Twilight on a Northern Beach

By Donald Anderson

Air, like ocean, swells,
moving, a ghostly whisper.

Cessation
of tonight, a celestial after-glow.
Fin on sand. Heavily,
the whale struggles for breath,
for movement,
under arid air’s weight.
A quandary from local fishermen:
to waste, or waste not?
The taste is left stale, salty fragrance,
sandalwood almost smooth, branch tossed
by toddler. The beach become spectator horde,
the voices quiet when rescuers plead urgently
for space, but time counts
and has counted, as darkness falls
and the cold wraps around the mind.

Poet Donald R. Anderson has had poetry published in ¡Zam Bomba!, Blue Moon Press, Rattlesnake Press, Artifact (before becoming co-editor), The Collegian, A Poem a Day: An Anthology (Edited by Chantel C. Guidry), Dwarf Stars 2008, Poetry Now, and Manzanita (2010), published online on Medusa’s Kitchen, Poet’s Corner Press, and Farmhouse Magazine and a small award in the annual contest by the Stockton Arts Commission for “Suddenly a Fearsome Crow.” He was also one of the judges for the National League of American Pen Women’s NorCal Poetry and Prose Letters Contest in 2009.

The Germans by Rashid Gabdulhakov

The Germans, he said

have no compassion!

I went on a ski trip to Germany

with my son from the first marriage.

We stood in the mob there,

they don’t form straight lines, these Germans, 

you see.

Such great skiing though.

When the train came to take us to the mountain

the mob began to pile in.

Someone in the mob had a heart attack.

No one helped him!

People stepped over him,

walked into the train car and went skiing.

We looked through the window at the man,

he was just laying there alone.

Germans are terrible like that.

Really good skiing though. 

Rashid Gabdulhakov is a man of many creative interests – cooking, poetry, photography, ceramics, and painting. Originally from Uzbekistan, Rashid first came to the States in 2003 and immediately fell in love with majestic Seattle. Rashid has a BA in Political Science from Whitworth University and is currently a student at the Seattle Culinary Academy. Rashid’s favorite activity is gathering friends around the table and feeding them traditional Uzbek and Russian dishes. Rashid’s dream is to open an Uzbek restaurant in Seattle and an American concept in Uzbekistan. www.uzbektricks.wordpress.com

An Explosion to be Read in One Transforming Sentence by James Hughes

Furious joy from words returned in silent line
shy, unjustified yet endeared for experience kind
in spite of lies: history potentated, and distance-
now made immaterial by passion blooming
soon to fruit and spread seed through world
and human mental webs: God: a force levered by
a slender branch my sophomoric instigation grafted
held for life, mind, joy, growth and final answer to
a weary, endless seeking carried from youth distant
fulfillment unexpected yet foreseen in stories gathered
by a rare and righteous Lark.

 James Aaron Hughes is bored.  

He has been writing advertisements for sink manufacturers for a while now, and feels somewhat unrewarded by this.  He relaxes the angst formed from the sinks by making verses that taste like knock-off Kayyam /Fitzgerald, and wishing his beautiful, genius, amazing, perfect angel of a girlfriend would have more sex with him.  His time remaining is used offering himself as labor to godlike corporations, but they are already quite well stocked in bitches, thank you.

Three Poems by Yelena Lipatova

Close People

                                      

Sugar dissolves in the glass of water,

Joy dissolves in the empty home,

Close people dissolve –

In busses,

In TVs,

In offices with curtains drawn…

Just

In the dusk of the streets,

In the snow,

In the rain…

Close people are rare -

And they dissolve….

Apples Are Laughing In The Garden

Apples are laughing in the garden.

A pair of grinning boots is running to work.

A flock of leaves is flying by,

Cackling and giggling.

Here is a smiling umbrella!

A newspaper is chuckling in the mailbox.

Clouds in the sky are roaring with laughter.

Raindrops jump into the puddle and –

PLOP!!! –

Happy splashes everywhere!

An old hat is sitting on my head,

Beaming with joy! 

A Painted Wee Man                                                           

A painted wee man
Drew
A balloon.
Then he drew a window,
Opened it wide
And flew out
Into the real
Sky….

