10x3 plus..........Beginner's Mind

PUSHCART PRIZE NOMINATIONS

2011-11-27T19:17:00.000-08:00

"Taming Texas"--Jefferson Carter
"American Ingenuity"--Jefferson Carter
"Other"--Mary Crow
"My Son, My Undertaker"--John Kay
"Confetti"--Robert King
"Dear Key Largo:"--Alexandra van de Kamp

Good luck to the above contenders. You can read more of their poetry in the December issue of 10x3 plus.

JOHN KAY -----------> continued success

2011-10-16T18:09:00.001-07:00

I wish I had the budget that Bellevue Literary Review must have. Enough dollars to pay for staff to edit and publish a 250 page 10th Anniversary issue. Quality poetry abounds: some favorites of mine are poems by Rafael Campo, David Wagoner, Cornelius Eady, and Claire Kageyama-Ramakrishnan. The review also includes fiction and non-fiction.

John Kay has two poems in the current issue: "Almost Dark" and "Echo's End." John continues down his brave and uneasy path--both esoteric and universal. I'm tempted to copy "Almost Dark" completely here, but that wouldn't be fair to BLR--maybe John will let me share it on this blog a few months from now.

In the meantime, you can read John's poems in BLR and also in the #6 issue of 10x3 plus.

Check out information below on ordering John Kay's full-length poetry collection, PHANTOM OF THE APPLE.

from "Paradise Lightning Dazzle" - Gregory Orr

2011-09-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

One step beyond
intensity--
what world is that?

Ferns: A Study - Michael Gessner

2011-06-26T13:25:00.000-07:00

From his pose in the garden
Just as his voice became
My own, Froebel stepped into the evening

Of my dream for his uncommon love
Of the young and with his notes
At the close of another century
Collected from an elemental source
Of children, my children of the forest
And the perpetual lily pond mad for the end,
Playing and sometimes translucent
Against the sun endowed with beauty
Which has become commonplace
And for beauty's tension they never cease
From the pursuit of themselves
As though they inhabit this place
Only to breed themselves to death by error.

As forests were once ferns
And ferns infant in the dumb morning
Existing of notions
Which were also geometries
Copious among us

As they were always among us
Even in the dreams of the twelfth-century girls
Dreaming at the edge of the forest
In anticipation of the unimagined season,

The caress and the still life
Of ferns
On seacoasts and on the white porches
Of summer homes
Or hung from the platforms of wooden depots,
How they bowed along the boulevards
Welcoming victors to the city,
And atop cool Corinthian planters
In the lobbies of grand hotels
There were ferns
In the background of photographs,
Pharmacies and funeral parlors,
And in the corridors of museums
Positioned carefully below milky skylights
That are sealed and permit no entry,

But most in a memory of children
There were ferns
Copious, still and sometimes swaying
In the settings of their stories,
In the stories of their sleep.

First published in Pacific Review
Collected in SURFACES (March Street Press)

Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize

2011-05-08T10:35:00.000-07:00

Beginner's Mind Publishing has made its first nomination for the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize. The Academy of American Poets oversees the award annually for a poetry collection by a living U.S. poet.

It was a pleasure to nominate PHANTOM OF THE APPLE by John Kay, Beginner's Mind Publishing, 2010.

The following poem from PHANTOM OF THE APPLE first appeared in 5 AM:

Who's Who of the Dead

I see that I made it into the
Who's Who of the Dead

and there's a picture of me,
wide-eyed, looking stern, as if

I have a serious beef with life,
on page 727 of the fifth volume.

I'm the first of my family, and
I didn't get in because I knew

somebody. I jumped the fence
and ran like hell from one yard

to another, and the doctors
could never catch me.

Good luck to John Kay and Beginner's Mind Publishing.

Easter Sunday, 2011

2011-04-24T10:45:00.000-07:00

Reading the "Daily Prayer of Father Parfeny of Kiev" on Martin Turner's Weblog, I realized I don't think of prayer as between self and God. I found myself editing "Grant me that purity of spirit...which makes us worthy of Thy Love" to Grant me that purity of spirit...which makes us worthy of Love." Without the Thees and Thous, the prayer seemed to evolve into a generalized prayer of being, focused on Good.

THE SOUTHERN POETRY ANTHOLOGY

2011-04-24T07:04:00.000-07:00

* Laura Treacy Bentley
* Maggie Anderson

Laura Treacy Bentley has two poems in THE SOUTHERN POETRY ANTHOLOGY, Volume III: Contemporary Appalachia. "Closet Appalachians" appeared originally in the #2 issue of 10x3 plus. "Gas Stations" was first published in Pudding Magazine.

Years ago, I wrote a grant for the Pennsylvania Council of the Humanities to cover a community program featuring Maggie Anderson. Maggie's presentation culminated with an evening poetry reading in a local church in southwestern Pennsylvania, and poems such as "House and Graveyard, Rowlesburg, West Virginia, 1935" really resonated with the residents. At the time, the community newspaper reprinted "Spitting in the Leaves" and I was glad to see it published again in this anthology.

Other writers with West Virginia connections included in THE SOUTHERN POETRY ANTHOLOGY are Casie Fedukovich, Harry Gieg, Chris Green, Larry Grimes, Ron Houchin, Donna J. Long, Jeff Mann, and Elizabeth Savage.

This is a really rich and wide ranging anthology and I hope it will find a readership that extends well beyond the Appalachian region.

