Happy New Year

Happy and Peaceful New Year from Polish Art Critic Szymon Bojko

THE FIX IS IN: a collection of poetry

TISH PEARLMAN, the host of the award-winning weekly public radio program “Out of Bounds” is also a poet. Her first chapbook “The Fix Is In” has been published by Finishing Line Press. This is a very personal collection that focuses on her 2009 open heart surgery experience. Two of the poems in her collection will also be appearing in the 2011 edition of “The Healing Muse.”

Dr. Diedre Nielson, who teaches at SUNY Upstate Medical University and edits “The Healing Muse” says of Pearlman's book of poems: “The Fix Is In” is not for the faint of heart; these are bold, passionate, and sometimes angry poems that describe the speaker's attempt to reclaim health and mind after a "routine" medical procedure goes wrong. Images of light and dark, fire and water transcend their usual metaphors and become their own doubles. A poem from the book “Vertigo” appears below:

Vertigo

I dodged the darkness

by the light of the

light

and the measurement

of breath

comes like a wave in a

wave

in a mist

Is it a song?

Is the breath voicing

a hymn

to the power

of being fully a dream

in a dream within a

dream I sing I sing

and am tossed within

a swirling darkening darkness

as the stars by the light of the light

awaken

and bring me home

***

Tish Pearlman is a writer, broadcast journalist and activist originally from Manhattan Beach, California. She is currently the creator, host, and producer of the award-winning public radio interview show “Out of Bounds.” The program airs on NPR affiliates WEOS-FM and WSKG-FM in central New York as well as an affiliate in Wisconsin.

For more information or to contact her, please visit her website:

www.outofboundsradioshow.com

To order book:

http://www.amazon.com/Fix-Tish-Pearlman/dp/1599248069/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1327978584&sr=8-1

FRANCIUM

Jeanne Mackin

an essay

Nature is always mysterious and secret in her use of means; and art is always likest her when it is most inexplicable. That execution which is least comprehensible and which therefore defies imitation, other qualities being supposed alike, is the best.

Ruskin

FRANCIUM IS A METAL SO RARE we can only guess at its color. With a half-life of twenty-two minutes and a melting point so low this metal would be liquid at room temperature, it is an element of dream time. Scientists speculate that at any given moment less than thirty grams of it exist on the entire planet. It is measured in atoms, not cupfuls, and even the atoms are measured in thousands, not billions. They have to be trapped in laser beams in a magnetic field, briefly floating like snow flakes in the glow of a street light and then melting back into a great unknown. Francium is so rare that we don’t even have a use for it. We will live our lives without ever seeing this metal, without experiencing its catastrophically brief existence.

There was a boy once, like that. By accident, though there may be no such thing, we sat next to each other in a pub in Boston, listening to revolutionary songs of a different country. I saw him from the corner of my eye, never looking straight on, his black hair and white skin, the kind of coloring you often find in people who recite from memory lines from Yeats. We drank brown foamy beer and drew codes in the sawdust floor with the toes of our boots. He was with his friends, I with mine. Yet we knew we were together. His arm slowly, inevitably curled around my waist, under my coat, where no one could see it, but I could feel it. We didn’t look at each other. We hadn’t spoken a word to each other, yet we belonged to each other. This is not a true story, you see. It is a story of unstable elements, of unknowable colors, of rare metals and all that we cannot see of existence, all that cannot be imitated. It is a story of solitude and rarity.

The door opens. A cold wind blows into the pub, and the codes in the sawdust of the floor are wiped away by the draft. We shiver and grow aware, leave behind the dream time. His arm snakes away back into its private Eden but it leaves behind this memory of a boy and a cold night and that knowledge of rarity, of immeasurability. The memory lasts longer than the moment and that is how we know we are, and have been.

We exist in a single moment surrounded by before and after, and when the boy who is and always will be a stranger removes his arm from around the waist of the girl who is a stranger, the moment changes, before and after changes. We measure such moments by atoms of the unexpected, not cupfuls of what is known. And sometimes the atoms of the unexpected create larger memories than those cupfuls of what we know. What is the half-life of such a moment, that decades later I am still trying to measure its atoms?

***

JEANNE MACKIN is the author of five novels and numerous stories and essays. She is also the author of three mysteries published under the name Anna Maclean. Her novels have also been published in England and Japan. She has worked as a journalist and as a science writer at Cornell University where she received a number of national awards. She has taught writing at Ithaca College, and is presently on the MFA Creative Writing faculty at Goddard College.

