared or are forthcoming in dozens of print and online journals, including Natural Bridge, Hawaii Review, Meridian, Gargoyle, Hurricane Review, Front Porch Journal, Beloit Fiction Journal, Storyglossia, Turnrow, Juked, Night Train, Freight Stories, PANK, up the staircase, Smokelong Quarterly and Another Chicago Magazine. She is thrilled to pay tribute to the humility, wonder, and resilience of all who endured, and continue to endure, what Hurricane Katrina has wrought. With special thanks and devoted homage to her brother-in-spirit, Jeff.
Jeff provided an artist statement. A portion of which is included below: The consequences of inefficient and excessive consumption are now being realized worldwide. Fixed beliefs about our environment and long-term sustainability must give way to imaginative alternatives. Out of my concern over humanity’s failure to forge a sympathetic accord between culture and nature, I initiate projects in the hope of salvaging a sense of sanctuary in a troubled world. Jeff’s website is http://www.jeffschmuki.com
SWAMP LILY LAMENT
The hurricane lived, its eye at the back of my eye. I helped lift my neighbors’ bodies from what they floated in. Think of the shit under everyone’s sink, in everyone’s toilet, in a city’s sewer, what’s underground and in tubes and tunnels you never see, all mixed with salt water that laps knee deep or higher.
With six buckets of bleach in varying strengths, I tried salvaging a pair of jeans. They disintegrated in the wash. My best beloved things dissolved, but things can be replaced if you want to replace them. A stainless steel spoon I found, I cleaned, disinfected, polished, put on a shelf. In a few days, the spoon began growing fuzz.
My lovely beach of wind-torn beauty, whip-worn fresh God-given coast–hurricane ate that, ate it up and spit it out with stomach juices that ironed us flat as we worked the small recoveries.
Wore boots, waders when we could find them, through the caustic muck. In the beginning, there was no time to locate footwear. Emergency, man. My neighbors, my friends, face down. A few face up.
I lived in a tent while I tried deciding, wondered what I could save, where I would go, evaluated need, and roamed around the outside of my shotgun broke in two. I helped recover while I contemplated. A couple drove by and stopped and knocked on my tent flap.
“By God’s good grace we were spared. We have extra room and you are welcome to stay as long as you like.” I flinched. Suspicion ran off me in rivulets with the heat. “Just until you get on your feet again,” they said.
“I appreciate,” I said. “Kind of you. Thanks, but I’ll be all right here for now.”
My rescue-wet hand streaked their dry palms. No resentment. God chooses, or nature chooses. Sometimes God and nature are one, and other times they face opposite ends of the universe like children separated by their parents so they can’t continue fighting, or like boxers refereed to corners, God and nature as far from one another as they can get, their backs turned, not paying attention. The world goes to hell.
In a matter of days we’d all aged, or reverted, not to former youth, but to a primal state. Or maybe our hurricane had jarred the lid atop the evil the world had always hid. Three thugs approached. I saw malice in the sweat of their lanky hair. I didn’t have much they could want or steal, but I’d heard of punks poking vehicles’ tanks to steal gasoline. I had a truck. I had a pistol. All I had to do was show it.
The sun glinted off the revolver as much as it sparkled the teens’ chains and brightened their tattoos. With knives they could cut me down like cane. We took part in a mute standoff, as if nobody knew language, or couldn’t be bothered to use it. The colorful ones loped backwards down the block, they eyed me and my gun, my homestead, until the glare blotted me out. They faced the other way, the direction God had faced.
What survived: heirloom bulbs.
Cousin to the amaryllis, crinum brought here hundreds of years ago by the Spaniards grew ten feet deep. Stalk curled like a snake entranced with the sky, put forth an alien pod, bloomed into a wonder some called the swamp lily. Took Mississippi back to the first garden. I could leave the bulbs behind. Or I could unearth them and cart them wherever I decided to next make my home. Shoveled until I was sore, but the garden could not be excised. Came to find the glory rooted in me, and I in this particular dark dirt.
I stowed my pistol, roomed with the Good Samaritans the second time they came offering. Wildlife vanished. Imagine the world without birdsong. Eerie as death. Wish I knew what to call it. I don’t think God’s handed us the word for it yet. But I trust He’ll name it any day, like he named that garden we lost. Then He’ll pass the name on down for us to use and speak of to our children. If the snakes don’t strike first.
I am catching up on my print lit mag reading (guess I’m reading too much online material!) and I stumbled across one of our contributors in Georgetown Review: Ellaraine Lockie. This isn’t the first time I’ve run across Ellaraine’s name in a journal I subscribe to! Here is a reposting of her poems from issue 38.
For Issue 58 of Shape of a Box, we present 2 poems by Timothy Gager.
BIO: Timothy Gager is the author of seven books of fiction and poetry. He has appeared on stage with 3 Pulitzer Prize winning authors and five of his pieces have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes. He has never won anything.