Tomas de Faoite to Sue Ann Simar, Correspondence

2011-03-27T00:26:00.000-07:00

sue all time is limited, compressed,
when I look on my life there is none of it left,
it is all just another day, another again,
i seek no solace and nothing can shed
its essence, or justify its value,
i have no interest in truth or credo,
i can't lean my arms on a pew anymore
and look to the ceiling and see the hand
of michelangelo in the stretching out
of fresco, cracking, peeling off
the world that is turning out of tune and time

and all your artworks, the house top heavy,
and all those pictures probably still in wraps,
looking towards each other, and your husband
the fisherman, knowing where the river opens,
casting from the shade into sunlight; his feet
in the undergrowth, up to his waist in reeds
and salamanders. let him cast and cast again,
and do not be downcast about it
if nothing bites on the dullest of days

Saturday, May 23, 2009

BEAST BOOK - Michael Gessner

2011-01-14T06:43:00.000-08:00

I had the privilege of writing one of the back cover liner notes for this book of poems, and of course, I read the book in its entirety before doing so. It's now several months later and I keep returning to this book again and again. This book is so multi-layered that I've been savoring one poem at a time, line by line, word by word.

Today it's the short poem "Matching." Snow is falling throughout West Virginia and the poem matches my mood perfectly:

"...a world
brighter than my own
floats to mind,

and I have stepped outside
the self & into another
zone occupied
with foreign sensations only"

There's plenty of grit in this book--gristle and grind and "fat in a pot." But it's needful to find the little poem, the small that makes you larger.

The book design by Geoffrey Gatza and publishing details by BlazeVOX contribute to the cohesive effect of the book. I really hope this book finds the readers that it deserves.

Mindfulness - a statement from artist Cristine Cambrea

2010-11-27T15:33:00.000-08:00

As a visionary artist, I use my inner emotion and intuition to guide me. I do not work in the traditional process that incorporates sketching and planning. After that first line, shape, or color makes its way to the canvas, I get lost in non-thought. It is my time to meditate--and when my time with the canvas is complete, I have a creation that in some way represents my dreams and life experience. This may not be understood for quite some time, but from experience, I now trust in my process and can dissect it when I am ready.

My painting process is very expedient. I quickly make a decision as to what colors I am going to use. Ultimately when I paint, I am preparing the canvas for my drawing. When I feel like there are enough options to work with, I am done painting. At times, the painting can take as little as ten minutes to complete. After the canvas is prepared, I study it in the four directions, deciding which direction it will go. I would say that this is when I am most attentive in my creative process and snap out of dream world to make a decision--which way is up? Sometimes I see it in multiple directions and this has lead to the "Flipped" series. Once the direction has been determined, I then bring the piece to life with my ink drawing. The shapes formed by the paints dictate what I draw as do the negative spaces. I often see faces throughout the piece--but this "seeing" is not limited to art, it includes my every day seeing as well.

My hope is that my work will be a tool of this special kind of seeing for people. Not taking an object simply at face value. Everything we see is more interesting and complicated than the title we attach to it. You can look at a tree OR you can SEE the tree in its individuality. Trees are very much like people in the way that their environment and experiences with it make up the tree. A harsh winter, a bird pecking at the surface, or an animal digging a hole inside to live in, a kid climbing it--all of the experiences the tree has had have changed that tree just like what we have gone through in our lives has altered and changed us and not just physically but emotionally and energetically as well.

Statement from Cristine Cambrea, cover artist #5 issue of 10x3 plus poetry journal, "Mindfulness"

PUSHCART PRIZE NOMINATIONS - XXXVI

2010-11-27T10:18:00.000-08:00

The following poets and poems have been nominated by 10x3 plus for 2010:

Michael Gessner, "HOODOOS"

Michael Gessner, "PARTHENOGENESIS"

Mary Christine Delea, "Occupants"

Lamont Palmer, "Politician in a Boat"

Michael Bazzett, "Rooms and Days"

Sonja James, "Passing Storm at Woods Hole"

PUSHCART PRIZE selections for edition XXXVI will be announced in April, 2011.
Good luck to these poets and poems.

Primrose - Tomas de Faoite

2010-10-01T20:09:00.000-07:00

Delicate childhood flowers
flourishing in shady places.
Raindrops with second thoughts
trying to get back to the sun,
or the sun with second thoughts
wanting back what it didn't need
billions of years before.
No wonder they smell so fragile,
an almost indecisive smell,
not knowing where to belong,
here, in shady places
or back at center, the sun.

Tomas DE FAOITE
First published in DUST,
Reinart Edities

from THIS GREAT UNKNOWING - Denise Levertov

2010-07-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

from "Celebration"

"Brilliant, this day--a young virtuoso of a day.
Morning shadows cut by sharpest scissors,
deft hands. And every prodigy of green--
whether it's ferns or lichens or needles
or impatient points of bud on spindly bushes--
greener than ever before."

from This Great Unknowing, LAST POEMS
Denise LEVERTOV

Appalachian Night - Mark Jackley

2010-07-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

Enfolded by pure darkness
a train slips through the hills,
past the occasional litter of homes
leaking yellow light.

In a kitchen window
the silhouette of an enormous man who thinks,
gazing at the train,
he could love anyone on board.

Mark JACKLEY
Collected in THERE WILL BE SILENCE WHILE YOU WAIT
Plain View Press

September 11, 2001 - Mark Jackley

2010-07-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

Returning in darkness
to her mother's, my two-year-old glanced
at our neighborhood woods
and whispered, Listen, monsters.

Before I could reason with her
she climbed into my arms,
placed a tiny hand on my mouth
and commanded, Shhh.

Mark JACKLEY
Collected in THERE WILL BE SILENCE WHILE YOU WAIT, Plain View Press

Lines for Salinger at Ninety - Lamont Palmer

2009-11-16T17:39:00.000-08:00

Tables are often "lousy with glasses",
a messy significance on Broadway.
Will we see the world as it is or as
it was, when it was only a globe in class?
Often lives soar wildly like the Lunts
over the East River. This is theatre,
the cynical lessons taught and told,
the old man, Jerome, and the young neck-tied boy
of wisdom, in one pimply universe.
We wonder about the absent ducks
(perhaps our own imminent absence)
and the "secret slobs", untested for the better.
The pianos are playing and the big men
are playing them. The noise is closing in,
trains are barreling to nowhere quickly,
holidays no longer support the tinsel
they cling to. It smacks of grim martinis,
the misanthropy of the dazed dim bubbles
springing up in the glass of a long life.
I need rest, like the boy: time away
from situations, contrivances and
f-words (cold implications) in rude stairwells.

