Not Another Holiday Poem grandmother’s annual holiday poem was nothing like The New Yorker’s annual holiday poem the top bard of Walton, NY poet laureate of St. John Street wouldn’t think of starting a poem with “Greetings, Friends!” she was more Miss Havisham than Grandma Moses in those later years when the wraparound porch on her black & white Victorian collapsed like a poorly measured fruit cake and the delivery man who dropped off groceries & cases of Genny every Friday would find her on the old wooden swing kicking out over the abyss noting the times & the season hark, with each pump of her schoolyard legs. Suburb such a fuss was raised last night by the chickens in the neighbor’s coop you would have thought kids were staging boxing matches in the foreclosure on the corner or Mr. Connolly was finally putting the misery out of his sour puss wife or a delivery man who knows that evil works against us on a daily basis was fighting the high-casualty event of middle class life by arranging a tufted boudoir chaise in a perfect pelt of moonlight. Mount Vision it’s a small town nothing to do but fantasize so when news cropped that the radio tower on Mount Vision had picked spectral music out of the sky the disappointment was as sharp as finding a plastic toy saucer at the bottom of a technicolor cereal box the rise and fall of the west ‘You’ve gotta’ be fucking kidding me,’ I say, half under my breath ‘are you sure that’s right?’ The woman behind the cash register is wearing pink earmuffs. It’s December but there isn’t a bite to the air or as much as a flake on the ground. The pink earmuffs are her way of saying ‘sorry, fucker I can’t hear you bitch about the cost of potatoes because my ears are huddled in pink earmuffs.’ I’m so pissed about the cost of potatoes I wanna’ tell the woman that her pink earmuffs make her look like she feeds on the homeless. But she won’t hear me anyway, so what’s the point. Then, in a mock hospitable voice she adds, ‘sir, potatoes fueled the rise of the West.’ The last item scans, chirps. ‘Paper or plastic?’ ‘Plastic,’ I say doing my part to hasten the fall. the last roundhouse on dead end street south of the rib, in the flatlands dram shops & the roundhouse, upstate’s industrial colosseum the Canadian Pacific razed it in 93’ but demolition began earlier 36 of 52 brick stalls scattered like a game of pick-up amongst the ruins & rotting Pullman mail cars a woman with a dismembered goat hoof between her legs says to an ex-con: tastes are becoming hard to satisfy.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Story from Peter F. Crowley
Dump
From the early afternoon light filtering through the tavern’s off-white shades, Sharon’s frown had become apparent. She sat there watching Daryl eat an enormous pulled pork sandwich after finishing her grilled tempeh and arugula salad.
“What?” Daryl asked, taking off his baseball hat and wiping the sweat from his brow.
It was over 90 degrees. From where they sat in the back, not a trickle of air from the doorway fan was palpable.
Sharon’s lower jaw sunk low as she started to open her mouth. She placed her pointer finger to her lips and thought for a moment before putting her shoulder-length, red hair into a bun.
“He’s not a bro but he’s different from me,” she thought. “He doesn’t get the details of my paintings and how it’s really only them that matter. Kara even said that the details ‘overwhelm and inform’ the whole. But the last portrait I did of an old woman, all that Daryl said was, “Very cool.” Did he even look at it? I tried to show every skin cell of the woman’s face to depict the dark circles around her eyes and all her wrinkles.”
“Not talking again?” Daryl asked.
The waiter came by and asked if everything was ok. Sharon responded that all was well, as Daryl had just taken another large bite from his sandwich.
Did they want the check? Sharon shook her head.
It’ll be ten years before he finishes that sandwich. He eats so goddamn slow and look how he chews! Like a cow chewing on grass all day. Hurry up, cow!
Sharon tried to remember if Daryl had asked her something. He must’ve, but what?
“How’s your sandwich?”
“It’s good.”
Sharon raised her eyebrows and nodded.
“Why do you always have to be so sarcastic about everything? You don’t have to look down on me for eating meat.”
“I don’t.”
Actually, I do, but not that much. If you just ate chicken and beef occasionally, it’d be different. But you eat beef or pork every day. Don’t you realize how bad that is for the environment? Methane is worse than CO2, dude. And you say you care about climate change. That was probably just to get into my pants.
“I have to say: I’m really loving this conversation we’re having.”
“Me too.”
“See what I mean? And I don’t even know if you mean it or not. But I guess not, right? Because we’ve barely spoken all through lunch.”
