This collection features earlier submitted works of poetry from other books and journals. I found Ardor very spirited. Ardor contains free verse, koans, commentary on modern life, verses on women as goddesses, a few translations, prayers to deities, and, quirkily, some poems that the author is self-aware about writing poetry. Some poems were very simple (only a few lines at best). It appears as if the poems are meant to be read, not spoken, as it would sound quite awkward listening to its uneven meter.
Interestingly enough, the poems about poetry made me laugh. One in particular, “Imposters,” slams other “poets” who are nothing but mechanics and vampires. At least Canan isn’t “strangling language” to get her message across and does have something to say or praise. Canan has been writing poetry for a very long time, evident by her writing credits.
Readers who are into Eastern mysticism, Goddess worship, and female empowerment will enjoy this book.
Why does beauty strive so far, why does love now own the ability to mar?
Are we changing our course for a negative outcome, is this the end to man?
Will we ever again become fearsome or have we emptied out our jar of sand?
Do you believe or do you only understand when I tell you,
This is not the way our destiny was planned.
Depression with a rhyme-scheme
I long to live out my dreams,
but reality is as reality seems,
it’s hard work and occasional breakdowns
usually it just feels like acting silly in front of clowns..
I guess the true story is;
It will probably always be like this.
This view
I’ve never realized how glorious a view can be
It grabs and takes holds of us
It’s a thing you can’t compare
To anything, anywhere
White dots in the frizzled silver
And though humanity made its mark
A reason to wonder it can always deliver
Creamy beads of spring
Dancing not to care, if they would they could sing
I woke up to the sounds of screams and gun shots. Of course I knew that this was just a small group trying to rebel against the government. I also knew that the government would win. You see, the government is very strong. They control almost everything about our lives. How we drive, what things we see in the media, and what we learn in school to name a few.
Sometimes there are small rebellions. Rebellions like this one tonight. A group of teenagers go guns blazing against some police officers and then they die. Some rebellions actually do some damage. But those ones require money and planning. They also require assistance by employees of the government who know a lot about how the government works. Even with money and planning these rebellions barley work. They might cause some damage. Like one time where a few undercover generals blew up a government building and killed many officers. The government of course put that rebellion down.
I stood up and looked around my room. My room is quite large for a 17 year old. The only reason why it’s large is because my father works for the government. My father, a person I truly hate, gets nearly 350,000 thousand gintos. (The currency of our country) a year. It’s amazing he makes that much. All he has to do is to go to an office and spy on everyone in the city. He uses a system that is able to look through walls and stuff. That’s all he does.
My bed is located on the southern wall. I have two book cases on the sides of my bed. There is a large window on the wall on the right side of my bed. The entire left side is covered with a large panoramic of the city. My father wanted me to be fooled into liking the government. He thought that if he put a picture of what the government has done I would like it. He is wrong of course. I could put thousands of pictures of starving people. People that have been oppressed by this government. The only reason why I don’t do it is because I would get in so much trouble. There is a door that leads out into the main hall on the left side too. There are two doors on the northern wall. These doors lead into my bathroom. My bathroom has white marble tile everywhere. The northern wall has a grand Jacuzzi and a walk in shower that has three spouts from where the water falls. The northern wall also has two doors that lead into the walk in closet. The walk in closet is as big as the bathroom and my room combined. It has sections where I put my underwear, socks, shoes, shirts, pants, etc. My mom had this room installed when we moved in. She said that I would need a large closet to house the most extravagant clothes of the country. She says that I need to make “a great first impression” and that “the first impression can make or break you.”
I stood up and walked over to the window. I opened the blinds and looked out. What I saw was way different then a normal rebellion. There were several tanks and several trucks all lay out on the street. There were at least 46 troops walking around. There were also several dead bodies lying on the ground. This is what I hate most about the government. They do not care about people. They could drive over them for all they care.
I looked over to my door when I heard steps coming up from the hall. The door opened and my mom walked in. She comes walking in at me from the door.