Lamont PALMER
Used by permission of Lamont Palmer.

10x3 plus PUSHCART PRIZE NOMINATIONS 2009

2009-11-08T06:20:00.000-08:00

Congratulations to the following nominees:

"Forever" -- John Kay
"Elegy for No One" -- Ron Padgett
"Primavera" -- George Szirtes
"Winter Walk" -- Llewellyn McKernan
"The Long Goodbye" -- Llewellyn McKernan
"Still As I Was" -- Dzvinia Orlowsky

Thank you to all the 10x3 poets who appeared in the #4 issue. I was only able to publish one journal this year, but it was still a difficult decision selecting six poems for the Pushcart.

Good luck to these poets and I hope to see their work presented in the 2009 Pushcart Prize edition.

In a Twilight Town - Caleb Barber

2009-09-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

At these hours a girl shows me the scar
she earned after her father's chainsaw
bucked against her calf while he evened
the backyard stumps. "It cut clear to my meat,"
she says. "They had to fly me to the city."
The rough, shiny lump is not grotesque.
Her leg has grown around the wound
same as how trees will hatchet swings.

She still wears skirts, for now, because
her body won't be a woman's for a few
more years, and free magazine offers
don't come this far out in the country.
The bald slice through one eyebrow is either
from barbed wire or dog. Could have
been her brother, before they sent him
to that school for boys just like him.

I'd like to hear about all those goldfish
that never survived through winter
on her parents' porch. I'd like to know how
the couch felt when it froze through.
But the plane for the mail route is spinning on
and this place will always be her stop.
The night makes us all older, and just walking
toward it, she covers her thighs with the dark.

Caleb BARBER
First published in The New Orleans Review

A Go at the Lifting Stone - Ralph Culver

2009-05-21T08:14:00.000-07:00

"For many years a nearly round granite stone
about two feet in diameter sat at the easterly
corner of the front steps of the store now
owned by Frank E. Brown. Few men in the town
could lift it off the ground."
--Fred Pitkin's HISTORY OF MARSHFIELD, VERMONT, 1947

The hands, arms, shoulders and back
consult briefly. A new challenge
of some dimension, of serious intent.
Promise heaves in the brain. This
is our provincial glory!
The bet down--budge it, and you won't
have to buy your own beer for a week--
you think in a sense your future
lies bearing its secret under the stone,
the days breaking in your favor
or not an equation of space--
its possibilities--
conjuncting with the flesh
and its limitations;
all borne up forever on the skin
of the earth, a place that seems
suddenly new and somehow
getting younger by the minute
until you have the confirmation
you seek. By God,
you are about to learn something
(this being your sole duty);

and you learn something sure enough.
Next day, when the usual warriors
clap you on the armored brace,
your lips roll back like a dog's --
the bloody thing having not given
an inch. The sudden multitude
of flea-like urgencies in your ankle
you would rather die than bend
to attend to. Closing your eyes to this
and the uncompromising grins
stretched across the faces of
these yahoos buying you
beer after beer after beer.

Ralph CULVER
First published in Seven Days

10x3 plus...Choosing a poem to publish

2009-05-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

Someone recently asked me how I choose the poems that I use in 10x3. I really wish possible contributors would read the actual magazine, but if you are not willing to order a copy of the journal, then you could always examine this blog or do a google search of the contributor's list and read the poems that these poets have published online.

However, I did compile a short list of some of what I look for:

1. Does this poem read outloud and can I hear it?
2. Do I understand this poem?
3. Have I read the same poem before? What's new about this poem? Does this poem take me anywhere that I haven't been already?
4. Does this poem relate to the next issue's cover artwork and/or any of the poems already accepted for publication? Is this poem worth a page or more, using up valuable space in the magazine?

I never really thought about the space issue much until Martin Turner pointed out to me on more than one occasion how much space I had used on certain poets (including him)! Now I give it more thought.

It's wonderful having a choice of poets for each issue, and as the journal continues to grow and gain more recognition, I have the pleasure of reading more good work. I hope those who are already familiar with the journal will pass the word along to their poetry-loving friends.

10x3 plus...Looking ahead to issue #4 featuring Dan Casado's artwork

2009-05-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

The #4 issue is due out on Saturday, May 23, and I will begin mailing to contributors and subscribers right away. The contributor list for #4 is the longest of any issue yet:

The Ten: George Szirtes, Grace Cavalieri, Ron Padgett, Caleb Barber, Jefferson Carter, Llewellyn McKernan, Wendy Mooney, Ralph Culver, Michael Wurster, Dzvinia Orlowsky.

Plus: Mieczyslaw Jastrum (translated by Dzvinia Orlowsky and Jeff Friedman), Nimal Dunuhinga, Ron Pisciotta, Gary Witt, J.J. Steinfeld, Sara Warner, Penny Bayless, Mark Jackley, Saba Syed Razvi, Gabe Heilig, John Kay.

Featuring: Under the Eaves: selected entries on poetry and the muse of language by Martin Turner.

Price per issue is $8.00. Any 3 issues are available for $20.00. You can visit the web site to find out subscription and submission information.

Thanks for your support!

The War Dead - Sue Ann Simar

2009-03-17T05:27:00.000-07:00

These are the bodies that must be cared for.
This hush of flesh, these swollen lips
that cannot offer praise or promise.
These glorious eyes look through me
and what I see are children, a fanfare of
children performing pratfalls on a stage.