“That’s because you’re eating.”
“We’ve both been eating. You’re just done.”
“Yep, I was done like ten minutes ago.”
“Is it a race? I can’t help it if this place makes ginormous sandwiches.”
“You don’t have to eat all of it.”
“Come on, this kind of thing would taste horrible the next day. It’s eat it all now or waste it, you know?”
“Interesting.”
Was he always so boring? He couldn’t have been. Or maybe I was just blinded by his good looks and how into me he was.
“Really? You don’t find that interesting. You shouldn’t say stuff that you don’t mean. It almost seems like you’re just responding to me on autopilot and you’re really just way off on another planet or something.”
That would be preferable to being with you.
Sharon got up and went to the bathroom. A thick cigarette smoke pervaded the air. The stall she went into had an empty Heineken bottle floating in the toilet.
“Figures,” she thought. “He always likes divvy places. Maybe that was cool when you’re 21 but not when you’re 35!”
When she returned, Daryl was lying on the floor underneath their table, with his head popping out at the end. The plate of pulled pork sandwich, of which there was still ¼ remaining, was on his stomach. She rested her feet on his ribs as she sat down, and it felt particularly comfortable. The White Stripe song “Stop Breaking Down” came into her head and she tapped out the beat with her heeled shoes.
“I think I got it! That’s Green Day’s “Basket Case,” right?”
“No.”
“What is it then?”
“Why does it matter?”
Daryl peered up at her, trying make eye contact and asked, “Don’t you love me anymore?”
“Did we ever say we loved each other?”
“Yeah, we both did. Remember? We were in Brooklyn at your favorite restaurant in the whole world.”
Sharon thought back to a year ago, four months after they had met. They were seated outside at a narrow row of tables next to a dozen-story brick building. It was an Indo-Chinese vegan place. She ordered an amazing Gobi Manchurian appetizer; he just sat there with a coffee, saying that he wasn’t hungry. He looked into her eyes and said those words. When she replied in kind, his eyes hazel eyes beamed.
Love is weird. I thought I loved you then, but did I? Maybe? But maybe I was just really horny and lonely. I definitely don’t love you now.
“Why do we always have to talk about these kinds of things?”
Why, really, do we have to talk at all?
“I don’t know. I guess that it’s nice to reminisce about the nice times that we’ve had together.”
Sharon looked straight across the table to where Daryl had been sitting and said, “I’ve been thinking. We’ve been together for almost a year and a half now. Don’t you think it’s time to give ourselves a little space and maybe see other people?”
“You mean like an open relationship?”
“No. I just mean us not see each other anymore. Ever.”
Daryl stopped chewing and looked up to the ceiling fan, which had finally whirred on.
“…I don’t think that’s something we need to do.”
“I do,” Sharon said, shoving her heels deep into his side as she pushed herself out from the booth.
She stood up, looked down at him as he masticated on a mouthful of pulled pork and said, “I’m dumping you, Daryl.”
Nanny
“Good timing,” Giselda thought, taking off her shoes.
Jimmy, the 13-month old she was hired to watch, had fallen asleep for his morning nap just before she arrived.
Giselda looked out the window, from the dried-up grass on the expansive front lawn to a sign in the neighbor’s yard across the street that read “We’re proud of our Christian Academy student.”
She took out her phone and scrolled through Facebook. Her friend Adriana and her new American husband had posted pictures from a fishing trip to New Hampshire. But Giselda knew that Adriana didn’t even like fishing. Giselda’s mother had finished reading the Harry Potter series for the fifth time. Her São Paulo high school classmate, Luiz, posted something new against Bolsonaro.
“Would you like a coffee?” asked Lisa, Jimmy’s mother, who Giselda had responded to on a local Nannies/Babysitters community page seeking childcare.
“No thank you.”
“Good, because I’d have to charge you for it.”
Lisa laughed and stood over Giselda, watching her look into her phone.
“How long are his naps, usually?”
“What?” asked Lisa, unaccustomed to ESL speakers.
“Jimmy’s naps, are they usually for one hour? Two hours?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They could be anywhere from 15 minutes to three hours.”
“Wow, quite a range!”
Lisa nodded and walked away.
Giselda fished out a hair tie from her purse and tied her long, silky black hair into a ponytail. She looked to her phone and saw Rodrigo’s number pop up. They had broken up two months ago, but he kept calling her to “check on her health.” It was around the time that she had Covid when she stopped taking his calls. She had been symptomless for over a month and a half but the only foods she could taste were Guaraná and her roommate’s barbeque beef.