My mom is short, maybe 5 feet 4 inches. She has short dirty blonde that hangs just right above her shoulders. She is strong. She has bigger then average muscles for a woman of her age and her calves are the size of a watermelon. They are even bigger then mine. She is a fairly smart woman. She is a college graduate ofHastinUniversityin the old city in the east called Roggers. In college she studied how to be a writer. She is currently an employee of the Daly Star. She rights about sports. Sports is the only topic that the government does not lie to us about. Her name is Karlie.
She stopped at my bed and looked at me. “Go back to bed Ren.” (Ren is my name)
“What happened outside?” I asked.
“A small petty rebellion.” She looks at the window and says, “It’s just a small group of anarchists who want to change us forever. I am glad that our government can protect us from fools like that.”
“But mom what if they are right?” I said. “Maybe our government abuses its power too much?”
“The government is the only thing that keeps this world in order. Without it we would fall into anarchy. For thousands of years this planet would be under constant war. Trust me Ren. This government is not as bad as you make it to be.”
“I am not tired mom. Can I go watch a movie?”
“No.” she says abruptly. “Go to bed.”
“But I am not tired mom!” I yell. “Can I please go downstairs and watch a movie?”
“Well I guess since it’s Saturday you can.”
“Thank you mom,” I replied and kissed her on the forehead.
I got up from my bed and hurried through my door.
I walked down the main hall. This hall runs down my entire house. It has red carpet and there are pictures all throughout the wall. There are several doors that lead into bed rooms, offices, libraries, and bathrooms.
I walk until I reach the stairs. There are two stairs leading downstairs. The stairs are located in the half point of the house. The stairs curl down to the right or left depending on where they started. The carpet on the stairs is red too. The stairs lead into an opening room. This room is about 25 feet tall. There is a huge, round, and gold chandelier that hangs on the ceiling. This room also has white marble tile and pictures that can go back to the early revolution years. (It is 2023. This government was established 754 years ago after a huge revolution that took out a democratically elected government. The rebels argued that this government is and will never be strong enough to handle tough challenges. If you ask me about that government I would tell you that I would love to live there, not here.)
I walked down the stairs. I counted each stair as I walked.
I then proceeded to walk slowly to the basement. I had to walk through the rest of the opening room, passing pictures that showed the glory of our government. (Yeah right!)
The stairs that led to the basement were under the stairs that lead upstairs. They were red also. I walked down slowly into the darkness. As soon as I got downstairs I turned on the light switch. The basement is the worst place in the entire house. It reminds me of all the government’s power. It reminds me of this fact because it is the host of many different expensive products paid for by the government. For example, we have a 70 inch plasma TV, a pool table, and a lot more that I could care less to go into detail about.
I walked right up to the TV and turned it on. The channel I turned it to shows governmental proceedings at the capital. The only person who is interested in this kind of stuff is my dad. I do not know why. In my opinion, this channel is the worst channel you could get. I hopped over the storage area where we house the DVDs. I pick out one about the times before the revolution. I could always count on this movie to be entertaining. I popped it into the DVD player and waited for it to play. I plopped myself on the couch and lay down.
CHAPTER TWO
I found my self on a couch downstairs. All I knew from last night was that there was a small rebellion and the fact that I watched a movie. I didn’t know when I fell asleep or what movie I watched. I was completely disoriented. I stood up and looked at the round silver clock on the wall. 9:50 in the morning. I looked around. No one was in my sight, but I did hear noises coming from upstairs. I jumped up and slowly walked to the stairs. When I got to the stairs I look up them and heard people arguing.
“Just give me three more weeks please damn it!” I heard my father yell.
“The rebellions in the east are taking a toll on us,” a soft, smooth voice replied.
“Yes. They are,” a loud, rough voice said. “We need to make an example that this nation is not to be trifled with. When we say we mean business we mean business.”
“I just do not want my friends and family to get hurt,” I heard my father say.
So the rumors were right. There was a rebellion in the east. The government does not want to say there is. They think that if we know we will join them.
I was hungry. I wanted some breakfast. I started to walk up the stairs when I heard a bang. “Bang…Bang…Bang…” I ran up the stairs and saw a small man lying on the ground with a bullet in the head. Blood was squirting out of his head. A large blood puddle formed around him. This man was short and stout. He had a round face with a round noise. He was almost bald. I knew him from somewhere. I always saw him on TV, speaking about the defense department. Then his name popped in my head. He was Defense Secretary Sir Gara Sitoni.
