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I can hear him in the kitchen pouring a drink as if he lived here and knew where all the good glasses were kept. I must have dozed off between my phone alight with the primal request and his key slipping into the lock. I can't imagine why he comes here when she, lithe and flexible and organized and socially acceptable waits for him at home. Kelly Nickerson This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Kelly Nickerson, Lifelong dreamer and blue-collar worker. Graduate of Office Administration at NSCC and Business Administration with a concentration in Accounting, also at NSCC. Damaged by heartbreak and heart failure. Dog person. Has learned to make soap, (one batch), paint (one picture). Amateur genealogist with an interest in DNA. Drives a big old modified Jeep. Loves Patron Silver and 40 Creek Whiskey, hates Jagermeister.
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The Atwood Truffle
Margaret Atwood is an award winning Canadian author whose literary works often deal with issues of identity, survival, the body, wilderness, feminism and, at times, zombies. The oil pastel “Atwood Truffle” is based upon Margaret Atwood’s short story “Kat” (1990) which explores the break down of a relationship. At the end of the relationship Kat sends her excised ovarian cyst - containing hair and teeth - to her former lover. Patted lovingly with powdered cocoa before being sent the cyst is not “privileged figure”, is not “body”, but is both part of former “self” and “other selves”. When Atwood gets in your head, she stays in your head. It was only two years after Atwood’s short story was published that the artist Francis Bacon died. I caught myself wondering if he had ever read Atwood’s “Kat”? Like Atwood, Bacon gets in your head and stays in your head, the pendulum of his naked light bulb sparking your nervous system: Ode to Francis Bacon the light the bed the scream the head the thought the dread the orange the red the rope the head the blood the bed the pope the cage the grope the rage the rope the bed the scream the head (Dan Nuttall, 2013) So much about Atwood and Bacon is about the body, the figure and the figurative. Atwood has carefully outlined that her works that are considered “science fiction” are really more aptly described as “speculative fiction” – events and technologies are entirely feasible given the world we currently live in. In contrast, science fiction addresses unseen or un-realized technologies (e.g., time travel). Similarly, Bacon spoke about “great art” as having attributes that reinvent fact or known existence, resulting in a “re-concentration” of the known. In a world where one casts a vote for fictional dinner duos I choose Bacon and Atwood. When looking at “Atwood Truffle” can one consider it “figurative”? It is derived from a real object source (both a short story, and a form of cancer known as a “teratoma”). But is a teratoma a “figure”? When Bacon’s obsession with the mouth and in particular his favourite scream from the movie “The Battleship Potemkin” appears in the truffle does it become more of a figure? When does flesh become figure? Without a voice, the “Atwood Truffle” screams for attention. Dan Nuttall www.dandoesdesign.com Reflections on Viewing Michael De Feo's Installation "Crosstown Traffic" at Rice Gallery, Rice University When I first viewed the art installation by Michael de Feo, I liked it. The glass panels, with photographs of larger than life female models advertising luxury goods, partially ornamented and obscured by the artist’s painterly tendrils and flourishes, gave a swirling sense of wild nature and movement, which complemented and contrasted with the chic women, frozen in artificial pose. Then I sat and pondered, and saw beneath their beauty, behind the curling tendrils which hold them prisoner in sylvan grasp, like wild animals ensnared. Underwater weeds seeking to hold them fast, dangerous African landscapes fraught with danger. Or was the installation simply showing us the dangers of the urban jungle? I saw each one of them as Eve, temptress, sowing corrupting seeds of discontent in the marrow of our life, to make us dream of what might be, instilling a longing for what we lack, seductively seducing us away from gratitude for what we have. Are they the tools of advertising moguls on Wall Street, working subliminally on the collective unconscious? Are we the viewers the real prey in their big game? Is this truth or dream? Illusion or reality? Perhaps beauty itself is a myth? Are they but symbols of spurious values which pervade