from THIS GREAT UNKNOWING - Denise Levertov

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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