Maybe it was the beer I had at 4:30,
the day before my appointment,
leading to…more beer,
bourbon with hot lemon and honey
(for my cold) then scotch
on the rocks, a favorite
nightcap for the drive home,
take it slow buddy….take it slow.
8 AM at the Office of Deeds
I’ll say anything to go home,
I’m a liberal with a wrongful arrest record,
I’m a social worker and I’m needed,
I know the victim today,
which case?
All of them.
I’m guilty.
They’ll all guilt today…
or innocent,
whichever comes quickest.
MY DEAR IN HEADLIGHTS
Her entire life flashes in front of my car,
in the dusty parking lot of the VFW,
when my Alva’s pocketbook spills out.
I edge my foot slightly off the break,
tempted to move it onto the gas,
like the stooped over the wheel
geriatric, today on Main Street,
who misplaced his pedals,
possibly for a hat,
rammed his Oldsmobile
into a coffee shop, in the middle
of a sun blinded afternoon.
But Alva, smoky, sloppy and boozy,
is not like the surprised customers,
whose mugs and saucers flew shattering
against the hard tiled floor, the sounds combined
with the screaming, and the screaming…yet,
no one died or will die today but it was close.
Alva cackles, “hold your horses, Timothy”
not once, but twice and I feel myself getting older
each and every second.
Thank you to all of our contributors and friends who gave us valuable insight into the nomination process. I’m updating our Pushcart Nominee Playlist to include this videos.
A little birdie told us that Shape of a Box has a shout out in the 2010 Poet’s Market. Former contributor, Jessy Randall, wrote an article on digital poetry for the Poet’s Market! Unfortunately, the article has the wrong name on it but let us show Jessy some love by pulling her forward from the archives. Can’t wait to read the article!
For this issue we present poetry by Linda Annas Ferguson. These three poems appear in her book Dirt Sandwich which was published by Press53.
BIO: Linda Annas Ferguson is the author of five collections of poetry, including Bird Missing from One Shoulder(WordTech Editions, 2007)Stepping on Cracks in the Sidewalk(Finishing Line Press, 2006); Last Chance to Be Lost(Kentucky Writers’ Coalition, 2004); It’s Hard to Hate a Broken Thing(Palanquin Press, University of S.C. Aiken, 2002). She was the 2005 Poetry Fellow for the South Carolina Arts Commission and served as the 2003-04 Poet-in-Residence for the Gibbes Museum of Art in Charleston, S.C. A recipient of the Poetry Fellowship of the South Carolina Academy of Authors, she is a member of the Academy’s Board of Governors. She was a featured poet for the Library of Congress Poetry at Noon Series. Her work is archived by Furman University Special Collections in the James B. Duke Library. A North Carolina native, she now resides in Charleston, SC. Visit her website at www.lindaannasferguson.com
RAINBOWS ARE REAL
I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and earth . . . Genesis 9.13
If you walk toward one, it will move away,
existence relative to the rain, the angle
of light traveling, slowing as it goes
through water, scattering into color,
then bending back to our eyes.
Once I saw a a rainbow while flying,
looking down from the sky, not an arc,
but a complete circle, the plane’s silhouette
in the cneter. Pilots call it a “glory.”
I wonder if this was the way one first appeared
to God, His magnified shadow hovering
over muddy land and multitudes of dead bodies
like the last dark cloud as it drained itself,
a halo, whole and unbroken, cast whent eh sun
was low, a symbol for the end of devastation
and downpours of paternal lessons, yet
bewildering enough to be a bringer of blessings.
WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND
. . . much study is a weariness of the flesh. Ecclesiastes 12:12
It’s humbling to the human,
to have an examined life
turned over so many times
it feels leathery.
I walk the beach remembering
the smooth bohemian I meant to be.
An old man calls to me
from the concrete slab of a condo.
He’s offering me something,
plums rotting in a bowl, juice
seping from their wrinkled skin.
Waves scratch their scars
into the shore. Varicose purple
streaks the sky. I leave a shell
for a young woman asleep
in a hammock, an oyster
still silky and iridescent
by her open hand.
THE RAPTURE
My son wants to know if a wormhole
is how Elijah was taken into the sky,
as he watches snow whiten the lawn
like Heaven coming to us; why snow
doesn’t last forever and what
forever is anyway, wanting four sides
or an axis, something sensible
as science to his twelve-year-old mind.
His grandmother replies, says we will
be taken like Elijah in the rapture.
He equates it to alien abduction,
to the disappearance of Jack
up the beanstalk or Alice into the mirror,
remembering other worlds he has visited
in his imagination, picturing God
at the computer, His finger on delete.
He tells her his teacher says we are
seventy-two percent water, as he exhales
on the window pane, writes his name,
explains the existence of moisture
that forms, then evaporates, the snow
beginning to leave, little by little,
as breaths of steam ride a stream
of sunlight into opening clouds.