Giselda texted, “I’m fine. Stop calling me all the time. Ok?”
A few minutes later, just as she heard fussing coming from Jimmy’s upstairs bedroom, Rodrigo texted back, “Ok. But I care about you. If the feeling isn’t mutual then I’ll just go back to São Paulo.”
“No, stay. Not because of me though. I don’t think we’ll ever get back together. But the money you make at your fancy job, it doesn’t make sense to leave now. Your family needs that.”
Rodrigo was a software engineer at a Boston financial firm. Although he didn’t make as much as his American colleagues, he was fairly content with his salary.
Giselda felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Umm, excuse me. Did you hear Jimmy?”
Lisa looked down at Giselda with small, squinting blue eyes. Her dirty blonde hair was parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears. When she bent over and tapped Giselda, the right side of her hair fell across half of her face.
“Yes, but it just sounded like a little fussing. Do you want me to go and get him?”
Lisa stood upright and leaned towards the staircase with a tilted head.
“He quieted down. Never mind.”
Lisa went back to the kitchen and began chopping vegetables. She turned on the radio to her favorite soft rock station.
“Just as an fyi, I don’t pay for the time when he’s napping.”
“Are you serious?”
“It wouldn’t be fair to us. I can’t pay you to just sit there. We aren’t loaded.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re loaded or not. This is my time that you have to pay for.”
“It’s your time to go on Twitter or text your boyfriend. I won’t pay for that.”
Lisa opened the freezer and took out a plastic bag with several pizza crusts from weeks ago. She placed them into the microwave to defrost, then put them in the toaster until they got warm and crispy and started chewing on them while chopping celery.
Giselda remained seated in the family room and stared at the Persian rug. It had multiple gilded boarders, each one smaller than the others. In the center, there was a detailed depiction of a king seated on a throne. A woman wearing a wimple clasped his leg with both hands.
“I like that we can still talk,” texted Rodrigo.
Giselda started to text back when her phone was snatched away. Lisa stood over Giselda wagging it in her face.
“Hey, we provide free internet service for you here and we aren’t a public library. So, drop the sour face, k?”
Giselda gritted her teeth as Lisa handed her phone back. She looked back to the picture of the king and woman. The king had one of his hands on the woman’s head, as though he was petting a dog.
Giselda clutched the phone, put her arm back and hurled it at Lisa as she walked away.
“Ouch, fuck!” said Lisa, holding the back of her head where the phone had hit. She pointed towards the door and said, “Get the hell out of my house!”
Giselda walked slowly towards Lisa and picked up her phone from the off-white linoleum kitchen floor.
She looked into Lisa’s eyes and said, “Gladly, you miserable woman.”
As a prolific author from the Boston area, Peter F. Crowley writes in various forms, including short fiction, op-eds, poetry and academic essays. In 2020, his poetry book Those Who Hold Up the Earth was published by Kelsay Books and received impressive reviews by Kirkus Review, the Bangladeshi New Age and two local Boston-area newspapers. His writing can be found in Middle East Monitor, Znet, 34th Parallel, Pif Magazine, Galway Review, Digging the Fat, Adelaide’s Short Story and Poetry Award anthologies (finalist in both) and The Opiate.
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
. . . urger (b) roadside peaches bro + ken androids spock’s legendary green ape far-flung the sound of the tree machine box momentary ember one sparrow barthroom tart frog famished rose hat head santa fe nm 2 eyes made co rn co b p i p e ------------- bio/graf J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at http://JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
Synchronized Chaos December 2022: The Thin Veneer Over Wildness
Welcome to December’s first issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine!
First of all, we encourage you to come on out to Metamorphosis, our New Year’s Eve gathering and benefit show for the Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan and Sacramento’s Take Back the Night. This will take place in downtown Davis, CA, at 2pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church (all are welcome, we’re simply using their room as a community space). 4pm Pacific time is midnight Greenwich Mean Time so we can count down to midnight. Please sign up here to attend.
The theme “Metamorphosis” refers to having people there from different generations to speak and read and learn from each other, challenging us to honor the wisdom of our parents and ancestors while incorporating the best of the world’s new ideas in a thoughtful “metamorphosis.” We’ve got comedian Nicole Eichenberg, musicians Avery Burke and Joseph Menke, and others on board as well as speakers from different generations.
Second, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho has announced our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.
