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ANNETNA NEPO NEW LOOP #1 (PJU) New Loop begins in June 2005. Each issue has a designated editor, often PJU or RRW, sometimes a guest editor. It is an on-line only publication, sporadic in its presence. It continues the spirit of the AN paper editions, publishing poetry in original language only-no translations. To submit work for the second edition of the New Loop, email guest editor Sascha Akhtar at: sascha@annetnanepo.com . Submissions are encouraged in all languages, and particularly in Urdu or by authors of Persian, Turkish and Arab origin. (Please also send English translation, even rough, where possible.). Contact PJU at pusher@annetnanepo.com and RRW at wojewodz@annetnanepo.com Contents of AN-NL#1: 1. Poetry and art finds on the web. 2. An update on Sascha Akhtar, a poet and artist previously published in AN and guest editor of an upcoming edition of the New Loop. 3. Poetry by Lucy Holt. 4. Poetry by Jessica Harman. 5. Poetry by Elizabeth Sorgel. 6. Poetry by Nadija DeSimone. 7. Poetry by David
Michalski. |
Poetry/Art finds on the web
The Fractal Portrait Project, by Ryosuke Cohen in Japan
CFEP: Clochard de France, Ecrivain Parisien (Various writings by French writer)
Archives of the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E review (published between 1978-1981), the (second) home of the language poets. The original home of the language poets was “This” magazine founded by Robert Grenier and Barrett Watten in 1971, in the introduction to which Grenier noted “I HATE SPEECH”. Wittgenstein, yes; WCW (who spent his life listening to the patients of Paterson, New Jersey), no.
Sascha Akhtar, a true AN poet, has been busy. Check out her latest work.
Two poems in The Muse Apprentice Guild
The Question
followed by One Answer
1.
To be misplaced in the earth
or to be filed, catalogued, stacked
upon each other like old books?
2.
Outside the resting church
sit sparrows on telephone wire,
as rosary beads threaded loosely.
There walks the old man
with a big tan suitcase propped
in a pram. His right hand
follows the motion
of casting sprigs into a grave
that runs from his house to
the park bench: sometimes
to the depot where he watches
the trams roll in.
He comes from a place
of graves far more complex than
a single tragedy’s shape.
Where thousands of pairs of shoes
escaped the fire as if shoes
could be more god-blessed
than their owners. Where he
hid a Jew baby in his sock-drawer
moments before he was taken.
Lucy Holt is a Melbourne-based writer. Some poems of mine will be published
in June by the international e-journals 'Softblow' and 'Gangway', and many
of my poems have been published in Australian journals. My first book of poems
will be published in Australia later this year.
Going On
The candles
on my dresser smell of peaches and berries.
There is nothing to do except develop my intelligence,
but the gray day scorns gold writing.
The scent of leave-in conditioner, a soft perfume of rolling Pennsylvania
hills
and history, smells of action,
and it also has the scent of walking into rooms, getting noticed, turning
heads. I am older now,
and I only want to close my eyes, dream about Prospero
as if of flowers, gardenias, dahlias. Will what swings ever return to my
mind, bones,
blood, fevers? If the day is anything, it certainly isn’t a racecar,
or maybe it is. Maybe that’s exactly what it is,
or perhaps it is a wrecking-ball.
I must conquer things with my secrets.
Heavy and Stuck
I was not trying
to enlarge the world, though I hung out with you,
always on the edge of sluicing dreams. We rambled by the water,
by our visions of the century’s historical grain elevators,
but I was never free in your presence, you vulture. I was a simple
mouse scurrying into the bushes, away from your vulture hunger. The city was
a pink
cloud, almost the color of a drink I’d like to call “Sex On The
Beach,”
full of grenadine and ridiculous dreams. You came out, but I could still see
you circling in the clouds, a shadow dark as magnetic filings
in a chemistry class, which I almost failed when I was in high school.
I would have liked to have developed
my mind at the time, but it was all I could do to listen to your
Birdpolitik and not fade into the distance, like an old photograph of yours,
never exhibited
before it curled up at the edges, or was exposed to too much of the wrong
kind of light.