our society today? Are they a symptom of a malaise in our midst which manifests itself as pandemic violence and physical sickness? Cancer of the soul and of the body. There is no separation between body, mind and spirit, so why not? Beautiful or ugly, good or bad, we all end up eventually on the trash heap of history, dust of mortality, which tells no tales, leaves no traces, forgotten like yesterday’s fashion or last night’s dinner. History is fickle and moves only forward, leaving behind the good, the bad and the ugly. It is indiscriminate, for isn’t history constantly being re-created and relativized by the victors? There’s also something almost Victorian about these panels: “Little girls should be seen and not heard,” echo the suffocating voices of my English childhood, as I stare at their silent faces. What would they say if they were allowed a voice? Money buys all sorts of things, from bodies to silence to rulers of nations. Isn’t it time for women to say ‘no’ to objectification? Like poor Ophelia drowned beneath murderous waters they stare at us, the starers, numbed and muted in their beautiful isolation, entombed behind cold unfeeling glass. Do they envy us, I wonder? Want to be free like us, the voyeurs? But the big question is: Are any of us free, or is that an illusion which also reaches out and holds us in its tentacles? Are they after all reflecting back to us our own reflections, trapping us all in lust and envy, trying to warn us of the dangers of false values, of the sad decline of beauty, truth and goodness? Surely such eternal values can never die, though looking through the glass, perhaps we see a void which makes us sad and melancholy, because we are obliged to look into our own aching, endless loneliness. Susan P. Blevins Susan P. Blevins was born in England, lived 26 years in Italy, and has now resided in the USA for the past 24 years, first in Taos, NM, and currently in Houston, TX. While living in Rome she had a weekly column in an international, English-language newspaper, writing about food and restaurant reviews primarily, though not exclusively. Since living in the USA she has written pieces on gardens and gardening for N. American and European publications, and she is now writing stories of her life and travels and gaining traction in various literary publications. She loves reading, writing, cats, classical music, and stimulating conversation. Paint by Numbers #4216
(of a Zebra and the Moon) The moon will hang in grays. The grass, by night, won’t wither to ochre. The colour pack consists of black, the sum of colours in one cup, then white, the subtraction of black, and grays a ratio of those. The sky will weave a pool of light, whitened by the moon’s reflection. The 1's are where you’ll paint the black. 2 is for light gray, and 3 for dark. The numberless remain as white and colorless as the paper. This will show how beauty may be constructed from absence and fullness. Take the systematic approach, complete the set of each number individually, or paint it object by object, left to right. The zebra will stare out and hold as if stilled by movement and sound. The moon doesn't end in its shade. Everything here starts in numbered amorphous shapes, collectively a zebra, crescent moon, and grass, the noiseless art of stroke on stroke, a dollop of paint to wash away. Gregory Stapp Gregory Stapp received his BA from the University of Oklahoma and his MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. His poems have appeared in Outside In Literary and Travel Magazine, the Gutters and Alleyways anthology, Limehawk Journal, Shot Glass, and Rat’s Ass Review, among others. He recently served as the Poetry Editor for Qu: A Literary Magazine. Self-Portrait at 30
Saturday morning at the art gallery, my daughter in the stroller after breakfast, a chance to talk with no one around thinking art is better than cartoons or sleeping in. Tastes vary. She adores landscapes, tiny villages, tapestries, Milne's delicate water colours, anything with animals. I prefer abstracts, painting behind the painting when the heart frees itself and pours space. We agree on sculpture, taut shapes caressing things we recognize or not. The Inuit art on the third floor is always last-- mythic animals struggling in cut stone, caught blood, moments of light. Peter Taylor Peter Taylor has published Trainer, The Masons, and Aphorisms, and his experimental verse play, Antietam, won honourable mention in the international War Poetry Contest. His poems have appeared in Anansesem, Aperçus Quarterly, Call & Response, Contemporary Verse 2, Construction, The