This is an invitation to submit poems and short stories related to trees, water, and nature conservation between now and the March 2023 deadline. More information and submission instructions here!
This month, our issue explores the often quite thin veneer between ourselves and the world’s wildness.
J.K. Durick’s work looks into time, memory, and the fears humans and animals bring into the most mundane encounters. Daniel DeCulla, in a more humorous vein, writes of people who embrace dog poop as part of our world.
Nathan Whiting’s concrete poetry reflects layered physical sensations of nature: intimacy, hibernation, and composting fruit. J.D. Nelson points out a few of the hidden natural encounters people may miss in a suburban neighborhood. Christopher Bernard illustrates a mysterious character who forms a deep bond with the ocean.
Rose Knapp’s pieces reference theology and cultural history along with the natural world. And Thomas Reisner’s artwork reminds us that the natural world can be one very wild place indeed.
Jim Meirose highlights the “wildness” of the general public by illustrating one type of distinctive character clerks encounter while working at a store. Jaylan Salah analyzes the film Emily the Criminal and suggests that the main character is perhaps more of a regular person facing the gritty reality of life rather than a villain. As in Meirose’s shoe store, the workplace can be as harsh and uncivilized as any natural landscape.
Lisa Reynolds suggests that there can be more drama than meets the eye within a simple family scrapbook.
Emdadul Hoque Mamun contributes a sensual ode to the beauty of raucous Parisian nightlife.
Our problems, the unpredictability of our lives, are another aspect of “wildness.” Alison Owings describes a gathering of Native American people for dinner and a drum circle in a piece that touches on their everyday struggles and society’s inequities.
Jalaal Raji references Greek mythology in his piece on the possible instability of romantic love. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam’s collaborative haikus capture moments of connection and loneliness.
J.J. Campbell describes the ferociousness of our modern highways, along with glimpses of bravado and defiant cheer in the face of illness.
Our own minds can be as untamed as any wild place, and several contributors’ work represent that reality or efforts to manage it.
Fernando Sorrentino posits a seemingly ludicrous situation, a man repeatedly hitting the narrator with an umbrella, which becomes a meditation on how we can get used to just about anything and then become anxious about any change, even a return to normalcy.
Ivars Balkits evokes how our minds wander while watching blue screens on old television sets or staring out the window. Debarati Sen probes the restless and absorbing nature of memory.
Aisha MLabo writes of the hidden passion burning within her creative mind. Z.I. Mahmud analyzes various narrative techniques behind the structures of internationally recognized literary works.
Poet Shine Ballard arranges words on a page, then trims them down to fit certain poetic structures. Mark Young crafts experiments with language that approach an internal logic.
Channie Greenberg exhibits a diverse collection of photographs unified by the color beige.
Some writers explore how and where we can experience the world’s wildness, or assert and defend our place within it.
Sayani Mukherjee suggests that tattoos on adults are a natural part of the process of claiming one’s physical body and identity that begins in childhood.
Clyde Borg stares intently into a painting, imagining and interacting beyond the flat canvas with the living woman who served as its model.
Gaurav Ojha points out how we can claim mental and psychological freedom from the world’s pressures. Gerard Sarnat points out the give-and-take needed for a marriage to stand the test of time, along with the many “subtle absurdities” of aging and educational pursuits.
Christina Chin and Matthew Defibaugh collaborate on haikus of autumnal scenes, reminding those in the Northern hemisphere that most of December is still fall. Meanwhile, Chimezie Ihekuna continues his Christmas countdown.
Finally, Mesfakus Salahin offers up a gentle blessing for those who live within the many layers of our world.
