Poetry by Neil Ellman

Wilder Shores of Love

(after the painting by Cy Twombly)

wilder-shores-of-love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I

After the river is crossed

so many unspeakable words

so many excuses

so many photographs

torn and burned

chairs thrown

and mirrors shattered

on its wilder shore

no peaceable kingdom

no place for devotion

conciliation and love.

II

The other side is littered

with broken promises

fragments of concession

and accord

so little time together

and so much apart

we are left as creatures

of our inner wild.

III

You and I have crossed

the river too many times

but now with no way home

and nowhere else to go.

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Poetry from Christopher Bernard

 

The Genesis of Trumplandia

In the beginning Donald remodeled the heavens and the earth. And the heavens were sublimely beautiful and the earth was a pleasing place, but Donald was without form and void, and he hovered like a shapeless cloud over the deep.

And Donald said, Let there be Darkness. And there was darkness.

And Donald saw the darkness, that it was bad, real bad, and Donald divided the darkness from the light.

And he called the darkness day and the light he called the night. And evening and midnight were the first day.

And Donald said let there be a really classy casino town on an island, like Atlantic City, but one that doesn’t go bankrupt this time, in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters, you know like a martini before you shake it.

And Donald made the really classy casino island town and divided the waters which were under the island from those which were above, where Donald of course would be living in the penthouse.

And he called the really classy casino island Heaven. And evening and midnight were the second day.

And Donald said, Let all of the waters that were under the casino island be gathered together into one place: it will make Mar-a-Lago the coolest resort ever.

And Donald called the dry land Trumplandia and the gathering together of the waters he called the Largest Swimming Pool in Florida.

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Short story from Sarah Widdup

The Mermaid on Foot

The beach stretched out further than usually sea-bound feet could comfortably wander, all elastic-quicksand and sucking at soles and souls. Water lapped at the mermaid’s toes, and it was all the colder for the toes not being a tail, not glittering with scales as one would expect.

As she walked, she imagined each toe to be a tiny tail, shifting and blurring until wispy fin ends replaced the toenails. When her big toe-tail hit something solid, she thought she’d turned the beach to stone with her dreaming, but as her eyes focused she found a treasure underfoot.

It was a smooth, milky-white piece of sea-glass, and she bent to pick it up, flicking off the wet sand and tracing its edges with her finger. There was one tiny chip where she could see the lost clarity of the glass, and it sparkled as she turned it over and over in her hand. The glass was shaped like a shark’s tooth, jagged and curved, though its sharpness had been lost in the tide.

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Richard Slota’s historical novel Stray Son, reviewed by Cristina Deptula

 

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Richard Slota’s Stray Son is a rough edged, tough minded historical family drama.

The book presents a grand tour of midwestern America in the 1940s, showing off our manufacturing and farming heartland. We learn about the thrill of driving a vintage automobile and of the work that went into maintaining the planes that helped us win the Second World War. My parents were nostalgic about Route 66 after browsing the novel!

The novel’s action kicks off when main character Patrick Yaworsky, a middle aged man who is estranged from his extended family and dissatisfied with his job and life, discovers the young ghost of his deceased father. He and his dad take his wife and two children from Southern California to Sioux City, Iowa to attend the father’s funeral. His deceased father takes everyone on a journey in time back to when he served in the Marines. While Stray Son has plenty of endearing, helpful side characters and interesting vintage Americana, it never lapses into uncritical nostalgia. The family’s adopted black son Mike faces prejudice in 1942 that reminds us of social progress that we have made in some ways, and we see through the radio news and the father’s conversation that people in that age lived with a very real fear that Hitler was going to win the war.

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Essay from Christopher Bernard


The Present Emergency

By Christopher Bernard

On November 8, 2016, we witnessed a kind of political 9/11, a Brexit as nuclear bomb. It felt like being given a diagnosis of terminal cancer for our society, our civilization, our way of life, or witnessing the sack of Rome by Alaric.

It isn’t the first time many of us have seen the barbarians swarm over American society: we saw it during the years of George W. Bush, of Reagan, of Nixon, when it came from the right, and during the sixties when it came, for the most part, from the left. It is one reason that, from a very early age, I grew to feel a growing alarm and fear regarding a certain strain in American culture that cultivates and breeds, preens and admires, some of the worst aspects of human nature, in the name of “freedom” to the point of license, of “personal expression” to the point of mutual contempt, of “the common man” at the expense of uncommon honesty and decency—of what I eventually came to see was a hyper, paranoid, poisonous white masculinity that would gladly rip up the restraints and norms of civilization and culture if it felt its privileges, illegitimately labeled “rights,” were threatened.

The howling Yahoo (I think it is safe to call him) who will now lead our country will be such an exact emblem of the dark side of the soul of American culture that it will effectively terminate our reputation in the world for a long time to come, if it does not terminate the world itself. I am embarrassed (though also, being human, a little proud) of the fact that I predicted this outcome, in the middle of George W. Bush’s administration: that the next successful Republican president would be a populist, know-nothing authoritarian, an out-and-out “fascist.” But it is almost shameful to be right about such things.

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Poetry from M. Spear

Ratchet
 
what cog
and what art
makes, assembles
us
what name do
we give to this
machine
we hardly know it
even as we roll
through its
mechanisms.
________________________________________________________________________
Slender
 
I loved your soft
citrus voice
from years ago
past
I wondered what
ever became of you
then saw you
recognizing how
much time has
gone by.

Poetry from Michael Robinson

My Neighborhood

Dedicated to Ilyse Kusnetz

Rocks, bottles, sticks, and knives,

Straight razors, lye thrown in the face,

Human beings, and guns.

Prostitutes, pimps, ex-convicts, ex soldiers

Dope heads, gay men, rappers,

Grandmothers, Grandkids, and old black men,

Young hoodlums, and white priests.

Screaming children, yelling adults, gunfire,

Bottle fights, rock fights, knife fights, gunfights, and fist fights.

Old houses, burned down houses, and body bags,

I’m in the middle of it all before 21.

No normal thoughts, only homicidal and suicidal thoughts,

White therapist sends me away.

Mental hospitals, psychotic medication, sleeping pills,

And convulsive therapy treatment

Black America left me in pieces—

Now I’m civilized wearing a strait jacket and a padded room.

“Flop, flop, frizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is.”

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