Sunday, October 19, 2008

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

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.

Friday, October 17, 2008

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

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

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

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Land of the Pharaohs - Jefferson Carter

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

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