Story from Jim Meirose
Slow Day Shoe SalesmanSandy stood behind Dell’s checkout counter, idly rubbing a forefinger back and forth over the bills in the open register drawer. Her eye firmly set on the recently hired junior shoe salesman serving a customer; a boyish young man, with an unhappily tight line of a mouth, and an overall tense look. In the chair next to him towered an impressive-looking woman in unnaturally neat clothing, whom Sandy took to be his mother.As the salesman took the young man’s measurements, she spoke to her son loudly enough for Sandy to hear. There, see—I told you that you had your shoe size all wrong, I mean—look, there. Look at that. You were off by a whole size! Too small! Imagine if you’d come down here alone and told this nice salesman, There’s no need to measure. I need spiked track shoes in a size nine—that would have been wrong in some measure, but then—what if you then said you did not need to try them on at all. Said you knew they’d fit, you’d bought that brand and size before, so measuring and trying, in this case, would just be a waste of the shoe salesman’s time, so—and so forth, and so on, is what you’d have said, if alone, and unguided.But I pushed you, and now, well, here you go; you’d have been a whole size off. How does that hit you, son? I bet you feel silly now—then, she said to the salesman, Look at him. Just look. Doesn’t he look surprised, confused, and afraid? What do you think sir, of this whole thing?The salesman said, I really don’t know, except that Dell’s has a policy that shoe sizes are to be checked each and every time, even for regulars. Because; the feet change imperceptibly over time—even from one moment to the next.But, here, he said, rising and picking up the track shoe they’d taken off the rack—I know we’ve got these in your size in the back. Just one minute.The young man turned watching the salesman walk off.At the register, Sandy gently slid the cash drawer shut, watching the mother and son sit fixed and erect, as though the silence around and between them was a rock-hard mold, within which they must stay fixed for some scientific reason—possibly to be observed—which was a fact, because Sandy—but no, yes; wait, clatter, rush; the salesman came out from the storeroom carrying three boxes.Before the two even had time to turn and look, he was seated before them on the bench. The mother leaned in, about to say something, but the salesman spoke first, somewhat strongly; in a firm, yet pleasant tone and cadence, designed carefully to allow no interruption. Fine. Yes, here it is. Your size—this is a fine choice, young man. You have excellent taste. Let’s try these on, now. Here. Your foot.As the salesman began fitting the shoes to the young man’s feet, the mother said, Oh, no, no. It’s not about taste. The team coach told us what color and style to buy. I mean, really, I can just imagine what kind of shoes he’d be trying on now, without the coach’s guidance and my supervision here in the store.He’d pick some outlandish style, I know—and, they would also be the wrong size—like we said before—might not even be track shoes, if I know him—and we’d end up coming right back here to return them, and, well—then his Father—his Father—The salesman deftly tied the left shoe snugly to the son’s foot, then shifted on the bench to repeat the process with the right.—yes, his Father would lay into him, yelling and shaking his fist, and not just at him, but at me also—you, he’d yell—just an inch from my face—you need to be teaching the boy better. Why did you let him go to the store alone?You know how he is—and though a lot of his behavior is totally his own fault, you’ve made it worse. Too easy, too easy. Yes, son, you know that’s the kind of thing you’ve caused to happen over and over. Lord, I swear.The young man hadn’t moved a muscle since the salesman brought out the shoes.The salesman slipped the new shoes onto his feet while he simply nodded his head signaling politely to his mother, I am listening, I am hearing, but; my, these shoes look good. Lace them, here make the knot, do the job, tighten them up tighten them up as she picked up steam with, Your father’s always nasty anymore now, because of you! Yes! I have to suffer through his crap because of you!But, that’s all right, she said, leaning back, her tone softened. It is my job to raise you, no matter what, for better, or for worse—having a child’s like a roulette spin. It’s a crap shoot, and once the child’s on the way, you’re all the way in. for better, or for worse.At the counter Sandy grew more and more impressed with this new substitute salesman, as he never flinched as the woman’s bizarrely offensive monologue twisted ‘round ‘bout him, as he secured the shoes to the young man’s feet, and then—he rose, stepped aside, tapped a foot and beckoned the boy to rise, which he did; the boy rose and stood silently, with a faraway gaze leveled at some point higher, and further, past the walls, and away.Do they feel good? said the salesman—they look good, and, it seemed to me, as I was fitting them to you, they fit really good too. What do you think? Sandy watched. The young man gazed wordlessly. Once more his mother leapt in with, Well? You’re going to be rude today? The nice salesman asked you a question. Why do you not answer the question? What, you’re in one of those sulky moods of yours now? Because I came with you after you said not to?After the nice man measured you after you said he didn’t have to? Because the coach said exactly what shoes to get, when you wanted something different? Because I told you to come out of your head, and get out and join the track team and then of course, mister contrary, as you always are, you said, No, I’ll do baseball—not track, it’s baseball it must be, and then again, your father—again your father came in and again, God, the scene—all because you would not obey me. You need to learn.Life is easy when you obey. Life is better for those who obey. So—the nice man just asked you what you think of the shoes. You’re going to give the nice man a bad day, too? Like you give me every day? And your father? And yourself? Which of course, you will never admit—the bad days you have that you always whine about, well—you give them to yourself.Answer the salesman! Answer! Answer now! Sandy’s eye remained set on the salesman, waiting, smiling, relaxed and professional, like the two he was serving were acting a show before him for his entertainment—answer, mother insisted—answer! Answer!Answer now—The taut air split down in a near-audible rip, and the young man abruptly, but gracefully and in full control, walked across past his mother, and marched steadily, stiffly, to the door and left the store, never looking back. The woman had watched him go, seeming completely unfazed, then remained watching the door through which her son had disappeared.Sandy tensed—what to do? What would she do? And now—what will he do?The mother slowly turned, once more facing the rudimentary substitute salesman.They’re good, sir. We’ll take them.Fine. They look like a fine choice. Good fit, too. Please step over to the register.He ushered her to the register, and crisply told Sandy, Be a dear, Sandy, and step aside. I need to ring this up for the lady. You will not regret this purchase, ma’am. Those track and field specials are among the finest Dell’s has to offer—cash or credit? Uh.Credit.Fantastic!Transaction concluded, the woman left the store. As she cleared the door, the salesman said to Sandy, Another sale down. My, but it is a slow day, isn’t it? Hey—how about I go back and get us two coffees? It’s so darned slow—I’m asleep on my feet. Cream and sugar for you, right? Like always? Yes. Like always. Stunned.