Yelena Lipatova is a Russian children’s writer, poet, and literary translator who lives in Salem, MA and works as a freelance translator/interpreter and a tutor. Thirteen years ago Yelena moved to the U.S.  Since then she has written poems, short stories, and novels in both Russian and English. Currently she has 5 books published in Russia. In 2005 Yelena was awarded a medal by the Russian Writers’ Society for a collection of poems for children.  Yelena has also translated several books by Dr.Seuss (The Cat in the Hat and How Grinch Stole Christmas) and children’s poems by R.L.Stevenson into Russian . Her translated poems were included in the first comprehensive collection of Stevenson’s poetry published in Russia.

To read Yelena's work in Russian, click here to buy her childrens' book or read Murzilka Magazine.

 

In Flight Kids Poetry Contest

Central Valley poets Christina Davis and Kenya Mitchell are pleased to announce the inaugural In Flight Kids’ Poetry Contest.

The In Flight Kids’ Poetry Contest was created to showcase the literary talents of Central Valley youth while encouraging childhood literacy development through fun, engaging extracurricular activity. There are three competitive categories; ages 9-12, 13-15 and 16-18. In each category there will be gift certificate prizes of $50, $25 and $10 for the first, second and third place winners.  Submissions will be accepted via email at inflightpoetry@gmail.com until March 22. 

The In Flight Kids’ Poetry Contest is the brainchild of Christina Davis, an accomplished poetess and Stockton local who has published two collections, Raven’s Brew and In The Face of Indigo, to positive reviews.  Ms. Davis’ work can be found at www.ravens-brew.com.  To make this contest a success, Ms. Davis partnered with Kenya Mitchell, author of the acclaimed poetry collection Blue Line to Wonderland and the forthcoming young adult game book, Warrior of Mande.  Links to Ms. Mitchell’s other publications are available at www.kenyamitchell.com

Both poetesses are proud to positively contribute to California's Central Valley community with this event and look forward to continuing this programming in years to come.  To contact either Ms. Davis or Ms. Mitchell for more information, please email them at inflightpoetry@gmail.com.

A Mini Chapbook By Westley Sughrue

"my storyteller knees"

my storyteller knees bend
     like the tales I weave
     from factual events in my life
     I walk with arthritic words
                     every step, might creak and groan
     the anti-inflammatory drugs
                                    don't quite do the trick

my wisdom is in parables made of joints that
     don't quite flex as far
     as childhood thoughts

elusive past:  from use and abuse
           of the truth

           wear and tear upon concepts like
           my birth, and an idealized parental set

my father who could play
                              fretless instruments
I know this only:  because I own his banjo
carved from the many nights
he played bravado

for the five years he lived
during my lifetime
in the footsteps of mountainous shoulders
the shadows
of the plateaus

to which I rise
             the son of the sun
             and the moon in my head
thoughts eclipse the stairs that I have drawn

but these knees don't bend quite so well
as they did when I was young
                 the buried places miles beneath
a tombstone womb

my father's ashes:  living in the sea sand
my initials written in magma
hasn't cooled
         burned the roof of my mouth
on the singular syllable sounds

and my aging taste buds
eroding with the river bed

my tongue can't twist back upon itself
when I try to weave tendons anew
these aged pulley systems
are fraying into something
missing screws

the cabinet doors don't quite hang straight
and the hinges are rusted
around my eyelids
to contemplate

my storyteller knees haven't yet shattered
despite buckling bones
and cartilage starts to harden

the walls of the halls; this wallpaper makes me smile
the paintings are the images
I've destroyed

deployed, my military march
one foot in front of the other
toward the rising sun of summer
I arch.

a lone bridge over the ocean
carved by crashing waves
I am echoing my rumors
through sea caves

all these faces I have claimed my own
    some were latex, and artificial pigment
    eventually I'll replace my bones
with tungsten

unable to move:  the weight will be unbearable
              and all my motivations won't matter
because the lives I haven't lived
will have caught up with me
beneath my sagging skin

I know that gravity never could apologize
but all is never forgiven

in the stories I tell - I am a failing protagonist
but falling stars feel more motion
than my little world of ivory towers

the adventures of my mind
make small these late evening hours
the only thing different between fact
and my truth:

the way colors are interpreted
sounds
these movements

the difference between lies and my mind
is the choice of letters strung together.
my storyteller knees
are my own way of bracing to jump forward
or failing that, I part my lips and smile
onward.


