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.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Reservation - Carol L. R. Shaw
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."
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."
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Creator Said - Sue Ann Simar
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.
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.
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