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Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

~ Contemporary Poetry and Literary Classics from Cleveland to Infinity

Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

Monthly Archives: December 2013

It’s Happened (by Marcus Bales)

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Bales (Marcus), Poetry

≈ 4 Comments


 


It’s Happened
by Marcus Bales

It’s happened once or twice to everyone:
You post a piece of work you hope will burn
If not as brightly as the noonday sun
At least enough that those who read it learn
A little bit, or have a little fun.
And then there’s only silence in return,
As if you’d cussed where no one ought to cuss –
It happens now and then to all of us.
 
It sometimes helps to introduce the thread
Again another time – but sometimes not;
It’s hard to judge if it was what you said
Or how you said it that was such a blot.
How dreadful when your favored topic’s dead
Beside the information highway, caught
And flattened by the dire silence bus —
It happens now and then to all of us.
 
If you are disappointed when you post
Your scintillating topic to the list
Because it seems you, only, were engrossed
By what you had to say, don’t get so pissed
Or hurt or pouty that you’re diagnosed
A solipsist, unmissed if you exist,
A victim of your own concluding “Thus …” —
It happens now and then to all of us.
 
Envoi:
Other posters!  Let me get a witness!
How many times do others not discuss
The topics we’ve presented with such fitness?
How often have they shunned as not a plus
Our posts about the puppyness or kittenness
Of pups or kittens over which we fuss?
It happens now and then to all of us.


* * * * *


Not much is known about Marcus Bales, except he lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and his poems have not been published in The New Yorker or Poetry magazine.

Translations and Adaptations from Heine (by Ezra Pound)

30 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, German, Poetry, Pound (Ezra)

≈ 2 Comments


Ezra Pound - click here to return to Crisis Chronicles Online Library home page
Translations and Adaptations from Heine
by Ezra Pound
[from Personæ, 1926]



     From “Die Heimkehr”

I

Is your hate, then, of such measure?
Do you, truly, so detest me?
Through all the world will I complain
Of how you have addressed me.

O ye lips that are ungrateful,
Hath it never once distressed you,
That you can say such awful things
Of any one who ever kissed you?


II

So thou hast forgotten fully
That I so long held thy heart wholly,
Thy little heart, so sweet and false and small
That there’s no thing more sweet or false at all.

Love and lay thou hast forgotten fully,
And my heart worked at them unduly.
I know not if the love or if the lay were better stuff,
But I know now, they both were good enough.


III

Tell me where thy lovely love is,
Whom thou once did sing so sweetly,
When the fairy flames enshrouded
Thee, and held thy heart completely.

All the flames are dead and sped now
And my heart is cold and sere;
Behold this book, the urn of ashes,
Tis my true love’s sepulchre.


IV

I dreamt that I was God Himself
Whom heavenly joy immerses,
And all the angels sat about
And praised my verses.


V

The mutilated choir boys
When I begin to sing
Complain about the awful noise
And call my voice too thick a thing.

When light their voices lift them up,
Bright notes against the ear,
Through trills and runs like crystal,
Ring delicate and clear.

They sing of Love that’s grown desirous,
Of Love, and joy that is Love’s inmost part,
And all the ladies swim through tears
Toward such a work of art.


VI

This delightful young man
Should not lack for honourers,
He propitiates me with oysters,
With Rhine wine and liqueurs.

How his coat and pants adorn him!
Yet his ties are more adorning,
In these he daily comes to ask me:
“Are you feeling well this morning?”

He speaks of my extended fame,
My wit, charm, definitions,
And is diligent to serve me,
Is detailed in his provisions.

In evening company he sets his face
In most spirituel positions,
And declaims before the ladies
My god-like compositions.

O what comfort is it for me
To find him such, when the days bring
No comfort, at my time of life when
All good things go vanishing.


     TRANSLATOR TO TRANSLATED

     O Harry Heine, curses be,
     I live too late to sup with thee!
     Who can demolish at such polished ease
     Philistia’s pomp and Art’s pomposities!


VII

     Song from “Die Harzreise”

I am the Princess Ilza
In Ilsenstein I fare,
Come with me to that castle
And we’ll be happy there.

Thy head will I cover over
With my waves’ clarity
Till thou forget thy sorrow,
O wounded sorrowfully.

Thou wilt in my white arms there
Nay, on my breast thou must
Forget and rest and dream there
For thine old legend-lust.

My lips and my heart are thine there
As they were his and mine.
His? Why the good King Harry’s,
And he is dead lang syne.

Dead men stay alway dead men.
Life is the live man’s part,
And I am fair and golden
With joy breathless at heart.

If my heart stay below there,
My crystal halls ring clear
To the dance of lords and ladies
In all their splendid gear.

The silken trains go rustling,
The spur-clinks sound between,
The dark dwarfs blow and bow there
Small horn and violin.