Short story from Christopher Bernard
The Man Who Talked to the Sea By Christopher Bernard He stands, hour after hour, at the edge of the surf, staring at the sea. In an old battered suit and scuffed shoes, he looks as if he just walked out of an office on Main Street. He sometimes wears a hat, a businesslike fedora, though usually his head is bare, the tufts of thinning whiteness stir like grass in the sea breeze. His eyes are watery blue, his skin pale despite hours in the sun. Every so often he takes a deep breath of air briny and ion-charged from the churning waves, then slowly exhales with a look almost of happiness. At times he focuses on small craft: a sailboat, motorboat, jet-skiers, wind surfers. Or surfers near the beach’s heaviest waves, a quarter mile off: he watches them with detached interest as the young men – and increasingly young women – lurch up on their boards and shoot the swells as they rise and collapse one after another, hour after hour. Or he gazes at the sky: a biplane with a banner advertising hair dye or a new movie, a police helicopter like a spider swinging down from the sky’s rafters, a commercial air carrier lifting off from a local airport like an aluminum cigarillo, a high-flying air force jet leaking a contrail over half the sky – that disappears in an instant or spreads across the azure, becoming an ice cloud as it expands until it looks like the wing of an enormous dragonfly. What he most loves are the freighters and cruise liners coming and going from the mouth of the nearby harbor, piled with oblong containers like boot boxes, or tall and white, striped with balconies or spotted like a colander with portholes, keeping their grace despite all attempts to ruin it for the sake of profit. They even retained a little of the old-fashioned romance of sea voyages, as they appeared on the horizon, small points or dirty smudges, and slowly grew, their bows sharp and high, their bridges straight and cool as a captain’s gaze, their smoke stacks saluting as they passed down the shoreline like the bodies of great whales – or leaving the coast at whose edge he stands and, heading out to sea, their sterns turning toward him as they faded to dots, the smoke turning into rust and ash on the horizon as the ships disappeared over the horizon. And of course, there are the birds: terns; sea gulls; crows flapping up now and again like black flags of anarchy; sandpipers nibbling nervously; ragged lines of pelicans, with their awkward bills and heads cocked like triggers and wings angled for either a long, leisurely drifting or a sudden plunge to surprise a fish for dinner. He never tires of watching the sea’s commerce: infinitely various, never the same yet always the same: sea and sky like an old married couple with the same quarrels and the same needs, even the stars and moon over the night sea reflections of shells and sand, foam and flotsam that lay at his feet. Just as they seemed reflections, as in a small mirror, of moon and stars and sun. Sometimes, after taking a furtive glance around him, he talks to the ocean. He speaks quietly, almost caressingly, for a long time, sometimes nodding or shaking his head or shrugging, as he might when speaking with a friend, and sometimes he pauses and appears to be listening for a response. After a time he turns away with a vague smile and quiet look of satisfaction, as though he has gotten whatever it was he was looking for and, his face bent to the sand, slowly walks away. The local children sometimes watch him while playing fort or catch, digging wells in the beach or dribbling sandcastles. They stop and stare, wondering briefly to themselves or passing rude jokes before going back to their games. More than once a few crept up behind him and tried to hear what he was saying to the sea. They crouched down and listened, hitting the one who threatened to giggle. But they couldn’t catch his words, soft as they were against the noise of the surf, and they got bored and crept away. One time they beat a retreat in full cry, and the man turned to them, a look of surprise on his face that turned instantly into a rueful smile. He shrugged and glanced back at the sea as at a wise and sympathetic friend, as if sharing a quiet joke and relishing it, even if the joke was at his own expense. * One day a young couple was walking barefoot down the beach. They were silent, avoiding each other’s eyes, their faces grim, a wide distance between them. The beach was otherwise empty: the sand showed only their footprints, parallel lines of spoor disappearing in the distance. The waves fell with unusual quietness, and the tide was out leaving a wide swathe of bright wet sand. A breeze stirred the hair of the young woman, slender and soft, though angry and hurt. She let the wind pull the hair across her eyes as though wanting to hide behind it, from the light and the young man beside her. He looked exasperated and glum, his mouth twisted, and walked with exaggerated emphasis, his footprints emphatic, like gashes, the woman’s softer, as if she hardly wanted to touch the ground. She seemed to want to disappear. He seemed to want to hit something with all his might. They walked in silence beneath the morning sun and an almost cloudless