A HOT SUMMER DAY

SASHA THURMOND


a short story





Make a plan. O.K. . . . Do many farm chores. It was 100 degree temperature with a heat index factor of 112 degrees. Mighty hot and humid, but I had many plans for this steamy, South Carolina summertime day. First I bought 40 bales of hay and grain for my horse. Then, I unloaded all of them into my barn. I was on a roll. Forget the fact that I had a back operation and an entire new hip installed after I broke mine.

I had just gotten a new rim and tire for my tractor, so I would mow the lawn. Yeah . . . it was working like a charm. Then suddenly the tractor "bites dirt." What the heck happened ?" I wondered . . . I was cockeyed. The new rim and tire was rolling away on it's own destiny. Curses! But no grass was going to grow under my feet! I got back into my truck with the wayward tire and dented new rim, and backed up my truck to head back to the tire store.

But, something jolted and slammed me abruptly forward. I had backed into a tree. I was getting a tad irritated at this point. I live alone, and had no one to vent to except for my many pets, and they thought I was just "Me being Me!" So, what to do next ? Check out the damage. The back end of my tailgate was badly dented, and I could not open the tailgate. As I was yanking it with all my might, the handle came off in my hand, and I landed hard on my butt!

So...I grabbed a sledge hammer and whack-whack-whack!!!!! It just dented my tail gate more, but it felt good at the time. I fancied that this was how Lizzy Borden felt whacking her family. This alarmed me. I'm a pacifist. What to do next ? I thought in desperation. Suddenly, it hit me. I decided to take things to the dump. Make my load in life lighter. I hurled clothes, pictures, all sorts of things I came upon I randomly, with feverish abandon, I threw it all in my truck till it was piled high, and merrily off I went to the local dump. Another thing that felt good while I was doing it. So . . . I did two more dump trips, and fleetingly thought of calling it a day. But NOOOOOOOOO not I.

Suddenly my attention hit upon my chickens in their coop. I felt sorry for them being cooped up all the time. I wanted them to be free during the day time, and safe in their kennel at night, though, their enclosure was very large and roomy for them. My first dog down here would not hurt a flea, and the baby chicks used to nestle right upon him. I knew that my next two dogs didn't have his same temperament , but I thought I could ease them into it. I mean, the chicken's enclosure was right next to the dog's kennel, they were neighbors. So, I put leashes on both my dogs, and let the rooster and two hens out of their compound.

BLAM! Both dogs lunged forward "like a speeding bullet," I fell face forward in the sand, and each dog chased the rooster and one hen into the woods. "Not a good idea," I tell myself. So I was horrified when both dogs returned with their dead prizes. I scooped up both chickens, threw them in my truck, and raced over to my neighbors who also had chickens, and they often ate them, as well as eating their eggs. I told them what had happened, and wouldn't they like to dress and eat my dead chickens ? At least I could do some gesture that would make some goodness out of my big, manic blunder. But no such luck. They would not eat them because they were bruised where my dogs bit into them."So don't eat the bruised part, give it to your dogs." I suggested.

But they wouldn't relent, and instead asked me if I was all right, because my fervent nature was concerning them. "Oh yes, I am just fine. . .but better if I could start my day all over again!!!!" So off I went with great regret, and took my chickens to the dump where my dogs would never find them. All sorts of strange things get dumped into containers -- even people. Sketchy pasts are not good to live with.

I was winding down, but not much. I have often thought that being Catholic would be a good thing -- just go to the priest after committing a sin or indiscretion, and be forgiven, and told to say a few Hail Mary's then back to the races. Not being Catholic, I went to the hospital to talk with someone . . . a safety net for myself. I know to do this. If I am "in a tizzy," chill, or do my art. That is a positive way to get centered again. When I am feeling manic, everything is a great idea, but don't act upon it!!!!!

Remember the rooster?!!!!!!!!!!! Remember that "this too shall pass?" "The best made plans can go asunder," and "I am not alone." So, when back in sorts, I drove home. I wondered what happened to my big, white hen, "Guenivere." She was unaccounted for. The dogs probably found her after I was gone. I had her the longest, and she laid a big, brown egg daily.

My dogs ran to greet me. They probably thought I had more chicken goodies. The chicken kennel door was ajar, and I saw something white high on a perch inside. Goodness gracious . . . it was my big white hen "Guenivere"!!!!!!!! A force of nature returned her to me. I didn't question it . . . I just went with it. It was a joyous note after a long, hard, emotional day. It was the "silver lining." Life could be good. I knew that I would sleep tonight.