It’s strange how we can get stuck, our boots too heavy, our bodies too
heavy
to understand the air with all its volumes of light, wonderful words,
which are all nothing, meaning nothing.
Jessica Harman is a poet and artis tliving in Brookline, MA. (U.S.A). She was born in Montreal, Canada, and grew upt here, mostly. She studied Creative Writing at Concordia University in Montreal, earning her B.A in 1999. After her first nervous breakdown, she left the arts and earned her M.A. in Health Communication from Emerson College, in Boston, in 2003. She has worked as a video store clerk, communications intern in a non-profit human rights organization, and medical researcher. Her poetry and artwork have appeared in magazines in the United Kingdom, the United States, and Canada. Flarestack Publishing will publish her first chapbook in spring 2005.
estuaire
debout près
de l’estuaire aux rives calcinées
l’absence qui effleure au bord du sédiment
estompe d’une esquive lapidaire
le bond de l’esturgeon le mont de l’estrapade
lacunaire le lit du fleuve est effondré
la lumière qui manque en calcédoine extrême
laminaire ablation à ce cadran solaire
et la rive s’effraie de la perte des brumes
lacune au baldaquin des errances nocturnes
effleurant le calice velours du calcéolaire
au bord du précipice où la pierre s’effrite
au bord de l’estrapade où la lueur s’estompe
et les yeux du hibou disent la morne esquive
et le creux du bijou lit de la moleskine
les feux du cri
soupirent en corne épine
au fort de l’estacade où le lutteur s’effondre
au bord du frontispice où la brèche se brise
effrayant que palisse le feu lourd du café solaire
pas une au casaquin des essences nocturnes
et la rive s’effraie de la perle des brumes
lacunaire attention à cet amant polaire
la lumière qui penche en passacaille extrême
la rivière le long du rêve effarouché
le flot de l’évasion le mot de l’escapade
et tombe d’une ellipse la lisière
l’absence qui est leurre au corps du sentiment
debout près de l’estuaire aux rives calcinées
4 mars 04
Elizabeth Sorgel (bio embryonnaire – « embrouyon de bio ») : journaliste – jamais publié de fiction - une vie entre paris et ailleurs a écrit des nouvelles, a osé des poèmes, a peur de s’attaquer à un roman. des mots ? écriture, femme, identité, printemps, musique, ellipse, rêve, voyage – et puis lire, lire, lire
Old Man
An old man on
the mountaintop
Wields a stick : He will not turn around.
Behind is nothing left.
Lost in a sand
clock desert, his stick asks:
What blue sky shall the old man see?
What yellow behar in the nearby tree?
The old man whistles like a mournful duck.
The blue is in
the air—
One can…
His shoelace is undone and straggling.
The mountaintop
is all surrounded by clouds,
Unseen dirty like the dress of a black-veiled widow.
And the cloud
dribbles white dribble
Offending the friendly heavens:
The man laughs the laughter that echoes
Between Here and There…
Beer and Algae
A picture of
you
as if taken in deep-ocean algae
hangs on cloud nine.
(Crna piva freshly poured
into a silver cup.)
Boredom seldom
screams your name
and the trolleys
slowly
creep their way to remiza.
“Kelp,
Kelp, Kelp…”
on the “K” page of the dictionary
which had crushed the earplugs
on the bottom of the drawer.
“Ko si ti?”
And so I reach for the earplugs
“Ko si ti?”
still ringing,
shouted through a microphone.
“Kelp,
Kelp, Kelp…”
revealing the gist of tvoje egzistencije.
An enzyme na
dlanu desne ruke speeds the desire
to get rid of this bandage.
An Approach
The city lies
on the shores of a rivery torrent.
The air is clear, marked only
by the rustling of clouds.
This city was
built on the delta of Beaver Creek.
The air is golden, illuminated by
the sun soaked pollen.
The city rose
on the beaches of a northern sea.
The blue sky is speckled
by the bleached shells.