Monday, August 22, 2016

Miranda's Book by Alfred Corn, reviewed by Su Zi



   Women who read, especially those who study the literary arts, find too rarely a novel's voice that speaks to women as women--with depth, sensitivity, and respect for their intelligence. And although there are an abundance of female protagonists in literature--some the creation of women who write-- few of these novels leave behind, in the reader's mind, a sense of resonance;  the sublime sense experienced when a connection is made to a work of art. It seems obvious that no mention of the female literary tradition ought to avoid the legacy of Jane Eyre, yet too few works approach the diamonds in Bronte's classic because of perhaps being blinded by the lower hanging fruit of mansions and moors. Yet, Bronte's work shows a meticulous craftsmanship that is still too rare all these generations later. But Eureka!  here's this novel by Alfred Corn--noted poet and critic--that carries forth Bronte's legacy in his novel Miranda's Book.

    Alfred Corn is noted for his appreciation of literary traditions, and this deep awareness provides for a reading experience of pure pleasure in Miranda's Book. The novel itself is told mostly in third person, with the exception of chapters of naked authorial interjection by the protagonist's uncle, who claims to be writing a biography; except, of course, the uncle is a personae ostensibly invented by Alfred Corn. This lends a wry tone to the passages about that same uncle written in the third person. Yet, fear no meta fictional,  post modern, Joycean conundrum,  because the work flows with both elegance and a conversational clarity that actually bids the book as a deeply pleasant reading experience.

   Corn's novel does utilize the inner-outer journey of the protagonist as an engine of momentum,  and there's a sensual but not overbearing attention to details of place--the novel covers a lot of geography: Ohio, New York City, Maine, Mexico. What is striking are the authorial speculations about relationships, specifically the need the female protagonist--Miranda/Marguerite--has for a sense of kinship:  "the feeling of a bond with someone you consider a close counterpart,  a second you (...)an odd twinkling complicity"(235). Ironically,  this sense of bond, of complicity is what Corn himself creates with the reader throughout this novel.

   While Miranda's struggle for a realized self--autonomous and at peace--seems to hark directly back to Jane Eyre, Corn firmly posits his novel in modern history; his quite interesting choice for the historical moment as the novel's reference point is the fracas over the work of Robert Mapplethorpe--a moment still so controversial that many millennials are in utter unawareness of either the artist or the hubbub. While it might be an ironic guffaw that the historical controversy echoes the inner controversy experienced by the protagonist; nonetheless, the choice is striking.


  Alfred Corn's novel deserves much deeper critical appreciation, but--more importantly--it deserves much deeper reader appreciation. Although it seems a bit odd to find a novel so carefully constructed as a modern homage to Bronte's motherbook written by a man, the work itself stands gloriously up to that scrutiny.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Secrets of Sonic Levitation by Jill Mattson



Ancient manuscript describe sound levitating heavy, perhaps aiding in the building of huge pyramids and monuments. Ancient texts, all over the globe, describe sound as an effective method to move and alter dense physical matter.

According to ancient wisdom, the power of sound increased with large numbers of participants singing or playing musical instruments. Each individual accessed energy that originated from the heavens. Two singers together created more energy than each singing separately, as if their combined voices increased energy logarithmically. Heavenly energy from large choirs constantly sang to make a country potent, almost invincible.

Author Bruce Cathie described an eye witness account of many Tibetan monks moving huge boulders with their voices and musical instruments. The exact location of the singers and musicians was crucial for the “anti-gravity sonic effects” to work.[1] Various ancient writing describe directional sounds as a source of mechanical power, as if sound was squirted out of a water pistol: aim was important.[2]

A  German article, by Swedish engineer Olaf Alexanderson[3] described sonic levitation: 'We know from the priests of the far east that they were able to lift heavy boulders up high mountains with the help of groups of various sounds... the knowledge of the various vibrations in the audio range demonstrates to a scientist of physics that a vibrating and condensed sound field can nullify the power of gravitation.”

