The Gryphon's Song by Matt Posner

This is actually an excerpt from Matt's book Level Three's Dream. When I read the second volume of the School of the Ages series back in October, this poem struck me. I immediately emailed Matt and asked his permission to include it, so I thought, What better way to end the month?

Shall I sing, as planned?” asked the Gryphon.

            “Sing,” said the Mock Turtle, still looking worried.

            The Gryphon struck a proud pose, front legs extended, raising the greasy beak. It then threw out its wings majestically as it sang a high note.

            “Bel canto,” said the Gryphon. “You should read about it. The exaggerated motion of the wing loosens inhibitions and allows the voice to be free.” The creature then sang:

In youth I loved the hippo

And the hippo did love me.

Find Level Three's Dream on Amazon

We went about cavorting

And swimming in the sea.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the hippo’s love was gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing that turns and turns

            But living must go on.

And then I loved the hydra,

And the hydra’s love was mine.

I loved the scaly kisses, and

The passion serpentine.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the hydra’s love was gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing that goes and comes

            But living must go on.

And then I loved the werewolf,

That lupine made me swoon.

I loved to feel that doggy tongue

And holler at the moon.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the werewolf’s love was gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing to pass some time,

            But living must go on.

And then as I grew older,

I loved the kraken too.

Its fine caressing suckers

That stuck to me like glue.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the kraken’s touch was gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing that cannot stay,

            But living must go on.

Still I was growing older,

And the bonnacon had my heart.

That burned up several acres

With each resounding fart.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And the bonnacon’s passions cooled.

            Oh, love’s a thing we love to love,

            But better not be fooled.

At the end I loved the dragon,

That was harsh and cold as bone,

Who answered my romantic talk

In stern, imperious tone.

            But then the seasons changed,

            And age was the dragon’s doom.

            The years go by, you find yourself

            A' weeping at a tomb.

Of all the lovely creatures

I’ve loved since my birth,

There’s not a one to stay with me

From sea to sky to earth.

            And how the seasons change,

            And how their love is gone.

            Oh, love’s a thing that goes away,

            But living must go on.

Matt says:

My Gryphon is not like Carroll's Gryphon (who was a washed-up blatherer longing for his Public School days) but has a female diva-like personality. I gave this Gryphon a song that was meant to be, as with some of the songs in the Mock Turtle section of Alice in Wonderland, both ridiculous and bittersweet. The ridiculous part is the rhymes to do with various mythical creatures and their body parts; the bittersweet part is the acknowledgement of how transitory love can be, and how sad a person might feel after many failed affairs. The closest real-world equivalent would be "Raspberries, Strawberries" by Kingston Trio, but this is a female version of same.

This is my favorite song from Level Three's Dream, and I'm honored that you chose it.

Bad Trip by Bruce Alford

Gratiot Avenue’s

throat throbs

The Loop

lifts us higher

We vanish

in hallucinogenic delight

lost

in deadly terrors

thrashing machines

Stop rocking.  Sit still. 

Tow trucks buildings wings

swirl around us dizzy

speeds

scrawled against the windows

our weak watery eyes

amazed  the voice

of the angular-faced bus driver

explodes over the intercom

The city can

make  you blind,

make you see,

hear, feel things not really there

Chew the windowpane, swallow,

swear Windsor is holy.

Find icons, shrines everywhere

even in automobile

assembly lines

The bus driver laughs

like sobbing

tells us this

city

screams

like a steam-saw

Steel shed

on the lake

You can see it

so clearly, so clearly

This... you... everything ...

wants to keep going

He seems euphoric

mumbles a tune

sounds like Thanks for the Memory.

Bruce Alford is a reviewer for First Draft, a publication of the Alabama Writers’ Forum. He has published fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry in journals such as the African American Review, Comstock Review, and Imagination & Place Press. He has also published a book of poems, Terminal Switching (Elk River Review Press 2007).

He received a Master of Fine Arts in fiction from the University of Alabama and was an assistant professor of creative writing at the University of South Alabama from 2007-2011.

