Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Poetry by Walter Ruhlmann



Bio: Walter Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits 
mgversion2>datura and Beakful, and runs mgv2>publishing. His latest 
collections are The Loss (Flutter Press), Twelve Times Thirteen (Kind of 
a Hurricane Press), 2014, and Crossing Puddles (Robocup Press), 2015.




Propose

I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least objection. Jonathan Swift, A Modest Proposal, 1729

Soylent Green was not shot yet,
yet Swift proposed to make room
using the flesh of unwanted
children to feed the crowd
the desperate denizens or subjects
of some kingdom up in the north.

Shall I propose the same to you?
As you eye me and I hue you,
festoon the body you once hid,
with all the colours on my palette
the range is wide and spans much more
than the human eye can absorb.

Proposals always come too late:
sex hungry we could eat an ox – 
what would we make of a half beast though?
Wouldn't a stag, a bull, a stallion beat it,
and actually be more delectable
than a lukewarm oxtail soup dish?

Dirty words rush through my mind
but the time to talk mean has passed
since another epiphany awoke
from an endless sleep, a torpor.
Let's rise again bright and victorious
instead of making ourselves anthropophagous.



Toast

To the moody toad in my backyard
plucking the leaves off the trees 
in unison with Autumn my pal:
the dumb mating mule.

The beans spread slew hunger
in the attic-like bedsit
in winter with the street-lights
in a slightly blemished fog.

Toast in the north of there
burnt when the fairies came
irradiating gorgeousness
hidden in the wet lair.

No bread, no butter, not even flour,
no change to spare either,
homage to squalor, toast to nought,
to much humiliating splendour.



Victual

Oliver Twist wanted some more
when Philip P. had to bring more
victuals, vittles, wittles,
to the abominable convict 
as he ordered him to do so,
or would eat his liver and his heart.

What could he feel in the ordeal?
No one would know unless conviviality,
round-table napkins and cloth laid,
silver cutlery, magic spoons, full of wonder,
large golden-striped plates, organized
in a bright brotherly circle, a fun brothel-like fair.

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Poetry by Lyn Lifshin



Lyn Lifshin writes :

besides being taking to heart the line that "to write is the same as to breathe"-- an old Eskimo saying, I am pretty obsessed with dance: ballet, ballroom, Argentine tango, films, my Abyssinian cat Jete Pentimento (as I was Memento and before her, November)-- I hate to see my cat's getting old-- Jete is on my web site www.lynlifshin.com as a several weeks old kitten  and it a year I went to Paris just before picking her up---I hate to think how much time has gone by-- how the tiny thing she was and now isn't is true of other things that aren't.

besides hating to see her change, I'm not much into change in general-- all the new technology, all the changes in publishing. I live between Virginia and upstate New York where I hope to go and hope the trilliums I dug up with my mother on Mother's day the year after her own mother died a few weeks before Mother's Day--- a few straggly trillium and trailing arbutus and hepatica and bleeding hearts I had in the trunk of my old Mustang or maybe it was my Maverick--- transplanted on Appletree-Lane- they doubled and spread, -close to a hundred until a snow plow and then later the snow plowers van burst into flame did heart breaking damage. Trillium are another obsession-- not just any trillium but the big white Grandiflourum--- since 2012 I've tried to plant more and more to bring back what was but like so much else-- it's hard to do. And this year few gardeners have them. When I go to my house it's like going thru a museum--each item has it's own story, memories and I love dusting and even vacuuming, just being there. All the first magazines Published in-- magazines like Kauri and Folio and Outcast and the Goodly Co are in book cases there until I began to have to box them up. Now my papers and copies of contributor copies are in archives at University of Texas Special Collections and now mostly in Temple University's Special Collections. I am going to bring back one of the last boxes of my own letters to send them--still have spiral notebook diaries from many years-- I don't know why I am hanging  on to them, probably won't do anything with them but somehow I bet I won't pack them up this trip... hanging on to things seems something I do... my mother's dress she wore for my wedding still hanging in my closet as if waiting for her to come back to fill it and even a blue middy dress she must have worn in the 30's, some too fragile to wear flapper dresses in the suitcase she took to college with banners from Swathmore, Simmons Cornell still on it, pealing and the tiara from my wedding gown (as well as the wedding gown in the garage probably a nest by now ) hanging like a crystal in the window with stained glass (another obsession) and high high high heel boots that appear in a chapbook and were on TV when someone from WGY interviewed me-- Boots like Love---- all a long time ago…