"therapeutic trinity"

1.

catacomb catharsis
placing all sentiment
into the darkness
purge the deep
crude oil
from the mind
and hope
that the hole
is deep enough
inside

2.

you tell stories that seem
a foreign fiction
your eyes
display
no emotion
and with
no shroud of
evidence
your persecution
is imminent

3.

returning back to childhood
through
deep hypnotic suggestion
I discovered
I was color blind
since conception
I forgot the nuance
of names
and retraced my steps
through growing pains

4.

the locked closet door
is shivering and groaning
against the strain
to keep the burden of proof
from public display

5.

you play your harp
like it was a banjo
you whisper to the strings
in drunken rambles
and accidentally
confess
to accusations of murder
but under duress
you might have hurt her

6.

I am running through a thick undergrowth
of acacia trees
they grow like weeds
and provide the backdrop
for an elaborate imagination
between the ages of walking
and abomination

7.

the cellar door is glowing
with incandescent bulbs
or candles
or whatever
brittle barrier
to outshine the moon
and from the keyhole
music seeps out
like afterbirth
from a womb

8.

your hereditary condition
suggestions that
the premature baldness
is a result of too much coffee
and not enough
meditation
but the thick molasses
you pour into the mug
is an accidental
distillation
of love
and procrastination

9.

confronting these pieces
and putting them back together
under my hat
I keep a feather
from the dream in which
I flew ten thousand miles
and the flip side
of our bard's tale
is that we are one person

standing in the rain
bleeding from beneath our sternum
where god committed
this mutilation


"the first kiss"

when I kissed you for the first time
I heard a small groan
somewhere distant
and I
unable to identify the source
of the sound

decided to ignore it
as part of random
variation

then
the stars fell
one by one
and the sky cracked
slivers of obsidian
night
crumbled
into the ocean

causing a tsunami
that rinsed
my memory

and all because our lips
touched
in the light rain
and a single question
I should have asked

took the sky
into decay
all these dying suns
now blown out
by the recoil

of the gun you pressed to my skull
and the bullet bleeding
through my
clockwork oil

the gears in my graffiti
brain graft
splattered on the sidewalk
at an hour half past.

Wesley Sughrue was born in the small mountain town of Felton, and spent his early childhood running through the partially untamed wilderness of the Santa Cruz mountains before his family relocated to the east side of the city of Santa Cruz.  Wesley attended Harbor High School, graduating valedictorian.  He attended UC Santa Cruz and majored in Biochemistry and Molecular Biology, where he conducted undergraduate research with Professor David Deamer.  He went on to continue his studies in pursuit of a PhD in Biochemistry & Molecular Biology at UC Davis.  Wesley is currently still working on said doctorate.

Another way to look at this is:  he was born into a world where his vivid imagination kept him safe from the torrential events that surrounded his early childhood.  Like all members of his family, Wesley possesses a natural aptitude for life, inheriting an analytical and artistic mind from both maternal and paternal lineages.  Singing from a very early age, he has been composing poetry in his spare time since before adolescent thoughts stimulated interest in the physical and emotional aspects of romantic interactions.  Rather than working as a poet, Wesley views his artistic expression as a living entity that emerges from within the greater whole of his existence.

The City Felt Like a Bowl Today By Jacqueline Dufresne

The city felt like a bowl today.
I can’t remember how I kept upright.
A beer there, a push here, and it stayed the same.
All around the sky was in the trees,
people in their shoes,
colors on the things.
      As if they covered everything,
            like they do.
I laid in a curve.
A bend of spinal cord
            leading  every movement. 
      Today the turning of the world existed
      instead of being something we just know,
      every breath of orbit piercing pores of arms,
      a person terrified, terrified.
       The walls could not just close in,
      they grew. Until the horizon would not hold them. 
I’m curious where the door is.  
Shattered,   open,    reckless  and beautiful. If that is what we’re aiming for.
A closed room will do for now and knowing the negative image would be devastating. 
An inverse leads back before memories became collage on wall,
memento for their loyalty.


Jacqueline Dufresne is a third year creative writing undergraduate at UC Davis. She like cats and coffee and books and people (in general). "I want people to read my poetry because I like to share. I think poetry will bring about a revolution. "

Gary Snyder- A Cool Guy? That's a Generous Understatement.

By K. T. Mitchell
Last Friday, Pulitzer Prize winning poet Gary Snyder gave an intimate talk to about sixty or so poetry lovers at UC Davis. Introduced by Professor John Boe as a "Cool guy," Snyder assumed the podium in characteristically Zen form, relaxed and in Snyder's words, "script-less."One could sense the gentle affection between the two former colleagues and current friends.