"Bad Trip" can also be found in Bruce's book Terminal Switching.

Peeling of a Pomegranate by Camilla Arnold

Swollen scarlet orb
basking on blanket
sun bleached terrycloth
Dare you deny provocative display?
Cheeks

  blush overripe pink
spongy canvas 
beneath red folds
perfect size for palm.
Layer beneath layer
reveals protruding ruby
cluster.
Hungry shards
tear fleshy fragments
trace of scarlet tells 
you’ve eaten too much.
Perfect seed spotted
pluck from honeycomb hideout
suck gem until pressure bursts skin.
Chomp
on wrinkled infertility
hard pit breaks tooth

 Jaw clenching

 climax.

Camilla Arnold at Englishman River Falls, Errington, B.C.
copyright Innocent Thunder Photography

Camilla says:

I'm a 21-year-old English Major who's been writing poetry for the last couple of years; it provides a substantial distraction from diabolical research papers! I live on Vancouver Island, British Columbia which provides me with endless natural inspiration. My blog is: anneliza.tumblr.com -- just a microcosmic representation of the tone and focus of my poetry. 

Writers Write by Bernard Schaffer

Writers write.

Chambered Rounds
is now available on Amazon

Writers read.

Writers find inspiration in the work of others and

remain vigilant not to ape anyone else.

Writers seek out criticism from those that

deserve to give it

and they listen.

(Most of the time.)

Writers work alone

without seeking approval from others

and finish with something

before showing it to anyone

because a writer is like a lonesome captain

on a sailboat steering through uncharted waters

expecting to arrive at a lost city of ancient riches.

But nobody wants to hear what you intend to find

expect to find

or say you'll find.

They just want to see it.

When I write, I think about those that came before me

who sat in a chair plinking away at the keys

or loading paper into the typewriter

or putting quill to fresh ink

and I go at every single one of them

like their ghosts were sitting across from me

saying, "Come on, kid, you can hit harder than that."

Not because I don't love them

and not because I don't admire them

and not because I don't appreciate them

but because when I am writing they are my competition

and if you aren't trying to outdo everyone else

then you're just taking up space. 

People often ask me for advice

and I suppose that's the purpose of this column

that I was so graciously asked to contribute to. 

Well, here it is.

Write hard. 

Read hard.

Find an editor who will critique you hard.

And when you find some level of success, repeat those same steps

but on an even greater scale. 

Now go get to it. 

From Chambered Rounds

BERNARD SCHAFFER

Amazon Author’s Page for a full list of publications

Facebook Fan Page for free book info and more

Official  blog for updates

Sanctum by Tesa W. Colvin

I sat down with Langston today hoping that he would help me find my way. As I pulled myself through the pages of his revelations I still walked away with more questions than answers. So again I made my way to the small corner of the book store where poets die to go, and some go to die, and tried to relate my story to the ones already told by Zora, Emily, Nikki, Ralph, Maya and hell, even Tupac…Hey this is our confessional, we don’t judge here.  Instead we sit on the shelf waiting for our hearts to be massaged as fingertips caress turning pages. We hold our breath as eyes dance across our joy and pain because our prayer is never that you like it, but that you “get it”. We hope that you understand the moment…the millisecond that we were experiencing and we fear death of our work if it’s lost in translation. But no matter what we start writing “Where the sidewalk ends” and keep going till we get “tears for water.”

It’s a long journey of highs and lows, but poetry happens every day and with every breath that we take, so the pen keeps feeling long after the showcase is over and the spotlight dims. And even though our words may never see the light of day or grace the shelves of our quiet confessional, we wake from happy slumbers in the late nights and early mornings jarred by a rhythm, rhyme or line. We toss and turn as poems write themselves and we are called to get them on paper before they disappear into the darkness of a much needed night of rest. It’s not notoriety that drives us to describe the visions we are given. We follow the words, the “how to” guides for survival that always seem to say the right thing.