Yet shall my white arms hold thee,
That bound King Harry about.
Ah, I covered his ears with them
When the trumpet rang out.


VIII

     Night Song

And have you thoroughly kissed my lips;
     There was no particular haste,
And are you not ready when evening’s come?
     There’s no particular haste.

You’ve got the whole night before you,
     Heart’s-all-beloved-my-own;
In an uninterrupted night one can
     Get a good deal of kissing done.
 



*

Through lane it lay – thro’ bramble (by Emily Dickinson)

29 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Dickinson (Emily), Poetry

≈ Leave a comment


emily-dickinson.gif Emily Dickinson image by alessepif
Emily Dickinson 



[1858]




Through lane it lay — thro’ bramble —
Through clearing, and thro’ wood —
Banditti often passed us
Opon the lonely road.

The wolf came peering curious —
The Owl looked puzzled down —
The Serpent’s satin figure
Glid stealthily along.

The tempests touched our garments —
The lightning’s poinards gleamed —
Fierce from the Crag above us
The hungry Vulture screamed —

The Satyr’s fingers beckoned —
The Valley murmured “Come” —
These were the mates —
This was the road
These Children fluttered home.


*

When I Went Out to Draw the Spring (by Beverly Zeimer)

27 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Poetry, Zeimer (Beverly)

≈ 2 Comments


Beverly Zeimer
Beverly Zeimer 



When I Went Out to Draw the Spring

When I went out to draw the spring—
My heart as light as air—
I stopped to hear a thrush’s song—
To touch a daffodil.
 
A time I spent in meadow grass—
A time in glowing sun—
For only my bare feet—my knees—
Only my bare hands.
 
I heard the corn a tasseling
As it turned from silk to tares—
Or rather, was it—I—sighing
As I neared the fountain’s edge?
 
The brick-lined walls whimpered
Through the earth—the palisades—
For battered shingles—bartered steps—
As on I clambered.
 
And then—the handle—cranked—
I lowered the plaited pail—
And tugged upon the heavy twine
To find an empty well.



* * * * *

Beverly Zeimer, whose poems celebrate the rural lifestyle, was born the child of tenant farmers. Her chapbook Pick a Way, that details the lives of farm families, won 1st Prize in the Salon Chapbook competition published by Pudding House. Beverly won the OPA’s Ides of March Competition judged by Terry Hermsen 2009 and was selected as Poet of the Month by the OPA in 2010. She won in the Ohio Poetry Day Contests in 2008-2009. She won the ECO Poetry Contest at the Solar Stage at Comfest, a community festival in Columbus, Ohio. Her poems have been anthologized in Cap City Poets, Eckphrastic Elastic, Friends, The Pudding House Gang, Love Poems and Other Stories for Bruce Springsteen, Everything Stops and Listens, Open Earth: ECO poems, and many others. Her poetry and fiction have been published by Spring Street, Pudding Magazine, A Community of Voices published by the College of Wooster, Green’s Magazine in Canada, and is forthcoming in Every River on Earth: Writing from Appalachian Ohio by Ohio University Press. She shares her work at coffee houses, festivals, and book stores in regional Ohio. Retired from civil service, she still lives in rural Ohio and is currently working on her second book of poems and short stories.

I Have Discovered a Country (by George Wallace) – video

26 Thursday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Music, Poetry, Wallace (George)

≈ Leave a comment



Video permalink: http://youtu.be/fJ3jSMqV9YI
Spoken word poetry by George Wallace, recorded in Cornwall, England, with The Moontones. From the CD Sky Is, available at http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/wallacemoontones.


* * * * *

George Wallace is Writer in Residence at the Walt Whitman Birthplace, first poet laureate of Suffolk County NY, and author of 26 chapbooks of poetry, including Poppin Johnny (Three Rooms Press, NYC ‘10), Burn My Heart in Wet Sand (Troubador Press, Leicester UK, ‘05) and Swimming Through Water (La-Finestra Editrice, Trento, It, ‘05). An adjunct professor with the English Department at Pace University in Manhattan, he is editor of Poetrybay, Poetryvlog, Long Island Quarterly, and co-editor of Great Weather For Media. George is a frequent visitor to the poetry scene in Cleveland, and has several chapbooks published through Green Panda and NightBallet Presses.

Home Burial (by Robert Frost)

22 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, American, Frost (Robert), Poetry

≈ Leave a comment


Robert_Frost_NYWTS.jpg picture by insightoutside

Home Burial
by Robert Frost
[from North of Boston (1914)]



He saw her from the bottom of the stairs

Before she saw him. She was starting down,

Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.

She took a doubtful step and then undid it

To raise herself and look again. He spoke

Advancing toward her: ‘What is it you see

From up there always—for I want to know.’

She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,

And her face changed from terrified to dull.