That informal air perfectly fit Snyder's tone for the talk. Clad in jeans, a vest and well worn farming boots, Snyder began with the intent of discussing what is useful for writers but, thankfully, he meandered through a variety of topics.

To start with, he expressed the difficulty of trying to catch up on one's work as well as the satisfaction of going through one's files, looking at a project and saying to himself, "I don't need to do that."He told the writers in the audience if they wanted to complete their projects, "Don't be tempted by going on too many trips."(Gulp. This writer has been guilty of that.)

Snyder shared had just attended the annual Association of Writers & Writing Programs conference in Denver where he was "the entertainment," one performing poet among many. He asked the UC Davis audience, "Was anybody there?" Silence was the reply. "Nobody?" He raised his brow and said, "Good for you!"

Aside from the identity politics Snyder noted at the conference, he also observed the industry's interest were oriented towards prose, not poetry. Snyder asserted poetry is not a career. It is a calling. Poets have to find other ways to make a living then relax into their artistry. He encouraged the writers present to write fiction or another type of prose if they want to have a chance, albeit a slim one, of becoming a writer. Still, Snyder emphasized the importance of poets' contributions to society. "The community poet" and the "national poet" are "equally valuable," said Snyder, but "it doesn't matter too much to be a poet in

Then Snyder turned to a topic he admitted he rarely spoke of-- how his family affected his development as a poet. "I think there is a gene for language," said Snyder before revealing the talents that ran on his maternal side. Snyder's maternal grandmother and great grandmother had a talent for writing eloquent letters in gorgeous handwriting. His mother ran away to college to study English because Snyder's grandmother thought college would make his mother "worldly." Snyder's mother hid in the womens' dorms until his grandmother came in attempt to retrieve her. The women of the dorm convinced Snyder's grandmother to let his mother stay, in spite of the older woman's wishes.

Unfortunately, the Great Depression forced Snyder's mother quit school. Snyder grew up listening to his mother's stories, her talk about her inherent greatness as a writer and her complaints that she never got to completely exercise her skill as a writer. He recalled as a child living during the Depression there were only two books on their subsistence farm outside of Seattle, a Bible and a book by Robert Browning. In spite of the adversity Snyder's mother faced, she went on to become an investigative reporter at a few newspapers, starting at the Vancouver Sun during WWII. It was from her Snyder learned it was "ok to become a writer."Moreover he learned one "has to be nuts and obsessed to keep writing, even when it seems like there is no reason to."

At an early age, Snyder absorbed that message. In seventh grade, when a teacher asked Snyder what wanted to do when he grew up, Snyder surprised himself when he replied he "wanted to write essays on wilderness conservation." During that time,Snyder wrote a letter to Congress against logging that did not got a response. Snyder never felt attracted to journalism. It was "too capitalist" for his taste. Snyder left home at age fifteen. He ended up getting involved in snow peak mountaineering. The dangers of climbing ice with ropes and pick axes fascinated him. It was during his mountaineering days that Snyder found poetry because he couldn't find another language to express the "cold discomfort" of his "sensory experience."Snyder felt that poetry was the only language that could engage with the senses while "expressing complex feelings about doing things when other people are in sleeping bed."

From there, Snyder recounted the more well known aspects of his writing career, particularly studying Asian languages and his time in San Francisco during its literary renaissance. He revealed some little known gems; Rip Rap was written by campfire light in the high country of Yosemite, the original title of Ginsburg's Howl was "Strophs."

Snyder also shared that during his time in Japan his Zen master taught his poetry would be good as long as it came from his true self. Initially, he worried quite a bit about that teaching, so much so he stopped writing for some time. Eventually he stopped worrying about that or whether his work was good. "I don't write poems unless they force themselves on me and I don't write prose unless I can't help myself," Snyder said. As he ended the talk, Snyder pondered aloud if that could have been what his teacher meant by "the true self."

This writer felt thankful that Snyder, who seemed incapable of pretension or insincerity, freely revealed his truest self throughout the talk without premeditation and in one on one conversation. It felt enlightening to listen to him personally tell me about his recent activism in his woodland community against over development, oil drilling and gold mining that would destroy the ecosystem. It also felt nice to tell him how much I enjoyed his poetry as an escape from every day drudgery and as a study for my own work. I gave his arm a pat and we told each other we hoped to meet again.