No it’s not fortune or fame that leads us to that quiet place of predetermined endings and new beginnings. That cozy corner of life and death that both inspires and burdens, it simply is who we are and we run back to our old friends that suffer the same weight of greatness that every poet scours the thesaurus to describe. See it’s not that small corner carved out to pay tribute to the poets’ spirit that give us the peace we seek, it is when a haunting verse is manifested with pen and ink.

Blog: www.twcolvin.blogspot.com

Twitter: @jusreadit

BIO:

Tesa W. Colvin (TWC) was born a southern girl, raised in Michigan and now calls the south home again. She is the President of VisionWise Creative Consulting, author of multiple collections of poetry and inspirational works for writers as well as the upcoming fiction novel "Dark Princess".  Noted by many as a passionate author and blogger of all things writing, despite wearing several hats TWC has completely embraced her gift and is more focused than ever on perfecting her craft and publishing her work.

Ten K by Laurie Laliberte

Walk
For Freddie

Walk
For Pedro

As you've
never walked
before

I walk
With thirty-five thousand
Of my closest friends

To fight one small battle
In a seemingly neverending war

It's an overwhelming feeling
To know you've done something so right

So walk
My friends

Walk on
In hope

One day
you'll walk
no more

In addition to curating this blog, Laurie Laliberte is a published author, an extensively published fiction editor, and a crochet pattern designer. She specializes in work for charity and with new and independent authors. Her work can be found on Amazon as well as other websites where books and e-books are sold.

Freefall by Tony Healey

Gale of water

Air

He plummets,

Down, down, down,

Pulled

Freefalling.

Stepping from the ledge

Of the plane,

Is the same,

As falling back from the edge

Of a boat.

Aerodynamics

Rate of fall

They are the same

It’s slower under water

The ocean gets darker,

So too does the sky,

As the ground rushes up beneath.

He sinks and sinks,

Colder, darker,

The fall is slow, gradual,

A dive.

A fall, a dive

Different names for the same thing

An act of faith

Something he would do

In the state he is in

A man who no longer fears anything

A man on the edge, on the ledge,

Falling, diving, sinking,

A man in Freefall

Find out more about Tony at http://tonyhealey.com/

Welcome to National Poetry Month (April Fool)

I really wanted to include this in last year's poetry slam, but 2012 was reserved for the Kindle All-Stars and this dude's not one of them. So, uh, April Fool!

I really hope you enjoy this month's selections. Feel free to post your own poems in the comments sections.

Laurie Laliberte

One of the contributors this month (I'll resist the temptation to name names) sent me a poem at the 11th hour because s/he had sent the piece to several people to read it before it appeared. S/he wanted to make sure it was "good enough." It was delayed in getting to me because only half the readers actually read it and responded. When s/he told me this, I sent the response you'll read below. I thought it relevant. Besides, you all pretty much know who I am. I'd feel silly introducing myself.

"My philosophy, for want of a better description, about poetry is pretty simple. If it truly comes from your soul, from you, if there's a part of you in it, it's beautiful. Poetry written for the sake of writing poetry is the best kind.

"One poem I wrote years ago, called "Altar" (originally titled "Altars") stemmed from a magazine article about how we tend to build altars in our lives, often without even realizing it. And I had this image in my head of how, for months after my father died, his headphones still hung on the arm of his favorite chair. They were big headphones; the Walkman hadn't been released yet. Nobody but me sat in Dad's chair after he died. When I moved out of the house, I took the chair with me.

"One afternoon, right after reading that magazine article, I happened to look at the chair in the corner of my living room. There it sat, with my roommate's headphones hanging from the arm. I don't know, don't remember, which of us had left them there, but it was comforting somehow to see that same image again. It resonated with me just the way that article had done. That was my altar to my father.

"I sat down and wrote that poem, about 8-10 lines. It's on my blog somewhere I think. Anyhow, I thought the poem was too short, so I added two more stanzas. One as a tribute to my mother and one of my own. They didn't work because they were forced. They didn't come from my heart. They came from a writer's need to round out the body of the poem rather than a writer's need to write. So I scrapped the two added stanzas and ended up with a short, but beautiful, work of literary art. And if it appeals to only me, so be it. I wrote it for me, not for anyone else.