He said to gain time: ‘What is it you see,’

Mounting until she cowered under him.

‘I will find out now—you must tell me, dear.’

She, in her place, refused him any help

With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.

She let him look, sure that he wouldn’t see,

Blind creature; and awhile he didn’t see.

But at last he murmured, ‘Oh,’ and again, ‘Oh.’


‘What is it—what?’ she said.


                                          ‘Just that I see.’


‘You don’t,’ she challenged. ‘Tell me what it is.’


‘The wonder is I didn’t see at once.

I never noticed it from here before.

I must be wonted to it—that’s the reason.

The little graveyard where my people are!

So small the window frames the whole of it.

Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?

There are three stones of slate and one of marble,

Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight

On the sidehill. We haven’t to mind those.

But I understand: it is not the stones,

But the child’s mound—’


                             ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t,’ she cried.


She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm

That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;

And turned on him with such a daunting look,

He said twice over before he knew himself:

‘Can’t a man speak of his own child he’s lost?’


‘Not you! Oh, where’s my hat? Oh, I don’t need it!

I must get out of here. I must get air.

I don’t know rightly whether any man can.’


‘Amy! Don’t go to someone else this time.

Listen to me. I won’t come down the stairs.’

He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.

‘There’s something I should like to ask you, dear.’


‘You don’t know how to ask it.’


                                              ‘Help me, then.’


Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.


‘My words are nearly always an offense.

I don’t know how to speak of anything

So as to please you. But I might be taught

I should suppose. I can’t say I see how.

A man must partly give up being a man

With women-folk. We could have some arrangement

By which I’d bind myself to keep hands off

Anything special you’re a-mind to name.

Though I don’t like such things ’twixt those that love.

Two that don’t love can’t live together without them.

But two that do can’t live together with them.’

She moved the latch a little. ‘Don’t—don’t go.

Don’t carry it to someone else this time.

Tell me about it if it’s something human.

Let me into your grief. I’m not so much

Unlike other folks as your standing there

Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.

I do think, though, you overdo it a little.

What was it brought you up to think it the thing

To take your mother-loss of a first child

So inconsolably—in the face of love.

You’d think his memory might be satisfied—’


‘There you go sneering now!’


                                           ‘I’m not, I’m not!

You make me angry. I’ll come down to you.

God, what a woman! And it’s come to this,

A man can’t speak of his own child that’s dead.’


‘You can’t because you don’t know how to speak.

If you had any feelings, you that dug

With your own hand—how could you?—his little grave;

I saw you from that very window there,

Making the gravel leap and leap in air,

Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly

And roll back down the mound beside the hole.

I thought, Who is that man? I didn’t know you.

And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs

To look again, and still your spade kept lifting.

Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice

Out in the kitchen, and I don’t know why,

But I went near to see with my own eyes.

You could sit there with the stains on your shoes

Of the fresh earth from your own baby’s grave

And talk about your everyday concerns.

You had stood the spade up against the wall

Outside there in the entry, for I saw it.’


‘I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.

I’m cursed. God, if I don’t believe I’m cursed.’


‘I can repeat the very words you were saying:

“Three foggy mornings and one rainy day

Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.”

Think of it, talk like that at such a time!

What had how long it takes a birch to rot

To do with what was in the darkened parlor?

You couldn’t care! The nearest friends can go

With anyone to death, comes so far short

They might as well not try to go at all.

No, from the time when one is sick to death,

One is alone, and he dies more alone.

Friends make pretense of following to the grave,

But before one is in it, their minds are turned

And making the best of their way back to life

And living people, and things they understand.

But the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so

If I can change it. Oh, I won’t, I won’t!’


‘There, you have said it all and you feel better.

You won’t go now. You’re crying. Close the door.

The heart’s gone out of it: why keep it up.

Amy! There’s someone coming down the road!’


‘You—oh, you think the talk is all. I must go—

Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you—’


‘If—you—do!’ She was opening the door wider.

‘Where do you mean to go?  First tell me that.

I’ll follow and bring you back by force.  I will!—’


 



*

The Random Life (by Kevin Eberhardt)

20 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Crisis Chronicles Press, Eberhardt (Kevin), Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

 

 

The Random Life

The words go in one ear &
Out the other streamin’ thru
Unconsciousness washin’
Away some memories I no
Longer need makin’ way for
New thoughts I no longer
Believe & pickin’ & choosin’
Ain’t got nothin’ to do with it
What I learn right now don’t
Help me yesterday always
A day short & a dollar late
Burnin’ shadows at both
Ends still don’t help me see
What’s waitin’ up ahead
Don’t matter ‘cause I can’t
Avoid it anyway trapped in
Illusions of destiny at least
I’ve had my say you can’t
Collect in Heaven what you
Didn’t bet in Hell too bad
The fortune teller’s closed
On Mondays

* * *

“The Random Life” appears in KE’s chapbook Burnin’ Shadows [Crisis Chronicles Press, 2011].  Meet the author and pick up a copy at his art show opening, Saturday 21 December 2013 from 6 to 8 pm at JoAnn DePolo Studios & Gallery, 26719 Brookpark Ext., North Olmsted, Ohio.