In short, Snyder's charismatic languidity was pretty cool.

Terse Verses By Thel Juarez

Electricity brightens the night-
a person is being electrocuted
in a well-lit show room.


Tears borne of sorrow
In time, like the morning dew
Will evaporate.

Littering our word-ly

connections are Adjectives...

supposedly aiding, but alas,

dominating Verbs.

Thelma Reymundo-Juarez Bachelor of Arts majoring in Political Science at age 20.  Under pressure from family and culture, twice she  enrolled in Law School.  She escaped both times. In late 1982 she immigrated to the US, lived in California until late 2009.  She now lives with her husband in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

In January 2010, with support from her circle of friends,  published a limited edition of her  first book of poetry titled, "From Thel's Garden - A Sprinkling of Haiku".  For her other works, please visit thelmarjuaez.blogspot.com

Looking for Home by Donald Anderson

I heard a clink outside the window,
collars of two lost tan colored dogs, expensive looking,
out at 3:20am in the morning.
Seeing me open my door, they walk inside
my humble apartment, searching, inquisitive.
I am not allowed pets.
No one is reachable at this hour.
I try to read the tag on one collar,
the dog refused to stay still and puts its
wet paws on my arms.
I think, what if they’re starving?
I give them slices of deli turkey.
They eat in seconds,
I walk out the door,
they follow,
then mark territory on the bushes.
I close the door,
then the window,
then go on my phone’s limited internet
searching for lost and found in this town.
I find a site that has an email address,
then email them the info.
I wonder if they will scratch at the door.
Sleep at last.
Then 11am, wake to call animal control.
Ask if they know of any lost dogs of that kind reported.
They say none have been,
though I doubt my limited description effective enough.
They thank me for the report,
before I’ve said all I can think of.
I look for them each evening now,
thinking if they will remember the food.
If they found their home.

If they found their owners.     

Poet Donald R. Anderson has had poetry published in ¡Zam Bomba!, Blue Moon Press, Rattlesnake Press, Artifact (before becoming co-editor), The Collegian, A Poem a Day: An Anthology (Edited by Chantel C. Guidry), Dwarf Stars 2008, upcoming publication in Poetry Now, and Manzanita (2010), published online on Medusa's Kitchen, Poet's Corner Press, and Farmhouse Magazine and a small award in the annual contest by the Stockton Arts Commission for “Suddenly a Fearsome Crow.” 

MADE IN KHARTOUM by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

Locked in the clock factory running out of timeThe gate welded shut with a human torch
The Kooks “just don’t care—do do dit dit dit dit”
I wake up exiled from immediacy
My eyes burning in Emily Bronte’s looking glass
Dire pleasures Hereabouts
A thousand friends, not too many
Hellbent on making a punctilious mess
Amid a welter of bruising wink shudders
CRY LIKE A TEENAGE ROBOT
Row on, my Myrmidons, the shore is a cheap toy
A fighting chance to star in a marathon of love
Where the screech owl meets the squeaking gurney
Gryphon wings shed hieroglyphs in the wind

"Jeff Wright", as he is known to Hollywood insiders, published the famed Cover Magazine from 1986 - 2001... 80 issues! (as a publisher of a much humbler print endeavor, I'm floored!) He's a terrific poet, curator (reading series at the Bowery Poetry Club, La Mama, etc.), and general man about town. He can even be found in various East Village Gardens beckoning fairies from flowers with the sweet nectar of verse and a puff of pixie dust... or maybe the pixie dust was just in the 80s... he even has a wiki entry... so hello posterity!

In the Tracks by Ode Senior

In the tracks
by
Ode Senior

11 o’ clock at night
The homeless that sleep on Park Avenue
Do have belongings.
Boxes rapped up in white plastic.
An old woman seats on a plastic box on the side -walk.
She eats cold bread
Her face looks like a wrinkled brown paper bag.
She reminds me of the way my Grandmother would seat
In the kitchen on her old stool and eat a mango.
I keep walking some times don’t look
At this homeless that snores
On his feet a cut
Cars, taxis, trucks and beautiful people pass by.
Christmas lights; I won’t cry.
Christmas lights are a pretty thing.
The rats in the subway tracks increase
In size and quantity
Silence…
No body around…
A man in the tracks
Did he drop his bag?
Ten seconds, fifteen seconds
Too old to lift himself
The train is almost there.
The men is in his 60’s
He is swimming in the east river.
His wide laugh with out teeth.
Shinny eyes still look at me.
The Christmas lights went off.
Only two enormous ones on my eyes
This man has dreams to dream tonight.
Christmas lights at his side.
He is on the streets but he is alive.
Perhaps I am a foolish girl
Carrying away the homeless wish
Perhaps infected by rats.
Like a baby he played in the subway tracks.

