Audrey El-Osta - Craig Kurtz

John C. Nash - Michael Sajdak

Trois par quatre

 

Audrey El-Osta

Persephone
Winner of the WA Poets Poetry D’Amour Prize

 

In summer Kore begins her time to bloom:

adolescent demigoddess grows quick with the moon,

learning slowly about men and women.

She sits alone and plays with her pearled oyster,

looking at icons of Aphrodite, touching her statues,

so beautiful, so beautiful.

Her young lessons have been learnt, pleasure

is no stranger, not to young Kore.

 

In autumn Kore feels a change in her.

Innocent playtime now a ravenous hunger;

She patrols her domain hunting as her thea

Artemis taught her, though not for wild stag.

She sees Hades above ground, and marks her prey,

strips her girdle free and leaves it in the garden:

For what she wants, she won’t need it.

 

In winter, Kore knows her truth now.

Not a maiden anymore but a woman, a seductress

and underworld empress, a destroyer: let mortals

suffer my drought, as I dine on pomegranate jewels,

                                    I will get what I want.

Hades, my dark prince of chrome silver skin,

cobalt eyes stare into mine, loving every moment

of my wild ride, hands

that tenderly guide the departed grip my hips

with ravishing vigour.

Pleasure courses through the two gods,

earth shakes, nearly breaks to screams, whispers of

                                    I love that, I love you.

 

In spring, Persephone rises, visiting the earth

bringing back maiden grace to her garden

of youth. She finds nymphs and teaches them all

she learnt while she frolicked and fucked

in the underworld. Screams and giggles abound

as young maidens are women made

in the school of Persephone’s touch.

 

 

Only

 

Only now, nestled

in your warmth

do I understand

how cold it’s been.

 

I am thawed

free, chiseled

into new life

 

feeling my heart

beat anew

in time with you.

 

 

lunar dosage

 

benzodiazepine: vallies

run through a fully dosed brain

ending reign of a nervous mind

and belly housing butterflies,

pollinating sweet honeycumb.

 

for you, sugar, I’ve got a treat,

but only if you fuck me right.

begin, lay me down,

start from roots to the bulb,

work up: I flower at your touch.

 

spring to summer,

                                    i overheat,

                                    turning to fire,

                                    smoke billows

                                    from my breath.

 

bloodmoon shines upon a trembling Earth

through cloudy skies while Mars awakens for

his monthly bloodsport.

 

i learn the answer

to my anxious question

in the red petal stains

of my ocean blue sheets

and am relieved to discover

that i was never a mother

 

 

Audrey El-Osta is a Melbourne based emerging writer. She studies a BA in linguistics at Monash University, is the Vice President of the Creative Writers Club, and has loved language passionately since childhood. She recently won the Youth Incentive Award for her poem Persephone, in the Poetry D’Amour Competition run by WA Poets, and has had two other poems published in their annual anthology. She aims to soon publish a collection of poetry, exploring sexuality, femininity, memories, and mental illness, all with some comic elements.

 

 

 

Craig Kurtz

In Defense of Tyrants

 

Let’s hear it for the clods,

three cheers for all the frauds;

God bless the fatheads & crumbums -

but . . . it’s tyrants who deserve a hug.

 

Cain & Abel were such fine fellows

at least until they had their troubles;

History claims that Cain was no good

but he was simply misunderstood.

 

Caligula was sensitive

at least when he was sober;

It’s true he had a churlish temper

but it’s ’cause he wasn’t well-adjusted.

 

Attila the Hun is known as a sadistic, savage villain

but keep in mind the era of his cultural upbringing;

Sure, he burned alive civilians by the dozen -

developmental privation made him as well a victim.

 

Genghis Khan had ostensive merits

at least when he wasn’t impaling peasants;

He accrued a rap as a barbarian

but a lack of nurturing did him in.

 

Alexander the Great someone said was a prick

but that analysis actually quite fails to gel;

Under blustering world conquest (and a few oceans of...blood)

he had insecurities, and really did mean well.

 

Richard the III’s everyone’s favorite bastard

but legend omits all his introspective acts;

In-between decapitations & that sort of stuff

his intentions were nice, his heart was all fluff.

 

Henry the VIII had a sweet disposition

if you looked close enough under his defensive bluff;

It’s true he had issues, prob’ly stemming from...childhood -

monarchs’ cries for help don’t get much mindfulness.

 

Marie Antoinette was conscientious

’tho she’s gotten bad press as one heartless bitch;

While it’s true she wasn’t was quite a philanthropist

that’s because her inner child was prematurely...depressed.