Sue Ann SIMAR
First published in Endless Mountains Review

The Desert at Daybreak - Sue Ann Simar

2009-03-17T05:24:00.000-07:00

What slips through my fingers is swifter than wind
with lively breath and a scent of death
a wisp of light
the first spoken words of a child

Sue Ann SIMAR
First published in Endless Mountains Review

White Pebbles - Michael Wurster

2009-03-17T00:55:00.000-07:00

We were walking through the bees
under the trees that do not sing.
Smoke everywhere. And in the cottage
at the center of the forest, the rain
dripping from the roof. The children
would sleep or stare out. It was as if
I were a boy again, going down
in a white bed, not knowing.

They are what they are, he said,
handing us our check.
I remember that natal soil,
mother preparing the lentil soup.
What to predict, what to prefer?
White pebbles in our mouths smooth smooth.

Michael WURSTER
First published in The Blue Guitar.
Collected in THE SNAKE CHARMER'S DAUGHTER, Elemenope Productions, 2000.

The Theology of Stones - Michael Wurster

2009-03-17T00:44:00.000-07:00

Consider the theology of the stones,
how patiently they wait in some lost arroyo
for a further incarnation.

They like to stay up late
in the cool night air.

They ignore the obvious that
if they started rolling together
they could destroy us.

Michael WURSTER
First published in Pig Iron.
Collected in THE SNAKE CHARMER'S DAUGHTER, Elemenope Productions, 2000.

Stones at Night - Michael Wurster

2009-03-17T00:30:00.000-07:00

The stones sit
in an all night diner,

tough guys,
caps,
cigars.

Their coffee
grows cold
before them,

they are oblivious
to the pinball.

When you go in
in the morning
before work,

they are not there.

Michael WURSTER
First published in Pig Iron.
Collected in THE SNAKE CHARMER'S DAUGHTER, Elemenope Productions, 2000.

Avoiding History - Jesse Weiner

2009-02-20T22:39:00.000-08:00

avoiding history is a family tradition,
draft dodging, missing wars, as far
back as my fathers go, I find
no soldiers, no warriors and also
no lovers. we don't write
in my family, we withdraw
our stories on objection, stop
telling them. we keep secrets.

I keep my own secrets and rarely
tell them, keep my truth
from coming back to hurt me.
I learn slowly but I learn well,
to keep my secrets, avoid history.
I avoided history by protesting war
and by refusing to marry.
I learned late, but I learned well.
your eyes tell your history, your belly,
in its soft geography, hints at mine.
I don't enlist, I avoid being drafted,
my bridges burn behind me.

I read history in the slope of her breasts,
her silence uses me in my telling.
I have many ways to lie,
using a sharp knife to separate
flesh from nerve, bone from tendon.
how many times have I undressed you,
hearing you tell me that I don't care
about anything, until you turn
away from me, turn on me, turn
to stone. I turn you over, exploring
history in the cleft of your ass,
touching with my hands but never
touching you, feeling alone finally,
shedding uniforms and telling stories.

lies return in the secrets I keep, hints
I cover with long explanations.
you come to me, naked, asking questions
and feel betrayed, telling me finally
that I don't matter and never
was real to you. I tell you
I was a soldier, that I fought,
and you lie to me by undressing yourself,
nakedness concealing your aims.

I read history in the curve of your thighs,
my tongue seeking your skin, seeking
you in your skin, tasting
beneath your skin. I find
your secrets, I tell your history
and turn my back to you. in sleep,
you back away, waking,
you dismiss me and I write a secret
history, full of lies and silences.

Jesse WEINER
First published in Black Bear Review
Collected in OFF THE RECORD, an anthology of poetry by lawyers,
(Special Issue: Legal Studies Forum)

In Harm's Way - Jesse Weiner

2009-02-20T22:05:00.000-08:00

"Surely all art is the result of having been in danger, of having gone
through an experience all the way to the end, to where no one can
go any further" -- Rilke

the reason we're together tonight
is that we're both aware of the fragile,
tissue-thin cords which connect
these words. we know how precarious
it is, what stories we listen to
and which ones we believe. some
will take voice and the rest, like flowers, will
tantalize us, tease us, dare us to choose
which among them are more than light
in the sky. the light speaks to us, too,
we know the stars by their light,
we know each other by gentle vibrations
of air, vibrations of other things, like
strings, glasses, throttled together
with the substance we hold on to,
that viscous fluid we share and
believe in. it is a flower, shining, it can
cause us to see past walls and fabric.
it is a gentle flower, casting
a thin light on the fluid of
our stories and the fragile tissue
of these words. this flower, this reason,
brings us together tonight,
and we go out walking,
picking among the stories and the lights.

Jesse WEINER
First published in Zang Spur Review
Collected in IN HARM'S WAY, Linear Arts

Constellation - Lamont Palmer

2009-01-17T01:12:00.000-08:00

It wells up, strewn pieces of moon.
Outward, the parts split benignly,

sky, wind, flesh, debris, the skin of rocks
floating, in unison, with the asteroid belt.

Look up to see the image. Striking, in its sharpness,
known vistas tremble - there is a lone glow
reaching a thousand eyes in a thousand nights.

Lamont PALMER
First published at Strangeroad.com

Confederate Flag - Lamont Palmer

2009-01-17T00:58:00.000-08:00

let them fly
their defeated
dead banner.
let them fly that
cloth with the
stars and bars that signifies
division, wasted blood, and a
president with a hole in
his head; that signifies
the 400 year old evil that
shackled nearly an entire
race; that
signifies uncle sam
was split like the red sea; when
uncle sam nearly perished.
don't stop them.
don't picket.
don't protest.
let them fly their
defeated, whipped,
beaten, and shamed
banner. and let them
sing praises to
jefferson davis and
john wilkes booth as they
do it. it's a beautiful
colorful reminder, this
confederate flag. my yankee chest
swells to enormous proportions
when I gaze upon its
stars and bars.
know why? because
we won the
war.
we won the war. we won
the war.

