[Reviewed by Bart S. Alvara]
I was unfortunate to have seen Idomeneo at the Opera San Jose, only because I now have a love of this art that will probably have me buying season tickets, and I’m in college, money is not my thing.
Walking in off of a street filled with car horns and cell phones ringing, the Opera House instantly transported me into 18th century France. Opera San Jose may not be the largest one, yet that only adds to its elegance and charm. With the richly decorated vaulted ceilings, Greco-Roman columns along the walls and a live pianist playing chamber music, the mood lifts you out of the modern world. That immersion into the past gave the show I was a going to see a sense of authenticity that no amount of downloaded music and iPads could deliver, so I knew I had to give the Opera my full attention.
There is something so visceral about the live performance that it almost overwhelms the senses. For the modern audience, we are too used to hearing our music on speakers, and forget that real song and music is made with instruments and voices. I say this because if a thundering drum was hit, you can feel the percussion resonate through the air. When an Opera singer hits a high note, the sound waves carry through the air to you. That connection to the music is something that television and movie screens cannot equal.
The plot comes from Mozart by way of Ancient Greece; a love story between a star cross Prince and Princess, and a father and King torn between sacrificing his city or his son. It builds from the tale of the Trojan Princess torn between her grief over the fall of Troy and her new love for the Greek Prince, into a powerful tale of being at the mercy of Fate. Filled with vengeful Gods, scheming lovers, and cruel destinies, the plot excels at creating tension and awe until its powerful climax.
You can contact the reviewer, Bart S. Alvara, at email@example.com.
Artist Bobby West’s coffee-colored hands gently revisit and redefine African culture through his passionate renditions. Bobby has been locked behind concrete walls for the past twenty-three years transforming canvas into some of the most brilliant, original, African-American, reflections composted today. Bobby’s inspiration comes from a lonely, desperate childhood.
In 1981, he was sentenced to forty-five years in federal prison for bank robbery.
While traveling throughout institutions, he polished his skills and perfected every art form that was permitted there. He paints with acrylics, oils, and watercolors, and draws with pencils, ink, pens, and chalk.
Presently, Bobby’s reverent mood and themes of Biblical serenity move the artist to pour his affections across fabric, selflessly giving an intimate view of his private world of pain, remorse, life, healing, and forgiveness. The cold concrete holds his feet and steel bunk cradles his aging body. As with so many others, artwork is the liberation of Bobby West.
The works of Bobby West are currently on display at the Community Arts Program, 1009 Market Street, San Francisco, CA 94103. Call (415) 553-4525 x304 for more info.
To contact the artist directly, email firstname.lastname@example.org.
ABOUT THE ARTIST:
Jamie D. Meissner is from Sparks, Nevada. Her inspiration comes from close family ties, especially her 7-year-old daughter Kenedy. She is also an accomplished singer and pianist.
Ms, Jamie D.Meissner #45401-048
5675 8th Street Camp Parks
Satellite Prison Camp
Harry and the Potting Soil
In the year 2004, Harry lost his job with the orchestra, in which he played the violin for 15 years, and he moved next door to his elderly mother. At times, he felt his mother was doing quite well, and he would play his violin, all alone, until late at night, in the top story of his three-bedroom home. His house was stately, brick, and quite ornamental; his yard was quite plain, just a front sidewalk and some scraggly grass. Although Harry’s yard was nothing to complain about, it was nothing to praise either, and Harry decided that he would put some of his free time into making the yard more presentable.
When spring rolled around, Harry borrowed a pitchfork and a shovel from his Mother’s garage and just started digging. As he dug, he found treasures from the past that made him wonder about the families that had live in the house before him. One day he found a fork, once an old coin, and one day he even found the eye of a doll. He kept them all in a special box in his bedroom. Souvenirs from gardening, he thought. Treasures that others had cherished.
Before he’d begin digging in the yard each morning, he’d go next door to his mother’s for breakfast, just to check on her. He’d eat his eggs and toast with an extra eye on his mom’s right knee, maybe shakier today than yesterday. But usually everything was okay, and he’d go back out to the yard, start digging again, repeatedly noting the progress he was making.