“Go Ren!” My dad yelled from across the room.
I could not go. I was petrified of what he had done. He has just killed the Defense Secretary. This was a Federal crime to the highest degree because the Defense Secretary was 4th in line to the throne. I was petrified too because I knew of the consequences. If you have are tried and are guilty of a Federal crime to the highest degree you will be punished by death. Not your death. Your friends or family’s death. I knew that could mean that I would die or that my mom would die because of this. I finally got out of my trance and I fully sprinted up the stairs, down the hall, and into my room.
I spent 5 hours in that room. I knew that my fate was locked in the moment he killed the defense secretary. I was going to die. There was no point for me to live know. My fate was always to die. It could have been in a war or an execution.
I then heard a knocking on the door and I said, “Come in.”
My dad walked in. My dad is really tall. About 6 foot 6 inches. He has a square face with a square nose. He always wears one outfit. An outfit made by the government for government workers. This outfit is grey and it has the badges that my father has been given. He does this because he thinks it will protect him. No one would ever dare kill or try to injure a government worker. His name is Mr. Janz Hardy.
“You do not need to worry-“
“-Why shouldn’t I worry? You know what they are going to do to me. The will kill me!” I yelled.
“I will protect you,” he says but I could tell that he is lying because he is looking away from me.
“I need you to tell me the truth. I only have a few months left. I want to know what is happening in the east.”
He sighs and says, “Alright. The city of Roggers in the east is fully controlled by the rebels. They are trying to take the entire eastern seaboard.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
“They are a large group of rebels. They all are from the eastern part of this nation. I think they formed 5 years ago. We do not know how to find where they start to form groups. We do not know who to look for. We also think that they could be here, in the city.”
“Have they had any progress?” I ask. Of course I want them to win. If they win I could have a chance to be saved.
“They only have the city of Roggers, but that does not mean they are not winning. Sources say they have infiltrated different cities across the nation. We believe that they will start using guerrilla warfare.”
“Would they ever attack here?”
“This is the capital city. Security is off the charts here. I do not know if they would ever dare to do it, but I would not be surprised if they did.”
We both looked at each other then. It was like we instantly connected to each other. I finally believed that he was good. I thought for some reason that he wanted to rebels to win.
“What were you guys arguing about downstairs?”
“We were talking about the rebellions in the east. They said that the solution was to have a mass execution of school kids. They thought that if they did this they could get the rebellion in check. I said that I did not want to do this because it could harm you.”
“Thanks dad, but did you realize that by shooting the defense secretary you would harm me?”
“I am so sorry about that Ren. I do not want you to be killed. I will do everything in my power for me to be harmed, not you.”
“It’s ok dad. I was going to be executed anyway.”
He got up and said, “Rest a little bit. I will be up in a few hours with some food.”
Instead of resting a decided to go into my Jacuzzi. I got up and walked over to the bathroom. I went strait into the mirror. I looked just like my dad. I am not as tall as my dad though. I am 5 foot 7 inches. I looked at my muscles. I am not as strong as a bodybuilder but my muscles will do. I have a square face like my dad but my chin is a little pointy. I have a small round nose. And I have dirty blonde hair.
I went over to the Jacuzzi and turned on the water. I then took off all my clothes and walked right into the hot water. I stayed in the Jacuzzi for over 3 hours. I though about a plan. I could escape. I could make a ruckus and have all the government confused on where I was. I could try to fight them. Or I could just die.
I father walked in with a ham sandwich and a drink. He put it down on a table that swings out in front of me with a touch of a button.
“Enjoy. I will be downstairs figuring out a way for you to survive. Since it’s Sunday I want you to do your homework. Get out in 20 min.”
After about 20 minutes I got up and put on some of my “extravagant” clothes that my mother got for me. I walked out into my room and sat down on my bed with my backpack. I got out some math homework that I wanted to do before tomorrow. I then walked out of my room into the hall and into an office space. I sat down and finished every single peace of homework that I had.
It was 9:45 when my mother walked in.
“I think you need to get to bed. Tomorrow will probably be a hard day for you. I recommend that you do not tell anyone what happened.” Then she walked out.