Lamont PALMER
First published by www.TimBookTu.com

Pier Pressure on The Eastern Shore - Lamont Palmer

2009-01-17T00:25:00.000-08:00

Consign to the wind what you will, or might have;
if you stand on the pier, looking out, you have consigned
the essence of it; and the wind knows.

It is a trifecta: water, air, you.
Emitting from the three is my needfulness.
I gamble on mix, standing on the edge,
spotting trash strewn nearby, tossed by lazy ones.
But nothing is ruined by the debris.

I looked out over the calmness of the blue.
I used to think it was beautiful.
I still do but I am not assimilating as I did before.
One can be the same, yet different.
Small waves make an eventful, lapping sound.

The event is the notion of standing here,
the notion and the physicality,
the realization of being partly here,
of being partly everything, only a half.
I am as still as the boats docked here,
waiting discontentedly to be propelled.

Lamont PALMER,
First published at Strangeroad.com

10x3 plus PUSHCART PRIZE NOMINATIONS 2008

2008-11-17T19:33:00.000-08:00

from issue #2:

"Talk" by Michael Gessner
"Dust" by Debra Pallone Parks
"Little Boy, little boy" by Debra Pallone Parks

from issue #3:

"Aubade" by John Kay
"Inversions #1-#8" by Jesse Weiner
"Air, Earth, Fire, Water" by Lisa Zimmerman

Congratulations to all nominees and thank you for contributing your poetry to 10x3 plus. Good luck with the Pushcart Prize and the recognition you deserve.

Hamilton Stone Review #16 - Laura Treacey Bentley and Sue Ann Simar

2008-10-19T09:23:00.000-07:00

Please check out the Hamilton Stone Review, an online review currently featuring a West Virginia issue (poetry, stories, non-fiction).

Laura Treacey Bentley, who was a 10x3 plus poet in issue #2, has three poems in the issue. Sue Ann Simar, editor of 10x3 plus (and this blog), also has poems included.

There is a link on this blog site, which will take you right to the Hamilton Stone Review and some worthwhile reading. The #16 issue of HSR was edited by Meredith Sue Willis.

Bound by the Laws of This World: 1968 - Susan Grimm

2008-10-17T19:10:00.000-07:00

Blonde, blonde, blonde--there was a halo
melting around my head. Licking between
the chocolate wafers of an ice cream bar
in the lunchroom, I contemplated what Sister
had warned could be done with the tongue.
Listening, our faces had been smooth
as rain. But the smell of the earth
was thickening like incense. The swing
of the pleats brushed our thighs. We sensed
combustion, something breaking apart.
And the bars of the fire escape spelled
burn, reassembled, the iron steps leading
down from the deep lady blue of the sky.

*

At fifteen, some girls are already women
in the way they dispose their limbs. They can
make their uniforms look slutty; they would never
be called to be mother to God. Their bodies
curve and fret like horses, heads tossing,
long slender legs, beautiful glowing rumps
like continents in vastness, in mystery.

*

J.M.J.--I.N.R.I.--Not J.P. loves S.G.
Yes, Sister. I am a sister, too, a child
of God, a weak vessel, an unformed amphora
dried out in this sun, a tree rooted
in silence, sap curdling like phlegm
in my throat. Wand thin, I have
no magic. It's night. The celery-sick
walls rise up around me, the glass
in the door winks, as if it were still
the Middle Ages, and only this thought,
only this celebration may be lit up.

*

Walking home from school, stopped
on the bridge above the river, legs angled,
arms braced on the rail, I'm an arrow looking up,
pointing at the eye of God, the clouds
brushed and gray like feathers. I'm not
interested anymore. The bridge, its triangles
hum behind me, under my feet. I'm waiting,
stretched, like that long piece of steel,
trembling, while everything else moves.

Susan GRIMM,
First published in LAKE ERIE BLUE,
BkMk Press, University of Missouri-Kansas City

Daddy's Song - Susan Grimm

2008-10-17T19:00:00.000-07:00

He has bought a new shirt, slipped it
from its cellophane sleeve, to please a woman.
The night birds stretch their necks and gargle
at the moon. Oh, love, love. He is not looking
at the stars, twisted like tinsel. They cost
nothing; they are too far away. He puts
a ring on her finger instead. The birds fly
to the family Bible, claw over its leaves.
New names are added to the march down the page.
The diagram deepens, widens--each child
a finger reaching, a leg, a piano key.
Light snow on the fields as he drives home;
dark lines of the earth winning through.
The night birds sing low and red.

Susan GRIMM,
First published in LAKE ERIE BLUE,
BkMk Press, Univeristy of Missouri-Kansas City

Land of the Pharaohs - Jefferson Carter

2008-10-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

I like being called "brother"
by black men. I like walking past
Land of the Pharaohs
& being invited in by the brothers
to bless them with a poem.
"Brothers," I say, "brothers,
please no keyboards, no congas,
let me lay something white & uptight
on you brothers." I recite my poem
about Martians & Geiger counters,
its conclusion an ironic invitation
to Jesus to drop by some morning
for coffee. They hate it.
The brothers hate it
but they're polite, not like Kerouac
at the Living Theater
heckling Frank O'Hara
or the Academy Awards audience
mocking poor Sally Fields
when she said "You
like me! You really do
like me!" The brothers forgive me
as they'd forgive a flying nun
who alighted among them
& roosted, preening, while a brother
recited his hip-hop poem called
"Kill the White Muthafuckers."