Megan Guernsey is a writer, poet, and lawyer from Missouri, California. She may be reached at email@example.com.
Tears On Her Guitar
She plays the guitar
Her father talks about the tragedies of the world
She keeps playing
Her tears fall leaving burning marks in the mocha colored wood
Her father just keeps talking
The news in the background; protests and street fights
Her father speaks of the increasing prices
As she fumbles with the keys, her father throws the grocery bag on the ground
Her eyes are shut, she’s on her father’s shoulders, her arms spread like an eagle and she’s flying
She’s three again
Her father is a bitter old man, his stories of chalice, humiliation and betrayal like fuel to her art
She sings about love, happy couples and intimate moments in bed
Her father interrupts her singing, asks if she wants beans or peas for dinner
She’d rather live off chocolate chip cookies but he doesn’t get it
“It’s a sad era” he grunts. “This country is damned”
Through the window she could see her bare-chested ex, his hips swaying with the girl he chose two weeks before
His hair is a haven of Twix and Mars and honey
His eyes a smoldering gray, like smokes sent by gods of the outer space
Yet she plays on her guitar, trying to change the atmosphere
She plants a seed, her father ploughs the soil
She sings a song, her father turns on the TV
Her ex abandons the woman pregnant with his only son
The news fades in the background
But only her music lives and sadly, so do we
Jaylan Salah is a freelance writer and Synchronized Chaos contributor from Alexandria, Egypt. You may reach Salah at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Blues for Pamela Franklin
“There is always a real and an imaginary person you are in love with;
sometimes you love one best, sometimes the other.”
I’m reading Anthony Powell
with the TV on and the sound
mum. Anthony Powell thumps
me on the cerebellum. It is al-
most autumn, almost. The
day is bright like a lemon and
like a lemon a tart, willing to
lift her splendid skirts. Or may-
be it’s just that Pamela Franklin
is on TV posing stripped for her
art teacher. I am stirred. Anthony
Powell imparts his tricky words.
I reach out for Pamela Franklin’s
perfect fundament but it is gone
now, these 42 years. I still long.
I still keep reading as the chill
enters me and pricks my sconce.
Corey Mesler has published 4 novels, 2 full-length poetry collections, and 3 books of short stories. He has also published a dozen chapbooks of both poetry and prose. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize numerous times, and 2 of his poems have been chosen for Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. He also claims to have written, “Coronet Blue.” With his wife, he runs Burke’s Book Store in Memphis TN, one of the country’s oldest (1875) and best independent bookstores. Email email@example.com for more info.
Nest Under Lorca Aurora
I nestle in your space.
I create a nether sphere
So we can tether here
Any time under a tent
Of stars crudely drawn.
Preparing, I try to create space
For us to crescent in
Spreading the world blanket
Over the stellar broken glass
Of history so you can walk
Safely to the deli even when
You are not hungry-potential salvation.
I nightingale in your space.
You sing in mine.
A small symphony
All at the same time,
same cage, good page.
This duet from the black contract,
Cataract of the bubble chamber
and nautilus-this spiral spitting
a spore of truth, a quark or quirk.
I crepuscule and pulse in your face.
Neither neo nor nascent noir orb
Can chronicle this infamous lore.
They make tricycles out of the poets’ bones.
Children ride them all day
Down sidewalks partitioning zoos and museums.
It’s vainglorious and golden unctuous.
Hologram laurels waver among the scattering lizards.
With level heads we bevel landscapes in our own images.
Barren survivalist wildernesses nestle near our stars.
Amen. From aleph to zen, all will be well. Promise you, I’ll call.
Joseph V. Milford is a Professor of English at Georgia Military College south of Atlanta. His first book, Cracked Altimeter, was published in 2010. He is the host of the weekly Joe Milford Poetry Show, which he maintains with his wife, Chenelle. He also edits the literary journal Scythe with his wife from their shack in rural Georgia. Currently, he is happy with the Atlanta Falcons football team.