MONTMARTRE

Haven’t you wanted, sometimes, to
walk into some painting, start a new
life? The quiet blues of Monet would
soothe but I don’t know how long I’d
want to stay there. Today I’m in the
mood for something more lively,
say Lautrec’s Demimonde. I want
that glitter, heavy sequin nights.
You take the yellow sunshine.
I want the club scene that takes
you out all night. Come on,
wouldn’t you, just for an evening or
two? Gaslights and absinthe, even
the queasy night after dawn. Wouldn’t
you like to walk into Montmartre
where everything you did or
imagined doing was de rigueur,
pre-Aids with the drinkers and
artists and whores? Don’t be so P.C.,
so righteous you’d tell me you haven’t
imagined this? Give me the Circus
Fernando, streets where getting stoned
was easy and dancing girls kick high.
It’s just the other side of the canvas,
the thug life, a little lust. It was good
enough for Van Gogh and Lautrec,
Picasso. Can’t you hear Satie on the
piano? You won’t be able to miss
Toulouse, bulbous lips, drool. Could
you turn down a night where glee
and strangeness is wide open? Think
of Bob Dylan leaving Hibbing.  A little
decadence can’t hurt. I want the swirl
of cloth under changing colored lights,
nothing square, nothing safe, want to
can can thru Paris, parting animal
nights, knees you can’t wait
to taste flashing



LIPS

Yours, honey, were so perfect,
a little rosebud mouth, not
those puffed up blubbery
things, my mother says when
I pointed out the models’
collagen petals. “Roses,” my
mother always says, “that’s
what yours were, a nice
tiny nose. That’s from your
father. One good thing. Not
a big ugly one like I’ve got.”
I think of my mother’s lips,
moving close to my hair, how
her breath was always  sweet.
“Too thin lips, like your father’s,”
show stinginess.” She was
right. A man who couldn’t give
presents or love, a good word
or money. I only remember
three things he told me and
all begin with Don’t tho my
mother said stories came from
those lips, that he brought me a
big dog. I only remember the
thinness of his lips, how the
death meant I wouldn’t have to
leave school to testify for the
divorce. Lips. When I came home
from camp I found Love Without
Fear in the bathroom and read
“if a girl lets a man put his tongue
on her lips down there, she’ll let
him do anything,” and then some
thing about deflowering. A
strange word I thought trying to
imagine flowers down there, rosebuds
not only on my mouth, a petal
opening, but a whole bush of petals,
a raft of roses someone kneeling
would take me away on, a sea of
roses, flowers and my lips the
island we’d escape to


MY MOTHER AND THE BED

No, not that way she’d
say when I was 7, pulling
the bottom sheet smooth,
you’ve got to, saying
hospital corners

I wet the bed much later
than I should, until
just writing this, I
hadn’t thought of
the connection

My mother would never
sleep on sheets someone
else had. I never
saw any stains on hers
though her bedroom was

a maze of powder, hair
pins, black dresses.
Sometimes she brings her
own sheets to my house,
carries toilet seat covers.

Lyn, did anybody sleep
in my,  she always asks.
Her sheets, her hair
smells of smoke. She
says the rooms here
smell funny

We drive at 3 AM
slow into Boston and
strip what looks like
two clean beds as the
sky gets light. I

smooth on the form
fitted flower bottom.
she redoes it.