 

Katherine the Great was an awesome role model,

never mind oppressing serfs in pillories & stocks;

Sour grapes & sore losers point to her pogroms

whilst ignoring that she socked it to the patriarchy.

 

Andrew Jackson had a rather cud’ly inclination

at least when he wasn’t exterminating all the injuns;

The lefties cry about war crimes & other indignations

but, give the guy a break, he had sexual dysfunction.

 

King George the III’s famous as a despot

but running the world puts a man under stress;

Colonies this, taxation that, revolt all the time -

no wonder he hated democracy, he couldn’t relax.

 

Mussolini as well gets undeserved infamy

’tho in all likelihood he was traumatized;

a few thousand hung, a few million shot -

blame it on low self-esteem, it’s society’s fault.

 

Hooray for the dopes,

three cheers for the boobs;

God bless the dimwits & numskulls -

but...it’s tyrants who need a good hug.

 

 

Another Autumn

 

It’s another autumn

but this one has a brighter meter

for songs of restful tenor

near a fireplace of ballet cinders.

The sky is full of shooting stars

& the night a charivari of lights —

but the aspect of best pleasure

is the coruscation of your face.

 

It’s a better autumn

even if the birds all lose their feathers

flying somewhere warmer in a hurry

to begin an artificial spring.

The sky is full of magic tricks

& puppet shows behind the clouds —

but particulars I treasure

tend to dwell upon your smile.

 

Even if all kites are cashiered

with each desiccated leaf;

if every single firefly is languished

from the frolics of their youth;

& although the special spot

where we once sailed is now lost —

there’s a glimmer in the milky way above

that invokes immortal oaths.

 

It’s another autumn

but this one spins a bigger orbit

than the music boxes played before

in time to dancing flames that warmed us

   with their radiance.

The sky is musical with riddles

only sleeping stars may know —

but the incandescence I’ll remember most

is when I see you beam at me.

 

 

Mediocre Man

 

I’m chicken on Monday, meatloaf sundrily;

I got my antennae on a credit card;

I vote for incumbents & I don’t think too hard;

my number is listed on the single-payer plan —

I’m proud to be the upright, solid, mediocre man.

 

My gas tank is low-fat, the children have braces;

I’m due for promotion, the dog has been neutered;

I got my opinion on a rent-to-own index;

I checked off the box that claims my exemptions;

my wife has stopped smoking, I’ve shaved off my mustache —

I’m older & wiser & quotidian.

 

My blood pressure’s normal, my friends are white collar;

I’m not for the war but I support all the troops;

I don’t go for funny stuff ’tho I’m not prejudiced;

I mind my own business & I’ve switched to decaf;

I live on installments & divest annually —

I’m earnest & loyal & forgettable.

 

I paint my walls beige & I vacuum the lawn;

my wife’s working part-time, her libido is fine;

profits are up since they out-sourced the union;

everyone’s in consensus, inflation is stable;

I still boogaloo but keep the noise down —

the neighbors all like that I’m ho-hum & white.

 

I buy local vegetables & I watch the carbs;

My daughter’s a pagan, my son questions gender;

I would learn Spanish if I only had time;

I believe in fair trade & preserving the ozone

as long as my premiums are insured & the trains run on time —

I’m banal & stolid, the liberal soldier.

 

My watch loses time, my hairline recedes;

I’m online all night, the wife doesn’t mind;

I snore when I sleep, I dream without sound;

I used to ask questions, now I’ve changed medications;

the house is bumped out, the driveway is shoveled —

life is a cipher, not a bang nor a whimper.

 

 

Craig Kurtz lives at Twin Oaks Intentional Community where he writes poetry while simultaneously handcrafting hammocks. Recent work has appeared in Aji, Allegro, Bird’s Thumb, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Blotterature, Brev Spread, Digital Papercut, Foliate Oak, Leaves of Ink, Literati Quarterly, Indigo Rising, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Recusant, Teeth Dreams, Tower Journal, Veil, and now, DM.

 

 

 

John C. Nash

A Foley artist’s directions for replicating

the sound of jackdaws roosting

 

Take the laugh of an innocent and the laugh of a man

astride a corpse, mark an arrow midway

between the two with charcoal;

use this point as a tonal balance

and charge with the pulse and chirrup

of overhead cables on the approach of a train.

 

Capture the whip

of steel banding wire as it snaps

across the concrete floor of an empty warehouse;

 

loop this to infinity.

 

Ask a newly betrayed lover to pull the cutlery drawer from its runners

while the chatter of elderly sisters,

too long in the seeing,

clucks through from the adjoining room.