I packed my homework, got up, and walked into my room. I then walked into my bathroom, brushed my teeth and washed my face, and went to the bathroom. I then jumped onto my bed and quickly fell asleep.
The Community Arts Program (CAP) gallery and workshop is situated on a grimy corner of the SOMA district in San Francisco, about a mile south of the city’s towering monument to consumer excess, San Francisco Centre. Standing in the shadow of the glitz and polish shining proudly off of central SOMA’s fine art galleries, high fashion boutiques, and expensive hotels and restaurants, CAP is sandwiched, stubborn and proud, amongst a hodge-podge of liquor stores, strip clubs, sex shops, and various other peddlers of cheap gadgetry and fast gimmicks in the heart of the Tenderloin. A mixed bag of sidetracked tourists, vagrants, shoppers, and local businesspeople line the streets, hurriedly going about the affairs of the day with scarce a thought to the small, cramped workshop tucked away amongst a morass of commerce and vice. But to the more than 250 destitute, desperate artists of the Tenderloin who frequent CAP annually, it’s a sanctuary, a sacred place where they can bring their dreams to life and add some color and light to the dark, dreary world in which so many of them live.
Started by Central City Hospitality House in 1969 to give the poor and underprivileged residents of the Tenderloin access to creative resources that would otherwise be unobtainable to them, CAP believes that “these materials are the tools that provide an often-neglected outlet for creative freedom and, subsequently, they serve to enhance self-esteem and ambition.” As such, they offer the use of all of their supplies and materials free of charge, giving people like James Irvine Taylor, whose current exhibit “Futurists Utopians” is on display at the gallery, a chance to express themselves and find safe haven in a community of shared creativity and strife.
Brightly colored, well-defined, and full of hope, James’ work is a stark contrast to the realities of his everyday life. An unemployed, somewhat agoraphobic resident of a single-occupant housing development in the Tenderloin, James is an elderly man who shuns modern conveniences like e-mail, television, and even the telephone, mostly preferring the solitude of his small studio apartment where he can create his colorful Utopian futures in peace, rather than face the rigors of the everyday world. James rarely makes appearances at the gallery itself, according to Ivan Vera, CAP’s program manager, and as such I was not able to speak with him directly. But the man’s work clearly speaks for itself, and his clarity of vision is both immediately accessible and undeniably powerful.
Reaching into both the past and the future to achieve his vision, James mixes graceful and stately art deco sensibility with the neon glare and wild imagination of sixties-era sci-fi to create a vast, angular landscape of order, glory, and freedom. Graceful, androgynous figures dot the landscape, beckoning with promises of a bright, utopian future, while rigid lines and hard edges bring a stained-glass quality to nearly every piece, merging form and function with a designer’s eye and a philosopher’s heart. UFOs and automobiles feature prominently in his work, getaway vehicles offering promises of adventure and liberty out among the stars and planets scattered across a great number of his pieces. Throughout all of James’ work lies an undeniable sense of innocent wonder and defiant hope that, if you just keep dreaming and building, you can reach a better tomorrow.
To learn more about James Irvine Taylor and view his work, please visit the following link:
Beware false prophets of war. Disquiet permeates the land. Two shadow armies have taken command, their soldiers drifting in and out of our daily lives barely noticed while their officers send dispatches of despair breaking across all fronts. Wave upon wave, these armies send dutiful servants into battle. They crash upon every shore. Sometimes they carry the day with them. Sometimes, we must give way to the rising tide of sorrow. Drowning, Arnold, stands remembering at Dover Beach, lacks resistance—all about despair, depression—one army from east, one from west, each beast, none rest. Shadow armies. Ashcroft in the night. Governments’ secret armies of terror. Panetta’s hidden delight. Armies of secret evidence, reliable reports, and covert actions. Contested and embattled, our identities attempt to unite around more than America (us) as the transnational identity (them) of with us or against us Bush. Exceptional America the tainted beauty. Ah, Mr. Hughes, let America be America again.
SALT SEA
We are ocean: in our blood, within our cells, around
each cell; sea salts ripple through, life to tide pools.
Each molecule, every atom, fertile ground,
floating in water, suspended in the rise and fall
as on a raft, but for the body, so many sounds call.