Observations
[4] only 20 years ago in Tibet from a civil engineer, Henry Kjelson, reported that a Swedish doctor, Dr Jarl, made a journey to Tibet in 1939 to visit a high Lama. This lama let him observe sonic levitation of huge rocks up a cliff of about 250 meters.

The task was accomplished by mapping out exactly where singers and musicians stood. They angled their sound to go underneath a huge rock and up it went. Details are given in Bruce Cathie’s free book, Acoustic Levitation of Stones.[5]

In another example, Edward Leedskalnin, a man with humble financial resources and a fourth grade education, built a monument to his lost love who canceled their wedding one day before the ceremony.
In this area of Homestead Florida the coral can be up to 4,000 feet thick. Leedskalnin cut and moved huge blocks of coral himself with only hand tools, yet each section weighed more than 58 tons.[6] Leedskalnin left the castle as proof that he could move large stones without equipment.

Leedskalnin claimed he knew how the Egyptians built their pyramids. He built Coral Castle by reportedly “singing” to large stones to lift them. Leedskalin placed his hands over a stone to be levitated. He sung a scale until his hands felt a response from the stone. (Each tone was sustained to detect a subtle vibratory response.) The sound that produced the strongest vibration was sustained for quite some time to give the rock a powerful dosage and the rock levitated.

In a high tech example, high powered sound can suspend and move objects in air. Yoshili Hashimoto of Tokyo’s Kaijo Corporation developed an acoustic levitation machine. The sound vibrates 20,000 times per second to keep a small silicon wafer hovering on millimeter above a surface.  Acoustic levitation experiments have been conducted in space as the absence of gravity make better conditions to observe just the impact of sound.

The wonders of sound… we have not scratched the surface of what this energy source can do – if properly harnessed. The future science of sound and vibrational energy will “rock” our world!




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!  Her book, the Lost Waves of Time won the best overall book of 2016, and best alternative science book. Deep Wave Body Healing CD took top honors for Best Sound Healing CD of 2016 at the COVR competition.  Mattson has produced eight CD's that combine intricate Sound Healing techniques with her original Award winning musical compositions (Deep Wave Beauty CDBest 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, Fibonnaci and nature tones. Gallery and music at www.jillswingsoflight.com, www.musicforbeauty.com, jillimattson@yahoo.com.







[1] Cathie, Bruce, Acoustic Levitation of Stones: Monastery Construction, Tibetan Style. See Appendix B.
[2] Theosophists, Brown, Neate, D. Leslie, Seth, Tom
[3] Implosion No. 13
[4] The Lost Techniques by Henry Kjelson
[5] http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/ciencia/antigravityworldgrid/ciencia_antigravityworldgrid08.htm
[6] www.coralcastle.com

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Supertrees of Singapore: Art and Environmental Wisdom

The man-made mechanical forest consists of 18 supertrees that act as vertical gardens, generating solar power, acting as air venting ducts for nearby conservatories, and collecting rainwater. To generate electricity, 11 of the supertrees are fitted with solar photovoltaic systems that convert sunlight into energy, which provides lighting and aids water technology within the conservatories below. 
Varying in height between 25 and 50 meters, each supertree features tropical flowers and various ferns climbing across its steel framework. The large canopies also operate as temperature moderators, absorbing and dispersing heat, as well as providing shelter from the hot temperatures of Singapore's climate to visitors walking beneath.
The project is part of a redevelopment scheme to create a new downtown district in the Marina Bay area, on Singapore's south side. Project organizers hope Gardens by the Bay will become an eco-tourist destination showcasing sustainable practices and plants from across the globe.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

The Poet’s Deliberation on the State of the Nation by Andrew Darlington







The Poet’s Deliberation on the State of the Nation
Andrew Darlington
70 pp.
Penniless Press


Andrew Darlington wants to shake the fluff and lies out his poems and get down to business.  He word-pummels trickery and exposes modern day culture for what it is:  Insanity dressed in flags and where everything is for sell including human lives. 