sky. Neither of them noticed the man gazing out to sea till they almost walked into him – or rather, the young man did, who was walking near the water. They stopped, a little disconcerted. The man didn’t seem to notice them. He was staring intently at the waves, his face full in the brilliant sunlight, his eyes seemingly blind in the glare. He seemed far away, in his own world. And he was speaking, softly, and – given the quietness of the waves – just audibly. They listened. “Thalassa, thalassa,” the old man said, “sea, o sea, you who murmur across the world’s seasons, who bear life in the cup of your seabed, who bore life from the beginning, who crash and swirl along every coast, who are both thing and symbol of the thing, of being and destruction, life and death and love and birth, of joy and suffering, ecstasy and despair, ephemeral, perpetual, in change and permanence, water and crystal and gold and ash and mud and wine and earth and sea, o sea, thalassa, thalassa, you are the comforter and destroyer, the ever-kind and ever-ruining, lover and demolisher, betrayer of promise, builder of promise, creator of hope, betrayer of hope, image of the eternal, image of God, thalassa, thalassa, o sea, o sea, speak to me with your tongue of many voices, chant to me your music, and grant me ears to hear and know, with love and awe and patience and faith, as you give me being and take it away, thalassa, thalassa, o sea . . .” And the old man murmured on in the same fashion, and the young couple stood there listening and wondering, the man is crazy, he’s talking to the sea, astonished and a little repelled but frozen to the ground. He paid them no heed. He spoke to the sea as if he were, as usual, alone, as to an intimate friend. The couple, almost despite themselves, turned to look to the sea as well, and listened to the waves And it was almost as though they could hear words in the ocean sounds, as though the old man and the ocean were speaking together, even though the old man never stopped to listen; they seemed to have an understanding, seemed tender together, one might almost think they loved one another, and the young couple was curiously moved. After a time longer than they knew, as the sun rose higher and the wash turned back at the turning of the tide, a wave rushed up and crashed against their legs. The woman stumbled, cried out, fell . . . The young man leapt over and tried pulling her away, but the wave yanked her from his hands and dragged her, choking in the foam, down and out toward the ocean. He dove after her, slipping, falling in the wash as a second, even bigger wave, crashed over him. He bobbed up, spitting and choking, and saw her arm flailing a dozen yards away in the swirling foam as more rollers swept toward them. He lurched again toward her, grabbing her hand just as it disappeared under another wave, and reached out just in time to catch the elbow of her other arm and, managing to get a grip on the sand, pulled, almost lost his hold, then pulled and dragged again with all his might in a brief lull between the backwash and the next wave. The young woman appeared out of the water, sputtering and frightened, like a naiad, half drowned as she was born from the waves. The two struggled and stumbled up the slick tract of sand just as another big wave raced in pursuit of them. Once back on dry sand, the couple, drenched to the skin and shivering, turned to each other, their frightened eyes darting, opening, deeply, each into the other, and a moment later they fell into each other’s arms. “I almost thought . . .” “I know . . . “ They slowly caught their breath, then wiped the water out of each other’s eyes, and, still wrapped in each other’s arms, walked slowly away, keeping just out of reach of the tide as it washed up the beach like a violating hand or an invading army. “Where did the old man go?” the young woman asked, stopping and, smoothing back her wet hair and peering across the now empty shore. The young man shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he was just a hallucination!” He laughed, nervously. But the woman kept peering, worriedly, out to sea. . . . Perhaps he had been caught in the same waves they had. The riptide here, at times of the tide’s turning, was known to wash the unsuspecting off the beach, sweeping them a mile out to sea, drowning them and sweeping their bodies miles away down the coast. Or maybe he had walked away just in time. Maybe he had grown tired of staring at the sea and talking to the waves. All good things come to an end, they say. Or maybe he had accomplished his task and he could go home with a good conscience. It was the right time for him to move on. For whatever reason, he was never seen again after that day. But according to some, if you listen closely to the surf, you can hear the words, “Thalassa, Thalassa, sea, o sea . . . .” ____ Christopher Bernard is a poet, novelist and co-editor of the webzine Caveat Lector (www.caveat-lector.org). His books include In the American Night and Other Stories (where this story first appeared in a slightly different version), A Spy in the Ruins, Meditations on Love and Catastrophe at The Liars’ Café and the award-winning poetry collection, The Socialist’s Garden of Verses.