Ten things to say in a vacuum by Chris Carrowiano

A hair cut.

After buzzing a good portion

of my hair, I asked Jessi to continue

on the portions I could not see.

I felt around with my hand.

“You missed a spot.”

After removing the guard

from the clippers,

“ I can only explain this,

and not show you by example”

“Take these clippers and round

it off or make it straight

then shave off the hair

down the neck.”

“You’re good with a pencil,

 you should have no problem”

“Pencils have erasures and this does not.”

“I don’t care, you have to look

at it not me.”

Henry used to cut my hair.

I would pay him twenty dollars

He did this whether

I paid him or not.

He needed the money

more than I did at the time.

In exchange, the best hair cut,

including a quasi pompadour,

but my hairline is receding now.

This insatiable artist

taught me more about life

than 10 years of books

subsequently read.

Wiping my face,

because it hard not to,

when you speak of Henry,

because this is loss.

His zeal for life

may have

resided in the fact

he knew his time was limited.

Once my local barber,

a Russian man would

always greet you with smiles

and a few jokes, in a thick accent

then cut your hair in ten minutes flat

with only scissors, shave the back

of your neck with a straight razor.

In my vain days I paid

fifty dollars for a hair cut

in a upscale salon

while drinking a glass of wine,

they didn’t match.

He had to close shop

others did not understand the value.

Bio:

Chris Carrawiano enjoys absinthe and poetry, quite often he louches his glass with his own tears, but never with a sugar cube or fire because that would be wrong. He has aspirations to make his own brand in Richmond, VA where he lives, because he cries that much. 

Peripheral Residue

By Jessi Corsentino

There's a residue in the periphery
Of each day.
A constant background noise.
Every little red pick-up truck
Reminds me life's fragile.

The image I carry
Is a collage.
Frantic laughter,
Candy and Crayons
And highway sing alongs.

It's stapled to a second,
Bearing your full weight,
Falling, shaking
Sparkle and fight.
I was paralyzed by fear.

The truth moved
From the periphery
Into the white hot spotlight,
Perched on the landing.
And I had to face it.

The thinnest fiber
Keeps you tethered here.
The night we struggled
With your corset
I understood.

I still have 3D movies,
And your rhinestones at the cafe table.
I'm trying to ignore the second hand
Crashing seismic rhythm

Against what's left.


Jessi Corsentino writes and paints in order to process emotions that are generally suppressed in places like the suburbs. Her hobbies include loitering and offending people at dinner parties.

A Woman's Right By Pamela Laskin

More of Pam's Poetry can be purchased via Plain View Press.

A Woman's Right

Mother pray

for freedom

from your body.

March

to the malignant beat

of your battled breath.

No suffragette,

you birthed

a baby

into oblivion

until she

was an adult

who realized

women's rights

may mean

leaving your mentally ill mother

harnessed like a horse

in her institutional bed,

to rally

and rot.

Cease Fire

To a Friend

You've bombed

my occupied territory,

and no matter how much I tell myself

what choice did you have

my boundaries

still bleed,

all the civilians housed in my heart

are displaced;

this land

will never be the same.

Try dressing the amputations

that hang between us.

Incantations of the Raven

Raven's Brew By Christina Davis www.ravens-brew.com www.fireflypublishingent.com

Reviewed By K.T.Mitchell


Poetic elitism

In 2006, The Poetry Foundation's President John Barr sparked a firestorm of controversy in his article, American Poetry in the New Century, by asserting there is an "intellectual and spiritual stagnation in the art form," bred by "MFA programs" that teach poets "to think that writing poetry has something to do with credentials." Barr concludes the end result of this sort of poetry is " is a poetry that is neither robust, resonant, nor...entertaining," a poetry without an interested public audience.

In short, Barr outed "successful" modern poets for their worst sin, cultural elitism. Yet in his article Barr fails to recognize there is a growing, grassroots movement in poetry in which poets with real life experiences are making themselves known. More importantly, the general public audience that elitist poets so crave are recognizing these new "organic" poets.