She thinks of my life
as a bed only she
can make right


all poems from  A GIRL GOES INTO THE WOODS from  NYQ books

Monday, April 11, 2016

Sleeping With the Fish by Catfish McDaris




Sleeping With the Fish
by Catfish McDaris
ISBN-13: 978-0692671320
ISBN-10: 0692671323
$13




Pski’s Porch has been busy this Spring, and is happy to add another new book of poetry to our catalog, this one from Mssr. Catfish McDaris. Besides being right tasty, Catfish has been loosing his poems and prose on the world for more than 20 years:

Phombies

Cell phone madness was driving the world insane. People walking into things, holding phones up to the side of their heads, blue gadgets stuck in their ears, finger stabbing on tiny keyboards. Folks not speaking to one another, only concerned with electronic communications. Families sitting down for a meal, each and every one of them ignoring each other caught up in their own personal world. Quick warned his daughter to slow down with all her cell phone usage. He explained his theory about phones consuming all human intelligence and conquering the world. Quick’s kid, just shook her head like her old man was hopelessly behind the times. A few days later Quick went to wake his child up, her head was covered by sheets and blankets. When she finally struggled to get up, she had no head. From the neck up was a cell phone. He yelled for his wife and they went berserk, they tried to talk to their kid, but got no response. Quick’s wife sent her a text and it appeared on her face phone. They called an ambulance and reported the incident. They were informed that Phombism was a wide spread virus. There were laboratories and hospitals working on a cure, but all cell phones must be confiscated and destroyed, before a useable vaccine could be developed to treat the Phombies. Quick looked out the window and saw people with cell phone heads stumbling down the street. It was utter chaos, he went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of buttermilk.

We strongly recommend you get some Catfish love before it’s all gone and the sun collapses in on itself. And no, that’s not him on the cover.

Monday, March 21, 2016

The Magic of Rain Dances by Jill Mattson

The Magic of Rain Dances

All over the globe for thousands of years, ancient people performed rain dances. With no successes this practice would die out. Apparently it worked. I was curious - what is it about the rain dance, the singing and dancing that helps it to rain? Music was a tool that was used in ancient times for many practical purposes, such as making rain for drinking and crops. We have long forgotten the practical value of sound and music.

With my detective coat on and magnifying glasses in hand I went on a venture to discover how does a rain dance work?  

Can we affect weather today? Traffic and industrial exhaust decreases on weekends, resulting in an increase of rain by 20 % on weekends. Poor weather conditions have been blamed on the High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program (HAARP). We definitely have the technology to understand how to make it rain. So this goal is obtainable!

What do we know about the basics of rain? All air contains water, but near the ground it is usually an invisible gas called water vapor. When warm air rises, it expands and cools. Cool air can't hold as much water vapor as warm air, so some of the vapor condenses onto tiny pieces of dust in the air and forms droplets around dust particles. When billions of these droplets accumulate they become a visible cloud. Hmmm, if one is fishing for rain, a cloud is like a fish in the ocean of the sky.

As clouds and their water droplets accumulate, the droplets bind together and form even bigger drops. When the drops get too heavy, they fall because of gravity. Bigger and denser clouds allow the shaman to wring the precious water droplets out of the cloud.

How did ancient shamans squeeze water droplets out of the cloud? One helpful thing would be to make the air rise. A fire in the middle of the rain dance might be instrumental – making hot air rise. Long ceremonies of dance and song would also create heat. 

The water droplet is sticking to a dust particle until it gets too heavy or it is shaken and falls free. Ancient people knew sound waves blended with all physical things – including their environment. Water droplets were vibrated with singing, drumming and dancing. This helped the water droplet overcome cohesion and release from the cloud. 

Ancient stories suggest that there were better times for rain dances. They noticed how at different times it felt different. It feels different at dawn than at noon. It feels different in July than it does on a snowy Christmas morning. Ancient people noticed what it felt like right before it rained. They matched this feeling to create good conditions for rain. Ancient people noticed that it felt more like it might rain prior to a full moon when “watery” forces are strongest. This would be an excellent time for a rain dance.