Poetry from Nathan Whiting
LOOK ⎬ MOON ECLIPSES MOON
Dry fingertips ⎯ kiss each other, ⎯intimacy shared→ by opposite
⏐ ⏐
alter alert Our origins ⎯have given us hands
⏐ change ⏐
nerves, ⭣ which
↓ fidelity ⏐
when close. silently; interchangeably grab
caress air-fibers ↓
| nearself.
lyrical — lovely — level
Pearls Pearls, ↓
🡙 balance.
can change be united [?] yet at times
time
wants a reaction,
a rush felt → transferable
among zesty fingertips
⏐
clasp thin-jointed sensitivity belonging
⏐ to butterflies —?— instars.
how
touch — subtle in progress — brushes flightful wings.
↓
lives in each person: puppet play.
OUTDOORS: A SHELTER
Ice
ice light-caverns enter ice. untired …
⭡ ice … nuthatch ⮍
Diamond clear ⭣ 🠁
a brutal atmosphere … pine shivers, junco quakes ⭢ wonderful
frost glares enthusiastic … or not in unison.
⭣ I (ice)
where …→ bears …→ confirm …→ winter.
|
flames … → burst
⭣ ⭣
illuminate treachery dreams.
manipulate how snow
is traded;
⭣
We know death …🡢 wonderous ! We see the Perfect Forest.
{in our slumber} but perfection
bites in earth-mouths must never
bites bites bite such food
bites ↘ ↘ bit
bites bites ⮏ {the word moves} ⮍
bites bit asleep
bites too many bites ↘
bites awake,
for ideal bears ⭢ hidden from moods.
FRUIT RINDS — FRUIT SEEDS — PROTECT THEM
I invite fruit flies fruit flies fruit flies she would expel.
I ⎯comb obsession.→ No!
⏐ ⏐
worry, A need
Lately ⎯old—she warily concerns→ routine
⏐ another (my) holds ⏐
which ↓ ↓ rituals
⏐ mind ⎯could confuse→ her ⏐
crumb with
⏐ pears ⏐
goes garbage,
↓ ↓
with which wraps it
scrap? ⎯ Shared decades flit higher→ with care.
⭥
Instinctive → then trained
⏐ by
I take in — air, our breaths tour
↓ ↓
the room the world
with fruit flies where trash
↓ deepens, more complex.
more room ↙
taken — we a pair long close,
tolerance a location
the inches forgiveness allows — for life.
FEBRUARY 1 ≡ POWER BEYOND 2021
As I write this
a blur ↓
converges over snow ⮇
and from the blizzard I watch
↓ ⮡ our window.
flows ⮆⮆⮆ fiercely raged ⮆ over the words,
↘ ⮇
and I streaks
↘ ↓
believe of white
↙ ↘ ↓
suddenly these across
↙ ↘ ↓
in my are not gray
eager ↘ ↓
insignificance, the best white
↓ ↘ ↙
terrible when eyes letters! ⮆ air-engraved : : : :
can not adjust
within calm importance.
Snow pours 🢫 imagination → faster → faster ⮆ faster.
I
α cannot see
vast need how the storm works ⮆ flake darts ⮆ self-bloom, twirled
astutely ⮇ ⮏
found ζ decisive → brings obscure wonder – – – – – wisdom.