***

Sasha Thurmond is a graduate of Cornell University's MFA program in Printmaking. She lives on a farm in South Carolina where she raises animals, rides her horse, makes prints and writes stories. The image accompanying this story is one of her works, which she makes using a computer program and hand drawing. She is also an avid blogger and maintains several blogs under various titles.

Editions Bibliotekos: Preparing Another Book Launch

Editions Bibliotekos: Preparing Another Book Launch: The human factor. What is that? The phrase is used by one of the many people who answered our call for fiction for a nature-themed anthol...

AIRS & VOICES, a book of poetry

Paula Bonnell

My personal lawyer is also a writer of crime thrillers. I can deal with that, most people need a day job, and he finds his material in his cases. Now here comes Paula Bonnell, a practicing lawyer who writes poetry. So where to start? I tried reading these poems as if I did not know that they were written by someone with “esquire” after their name. Then I remembered that Wallace Stevens was also a lawyer, albeit a corporate one.

Ms. Bonnell’s book of poems, “Airs & Voices” was the winner of the 2006 John Ciardi Prize for poetry. Juror Mark Jarman writes in the forward that Paula Bronnell’s voice “is fresh and original. Though the poet never labors to be significant, even the slightest poem lingers in memory.” And Maxine Kumin adds: “Bonnell’s voice is low key but full of quirky insights.”

The more I read these poems, the less I knew about Ms. Bronnell, or perhaps the more. Was I struggling too hard to find the lawyer behind each one. Is there a virtue in separating ones work from ones art—or is it a sin? And so I came to the poem “Evidence.” Now here comes a good bit of disclosure, I thought, but alas it was only about a curious woodpecker. I personally was taken by the strangeness of the imagery in this and other poems.

The book is filled with many “quirky insights” mixed with questions to ponder, such as these words from “The Faraway Nearby”:

I could live in the next life

If only I could get to it.

To quote Paula Bonnell from an interview she gave to Heather Clark: “We live in the present—or do we? How much space does ‘the present’ occupy between ‘then’ and ‘when’”? Reading Ms. Bonnell’s book may put us closer to finding out.

AIRS & VOICES

ISBN 978-1-886157-62-0-0, 74 pages, trade paperback, $13.95

BkMk Press, University of Missouri-Kansas City

www.umkc.edu/bkmk

***

LIGHTNING AND ASHES

A Collection of Poems

by John Guzlowski

WHAT MORE CAN ONE SAY about this collection of poems than has not already been said by the Polish poet and Nobel Laureate Czeslaw Milosz. “In [Guzlowski’s] poems the land of his parents and the work camps are always present, although at the same time they are only part of his poetic repertoire. [T]here are a lot of completely different poems . . . free of the burden of the past. This slim volume even astonished me with its doubleness. The first part summons precisely the camp images from the life of the author’s parents, who were treated by the Nazis like beasts of burden. Their awkward language, because they were both half-literate, was for the Nazi’s a language of mules. The second part reveals an enormous ability for grasping reality at some distance.”

In Lightning and Ashes Guzlowski takes on his father’s vision, through his own eyes, to recreate a past that he has not known, and then uses his father’s eyes to recreate a youth that he has lived. In this way he becomes both the actor and the audience in a drama of his own creation. The poems cause us to speculate how the author’s family might have live had WWII not happened, and then relates, unforgettably, what actually did happen, and its effects on the family long after the war was over.

Although the death camps in WWII may seem as an unlikely topic for poetry, and perhaps a matter that has been too much explored, Guzlowski’s sensitive, yet strong use of the language brings a new dimension to the subject. These poems remind us we should not forget that human suffering is universal. What went on in these camps in the 1940s still goes on today; brought on by the same reasons of race, religion and economic differences.

And my father will shovel

in terror and think of the words

he will not say: Sirs, we are all

brothers, and if this war ever ends,

please, never tell your children

what you’ve done to me today.

I must admit that I rarely read a book of poetry completely, more often skipping to individual poems that catch my fancy, but Lightning and Ashes was an exception. I do not hesitate to give this collection my highest recommendation.

~Pearson Oldmitz

STEEL TOE BOOKS

Western Kentucky University

$12.00, 86 Pages ISBN 978-0-9743264-5-0

http://Lightning-and-Ashes.blogspot.com/

***