Kevin Eberhardt is a northern Ohio poet who retired at the first of last year (2012) from one life into the next. He has been writing poetry since high school some 40 years ago. Lately, he’s tried his hand at found/primitive/folk art; this has consumed most of his time. His poetry has appeared in ArtCrimes, The City, the Deep Cleveland Junkmail Oracle, Fuck Poetry, and the Cartier Street Review. His chapbook Transitory Innocence was published by NightBallet Press in early 2013. Explore more of his work at octoberconspiracy.blogspot.com.

There is a word (by Emily Dickinson)

19 Thursday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, American, Dickinson (Emily), Poetry

≈ Leave a comment


emily-dickinson.gif Emily Dickinson image by alessepif
Emily Dickinson 



[1858]


There is a word
Which bears a sword
can pierce an armed man–
It hurls its barbed syllables
And is mute again.
But where it fell
The saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted Brother
Gave his breath away.

Wherever runs the breathless sun–
Wherever roams the day,
There is its noiseless onset–
There is its victory!
Behold the keenest marksman!
Time’s sublimest target
Is a soul “forgot”! 




*

Golgotha (by Siegfried Sassoon)

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1900s, British, Poetry, Sassoon (Siegfried)

≈ Leave a comment


 


Golgotha
by Siegfried Sassoon
[from The Old Huntsman and Other Poems, 1918]

Through darkness curves a spume of falling flares
That flood the field with shallow, blanching light. 
  The huddled sentry stares
  On gloom at war with white,
  And white receding slow, submerged in gloom.
  Guns into mimic thunder burst and boom,
  And mirthless laughter rakes the whistling night.
The sentry keeps his watch where no one stirs
But the brown rats, the nimble scavengers.


*

The Reading (by Marcus Bales)

14 Saturday Dec 2013

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 2000s, American, Bales (Marcus), Cleveland, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

 


The Reading
by Marcus Bales

Her mouth too near the microphone
            She first intoned her title; 
Her voice a buzzing monotone 
She said, I think, our souls would moan
With howls like Allen Ginsberg’s own,
And slurred and blurred her dreary drone,
            In tedious recital.
 
She gripped the podium on stage,
            Her poem never ending —
And only her decrepit age
Assuaged the next three readers’ rage
As, turning yet another page,
She spent our time as if her wage
            Depended on its spending.
 
As moderator, I did not
            Perceive a lot of choice
As murmurs grew: somebody ought,
No, had, to halt her verbal squat
So toad-like in our garden spot,
And find a way to staunch this rot
            By stoppering her voice.
 
So arms out toward, as I’d been taught,
            The middle of the mass,
I aimed, breathed out, and squeezed, and shot
The leather-lunged and doddering blot
Who’d droned along as if she thought
That once she’d seized the mike she’d got
            Some sort of life-time pass.
 
The general approach of Law,
            And many of its minions,
To shooting someone through the craw
For her inane blah blah blah blah,
However last that last last straw,
Is that it is a fatal flaw
            In not a few opinions.
 
The prosecutor even shed
            A manly tear to show it
Had moved him greatly she was dead:
“Her pure poetic spirit fled
Prosaic Death’s pedestrian tread … “
“Wait, wait — “ the jury foreman said
            “You say she was a poet?”
 
The prosecutor said “Indeed!
            And she was published widely —
I’ll use your question to proceed
To show you.” He began to read.
At length, the foreman knelt to plead:
“Stop reading! We have all agreed!
            We can’t abide this idly!
 
“You’ve put us through this punishment
            And made your case absurder;
We find the shooter innocent
Of any criminal intent —
Indeed, we actively lament
Your sly attempt to represent
            This noble act as murder.
 
“We hold free speech must know its place
            If it is to continue:
You must not underbid your ace,
Nor doubt the Holy Spirit’s grace,
Nor sing the tune if you’re a bass,
For decency demands you face
            The moral law within you!
 
“But poets who have read too long
            Must all be superceded —
We urge you when you’re in a throng
While poets thus are in the wrong,
To make your protest very strong
And aim to end such ceaseless song
            With shot and shell as he did!”
 
The prosecutor gave a sigh
            And packed away his pleadings,
Then gave me such a look goodbye
It made me think he meant to try
To mutely say, or just imply,
That maybe I’d be wise if I
            No longer read at readings.



* * * * *


Not much is known about Marcus Bales, except he lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and his poems have not been published in The New Yorker or Poetry magazine.

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