Different groups experimented with types of dances, rhythms, pitches and vowels sounds that were the most effective in creating rain the fastest. Which musical vibration shook the water droplets the most? Even the color of what they wore as clothes or on their faces would subtly add to the vibrational stew. Rain dances were certainly not a superstition activity of primitive people. Rain dancing was a practical art that was perfected over of thousands of years by people who observed nature and used the energy of music to enhance their lives! 



Jill Mattson is a prolific Artist, Musician and Author. Jill is a four - time author and widely recognized expert and composer in the field of Sound Healing!   She has written four books and produced six CD's that combine intricate Sound Healing techniques with her original Award winning musical compositions (People’s Choice – Best CD of 2015 – Angels & Masters) Deep Wave Beauty CD – Best New Age CD of 2012 – Silver Award).  The CD's consist of intriguing, magical tracks using ancient & modern techniques - with sound energy & special healing frequencies to achieve profound benefits. Also available on the sites are additional free mp3's of her Sound Healing compositions, including Solfeggio Tones, Star Energy, Flower Frequencies, Fibonacci and nature tones. Gallery and music at www.jillswingsoflight.com, www.Ancient-Music.com www.musicforbeauty.com, jillimattson@yahoo.com. 



Monday, December 14, 2015

Sacred Space by Jill Mattson



Creating Sacred Space was a titillating ancient secret. Observe how far people travel to a sacred site - without knowing that they can create such spaces themselves.
Everything is vibration and every vibration has a frequency… such as the rocks in the ground, mineral content of the soil, the presence of water in the air (or not). These things contribute to the “frequency potpourri” of a location.  For example, reflect on the feeling of being in a desert and then near the ocean? The amount of water in the air makes a difference in the feel of a location. 

Ancient people observed the subtle feelings of a location, picking exquisite feeling spots – resulting from soil and earth content and the history of events at a certain location. Locations on ley line intersections (energy currents from the Earth’s molten iron core) were desired because their sacred energy combined with the ley lines and blessed a broader area.

People’s feelings leave their bodies and deposit energy in their location. Observe the feelings of Auschwitz, the Gettysburg battle field or a “bad” section of town. Contrast that with the Cathedral of Notre Dame or Machu Picchu. Our feelings and consciousness subtly floats in the air around us, like snowflakes floating to the ground. Highly evolved people’s energy-droplets are like rose petals – ever fragrant and soft. Places where people pray – become peaceful.

People are unique complex units of subtle energy, which is composed of frequencies. So what feels good for one person may not be elevating for the next. Each sacred site is subtly different – as it was designed for the bliss of people at a certain time and place. You may find yourself more attracted to this or that sacred place, as your energy will be more enhanced with one that suits your personal frequency needs.

Ancient people spent more time observing subtle feelings than we would ever dream of, but we can awaken these skills as well. For example, when you face different directions (North, East, West & South) each will feel a tiny bit different – some routes feel better than others.  Ancient techniques were used to uplift, balance and harmonize each direction, as if each subtle feeling from a direction was a note of a musical chord. (Feelings have frequencies.)

Sound was the most powerful tool to create sacred space. Ancient people faced each direction and sang vowels, observing which sounds made the directional energy feel better.  The same process was repeated with rhythmic patterns and musical pitches. For example, to balance the feelings of the directions, Native Americans faced the East and sang the long E sound, to the South they uttered the aye vowel. The energy from the West was harmonized with the uuu sound and North was balanced with ooo.

Observe the subtle feeling of the ground and walk each inch of your sacred space, noticing which spots feel better.  Crystals with beautiful energy, buried in the soil, lift any spot that doesn’t feel sublime.  The same could be done for the sky above. Prayers and songs open up the sky to pour fourth sacred energy, making the space above feel divine – like a heavenly porthole.