Jefferson CARTER
First published in SENTIMENTAL BLUE,
Chax Press

Strep Throat - Jefferson Carter

2008-10-02T09:45:00.000-07:00

I sleep in my son's bed,
his comforter billowing
over me like meringue,
the poems of Che Guevara
under my pillow.
When my wife comes home,
she lets the dog in,
the dog who loves me
unconditionally. What did
Che call his apolitical friends?
Drunks, singing, their throats
about to be cut. The dog
loves me for myself, morose,
apolitical, the tang of penicillin
on my skin & he scuttles
down the hall, wondering
where I am, finally
wriggling the comforter
aside & draping himself
over my head like
someone's flung beret.

Jefferson CARTER
First published in SENTIMENTAL BLUE,
Chax Press

10x3 Plus - the word gets around

2008-09-25T11:03:00.000-07:00

If you google The Montserrat Review and read Book Review Editor Grace Cavalieri's "Best Books for Fall Reading, 2008," you will see 10x3 plus listed under Best Chapbooks. 10x3 plus is a poetry journal and not a chapbook, but I will take any recognition for the magazine. Grace Cavalieri has a strong history of supporting the arts and her mentioning the magazine in The Montserrat Review has made me smile, and smile, and smile. The word does get around. So is this NAME RECOGNITION and BRANDING? I hope so!

Late Fire - Laura Treacy Bentley

2008-09-20T11:22:00.000-07:00

I think it is all light at the end; I think it is air
Larry Levis, "The Quilt"

The poet told us Yeats came to him in a dream
and said, "Passion is everything."

He repeated the words again
as if somehow we hadn't heard.

Then he began to read,
the summer sun streaming through the windows,
the microphone flashing like starlight.

The next day
he went swimming in a lake.

I saw his body crack the surface of the water,
as he swam under that July sun.

His wake lapped against the shore,
covering my bare feet like laughter.

This summer
he is dead.

Just before he died,
he'd been working on a single line,

over and over.
"One late fire

burning beside a field."

Laura TREACY BENTLEY
First published in CONTROLLED BURN,
Collected in LAKE EFFECT, Bottom Dog Press

Seeing - Tomas de Faoite

2008-09-20T10:14:00.000-07:00

What does seeing the light mean?
Being enlightened? Seeing a vision
Not made of my own seeing?

The face of God in the dark
Left behind by the rays of the sun?

Seeing Gandhi wearing a monocle
On an Indian carpet during meditation?

Leaving the body briefly? No, no.
I have seen the light
And it was so ordinary.

I looked long and hard at an elder tree
Until its boughs turned pink.
I looked long and hard at ivy
In a ditch until it turned blue.
And I said, forget the master-

Pieces, forget Van Gogh, Vermeer.
Who needs hands when we can paint
With our eyes; the light,
The delight of seeing things
As they are, were, and will be.

Tomas DE FAOITE
First published in GREEN FATHER,
Poezie-uitgeverij WEL

Stairs - Tomas de Faoite

2008-09-20T08:18:00.000-07:00

I

You are coming down the stairs my son.
And I can hear you.
You see the light come from beneath
The kitchen door. You know I'm up.

I'm already there with you in mind.
I want to run out and exceed
All my previous limitations;
To fold you in my arms and sing.

But the time is not this moment.
So come on down the stairs.
Tiptoe to your heart's desire.
I can hear you coming down.

And there you are saying, Papa,
Papa,
Ik ben wakker. Ik ben wakker.
A son's lullaby to his father.

II

Up you rise to meet my eyes,
Up you rise into attic light,
Into a room now complete
Emptied of unwanted things.
Your cot is by the window,
You are asleep in my dreams.

Your mother's breasts weep
Whenever you cry, as I weep
Sometimes, in another way.
Outside conditions are arctic-
Like, Siberian winds, hungry
Herons, fish nosing the ice.

Down the narrow stairs
You come in the cradle
Of your mother's arms,
Into the living room
For the first time, into
The midst of our lives.

III

They are parked for the night
Up against the settee, Gregor's
Lorries, cranes and motor cars.
How silent they are, how real too,
Like real lorries parked in a yard
Somewhere.
In the morning
They'll be on the move again
Making long distant journeys
Across the sitting room floor
On into the kitchen
Up the stairs to his room,
And back down again,
Back down for the night
To their parked positions,
Noses against the settee,
Their engines turned off,
Fast asleep, upstairs,
In bed.

Tomas DE FAOITE
First published in GREEN FATHER,
Poezie-uitgeverij WEL

Five Meditations on Hair - Lisa Zimmerman

2008-09-17T08:22:00.000-07:00

1.
My first-born daughter's bald head crowned
in the slate room before dawn
though hours would climb down the stairs of my body
before she emerged whole, glistening.
In high school she would dye her long hair black
because being blonde was overrated.

2.
The second daughter shaved half her head
when the P.E. teacher confessed to class
she had breast cancer. Two years later that daughter
shaved off all of her abundant red hair and I said
not beautiful. And I thought Dachau.

3.
My boy's first haircut was at age two.
He had curls. They fell like pale feathers
beneath the girl's swift scissors.

4.
When my son was fourteen I showed him
all the gray hair in my bangs.
He said It looks like tinsel.
Last August he got his head buzzed for Kung Fu.
He looked like a Marine. I say The war in Iraq
cannot have him.

5.
The filly is as tall as the mare. They stand together
against the fence like sisters. I comb her long black tail.
Tucked inside, near the bottom, is a black corkscrew
of hair. It is the first tail, the one she was born with.

Lisa ZIMMERMAN
First published in THE LIGHT AT THE EDGE OF EVERYTHING,
Anhinga Press

Karma - Lisa Zimmerman

2008-09-17T08:11:00.000-07:00

I could love you once then let you go
alive in a life I cannot keep
but I'd rather burn than die that slow.

Your hair, your breath, your eyes I know
from another time, some quantum leap
I could love you once then let you go.

A hundred years of wind could blow
the candles of the past asleep
but I'd rather burn than die that slow.

Beyond the meadow, beyond the glow
of sunlight brushing this hill of sheep
I could love you once then let you go.