Copperfield Review, Descant, Eunoia, Fade, Forage, Frostwriting, The Glass Coin, Grain, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Linnet’s Wings, Nether, Petrichor Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Pirene’s Fountain, Poetry Australia, Pyrta, and StepAway Magazine. He lives in Aurora, Ontario. The Sentinels in the Woods, Night Underwater (after Philip Jackson & Jason deCaires Taylor) Stumbling upon them, my pulse picks up Three stoics, volcanic worn, Pompeii gone survivalist Smoothed as they ascend towards the canopy A symbiotic community few will see firsthand Beauty buried in the deep, dark web Spawning new life Mark Danowsky Mark Danowsky’s poetry has appeared in About Place, Beechwood Review, Cordite, Elohi Gadugi, Grey Sparrow, Mobius, Red River Review, Right Hand Pointing, Shot Glass Journal, Third Wednesday and elsewhere. Originally from the Philadelphia area, Mark currently resides in North-Central West Virginia. He works for a private detective agency and is Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal. The Love Letter My name is Pieter van Eyken and I put pen to paper to let you know of the great injustice done to me. The year is 1667 and I live in Delft, Netherlands, where both men and women know of me as an excellent swordsman. Women wish to experience my prowess with the sword I keep in my elegant codpiece, whilst men rarely want to experience how I use the sword I keep in my scabbard. My friend, Johannes Vermeer, or Jan, has landed me in a pile of manure that reaches my neck and threatens to engulf me. Jan and I met in ‘56 when we were both twenty-four. He had recently completed a painting named The Procuress that showed himself and a friend in the company of a woman of easy virtue. One day, I was drinking in the Yellow Partridge Inn when an oaf started to berate a gentleman at the table next to me. The lout claimed to be an agent of the Roman church and wanted to punish the artist who dared to depict such a licentious scene. Did I tell you? The times were indeed licentious and the church was doing its utmost to stop people like me from living a life of revelry and lechery. You will therefore understand how I quickly grew tired of the belligerent boor. When some of his spittle landed in my tankard, I leapt to my feet, drew my sword, and threatened to disembowel the man if he did not leave the inn immediately. You must have guessed by now that Johannes Vermeer was the man at the next table. That day saw the start of our friendship. The incident served to bring about a change in Jan and his style of painting. He turned his eye to peaceful domesticity. Perhaps the move by decent society away from characters like me pushed him in that direction. His wife of three years, Catharina, was a kind, clean, domesticated woman. She looked up to her Gods whenever I appeared at their door. “Are you yet a libertine?” she always asked before giving me a welcoming embrace. The city fathers appointed Jan to head one of the town’s guilds, but the honour of the position was less than equalled by the annual stipend that went with it. Catharina’s parents had money, but they gave little, if any, to their daughter. She was, after all, married to an artist. Being a clever (and not entirely honest) gambler, I was able to give a little cash to Jan now and then. I often hire myself out as a debt collector and take a percentage of whatever I recover as my fee. The debtor, be he a bumpkin, occasionally pays me the same fee. There are times when I offer my services as a protector to escort merchants and their families on their travels. Some say I am mercenary in that I might, on occasion, be one of the bandits from whom they need protection. Wealthy ladies are often generous to me after I have impaled them on my sword. There is a certain lady (I am sure you understand her name must remain unwritten) who regularly gives me fifty guilders. Not on every visit but on a regular enough basis to keep me interested. As I write these words, I sense you asking why I need money to keep me interested. I shall give you the reasons. One; she demands my undying love, which I tell her she has. (I feel I can tell you that she does not have it, as my heart belongs to another.) Two; the woman is married. (Actually, one would not normally need money for this reason. However, if I am to perpetuate my regret at her status, I must allow her to assuage my angst in the only way she can – with her husband’s money.) Three; she is considerably older than I am. Four; her overweight body is not kept as clean as it could be. Five; and this