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Month July 2015
A Ten Question Interview With The Artist…Helen Vitoria
Helen Vitoria’s poems can be found in Ping Pong Journal, Rougarou, PANK, Pebble Lake Review, grist, Barn Owl Review and many others. Her poetry collection, Corn Exchange, has been awarded the 2014 Silver IPPY Book Award in poetry. She edits THRUSH Poetry Journal & THRUSH Press. Find her here: http://www.helenvitoria.com
Fat City by Bryn Fortey
Fat
Fat-fat
Don’t want to live in Fat City
Near side
Far side
Don’t like the dark side
Bitter streets
Grey souls
Don’t want to walk here
Don’t want to be here
Fat
Fat-fat
Ain’t no love in Fat City
A look means a leer
Living with fear
Be glad you’re not here
It’s not sweet
Not neat
In Fat City
A veteran of the writing game for more years than he cares to remember, Bryn Fortey edited the well received (at the time) OUTLAW,
a post-Beat poetry magazine from the 70s and at the same time had short stories in FONTANA anthologies, among others. After a
while away from the literary scene he recently returned with both fiction and poetry acceptances. In 2014 The Alchemy Press published
his debut collection MERRY-GO-ROUND, combining short stories and poetry in one book.
The Pothead And The Drunk by Ben Newell
It’s the coldest day
of the year;
I’ve locked my keys in the car
with the engine running
and
my antiquated flip phone
is dead.
Luckily
the leasing office is open;
they let me use their phone
to call a locksmith—
“Give me about thirty
minutes,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, “see you
then.”
I’m waiting beside my car,
freezing
my bony ass off
when the old hippie maintenance guy
pulls up
in his yellow VW bus;
he’s also having a shitty morning,
says he lost the key
to his wife’s Mercedes—
“Three hundred dollars,” he says,
“for a fucking key.”
“Christ,” I say.
Shaking his head in disgust,
he tells me to lay off
the pot,
the usual spiel regarding
short-term memory loss
and whatnot.
Then he drives off,
leaving me there with my hangover
and no excuse.
Ben Newell is a fortysomething library clerk in Jackson, Mississippi. His poems have appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, LUMMOX, My Favorite Bullet, Nerve Cowboy, Pink Litter, Yellow Mama, and other underground publications.
Cropped by Allison Grayhurst
Incessant noises, beating
down my glow – airplanes and dogs
voicing their aggressive anxiety. Too much
space to fill with disembodied eyelids – except to say,
I am better off knowing what to hide and with whom.
Everyone I talk to insulates me, be it in vast or narrow
confines. I don’t need to suffer or hunger for what is not mine
or for an intimacy more accurately labelled illusion.
Animals walk by me and I am drawn into their interiors.
I am drawn to look through the physicist’s window and laugh
at certain logic used to dismiss the ranks of God
and creatures that gallop, burn-up in back alleyways, escaping definition.
I don’t know if sand is like stars, but it is a fragrant research to find out,
fumbling with layers, branching out on tiptoe.
It is a pistil attracting pollen, a prescription to illuminate grief and cherishing.
Just as when faced with illness, the superfluous gets skimmed,
it is essential to honour the need for certainty in all forms of love,
it is essential to see that which struggles always ends up shivering in its bonds,
eventually learns that letting go is a prerequisite before achieving threshold, before
the welling up, the grand unshackling groan
of a peace-inducing
implosion.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 500 poems published in international journals and anthologies. She has eleven published books of poetry and five collections, as well as six chapbooks and one e-chapbook. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; http://www.allisongrayhurst.com
The Way It Is by Scott Thomas Outlar
Terrible things happen
to people
all over the world
seemingly all the time.
Africans starve.
Women are raped.
Hustlers lie, cheat and steal,
screwing over those who trusted them.
Family members die,
crushing the spirit
of the loved ones left behind.
Thugs shoot other thugs
in rival gangs
over shit like color and territory.
Fat Cat politicians
write laws
that benefit big corporations
by rigging the game
against Mom and Pop Stores.
Perverts molest little children,
scarring their young minds
for the rest of their lives.
Animals unfit to breed
have children
whom they beat with belts,
bruising their sanity
and creating a vicious cycle of violence
that may never end
until the gene pool runs dry.
One brother kills another brother,
sending their sister
into a suicidal despair
which ends with a slit wrist
and a bathtub full of blood.
But it’s not just
humans hurting humans,
because nature also has a say.
Tornadoes blow across the plains,
devastating entire communities,
destroying sentimental property,
and killing people in a sudden flash.
Lightning strikes in a dry forest,
causing a fire across hundreds of acres.