The wreck of sex, the dive, the flow
into each other so true and deep
but I'd rather burn than die that slow.

To know you now, to want you so
I dream your ribs, your hands, I weep
I could love you once then let you go
but I'd rather burn than die that slow.

Lisa ZIMMERMAN
First published in THE LIGHT AT THE EDGE OF EVERYTHNG,
Anhinga Press

Coyotes in the Ditch - Lisa Zimmerman

2008-09-17T07:52:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in summer we wake
to their high-pitched chorus
carried across the rope of sleep.
Night sky abates and becomes
pasture, becomes singing--
horses stir and rustle,
the moon's white fangs pierce
chinks in the barn.

When you tell me you listened
to a pack in full daylight
take an animal down, bone by bone
in the snowy ditch--
we imagine a February calf
as the prize, imagine
the tender throat exposed.
All day you couldn't shake
that gleeful barking.

Tonight the farmer's cows across the road
low endlessly, their calves vanished
into the dark interior of trucks at dawn.
Beyond the string of fence the coyotes
begin their refrain.

Lisa ZIMMERMAN
First published in THE LIGHT AT THE EDGE OF EVERYTHING,
Anhinga Press

On a Personal Note - Sue Ann Simar

2008-09-16T12:33:00.001-07:00

Thanks to the many well-wishers who have provided me with support and encouragement during the past five months of surgeries and treatments. I'd like to refer everyone who is going through any kind of personal tribulation to Martin Turner's blog site (linked here), which has a section of interdenominational prayers included. I've found particular comfort in the words of Thomas Merton, St. Augustine, and the Sarum Primer.
Martin's web site as a whole makes for interesting reading. His writing skill is unsurpassed, and I want to remind everyone that you can read five of his poems in issue #2 of 10x3 plus.

I've started reading for the 2009 issues of 10x3 plus, and if any readers have any poems that they'd like to submit that read like litanies or prayers, I would be interested in reading them. Please keep in mind that I am not doing a Sunday school handout, but editing a literary magazine so all submissions would have to have solid literary merit to be considered. I'm interested in poetry, not preaching.

Again, 10x3 readers and contributors, thank you-thank you-thank you
for helping me with the mag and for helping me distribute the mag and for keeping me on task these past few months.

Each kindness has been a gift,

SAS

News from Pennsylvania

2008-08-10T08:27:00.000-07:00

SPRING CHURCH BOOK COMPANY is going out of business and owner Britt Horner is "winding down" to "concentrate on my garden and my reading--and our new granddaughter, Quincy." SPRING CHURCH sells POETRY and has an inventory of older books, which may not be available online or anywhere else. You can contact Britt at SPRING CHURCH BOOK COMPANY, PO Box 27, Spring Church, Pa. 15686, phone 1-800-496-1262. Readers of poetry will miss the specialized service that Britt has provided for 35 years. Did I forget to mention that all books are now 50% off? And Britt has often been known to slip an extra chapbook or book into an order.
SPRING CHURCH will be missed--I'm not aware of any other poetry source to take its place.

MICHAEL WURSTER has been waylaid with medical problems and will not be submitting any new poems in the immediate future. Hopefully, Michael will recover fully and some of his work will appear in 2009 issues of 10x3 plus. Here is the address for anyone desiring to send a card or best wishes: Michael Wurster, Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange, PO Box 4279, Pittsburgh, Pa. 15203-0279.

Reservation - Carol L. R. Shaw

2008-08-06T21:14:00.000-07:00

You send me letters, the wisdom of Black Elk
the Dakota elder. Point to the scars
that have accumulated on my skin. Then point
in the four directions. Leave me spinning.

I tell you, my grandfather was a man of two skins,
a survivor of a collision of worlds. I am
a child of divided countries, offspring of cultures
that war beneath my skin, divide my limbs.

Seven years ago my doctor says I am pale,
my skin is too white, insists I keep a dream journal,
recommends a vision quest, points to the patterns
shaped across my skin.

You send me crystals in raw form, willow hoops
wrapped in leather with colored feathers.
And I recall Jung saying four is the natural
division of the circle, the symbol of totality.

A fire burns inside the round pit. I consider
the burnt out shells of branches. Ash white
and still round in their sacrifice. Study
fingertips, the roundness of stars.

Lost in reflection I drift on a bed of sage,
wait for my skin to unite and awaken me.

Carol L. R. SHAW
This is part 2 of a 3-part poem. Part 3 "Strange Medicine" appeared in 10x3 plus #1.
Carol writes of the entire 3-part poem: "My grandfather was half-Indian, his life was hard. He had what many would consider unusual ways about him."

Creator Said - Sue Ann Simar

2008-08-02T22:38:00.000-07:00

The rain weeps rust through summer heat,
calls out its praise for greenery. "Who,"
I ask, "is my inventor?"

Scarlet shreds of paper light

Hold me in this double space

Read me into asteriks

Snow or star or

* One frame of reference

* One burnt-up meteor

Creator Said

I want to lie on the walls of the museum

*

Confined to the wall and confirmed by the wall,
increased by the wall and recognised.
The ripple of these fingertips
and underneath a fingertip,
and through an eye and in a dream,
the structure of a strand of sleep,
an object and an observation,
Birth, because I visualize a body.

Sue Ann SIMAR
"Creator Said" first appeared in Passager.