In the first poem “If the Pump Don’t Work, Don’t Vandalise the Handle…” the “poem” represents the negative side and raw truth of society.   This “poem” is a rogue, a bigot, obscene images and a murdered child…!  This poem also makes fun of the reader .  “I don’t like this poem / or anyone who reads it, /this poem is just a stream of meaningless/ images with no literary merit, / don’t waste your time reading it, / you’ve got better things to do / with your life than reading it, / this poem is expendable….”  Here is a way to express frustration without pointing fingers at the real culprits.  The poem takes the blame.  You can’t argue with ink !

In “Manifesto” the “poem” becomes an instrument of defiance, bravery and hope. The writer wants “poems that belch from / industrial chimneys showering / cities with syllables, / poems that thumb noses./ I want poems that slum children / can play with in gutters.”

In “If I wasn’t a Poet” the poem becomes an anchor to sanity. “if I wasn’t a poet I’d be a serial killer…/ driven by the malign compass of strange tides / in the inky surface of long lunar nights”

In “Children of the Atom” takes a look backwards on the decades on nuclear insanity. “we do not softly go into / that nuclear night, but ‘Howl’ in / amped-up Cold War sonic mayhem,” and also begins to reflect on his age. “and now, through the / isotope-decay of my years / my hair’s thinning, eyes dimming, / teeth’ll be next, rad-count setting in, / finally getting me, like I always /knew it would…”

In “Modernday Primitives” the poet contemplates love. “love is the / 9-year 10-month 13-day commitment / that ends after 1300 enactments of love, / in bed, standing up, from behind, in the bath / in the kitchen, in mild bondage, in suspenders / interrupted by premature ejaculation or by / Mormon missionaries, 17 in cars, 120 oral, / 53 in Hotels, 2 attempted anal, / 25 in the garden, 3 on the beach, / then some furtively with / other partners, then separated by long /emptinesses of remorse and insomnia, / until it’s no more, and you’d give / anything for just one of those / 1300 lost copulations //  it’s exchanges of spores and bodily /fluids, and yet it’s not the only fruit // sometimes I don’t understand it //  yet still I love you  // whatever //that means”

In “The Poet’s Address on the Nation State” the poet is a verbal activist for humanity, opposed to the artifices of state.  “cross out ‘United Kingdom’, / refuse to inhabit a ‘kingdom’, / a kingdom is a fairyland Disney-cartoon / escapist drug of magical lies, unrealities, / and mystic dreamtime elitist / shit-royalist symbolism for / subservience and defeat”   “Patriotism... is the egg from / which wars are hatched”- Guy de Maupassant

In the final poem “Terms and Conditions Apply”  once again the poem is a persona for whatever you would like the poem to be.  It promises nothing, implies you get what you pay for….or not…as this offer may be withdrawn at any time without prior notice.  



you are reading the basic version of this poem,
both poet & publisher trust you will derive
full satisfaction from the poem-experience
however, are you aware for a negligible extra fee
(for three, six or nine-month contract periods)
you can upgrade and enjoy the benefits of Silver Level
with the poem available in a range of ink-colours
(subject to PMS specification & availability)
lasered onto high-quality stock (lamination optional)
with five-mm extra border space & Fonts-U-Like
or upgrade further to Gold Level
(at Pay-As-You-Read or Rolling Direct Debit Top-Ups)
to gain privileged instant verse-access to tablet or iPhone
fast-tracked at least 5-mins in advance of other poetry-consumers,
with wifi connectivity & complimentary bonus features
including deleted stanzas, alternate lines & blooper out-takes,
it’s the poem-solution designed with you in mind
or upgrade to full luxury Platinum Level
& have the poem delivered on silver salver by
chauffeur-driven Merc as the poet him/herself
reads the exclusive composition in the comfort of
your own home or conservatory.
This offer is subject to Terms & Conditions
& may be withdrawn at any time without prior notice



Reviewed by Belinda Subraman




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
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