Christina Davis first book Raven's Brew is one such example of organic poetry at its finest. This collection was born of a personal journey that leads to redemption, instead of indoctrinated erudition. the poems in this collection thump with a pressing urgent rhythm of an sorceresses' heart during her most intense evocations.

With her words, Davis takes the reader on a journey through physical and emotional abuse inflicted by others as well as the speaker's self abuse. Davis never presents herself as a proud martyr, as one would expect. Instead the words are magical cures that transform pain into learning experiences. Most telling about this collection is Davis' willingness to write poetry from the perspective of a woman who has endured sexual abuse, a topic most poets are loathe to address because of the magnitude of emotions that can be evoked in the reader. Davis deserves applause for tackling this issue without fear of repercussions to her "poetic career." It is in these pieces, that women who have endured this sort of horrific abuse can seek solace and know that there is a way to heal in spite of the feelings that might churn within them.

Davis, a high school dropout who candidly admits she seeks to improve her writing skills, intuitively has a feel for rendering delicate subjects within traditional forms and rhythms. As the momentum of the book grows, so does Davis' courage in experimenting with more complicated poetry styles. Davis deftly lets her skill shine through the villanelle form in Luminesce:

Paralyzed in your stare
Deer caught by a headlight
Radiance in your glare

Luminosity is unfair
On this lonely road at midnight
Paralyzed in your stare

Caught in a cross hair
Prolong the agony of this plight
Radiance in your glare

Taken to your lair
Whispering hints of stage fright
Paralyzed in your stare

Fear that my heart you'll tear
Blazing Bird of night
Radiance in your glare

Tangled in a sticky snare
Hungry to feel your bite
Paralyzed in your stare
Radiance in your glare

Although Davis does reach the reader's heart with her sincerity of words and experimentation with form, at times her metaphors can be mixed, the images unclear. Yet as Davis continues to focus on improving her craft, it is almost certain these kinks will be worked out in subsequent books.

Imagery errors are usually considered egregious in the poetic world but Davis will be happily forgiven for these mistakes as the reader progresses through the collection. This critic can say without a doubt that Raven's Brew is an engrossing page turner, which is quiterare for any poetry book. None of the "spiritual stagnation" Barr lamented is present in this book because it was written from the heart, not within the walls of any literary program. Reading Raven's Brew will leave one with the hope that the poetic elite would leave off their navel gazing and reach out to home grown poets like Davis so that a true dialog about balancing the importance of life experience with knowledge of poetic forms can begin.

All City Slam Continues May 2nd- Be there!

Quarter Final Judges ( Left to Right): Anthony Gonsalves, Chrissy Davis and Kenya Mitchell

This weekend, Stockton's All City Slam, presented by With Our Words at Plea For Peace, continues with an explosion of the best poetry from the city's youth. When considering the immense talent of the poets, Judge Anthony Gonsalves said, "It's so enlightening to be able to see teenagers express themselves in a way that is both passionate and inspiring." You will definitely be able to feel the power Anthony felt at this upcoming 2 day event. Turn out to support these artists at:

May 2nd 7pm
Plea For Peace
630 Weber Ave,
Stockton, CA

Or get more info at www.withourwords.org or www.pleaforpeace.com

Below are photos of the quarter round judges, the finalists and some of their work. Expect big things from these rising stars!

Alyssa Langworthy Wows at Stockton's All City Slam

With the charisma and finness of a worldly diva, ingenue Alyssa Langworthy continued to stun spectators in the second round of Stockton's All City Slam this past Friday. Awash with amazement, Judge Chrissy Davis said of Langworthy's piece, "I feel as if I am listening to a grown woman's thoughts!" Indeed, all of the judges were floored by Alyssa's courageous delivery, clever turn of phrase as well as the humility of the poetess. Visitors to this weekend's quarterfinal rounds can expect even more surprises from Ms. Langworthy.