"That, in itself, is poetry. You don't need beta readers to tell you your poetry matters. You just need to trust your own instincts."

Eros and Thanatos will be available on
Amazon as soon as I finish writing it

Twice Shy

Old wounds.
Filthy. Festering. Painful.
Reminders of what once was.
What never was.
Healed scars.
Until you call. Or text. Or email.
Bloodied gauze.
Tears on my pillow.
You don't deserve this power.
You don't deserve me.
But I deserve so much better than you.
There is no room in my life.

 

 Quick Crochet for Kitchen and Bath
will soon be available on Amazon

No room in my heart.
I've moved on.
But I weep.
Because for one short moment
One flicker in time
I was yours.
But you were never mine.
You never wanted me.
The real me.
The me who actually exists.
You loved the illusion
You could pretend I was.
I refuse to fit your mold.
So I nurse my wounds.
Again.

  Resistance Front is available
on Amazon for 99 cents

And I leave you to your delusions.
This time for good.

To borrow a favorite adjective from a fellow All-Star (Courtney Cantrell), this month has been cramazing. I want to extend a huge thank you to all of my colleagues and my readers for joining me on this journey. Next year's poetry slam already promises to be just as special.

My short story "Fear of the Dark" (the clean version) appears in the Kindle All-Stars first charity anthology Resistance Front. All proceeds go to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. The extended version of "Fear of the Dark" is part of my anthology of erotic shorts, Eros and Thanatos, which will be available in time for summer reading. And my first crochet pattern book, Quick Crochet for Kitchen and Bath, will be available for Kindle devices and in print very soon.

[ed. The extended version of "Fear of the Dark" is NOW available on Amazon as a 99 cent single.]

Namaste.

Courtney Cantrell

What more can I say about Courtney that I didn't tell you in her last post? How about The final book in her Demons of Saltmarch trilogy will be available very soon? Or she's the acquisitions editor for The Consortium, a group of writing professionals that is reinventing the way writers get published? Or, and this one's my favorite, her favorite exclamation is, "Cramazing!"

blueberry beer, u2, and a fedora

Find Shadows after Midnight
right now on Amazon

i stand at the bar 
a lifetime away from the stage as 
thoughts about my identity flood through me 

but i do not struggle to remember who i am

this time, i don’t need to know
because a brown fedora rests on the end of the keyboard. 

the singer claims he still hasn’t found
what he’s looking for 
but i say he’s discovered a rhythm to 
move my blood 
pulse my heart and
throb my core. 

i step forward 
into the open space at the foot of the stage
where the crowd does not dare tread 
in spite of their weizen, their vodka, 
their long island ice tea. 

to my name i have only blueberry beer
it hasn’t replaced my blood 
only infused me with delight 

no eyes on me
i walk on strains of melody 
and my toes tap a syncopated beat. 

at the foot of the stage
i look up 
into the keyboard player’s soul-questioning eyes
i reach up 
and do not blink as i pluck his brown fedora
from where it waits 

with his smile and nod in time to the song
he answers his own question as i step back 
yes 
behind me i feel the crowd’s shocked anticipation 
yes 
and i slide that fedora onto my head 

i let go

and i dance

my hands sweep down my every curve
my lips part to exhale joy 
my body undulates, intoxicated 
by nothing but passion. 

oh release.
how i have missed you. 

with the wondering eyes of the crowd on me
at the foot of the stage 
i dance 
i dance shake rattle and hum

i make love to life
wearing the keyboard player’s brown fedora 

that is how i think it could happen anyway 
as i stand a lifetime away at the bar 
and imagine. 


Courtney Cantrell is a writer of high fantasy, low sci-fi, and medium horror. The making of things and the sharing of those things with others is her passion. She enjoys chocolate and coffee and tries to keep these from making her sentences unnecessarily complicated. http://courtcan.com