My Aunt in America - Jesse Weiner

2008-07-09T13:49:00.000-07:00

In 1946, my aunt from europe,
who was living in treblinka
when it was liberated by russian troops,
came to america, married a
bakery and cooked stuffed cabbage soup
with cheap fatty flanken which left
huge bubbles of strong flavored fat
floating, separating, joining.

when my aunt from europe got rich,
she used leaner meat,
ground sirloin to stuff the cabbage,
less rice and the soup wasn't as good as before,
sliced white bread rather than corn rye,
frozen dinners instead of pierogen.
when she fried she used fine olive oil
and mayonnaise in the chopped liver
instead of schmaltz,
and she was glad to forget the taste
of europe, the smoke of kishinev in 1903,
the smells of kielce in 1946 and
the ovens, always the ovens.

my aunt from europe learned to speak
without an accent, to dress like manhattan
instead of brooklyn, to shed each skin
after each finished season.
she told me- be an american, be
a human being instead of a jew.

Jesse WEINER
"My Aunt in America" first appeared in The Black Bear Review.

10x3 plus, #2 issue of poetry journal published and ready for distribution

2008-07-09T12:43:00.000-07:00

Scott from On Track Communications delivered the magazine this past weekend and the mailers arrived today so I am ready to begin distribution. The journal looks so professional--On Track did a thorough job, as usual. Helene Lacelle's artwork printed crisp and clear, and the writing is varied, focused, great. First copies will be going out to the contributors (listed below), and then I will be filling orders and sending to libraries, other poets, creative writing programs, and organizations like Poet's House and the Wick Poetry Center. Anyone with suggestions on where to publicize and distribute the mag, please contact me. I also love hearing feedback--please make my ears burn.

More information is available at the web site: http://www.10x3plus.com/

If you have problems opening the web site, try googling 10x3 plus. Yes, it comes up now, or you can google Simar 10x3 plus.

Thanks to everyone who helped with this issue--especially the poets and the cover artist who were so generous with their work.

Love you all,

Sue Ann Simar

Guy R. BEINING--regarding DOLLOP 1-12--letter to Sue Ann Simar

2008-06-29T11:43:00.000-07:00

3/2/08--Great Barrington, Massachusetts

Dear Sue Ann Simar,

Yesterday received your probing letter concerning Dollop 1-12. I'm going to comment on your inquiries as they fell in your letter. First, I'm sure you're above normal regarding work & images, being a poet and an editor, you'd have to be. Then you say that you still don't completely get the dollops. Dollop one, for example, is just a ruinously sad appraisal of the world today. Next you feel that "dollops seems almost an excuse for the larger work to get off easy and not have an overall cohesiveness." My take is that titles are overrated. Take that god awful poem Trees that every school child had to read. Yes, it is about trees. So what? Do you need labels to read poetry? Between 1978-1990, I wrote a long work entitled STOMA. I got up to over 2000 Stoma poems before I was done. Giving titles to each poem would have added nothing. I sometimes go for long periods where I title each poem, so it's not completely laziness. Must there be overall cohesiveness? Perhaps that makes me a laborer of poems rather than one who wants to compartmentalize. Then you say, "I may get a glimpse but it's like catching a shadow." That appeals to me & might irritate someone else. Poetry to me is the most powerful medium of all, but should not be reined in so easily. This next part in your letter I really like, even the "words without paints" part. You believe that they have a painterly quality & stage presentation. This is insightful on your part & emphasizes my concepts about poetry. It is theatre, art, etc. I've had art pieces in Vispo shows, i.e. visual poetry, & that is more direct but poetry is a thing to play with & not be boxed in by, as academia has done for years & years so they can have all those poetry workshops.
You like 4, 5, 6, 9, & 11 & you like the haiku man & wished that he were present sooner. Might have solidified things in your view, but as you can guess, I don't think much of haiku poets. I have appeared in haiku magazines but find most haiku poets are on the smug side, so he was rude in his entrance into this set of poems. Very typical. I agree with you on #6. It works well as it plays with a Dickinson poem. I also agree that the five poems you selected as best are probably the best of the 12 works. So you honed them down well......"

dollop 6. dollop 9. dollop 11. ---> These poems appear in the #2 issue of 10x3 plus.
Guy R. Beining does not use or have a computer, but the letter excerpt above and his poetry appear here with his permission.

dollop 4. - Guy R. Beining

2008-06-29T11:33:00.000-07:00

the better strands of a day
had been abandoned.
someone had drawn
portions of a dream,
lifting up parts from
a circular drum while all pretenders
were left baring a common fiction.
a girl stood in the middle
of a road; her cheek bled.
fast forward to where
the girl's detached head
was set up as a bomb
which blew up a grocer
who had tried to rescue it.
such a sweet sweep of things
steeped in greed.
will a posse rule this dusty strip,
or will we just preen
as history gets soundly slapped?

Guy R. BEINING
from his series dollop 1-12.

dollop 5. - Guy R. Beining

2008-06-29T10:57:00.000-07:00

the flurry of strings
must have numbed her
& the feeling of some terrible
sting was close behind,
or perhaps a sick wave
might spill onto the
attraction of her piece.

will the water remain calm
in backdrop of artist's loft,
knowing that in the nagging
onslaught the bowery will sing
without tweeds or longing?
was she thrown into emberness?
the statue of her eyes
chip away at me, & like a poet,
she stands off center.
the ballroom was blue & unmoved
& blended in with the sky.
the shell was that part left untouched.

Guy R. BEINING
from his series dollop 1-12.

A Simple Prayer

2008-06-25T00:37:00.000-07:00

God, known in many ways, God, called by many names,
nurture within us an abiding respect for one another.
Remove from our hearts all violence and hatred. Replace
it with a passion for justice and peace.

10x3 plus

2008-06-24T21:30:00.000-07:00

10x3 plus is a journal of poetry. The focus of 10x3 is to publish ten poets times three poems or three poets times ten poems. The plus includes poems, prose-poems, and features such as Jesse Weiner's The Structure of Complex Symbols. Poets can find submission information on the web site: http://www.10x3plus.com/.
The magazine was founded in 2007 and is professionally printed.

Hopefully, this blog site will display news and poems of 10x3 writers, and also news and poems of other poets.

Anyone with Say about the art of poetry is invited to participate.