My Man

Roses are red
And violets are blue,
But his two lips
Can steal mine away and damn day they’d like to
Full and think that smile that makes my tummy tumble
with each dimple that shows
creating crevasses in that cocoa colored skin that would even
make Hershey bars jealous
and I’m already envious
With those hoops he shoots
And the lines he spits always seem to overpower mine
More powerful and hardcore than I will ever be
he’s perfect in every way, yet the only thing perfect about him
are his flaws
making him human
because I’ve already found an immortal’s hand to put my life in
I need a man
One who wants me for me
Not what I have
Not that I have anything
And will love me and hip hug me
Tug my arm along his side going where life leads us
And I’m letting life lead me to him
And this time, maybe it won’t be the wrong one
But the right one
So I write one line each day about the time spent that day
cause maybe that’ll be the day
I’ll find a man stand before me in a crowd of boys
Still haven’t learned to mature and grow in their mind
Think they’re hard
But they haven’t even had it that hard
So how would they even know what hard is
And my man will be strong
Muscles of emotions
And rippling knowledge pectorals
Building bodies of opportunities taken
Connected by neck to a head of open mind leaking
Sad tears and mad tears
Through those stone cold eyes that seem to
Warm my body each time they lock with mine
I want a man who I can converse with
Tell each other of our firsts
And let each other see us at our worst
Hold each other tight and get us through to our bests
Letting fingers interlock
Spelling out our romance with just
Our knuckles
But not just in our knuckles
In the way he holds me tight
And I the way I whisper in his ear
In the way he calls me every day at 4 AM
Wakin’ my sleeping self up just
So I’ll be the first one he talks to that day
And in the way I can call him at 2 AM to say goodnight
And in the way I sit through a season’s worth of Kings games
When he knows I’m a Lakers fan
See this is how my man is
Or will be
When I find him
And you’ve heard anything you like
You can call me, text me 209 – 915 – 2189
Cause I am still lookin out there
For my man

Alyssa Langworthy has been a Stockton, California resident all her life. She started writing her poetry at the age of fifteen and is a sophomore at Cesar Chavez High School in Stockton. She enjoys every aspect of the arts and is currently awaiting her departure to college in two years. She spends her time between school work, her poetry, and acting.

The Buzz Around Carina

Carina Buzo's opening piece at the All City Slam takes on society's narrow minded view of beauty in this piece.

5'9', 110 pounds, 39-18-33

Barbie’s measurements are impossible

yet anything is possible if you put your mind to it

but last time EYE checked

these measurements were no where near hers…

and its on MY mind??? ALL THE TIME!

how could it NOT be.....

in a world where the tv is the teller of all things true and mighty....

and plastered on the screen

is a bunch of my size barbies

that never made it to my house

for the last 18 Christmases....

and even though i tend to use the whole....

its america baby

i could look however the hell i wanna look....

i secretly wish barbie actually was my size

then those moments in the mirror

before I pull back the shower curtain

wouldn’t be so alone

and prom dress shopping

wouldn’t be so damn humiliating

because at 5’1 160 pounds 34-30-38

doctors have labeled me as obese

and the sizes in the stores

that only go up to a size too small for me

only smears it in my face more

barbie has become a culture icon

forcing little girls to strive for standards that aren't obtainable

and hide and seek pregnancies are born

because only pregnant Barbie comes with a matching ken

making little girls believe that imperfections are not acceptable

how can we show these girls that mistakes happen

and that being yourself is the best thing to be

and that being alone isn’t horrible

when you have Barbie being stuffed into your vision

Barbie, who is always dependent on a man

in all this mess

an assumption has been created that there’s a “sporty barbie” out there somewhere

But someone with a rack that big with no panties on

Has the option to run ANYWHERE

She uses sex and looks to her advantage

then calls herself a feminist

There's just something about glorifying this manifestation of "female perfection" and

her obsession of hording material possessions

that disturbs me to the core of my being

because the closet thing to a Barbie like me....

a once released cinco de mayo Barbie named abil del monte

which, directly translates to skilled worker from the mountains

she has a big Jalisco dress on

made to look like the Mexican flag

and big trensas in her hair

tied together with ribbons....

and yes, I am very proud of my culture

All I’m asking for

is something that little girls today can look up to

not some one with measurements that are based on male fantasy

rather than actual human metrics

and I don't want them to be a product of a culture

that treats women with disrespect

and confine them to the role of a sexual toy for men

because once upon a while back...

that my size barbie.... seemed larger than life

and i thought that with enough outfits and shoes and makeup

I could be just as perfect as she was

not knowing that....

5'9', 110 pounds, 39-18-33

is impossible....

no matter how long you put your mind to it

All City Slam Standouts

Miko

Jazmarie LaTour

Carl Snead III