In Atlantean lure people sang their most uplifting songs to create sacred space. With prayerful intent and sound vibrations, strong doses of divine energy entered the air and settled in the soil. Repetitions are important as sound is subtle energy (tiny amounts of energy); each time a song is sung one drop of positive energy is added to the location. Singing continued until the area was overflowing with uplifting energy. Rocks also slowly absorbed the singing and intent, adding to the permanent healing potential of the location – like creating a free health care system.

Next our wise ancestors used sacred geometry (shapes found in nature) with building designs, landscaping and they converted sacred geometry to sounds. Some musicians have done this today, such as Jill Mattson’s Paint Your Soul and Star Dust CDs. Both harmonize an area to the energy of Mother Earth’s favorite shapes, sounds and add energetic star songs. Music and sound are the most powerful tools in the creation of sacred space!

Sacred Space is uplifting and transformative. You can create it in your location – uplifting not only yourself, but many others and the Earth herself.



Jill Mattson is a prolific Author, Musician and Artist. Jill is a four - time author and widely recognized expert and composer in the field of Sound Healing!  Her six CD's combine intricate Sound Healing techniques with her original Award winning musical compositions (Deep Wave Beauty CD – Best New Age CD of 2012 – Silver Award).  The CD's consist of intriguing, magical tracks using ancient & modern techniques - with sound energy & special healing frequencies to achieve profound benefits.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

When Giraffes Flew by Jeff Weddle


     


  • Paperback: 182 pages
  • Publisher: Southern Yellow Pine




These are the quirkiest stories I’ve ever read. There is a tongue-in-cheek darkness to them, absurd logic, little dreams with their own weird sense. 

If you mix the writing style of Ray Bradbury, J.D. Salinger and Honey Boo Boo’s reality show mom….well, that’s still not Jeff’s style….but you kind of get the idea.  

Flying Giraffe reality:

From page 172:

“But the wonders of the world never last, and so it was with the giraffes.  After only a few generations, the giraffes stopped taking people and not long after that, they, too, disappeared from the skies.  The giraffes did not return to Earth, but simply vanished, as though they had never been more than a lovely notion.
People wrote books about the giraffes and the ascended missing and gathered in regular meetings to silently send good wishes to them all.  Priests eventually took charge, and a feeling of grace filled all who congregated.  As the years passed, the people who knew the missing began to die off, as did those who had seen the giraffes in flight.  Eventually, people decided the giraffes had never flown, had never taken young children or old people away.  And not so long after that, it became fashionable to say there never were any giraffes in the first place, not even the kind that walked on Earth.  Who is to say this is wrong?”


Buy this book for its unique entertainment value but it’s also good to carry around with you as an aid to meet fun, new people.  Jeff Hamer’s whimsical full color book cover will certainly be a conversation starter and give you chances to spread the gospel of “flying giraffes”…

Friday, November 20, 2015

CONFLUENCE: Poems by Ron Androla






Ron Androla.  There’s no need to argue his choice of words or style.  When he writes it appears he sets words free to morph, zen out on paper.  He writes fluid, immediate reality.  There is always something to relate to although you may not be able to explain it to someone else.  An air rush to the brain, a mental gut punch, a feather over the heart or genitals.  He propels words as uniquely as Ron Silliman on Mars. 

from page 134:

Light Verse

Being a poet is a terrible thing
alone inside a small 2nd floor
room after midnight.  He
is naked &
gross & drunk.

Grinding a flamboyant grouse
in a dream field with pressing elbows
for poetic luck, he spits at the sweet moon.
Poems blush.  A professor stutters. He wears
bird bones in the sunny gin-soaked morning.

The world is a swallowed grouse.
He coughs up feathers, beaks, blood,
crushed claws & spiritual relief
to fly again, or to
feel he’s flying.


Ron is an intelligent, worldly, working-class poet with a broad perspective on the finite and the ethereal.  He is  legend to many…but he doesn’t walk on water.  He digs holes, deep holes of meaning.
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