And I reach down to touch below, us, this living mud-mound.
Those who swim against the rip-tide become fools.
From the bottom of the Salt Sea that some call Dead,
round clusters of salt rise like hale from a great thunder storm.
Crystals blaze light, a thousand reflections that cannot be read—
some sand caught in a mud mold, nearly colored gold.
Squares of chemicals bonded into spheres of wonder, bold
harmonies of light transparent, translucent, seemingly led
in overtones to sing alongside confused melodies, the warm
sea lifting us to weightlessness under the stars. Voices whisper.
Many languages from many tongues, many tongues per nation,
the choirs’ songs a caterwauling call of difference, exclusion,
jazz, folk, classical, religious, secular, avant-garde, new
cacophony of naked, starving, crazy minds that flew
dancing and crashed in the physicality of some sensation
that might be called communication. Each lover’s verb fusion,
each child’s adjective an aspect of the whole that we cannot form,
“ein sof,” that is, without end. “Sof sof.” Finally. Finally, no rules.
THE WATCHMAKER’S SHOP
The bus slugs along modern highway number one,
but the path echoes back to a time of flint tools
and—where once groups of newly terrestrial bipeds
climbed down from the Baka’a ridge to the sea
and caravans wound through rock to markets—
grumbling diesels struggle up the mountains
with old cargoes of rock and timber and new
goods, hidden in steel boxes, for new markets.
I visited the watch repairman again last week.
His lumpy hands dexterous with tweezers that pop
watches open and reveal their inner works, he
checks the battery—it works, but the watch does not.
The clocks on his wall each tell a different story,
some refusing daylight savings time, some stopped
at an idiosyncratic moment, some on time and ticking.
The old man behind the counter wears his hours on his face
but his eyes show an inner working, iconoclastic as
the visages of stopped clocks. What sort of watchmaker
lets a clock stop and others rebel against industrious light?
How can each clock show its own time, some running,
some holding still as though waiting to tell something
no longer quite remembered? Only one of the three watches
I took to him runs again. I left with a new watch, though.
Time is slippery in the watchmaker’s world.
The other day I watched you reading. This morning
I saw your same face sleeping. Once, right after we made love,
your eyes shone with secret seasons. I recall on our first
evening together leaning on a railing speaking of much
and nothing to jazz music, somewhere near the Baka’a ridge.
An elderly poet gave me flint tools from that ridge.
You and I found a flint tool ourselves last week, or the week
before. Each stopped clock tells its story, eventually.
All time lumbers like this bus, up and down hills, unwinding
the paths others used to walk. Each stop holds a memory dear
to someone, somewhere. The watchmaker knows his craft:
Each clock, its own statement. Time carries us at an unreliable pace.
OR THIS A BIT CLOSER PERHAPS
penetrated. tumultuous. prism.
(fract(a(ll)ure)d) perspective (pre)viewed(post)
reified atom. sphere probability.
distributed. (in)equal(ity). particulate
(con(sum)ption) conspicuous absence
((dis(covered)un)likely). (hood(ed)).
reptile brain. monkey mind . sing-
(u)larity quant(um(atativ(e))quality)
fingered e=mC square(d). (root of
i). hemolytic. e(motion)al (v(amp)(pyre)).
fun(e)real erotica. (p(last)ic)ized.
battery acid. free (pa(pyr(e))us). sc(roll)
inserted. numismatic mnemonic
m(ark)er. m(ask) (dis(guise)d) of.
stretch.ed (fun)icular. (fun)iculus.
moment to (mo(me(a)nt)). annum to annum.
to empty. final. breath. exhaled. into.
night sky. (kaleid(o(colloid(collide
(a)scop(e))ic))). nacreous. time.
echoes. spinal. slippage. Into
Michael Dickel’s prize-winning poetry, stories, & photographs have appeared in journals, books, & online—including: Sketchbook, Zeek,Poetry Midwest, Neon Beam, why vandalism?, & Poetica Magazine. He lives and works in Jerusalem at the moment. His latest book of poems is Midwest / Mid-East: March 2012 Poetry Tour ( http://www.amazon.com/Midwest-Mid-East-March-2012-Poetry/dp/1105569136).