A volcano erupts
after ages of dormancy,
swallowing a civilization
beneath molten lava and ash.
An earthquake shifts
the seismic plates,
collapsing bridges and buildings
which crumble in a matter of moments.
A tsunami rides in
atop high tidal waves,
flooding nuclear power plants
which melt down.
Radioactive pollution
poisons the ocean,
mutating the sea life,
disrupting the food chain,
and causing all types
of unforeseen consequences
that last for thousands of years.
Oil wells crack
through careless construction,
coating the dolphins in black sludge.
Terrible, terrible, terrible things
happen all the time,
and the worst part of it all
is that this poem
won’t change a damned thing.
Scott Thomas Outlar survived both the fire and the flood – now he dances in celebration while waiting on the next round of chaos to commence. Otherwise, he keeps things fairly chill, spending the days flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River, laughing at life’s existential problems, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His work has appeared recently in venues such as Section 8 Magazine, Dead Snakes, The Chaffey Review, Corner Club Press, Black Mirror Magazine, Dissident Voice, and The Kitchen Poet. Scott’s first attempt at a blog is 17Numa.wordpress.com.
A Ten Question Interview With The Artist…Karen Little
Why do you write?
I am on the side of “Live, and then write,” rather than “Live for your writing,” but the reason I enjoy life, and writing, is the diversity of routes. We are all doing our best aren’t we? I ran away to London as a teenager, and got into London Contemporary Dance School, then joined a Dance Theatre company. Later I did a degree in sculpture at Camberwell School of Art, London. After living in Spain for six years I ended up in Manchester, following a psychotic episode, and encountered a vibrant performance poetry scene. I am in no way a performance poet, but I enjoy reading my poems.
What books do you read?
I consume novels, devour them. I love Dostoevsky, I love meandering big fat books. I love Thomas Pynchon, Don De Lillo, Orhan Pamuk, Kazuo Ishiguro. I am beginning to like short stories, though I haven’t found them satisfying in the past. I thoroughly enjoyed Lydia Davis collected works, because of the diversity of length of story, and the fact that they are often anecdotal. I like books with anecdotal ”nuggets,” not some fast paced page turning frenzy. I like to take time to know what is happening. I thoroughly enjoyed Angela Readman’s, “Don’t Try This at Home,” because things, words, phrases resonated.
What inspires you?
It feels more like having to empty my head. For me writing is truth, saying it as it is. As a dancer it was very abstract, very much about “feeling,” from the guts rather than cerebral. As a dancer I really did not want to face my thoughts, they were scary. The art, painting, sculpture, was nearer to the concrete, but the onion skin layers were firmly in place. With poetry, another layer is removed. Short stories feel even more exposed. I think I might be terrible at them, but I have just sent off a bunch, and it will be interesting to see what happens.
How did you know you wanted to be a writer, and when?
I have always written, always drawn, always dreamed, but only in the last four years has writing become my main “expression.” Only in the last year or two have I realised my work is publishable, and this is a great relief, because I do think any art form needs an audience, otherwise why bother?
How do you deal with rejection
Pretty damn well in writing, as opposed to in real life, with actual people, when rejection makes me shrivel and die inside. I think I have been fairly lucky in that I have had a high percentage of my work accepted, and when something is rejected I just send it somewhere else, and usually someone seems to like it. I am talking poems here, those short stories will probably all be thrown back in my face. If I send a poem somewhere and it is rejected it simply means they didn’t like it, not that it is rubbish. Why should they like it? I haven’t taken their advice to subscribe to their magazine in order to see what they like. I can’t afford to. If they haven’t put up some online archives of what they like, how can I judge what they want? The wise places either show an archive or are very specific about what they want, and don’t waste their time or mine. I find the process of submitting very difficult because of numeracy dyslexia, which is also a form blindness, so it is difficult for me to actually do the process. The ONLY reason I have been enabled is Cathy Bryant’s Comps and Calls, and some very understanding editors who have gently pointed out my failings in terms of the process, but not held it against me. Those people are out there. I will give a publisher two shots, and if they don’t like either of my submissions, fair enough, there are a lot of places out there, “prestigious” or otherwise, and I have moved on.
Who are some writers you admire?
I have already named some authors, including a couple of friends who have been supportive. And actually the writers I admire are people who are supportive, who take the time to encourage other writers, who realise the world is big enough for all of us. It is elastic.it expands. Encouraging other people in the field helps everyone. I am not a fan of celebrity. I met my ultimate hero Kate Bush when I was sixteen, and she is the loveliest most self-effacing person on the planet. Her lyrics saved my life. Imagine doing that?
Is writing the only artistic medium you do?