is a direct result of reasons three and four; the games she likes to play turn my stomach. I would be happier if she played these games with her husband so that she and I might perform manoeuvres that are more conventional. But when all is said and done – and, believe me, this lady has been done every which way - fifty guilders is a considerable sum of money, thus I constantly return and put my nose to the grindstone, so to speak. The woman does have a delicious sense of humour. She likes to undress me – well, the lower half of me. She often orders me to slowly remove my collar, cuffs, shirt and undershirt while she watches me and sips her wine. Once I stand half-naked before her, she puts down her goblet and reaches for my codpiece. We have developed a game in which she allows me to twist my hips to prevent her from attaining her goal. I must not move my feet, bend at the waist, or employ my hands and arms to defend my personal jewellery. The wheezy woman loves the game so much, she sometimes disables herself with her raucous laughter. Once she gets the last lace sufficiently slackened, she shouts with joy, “Once more into the breeches!” She-of-fifty-guilders once daringly asked to visit my favourite tavern and so I took her to the Yellow Partridge Inn where we joined a friend and his mistress for supper. The four of us drank litres of beer and dined on salted cod, potatoes, and cabbage. My benefactor caused gales of laughter when, with her mouth full, she cried out; “This is the tastiest cod that has ever been in my mouth.” I do maintain a genuine interest; one might even say ‘love’, for an unmarried female. Myn Boogan and I met several months ago when I called at her father’s bakery to purchase a cake for she-of-fifty-gilders. A kite hung on the wall at the back of the shop and I asked the girl behind the counter if she enjoyed getting it up. “I would, if I knew how,” she told me. “This is your lucky day!” I replied. “I am famous for getting it up. Allow me to take you and your kite to the fields by the river on Sunday and we’ll soar to great heights.” “And show me some fish on the river bank, no doubt,” she said impishly. “I’m sure I will find a piece of cod for you,” I replied. Kites and cod filled our happy Sundays until a few weeks ago. Myn’s father had a regular order to supply bread to a rich merchant’s family. Unfortunately, the merchant’s wife was unhappy to discover a dead rat in a loaf the family ate one Sunday after returning from church. The hysterical woman told everybody she knew about the incident and the bakery suffered a severe downturn in business, forcing Myn to find work as a maid. Jan’s paintings were taking on an importance that socially elevated his subjects. Consequently, he knew many rich and influential women in Delft and I asked him if he knew one to whom Myn might apply for work. I was not pleased to hear him tell Myn that she-of-fifty-guilders was looking for a live-in maid. What could I do? Jan was unaware of my visits to the house. I could hardly tell Myn not to seek work in a house that Jan recommended, so I remained silent. As I have already told you, fifty gilders is a lot of money. I wracked my brain but could not think an acceptable reason why Myn should refuse the job. When she-of-fifty-guilders had not seen me for three weeks, she sent a letter asking me why I had not called on her. I wrote back and told her of an injury from a duel. The woman wished me a speedy recovery and sent me one hundred guilders. I concluded my secret was still safe. I missed Myn more than I liked to admit. On her one day of freedom each week, she visited her home to give her earnings to her father. She allowed me but an hour of her time under the proviso, “there will be no silliness”. We have been unable to meet for the last two Sundays, as a protracted visit by some of his lordship’s relatives has caused the cancellation of ‘days-off’ for all staff. I started calculating how much I would need to earn if I became the sort of man Myn would agree to marry. What pastimes would I have to abandon? Perhaps I could buy a horse and cart and start a bakery delivery service. Then I had a brilliant idea – sliced bread! How much further would a loaf stretch if people ate slices instead of chunks? No more dirty hands tearing odd-shaped chunks from a loaf. I would get Jan to help me design a machine to carve a loaf of bread into even slices. I might suggest changing the bakery’s name to Boogan Villa and calling my sliced bread Flour Power. Then, on a night when I visited my artistic friend, he told me, “Pieter, my friend, you’ll be