 

The silent panic that swells in the synapses

between the ears and brain

on seeing an unfamiliar shadow

in a familiar forest;

 

remember this and recognize its similarity

to a populace running from civil unrest

 

or to the brackle of ice skimmed across a frozen mere;

 

or to the moment between the first crunch

and the screams that follow

when windscreen crystals bounce and patter

from the bonnet of a family saloon.

 

Stir all these things in an earthenware jug with a tarnished silver christening spoon

and hermetically seal the emanations.

 

Release them little by little

at each sunset.

 

 

Boundaries

 

The bus seat smells of dead offices and despair,

allow its matted fur to ensnare the fibres

of your clothes. Fight the itch in the back of your mind

to sound the bell; the bell that signals to the world

that you know your place. And fight the drone and rumble;

the group humidity lulls you into a workplace

state-of mind. Stay aware. White fingers hover

over the red button; you know the tension

could so easily be relieved, a subconscious

finger-twitch, the receptive give, the push that reads STOP.

 

The need will get stronger the closer you get,

each increment of the journey will wear

familiarity thinner, and thinner still,

until it’s too late to scream out “Wait, this is me!”

 

Soon the belt of trees that holds in the gut of the town

will appear; as your world slips past the window

discard your ticket along with other forms

of identification: wallet, phone and clothes,

teeth, skin and bones. Until all that’s left is a name

stretched back like an umbilical cord to a voice

faintly calling. Even this will wither in time.

 

 

Summer of ‘76

 

I passed the ironblack railings every day.

Victorian spearpoint tops held back

a panic of bramble and ivy,

riding over each other in a bid

to escape the garage alley which cut

a divide between the terraces.

 

Through the thorns a scatter of uniforms; dark

figures buzzing around smoke-blacked bricks.

The tatter of cordon tape looked celebratory;

it was all orange cones and jam sandwiches.

           

But then the stories began to form.

Overheard obscenities, mothers

mouthing words as quiet as cancer.

 

Of how the girl never even made it

to the party; her red cloak and basket

were by her in the cave of the garage.

Of how she was corrupted by fire and blood.

Stories of bite marks and burning brands.

 

The shadows had always been there to hide in

but, post-mortem, they seemed full of wolves.

 

 

John C. Nash finally settled down as a self-employed bookbinder and writer in Northampton, England. His poetry has been published in various magazines including Antiphon, Cake, The Delinquent, Verse Kraken, Lighthouse, Screech Owl and Ink, Sweat & Tears. He co-edited the anthology ‘Making Contact’ for Ravenshead Press and is currently working on a collaborative project with the photographer Sam Webster.

 

 

 

Michael Sajdak

Row Your Boats Gently

 

One does not simply, this performance oh wow

so concept very shock avant-garde such student

 

and government loans well spent! Brace yourselves!

Congratulations, for being here! Something so special

is happening here! Did you see that look she just stuffed

her cunt with cold spaghetti-o’s! Gross! Bold! It’s

            something,

you see, about semiotics, and the patriarchy,

and some Heidegger, too –weren’t you listening?

 

Das Man applauds! Das Man is thrilled!

Give the girl a blue ribbon, and another for me!

There’s an echo in this room, do you hear it?

Row your boats gently on down the stream.

 

 

Slip and Slide

 

What else then could you tell me,

quiet familiar, or with your finger trace

unto my arm crooked smoking

in the bath, that I hadn’t already struck

a blow shrugged or scoffed at?

 

At 5 AM the moon and sun deceive

one another, thus undoing “me.”

This is what we’ve come to be. Never

not sliding when encased in form.

Never is a long time, in a word.

 

Into the ocean they fell, roaring

at one another, snapping, clawing.

You could choke on the salt.

And when the water recedes and there is

            only sand at your feet there you are

                    on the empty, empty page.

 

 

Morning Glory

 

The window in the bathroom is open.

(This was where the angel first flew in.)

A morning’s delicate breeze on your privates is

something you remember, but then you forget.

I piss in the sink, a bright gold trickle down cold

white porcelain; a silhouette’s projection

on clean linen billows up on the courtyard.

The sun approaches its cusp.

 

In the kitchen, I find the leaves that Dreyer tore out

in a fit of rage from Satan’s book,

and I brew them in a cup of hibiscus flower tea,

with a trim of lemon and a ribbon of honey.

 

All this, a routine –the day ahead writes itself.

It’s a modern day, loose adaptation

of that famous Breughel, Landscape with the Fall

of Icarus. (Romantic, isn’t it.)

 

 

Michael Sajdak ~ “I'm from Chicago, which is where I'm currently attending the School of the Art Institute in pursuit of my BA degree with a concentration in Film/Video/New Media. My work has previously appeared in F Newsmagazine, Hobart, Squawk Back and others.”