Lucky me. I still paint. Painting is wonderful, and I can get drunk and blast out music, and dance around my flat and be full on when I do it. I need quiet to write. I shove in earplugs. My degree was in sculpture, because I got a bigger space and got to use a foundry, and pour metal, and weld. My MA was painting. I have just had some paintings exhibited in the Brighton Open, and I had work in the Art Trail at Pride last year.
What advice would you give to your younger self?
Do not listen to the detractors. There are so many people out there who will be jealous of your ability to be happy and creative and make the most of life.
Do you have any advice for other writers?
There is no such thing as a “block,” you just need to live your life and let things germinate, Do not compare yourself to other people, and their progress. Do what is right for you.
What is your writing process?
Flexible. I totally get that people set parameters and goals. But my brain and my life do not allow this. I used to wake at four am and write, because I need quiet, and I need to read out loud to catch the rhythm. Then I got puppy one, and just when he was behaving reasonably I got puppy two. They think that as soon as my peepers open I should walk them. Then feed them. So my day starts later. I put in ear plugs. I did Napowrimo a month late, because I was moving house in April. I did it backwards. I did it in six days. I like prompts on occasions. I also like writing off the top of my head what I feel at that moment. I have enjoyed doing these questions. And I thank you for asking me to.
Karen Little trained as a dancer at London Contemporary Dance School, and as a Sculptor at Camberwell School of Art, London. She has performed and exhibited internationally.. She regularly reads her poetry at events and has recently been published in over thirty magazines and anthologies, including Petals in the Pan anthology, Deep Water Literary Journal and Southern Pacific Review.
Leather Interiors That Used To Moo by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
They were taking many pictures of her
in a blow up pool full of goats’ blood
and she said it was for her portfolio
then she took a dead chicken
and rubbed it between her legs
like towelling off
her big break she promised, what was the big deal?
lick a few dismembered cow heads in a bikini
to get ahead
and I thought of that new car smell
of leather interiors that used to moo
as the cameraman told me to get out
of his shots
while the director played
with his lights
and more animals died for art
then artists
for once.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with an acute case of cabin fever after another long Canadian winter. He dreams of warm places and warmer women.
The Lady In Apartment 36-C by Gene McCormick
It is an old fashioned lock and key, making an audible rattle and click that Camille finds reassuring; the apartment coming alive with the noisy pronouncement that she is again home.
The sound of the key brings Dumas, the cat, brushing against her leg then slinking off to observe and lurk in shadows, emerging for stroking and treats.
Untying and shaking out her long blonde hair, Camille sorts through the mail—nothing of interest—on the way to the kitchen to check the terrace garden, bright from an afternoon rain. Mulching and weeding can wait until Wednesday. No blinking red light at the phone.
Switching on the music system to soft Fleetwood Mac classic rock she selects a pinot noir from the wine rack and heads for a shower, tossing sweater, bra and skirt into the bedroom without spilling a drop of wine.
The bathroom tiles are cool to tired feet as Camille raises the shade, opens the window. Steam seeps from the shower as she steps out of blue transparent underwear one leg at a time, with Dumas nearby. Night falls.
Gene McCormick has written sixteen books, a mix of non-fiction, fiction and poetry, and claims to have read them all, making him the only person in the galaxy to have done so. He divides his time between Wayne, Illinois, and Paris, France, and much prefers Paris…but then, who the hell wouldn’t?
Bow Of The Littoral Cave by Grant Tarbard
Being in the cave is a delusion
I decorate with the jewelled hornet
Pages of banned books and pornographic
Magazines that caress the weed calm brim.
I’ve abandoned my life to this moment,
Morning is the very first instant of
Time, the sun is my balloon I harness
To the debris of wrecked brigs unfurling
Its thousand little wings upon my wild
Eyed weathered face. My bread is a broken
Image of bread, my wine is a patchwork
Of condensation and the blood of fish
I catch. The bedrock has formed from smashed art,
The stalagmites are toppled statues of
Deposed kings, their cut off noses all crowd
About me and make music out of the
Darkness, a Rococo requiem of
The mysticism of all of my amens
Echoing about my blind hermit walls.
This is where government is done, withered
Through veins of gold. The water opens up
To me in marbleised flocked waves; the sea is
Fastened, it is the landscape that’s moving.
I scoop holes out of the air, my cheeks are
Filled with stories that paper the windows
Of diffused lights lit under gorse yellow.
Be careful of the night, it’s music plucks
Rose petals and drowns with timpani stars.
Grant Tarbard is the editor of The Screech Owl and co-founder of Resurgant Press. His first collection Yellow Wolf is out now from WK Press.
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