interested to learn that my latest commission is to paint the woman who is your love’s employer.” He believed that she-of-fifty-guilders had convinced her husband that Jan should paint her portrait to demonstrate her social standing to her husband’s relatives. She did not want a formal painting of her head and shoulders, but preferred a style of painting for which Jan was acquiring an enviable reputation. A scene wherein domesticity is preponderant and the characters exude silence. It was my opportunity to get a message to Myn. I wanted to tell her to quit her job and marry me. I spent hours choosing the right words. I told her how much I loved her, nay, worshipped her. I told her of my hopes and dreams and how she was an integral part of them. I told her how much I missed her and longed to hold her again. I asked her to give up her position. She should leave everything and start a new life with me. Once the letter was completed, I gave it to Jan to pass to Myn the following day when he went to the house of she-of-fifty-guilders. I arrived at Jan’s house at sundown the next day. He had not yet returned, and so Catharina gave me a glass of wine and asked if it was true I intended to retire from my life of lechery. Before I could answer, Jan strode noisily into the house, kissed his wife and children, cast his eyes on me, and burst out laughing. I was not pleased. “What’s so amusing?” I asked. “You didn’t tell me you service her ladyship,” he accused me. “It’s none of your business,” I said bluntly. “It is now, Pieter, it is now.” He started laughing anew. He laughed so hard, he had to hold his ribcage. Catharina gave him a cup of water. “Tell me, Jan. What gives you so much joy?” “Not joy; sorrow. The sorrow of seeing such a libertine as Pieter brought so easily down.” I grasped the hilt of my sword with a threatening manner. “Damn you, Jan. Tell me what has happened.” My artistic friend held up his hand, took another sip of water, then put down the cup. He opened his leather carry-case and extracted sketches made that day. “Her ladyship wants to use this scene for the painting.” He held out a charcoal sketch showing she-of-fifty-gilders sitting with a mandolin on her lap and holding a letter in her right hand. Myn stood in the background, looking as if she had just delivered the missive. I let go of my sword. “Please tell me that is not my letter.” “I’m afraid it is, Pieter. Did you not know Myn cannot read? She handed your letter to her ladyship and asked her to read it aloud. I was there, in the room with them. It took all my self-control not to laugh as her ladyship’s reaction to your letter made me realise that you are in the habit of poking both women. The words left her ladyship’s lips with increasing reluctance as she realised they came from your hand. Poor Myn; she had no idea that you were diddling her mistress. Of course, her ladyship did not tell her servant the truth of the matter. Instead, she related that she knew of you, that you are a libertine and a bandit, and that Myn should never again acknowledge your existence. Furthermore, if she should ever hear that Myn continued her association with you, she would be dismissed without a reference.” Jan wiped a tear from beneath his eye. “Oh, this is so wonderful. I can hardly control myself. I shall call my painting The Love Letter and be amused for the rest of my life at the varied explanations romantics will attach to it.” And so, here I stand in my pile of manure. I have lost Myn, the occasional fifty guilders and civilization will never know of sliced bread. Peter Lingard This story won second prize in The Best of Times (2009); it was also published in Contemporary World Literature and Alfie Dog. When a youngster, Peter Lingard told his mother many fantastic tales of intrepid adventures enjoyed by him and his friends. She always said, ‘Go tell it to the Marines’. When he asked why, she said, ‘They’ve been everywhere and done everything, so they’ll want to hear about what you’ve been up to’. Of course, Peter joined the Royal Marines as soon as he was old enough and now has a seemingly inexhaustible supply of tales to tell. He has had 300+ stories and poems published, as well as having many pieces aired on Radio NAG, Queensland and 4RPH, Brisbane. Professional actors have performed some of his poetry and he has appeared as a guest on Southern FM’s program ‘Write Now’ to read and discuss his work. He recited and chatted about some of his poems on 3CR’s ‘Spoken Word’ and had a monthly spot on 3WBC (94.1FM) to read his tales. |
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